Inshore Squadron Page 14

  Herrick walked past the man who was next on the table. To Pascoe he said, “I’d take it as a favour if you’d stay with him.” He selected his words carefully, sensing Pascoe’s sudden anxiety as he added, “If things go badly, I need to know at once.” He looked at the young lieutenant gravely. “And he will want to know you are close by.”

  He turned on his heel and beckoned to Browne. “Come. We’ll walk through the gundecks and speak with our people. They did well today, bless ’em.”

  Browne followed him towards the companion ladder, to the cleansing air of the upper deck.

  Under his breath he said, “And so did you, Captain Herrick, and I know what it is costing you at this very moment.”

  When Herrick eventually returned to the quarterdeck the work was still under way. Aloft and below men were splicing and cutting wood for repairs under Wolfe’s watchful eye.

  Speke, who had taken over the watch, touched his hat and said, “Indomitable has rigged a jury-mast for her mizzen, sir, and the squadron is under command.”

  It was strange, Herrick thought, he had not even considered his sudden authority of overall responsibility. Nor did it seem to matter now. He clenched his jaw as a man cried out pitifully from the lower gundeck. Then he took a telescope and levelled it on the other ships. The line was uneven, and the sails were more holes than canvas. But Herrick knew that given time ships could be put to rights, their hurts repaired. He thought of the terrible scene on the orlop. With people it was not so simple.

  Herrick turned towards Browne. It would soon be too dark to pass or exchange signals. He had already ordered that the squadron should steer south-east in the best formation they could manage.

  “I will require a list of all casualties and damage, Mr Browne. Mr Speke will assist you. At daylight you will signal the squadron and request the same from each ship in turn.” He swallowed hard and turned his face away. “Our admiral is bound to ask me that first when he is up and about again.”

  Speke was an unimaginative man. “Will he recover, sir?”

  Herrick swung on him, his eyes blazing. “What are you saying, man! Just you attend your damn duties!”

  As the two lieutenants hurried away, Major Clinton came out of the gloom and said, “Be easy, sir. I’m sure he meant no harm.”

  Herrick nodded. “I expect you’re right.” Then he moved to the weather side and began to pace up and down.”

  Old Grubb blew his nose noisily and plodded over to the marine. “Leave ’im, Major. With all respect, leave ’im be. This’ll be a black day for the cap’n, be certain of that, an’ for many more beside.”

  Clinton smiled sadly and then climbed up to the poop deck where some of his men had fallen that afternoon.

  He had heard many stories about Bolitho and Herrick, that they had obviously been true was even more surprising, he thought.

  9 WAITING

  CAPTAIN Thomas Herrick leaned moodily on his elbow and leafed through the purser’s daily report. His mind and body ached from worry and work, and neither was helped by the Benbow’s uncomfortable motion. She would roll steeply into a trough, the movement ending each time with a long-drawn-out shudder which ran through every deck and timber.

  She was, like the other ships of the line, anchored under the protection of Skaw Point. After the slow crawl from the position on the chart where they had fought Ropars’ squadron, and another day at anchor, they were still working. Mending or replacing sails, paying seams, hammering and sawing, splicing and blacking-down rigging. It was just as if they were in the security of a dockyard instead of being out here in the bleak North Sea.

  There was a tap at the door, and Herrick steeled himself for the moment he had been dreading.

  “Enter!”

  Loveys, the surgeon, closed the door behind him and took a proffered chair. He appeared exactly as before, deathly white, and yet tireless.

  Loveys said, “You look worn out, Captain.”

  Herrick thrust all the affairs of the squadron and his ship aside like dead leaves. Even though he had been forced to attend to his daily work without respite, he had not once forgotten his friend in the stern cabin.

  Men to be promoted to fill the gaps of dead or crippled comrades. Midshipman Aggett appointed as acting lieutenant in place of young Courtenay. With his lower jaw shot away and his mind completely unhinged, it was a miracle Courtenay had survived this long. The watch and quarter bills had had to be rearranged to share out the experienced hands. The purser had been complaining about rations, about the total loss of some salt beef casks which had been shattered by a stray cannon-ball. The grim business of sea burials, of answering questions and maintaining contact with the other captains, all had taken a brutal toll of his resources.

