He wore only his shirt and breeches and his clothes were plastered to his body like a wet skin. He would never tire of it. He wanted to laugh or sing as the brig, his command, dipped her bows steeply and threw up a sunburst cloud of spray.
He waited for the bows to rise again and then moved to the compass box. It gave him a marvellous feeling of pride. The vessel was heading due east, with the Balearic Islands somewhere below the larboard horizon.
Down again, and another great curtain of spray flew above the forecastle where other men worked busily to trim the yards.
Adam’s first lieutenant, a youngster of his own age, lurched from the rail and shouted, “Take in another reef, sir?”
Adam showed his teeth and laughed. “No! It’s not time yet!”
The lieutenant grimaced then smiled. It never was time with his young commander.
Adam moved restlessly about the poop while his Firefly lifted and thundered over the tossing water. Just days ago he had been under the Rock’s shadow, ready to leave the Mediterranean and make his way back to an English winter. Instead he had received orders to return instantly to Malta.
The fever on the Rock was over, and the despatch which Adam had locked in his strongbox was to tell the admiral at Malta to prevent a convoy from leaving for England. If it had already sailed Adam was to place himself under the orders of the convoy’s senior officer. That too made him grin. Rear-Admiral Herrick. To Adam he was more like a fond uncle than a flag-officer.
It was exciting. His own command, and the sea to himself. The French were out, one squadron under Rear-Admiral Jobert had been reported on the move. If it had somehow managed to slip past his uncle’s squadron, his ships were needed now at Gibraltar to close gates and cut off any attempt by Jobert to enter the Atlantic. A gigantic game of cat-and-mouse.
Adam wiped the spray from his lips. A game for admirals and great ships of the line. While here—
He walked to the taffrail and stared at the frothing wake beneath the counter. Down there was his own cabin. A luxury beyond imagination. A place of his own.
He thought suddenly of the court of inquiry in Malta. He would learn the result when he reached there. Captain Keen might share the Bolitho curse of being hounded out of envy or revenge. They had passed the homebound packet Lord Egmont, and Adam had wondered about her. It would be just like his uncle to—
The lookout called, “Sail! Weather bow!”
Morrison, his first lieutenant, hurried to the ratlines but Adam said, “No, I’ll go.” As a midshipman he had always enjoyed skylarking with his companions during the dogwatches. Up and down the masts, out and around the futtock shrouds. Few captains interfered. They probably thought it would keep their “young gentlemen” out of mischief. He climbed rapidly up the ratlines, the wind ripping at his shirt. Once he hung out from the shrouds and looked down at the forward part of the vessel as the sea boiled over the catheads and tightly lashed anchors before frothing along the decks and leapfrogging over the black four-pounders.
He had always wanted a frigate. Be like his uncle had once been, one of the best frigate captains in the fleet. But when he looked at his lively Firefly he could scarcely bear to think of ever leaving her.
He found the lookout perched comfortably on the crosstrees, his battered face creased with curiosity as he watched his young lord and master swarming up to join him.
Adam pulled a telescope from his belt and tried several times without success to steady it towards the larboard bow.
The lookout, one of the oldest seamen in the ship, said hoarsely, “I think there be two on ’em, sir.” He barely raised his voice but it carried easily above the roar of wind and bucking canvas. Many years in all kinds of ships had taught him that.
Adam wrapped his leg around a stay and tried again. The mast was shaking so violently it was like a giant whip, he thought.
He gasped, “There she is! It’s fine eyesight you have, Marley!”
The seaman grinned. He didn’t need a telescope. But he liked the new commander. A bit of a devil with the girls, or soon would be, he decided.
An extra lively wave thundered beneath the stem and lifted the hull towards the sky like a surfacing whale. And there she was, standing before the wind under close-reefed topsails, her hull still hidden by leaping crests as if she was driving herself under. Adam wiped the lens with his hand and almost lost his hold as his ship dived once more.
He waited, counting the seconds until the jib-boom began to lift again, the sails flapping from it like wet banners.
