Keen saw the ship’s gunner standing by as a crew loaded and then began to run out a twelve-pounder. When it was fired, and the Union Flag was run up to the peak, everyone would know that the trial had begun. When the flag flew from there, and only then, did it tell outsiders what was happening. The court-martial Jack would bring memories to some, pity from others, and indifference from the many who did not have to risk their own lives at sea.
“I wanted to speak with you, Val, about your views. You were there also—you saw it, and the aftermath.” Bolitho glanced around the upper deck. “We too lost some good men here that day. But for the enemy swallowing the bait, and our false Danish flag, it might have gone very differently.”
Keen regarded him steadily. “I have known Rear-Admiral Herrick for much of my life. As a first lieutenant, a captain and now a flag officer. In those early times I came to appreciate both his courage, and I think, his sincerity.”
Bolitho sensed his uncertainty, his search for an explanation which might not be painful, or worse, come between them.
“You can speak freely to me, Val.”
Keen bit his lip. “I think he has always been surprised at being given flag rank, sir.”
“That is shrewd of you. He has often said as much to me.”
Keen made a decision. “But I cannot forgive or forget that he was about to stand me in the very predicament he now finds himself in. He would listen to no reason; he was guided only by the book. But for your intervention on my behalf—” He stared across at Portsmouth Point, the sea lapping below it as if the land itself were on the move. “So I am afraid I do not see his actions in quite the same light.”
“Thank you for telling me, Val. It meant much to you, and now it means a great deal to me.”
Keen added, “I once said that I thought I knew what you would have done if committed to the same circumstances—” He glanced round sharply as a lieutenant touched his hat from the foot of the ladder. “What is it, Mr Espie?”
The lieutenant looked at Bolitho. “I beg your pardon, Sir Richard. The Judge Advocate sends his respects and wishes you to know that the Court is about to assemble.”
“Very well.” To Keen he remarked, “I understand that your dear Zenoria is meeting with Catherine today while we are thus employed. I am glad they are close by.” He saw Keen’s face suddenly laid bare, the inner anxiety as plain as if he had called out aloud. He touched his sleeve. “We have seen many storms and have weathered them, Val. We are friends.”
The words mocked him. He’d said the same thing to Herrick at the Swan Inn. He turned and walked aft to the companion-way.
Minutes later the air reverberated to the crash of a single charge, while from aft, perfectly timed, the court-martial Jack broke to the breeze. It had begun.
The great cabin was barely recognisable. Even two of the twenty-four-pounders had been hauled and handspiked around to make more room for the many lines of chairs. Bolitho seated himself and handed his hat to Ozzard, who scurried down the narrow aisle between the mass of figures without apparently noticing any of them. The little man’s sense of outrage, perhaps, at seeing his personal domain, where he served and cared for his vice-admiral, demeaned by what was happening.
Bolitho had seen many heads turn to watch his entrance.
Some would know him, may even have shared his exploits. Others would only savour the scandal, his open affair with Lady Somervell. Those who knew him very well would appreciate his feelings today, and his concern for a man who had known the same dangers and shared similar perils.
They all rose respectfully as the members of the Court came along the same narrow aisle and seated themselves in silhouette against the tall stern windows, Hamett-Parker at the centre of the table, with his fellow members paired off on either side of him in strict order of seniority.
He gave a curt nod to the Judge Advocate, a tall, heavy man who had to stoop between the deckhead beams, and who looked more like a farmer than an official of Admiralty.
“Be seated, gentlemen.”
Bolitho saw Herrick’s sword for the first time, glittering faintly in the reflected sunlight, lying before the President. Then he realised that Hamett-Parker was looking straight at him. Recognition, curiosity, perhaps dislike; it was all there.
He said, “You may bring in the accused, Mr Cotgrave.”
The Judge Advocate bowed slightly. “Very well, Sir James.”
Bolitho touched the locket beneath his shirt. Help me, Kate.
