Inshore Squadron Page 11
“Have you any new orders for me, sir?” Herrick stood just inside the screen door, his hat beneath his arm, his faded sea-going coat at odds with the newly furnished cabin.
Bolitho listened to the silence, the ship holding her breath around her company of six hundred and twenty men and boys. It was almost noon. The sky was still free of cloud and rain, and yet between-decks the air was damp and musty, with a touch of the wintry weather to come. Nothing had been reported by the frigate or the sloop, except for a fast-moving schooner which had headed away immediately. Privateer, smuggler or just some hardworking trader trying to stay clear of trouble?
Bolitho looked at his friend, knowing what was bothering him. It was unfair on Herrick, he thought. It had been his idea to disregard the advice brought by the courier brig. His plan to quit their proper station to meet the enemy in open water. It was wrong that he had this new worry on his mind as well.
Gently he asked, “Can I help, Thomas? It is this matter of punishment, am I right?”
Herrick stared at him. “Aye, sir. I am fair turned-about by it. Young Adam came to me about Babbage. Takes the blame on himself. He’ll think me a bloody tyrant if I don’t interfere.”
“You know about Babbage?”
Herrick nodded. “I do now. Mr Wolfe told me.” He looked up at the deckhead and added, “I’m not blaming him, of course. He sees it as plain duty to keep such matters away from his captain.” He tried to smile. “As I used to from you.”
“I was thinking that.”
Herrick said, “I’ve looked into the matter fully. The petty officer provoked Babbage, probably without knowing it. Babbage is an orphan, which only makes it worse.”
Bolitho nodded. No wonder his nephew was upset. He was an orphan also.
“We are involved, Thomas.”
“Aye, sir. That’s the curse of it. If it was any other man I’d have no hesitation. Right or wrong, I’ll not have my petty officers laid low and damn near killed. I hate flogging, as you well know, sir, but this sort of thing cannot be tolerated.”
Bolitho stood up. “Would you like me to come on deck? My presence might show that is not merely a whim but a requirement of duty.”
Herrick’s blue eyes were unwavering. “No, sir, this is my ship. If there was a fault, I should have seen it for myself.”
“Whatever you say.” Bolitho smiled gravely. “It does you credit, Thomas, to worry about one man at a time like this.”
Herrick moved to the door. “Will you speak with Adam, sir?”
“He is my nephew, Thomas, and very close to me. But as you said when I hoisted my broad pendant aboard your old Lysander, he is one of your officers.”
Herrick sighed. “I shall think twice in future before I venture such remarks.”
The door closed and another opened as Yovell, the clerk, entered with one of his files.
As the calls shrilled along the gundecks and the boatswain’s mates yelled, “All hands! All hands lay aft to witness punishment!” Yovell looked up at the skylight and murmured, “Will Oi close the lower shutter, zur?”
“No.”
They were all doing it. Shielding him from a world he had known since he had been twelve years old.
“Prepare to write some new orders for the squadron. We will alter course this afternoon and return to our station.”
He heard Herrick’s voice, as if through a padded wall. Slow and clear, like the man.
He found he was tensing his stomach muscles, and knew Yovell was watching him.
The drum rolled, and he heard the lash cut across the man’s naked back like a pistol shot. Bolitho could see it exactly as if he were there on deck. Grim faces, the ship carrying them along while the punishment continued.
At the third stroke of the lash he heard Babbage scream, wildly, in terror, like a woman in agony.
Crack.
Yovell muttered, “Lord love us, zur, ’e’s taking it badly.”
Two dozen lashes were the absolute minimum for Babbage’s assault. Many captains would have awarded a hundred or worse. Herrick would make it as little as possible. To spare the victim without destroying the petty officer’s authority when he eventually returned to duty.
Crack.
Bolitho stood up violently, the awful screams probing his ears like knives.
The drum faltered and someone shouted to restore order.
Then Bolitho heard another cry, far away, from the dizzy mast-head.
“Lookout’s signalling, sir!”
