”Our friendship means a lot to me.” Herrick frowned as Ozzard padded in with a fresh tankard. ”But it gives me the right to speak my mind. I can never accept this...” he licked his lips, ”...this lady.” Bolitho faced him sadly. ”Then you have made your decision, Thomas.” He sat down and waited for Ozzard to refill his glass.
”Or have you had it made by others?” He watched Herrick’s angry reaction and added, ”Perhaps the enemy will decide our future.”
He raised the glass. ”I give you a sentiment, Thomas. May the best man win!”
Herrick stood up. ”How can you jest about it.”
The door opened and Keen peered in. ”The rear-admiral’s barge is standing by, Sir Richard.” He did not glance at Herrick.
”The sea is getting up, and I thought Herrick looked round for his hat. Then he waited for Keen to withdraw and said flatly, ”When we meet again Bolitho held out his hand. ”For friendship?”
Herrick grasped it, his palm as hard as it had ever been.
He said, ”Aye. Nothing can break that.”
Bolitho listened to the calls as Herrick was piped over the side for the lively pull to his flagship.
Allday lingered in the other doorway, his rag moving up and down on the old sword, Bolitho said wearily, ”They say love is blind, old friend. It seems to me that only those who have never known it are blind.” Allday smiled and replaced the sword on its rack.
If it took war and the risk of a bloody fight to make Bolitho’s eyes shine again, then so be it He said, ”I knew a lass once Bolitbo smiled, and recalled his thoughts when he had written his orders.
A time for action. It was like an epitaph.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Articles of War
The twenty-six gun frigate La Mouette was completely shrouded in a heavy sea-mist. The lookouts could barely see more than the upper shrouds a few yards on either beam, and from the deck limp sails were invisible.
There was a slow, moist breeze, but the mist kept pace with the ship to add a sense of being motionless.
Occasionally the disembodied voice of a leadsman floated aft, but the water was deep enough, although if the mist suddenly lifted the ship might be close inshore, or completely alone on an empty sea.
Aft by the quarterdeck rail the first lieutenant, John Wright, stared at the dripping maincourse until his eyes smarted. It was eerie, like thrusting into something solid. He could picture the jib-boom feeling the way like a blind man’s stick. There was nothing beyond the pale patch of the figurehead, a fierce-looking scagull with its beak wide in anger.
Around and behind him the other watchkeepers stood about like statues. The helmsman, the sailing master close by The mate, their faces shining midshipman of the watch, a boatswain’s with moisture, as if they had been standing in a rainfall.
Nobody spoke. But that was nothing new, Wright thought. He longed for the chance of a command for himself. Anything. It had meant the next step on the ladder just being first lieutenant He had not bargained for a captain like Bruce Sinclair. The captain was young, probably twenty-seven or so, Wright decided. A man with fine cheekbones, his chin always high, like a haughty pose, someone who was always quick to seek out slackness and inefficiency in his command.
A visiting admiral had once praised Sinclair for the smartness of his ship. Nobody ever walked on the upper deck, orders were carried out at the double, and any midshipman or petty officer who failed to report a man for not doing so would also face punishment.
They had been in several single-ship actions with privateers and blockade runners, and Sinclair’s unyielding discipline had, on the face of it, worked well enough to satisfy any admiral.
The master joined him at the rail and said in a low voice, ”This mist can’t last much more, Mr Wright.” He sounded anxious.
”We could be miles off course by now. I’m not happy about it.”
They both looked at the gundeck as a low groan made the men on watch glance uneasily at each other.
Like all the other ships in the squadron La Mouette was short of fresh water. Captain Sinclair had ordered it to be severely rationed for all ranks, and two days ago had cut the ration still further. Wright had suggested they might call at some island provided there was no sip of an enemy, if only to replenish a portion of the water supply.
Sinclair had studied him coldly. ”I am ordered to seek information about the French, Mr Wright. I cannot spare any time for spoonfeeding the people merely because their lot is not to their taste!”
