A post-captain at twenty-nine was a record to be proud of, and should have given him a confidence to go with it.
Emes said crisply, “My senior you will also know better
than I, sir.” Emes stood aside as if to watch for reactions.
Bolitho exclaimed, “Adam! Of all things!”
Lieutenant Adam Pascoe, looking even younger than his twenty-one years, was both relieved and pleased.
“I—I am sorry, Unc—” he flushed, “sir, I had no way of letting you know. The appointment came without warning and I had to leave for Ireland by the first packet.”
They examined each other, more like brothers than uncle and nephew.
Pascoe added uncertainly, “When I heard what my appointment was to be, I am afraid I thought of little else.”
Bolitho moved on and shook hands with the second and third lieutenants, the sailing-master, ship’s surgeon, and the captain of marines. Beyond them, the midshipmen and other warrant officers were backed by crowds of curious seamen, who were too surprised at this unexpected visit on their first commission to be aware of the more personal emotions by the entry port.
Bolitho looked slowly along the gun-deck, at the neatly flaked lines and taut rigging. He could even remember the way she had felt that first time when he had stepped aboard.
He cleared his throat. “Dismiss the hands, Captain Emes, and take station to windward of Styx. ” He did not see the astonishment in Emes’s eyes. “Allday, send back the gig.” He hesitated.
“You remain with me.”
The mass of seamen and marines broke into orderly confusion as the call to get under way was piped around the deck.
Within fifteen minutes Emes had reset the courses and topgallants, and although some of the hands were slow and even clumsy as they ran to obey his commands, it was obvious they had been training hard since leaving harbour.
Browne said, “Fine ship, sir.” He looked around at the bustling figures, the stamp of bare feet as the seamen hauled hard on the braces.
Bolitho walked along the weather gangway, oblivious to the darting glances from the seamen and Emes’s shadow behind him.
He stopped suddenly and pointed below the opposite gangway. No wonder she had seemed changed. Instead of her original nal lines of twelve-pounders, each gunport was filled by a blunt-muzzled carronade. The carronade, or “smasher” as it was respect-fully termed by the sailors, was carried in almost every man-of-war.
Normally mounted on either bow, it could throw an enormous ball which burst on impact and discharged a murderous hail of grape through an enemy’s unprotected stern with horrifying effect.
But as a ship’s armament, never. It had been tried experimentally some years back in another frigate, the Rainbow, but had proved unsuccessful and not a little dangerous in close combat.
Emes said quickly, “They were already mounted before I took charge of the refit, sir. I understand that they were taken into consideration when Phalarope was selected for this sector.” He waved his hand to the quarterdeck. “I still have eight 9-pounders as well, sir.” He sounded defensive.
Bolitho looked at him. “Admiral Sir George Beauchamp had been doing more planning than I realized.” When Emes did not even blink, he imagined he as yet knew nothing of his orders.
A midshipman called, “Styx is signalling, sir!”
Emes grunted, “I shall come aft.” He sounded relieved. “If you will excuse me, sir?”
Bolitho nodded and walked slowly along the gangway, his ears searching for lost voices, his eyes catching brief pictures of almost forgotten faces on the strangers around him.
A clean, smart ship, with a captain who would stand no nonsense. It seemed incredible that Pascoe should be the senior lieutenant. His nephew’s dream had come true. Bolitho tried to find comfort there. He would have been the same, or was there still the other memory, the stain which had left a lasting mark in this ship?
Allday murmured, “All these smashers, sir. She’ll shake her innards on to the sea-bed if she’s called to give battle.”
Bolitho paused on the forecastle, his palm resting on a worn handrail.
“You were here at the Saintes, Allday.”
