Inshore Squadron Page 10

  The man turned to the fire, saying gently, “I think my own people invaded your country a few times in the past?”

  Bolitho smiled. “Aye, sir. They still say that the girls on the north-east coast got their flaxen hair from the Viking invaders!”

  Inskip cleared his throat nervously. “In that case, sir, may I take Rear-Admiral Bolitho with me?”

  “Please do.” He did not offer his hand. “I wanted to meet you. To see what sort of man you are.” He gave a brief nod. “I hope that if we meet again it will be under happier circumstances.”

  Bolitho followed Inskip and two footmen down the same passageway, his mind still in a whirl.

  He said, “I believe I might have fared worse with his superior. I think this one just wanted me out of his country.”

  Inskip took his cloak from a footman and waited for the cold air to greet him through the open door.

  “Quite possibly, Bolitho.” He glanced at him wryly. “That was the Crown Prince himself!” He shook his head and walked towards the carriage. “Really, Bolitho, you’ve such a lot to learn!”

  Captain Neale entered the cabin, his hat tucked beneath one arm.

  “I thought you would wish to know, sir. We have cleared the Sound and are standing into the Kattegat.” He looked both tired and elated as he added, “Our escorts have gone about and left us.”

  Bolitho stood up and walked aft to the windows. The snow had completely dispersed and the water looked hard grey and uninviting. The Danes had taken no chances. The Styx had been followed by two frigates from the moment she had weighed, and when Bolitho had been driven down to the jetty he had seen soldiers manning the artillery near the fortress. Not a threat. A warning perhaps.

  “Thank you.”

  Bolitho listened to the doleful clank of pumps, the muffled sounds of hammers and saws as the ship’s company continued with the repairs of the short, savage engagement.

  It would mean that Styx would have to be sent to England where she could carry out a proper and more lasting overhaul. She had earned it, as had her whole company.

  He said, “I shall feel at a loss aboard my flagship again. Like a horse in a larger field!” He became serious. “I have completed a full report for you to carry to England. Your part in it will reach the proper authority.”

  Neale smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

  “And now, I’ll leave you in peace to run your command as you will and carry me to the squadron as quickly as possible.”

  Neale began to withdraw, then said, “My first lieutenant is very pleased with the new hands that he took from the merchantmen, sir. All prime seamen, although at this moment they seem uncertain what is happening, or whether they have exchanged one hell for another.”

  The following morning, as Bolitho was finishing his breakfast, one which Ozzard described as more fitting for a prisoner of war, Neale came down to report that his lookouts had sighted a sail, confirmed almost immediately as the frigate Relentless.

  Almost before she had topped the horizon the Relentless was hoisting signals to be seen and repeated by the sloop-of-war Lookout to the remainder of the squadron.

  Bolitho could imagine their feelings. Herrick’s patrols would have sighted the released merchantmen, and what he had not discovered from them he would have guessed.

  A first blood for the new squadron. Something to brag about when the weather got a man down and the food was too vile even to discuss.

  Later when Bolitho went on deck he noticed that Allday had preceded him with his sea-chest, as if he too was more than eager to be getting back to the Benbow.

  He saw Pascoe and the small midshipman, Penels, standing on the larboard gangway pointing towards the ships, and then as the anchored squadron hove slowly into view he saw him turn and look aft, his expression puzzled.

  Neale said, “Hand me a glass.” He trained it beyond the other frigate as she went gracefully about and steered back towards the squadron. “Captain Herrick is prepared to weigh, it seems.” He handed the glass to Bolitho and watched his reactions.

  Bolitho levelled the telescope on the Benbow’s shining hull as she swung tightly to her cable. Neale was right. The sails were loosely brailed up and not furled neatly as he might have expected. The cable was all but hove short, as were those of the other twodeckers. He felt suddenly uneasy but said as calmly as he could, “We must be patient.”

  Neale nodded doubtfully and then called, “Get the royals on her, Mr Pickthorn! We are in a hurry this morning!”

  The Benbow’s signal midshipman lowered his telescope and reported, “The squadron has weighed, sir!”