Adam closed the glass with a snap. “You were right. There are two of them.” He patted the man’s thick shoulder. “I’ll send you a relief.”
The seaman would have spat had he been able but contented himself with, “Nah, sir, I’ll stay. They’ll be some o’ Lord Nelson’s ships.”
Adam slithered down a backstay, all dignity forgotten as Morrison hurried to meet him.
“Two sail of the line.” Adam dropped his voice. “Same tack as ourselves.”
Morrison grinned. “We’d better not draw too close, sir, or we might be given some more orders!”
Adam pushed his fingers through his black hair. It felt sticky with salt. He knew he should be nervous, perhaps even fearful. But the same excitement would not leave him and he said, “You may take in that reef now. And do not worry yourself about more orders from on high, Mr Morrison, for those two liners are French!”
The men scampered to shorten sail, then Morrison took a deep breath. “What do you intend, sir?”
Adam gestured to the nearest four-pounder. “Even we are no match for them.” He became serious for a moment. “We shall follow them and see what they are about.”
Morrison had been first lieutenant under the previous captain, who had managed to make daily life aboard Firefly little better than drudgery. Commander Bolitho was like a breath of clean air; he was very capable and nobody’s fool.
He hinted cautiously, “But your orders, sir?”
“Are to find the convoy or Malta, whichever comes first.” His mouth crinkled in a grin again. “I think these two gentlemen will lead us to one or t’other, eh?”
Morrison hurried away to assist the second lieutenant. The old captain had never been like this.
He glanced aft again and saw Adam Bolitho beside the helm speaking with the master’s mate. He acted more like a midshipman than a captain.
Aloud he said, “He’ll do me, that’s for certain!” But only the wind heard him.
Two hundred miles east-north-east of his nephew’s Firefly and ignorant of the fact Adam had been sent back from Gibraltar, Bolitho gripped the poop rail and watched his ships reeling and buffeted in the same gale.
The wind, which had veered to a strong north-westerly, showed no signs of easing, and when he steadied his telescope Bolitho saw the little brig Rapid standing out to windward, her hull and lower spars deluged with spray and spindrift.
It was to be hoped that Quarrell had made quite certain that the big thirty-two-pounders from Helicon were properly mounted and lashed firmly to their tackles. A gun breaking loose in a gale could kill and maim like a mad beast. It could also wreck the upper deck whilst doing it.
The sky was clear of all but a few streaky clouds, hard blue and with little warmth. He saw a party of seamen with a boatswain’s mate hauling a ragged line through a block and preparing to reeve a new one to replace it. They were soaked in spray, and the salt would do little to help their thirst.
Too much rum or brandy would do more harm than good. Bolitho bit his lip and wondered at his earlier confidence. After pounding their way farther south with Sardinia’s blurred coastline rarely lost from view, the hope of making a rendezvous with Herrick’s convoy seemed like a bad dream. Even supposing Jobert was making for the same objective. He stamped on his doubts and turned from the rail to see Midshipman Sheaffe and his signal party watching him. They immediately dropped their eyes or became engrossed elsewhere.
Bolitho allowed his a
ching mind to explore his calculations yet again. The convoy would be very slow and precise in its progress. He had done all he could, with his small sqaudron spread out as far as possible without losing contact completely. Thank God for Barracouta and Rapid, he thought despairingly. But for them—
He heard Paget shout at a helmsman, and a muttered answer. Paget would stand no nonsense, and he at least showed no signs of doubt. He was a good man, Bolitho thought, and as a young lieutenant had fought under Duncan at Camperdown. There were not too many officers in the squadron who had seen a battle like that one.
Keen climbed up from the quarterdeck to join him. He had been down on the orlop to visit one of the midshipmen who had broken a leg after being flung bodily from a gangway in the gale.
Keen stared at the forecastle, his eyes red with strain, and Bolitho knew he had barely left the deck since the wind had risen.
Bolitho smiled, “A strange sight, Val. Bright and bitter, like a dockside whore.”
