Alexander Kent - Bolitho 17

by Honour This Day [lit]

  Meheux was the first to speak. ”Shall we stand away until we are sure what is happening, sir?”

  He did not reply directly. ”Call all hands. Have the people pipe aft.”

  They came running from the mizzen shrouds and side to side, with some clinging to the upturned cutter and when they were all packed Meheux touched his hat, his eyes curious.

  ”Lower deck cleared, sir.”

  Dunstan said, ”In a moment we shall clear for action. No fuss. You will go to quarters in no beat of a drum. Not this time.”

  He looked at those grizzled old hands such as him, youngsters like their officers, faces he had taught himself to recognise. He could call any one of them by name even in pitch darkness. At any other time the thought would have made him smile.

  Nelson had the same knack of knowing his people, even now that he had reached flag rank.

  ”Listen!” The booming roar echoed over the water.

  Ships through the mist. Each man would hear it differently war, or the sound of enraged surf on a reef. Thunder across hills in a homeland which had produced most of these men.

  ”I intend to continue on this tack.” His eyes moved over them.

  ”One of those ships must be a friend. We shall carry word of our finding to Sir Richard Bolitho and the squadron.”

  A solitary voice raised a cheer and Dunstan gave a broad grin.

  ”So stand-to, my lads, and God be with you all!’

  He stood back to watch as they scattered to their various stations, while the boatswain and his own party broke out the chain slings and nets for the yards to offer some protection to the gun crews should the worst happen.

  Dunstan said quictly, ”I think we may have found La Mouette.” He kept the other thought to himself. That he hoped Sinclair was as ready for a fight as he was with the lash.

  The thuds of screens being taken down, stores and personal belongings being lowered to the orlop deck, helped to muffle the occasional sound of distant thunder.

  Lieutenant Meheux touched his hat and reported, ”Cleared for action, sir.”

  Dunstan nodded and again recalled Bolitho. ”Ten minutes this time. They take fairly to their work.” But the mood eluded him and he smiled. ”Well done, Josh!”

  The sails billowed out loudly, like giants puffing their chests.

  The deck canted over and Dunstan said, ”Bring her up a point! Steer nor’-nor’-west!”

  He saw Meheux clipping on his hanger and said, ”The people are feeling this.” He looked at the crouching gun crews, the ship’s boys with their buckets of sand, the others at the braces or with their fingers gripping the ratlines, ready to dash aloft when the order was piped to make more sail.

  Dunstan made up his mind. ”Load if you please.” There was a great chorus of shouts and Dunstan stared as the mist lifted and swirled to one violent explosion.

  He said sharply, ”Load, Mr Meheux! Keep their minds in your grasp!”

  Each gun captain faced aft and raised his fist.

  ”All loaded, sir!”

  They looked aloft as the mist faded more swiftly and laid bare the rippling ensign above the gaff.

  ”We are ready this time anyway.” Dunstan plucked his chin.

  All eyes turned forward as the mist lost its greyness. Something like a fireball exploded through it, the sound going on and on until eventually lost in the beat of canvas, the sluice of water alongside.

  ”Ship on the starboard bow, sir” Dunstan snatched a glass. ”Get aloft, Josh. I need your eyes up there today.”

  As the first lieutenant swarmed up the mainmast shrouds a warning cry came from the forecastle.

  ”Wreckage ahead!”

  The master’s mate of the watch threw his weight onto the wheel with that of the two helmsmen but Dunstan yelled, ”Belay that! Steady as you go!” He made himself walk to the side as what appeared to be a giant tusk loomed off the bow. It was always best to meet it head on, he thought grimly, Phaedra did not have the timbers of a liner, nor even a frigate. That great spar might have crashed right through the lower hull pitching the side. He watched the severed mast pass down like foul weed. There were corpses too, their faces staring and blackened, torn canvas shrouds trailing behind it. Men trapped by the rigging through the lapping waters or their blood surrounding them like pink mist.

  Dunstan heard a boatswain’s mate bite back a sob as he stared at one of the bobbing corpses. It wore the same blue jacket with white piping as himself.

