Inshore Squadron Page 24
Pascoe said quietly, “I must think about this.” He stared round the cabin desperately like a trapped animal. “I—I don’t know what to say! Mr Selby? I grew to like him very much. If I’d only known . . .”
“Yes.”
Bolitho watched his confusion and despair and felt his hope draining away like sand from a glass.
He looked up at the skylight as feet pounded overhead. The squadron was preparing to move towards the final rendezvous before the Sound Channel.
Pascoe said suddenly, “I had better return to my ship, sir. I came to see Captain Herrick about the man Babbage and Midshipman Penels.” He looked at the deck. “And, of course, to visit you.”
“Thank you for that, Adam.”
Pascoe still hesitated, his fingers resting on the door.
“Will you tell me more of my father one day? Now that I know the truth?”
Bolitho strode across the cabin and gripped his shoulders tightly.
“Of course I will, did you doubt it?”
Pascoe stood very still now, his eyes fixed on Bolitho’s as he replied, “And you, Uncle did you doubt my feelings? After all you have done for me, the happiness and pride we have shared, do you imagine I could feel anything but love for you?”
They stood back from each other, neither able to speak further.
Then Bolitho said, “Take care, Adam. I’ll be thinking of you.”
Pascoe tossed some hair back from his forehead and jammed his hat on his head.
“And I’ll be looking for your flag, Uncle.”
Then he turned blindly and almost blundered into Allday who was waiting outside the door.
Allday said bluntly, “He knows then, sir?”
“Aye, he does.”
Allday padded past him to look for a clean goblet.
Then he said, “Bursting with it, he was, fair bursting!” He nodded with grim approval. “Just as well, seeing it was you what looked after him. Otherwise, luff or not, I’d have put the young devil across my knee!”
Bolitho sipped the drink without even noticing what it was. In two days or so they would be fighting for their lives.
But the ghost was driven out, once and for all.
16 “ALL GONE!”
LIEUTENANT the Honourable Oliver Browne lowered his telescope and said, “Signal repeated from Elephant, sir. The Inshore Squadron will anchor when ready.”
Bolitho, too, had a glass to his eye, but he was studying the long, overlapping folds of the land. It never seemed to get any nearer, but held a strange menace, as if the whole shore-line was waiting for their first move into the channel.
The burden on individual captains was severe in these enclosed waters, but with a commander like Nelson some of the strain was removed. There would be no unnecessary signals, no wasted time, and Bolitho guessed that the Hero of the Nile must have worked on Hyde Parker to get him to a point of attack so quickly.
All day, as the squadrons and distant patrols had headed south through the Kattegat, Bolitho had felt the finality of it. With the coasts of Sweden and Denmark on either beam, even when invisible, it was like leading his ships into a poacher’s bag.
Even now, with brigs and ships’ boats under sail darting through the ponderous lines of two-deckers, there would be unseen eyes watching their movements. Nelson had signalled the whole fleet to anchor, even though he knew Bolitho’s squadron would get under way again as soon as it was dark. He rarely forgot anything. He had even shifted his flag from the big ninety-eight-gun St George to the Elephant because the latter was smaller and had a shallower draught so that she could get closer to the shore without grounding.
Bolitho lowered the glass and glanced around at the familiar faces of the watch on deck.
Old Grubb, squinting at his traverse-board with his master’s mates. Wolfe, staring up at the maintop where some marines were exercising with a swivel-gun on the barricade. Browne, standing almost knee-deep in bright flags as his midshipman and assistants brought down another hoist of signals from the yards.
And Herrick, he seemed to be everywhere, as usual.
Bolitho said, “Anchor when it suits you.” He glanced at the masthead pendant. “Wind’s dropped a bit. It has to be perfect for our work.”
Herrick nodded and crossed to join the sailing master by the wheel.
“Be ready to box the ship off, Mr Grubb.” To Wolfe he called, “Shorten sail. Take in the t’gan’s’ls and maincourse, if you please.”
