The Inshore Squadron

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho turned as the leading Frenchman fired again. Much closer, some of the spray falling so near they could hear it, like tropical rain.

  Bolitho trained a glass on the French line. Along the five vessels, all seventy-fours, he could see the sails changing, being reefed or filling again to the wind as their captains did everything to hold the distances and yet be ready to react to their enemy.

  He said, `Alter course two points starboard, Captain Herrick. The squadron will follow.'

  Men hurried to the braces, and he heard the wheel being hauled over rapidly as if the quartermaster and helmsmen had been expecting the order.

  Grubb said, 'Steady as she goes, sir. East by north.'

  The British line had edged slightly away from the other squadron, so that for a moment it appeared as if the French were falling astern. The yards squeaked to the pull of blocks and braces, and at the masthead Bolitho saw the pendant flapping almost directly forward.

  He could feel the ship responding, as with the wind under her coat-tails she forged eagerly ahead.

  `French have made more sail, sir.' Herrick looked at him. 'Do I set the courses on her again?'

  `No.' Bolitho walked three paces to the nearest gun and back again. 'I want them to believe we're more interested in delaying their progress than closing to point-blank range.'

  He watched the French topgallant yards changing shape and direction as the ships spread more sail and increased speed accordingly. Less than a mile separated them now.

  'Be ready, Mr Browne.'

  He pictured the captains following in Benbow's wake. He had explained this very tactic to them when he had first met them as a- squadron. The minimum of signals. The maximum of initiative. He could see them now. Keverne, Keen and good old Inch. Waiting for the solitary flag which was already bent on and ready. As he had said at the time, `The French can read our signals, too, so why share our knowledge with them?'

  'I think we may open fire, Captain Herrick.'

  Bolitho saw his words being passed forward along the gundeck by whisper and gesture with the speed of light.

  'No broadside. Tell your gun captains to shoot on the uproll and to fire at will.'

  Herrick nodded. `Aye, sir. That will get the Frogs moving. They'll not want to be dismasted or crippled by a random shot at this stage of the game. They've a fair way to go in either direction!'

  A midshipman ran down the main hatch with the message, and seconds later a whistle shrilled out from the forecastle.

  It was hard to see who fired first, and to what effect. Down the engaged side the guns came crashing inboard on their tackles, the crews jumping instantly to sponge out the steaming muzzles and reload. Gun captains, stooped like old men, peered through their ports, watching the sails of the leading French ship jerk wildly as if in a whirlwind.

  From the lower gundeck the recoiling thirty-two-pounders made the timbers quiver, while streaming past her beakhead the drifting smoke fanned out on either bow like a fog.

  'We've hit her, by God!'

  Another voice yelled, 'That was our gun, lads! Run out now an' we'll make 'em dance another jig!'

  The rest of Bolitho's line were firing now, the shots cutting through the waves, some falling short and others hitting sails and hulls in a confusion of bursting spray and smoke.

  'The French have altered course again, sir.' Herrick could barely control his excitement. 'Here they come.'

  He winced as the second ship vanished in a wall of smoke and the long orange tongues flashed through it with the sound of thunder.

  Water deluged across the forecastle, and beneath his feet Bolitho felt the massive hull stagger to the enemy's iron. Five, maybe six hits, but not a stay or shroud had been parted.

  'Sponge out, that man!' A gun captain had to punch one of his men in the shoulder to bring him back to his senses. 'Now load, you bugger!'

  Crash . . . crash . . . crash. All along Benbow's painted tumblehome the guns came roaring inboard on their tackles. Alone, in pairs or whole sections their captains aimed and pulled their trigger lines, unhampered by the restricting demands of a fixed broadside.

  Men were cheering from up forward as the leading Frenchman's main-topgallant mast vanished into the smoke. There were black dots drifting past the ships; wreckage, burned hammocks from the nettings or perhaps corpses thrown overboard to keep the guns firing.

  'Again, lads! Hit them!' Herrick was yelling through his cupped hands, a far cry from the quiet-faced man who had stood at the altar in Kent.

  The French line were all firing now, and each British ship was being damaged, or so deluged in falling spray she appeared to be.

