Inshore Squadron Read online

  Yovell watched him impassively. “Shall I prepare a letter for the port admiral, zur?”

  Herrick rubbed his chin. There were several men-of-war in harbour completing repairs of storm or battle. One of them would have a replacement, a young officer who would give his soul for a place with Captain Peel.

  “I shall think about it.”

  He knew Yovell was shaking his head sadly. He might have a word with Peel. Invite him to dine with Dulcie. Herrick brightened immediately. She would know what to do. She had given him such confidence he could scarcely believe it.

  Herrick stood up and crossed to the side of his cabin. He wiped the damp haze off the glass and peered across the harbour. It was afternoon, but it was almost dark. He could barely see the two great three-deckers which were anchored abeam, and there were already some small lights bobbing on the water as boats plied back and forth like beetles.

  One more day and he would be writing those all important words in his despatch.

  Being in all respects ready for sea . . .

  After this stay in harbour it would be hard to stomach.

  There was a tap at the door and Speke, the second lieutenant, stepped over the coaming, his eyes glinting in the lamplight.

  “What is it?”

  Speke shot a quick glance at the clerk and Herrick said, “Later, Yovell. Leave us just now.” Speke’s cold expression had swept away his feeling of satisfaction and comfort like a breaking wave.

  “I believe Mr Pascoe may be in trouble, sir.”

  “You what?” Herrick stared at him. “Spit it out, man!”

  “He was officer of the watch, sir. I relieved him when he asked permission to go ashore. He said it was urgent.” Speke gave a brief shrug. “Young he may be, but he is more experienced than many of our people. I did not question his reasons.”

  “Go on.”

  Herrick forced himself to sit down, to display calm as he had seen Bolitho do so many times.

  “There was a freshwater lighter alongside for most of the day, sir. When it cast off it appears that one of the working party went with it. Deserted. Mr Midshipman Penels was in charge of the party. Just a handful of landmen. And after a quick muster I discovered the missing one is Babbage, whose punishment was stood over by you, sir.”

  Herrick studied him grimly. “You are suggesting that the midshipman helped Babbage to run?”

  Speke met his gaze complacently. “Yes, sir. He admitted it. But only after Mr Pascoe had gone ashore. He was so ashamed at what he had done, he thought he should own up to Mr Pascoe. The young fool. Babbage will be caught and run up to the main-yard anyway. As it is . . .”

  “As it is, Mr Speke, the third lieutenant has gone ashore to recover the deserter, to bring him back before anyone discovers he is missing?”

  “Correct, sir. But for Penels . . .”

  “Fetch him here.”

  Herrick shifted in his chair, his mind thrashing about like a snared fish. It would be just like Pascoe, he thought. What Bolitho would have done. What I would have done. Once.

  Speke thrust the terrified boy through the door and closed it behind him, saying angrily, “You can thank your miserable stars it was I and not the senior who found out. Mr Wolfe would have torn you in halves!”

  “Easy!” Herrick’s tone silenced him. “What did you arrange with the man Babbage?”

  “I—I just thought I could help him, sir. After all he did for me at home.” Penels was sniffing and close to tears. “He was so afraid of being hurt again. I had to help him, sir.”

  “Where was he going, did he tell you?” Herrick felt his patience draining away. “Come on, boy, Mr Pascoe may be in danger. And he tried to help you, remember?”

  Herrick hated the shame and despair he was causing but knew there was worse to come.

  In a small voice Penels whispered, “He said he would find a place called The Grapes. One of the old hands had spoken of it.”

  Speke groaned. “A truly foul place, sir. Even the press would not go there without a full squad.”

  Penels, lost in his misery, continued, “He was going to wait until I could get some money. Then he was hoping to return to Cornwall.”

  Herrick looked at the tankard. It was empty and his throat felt like dust.

  “My compliments to Major Clinton. Ask him to see me.”

  Speke hurried away and Herrick said, “Well, Penels, at least you had the wit to tell Mr Speke what you had done. It is not much but it may help.”

