When Herrick had gone Pascoe asked simply, ‘Is anything between you and Captain Herrick, Uncle?’
Bolitho touched his arm. ‘Nothing that can harm our friendship, Adam.’
Pascoe appeared satisfied. ‘I’m glad.’
Bolitho reached for the decanter. ‘Now, tell me what you have been doing since I last saw you.’
2
Small Beginning
BOLITHO MOVED RESTLESSLY around his day cabin, one hand reaching out to touch objects not yet familiar. Around and above him the Lysander’s seventeen hundred tons of timbers and spars, artillery and men creaked and groaned to the pressure of a rising north-westerly wind.
He had to forcibly restrain himself from peering from one or other of the quarter windows to see how the rest of his squadron were getting on with preparations for weighing. He heard occasional shouts and the thump of bare feet as seamen raced in all directions to complete last minute tasks, and he could picture Herrick as he, too, fretted over each delay. It was all Bolitho could do to leave Herrick alone on the quarter-deck.
As a captain, Bolitho had been made to take his ships to sea in every sort of condition. From a lively sloop to the towering three-decker Euryalus in which he had been flag captain he had experienced the anxious moments before the anchor broke from the sea bed.
For Herrick it would be much the same, if not worse. To look at a captain on his own quarter-deck, remote and aloof from the bustle and confusion all around him, protected from criticism by his authority and his gleaming epaulettes, any idler might think he was beyond ordinary fears and feelings.
Bolitho had thought much in that way when he had been a junior lieutenant, or for that matter a midshipman. A captain had been a sort of god. He had lived an unreachable existence beyond his cabin bulkhead, and had but to scowl to have every officer and seaman quaking.
But now, like Herrick, he knew differently. The greater the responsibility the greater the honour. Equally, you had further to fall from grace if things went badly.
Allday came into the cabin and rubbed his large hands. There were droplets of spray on his blue jacket, and he had a kind of wildness in his eyes. He too, was feeling it. Eager to quit the land again. Like a hunter who goes to pit his strength against the unknown. Needing to do it, but never knowing if each time was the last.
The coxswain grinned. ‘They’re doing well, sir. I’ve just been up to the boat tier to watch over your barge. There’s a fair breeze from the nor’-west. The squadron will make a goodly sight when we beat clear of the Rock.’
Bolitho tensed, his head to one side as something clattered and dragged along the deck above. A voice bellowed harshly, ‘Belay that line, you bugger!’
He bit his lip, imagining all manner of things going wrong.
Allday watched him thoughtfully. ‘Cap’n Herrick will see us clear, sir.’
‘I know.’ He nodded as if to seal the conviction. ‘I know.’
‘He’ll not be wanting to let you down.’
Allday removed the sword from its rack on the bulkhead and waited for Bolitho to lift his arms while he buckled it round his waist.
He said softly, ‘Same old sword, sir.’ He touched the worn hilt. ‘We’ve come a few leagues together.’
Bolitho looked at him gravely. ‘Aye.’ He let his fingers run over the sword’s guard. ‘And I dare say it will outlast the both of us.’
Allday grinned hugely. ‘That’s better, sir! You sound just like a flag officer!’
The door opened silently and Herrick stepped into the cabin, his hat under one arm.
‘The squadron is ready to weigh, sir.’ He sounded very calm. ‘Anchors hove short.’
‘Very well, Captain Herrick.’ He kept his tone formal. ‘I will come up directly.’
Herrick hurried out and his footsteps could be heard clattering quickly up the ladder to the poop above the stern cabin. He would be taking into account the position of other shipping, which mercifully was sparse. The strength of the wind and the nearness of shoals. He would be aware that there were more eyes than Bolitho’s on him this forenoon. The other captains who had appeared so relaxed and jovial around the cabin table last night at dinner would be gauging his skill as a sailor, measuring it in Lysander’s sail drill, the smartness of getting under way. There would be glasses trained on the ships from the garrison, too, and from the enemy defences at Algeciras.
Bolitho said quietly, ‘I am ready, Allday.’
Allday hung back below the cabin skylight and gestured above him. ‘Up there, sir.’
