Signal Close Action (5 page)

Herrick replied, 'Better, sir.' He let out a deep breath. 'A whole span better!'

Bolitho shaded his eyes to look to
wards the land. There
were probably couriers alrea
dy galloping along a coast road
even at this very min
ute. But there was no point, in
slipping like poachers thr
ough the Gibraltar Strait under
cover of darkness. He had
his orders, but the Earl of St.
Vincent had made it very clear
it was up to him how he inter
preted and executed them. It
would do no harm for the enemy
to know a British force was on
ce more abroad in the Mediter
ranean
.

He let his gaze move up to the masthead, to the big dovetailed flag which was now as stiff as a plank in the steady wind.
His flag.

He looked along the crowded decks at the scurrying seamen, the great coils of rope and lashings which to any landsman would seem like a hopeless tangle. And still further to the beakhead, beneath which he could just see one of the Spartan general's massive shoulders. Inch's sloop was a mere sliver of white against the horizon haze, leading the squadron. He smiled to himself. As he had once done in his own first command at the Chesapeake. Another ship. Another war.

Herrick asked, 'Do you have any instructions, sir ?'

He looked at him, seeing Pascoe watching from the lee rail, one hand on his hip.

'The ship is yours, Thomas.' He made to turn away and added, 'What did you have in mind ?'

'I should like to exercise the gun crews.' Herrick tried to relax. 'I am satisfied with the sail drill at present.'

Bolitho smiled. 'So be it.'

He realised that Gilchrist was hovering close by and added,
‘I
will be in my cabin.'

As he walked towards the wheel he heard Gilchrist say coldly, 'I have two men for punishment. Slackness on duty, and insolent to a bosun's mate.'

Bolitho hesitated. Floggings at this early stage would be bad enough under any conditions. With the little squadron standing out to sea where almost any sail might be a Frenchman or a Spaniard, it was hardly in keeping with their proud mission.

He heard Herrick say something and Gilchrist's quick retort, 'His word is good enough for
me,
sir!'

Bolitho strode aft beneath the thick deck beams.
He must not interfere.

He passed the marine sentry by his cabin door and frowned. Not yet, anyway.

*

A full day after leaving Gibraltar the promise of a fast passage to the Gulf of Lions received a setback. Perverse as ever, the wind dropped away to a faint breeze, so that even with all available canvas set to her yards the
Lysander
was barely able to command three knots.

The squadron was scattered from its original formation, and each of the two-deckers moved with little enthusiasm above her own perfect reflection.

Bolitho had sent the frigate to scout far ahead of the main force, and as he paced restlessly back and forth across the poop deck he was thankful for taking that one small precaution. Captain Javal would be able to take advantage of the inshore winds, and it was to be hoped he would use them to some purpose. He smiled despite his impatience. Both he and Farquhar were still frigate captains at heart, and the thought of Javal's freedom, out of reach from any signal, was enough to rouse the envy of a man tied to a ponderous seventy-four.

He heard Herrick speaking with his first lieutenant and thought suddenly of the flogging on the previous afternoon. The usual brutal ritual of administering punishment had aroused little excitement amongst the assembled company. But as Bolitho had watched from the poop as Herrick had read briefly from the Articles of War he had imagined he had seen something like triumph on Lieutenant Gilchrist's narrow face.

He had expected Herrick to take Gilchrist aside and warn him of the dangers of unnecessary punishment. God alone knew that the penalties for thoughtless hardship could be harsher than the actual event. The mutinies at Spithead and the Nore should have been warning enough even for a blind man.

But as he paused to glance down at the quarterdeck he could see little between the two officers other than what you might expect under normal circumstances.

Gilchrist touched his hat and then walked forward along the weather gangway, his shoes clicking on the planking as he strode in the strange bouncing manner which Bolitho had already noticed.

After a moment he ran lightly down the larboard ladder and joined Herrick at the weather nettings.

He said, 'A snail's pace. I wish to heaven we could find that wind again.'

Herrick watched him warily.
'Lysander's
copper is clean, sir. And I have checked each sail myself and there is nothing we could do to gain even half a knot.'

Bolitho turned, surprised at his tone. "That was not a criticism, Thomas. I know a captain can do many things, but controlling the elements is not one of them.'

Herrick forced a smile.
‘I
am sorry, sir. But I have been feeling it badly. So much is expected of us. If we fail before we have begun . . .' He shrugged. 'A whole fleet may suffer later.'

Bolitho stood up on some bollards and steadied himself against the nettings while he peered across the quarter to where
Nicator
was steering lethargically on the same larboard tack. Her topsails were barely filling, and her masthead pendant lifted only occasionally against the empty sky.

Of the land there was no sign, although the lookouts, clinging like tiny monkeys high above the deck, would be able to see it as a purple blur. The southern shore of Spain. He shivered in spite of the clammy heat, remembering the other times he had come this way. He wondered why Herrick was being so evasive. It was so unlike him to concern himself with what might happen because of 'maybes'. Again that nagging doubt. Was it because he was feeling his responsibility as too heavy a burden?

He said without turning, 'Your senior, Thomas. What do you know of him ?'

Herrick sounded guarded. 'Mr. Gilchrist? He's competent in his duties. He was in
Lysander
as second lieutenant when she fought at St. Vincent.'

Bolitho bit his lip. He was angry with himself for being unable to hold his silence for more than a day at sea. More than that, he was hurt in a way he could not explain. Thomas Herrick was a friend, and over the years when they had fought and almost died in one battle after another, had endured thirst and fever, fear and despair, he had never felt such a gulf between them.