  A ball punched through the main-topsail and other holes appeared in the fore.

  A few severed lines swung lazily above the guns, like dead weed, while Swale, the boatswain, Big Tom, matched his voice to the din as he urged his men aloft to splice and effect repairs before something vital carried away.

  Bolitho flinched as metal clanged against a gun on the starboard side and the broken splinters cracked around him like musket fire. A seaman fell headlong to the deck, and Bolitho saw that beneath his pigtail his vertebrae had been laid bare. Nearby a petty officer had dropped to his knees and was trying to hold his entrails in his hands, his mouth wide in a soundless scream.

  'Steady, lads ! Point ! Ready ! Fire!'

  The quarterdeck nine-pounders fired together, their sharper, note making some of the men gasp with pain.

  'And again!'

  Bolitho swallowed hard as more enemy shots beat into the hull. He heard one smash through an open port on the lower gundeck, pictured the horror as it ploughed through men already blinded by smoke and half-mad from the deafening explosions.

  'Fire!'

  The leading French ship was overreaching Benbow, in spite of her missing topgallant mast. She was firing wildly, but some of the shots were hitting the hull. Bolitho looked along the upper gundeck at the men moving back and forth, jumping clear as each gun came squealing and crashing inboard.

  Some lay where they had been dragged to await treatment. Others would not move again. Pascoe was walking behind his men, shouting something, then waving his hat. One of his gun captains turned to grin at him and fell dead as a ball whipped past his stomach without even touching him. On the opposite side it thundered into the bulwark and killed another seaman even as he ducked away.

  'Fire!'

  Bolitho cleared, his throat. 'We are rightly placed, I think.' He peered up at the flapping pendant, his eyes smarting with smoke. 'Be ready, Mr Browne!'

  He heard Herrick yelling, 'Stand by to come about, Mr Grubb! Mr Speke!' He had to borrow Wolfe's trumpet to make the lieutenant hear through the noise. 'We will engage with both batteries! Prepare to raise the starboard port lids!' He watched to ensure that his message had been carried to the lower gundeck and then turned to add, 'By God, our people are doing well today, sir!'

  Bolitho took him by the arm. 'Walk about, Thomas. When we break the enemy's line they will try to mark us down from the tops!'

  Somewhere in the smoke a man gave a shrill scream, and blood ran along the larboard scuppers in an unbroken thread.

  He measured the distance. It was time. Later and the French might cripple them, or might try to separate them from each other.

  'Make your signal, Mr Browne!'

  The solitary flag broke from the yard, to be acknowledged all along the line.

  Browne wiped his mouth with his hand. His hat was awry and there was blood on his white breeches.

  `Close up, sir!'

  Bolitho looked at the men ready at the braces, the ones at the big double-wheel taking the strain on the spokes while they tried to concentrate on Grubb, on everything but the crash and roar of cannon fire.

  A marine fell from the maintop, hit a net and rolled over the side into the sea.

  A powder-monkey, running towards the larboard guns, turned on his toes like a dancer then fell kicking to the deck. Before he looked away Bolitho-sa
w that his eyes had been blasted from his head.

  'Now!'

  The yards came round like great, straining bows, and as the helm went over Bolitho saw the French ships suddenly loom above the larboard bow. Then they stood before the bowsprit as Benbow continued to turn until her yards were all but braced fore and aft.

  With canvas thundering and flapping in protest, Benbow held on her new tack, her tapering jib-boom pointing directly at the gilded gallery of the French flagship. He could see the sudden consternation on her poop and quarterdeck, the flags appearing frantically above the drifting smoke as she endeavoured to rally support.

  'Make your other signal to Relentless.'

  Bolitho watched narrowly as the deck heeled to starboard under the tightly braced sails. Would they manage it? Break astern of the flagship and smash her poop to fragments, or would Benbow ram her instead and impale her on the bowsprit like a lance?

  He heard more cheering, rising from the fog of battle to drown the cries and groans of the wounded. Indomitable was following close astern and, seeming much further away now, Nicator, with Inch's smaller sixty-four, Odin, in her wake, was heading to break the enemy's line. With luck, Captain Keen would pass between the fourth and the rearmost ship in the French squadron. If he could cut out the last ship and cripple her, the big transport would be at his mercy.

