Inshore Squadron (3 page)

Bolitho was wrapped completely in his boat-cloak, with even his hat held firmly beneath it to prevent it from being whipped into the sea.

He watched the leading two-decker, recalling what he knew of her as she took on form and substance through the blown spray.

A third-rate, the strength in any sea fight, she was slightly larger than
Lysander.
She looked very splendid, he thought, and guessed that Herrick must be equally impressed. He saw the figurehead standing out as if to signal the barge with its raised sword. Vice-Admiral Sir John Benbow, who had died in 1702 after losing a leg by chain-shot. But not before he had lived to see the execution of his captains who had deserted him in battle. It was a fine figurehead, much as the dead admiral must have been. Grave-eyed, with flowing hair, and wearing a shining breast-plate of the period. It had been carved by old Izod Lambe of Plymouth, who although said to be nearly blind was still one of the finest in his trade.

How many times he had wanted to go across from Falmouth to see Herrick in the final stages of getting his ship ready for sea. But Herrick might have taken it as lack of trust in his ability. Bolitho more than once had been made to accept that a ship was no longer his direct concern. Like his flag, he was above it. He felt a shiver lance up his spine as he studied the other members of his squadron. Four ships of the line, two frigates and a sloop of war. In all nearly three thousand officers, seamen and marines, and everything which that implied.

The squadron might be new, but many of the faces would be friends. He thought of Keverne and Inch, Neale and Keen, and of the sloop's new commander, Matthew Veitch. He had been Herrick's first lieutenant. Admiral Sir George Beauchamp had kept his word, now it was up to him to do his part.

With men he knew and trusted, who had shared and done so much together.

He smiled in spite of his excitement as he thought of his new flag lieutenant when he had tried to tell him his feelings.

The lieutenant had said, “You make it sound exclusive, sir. As the bard would have it.
We happy few.
”

Perhaps he had been truer than he had understood.

The barge turned, swaying over a trough, as the lieutenant headed towards the flagship's glistening side.

There they all were. Red coats and cross-belts, the blue and white of the officers, the mass of seamen beyond. Above them all, towering as if to control and embrace them, the three great masts and yards, the mass of shrouds, stays and rigging which were incomprehensible to any landsman but represented the speed and agility of any ship.
Benbow,
by any standard, was something to be reckoned with.

The oars rose as one while the bowman hooked on to the main chains.

Bolitho handed his cloak to Allday and jammed his hat firmly athwartships across his head.

Everything had gone very quiet, and apart from the surge of the tide between the ship and the swaying barge it seemed almost peaceful.

Allday was standing, too, and had removed his hat while he watched and waited to lend a hand should Bolitho miss his footing.

Then Bolitho stepped out and upwards and hauled himself swiftly towards the entry port.

He was aware of the sudden bark of orders, the slap and stamp of marines presenting arms simultaneously with the fifers breaking into
Heart of Oak.

Faces, blurred and vague, loomed to meet him as he stepped on to the deck, and as the calls shrilled and died in salute, Bolitho removed his hat to the quarterdeck and to the ship's captain as he strode to greet him.

Herrick removed his hat and swallowed hard. “Welcome aboard, sir.”

They both stared up as some halliards were jerked taut by the signal party.

There it was, a symbol and a statement, Bolitho's own flag streaming from the mizzen like a banner.

The nearest onlookers would have watched for some extra sign as the youthful-looking rear-admiral replaced his hat and shook hands with their captain.

But that was all they saw, for what Bolitho and Herrick shared at that moment was invisible but to each other.

2
F
LAGSHIP

B
Y DAWN
the following day the wind had backed considerably, and once again the Solent was alive with angry wavecrests. Aboard the flagship, and all the rest of Bolitho's small squadron, the motion was uncomfortable as each vessel tugged at her anchor as if determined to drive aground.

When the first dull light gave colour to the glistening ships, Bolitho sat in his stern cabin re-reading his carefully worded instructions and trying at the same time to detach his mind from the sounds of a ship preparing for a new day. He knew Herrick had been on deck since dawn, and that if he went up to join him it would only hamper the business of getting
Benbow
and the rest of his command ready to weigh.

It could be bad enough at any time. War had left severe shortages of ships, material and experience. But most of all, trained seamen. In a new ship, as part of a freshly formed squadron, it must seem even worse to Bolitho's captains and their officers.

And Bolitho
needed
to go on deck. To clear his mind, to get the
feel
of his ships, to be part of the whole.

Ozzard peered in at him and then padded across the deck with its covering of black and white chequered canvas to pour some more strong coffee.

Bolitho had not got to know his servant much more than when they had first met aboard Herrick's
Lysander
in the Mediterranean. Even in his neat blue jacket and striped trousers he still looked more like a lawyer's clerk than any seafarer. It was said he had only escaped the gallows by running to hide in the fleet, but he had proved his worth in loyalty and a kind of withdrawn understanding.

