Signal, Close Action!

by Alexander Kent

  With a gasp he struggled up in a sitting position as a thin yellow line opened the opposite darkness like thread. Wider still, and then a face, unfamiliar against a lantern in the passageway beyond the door.

  The face vanished and he heard someone yell, ‘He’s awake! He’s going to be all right!’

  The next few minutes were the worst in some ways. Allday cradling him against the vessel’s motion, Lieutenant Veitch peering down at him, his face split into a wider grin than he had ever seen. Midshipman Breen’s carrot head bobbing about in a sort of jig, and others crowding into the small cabin and giving vent to what sounded like a dozen different tongues.

  Veitch ordered, ‘Clear the cabin, lads.’

  Allday made Bolitho lie back, and said, ‘Good to have you back with us, sir. God, you’ve had a bad time, and that’s no error.’

  Bolitho tried to speak but his tongue felt twice its proper size. He managed to croak, ‘H-how long?’ He saw Veitch and Allday exchange quick glances and added, ‘Must know!’

  Veitch said quietly, ‘All but three weeks, sir, since you –’

  Bolitho tried to push Allday aside but was helpless. No wonder he felt weak and empty. Three weeks.

  He whispered, ‘What happened?’

  Veitch said, ‘After we got you back aboard we thought it better to stay at anchor in Valletta. It seemed safe enough, and I was troubled, fearful, if you like, of taking you to sea as you were.’

  Allday stood up slowly, his head bowed between the beams. ‘I’ve never seen you so bad, sir.’ He sounded exhausted. ‘We was at our wits’ ends as to what to do.’

  Bolitho looked from one to the other, some of his anxiety giving way to warmth. For three weeks, while he had been helpless and confined in his own private torment, these others had fended as best they could. Had nursed him, without caring for themselves, or what delay might cost them. As his eyes grew accustomed to the yellow light he saw the deep shadows around Allday’s face, the stubble on his chin. Veitch, too, looked worn out, like a prisoner from the hulks.

  He said, ‘I was thinking only of myself.’ He reached out. ‘Take my hands, Both of you.’

  Allday’s teeth were white in his tanned face. ‘Bless him, Mr. Veitch, he must be feeling a mite better.’ But he had to look away, at a rare loss for words.

  Bolitho said, ‘Tell me again. I will try to be patient and not interrupt.’

  It was a strange tale which Veitch and Allday shared. Strange because it represented part of his life which he had missed. Which now he could never regain.

  Within a day of his return aboard an official had come alongside and ordered them to remain at anchor until all risk of fever had gone. Veitch had been worried at Bolitho’s desperate condition, but had not missed the fact that two of his seamen had deserted. A coincidence? He could not be sure. But from that moment he had made plans for leaving harbour before some unbreakable restriction was placed upon them. For several days the Segura had remained apparently unheeded, a warning yellow flag at her masthead, while the morale of her small company had crumbled and stores had run lower and lower.

  As he listened to their story, Bolitho wondered if the French agent, Yves Gorse, had received some word that Segura’s crew were impostors. By having them held at anchor he may have done his best to delay them while he sent word elsewhere that the enemies of France were no longer at Gibraltar or off Toulon, but inside Malta. He could, after all, do little else without revealing his own role as a foreign spy.

  Allday took up the story. ‘Two sentries came aboard next. Mr. Plowman suggested that it was the best time to leave. Others on shore would drop their guard once responsibility was shifted.’

  Bolitho managed to smile. Plowman, if he was an ex-slaver, would certainly know about such matters.

  ‘There was a squall one night. Sharp and fierce, an’ not too much in our favour. But it was then or not at all, Mr. Plowman said, so we cuts the cable and makes sail.’

  ‘The sentries?’

  Allday grinned. ‘We met with a Genoese trader two days later and we put ’em aboard her.’ He became serious again. ‘It was a good thing. By speaking with the trader we heard that a French man o’ war was nearby. A corvette, by the description. Looking for us, waiting to contact the agent in Malta, we don’t know.’ He patted the crumpled bunk and added quietly, ‘We had more important things to attend to.’

  Bolitho ran his fingers through his hair. ‘Bring more light. I must get up. But why three weeks?’

