Inshore Squadron Read online

Bolitho had to grip his hands like twin vices behind his back to contain his excitement as one by one his ships weighed and staggered violently downwind beneath a mass of thrashing, booming canvas.

  The Benbow was no exception. It seemed an age before the first confusion was overcome, and with her yards braced round, her courses and then the topsails hardening like metal breast-plates to the wind, she steadied on her first tack away from the land.

  Spray thundered over the weather gangway and up past the hard-eyed figurehead. Men dashed out along the yards or scurried in frantic groups to add their weight to the braces and halliards.

  Wolfe had his speaking trumpet to his mouth without a break.

  “Mr Pascoe, sir! Get those damned younkers of yours aloft again! It’s a shambles up there!”

  For an instant Bolitho saw his nephew turn and stare along the length of the deck. As third lieutenant he was in charge of the foremast, about as far from the quarterdeck as he could be.

  Bolitho gave a quick nod and saw Pascoe respond just as swiftly, his black hair ruffling across his face. It was like seeing himself at the same age, Bolitho thought.

  “Mr Browne. Signal the squadron to form line astern of the flagship.” He saw Herrick watching him and added, “The frigates and our sloop will know their part without unnecessary instructions.”

  Herrick grinned, his face streaming with salt spray. “They’ll know, sir.”

  Beating hard to windward, the frigates were already thrusting through bursting curtains of spray to reach their stations where they would watch over their ponderous consorts.

  Bolitho walked to the larboard side to look at the land. Grey and shapeless, already losing its identity in the worsening weather.

  How many had watched the squadron getting under way? Herrick’s wife, Admiral Beauchamp, all the old crippled sailors thrown on the beach, flotsam of war. Once they had cursed the Navy and its ways, but there would be a few tight throats amongst those same men as they watched the ships make sail.

  He heard Wolfe say scathingly, “God, look at him, will you! All ribs and trucks, even his coat looks like a purser’s shirt on a handspike!”

  Bolitho turned to see who Wolfe had described and saw a thin, flapping figure scurrying towards a companion and vanishing below. His face was pure white, like chalk. Like a death’s-head.

  Herrick lowered his voice. “Mr Loveys, the surgeon, sir. I’d not want to see his face looking down at me on the table!”

  Bolitho said, “I agree.”

  He took a telescope from a midshipman and levelled it towards the other ships. They were working into line, their sails in confusion as the wind swept across their quarter and thrust them over.

  Before they made their rendezvous they would have improved considerably. Sail and gun drill, testing and changing. But if they met with an enemy squadron before that time, and for all Bolitho knew a whole French fleet might be at sea, he would be required and expected to lead his squadron into battle.

  He glanced at the companion hatch as if expecting to see the surgeon’s skull-like face watching him. It was to be hoped that Loveys would be kept unemployed for a long while yet.

  Order was returning to the upper deck. Tangles of cordage had changed into neatly flaked lines or belayed coils. Seamen were gathering at the foot of each mast to be checked and counted. And above all of them, their silhouettes as lively as squirrels in a galeswept forest, the topmen worked to make certain the sails were set and drawing to perfection.

  It was time to leave. To give Herrick back his command.

  “I will go aft, Captain Herrick.”

  Herrick matched his mood. “Aye, sir. I shall exercise the upper batteries until dusk.”

  For nearly a week the squadron battered its way across the North Sea in weather which even Ben Grubb admitted was some of the worst he had endured.

  Each night the reeling ships lay to under storm canvas, and with the coming of first light had to repeat the misery of finding their scattered companions. Then, in some sort of formation once more, they proceeded on their north-easterly course, drills and repairs being carried out whenever the weather allowed.

  Throughout the squadron there had been several men killed and others injured. The deaths were mostly caused by falls from aloft as repeatedly the dazed and salt-blinded men fought to shorten sail or repair damage to rigging.

  In the Benbow several hands had been hurt by their own ignorance. On darkened decks it was possible to be cut down by a line as it was hauled madly through a block. The touch of it on a man’s skin was like a red-hot iron.

