Signal Close Action

by Alexander Kent

  Allday added calmly, ‘When I was first pressed into your ship, I’d planned to give leg bail at the first opening. I knew the penalty for desertion well enough, but I was that determined. Then at the Saintes, when all God’s protection was thrown aside under the cannon’s bellow, I looked aft and saw you. And it was then that I knew there were some captains who did care for the likes of us, the poor buggers who were expected to cheer for King and country when we sailed into the enemy line.’

  Bolitho replied quietly, ‘I think you’ve said enough.’

  Allday watched his lowered head with something like despair. ‘And you never sees it yourself, do you, sir? You fret about Cap’n Herrick, or what chance we have against this foe or that, but you never take a watch to think of yourself.’ He tensed as Ozzard padded through the other door, Bolitho’s coat and hat in his hands. ‘But it’s said and done now.’ He watched Bolitho stand up, his eyes blind as he held out his arms for the coat. ‘And I reckon it will be all right.’

  Bolitho felt the sword-belt around his waist. Allday had understood better than most would do. Had guessed his intention perhaps from the moment of Herrick’s admission.

  He said, ‘I will go on deck now and greet the others.’ And afterwards say goodbye to Herrick. ‘And thank you for –’ He looked at Allday’s homely face. ‘Reminding me.’

  Allday watched him stride from the cabin and then put his arm round Ozzard’s shoulders.

  ‘By God, I’d not have his position for a dozen wenches and a whole ocean of rum!’

  Ozzard grimaced. ‘Not likely to get the offer, I’d say.’

  On deck it was still clear and bright, the afternoon sea choppy with lively cat’s-paws and long shallow swells. The three ships of the line, sails in flapping confusion as they hove-to to drop and receive boats, would have gladdened Bolitho’s heart at any other time. Now, as he stood on the poop deck and watched the two barges speeding towards Lysander’s side, the marines already lined up at the entry port to receive the two other captains, he felt a deep sense of loss.

  He saw Herrick at the lee rail, his hat well down over his eyes, and close by his first lieutenant, Gilchrist, arms folded, spindly legs apart to take the staggering motion. Of the action there was little to show. Brighter patches of planking where the carpenter and his mates had done their work well, fresh paint to hide other scars and replacements. Above the busy decks the sails, too, were neatly patched, and it was difficult to picture the smoke, to remember the din of war.

  What Herrick was thinking at this moment he could hardly dare imagine. He must be very proud of the way his company had faced up to battle and its backbreaking aftermath. Just months ago most of these hurrying seamen had been working ashore on farms, in towns, with skills or without, life in a King’s ship not even a possibility.

  They would be sorry to see their captain leave. For the new men especially Herrick would be familiar, in some way a beginner like themselves. If they had displeasure to show it would be turned towards their commodore. If necessary, he would see to it himself, he thought grimly. Herrick’s name was too valuable to be damaged because of his actions, right or wrong.

  The first boat hooked on to the chains. It was Farquhar. Naturally. He came through the entry port, as elegant and as smart as if he had just left his London tailor. He doffed his hat to the quarter-deck and ran his eyes calmly along the swaying lines of marines and glittering bayonets. His hair was very fair, gathered at the nape of his neck, and it shone above his collar like pale gold.

  Bolitho watched him shake hands with Herrick. How ill-matched they were. Had always been. Farquhar’s uncle, Sir Henry Langford, had been Bolitho’s first captain. At the age of twelve he had joined the eighty-gun Manxman, terrified and filled with awe. Fourteen years later, Langford, then an admiral, had given him command of a frigate. His nephew had been appointed into her as midshipman. Now, Farquhar, in his early thirties and a post-captain, was with him again. If he survived the war he would rise to high rank and position, both at home and in the fleet. Bolitho had never doubted it from the beginning, just as Herrick had never accepted it.

  More shrills from the silver calls, and he saw George Probyn of the Nicator heaving his untidy shape through the port.

  On the other side of the quarter-deck Pascoe was standing with Luce by the signal party, and Bolitho imagined that he himself must have looked like that when as a lieutenant he had witnessed comings and goings of aloof and unreachable beings.

