Inshore Squadron (21 page)

With a deep sigh he turned his attention to the lists and ledgers. Progress of work book, muster book, details of stores, gunnery equipment, canvas, every fibre and nerve of a full-rigged fighting ship of the line.

Herrick had thought a great deal about Bolitho, had wondered how he was getting on in London. He knew Bolitho had never been at ease in the capital. Streets piled with horse dung, a place being poisoned by its own stench, he had once said. The streets had become so overcrowded with vehicles of every sort that the richer houses had to spread straw on the cobbles to muffle the din of iron-shod wheels.

He often examined his own feelings about the battle with the French admiral, Ropars. Herrick had faced death alongside Bolitho many times, and each threat seemed to get worse than the one before. Without effort he could see Bolitho on
Benbow
's gangway, waving his hat to torment the French marksmen and give his own sailors heart to continue their fight against odds.

A lot of men had died or been wounded that day. Herrick's lieutenants had roamed the backstreets of Portsmouth and further out to the Hampshire villages and farms in search of men. Herrick had even had some handbills printed and distributed to inns and village halls where they could be read aloud by someone with education to inspire or coax a man to join the Colours.

Relentless
had dropped anchor that forenoon, having been relieved on station by the hastily repaired
Styx.
Despatches had been exchanged, new hands signed on. The Navy allowed little time for rest or complacency. He glanced at the big Union Flag which the boatswain had brought aft to show him. The new flag, with the additional Cross of St Patrick sewn on it. A lot of those had gone out to the squadron, too. To Herrick's practical mind it seemed a waste of effort to change a flag when the world was intent on destroying itself.

Yovell, Bolitho's clerk, padded into the cabin, a fresh bunch of papers in his hands for signature. With Herrick's own clerk, Yovell had been a tower of strength. Herrick hated paper, the need to form sentences so that no victualling yard or chandler could mis-interpret them.

“More?”

Yovell smiled. “A few, zur. There is one to sign for the London courier.”

Herrick glanced at it uneasily. That was another thing he found hard to get used to. Running his own ship was quite enough. But as flag captain he had to put his thoughts to the affairs of the whole squadron, which included
Relentless.

Captain Peel had reported that his third lieutenant, wounded in the leg during the fight with the enemy squadron, had had his leg amputated and was now ashore in the naval hospital at Haslar.

He required a replacement immediately, as none of his midshipmen had the age or seniority for the appointment.
Relentless
hoped to weigh and rejoin the squadron without additional delay. Herrick thought immediately of Pascoe and dismissed the idea. It might be days, weeks before Bolitho was back. It would be unfair to send the boy away in this fashion.

Yovell watched him impassively. “Shall I prepare a letter for the port admiral, zur?”

Herrick rubbed his chin. There were several men-of-war in harbour completing repairs of storm or battle. One of them would have a replacement, a young officer who would give his soul for a place with Captain Peel.

“I shall think about it.”

He knew Yovell was shaking his head sadly. He might have a word with Peel. Invite him to dine with Dulcie. Herrick brightened immediately. She would know what to do. She had given him such confidence he could scarcely believe it.

Herrick stood up and crossed to the side of his cabin. He wiped the damp haze off the glass and peered across the harbour. It was afternoon, but it was almost dark. He could barely see the two great three-deckers which were anchored abeam, and there were already some small lights bobbing on the water as boats plied back and forth like beetles.

One more day and he would be writing those all important words in his despatch.

Being in all respects ready for sea . . .

After this stay in harbour it would be hard to stomach.

There was a tap at the door and Speke, the second lieutenant, stepped over the coaming, his eyes glinting in the lamplight.

“What is it?”

Speke shot a quick glance at the clerk and Herrick said, “Later, Yovell. Leave us just now.” Speke's cold expression had swept away his feeling of satisfaction and comfort like a breaking wave.

“I believe Mr Pascoe may be in trouble, sir.”

“You
what?
” Herrick stared at him. “Spit it out, man!”

“He was officer of the watch, sir. I relieved him when he asked permission to go ashore. He said it was urgent.” Speke gave a brief shrug. “Young he may be, but he is more experienced than many of our people. I did not question his reasons.”

“Go on.”

Herrick forced himself to sit down, to display calm as he had seen Bolitho do so many times.

“There was a freshwater lighter alongside for most of the day, sir. When it cast off it appears that one of the working party went with it. Deserted. Mr Midshipman Penels was in charge of the party. Just a handful of landmen. And after a quick muster I discovered the missing one is Babbage, whose punishment was stood over by you, sir.”

Herrick studied him grimly. “You are suggesting that the midshipman helped Babbage to run?”

Speke met his gaze complacently. “Yes, sir. He admitted it. But only after Mr Pascoe had gone ashore. He was so ashamed at what he had done, he thought he should own up to Mr Pascoe. The young fool. Babbage will be caught and run up to the main-yard anyway. As it is . . .”

“As it is, Mr Speke, the third lieutenant has gone ashore to recover the deserter, to bring him back before anyone discovers he is missing?”

“Correct, sir. But for Penels . . .”

“Fetch him here.”

Herrick shifted in his chair, his mind thrashing about like a snared fish. It would be just like Pascoe, he thought. What Bolitho would have done.
What I would have done. Once.

Speke thrust the terrified boy through the door and closed it behind him, saying angrily, “You can thank your miserable stars it was I and not the senior who found out. Mr Wolfe would have torn you in halves!”

“Easy!”
Herrick's tone silenced him. “What did you arrange with the man Babbage?”

