Signal Close Action

The stirring story of the life and times of Richard Bolitho is told in Alexander Kent's bestselling novels, all available in Arrow.

1756
born Falmouth, son of James Bolitho

1768
entered the King's service as a Midshipman on
Manxman

1772
Midshipman,
Gorgon (Richard Bolitho - Midshipman
and
Midshipman Bolitho and the 'Avenger')

1778
promoted Commander,
Sparrow.
Battle of the
Chesapeake
(Sloop of War)

1782
promoted Captain,
Phalarope;
West Indies; Battle
of Saintes
(To Glory We Steer)

1784
Captain,
Undine;
India and East Indies
(Command
a
King's Ship)

1787
Captain,
Tempest;
Great South Sea; Tahiti; suffered serious fever
(Passage to Mutiny)

1798
Battle of the Nile
(Signal- Close Action!)

1800
promoted Rear Admiral; Baltic; Battle of Copenhagen
(The Inshore Squadron)

1802
promoted Vice-Admiral; West Indies

1805
Battle of Trafalgar

1812
promoted Admiral; Second American War

1815
killed in action aboard his flagship, following Napoleon's escape from Elba

Alexander Kent

SIGNAL - CLOSE ACTION!

arr
ow

For Winifred, with my love

First published in Arrow 1976

9 11 13 14 12 10 8

© Bolitho Maritime Productions Ltd 1974

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher's prior consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser

First published by Hutchinson 1974

Arrow Books Limited Random House UK Ltd, 20 Vauxhall Bridge Road, London SW1V 2SA

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Random House UK Limited Reg. No. 954009

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 0 09 912940 X

Set in Monotype Garamond

Printed and bound in Great Britain by Cox & Wyman Ltd, Reading, Berkshire

Contents

Like leviathans afloat Lay their bulwarks on the brine; While the sign of battle flew On the lofty British line.

campbell

The Squadron

Beneath
Gibraltar's towering and craggy protection, the mixed collection of anchored shipping tugged at their cables and waited for the sudden squall to abate. Despite streaks of pale blue which showed themselves occasionally between the brisk clouds, the air was cold, with a bite in it more common in the Bay of Biscay than the Mediterranean.

Considering its strategic importance, Gibraltar's anchorage was unusually deserted. A few storeships, some brigs and schooners finding shelter or awaiting orders made up the bulk of vessels there, and of major men-of-war there were but three. Anchored well apart from the other hotchpotch of local craft were three ships of the line,
seventy-fours,
which in this month of January
1798
were still the most popular, and the most adaptable, vessels in any plan of battle.

The one anchored nearest to the land bore the name
Lysander
across her broad counter, a name to match the figurehead which stared angrily from beneath her bowsprit. It was a fine figurehead, with the black-bearded Spartan general adorned in crested helmet and breastplate, originally carved by Henry Callaway of Deptford. Like the rest of the big two-decker, it was well painted, with a look of newness which belied the ship's eleven long years in the King's service.

Back and forth, up and down her wide quarterdeck her captain, Thomas Herrick, walked with barely a pause to peer towards the shore. If he considered his ship's appearance and condition, it was more from anxiety than pride. The months of work in England to get
Lysander
ready for sea, the whole wearing business of re-commissioning and gathering what amounted to practically a raw company had gone on without a pause. Stores and powder, water and provisions, weapons and the men to handle them. Herrick had more than once

questioned the fates which had given him his new command.

And yet, despite the delays and infuriating slackness amongst dockyard men and chandlers, he had seen his ship grow from a disorganised chaos to a living, vital creature.

Frightened men brought aboard by the unrelenting press-gangs, and others gathered by motives as varied as patriotism or merely fleeing into the Navy to avoid a hangman's halter, had been slowly and painstakingly moulded into something which, if still far from perfect, could offer hope for the future. The first squall in the Bay as
Lysander
had crawled south towards Portugal had brought some weakness to light. Too many seasoned hands in one watch, too many landsmen in another. But under Herrick's careful watch, and the efforts of
Lysander
's remaining backbone of professional warrant officers, they had at least come to terms with the awesome maze of rigging, the rebellious and treacherous folds of canvas which made up their daily lives at sea.

Once at anchor below the Rock, Herrick had waited with growing apprehension for this particular day. More ships had arrived and anchored nearby. The other two seventy-fours,
Osiris
and
Nicator,
the frigate
Buzz
ard
and the little sloop of war
Harebell
were no longer separate entities but part of a whole. By order of the Admiralty in London they had become one. The squadron, in which Herrick's ship would hoist the broad pendant of commodore, and over which and through all imaginable circumstances Richard Bolitho would at any moment now be exercising his right of command.

It was strange when Herrick hesitated to consider the matter. It was only four months since he and Bolitho had returned to England from this same sea. After a bloody battle in which Herrick's own ship had been destroyed and a complete French squadron routed or taken, they had gone to the Admiralty together. It still seemed like a dream, a memory of long past.

The result of that visit had been far-reaching. For Richard Bolitho an immediate promotion to commodore, and for Herrick the post of flag captain. Their admiral had been less fortunate. Packed off to govern a penal colony in New South Wales, the very swiftness of his fall from grace had somehow measured the step between authority and oblivion.

Herrick's first overwhelm
ing pleasure of being appointed
flag captain to Bolitho had been slightly marred by another of the Admiralty's changes of heart. Instead of Bolitho's own ship,
Euryalus,
the great one hundred gun three-decker which he had originally seized as a prize from the French, they had been given the
Lysan
der.
Easier to handle than a great first-rate, possibly, but Herrick suspected that another officer more senior than Bolitho had claimed the ex-Frenchman for himself.

He paused in his pacing and ran his eyes along the busy decks. Seamen were working on the gangways and boat tier. Others swayed high overhead amongst the black criss-cross of shrouds and stays, halliards and braces, making sure that no frayed lines, no broken wisps of hemp would greet the new commodore as he stepped through the entry port. The marines were already in position. No need to worry about their Major Leroux. He was speaking with his lieutenant, a rather vacant young man called Nepean, while a sergeant checked each marine's musket and appearance.

The midshipman of the watch must have an aching arm, Herrick thought. He was very conscious of his captain's presence, and was holding a heavy telescope to his eye, obeying the last order, to report immediately when the commodore's boat shoved off from the jetty.

Herrick shifted his gaze outboard towards the other vessels of the small squadron. He had had little to do with them so far, but already knew quite a lot about their various captains. From the little sloop which regularly bared her copper as she rolled uncomfortably in the squall to the nearest two-decker,
Osiris,
they all seemed to have some sort of link.
Nicat
or's
captain, for instance. Herrick had discovered that he had served with Bolitho during the American Revolution when they had both been lieutenants. Their
reunion might present pleasure o
r otherwise, he thought. Commander Inch of the dizzily swaying
Harebell
had commanded a bomb vessel with the old squadron, here in the Mediterranean. Of
Buzz
ard's
captain, Raymond Javal, he had learned little but gossip. Hasty temper. Hungry for prize money. He had all the makings of a typical if awkward frigate captain.

He let his gaze rest on the
Osiris
once again and tried to conceal his irritation. She was almost a twin to the
Lysander,
and her destiny was firmly in the hands of Captain Charles