Colours Aloft!

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho hesitated and then the face came back. Helping him on that terrible day, just an ordinary marine then.

  He said quietly, “McCall, I remember you well.”

  The sergeant remained rigid, his captain watching beyond Bolitho’s shoulder. But his eyes moved and he said, “Thank you, sir.” He hesitated as if afraid he was going too far. “It were a fierce battle, that ’un, sir, an’ no mistake.”

  Bolitho smiled. “Aye, I’m glad you are doing well in the Corps.” His words seemed to have another meaning as he added, “Take good care that others do not spoil your efforts.”

  The contact was broken as the calls trilled once more.

  Bolitho paused in the entry port and removed his hat to the quarterdeck. After tomorrow this ship might never seem the same again.

  He knew Herrick was watching him, his eyes filled with concern. In case he stumbled because of his distorted vision, or because he knew that not for the first time his own honesty had come between them.

  Captain Francis Inch leaned across his chart and tugged repeatedly at his left ear as he often did when he was contemplating his next move. Around him the cabin heaved and shuddered as Helicon rolled uncomfortably in a rising wind.

  It was almost noon, but because of a thickening mist, which even the wind was refusing to disperse, visibility was reduced to a few miles.

  He could see the ships in his mind, Despatch directly astern, and Icarus a blurred outline at the tail-end of the line. Inch hated the uncertainty of the weather. The wind had veered greatly in the two days since Bolitho had left the squadron. It now blew almost directly from the west, from France.

  He studied his chart more closely, very aware of the other two captains who remained silent as they sipped their wine.

  Two hundred miles south-west of Toulon and already floundering in the rising wind. If it did not back soon or drop in force they might be driven far off their station or, worse, scatter so that they would lose contact altogether.

  He pictured the little brig Rapid, far ahead of her companions. Inch was working her hard, but he envied her commander Quarrell more than he cared to admit. At least he had freedom of movement, while they blustered along, keeping station, ponderous and slow. He looked up and saw the broken white horses through the stern windows.

  Captain Houston said, “I must leave soon, or I’ll never find my ship in this.”

  Montresor of the Despatch said, “Can’t do anything unless the wind quietens down.”

  Inch looked at them impatiently. Negative. Neither willing to search beyond the obvious. Montresor was proving to be a good captain but always seemed to take a lead from the sour-faced Houston.

  The latter remarked, “I still think it’s madness to keep our one and only frigate on some wild deception when she could be with us.” Encouraged by Inch’s silence he continued in his harsh voice, “We can’t possibly seek out local craft with only Rapid to do it.”

  Inch glanced round his cabin. It looked French still in spite of the paintings he had hung around it. Pictures of country scenes, brooks and meadows, churches and farms. Like his own Dorset home. He thought momentarily of Hannah, his wife. She had already given him a little son, and another child was on the way. How could she imagine what he was doing, he wondered?

  He said, “Vice-Admiral Bolitho has explained about Barracouta.

  I accept his judgement.”

  Houston said, “Naturally.” He smiled wryly at Montresor, “But then we have not known him as long as you.”

  Inch showed his teeth in a dangerous grin. “He made me acting-commodore until his return. That should be enough for you, I think.”

  Houston’s smile vanished at Inch’s change of tone. “I wasn’t doubting the thinking behind this. It’s just that—”

  “Quite.” Inch listened to the groan of timbers, the distant crack of canvas as the ship leaned uncomfortably from the wind. It felt wrong and incomplete without Bolitho. He always seemed able to foretell what the enemy might do, and Inch had never known him to scoff at or underestimate what the French had up their sleeves.

  Houston said, “Maybe we should pass word to the squadron off Toulon. Nelson might have views on what we’re about. I still think the French will head for Egypt again as they attempt to break out. We beat ’em once at the Nile, but they might favour a second attempt.” He stood up and swayed to the deck’s slant. “I must leave, with your permission.”