  The marine entered and said, “Can I assist, sir?”

  Clinton did not even glance at the wretched midshipman, and Herrick guessed Speke had told him what had happened. It was probably over the whole ship by now.

  “Mr Pascoe is at The Grapes, Major. Does that mean anything?”

  Clinton nodded. “A lot, sir.” He added, “With your permission I’d like to go ashore without delay. I’ll take Mr Marston and some of my lads.”

  “Thank you, Major Clinton. I’m obliged.”

  Moments later he heard the twitter of calls and the grating clatter of tackles as a boat was swayed up and over the gangway. Then boots, as some hand-picked marines hurried to obey Clinton’s unexpected summons.

  Herrick regarded the sniffing midshipman for several seconds.

  Then he said, “I agreed to take you aboard as a favour to an old friend. What this will do to him, let alone your mother, I cannot imagine. Now take yourself below and report to the senior master’s mate.”

  As Penels groped blindly for the door Herrick said quietly, “While you are in your berth, think on this. One day you would have had men depending on your judgement. Ask yourself if you think that is right.”

  Yovell entered as the midshipman departed.

  “Bad, zur.”

  Herrick glanced at the round handwriting, the place below for his signature.

  “I shall want to send a message to my wife. I’ll not be ashore tonight, I’m thinking.”

  He listened for the sound of the boat but it had already left the Benbow’s side.

  Pascoe strode along yet another narrow street, his boat-cloak billowing around him in the stiff wind. He did not know Portsmouth very well, but the officer of the guard had explained where The Grapes was situated. The officer had suggested that Pascoe should stay away from such a hell-hole, as he had described it. Pascoe had told him he was to meet a party of armed seamen nearby in the hope of seizing some likely recruits. It had been surprising how easily the lie had come. The officer of the guard had not even been interested. Anyone foolish enough to hope for pressed men in Portsmouth would have to have more than luck.

  One street seemed very like the next. Narrow, squalid, but never empty of movement. In doorways and beneath arches, at windows, or merely in the form of sounds. Drunken laughter, shrieks and terrible oaths. As if the miserable dwellings and not their occupants were giving voice.

  Once a girl reached out to touch his shoulder as he passed. Even in the gloom he could tell she was no more than fourteen or fifteen.

  Pascoe thrust her away and heard her shrill voice pursuing him around the next corner.

  “You bloody bastard! I ’ope the Frogs spill yer guts from you!”

  Quite suddenly it was there. A square, sombre building, protected on either side by smaller houses, and the street was littered with filth which stank like a sewer.

  Pascoe had once been used to poverty, and as a midshipman had seen and suffered hardship in plenty. But all this unnecessary filth seemed needless, disgusting.

  He stared up at a flaking board above the main entrance, feeling the rain bouncing on his hat and face. The Grapes.

  Beneath his cloak he loosened his hanger and then banged on the door with his fist.

  A panel flew inwards, as if the man had been poised there, waiting.

  “Yes? Who is it?” Two white eyes swivelled back and forth across Pascoe’s shoulders, but seeing no armed seamen or marines, seemed satisfied. “A young gentleman, is it?”

&nb
sp; Even the man’s crooning voice made Pascoe feel sick.

  “Cat got your tongue, has it? Ah well, we’ll soon sort that out for you!”

  The panel snapped shut, and seconds later the great door swung inwards and Pascoe stepped inside. It was like being swallowed up. Suffocated.

  It must have been a fine house once, he thought. Big staircase, now damaged and covered in dust. Carpets, too, once rich and thick, were full of holes and covered in stains. A merchant’s house perhaps, when Portsmouth had been busier for commerce and not plagued by the French and the privateers which were too close for comfort.

  An immense woman stepped from a room. She was tall, muscular and without any femininity. Even her piled hair and the great red slash of a mouth made her look like a ploughman dressed for a village play.

  The doorkeeper said in a wheedling voice, “He’s an officer, ma’am!”

  She moved towards Pascoe, her deepset eyes fixed on his face. Like the house, she seemed to engulf him. He could see the skin of her partly bared bosom, feel her power. He could even smell her. Gin and sweat.

