Herrick sighed. 'Captain Neale.' He shook his head. 'I still think of him as that greasy cherub we pushed through the venthole!'
Bolitho steadied his thoughts again. They were too often racing ahead like halliards gone mad and fouling their blocks.
What Browne had said made sense.
'Well, Yovell, write what I shall tell you.'
Herrick was about to leave again and asked, 'Which
lieutenant, sir?'
Mr Pascoe.' He smiled. 'But I expect you already thought of that, too!'
4
The Ajax
Allday and Ozzard carried a small chest of Bolitho's clothing and personal effects and laid it in the Styx's stern cabin. Captain John Neale watched Bolitho's reactions as he looked around and said, 'I hope you will be comfortable, sir.'
-Neale had not changed all that much. He was just a larger edition of the chubby midshipman whom Herrick had described. But he wore his rank and command well, and had used his early experience to good effect.
Bolitho replied, 'It brings back memories, Captain Neale. Some bad, but many good ones.'
He saw Neale shifting his feet, eager to be off.
'You carry on, Captain. Get your ship under way again and make as much progress as you can. Benboui s sailing master assures me there will be fog about.'
Neale grimaced. That could be dangerous in the narrows, sir. But if old Grubb says fog, then fog there will be!'
He left the cabin with a nod to Allday, who murmured admiringly, 'He's not spoiled, sir. Always liked him.'
Bolitho hid a smile. 'Spoiled? He's a King's officer, Allday, not a piece of salt pork!'
From the quarterdeck they heard Neale shouting lustily, 'Get_ under way, Mr Pickthorn ! Hands to the braces, roundly, if you please! And I'll want the t'gan's'ls on her once we clear the anchorage!'
Feet pounded along the decks, and Bolitho felt the cabin dip as Styx responded willingly to the sudden press of canvas. He sat down; on the bench seat and surveyed the cabin slowly. He had commanded three frigates during his service. The last one, the thirty-six-gun Tempest, had been down in the Great South Sea. That was when they had first heard about the bloody revolution in France. The war had started soon afterwards, and had gone on ever since.
He wondered if Pascoe was exploring the ship, mulling over his uncle's promise to help him get an early transfer. It would be painful to lose him so quickly again. Anything else would be selfishness, Bolitho knew.
Allday murmured, `We're passing abeam of Benbow, sir:' He smiled. `She looks big from down here!'
Bolitho watched her as she slid away across the frigate's quarter. Black and buff, shining with spray and damp air. Her upper yards and loosely furled canvas did look hazy, so Grubb's prediction was coming true already. That would give Herrick something else to worry about.
Eventually, Browne came aft to report that Styx was standing well clear of the anchorage, and that Pascoe had arranged for the additional seamen to be quartered throughout the ship.
He said, almost as an afterthought, `The captain seems to think we can make good time around the point, but after that he believes the fog will come down.'
Bolitho nodded. 'Then we shall anchor. If the fog is bad for us, so too will it prevent others from moving.'
At this time of year fogs could be as common as icy gales. Each had its own special kind of danger, and both were respected by sailors.
But once the frigate had completed her passage around The Skaw and changed tack to steer south along Denmark's opposite coastline, Neale was able to report that the fog was little more than a thick sea-mist. The densest part was clinging to the land, and in all probability was trapped in the anchorage they had left astern.
Herrick could cope with that all right. Pay Herrick a sincere compliment and he would be speechless. Put him before a lady and he would be tongue-tied. Gales, fog or the roaring horror of battle and he was like a rock.
They sighted very few craft, and only small vessels at that. Coasters and fishermen, staying near the land, and certainly wary of the lean-looking frigate as she thrust further south towards the narrow sound between Denmark and Sweden. The gateway to the Baltic. A shelter or a trap, according to what your intentions might be.
As soon as it was dark Neale asked permission to anchor. As Styx swung slowly to her cable, and the mist filtered through her spars and rigging to make her like a phantom ship, Bolitho walked the quarterdeck, watching the pale stars, the occasional gleam of a light from the land.