  One man vanished without anyone seeing him go. Washed overboard, left floundering for a few agonizing moments as the two-decker faded into the darkness.

  Everything was wet and dismally cold. The only heat was from the galley stove, and it was impossible to dry out clothing in a ship which seemed intent on rolling herself on to her beam-ends.

  Whenever he went on deck, Bolitho could sense the gloom around him like something physical. Knowing Herrick as he did, he guessed that nothing more could be done to ease the men’s suffering. Some captains would not have cared, but would have ordered their boatswain’s mates to flog the last man aloft or the last man down from a duty. But not Herrick. From lieutenant to captain he had remained unswerving in his determination to lead rather than drive, to understand his men rather than use fear as his right of command.

  Yet, in spite of all this, three men were seized up and flogged after Herrick had read the relevant Articles of War and the ship had continued to smash her way up and through every succession of crested rollers.

  Bolitho had stayed away from the punishments. Even that was no longer his concern. He had paced up and down his cabin, hearing the regular swish and crack across a naked back in time with a marine drummer’s staccato beat.

  He was beginning to wonder what he, or any other admiral, had to do to remain sane during such periods of misery.

  And then, quite suddenly, the wind dropped slightly, and small isolated patches of blue appeared between the banks of cloud.

  Seamen and marines paused to look up and draw breath, hot food was hurried through the messdecks as if in a battle’s lull or that the cook could not believe his galley would remain in use for long.

  Bolitho went on deck just before midday and felt the difference. The midshipmen, their faces suitably expressionless as the master and his mates watched over their efforts with sextants to check and estimate the ship’s position. The men working high above the deck no longer held to each vibrating spar or shroud but moved more easily about their varied tasks. The first lieutenant, leading a little procession of experts, passed down the larboard gangway, pausing to look for anything which needed repairing, painting or splicing. He was followed by Drodge, the gunner, Big Tom Swale, the gap-toothed boatswain, Tregoye, the carpenter, and several of their mates.

  By the forward companion, Purvis Spreat, the Benbow’s purser, was speaking confidentially with Manley, the fifth lieutenant. More food for the wardroom perhaps? Too much madeira being consumed? It might have been anything. Spreat looked a typical purser, Bolitho thought. Sharp-eyed, suspicious, just honest enough to stay out of trouble. He had to feed, clothe and supply every man aboard, with no excuses for bad weather or faulty navigation to sustain him.

  The marines were standing easy in two long scarlet lines, swaying from side to side in the ship’s regular motion. Bolitho watched them, putting names to faces, trying to gauge the skills or the lack of them. Major Clinton, with Lieutenant Marston, his junior, walked slowly along the ranks, listening to whatever Sergeant Rombilow was telling them about each man and his duties in the ship.

  The marines were a strange breed, Bolitho thought. Jammed as tightly as the seamen in the Benbow’s fat hull and yet completely apart, so different in their ways and customs. Bolitho had seen them in America during the Revolution, when as a youthful lieutenant he had taken the first step towards his own command. In the Mediterranean or the Caribbean, th
e Atlantic and the East Indies, they all had one thing in common. Reliability.

  Bolitho saw the afternoon watch gathering below the quarter-deck in readiness to take over the ship for the next four hours.

  Here and there a jaw was still champing on the first good, hot meal for days. A few eyes were studying the changing weather with professional interest or, in the case of the new men, obvious relief.

  But most of the men were darting glances at their rear-admiral as he paced restlessly along the weather side of the quarterdeck. They were quick to look away whenever Bolitho turned towards them. The usual mixture. Interest, curiosity, resentment. Bolitho knew from past experience that if he wanted more it was up to him to earn it.

  He heard Pascoe’s voice as he strode aft and touched his hat to Speke, the second lieutenant, who was about to be relieved.

  “The watch is aft, sir.”

  Across on the other ships it would be the same. Routine and tradition. Like a well-tried play where everyone had changed roles on many occasions until he was word-perfect.