Bolitho stood beside him and stared up towards the black mass of rigging, and beyond it to the towering main mast with its whipping broad pendant at the truck.
‘Yes, I see it.’
Allday studied him gravely. ‘That pendant is yours by right, sir. There’s many watching it this day who’d have it off you if they had the chance. But while it flies, they will obey. So leave the worrying to others, sir. You’ve got fatter fish to cook.’
Bolitho faced him with surprise. ‘Admiral Beauchamp said much the same. If not in the same words, then in the same sense.’ He slapped Allday’s arm. ‘And thank you.’
As he strode beneath the poop and out past the big double wheel he was very conscious of the watching men all around him. Once on the quarter-deck, with the wind throwing beads of spray above the nettings and gangway, he saw the press of figures at halliards and braces, the scarlet coats of the marines in the afterguard where they waited to add their weight to that of the seamen.
‘Attention on the quarter-deck!’
That would be Gilchrist, the first lieutenant, and Herrick’s right hand man. Tall and lean like a bean pole, with a permanent frown, he looked much like a disapproving schoolmaster.
Beyond him were some of the lieutenants, the midshipman of the watch and numerous other nameless faces.
Bolitho touched his hat to the deck at large, comparing, despite his determination to avoid it, all this with what he had known and loved as a captain. He would have made certain that he had met and memorised the features and name of every officer aboard just as soon as was possible. The first lieutenant especially. He glanced at Herrick’s stocky figure by the quarter-deck rail and wondered if he, too, was making a comparison.
A voice at Bolitho’s elbow said thickly, ‘A fine day, sir, if I may make so bold.’
Bolitho turned and saw a broad, red-faced lump of a man who seemed to fill the space of three. Not so much in height but in beam and depth, he stood with his fat legs straddled as if for a sudden gale, his heavy, mournful features studying Bolitho with unmasked curiosity.
He added, ‘I’m Grubb, sir. Sailing master.’
Bolitho smiled. ‘Thank you, Mr. Grubb.’
He should have known. There had been many tales lingering in the ship about Ben Grubb, Lysander’s master at St. Vincent. He had, it was said, played on a tin whistle as the seventy-four had nudged through the enemy formation and after the marine drummer boys had been cut down by grape-shot.
He looked over Grubb’s vast untidy shape and decided it was probably true. He was an odd mixture. His features were like the rest of him. Wrecked by countless winds and storms, the damage well aided by heavy drinking. There was something rather fearsome about him, too. And from now on he would be one of the most valuable men in the squadron.
Grubb took a watch the size of an apple from one pocket and examined it before saying, ‘‘Bout now, I’d suggest, sir.’
Bolitho nodded and turned towards Herrick. He saw Pascoe and one of the midshipmen ready and waiting with the signal party, a petty officer writing on his slate.
‘Very well, Captain. We will get the squadron under way, if you please.’
He made himself walk slowly across the littered deck, trying not to look down at the various blocks and tackles which the quarter-deck division had been preparing since dawn. It would be a splendid sight for the Lysander’s people to see him catch his toe and pitch headlong amongst them. Strangely eno
ugh, the dreadful picture helped to steady him, and he was able to concentrate on the other ships as one by one the flags soared up to the yards to acknowledge Herrick’s signal ‘Up anchor’.
He heard a midshipman call, ‘All acknowledged, sir!’
Then Pascoe’s voice, quivering slightly to betray his own excitement. ‘Stand by on the quarter-deck!’
Gilchrist’s feet thudded across the planking, and even through his speaking trumpet his tone was disapproving.
‘Mr. Yeo, have more hands put to the capstan bars! I want no delays!’
Bolitho did not turn. Yeo was the boatswain. He would meet him in due course. He saw the little Harebell rolling drunkenly, her yards alive with busy seamen. Her cable was up and down, and he thought he saw Inch’s scarecrow figure by the quarter-deck rail, one arm pointing across the countless white cat’s-paws which moved down with the wind and turned the anchorage into a miniature sea.
Bolitho took a telescope from the midshipman of the watch. As he trained it towards the other two-deckers he asked, ‘And what is your name?’
The midshipman was staring at him, almost transfixed.
