Signal Close Action

by Alexander Kent

  The main topsail billowed and flapped noisily as the wind dropped and then gathered strength again. The master’s mate of the watch relaxed and made some joke with the helmsmen, and at the lee side of the deck Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence readjusted his vigilant pose.

  Bolitho tried not to let his mind drift from what he had to do. But with the ship so quiet, and with no questions to answer or problems to solve, he was unable to stay aloof from his anxiety.

  Two days since he had returned on board, two further days since Javal’s men had taken the schooner. She would be at Gibraltar by now, opposing winds or not, unless she had run foul of an enemy. She would be sold in a prize court, maybe taken into the King’s service. Her few remaining crew members would either be sent to a prison hulk or offered an alternative fate, that of signing on aboard a British man o’ war. After five years of conflict you heard a dozen languages and dialects in any king’s ship.

  And Adam? He walked slowly to the nettings and stared hard at the sea. The land was beyond even a lookout’s vision, and the sky was already so dark that it was difficult to see the horizon’s division, which moments ago had glowed like hot copper.

  Another lieutenant had appeared on deck and was murmuring with Fitz-Clarence, while from forward and deeper in the fat hull he heard the shrill of a call, the pad of bare feet as the next watch prepared to take over the ship until midnight.

  A freak breeze fanned the stench aft from the galley, and he realised just how empty his stomach was. But the thought of oatmeal gruel and greasy lumps of boiled meat, left-overs from the midday meal, were enough to revolt him against eating anything.

  Herrick appeared through the cabin hatch and crossed the deck.

  ‘I’ve told Mr. Gilchrist to muster all officers and senior warrants in the wardroom after eight bells, sir.’ He hesitated, seeking out Bolitho’s mood in the gloom. ‘They’re looking forward to meeting you very much.’

  ‘Thank you, Thomas.’

  He turned slightly as a bosun’s mate ran along the starboard gangway, followed by various other members of his watch.

  A ship’s boy was inspecting the flickering compass light, another the hour-glass nearby. Two stiff marines swayed gently at attention as they suffered a close scrutiny by their corporal. How black their red coats looked in the darkness, Bolitho thought. Made more so by their gleaming crossbelts and breeches. They were the sentries. One for Herrick’s quarters. One for his own.

  The master was rumbling away to a midshipman. The latter seemed bent almost double to write something on his slate, the pencil very loud in the clammy stillness.

  The newly arrived lieutenant straightened himself away from the rail and touched his hat formally.

  ‘The watch is aft, Mr. Fitz-Clarence.’

  Fitz-Clarence nodded. ‘Relieve the wheel, if you please, Mr. Kipling.’

  More grunts and shuffles, and then a helmsman called, ‘Course east-be-north, sir! Steady as she goes!’

  Grubb sniffed noisily. ‘And so it should be! I’ll be back on deck afore the glass is turned!’ It sounded like a threat.

  Bolitho shivered. ‘I’m ready, Thomas.’

  He heard the bell chime out from forward, a gust of laughter as a topman slithered down a backstay nearly knocking another to the deck.

  They walked to the cabin hatch and Herrick said, ‘The fact that the wind has backed to the west’rd makes me think Mr. Grubb is right. We will have an easier task to drive inshore than I’d thought possible.’

  Down the ladder and past a seaman carrying a biscuit sack from the wardroom. He pressed his shoulders against a cabin door as if afraid he might hinder or touch either commodore or captain.

  Bolitho saw the lantern light playing across the breeches of the nearest guns. Some of the ship’s twenty-eight eighteen-pounders, yet they managed to look at peace. It was hard to picture them enveloped in smoke and powder, bursting inboard on their tackles as their cheering, noise-crazed crews sponged-out for another broadside.

  Further aft he saw the bright rectangle of the wardroom door, and beyond it the movement of Lysander’s officers, and every available man of warrant rank, too, who could be spared from duty on deck.

  Herrick paused and said uncertainly, ‘It seems a long time since a wardroom was my home.’

