Inshore Squadron Read online

  Browne stared at his goblet but it was empty.

  “Thank you for sharing it with me, sir.” He fixed his eyes on a point above Bolitho’s shoulder. “Did you know the other officer, the one who was killed?”

  “No. I was in the Caribbean. When I got home my father told me. The shock nearly killed him.” Something in Browne’s tone made him ask sharply, “Why?”

  “His name was Damerum, sir. Sir Samuel’s brother.”

  Bolitho recalled the first meeting with the admiral aboard his flagship Tantalus. No hint. Not a single sign of memory or connection with the past.

  In just a few minutes Browne seemed to have become very drunk.

  In a slurred, confidential tone he murmured, “An’ if you think he wouldn’t let his personal feelings come before duty, then, shir, you are mishtaken!”

  Bolitho stood up. “I think it might be wise to retire.” He nodded to Swinburne, but he, too, seemed barely aware what was happening.

  Up the stairway once more, Browne becoming looser and more unsteady with each step.

  By the door of his room Bolitho saw Allday sitting on a dainty gilt stool which looked as if it might collapse under him at any moment.

  He saw Browne and grinned. “Bit too much for a poor luff, eh, sir?”

  “Put him on my bed, Allday.” He straightened his coat as Allday thrust one arm round the lieutenant’s waist. Another moment and Browne would have fallen on his face. “I will return to the hall.” He forced a smile for Allday’s benefit. “As the only representative of the King’s Navy in attendance, I must not let us down.”

  Allday pushed open the door and dragged the limp figure towards the bed.

  “Is he to sleep here, sir?”

  Bolitho glanced at the clock. “Yes. But I suspect he will not be alone for long. There may be a young lady arriving directly, so do not stand in her way.”

  Allday stared at him. “An’ she’ll be thinking it’s your room?”

  Bolitho turned towards the stairs. “I suspect that neither of them will care, nor will they remember a thing about it tomorrow, I’m sure of that also!”

  Allday watched him until he had vanished down the stairs and then sighed with envy. He toyed with the idea of carrying the lieutenant to another room and taking his place in the bed.

  Then he thought of the servant girl who was waiting for him at the other end of the house.

  He touched his forehead to the door and said, “Sleep well, Mr Browne with an ‘e’. You are a very lucky man even though you may never know it!”

  12 LOVE AND HATE

  ADMIRAL Sir George Beauchamp remained with his back to the high-ceilinged room and stared distastefully at the breadth of Whitehall beyond the window.

  It was a cold, wet day, but there were plenty of carriages and traders’ carts on the move. Bustling, muffled figures, steaming horses. To Beauchamp with his clear, ordered mind it looked a shambles.

  Bolitho sat in a straight-backed chair and tried not to reach down to his thigh.

  It had been a long drive from Swinburne’s fine house on the Hampshire/Surrey border. Browne had, for once, been poor company, and had been unable to prevent himself from groaning or retching each time one of the wheels had lurched into a deep rut.

  When they had paused at an inn in Guildford, Allday had whispered cheerfully, “Your plan must have been a great success, sir. He looks like death!”

  Bolitho had been ushered into this room with some haste, and he had seen an unfortunate officer turned away from an appointment even as he had topped the stairs.

  Beauchamp had shaken his hand stiffly, his eyes examining Bolitho’s face and general condition, much as a good horseman will study a badly used mount.

  Then, with his wizened fingers pressed together, he had sat dwarfed in his big chair while Bolitho had explained his actions, the attack on the French frigate, and the following encounter with Ropars’ squadron.

  Occasionally, Beauchamp would lean forward to check something or relate it to a note or part of Bolitho’s despatches, but he made no interruption.

  Bolitho had finished his report by saying, “I would like to emphasize that every incident which led to any success was due to the initiative and skill of my captains.”

  Beauchamp turned from his place at the window. He had gone there as Bolitho completed his summing up, as if it were a signal or to give him time to form an opinion.