  There was no more doubt as to who had lost the fight.

  Some of the small waves crumpled over as the rising wind felt its way across the surface.

  Further and further, Dunstan watched the mist drawing clear, leaving the sea empty once again. He stiffened as more shouts came from forward.

  Something long and dark which barely rose above the uneasy water. There was much weed on it. One of the vessels which needed overhaul. Surrounded by giant bubbles and a great litter of flotsam and charred remains should have been released. It was a ship’s keel.

  Dunstan said, ”Up another point. Hands aloft, Mr Faulkner! As fast as you like!’

  High above it all, Lieutenant Meheux clung to the main crosstrees beside the lookout and watched the mist rolling away before him. He saw the other ship’s topgallant masts and braced yards, and then as the mist continued to outpace the thrust of the sails, the forepart of the hull and her gilded figurehead.

  He slid down a backstay and reached Dunstan in seconds.

  Dunstan nodded very slowly. ”We both remember that ship, Josh. She’s Consort - in hell’s name I’d know her anywhere!’

  He raised his telescope and studied the other vessel as more sails broke to the wind, and her shining hull seemed to shorten while she leaned over on a fresh tack. Towards Phaedra.

  The midshipman was pointing wildly. ”Sir! There are men in the water!” He was almost weeping. ”Our people!”

  Dunstan moved the glass until he saw the thrashing figures, some clinging to pieces of timber, others trying to hold their comrades afloat.

  Dunstan climbed into the shrouds and twisted his leg around the tarred cordage to hold himself steady.

  The masthead lookout yelled ”Ships to the nor’-east!’

  But Dunstan had already seen them. With the mist gone, the horizon was sharp and bright; it reminded him of a naked sword.

  Someone was shouting, ”It’ll be the squadron! Come on, lads! Kill them buggers!’

  Others started to cheer, their voices broken as they watched the survivors from La Mouette. Men like themselves. The same dialects, the same uniforms.

  Dunstan watched the ships on the horizon until his eye ached.

  He had seen the red and yellow barricades around their fightingtops in the powerful lens, something the lookout had not yet recognised.

  He lowered the glass and looked sadly at the midshipman. ”We must leave those poor devils to die, Mr Valliant.” He ignored the boy’s horrified face. ”Josh, we will come about and make all haste to find Sir Richard.”

  Meheux waited, dazed by the swiftness of disaster.

  His captain gestured towards the horizon. ”The Dons are coming. A whole bloody squadron of them.””

  The air cringed as a shot echoed across the sea. The frigate had fired a ranging ball from one of her bow chasers. The next one Dunstan cupped his hands. ”Hands aloft! Man the braces! Stand by to come about!”

  He bit his lip as another ball slammed down and threw up a waterspout as high as the topsail yard. Men ran to obey, and as the yards swung round phaedra’s lee bulwark appeared to dip beneath the water.

  Another shot pursued her as the frigate made more sail, her yards alive with men.

  Meheux was waving to his topmen with the speaking trumpet. He shouted breathlessly, ”If they reach our squadron before we can warn them...” Dunstan folded his arms and waited for the fall of the next shot. Any one of those nine pounder balls could cripple his command, slow the squadron. had her down until she reeled ben
eath a full broadside. as Sinclair done. ”I think it will be more than a squadron at stake, Josh...”

  A ball crashed through the taffrail, seared across the deck and men fell dead, without even uttering a cry like a furnace bar. Dunstan watched as two others took their place.

  He looked up at the hardening sails the masts curving like coachmen’s whips.

  ”Run, my beauty, run!”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Prepare For Battle!

  Captain Valentine Keen walked up the slanting deck and hunched his shoulders against the wind. How quickly the Mediterranean could change her face at this time of year, he thought. The sky was hidden by deep-bellied clouds, and the sea was no longer like blue silk.

  He stared at the murky horizon, at the endless serried ranks of short, steep white horses. it looked hostile and without warmth.