Keen laughed despite his apprehension. He wanted to tell Bolitho to break off the hunt. It was finished before it had begun. Even if he had been right about Jobert, and it seemed less likely with each aching mile, they would not find him now.
Keen was sick and tired of it, and hated to think what it would do to Bolitho when the truth came out. Everyone said that Nelson had survived only on his luck. He had been fortunate. It was rare.
Bolitho knew Keen was watching him and could guess what he was thinking. As flag-captain he wanted to advise him. As a friend he knew he could not.
Bolitho looked at the cold sky and thought again of Falmouth. Maybe Belinda would have received his letter, or have heard the news from someone else. He thought too of the girl with the dark misty eyes. He smiled. Brave Zenoria, he had called her. She was the one good thing in all this endurance and failure.
Keen saw the smile and wondered. How did he go on like this? It was fanatical, unswerving, but it would not save him at a court martial.
“How was the boy? Midshipman Estridge, wasn’t it?”
“A clean break, sir. The surgeon was more troubled by some of his other injured hands. He’s had more cuts and gashes than a small war!”
There was a seaman working beside one of the nine-pounders and Bolitho had seen him earlier. He was stripped to the waist, not out of bravado, but to try and keep his clothing dry. When he had turned, Bolitho had seen his back, scarred from shoulders to waist, like the marks of a giant claw. It made him think of Zenoria and what Keen had saved her from.
But when Keen laughed at his earlier remark the seaman had turned and looked up at him. Bolitho had rarely seen such hatred in a man’s glance.
Keen saw it too and said tightly, “I read the Articles of War before a flogging. I did not compose the bloody rules!”
Bolitho could sense his anger, something he had rarely shown even after the court of inquiry.
He saw extra marines at hatchways, their scarlet coats dark with flung spray. Keen was taking no chances. Better to prevent trouble than enforce the misery of suppressing it.
Bolitho said, “I am going below.” He looked at him squarely. “If I am wrong—” He shrugged as if it were of little concern. Then he added, “Some will be pleased. I hope that then they will let my family rest in peace.”
Keen watched him stride towards the poop ladder and felt a stab of pity as Bolitho caught his arm against the mizzen bitts.
Paget moved quietly beside him. “May I ask what you think of our chances, sir?”
Keen glanced at him. The first lieutenant, the link between captain and ship’s company, quarterdeck and forecastle.
He replied, “Ask me again when we have run Jobert ashore.”
They both turned and Paget exclaimed, “Not thunder too!”
Keen looked past him. Bolitho was climbing to the poop again, and wearing the old sword, with Allday a few paces behind him.
The lookout yelled with disbelief, “Gunfire, sir! To th’ south’rd!”
Bolitho looked at them. “No. Not thunder this time.”
Keen stared. How did he do it? Moments earlier he must have been accepting failure. Now he looked strangely calm. Even his voice was untroubled as he said, “General signal, Mr Sheaffe. Make more sail.”
He watched the flags hurriedly bent onto the halliards and sent soaring up to the yards for all his ships to see.
Bolitho wanted to grip his hands together for surely they must be shaking.
“Acknowledged, sir!” That was Stayt, appearing silently like a cat.
The distant murmur of cannon fire rolled across the water. It was a long way off. Bolitho said, “We’ll not fight before dawn tomorrow.” That was a fact which had to be faced. When darkness closed in the ships might be scattered by the blustery wind. By dawn it could be too late. Benbow was more than a match for any eager privateers or corsairs from the North African shore, but against a whole squadron she would stand no chance. He cocked his head to listen as the gunfire came again. Not many ships. Perhaps two. What could that mean?
He said, “General signal. Prepare for battle. The people will sleep at their guns tonight.”
He touched the hilt of the old sword and felt a shiver run through his body.
He could recall as if it were yesterday the moment when he had been walking with Adam to the sallyport on Portsmouth Point. Then he had looked back to search for something. So perhaps he had known it would be the last time.
16 MEN OF WAR
REAR -ADMIRAL Thomas Herrick stood by the weather nettings, his chin sunk in his neckcloth while he watched Benbow’s seamen hauling on the braces to trim the yards and reset the reefed topsails.