  The two lieutenants examined the compass, the log, the set of the sails, while the other players moved round them to their stations. The helmsmen and quartermaster, the midshipman of the watch. Bolitho frowned. What was his name? Penels, that was it. The youngest aboard. Just twelve, and a fellow Cornishman. He smiled. Hardly a man.

  “Relieve the wheel, if you please.”

  Eight bells chimed out from the forecastle and the forenoon watchkeepers hurried to their messes for their food and a good, strong tot.

  Bolitho crossed the quarterdeck and said, “You are looking well, Adam.”

  They moved away from the double-wheel and its three helmsmen and walked side by side to the weather nettings.

  “Thank you, sir.” Pascoe shot him a sideways glance. “Uncle. You, too.”

  When Bolitho eventually pulled out his watch he realised he had been speaking with his nephew for an hour. It had seemed like minutes, and yet they had conjured up a far different picture from the one around them. Not sea and sky, spray and taut canvas, but country lanes, low cottages and the grey bulk of Pendennis Castle.

  Pascoe was very tanned, as dark as a gipsy.

  Bolitho said, “We shall all be shivering soon, my lad. But perhaps we may be able to set foot ashore. That was why I could never stand blockade duty in the Bay. The British people become moist-eyed when they speak of their ‘wooden walls,’ the weatherbeaten ships which keep the French fleet bottled up in port. They would speak less warmly if they knew what hell it can be.”

  Midshipman Penels called nervously, “Signal from Styx, sir.” He purposefully looked at Pascoe. “Man overboard, sir.”

  Pascoe nodded and seized a telescope to train it on the distant frigate.

  “Acknowledge. I will tell the captain presently.”

  He watched the frigate’s shape shortening as she came up into the wind, her sails aback and in confusion. It was to be hoped she could get her quarter boat away in time to recover the luckless man.

  Bolitho watched Pascoe’s expression as he studied the frigate’s swift manoeuvre. He thought, too, of her captain, John Neale. He had been Penels’ age when the mutiny had broken out aboard his Phalarope during the American Revolution. A small, plump youth, he could see him clearly. He could even smile about it now. How he and Herrick had rubbed the naked midshipman all over with rancid butter to force him through a vent hole to free him from the mutineers and rouse assistance. Neale had been small, but it had been a hard struggle all the same.

  Now Neale was a post-captain, and he knew exactly what Pascoe was thinking as he watched his ship-handling through the glass.

  Bolitho said quietly, “As soon as possible, Adam. I’ll do what I can. You’ve earned it.”

  Pascoe stared at him, his eyes wide with astonishment. “You knew, Uncle?”

  Bolitho smiled. “I was a frigate captain once, Adam. It is something you never quite lose.” He looked up at his rear-admiral’s flag streaming from the mizzen truck. “Even when it is taken from you.”

  Pascoe exclaimed, “Thank you very much. I—I mean, I want to be with you. But you know that. I just feel I am marking time in a ship of the line.”

  Bolitho saw Ozzard hovering below the poop, his thin body screwed up against the damp wind. Time to eat.

  He chuckled. “I think I said much the same, too!”

  As Bolitho ducked below the poop, Pascoe began to pace slowly up and down the weather side, his hands clasped behind him as he had seen Bolitho do so often.

  Pascoe would not have said anything about his hopes to either Bolitho or Herrick. He should have known he could not hide a secret from either of them.

  He quickened his pace, his thoughts exploring the future, which no longer seemed an idle dream.

  3 THE LETTER

  IT WAS another full day before Bolitho’s lookouts sighted Admiral Damerum’s squadron, and then because of the lateness of the hour an extra night passed before they could make contact.

  Throughout the following morning, while Bolitho’s ships changed tack to run down on the larger formation, Bolitho studied the admiral’s squadron through a powerful telescope and wondered at the sense of keeping such a force employed in this fashion. The British fleets, in summer and winter alike, were expected to blockade the Dutch men-of-war along the coastline of Holland, the Spanish at Cadiz and, of course, the powerful French bases of Brest and Toulon. Apart from that, they were entrusted to patrol the vital trade routes from the East and West Indies, to protect them from the enemy, from privateers and even common pirates. It was an almost impossible task.