Styx showed only an anchor lantern, and the watch which moved about the forecastle and gangways were fully armed. Mr Pickthorn, her first lieutenant, had even spread boarding nets.
just to be on the safe side, as Neale had put it.
Pascoe emerged from the darkness and waited to see if it was convenient to speak.
Bolitho beckoned to him. `Here. Let's walk a while. Stand still for long and the blood feels like glacier water.'
They paced back and forth, meeting and passing the men on watch or some of the ship's officers who were also trying to take some exercise in the keen air.
'Our people are settled in, sir.' Pascoe shot him a quick glance. 'I have Mr Midshipman Penels with me as messenger. I thought him a bit too young, but Mr Wolfe said he's got to start sometime.' He chuckled. 'He's right, I expect.'
'Tomorrow we will enter Copenhagen, Adam. There, I am to meet a British official of some standing.'
He looked towards the tiny lights on the shore. The news would be there already. An English man-of-war. One from the new squadron. What did it mean? Why had she come?
'There are a few questions I will want answering for my own content, too.'
Pascoe did not break into Bolitho's thoughts, even though he was speaking them aloud. He was thinking of Midshipman Penels and his friend Babbage. By some accident, or a petty officer's indifference, Babbage was aboard Styx also.
Bolitho asked suddenly, 'How are you getting along with my flag lieutenant? The Honourable Oliver Browne?'
Pascoe smiled, his teeth white in the darkness. 'With an "e", sir. Very well. He is a strange man. Far removed from most sea officers. All, in my own experience. He is always so calm and untroubled. I think that if the Frenchies were to storm aboard at this moment he would pause to finish his meal before joining the fight!'
Captain Neale came on deck and Pascoe excused himself and left.
Bolitho said, 'It seems very quiet, Captain.'
'I agree.' Neale peered through the sagging boarding nets. 'But I'm careful. Captain Herrick would spit me if I allowed his admiral to run aground, or worse!'
Bolitho bade him good night and went to his borrowed. quarters. He had not realized before just how well known Herrick's devotion had become.
'Take in the maincourse, Mr Pickthorn.' Captain Neale stood very still, his arms folded, as the frigate glided ahead under topsails, forecourse and jib.
The cold air, the icy droplets of moisture falling from the heavy weather canvas like rain were forgotten as the Styx moved slowly towards the last channel.
Two great fortresses, Helsingborg an the Swedish side of the Sound Channel and Kronborg on the Danish, were enough to awe even the most hardened man aboard.
Bolitho took a telescope and trained it on the Danish fortress. It would take an army, and months of siege, to breach it, he thought grimly.
It was almost noon, and the nearer the frigate had drawn to the narrows and the protective batteries on either side, they had sensed the excitement Styx's appearance was causing. But if there was no sign of welcome, there was no hostility either.
He glanced along the upper decks. Neale had done well, and his ship looked as perfect as she could be. The marines, conspicuous in their bright uniforms, drawn up in squads on the poop deck. None in the tops, and no swivels had been mounted there either. Seamen moved about their duties, while others stood ready to spread more sail and flee or take in the remaining canvas and anchor.
Neale looked at Bo
litho questioningly. 'May I begin the salute, sir?'
'If you please.'
Neale said sharply, 'Remove the tampions and open the ports.'
He was probably thinking that once he had fired a full salute to the fortress his guns would be empty. But to man his-broadsides with anything more than the men required for this ritual might appear like a threat of war.
'Run out, 'if you please.'
Squeaking and rumbling the Styx's guns poked their black muzzles into the harsh light.
'Stand by to dip the colours!'
Bolitho bit his lip. Still no hint from the land. He looked across at the great artillery emplacements. The wind had dropped considerably. If the Danes opened fire, Styx would be hard put to come about and beat clear.
She would be hammered into submission in minutes under such conditions.
'Commence the salute, Mr Pickthorn.'
'Fire One!'
The bang echoed across the choppy water, to be followed gun for gun by a battery below the fortress. Then, the Danish flag, standing out like a flake of bright metal from a tall staff, dipped slowly in salute.
Ailday wiped his mouth with his wrist. 'Phew! That was a near thing!'
