Inshore Squadron Read online

  Next to Bolitho, Allday would do anything for Pascoe. They had lived, fought and suffered together, and if Babbage was to be the cause of Pascoe’s worried expression, then Allday found good reason for hating him.

  The ship was about to sail into battle. Allday cared very little for the rights and wrongs of it, the “cause” which was drawing the whole world into a war. You fought for those you cared about, for the ship around you, and for little else.

  The rich and powerful could drink their port and gamble away their fortunes, Allday thought, but this was his world while it lasted. And if Pascoe had his mind even partly occupied by some fool’s problems he would be in more danger than the rest of them.

  Bolitho watched his coxswain and said quietly to Herrick, “See him, Thomas? I can almost read his mind from here.”

  Herrick followed Allday’s glance and answered, “Aye, sir. He’s a good hand, though he’d blast your eyes rather than agree with you!”

  The air reverberated to the sudden boom of gunfire, and Wolfe said, “The Frenchies are putting a few shots at the Relentless, I shouldn’t wonder, sir.”

  Herrick looked at Bolitho. “I’ll withdraw her and Lookout to our lee, sir. They’ve taken enough risks for the moment.”

  Bolitho watched him speaking with the flag lieutenant as the signal was bent on to the halliards. Herrick had come a long, long way since he had been appointed as flag captain in the Lysander. The hesitations were few, and when he decided on something it was with the authority of confidence.

  Browne called, “They have acknowledged, sir.”

  Herrick asked, “What d’you think the French will do, sir?”

  “Leaving the frigates out of it for the present, I would say that Ropars will put his full weight against us. If I were Ropars I would form a single line, otherwise the first engagement will be our four to his three. In line of battle the odds will be five to four against us.”

  Herrick faced him, his eyes hopeful. “But you don’t intend that, do you, sir?”

  “No.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “We will break the enemy’s line in two places.”

  Wolfe said, “The Frenchies are forming into line, sir.” He grinned with admiration. “And the transport seems to be standing well astern of the main column.”

  Bolitho barely heard him. “We will attack in two subdivisions. Benbow and Indomitable, while the second one, Nicator and Odin, will tack in succession. Tell Browne’s men to have the signal ready.”

  He moved away and trained a telescope on the French line. It was still in disarray, but he noticed immediately that the flagship was remaining in second place in the line. To watch Bolitho’s tactics before he himself acted. Or perhaps to allow one of his captains to take the first brunt of battle.

  He walked aft again past the helmsmen and looked at Grubb’s chart which was fixed on a little table below the poop. To save Grubb the extra effort of carrying his great bulk to the chart room, Bolitho thought.

  To all appearances the two squadrons were in a landless ocean, and yet some fifty miles to the north-east was Norway, and further away to the south-east the coast of Denmark, with the Skagerrak cradled between them.

  Bolitho wondered briefly what Inskip was doing, and if it had really been the Crown Prince he had met.

  He shut them all from his mind.

  “We will alter course, Captain Herrick. The squadron will steer nor-east by east.”

  He walked past the bustling afterguard and watched the Relentless shortening sail to steer a parallel course with the squadron, Lookout following astern like her cub.

  The French ships did not alter course or change a single sail.

  Herrick studied his own canvas as the yards steadied again, and remarked, “That’ll get him guessing, sir.”

  Bolitho watched the leading French ship. About the same size as Benbow, she was already running out her guns. It must seem worse to some of the French sailors, he thought. They had been too long in harbour to withstand the strain of this slow approach. Their officers were keeping them busy, they would be firing a few sighting-shots soon to give them heart for a fight.

  Grubb said dourly, “Two miles, sir. We’ll be up to them in ’alf an hour.” He tapped the sand-glass with a thick finger.

  There was a dull bang, and seconds later a thin waterspout shot skywards well clear of the larboard bow. A few of the seamen jeered, and some of the older hands looked aft, impatient now that the game had begun.

  “Load and run out, if you please. Tell your gun crews we will be engaging on both sides today, but the starboard ports will remain closed until we are amongst the enemy.”