  Bolitho looked at him. ‘And mine. When I was twenty I thought that life became easy when you were promoted captain. I soon learned differently. And now I know that each span of authority has its snares, as well as its privilege.’

  Herrick nodded. ‘More the former than the latter, in my opinion.’

  Bolitho tugged his coat into place, the movement involuntary and unnoticed. Herrick had not mentioned Adam or any part of the cutting-out since his return aboard. But he guessed it was rarely absent from his thoughts. He remembered when Pascoe had served with Herrick as a midshipman aboard his little two-decker, Impulsive. It was strange how he had felt about it. Jealous perhaps? Afraid that the boy’s trust in Herrick might change to something closer than he himself could offer?

  It all came surging up again, like a demon which had been biding its time.

  Like the moment when he had arrived at Gibraltar, which should have been the proudest time in his service. Hearing about Adam’s gesture on his behalf, risking disgrace or maiming in a forbidden duel.

  There must be something deep in our family, he thought bitterly. With little training or effort, so many of them had proved unnaturally skilful with the sword. He could recall exactly standing face to face with a French lieutenant aboard a privateer in the East Indies. Face to face, both almost spent, but each holding on to that madness which only battle can sustain. He had felt something like pity for the man. Willing him to give in. Knowing, even as he parried the other’s blade aside for that last fatal blow, that he could not help himself.

  He said sharply, ‘Well, Thomas, let us be about it then.’

  The ‘Lysander’s wardroom was packed with men. As Herrick led the way aft Bolitho was again reminded of his own youthful days as a junior lieutenant in a ship of the line such as this. Then, he had wondered about the men who lived and dreamed in the cabins above the wardroom. Admiral or captain, it had made little difference then.

  He glanced at the expectant faces as they stood back to make a passage for him. Some he vaguely recognised from their duties about the upper deck. Others he did not know at all.

  The immature expressions of the lieutenants set against the more controlled scrutiny of the warrant officers. Grubb’s great shape beside Yeo, the boatswain, and against the stern-most eighteen-pounder a severe looking man who he guessed was Corbyn, the gunner.

  The scarlet coats of the marines seemed to overshadow the untidy clump of midshipmen, there were about eight or nine of them present, while managing to stay slightly apart from all the rest, Edgar Mewse, the purser, and Shacklock, the surgeon, completed the gathering.

  Gilchrist reported, ‘All present, sir, but for the fourth lieutenant, Mr. Kipling, who has the watch. And Mr. Midshipman Blenkarne who shares it with him.’

  Herrick cleared his throat and then laid his hat on a table. ‘Thank you.’

  Bolitho nodded. ‘Be seated, gentlemen. I will be as brief as I can.’

  He waited impassively as they scrambled for chairs and sea chests, the most comfortable places going to the most senior, until a mere handful of midshipmen were left nothing but the hard deck to sit upon.

  Bolitho said, ‘The flag captain will have told you what we are about. The bones of the plan are that we shall close the land on the day after tomorrow at first light and destroy what enemy shipping we cannot take as prizes.’

  He saw two of the midshipmen nudging each other cheerfully. One he recognised as Saxby, his wide, gap-toothed grin as broad as if he had just been promised a month’s leave on full pay.

  ‘If the wind goes against us we will stand off and act accordingly.’ He glanced at Grubb’s battered face. ‘But the master has promised full co-operation from a higher author
ity than mine.’

  There was laughter and a good deal of humour at Grubb’s expense. He remained immovable in their midst, but Bolitho could see the pleasure his comment had given him. He knew Herrick was watching him all the time. He of all people would see through his mask, his efforts to show the assembled officers that their commodore was a man beyond and above inner despair.

  Bolitho had lost many good friends at sea. There was no friendship stronger than one born in the demanding hardship of a man o’ war. Sea and disease, the sword or a cannon’s harvest had pared away many such faces. It was no wonder that these men could accept Pascoe’s absence. Hardly any of them had been together long enough to know the pain of such a loss.

  He realised they had fallen silent, that he must have been standing for several seconds without speaking.

  Almost harshly he continued, ‘To create as much confusion as possible, we will land Lysander’s marines under cover of darkness.’

