Signal, Close Action!

by Alexander Kent

  Steel rang on steel, and he walked to the quarter-deck rail to watch as the off-watch midshipmen faced each other for practice with sword and cutlass.

  Farquhar glanced at him. ‘I thought Mr. Pascoe would be well employed, sir.’ There was nothing in his voice to betray his thoughts. ‘He has already proved his skill on one of my previous lieutenants.’ He smiled briefly. ‘He has a good eye.’

  Bolitho watched Pascoe walking behind two of the midshipmen, speaking to each in turn. Their faces were crimson with exertion and were obviously aware their commodore and captain were looking on.

  Clang, clang, clang, the blades moved in a jerky rhythm. How different in a real battle, Bolitho thought grimly. The madness, the eagerness to strike at a man before he beat you to the deck.

  Gilchrist appeared below the larboard gangway.

  ‘You’ll have to do better than that, Mr. Pascoe!’

  Bolitho felt Farquhar tense as he snapped, ‘What ails that damned fellow?’

  Fitz-Clarence was making elaborate steps along the lee side, trying to warn Gilchrist that he was not alone.

  Farquhar called, ‘Mr. Fitz-Clarence! I’ll trouble you to stand still!’

  He turned and looked at Gilchrist’s uplifted face.

  ‘You were saying, Mr. Gilchrist?’

  The first lieutenant replied, ‘The drill is untidy, sir.’

  Bolitho watched the little drama in silence. The midshipmen’s arms still wavering in the air, the swords in disarray. Seamen who had been working in the weather shrouds pausing to watch, their tanned bodies gold in the sunlight. Pascoe in the middle of it, his dark eyes on Gilchrist, only his quick breathing betraying his anger.

  And Farquhar. He glanced at him and saw the look in his ice-blue stare. Farquhar had kept Gilchrist busy and obedient. Now it was out in the open again. He recalled his sudden anger. What ails that damned fellow?

  Farquhar snapped his fingers. ‘Bosun’s mate! Fetch my sword!’

  He walked to the lee gangway and leaned on the handrail, his eyes on Gilchrist below him and at the opposite side.

  ‘Mr. Pascoe, dismiss those ragamuffins!’ He reached without turning his head as a worried looking bosun’s mate hurried towards him. ‘I believe you lost your sword in some reckless scheme with the Dons, Mr. Pascoe.’ He drew his own from its scabbard and held it against the sky, eyeing it critically. ‘This is a fair blade. It was presented to me by my late uncle.’ He looked up at Bolitho’s grave features and added, ‘Although I gather that Sir Henry preferred something heavier, sir?’ He added sharply, ‘With your permission, sir.’ Then he flung the sword straight at Pascoe. ‘Catch!’

  Bolitho tried not to flinch as the youth reached out and caught it in flight.

  Farquhar sounded very relaxed and composed. ‘And now, Mr. Gilchrist. If you will be so good as to cross swords with our junior lieutenant, maybe the midshipmen will learn something, eh?’

  Gilchrist stared from him to Pascoe, his eyes wild.

  ‘Fight a duel, sir?’ He could barely get the words out.

  ‘Not a duel, Mr. Gilchrist.’ Farquhar returned to the quarter-deck. ‘An instruction, if you like.’

  As he reached Bolitho’s side he said quietly, ‘Have no fears for Mr. Pascoe, sir.’

  Gilchrist had been handed his sword by the wardroom servant and was holding it before him as if he had never set eyes on it in his life.

  He said, ‘At the first contact . . .’

  He stared desperately at the midshipmen. Luce was grim-faced, and at the end of the line Saxby stood with his mouth wide open, his eyes like saucers.

  Gilchrist seemed to realise the absurdity of his position and snapped, ‘On your guard, Mr. Pascoe!’

  The blades touched, wavered and flashed over the pale planking like steel tongues.

  Bolitho watched, feeling the dryness in his throat as he saw Pascoe’s slim figure moving around an eighteen-pounder’s breech, his shoes feeling the way, his right leg forward to keep his balance. He wanted to tear his eyes away and look at Farquhar. Was he really trying to demolish Gilchrist’s arrogance, or was he using it and Pascoe’s skill to remind Bolitho of his dead brother?