  ‘We’ve been lying up in a little bay to the south’rd of Sicily. The squall, which damn near flung us back into Valletta, was a hard one, but it was gone again in no time.’ Veitch could not suppress a great yawn. ‘So we anchored and did what we could. I think you nearly died, sir.’

  Breen entered the cabin with another lantern. Unlike the others, he was able to walk upright.

  Bolitho swung his legs to the deck and allowed Allday to help him to a broken mirror on the bulkhead. He studied the hollows in his cheeks, the feverish stare, the filthy stains on his shirt.

  He said, ‘I’ll not tell you what you should have done.’

  Veitch shrugged. ‘We did not know what had passed between you and the Frenchman, sir.’ He added grimly, ‘But in any case, I’d have made the same decision. Your life would have come first.’

  Bolitho studied Veitch in the mirror. ‘Thank you for that.’

  Allday said, ‘We sighted the corvette a couple of times, but she didn’t come near our little anchorage.’ He watched Bolitho’s worn features and explained, ‘As it is, sir, we’re now under way and steering north for Syracuse. Mr. Veitch said that with all the calms we’ve been having, it was best to sail at night. This old barrico is no match for a Frog corvette!’

  ‘I see.’

  He rubbed his chin and despised himself for his sudden thought. A shave and a bath seemed more precious than anything.

  Allday continued, ‘Yesterday morning it was. I was forcing some brandy into your mouth and you spoke to me. I think we knew then that we must quit the bay. A proper surgeon is what you need now.’

  Bolitho grimaced. ‘The squadron will have sailed long since. Even without my new information, Farquhar will have weighed.’

  Veitch asked, ‘You were right then, sir?’

  ‘I think we all knew, Mr. Veitch.’ He recalled the cool wine store, the sweat on his back changing from fire to ice. ‘Gorse hinted that the French will seize Malta on their way to Egypt.’

  ‘I’m not surprised, sir.’ Veitch sounded weary. ‘From what I saw in Malta, most of the defences have been allowed to fall into ruin.’

  ‘With Malta taken, and a goodly supply of weapons and stores for a full scale invasion building up in Corfu, the French have nothing to stop them.’ He gave a tired smile. ‘So we must send word to the admiral. In this wretched vessel, if necessary.’

  Veitch walked to the door. ‘It will be dawn in an hour, sir. With luck, and provided that this whisper of a wind does not desert us, we will reach Syracuse during the afternoon watch.’

  He paused by the door. ‘I must relieve Mr. Plowman, sir.’

  Allday waited until the door was closed and then said, ‘He has the makings of a good officer, sir.’

  ‘You think that?’

  ‘Aye.’ Allday helped him to a chair. ‘He is better tempered than some.’

  Bolitho watched him, content to remain where he was, despite all the urgency at the back of his mind. He could tell merely by watching Allday what the days and the weeks had cost him. He could not have slept for more than minutes at a time.

  Allday said brightly, ‘I washed a Don shirt that I found in a locker, and Larssen cleaned up your breeches.’ He turned into the lantern light, a razor in his hand. ‘So now, sir, we’ll make you a bit more presentable, shall we?’

  Later, as a pink glow showed itself through the filthy cabin skylight, Bolitho stood up in his Spanish shirt and examined himself in the mirror.

  Allday was wiping his raz
or on part of a flag. ‘You know, sir, and I know, but the lads will think you’re just as you were.’

  The razor froze in mid-air as a voice called, ‘Deck thar! Sail on th’ weather bow!’

  Allday reached out and gripped his arm. ‘Easy now, sir! Mr. Veitch is able to manage!’

  Bolitho looked at him gravely. ‘Mr. Veitch has been made to manage for too long. And so have you.’ He fought against the ringing in his ears. ‘Help me on deck.’

  For such a small vessel it seemed a vast distance to the poop.

  The sea looked very calm, and the hint of sunrise gave the water a strange pink hue, beyond which the vague humps of land seemed ugly. Bolitho seized the rail and sucked in great gulps of air. After the cabin it was like wine. He looked up at the loosely flapping sails. Barely enough wind to hold them on course. He nodded to Veitch and Plowman, not daring to trust his voice or his breath. When the sun showed itself in earnest he would see the Sicilian coastline across the larboard bulwark more clearly, be able to fix their position.