Bolitho saw Styx's gunner marching from cannon to cannon, beating out the time with his fist, oblivious to everything but precision.
There were people visible on the shore now, some running and waving, their mouths soundless in the telescope's lens.
The final gun crashed out, the smoke fanning ahead of the frigate's figurehead.
Captain Neale touched his hat to Bolitho and said, 'I think we are accepted, sir.'
Browne, who had been clasping his ears during the salute, said sourly, 'But by no means welcome, sir.'
'Guard-boat approaching, sir!'
'Take in the forecourse, Mr Pickthorn. Stand by to receive our visitors!'
Men swarmed out along the yard, fisting and cursing the big foresail as they struggled to furl it with extra smartness, watched by the distant crowds of onlookers.
The guard-boat was an interesting craft. Far longer than a ship's boat, it was propelled by the biggest oars Bolitho had seen outside of a chebeck. Two men to each oar, while just abaft of the deadly-looking prow was a solitary but heavy cannon. Under oars, this miniature gunboat could outmanoeuvre anything larger than a frigate and throw heavy balls through her poop with total safety. Even a frigate would be in trouble if she lost the wind.
Bolitho studied the figures in the ornate cockpit. Two Danish sea officers and two civilians, one, if not two, of the latter obviously English. They looked more suitably dressed for a stroll around Hyde Park than crossing open water in October.
'Man the side! Marines, fall in!'
Mr Charles Inskip, the important government official whom Bolitho had been instructed to assist in every possible way, sat stiff-backed in one of Captain Neale's chairs and examined the captured French despatches. He held them at arm's length, and Bolitho guessed his sight was not what it should be. His companion, Mr Alfred Green, apparently less important, stood beside the chair, peering and pouting at each newly turned sheet.
Bolitho heard the Danish sea officers talking and laughing beyond the bulkhead, and guessed they were being traditionally entertained by Neale and some of his lieutenants. Governments could create war from almost anything. Sailors, meeting on their home ground, rarely fell out.
Browne glanced meaningly at Bolitho as Inskip re-read the letter with the broken seal.
Bolitho noticed that when seamen rushed across the deck above, or some heavy block and tackle fell on the planking, Inskip did not even blink. He was obviously a much travelled man, well used to ships of every sort.
Inskip was about fifty, he decided. Neatly but not flamboyantly dressed in a green coat and breeches of similar colour. His head was almost bald, the remaining hair and unfashionable queue hanging down his collar like a rope's end.
He looked up sharply. 'This is bad news, Admiral.' His voice was incisive, a bit like Beauchamp's. 'I thank God you managed to intercept it.'
'Luck, Sir.'
A small smile, pushing the years from the man's features. 'Where would we be without it?'
His companion said, 'You would have had a warmer reception, Admiral, had the brig Echo got here ahead of you.'
Inskip frowned at the interruption. 'I have made some progress with the Danish government. They do not wish to join with the Tsar of Russia's proposed alliance, but pressure is mounting. Your arrival may be timely. I thank God you had the good sense to come in a small ship-of-war and not a threedecker or something. It is a powder-keg here, although the Danes, being Danes, are trying to ignore it. I would love to return in happier times.'
Bolitho asked, 'Will you wish me to come ashore, sir?'
'Yes. I shall send word to you. The guard-boat will lead you to the advised anchorage.' He glanced quickly at the door. 'There is a French frigate in Copenhagen, so you must warn your people to avoid any contact with her.'
Bolitho looked at Browne. An added complication, and they had not yet begun.
Inskip tapped the letter. 'Now I have read this I think I understand the purpose of her presence. I was sent by His Majesty's Government with the intention of preventing Danish involvement. The French may be here to provoke the opposite. Your small inshore squadron would not stem the flood if the worst happened before we could muster a fleet. Even then, the Russians and the Swedes are said to have sixty line-of-battle ships between them, and the Danes another thirty in commission.'
Bolitho warmed to this nondescript man. He knew everything, even the size of his own small squadron. The fact he had brought Inskip some information he did not already have made him feel humble rather than superior.
