Signal, Close Action!

by Alexander Kent

  ‘Stand by the boat’s sternrope!’ He waited until Allday was at the bulwark with his axe. ‘You, too, Larssen, move smartly now!’ He saw a shadow by his feet and then looked up at the American flag. He grimaced and said, ‘I’ve dirtied that flag enough for one day, I’ll cut it down.’ But when he groped for his sword he realised that in all the excitement and his return from feverish oblivion he had forgotten to bring it on deck.

  A musket barked across the fast-narrowing strip of water, and he heard the ball smack into the opposite bulwark. The French boarders were all yelling now, baying like enraged hounds at the thought of their enemy trying to escape.

  Allday saw Bolitho’s expression and thrust his axe into the seaman’s hand. ‘Hold this! I’m going for the sword!’

  Bolitho yelled, ‘Leave it!’

  Another ball zipped past him, and then a whole fusilade of shots which threw splinters from the deck like darts and ricocheted in every direction.

  Bolitho heard Larssen cry out, and saw him sag to his knees, his eyes tightly closed as he tried to stem the blood which ran freely from his thigh.

  Bolitho controlled his racing thoughts, tried not to see the fuse in his mind. Five minutes. It must have been burning that long already.

  He dragged the seaman against the bulwark and heard Allday panting across the deck to join him.

  He gasped, ‘Hold him! We’ll jump together!’

  Then they were up on the bulwark, the wood still misty from the night air, and as Allday cut the boat’s long line the three of them fell like untidy bundles into the water, the severed rope wrapped around them.

  Down and down, the sunlight fading through a pink mist, which Bolitho’s reeling mind told him must be Larssen’s blood, and all the while he could feel the rope dragging like a snare, and knew Veitch’s crew were pulling at their oars like madmen. Despite all which was happening, he found he was thinking of the two men who had deserted at Malta. They would never know how fortunate their crime was at this moment. Had they remained aboard, it was doubtful if there would have been room for them in the one remaining boat, nor space to pull an oar.

  He saw the water brightening over his head, and as he broke surface, shaking hair from his eyes and gasping for breath, he caught sight of the longboat, its sail hoisted, and several figures waving and maybe cheering towards him.

  Larssen had fainted, and it was all he and Allday could do to hold his face above water, and at the same time cling to the boat’s sternrope which was being hauled hand-over-hand against the pressure of oars, sail and the drag of undertow around their legs.

  Allday gasped, ‘By God, I’d not want to do this very often!’

  Bolitho turned his head to speak and then felt his ears cringe as a deafening explosion tore the morning apart. He felt the shock-wave surge against his legs and chest, knocking the wind from his lungs and twisting the three of them round in the trailing rope like helpless puppets.

  Fragments of wood and cordage, huge yellow-coloured bundles of hay rained around them. A whole section of timber plunged straight down beside Allday, only to shoot up again like a jagged battering-ram, missing him by inches.

  Allday croaked, ‘Jesus! That was a near thing!’

  Bolitho managed to pivot himself, treading water as the deluge of shattered pieces subsided, and peered back at the two ships. In fact, there was only one, Segura having vanished completely, leaving a great widening circle of froth and bubbles, flotsam and scattered fodder, which would never feed French cavalry now.

  It was as if the Segura had bled to death even as she plunged to the bottom, for the froth which continued to swirl around in confusion was tinged with red. Every cask of wine must have burst apart with the gunpowder.

  The corvette was in a bad way. At first glance he had imagined that she had escaped the worst of the explosion, but as she swung unsteadily across the disturbed water he saw the weak sunlight play over a deep rent in her hull where her copper had been slit open like the belly of a shark. Her rigging and sails were in shreds, swaying like creeper as the hull tilted more steeply, hiding the hole in the side as the sea surged into her. Why she had not caught fire was a miracle, but Bolitho knew her captain would be hard put to save his surviving men, let alone prevent his command from following Segura.

  A shadow loomed above him, and he felt hands under his armpits, others reaching down to lift the inert Swede to safety.

  Veitch watched him, grinning, as he was hauled unceremoniously inboard with Allday.

  ‘You see, sir, I waited!’

  Bolitho lay back and stared at the sky. ‘It was close.’