Bolitho sat down again, his heart drumming against his ribs, his fingers gripping the arms of the chair. The screaming was still going on but the flogging had stopped.
It took physical effort to remain seated.
He said, “Now, tell me about the despatches you wish me to sign.”
Yovell swallowed hard. “ ’Ere, zur.” He laid the canvas file in which he carried his carefully penned letters on the table.
Bolitho ran his eyes over the round handwriting but saw nothing but the little sloop-of-war showing her hoist of signal flags which she was no doubt repeating from the Relentless.
There was a tap at the door and Browne entered carefully.
“Signal from Relentless, sir. Five sail to the north-west.”
Bolitho stood up. “Thank you. Keep me informed.” As the flag lieutenant made to withdraw he asked, “What happened on deck?”
Browne looked at him blankly. “The man under punishment could not stand the pain, sir. Five blows and the surgeon asked for the boatswain’s mate to desist while he examined him.” He smiled briefly. “He should thank the masthead lookout for keeping his eyes open. He’s a lucky fellow.”
“That’s one way of looking at it, I suppose.”
Bolitho made up his mind. “I shall come on deck with you directly.” He looked round for his hat and Ozzard appeared with it like a small magician.
Together they walked beneath the poop and out into the cold, clinging wind.
The grating was still rigged on the gangway, and a few droplets of dark blood were already being swabbed away by some of the duty watch.
Herrick strode to meet him, his round face questioning.
Bolitho smiled. “I came to hear more about the five sail.” He saw the strain being eased from Herrick’s eyes. “Was it bad?”
“Bad enough. I’d have stopped it anyway. At least, I hope I would.”
Herrick turned to watch the repeated signal breaking from the Benbow’s yards for the benefit of the other ships, the way the flags were streaming towards the starboard bow.
He said, “The newcomers, whoever they are, will have the wind-gage, sir.”
Bolitho nodded, satisfied. Herrick’s mind, his professional attention to detail, had taken over again. Almost.
He said, “It will be close on two hours before we sight anything. Have the people fed before we clear for action.”
Herrick regarded him grimly. “You really believe it is Ropars and his squadron, sir?”
Loveys, the white-faced surgeon, was making his way aft to report on Babbage’s condition. He looked like the walking-dead himself.
Bolitho asked, “Don’t you, Thomas?”
Herrick grimaced. “I never thought I should welcome the sight of an enemy. But after this last spectacle I’m making an exception!”
Bolitho listened to the clatter of hurrying feet and guessed that Herrick’s lookouts had at last sighted the other vessels. He gulped down another cup of strong coffee and glared at Allday as he tasted brandy in it.
“You know I never drink at times like these!”
Allday was unmoved. “We’re usually in warmer climes, sir. This will give you strength.”
The marine sentry called through the door, “Midshipman of the watch, sir!”
It was Aggett, Benbow’s senior “young gentleman.”
Bolitho looked at him as calmly as he could.
“Mr Browne’s respects, sir, and we have just received another signal from Relentless.”
The youth flushed. “Eight strange sail to the nor’ west, sir.”
Bolitho digested this new information. So it was eight now. The odds were getting worse.
He said, “My compliments to the flag lieutenant. Tell him to make to Lookout, repeated to Relentless, reconnoitre the ships in view and report to the admiral.”
Captain Peel would need no urging, but it might give him comfort to know he had the support of his flagship. With Styx gone from the squadron his role was doubly important, even vital.
Allday took down the old sword and waited for Bolitho to lift his arm so that he could dip it to his belt.
“That’s more like it, sir.”
Bolitho handed the empty cup to Ozzard. “You’re too sentimental, Allday.”
Then, with a quick glance through the stern windows to ensure that neither wind nor light had altered, he went on deck.
The signalling parties were working like demons, flags dashing up and down the yards, repeating, acknowledging, questioning. He noticed once again that these specialists seemed to like and respect the outwardly casual Browne.
Browne did not miss a thing. Perhaps Inskip had been right, and he should find a place in Whitehall or Parliament.