He stared hard at the stern windows and concentrated on the shimmering panorama of moored shipping and blue sky. At these windows he had sat and dreamed or planned. Had watched Copenhagen burning under the merciless bombardment of artillery, and the huge fireballs from the Congreve rockets.
He heard Herrick’s limping step and the crisp click of boots from his escort.
Then he saw him, to one side of the table, regarding the men who would judge him with little more than a mild interest.
The President said, “You may be seated. There is no point provoking the pain from your wound.”
Bolitho found that his fists were so tightly clenched that they hurt. With relief he saw Herrick sit down on the proffered chair. He had expected he might refuse, and so set the tone of the whole proceedings.
Herrick’s blue eyes turned and then settled on him. He gave a brief nod of recognition and Bolitho recalled his own anger and hurt when they had met at the Admiralty; it felt like a thousand years ago. Bolitho had shouted after him, stung by Herrick’s rebuff over Catherine. Are we so ordinary? It had been a cry from the heart.
Hamett-Parker spoke again in the same flat tones.
“You may begin, Mr Cotgrave.”
Herrick’s escort, a debonair captain of marines, leaned forward but Herrick was already on his feet again. He had attended enough court martials to know every stage of the procedure.
The Judge Advocate faced him and opened his papers, although Bolitho suspected he knew them as a player knows his lines.
“In accordance with the decision made by their lordships of Admiralty, you, Thomas Herrick Esquire, Rear-Admiral of the Red, are hereby charged that on diverse dates last September as stated in the Details of Evidence, you were guilty of misconduct and neglect of duty. This is contrary to the Act of Parliament dated 1749, more commonly called the Articles of War.”
Bolitho was conscious of the great silence that hung over his flagship. Even the footfalls of the watchkeepers and the occasional creak of tackles were faraway and muffled.
Cotgrave glanced at Herrick’s impassive features before continuing, “Contrary to Article Seventeen, whilst you were appointed for the convoy and guard of merchant ships, you did not diligently attend to that charge. Further, you did not faithfully perform that duty, nor did you defend the ships and goods in said convoy without diverting to other parts or occasions, and if proven guilty shall make reparation of the damage to merchants, owners and others. As the Court of Admiralty shall adjudge, you shall also be punished criminally according to the quality of the offences, be it by pains of death or other punishment as shall be adjudged fit by the court martial. God Save the King!”
Admiral Sir James Hamett-Parker’s thin mouth opened and closed like a poacher’s trap.
“How plead you?”
“Not guilty.” Herrick’s reply was equally curt.
“Very well. Be seated. You may presently proceed, Mr Cotgrave, but before doing so, I would remind you that there are some persons present who have no experience of sea fights and strategy other than what they … read.” This brought a few smiles despite the seriousness of the moment. “So it may be required from time to time to explain or describe these terms and variations.” He pressed his fingertips together and stared at the assembled people. “So be it.”
Bolitho leaned forward and watched intently as the Judge Advocate described the various positions of Herrick’s convoy, the North Sea Squadron, and the major fleet commanded by Admiral Gambier, who had been in
control of operations at and around Copenhagen.
It was the second day of the court martial, the first having been made up mostly of written evidence and sworn statements. There had also been a dying declaration, which had been further testimony to the ferocity of that battle. A junior lieutenant in Herrick’s Benbow had managed to make it under oath after a second amputation of his crushed legs.
Bolitho had sensed the moment, not here in the great cabin, but on that terrible day when the enemy ships had bombarded Benbow until she had run with blood, and her masts had been torn out of her like rotten sticks. The lieutenant had died even as he had been describing how he had run aft from his division of upper-deck guns, where most of his men had been cut down or dragged below to the surgeon. He had called on Herrick to strike in the name of pity. We were all dying to no purpose, he had said. He had claimed that the rear-admiral had clutched a pistol in one hand and had threatened to shoot him if he did not return to his station. Then the main-topmast had fallen and crushed his legs. But he persisted in his claim that Herrick’s answer had stayed with him. We shall all die today.
