Inshore Squadron Page 26

  Unlike Nelson’s fleet, Bolitho’s squadron had been under way throughout the night, his four ships of the line divided into two short columns so that they could watch as much of the area as possible.

  The seamen and marines had worked watch and watch, snatching a few hours rest beside their guns and nourished by neat rum and stale food. The galley fire had long since been doused for safety’s sake, for each ship in the squadron had to be prepared to fight at minutes’ notice.

  Bolitho looked at the lines he had written about Mr Midshipman George Penels, aged twelve years and nine months, who had died the previous day in one desperate act of courage.

  What had the boy been thinking of? Of Pascoe, whom he had got involved in Babbage’s desertion, of his admiral, who had cared enough to put him in Browne’s charge when everyone else had shunned him?

  This carefully worded report might help the boy’s mother when the news eventually reached her in Cornwall. Bolitho had no doubt that Herrick would make certain no mention of Babbage would mar his memory for her.

  Allday walked to an open port and leaned down to watch the sea, cold and grey in the morning light. Two cables abeam, Nicator, followed by Inch’s Odin, brought life to the dreary scene.

  He said, “Not long now, sir.”

  Bolitho waited for Yovell to seal the envelope and replied, “The attack will begin in two hours, if everything is timed correctly.”

  He glanced along the deck, past where the screen door would normally be, to the gloom beneath the poop and beyond to the crowded activity of the quarterdeck.

  “Our part will happen at any moment.” He stood up and tested his leg warily. “Get my sword, will you?”

  How quiet the ship was, he thought. The excitement of the Ajax’s capture and her terrible end when the fuses had been fired in her magazine had been dulled by the loss of Peel’s ship. Altogether, Lookout had found ten survivors. With Pascoe and the burned seaman also rescued, that meant a total bill of some two hundred sailors and marines killed. It was too much of a price to pay.

  Bolitho had visited his nephew several times during the night. Each occasion had found Pascoe wide awake, defying Loveys’ efforts to make him rest and save his strength.

  Perhaps those last moments in the water were too stark in his mind, as if by going to sleep he would never reawake and find his survival only part of a nightmare.

  But Pascoe’s descriptions, brief though they were, completed a full and horrific picture.

  The cruellest part of it had been that Peel had been winning. But some last fury had brought the Ajax too close, so that both frigates had collided bowsprit to bowsprit, bringing down the Frenchman’s mizzen and hurling many of the men from their feet.

  Pascoe vaguely remembered Peel shouting about smoke even as Relentless’s cheering boarders had rushed to grapple the enemy hand to hand.

  He had been on the quarterdeck, the second lieutenant having been killed in the opening broadsides. The next minute he had felt himself flying through the air and then being smashed, choking, into the sea.

  Pascoe had started to swim for a drifting boat when one of the Relentless’s topmasts had dropped from the sky like a giant’s lance and had cut the boat in half and some struggling men with it.

  The thing which Pascoe had not been able to accept was the actual explosion. It had blasted the thirty-six-gun frigate to pieces, yet he had heard nothing.

  The collision between the two ships had probably caught a man off balance below decks. A lantern overturned, some powder spilled as a boy ran to serve his gun, or even a flaming wad from the enemy’s broadside, it could have been caused by any one of many things.

  Bolitho walked slowly beneath the poop, his head ducking automatically between the deckhead beams.

  Faces turned to watch him pass, faces which after nearly seven months were no longer strangers.

  The figures on the quarterdeck came alive as he stepped out into the morning light, and he saw Herrick with a telescope trained across the nettings towards the Lookout which stood well away on the larboard bow.

  The sea was rising and falling in a slow swell, with no crests to break the surface or the motion. There was quite a lot of haze about, and far ahead of the two columns of ships it looked pale green. A trick of the eye and distance. The haze was real enough but the green layer was land. Denmark.

  Herrick saw him and touched his hat.

  “Wind’s backed two more points, sir. More than I hoped. I shall continue on this tack, nor’-nor’ east, until I can make a proper landfall.” Some of the old, uncertain Herrick stepped out of memory as he added, “With your permission, that is.”

