Signal Close Action

by Alexander Kent

  He heard himself say, ‘It was an admiral’s once. It belongs to Mr. Pascoe.’ He touched the stain on the hilt. Blood and wet sand. He added quietly, ‘He would not part willingly with it.’

  The others stared at him.

  Then Mears said, ‘Mr. Booth searched as long as he could, sir. There were many hoofmarks in the beach, leading from inland. He feared that his own party might be challenged at any moment, and I had given him a direct order to return to me if –’

  ‘He did not find the lieutenant anywhere?’

  Mears shook his head. ‘Nor your man either.’

  ‘No.’ Bolitho stared out of the streaked windows. ‘Allday would not leave him.’

  ‘Sir?’

  Bolitho turned towards them. ‘What of the schooner?’

  Mears collected his wits. ‘You were right, sir, She is filled to the deck beams with powder and shot. And –’ he looked at Javal’s grim face, ‘– two of the finest cannon I have ever laid eyes on. Siege artillery, if I’m any judge, and only newly tested.’

  ‘I see.’

  Bolitho tried to concentrate his mind on what their capture could mean. Adam was gone. Allday, too. Probably out there dying. Waiting for a rescue which could never come.

  Mears said, ‘I am afraid the schooner’s master was killed when he tried to jump overboard. But I found papers and charts in his cabin. Enough to show that he had orders for Toulon.’

  Javal exclaimed, ‘By God, you were right about that, too, sir. The Dons are working like fiends to help their powerful ally at Toulon!’ He dragged a bottle from one of his sea chests. ‘You did well, Toby. Take a drink while we decide what to do.’ He looked at Bolitho. ‘The wind is rising, sir. We had best get under way again.’

  ‘Yes.’ Bolitho felt the deck lurching unsteadily as the wind hissed against the hull. ‘Detail a prize crew to take the schooner direct to Gibraltar. Fetch your clerk and dictate a despatch for the admiral there. He will know what best to do about the cannon.’

  Mears grinned wearily. ‘She is a fair little prize, sir. Worth a penny or two.’

  Javal glared at him and said quickly, ‘I am sorry about your lieutenant, sir. Had you known him long?’

  ‘He is my nephew.’

  The two officers looked at each other, appalled.

  Javal said, ‘By God, if I’d only known, sir, I would have sent one of my other officers.’

  Bolitho looked at him gravely. ‘You did what was right. You were short-handed. But in any case, honour and danger must be shared as equally as possible.’

  Mears suggested, ‘If I took one of the boats under sail, sir?’

  ‘No.’ Bolitho looked past him. ‘In daylight you would stand less than a dog’s chance.’ He turned his back. ‘Carry on with your duties, Captain Javal. There is nothing we can do here.’

  The screen door slammed shut and Bolitho sat down heavily on the bench seat below the windows. He turned the broken sword over several times in his hands, seeing the boy’s pleasure at receiving it, his pitiful pride when they had met for the first time.

  He looked up, startled, as if he expected to see Allday nearby, as he always was when he sensed he was needed. Now there was not even him. There was nobody.

  Somewhere beyond the bulkhead he heard a sailor singing some strange song which he did not recognise. Probably dreaming of his tiny share of the prize money, or of some girl back in England.

  Feet clattered overhead, and he heard someone bawl, ‘Bring the boats alongside and man the tackles!’ The recovered boats were thudding against the hull, and he thought he heard someone give a cheer as the schooner made ready to part company.

  Javal opened the door, his face wet with rain. ‘Schooner’s about to leave, sir. Are you sure you do not wish to send a separate despatch to the admiral?’

  ‘No, thank you. You were in charge of the cutting-out. It is right that your name should be on the despatch.’

  Javal licked his lips. ‘Well, thank you indeed, sir. I just wish there was something I could do about –’ He broke off as voices shouted across the upper deck and the hull dipped more heavily in the wind. ‘I’d better go, sir. Get her under way before we lose a spar or two.’

  He hurried out, and moments later Bolitho heard his voice through the partly open skylight.

  ‘Set the forecourse, Mr. Mears, though I fear we will have to take in a reef or so before long. We are rejoining the squadron.’