  `Open your ports ! Run out the starboard battery!'

  The guns squealed to the ports as one, as if eager to discard their previous roles of spectators.

  Herrick said between his teeth, 'Easy, Mr Grubb. You can let her fall off a point now.' He slammed one hand into the other. 'Got him!'

  They were so close to the other flagship that Benbow's jibboom and tattered staysails threw faint shadows across her counter and stern windows.

  Bolitho heard Speke yell, 'As you bear! Ready!'

  Right up forward Bolitho saw the two carronades poking their ugly snouts outboard. The starboard one at least could hardly miss.

  Muskets cracked through the din, and Bolitho saw the hammocks jump in the nettings as the French marksmen tested their aim. In Benbow's tops the marines were also firing, pointing out their opposite numbers to each other as they tried to mark down anyone in authority.

  The blast and thunder of gunfire from the scattered ships was mounting to a terrible crescendo. Bolitho saw the starboard carronade fire, but the effect of its devastating charge of tightly packed grape was lost in smoke and thrown spray. Through it all Benbow's men were yelling and cheering like demented beings. Their figures were blurred in smoke, their eyes staring and white as they threw themselves to their guns or ran to trim the yards in response to Wolfe's trumpeting voice from the quarterdeck.

  Bolitho wiped his stinging eyes and peered at the Frenchman's stern as it loomed over the starboard bow. He could vaguely see her name, La Loire, the fine gilt lettering splintered by grape-shot and canister, while above it the stern windows were smashed to a shambles.

  He heard Browne yelling at him and saw him pointing wildly to the opposite beam.

  The third ship in the French line, the one which Bolitho had intended to isolate from La Loire, had suddenly hoisted an admiral's command flag to the fore, and even as the signal broke from her yards she began to tack round, following Benbow's slow turn as if they were linked together.

  Browne shouted incredulously, 'La Loire has hauled down her flag, sir!'

  Bolitho pushed past him, feeling the sudden despair drop across the wildness of battle like a blanket. The French admiral had planned it perfectly, the lure of his false flag breaking the British and not his own squadron into pieces.

  Herrick was waving his sword. 'At 'em, lads ! Engage to larboard again, Mr Speke!'

  Thwarted by the enemy's unexpected change of direction, the Nicator and Odin were almost in irons, their reduced sails flapping in wild confusion as they tried to re-form into line.

  Ropars' ship was surging level with Benbow s quarter, her forward guns firing rapidly across a narrowing strip of water. To the dazed seamen around Bolitho it must seem as if each ball was finding a target.

  There was not even a cheer as the foremast of the false French flagship staggered overboard in one great mass of canvas, broken spars and rigging. La Loire had been badly mauled, but her sacrifice looked like changing a battle into a total defeat for Bolitho's squadron.

  In poor light, made worse by the billowing smoke, the ships lurched drunkenly against one another, guns pounding mercilessly at point-blank range. It was like being surrounded by a forest of masts and whipping flags, like being in hell itself.

  Herrick seemed to be everywhere. Directing and rallying, shouting encouragement here, demanding greater effort there.

  The young sixth lieutenant, Courtenay, the one Allday had ousted from his barge, was sprawled on his face, his shoes drumming on the deck as some of the marines dragged him towards the quarterdeck ladder. He had been hit by a French sharpshooter and his lower jaw had been completely shot away.

  Browne shouted, `Relentless is attacking the transport, sir!' He lowered his glass. The two French frigates are after him, and Lookout requests permission to engage !'

  `Denied.' Bolitho wiped his face. 'We may need her yet.'

  For what purpose? To pick up survivors or to carry news of a crushing defeat to England?

  He said, `General signal. Take suitable stations for mutual support. Engage the enemy in succession.'

  Some of the flags spilled over the deck as a ball ploughed through the hurrying seamen, but despite the horror and the screams the signal broke to the yards with barely a delay. Bolitho doubted if it would make much difference. His captains knew what to do, and were doing their best. But as the flags broke above the rolling smoke it might show that their force was still one, with a head and mind to control it.