One of the clerks had peered at Herrick as if to compare the man on trial with what he was writing.
Another sworn statement had come from Benbow’s surgeon, who was also in hospital. He had stated that he had been unable to deal with the great flood of wounded and dying men. He had sent word to the quarterdeck but had received no reply. The Judge Advocate had looked around the court. “We must keep in mind of course that the ship was fighting for her life. The man sent aft with the message, if indeed that was the case, may well have been killed.”
It had been very damning, all the same. There had followed a short pause for a meal and some wine, the senior officers and important guests to Keen’s own quarters, the remainder to the wardroom.
After that, Captain Varian, at one time in command of the frigate Zest in Herrick’s squadron, and himself awaiting the convenience of a court martial, gave evidence on what he had come to expect under the rear-admiral’s flag. Bolitho had listened with contempt. This was the man who had failed to support Truculent in which Bolitho had been taking passage from Copenhagen, having been sent on a secret mission to parley with the Danes in a futile attempt to avoid war. Truculent had been shadowed by French men-of-war, a trap from which there had been no escape. Only the arrival of Adam’s Anemone had saved the day. But not before Truculent’s captain, Poland, had been killed and many of his men with him.
On that occasion, as now, in the great cabin Varian claimed that Herrick never gave any scope or initiative to his captains. He had only been obeying instructions as Rear-Admiral Herrick would have demanded.
At length the President turned to Herrick. “You are entitled to question this witness. You refused a defence, so it is your privilege.”
Herrick barely glanced at Varian’s pale features. “I do not care to discuss this matter with a man already facing a charge of cowardice.”
He said it with such disgust that it had brought a gasp from the assembled visitors. “He is a coward and a liar, and but for the intervention of others I would have had him arrested myself.”
It had all been much like that. An old carpenter who described the state of Benbow’s hull, with the pump barely containing the intake of water and only wounded men available to use it.
The last witness to be called, even as dusk made it necessary to light all the lanterns in the cabin, had been Herrick’s servant, Murray. A rather pitiful little figure against so much gold lace and glittering regalia.
Under examination he had admitted that Herrick had been drinking very heavily, which had been more than just unusual.
The Judge Advocate had said, “Just what you know, Murray—opinions have no place here.”
He had glanced at Herrick, who had replied, “I was drinking more than usual, he is quite right.”
As the little servant had hurried gratefully away, John Cotgrave had rustled through his papers, gauging the time to a second.
“Of course, I had overlooked the fact you have only recently lost your wife.”
Herrick had seemed oblivious to everyone else there. “She was everything to me. After that—” He had given a tired shrug.
“So it might be suggested that because of grief and personal distress you threw everything into a fight you could not win against overwhelming odds, with a total disregard for the lives in your care?”
Herrick had stared at him coldly. “That is untrue.”
Today had begun with more professional witnesses. Three masters from merchant ships in the convoy, and written testimonies by others who had managed to survive. Several of them had claimed that they could have outsailed the enemy had they been allowed to quit the convoy.
Herrick denied this. “We had to stand together—the enemy had frigates as well as line-of-battle ships. It was our only chance.”
The President leaned forward. “I understand that Admiral Gambier suggested in his despatches to you that you might release your only frigate to his command for the attack on Copenhagen? Did he not leave it to your discretion?”
Herrick faced him. “It seemed urgent. In any case I thought I would meet up with the North Sea squadron for the final approach.”
The Judge Advocate said, “The squadron commanded by Sir Richard Bolitho?”
Herrick did not even blink. “Just so.”
Cotgrave continued, “Now we reach a vital part of the matter, prior to your meeting with the enemy.”
Hamett-Parker tugged out his watch. “I trust it is not a lengthy business, Mr Cotgrave? Some of us would wish to take refreshment!” Somebody laughed but stopped instantly as Hamett-Parker’s cold eyes sought him out.
