Colours Aloft! (24 page)

He said, “Vice-Admiral Bolitho has explained about
Barracouta.

I accept his judgement.”

Houston said, “Naturally.” He smiled wryly at Montresor, “But then we have not known him as long as you.”

Inch showed his teeth in a dangerous grin. “He made me acting-commodore until his return. That should be enough for
you,
I think.”

Houston's smile vanished at Inch's change of tone. “I wasn't doubting the thinking behind this. It's just that—”

“Quite.” Inch listened to the groan of timbers, the distant crack of canvas as the ship leaned uncomfortably from the wind. It felt wrong and incomplete without Bolitho. He always seemed able to foretell what the enemy might do, and Inch had never known him to scoff at or underestimate what the French had up their sleeves.

Houston said, “Maybe we should pass word to the squadron off Toulon. Nelson might have views on what we're about. I still think the French will head for Egypt again as they attempt to break out. We beat 'em once at the Nile, but they might favour a second attempt.” He stood up and swayed to the deck's slant. “I must leave, with your permission.”

Inch nodded regretfully. There were many things he needed to discuss, but Houston was right: much worse and he would never fight his way back to his own ship.

He heard a voice on the wind, far away, lost.

Montresor said, “They've sighted something.” He shuddered. “Not a good day for it.”

There was a tap at the door, Inch's first lieutenant had come in person.

“Signal from
Rapid,
sir. Sail in sight to the nor'-west.” He glanced at the others. “Wind's getting up, sir. Shall I order another reef?”

Inch tugged his ear. “No. Prepare to see these gentlemen into their boats. After that I want to signal
Rapid
before we lose contact.”

He turned to the others as the lieutenant hurried away.

“
Rapid
is unlikely to report or even sight a fishing boat in this weather.” He watched his words going home. “I must close on her immediately. So keep station on
Helicon
and be prepared to fight.”

Montresor stared at him. He had not been a captain long enough to learn how to hide his feelings.

“The French? You really think so?”

Inch thought of Bolitho, how he would have presented it.

“Yes, I do. The wind is right for them; equally it is unfavourable to us.” He shrugged his bony shoulders. “However, we must do what we came to do. At least we are ready for them.”

The two captains left the ship with unseemly haste,
Helicon
heaving-to for the minimum of time before butting into the heavy rollers once again.

Inch stared up at the masthead, the pendant standing out and seemingly almost at right angles to the ship.

He glanced at the compass; north-east by east. Spray swept over the weather nettings and made the watchkeepers duck and swear.

Savill, his first lieutenant, shouted above the wind, “Masthead reports that
Rapid
has her signal still hoisted, sir.” He looked excited, glad perhaps that they were doing something other than beating up and down.

Inch considered it. That probably meant that Quarrell had sighted or anticipated more than one strange sail.

“Signal from
Despatch,
sir. Her captain is safely on board.”

Inch grunted, fretting as he thought of Houston's boat smashing its way further astern to his own command.

The masthead lookout yelled, “Signal from
Rapid,
sir! Two sail in sight to the nor'-west!”

Inch looked at his second-in-command.
Two sails.
It would not be any of Nelson's fleet so far south in the Golfe du Lion, and certainly no trader would attempt to break the blockade in this weather, especially in company with another.

He pondered Houston's words. He was right about one thing,
Barracouta
would make all the difference if she were here.

“I think the French mean business this time, Mr Savill. Make more sail, if you please. I intend to close on
Rapid
now.” He took a telescope and climbed to the poop to look for
Icarus.
He saw the wet mist far astern; even
Despatch
was shrouded in it. God, what a time for it to happen. He snapped to the midshipman-of-the-watch who had followed him like a terrier, “General signal.
Make more sail.
”

He saw the flags break out to the wind, very bright against the low cloud.

It was his chance. For once he was not looking to the flagship for instructions. He was in command today. Hannah would look at him with those adoring violet eyes when he told her. Nobody could have guessed or anticipated that Bolitho would be struck down by a stray ball, and not even in the midst of battle. Keen was in Malta, although to Inch it had seemed absurd that he should be taken away for some stupid inquiry. But no matter the whys and the wherefores, Francis Inch was in temporary charge of the squadron.