Herrick and Wolfe were training their glasses above the tightly packed hammock nettings, as were several unemployed officers.
A master’s mate coughed a polite warning, and Herrick turned to greet his superior.
“You heard, sir? Well, I’ve got the sixth lieutenant in the main-mast cross-trees with his glass, and the other ships are in sight. Eight, we know of, though of what strength I cannot tell as yet.”
Browne called, “From Lookout, sir. Enemy in sight.”
Bolitho looked at him impassively. “Acknowledge, then make a general signal. Prepare for battle.”
He ignored the sudden excitement, the busy squeal of halliards, and said to Herrick, “You were right, Thomas.”
Herrick grinned. “Now I’m not so sure if I’m glad about it.”
Wolfe touched his hat and said fiercely, “Permission to clear for action, sir?”
“Aye. Let’s be about it.”
As the drums beat out their staccato call to quarters, seamen and marines poured up through hatches and companionways, in a living tide. They had all been expecting it, and for the most part had been totally unaware of their captain’s misgivings, their admiral’s doubts.
Bolitho heard the screens being ripped down throughout the hull, every obstruction, chest or piece of furniture being carried below the water-line to leave the ship free to act to full advantage. The lower gundeck would be one long double battery from bow to stern, the thirty-two-pounders already manned, their breechings cast off even as the ship’s boys ladled sand around the feet of their crews. On the upper gundeck the twenty-eight 18- pounders, each partly covered by gangways which ran along either side joining forecastle to quarterdeck, were equally busy.
Bolitho watched the quarterdeck gun crews, moving as if to an unspoken drill as they checked the tackles of their nine-pounders, examined their equipment like surgeons, while the scarlet caterpillars of marines passed through them to poop or forecastle, to the fighting tops, or to the less popular tasks of guarding the hatchways to prevent any terrified man from running below.
It was a fact that such things were necessary. Men, driven out of their sanity by the thundering roar of artillery, the awful sights of close combat around them, would often try to seek refuge in the depths of the hull.
He heard Wolfe exclaim angrily, “Dammee, Mr Speke, sir! The Indomitable has cut her time again! Beaten us to it!”
Browne said, “From Relentless, sir.” He was squinting down at the midshipman’s slate. “Five sail of the line, two frigates and one transport.”
Bolitho took a telescope from a master’s mate and climbed into the shrouds, aware that the nearest gun crews were staring up at him as if expecting something more than a mere man inside the fine coat with its bright epaulettes.
He waited, steadying the glass against the vibrating ratlines, until Benbow lifted lazily on a long roller which passed diagonally beneath her keel before allowing her to slide into the next trough.
In those seconds Bolitho saw the enemy for the first time. Not just blotches of tanned sails against a dull sky, but as ships. He had no doubt that the French commander was watching him, too.
Six large vessels in two columns. The second one in the weather column wore the flag of a vice-admiral. If there had been any remaining doubt in Bolitho’s mind it was gone now.
Beyond the two columns were the frigates, probably waiting well clear of their squadron until they knew Bolitho’s strength, especially in fifth-rates like themselves.
He called, “I estimate their course to be sou’ east, Captain Herrick.”
Herrick, equally formal with half the quarterdeck straining to hear him, replied, “My view, too, sir.”
Bolitho waited for the next slow lift beneath Benbow’s massive bilges and then searched for the transport. She was probably the rearmost ship in the lee column, he decided. In the best place to tack clear or seek protection from the frigates if so ordered. What would she be carrying? Surely not stores. More likely some of Napoleon’s crack soldiers, men who barely knew the meaning of defeat. The Tsar of Russia would certainly need some of their professional instruction before he ventured into the spreading arena of war. Or maybe they were troops being sent to guard the captured British merchantmen. Well, Bolitho thought grimly, whatever is decided today, those ships will be safe from Ropars, and Styx’s action might make the Swedes or the Prussians less eager to support the Tsar’s ambitions.