  There had been some heavy rain in the night and every available man had been roused on deck to gather it in canvas scoops, even in humble buckets. A full glass, washed down with a tot of rum for all hands, seemed to have raised their spirits.

  The deck heaved over again, for Hyperion was butting as close to the wind as she dared, her reefed topsails glinting with spray as she held station on the other ships astern.

  For as Isaac Penhaligon, the master, had commented, with the wind veered again to the nor’-east, it was hard enough to dawdle until Herrick’s ships joined them, without the additional problem of clawing into the wind, watch in and watch out. For if they were driven too far to the west, they would find it almost impossible to steer for Toulon should the enemy try to re-enter that harbour.

  Keen pictured the chart in his mind. They were already at that point right now, another cross, a new set of bearings and the noon sights. with such poor visibility they could be miles off their estimated tourse.

  Keen walked to the quarterdeck rail and stared along the maindeck. As usual it was busy despite the weather. Trigger the sailmaker with his assistants, squatting on the deck, their needles and palms moving intricately like parts of a mill as they repaired heavy-weather canvas brought up from below.

  Trigger was experienced enough to know that if they entered the Atlantic in search of the enemy, every spare sail would be needed.

  Sheargold the purser, his unsmiling features set in a permanently suspicious frown, was watching as some casks of saltbeef were hoisted through another hatch. Keen did not envy anyone in that trade. Sheargold had to plan for every league sailed, each delay or sudden change of orders which might send the ship in an opposite direction without time to restock his provisions.

  Hardly anybody ever felt grateful to Sheargold. It was generally believed between decks that most pursers retired rich, having won their fortunes by scrimping on the sailors’ meagre rations.

  Major Adams was up forward, standing at an angle on the tilting deck while he studied a squad of marines being put through their paces. How bright the the scarlet coats and white cross belts looked in the dull light, Keen thought.

  He heard the boatswain, Sam Lintott, discussing the new cutter with one of his mates. The latter was the villainouslooking one named Dacie. Keen had been told of his part in the cutting-out of the Spanish treasure-ship. He could believe all that he had heard. With his eye patch, and crooked shoulder, Dacie would frighten anybody.

  Lieutenant Parris approached the rail and touched his hat.

  ”Permission to exercise the quarterdeck guns this afternoon, sir?”

  Keen nodded. ”They will not thank you, Mr Parris, but I think it a good idea.” Parris looked out to sea. ”Shall we meet the French, sir?”

  Keen glanced at him. Outwardly easy and forthcoming with the sailors, there was something else within the man, something he was grappling with, even in casual conversation. Getting his command? Keen did not know why he had lost it in the first place. He had heard about Haven’s animosity towards him.

  Maybe there had been another superior officer with whom he had crossed swords.

  He replied, ”Sir Richard is torn between the need to watch the approaches to Toulon, and the strong possibility we will be called to support the fleet.”

  He thought of Bolitho in the cabin, dictating letters to Yovell or his clerk, telling young Jenour what might be expected of him if they met with the enemy. Keen had already discussed the possibility with Bolitho.

  Bolitho had seemed preoccupied. ”I do not have the time to call all my captains aboard. I must pray that they know me well enough to respond when I so order.”

  I do not have the time. It was uncanny. Bolitho seemed to accept it, as if a battle was inevitable.

  Parris said, ”I wonder if we shall see Viscount Somervell again.”

  Keen stared at him. ”Why should that concern you?” He softened his tone and added, ”I would think he is better off away from us.”

  Parris nodded. ”Yes, I - I’m sorry I mentioned it, sir.” He saw the doubt in Keen’s eyes. ”It is nothing to do with Sir Richard’s involvement.”

  Keen looked away. ”I should hope not.” He was angry at of Parris’s interest. More so with himself for his instant rush protectiveness. Involvement. What everybody was probably calling it.

  Keen walked to the weather side and tried to empty his mind.

  He took a telescope from the midshipman-of-the-watch and steadied it on the ships astern.