Wright stared at the man by the larboard gangway. He was quite naked, his leg braced apart by irons, his arms tied back to a gun so that he looked as if he had been crucified. The man’ occasionally rolled his head from side to side, but his tongue was too swollen in his blistered mouth to make sense of his pleas.
Aboard any King’s ship a thief was despised. The justice meted out by the lower deck against such an offender was often far harsher than that of a proper authority.
The seaman McNamara had stolen a gallon of fresh water one night, when a Royal Marine sentry had been called away by the officer-of-the-watch.
He had been caught by a boatswain’s mate, drinking the rancid water in secret while his messmates had slept in their hammocks.
Everyone had expected his punishment to be severe, especially as McNamara was a regular defaulter, but Sinclair’s reaction had taken even the most hardened sailor aback. For five days he had been in irons on the upper deck, in blazing sunlight, and in the chill of the night. Naked, and in his own filth, he had been doused with salt water by other hands under punishment, to clean up the deck rather than afford him any relief from his torment.
Sinclair had turned up the hands to read the relevant sections of the Articles of War, and had ended by saying that McNamara would be awarded three dozen lashes when the example of his theft was completed.
Wright shivered. It seemed unlikely that McNamara would live long enough to face the flogging.
The master hissed, ”Cap’n’s comin’ up, Mr Wright.”
It was like that. Whispers. Fear. Smouldering hatred for the man who ruled their daily lives.
Sinclair, neatly dressed, his hand resting on his sword hilt, strode first to the compass, then to the quarterdeck rail to study the set of any visible sails.
”Nor’-west-by-west, sir!’
Sinclair waited as Wright made his report, then said, ”Direct a boy to fetch your hat, Mr Wright.” He smiled faintly. ”This is a King’s ship, not a Bombay trader!’
Wright flushed. ”I’m sorry, sir. This heat
”Quite.” Sinclair waited until a ship’s boy had been sent below for the hat and remarked, ”Deuced if I know how much longer I can waste time like this.”
The wretched man on the gundeck gave another groan. It sounded as if he was choking on his tongue.
Sinclair snapped, ”Keep that man silent! God damn his eyes, I’ll have him seized up and put to the lash here and now if I hear another squeak from him!” He looked aft. ”Bosun’s mate! See to it! I’ll have no bleatings from that bloody thief!”
Wright wiped his lips with his wrist. They felt dry and raw.
”It is five days, sir.”
”I too keep a log, Mr Wright.” He moved to the opposite side and peered down at the water as it glided past. ”It may help others to think twice before they follow his miserable example!”
Sinclair added suddenly, ”My orders are to rendezvous with the squadron.” He shrugged, the dying seaman apparently forgotten. ”The meeting is overdue, thanks to this damnable weather. Doubtless Rear-Admiral Herrick will send someone to seek us out.”
Wright saw the boatswain’s mate merge with the swirling mist as he hurried towards the naked man. It made him feel sick just to imagine what it must be like. Sinclair was wrong about one thing.
The anger of the ship’s company had already swung to sympathy.
The torture was bad enough. But Sinclair had stripped McNamara of any small dignity he might
have held. Had left him in his own excrement like a chained animal, humiliated before his own messmates.
The captain was saying, ”I’m not at all sure that our gallant admiral knows what he is about.” He moved restlessly along the rail. ”Too damn cautious by half, if you ask me.”
”Sir Richard Bolitho will have his own ideas, sir.”
”I wonder.” Sinclair sounded faraway. ”He will combine the squadrons, that is my opinion, and then...”
He looked up, frowning at the interruption as a voice called, ”mist’s clearin’, sir!”
”God damn it, make a proper repor!” Sinclair turned to his first lieutenant. ”If the wind gets up, I want every stitch of canvas on her. So call all hands. Those idlers need work to keep their fingers busy!”
Sinclair could not restrain his impatience and strode along the starboard gangway, which ran above a battery of cannon and joined quarterdeck to forecastle. He paused amidships and looked across at the naked man. McNamara’s head was hanging down. He could be dead.
Sinclair called, ”Rouse that scum! You, use your starter, man!”