He said, 'I did not ask about his appointments!' He had not meant it to sound so blunt. 'I want to know about the
man?
'I have no complaints, sir. He is a good seaman.' 'And that is enough ?'

'It has to be, sir.' Herrick was watching him with something like desperation. 'It's all I know.'

Bolitho stepped down and took out his watch. 'I see.'

'Look here, sir.' Herrick moved his hands vaguely. 'Things change. As change they must. I feel so marooned from my ship and people. Whenever I try to rouse the old style of things I become entangled with the affairs of the squadron. Most of my wardroom are young lieutenants, and some have never heard a gun fired in anger. Young Pascoe, the most junior lieutenant aboard, has seen more action than they have.' He was speaking quickly, unable to check the sudden flow of words. 'I've excellent warrant officers, some of the best I've sailed with. But you know how it is, sir, the word has to come from aft, it
must!’

Bolitho studied him impassively. He wanted to take Herrick aside. To the cabin or a place beyond the scope of watching eyes. To tell him he understood. But then their roles would be as before. Bolitho thinking of a ship's routine and crowded world between decks and Herrick waiting to put his thoughts into deeds like the excellent subordinate he had always been.

He made himself say, 'Yes, it
must
be so. A ship relies on her captain. As I do.' Herrick sighed. 'I had to speak - '

Bolitho added slowly, 'I did not agree to your appointment because of our friendship. But because I thought you were the most fitting man for the task.' He saw his words hitting Herrick's face like blows and continued, 'I have not changed my mind about that.'

From the corner of his eye he saw the master's vast bulk surrounded by serious-faced midshipmen as they gathered for the noon ritual of using their sextants to estimate the ship's position. By the rail Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence, the officer of the watch, was making a convincing show of studying the men working above on the main yard, but the stiffness of his shoulders betrayed that he was also trying to hear what his two superiors were discussing.

Bolitho said, 'So let's have no more gloom, eh? There'll be enough to fret about if we close with an enemy. That has not changed either.'

Herrick stepped back a pace. 'Aye, sir.' His face was grim. 'I am sorry if I disappoint you.' He watched as Bolitho returned to the poop ladder before saying quietly, 'I will endeavour not to do so again.'

Boli
tho strode right aft to the taff
rail and clasped the gilded scrollwork with sudden despair. Try as he might he seemed unable to meet Herrick, to cross the bridge between them.

'Deck thar!
' The lookout's hoarse cry made him start.
'Harebell's
signallin'!'

Bolitho hurried to the poop rail and checked himself, fretting until Fitz-Clarence,
L.ysander's
second lieutenant, came out of his thoughts to shout, 'Aloft with your glass, Mr. Faulkner! I want that signal, and I want it
now!’

The midshipman of the watch, who seconds earlier had been drowsing by the nettings, congratulating himself on being spared Mr. Grubb's formidable instruction in the intricacies of navigation, fled to the lee shrouds and began to climb rapidly towards the maintop. .

Fitz-Clarence surveyed his progress, hands on hips, his elegant head thrown back as if he expected the midshipman to slip and fall. The lieutenant seemed to like striking poses. He was very smart, even dapper, and what he lacked in height he obviously tried to replace with a constant show of authority.

Herrick stood by his elbow, hands behind him. Bolitho noticed that the hands were clasping and unclasping, making a lie of his outward calm.

Eventually the boy's shrill voice floated down to them. 'From
Harebell,
sir!
Buzz
ard
in sight to the nor'-east!'

Bolitho thrust his hands into his pockets, his fingers gripping his watch to steady his sudden anxiety.'

Captain Javal was retracing his course to rejoin the squadron. He must have sighted something either too powerful to deal with or to warn his commodore that the enemy were even now giving chase.

He saw Herrick hurry to the ladder, and seconds later he joined him at the rail.

Bolitho said, 'Signal the squadron to close on the flagship. We will shorten sail directly to make their task easier.'

Herrick stared astern, his gaze very clear in the reflected glare. He said with surprising bitterness,
'Osiris
is already gaining, sir. Captain Farquhar must have eyes like a cat.'

Bolitho watched him in silence. Reading Herrick's mind as if he had shouted it aloud. He knew that if Farquhar was here as flag captain there would have been no hesitation. No need for the commodore to suggest the obvious.

Herrick touched his hat and returned to the ladder. But Gilchrist was already on the quarterdeck, his speaking trumpet in his ha
nd as he snapped, 'Bosun's mate!
,
Pipe all hands to shorten sail!
Take
the name of the last man aloft!
'

He turned to look at Herrick, adding, 'Council of war, sir ?' It sounded like a challenge.

Herrick nodded. 'Aye, Mr. Gilchrist.' He hesitated. 'Captains repair on board.'

Bolitho looked away, realising that he had been willing Herrick to speak out. To silence Gilchrist's arrogance once and for all.

The hands came hurrying from their work above and below in answer to the shrill of calls, barely glancing round as they ran to their stations for shortening sail. Bolitho saw Pascoe buttoning his coat as he followed his own men to the quarterdeck, touching his hat to Gilchrist, who responded with, 'Take a
firm
hand of your people, Mr. Pascoe.'

Pascoe looked at him questioningly, his eyes flashing in the sunlight. Then he nodded. 'I will, sir.'

'By heaven you
will
indeed!
' Gilchrist's voice made several seamen pause to stare. 'I'll have no favourites in my ship
!
'