Colours Aloft! (30 page)

Keen saw the smile and wondered. How did he go on like this? It was fanatical, unswerving, but it would not save him at a court martial.

“How was the boy? Midshipman Estridge, wasn't it?”

“A clean break, sir. The surgeon was more troubled by some of his other injured hands. He's had more cuts and gashes than a small war!”

There was a seaman working beside one of the nine-pounders and Bolitho had seen him earlier. He was stripped to the waist, not out of bravado, but to try and keep his clothing dry. When he had turned, Bolitho had seen his back, scarred from shoulders to waist, like the marks of a giant claw. It made him think of Zenoria and what Keen had saved her from.

But when Keen laughed at his earlier remark the seaman had turned and looked up at him. Bolitho had rarely seen such hatred in a man's glance.

Keen saw it too and said tightly, “I read the Articles of War before a flogging. I did not compose the bloody rules!”

Bolitho could sense his anger, something he had rarely shown even after the court of inquiry.

He saw extra marines at hatchways, their scarlet coats dark with flung spray. Keen was taking no chances. Better to prevent trouble than enforce the misery of suppressing it.

Bolitho said, “I am going below.” He looked at him squarely. “If I am wrong—” He shrugged as if it were of little concern. Then he added, “Some will be pleased. I hope that then they will let my family rest in peace.”

Keen watched him stride towards the poop ladder and felt a stab of pity as Bolitho caught his arm against the mizzen bitts.

Paget moved quietly beside him. “May I ask what you think of our chances, sir?”

Keen glanced at him. The first lieutenant, the link between captain and ship's company, quarterdeck and forecastle.

He replied, “Ask me again when we have run Jobert ashore.”

They both turned and Paget exclaimed, “Not thunder too!”

Keen looked past him. Bolitho was climbing to the poop again, and wearing the old sword, with Allday a few paces behind him.

The lookout yelled with disbelief, “Gunfire, sir! To th' south'rd!”

Bolitho looked at them. “No. Not thunder this time.”

Keen stared. How did he do it? Moments earlier he must have been accepting failure. Now he looked strangely calm. Even his voice was untroubled as he said, “General signal, Mr Sheaffe.
Make more sail.
”

He watched the flags hurriedly bent onto the halliards and sent soaring up to the yards for all his ships to see.

Bolitho wanted to grip his hands together for surely they must be shaking.

“Acknowledged, sir!” That was Stayt, appearing silently like a cat.

The distant murmur of cannon fire rolled across the water. It was a long way off. Bolitho said, “We'll not fight before dawn tomorrow.” That was a fact which had to be faced. When darkness closed in the ships might be scattered by the blustery wind. By dawn it could be too late.
Benbow
was more than a match for any eager privateers or corsairs from the North African shore, but against a whole squadron she would stand no chance. He cocked his head to listen as the gunfire came again. Not many ships. Perhaps two. What could that mean?

He said, “General signal.
Prepare for battle.
The people will sleep at their guns tonight.”

He touched the hilt of the old sword and felt a shiver run through his body.

He could recall as if it were yesterday the moment when he had been walking with Adam to the sallyport on Portsmouth Point. Then he had looked back to search for something. So perhaps he had known it would be the last time.

16
M
EN OF WAR

R
EAR
-A
DMIRAL
Thomas Herrick stood by the weather nettings, his chin sunk in his neckcloth while he watched
Benbow
's seamen hauling on the braces to trim the yards and reset the reefed topsails.

Everything took an eternity; it had taken a whole day to make any progress and drained all their skill. Now at last they were past the southernmost tip of Sardinia, which lay some fifty miles to starboard. On the other beam was Africa at about the same distance.

Wallowing downwind of
Benbow
were two heavy merchantmen,
Governor
and
Prince Henry.
Herrick could only guess at the value of their cargoes.

He thought yet again of Bolitho's face in the stern cabin of this ship, the one which had once proudly flown his flag when Herrick had been his captain. He could not forget the bitterness in Bolitho's voice, the reckless contempt when he had damned the admiral's court of inquiry.

It was a strange coincidence which had decided Admiral Sir Marcus Laforey to take passage in
Benbow.
He had left his flagcaptain in temporary charge, although the way Sir Marcus ate and drank it seemed unlikely he would ever return to Malta.

He could head Captain Dewar discussing something with the sailing-master. Herrick sighed. He would have to make it up with his flag-captain, for Dewar was an excellent officer and very conscientious. Herrick blamed himself for Dewar's wariness. He had been foul company since the inquiry.

He felt the spray on his face and peered beyond the starboard bow where, reeling like a ship in distress, his only frigate was tacking yet again to try to stand up to windward. She was the
Philomel
of twenty-six guns and, but for the grave news of the French squadron, she would have been completing a much needed refit in the dockyard where
Benbow
had been overhauled.

