Inshore Squadron

by Kent, Alexander

  “Give it another turn of the glass, Thomas. Then we can recall the boats.”

  Grubb said, “Dawn’ll be up in two hours, sir.” He rubbed his red hands together. “I’m fair parched after that little lot!”

  Herrick laughed. “I understand, Mr Grubb. Pass the word to the purser. Break out a double tot of rum for each man, and no arguments from that miser or I’ll skin him alive!”

  Bolitho felt the tension draining away around him, even though the fight was still to come. Benbow was through, and that was something each man could understand. As Allday had remarked, they fought for each other, not some plan from high authority.

  The half-hour glass squeaked round beside the compass and Grubb said, “Time, sir.”

  Herrick called, “Tell the cutter to inform Indomitable that we are recalling the boats.”

  Bolitho could imagine the relief in the various boats as the message was passed down the line. There would be a few blisters and aching backs when daylight found them.

  Bolitho felt a tankard being put into his hands and heard Browne say, “Don’t fret, sir. ’Tis brandy, not rum. I know you do not take kindly to that!”

  Bolitho was about to reply when he felt some of the spirit splash across his fingers and realised Browne was shaking.

  “What is wrong?”

  Browne looked towards the hidden land. “What is wrong? You can ask that, sir?” He tried to laugh it off. “I am a fair hand at matters of ceremonial and Admiralty duty. I can use a sword or pistol better than most, and can hold my own at the tables.” He shuddered. “But this sort of thing, this dreadful, long-drawn-out crawl towards hell, I have no stomach for it, sir!”

  “It will pass.” Bolitho was shocked to see Browne in such distress.

  Browne said quietly, “I was just thinking. It will be the first of April tomorrow. By the end of the second day I might be nothing!”

  “You are not alone. Everyone in this ship, except the mindless fool, will be thinking like that.”

  “You, too, sir?”

  “Aye. I feel it now, just as I fear it.” He tried to shrug. “But I have taught myself to accept it.”

  He watched Browne move away into the shadows and reflected on his words.

  The first day of April. In Cornwall it would be green again, the snow and mist gone for another year. He could almost smell the hedgerows, the richer aromas of the farms.

  And the house would be waiting, as it had done so often for a hundred and fifty years, for a Bolitho to return home.

  Stop it now! It was useless to wallow in false hope and self-pity.

  He stared up at the mizzen truck but his flag was still lost against the dull clouds.

  It was chilling to accept that this small group of ships contained the last two sailors of the Bolitho family.

  Lieutenant Wolfe strode to the nettings, his head cocked, as the first rumble of gunfire rolled over the ships like thunder.

  “By God, listen to that!”

  On the gundeck many of the seamen were standing back from the long eighteen-pounders to stare aft at the officers, as if to determine what was happening.

  Bolitho shaded his eyes and glanced up at the masthead lookouts. At first light he had managed to overcome his hatred of heights to climb as high as the maintop and watch the Danish shoreline, the towers and steeples misty and unreal. With the aid of a telescope, and watched curiously by the marine marksmen there, he had studied the span of Copenhagen’s defences.

  His own small squadron had no intention of drawing within range of the many batteries arranged along the coast. His duty was to find the galleys and destroy as many of them as possible before they could join in the fight.

  From his many written instructions he knew much of what Nelson would have to face. At least eighteen moored ships, presenting an impregnable line of fixed broadsides, and the massive Three Crowns battery on Amager Island which mounted sixty-six heavy guns. To say nothing of other men-of-war, bomb vessels and military artillery ranged along the shore.

  Against such a force Nelson would be leading just twelve seventy-fours, provided they could get through the last part of the channel without being crippled.

  Now, as he listened to the continuous rumble of cannon fire he marvelled at the audacity or perhaps the recklessness of the plan. More so at the cool nerve of the man who was back there in command with his flag in the Elephant.

  Herrick moved up beside him, his face worried.

  “I wish we were with the fleet instead of here, sir. It seems wrong to leave them like this. Every extra gun will be needed just now.”

  Bolitho did not answer immediately. He was watching the Relentless, a distant pyramid of gently flapping canvas as she changed tack slightly to larboard. Well astern of her the sloop-ofwar Lookout was end on, one eye no doubt on the flagship.