  “Are you with the press, young fellow?” She put her hand under his chin and looked at him searchingly. “Pretty boy. No, you’re here for some fun, eh?”

  Pascoe said carefully, “I believe a man is hiding here.” He saw her eyes flash dangerously and added, “I want no trouble. If I can get him back to the ship he will have nothing to fear.”

  She chuckled, the sound rising through her great body until it broke into the hall like a guffaw.

  “Nothing to fear? That’s a bloody good one that is, eh, Charlie?”

  The doorkeeper tittered uncertainly. “Yes, ma’am.”

  Pascoe stood very still as the woman unclipped his boat-cloak and lifted it from his shoulders.

  “I’ve two good girls for you, Lieutenant.” But she sounded defensive, as if even she was impressed.

  Pascoe put his left hand on his hanger and very slowly drew it upwards and then fully out of its scabbard. Her eyes never wavered from his, and he knew there were other hidden watchers nearby, ready to cut him down if he attempted to use his hanger.

  He turned it in his hand and turned the hilt towards her.

  “See? Now I am unarmed.”

  She tossed the blade carelessly to the pop-eyed doorkeeper and said, “Come with me, dearie. A glass of Geneva while I think a bit. This man you are trying to help.” She could not repress a grin. “His name?”

  “Babbage.”

  “And you’ll be Mr . . . ?”

  A girl’s grubby hand came out of the shadows and gave Pascoe a glass of gin.

  He said, “Pascoe, ma’am.”

  “Damn me, I believe you!”

  She walked from the room. “Stay here, dearie. I’m not saying I know the man. But if he is here, without me knowing, of course, I will put your case to him.” She turned and stared at him boldly. “Don’t fret, pretty boy. He’ll not run if I say different.”

  It was warm in the musty-smelling room and yet Pascoe felt the sweat on his spine like ice. A stupid, crazy gesture. And for what? To help Penels, or to prove to himself that he could do it? His hanger was gone, and at any moment he might be rushed, his throat cut merely for the price of his clothes.

  While he waited he became aware of the rest of the house. It was alive with furtive sounds and muffled voices. Every room must be occupied, he thought.

  He looked at the girl who was holding the stone gin bottle to her breast. Thin, sunken-eyed, worn out and probably diseased to add to her misery.

  She looked back at him and smiled, letting her shabby dress fall from one shoulder as she did so.

  It made her look pitiful instead of provocative.

  A door banged open and men’s voices boomed down the stairs urgent and angry.

  Pascoe walked from the room and looked up the stairway. There were three men at the top landing, and cowering against the wall was a fourth, Babbage.

  The biggest of the men pointed at Pascoe and barked, “That him?”

  Pascoe noticed that he was wearing the white breeches and shirt of a sea officer and had probably been disturbed at his pleasure. Whatever the reason, it was a relief to know he was not entirely alone.

  Babbage said huskily, “Yes, sir. That’s Mr Pascoe.”

  The man came down the stairs slowly. He was heavily built and in his middle twenties, with thick, curly hair and a hard, aggressive face.

  “Well, well, well.” He paused on the bottom stair and rocked back on his heels. “I was going to meet you, Mr Pascoe, but I never thought you’d fall from the sky like this.”

  “I don’t understand?”

  The big man turned and waved his arm to his companions. “Though I suppose Mr Pascoe would be well at home here, eh, lads?”

  They laughed, and one stooped to seize Babbage as he tried to crawl away. There was blood on his mouth and he had obviously been beaten.

  “I order you to hand over that man to me, whoever you are!”

  “He orders! This youth, masquerading as a King’s officer, orders me!”

  The woman of the house pushed past the others and placed herself between them and Pascoe.

  She said angrily, “Leave him be, damn you! He means no harm.”

  “Oh, I’m certain of that, Ruby! Mr Pascoe’s own mother was a whore, and his bloody father a traitor to his country, so what harm could he do?”