Allday glanced around the pitching deck. “Aye, sir. Me an’ a few others.” His voice strengthened and he seemed to rise from his depression. “God, the Frenchies were at us that day, an’ that’s no error! I saw the first lieutenant fall, an’ the second. Mr Herrick, young Mr Herrick he was in them days, took their place, and more than once I thought my time had come.” He watched Bolitho’s grave features. “I saw your coxswain fall too, old Stockdale.” He shook his head affectionately. “Protecting your back from the Frog marksmen, he was.”
Bolitho nodded. The memory was still painful. The fact he had not even seen Stockdale die in his defence had made it worse.
Allday grinned. But it made him look sad. “I determined right then, that if you was alive at the end o’ the day, I’d be your coxswain in his place. Mind you, sir, I’ve regretted more’n once since then, but still …”
Pascoe clattered up a ladder from the gun-deck. “Captain Emes has released me to act as your guide, sir.” He smiled awkwardly. “I suspect she is little altered.”
Bolitho glanced aft and saw Emes outlined against the bright sky. Watching him, wondering if they were exchanging secrets he could not share. It was wrong and unfair, Bolitho thought. But he had to know.
“Did you see Mrs Laidlaw, Adam?”
“No, sir. I had gone before she returned.” He shrugged. “I left her a letter, of course, Uncle.”
“Thank you.”
He was glad now that he had told Pascoe about his father. If he had not …
As if reading his thoughts, Pascoe said, “When my father fought against us during the American Revolution he attacked this ship. I’ve thought about it such a lot, and have tried to see how it was for you and him.” He watched Bolitho anxiously and then blurted out, “Anyway, Uncle, I wanted to join her. Even as the most junior lieutenant I’d have come.”
Bolitho gripped his arm. “I’m glad.” He looked at the tilting deck. “For both of you.”
A midshipman ran forward and touched his hat. “Captain’s respects, sir, and there is a signal for you.”
But on the quarterdeck once more Emes seemed unruffled by the news.
“Styx has sighted a brig to the south’rd, sir.” He looked up with sudden irritation as his own masthead called that he had sighted a strange sail. “Must be blind, that one!”
Bolitho turned to hide his face. He knew that Neale often trusted a lookout or a midshipman aloft with a powerful telescope when the visibility made it worthwhile.
Emes contained his anger. “Would you care to come below, sir? Some claret perhaps?”
Bolitho looked at him calmly. Emes was afraid of him. Ill at ease.
“Thank you. Signal Styx to investigate, if you please, while you and I share a glass.”
The cabin, like the rest of the ship, was neat and clean, but with nothing lying about to show something of its owner’s character.
Emes busied himself with some goblets while Bolitho stared aft through the salt-smeared windows and allowed his mind to grapple with old memories.
“Young Mr Pascoe is performing well, sir.”
Bolitho eyed him across the claret. “If he were not, I would expect no favour, Captain.”
The directness of his reply threw Emes into confusion.
“I see, sir, yes, I understand. But I know what people say, what they think.”
“And what am I thinking?”
Emes paced across the cabin and back again. “The fleet is so short of experienced officers, sir, and I, as a post-captain, have been given command of this old ship.” He watched Bolitho for a sign that he might have gone too far, but when he remained silent added forcefully, “She was a fine vessel, and under your command one of great distinction.” He looked around, deflated and trapped. “Now she is old, her frames and timbers we
akened by years of harbour duty. But I am glad to command her for all that.” He looked Bolitho straight in the eyes. “Grateful would be a better word.”
Bolitho put down the goblet very carefully. “Now I remember.”
He had been so full of his own worries, so affected by the return of his old command, he had barely thought of her captain.
Now it came like a fist in the darkness. Captain Daniel Emes of the frigate Abdiel, who had faced a court martial about a year ago.
He should have remembered. Emes had broken off an engagement with a larger enemy force not many leagues from this very position, but by so doing had allowed another British ship to be captured. It had been rumoured that only Emes’s early promotion to post-rank, and his previously excellent record, had saved him from oblivion and disgrace.
There was a tap at the door and Browne peered in at them, his face suitably blank.
