The Inshore Squadron

by Alexander Kent

  Herrick had been delighted to have Grubb as his sailing master again. He had said, 'I doubt if he'd have taken much notice if I'd have wanted otherwise!'

  'Very well. Make a signal to the squadron to that effect. To repair on board at four bells.' He smiled gravely. 'They'll be expecting it anyway.'

  Browne gathered up his own collection of signals and papers and then hesitated as Bolitho asked abruptly, 'The admiral with whom we are to rendezvous. Do you know him?'

  He was amazed just how easily it came out. Before he would no more have asked a subordinate's views on a senior officer than dance naked on the poop. But they said he must have a flag lieutenant, someone who was versed in naval diplomacy, so he would use him.

  `Admiral Sir Samuel Damerum has spent much of his time as a flag officer in India and the East Indies of late, sir. He was expected to move to some high appointment in Whitehall, even Sir George Beauchamp's position was mentioned.'

  Bolitho stared at him. It was a different world from his own.

  'Sir George Beauchamp told you all this?'

  The hint of sarcasm was lost on Browne. 'Naturally, sir. As flag lieutenant it is my place to know such matters.' He gave a casual shrug. 'But instead Admiral Damerum was given his present command. I understand he is experienced, and well versed in matters relating to trade and its protection. I fail to see what Denmark has to do with such knowledge.'

  'Carry on, if you please.'

  Bolitho sat down again and waited for Browne to depart. He walked with easy grace, like a dancer. More likely a duellist, Bolitho thought grimly. Beauchamp's way of giving him an experienced aide and saving the man at the same time from some unpleasant enquiry.

  He thought about Damerum. He had seen his name rise slowly up the Navy List, a man of influence, but always seeming to be on the fringe of things, never in the places of action and victory.

  Perhaps his knowledge of trade was the reason for his present post. There had been an unexpected flare-up between Britain and Denmark earlier this same year.

  Six Danish merchantmen, escorted by the Freja, a forty-gun frigate, had refused to allow a British squadron to stop and search them for contraband of war.

  Denmark was in a difficult position. On the face of it she was neutral, but she depended on trade, nevertheless. With her powerful neighbours, Russia and Sweden, as well as with Britain's enemies.

  The result of this encounter had been sharp and angry. The Danish frigate had fired warning shots at the British vessels, but had been forced to strike her colours after half an hour's fierce battle. The Freja and her six charges had been escorted to the Downs, but after hurried diplomatic exchanges the British had been faced with the humiliating task of repairing the Freja at their own cost and then returning her and the convoy to Denmark.

  Peace between Britain and Denmark, friends of long standing, was preserved.

  Perhaps Damerum had had a hand in the original confrontation, and was kept at sea with his squadron as an example. Or maybe the Admiralty believed that a constant presence of their ships at the approaches to the Baltic, Bonaparte's back door, as the Gazette had called it, would prevent any more trouble.

  There was a tap at the door and Herrick walked into the cabin, his hat jammed beneath his arm.

  `Be seated, Thomas.'

  He watched his friend, feeling the warmth he held for him. Round-faced and sturdy, with the same dear blue eyes he had seen on their first ship together, here at Spithead. There were small touches of grey on his hair, like hoar-frost on a strong bush, but he was still Herrick.

  Herrick gave a great sigh. 'It seems to take them longer not shorter to get things done, sir.' He shook his head. 'Some of them have thumbs instead of fingers. There are far too many folk with pieces of paper to shake in the faces of the pressgangs, prime seamen we could well do with. Hands from the Indiamen, bargemen and coasters. Dammit, sir, it's their war, too!'

  Bolitho smiled. 'We've said that a few times, Thomas.' He gestured around the cabin with its green leather chairs and wellmade furniture. 'This is very comfortable. You have a fine vessel

  in the Benbow.'

  Herrick was as stubborn as ever. `It's men who win battles, sir. Not ships.' He relented and said, `But it's a proud moment, I admit, Benbow's a good sailer, fast for her size, and once we put to sea again I might raise another knot by shifting some more iron shot further aft.' His eyes were far-away, lost in a captain's constant struggle to keep his ship trimmed to best advantage.