Calls shrilled again and men dashed to their stations for reducing Benbow’s display of canvas.
Bolitho watched them, the patterns they made as they scurried up the ratlines to the topgallant yards, or loosened belaying pins while they awaited the next order from aft. Hardly any hesitation now, even amongst the latest recruits or pressed hands. Men not ships. Herrick’s comment of six months back seemed to be fixed in his mind.
He saw Midshipman Penels by the mizzen shrouds, dwarfed by a boatswain’s mate and a handful of seamen. He moved like a puppet and rarely showed interest in anything around him. Herrick had told Bolitho about Pascoe’s visit, how he had tried to defend what Penels had done. The rights and wrongs seemed small in comparison with the next few days, and only Babbage’s unfortunate death was indisputable fact.
Herrick had been unusually uncharitable about Penels. “Not fit to receive a commission, sir. A mother’s boy. I should never have accepted him.”
Bolitho thought he could understand Herrick’s attitude, just as he could sympathize with Pascoe’s rash attempt to recover the deserter.
Herrick had never had an easy time. From a poor family, he had been made to win each single advance without favour in high places. But he loved the Navy all the more because he had earned it, and seemed unshakable when it came to others less determined.
When Bolitho had tried to find some excuse for Penels’ behaviour, Herrick had said scathingly, “See the Styx over yonder, sir? Her captain was Penels’ age when we put down that bloody mutiny together! I didn’t hear him moaning for his mother!”
But whatever the outcome, Penels would have to stand the hardship and horror of battle with everyone else in the fleet.
Bolitho made up his mind and beckoned to his flag lieutenant.
“Yes, sir?”
Browne more than anyone seemed to have thrived on the austere life at sea and monotonous food. The change from Admiralty to wardroom had been remarkable.
“Young Penels. Could you use him in your party?”
“Well, sir.” His face cleared of protest as quickly as it had appeared. “If so ordered, I could.” He gave a gentle smile. “Of course, sir, I could make the point that but for him Babbage would be alive, or at best still running for his life. Your nephew would not have been called out, and you, sir?”
“What about me?”
“I’ll take him, sir. I have just remembered something. But for your nephew’s challenge you would not have ridden me raw to Portsmouth. In which case your lady might not have come after you.”
Bolitho swung away. “Damn you to hell for your impertinence! You are as bad as my coxswain. No wonder Sir George Beauchamp was glad to be rid of you!”
Browne smiled at his back. “Sir George has an eye for the ladies, sir. Quite unfairly, of course, he may have seen me as a rival.”
“Of course.” Bolitho smiled. “I did wonder.”
In plodding procession the four ships of the line headed into the wind to drop anchor while their smaller consorts stood further to windward before following suit. Even here, with so many ships in company, you could never drop the guard against attack, either singly or in strength.
Eventually, Herrick lowered his telescope, apparently satisfied.
“All anchored, sir.”
“Very well, Thomas.” They walked away from the nearest seamen and Bolitho added, “At dusk you can put the people to work. Rig top-chains to the yards and have nets spread in good time. There will be little moving in the channel after dark, but there may be j
ust one vessel to raise an alarm. We must be ready. If the worst happens and we touch ground, we must be lively and warp her off without delay.”
Herrick nodded, glad to share his own views and anxieties. “Benbow is sheathed with the best Anglesey copper, but I’d not risk it on the bottom hereabouts!”
He paused to watch some men hurrying past with buckets of grease and fat. Every loose bit of tackle, from driver-boom to capstan, had to be well covered with it.
From a deck of a ship at night the sounds of wind and sails seemed terrifyingly loud, but, in fact, it was the isolated metallic noise which carried best across the water.
Herrick said, “The selected boats from the squadron will begin sounding as soon as we are under way. It will give them confidence and practice. When we are through, or if we are attacked, I have ordered the boats to return to their ships only if they do not impede progress. Styx can collect them later if need be.”
