The Only Victor by Alexander Kent Read Free Book Online

was an old man.
    The door closed, and apart from the watchful servant, who wore a red waistcoat above his duck trousers, they were alone. The elderly commander had taken his leave without dismissal. It was no wonder that the confident Captain Varian had seen this squadron as his own future responsibility.
    Bolitho said, “Please be seated.” He waited while the other officer beckoned to his servant and some finely-cut Spanish goblets were filled with red wine. Warren then seated himself. One leg was thrust out, as if in pain, his left hand hidden beneath his coat. He was not sick, Bolitho thought. He was dying.
    Bolitho raised his goblet. “Your health, sir. Everyone seems to know I am here, even though the news of Trafalgar has not reached them.”
    The wine was rough and brackish, but he barely noticed it.
    Once he had been a flag captain to Rear-Admiral Sir Charles Thelwall in the big three-decker Euryalus. Bolitho had been made to work doubly hard because his admiral’s health had deteriorated over the months at sea. He had admired Thelwall and had been saddened to see him step ashore for the last time with only a short while left to live. Bolitho was only glad that the admiral had been spared what had happened that year, the mutinies throughout the fleet at the Nore and Spithead, Plymouth and Scotland. No captain had ever forgotten. Nor would they, unless they were inviting disaster.
    But the admiral had looked and sounded like Warren now. As he swallowed some wine he struggled to contain a deep, tearing cough, and when he took his handkerchief from his lips Bolitho knew the stains on it were not all wine.
    â€œI would not trouble you, sir, but if you wish I could send for another surgeon from Truculent. He seems an excellent man from the talks I had with him.”
    Warren’s face stiffened with pathetic determination. “I am well enough, Sir Richard. I know my duty!”
    Bolitho looked away. This ship is all he has. The temporary title of commodore the only triumph he has known. He tried to harden his mind, to shut out the pity he could feel and understand.
    He said, “I have sent a despatch to the main squadron. I am ordered here to withdraw certain ships for service in home waters.” He thought he saw a small gleam of hope in Warren’s faded eyes and added gently, “ Frigates, not this ship. There has to be a strategy for taking and then defending Cape Town, without prolonging it into a siege which only the Dutch can win.”
    Warren said huskily, “The army won’t like that, Sir Richard. Sir David Baird is said to be a forceful general.”
    Bolitho thought of the letter locked in his strong-box aboard Truculent. Not signed by some senior Secretary or Lord of Admiralty; not this time. It was signed by the King, and even though the uncharitable hinted amongst themselves that His Majesty often did not know what he was putting his signature to these days, it still held the ultimate power and opened all doors.
    â€œI shall cross that bridge in due course. In the meantime I would like to shift to this ship.” He held up his hand as Warren made to protest. “Your broad pendant will still fly. But as someone once said, I need room to bustle in!”
    Warren held down another bout of coughing and asked, “What must I do? You have my word that I will serve you well. And if Captain Varian has told you—”
    Bolitho retorted calmly, “I have been in the King’s service since I was twelve. Somewhere along the way I learned to form my own opinions.” He stood up and walked to an open port and stared along the false wooden muzzle at the nearest ship, another frigate. “But I have to tell you, Commodore Warren, I’ll not waste anyone’s life because we have not tried to do our best. Throughout the navy, loyal seamen and marines, officers too, will be shocked and disappointed that after Trafalgar, victory is not complete. In my