  “Never mind that.” He calmed his tone with an effort. “How is he today?”

  Loveys looked at his strong fingers. “The wound is very inflamed, sir. I have repeatedly changed the dressings, and am now using a dry stupe on it.” He shook his head. “I’m not certain, sir. I cannot smell gangrene as yet, but the wound is a bad one.” Loveys made a gesture like scissors with his fingers. “The enemy ball was flattened on impact with flesh and bone, but that is normal enough. The button was split like a claw and I fear there may be fragments left in the wound, even pieces of cloth which could encourage rotting.”

  “Is he bearing up well?”

  Loveys gave a rare smile. “You will know that better than I, sir.” The smile vanished. “He needs proper care ashore. Each jerk of his cot is agony, each movement could be the one to start gangrene. I give him an opiate at night but I cannot weaken him further.” He looked Herrick in the eyes. “I may have to probe again, or worse, take off the leg. That can kill even the strongest, or a man given power by the lust for battle.”

  Herrick nodded. “Thank you.” It was as he had expected, although he had searched for hope, for his “Lady Luck.”

  Loveys made to leave. “I suggest you send Mr Pascoe to his normal duties, sir.” He silenced Herrick’s unspoken protest by adding, “Our admiral might die, but young Mr Pascoe will have to fight again. He is wearing down his very soul by staying aft with him.”

  “Very well. Ask Mr Wolfe to attend to it for me.”

  Alone once more, Herrick tried to decide what he should do. With Styx away from the squadron he could not spare Relentless to carry Bolitho to England. Relentless had amazed everyone. By harrying the heavy transport, which Captain Peel had confirmed to be packed with French soldiers, she had drawn off Ropars’ frigates from the real fight. That, plus Benbow’s unexpected challenge, had turned the tables. In spite of all that, Relentless had been barely marked.

  Herrick had thought of detaching Lookout from the squadron. After Loveys’ discouraging report there seemed no alternative.

  He would get no thanks from Bolitho. He had always put duty before personal involvement no matter what hurt it had caused him. But in this case . . .

  Herrick started as someone tapped at the door and Lyb, who had taken over from Aggett as senior midshipman, peered in at him.

  “Mr Byrd’s respects, sir, and Lookout has just reported a sail to the west’rd.”

  Herrick stood up, uncertain and reluctant. “Tell the fourth lieutenant I will be on deck shortly, and inform the squadron. Is Relentless in sight?”

  Lyb frowned at the unexpected question. He was a pleasant-looking youth of sixteen with hair the same colour as Wolfe’s. He must have had to take some cruel comments on that, Herrick thought.

  “Aye, sir. She is still to the nor’ west of us.”

  “My compliments to Mr Byrd. Tell him to repeat the signal to Relentless. Just in case.”

  Lyb stared. “In case, sir?”

  “Dammit, Mr Lyb, do I have to repeat every word?”

  He gripped the chairback and steadied himself. Just in case. It had been unthinkable to voice his caution aloud. It gave some hint of the strain which held him like a vice.

  He called, “Mr Lyb!”


  The youth came back, trying not to look frightened.

  “Sir?”

  “I had no cause to abuse you just then. Now please carry my message to the fourth lieutenant.”

  Lyb backed away, mystified. At the sudden outburst, which was quite unlike the captain, but more so at the apology, which was unlike any captain.

  Herrick picked up his hat and made his way aft. Every day he had tried to act out his part, to pretend for Bolitho’s sake that all was as before. Even when he had found Bolitho drowsing, or barely aware of what was happening, he had made his report, his comments about the ship and the weather. It was his own way of offering something which might break through the barrier of anguish, might also help to remind Bolitho of the world they shared.

  He found Allday sitting in a chair and Ozzard collecting some soiled dressings from the sleeping cabin.

  He waved Allday down as he made to rise. “Easy, man. These are bad times for us all. How does he seem?”

  Allday saw nothing unusual in being asked the question by a captain. Herrick was different. A true friend.