Bolitho looked at him searchingly. Even in the dying light Herrick’s eyes were clear and blue.
“I think we have thought of everything, Thomas. Beyond that, your Lady Luck will have to give us some assistance.”
Herrick grinned. “I’ve already put in my bid.”
A figure flitted past like a shadow. It was Loveys, the surgeon. Bolitho felt a chill dart up his spine as he remembered the pain, the intent stare in Loveys’ deepset eyes as he had probed into the torn flesh.
The squadron surgeons would be in demand in hours rather than days, he thought grimly.
He said, “I am going to my cabin. Perhaps you can join me presently.”
Herrick nodded. “I’d like to clear for action when the people have been fed, sir.”
Bolitho agreed. He had left it to each individual captain to prepare for battle when he thought fit. Herrick would take it badly, none the less, if one of them beat the flagship to it.
The cabin looked larger than usual, and Bolitho realised that Ozzard had had most of the furniture carried below the water-line. It always made him feel uneasy. A sense of committal and finality.
Allday had taken down the bright presentation sword and was cleaning the other one with a soft cloth.
“I’ve arranged supper for you, sir. Nothing heavy.”
Bolitho sat down and stretched out his legs.
“Doesn’t the prospect of another battle worry you?”
“It does, sir.” He peered along the blade and nodded with satisfaction. “But where your flag goes the others will follow and the enemy will be the thickest. That’s far more to worry about than a few bloody noses!”
Bolitho allowed Allday to continue with his own private routine. The courier brig would be in England now with any luck. A day or so on the roads and his letter would eventually reach Herrick’s home in Kent where Belinda was staying.
Ozzard entered with his tray covered by a cloth.
He said, “They are about to clear for action, sir.” He sounded outraged by the disturbance it would cause. “But Mr Wolfe has assured me that this cabin will remain as it is until you have finished.” He placed the tray on the table.
“Salt beef again, I’m afraid, sir.”
Bolitho smiled, recalling Damerum’s mention of his London grocer. Fortnum? Perhaps he would go there with Belinda one day.
Far away, as if aboard another ship, he heard the cry, growing louder as deck above deck the boatswain’s mates and petty officers dashed through the hull.
“All hands! All hands! Clear for action!”
Benbow seemed to shiver as hundreds of feet pounded along her decks, as if she herself was stirring to give battle.
Bolitho looked at the tough meat and Ozzard’s attempt to make it appear palatable.
He heard himself say, “Looks well, Ozzard. I’ll take a glass of madeira with it.”
Allday walked from the cabin, his huge, outdated cutlass beneath his arm. He would take it to the gunner’s grindstone himself. Trust it to a seaman or ship’s boy and it would come back looking like a woodsman’s saw.
He had heard Bolitho’s comment. So like the man, he thought. At a time like this he would eat that rock-hard meat rather than hurt Ozzard’s feelings.
He strolled between the lines of guns, through the hurrying figures and bawling warrant officers.
Allday had seen it all before, and had often been one of these bustling shapes.
But as Bolitho’s personal coxswain he was above it, unreachable afloat or ashore until fate decided otherwise.
Tom Swale, the boatswain, gave Allday a great gap-toothed grin as he passed.
“Busy, John?”
Allday nodded companionably. “Aye, Swain, busy.”
It was a game and they both knew it. Without it they would be useless when the guns began to speak.
One by one Bolitho’s ships up-anchored as soon as it was completely dark, and like ghostly shadows moved slowly away from the rest of the fleet.
Bolitho rested both hands on the quarterdeck rail and strained his eyes directly ahead. He could see the pale uprights of the masts, the bulky webs of rigging stretching up into the night, but little else. Relentless and Lookout were invisible, as were most of the pulling boats as they moved ahead and abeam of their great charges like wary hounds.
A chain of men lined each of Benbow’s gangways ready to pass back soundings from the leadsmen in the bows to Grubb and his assistants by the helm.