  Inch nodded regretfully. There were many things he needed to discuss, but Houston was right: much worse and he would never fight his way back to his own ship.

  He heard a voice on the wind, far away, lost.

  Montresor said, “They’ve sighted something.” He shuddered. “Not a good day for it.”

  There was a tap at the door, Inch’s first lieutenant had come in person.

  “Signal from Rapid, sir. Sail in sight to the nor’-west.” He glanced at the others. “Wind’s getting up, sir. Shall I order another reef?”

  Inch tugged his ear. “No. Prepare to see these gentlemen into their boats. After that I want to signal Rapid before we lose contact.”

  He turned to the others as the lieutenant hurried away.

  “Rapid is unlikely to report or even sight a fishing boat in this weather.” He watched his words going home. “I must close on her immediately. So keep station on Helicon and be prepared to fight.”

  Montresor stared at him. He had not been a captain long enough to learn how to hide his feelings.

  “The French? You really think so?”

  Inch thought of Bolitho, how he would have presented it.

  “Yes, I do. The wind is right for them; equally it is unfavourable to us.” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “However, we must do what we came to do. At least we are ready for them.”

  The two captains left the ship with unseemly haste, Helicon heaving-to for the minimum of time before butting into the heavy rollers once again.

  Inch stared up at the masthead, the pendant standing out and seemingly almost at right angles to the ship.

  He glanced at the compass; north-east by east. Spray swept over the weather nettings and made the watchkeepers duck and swear.

  Savill, his first lieutenant, shouted above the wind, “Masthead reports that Rapid has her signal still hoisted, sir.” He looked excited, glad perhaps that they were doing something other than beating up and down.

  Inch considered it. That probably meant that Quarrell had sighted or anticipated more than one strange sail.

  “Signal from Despatch, sir. Her captain is safely on board.”

  Inch grunted, fretting as he thought of Houston’s boat smashing its way further astern to his own command.

  The masthead lookout yelled, “Signal from Rapid, sir! Two sail in sight to the nor’-west!”

  Inch looked at his second-in-command. Two sails. It would not be any of Nelson’s fleet so far south in the Golfe du Lion, and certainly no trader would attempt to break the blockade in this weather, especially in company with another.

  He pondered Houston’s words. He was right about one thing, Barracouta would make all the difference if she were here.

  “I think the French mean business this time, Mr Savill. Make more sail, if you please. I intend to close on Rapid now.” He took a telescope and climbed to the poop to look for Icarus. He saw the wet mist far astern; even Despatch was shrouded in it. God, what a time for it to happen. He snapped to the midshipman-of-the-watch who had followed him like a terrier, “General signal. Make more sail.”

  He saw the flags break out to the wind, very bright against the low cloud.

  It was his chance. For once he was not looking to the flagship for instructions. He was in command today. Hannah would look at him with those adoring violet eyes when he told her. Nobody could have guessed or anticipated that Bolitho would be struck down by a stray ball, and not even in the midst of battle. Keen was in Malta, although to Inch it had seemed absurd that he should be taken away for some stupid inquiry. Bu
t no matter the whys and the wherefores, Francis Inch was in temporary charge of the squadron.

  It was like having a weight suddenly lifted. He knew he had no doubts and could deal with this without anxiety.

  He glanced around the deck, proud of his ship and her company. He watched the hands moving out along the yards, their white trousers flapping wildly as they fought into the wind. Canvas thundered out and bulged to the pressure so that the deck heeled over even further. Another look astern. There was Icarus visible just briefly astern of Despatch. A ghost ship. He grinned into the spray. Houston was a miserable man, he thought.

  “Deck there!” That was one of the lieutenants. Savill had done right to put an experienced officer up there. “Rapid has signalled. Three sail of the line to the nor’-west!”

  Inch felt a tingle run through his body. Three. There was no doubt now. They might try to avoid a confrontation, but Inch had no doubts about what he would do. Must do.