  Perhaps Farquhar was remembering at this very moment. How they had been taken prisoner by Hugh Bolitho in his American privateer. He was not likely to forget it, or the fact that Hugh’s downfall had begun when he had killed a brother officer when he had been in the King’s service. In a duel.

  He heard Gilchrist’s sharp breathing, saw the concentrated stare of anger and hatred as he parried Pascoe’s guard and forced him back a few paces before he could recover.

  Farquhar said quietly, ‘See how his skill with a sword gives way to anger.’ He was speaking almost to himself. ‘Watch him. Pushing on, using up his strength.’ He nodded with silent appreciation. ‘He has a longer reach, and is a harder man than Mr. Pascoe, but . . .’

  Bolitho saw Pascoe’s hilt dart up and under the other man’s blade, twisting it aside and making it fly across the deck.

  Gilchrist stepped back, his eyes fixed on the sword point which was motionless, in line with his chest.

  ‘Good.’ Farquhar sauntered to the rail. ‘Well done.’ He looked at Gilchrist. ‘Both of you.’ He turned to the spellbound midshipmen. ‘I think that was quite a lesson, eh?’

  Bolitho took a slow breath. A lesson indeed. For all of them.

  The master’s mate of the watch, who had been following the spectacle with the others, suddenly looked up, his hands cupped around his ears.

  ‘Gunfire, sir!’

  Bolitho wrenched his thoughts from the sword-play.

  ‘Where away?’

  He heard it then, like surf on a rocky shore. Muffled, but plain for what it was.

  The master’s mate said, ‘To the east’rd, sir.’ He pointed across the starboard bow. ‘Sure of it.’

  Farquhar hurried past him. ‘That was well said, Mr. Bagley.’ He reached the compass and peered at it for several seconds. ‘I’d like permission to investigate, sir.’ He watched Bolitho, his mouth half smiling. ‘Before the wind leaves us with more time to ’er, fill.’

  Bolitho nodded. ‘Signal the squadron to make more sail. Harebell, too, if you can attract Commander Inch’s attention.’

  Farquhar strode to the rail as Gilchrist appeared on the larboard ladder.

  ‘Pipe all hands!’ His voice was crisp, indifferent to Gilchrist’s confusion. ‘Get the maincourse on her, and the stuns’ls, too, if need be.’ He paused, his head cocked to listen to the shrill of calls between decks. ‘We will let her fall off a couple of points.’ He glanced at the master’s mate. ‘And let us all hope Mr. Bagley’s estimate is correct.’

  As the men poured to their stations at the braces and at the foot of each mast, Pascoe hurried across the quarter-deck to supervise Luce’s signal party.

  Bolitho barred his way. ‘I am glad you are spared another cut, Adam.’

  The youth’s sunburned features split in a smile. ‘It was easy, Uncle.’

  Bolitho snapped, ‘That time perhaps. It was not of your making, I know that, too.’

  The smile vanished. ‘I am sorry, er, sir.’

  ‘If you want to cross swords again, then please ask me, Adam.’

  Pascoe hesitated and then smiled awkwardly. ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Now be off with you. I want our ships to see the signals today.’

  Farquhar joined him by the rail. ‘A fine young man, sir.’

  Their eyes met.

  Then Bolitho said calmly, ‘And I’d be obliged, Captain Farquhar, if we can keep him that way.’

  Farquhar smiled and walked forward to watch the men dashing aloft to the yards.

  Major Leroux appeared by the poop ladder and touched his hat.

  ‘It sounds like a pair of ships, sir. Probably Nicator or Buzzard getting to grips with a Frenchman.’

  Bolitho looked up as the great mainsail billowed free from its yard, the thunder of canvas drowning the distant sound of gunfire.


  ‘I hope you may be right, Major.’

  Leroux was watching his own men at the mizzen braces. In an almost conversational tone he said, ‘My Corporal Cuttler is an excellent marksman, sir. If he earned his living in a fairground he would doubtless be a man of wealth and property by now.’

  He walked away as Lieutenant Nepean hurried to him to make his report.

  Allday had come on deck and said, ‘He’s a dark one is Major Leroux, sir.’

  Bolitho looked at him. ‘In what way?’

  Allday gave a lazy smile. ‘He had that Corporal Cuttler down in the wardroom lobby. With his long musket he’s so proud of.’

  ‘D’you mean that he was ordering Cuttler to be ready to shoot?’ He stared at Allday’s smiling face.

