Colours Aloft!

by Alexander Kent

  Herrick strode to the opposite side and saw the nearest merchantman setting her topgallants to bear up on her companion. God, they looked like fat beasts for the slaughter, Herrick thought glumly. He heard the first lieutenant’s voice urging the hands to extra efforts as they cleared the ship for action, each man fully aware that they now had two admirals on board.

  Herrick considered his choices. Turn back for Malta? Even with the wind in their favour it was still another four hundred miles. In daylight the French would soon find them. So hold the present course? There was always a chance that the enemy was being engaged by an unexpected friendly force or that they might manage to lose them during the night.

  He said, “We will stand-to throughout the night, Captain Dewar.”

  He seemed to see dear Dulcie in his thoughts. She was always so proud of him. He turned towards the western horizon which was already painted in the deeper hues of sunset.

  A nervous-looking lieutenant, one of Laforey’s staff, hovered at his elbow and said timidly, “My admiral has nowhere to go, sir, now that the ship is cleared for action.”

  Herrick bit back a rude retort. There were too many ears around him.

  He replied calmly, “I am most sorry, but as you see, all our people are having the same inconvenience.” Under his breath he muttered, “Bloody fool!”

  A shrill voice pealed down from the mainmast crosstrees. Dewar had sent his signals midshipman aloft with a telescope.

  “Deck there! Two sail of the line to west’rd, sir! They wear French colours!”

  Herrick glanced quickly along the deck before him. Every gun manned, other half-naked figures waiting to trim or set more sails. Marines in their scarlet coats and crossbelts, ready to fight. Benbow could and would give good account of herself, as she had proved several times. Even her company was lucky to have so many trained and seasoned seamen. She had been too long out of England to have to rely on the press and the sweepings of the assizes. Two to one were acceptable odds. If Lady Luck had been less kind, the enemy might have been amongst them soon after dusk, and it would have been impossible to fight and protect the merchantmen at the same time.

  He saw Philomel’s masts strain hard over as she fought across the eye of the wind and then filled her sails on the opposite tack.

  Herrick smiled grimly. Bolitho had always loved frigates; he on the other hand preferred something steadier and more powerful under his feet. Maybe his early experience of a tyrannical captain and a mutinous company had soured him against them in his later years.

  The midshipman called down again, “Small vessel is engaged with them, sir!” His shrill voice cracked in disbelief, “A brig, sir!”

  Herrick stared up at the topmast. Whoever commanded that brig was trying to warn him. How could he know? He rubbed his eyes and saw the second signals midshipman peering up at his friend. More like a lover than a would-be officer, Herrick thought.

  He snapped, “Alter course. Steer sou’-west by south.” He waited for the signal to be run up. “What the devil is Captain Saunders about?” A few isolated bangs echoed across the water as Philomel gathered the wind and increased speed towards the enemy.

  “Recall that madman! I shall require him right here very soon!”

  Eventually the midshipman lowered his glass and called, “Philomel does not acknowledge, sir.”

  “God damn it, is everyone blind?” He thought of Bolitho as he said it and was ashamed. He added, “Alter course anyway, Captain Dewar.”

  The slight change of direction laid the two big merchantmen almost in line abeam under Benbow’s lee. It might at least make them feel more confident when the enemy’s full strength became apparent.

  The nervous lieutenant returned and Herrick glared at him.

  “Well?”

  The lieutenant stared round at the gun crews, the sanded decks, the marines’ bayoneted muskets.

  “Sir Marcus sends his compliments, sir, and—”

  Herrick had an idea. “Tell my servant to give the admiral a bottle of my best port.” As the lieutenant hurried towards the poop he shouted, “And another after that!” He looked at Dewar. “That should keep him quiet, damn him!”

  The darkness moved across from the opposite horizon like an endless cloak; even the wave crests seemed to diminish as men became shadows, and the sea lost its menace.

  But the gunfire continued on and off, the quick, snapping bang of the brig’s cannon, followed by the angry bellow of heavier artillery.

  Captain Dewar took a glass of brandy from his coxswain and watched as his admiral did likewise.

  “Whoever is doing that is a brave man, sir.”