“My pardon, sir, but Styx has signalled that she is in contact.
The brig is from the southern squadron with despatches.” He glanced swiftly at Emes’s strained features. “It would seem that the brig is eager to speak with us.”
“I shall return to Styx directly.” As Browne hurried away Bolitho added slowly, “Phalarope was a newer ship when I took
command, but a far less happy one than she is today. You may think she is too old for the kind of work we have to do. You may also believe she is not good enough for an officer of your skill and experience.” He picked up his hat and walked to the door. “I cannot speak for the former, but I shall certainly form my own judgement on the latter. As far as I am concerned, you are one of my captains.” He looked at him levelly. “The past is buried.”
Every inch of the surrounding cabin seemed to throw the last words back in his face. But he had to trust Emes, had to make him return that trust.
Emes said thickly, “Thank you for that, sir.”
“Before we join the others, Captain Emes. If you were faced tomorrow with the same sort of situation as the one which led to a court martial, how would you act?”
Emes shrugged. “I have asked myself a thousand times, sir.
In truth, I am not sure.”
Bolitho touched his arm, sensing his rigidity and wariness outwardly protected by the bright epaulettes.
He smiled. “Had you said otherwise, I think I would have requested a replacement for your command by the next brig!”
Later, as the two frigates tacked closer together, and the far off brig spread more sail to beat up to them, Bolitho stood by the quarterdeck rail and looked along the length of the upper deck.
So much had happened and had nearly ended here. He heard Emes rapping out orders in his same crisp tones. A difficult man with a difficult choice if ever he had to make it again.
Allday said suddenly, “Well, sir, what d’you think?”
Bolitho smiled at him. “I’m glad she’s come back, Allday.
There are too few veterans here today.”
Bolitho waited for the glasses to be refilled and tried to contain his new excitement. The Styx’s stern cabin looked snug and pleased with itself in the glow of the deckhead lanterns, and although the
hull groaned and shuddered around them, Bolitho knew that the sea was calmer, that true to the sailing-master’s prediction the wind had backed to the north-west.
He looked around the small group, and although it was black beyond the stern windows he could picture the other two frigates following in line astern while their captains awaited his pleasure.
Only Rapid ’s young commander was absent, prowling somewhere to the north-east in readiness to dash down and alert his consorts if the French attempted a breakout under cover of darkness.
How would the parents and families feel if they could see their offspring on this night, he wondered? The bluff, red-faced Duncan of Sparrowhawk, relating with some relish, and to Neale’s obvious amusement, a recent entanglement with a magistrate’s wife in Bristol. Emes of the Phalarope, alert and very self-contained, watching and listening. Browne leaning over the fat shoulders of Smith, Neale’s clerk, and murmuring about some item or other.
Aboard the three frigates of Bolitho’s small force the first lieutenants would in turn be wondering at the outcome of this meeting. What would it mean to each of them personally?
Promotion, death, even a command if their lord and master should fail.
The clerk straightened his shoulders and silently withdrew from the cabin.
Bolitho listened to the sluice of water around the rudder, the faint tap, tap, tap of halliards, and a restless step of a watchkeeper overhead. A ship. A living thing.
“Gentlemen. Your health.”
Bolitho sat down at the table and turned over a chart. The three ships were standing inshore towards the Loire Estuary, but that was nothing unusual. British ships, in company or alone, had done it a thousand times to keep the French fleet guessing and to sever their precious lines of supply and communication.
The brig which today had made contact with Styx was already
well on her way to the north and England. Despatches from the vice-admiral commanding the southern squadron, another piece of intelligence which might eventually be used by the brains of Admiralty.
But, as was customary in local strategy, the brig’s commander had been instructed to make contact with any senior officer he discovered on passage. A keen-eyed lookout had ensured that the officer concerned was Bolitho.
He said, “You all know by now the bones of our orders, our true reason for being here.”