Herrick gripped his hands behind him and looked along the tilting main deck. He thought too of Inch, another friend, one of their close-knit community. Was he dead, he wondered? It was unlikely he would have struck to the French.

He glanced at the sky, so clear yet so hostile. Perhaps by tomorrow the wind would have died down—any reduction would be a blessing.

Captain Dewar crossed the deck and said, “Shall we lie-to tonight, sir?”

Herrick shook his head. He felt the ship lift under him and his sturdy legs bracing to take it. Unlike Bolitho, he had never got into the habit of pacing the deck. He liked to stand and feel his ship. He could think better that way, he had long decided.

“No. We need more sea room. Before dark, pass the word for lights to be hoisted on the merchantmen. We can hold station that way.
Philomel
will have to manage on her own.”

Dewar gauged the moment as a wildfowler tests the wind before firing a shot.

“D'you think Vice-Admiral Bolitho has met with this, this Jobert?”

“If not, I'm sure he'll stand between us and the enemy.” He thought suddenly of the eight hundred miles which still lay ahead before they could moor beneath the guns of the Rock. Fever or not, it would offer a breathing space, and perhaps he might obtain another escort. But he said, “If anyone can do it, our Dick will.”

Dewar eyed him curiously but remained silent. They were on good terms again. He would try again later.

Herrick toyed with the idea of going aft, but the thought of Laforey, with his gout and his steady drinking, turned him against it.

The masthead lookout yelled, “Gunfire! To the west'rd!” The sound must have carried more swiftly to his dizzy perch for even as Herrick made to speak he heard the distant bang of cannon fire and some intermittent shots from smaller weapons. Herrick's worried mind cleared as if he had ducked his head in ice water.

“Clear for action, Captain Dewar.” That was another thing which Herrick did not understand. He could never bring himself to use his captain's first name. Yet in other ways he had learned and used so much from Bolitho's example. “Signal the convoy to close up.” He swore as the calls shrilled and
Benbow
's six hundred seamen and marines dropped what they were doing and rushed to obey the awakened drums.

Damn the light and the wind. Everything was against them. How many were there? He forced himself to show a confidence which had eluded him after the lookout's cry. Who were they firing at? More crashes and bangs rolled across the tossing white horses, but the lookout stayed silent. They were still a long way off and the sullen explosions were using the stiff wind to carry their message.

“Signal
Philomel
to investigate.” Herrick opened and closed his hands behind him. The little frigate could always turn and fly with the wind if she got into danger. It would have helped so much if he knew her captain. His name was Saunders, that was all he had discovered.

Herrick strode to the opposite side and saw the nearest merchantman setting her topgallants to bear up on her companion. God, they looked like fat beasts for the slaughter, Herrick thought glumly. He heard the first lieutenant's voice urging the hands to extra efforts as they cleared the ship for action, each man fully aware that they now had two admirals on board.

Herrick considered his choices. Turn back for Malta? Even with the wind in their favour it was still another four hundred miles. In daylight the French would soon find them. So hold the present course? There was always a chance that the enemy was being engaged by an unexpected friendly force or that they might manage to lose them during the night.

He said, “We will stand-to throughout the night, Captain Dewar.”

He seemed to see dear Dulcie in his thoughts. She was always so proud of him. He turned towards the western horizon which was already painted in the deeper hues of sunset.

A nervous-looking lieutenant, one of Laforey's staff, hovered at his elbow and said timidly, “My admiral has nowhere to go, sir, now that the ship is cleared for action.”

Herrick bit back a rude retort. There were too many ears around him.

He replied calmly, “I am most sorry, but as you see, all our people are having the same
inconvenience.
” Under his breath he muttered, “Bloody fool!”

A shrill voice pealed down from the mainmast crosstrees. Dewar had sent his signals midshipman aloft with a telescope.

“Deck there! Two sail of the line to west'rd, sir! They wear French colours!”

Herrick glanced quickly along the deck before him. Every gun manned, other half-naked figures waiting to trim or set more sails. Marines in their scarlet coats and crossbelts, ready to fight.
Benbow
could and would give good account of herself, as she had proved several times. Even her company was lucky to have so many trained and seasoned seamen. She had been too long out of England to have to rely on the press and the sweepings of the assizes. Two to one were acceptable odds. If Lady Luck had been less kind, the enemy might have been amongst them soon after dusk, and it would have been impossible to fight and protect the merchantmen at the same time.

He saw
Philomel
's masts strain hard over as she fought across the eye of the wind and then filled her sails on the opposite tack.

Herrick smiled grimly. Bolitho had always loved frigates; he on the other hand preferred something steadier and more powerful under his feet. Maybe his early experience of a tyrannical captain and a mutinous company had soured him against them in his later years.

The midshipman called down again, “Small vessel is engaged with them, sir!” His shrill voice cracked in disbelief, “A
brig,
sir!”