  He sought out Major Leroux who was sitting, arms folded and stiff-backed, beside his lieutenant. He had met Leroux only formally, but he had been impressed. It was always difficult to break the inbuilt contempt for the marines, the ‘bullocks’, which was common amongst most ships’ companies. Their rigid ideas of drill and organised discipline in the worst of situations were at odds with the more casual and boisterous behaviour of the average seaman. Bolitho had come up against many marine officers, and although he had soon grown to respect their loyalty and prowess in battle, he had rarely discovered one who had displayed much initiative. Nepean, the marine lieutenant, for instance, was fairly typical. Impeccably dressed and ready to answer the call to duty at any hour, his eyes had the empty glassiness of one quite happy to obey rather than to lead.

  But Major Jermyn Leroux was totally different. Tall and square-shouldered, he had the outward appearance of a scholar, despite his military bearing. Bolitho had spoken with him on the quarter-deck about the training and recruitment of his marines, but never once had Leroux made an idle boast, or suggested he could offer something beyond his means.

  He said, ‘I will discuss the final details with you tomorrow, Major.’

  Leroux nodded. He had still, rather sad eyes, and an expression of a man who felt strangely out of place.

  He replied, ‘Allowing for marines who are sick and otherwise unfit for duty, sir, I can muster ninety men.’

  ‘That will be sufficient.’ Bolitho turned to Herrick. ‘Swivels in the boats, and grapnels in case we need to scale any defences.’ He did not wait for any comment but added, ‘When Captain Javal took the schooner there was a need for stealth. This time I want our force to seem far greater than it really is.’

  One of the eighteen-pounders which shared the wardroom with its occupants squeaked slightly against its lashings as Lysander dipped her massive bulk into a trough. Bolitho heard faint shouts from the watch on deck, the groan of the rudder beneath the counter as the helm was corrected.

  He said, ‘We have rare freedom to act as we choose on this mission. We must lose no opportunity to discover what the enemy is planning. Neither can we turn from the chance to damage his security.’ He looked at Herrick. ‘If there are any questions?’

  Gilchrist stood up, his forehead partly hidden by a deck beam. ‘Will there be no seamen in the landing party, sir?’

  ‘A minimum.’ Bolitho kept his voice calm. ‘The bay which Lysander will have to enter and cross may be well defended. There will certainly be a battery of sorts, even if it is only light artillery. Captain Herrick will need every available hand on brace and gun tackle, I can assure you.’

  The hint of action ran round the wardroom like wind through ripe corn. But Gilchrist stood his ground, his bony figure angled slightly to the deck’s tilt.

  He asked, ‘Major Leroux will be in overall charge then?’

  ‘No, Mr. Gilchrist.’ He felt Herrick stiffen at his side. ‘I will.’

  Gilchrist gave what could have been a shrug. ‘A risk surely, sir.’ He glanced at the other officers like someone sure of an audience. ‘We were all grieved to hear of Mr. Pascoe’s er – disappearance. To invite another disaster in your own family . . .’

  Bolitho looked down at his hands. It was strange that he could hold them so still when he felt like seizing the man and beating him senseless.

  He replied calmly, ‘If Captain Herrick has no objection I am taking you ashore with me, Mr. Gilchrist. You will be able to see for yourself where the value of risk may lie.’

  Gilchrist stared at him then at Herrick. He stammered, ‘Thank you, sir, it is an honour.’ He sat down without another word.

  Herrick said, ‘If nobody else has anything to offer?’

  Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence stood up and gave Bolitho a determined stare. ‘We will show them, sir! God help me, we’ll pistol the vermin!’ He was almost glowing with excitement. In his mind’s eye he probably saw Gilchrist already dead and himself as first lieutenant.