  'Your wife? Will she go straight to Kent?'

  Herrick looked at him. `Aye, sir. When we're out of sight of land, she says.' He gave a slow smile. `God, I'm a lucky man.'

  Bolitho nodded. 'So am I, Thomas, to have you as my flag captain again.' He watched the uncertainty on Herrick's homely features and guessed what was coming next.

  `It may be impertinence, sir, but have you ever thought? I - I mean, would you consider....'

  Bolitho met his gaze and answered quietly, 'If I could bring her back, old friend, I'd cut off an arm to do it. But marry another?' He looked away, recalling with sharp anguish Herrick's face when he had brought word of Cheney's death from England. `I thought I'd get over it. Lose myself. Heaven knows, Thomas, you've done your best to aid me. Sometimes I am so near to despair . . .' He stopped. What was happening to him? But when he looked at Herrick he saw only understanding. Pride at sharing what he had perhaps known longer than anyone.

  Herrick stood up and placed his coffee cup on the table. `I'd best go on deck. Mr Wolfe is a good seaman, but he lacks a certain gentleness with the new men.' He grimaced. `God knows, he frightens me sometimes!'

  `I shall see you later at four bells, Thomas.' Bolitho turned to watch a gull's darting shape as it flapped past the quarter windows. `Adam. Is he well? I spoke to him briefly when I came aboard. There is so much I'd like to know.'

  Herrick nodded. `Aye, sir. High rank makes higher demand. If you'd entertained young Adam yesterday, the others in the wardroom might have sniffed at favouritism, something which I know is foul to you. But he has missed you. As I have. I think he yearns for a frigate, but fears it might hurt the pair of us, you especially.'

  'I shall see him soon. When the ship is too busy for gossip.'

  Herrick grinned. That'll be very soon, if I'm any judge. The first really good squall and they'll be too worn out to stand!'

  For a long time after Herrick had left him Bolitho sat quietly on the green leather bench below the stern windows. It was his way of getting to know the ship, by listening, identifying, even though he was unable to share what was happening above him, or beyond his marine sentry.

  The stamp of feet and squeal of blocks. He shivered, recognizing the sounds of a boat being hoisted up and over the gangway to be stowed on the tier with the others.

  The bustle of many men, guided and harried by their warrant and petty officers. The seasoned hands being spread thinly through the watch and quarter bill to make the raw and untrained ones less of a hazard.

  Volunteers had come to the ship in Devonport, and even here at Portsmouth. Seamen tired of the land, men running from the law, from debt or the gibbet.

  And the rest, hauled aboard by the press-gangs, dazed, terrified, caught up in a world they barely understood, except at a distance. This was a far cry from a King's ship under a full head of sail standing proudly out to sea. Here was the harsh reality of the crowded messdecks and the boatswain's rattan.

  It was Herrick's task to weld them by his own methods into a company. One which would stand to the guns, even cheer if need be as they thrust against an enemy.

  Bolitho caught sight of his reflection in the streaming windows. And mine to command the squadron.

  Allday entered the cabin and studied him thoughtfully. 'I've told Ozzard to lay out your best coat, sir.' He leaned over as the deck tilted steeply. 'It'll make a change not to fight the Frenchies. I suppose it'll be the Russians or the Swedes before long.'

  Bolitho looked at him with exasperation. 'A
change? Is that all you care about it?'

  Allday beamed. 'It matters, o' course, sir, to admirals, to Parliament and the like. But the poor sailorman.' He shook his head. 'All he sees is the enemy's guns belching fire at him, feels the iron parting his pigtail. He's not caring much for the colour of the flag!'

  Bolitho breathed out slowly. 'No wonder the girls fall for your persuasion, Allday. You had me believing you just then!'

  Allday chuckled. `I shall give your hair a trim, sir. We've a lot to live up to, with Mr Browne amongst us.'

  Bolitho sat back in a chair and waited. He would have to put up with it. Allday would guess how much he might worry until they were at sea in one company. Equally, he would make certain he was not alone for a minute until the captains came to pay their respects. With Allday you could rarely win.