  Allday was wringing out his shirt across the gunwale. ‘I gave the fuse ten minutes, sir. Otherwise . . .’ He said no more.

  Bolitho turned to look at him, his chest heaving painfully. He saw the weals across Allday’s back where the mounted trooper had used his whip. They were still very red, and would never vanish completely. He felt strangely sad about that. Allday had served at sea for most of his life and had avoided the lash throughout that time. In the Navy, it was no mean feat. And now, because of his courage and unwavering loyalty, he would wear those stripes to the end of his days.

  Impetuously, he reached out and touched Allday’s shoulder.

  ‘It was well done. And I am sorry about these.’

  Allday twisted round on the thwart and looked at him. ‘Still a long way to go to catch up with you, sir.’ He grinned, the tiredness, or some of it, fading. ‘I reckon you’ve got more scars than a cat’s got lives!’

  Bolitho smiled, sharing the moment only with Allday. ‘But none more honourable, my friend.’

  Veitch cleared his throat. ‘Where now, sir?’

  Bolitho struggled against the gunwale, watching the listless sail, and then turning to study the corvette. Someone fired a musket, and a seaman in the boat stood up to jeer.

  Bolitho said quietly, ‘Easy, lads. I know how you feel. But it was not fired at us that time. The corvette’s people are trying to rush the boats.’

  He looked at Veitch, seeing the slow understanding. A few officers, a terrified crew. It had happened to Bolitho, it was something which Veitch might never experience, if he was lucky.

  ‘She’s goin’!’

  The little corvette was beginning to turn turtle, her decks bared as she tilted towards the silent watchers. White feathers of spray showed where fragments from the explosion were falling from her masts, and a six-pounder cannon tore loose from the upended side and charged through the other bulwark, taking a handful of struggling figures with it.

  Across the blue water they could hear the faint cries and screams, the jubilant roar of inrushing water. The masts hit the surface almost together, smashing amongst some swimmers and cutting the one successfully launched boat in halves.

  Plowman said roughly, ‘Nuthin’ we can do for ’em, sir.’

  Bolitho did not answer. The master’s mate was right of course. The boat would be swamped, or at best his men would be taken prisoner by the overwhelming number of French survivors. To know it was one thing. To merely accept it was another.

  He heard Midshipman Breen sniffing loudly, and when he glanced along the boat he saw he was perched on a cask, the Swedish seaman, Larssen, cradled against his lap.

  Plowman climbed across the other men and asked, ‘What is it?’

  The boy stared aft at Bolitho and murmured, ‘He’s dead, sir.’

  Allday said, ‘Poor fellow.’ He sighed. ‘Put him over, lads.’

  But the midshipman clung to the man’s body, his eyes still on Bolitho. ‘B – but, sir, couldn’t, shouldn’t we say something for him?’ His freckled face was streaming with tears, and in the boat he alone seemed totally unaware of the sinking ship nearby, of anything but the man who just died beside him.

  Bolitho nodded slowly. ‘You do it, Mr. Breen.’

  He turned to watch Veitch, hearing Breen’s high-pitched, wavering words as he stumbled through a prayer he had learned, probably from his mother.
Nearby, he noticed that one of the seamen, a tough, experienced gun captain, had removed his neckerchief which he had been wearing over his head in readiness for the sun.

  He said quietly, ‘It is a hard lesson, Mr. Veitch.’

  ‘Aye.’ The lieutenant touched his arm, but gently, as if afraid of disturbing Breen’s words. ‘There she goes!’

  The corvette was slipping beneath the water, and already some of the survivors still afloat were swimming purposefully towards Segura’s longboat.

  There was a splash, and Bolitho saw Larssen’s face, very pale and misty below the surface as his body drifted clear of the side.

  ‘Out oars! Stand by!’

  A man in the bow yelled, ‘God damn them! Here comes another!’

  Out of the land’s shadow and morning mist, a small rectangle of pale canvas showed itself with sudden brightness in the sunlight. Some of the Frenchmen who were clinging to pieces of wreckage and broken spars raised a cheer, while in the longboat there was no sound at all.

  Bolitho snatched the brass telescope from the bottom-boards and trained it on the other vessel. She might stop to pick up survivors. A wind might rise in time to save them.