  Bolitho gripped the hammock nettings and watched first one and then the next ship heeling over to the wind, sails filling and emptying until they had completed their manoeuvre. Wolfe, the first lieutenant, was doing most of the work on the quarterdeck, which was not Herrick’s way at all, and gave some hint of his anxiety.

  It had been barely fifteen minutes since Bolitho had clambered through the entry port, fifteen minutes of bustle and outward confusion while the seamen had dashed out on the yards or hauled at halliards and braces as if they had been timed to act at the very moment of his appearance.

  In between his many duties, Herrick had said, “A courier brig came from the Nore, sir. Her commander had despatches for Admiral Damerum, but of course his squadron had already gone its different ways.” Some of his anxiety had left his face as he had added thankfully, “By God, it is good to have you back, sir. I was at my wits’ end as to what course to take.”

  Piece by piece, in between exasperating delays while Herrick ordered a change of tack or the reduction of sail while the squadron formed into line astern, Bolitho discovered what had happened. He did not once interrupt or hurry Herrick. He wanted it in his own words and not in some carefully prepared oration for his benefit.

  One fact stood out above all else. A French squadron had broken out of Brest and had vanished into the blue. It was known to be under the flag of Vice-Admiral Alfred Ropars, an experienced and daring officer. He had taken advantage of the terrible weather, but more than that, he had sent out two of his frigates under cover of darkness to attack and seize the only British patrol which was close enough inshore to see what was happening. Bolitho thought of Inskip’s views on a captain’s authority and value. The commander of the captured frigate would lose everything. His previous successes, his whole career would be sacrificed to wipe the slate clean.

  But Bolitho knew how easily it could happen. Back and forth, up and down, in every sort of sea and wind, the weather-beaten ships of the blockading squadrons often became over-confident, too certain that the French would be sensible enough to stay in port rather than risk a fight.

  Ropars must have timed it well. With the patrol captured, his own heavier ships were out and away before dawn.

  The courier brig’s information was scanty but for one thing. Ropars had sailed north. Not west to the Caribbean or south to the Mediterranean, but north.

  Herrick said despairingly, “With Admiral Damerum relieved by our smaller squadron, sir, and you away, as I thought, in Copenhagen, I was split in halves. The Admiralty thinks Ropars has sailed to assist an invasion and uprising in Ireland. Our fleet is so thinly spread, it might be a good moment to try.”

  Bolitho nodded, his mind busy. “Five years ago, when I was Sir Charles Thelwall’s flag captain in Euryalus, I saw enough misery on that station. The French tried it then. They just might make another attempt, Thomas.”

  Herrick shaded his eyes to squint up at the topgallant yards where some seamen were clinging on with hands and feet as the sails ballooned violently to the wind.

  He said, “But I decided I could do no useful thing by running for Ireland, sir. We have too few ships.” He looked Bolitho straight in the eyes. “In any case, sir, you are my flag officer.”

  Bolitho smiled. With him in Copenhagen it must have been a hard decision for Herrick. If he had decided wrongly his head would be on the block with his admi
ral’s, loyalty or not.

  But he said warmly, “That was well said, Thomas. I’ll see you with your own broad pendant before long, mark my words.”

  Herrick grimaced. “I’d not thank you for it, sir!”

  He shifted his feet and said, “The French admiral’s strength is a squadron, no more. That we do know. And I’ll wager every ship from the Channel Fleet is prowling the enemy’s ports in case they try to reinforce this Ropars.”

  Bolitho released his grip from the nettings. It did not take long to get used to the change of motion. From the wild plunges of a frigate to the slow, ponderous tilt of a ship of the line.

  “Well, Thomas? I’m waiting.”

  Herrick bit his lip, as if wishing he had remained silent.

  “I heard what you did in the Baltic. I questioned the master of one of the merchantmen you set free. It was a fine piece of work, sir, with just the Styx to carry it out.”

  Bolitho looked at the grey sea alongside, willing Herrick to get on with it, but equally afraid to break the thread of his ideas.