  “General signal, Mr Savill. Prepare for battle.” He made himself smile. “After that, you may clear for action.”

  He thought of Bolitho, and felt sudden pride that he had entrusted this day to him.

  The drums began to roll, and as Helicon hurled spray over her beak-head the violence of sea and wind seemed like a foretaste of their destiny.

  13 WEST WIND

  INCH stared up at the topsails as spindrift floated through the drumming shrouds like ragged banners. There was much movement and the hull was staggering over each successive crest, every stay and ringbolt protesting to the violent motion.

  But he knew that all the noise and discomfort hid the fact that their progress was slow, painfully so. Unless the wind backed in their favour—he pushed the conjecture from his mind.

  “Bring her up a point, Mr Savill. Steer nor’-east.”

  He heard the muted cries of the topmen, the hiss of halliards and blocks as his men fought to obey him. He dare not let her pay off just to gain more advantage from the wind. He must leave that until the last moment, when manoeuvrability would count the most. The second lieutenant was up there on the crosstrees watching the oncoming vessels, although even his vision must have been impaired by spray and the persistent layers of wet mist. The land was only five miles abeam and yet it was invisible. The sea had changed completely in a single hour, from shark-blue to pewter, and then to angered crests which broke in the wind as it moaned through shrouds and running rigging like an onslaught of demented souls.

  Savill lurched up the canting deck, his face and chest running with water.

  “Cleared for action, sir!”

  Inch bit his lip. They could not attempt to open the lower gunports on the lee side. They would flood the whole deck in minutes. He comforted himself with the thought that the three French ships would not be finding it easy either. How could he be sure they were French? Spanish maybe? He discounted it instantly as he pictured Rapid’s young commander. Quarrell would have signalled the fact by now.

  He considered his feelings. They were the enemy. Another time, a different place. The same flag.

  Savill said, “No sign of Icarus, sir.” He grinned. “A change indeed.” It was well known in the squadron that Houston always liked to be the first and the best. This time he was sadly lagging behind the others.

  Three to three. Good odds. Maybe the enemy would try to avoid them. There was little chance, Inch decided. If they headed for open sea, Helicon would lead the others round to take better advantage of the wind. No, it was far more likely that the French commander would continue on a converging tack with that same wind offering him all the advantage.

  Inch looked at his ship. Cleared of unnecessary gear, the nets rigged above the gangways, the arms chests opened below the mainmast. The gun crews were stripped to the waist, their bodies already wet from spray as they crouched around their weapons or listened to their captains. Inboard of the black breeches the lieutenants moved restlessly about, their bodies angled to the tilt and shuddering vibration each time that Helicon ploughed into a trough or roller.

  “Run up the Colours, Mr Savill.” He looked round for the Royal Marines officer. “Ah, Major, I suggest you tell your fifers to strike up a jig, eh?” He gave his wide horsy grin. “It will be a while yet before we match points with the Frogs.”

  And so Helicon, followed as closely as her people could manage by Despatch, headed towards the distant sails; the small marine fifers marched up and down the deck playing jig after jig, sometimes barely able to keep on their feet.

  Inch saw his gun crews watching and grinning at the miniature parade. It took their minds off the inevitable. Only here and there a man stared across the nettings or above a gangway to seek out the enemy. New men probably, he thought. Or those who had done it before too often.

  He glanced at his first lieutenant. A good and reliable officer. He seemed popular with the hands and that was a real bounty. It was a difficult thing for a first lieutenant to be.

  “Deck there!”

  Savill remarked, “God, he has much to say today!”

  Several of the men near him laughed.

  But all smiles faded as the lieutenant in the crosstrees continued, “The leading sail is a three-decker, sir.”

  Inch felt them all looking at him. A first or second rate—bad odds, but he had known worse.

  “Signal Despatch, repeated Icarus, close line of battle.”

  The three-decker’s captain would be quick to exploit any weakness in his adversary, Inch thought.

  Eventually the signals midshipman lowered his glass.