  Bolitho said, “The Danes will not act until Nelson has committed himself. When the fleet weighs again tomorrow, and stands around the Middle Ground, that is the moment I would choose. Our ships would be caught in cross-fire from three directions at least.”

  He watched the smoke spreading up and across the sky, blotting out the distant ships and also the city. Men were fighting and dying, and yet from Benbow’s quarterdeck it held no threat, no sense of danger.

  Browne lowered his glass and said, “Signal from Relentless, sir, repeated by Lookout. Strange sail bearing south-east.” He added, “Relentless is already making more sail, sir.”

  Bolitho nodded, concealing his sudden doubt from the others. Captain Peel was acting as instructed, not wasting time passing vague sighting reports back and forth.

  But surely the whole Danish fleet would be under orders for the attack. And no lone merchantman would be foolhardy enough to sail between two powerful fleets.

  Relentless was drawing rapidly away from her smaller consort, and Bolitho knew Peel must have picked his masthead lookouts with care to make such a quick sighting.

  “Gunfire’s slackening, sir.” Wolfe crossed to the deck-log to make a brief scribble to that effect. “Our Nel must be through.”

  As if to confirm this, Browne called, “From Indomitable, sir. Styx has reported that our fleet is in sight and already changing tack.”

  Herrick wiped his brow with his handkerchief. “That’s a relief. At least we’ll know we’re not alone for the return passage!”

  “Deck there!” The forgotten masthead lookout made every head lift towards him. “Gunfire to the south’rd!”

  Herrick swore. “What the hell! Peel must be engaging!”

  “Signal from Lookout, sir. She’s requesting permission to give assistance.”

  Herrick shook his head and then glanced questioningly at Bolitho.

  Bolitho said quietly, “Denied. It would take Lookout two hours to catch up with the frigate. And if we sight the galleys she will be needed to head them off.”

  Browne watched the flag dashing up the yard and breaking to the wind. To see the quick exchange of glances between Bolitho and Herrick had pushed his own troubles into the background. He knew what they were thinking. What it must always cost a senior officer to place a friend or relative at risk.

  The gunfire was reaching the quarterdeck now, savage, intermittent and very distinct, which suggested that the two or more vessels were firing at close range.

  Herrick said, “Mr Speke! Aloft with you and tell me what you think.”

  The lieutenant scrambled up the shrouds, his coat tails flying in the wind.

  Wolfe touched his hat. “Shall I pass the order to load and run out, sir?”

  Bolitho said, “No. There’s no point.”

  It was strange. In a matter of seconds the battle, Copenhagen, even their reason for being here at all, had been sponged away.

  Somewhere on the horizon’s misty edge one of their own was fighting. It sounded like two ships. Russian, Swedish or Danish made no difference now.

  He recalled Peel’s quiet competence and knew he would not be one to act foolishly. He tho
ught, too, of Pascoe’s expression as he had turned away from the cabin after he had heard about his father.

  “Smoke, sir!” Speke’s voice sounded shrill. “Ship afire!”

  Bolitho bit his lip. “Signal to the squadron, Mr Browne. Make more sail.”

  Herrick caught his mood and shouted, “Mr Wolfe! Hands aloft and set t’gan’s’ls! Then break out the driver!”

  Wolfe strode about the deck, ginger hair flapping, his speaking trumpet swinging as he bellowed for the afterguard to be piped to the braces even as the topmen swarmed to the uppermost yards.

  Benbow responded instantly, as under more canvas she heeled heavily to the thrust. Astern, down the line, the other ships were following her example, and to a landsman’s inexperienced eye they would seem to be flying like frigates. In fact, Bolitho knew that in these moderate winds they were barely making five knots through the water.

  The horizon seemed to shiver and then erupt to a single, violent explosion. Nobody on the quarterdeck said anything. Only a ship’s magazine could sound like that.

  Browne cleared his throat. “From Lookout, sir. Sail in sight.”

  Herrick stared at Benbow’s flapping topsails with fixed attention. “But which one, for God’s sake?”