‘Saxby, sir.’
Bolitho watched the seamen dashing aft along Nicator’s gangways. Saxby was about thirteen. Round-faced and innocent looking. His otherwise pleasant appearance was spoiled when he opened his mouth as both his front teeth were missing.
He steadied the glass and shut Gilchrist’s metallic voice from his mind. It was all taking far too long. Caution was one thing. This amounted to a nervous crawl.
He snapped, ‘There is some delay, Captain Herrick.’
‘Sir?’ Herrick sounded off guard.
‘Execute the signal, if you please.’ He hated doing it, but there was more at stake than personal feelings.
He heard the bark of orders, the muffled shouts of the topmen as they clawed along the vibrating yards.
Then, as the signal was hauled down at the rush, the cry echoed aft from the forecastle, ‘Anchor’s aweigh!’
Lysander’s broad hull dipped heavily to one side, as with her anchor swinging free and the wind already banging and thundering in her released topsails she started to swing down across the choppy wavelets.
‘Man the braces there!’
Feet skidded on damp planking, and more men ran wildly from the capstan to lend a hand.
One by one, the three ships of the line went about like ponderous beasts, while further to seaward the frigate Buzzard and Inch’s sloop were already spreading more sail to stand clear of their big consorts.
Somebody cried out sharply, and Bolitho heard the crack of a starter across a man’s naked back.
High above the deck the topmen were racing each other in their efforts to beat the rest of the squadron as Herrick shouted, ‘Get the forecourse on her, Mr. Gilchrist!’ He added sternly, ‘And tell that bosun’s mate to be less free with his rope’s-end, or I will know the reason!’
Bolitho walked to the opposite side and watched as Osiris tacked heavily astern of the Nicator. She made a fine sight. Her topsails set and hard-bellied to the wind, she was heeling so steeply that her bow wave was almost up to the lower gun ports. Her forecourse and then mainsail flapped and then filled as one, so that in the hard sunlight they looked like white metal.
He said, ‘Nicator is falling astern. Signal her to make more sail.’
It might be that Captain Probyn was too busy to notice that his ship was already badly out of line with the other seventy-fours. Equally, he could be testing his commodore’s mettle and powers of observation.
The signal midshipman called, ‘Nicator’s acknowledged, sir.’
Probyn’s topmen were already setting the fore topgallant sail. It was just a bit too quick, Bolitho decided. Probyn was testing him.
Grubb was peering at the sails overhead, the compass and his helmsmen, and all without apparently shifting a muscle. Only his eyes moved, swivelling up and down, forward and abeam, like lanterns in a rough scarlet cliff.
Within an hour the squadron was free of the approaches, the three ships of the line making a proud sight under reduced canvas as they stood clear of the land. To leeward, their pyramids of pale canvas already blurred in haze, Buzzard and Harebell tacked busily under all possible sail to take station well ahead of their commodore.
Herrick called, ‘Very well, Mr. Grubb. Steer east-sou’-east.’
Then he crossed to the nettings where Bolitho stood with one foot on the truck of a quarter-deck nine-pounder.
Bolitho looked at him and gave a quiet smile. ‘Well, Thomas, how does it feel now?’
Herrick’s face lost some of its lines. It was like seeing a cloud moving away, Bolitho thought.
Herrick replied, ‘Better, sir.’ He let out a deep breath. ‘A whole span better!’
Bolitho shaded his eyes to look towards the land. There were probably couriers already galloping along a coast road even at this very minute. But there was no point in slipping like poachers through the Gibraltar Strait under cover of darkness. He had his orders, but the Earl of St. Vincent had made it very clear it was up to him how he interpreted and executed them. It would do no harm for the enemy to know a British force was once more abroad in the Mediterranean.
He let his gaze move up to the masthead, to the big dovetailed flag which was now as stiff as a plank in the steady wind. His flag.
He looked along the crowded decks at the scurrying seamen, the great coils of rope and lashings which to any landsman would seem like a hopeless tangle. And still further to the beakhead, beneath which he could just see one of the Spartan general’s massive shoulders. Inch’s sloop was a mere sliver of white against the horizon haze, leading the squadron. He smiled to himself. As he had once done in his own first command at the Chesapeake. Another ship. Another war.