  Bolitho moved to the opposite side of the quarterdeck, hemmed in by gun crews and marines, officers and messengers, and yet completely alone.

  The French squadron was more powerful, but he had seen worse odds. What his own ships lacked in men and guns they made up in experience. The two lines were drawing toward some point on this grey water, as if being warped by invisible hawsers.

  Bolitho dropped his hand and rested it on the well-worn sword at his hip.

  Almost to himself he said, “We will put ourselves against the French flagship. They are all far from home. If Ropars’ flag falls, the rest will soon scatter.”

  The leading French ship, a seventy-four, vanished momentarily behind a billowing barrier of smoke.

  Grubb said to his master’s mate, “Note it in the log, Mr Daws. The enemy ’as opened fire.”

  8 OUTWITTED

  BOLITHO watched the fall of the French broadside from the leading ship. She had fired at extreme range, and he guessed her captain was using the broadside as an exercise. It was more than likely that his gun crews had had little opportunity of aiming at a real enemy before.

  British sailors could curse and swear all they wished, but when it came to a fight it was sea-time which counted as much as the weight of armament.

  He could not recall seeing the complete contents of a broadside fall before in open water. It was like a violent upsurge from something beneath the surface, hurling spray and smoke in a long, jagged barrier. Even when the last ball had fallen the sea still writhed, the surface painted with great daubs of hissing salt.

  Herrick remarked, “Waste of good powder and shot.”

  Several others nodded, and Wolfe said, “They’re shortening sail, sir.”

  Herrick nodded. “Do likewise, Mr Wolfe.”

  Bolitho walked away. It was the usual practice, once enemies had been committed to a course of action. Enough canvas to give steerage-way and to manoeuvre, but not enough to encourage an outburst of fire. A flaming wad from a gun, a lantern knocked over by a stray ball, anything could change these fine pyramids of sail into a roaring inferno.

  Bolitho watched the maincourse being gathered up to its yard, the sudden activity along the deck as the order was obeyed. Along the slow-moving British line the others followed suit, stripping for combat.

  And still the two columns continued remorselessly towards one another. The second French ship, with Ropars’ flag at the fore, fired some ranging shots from each deck. Much nearer than the first impressive broadside. Bolitho followed a ball’s progress as it tore low across the wavecrests, cutting a path of spurting spray, until it struck hard into the sea and vanished. It fell less than a cable from Benbow’s larboard bow.

  Bolitho said, “When we engage, Mr Browne, make to Relentless, attack and harass enemy’s rear. I will keep Lookout with us to give the French something to ponder on.”

  Somebody laughed. A short, nervous sound. One of the new hands probably. The sudden burst of cannon fire, the overwhelming weight of iron as it had scythed into the sea had been less dangerous than the carefully pointed shots from Ropars’ flag-ship. But to an inexperienced eye it would seem awesome.

  Lieutenant Speke had left the quarterdeck and was walking between the lines of eighteen-pounders, hands behind his back until he joined Pascoe by the foremast bitts.

  Gun captains watched them app
rehensively, while here and there a handspike moved to point a cannon more accurately, while another seaman made a small adjustment with a quoin. It was as if the whole ship was on the edge of tension, and even the braced fore-topsail gave two sharp, impatient flaps, making one of the ship’s boys peer round in alarm.

  Bolitho turned as the leading Frenchman fired again. Much closer, some of the spray falling so near they could hear it, like tropical rain.

  Bolitho trained a glass on the French line. Along the five vessels, all seventy-fours, he could see the sails changing, being reefed or filling again to the wind as their captains did everything to hold the distances and yet be ready to react to their enemy.

  He said, “Alter course two points starboard, Captain Herrick. The squadron will follow.”

  Men hurried to the braces, and he heard the wheel being hauled over rapidly as if the quartermaster and helmsmen had been expecting the order.

  Grubb said, “Steady as she goes, sir. East by north.”