The boatswain’s mate stared up at him, shocked at the captain’s brutality.
Sinclair put his hands on his hips and eyed him with contempt.
”Do it, or by God you’ll change places with him!”
Wright was thankful as the hands came running to halliards and braces. The muffled stamp of bare feet at least covered the sound of the rattan across McNamara’s shoulders.
The second lieutenant came hurrying aft and said to the master, ”Lively, into the chartroom. We shall be expected to fix our position as soon as we sight land!”
Wright pursed his lips as the master reported the hands ready to make more sail.
If there was no land in sight, God help them all, he thought despairingly.
He watched some weak sunshine p robing through the mist and reaching along the topsail yards, then down into the milky water alongside.
The leadsman cried out again, ”No bottom, sir!”
Wright found that he was clenching his fingers so tightly that He watched the captain at the he had cramp in both hands one hand resting on the packed forward end of the gangway, re in the world, anyone hammock nettings. A man without a ca might think.
”Deck there! Sail on the weather bow!”
Sinclair strode aft again, his mouth in a thin line.
Wright ran his finger round his neckcloth. ”We’ll soon know, sir.”
Of course, the lookout would be able to see the other ship now, if only her topgallant yards above the creeping mist.
The lookout shouted again ”She’s English, sir! Man-of-war”
”Who is that fool up there?” Sinclair glared into the swirling mist.
Wright answered, ”Tully, sir. A reliable searnan.”
”Hmph. He had better be.”
More sunlight exposed the two batteries of guns, the neatly flaked lines, the pikes in their rack around the mainmast, perfectly matched like soldiers on parade. No wonder the admiral had been impressed, Wright thought.
Sinclair said sharply, ”Make sure our number is bent on and ready to hoist, Mr Wright. I’ll have no snotty post-captain finding fault with my signals.”
But the signals midshipman, an anxious-looking youth, was already there with his men. You never fell below the captain’s standards more than once.
The foretopsail bellied out from its yard and the master exclaimed, ”Here it comes at last!”
”Man the braces there!” Sinclair pointed over the rail. ”Take that man’s name, Mr Cox! God damn it, they are like cripples today!”
The wind tilted the hull, and Wright saw spray lift above the beakliead. Already the mist was floating ahead, shredding through the shrouds and stays, laying bare the water on either beam.
The naked seaman threw back his head and stared, halfblinded, at the sails above, his wrists and ankles rubbed raw by the irons.
”Stand by on the quarterdeck!” Sinclair glared. ”Ready with our number. I don’t want to be mistaken for a Frenchie!’
Wright had to admit it was a wise precaution. Another ship new to the station might easily recognize La Mouette as Frenchbuilt. Act first, think later, was the rule in sea warfare.
The lookout called, ”She’s a frigate, sir! Runnin’ with the wind!’
Sinclair grunted, ”Converging tack.”
He peered up to seek out the masthead pendant, but it was still hidden above a last ban net of mist. Then like a curtain rising the sea became bright and dear, and Sinclair gestured as the other ship seemed to rise from the water itself.
She was a big frigate, and Sinclair glanced above at the gaff to make certain his own ensign was dearly displayed.
”She’s hoisting a signal, sir!’
Sinclair watched as La Mouette’s number broke from the yard.
”You see, Mr Wright, if you train the people to respond as they should...”
His words were lost as somebody yelled,’Christ! She’s runnin’ I out!’
All down the other frigate’s side the gunports had opened as one, and now, shining in the bright sunshine, her whole larboard battery trundled into view.
Wright ran to the rail and shouted, ”Belay that! Beat to quarters!”
Then the world exploded into a shrieking din of flame and whirling splinters. Men and pieces of men painted the deck in vivid scarlet patterns. But Wright was on his knees, and some of the screams he knew were his own.
His reeling mind held on to the horrific picture for only seconds. The naked man tied to the gun, but no longer complaining. He had no head. The foremast going over the side, the signals midshipman rolling and whimpering like a sick dog.
The picture froze and faded. He was dead.
Commander Alfred Dunstan sat cross-legged at the table in Phaedra’s cramped cabin and studied the chart in silence.