  He said suddenly, “I have heard from your friend Inskip. Your action seems to have been somewhat at odds with his ideas of diplomacy.” He gave a wry smile. “There are more rumours going through the corridors of St James’s and the Admiralty than when the French beheaded their king!” He pursed his lips. “Some are saying that your attack on the Ajax was an act of aggression in neutral waters. Tsar Paul of Russia has certainly used it to gather more strength for his plan to become Bonaparte’s ally. Had the Danish batteries fired on Styx when you sailed into Copenhagen, it would have been war in an instant, and one which we would have had little hope of containing, let alone winning, with all our other commitments. No, Bolitho, there are some who are hinting my choice for command of the Inshore Squadron was hasty, even foolish.”

  Bolitho stared at the window above the admiral’s chair, the long rivulets of rain running down each pane.

  He recalled starkly the marine officer with his bloodied hands to his face. Benbow’s junior lieutenant with his jaw shot away. Other faces, inflamed with the hate and terror of battle, swept through his mind like souls in torment. It had all been for nothing. Tsar Paul had lost six prize-ships which he had unlawfully seized, but Styx’s swift vengeance had given him the lever he required just the same.

  “Turning for a moment to your encounter with Ropars’ squadron.”

  Beauchamp’s precise tones brought Bolitho back to the room again.

  “Our intelligence sources tell me that the French transport was indeed carrying soldiers to aid and train the Tsar’s army. Your action, particularly the destruction of the enemy seventy-four, scattered Ropars’ ships, and he also lost a frigate to the blockading squadron in the Channel.”

  “So that was approved, sir?” Bolitho could not hide the bitterness he felt.

  Beauchamp snapped, “Do not act like a junior lieutenant, Bolitho! I am dealing with hearsay as well as the facts. As a flag officer you would do well to follow my example!” He was calm again. “Of course it was approved, dammit! The story, largely exaggerated and distorted by the people who write such things, went through London like a lion. If Ropars had got into the Baltic it would have taken an act of God to force him out again. With French soldiers, no matter how few, and all those ships, Tsar Paul’s unholy alliance would have been at our throats. I am told with equal authority that plans were in readiness to launch an invasion from the Channel ports to coincide with the big thrust from the Baltic. Now, whatever the outcome later on, your victory has given us time. Before the ice melts around Paul’s ports and bases, we must be ready!”

  Bolitho wondered what would have happened if another admiral had been facing him across this desk. Beauchamp was ruthless when he needed to be, but he was known for his fairness, too.

  The little admiral continued, “Even so, there are the critics who ask why your flag captain failed to act on the courier brig’s report that Ropars was making for Ireland. It would make good sense to many. The King has only recently approved the alteration of the Union Flag to conform with our union with Ireland. From January the first, that is next week, it would outwardly appear less simple to rouse a rebellion there.”

  “Captain Herrick acted wisely as it turned out, sir. Had he done as you suggest, there would have been nothing to stop Ropars.”

  “Possibly. But I did warn you when you accepted the appointment. Envy is never far away.”

  Beyond the tall doors someone coughed discreetly, and Beauchamp peered at the clock.

  “You will be tired after your journey.”

  The interview was over.

&nbs
p; Bolitho stood up and tested his weight on his leg. His thigh felt as if it was asleep, lifeless. He waited for the first tingling stab to move through it and asked, “Will you be requiring my presence again, sir?”

  “It is possible. I took the liberty of arranging some comfortable quarters for you. My secretary will give the address to your flag lieutenant. How is he, by the way?”

  Bolitho walked with him to the door. He still could not determine whether the admiral was supporting his actions or merely preparing judgement on them.

  “I can’t imagine how I managed without him, sir.” He looked him in the eyes. “He is extremely competent.”

  Beauchamp grimaced. “Impertinent, too, when the mood takes him.”

  With one hand resting on the door Beauchamp said quietly, “The next months are going to be demanding, even critical. We shall need every good officer, every loyal hand if we are to survive, let alone win through.” He studied Bolitho’s impassive features and added, “You know about Sir Samuel Damerum, of course. I can see it on your face as plain as a pikestaff. My spies told me that Browne had been ferreting around for information, and the rest was simple reasoning.”