  Speke called, “One ship has gone down, sir. The other seems to be crippled!”

  The masthead pendant whipped out, and Bolitho felt the deck give a sudden tremble as the strengthening gust pushed over the quarter to fill the sails.

  He trained a telescope through the rigging, saw a man’s face leap into focus as it passed over the carronades on the forecastle to reach far ahead of the ship.

  He saw the pall of smoke, two masts with yards and sails in holed fragments standing above it like mute witnesses of the fight.

  Then he heard the lookout cry, “She’s a Frenchie, sir!”

  Bolitho looked at Browne. “The Ajax.”

  Allday came from the poop and watched with the others. “She’d done her repairs an’ was trying to get back to France, I reckon.”

  “Probably.”

  Bolitho gripped his sword hilt until the pain made him think more clearly. Allday was right, had to be. After such a mauling from Styx the French captain would have needed at least five months to effect repairs. He had probably chosen a port which had become hemmed in by the ice, and now here he was, bringing with him a terrible revenge.

  He said harshly, “Tell Lookout to investigate but not to engage.” He turned and glanced at the sailing master’s ruined features and added, “Lay a course to take the wind-gage off that one, Mr Grubb.”

  Herrick lowered his telescope. “Ajax is not moving. She’s lost her mizzen, and I think her steering may have gone.”

  The torment of waiting, watching the battered frigate growing larger and larger while Lookout moved warily nearby like a hunter who has discovered a wounded lion, was made more terrible by the silence.

  Then Wolfe said, “Lookout’s dropped her boats, sir. Looking for survivors, though after that explosion . . .” He fell silent as Herrick shot him an angry glance.

  Major Clinton had left his marines to join Herrick by the quarterdeck rail. Suddenly he pointed with his stick and said, “I think the Frenchman’s getting under way!”

  Wolfe nodded. “He’s cut the wreckage free. Now he’s set another topsail.”

  They faced Bolitho as he said, “Run out the lower battery, Mr Wolfe.”

  Even the repeated order was hushed. Then the deck gave a long quiver as the great thirty-two-pounders trundled noisily up to their open ports.

  “Run out, sir!”

  Blackened woodwork and a length of trailing rigging clattered along the Benbow’s side. There were corpses, too, or what was left of them.

  “Fire a warning shot, Mr Wolfe.”

  The gun nearest the bows erupted with a violent bang, and as the smoke fanned out over the water Bolitho saw the great ball slam down almost in line with Ajax’s figurehead.

  But the tricolour which had replaced the one lost overboard on the mizzen showed no sign of dipping, and even as he watched Bolitho saw the frigate’s shape shortening as she began to turn away.

  Wolfe asked, “Broadside, sir?”

  Bolitho stared past him, the French ship blurred in his vision as if through thick glass.

  At a range of just over a mile, a full broadside from those great guns would smash the damaged frigate to fragments. The leaks caused by her fight with Relentless and the weight of her own artillery would finish it.

  He heard Clinton exclaim, “That captain is a fool!”

  Bolitho shook his head. “Tell the gun captains to fire in succession.”

  The second ball smashed through the Ajax’s quarter, hurling wreckage and shattered spars high into the air like straw in a wind.

  Bolitho watched the tricolour as it was hauled down and added quietly, “He is also a brave man, Major.”

  A master’s mate said, “Lookout’s boats have picked up some people, sir!”

  Bolitho barely recognized his own voice. “Alter course to intercept Lookout. Make a signal to Indomitable to board the Ajax and take off her company.” He hardened his voice. “Then sink her.”

  Speke, still on his lofty perch in the cross-trees, yelled, “Six hands, sir! Five seamen and a marine!”

  Bolitho ducked beneath the furled boarding nets and stood on the starboard gangway as he watched the slow-moving boats, the drifting remains of Peel’s command. Flotsam, burned timber, fire-blackened canvas. And men. The men so torn and disfigured that they would have known very little about it.

  He gripped the shrouds and almost cried out as his wounded thigh grated against the iron-hard cordage.

  A hand reached up and he saw Midshipman Penels staring at him. “Let me, sir!”

  “Thank you.” Bolitho rested his elbow on the boy’s shoulder as he waited for the pain to ebb away.