Herrick asked, ‘Do you have any instructions, sir?’
He looked at him, seeing Pascoe watching from the lee rail, one hand on his hip.
‘The ship is yours, Thomas.’ He made to turn away and added, ‘What did you have in mind?’
‘I should like to exercise the gun crews.’ Herrick tried to relax. ‘I am satisfied with the sail drill at present.’
Bolitho smiled. ‘So be it.’
He realised that Gilchrist was hovering close by and added, ‘I will be in my cabin.’
As he walked towards the wheel he heard Gilchrist say coldly, ‘I have two men for punishment. Slackness on duty, and insolent to a bosun’s mate.’
Bolitho hesitated. Floggings at this early stage would be bad enough under any conditions. With the little squadron standing out to sea where almost any sail might be a Frenchman or a Spaniard, it was hardly in keeping with their proud mission.
He heard Herrick say something and Gilchrist’s quick retort, ‘His word is good enough for me, sir!’
Bolitho strode aft beneath the thick deck beams. He must not interfere.
He passed the marine sentry by his cabin door and frowned. Not yet, anyway.
*
A full day after leaving Gibraltar the promise of a fast passage to the Gulf of Lions received a setback. Perverse as ever, the wind dropped away to a faint breeze, so that even with all available canvas set to her yards the Lysander was barely able to command three knots.
The squadron was scattered from its original formation, and each of the two-deckers moved with little enthusiasm above her own perfect reflection.
Bolitho had sent the frigate to scout far ahead of the main force, and as he paced restlessly back and forth across the poop deck he was thankful for taking that one small precaution. Captain Javal would be able to take advantage of the inshore winds, and it was to be hoped he would use them to some purpose. He smiled despite his impatience. Both he and Farquhar were still frigate captains at heart, and the thought of Javal’s freedom, out of reach from any signal, was enough to rouse the envy of a man tied to a ponderous seventy-four.
He heard Herrick speaking with his first lieutenant and thought sudden
ly of the flogging on the previous afternoon. The usual brutal ritual of administering punishment had aroused little excitement amongst the assembled company. But as Bolitho had watched from the poop as Herrick had read briefly from the Articles of War he had imagined he had seen something like triumph on Lieutenant Gilchrist’s narrow face.
He had expected Herrick to take Gilchrist aside and warn him of the dangers of unnecessary punishment. God alone knew that the penalties for thoughtless hardship could be harsher than the actual event. The mutinies at Spithead and the Nore should have been warning enough even for a blind man.
But as he paused to glance down at the quarter-deck he could see little between the two officers other than what you might expect under normal circumstances.
Gilchrist touched his hat and then walked forward along the weather gangway, his shoes clicking on the planking as he strode in the strange bouncing manner which Bolitho had already noticed.
After a moment he ran lightly down the larboard ladder and joined Herrick at the weather nettings.
He said, ‘A snail’s pace. I wish to heaven we could find that wind again.’
Herrick watched him warily. ‘Lysander’s copper is clean, sir. And I have checked each sail myself and there is nothing we could do to gain even half a knot.’
Bolitho turned, surprised at his tone. ‘That was not a criticism, Thomas. I know a captain can do many things, but controlling the elements is not one of them.’
Herrick forced a smile. ‘I am sorry, sir. But I have been feeling it badly. So much is expected of us. If we fail before we have begun . . .’ He shrugged. ‘A whole fleet may suffer later.’
Bolitho stood up on some bollards and steadied himself against the nettings while he peered across the quarter to where Nicator was steering lethargically on the same larboard tack. Her topsails were barely filling, and her masthead pendant lifted only occasionally against the empty sky.
Of the land there was no sign, although the lookouts, clinging like tiny monkeys high above the deck, would be able to see it as a purple blur. The southern shore of Spain. He shivered in spite of the clammy heat, remembering the other times he had come this way. He wondered why Herrick was being so evasive. It was so unlike him to concern himself with what might happen because of ‘maybes’. Again that nagging doubt. Was it because he was feeling his responsibility as too heavy a burden?
Signal, Close Action! Page 3