  “I have no intention of involving you or my appointment, sir.” He got no further.

  Beauchamp said, “I like you, Bolitho, and I admire your courage as well as your humanity. But you involve anyone and there will be no appointment, do I make myself clear? You are above it now. Remain so.”

  He opened the door and about six officers who had been waiting moved hopefully towards it.

  Browne got to his feet from a bench seat and groaned. His face was ashen.

  “I have the address, sir.” He quickened his pace to keep up with Bolitho. “Was everything satisfactory, sir?”

  “If you call being made to feel like a grubby schoolboy satisfactory, then yes, it was. If you imagine that obeying every order, even if written by a blindfolded donkey, and no matter what you know to be the truth, then again I must say yes!”

  Browne said shakily. “It was not a success then, sir.”

  “No.” Bolitho turned at the foot of the stairs. “Do you still wish to serve with the squadron?”

  He could not help smiling at Browne’s crest-fallen expression, his appearance of complete exhaustion. His companion at dinner must have roused herself enough to torment Browne to the point of collapse.

  Browne straightened up. “I do, sir.” He squinted at a piece of paper. “The residence is not too far away. I know Cavendish Square quite well, sir.” He added in a pained voice, “We shall not be on the fashionable side of it, I’m afraid.”

  Allday was waiting outside by the carriage, patting the horses and chatting with the coachman.

  Bolitho climbed into the carriage and drew his cloak around him, remembering the girl lolling against his body as they had headed off the road to Lord Swinburne’s estate.

  The carriage rocked on its fine springs as Browne clambered up beside him.

  “You remember the young lady, Browne?”

  Browne stared at him blankly. “Mrs Laidlaw, sir?”

  “Yes.” He almost said, of course. “Did you discover where she is staying?”

  “The house belongs to an elderly judge, sir. He has, I understand, an equally old wife, who is also disagreeable to boot.”

  “Well?”

  Browne was obviously getting his own back.

  Browne spread his hands, “That is all, sir. The judge is often on the Assize circuit and away from home a great deal.” He swallowed hard under Bolitho’s eyes. “The young lady will be a companion to the judge’s wife, sir.”

  “Good God!”

  Browne recoiled. “I—I am sorry, sir. Did I do or say something wrong?”

  Bolitho did not bear him. A companion. It was common enough for widows these days to be forced into such positions. But surely not her? Young, vital, desirable. His mind reeled to his anger and concern. Rupert Seton had offered to help her, and had in fact arranged passage home for her from India. Seton was a rich man and could easily have made some allowance for her care and protection. It was so unlike the Seton he had known, whose sister he had loved, he could scarcely believe it.

  But what could he do about it? One thing was certain, he would not leave things as they were, even at the expense of making himself look a fool again.

  The carriage came to a halt outside an elegant building with a broad pillared entrance. Another temporary headquarters, and even if, according to Browne, it was not the fashionable side of the square, it was impressive in its own right.

  Browne nodded weakly to two servants who were hurrying down the steps to greet them.

  To Bolitho he said, “Will you be needing me, sir?”

  “Go and rest your head. When you are refreshed and restored from your orgy, I would ask you to take a letter for me.”

  “A letter.” Browne nodded again, his eyes vacant.

  “Yes. To that judge’s house you mentioned.”

  Browne grappled with it and asked, “Is it wise, sir?”

  “Probably not. But at the moment it seems I am not much in demand for my wisdom.”

  Allday watched him from the door as the servants hauled their chests into the warm hallway.

  That’s more like it, my captain. They want fire, you give it them, damn their eyes.

  He turned as a woman’s voice asked, “Are you ready for some food, sir?”

  Allday ran his eye over her approvingly. Must be the cook. She had a very full figure, and her round, plump arms were half-whitened with flour. But her face was gentle and friendly.