Inskip stood up, waving Ozzard and a loaded tray aside as he said, 'Not just now, thank you. Clear heads are needed.' He smiled. 'So I suggest you order your captain to approach the anchorage. You have roused plenty of curiosity and speculation. To see you actually step ashore should add to the gossip, eh?' He picked up his hat and added, 'I am sorry you missed meeting with a fellow English traveller.'
Bolitho allowed Allday to buckle on his glittering presentation sword for this formal occasion, but saw the distaste in his eyes. 'Oh, who was that?'
'Rupert Seton. I understand he is the brother of your late wife?'
Bolitho stared at Allday, his mind suddenly frozen. He could see Seton as a young midshipman during the ill-fated attempt to retake Toulon for the French Royalists. A slightly built youth with a stutter. With a sister so beautiful that she was rarely absent from Bolitho's memory.
'He told me about the tragedy, of course.' Inskip was unaware of the havoc he had caused. 'A fine, intelligent young man he is, too. He has a good post with the Honourable East India Company. Where I should be if I had any sense. There are more kicks than guineas working for Mr Pitt's administration.'
Bolitho asked quietly, `You met him here, you say?'
`Yes. Taking passage for England. I told him to make haste, otherwise he'd still have been here. But the war could spread any day, and I'd not wish one of John Company's people to become interned!'
Bolitho said, 'Escort these gentlemen to Captain Neale, Mr Browne. My compliments to the captain, and tell him we are finished our business and ready to proceed.' He looked impassively at the two officials. 'I'm certain you'll wish to get ashore ahead of me?'
Inskip shook his hand warmly. 'We will meet again.' He dropped his voice. 'I am sorry if I have roused some painful memories. I meant it for the best.'
As the door closed behind Browne and the others Allday exclaimed brokenly, 'Oh, God damn it, sir! After all this time, it's not right, not fair!' He controlled his outburst and added, 'Shall I fetch Mr Pascoe, sir?'
Bolitho sat down and unbuckled the sword. 'No. But I would take it kindly if you would stay.' He looked up, his eyes pleading. 'Will it never end? I've acted foolishly, done things to shame my friends, hoping perhaps to find peace again!'
Allday crossed to the table and almost tore a goblet from Ozzard's hand.
'Here, drink this, sir, and damnation to the war, and all who fan its fires!'
Bolitho swallowed the brandy, almost choking on its fire.
He could see her framed in the church door, her hand on her brother's arm, just as Herrick's own bride had been led up to the altar.
Almost to himself he said, `Maybe it is as well we did not meet. Perhaps he blames me for Cheney's death. She was alone when she needed me. I was at sea. Sailors should never marry, Allday. It is a cruelty to those they leave behind.'
Allday jerked his head at Ozzard, who backed from the cabin as if mesmerized.
'To some, mebbe, sir. But not the special ones.'
Bolitho stood up and replaced the sword at his hip. 'And she was special.' He looked at Allday and gave a brief nod. 'Thank you. I am ready now.'
Allday watched him square his shoulders, then duck automatically beneath the deckhead beams as he strode towards the quarterdeck.
That was a bad one, Allday thought. Worse than for a long while. It was always there, hiding like a wild animal, ready to break cover and destroy.
He followed Bolitho into the keen air, watched with the same fascination as he shook hands with the two Danish officers before seeing them over the side into their boat. A smile to Neale, another handshake with the Danish water pilot who was to assist the master with the last part of the journey.
Pascoe passed him with a handful of seamen to prepare the frigate's boats for swaying out when required.
Again, Allday saw their quick exchange, like brothers, no words spoken or needed.
But for once Allday would have gladly done without the privilege of knowing and sharing this close relationship. He knew Bolitho too well to be deceived by his outward calm. It was not an easy secret to hold.
Being ashore in a beautiful city like Copenhagen was a strange experience for Bolitho. He would have liked to explore its squares, dominated by high green spires and impressive buildings which looked as if they had been there forever. And there were inviting little lanes which he saw from the window of a carriage sent by Inskip to collect him from the harbour.
The Inshore Squadron Page 6