  “Aye, Thomas. That should suit us well.”

  He strode to the nettings and peered across the opposite quarter. There was Styx, alone and watchful, ready to dash downwind and assist when required.

  Ajax’s captain had probably imagined the Relentless to be her, Bolitho thought. It would be just enough to drive him to the last edge of anger and hatred.

  Midshipman Keys, who was assisting Browne, called excitedly, “Signal from Lookout, sir. Two strange sail to the north-west!”

  Men bustled around in a flurry of lively flags as the signal was repeated down the line and to the distant Styx.

  “Two sail, eh?” Herrick rubbed his chin.

  Bolitho said, “General signal, please. Prepare for battle.”

  Wolfe chuckled and gestured abeam to the Nicator. “Listen, sir! They’re cheering already!”

  Browne reported, “All acknowledged, sir.”

  Bolitho met his eyes. “All right now?”

  The flag lieutenant smiled stiffly. “Better, sir. A bit better.”

  “Deck there! Enemy in sight! Two sail of the line!”

  Wolfe strode back and forth, his ungainly feet miraculously missing ring-bolts and the crouching gun crews with their rammers and handspikes.

  “No frigates then? That’s something!”

  Herrick stiffened and held his glass in direct line with the lar-board cathead.

  “Got ’em!”

  Bolitho raised his own glass and saw the two towering spans of canvas emerging from the mist as the other ships continued towards him on a converging tack.

  Two-deckers, each with a great curling flag at her gaff, red with a white cross, the Danish colours.

  Benbow’s forecourse lifted and puffed itself out like a huge chest as a strengthening breeze pushed across the dull water.

  Bolitho said, “They’re holding their course, Thomas. Strange. They’re heavily outnumbered.”

  Herrick grinned. “Makes a change, sir.”

  Bolitho thought of the man in the book-lined room at the Danish Palace. What was he doing at this moment? Did he still remember their brief meeting, with Inskip hovering around like a nursemaid?

  Somebody chuckled, the sound unnatural in the tension of the quarterdeck.

  Bolitho turned and saw Pascoe coming from the poop, very pale but trying not to show his uncertainty. He was wearing a borrowed uniform which was far too large for him.

  He touched his hat and said lamely, “Reporting for duty, sir.”

  Herrick stared at him. “My God, Mr Pascoe, what are you thinking of?”

  But Bolitho said, “Welcome back.”

  Pascoe smiled at the grinning seamen nearby. “The coat belongs to Mr Oughton, sir. He is a bit, well, larger.”

  Bolitho nodded. “If you feel weak, say so.”

  He could understand Pascoe’s need to get on deck. After his experience in Relentless, he would be unwilling to stay on the orlop with its grim reminders.

  Pascoe said simply, “I heard about Penels, sir. I feel to blame. When he first came to see me . . .”

  Herrick interrupted, “There was nothing you could have prevented. If wrong was done, then I must bear it, too. He needed advice, and I damned him for his one foolish act.”

  “Deck there!” The lookout hesitated, as if unable to describe what he saw. “Galleys! Between the t
wo ships!” His voice cracked in disbelief. “So many I can’t count ’em!”

  Bolitho levelled his glass just in time to see another hoist of signals appear on Lookout’s yards. He did not need to read it. Between the two oncoming ships was a veritable flotilla of galleys, sweeps rising and falling like crimson wings, flags streaming above the hidden oarsmen and each massive bowgun.

  “Load and run out, Captain Herrick.” His sharp formality swept away the momentary easing of tension. “Upper gundeck with grape and bar-shot.”

  He turned towards the marine officers. “Major Clinton, there’ll be work for your best shots today.”

  The two marines touched their hats and hurried away to their men.

  Speaking his thought aloud, Bolitho said, “They will try to separate us. Signal Styx and Lookout to harry the enemy’s rear as soon as we are engaged.”

  The young midshipman who had taken the place of the dead Penels wrote scratchily on his slate and then waited, his mouth half open, as if he could not get his breath.