  ‘By God, I’d not have his conscience on a matter like this, sir.’

  Javal’s reply was swift and sad. ‘Conscience does not come into it, Toby. Responsibility sweeps it out of the window.’

  *

  Allday sat with his shoulders against a slab of broken rock and watched the horses which were picketed at the foot of a slope. Across his lap Pascoe lay quite still, his eyes shut in a tight frown as if he were dead. Squatting or lying dejectedly nearby, six other sailors were waiting like Allday to see what was going to happen next.

  He squinted up at the sky, wishing the rain would return to ease his raging thirst. By the set of the sun it must be about noon, he decided. Around him the rough, winding track appeared to turn inland. He sighed. Away from the sea.

  He felt Pascoe stir on his cramped legs and placed one hand across his mouth.

  ‘Easy, Mr. Pascoe!’

  He saw his dark eyes staring up at him, the pain and the memory of what had happened flooding back.

  ‘We are resting a while.’ He nodded carefully towards the soldiers by the horses. ‘Or they are any rate.’

  As Pascoe made to move he pressed one hand on his chest. It felt cool despite the sun overhead. He brushed a fly away from the livid scar on Pascoe’s ribs, the mark which had been left by the duel at Gibraltar.

  ‘What . . . what happened?’

  Pascoe felt his body as if to seek out his limbs one by one. Like the rest of them he was without shoes or belt, and wore only breeches and the remains of his shirt.

  Allday murmured, ‘The bastards took everything they could. I think they killed two of our lads back on the road because they were wounded and couldn’t keep pace with the horses.’

  He thought of the pitiful screams and then the silence, and was glad Pascoe had been unconscious.

  ‘Then how did I –’ Pascoe’s eyes clouded over. ‘You carried me this far?’

  Allday tried to grin. ‘The soldiers are not Dons but native troops. Moors most likely. But even these bastards recognise an officer.’

  He watched the soldiers warily, wondering where they were being taken. And it had all happened so suddenly. The sound of horses’ hoofs squeaking in the wet sand just a few yards from the beach where they had dragged the boat. A patrol, some soldiers returning to camp, he still did not know or care.

  In minutes the horsemen would have passed them by, too busy with idle chatter to notice the inert shapes along the beach.

  But Pascoe had said, ‘They will see Lieutenant Mears and the two boats, Allday.’ There had not even been a slight hesitation. ‘If they warn the schooner our people will be cut down whatever they try to do.’

  And so while Mears and his men had taken the schooner intact, on the other side of the headland Pascoe had made his stand.

  With drawn sword he had run up the beach shouting, ‘At ’em, lads!’

  It had ended just as swiftly. The clash of steel, men cursing and slashing in the darkness while the horses wheeled like great shadows from all sides.

  Pascoe had been knocked senseless by a sabre, and the seamen had thrown down their weapons. The soldiers had stripped them of their possessions and had beaten them systematically without emotion or any sign of pleasure. Then, kicking and punching the dazed men they had driven them ahead of the horses, on to the road, away from the sea.

  Pascoe licked his dry lips and then touched the bruise on his head. ‘It feels like hammers on an anvil.’

  ‘Aye.’

  Allday tensed as the senior horseman shouted something to his companions. They
were well armed. A dozen in all. He glanced at the surviving sailors. They looked beaten. Frightened.

  The horseman walked slowly towards the little group and stood looking down at Pascoe. He was tall and very dark, and wore a pale-coloured fez with a dangling cloth to protect his neck from the glare. He pointed with his whip and nodded at Pascoe.

  ‘Teniente! Teniente!’

  He gave a slow smile, displaying some very yellow teeth, then spat deliberately on Pascoe’s leg.

  Allday struggled free of Pascoe’s body and lurched to his feet.

  ‘You mind your manners, you bloody hound, when you’re talking to a King’s officer!’

  The man stepped back, the smile vanishing as he yelled to his men.

  Allday felt his arms pinioned by at least three soldiers before he was thrown face down on the wet sand, his wrists wedged to the ground by the boots of his captors. He kept his eyes on Pascoe’s pale face, willing him to remain still.

  The biting slash of a whip across his spine was like a hot iron. He clamped his jaws together, holding his breath as the shadow of the man’s arm rose and fell again. And again.