  Bolitho gave him a nod. ‘Well said, Mr. Fitz-Clarence. But mark this.’ He looked around the wardroom. ‘All of you. Whatever you may think of the Dons, do not imagine they are like the French. When this war began the French fleet was almost in irons for want of good senior officers. Far too many were senselessly butchered in the Terror, merely to placate a mob. But that is over and done with. New men with fresh ideas are alive in their fleet. The handful of older officers who survived the guillotine are respected again, and their zeal will be all the sharper now that they know the price of failure. Armies can fight bravely under almost any conditions known to man. But without power over the sea lanes, without the life-blood of supplies and replacements they are like marooned sailors, halfway to a living death.’

  Fitz-Clarence was still on his feet, but his face had lost some of its assurance.

  He said lamely, ‘Well, sir, I am still confident of our success.’

  Herrick waited for him to be seated. His blue eyes were fixed on Bolitho. ‘Perhaps you would care to join me in my cabin?’

  ‘Thank you.’ Bolitho picked up his hat. ‘My throat is dry.’

  He walked between the silent officers, knowing the air would explode into supposition and general excitement once the door was shut behind him.

  Outside the wardroom Herrick said quietly, ‘Let me go, sir. I asked before. Now I’m pleading.’

  They walked in silence to the ladder and up again to the next group of cabins.

  Herrick threw open the door of his quarters and gestured to his servant to leave. As Bolitho seated himself by the table he opened his cabinet and produced a bottle of claret.

  Bolitho watched him, seeing all the arguments building up in his friend’s mind as he busied himself with the glasses. If some other seventy-four was wearing the commodore’s broad pendant Herrick would have the great stern cabin to himself. Strangely enough, it was hard to see him there.

  ‘Now, Thomas.’ Bolitho took a glass and held it to a deck-head lantern. ‘I know what you are about to say. Let me speak first.’ He sipped the claret slowly, hearing the sea sluicing along the lower hull and dashing spray against the closed port. ‘You think I feel my nephew’s disappearance so grievously that I am prepared to throw my life away as a gesture. To say I do not feel it would be a lie. Equally, it would be false of me to say that my upbringing, my very way of life, would not stop me from such a vanity. Like you, Thomas, I have seen too many good men, so many fine ships and ideals thrown to the winds because of the conceit of perhaps only one man in authority. I swore I would never allow my own feelings to make others suffer, and for the most part I have, I think, been true to that.’

  He was on his feet, pacing slowly the few yards along the length of the cabin. Herrick sat on the breech of a nine-pounder, his eyes glinting in the yellow light as he followed his restless movements.

  ‘When my wife, Cheney, died –’ He broke off, aware for the first time that he was moving round the cabin. ‘Enough of that. You shared it all. You brought news of her death, a burden for any man to carry, l
et alone a friend.’

  Herrick looked at him wretchedly. ‘I know.’

  ‘I suppose that Adam has come to mean so much because of my loss. I told myself that if or when I fell in battle, or died of some other cause, he would gain the advantages of the Bolitho family, advantages which should have come his way by happier circumstances.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘You never think that fate might take one and leave the other behind, Thomas.’

  Herrick rolled the glass in his fingers, searching for the right words.

  ‘That is why I ask the chance to go with the marines.’ He stopped, seeing the refusal in Bolitho’s grey eyes.

  ‘No. The day after tomorrow we will land on an enemy coast. Not some rock or island, or an outpost in the Indies, but in Europe. Do you think it right to commit our people to such a venture without leadership?’ He laid one hand on Herrick’s shoulder. ‘Come along, Thomas, be honest. Were there not many times in the past when you have maligned your senior officer for leaving you to take the cuffs and stabs while he stayed clear of danger?’ He shook him gently. ‘I asked for honesty!’

  Herrick gave a half smile. ‘On some occasions.’

  ‘Some?’ Bolitho watched him with sudden affection. ‘By heaven, you took me to task enough, let alone a commodore or admiral!’

  Herrick controlled the smile. ‘That was different.’

  ‘Because you are you, Thomas. And I am the same man as I was then.’

  Herrick put down his glass. ‘And Mr. Gilchrist?’

  ‘I need an experienced sea officer.’ His tone hardened slightly. ‘He sent young Adam into that boat. Perhaps because he has experience of battle despite his years. Or maybe for some other, less praiseworthy reason.’