  Allday spread his big hands. “He’s so weak, sir. I gave him some soup but he couldn’t keep it down. I’ve tried brandy, an’ I asked Ozzard to read to him, him being an educated man, so to speak.”

  Herrick nodded, touched by Allday’s simplicity.

  “I’ll make my report.”

  He entered the small sleeping compartment and walked hesitantly to the swinging cot. It was always the same. The horrifying dread of gangrene, of what it could do to a man.

  He said, “Good morning, sir. Lookout has just sighted a sail to the west’rd. Likely a Dane, or some other lucky neutral. I have ordered Relentless to be ready to run down and intercept.”

  Herrick watched Bolitho’s strained face. He was sweating badly and the lock of black hair which usually hid the terrible scar on his temple was plastered aside. Herrick looked at the scar. That must also have been a close thing. But Bolitho had been a youthful lieutenant when it had happened, younger than Pascoe or even the wretched Lieutenant Courtenay.

  With a start he realised that Bolitho had opened his eyes. They were like the only things alive in the man.

  “A sail, you say?”

  Very carefully Herrick answered, “Aye. Probably nothing important.”

  “Must get word to the admiral, Thomas.” The words were hurting him to utter. “Tell him about Ropars and the big transport. As soon as we sight a scouting frigate from the fleet you must . . .”

  Herrick bent over the cot, feeling his friend’s despair, his suffering.

  “I will attend to all that. Have no fear.”

  Bolitho tried to smile at him. “I am in hell, Thomas. At times I am afire. Sometimes I can feel nothing at all.”

  Herrick wiped Bolitho’s face and neck with a flannel. “Rest now.”

  Bolitho gripped his wrist. “Rest? D’you see yourself? You look worse than I do!” He coughed, and then groaned as the movement awakened the pain.

  Then he asked, “How is the ship? How many did we lose?”

  Herrick said, “Thirty killed, sir, and about four to follow them, I fear. Throughout the squadron we have lost a hundred dead and seriously wounded.”

  “Too many, Thomas.” He was speaking very quietly. “Where is Adam?”

  “I put him to work, sir. He has a lot on his mind.”

  Herrick was amazed that Bolitho could manage a smile.

  “Trust you to think of that.”

  “Actually, it was the surgeon.”

  “That man.” Bolitho tried to move his arm. “He is like the Reaper. Waiting.”

  “A better surgeon than some, sir.” Herrick stood up. “I must go and attend to this newcomer. I shall return soon.”

  Impetuously he reached down and touched Bolitho’s shoulder. But he had drowsed off into semi-consciousness again. Very gently Herrick pulled down the blanket and after some hesitation laid his hand on Loveys’ carefully prepared stupe. He withdrew it swiftly and left the cabin. Even through the dressing Bolitho’s thigh had felt like fire. As if his body was being consumed from within.

  Allday saw his face. “Shall I go to him, sir?”

  “Let him sleep.” Herrick studied him sadly. “He spoke to me quite well, but . . . ” He did not finish and went straight out to the quarterdeck.

  In the dull light of the forenoon he saw that most of the lieutenants who were discussing the strange sail were careful to avoid his eye as he appeared.

  He heard Wolfe saying, “I understand how you must feel, Mr Pascoe. But duty is duty, an’ I’m short-handed enough without you staying away from your division.”

  Wolfe touched his hat to Herrick and said, “All done, sir. It’s better from me. He can loathe my guts as much as he wants, provided he does his work.”

  Midshipman Lyb called, “Lookout’s signalling, sir. The other vessel is . . .” He craned over a fellow midshipman’s arm to study the list of numbers. “She’s Marguerite, brig, sir.”

  Wolfe released a great sigh. “News, mebbee?”

  Then he glared at Lyb and roared, “Pork and molasses, sir! Acknowledge Lookout’s signal, if you please!”

  Herrick turned away. It was better to be like Wolfe. Uninvolved, and therefore unreachable. Even as he thought it he knew it was a lie.

  The ship’s company went to their midday meal, and by the time they had turned to for work again the lively little brig Marguerite was already standing into the wind while she lowered a boat alongside.

  Herrick said heavily, “Man the side, Mr Wolfe. The brig’s commanding officer is coming across, it seems.”