He climbed down to the deck and saw Midshipman Penels looking across at him like someone under sentence of death.
“Mr Penels, come here.”
The boy hurried to obey, bringing a few grins from the seamen as he caught his foot on a ring-bolt.
“It has been a bad day for you, it seems.” He watched the boy flinch under his gaze. Twelve years old, no father, sent off to sea to find his way as a King’s officer. He would take it badly over his friend Babbage.
Penels sniffed. “He was a good friend to me, sir. Now I don’t know what I’ll say when next we meet.”
Bolitho thought of Wolfe’s casual acceptance of it. Penels’ mother turning to another man. God knows, it happened enough to the wives of sailors. But Penels was only dressed as an officer. He was still a boy. A child.
Bolitho said quietly, “Mr Pascoe did what he could. Perhaps after this Babbage will need your help more rather than less. I suspect it has always been the other way round in the past?”
Penels stared at him, speechless. That his admiral should care must seem incredible. That he was also right in his assumption about Babbage even more astounding.
He stammered, “I—I shall try, sir.”
Wolfe tapped one great foot impatiently, and as Penels hurried back to his station on the starboard side he barked, “Assist the flag lieutenant, Mr Penels. Though, God damn me, I’d feel safer with a Frenchie than with you, sir!” He glanced at Lieutenant Speke and winked.
Old Ben Grubb blew his nose noisily and remarked, “Wind’s steady, sir. Westerly with barely a shift either way.” He peered at the half-hour-glass by the binnacle and added, “Not long now, I’d say.”
Bolitho looked at Herrick and shrugged. Not long for what? he wondered. Early darkness, victory or death? The sailing master seemed to enjoy tossing in these strange observations. He had one massive fist in the pocket of his shabby watch-coat, and Bolitho guessed he was holding his tin whistle, ready to play them into hell itself if need be.
Herrick was less charitable. “Grubb’s getting old, sir. Should be ashore somewhere with a good woman to take care of him.”
Bolitho smiled. “Good heavens, Thomas! Since you took to marriage, it seems you cannot help replanning others’ lives!”
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Allday, lounging by the mainmast trunk, relaxed slightly. He always gauged his own chances by watching Bolitho at such moments. He looked over the weather gangway and studied the other ships. The enemy. Both squadrons were moving towards each other like a great arrowhead, the steady wind parting their courses like a shaft. But the French had the wind’s advantage, and there were more of them. He turned to watch the men near him. The old hands checking their gear. Flintlocks and powder-horns, sponges and rammers, screws and prickers, even though they had already done it several times. And when they had finished they would begin again. They had seen it all before. The slow, deadly approach, the huddle of sails and masts changing to individual vessels and formations. It took nerve to stand and wait for the final, inevitable embrace.
The youngsters saw it through different eyes. Excitement touched with the ice of fear. The need to be doing something at last instead of the endless backbreaking work and drills.
Slightly separated from the individual gun crews and the men who would work the ship throughout a battle, the petty officers went through their lists and examined their own parts of the whole. Here and there along the divisions of guns were small patches of blue and white, the lieutenants, warrant officers and midshipmen, and below on the other gundeck the pattern was repeated in the eerie darkness behind sealed gunports.
Lieutenant Marston of the marines was up forward talking with the crews of the two big carronades, and Allday recalled the Styx’s marine officer sitting with his head in his hands, struck blind by flying splinters.
Major Clinton was right aft with Sergeant Rombilow, pointing up at the swivel gun in the mizzen top with his black stick. Allday considered that all marines were probably a little mad. Clinton was no exception, and always carried his walking-stick when the ship went to quarters, while his orderly nursed his sword like a bearer.
Allday saw Pascoe walking slowly behind each of his forward guns. If the ships continued on their same tack, his guns would engage the enemy first. How like Bolitho he looked. He thought suddenly of Babbage, of the sickening spectacle of him writhing and screaming under the lash. Even the boatswain’s mate who had been using the cat-o’-nine-tails had looked shocked by the outburst.