  Bolitho looked at him impassively, seeing in those few seconds his youth, his hopes and his trust.

  “Now, Mr Keys, you may hoist number sixteen, and make sure it stays flying.”

  The youth nodded jerkily and then ran back to his seamen. He yelled, “Jump to it, Stewart! Hoist the signal for Close Action!”

  At a guess, Keys was about fourteen. If he lived after today he would remember this moment forever, Bolitho thought.

  Slowly and inexorably the two formations continued to close one another. It was as if they were being drawn by some irresistible force, or that their captains were blind and unaware of the approaching danger.

  Herrick asked, “Line of battle, sir?”

  Bolitho did not reply immediately. He moved his glass carefully from ship to ship, each with her broadsides run out like dull teeth, her yards and taut canvas unchanged.

  During the night Bolitho’s squadron had kept to the carefully rehearsed plan. After standing well clear of Copenhagen the squadron had slowly changed tack, taking advantage of the wind’s backing to move closer again to the land, like drawing the noose of a halter. At first glance the plan had worked perfectly. Here were the galleys, heading north towards Copenhagen to offer their massive support just as soon as the British admiral made his move to attack. Bolitho could either continue to close with them or could harry them all the way to their objective.

  The presence of the two third-rates puzzled him. Big men-ofwar rarely worked with fast-moving vessels under oars. The varying scales of mobility and fire-power would hinder rather than help.

  Perhaps the Danes were merely sending the ships to add to their fleet in Copenhagen, using the cluster of galleys as a useful escort for the passage there.

  He said, “No. We will remain in two columns. I am not happy about the enemy’s intentions. In a fixed line of battle we would be more vulnerable.”

  Herrick sounded surprised. “They will not dare to attack us, sir! I’d stake Benbow’s chances alone against the pair of ’em!”

  Bolitho lowered the telescope and wiped his eye. “Have you ever seen galleys at work?”

  “Well, I’ve no personal experience, sir, but . . .”

  Bolitho nodded. “Aye, Thomas, but.”

  He thought of the picture he had just seen compressed in the lens. Two, maybe three lines of galleys gliding abreast between the two big men-of-war. There was something unnerving about their unwavering approach, how it must have been in ancient days at Actium and Salamis.

  He said, “We will test their range. The first four guns of the lower battery. Maximum elevation, Thomas. See if that deters them.”

  Herrick beckoned to a midshipman. “My compliments to Mr Byrd. Tell him to open fire with four ranging shots. Gun by gun, so that I can watch it.”

  The midshipman vanished below, and Bolitho could picture the men turning from their ports and loaded thirty-two-pounders to watch him scamper to the lieutenant in charge. The lower gun-deck was always an eerie place. With the lanterns extinguished, the only light filtered around the guns in their ports. Sounds and events were shut off from the many men who waited there. The sides were painted in red, a grim reminder that in battle it would hide some of the horror even if it could not lessen the pain.

  Bang. Some of the men on the upper deck stood to cheer as the gun spouted smoke and fire from below the forecastle.

  Herrick commented, “Very close.”

  Bolitho watched the second ball ricochet and then splash down in direct line with the right-hand ship.

  Grubb rumbled uneasily, “Still comin’, the buggers!”

  “Continue firing, sir?” Herrick watched the widening array of craft, still expecting a change of direction.

  “No.”

  Bolitho moved the glass towards the galleys. Still too far away to pick out details properly. Except for the precision of the stroke, tireless and easy, as if no human hand was needed. And the gun above each prow, the only ugly thing there, was like a tusk.

  He flinched, even though he was expecting it, as the leading galleys faded momentarily in a swirling curtain of smoke.

  Then came the sound, a jarring roar, intermingled and threatening, as the great guns lurched back on their slides.

  In the few remaining seconds Bolitho heard the angry shriek of gulls which had only just returned to the water after Benbow’s opening shots.

  “Pork and molasses!” Wolfe fell back with astonishment as the sea erupted in a leaping torment of spray and smoke. “Did you see that, for God’s sake?”