  Herrick felt the brandy sear his salt-cracked lips. There were a few other brigs reported in this area, but in his heart he knew which one had tossed caution aside to warn him.

  He said slowly, “At first light I intend to engage.”

  Dewar nodded and wondered why Herrick had said it. He knew his admiral by now. He had never doubted that he would attack.

  Bolitho lowered his head and stood between two deckhead beams. The orlop deck, a place of spiralling lanterns and prancing shadows. After the long, open gun decks overhead it seemed all but deserted. The surgeon’s mate and his loblolly boys in their long aprons stood around the makeshift tables where Tuson would perform his grisly work. Freshly scrubbed tubs for the wings and limbs of his amputations were a grim reminder of the work which went on here once a battle was joined.

  Carcaud was checking over a line of instruments which seemed to blink like lamps as the lanterns swung above them. He, like most of the men Bolitho had seen while he had walked tirelessly through his flagship, avoided his glance. It was as if they felt unsure of him in their presence instead of standing aloof on the quarterdeck amongst his officers.

  At the door of the sickbay Bolitho paused and waited for Tuson to look up from his preparations. There was a smell of dressings and enforced cleanliness. The only other occupant peered at Bolitho from a cot. Midshipman Estridge was not entirely saved by his broken leg; Tuson had had him rolling bandages although he was lying on his back.

  Bolitho nodded to him and then said to the surgeon, “It will be daylight in an hour.”

  Tuson regarded him bleakly. “How is the eye, sir?”

  Bolitho shrugged. “It has been worse.” He could not account for his strange disregard for danger, even death. He had been on every deck, had made sure that everyone had seen him. He had imagined that down here at least, a place he had always dreaded, he would have felt anxiety. If anything he felt only relief. It was a level of recklessness he did not remember in the past. Resigned perhaps, so where was the worth in worrying any more?

  Tuson looked at the low deckhead. It almost brushed his white hair. “The ship is full of sounds.”

  Bolitho knew what he meant. Normally you could recognize the general movement of men, of seamanship and the daily routine of eating and working.

  But now, with the ship cleared for battle, the noises were all overhead, concentrated around the guns as they lay behind sealed ports, their crews huddled against them, trying or pretending to sleep. Soon those same guns would be like furnace bars, and no man would dare to touch them with bare hands.

  The sounds of sea and wind were muted here. The sluice of water against the bilge, the occasional clatter of a pump as men, unfit to fight, carried out their regular soundings of the well. It was uncanny, eerie, he thought. They must be so close to the enemy, and yet, with the coming of darkness, the distant gunfire had ceased. As if they were alone.

  Tuson watched him. He had already noted that Bolitho had changed into a crisp new shirt and neckcloth, and his uniform coat bore the glittering epaulettes with the twin silver stars. He pondered on it. Did Bolitho not care? Did he have a death wish? Or was it that he cared too much, so that his own safety had become secondary? He was hatless, and his black hair shone in the moving beams, and only the loose lock of hair which, Tuson knew better than most, hid a terrible scar showed any
signs of greyness. An odd mixture. He would be handed his hat and sword when he returned to the deck.

  Tuson had never seen it, but the silent ceremony was almost legendary in the squadron, perhaps throughout the whole fleet. Allday with the sword was as well known as a bishop with his mitre.

  Tuson said, “I have had Captain Inch taken forrard, sir. The place is less comfortable,” he glanced briefly through the door at the empty table and the waiting instruments, his crew standing or sitting like scavengers, “but I feel that he will be better placed there.”

  A midshipman’s white breeches appeared on the companion ladder and after a slight hesitation he said, “Captain Keen’s respects, Sir Richard, and—”

  Bolitho nodded. It was little Hickling, who, although quite unsuspecting, had helped him to smuggle the girl aboard the packet brig at Malta.

  “I am ready, thank you.” He looked at Tuson, a lingering glance in which the surgeon later realized he could see no flaw or injury.

  “Take care of the people.”

  Tuson watched him leave. “And you take care of you,” he murmured.

  Bolitho, with Hickling panting behind him, made his way, ladder by ladder, to the quarterdeck.

  It was still very dark, with just occasional whitecaps beyond the sides to distinguish sea from sky. But the stars were fainter, and there was an air of morning, stale and damp.