Cotgrave was unimpressed. “I will try not to waste the court’s time, Sir James.”
He turned to his clerk. “Summon Commander James Tyacke.” To the great cabin he added, “Commander Tyacke is serving in the brig Larne of fourteen guns. A most gallant officer. I must ask all those present to try and show him respect rather than sympathy. It is a matter of …” He got no further.
Something like a sigh of dismay came from all sides as Tyacke’s tall figure strode aft beneath the deckhead beams. In his early thirties, he had been with Bolitho at the Cape, when he had taken a fireship to destroy anchored enemy supply vessels and so cut short the siege of the town and harbour. In doing so he had seen his beloved command, the little schooner Miranda, sunk by the enemy. Bolitho had personally promoted him and given him the brig.
Tyacke would have been handsome, as his profile suggested, but one complete side of his face had been scored away to leave it like raw flesh; how the right eye had survived was a miracle. He had been at the battle of the Nile as a lieutenant on the lower gun deck of the old Majestic. They had come up to the big French Tonnant and had continued close-action until the enemy had hauled down her colours. Had the French captain known the true state of the English third-rate he might have persisted. The dead had been everywhere; even her captain, Westcott, had been killed. Tyacke had been flung across the deck, his face seared and torn, although he could never remember afterwards precisely what had happened. An exploding charge, an enemy wad through a gunport; he simply did not know, and there had been nobody near him left alive to tell him.
He faced the court now, his terrible wound in shadow, a private man, a man of courage. He had nothing but his ship. Even the girl he had loved had turned away from him when she learned what had happened.
He saw Bolitho, and smiled faintly in recognition. No, he was not quite alone any more. He had come to admire Bolitho more than he could have believed possible.
The Judge Advocate confronted him, angry with the court and perhaps with himself for trying to avoid Tyacke’s impassive stare.
“You were the first to sight the French vessels, Commander Tyacke.”
Tyacke glanced at Herrick. “Yes, sir. We came on the ships quite by accident. One of the big three-deckers was unknown to me. I discovered much later
that she was in fact Spanish, taken into the French command, so we had no cause to recognise her.” He hesitated. “Vice-Admiral Bolitho knew her, of course.”
One of the court leaned over to whisper something and Hamett-Parker said, “She was the San Mateo, which destroyed Sir Richard’s flagship Hyperion before Trafalgar.” He nodded irritably. “Continue.”
Tyacke looked at him with dislike. “We beat as close as we could but they were on to us, and gave us a good peppering before we could show them a clean pair of heels. Eventually we found the convoy and I closed to report to the rear-admiral in charge.”
One of the captains asked, “Had the frigate already left the convoy?”
“Aye, sir.” He paused, expecting something further, then he said, “I told Rear-Admiral Herrick what I had seen.”
“How did he receive you?”
“I spoke through a speaking-trumpet, sir.” He added with barely concealed sarcasm, “The enemy were too close for comfort, and there seemed some urgency in the air!”
The Judge Advocate smiled. “That was well said, Commander Tyacke.” The mood changed back again. “Now it is very important that you recall exactly what the rear-admiral’s reply was. I imagine it would have been written in Larne’s signal book?”
“Probably.” Tyacke ignored his frown. “As I recall, Rear-Admiral Herrick ordered me to find Sir Richard Bolitho’s North Sea squadron. Then he changed his mind and told me to report directly to Admiral Gambier’s flagship Prince of Wales off Copenhagen.”
Cotgrave said quietly, “Even after seven months, during which time you must have had much to occupy your attention, the fact that Rear-Admiral Herrick changed his mind still seems to surprise you? Pray tell the court why.”
Tyacke was caught off guard. He replied, “Sir Richard Bolitho was his friend, sir, and in any case …”
“In any case, Commander Tyacke, it would have been sensible, would it not, to find Sir Richard’s squadron first, as it was only in a supporting role against the Danes at that time?”
Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef Page 5