  He concentrated his stare on two small insects which were moving by his face, shutting out the voices above him, the swish of the whip, the searing pain on his bare skin.

  Then it stopped, and he rolled to one side as one of them kicked him savagely in the ribs. Half blinded with sweat and sand he staggered to his feet, seeing Pascoe’s face and knowing that the soldiers wanted just one excuse to kill all of them.

  But they were mounting their horses, calling to each other as if nothing out of the ordinary had occurred.

  Pascoe gripped his arm. ‘Let me help.’ He tore off his shirt and dabbed at Allday’s scarred back. ‘It was all my fault!’

  ‘Now don’t you think like that, Mr. Pascoe. You did what was right an’ proper, and well you know it. You could have lain low and we’d have got back to Buzzard with no bother.’ He gritted his teeth as the bloodied shirt moved across his skin. ‘But a whole lot of our lads would have paid for it.’

  The horsemen wheeled round them, and a sailor cried out as one struck him with his whip. They moved off along the road again, their bare feet soon bleeding on stones and rough chippings, their tongues almost clinging to their lips with thirst.

  Allday looked up briefly as the senior horseman cantered to the head of the ragged procession, and felt slightly better. He had someone to hate. Someone who would be the first to know it, if once he got the chance. He turned painfully to watch Pascoe. He was striding along at the head of the little group, his jaw set against the pain, his dark eyes fixed on some point in the far distance.

  God, he thought, our Dick would be proud of him. If only he was here to see.

  *

  The air in Lysander’s cabin was oppressive and heavy. Bolitho spread the chart beneath his hands and stared at it for several minutes. He had returned aboard less than an hour back and was still wearing the same clothes, his chin rough for the want of a shave.

  Over his shoulder, her hull and reduced sails bending and wavering through the thick glass windows, the Osiris followed obediently in Lysander’s wake, with the other two-decker astern of her.

  Farquhar and Probyn were sitting on opposite sides of the table, while Herrick waited by Bolitho’s elbow, his face anxious as he watched the brass dividers and rule moving across the chart.

  Bolitho said, ‘The schooner which Captain Javal took two days back carried a few other items of interest. She was en route for Toulon, but there was a letter addressed to the captain of another, and I suspect larger ship, which is now lying here,’ he rested the points of the dividers on the coastline, ‘some forty miles sou’-west of Cartagena. A small bay used by fishermen, I believe, but now probably taken for a safe anchorage by Spanish transports.’ The dividers ran along and up the coast towards the Gulf of Lions. ‘All the way there must be such ships waiting to carry materials of war to Bonaparte’s army. He must be preparing for an invasion.’

  Herrick asked quietly, ‘What do you intend, sir?’

  ‘Had I known the content of the letter I would have held on to the schooner and used her against her old masters.’ The dividers beat a slow rhythm on the chart. ‘But no matter. The Dons will not know she has been taken yet. There is still time.’

  Probyn said bluntly, ‘Unless some of the landing party were captured, sir. Made to tell what they know of our intentions.’

  Herrick snapped, ‘That’s a bloody stupid thing to say!’

  ‘No, Thomas.’ Bolitho looked at him impassively. ‘It is a possibility. We must face up to it.’

  Try as he might Herrick could not drag his gaze from the broken sword which now lay on Bolitho’s desk.

  He said, ‘I find it hard, sir.’

  ‘I know.’ He held his gaze for a few seconds. ‘He is close to you also.’

  He turned away, forcing himself to retain control of his emotions. Is, is, is. He must not allow himself to think of Adam as gone into the past.

  He looked at the other captains. ‘We must obtain a new element of surprise. Attack and probe, gain all the knowledge we can of the enemy’s strength, and hurt him when he least expects it.’

  Farquhar nodded slowly. ‘If we attack this shipping, sir, and then put out to sea in another direction, the enemy will not know what we are doing, or what our true mission might be.’

  Bolitho replied, ‘Exactly. It is something I learned, and learned well from the French. One determined ship can tie down a squadron. A determined squadron can hamper a whole fleet.’

  They fell silent until Probyn said, ‘The Dons may send a force down from Cartagena. There is little sea room for what you plan to do.’