  Two bells chimed out from the forecastle, and seconds later Herrick came aft once more to Bolitho's cabin.

  Bolitho held out his arms for his coat and allowed Ozzard to tug it into place, to make sure that his queue was lifted neatly above the gold-laced collar.

  Allday stood by the bulkhead, and after some hesitation took down one of the swords from its rack.

  It was glittering brightly in spite of the grey light from the windows, beautifully fashioned and gilded, and when drawn from its scabbard would reveal an equally perfect blade. It was a presentation sword, given and paid for by the townspeople of Falmouth. A gift, a recognition for what Bolitho had done in the Mediterranean.

  Herrick watched the little tableau. For a few moments he forgot the pain of leaving Dulcie so soon, the hundred and one things which needed his attention on deck.

  He knew what Allday was thinking, and wondered how he would put it.

  The coxswain asked awkwardly, 'This one, sir?' He let his eyes stray to the second sword. Old-fashioned, straight-bladed, and yet a part of the man, of his family before him.

  Bolitho smiled. 'I think not. It will be raining soon. I'd not wish to spoil that fine weapon by wearing it.' He waited while Allday hurried across with the other sword and clipped it to his belt. 'And besides,' he glanced from Allday to Herrick, 'I'd like all my friends about me today.'

  Then he clapped Herrick on the shoulder and added, 'We will go on deck together, eh, Thomas? Like before.'

  Ozzard watched the two officers leave the cabin and said in a mournful whisper, 'I don't know why he doesn't get rid of that old sword, or leave it at home.'

  Allday did not bother to reply but strolled after Bolitho to take his own place on the quarterdeck.

  But he thought about Ozzard's remark all the same. When Richard Bolitho parted with that old sword it would be because there was no life in his hand to grasp it.

  Bolitho walked out past the helmsmen and ran his eye over the assembled officers and seamen. He felt his eyes smarting to the wind, the chill in the air as it whipped around his legs.

  Wolfe looked across at Herrick and touched his hat, his ginger hair flapping from beneath it as if to escape.

  `All cables are hove short, sir,' he said in his harsh, toneless voice.

  Equally formal, Herrick reported to Bolitho. `The squadron is ready, sir.'

  Bolitho nodded, aware of the moment, of the faces, mostly unknown, around him, and the ship which contained all of them.

  `Then make a general signal, if you, please.' He hesitated, turning slightly to look across the nettings towards the nearest two-decker, the Odin. Poor Inch had been almost speechless with the pleasure of seeing him again. He finished it abruptly. 'Up anchor.'

  Browne was already there with the signal party, pushing urgently at a harassed midshipman who was supposed to be assisting him.

  A few more anxious moments, the hoarse cries from forward as the capstan heaved in still more of the dripping cable. `Anchor's aweigh, sir!'

  Bolitho had to grip his hands like twin vices behind his back to contain his excitement as one by one his ships weighed and staggered violently downwind beneath a mass of thrashing, booming canvas.

  The Benbow was no exception. It seemed an age before the first confusion was overcome, and with her yards braced round, her courses and then the topsails hardening like metal breastplates to the wind, she steadied on her first tack away from the land.

  Spray thundered over the weather gangway and up past the hard-eyed figurehead. Men dashed out along the yards or scurried in frantic groups to add their weight to the braces and halliards.

  Wolfe had his speaking trumpet to his mouth without a break.

  'Mr Pascoe, sir ! Get those damned younkers of yours aloft again! It's a shambles up there!'

  For an instant Bolitho saw his nephew turn and stare along the length of the deck. As third lieutenant he was in charge of the foremast, about as far from the quarterdeck as he could be.

  Bolitho gave a quick nod and saw Pascoe respond just as swiftly, his black hair ruffling across his face. It was like seeing himself at the same age, Bolitho thought.

  'Mr Browne. Signal the squadron to form line astern of the flagship.' He saw Herrick watching him and added, `The frigates and our sloop will know their part without unnecessary instructions.'

  Herrick grinned, his face streaming with salt spray. They'll know, sir.'