  He stiffened as the pink light touched a small square of sail, far away across the larboard bow. The uncertain light made it seem a great distance off, but soon she would cut the range down as if by magic.

  He turned and looked at Veitch. ‘One of ours perhaps?’

  Veitch closed his class with a snap. ‘No, sir. It’s that same damned corvette again!’

  Bolitho sensed the bitter despair in his voice. After all he and the others had done, the corvette was still with them. Standing like a pike between a helpless duckling and the nearest reeds.

  He thought of Segura’s armament and dismissed it. Two or three swivels and the men’s own muskets. It only made the comparison more cruel.

  He snapped, ‘How far from the land are we?’ He was surprised by the strength in his voice.

  ‘Two leagues, sir. No more by my reckonin’.’ Plowman regarded him doubtfully. ‘The water’s very deep hereabouts, and I’d hoped to run closer inshore, but for the bloody wind, beggin’ your pardon, sir!’

  He wished he could pace up and down and gather his thoughts, but knew his strength would fail instantly.

  Six miles out. It might as well be six hundred.

  He heard Breen say shakily, ‘With all that powder stored below, we’ll blow to dust at the first shot!’

  Bolitho turned and looked at him. ‘Well said, Mr. Breen!’ He lurched to the wheel and held on to it. ‘Allday, have the boat lowered.’

  ‘It is, sir.’ Allday peered at him anxiously through the pink gloom. ‘Towing below the counter.’

  ‘Good, good.’ He had to keep talking, to stop the dizziness returning. ‘Rig a mast and sails in her and warp her around to the lee side, so that the Frenchman won’t see her.’

  Veitch exclaimed, ‘We’d never outrun a corvette, sir.’

  ‘Don’t intend to.’ He bared his teeth, pretending to grin. ‘Make up a long fuse and set it to the powder hold.’ He saw Veitch’s disbelief but hurried on, ‘We’ll let the corvette grapple us, and then bear away in the longboat.’

  Plowman cleared his throat. ‘But suppose the Frogs don’t grapple, sir? They might send a boardin’ party instead.’ He looked meaningly at Veitch, as if to indicate that he thought the fever was still controlling Bolitho as before.

  Bolitho took the glass from his hand and trained it across the rail. The French corvette was much sharper already. She had the wind-gage and was setting her topgallants to take full advantage of it.

  He returned the glass and said slowly, ‘We shall have to wait and see, Mr. Plowman. Now get that fuse, and be sharp about it.’

  As Allday made to leave he caught his arm and asked, ‘When I called out during the fever. Did I ask for anyone?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Allday looked towards the sunrise. ‘You called for Cheney, sir. Your wife.’

  Bolitho nodded. ‘Thank you.’

  Midshipman Breen hurried after Allday and whispered nervously, ‘But is not the commodore’s wife dead?’

  ‘Aye.’ He paused above the bobbing longboat and looked towards Bolitho by the wheel. ‘An’ more’s the pity for it.’

  13

  Pursuit

  BOLITHO CROUCHED OVER the Segura’s flaking companion hatch and scribbled hastily on a small piece of paper. He was aware of the strengthening light, a hint of warmth after the first dawn air, but forced his mind to concentrate. Every so often he had to pause and gather his strength for fear that the fever was returning.

  Once, when he half rose to peer above the larboard bulwark he saw the French corvette’s yards and sails edging round, her slender jib boom displaying her intention to run down her quarry on a simple converging tack.

  Not much more than a mile separated the smart man-of-war and the badly-used Segura.

  Bolitho folded the paper carefully and moved to Veitch’s side. ‘Take this with you.’ He slipped it into the lieutenant’s pocket. ‘It tells all I know.’ Suspect was more the word. ‘So, if I fall, you must get this message to higher authority as best you can.’

  Plowman called hoarsely, ‘The Frenchie’s shortenin’ sail, sir.’

  Veitch nodded. ‘He’ll be up to us very soon now.’

  Bolitho ran his eye along the deck. It was tilting even less now, and with the light airs barely able to fill each sail, his plan was decided. If there had ever been any choice, he thought grimly.

  Allday came aft. ‘Fuse set and ready, sir. Should give us a quarter-hour.’

  Bolitho trained a telescope on the corvette. ‘Too long. Cut it as close as you dare. Five minutes.’