It was like having a weight suddenly lifted. He knew he had no doubts and could deal with this without anxiety.

He glanced around the deck, proud of his ship and her company. He watched the hands moving out along the yards, their white trousers flapping wildly as they fought into the wind. Canvas thundered out and bulged to the pressure so that the deck heeled over even further. Another look astern. There was
Icarus
visible just briefly astern of
Despatch.
A ghost ship. He grinned into the spray. Houston was a miserable man, he thought.

“Deck there!” That was one of the lieutenants. Savill had done right to put an experienced officer up there. “
Rapid
has signalled. Three sail of the line to the nor'-west!”

Inch felt a tingle run through his body.
Three.
There was no doubt now. They might try to avoid a confrontation, but Inch had no doubts about what he would do. Must do.

“General signal, Mr Savill.
Prepare for battle.
” He made himself smile. “After that, you may clear for action.”

He thought of Bolitho, and felt sudden pride that he had entrusted this day to him.

The drums began to roll, and as
Helicon
hurled spray over her beak-head the violence of sea and wind seemed like a foretaste of their destiny.

13
W
EST WIND

I
NCH
stared up at the topsails as spindrift floated through the drumming shrouds like ragged banners. There was much movement and the hull was staggering over each successive crest, every stay and ringbolt protesting to the violent motion.

But he knew that all the noise and discomfort hid the fact that their progress was slow, painfully so. Unless the wind backed in their favour—he pushed the conjecture from his mind.

“Bring her up a point, Mr Savill. Steer nor'-east.”

He heard the muted cries of the topmen, the hiss of halliards and blocks as his men fought to obey him. He dare not let her pay off just to gain more advantage from the wind. He must leave that until the last moment, when manoeuvrability would count the most. The second lieutenant was up there on the crosstrees watching the oncoming vessels, although even his vision must have been impaired by spray and the persistent layers of wet mist. The land was only five miles abeam and yet it was invisible. The sea had changed completely in a single hour, from shark-blue to pewter, and then to angered crests which broke in the wind as it moaned through shrouds and running rigging like an onslaught of demented souls.

Savill lurched up the canting deck, his face and chest running with water.

“Cleared for action, sir!”

Inch bit his lip. They could not attempt to open the lower gunports on the lee side. They would flood the whole deck in minutes. He comforted himself with the thought that the three French ships would not be finding it easy either. How could he be sure they were French? Spanish maybe? He discounted it instantly as he pictured
Rapid
's young commander. Quarrell would have signalled the fact by now.

He considered his feelings.
They were the enemy.
Another time, a different place. The same flag.

Savill said, “No sign of
Icarus,
sir.” He grinned. “A change indeed.” It was well known in the squadron that Houston always liked to be the first and the best. This time he was sadly lagging behind the others.

Three to three. Good odds. Maybe the enemy would try to avoid them. There was little chance, Inch decided. If they headed for open sea,
Helicon
would lead the others round to take better advantage of the wind. No, it was far more likely that the French commander would continue on a converging tack with that same wind offering him all the advantage.

Inch looked at his ship. Cleared of unnecessary gear, the nets rigged above the gangways, the arms chests opened below the mainmast. The gun crews were stripped to the waist, their bodies already wet from spray as they crouched around their weapons or listened to their captains. Inboard of the black breeches the lieutenants moved restlessly about, their bodies angled to the tilt and shuddering vibration each time that
Helicon
ploughed into a trough or roller.

“Run up the Colours, Mr Savill.” He looked round for the Royal Marines officer. “Ah, Major, I suggest you tell your fifers to strike up a jig, eh?” He gave his wide horsy grin. “It will be a while yet before we match points with the Frogs.”

And so
Helicon,
followed as closely as her people could manage by
Despatch,
headed towards the distant sails; the small marine fifers marched up and down the deck playing jig after jig, sometimes barely able to keep on their feet.