  He felt his mouth go dry. Then he said, ‘Rest easy, lads! She’s the Harebell!’

  With what wind remained held firmly under his coat tails, Inch brought the sloop steadily towards them, his boats already swayed out ready for launching.

  The corvette had practically gone now, and only her stern section, complete with its tricolour, was still visible.

  Bolitho watched Harebell turning into the wind, the boats dropping alongside as she idled close to the nearest cluster of swimmers. A jolly boat was speeding towards them now, and a young lieutenant stood up to hail, his face red with anger.

  ‘God damn you for a coward, M’sieu! Leaving your people to drown while you have a boat!’

  The boat surged closer, and Allday cupped his hands, barely able to restrain his huge grin.

  ‘Is that the way you always greet your commodore? Attention in that boat, I say!’

  While hands reached out to draw the two hulls together, and Bolitho clambered across to join the blushing lieutenant, he said calmly, ‘A few moments ago, I had a ship, too, Mr. McLean.’ He patted his arm. ‘But I can understand how it looked.’

  By the time they had reached the sloop’s side, Bolitho could see what excitement his appearance had caused. The embarrassed Lieutenant McLean had already explained that Harebell was on her way to Gibraltar with despatches for the admiral. Commander Inch, it appeared, was making a longer passage than he should have done, just in case he might have sighted the Segura. McLean left Bolitho in no doubt that it was just a brave gesture, and that hope had long since been given up.

  Bolitho hauled himself up the side and was greeted by a beaming Inch, whose voice was completely drowned by cheering sailors. He wrung Bolitho’s hand, his long horseface shining with pleasure and relief, while others pushed forward to pound their returned commodore on the shoulders.

  Veitch said harshly, ‘The commodore was near dead with fever. I fear he’ll die of bruises in a minute, sir!’

  Inch led Bolitho aft, bobbing with excitement. Bolitho realised with surprise that there was a woman in the small cabin, and she, too, seemed as overcome as Inch.

  Inch said, ‘This is Mrs. Boswell, sir. On passage for England. I am to take her to Gibraltar with me.’

  Bolitho nodded to her. ‘I must apologise for all this, Ma’am.’ He looked meaningly at Inch. ‘We will return to Syracuse with all speed.’

  ‘Yes, of course I understand.’ She dabbed at her eyes.

  Bolitho asked, ‘Well, Commander Inch, tell me everything. Is all the squadron still at anchor then?’

  Some of Inch’s pleasure seemed to fade. ‘All but Lysander and Buzzard, sir. Javal is away on his own mission, but Lysander has gone, I am told, to Corfu.’

  Bolitho sat down and plucked at his frilled Spanish shirt. ‘So Captain Farquhar intends to use his own initiative, eh?’

  Inch looked uncomfortable, even wretched. ‘No, sir. Captain Herrick has been given Lysander. Sir Charles Farquhar, as he now is, commands the squadron in Syracuse. He intends to wait there.’ He wavered under Bolitho’s grim stare. ‘Until a fleet comes under the flag of Sir Horatio Nelson.’

  Bolitho stood up, ducking beneath the beams, until he had reached the open stern windows.

  Herrick had gone. Alone. The rest was as clear as the water below the transom.

  He heard the woman say, ‘He is a good man, I met him before he sailed.’

  Bolitho turned towards her. ‘He is, Ma’am.’

  Inch said, ‘When we heard the explosion we thought some great vessel had blown up.’

  ‘Segura’s cargo. We had to rejoin the squadron. That corvette thought otherwise.’

  He recalled the midshipman’s face, the Swede’s cheerful acceptance of orders he sometimes did not even understand. Allday’s scarred back.

  He added harshly, ‘So rejoin it we will, and as fast as you can manage!’

  The Harebell’s first lieutenant appeared in the doorway, his eyes avoiding Bolitho as he reported, ‘We have picked up thirty Frenchmen, sir. The captain was not one of them.’

  He said as an afterthought, ‘The master says that the wind is a piece stronger and has backed further to the sou’-west.’

  Inch nodded, his long face set in a frown. To Bolitho he said, ‘I believe you have met Mr. McLean, my senior, sir?’