  The British line had edged slightly away from the other squadron, so that for a moment it appeared as if the French were falling astern. The yards squeaked to the pull of blocks and braces, and at the masthead Bolitho saw the pendant flapping almost directly forward.

  He could feel the ship responding, as with the wind under her coat-tails she forged eagerly ahead.

  “French have made more sail, sir.” Herrick looked at him. “Do I set the courses on her again?”

  “No.” Bolitho walked three paces to the nearest gun and back again. “I want them to believe we’re more interested in delaying their progress than closing to point-blank range.”

  He watched the French topgallant yards changing shape and direction as the ships spread more sail and increased speed accordingly. Less than a mile separated them now.

  “Be ready, Mr Browne.”

  He pictured the captains following in Benbow’s wake. He had explained this very tactic to them when he had first met them as a squadron. The minimum of signals. The maximum of initiative. He could see them now. Keverne, Keen, and good old Inch. Waiting for the solitary flag which was already beat on and ready. As he had said at the time, “The French can read our signals, too, so why share our knowledge with them?”

  “I think we may open fire, Captain Herrick.”

  Bolitho saw his words being passed forward along the gundeck by whisper and gesture with the speed of light.

  “No broadside. Tell your gun captains to shoot on the uproll and to fire at will.”

  Herrick nodded. “Aye, sir. That will get the Frogs moving. They’ll not want to be dismasted or crippled by a random shot at this stage of the game. They have a fair way to go in either direction!”

  A midshipman ran down the main hatch with the message, and seconds later a whistle shrilled out from the forecastle.

  It was hard to see who fired first, and to what effect. Down the engaged side the guns came crashing inboard on their tackles, the crews jumping instantly to sponge out the steaming muzzles and reload. Gun captains, stooped like old men, peered through their ports, watching the sails of the leading French ship jerk wildly as if in a whirlwind.

  From the lower gundeck the recoiling thirty-two-pounders made the timbers quiver, while streaming past her beakhead the drifting smoke fanned out on either bow like a fog.

  “We’ve hit her, by God!”

  Another voice yelled, “That was our gun, lads! Run out now an’ we’ll make ’em dance another jig!”

  The rest of Bolitho’s line were firing now, the shots cutting through the waves, some falling short and others hitting sails and hulls in a confusion of bursting spray and smoke.

  “The French have altered course again, sir.” Herrick could barely control his excitement. “Here they come.”

  He winced as the second ship vanished in a wall of smoke and the long orange tongues flashed through it with the sound of thunder.

  Water deluged across the forecastle, and beneath his feet Bolitho felt the massive hull stagger to the enemy’s iron. Five, maybe six hits, but not a stay or shroud had been parted.

  “Sponge out—that man!” A gun captain had to punch one of his men in the shoulder to bring him back to his senses. “Now load, you bugger!”

  Crash . . . crash . . . crash! All along Benbow’s painted tumble-home the guns came roaring inboard on their tackles. Alone, in pairs or whole sections their captains aimed and pulled their trigger lines, unhampered by the restricting demands of a fixed broadside.

  Men were cheering from up forward as the leading Frenchman’s main-topgallant mast vanished into the smoke. There were black dots drifting past the ships; wreckage, burned hammocks from the nettings or perhaps corpses thrown overboard to keep the guns firing.

  “Again, lads! Hit them!” Herrick was yelling through his cupped hands, a far cry from the quiet-faced man who had stood at the altar in Kent.

  The French line were all firing now, and each British ship was being damaged, or so deluged in falling spray she appeared to be.

  A ball punched through the main-topsail and other holes appeared in the fore.

  A few severed lines swung lazily above the guns, like dead weed, while Swale, the boatswain, Big Tom, matched his voice to the din as he urged his men aloft to splice and effect repairs before something vital carried away.

  Bolitho flinched as metal clanged against a gun on the starboard side and the broken splinters cracked around him like musket fire. A seaman fell headlong to the deck, and Bolitho saw that beneath his pigtail his vertebrae had been laid bare. Nearby a petty officer had dropped to his knees and was trying to hold his entrails in his hands, his mouth wide in a soundless scream.