Herrick stared up at the topmast. Whoever commanded that brig was trying to warn him. How could he know? He rubbed his eyes and saw the second signals midshipman peering up at his friend. More like a lover than a would-be officer, Herrick thought.

He snapped, “Alter course. Steer sou'-west by south.” He waited for the signal to be run up. “What the devil is Captain Saunders about?” A few isolated bangs echoed across the water as
Philomel
gathered the wind and increased speed towards the enemy.

“Recall that madman! I shall require him right here very soon!”

Eventually the midshipman lowered his glass and called, “
Philomel
does not acknowledge, sir.”

“God damn it, is everyone blind?” He thought of Bolitho as he said it and was ashamed. He added, “Alter course anyway, Captain Dewar.”

The slight change of direction laid the two big merchantmen almost in line abeam under
Benbow
's lee. It might at least make them feel more confident when the enemy's full strength became apparent.

The nervous lieutenant returned and Herrick glared at him.

“Well?”

The lieutenant stared round at the gun crews, the sanded decks, the marines' bayoneted muskets.

“Sir Marcus sends his compliments, sir, and—”

Herrick had an idea. “Tell my servant to give the admiral a bottle of my best port.” As the lieutenant hurried towards the poop he shouted, “And another after that!” He looked at Dewar. “That should keep him quiet, damn him!”

The darkness moved across from the opposite horizon like an endless cloak; even the wave crests seemed to diminish as men became shadows, and the sea lost its menace.

But the gunfire continued on and off, the quick, snapping bang of the brig's cannon, followed by the angry bellow of heavier artillery.

Captain Dewar took a glass of brandy from his coxswain and watched as his admiral did likewise.

“Whoever is doing that is a brave man, sir.”

Herrick felt the brandy sear his salt-cracked lips. There were a few other brigs reported in this area, but in his heart he knew which one had tossed caution aside to warn him.

He said slowly, “At first light I intend to engage.”

Dewar nodded and wondered why Herrick had said it. He knew his admiral by now. He had never doubted that he would attack.

Bolitho lowered his head and stood between two deckhead beams. The orlop deck, a place of spiralling lanterns and prancing shadows. After the long, open gun decks overhead it seemed all but deserted. The surgeon's mate and his loblolly boys in their long aprons stood around the makeshift tables where Tuson would perform his grisly work. Freshly scrubbed tubs for the wings and limbs of his amputations were a grim reminder of the work which went on here once a battle was joined.

Carcaud was checking over a line of instruments which seemed to blink like lamps as the lanterns swung above them. He, like most of the men Bolitho had seen while he had walked tirelessly through his flagship, avoided his glance. It was as if they felt unsure of him in their presence instead of standing aloof on the quarterdeck amongst his officers.

At the door of the sickbay Bolitho paused and waited for Tuson to look up from his preparations. There was a smell of dressings and enforced cleanliness. The only other occupant peered at Bolitho from a cot. Midshipman Estridge was not entirely saved by his broken leg; Tuson had had him rolling bandages although he was lying on his back.

Bolitho nodded to him and then said to the surgeon, “It will be daylight in an hour.”

Tuson regarded him bleakly. “How is the eye, sir?”

Bolitho shrugged. “It has been worse.” He could not account for his strange disregard for danger, even death. He had been on every deck, had made sure that everyone had seen him. He had imagined that down here at least, a place he had always dreaded, he would have felt anxiety. If anything he felt only relief. It was a level of recklessness he did not remember in the past. Resigned perhaps, so where was the worth in worrying any more?

Tuson looked at the low deckhead. It almost brushed his white hair. “The ship is full of sounds.”

Bolitho knew what he meant. Normally you could recognize the general movement of men, of seamanship and the daily routine of eating and working.

But now, with the ship cleared for battle, the noises were all overhead, concentrated around the guns as they lay behind sealed ports, their crews huddled against them, trying or pretending to sleep. Soon those same guns would be like furnace bars, and no man would dare to touch them with bare hands.

The sounds of sea and wind were muted here. The sluice of water against the bilge, the occasional clatter of a pump as men, unfit to fight, carried out their regular soundings of the well. It was uncanny, eerie, he thought. They must be so close to the enemy, and yet, with the coming of darkness, the distant gunfire had ceased. As if they were alone.

Tuson watched him. He had already noted that Bolitho had changed into a crisp new shirt and neckcloth, and his uniform coat bore the glittering epaulettes with the twin silver stars. He pondered on it. Did Bolitho not care? Did he have a death wish? Or was it that he cared too much, so that his own safety had become secondary? He was hatless, and his black hair shone in the moving beams, and only the loose lock of hair which, Tuson knew better than most, hid a terrible scar showed any signs of greyness. An odd mixture. He would be handed his hat and sword when he returned to the deck.