Bolitho had asked quietly, “You do not trust them, sir?”
“Never!”The word had drained the strength from him, and it had taken several moments before Beauchamp had continued, “The French will force the most advantageous terms for a settlement. To obtain them they are already filling their channel ports with invasion craft and barges, and the troops and artillery to fill them. Bonaparte hopes to frighten our people into a covenant advantageous only to him. When his wounds are healed, his ships and regiments replenished, he will tear up the treaty and attack us. There will be no second chance this time.”
After another pause, Beauchamp had said in a dull voice, “We must give our people confidence. Show them we can still attack as well as defend. It is the only way we’ll even the odds at the tables. For years we’ve driven the French back into their ports or fought them to surrender. Blockade and patrol, line-of-battle or single ship actions, it is what has made our Navy great. Bonaparte is a soldier, he does not understand these matters, and will take no advice from those who know better, thank God.”
His voice had grown weaker, and Bolitho had almost decided to call for assistance for the small, limp figure at the table.
Then Beauchamp had jerked his body upright and had snapped, “We need a gesture. Of all the young officers I have watched and guided up the ladder of advancement, you have never failed me.” A wizened finger had wagged at him, like part of a memory of the man Bolitho had recalled so vividly from their first meeting. “Well, not in matters of duty anyway.”