He had shown the other side of his knowledge when Bolitho had taken him to the house in Falmouth. Laws and taxes were becoming more complicated with each new year of war, and Ferguson, Bolitho's one-armed steward, had admitted that the accounts had never looked better than after Ozzard's attention.

The marine sentry beyond the screen door rapped his musket on the deck and called, “Your clerk, sir!”

Ozzard flitted to the door to admit Bolitho's new addition, Daniel Yovell. He was a jolly, red-faced man with a broad Devon dialect, more like a farmer than a ship's clerk. But his handwriting, round like the man, was good, and he had been quite tireless while Bolitho had been preparing to take over the squadron.

He laid some papers on the table and stared unseeingly at the thick glass windows. Dappled with salt and flying spray, they made the other ships look like phantoms, shivering and without reality.

Bolitho leafed through the papers. Ships and men, guns and powder, food and stores to sustain them for weeks and months if need be.

Yovell said carefully, “Your flag lieutenant be on board, zur. He come off shore in the jolly boat.” He concealed a grin. “He had to change into something dry afore he came aft.” It seemed to amuse him.

Bolitho leaned back in his chair and stared up at the deck head. It took so much paper to get a squadron on the move. Tackles rasped over the poop and blocks clattered in time with running feet. Despairing petty officers whispered hoarse curses and threats, no doubt very aware of the skylight above their admiral's cabin.

The other door opened noislessly and Bolitho's flag lieutenant stepped lightly over the coaming. Only a certain dampness to his brown hair betrayed his rough crossing from Portsmouth Point, for as usual he was impeccably dressed.

He was twenty-six years old, with deceptively mild eyes and an expression which varied somewhere between blank and slightly bemused.

Lieutenant the Honourable Oliver Browne whom Admiral Beauchamp had asked Bolitho to take off his hands as a favour, had all the aristocratic good looks of comfortable living and breeding. He was not the sort of officer you would expect to find sharing the hardships of a man-of-war.

Yovell bobbed his head. “ 'Morning, zur. I have written in your name for the wardroom's accounts.”

The flag lieutenant peered at the ledger and said quietly, “Browne. With an ‘e.'”

Bolitho smiled. “Have some coffee.” He watched Browne lay his despatch bag on the table and added, “Nothing new?”

“No, sir. You may proceed to sea when ready. There are no signals from the Admiralty.” He sat down carefully. “I wish it were to be a warmer climate.”

Bolitho nodded. His instructions were to take his squadron some five hundred miles to the north-western coast of Denmark and there rendezvous with that part of the Channel Fleet which patrolled the approaches to the Baltic in all weathers under every condition. Once in contact with the admiral in command he would receive further orders. It was to be hoped he would have time to whip his squadron into shape before he met with his superior, he thought.

He wondered what most of his officers were thinking about it. Much like Browne probably, except that they had cause to grumble. Most of them had been in the Mediterranean or adjacent waters for years. They would find Denmark and the Baltic a bitter exchange.

Yovell passed his papers to Bolitho for signature with the patience of a village schoolmaster. Then he said, “I'll have the other copies ready afore we weigh, zur.” Then he was gone, his round shape swaying to the ship's motion like a large ball.

“I think that takes care of everything.” Bolitho watched his blank-faced aide. “Or does it?” He was still unused to sharing confidences or revealing doubts.

Browne smiled gently. “Captains' conference this forenoon, sir. With the wind remaining as it is, the sailing master assures me we may weigh at any time after that.”

Bolitho stood up and leaned on the sill of the tall windows. It was good to have old Ben Grubb aboard. As
Lysander
's sailing master he had been something of a legend. Playing his tin whistle as the ship had sailed to break the enemy's formation and the decks had run with blood around him. A great lump of a man, the breadth of three, his face was brick-red, ruined by wind and drink in equal proportion. But what he did not understand about the sea and its ways, the winds to carry you through ice or a tropical storm, was not worth the knowing.

Herrick had been delighted to have Grubb as his sailing master again. He had said, “I doubt if he'd have taken much notice if I'd have wanted otherwise!”

“Very well. Make a signal to the squadron to that effect. To repair on board at four bells.” He smiled gravely. “They'll be expecting it anyway.”

Browne gathered up his own collection of signals and papers and then hesitated as Bolitho asked abruptly, “The admiral with whom we are to rendezvous. Do you know him?”

He was amazed just how easily it came out. Before he would no more have asked a subordinate's views on a senior officer than dance naked on the poop. But
they
said he must have a flag lieutenant, someone who was versed in naval diplomacy, so he would use him.

“Admiral Sir Samuel Damerum has spent much of his time as a flag officer in India and the East Indies of late, sir. He was
expected
to move to some high appointment in Whitehall, even Sir George Beauchamp's position was mentioned.”

Bolitho stared at him. It was a different world from his own.

“Sir George Beauchamp
told
you all this?”

The hint of sarcasm was lost on Browne. “Naturally, sir. As flag lieutenant it is my place to know such matters.” He gave a casual shrug. “But instead Admiral Damerum was given his present command. I understand he is experienced, and well versed in matters relating to trade and its protection. I fail to see what Denmark has to do with such knowledge.”