  The coxswain shook his head. ‘Not exactly, sir. He asked him if he could shoot a sword out of a man’s hand, if necessary like.’

  Bolitho walked to the nettings. ‘I do not know about you, Allday.’

  He saw Leroux watching him, his features expressionless. For that brief moment he felt quite sorry for Gilchrist.

  *

  Bolitho leaned back to watch Lysander’s towering spread of canvas. Ship of the line perhaps, but Farquhar was driving her with the fanatical demand of a frigate captain.

  With the wind coming almost directly astern the ship was forging ahead well, her yards and shrouds creaking and vibrating under the tall pyramids of sails. Every so often her bow would dip and the forecastle would then be drenched in great showers of spray, like slivers of glass in the bright glare.

  Bolitho stood halfway up a poop ladder, feeling his hair blowing wildly as he peered ahead of the lifting and plunging bowsprit. The gunfire had ceased, and he could see dark brown smoke drifting along the horizon, the uncertain silhouette of a large ship under reduced sails.

  From the mainmast crosstrees he heard Luce yell, ‘She’s Nicator, sir!’

  Farquhar, who had sent Luce aloft with his big signals telescope, paused in his restless pacing and snapped, ‘I should damn well hope so!’ He glared at Fitz-Clarence. ‘What the hell is she firing at?’

  Luce called again, his voice excited, and totally unaware of the tensions far below his dizzy perch. ‘’Nother vessel on her lee side, sir! I think they’re grappling!’

  Farquhar swung round. ‘Mr. Pascoe. If you think it not too undignified for a lieutenant to swarm up the ratlines like a damn monkey, I’d be obliged for a more rational report.’

  Pascoe grinned and threw off his coat before hurrying to the main shrouds.

  Farquhar saw Bolitho watching and shrugged. ‘Luce comes of a good family, but I fear his powers of description would be better suited to poetry than to a man o’ war.’

  Bolitho raised his eyes to see Pascoe hanging out and down as he pulled himself around the futtock shrouds and up beyond the maintop. How easy he made it look. He turned his attention to the distant ships, unable to torture himself with his hatred of heights.

  ‘A glass, please.’

  He felt one handed to him and trained it through the angled rigging. Yes, it was easy to recognise Nicator’s bluff outline, the dull yellow paint of her figurehead. Beyond her hull he could see three masts, only one of which was square-rigged, as far as he could tell.

  He heard Pascoe shout, ‘Barquentine, sir! I can see her flag!’ A pause while Farquhar stared up at the swaying masthead until his eyes watered. ‘A Yankee, sir!’

  Farquhar turned and looked at Bolitho. He said sourly, ‘As if we haven’t troubles enough!’

  Bolitho tried to hide his disappointment from those who were watching his reactions. An American merchantman. Going about her affairs. There was nothing they could do about that, even if she was trading with the enemy. Blockade was one thing, but to provoke another war with the new United States would receive no praise from King and Parliament.

  Bolitho said, ‘Signal the rest of our ships to remain in the patrol area.’ He watched an out-thrust spur of land, almost hidden in mist and haze. ‘We have enough risk as it is, to be standing so close to the Isles of Hyères, without leading the whole squadron ashore.’

  Farquhar nodded. ‘Bosun’s mate! Call Mr. Luce to the deck!’

  Minutes later, in response to Luce’s signals, Osiris and the prize tacked heavily away from their leader to begin the long beat back to more open waters.

  Bolitho said, ‘Make to Nicator that we are joining her directly.’

  What was Probyn doing? It was natural enough to feel resentment at the sight of an American flag, especially to those, like Probyn, who had been taken prisoner during the revolution. But it was over and done with, and time for it to become a part of history. If a war was provoked by some act of stupidity, England would be worse off than ever. Fighting France and Spain, and an America which was now far more powerful than she had been those fifteen years back.

  ‘Nicator has acknowledged, sir.’ Luce sounded breathless from his hasty descent down a backstay.

  ‘Very well.’

  It took another half-hour to manoeuvre close enough to heave-to. By that time Nicator had ungrappled the American vessel, but as she had drifted downwind Bolitho had seen her poop spotted with the scarlet coats of Probyn’s marines.

  He snapped, ‘Call away my barge.’ He looked at Farquhar. ‘It’ll save time, if nothing else.’