  Further aft in his cot, Bolitho strained his body on to one side as he listened to the familiar sounds from the quarterdeck. Preparing to receive the other vessel’s captain. Allday had told him the brig’s name, and Bolitho had sent him on deck to discover what was happening.

  The pain seemed to pounce on his thigh like a savage beast. Sweating and sobbing, Bolitho pulled himself further and further up the side of the cot. In his reeling mind it was suddenly vital that he should see the water again, the other ships, and cling on to what he saw like a life-line.

  It was like that day on the gangway. One second standing there, the next feeling his face grinding against the planking, with no memory in-between.

  Outside the screen door the startled marine sentry yelled, “Sir! Sir!”

  Allday came running, thrusting the sentry aside as he rushed into the cabin and then stared aghast at Bolitho’s sprawled figure on the deck.

  The black and white chequered canvas beneath him was stained with discoloured blood, and it was spreading even as Allday shouted, “Fetch the surgeon!”

  He gathered Bolitho in his arms and held him firmly.

  When Herrick and Loveys entered, followed by the brig’s astonished commander, neither Allday nor Bolitho had moved. Loveys knelt on the deck and said tersely, “It’s broken the wound.” He looked at Herrick. “Please send someone for my instruments.” He was thinking aloud.

  Herrick stared at him as Ozzard ran to fetch Loveys’ assistants. “Not his leg?”

  When the surgeon remained silent he said, “You’ll not take off his leg?”

  Allday exclaimed brokenly. “ ’Twas my fault. He sent me away. I should have known!”

  Loveys eyed him sharply. “Known what?”

  Allday jerked his head towards the stern windows. “He wanted to get to the sea. It’s his life, don’t you understand?”

  Men were crowding into the cabin, with orders being passed as rapidly as any musketry drill.

  Loveys cut away the dressing, and the lieutenant who commanded the brig recoiled saying, “My God, he must have been in agony.”

  Loveys shot him a chilling glance. “Be off with you, sir, if you’ve nothing but slops to offer!”

  In a gentler tone Loveys said to Allday, “Go, too. Trust me.”

  Allday reluctantly released hold of Bolitho’s limp body as the surgeon’s men gr
ouped around him like ghouls.

  In the adjoining cabin Herrick said quietly, “Now, what do you have to tell me, Lieutenant?”

  Still wilting from the surgeon’s anger, the lieutenant answered, “I brought a despatch for your flag officer, sir. The French squadron did not go to Ireland. It is almost certain it may try to enter the Baltic. Commodore Rice of the Downs Squadron is coming to give you support.”

  Herrick tried not to listen to the movements beyond the closed door.

  Then he answered simply, “We met with Vice-Admiral Ropars three days ago. That man you just saw, who may well die before another hour is out, dispersed the enemy and destroyed one of his seventy-fours.” In the silent cabin his words were like pistol shots.

  The lieutenant said shakily, “That was bravely done, sir. Do you have orders for me?”

  Herrick looked at the door. “Presently.”

  Lieutenant the Honourable Oliver Browne watched Herrick’s stocky shadow sweeping back and forth beyond the cabin lanterns.

  The ship’s motion had got a good deal worse during the day, and Browne could not even imagine the surgeon’s difficulties in such conditions. Now, it was early dark, and it was obvious that Herrick was driving himself to a complete collapse unless he rested from his work. Browne knew why Herrick was keeping himself busy when others could have done some of the tasks needing attention, but he did not know how.

  The masthead lookouts had reported a signal from Relentless as she prowled along her patrol line to the north-west of the anchored ships. Commodore Rice’s Downs Squadron had been sighted, but even as the signal had been read and repeated to the other captains, dusk, aided by a fast-moving rain-squall, had blotted out everything from view.

  Herrick said, “I shall inform Commodore Rice of our situation. We can fight, but some hull damage needs more careful attention. I will ask permission to leave the area and return to port.”

  Browne nodded. The Benbow had certainly taken the worst of the battering, with more than a third of the squadron’s total casualties. Two more men had been buried that day, surprisingly, neither had been expected to die at all.

  Herrick threw his papers on the table and said desperately, “What is that damned butcher doing?”