“Carry on, if you please.”

Bolitho sat down again and waited for Browne to depart. He walked with easy grace, like a dancer. More likely a duellist, Bolitho thought grimly. Beauchamp's way of giving him an experienced aide and saving the man at the same time from some unpleasant enquiry.

He thought about Damerum. He had seen his name rise slowly up the Navy List, a man of influence, but always seeming to be on the fringe of things, never in the places of action and victory.

Perhaps his knowledge of trade was the reason for his present post. There had been an unexpected flare-up between Britain and Denmark earlier this same year.

Six Danish merchantmen, escorted by the
Freja,
a forty-gun frigate, had refused to allow a British squadron to stop and search them for contraband of war.

Denmark was in a difficult position. On the face of it she was neutral, but she depended on trade, nevertheless. With her powerful neighbours, Russia and Sweden, as well as with Britain's enemies.

The result of this encounter had been sharp and angry. The Danish frigate had fired warning shots at the British vessels, but had been forced to strike her colours after half an hour's fierce battle. The
Freja
and her six charges had been escorted to the Downs, but after hurried diplomatic exchanges the British had been faced with the humiliating task of repairing the
Freja
at their own cost and then returning her and the convoy to Denmark.

Peace between Britain and Denmark, friends of long standing, was preserved.

Perhaps Damerum had had a hand in the original confrontation, and was kept at sea with his squadron as an example. Or maybe the Admiralty believed that a constant presence of their ships at the approaches to the Baltic,
Bonaparte's back door,
as the
Gazette
had called it, would prevent any more trouble.

There was a tap at the door and Herrick walked into the cabin, his hat jammed beneath his arm.

“Be seated, Thomas.”

He watched his friend, feeling the warmth he held for him. Round-faced and sturdy, with the same clear blue eyes he had seen on their first ship together, here at Spithead. There were small touches of grey on his hair, like hoar-frost on a strong bush, but he was still Herrick.

Herrick gave a great sigh. “It seems to take them longer not shorter to get things done, sir.” He shook his head. “Some of them have thumbs instead of fingers. There are far too many folk with pieces of paper to shake in the faces of the press-gangs, prime seamen we could well do with. Hands from the Indiamen, bargemen and coasters. Dammit, sir, it's their war, too!”

Bolitho smiled. “We've said that a few times, Thomas.” He gestured around the cabin with its green leather chairs and well-made furniture. “This is very comfortable. You have a fine vessel in the
Benbow.
”

Herrick was as stubborn as ever. “It's men who win battles, sir. Not ships.” He relented and said, “But it's a proud moment, I admit,
Benbow
's a good sailer, fast for her size, and once we put to sea again I might raise another knot by shifting some more iron shot further aft.” His eyes were far-away, lost in a captain's constant struggle to keep his ship trimmed to best advantage.

“Your wife? Will she go straight to Kent?”

Herrick looked at him, “Aye, sir. When we're out of sight of land, she says.” He gave a slow smile. “God, I'm a lucky man.”

Bolitho nodded. “So am I, Thomas, to have you as my flag captain again.” He watched the uncertainty on Herrick's homely features and guessed what was coming next.

“It may be impertinence, sir, but have you ever thought? I mean, would you consider . . .”

Bolitho met his gaze and answered quietly, “If I could bring her back, old friend, I'd cut off an arm to do it. But marry another?” He looked away, recalling with sharp anguish Herrick's face when he had brought word of Cheney's death from England. “I thought I'd get over it. Lose myself. Heaven knows, Thomas, you've done your best to aid me. Sometimes I am so near to despair . . .” He stopped. What was happening to him? But when he looked at Herrick he saw only understanding. Pride at sharing what he had perhaps known longer than anyone.

Herrick stood up and placed his coffee cup on the table. “I'd best go on deck. Mr Wolfe is a good seaman, but he lacks a certain gentleness with the new men.” He grimaced. “God knows, he frightens me sometimes!”

“I shall see you later at four bells, Thomas.” Bolitho turned to watch a gull's darting shape as it flapped past the quarter windows. “Adam. Is he well? I spoke to him briefly when I came aboard. There is so much I'd like to know.”

Herrick nodded. “Aye, sir. High rank makes higher demand. If you'd entertained young Adam yesterday, the others in the ward-room might have sniffed at favouritism, something which I know is foul to you. But he
has
missed you. As I have. I think he yearns for a frigate, but fears it might hurt the pair of us, you especially.”

“I shall see him soon. When the ship is too busy for gossip.”

Herrick grinned. “That'll be
very
soon, if I'm any judge. The first really good squall and they'll be too worn out to stand!”

For a long time after Herrick had left him Bolitho sat quietly on the green leather bench below the stern windows. It was his way of getting to know the ship, by listening, identifying, even though he was unable to share what was happening above him, or beyond his marine sentry.