  He sighed and walked to the ladder.

  Herrick said, ‘If you will come to my quarters, Captain Probyn. The Commodore wishes to speak with Captain Farquhar.’

  Farquhar’s eyebrows rose slightly. ‘’Pon my word. Bit formal, aren’t we, Captain Herrick?’

  Herrick regarded him coldly. ‘Yes.’

  Bolitho watched Farquhar as he strode into his cabin. Watchful, wondering probably what his commodore’s reactions were going to be, sensing something deeper around him, too. But confident above all.

  ‘I have my report, sir.’

  Bolitho gestured to a chair. ‘In a moment. Our attack, as you will have realised, was successful. We have one good prize, and despatched another Spanish vessel in the bay. Four days ago we met with two French ships of the line and engaged them. We broke off the action after crippling both vessels. Our losses were small. Considering.’

  Farquhar smiled quietly. He did not look quite so confident now. He said, ‘I followed your instructions, sir. Buzzard reported sighting a convoy of some five sail, and we gave chase. Under the circumstances . . .’

  ‘You acted correctly.’ Bolitho watched him gravely. ‘Did you catch them?’

  ‘Captain Javal managed to damage a couple, sir, but he only succeeded in making one heave-to. Unfortunately, I was unable to reach the scene on time as I had lost my main topgallant mast in a squall. Nicator took the lead, and due to some, er, misunderstanding of signals, fired a half-broadside into the French vessel, so that she began to founder.’

  ‘And then?’

  Farquhar tugged an envelope from inside his elegant coat. ‘My boarding officer managed to save this letter from the master’s safe before the vessel capsized and sank. It is addressed to a Yves Gorse, who apparently resides in Malta. It contains instructions for Gorse to prepare watering arrangements.’ He thrust the letter across the table. ‘For merchant vessels on their lawful occasions, or words to that effect. I believe the letter to be in some sort of code, but the vessel’s master is such a dolt that I could get nothing from him. But the small convoy was out of Marseilles. A French corvette was escorting them through these waters, not because of any threat from us, but because of Barbary pirates and the like.’ He was keeping the most important until the last. ‘My first lieutenant did manage to discover one thing, sir. I have several Frenchmen pressed into my company, and one of them told my senior that he’d heard one of the survivors claim that the letter had been sent aboard their ship by order of Admiral Brueys himself!’

  Bolitho looked at him. Brueys was perhaps the finest and most capable admiral in the French navy. In any navy for that matter.

  ‘You did well.’ Bolitho rubbed his hands on his thighs. ‘This man Gorse may be a spy or agent of some kind. Perhaps the French intend to attack Malta.’

  ‘Or Sicily?’ Farquhar frowned. ‘Bonaparte is said to have intentions towards the kingdom. They are at peace, but he probably believes, as I do, that in war there is no such luxury as neutrality.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Bolitho tried not to think of Herrick. ‘We will make haste to Toulon and Marseilles. Following your discovery, we can now determine the strength of these preparations.’

  Farquhar asked, ‘Your prize, sir. What does she hold?’

  ‘Powder and shot. And fodder.’

  ‘Fodder?’

  ‘Yes. It troubles me, too. All the French and Spanish preparations are for a full-scale attack. They blend together into a sort of strategy. But fodder. It does not sound like a local attack. It sounds like
cavalry and heavy artillery. And all the men and horses to sustain them.’

  Farquhar’s eyes gleamed. ‘This vessel, too, was carrying fodder.’ He looked around the cabin. ‘I am sorry, sir. But should we not wait for the others? It will save time.’

  Bolitho looked at the sealed envelope. ‘This is for you, Captain Farquhar.’ He walked to the stern and watched the other ships, hearing the rasp of a knife as Farquhar slit open the envelope.

  Farquhar said quietly, ‘You have me all aback, sir.’

  Bolitho turned and studied him thoughtfully. ‘It was a hard decision.’

  ‘And Captain Herrick, sir?’ Farquhar’s face was masklike. ‘Is he ill?’

  ‘Not ill.’ He added shortly, ‘Execute the arrangements directly. I want the squadron under way before dusk.’