  Pascoe swayed on his feet, stunned by the man’s grating voice. He could feel himself shivering, the anger and hate tearing at his insides like claws.

  It could not be possible, was not happening. Not now, after all this time, the dreams, the pretence.

  The woman was looking at him anxiously. “You’d better be off. Lively now. I want no trouble here. I’ve that enough as it is.”

  Pascoe brushed past her, seeing nothing but the towering, grinning face on the stairway.

  “Well, Mr Pascoe?” He was enjoying it. “Is your uncle still protecting his brother’s bastard?”

  Pascoe sprang forward and drove his fist into the man’s face. He saw the shock and surprise, felt the pain lance up his arm from the force of the blow. But the face was still there, the unexpected strength of Pascoe’s punch already bringing blood to his lip.

  “Well now, you’ve struck me!” He dabbed his mouth, his eyes hidden in shadow. “To be touched by the likes of you is like getting the plague! I think this can be settled, that is, if you have learned how to ape the gentleman?”

  Pascoe met his challenge with sudden calmness, or was it resignation?

  He heard himself say, “Swords?”

  “I think not.” The other man was still dabbing his lip, watching Pascoe, measuring his resistance, his hurt. “Pistols I believe would be better. But before we part . . .”

  He snapped his fingers and Pascoe found his arms being pinioned to his sides.

  “. . . I will give you a lesson in manners.”

  He swung round, caught off guard, as Babbage darted past them, his head covered by his hands as he ran for the door. With a frantic gasp he dragged it open and was gone.

  The big man drew back his fist. “That’s the last we’ll see of him!”

  Pascoe tensed for the blow which was aimed at his stomach.

  He was dimly aware of running feet, a sharp challenge and the sudden bang of a musket.

  Major Clinton entered the doorway, swinging his black stick carelessly as he said, “That was Babbage. My men challenged him but he ran.” He waited until the others had released Pascoe’s arms and said, “You were too late for him, Mr Pascoe.” He nodded to the man with the cut lip. “But you were in time, I take it, Mr Roche?”

  The man he had named as Roche shrugged. “Just high spirits, Major. It is not forbidden for us to come here.”

  Clinton snapped, “You are leaving now! And I do not care if you do serve on the admiral’s staff. Your courage would not last for long in battle, I suspect!”

  The three men retrieved their coats and left
, but not before Pascoe had seen that Roche was a naval lieutenant, as were his companions.

  “I am sorry to involve you, sir.”

  Pascoe followed the marine into the wet street. Clinton’s lieutenant, Marston, and a file of marines were standing by a sprawled corpse. For Babbage at least it was over.

  “I cannot discuss it further.” Clinton looked at his men. “Get rid of this body.” Then he fell in step beside Pascoe and added wearily, “Roche is on the staff of the port admiral. He will never be promoted for he now has means of his own. He is a dangerous man. Did he provoke you into a challenge?”

  “That is something which I cannot discuss, sir.”

  Clinton remembered Herrick’s face and thought otherwise.

  13 THREE MINUTES TO LIVE

  BOLITHO waited hesitantly in the neat London square and looked at the house. He had made himself walk from his temporary residence for several reasons. To exercise his leg and to give himself time to prepare what he was going to say.

  He had asked Browne if he had seen Belinda Laidlaw when he had called to deliver the letter, but Browne had shaken his head.

  “Just a servant, sir. It was so glum there, it was like a tomb.”

  Bolitho could now understand Browne’s brief description. The house was a twin of the one alongside it. Tall, elegant and of fine proportions. There was no other similarity. It looked cold and unwelcoming, and yet he had the distinct impression it was watching him, as if the whole square was holding its breath to see what a visitor was doing here.

  After his walk, the bustle and noise around the many shops and wine merchants, he felt less sure of himself.

  It was ridiculous. He strode up the steps and reached for the bell-pull, but the door opened before him as if by magic.

  A miserable-looking footman regarded him curiously.

  “Sir?”

  Bolitho was in no mood for argument. He released his cloak from his throat and handed it to the footman, then his hat.