  And now, because Tsar Paul of Russia, who had little liking for Britain and a mounting admiration of Bonaparte, might be expected to break his neutrality, even more desperately needed squadrons were wasted here at the approaches to the Baltic.

  Herrick joined him and said, “The third ship, sir, that’ll be Sir Samuel Damerum’s.”

  Bolitho moved his glass slightly and trained it on the one which wore the Union Flag at her mainmast truck. He was very conscious of the difference between the slow-moving vessels and his own small squadron. Patched canvas, weather-beaten hulls, in some cases whole areas of paint stripped away by wind and sea, they made a marked contrast with his newly refitted two-deckers.

  Far beyond the heavier ships Bolitho could just make out the topgallants of a patrolling frigate, the admiral’s “eyes,” and he guessed that their lookouts could also see the Danish coast.

  “Call away my barge, Thomas. We will be up to them within the hour. See that the stores for the admiral are sent across in another boat directly.”

  It was always a strange feeling when ships met each other. Those which had been at sea for a long period were always craving for news from home. The new arrivals had the additional anxiety of ignorance about what might be waiting for them.

  His flag lieutenant strode across the quarterdeck, his face pinched with the keen air.

  Bolitho said, “There is the admiral’s flagship. The second-rate.”

  Browne nodded. “The Tantalus, sir. Captain Walton.” He sounded as if he did not much care.

  “You will come across with me.” He smiled grimly. “To ensure that I do not do something indiscreet.”

  Herrick said, “It might all blow over, sir. And we’ll be back at Spithead for orders before you know it.”

  Bolitho was in his cabin collecting his despatches from the strongbox when a clatter of blocks and the stiff crack of canvas told him that Benbow was coming about under shortened sail so that the barge could be lowered safely alongside.

  When he went on deck again the scene had changed once more. The admiral’s ships, moving very slowly under fully braced topsails, were like an enemy fleet, with Benbow about to break through their line of battle. It was only too easy to picture, and although many of Benbow’s people had never heard a shot fired in anger, Bolitho, like Herrick and some of the others, had seen it many times.

  �
��Barge alongside, sir.” Herrick hurried towards him, his face lined with the responsibility of controlling his ship and the rest of the squadron in Bolitho’s absence.

  “I will be as quick as I can, Thomas.” He tugged his hat firmly across his head, seeing the marines at the entry port, the boatswain’s mates moistening their silver calls on their lips in readiness to speed him on his way. “The admiral will not wish me to be an enforced guest if the sea gets up again, eh?”

  A midshipman, unusually neat and tidy, was standing in the pitching barge, and beside him Allday was at the tiller, his rightful place. He must have impressed upon somebody that the rear-admiral would prefer his coxswain to a ship’s lieutenant. If Allday got his way, the next time there would be no midshipman either, he thought. Browne, too, was in the boat, somehow managing to appear elegant.

  “Attention in the boat!”

  The calls shrilled, and Bolitho jumped the last few feet into the sternsheets as the barge rose sluggishly against Benbow’s rounded flank.

  “Bear off forrard! Give way all!”

  Once clear of the two-decker’s lee, the barge dipped and staggered through the waves like a dolphin. When Bolitho glanced at the midshipman he saw that his face was already ashen. His name was Graham, and he was seventeen, one of the senior “young gentlemen.” His chances of promotion to lieutenant might be marred if he was sick in the barge carrying his admiral to meet another.

  “Sit down, Mr Graham.” He saw the youth staring at him, startled at being addressed by one so senior. “It will be a lively pull yet.”

  “Th-thank you, sir.” He sank down gratefully. “I shall be all right, sir.”

  Across his shoulders Allday grinned broadly at the stroke oarsman. Only Bolitho would bother about a mere midshipman. The funny part was that Allday knew the luckless Graham had been eating some pie he had brought from England. It had doubtless been going mouldy when he had stepped aboard. After days at sea in a damp, cheerless midshipman’s berth, it must be as near poison as made no difference.

  Bolitho’s arrival aboard Damerum’s flagship was no less noisy than his departure from his own.