Opposite him, his first lieutenant Joshua Meheux waited for a decision, his ear pitched to the creak and clatter of rigging. Astern through the open windows he could see the thick mist following the sloop-of-war, heard the second lieutenant calling another change of masthead lookouts.
After an hour or so even the best lookout was subject to false sightings. In any fog or mist they would see only what they expected to see. A darker patch of fog exactly what he needed from them.was able to make his ship’s company would become a lee shore, or the topsail of an gthleerh vessel taunt to collide. He watched his cousin. It was incredibly to understand.
He glanced round the small cabin, where they had had so many discussions, made plans, celebrated battles and birthdays with equal enthusiasm. He looked at the great tubs of oranges and lemons which filled most of the available space. Phaedra had run down on a Genoese trader just before the sea-mist had enveloped them in. They were short of water, desperately so, but the ass of fresh fruit which Dunstan had commandeered, as he had put it, had tilted the balance for the moment.
He glanced up from the chart and siniled. ”Smells like Dunstan Bridport on market day, don’t it?”
His shirt was crumpled and stained, but better that than have the ship’s company believe that water rationing, did not apply to the officers as well.
”Another day,” and Dunstan tapped the chart with his divider, ”I shall have to come about. We are sorely needed with the squarendezdron. Besides, Captain Sinclair will have an alternative vous. But for this mist, I’d wager we would have sighted his ship days ago.”
Meheux asked, ”Do you know him?”
Dunstan- lowered his head to peer more closely at his calculations. ”I know of him.”
The lieutenant smiled to himself. Dunstan was in command.
He would go no further in discussing another captain. Even with his cousin.
Dunstan leaned back and ruffled his wild auburn hair. ”God, I itch like a poxed-up whore!” He grinned. ”I think Sir Richard intends to join the fleet under Nelson. Though he will take all the blame if the French outpace him and slip bac
k into port in these waters.”
He reached under the table and then produced a decanter of claret. ”Better than water anyway.” He poured two large glasses.
”I’ll bet that our vice-admifal will be in enough hot water as it is! God damn it, any man who can accept the wrath of Admiralty and that of the dandified Inspector General must be made of stern stuff.”
”What was he like as a captain?”
Dunstan looked at him, his eyes distant. ”Brave, courteous. No conceit.”
”You liked him?”
Dunstan swallowed the claret; the casual question had slipped through his guard.
”I worshipped the deck he walked on. All of us in the gunroom did, I believe.” He shook his head. ”I’d stand beside him any day.”
There was a tap at the door and a midshipman, dressed in an even grubbier shirt than his captain’s, peered in at them.
”The second lieutenant’s respects, sir, and he thinks the mist may be clearing.”
They looked up as the deck quivered very slightly, and the hull murmured a gentle protest at being disturbed again.
”By God, the wind is returning.” Dunstan’s eyes gleamed. ”My compliments to the second lieutenant, Mr Valliant. I shall come up presently.”
As the boy left he winked at Meheux. ”With an ...amer like his he should go far in the navy.”
Dunstan held up the decanter and grimaced. It was almost empty.
He remarked, ”It will be a drier ship than usual, I fear.”
Then he ”Now this is what I intend became serious again.
Meheux stared at the decanter as the glass stopper rattled for several seconds.
”Thunder?”
Their eyes met. Meheux said groping for his shabby hat, ”Not this time, b Dunstan, my friend.”
God. That came from iron guns!
He slipped his arms into his coat and climbed up the companion ladder to the deck.
He glanced through the drifting mist, seeing his seamen standing and listening. Such a small vessel, yet so many men, he thought vaguely. He tensed as the booming roar sighed through the mist and imagined he could feel the sullen vibration apins the hull. Faces had turned aft towards him. Instantly he remembered Bolitho, when they had all stared at him as if expectin salvation and understanding, because he had been their captain Dunstan tucked one hand into his old seagoing coat with th tarnished buttons. I am readY. Now they look to me.
Alexander Kent - Bolitho 17 Page 24