  “Acknowledged, sir.”

  Inch paced back and forth, deep in thought. It was taking much too long.

  He looked up as the air quaked to sporadic cannon fire.

  “What th’ devil?”

  The masthead yelled, “Firin’ on Rapid, sir!”

  Inch swore. “Signal Rapid to stand away! What does that young fool think he’s playing at? If he tries to harass one of those ladies he’ll soon get a bloody nose!”

  Savill had climbed on to the shrouds with his telescope and shouted, “One of the ships is closing with Rapid, sir! Trying to cut her off from us!”

  Inch stared at him. Facing a battle, and yet the French commander seemed prepared to waste time and strength on a small brig.

  Houston’s words seemed to mock him, as if he had just spoken them aloud. Rapid was their only link now that Supreme was in dock. But for Bolitho, she would have been on the bottom. Now, with Barracouta to the north, the brig’s importance was paramount.

  “No acknowledgement, sir.”

  “God damn!” Inch looked round. “Chase your younkers aloft and get the t’gan’s’ls on her, Mr Savill. Then the main course. Lively with it!” He watched the hands rushing to obey the pipe, the wild freedom of the topgallant sails as they were released from their yards. He felt the ship shivering to the extra power, and when the mainsail thundered out he saw its yard bend and knew he was risking everything to cut down the range before one of the French guns scored a fatal hit on Rapid.

  He said urgently, “General signal. Make more sail.”

  Savill glanced at the sailing-master and saw him grimace.

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  The cannon fire continued with just an occasional gun being used. It would only require one of those massive balls to bring down the brig’s masts or hit something vital below deck.

  “Signal from Despatch, sir!” The midshipman was almost yelling. “In difficulty!”

  Inch snatched a glass and ran up a poop ladder where his marines leaned on the muskets and waited for something to do. He rested the telescope on the hammocks and felt his heart go cold as he saw the other two-decker’s outline changing as she paid off to the wind. He did not notice the anguish in his voice as he exclaimed, “Steering’s gone!” He saw the sails being taken in, tiny figures risking death on the madly pitching yards as they struggled to prevent the ship from being laid over or dismasted. It was common enough in a gale. The rudde
r or a parted yokeline, it was just another hazard and could always be repaired. But the gap was already widening, and Icarus was completely invisible in the lurking mist.

  He hurried down the ladder and saw Savill’s anxious expression; others were staring at him with dismay, when moments earlier they had been ready and willing to fight,

  “It will take Despatch a hundred years, Mr Savill. She will be as helpless as Rapid if we cry in our aprons and do nought.”

  Savill seemed to relax. “You can rely on me, sir.”

  Inch looked at him. “I never doubted it. Now, have the guns loaded, but do not run out until I order it.” He turned away as the gun crews leaped from their various stances to seize their rammers and handspikes.

  Despatch was continuing to drift. The enemy must be wondering what was happening. Some ruse or trap to make the French commander think again. Inch frowned. Not for long.

  “We will engage to larboard, Mr Savill.” He narrowed his eyes as he stared across the packed hammocks. He could see the other ships now without a glass. The three of them were advancing in echelon, their masts and sails overlapping to create one monster leviathan.

  The rearmost ship was the one which was firing on the brig. Rapid was trying to haul off, but the last waterspout from a falling ball showed how close it had been.

  Inch’s coxswain hurried towards him, his captain’s hanger in his hands.

  Inch looked at the curved fighting sword. “No, the other one.” He thought of Bolitho in his best uniform while the ship had rocked to the thunder of broadsides. Bolitho had known that he stood out as the captain, a sure target at any time. But he had also known it was necessary that his own people should see him until the end. When was that? It seemed a lifetime ago.

  He allowed his coxswain to buckle on his best sword, the one he had bought before getting married to his dear Hannah.

  Just thinking her name was like a cry from the heart. He forced the door closed on her and shouted, “We’ll take ’em down with us, eh, lads!”