  He replied lazily, “Just you call me John, my dear.” He touched her bare arm and added, “Here, I’ll give you a hand if you like. You know what they say about sailors.”

  The kitchen door swung shut behind them.

  Captain Thomas Herrick sipped slowly at a tankard of strong ale and ran his eyes over the remaining pile of books and papers which awaited his attention.

  It was strange to feel the Benbow so still, which, plus hard work and the excellent ale, was making him drowsy.

  Anchored within the sheltered stretch of Portsmouth Harbour was far different from the lively Solent, or that bleak rendezvous he had shared with the squadron at Skaw Point.

  He went over the repairs and the replenishments for the hundredth time, looking for a flaw, expecting to discover a forgotten item.

  Herrick felt justifiably proud of what he and his company had achieved. It could not have been easy for most of them, working without let-up, knowing all the while that over in the town, and throughout the country, others were celebrating Christmas to the full extent of their means.

  From his own pocket Herrick had provided something of a feast for his sailors and marines. Some of them had got so drunk that they had to be forcibly restrained. But it had been worth it, he decided, and when they had turned to for work again he had felt the change run through the ship like a lively shanty.

  He thought of his wife, waiting for him to come ashore when he had finished his duties for the day. It was all so new and wonderful to Herrick. A nice, snug little inn run by a friendly landlord and his wife. A parlour of their own when Herrick went to share his dreams and hopes with his Dulcie.

  With a deep sigh he turned his attention to the lists and ledgers. Progress of work book, muster book, details of stores, gunnery equipment, canvas, every fibre and nerve of a full-rigged fighting ship of the line.

  Herrick had thought a great deal about Bolitho, had wondered how he was getting on in London. He knew Bolitho had never been at ease in the capital. Streets piled with horse dung, a place being poisoned by its own stench, he had once said. The streets had become so overcrowded with vehicles of every sort that the richer houses had to spread straw on the cobbles to muffle the din of iron-shod wheels.

  He often examined his own feelings about the battle with the French admiral, Ropars. Herrick had faced death alongside Bolitho many times, and each threat seemed to get worse than the
one before. Without effort he could see Bolitho on Benbow’s gangway, waving his hat to torment the French marksmen and give his own sailors heart to continue their fight against odds.

  A lot of men had died or been wounded that day. Herrick’s lieutenants had roamed the backstreets of Portsmouth and further out to the Hampshire villages and farms in search of men. Herrick had even had some handbills printed and distributed to inns and village halls where they could be read aloud by someone with education to inspire or coax a man to join the Colours.

  Relentless had dropped anchor that forenoon, having been relieved on station by the hastily repaired Styx. Despatches had been exchanged, new hands signed on. The Navy allowed little time for rest or complacency. He glanced at the big Union Flag which the boatswain had brought aft to show him. The new flag, with the additional Cross of St Patrick sewn on it. A lot of those had gone out to the squadron, too. To Herrick’s practical mind it seemed a waste of effort to change a flag when the world was intent on destroying itself.

  Yovell, Bolitho’s clerk, padded into the cabin, a fresh bunch of papers in his hands for signature. With Herrick’s own clerk, Yovell had been a tower of strength. Herrick hated paper, the need to form sentences so that no victualling yard or chandler could mis-interpret them.

  “More?”

  Yovell smiled. “A few, zur. There is one to sign for the London courier.”

  Herrick glanced at it uneasily. That was another thing he found hard to get used to. Running his own ship was quite enough. But as flag captain he had to put his thoughts to the affairs of the whole squadron, which included Relentless.

  Captain Peel had reported that his third lieutenant, wounded in the leg during the fight with the enemy squadron, had had his leg amputated and was now ashore in the naval hospital at Haslar.

  He required a replacement immediately, as none of his midshipmen had the age or seniority for the appointment. Relentless hoped to weigh and rejoin the squadron without additional delay. Herrick thought immediately of Pascoe and dismissed the idea. It might be days, weeks before Bolitho was back. It would be unfair to send the boy away in this fashion.