  Bolitho stared bitterly at a limping, sobbing seaman. What have I brought you to?

  Herrick said, 'Indomitable's in trouble, sir. Her mizzen just went down.'

  Grubb said, 'Aye, but old Nicator's spread more sail to cover 'er flank!'

  'All have acknowledged, sir.' Browne looked at the spattered blood on his breeches, seeing it for the first time. 'Hell's teeth!'

  Bolitho stared fixedly at Ropars' flagship. Less than half a cable away. She was shortening sail, her gangways alive with armed men, while her starboard batteries continued to fire as rapidly as ever.

  Herrick yelled, 'She'll be down on us soon, sir!'

  Bolitho looked up at the Benbow's pitted sails. Ropars' captain was acting like a true professional. Taking the wind out of Benbow's sails, cutting away her power to manoeuvre even as he poised for the final embrace.

  Wolfe bellowed, 'Prepare to repel boarders!'

  Overhead, a swivel crashed sharply and the hail of canister raked a bloody path through some of the massed French seamen and marines.

  The taut faces of the crouching gun crews glowed in a vivid red light, and seconds later an explosion rocked the embattled ships like toy boats in a storm.

  Smoking fragments fell hissing all around them, and Bolitho knew that La Loire had caught fire unnoticed in the fight, and now her magazine had exploded.

  Men dashed past to obey the boatswain's lisping bellow, buckets of water poised to douse any piece of burning wood or fabric as it fell on their own ship.

  `From Indomitable, sir. Request assistance!'

  Bolitho looked at his flag lieutenant but saw only Keverne. He shook his head.

  'We can't. We must hold together.'

  Browne watched him curiously and then nodded to his assistants.

  'Acknowledge.'

  Indomitable was being attacked by the two ships which had been at the rear of the enemy squadron. Hampered by a broken mast and trailing rigging, she was falling slowly astern, while Nicator and Odin forged past in pursuit of their own flagship, spreading more canvas and firing as fast as they could reload.

  Ropars' flagship was making a lot of signals, too, and Bolitho thought that most of t
hem were being directed to his frigates and heavy transport. The last thing he would wish was for the transport to be so damaged that she and her cargo, troops or otherwise, would fall in to enemy hands.

  Bolitho shouted hoarsely, 'Stand fast, lads! It's going to be now or never!' He gripped Herrick's arm. 'Make our people cheer, Thomas ! Get them on the gangway as if they want to board the enemy!'

  Herrick stared at him. 'I will try, sir!'

  Bolitho tore off his brightly laced hat and waved it above his head. 'A cheer!' He strode along the larboard gangway above the overheated guns and past ripped and punctured hammocks. 'Huzza, lads! Show them what we can do!'

  The most ignorant man aboard knew that Benbow had been outmanoeuvred and outwitted by the French admiral. If they faltered now they were finished,, with every likelihood of Benbow being taken intact to sail in a French line of battle.

  It was too terrible to contemplate, and Bolitho did not even see Herrick's alarm or the concern on Allday's face as he ran to follow him along the exposed gangway.

  But they were responding. As more shots hammered into the hull or clipped away rigging like some invisible scythe, the Benbow's people stood back from the guns to cheer, to arm themselves, and climb to join Bolitho at the boarding nets.

  The depleted gun crews were busily reloading, held under control by threat and physical strength, as Speke yelled, 'Full broadside! Ready!'

  Bolitho gripped the nettings and stared at the sea splashing alongside. It must soon end.

  He could feel the grin fixed to his lips like a painful bit, hear the voices of the seamen blurred and distorted around him as they shouted towards the enemy. Like baying hounds, eager to kill even at the expense of death.

  'Broadside ! Fire!'

  The shock almost hurled Bolitho headlong, and when he looked behind him he thought it was like standing on an abandoned footbridge, for the smoke, as it billowed inboard through every port, hid the entire gundeck from view.

  Somewhere a trumpet blared with sudden urgency, and in disbelief Bolitho saw Ropars' ship standing away, her mizzentopmast gone completely, her side and gunports streaming smoke. There were sparks, too, with running figures throwing water to fight the sailor's greatest fear of all.