“I—I just thought I could help him, sir. After all he did for me at home.” Penels was sniffing and close to tears. “He was so afraid of being hurt again. I
had
to help him, sir.”

“Where was he going, did he tell you?” Herrick felt his patience draining away. “Come on, boy, Mr Pascoe may be in danger. And he tried to help
you,
remember?”

Herrick hated the shame and despair he was causing but knew there was worse to come.

In a small voice Penels whispered, “He said he would find a place called The Grapes. One of the old hands had spoken of it.”

Speke groaned. “A truly foul place, sir. Even the press would not go there without a full squad.”

Penels, lost in his misery, continued, “He was going to wait until I could get some money. Then he was hoping to return to Cornwall.”

Herrick looked at the tankard. It was empty and his throat felt like dust.

“My compliments to Major Clinton. Ask him to see me.”

Speke hurried away and Herrick said, “Well, Penels, at least you had the wit to tell Mr Speke what you had done. It is not much but it may help.”

The marine entered and said, “Can I assist, sir?”

Clinton did not even glance at the wretched midshipman, and Herrick guessed Speke had told him what had happened. It was probably over the whole ship by now.

“Mr Pascoe is at The Grapes, Major. Does that mean anything?”

Clinton nodded. “A lot, sir.” He added, “With your permission I'd like to go ashore without delay. I'll take Mr Marston and some of my lads.”

“Thank you, Major Clinton. I'm obliged.”

Moments later he heard the twitter of calls and the grating clatter of tackles as a boat was swayed up and over the gangway. Then boots, as some hand-picked marines hurried to obey Clinton's unexpected summons.

Herrick regarded the sniffing midshipman for several seconds.

Then he said, “I agreed to take you aboard as a favour to an old friend. What this will do to him, let alone your mother, I cannot imagine. Now take yourself below and report to the senior master's mate.”

As Penels groped blindly for the door Herrick said quietly, “While you are in your berth, think on this. One day you would have had men depending on your judgement. Ask yourself if you think that is right.”

Yovell entered as the midshipman departed.

“Bad, zur.”

Herrick glanced at the round handwriting, the place below for his signature.

“I shall want to send a message to my wife. I'll not be ashore tonight, I'm thinking.”

He listened for the sound of the boat but it had already left the
Benbow
's side.

Pascoe strode along yet another narrow street, his boat-cloak billowing around him in the stiff wind. He did not know Portsmouth very well, but the officer of the guard had explained where The Grapes was situated. The officer had suggested that Pascoe should stay away from such a hell-hole, as he had described it. Pascoe had told him he was to meet a party of armed seamen nearby in the hope of seizing some likely recruits. It had been surprising how easily the lie had come. The officer of the guard had not even been interested. Anyone foolish enough to hope for pressed men in Portsmouth would have to have more than luck.

One street seemed very like the next. Narrow, squalid, but never empty of movement. In doorways and beneath arches, at windows, or merely in the form of sounds. Drunken laughter, shrieks and terrible oaths. As if the miserable dwellings and not their occupants were giving voice.

Once a girl reached out to touch his shoulder as he passed. Even in the gloom he could tell she was no more than fourteen or fifteen.

Pascoe thrust her away and heard her shrill voice pursuing him around the next corner.

“You bloody bastard! I 'ope the Frogs spill yer guts from you!”

Quite suddenly it was there. A square, sombre building, protected on either side by smaller houses, and the street was littered with filth which stank like a sewer.

Pascoe had once been used to poverty, and as a midshipman had seen and suffered hardship in plenty. But all this unnecessary filth seemed needless, disgusting.

He stared up at a flaking board above the main entrance, feeling the rain bouncing on his hat and face. The Grapes.

Beneath his cloak he loosened his hanger and then banged on the door with his fist.

A panel flew inwards, as if the man had been poised there, waiting.

“Yes? Who is it?” Two white eyes swivelled back and forth across Pascoe's shoulders, but seeing no armed seamen or marines, seemed satisfied. “A young gentleman, is it?”

Even the man's crooning voice made Pascoe feel sick.

“Cat got your tongue, has it? Ah well, we'll soon sort that out for you!”

The panel snapped shut, and seconds later the great door swung inwards and Pascoe stepped inside. It was like being swallowed up. Suffocated.

It must have been a fine house once, he thought. Big staircase, now damaged and covered in dust. Carpets, too, once rich and thick, were full of holes and covered in stains. A merchant's house perhaps, when Portsmouth had been busier for commerce and not plagued by the French and the privateers which were too close for comfort.

An immense woman stepped from a room. She was tall, muscular and without any femininity. Even her piled hair and the great red slash of a mouth made her look like a ploughman dressed for a village play.

The doorkeeper said in a wheedling voice, “He's an officer, ma'am!”

She moved towards Pascoe, her deepset eyes fixed on his face. Like the house, she seemed to engulf him. He could see the skin of her partly bared bosom, feel her power. He could even smell her. Gin and sweat.

“Are you with the press, young fellow?” She put her hand under his chin and looked at him searchingly. “Pretty boy. No, you're here for some fun, eh?”

Pascoe said carefully, “I believe a man is hiding here.” He saw her eyes flash dangerously and added, “I want no trouble. If I can get him back to the ship he will have nothing to fear.”

She chuckled, the sound rising through her great body until it broke into the hall like a guffaw.

“Nothing to fear? That's a bloody good one that is, eh, Charlie?”

The doorkeeper tittered uncertainly. “Yes, ma'am.”

Pascoe stood very still as the woman unclipped his boat-cloak and lifted it from his shoulders.

“I've two good girls for you, Lieutenant.” But she sounded defensive, as if even she was impressed.