  “I think it unlike the Frogs to send one frigate for that task, sir. They would know your squadron would prevent any attempt to escort the merchantmen to France.” He spread his hands. “And for the life of me I can see no other reason for their actions!”

  Bolitho stared at him. “Time and distance, Thomas, is that it?”

  Herrick nodded. “Aye, sir. I believe that the Frogs intended to draw our squadron to the west to assist the Channel Fleet and to cut Ropars retreat if his attack on Ireland failed.”

  Bolitho gripped his arm. “And all the while Ropars is really sailing further north, around Scotland maybe, and then down the coast of Norway, is that what you believe?”

  Herrick licked his lips. “Well, er, yes, sir. They’ll come south.” He looked at the hazy outline of the Danish coast. “To here.”

  “Where they hope to find the back door open for them, eh?” It was so simple it had to be wrong.

  Bolitho said, “Signal the squadron to steer west, Thomas, with Relentless and Lookout as far in the lead as possible without losing visual contact. When you are satisfied with them, come aft and bring the master with you. We’ll study the charts and share our ideas.”

  Herrick looked at him, less certain now.

  “I may be quite wrong, sir. Is it worth the risk?”

  “If we fight here, we will be on the lee shore. No, we shall meet them in open water, if at all. Cripple some and send the rest running. I have heard of Admiral Ropars, Thomas. This is just the sort of thing he would attempt.”

  Herrick said ruefully, “A bit like you then, sir?”

  “Not too much, I hope. Otherwise he may be outguessing us already!”

  Bolitho made his way aft to his quarters, past the rigid marine sentry, and then ducked automatically as if he was still aboard the frigate.

  For a while he moved restlessly about the cabin, thinking of all that had happened in so short a time. The fragment of chance when Lookout had taken the French brig Echo. Their arrival in Copenhagen, the attack through the snowstorm, men dying, others cheering.

  He heard cheering now, as if his thoughts had come to life, but when he peered through the stern windows he saw the frigate Styx close-hauled under a full pyramid of canvas and steering past the slower moving two-deckers. The squadron was cheering one of its own. A scarred victor, going home for repairs and perhaps a hero’s welcome.

  Allday entered the cabin and replaced the presentation sword on its rack below the other one.

  He said, “I was a mite worried back there, sir. Just for a while.”

  Bolitho shrugged. “Fate is a strange thing.”

  Allday grinned, obviously relieved. “The folk in Falmouth would have been caught aback if you’d broken it, and that’s no error, sir!”

  Bolitho sat down, suddenly tired. “Fetch me something to drink, if you please.” Then he smiled gravely. “And let us both stop pretending, shall we?”

  7 PREPARE FOR BATTLE

  IT WAS a very cold morning, and when Bolitho went on deck for his customary walk he felt the chill in the air as he had off Gotland.

  He looked at the sky, almost devoid of cloud but, like the sea, leaden grey, without welcome.

  With the aid of a telescope he sought out the other ships, studying the early morning activity, sails being set or retrimmed to bring each vessel into a slow-moving line. Of the Lookout there was no sign as yet, although the masthead might already be able to see her.

  The first lieutenant was pacing along the lee side, his ginger hair flapping beneath his hat to make the only bright colour on deck.

  His was not to reason or criticize. Wolfe was the first lieutenant, with a command of his own before too long if he was fortunate. To run the Benbow like a perfectly tuned instrument and hand her to his captain in first degree readiness was his sole purpose for being here.

  Bolitho dragged his thoughts from the daily routine and considered his own position. Two days they had been heading slowly west and then north. Two days with their Baltic patrol left unattended. Suppose he was wrong? Suppose he had been so eager to exploit the success of the squadron, even in the face of Inskip’s doubts and warnings, that he had missed the obvious?

  The excitement at seeing Styx and her battle scars could not last forever. Soon now and he would have to decide. To continue, or to return to the inshore station. Failing to take his ships, or some of them, to Irish waters, and then missing any sort of contact with the French squadron because of an haphazard idea would not go down at all well with Damerum or the Admiralty.