  Farquhar was still watching him, the letter in one hand. ‘I cannot begin to thank you, sir.’

  Bolitho nodded. ‘You obviously think I made the right choice.’

  Farquhar had blue eyes. But they were not like Herrick’s, and in the light from the sea they were like ice.

  ‘Well, as you have asked, sir, yes I do.’

  ‘Then see that the squadron’s affairs show some sign of this.’ He looked at him evenly. ‘Captain Herrick is a fine officer.’

  The eyebrows moved again. ‘But?’

  ‘No but, Captain Farquhar. I want him to feel his strength in a well-trained ship, where he has no personal contact as yet. He will be kept fully occupied. I think it will be good for him and the squadron.’

  Farquhar smiled. ‘My first lieutenant will be surprised. It will do him good also.’ He did not explain what he meant.

  ‘The first lieutenant in this ship is Mr. Gilchrist. I suggest you make his acquaintance without delay.’

  He waited for a sign but Farquhar merely remarked, ‘Gilchrist? I don’t think I know him.’ He shrugged. ‘But then, why should one bother to know these people?’

  Bolitho said, ‘I would appreciate it if you would keep your personal dislikes out of the meeting.’

  Farquhar stood up. ‘Of course, sir. You should know that I have never disliked Captain Herrick. Although I am well aware of his hostility towards me.’ He gave his tight-lipped smile. ‘I cannot imagine the reason for it.’

  Bolitho saw Ozzard hovering at the door. ‘Show the other captains aft, Ozzard. Then you can bring some wine.’ He tried to speak lightheartedly, as if he was untroubled, unreached.

  Ozzard bobbed, his eyes on Farquhar. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Bolitho crossed to a quarter gallery and stared at the small white-horses cruising down from the horizon. Each piece of news and every thin rumour took them deeper and deeper into the Mediterranean. Each time it would be his decision. One captured letter had taken him into a bay where men and ships had been destroyed. Now Farquhar’s chance find would send them still further north-east, to the harbours of the French navy. Pieces of a puzzle, all set against a chart and the remorseless run of sand in an hour-glass.

  The door opened and he turned to see Herrick and Probyn entering the cabin. He waited until they were seated and then beckoned Ozzard to the wine cabinet.

  At that moment there was a knock on the door and Gilchrist peered in at them. He saw Herrick and said, ‘I am sorry to intrude, sir, but I wish to speak with the flag captain.’

  Farquhar’s voice made him turn.

  ‘I am the flag captain, Mr. Gilchrist. I will trouble you not to forget it!’ There was an uncomfortable silence and he added, ‘I will also trouble you never to enter the commodore’s quarters without my permission!’

  The door closed and Farquhar leaned sideways in his chair to look at the cabinet.

  His voice was perfectly normal again. ‘A fine piece of joinery, sir. I know his work well.’

  Bolitho glanced at Herrick, but he was already beyond his reach.

  9

  Wine and Cheese

  CAPTAIN CHARLES FARQUHAR strode aft to greet Bolitho as he came on deck. In spite of being without coat or hat, Farquhar managed to retain an air of elegance, and his ruffled shirt looked as if it was freshly laundered.

  He said formally, ‘Course east-nor’-east, sir.’

  Bolitho nodded and glanced up at his broad pendant and the set of the yards. The wind had veered slightly during the night, and there was evidence that it was weakening also.

  He took a telescope from the rack and trained it over the larboard nettings. It was as if the scene stayed permanent and the sails were merely pretending to make the ship move. And yet it was three wearying weeks since he had watched Herrick pulled across to the Osiris, and two of those weeks had been spent along this stretch of coast. He watched the familiar shark-blue blur of land. It was maddening to realise that just out there was the busy port of Toulon, and behind its protective walls and batteries lay the answer to his speculation and doubts.

  Farquhar remarked, ‘Not even a sign of a sail, damn them.’

  Bolitho replaced the glass and looked along Lysander’s upper deck. The forenoon watch had begun. One like all the others before it. Everywhere, above and along the decks, men were at work, splicing, painting, blacking-down the standing rigging, examining a hundred and one things for flaws and possible wear.