  ‘I will post Captain Javal to watch over our backs.’ He faced him calmly, watching for an argument. ‘The Dons may be prepared for a local attack, another cutting-out expedition or the like. A ship of the line is not what anyone will anticipate.’

  Probyn gasped, ‘No sane man certainly!’

  Bolitho nodded grimly. ‘Lysander will make the attack.’ He looked at Farquhar. ‘You will stay to seaward and act as the situation dictates.’

  Farquhar’s eyebrows rose very slightly. ‘My decision then, sir?’

  Herrick interrupted harshly, ‘You’ll not rate a broad pendant yet, dammit!’

  Farquhar gave a cool smile, ‘The idea never entered my mind.’

  Bolitho tugged at his neckcloth. It seemed to be choking him.

  He said, ‘I will send you written orders directly. So now, gentlemen . . .’

  Herrick ushered them to the door and closed it behind them.

  Bolitho sat down in a chair and rested his head in his hands as the calls shrilled from the gangway to mark the captains’ departure. Outside the cabin the sea was deep blue, like ruffled silk, as the wind ghosted the ships gently eastward. If only it had been like this when Buzzard’s boats had taken the sleeping schooner. It would have halved the time. Saved lives.

  Herrick returned and said, ‘I have ordered the squadron to take station again sir. Your servant is waiting to attend you.’

  ‘Thank you, Thomas.’

  Herrick looked at the snapped sword. ‘If he is still alive, there may be a chance to arrange an exchange –’

  Bolitho stood up violently. ‘Do you not think I have gone over and over what might or might not be done!’ He swung away, his eyes blurred. ‘Send Allday to me with –’ He broke off, and for a long moment they stared at each other like strangers.

  Then Herrick said tonelessly, ‘I’ll attend to the details, sir.’

  Bolitho opened his mouth to prevent his leaving, but no words came. When he looked again Herrick had gone.

  Ozzard, the cabin servant, slipped through the door and moved diagonally towards the sleeping compartment, his eyes averted.

  Bolitho sat on the bench and watched him. He knew little about Ozzard, other than he was capable and had served the previous commodore well. It was said he had
been a lawyer’s clerk and had volunteered for the Navy because of some crime he had committed against his employer. He was a very quiet man, and was moving now like a soft-footed poacher as he laid out a clean shirt for his commodore.

  Bolitho saw the way his hands moved, the shirt shaking as he unfastened the collar.

  He is terrified of me. Fearful that I will punish him merely to ease my own pain.

  The realisation helped to steady him, and he was suddenly ashamed.

  He said quietly, ‘Thank you, Ozzard, I can manage now.’

  The man regarded him nervously. ‘If you’re sure, sir?’ He backed away, as if still expecting Bolitho to turn on him. By the door he hesitated and then said, ‘I’ve had some education, sir. If you like I could come back and read to you. It might help to pass the time. And you wouldn’t have to say anything.’

  Bolitho turned away from him, hiding his face. ‘No, not just now, Ozzard. But I appreciate the thought.’ He saw the man’s reflection in the sloping windows as he moved silently from the cabin. ‘More than I can tell you.’

  4

  The Captives

  RICHARD BOLITHO STOOD by the quarter-deck rail and watched the sunset. It painted the sky in great rust-coloured patterns and gave a sharp edge to the western horizon. Lysander moved comfortably under forecourse and topsails, her broad hull tilting hardly at all to the west wind which had followed her for most of the day.

  He stared along the length of the ship, through stays and shrouds and beyond a greasy plume of smoke from the galley funnel. He could just make out the tiny outline of Harebell’s sails as she moved ahead of her flagship, her yards holding the dying sun like uplifted crosses.

  The rest of his ships had disappeared to the south that afternoon, and under Farquhar’s command would even now be making more sail to beat their way around and ahead of Lysander’s point of attack. He pictured the chart in his mind, collecting the scraps of information which had formed into a loose strategy. He could almost see the line of the shore, the hills behind the bay, the depths of the sea and places where there was no depth at all. Against that he had another list of items he did not know. What the enemy were doing there, or if indeed they were there for any purpose which warranted risking his ships.