  Beating hard to windward, the frigates were already thrusting through bursting curtains of spray to reach their stations where they would watch over their ponderous consorts.

  Bolitho walked to the larboard side to look at the land. Grey and shapeless, already losing its identity in the worsening weather.

  How many had watched the squadron getting under way? Herrick's wife, Admiral Beauchamp, all' the old crippled sailors thrown on the beach, flotsam of war. Once they had cursed the Navy and its ways, but there would be a few tight throats amongst those same men as they watched the ships make sail.

  He heard Wolfe say scathingly, `God, look at him, will you ! All ribs and trucks, even his coat looks like a purser's shirt on a handspike!'

  Bolitho turned to see who Wolfe had described and saw a thin, flapping figure scurrying towards a companion and vanishing below. His face was pure white, like chalk. Like a death'shead.

  Herrick lowered his voice. 'Mr Loveys, the surgeon, sir. I'd not want to see his face looking down at me on the table!'

  Bolitho said, 'I agree.'

  He took a telescope from a midshipman and levelled it towards the other ships. They were working into line, their sails in confusion as the wind swept across their quarter and thrust them over.

  Before they made their rendezvous they would have improved considerably. Sail and gun drill, testing and changing. But if they met with an enemy squadron before that time, and for all Bolitho knew a whole French fleet might be at sea, he would be required and expected to lead his squadron into battle.

  He glanced at the companion hatch as if expecting to see the surgeon's skull-like face watching him. It was to be hoped that Loveys would be kept unemployed for a long while yet.

  Order was returning to the upper deck. Tangles of cordage had changed into neatly flaked lines or belayed coils. Seamen were gathering at the foot of each mast to be checked and counted. And above all of them, their silhouettes as lively as squirrels in a galeswept forest, the topmen worked to make certain the sails were set and drawing to perfection.

  It was time to leave. To give Herrick back his command.

  `I will go aft, Captain Herrick.'

  Herrick matched his mood. 'Aye, sir. I shall exercise the upper batteries until dusk.'

  For nearly a week the squadron battered its way across the North Sea in weather which even Ben Grubb admitted was some of the worst he had endured.

  Each night the reeling ships lay to under storm canvas, and with the coming of first light had to repeat the misery of finding their scattered companions. Then, in some sort of formation once more, they proceeded on their north-easterly course, drills and repairs being carried out whenever the weather allowed.

  Throughout the squadron there had been several men ki
lled and others injured. The deaths were mostly caused by falls from aloft as repeatedly the dazed and salt-blinded men fought to shorten sail or repair damage to rigging.

  In the Benbow several hands had been hurt by their own ignorance. On darkened decks it was possible to be cut down by a line as it was hauled madly through a block. The touch of it on a man's skin was like a red-hot iron.

  One man vanished without anyone seeing him go. Washed overboard, left floundering for a few agonizing moments as the two-decker faded into the darkness. a'

  Everything was wet and dismally cold. The only, heat was from the galley stove, and it was impossible to dry out clothing in a ship which seemed intent on rolling herself on to her beam-ends.

  Whenever he went on deck, Bolitho could sense the gloom around him like something physical. Knowing Herrick as he did, he guessed that nothing more could be done to ease the men's suffering. Some captains would not have cared, but would have ordered their boatswain's mates to flog the last man aloft or the last man down from a duty. But not Herrick. From lieutenant to captain he had remained unswerving in his determination to lead rather than drive, to understand his men rather than use fear as his right of command.

  Yet, in spite of all this, three men were seized up and flogged after Herrick had read the relevant Articles of War and the ship had continued to smash her way up and through every succession of crested rollers.

  Bolitho had stayed away from the punishments. Even that was no longer his concern. He had paced up and down his cabin, hearing the regular swish and crack across a naked back in time with a marine drummer's staccato beat.

  He was beginning to wonder what he, or any other admiral, had to do to remain sane during such periods of misery.

  And then, quite suddenly, the wind .dropped slightly, and small isolated patches of blue appeared between the banks of cloud.

  Seamen and marines paused to look up and draw breath, hot food was hurried through the messdecks as if in a battle's lull or that the cook could not believe his galley would remain in use for long.