The wind hissed and slapped playfully at the reefed topsails, and against the ship’s hull Bolitho heard the gentle sluice of water, almost the only sign that Benbow was under way.
There was a harder shadow to larboard, the Swedish coast creeping out towards them as if it and not the ships were moving.
“By th’ mark ten, sir!”
Bolitho heard Herrick whispering with Grubb, someone’s pencil squeaking on a slate as the depth was recorded.
Bolitho knew that the Indomitable, next astern, was very close, but was afraid to climb to the poop and seek her out. It was as if he would miss something, or by turning away he might leave a gap in his own defences.
Surely the Danish batteries would be expecting something like this? He knew it was unlikely but, nevertheless, found it hard to accept. No admiral in his right mind would attempt to lead a fleet through the narrows under those powerful guns, so what would be the point of sending a mere handful like Bolitho’s?
It had sounded all right in the cabin, but as the brooding shoreline hardened still further towards the larboard bow it was less easy to digest.
He thought of the leading boat pulling well ahead of the menof-war. Busy with lead and line, watching for a prowling guard-boat, listening for an unusual sound. It must be like a black desert. He wondered which lieutenant was in charge. He had not asked. If he needed their trust, he must trust them also.
The boats had been cast off an hour before they had reached the start of the narrows. The oarsmen would be getting tired now, more conscious of their fatigue than the need for absolute vigilance.
He stepped back from the rail, cursing himself for his anxieties. It was done.
Herrick stepped out of the gloom. “Seems fairly quiet, sir.”
“Yes. My guess is that the Danes have made such massive preparations for a frontal attack on the port that they are as reluctant as we are to move in the darkness.”
A few more hours and Nelson’s ships would be roused and under way, ready to follow the same route through the Sound Channel and then head for an anchorage at Hven Island where they could lick their wounds before the final assault on the Danish forts and blockships.
The heads along the larboard gangway bobbed together with sudden urgency until the last man in the chain called, “Shoal on the larboard bow, sir!”
Herrick snapped, “Bring her up a point, Mr Grubb.”
Bolitho resisted the temptation to join some of the nine-pounder crews at the nettings as they peered down into the darkness. It must have been Benbow’s second cutter which had seen and signalled the danger.
But he doubted if the Danes were very different from Englishmen. It took a lot to get a sentry to rouse his officer and possibly the whole garrison merely because he thought he had seen something. Whole campaigns, let alone one fight, had been lost and won because of military protocol.
He pictured Wolfe somewhere up there in the bows. The first lieutenant had no particular duty for the moment. His experience, his hoard of skills gained in every sea in the world, was enough. He might see or feel something. Sense some dangerous shallows perhaps which even the leadsmen had missed.
Herrick murmured, “How many of these miniature gunboats d’you reckon we’ll find, sir?”
“The exact number is not known, Thomas. But more than twenty, and that is too many. Vice-Admiral Nelson intends to anchor eventually at the Middle Ground Shoal before he closes with the Danish ships. He will do it, no matter what we discover. But if those galleys can work through his line of battle, it could be disastrous.”
“Deep twelve!”
Grubb sighed. “That’s more like it.” He even managed a chuckle.
As one hour dragged into the next, it felt to Bolitho as if he had been carrying some great weight. Each one of his muscles ached with strain, and he knew it was affecting everyone from captain to ship’s boy.
There were several startled cries as a boat moved sluggishly down the starboard side. But it was one of the squadron’s, the oarsmen bent double across their looms, barely able to breathe from exhaustion. A lieutenant, his white lapels very clear in the darkness, waved up at the flagship, and a marine said huskily, “We’re through, sir! That’s what he said!”
Herrick said quietly, “Pass the word! Not a sound, d’you hear? They’ll begin to cheer otherwise, it’d be just like them!” He looked at Bolitho, his teeth bared in a grin. “I feel a bit that way myself, sir!”
Bolitho gripped his hands together to steady his nerves. Not a shot fired nor a man lost. It would be different in daylight when the main fleet started its advance.