  The three seventy-fours were somehow managing to hold their positions. The fourth, Merrye’s Capricious, was almost invisible in spray and blown spume. She was far astern of the others, while work was continued to replace the main topgallant mast which had carried away in a sudden squall before they could shorten sail.

  He smiled. A captain’s responsibility never ceased. The man who was seen by others as a kind of god, would nevertheless pace his cabin and fret about everything.

  A lookout yelled, ”Deck there! Tybalt is signalling!”

  Keen looked at the midshipman- ”Tybalt must have news for us.”

  Later, Keen went down to the cabin and reported to Bolitho. ”Tybalt has the rest of the squadron in sight to the eastward, Sir Richard.”

  Bolitho glanced across his scattered papers and smiled. He looked and sounded tired. ”That is something, Val.” He gestured to a chair.

  ”I would ask you to join us, but you will need to be on deck until the ships are closer.”

  As he left, Sir Piers Blachford said, ”A good man. I like him.” He was half-lying in one of Bolithows chair. The heron at rest.

  Yovell gathered up his letters and the notes he would add to his various copies.

  Ozzard entered to collect the empty coffee cups, while Allday, standing just inside the adjoining door, was slowly polishing the magnificent presentation sword. Bolithols gift from the Falmouth people for his achievements in this same sea and the events which had led up to the Battle of the Nile.

  Bolitho glanced up. ”Thank you, Ozzard.” Blachford slapped one bony fist into his palm.

  ”Of course. I remember now. Ozzard is an unusual name, is it not?”

  Allday’s poling shing cloth had stilled on the blade.

  Blachford nodded, remembering.

  ”Your secretary and all the letters he has to copy must have brought it back to me. My people once used the services of a scrivener down by the London docks. Unusual.”

  Bolitho looked at the letter which he might complete when the others had left him. He would share his feelings with Catherine.

  Tell her of his uncertainty about what lay ahead. It was like speaking with her. Like the moments when they had lain together, and she had encouraged him to tak had shared those parts of his life which were still a mystery to her. He replied, ”I’ve never asked him about it.”

  But Blachford had not heard. ”I don’t know how I could have forgotten’t. I was directly involved. Them was the most dastardly murder done, almost opposite the scrivener’s shop. How could one forget that?”

  There was a crash of breaking crockery from the pantry and Bolitho half-rose fro
m his chair.

  But Allday said quickly, ”I’ll go. He must have fallen over.”

  Blachford picked up a book he had been reading and remarked, ”Not surprised in this sickening motion.”

  Bolitho watched him, but there was nothing on his pointed face to suggest anything other than passing interest.

  Bolitbo had seen Allday’s expression, had almost heard his unspoken warning.

  Coincidence? There had been too many of those. Bolitho, examined his feelings. Do I want to know more?

  He stood up. ”I am going to take my walk.”

  He could feel Blachford’s eyes following him as he left the cabin.

  dose It was not until the next day that Herrick’s three ships were enough to exchange signals.

  Bolitho watched the flags soaring aloft, Jgnour’s unusual sharpness with the signals midshipmen, as if he understood the mood which was gripping his vice-admiral.

  Bolitho held on to a stay and studied the new arrivals, the way they and his own seventy-fours lay about haphazardly under reduced canvas, as if they and not their captains were awaiting instructions.

  The weather had not improved, and overnight had built the sea into a parade of steep swells. Bolitho covered his damaged eye with one hand. His skin was wet and hot, indeed like the fever which had brought him and Catherine together.

  Keen crossed the slippery planking and stood beside him, his telescope tilted beneath his arm to keep the lens free of salt spray.

  ”The wind holds steady from the nor’-east, Sir Richard.”

  ”I know.” Bolitho tried not to listen to the clank of pumps. The old ship was working badly, and the pumps had continued all through the night watches. Thank God Keen knew his profession and the might of his complete authority. Haven would have been flogging his luckless sailors by now, he thought bitterly. Hardly an hour had passed without the hands being piped aloft to make shing loose gear in the or shorten sail. Manning the pumps la uncomfortable motion - it took patience as well as discipline to the officers were keep men from flying at each other’s throats.