Everything took an eternity; it had taken a whole day to make any progress and drained all their skill. Now at last they were past the southernmost tip of Sardinia, which lay some fifty miles to starboard. On the other beam was Africa at about the same distance.
Wallowing downwind of Benbow were two heavy merchantmen, Governor and Prince Henry. Herrick could only guess at the value of their cargoes.
He thought yet again of Bolitho’s face in the stern cabin of this ship, the one which had once proudly flown his flag when Herrick had been his captain. He could not forget the bitterness in Bolitho’s voice, the reckless contempt when he had damned the admiral’s court of inquiry.
It was a strange coincidence which had decided Admiral Sir Marcus Laforey to take passage in Benbow. He had left his flagcaptain in temporary charge, although the way Sir Marcus ate and drank it seemed unlikely he would ever return to Malta.
He could head Captain Dewar discussing something with the sailing-master. Herrick sighed. He would have to make it up with his flag-captain, for Dewar was an excellent officer and very conscientious. Herrick blamed himself for Dewar’s wariness. He had been foul company since the inquiry.
He felt the spray on his face and peered beyond the starboard bow where, reeling like a ship in distress, his only frigate was tacking yet again to try to stand up to windward. She was the Philomel of twenty-six guns and, but for the grave news of the French squadron, she would have been completing a much needed refit in the dockyard where Benbow had been overhauled.
Herrick gripped his hands behind him and looked along the tilting main deck. He thought too of Inch, another friend, one of their close-knit community. Was he dead, he wondered? It was unlikely he would have struck to the French.
He glanced at the sky, so clear yet so hostile. Perhaps by tomorrow the wind would have died down—any reduction would be a blessing.
Captain Dewar crossed the deck and said, “Shall we lie-to tonight, sir?”
Herrick shook his head. He felt the ship lift under him and his sturdy legs bracing to take it. Unlike Bolitho, he had never got into the habit of pacing the deck. He liked to stand and feel his ship. He could think better that way, he had long decided.
“No. We need more sea room. Before dark, pass the word for lights to be hoisted on the merchantmen. We can hold station that way. P
hilomel will have to manage on her own.”
Dewar gauged the moment as a wildfowler tests the wind before firing a shot.
“D’you think Vice-Admiral Bolitho has met with this, this Jobert?”
“If not, I’m sure he’ll stand between us and the enemy.” He thought suddenly of the eight hundred miles which still lay ahead before they could moor beneath the guns of the Rock. Fever or not, it would offer a breathing space, and perhaps he might obtain another escort. But he said, “If anyone can do it, our Dick will.”
Dewar eyed him curiously but remained silent. They were on good terms again. He would try again later.
Herrick toyed with the idea of going aft, but the thought of Laforey, with his gout and his steady drinking, turned him against it.
The masthead lookout yelled, “Gunfire! To the west’rd!” The sound must have carried more swiftly to his dizzy perch for even as Herrick made to speak he heard the distant bang of cannon fire and some intermittent shots from smaller weapons. Herrick’s worried mind cleared as if he had ducked his head in ice water.
“Clear for action, Captain Dewar.” That was another thing which Herrick did not understand. He could never bring himself to use his captain’s first name. Yet in other ways he had learned and used so much from Bolitho’s example. “Signal the convoy to close up.” He swore as the calls shrilled and Benbow’s six hundred seamen and marines dropped what they were doing and rushed to obey the awakened drums.
Damn the light and the wind. Everything was against them. How many were there? He forced himself to show a confidence which had eluded him after the lookout’s cry. Who were they firing at? More crashes and bangs rolled across the tossing white horses, but the lookout stayed silent. They were still a long way off and the sullen explosions were using the stiff wind to carry their message.
“Signal Philomel to investigate.” Herrick opened and closed his hands behind him. The little frigate could always turn and fly with the wind if she got into danger. It would have helped so much if he knew her captain. His name was Saunders, that was all he had discovered.
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