  Herrick exclaimed, “That was too near for comfort, sir. They must be thirty-two-pounders, bigger maybe!”

  Browne said, “The Danish ships are changing tack, sir.”

  Bolitho watched. It was like a cumbersome ballet, he thought. The two Danish ships were turning slowly to larboard, presenting themselves broadside on and heading roughly north-east. Passing ahead, through and astern of them the crimson galleys were splitting into smaller subdivisions, three or four to a section.

  “Close the range, Thomas. Bring her up two points if you can.”

  He fell silent and waited, counting seconds as the Danish guns fired again. He felt the hull shudder as some of the iron fell close alongside and flung cascades of spray high above the gangway to reach even the hard-braced foresail.

  Bolitho recalled Allday’s words to him. The enemy were certainly concentrating their opening fire on the flagship.

  He said, “Mr Browne, make to Nicator, Lee column will not engage.”

  He glanced up at the sails as they banged and protested to the change of course. Benbow was standing as close to the wind as Grubb could manage, but the Danes still held the advantage, their canvas full-bellied and perfectly set.

  Herrick was watching an arrowhead of galleys forging past the leading two-decker.

  He said, “Those devils are going to attack us from ahead, if we let ’em!”

  Bolitho nodded. “There is nothing we can do at present. If we alter course to lee’rd to gain agility the Danish ships will rake our sterns. Even at this range it could do untold harm before we are to grips with them.”

  As he spoke he saw the cool reasoning of the Danish commander. Like sharks around a helpless whale, the galleys could cut Benbow down to the bones without risking a single man.

  He said harshly, “Signal Lookout to engage.”

  Herrick turned away to watch Wolfe directing more men to the weather braces.

  He knows, Bolitho thought bitterly. Lookout was fast and lively, but her slender hull was no match for heavy cannon.

  Browne called, “She’s acknowledged, sir.”

  Bolitho saw the sloop spreading her topgallants and sweeping round with her lee gunports almost awash. Like his own first command, he thought, so full of promise and high hopes. In his mind’s eye he pictured Veitch, her commander, and prayed that he was using all his experience and shutting Relentless’s fate from his thoughts.

  The gunfire wa
s growing and spreading as Indomitable loosed her first timed and aimed broadside at the enemy. Another crimson formation of galleys was pulling around the rear of the squadron, but with less confidence than the others as Styx altered course to meet them.

  The sea’s face was covered in a drifting mist of powder smoke, and the air shook to the screech and plunge of shot with barely a break.

  In one brief lull Bolitho heard a deeper, heavier sound which seemed to drive through the water and lift the keel higher in his imagination.

  Grubb ambled towards the deck-log. “Reckon the fleet is attackin’ now, sir!”

  Wolfe turned and gave a fierce grin. “’Bout bloody time, Mr Grubb! I’m fair sick of being the prime target!”

  The hull gave a violent lurch as a ball smashed deep into the bilges, and Bolitho heard the boatswain urging some of his spare hands below to assist.

  “Lookout’s in trouble, sir!”

  Bolitho looked at the sloop, his mind like ice as he saw her foremast topple into the smoke, wreckage tearing adrift from her engaged side. The galleys were closing in on her, their guns hammering as fast as they could reload. One had been too daring and was lifting slowly like a pointer, spilling sweeps and bodies from the shattered hull before diving to the bottom.

  Someone yelled, “Styx has done for two of them!”

  More cries and shouts came from below as another great ball punched into the side like a battering-ram.

  Bolitho heard Wolfe yell through his speaking trumpet, “On the uproll, gun captains!”

  The men at the upper battery waited like crouching statues, their eyes blind as they tensed for the broadside.

  Wolfe yelled, “Fire!”

  Bolitho watched the leading Danish two-decker, felt his mouth go dry as the packed mass of grape and whirling bar-shot swept through the enemy’s rigging. Sails and cordage, then the main-topmast itself fell together in a devastating avalanche of destruction. The bar-shot, masses of spade-shaped metal linked together by rings, was hard to aim, but when it found a target it could reduce a vessel’s canvas and rigging to shreds in seconds.