  It was eerie to find the Gulf of Lions so empty. It was like being laughed at. The French must know that an enemy squadron was active in their waters. Any tiny fishing craft might have sighted it and passed the news to garrisons ashore. Perhaps they were too busy to care, or were content to let the British ships tack wearily back and forth, consuming their stores and resources, and with nothing to show for it.

  He said, ‘We must get some news soon, or we’ll have to push closer inshore.’

  Farquhar eyed him calmly. ‘If we had some more frigates, sir.’

  Bolitho bit back an angry retort. It was not Farquhar’s fault. But in every campaign they seemed to be short of frigates, without which it was like trying to find a blind man in a dark room.

  He peered astern, watching Osiris’s big forecourse filling and emptying in the uncertain wind, as if the ship was breathing heavily. She was a mile away, and beyond her he could just see the leeward side of the prize Segura. He wondered how Probyn had been getting on with his separate patrol to the east of Toulon, to seaward of the small islands which protected the approaches. He had Javal’s Buzzard in company, while the rest of the squadron had to be content with the sloop. He could just make out Harebell’s cream-coloured topsails, etched against the French coastline like sea-shells. Inch would be in no doubt of his importance. It was to be hoped he did not allow his eagerness to tempt him closer inshore. There he could lose the wind, or fall foul of some well-sited artillery.

  He turned to look at Osiris again. Three weeks, and on every single day he had wondered about Herrick.

  Farquhar followed his glance and said, ‘She is handling well.’

  Only a casual interest. Bolitho had already noticed that about the elegant captain. Once out of a ship, and no matter how long he had served in her, or what great events she had shared, Farquhar was able to dismiss her from his thoughts. He was entirely without sentiment, and seemed to live for today, and where it would lead in the future.

  Nevertheless, he had to admit that Farquhar’s efficiency had showed itself throughout the ship. Gun drill and contests between batteries and decks had cut the time for loading and firing by minutes.

  Although he always appeared to have time for his own leisure, Farquhar was never far away when needed. And his officers, from Gilchrist to Mr. Midshipman Saxby, had been made to realise it.

  Farquhar had always borne a reputation for harshness. But as yet he had not shown himself as a tyrant. He had examined all the ship’s books within hours of getting the squadron under way, from the punishment and muster books to the rarer ones about stocks of canvas and oil.

  It was a new side to the man’s character, and Bolitho being the man he was never considered that his own past example to Farquhar was bear
ing fruit at last.

  He saw Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence strutting busily back and forth on the lee side of the quarter-deck. That was another thing. Farquhar had quite rightly removed the second lieutenant from the monotony of prize-duty aboard the Segura and had sent instead a master’s mate. Whenever the weather had made it possible he had recalled the prize-master and had replaced him with another. Midshipmen, warrant officers, even a resentful Gilchrist, had had their share. It made sense, and kept them on their toes.

  But Farquhar had not asked permission. As flag captain he had taken it as a right.

  He had even cut the number of punishments, if not their severity. He had examined every case himself, and if the unfortunate seaman had made a genuine mistake, or one had been caused by a superior’s carelessness, he had dismissed it, and to ram home his point had given the accuser an awesome pile of extra duties. If on the other hand the case had been proved, he had ordered stiffer punishment than Herrick had ever permitted. It was, it seemed, his one real failing.

  Farquhar said suddenly, ‘We shall have to lose Harebell or Buzzard shortly, sir.’ It sounded like a question.

  ‘Yes.’

  Bolitho paced slowly along the weather side. The deck seams clung to his shoes, and he could feel the heat thrown back from the bulwark. And it was barely nine o’clock in the forenoon. Each day brought hotter weather, more tension to those who endured it. Farquhar had put his finger right on the point. He could not delay much longer. He would have to send word to the admiral. His own estimation of the French preparations and intentions. Once he had despatched one of his badly needed scouts, he would be committed. Set against the consequences if he was proved wrong, that in itself was unimportant.

  If only Inch had been able to capture the Spanish brig before the two French ships had chased him away. He could have sent her to the admiral.

  He paused and shaded his eyes to look for the prize. She was too slow and vulnerable. And she still might prove useful as a deception. He thought of her packed cargo. Or as a bribe.