  He paused as he heard Wolfe say in his harsh tones, “Now then, Mr Pascoe, what is all this I hear about you requesting a transfer for the landman Babbage? To the afterguard, y’say?” He leaned forward, towering above the young lieutenant like an ungainly giant.

  Pascoe replied, “Well, sir, he was pressed at Plymouth. He comes from Bodmin, and . . .”

  Wolfe growled impatiently, “And I come from bloody Bristol, so where does that get us, eh?”

  Pascoe tried again. “Mr Midshipman Penels asked for the transfer, sir. They grew up together. Babbage worked for Penels’ mother when his father died.”

  “Is that all?” Wolfe nodded, satisfied. “Well, I already knew that. Which is why I kept ’em, separate, when I got to hear of their connection, so to speak.”

  “I see, sir.”

  “Oh no you don’t, Mr Pascoe, but never mind. You asked, I said no. Now take some men to the foretop and attend the barricade. Mr Swale assures me that it is already cracked with strain. The devils probably used condemned timber when they built it, damn them!”

  Pascoe touched his hat and strode to the gangway.

  When he was out of earshot Bolitho called, “Mr Wolfe. A moment please.”

  Bolitho was quite tall, but Wolfe made him feel like a dwarf.

  “Sir?”

  “I could not help but overhear that. Perhaps you could share your information with me?”

  Wolfe grinned, unabashed. “Most certainly, sir. I met the officer in charge of the press at Plymouth when he brought some hands aboard for us. He told me about Babbage. How he had been sent to Plymouth with a message for a storekeeper there.”

  “A long way from Bodmin, Mr Wolfe.”

  “Aye, sir. It is that. Someone wanted him out of the way. Sent him where his capture would not be discussed or gossiped about, if you get my meaning, sir?”

  Bolitho frowned. “Penels’ mother?”

  “I expect so, sir. With her son at sea, and her man dead, she’d be seeking a new er, husband. Babbage could be a nuisance. Living at the house. Seeing and hearing everything. She couldn’t have known Babbage would end up crossing his hawse with our young Mr Penels.”

  “Thank you for telling me.”

  Bolitho thought of the luckless Babbage. It was not unknown for employers and landowners to get rid of an unwanted servant in this fashion. Send him on a mission and then inform a crimp or the press
-gang. The rest was easy.

  Wolfe added, “Mr Pascoe will be a good officer, sir. An’ I’m not saying that to win your favours. He will learn about the wiles of women all in good time. Time enough then to bother him with such things.” He touched his hat and strode away humming to himself.

  Bolitho continued his pacing. There were other sides to the ungainly first lieutenant, he thought. Not saying that to win your favours. You only had to look at him to know that!

  “Deck there! Lookout in sight on the weather bow!”

  Bolitho saw the officer of the watch make a note in the log about the first sighting of the day. Far beyond the sloop, Captain Rowley Peel in his Relentless would be eagerly scanning a brightening horizon. Thinking of Styx’s hard-won fight, hoping for a chance for himself and his ship. He was twenty-six, and that was about all Bolitho knew of him. Yet.

  There was a clatter of feet on the lee gangway and a tough looking boatswain’s mate trudged aft and knuckled his forehead to the same lieutenant who was about to cover the log with its canvas hood.

  “Beg pardon, Mr Speke, sir, there’s bin a fight on the lower gundeck. Man struck a petty officer with a stool, sir.”

  Speke was the second lieutenant, a competent officer, according to Herrick, but inclined to lose his temper too easily.

  He said sharply, “Very well, Jones. Tell the master-at-arms, and I will note it in the log for the first lieutenant’s attention. Who is it, by the way?”

  Somehow, and yet for no sane reason, Bolitho had known who it would be.

  “Babbage, sir. Mr Pascoe’s division.” As an afterthought he added bluntly, “He’s put the petty officer in the sick-bay, sir. Split his skull, he did.”

  Speke nodded severely. “That’s it then. My compliments to Mr Swale. Tell him a grating will have to be rigged sometime today.”

  Bolitho walked to the companionway, his appetite for breakfast gone.

  Sailing to seek out an enemy, to die if need be, was hard enough. To have a flogging as well would not help at all.