  Keen waited by the rail. “The wind’s eased, sir. Still fresh enough to keep ’em guessing.” He sounded relieved that Hickling had found him. Keen had never known Bolitho to tour a ship alone before. Not even with Allday, as if he needed to feel the mood of each man under his flag.

  Allday clipped on his sword and Ozzard handed him his hat before scuttling away to the hold where he would remain until the day was won or lost.

  Bolitho could distinguish the litter of flags on the deck, the occasional movements of the signals midshipman and his assistants. Stayt was here too, and Bolitho guessed that he had taken time to clean and load his beautiful pistol.

  “Just a matter of waiting, Val.” He wondered if the other ships were following astern, if Rapid and Barracouta were on station. It must have been a long night for most of them, Bolitho thought. He remembered the Battle of the Saintes when he had commanded his first frigate. It had taken an eternity for the two fleets to draw near enough to each other to fight. All day, or so it had seemed, they had watched the tremendous display of the French masts as they had lifted above the horizon. Like knights on the field of battle. It had been awesome and terrible. But they had won the day, if too late to win a war.

  Keen stood beside him, silently preparing himself and searching his thoughts for any weakness. The sporadic gunfire had been a clear message that the convoy lay somewhere ahead and was under attack. Once he glanced at Bolitho to see if there was any surprise or satisfaction that he had been proved right, that he had found the enemy, when any honest man would have admitted that he had doubted his wisdom in acting on Rapid’s information. But even in the gloom he recognized Bolitho’s quiet determination, rather than any hint of relief.

  And they were going to fight. It did not sound as if many vessels were involved. Keen saw the girl again in his mind and wanted to speak her name aloud if only to reassure himself. It only took a second for a man to die. The cause and the victory did not matter to the one who heard the cannon’s roar for the last time.

  He pictured Inch down on the orlop, hearing the din of war, unable to help or be with his friends. Keen had visited him after he had left the quarterdeck to speak with his lieutenants on the gun decks. Inch was very weak and in great pain from the two amputations to his arm.

  Keen felt the sweat cold on his spine. He had been wounded, and still felt the raw wound on occasions. But to lie on a table, with his men all around watching and suffering, waiting their turn, how could anyone stand it? The flensing knife and then the agony of the saw, choking on the leather strap to stifle the screams. He recalled what he had told Zenoria. It is what I am trained to do. The words seemed to mock him now.

  Luke Fallowfield, the sailing-master, banged his red hands together and the sound made several of the men nearby start with alarm. We are all on edge, Keen thought. The odds no longer matter. It is like a reckoning.

  Bolitho looked abeam and saw the first hint of dawn, a faint glow on the horizon’s edge. Many eyes would be watching it. Measuring their chances, the margin of life and death.

  Keen strode to the compass and peered at the flickering light.

  “Bring her closer to the wind, Mr Fallowfield. Alter course two points to starboard.”

  Men moved like eager shadows in the darkness, and Bolitho thanked God he had Keen as his captain. If they wandered too far east they would never be able to beat back in time to close with the convoy. He bunched his fists and pressed them against his thighs. They needed light, and yet many were dreading what they might see.

  Bolitho touched his left eyelid and wanted to rub it. He thought of all Tuson’s arguments and warnings. They would count for nothing today.

  The helmsman called, “Sou’-sou’-west, zur. Full an’ bye!”

  Bolitho heard the maintopsail flap as if with irritation as Argonaute nudged still further into the wind, her yards braced hard round to hold her on the same tack.

  Soon, soon. He thought momentarily that he had spoken aloud. He heard Keen telling Paget to put more lookouts aloft, one to take a telescope. When he looked up he thought he could see the white crossbelts of the marines in the maintop, a man stretching out in a yawn. Not tiredness this time, he thought. It was often the first sign of fear.

  It was strange, he thought, that he might fall today and Falmouth would not hear of it until next year. A Christmas in the big grey house below Pendennis Castle, singers from the town to wish them well, and to amuse little Elizabeth.

  He stopped his drifting thoughts and said, “Union Flag at the fore, if you please.”