  He heard them gasp but watched the French ship drawing nearer, her sails braced round to retain the wind, showing her bilge in the strengthening sunlight as she heeled jauntily on her new tack.

  Plowman remarked, ‘Look at ’er copper. She’s not long out of port!’

  Bolitho felt a shiver of excitement. One of de Brueys’s vessels perhaps? Part of a scattered line of scouts which in turn would lead the admiral’s mighty fleet into open seas and to Egypt. He thought of all the information, certain and hearsay, and knew it represented far more than the solitary corvette which was blocking their path to safety. Like a great colossus, de Brueys’s fleet of transports and ships of the line would stride via Malta, using it as a stepping-stone, before setting down again on the Egyptian shore. And thence to India, and all the trade and possessions which England had so nearly lost in that other war.

  He said, ‘Get the hands into the boat, if you please.’

  He waited, expecting further argument from Veitch or Plowman.

  The lieutenant merely said, ‘I’ll not cast off without you, sir. And that’s my last word on it.’

  Bolitho smiled. ‘You’d disobey your commodore, Mr. Veitch? In time of war it could hang you!’

  They both laughed, and Veitch answered, ‘A risk I’ll take, sir.’

  The seamen were already scrambling over the lee bulwark, and Bolitho hoped that nobody aboard the French ship had noticed anything unusual. After all, there was little point in trying to outpace a man-of-war as lively as a corvette. And to attempt an escape in a longboat, with the Mediterranean and not dry land across the bows, was a measure of madness.

  Allday came aft again, breathing heavily. ‘Fuse ready, sir.’ He squinted at the other vessel. Three guns had been run out. Small six-pounders, they would be enough for the elderly Segura, even without her lethal cargo. He added, ‘There’s just us left.’ He gestured to the wheel. ‘And this mad Swede.’

  Larssen grinned, his face as devoid of fear as a child’s. ‘Aye, so I am, sir!’

  There was a sharp crack, and as they turned to see a puff of smoke from the corvette’s side, a single ball ripped through the fore-rigging and threw up a thin waterspout, away on the starboard quarter.

  Bolitho gave a quiet smile. ‘Signal received and understood.’ He nodded to Allday. ‘Get forrard, and start shouting at your invisible crew.’

  He knew that the French captain must be watchi
ng Segura and probably himself. He darted a quick glance at the longboat, as the bows and then the rest of it slewed awkwardly away from the lee side, every inch of it filled with men and oars, and the jumble of mast and canvas which Veitch was preparing to raise.

  Bolitho took the spokes and said, ‘Hoist the flag, Larssen.’

  The Swede grinned, and moments later the American colours broke once again from the gaff.

  It brought an instant response in another sharp explosion, and this time the six-pound ball smashed into Segura’s hull, shaking her violently like a great hammer.

  Bolitho had not expected the corvette to be fooled. But it all took time, and from one corner of his eye he saw Veitch waving his hat back and forth to show that he was ready.

  There was a thump from forward, and he watched Allday jump clear with an axe as the tanned jib sail came crashing down around him in a flailing heap. It seemed to satisfy the Frenchman, for her captain was already bringing her round to run almost parallel, keeping Segura to leeward, while her men shortened sail yet again in readiness to drive alongside. Sailors were clambering into the shrouds with grapnels, and there was a glint of metal as a boarding party ran smartly towards the forecastle for the first contact.

  Bolitho felt the wheel bucking in his hands, as deprived of her jib, Segura idled heavily, her sails in trembling agitation.

  ‘Light the fuse!’

  He heard Allday dash below, and then handed the wheel back to the Swede. He saw a seaman on the corvette’s mainyard pointing and gesticulating, and guessed he had seen the longboat and was trying to yell his information to the poop above the din of sails and blocks, of shouting men, eager for a fight, even a one-sided one.

  Bolitho made himself remain beside the wheel. If he ran too soon, the Frenchman would still be able to sheer away. He thought of the hissing fuse below decks, and hoped Allday had not been too exhausted to estimate the proper length.

  ‘Fuse burning!’

  Allday was covered in wisps of hay, as if he had just fought his way out of a farmyard stack. He had probably taken the fuse clear of the stored fodder in the other hold to avoid a premature explosion.