He glanced around their intent faces. Young and serious, each aware of the supposedly secret peace proposals, and conscious that with peace could come the sudden end of any hope for advancement. Bolitho understood very well. Between the wars he had been one of the very fortunate few who had been given a ship when the majority of officers had been thrown on the beach like paupers.
“A week ago, two of our patrols to the south’rd fell in with a Spanish trader and tried to take her as a prize. It was near dark and the Spaniard made a run for it. But with a few balls slammed into his hull, and a shifting cargo for good measure, he began to capsize. A boarding party was just in time to seize some papers, and discover that the vessel’s holds were filled with building stone.
With encouragement the Spanish master admitted he was bringing his cargo into this sector.” He touched the chart with his fingers. “Fifteen leagues south of our present position, to the Ile d’Yeu.”
As he had expected, some of their earlier excitement had given way to disappointment. He decided not to play with them any longer.
“The Spanish master stated that he had visited the island several times, and on every occasion had landed a cargo of stone.”
He picked up the brass dividers and moved them over the chart.
“He also said that the anchorage was filled with small vessels, newly built and fitted out. He did not know of their purpose until shown some drawings of French invasion craft of the kind being gathered in the Channel ports.” He nodded, seeing their immediate interest. “The very same. So while we watch Belle Ile and Lorient, the French admiral is moving his flotillas of gun brigs and bombs whenever he is told it is safe to do so.”
Duncan opened his mouth and shut it again.
Bolitho asked, “Captain Duncan, you have a question?”
“The stone, sir, I don’t see the point of it. Och, even new craft don’t need that much ballast while they are fitting out, and I’m sure there must be plenty closer to the building yards.”
“Perhaps by moving their craft close inshore they prefer to use the stone as ballast until they are ready for final commissioning at Lorient or Brest. The stone would then be off-loaded and used for fortifications and local batteries. It would make good sense, and draw far less attention than the movement of larger vessels in our area. All this time we have been watching the wrong sector, but now we know, gentlemen, and I intend to act upon this information.”
Neale and Dun
can grinned at each other, as if they were being included in a mission already fought and won.
Emes said flatly, “But without further reinforcements, sir, it will be a hard nut to crack. I know the Ile d’Yeu, and the narrow channel between it and the mainland. An easy anchorage to protect, a hazardous one to attack.” He withdrew behind his mask as the others stared at him as if he had uttered some terrible oath.
“Well said.” Bolitho spread his hands across the chart. “We will create a diversion. The French will not expect a raid within such confined waters if they see us elsewhere, where they expect to see us.”
He turned to Browne who had been trying to catch his eye for several minutes.
“Yes?”
“Well, sir, if we wait until reinforcements arrive, as Sir George Beauchamp desired in his original plan, we could stand a better chance of success surely? Or if the brig which brought the news eventually returns with new orders countermanding our present commitment, then we shall be obliged to do nothing.”
Duncan exploded, “Do nothing, man! What are you saying?”
Bolitho smiled. “I take your point, Browne.”
Like Herrick and Allday, he was trying to shield him. If he attacked and failed, his head would be on the block. If he held back, nobody could blame him, but Beauchamp’s trust would be dishonoured for ever.
He said quietly, “If there is to be peace, it must be decided on fair and equal terms and not under the threat of invasion. If later there is to be war, we must ensure now that our people are not outmanœuvred from the moment the treaty is torn in shreds.
I don’t see that I have any choice.”
Duncan and Neale nodded firmly in agreement, but Emes merely brushed a loose thread from his sleeve, his face expressionless.
In the silence, Bolitho was conscious of Smith’s pen scraping on paper, and of his own heart against his ribs.
He added, “I have seen too many ships lost, too many lives tossed away, to ignore something which may be important, even vital, to our future. I suggest you return to your duties, gentlemen, and I shall endeavour to do mine.”
A Tradition of Victory Page 5