  Bolitho smiled gravely. ‘Indeed. I had met him before when he came aboard Lysander with you on one occasion. It seems that the Navy is unchanged. Whereas lieutenants never remember their superiors, even commodores can recognise their lieutenants!’

  Inch glared at the lieutenant. ‘Call all hands and make sail. It will be hard work, but I want Harebell at her anchor by mid-afternoon!’

  Bolitho sat down again, his limbs suddenly weak.

  Inch said, ‘I will go on deck, if I may.’ He hesitated. ‘I am indeed glad to be the one to find you, sir. Captain Herrick would have been pleased if –’ He hurried from the cabin.

  The woman said quietly, ‘We spoke for a long time. I found Captain Herrick’s story, his life, quite fascinating.’

  Bolitho studied her for the first time. She was a pleasant looking woman, probably in her early thirties. She had a nice skin, and dark brown eyes to match her hair. It was all there in the way she had spoken of Herrick. Love denied. Love still to offer, perhaps.

  He replied, ‘I intend to find him, Ma’am. When I have spoken with Captain Farquhar I hope to know a great deal more than I do now!’

  He had spoken with unusual sharpness, and she said, ‘I think that Captain Farquhar is a man with great ambition.’

  He smiled, liking her and her quick appreciation.

  ‘Superior ambition does not necessarily breed superior ability, Ma’am. I should have known that earlier. Much earlier. I pray to God I’ve not learned the lesson too late.’

  Her hand moved to her neck. ‘For Captain Herrick?’

  ‘For Thomas, and a whole lot more, Ma’am.’

  Allday peered through the door. ‘Could you get him to lay down, Ma’am? He’s done enough for a regiment today.’

  She nodded. ‘I will.’ As Allday withdrew she asked, ‘Is he one of your contemporaries?’

  Bolitho lay back in the chair and shook his head, feeling the strain fading with his strength.

  ‘No. He is my coxswain, and a good friend. But as a contemporary I fear he would soon be my superior. And that would be too much.’

  She watched his eyelids droop, his head loll to the sloop’s easy motion.

  Bolitho was not quite as she had expected from what Herrick had told her. He seemed younger, for one who had carried so many, and who had experienced so much. Sensitive, too, something he obviously regarded as a flaw, and tried to hide with sternness.

  She smiled. She was quite wrong. He was exactly as Herrick had described.

/>   *

  Farquhar stood quite still by the cabin screen, watching while Bolitho read carefully through the admiral’s despatches.

  Bolitho sat on the bench seat, the papers spread on the deck between his feet while he leaned above them, his elbows resting on his knees. On the seat beside him was a piece of fresh bread and a crock of butter which Manning had sent aboard that morning. Bolitho had eaten almost a whole loaf, liberally smeared with butter, and had washed it down with, to Farquhar’s estimation, seven cups of coffee.

  Bolitho looked up, his eyes searching. ‘And you were going to remain here, were you?’ He tapped the scattered papers. ‘Did this mean nothing to you?’

  Farquhar faced him calmly. ‘If my assessment of the situation was different from yours, sir, then –’

  Bolitho stood up, his eyes blazing. ‘Don’t make speeches to me, Captain Farquhar! You read these despatches, the findings in the report on the artillery we captured, yet you saw nothing!’ He stooped and snatched up two sheets of paper and thrust them on the table in a single movement. ‘Read it! These cannon are forty-five-pounders. The military tested one, although to them it was probably unnecessary.’ He tapped the table in time to his words. ‘It can fire a forty-five-pound ball over five thousand yards. If you rate that unimportant, then you must be a fool! How far does the biggest gun in the fleet fire?’ He strode to the quarter windows, his voice bitter. ‘Let me refresh your memory. A thirty-two-pounder can reach three thousand yards. With luck, and a good gun captain.’

  Farquhar retorted angrily, ‘I do not see what that has to do with us, sir.’

  ‘No, that is quite obvious.’ He turned to face him. ‘The French people expect a great victory. After their bloody revolution they may well demand such matters. And so to conquer Egypt, and reach far beyond, their fleet must first command the sea. Once safely beneath the protection of artillery such as these great cannon, the French could anchor an armada, several armadas, and know that there was not an English ship which could not be pounded to boxwood before she could grapple with them!’