Inch saw his gun crews watching and grinning at the miniature parade. It took their minds off the inevitable. Only here and there a man stared across the nettings or above a gangway to seek out the enemy. New men probably, he thought. Or those who had done it before too often.

He glanced at his first lieutenant. A good and reliable officer. He seemed popular with the hands and that was a real bounty. It was a difficult thing for a first lieutenant to be.

“Deck there!”

Savill remarked, “God, he has much to say today!”

Several of the men near him laughed.

But all smiles faded as the lieutenant in the crosstrees continued, “The leading sail is a three-decker, sir.”

Inch felt them all looking at him. A first or second rate—bad odds, but he had known worse.

“Signal
Despatch,
repeated
Icarus, close line of battle.
”

The three-decker's captain would be quick to exploit any weakness in his adversary, Inch thought.

Eventually the signals midshipman lowered his glass.

“Acknowledged, sir.”

Inch paced back and forth, deep in thought. It was taking much too long.

He looked up as the air quaked to sporadic cannon fire.

“What th' devil?”

The masthead yelled, “Firin' on
Rapid,
sir!”

Inch swore. “Signal
Rapid
to stand away! What does that young fool think he's playing at? If he tries to harass one of those ladies he'll soon get a bloody nose!”

Savill had climbed on to the shrouds with his telescope and shouted, “One of the ships is closing with
Rapid,
sir! Trying to cut her off from us!”

Inch stared at him. Facing a battle, and yet the French commander seemed prepared to waste time and strength on a small brig.

Houston's words seemed to mock him, as if he had just spoken them aloud.
Rapid
was their only link now that
Supreme
was in dock. But for Bolitho, she would have been on the bottom. Now, with
Barracouta
to the north, the brig's importance was paramount.

“No acknowledgement, sir.”

“God damn!” Inch looked round. “Chase your younkers aloft and get the t'gan's'ls on her, Mr Savill. Then the main course. Lively with it!” He watched the hands rushing to obey the pipe, the wild freedom of the topgallant sails as they were released from their yards. He felt the ship shivering to the extra power, and when the mainsail thundered out he saw its yard bend and knew he was risking everything to cut down the range before one of the French guns scored a fatal hit on
Rapid.

He said urgently, “General signal.
Make more sail.
”

Savill glanced at the sailing-master and saw him grimace.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The cannon fire continued with just an occasional gun being used. It would only require one of those massive balls to bring down the brig's masts or hit something vital below deck.

“Signal from
Despatch,
sir!” The midshipman was almost yelling. “In difficulty!”

Inch snatched a glass and ran up a poop ladder where his marines leaned on the muskets and waited for something to do. He rested the telescope on the hammocks and felt his heart go cold as he saw the other two-decker's outline changing as she paid off to the wind. He did not notice the anguish in his voice as he exclaimed, “Steering's gone!” He saw the sails being taken in, tiny figures risking death on the madly pitching yards as they struggled to prevent the ship from being laid over or dismasted. It was common enough in a gale. The rudder or a parted yokeline, it was just another hazard and could always be repaired. But the gap was already widening, and
Icarus
was completely invisible in the lurking mist.

He hurried down the ladder and saw Savill's anxious expression; others were staring at him with dismay, when moments earlier they had been ready and willing to fight,

“It will take
Despatch
a hundred years, Mr Savill. She will be as helpless as
Rapid
if we cry in our aprons and do nought.”

Savill seemed to relax. “You can rely on me, sir.”

Inch looked at him. “I never doubted it. Now, have the guns loaded, but do not run out until I order it.” He turned away as the gun crews leaped from their various stances to seize their rammers and handspikes.

Despatch
was continuing to drift. The enemy must be wondering what was happening. Some ruse or trap to make the French commander think again. Inch frowned. Not for long.

“We will engage to larboard, Mr Savill.” He narrowed his eyes as he stared across the packed hammocks. He could see the other ships now without a glass. The three of them were advancing in echelon, their masts and sails overlapping to create one monster leviathan.