  He heard the squeal of halliards as his red command flag was hauled down and replaced seconds later by the biggest Jack in the ship. It was still hidden in darkness, but when the sun came up Jobert would see it. He felt strangely elated, with no sense of anxiety at all.

  Paget’s shadow turned from the quarterdeck rail. “Colours aloft, Sir Richard!”

  Bolitho nodded. Paget sounded much as he felt. Committed, a chance to end the waiting.

  “Deck there! Sail on the lee bow!”

  Bolitho said, “Well done, Val. We are in a perfect position!”

  A gun echoed across the water, just the one, and Bolitho thought he saw the flash for just a split-second.

  Another lookout yelled, “Convoy ahead!”

  “Make a general signal.” Bolitho moved restlessly across the deck, his fingers to his chin.

  The lookout’s cry made him look up again. “Two sail of the line, weather bow!”

  Bolitho said, “So there we have it, Val. Two of the devils.” He glanced at Stayt, “Make to the squadron, Enemy in sight.”

  When he looked across the lee side again he saw the horizon, salmon-pink, like an unending bridge.

  Above the braced yards of the foremast the flag flicked out, huge and bright, and completely isolated from the ship, which remained in shadow for a few more moments.

  “General chase, sir?” That was Stayt.

  Bolitho opened his mouth and then shut it again. Two ships of the line. It was not the numbers, but the bearing. It did not fit the pattern. Again he felt the touch of warning. “No. Signal the squadron to maintain station.” He did not turn as more gunfire cracked over the array of white horses.

  Some of the Royal Marines in the foretop were staring up at the flag above them and cheering, their voices wild above the press of wind and canvas.

  Bolitho loosened his sword in its scabbard without even noticing what he had done. Into battle. All the resentment and suffering would be forgotten. It was their way.

  Another gun banged out but from the squadron astern.

 
Keen exclaimed, “Hell’s teeth, who is doing that?”

  Stayt called, “Icarus, sir.”

  Stayt clambered into the shrouds as the first light touched the masts and yards of the two ships which followed in their wake.

  “From Icarus, sir. Enemy in sight to the nor’-east.”

  Keen stared. “I don’t believe it!”

  Bolitho walked to the rail and grasped it firmly. It felt cold and damp. Not for long.

  “Inform Barracouta and Rapid.” He watched the breathless signals party hoisting more signals and then walked to the shrouds where Stayt hung with one arm bent over a ratline while he levelled his telescope.

  “Three sail of the line, sir.” His lips moved as he read the flags. “And two other vessels.”

  Bolitho found that he could accept it, even though he could see his squadron caught in the prongs of the converging ships, like the neck of a poacher’s bag.

  The two ships originally sighted must have arrived by sheer coincidence or had been sent from hiding by another commander. But Jobert was here, and the balance had tilted completely. Five to three, and one of them would be Jobert’s powerful threedecker. The two lesser vessels, as yet unidentified, must be the two frigates. The odds were formidable and his choice nonexistent. He watched the sun’s rim as it lifted above the sea and painted the sails of friends and enemies alike in pale gold.

  Bolitho took a glass and rested it on the hammock nettings, waiting for Argonaute to dip her flank into a trough. He saw the overlapping cluster of the convoy, and felt his heart tighten as he recognized Benbow’s familiar hull and raked masts, her ports already open, her guns still in black shadow.

  A ripple of flashes spat from the two Frenchmen, and he watched thin waterspouts leap amongst the waves and then be shredded by the keen wind.

  Jobert’s squadron must have sailed down the other coastline of Sardinia, making all speed while he had dealt with Helicon and her wounded. Now like tracks on a chart they were all met. Jobert’s ships on the larboard quarter and not yet visible from the quarterdeck. The other two converging to starboard, firing towards Benbow as they advanced. Chain-shot and langridge to dismast or at least cripple her. Jobert would finish it. More gunfire crashed out, and Bolitho shifted the glass to stare at a small frigate which had appeared around the two seventy-fours. She must be Herrick’s other escort, perhaps the one which had challenged the enemy and so foiled their surprise attack. She was out of control, and almost totally dismasted. She must have attempted to harry the enemy’s rear, like a terrier going for a bear, but had drawn too near to their stern-chasers.