  “Steady, lads! Point! Ready! Fire!”

  The quarterdeck nine-pounders fired together, their sharper note making some of the men gasp with pain.

  “And again!”

  Bolitho swallowed hard as more enemy shots beat into the hull. He heard one smash through an open port on the lower gundeck, pictured the horror as it ploughed through men already blinded by smoke and half-mad from the deafening explosions.

  “Fire!”

  The leading French ship was overreaching Benbow, in spite of her missing topgallant mast. She was firing wildly, but some of the shots were hitting the hull. Bolitho looked along the upper gundeck at the men moving back and forth, jumping clear as each gun came squealing and crashing inboard.

  Some lay where they had been dragged to await treatment. Others would not move again. Pascoe was walking behind his men, shouting something, then waving his hat. One of his gun captains turned to grin at him and fell dead as a ball whipped past his stomach without even touching him. On the opposite side it thundered into the bulwark and killed another seaman even as he ducked away.

  “Fire!”

  Bolitho cleared his throat. “We are rightly placed, I think.” He peered up at the flapping pendant, his eyes smarting with smoke. “Be ready, Mr Browne!”

  He heard Herrick yelling, “Stand by to come about, Mr Grubb! Mr Speke!” He had to borrow Wolfe’s trumpet to make the lieutenant hear through the noise. “We will engage with both batteries! Prepare to raise the starboard port lids!” He watched to ensure that his message had been carried to the lower gundeck and then turned to add, “By God, our people are doing well today, sir!”

  Bolitho took his arm. “Walk about, Thomas. When we break the enemy’s line they will try to mark us down from the tops!”

  Somewhere in the smoke a man gave a shrill scream, and blood ran along the larboard scuppers in an unbroken thread.

  He measured the distance. It was time. Later and the French might cripple them, or try to separate them from each other.

  “Make your signal, Mr Browne!”

  The solitary flag broke from the yard, to be acknowledged all along the line.

  Browne wiped his mouth with his hand. His hat was awry and there was blood on his white breeches.

  “Close up, sir!”

  Bolitho looked at the
men ready at the braces, the ones at the big double-wheel taking the strain on the spokes while they tried to concentrate on Grubb, on everything but the crash and roar of cannon fire.

  A marine fell from the maintop, hit a net and rolled over the side into the sea.

  A powder-monkey, running towards the larboard guns, turned on his toes like a dancer then fell kicking to the deck. Before he looked away Bolitho saw that his eyes had been blasted from his head.

  “Now!”

  The yards came round like great, straining bows, and as the helm went over Bolitho saw the French ships suddenly loom above the larboard bow. Then they stood before the bowsprit as Benbow continued to turn until her yards were all but braced fore and aft.

  With canvas thundering and flapping in protest, Benbow held on her new tack, her tapering jib-boom pointing directly at the gilded gallery of the French flagship. He could see the sudden consternation on her poop and quarterdeck, the flags appearing frantically above the drifting smoke as she endeavoured to rally support.

  “Make your other signal to Relentless.”

  Bolitho watched narrowly as the deck heeled to starboard under the tightly braced sails. Would they manage it? Break astern of the flagship and smash her poop to fragments, or would Benbow ram her instead and impale her on the bowsprit like a lance?

  He heard more cheering, rising from the fog of battle to drown the cries and groans of the wounded. Indomitable was following close astern and, seeming much further away now, Nicator, with Inch’s smaller sixty-four, Odin, in her wake, was heading to break the enemy’s line. With luck, Captain Keen would pass between the fourth and the rearmost ship in the French squadron. If he could cut out the last ship and cripple her, the big transport would be at his mercy.

  “Open your ports! Run out the starboard battery!”

  The guns squealed to the ports as one, as if eager to discard their previous roles of spectators.

  Herrick said between his teeth, “Easy, Mr Grubb. You can let her fall off a point now.” He slammed one hand into the other. “Got him!”