The rearmost ship was the one which was firing on the brig.
Rapid
was trying to haul off, but the last waterspout from a falling ball showed how close it had been.

Inch's coxswain hurried towards him, his captain's hanger in his hands.

Inch looked at the curved fighting sword. “No, the other one.” He thought of Bolitho in his best uniform while the ship had rocked to the thunder of broadsides. Bolitho had known that he stood out as the captain, a sure target at any time. But he had also known it was necessary that his own people should see him until the end. When was that? It seemed a lifetime ago.

He allowed his coxswain to buckle on his best sword, the one he had bought before getting married to his dear Hannah.

Just thinking her name was like a cry from the heart. He forced the door closed on her and shouted, “We'll take 'em down with us, eh, lads!”

They cheered, as he had known they would.

Here they come.
He watched the oncoming sails, writhing and altering their outline as each captain reduced his canvas and prepared to fight. The leading ship made a splendid, terrible sight as she suddenly opened her ports and the black snouts showed themselves deck by deck.

Inch watched in silence. It was as if his heart had already stopped. He was unable to move or drag his eyes from the enemy. She was a ninety-gun ship at least. She had a bright figurehead beneath her beak-head and when Inch raised his telescope he saw that it was fashioned in the likeness of a springing beast, a leopard, with both its front paws reaching out in anger. It was Jobert. It had to be.

“Open the ports, Mr Savill. Then run out to larboard.” There was still time. Time to run. Inch hardened his heart. “Have the boats cast adrift, Mr Savill.”

It was always a bad moment when the boats were cut free to drift on a sea anchor until recovered by the victors. Being left aboard on their tier doubled the risk of flying splinters when the enemy's iron pounded across the decks. But to any sailor boats represented safety, a chance to survive. Inch began to pace between the quarterdeck guns, his chin in his neckcloth, the bright sword slapping against his thigh. Except, for his men, there would be no survival.

Bolitho felt the sun across his shoulders, magnified by the thick glass, as
Argonaute
swung heavily to her cable. He could hear the watch on deck shouting as they hoisted one of the boats inboard. He put down his pen and looked moodily through the windows towards the shore and at the cluster of shipping which lay between it and the flagship.

It would soon be time to leave for Herrick's ship. Bolitho thought of yesterday's meeting, more so of the parting. It had grieved him, and he felt trapped, with few courses left to attempt.

He watched the craft. Huddled together, as if the great harbour was no longer a haven and they wanted to put to sea. The expected convoy had been sighted at first light. Bolitho had heard the warning gun while he had toyed restlessly with his breakfast. The harbour would be crammed with ships.

He could not finish the letter to Belinda before he had to leave. Boots tramped across the damp planking and he guessed the marines were preparing to see him over the side. Keen's gig had already left. Bolitho had spoken with him only briefly. They had shaken hands. It had reminded Bolitho of a highwayman he had seen doing just that with his executioner before the trap had dropped beneath his kicking legs.

Why had he told Belinda? Because she deserved to know? Or was it merely that he had to confide in her because he needed her? Was that it?

He sighed and stood up, the pen left beside the letter.

The ship was swaying quite steeply, and he wondered if the wind would be gone before he sailed.
If
he sailed.

He stared at himself in the mirror, much as Herrick had looked at him. His right eye felt almost normal, or perhaps he had become used to it. The left, he sighed again, it was no worse, but the least strain and he felt it, his balance still unsure. Even now, in harbour, he had to consider every move.

He heard Ozzard in the next cabin brushing his best coat, and thought of Keen in his as he had left the ship. He was youthful and mature all in one. No wonder they loved each other. He thought of the girl with the brown, misty eyes. How far had the packet reached, he wondered?

There was a light tap on the door, and as the sentry said nothing Bolitho knew it was Allday.

He too was in his best blue jacket with the gilt buttons which he prized. His nankeen trousers looked newly cleaned and his buckled shoes would do credit to a post-captain.