  Damerum, however unwittingly, had found an assassin after all.

  He made himself look at the procession of bobbing remnants as they parted beneath Benbow’s staring figurehead.

  Behind him he could hear some of the seamen yelling, congratulating each other on preventing Ajax’s escape.

  Penels said in a small voice, “Sir, I think I saw something move out there.”

  Bolitho raised his glass and followed the direction of his arm. Half of an upturned boat and a long spar with one end blasted off like chalk.

  There were several corpses floating nearby, and for a moment he thought Penels had imagined it, or had wanted to say something to please him.

  He said, “I see it!” It was just an arm, sticking up over the spar. But it was moving. Alive. Someone who had survived. Who might know . . .

  He was gripped by something like panic. Even in these few moments the ship had moved some fifty yards.

  “Captain Herrick! Man in the water, starboard side! Quarter boat, quick!”

  He almost fell as Penels darted from beneath his elbow. He had a vague impression of the boy’s terrified face, matched only by some last spark of determination, before he was up and diving straight for the water. He broke to the surface and was swimming strongly before Herrick understood what had happened.

  Bolitho saw the quarter boat appear around the stern, the coxswain staring blankly at his officers.

  Herrick cupped his hands. “Follow that boy, Winslade! Fast as you can!”

  Bolitho climbed back to the quarterdeck as Browne said apologetically, “I am sorry, sir, but Indomitable has signalled to say the Ajax will be destroyed once we are standing clear of the danger.”

  Loveys, the surgeon, hurried across the quarterdeck, his white face alien amongst the guns and the seamen.

  He said calmly, “The boat is returning, sir. I took the liberty of borrowing a telescope. There are two survivors.” He relented slightly. “One is Mr Pascoe.”

  Bolitho clasped his arm then hurried past him to the rail as the boat nudged carefully alongside.

  Winslade, the bo
at’s coxswain, waited for more seamen to climb down the tumblehome to assist and then called, “Just the two, sir!” He swallowed hard before adding, “I’m afraid we lost young Mr Penels, sir! He just seemed to give up as he reached the boat!”

  Bolitho reached the entry port as the two limp figures were handed through. The first he did not recognize, a pigtailed seaman with one arm so badly burned it looked inhuman.

  Loveys was on his knees running his hands over Pascoe’s body while his aproned assistants hovered behind him like butchers.

  Bolitho watched the painful rise and fall of his nephew’s chest, the sea water running from beneath his closed lashes like tears. His clothes had been all but blasted from his body and he gave a quiet groan as the surgeon’s boney fingers felt for internal damage.

  Loveys said at length, “He’s young and fit, of course. Nothing broken. He’s lucky.”

  He turned to the seaman and said, “Now, let me have a look at you.”

  The seaman muttered vaguely, “I didn’t hear nothin’. One minute the cap’n was yellin’ and cussin’ about fire.” He shook his head and winced as Loveys touched his burned arm. “Next thing I was deep underwater. Goin’ down. I can’t swim, y’see?” He realised that Bolitho and Herrick were there and stammered, “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir!”

  Bolitho smiled. “Easy now. What happened next?”

  “Our new third lieutenant, sir. Mr Pascoe ’ere, ’e pulls me to some floatin’ wreckage, then goes back for my mate, Arthur. But he died afore the boat come for us. It was just me an’ Mr Pascoe, sir. The rest is all gone.” He had to repeat it as if he still could not accept the enormity of it. “All gone!”

  As the seaman was carried away to the sick-bay, Pascoe opened his eyes. Surprisingly, he smiled and said weakly, “I’ve come back after all, Uncle!” Then he fainted.

  17 THE PRIME TARGET

  BOLITHO sat at a small table in the stern cabin, a pen poised above his report. Someone would read it, he thought grimly, log books and written reports always seemed to survive no matter what.

  It was a strange feeling, like sitting in an abandoned house. The furniture had all been taken below, and without looking up from the table he knew that the gun crews of the nearest nine-pounders were sharing the space with him. Screens had been taken down, and the ship, as she moved very slowly towards the Danish coastline once again, was cleared for battle from bow to stern.