  The barge was swayed up and over the lee gangway, the crew tumbling into her almost before she had touched the water alongside. Allday’s voice pursued the bargemen like a trumpet, and by the time Lysander was hove-to and Bolitho had reached the entry port, all was ready.

  He said quietly, ‘Keep a weather-eye open for Buzzard. She should be beating round from the east’rd shortly.’ He looked grimly at Farquhar’s handsome features. ‘I will send her to the admiral with my despatches.’

  Farquhar shrugged. ‘I am sorry. I’d hoped for something of value.’

  But Bolitho was already climbing down the entry port stairs, trying not to lower his head to watch the sea sluicing along the rounded hull and lifting the barge towards his legs.

  He paused, counting seconds, and then as the barge swam up beneath him he jumped out and down, Allday’s order to cast off coming before he had taken a proper breath.

  He sat in the sternsheets with as much dignity as he could manage and said, ‘To Nicator, Allday.’

  He watched the other seventy-four’s crossed yards towering above him, the slackness of some of her running-rigging. Like the man, he thought, untidy.

  Allday steered the barge around the ship’s great counter and towards her entry port. Bolitho was too busy watching the barquentine to care for Probyn’s feelings or the inconvenience of a visit from his commodore.

  She was a lean, graceful vessel, and her name, Santa Panla, stood out in rich gold against a completely black hull.

  ‘Toss your oars!’ Allday swung the tiller as the bowman hooked on to Nicator’s main chains.

  Bolitho said, ‘Return to the ship, Allday.’ He saw the sudden doubt. ‘It is all right this time. Nicator is still an English vessel, I trust!’

  Allday touched his forehead and grinned. ‘I’ll watch for your signal, sir.’

  Bolitho scrambled up to the entry port, noticing how scarred were the wooden stairs, while the chain plates of the main shrouds were badly dappled with red rust.

  He found Probyn waiting with the side-party, his portly figure doused with spray.

  He said, ‘I fear the reception is short-handed, sir, but my marines are aboard the Yankee.’

  ‘So I see.’ Bolitho began to walk aft, away from the curious faces by the port. ‘Now tell me. What happened?’

  Probyn stared at him. ‘We ran down on the barquentine at noon, sir. I guessed she was a runner trying to pass through our patrol, so I signalled her to heave-to.’ He nodded, sensing Bolitho’s mood. ‘I know we are not supposed to get involved with American neutrality, but –’

  ‘There is no but about it.’

  Bolitho glanced at t
he ship’s two helmsmen. They looked as if they were dressed in the same clothes as when they had been caught by the press. All the captains knew his opinion about that. He had put it in his written orders to ensure that every man, pressed or volunteer, should begin life aboard ship in a proper issue of slop clothing. It was such a cheap but vital thing that he was amazed at the stupidity of some captains who were so miserly they issued nothing until their wretched seamen were almost in rags. Probyn knew it well enough, and had outwardly complied. But out of sight, out of mind, apparently. He would deal with that later.

  He added, ‘What was your true reason?’

  Probyn led the way aft to his quarters. ‘I am badly short of hands, sir. I had to sail from England before I was given a fair chance of recruitment, otherwise . . .’

  Bolitho stared at him. ‘And you sent a party into an American ship to press some of her people?’

  Probyn paused and regarded him resentfully. ‘It is well known that hundreds, many hundreds, of our seamen desert to the American flag each year.’

  Bolitho did know it, and it was a very sore point indeed on both sides of the Atlantic. The British Government had stated that they considered any seamen to be fair game for a short-handed naval vessel, unless the American captains in question carried certificates of citizenship for all their people who were so entitled.

  The American President, on the other hand, was equally firm. He had demanded that once a man was signed into an American ship that was evidence enough the man was American. Documents could be destroyed or ignored. The American flag could not.

  He said, ‘We heard gunfire, too.’

  Probyn thrust past a marine sentry and answered, ‘The Yankee refused to heave-to even after a warning shot. I’ll not take that from anyone.’ He hesitated in the small lobby to the cabin. ‘I have her master aboard, under guard, sir.’ He sounded suddenly apprehensive. ‘Now that you are here, I suppose I had best hand him over to you?’

  Bolitho watched him coldly. ‘Take me to him.’

  The barquentine’s master was seated in the stern cabin with one of Probyn’s senior midshipmen for company. He stood up and eyed Bolitho with obvious surprise.