2 FLAGSHIP
BY 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he had only escaped the gallows by running to hide in the fleet, but he had proved his worth in loyalty and a kind of withdrawn understanding.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.
The stamp of feet and squeal of blocks. He shivered, recognizing the sounds of a boat being hoisted up and over the gangway to be stowed on the tier with the others.
The bustle of many men, guided and harried by their warrant and petty officers. The seasoned hands being spread thinly through the watch and quarter bill to make the raw and untrained ones less of a hazard.
Volunteers had come to the ship in Devonport, and even here at Portsmouth. Seamen tired of the land, men running from the law, from debt or the gibbet.
And the rest, hauled aboard by the press-gangs, dazed, terrified, caught up in a world they barely understood, except at a distance. This was a far cry from a King’s ship under a full head of sail standing proudly out to sea. Here was the harsh reality of the crowded messdecks and the boatswain’s rattan.
It was Herrick’s task to weld them by his own methods into a company. One which would stand to the guns, even cheer if need be as they thrust against an enemy.
Bolitho caught sight of his reflection in the streaming windows. And mine to command the squadron.
Allday entered the cabin and studied him thoughtfully. “I’ve told Ozzard to lay out your best coat, sir.” He leaned over as the deck tilted steeply. “It’ll make a change not to fight the Frenchies. I suppose it’ll be the Russians or the Swedes before long.”
Bolitho looked at him with exasperation. “A change? Is that all you care about it?”
Allday beamed. “It matters, o’ course, sir, to admirals, to Parliament and the like. But the poor sailorman.” He shook his head. “All he sees is the enemy’s guns belching fire at him, feels the iron parting his pigtail. He’s not caring much for the colour of the flag!”
Bolitho breathed out slowly. “No wonder the girls fall for your persuasion, Allday. You had me believing you just then!”
Allday chuckled. “I shall give your hair a trim, sir. We’ve a lot to live up to, with Mr Browne amongst us.”
Bolitho sat back in a chair and waited. He would have to put up with it. Allday would guess how much he might worry until they were at sea in one company. Equally, he would make certain he was not alone for a minute until the captains came to pay their respects. With Allday you could rarely win.
Two bells chimed out from the forecastle, and seconds later Herrick came aft once more to Bolitho’s cabin.
Bolitho held out his arms for his coat and allowed Ozzard to tug it into place, to make sure that his queue was lifted neatly above the gold-laced collar.
Allday stood by the bulkhead, and after some hesitation took down one of the swords from its rack.
It was glittering brightly in spite of the grey light from the windows, beautifully fashioned and gilded, and when drawn from its scabbard would reveal an equally perfect blade. It was a presentation sword, given and paid for by the townspeople of Falmouth. A gift, a recognition for what Bolitho had done in the Mediterranean.
Herrick watched the little tableau. For a few moments he forgot the pain of leaving Dulcie so soon, the hundred and one things which needed his attention on deck.
He knew what Allday was thinking, and wondered how he would put it.
The coxswain asked awkwardly, “This one, sir?” He let his eyes stray to the second sword. Old-fashioned, straig
ht-bladed, and yet a part of the man, of his family before him.
Bolitho smiled. “I think not. It will be raining soon. I’d not wish to spoil that fine weapon by wearing it.” He waited while Allday hurried across with the other sword and clipped it to his belt. “And besides,” he glanced from Allday to Herrick, “I’d like all my friends about me today.”
Then he clapped Herrick on the shoulder and added, “We will go on deck together, eh, Thomas? Like before.”
Ozzard watched the two officers leave the cabin and said in a mournful whisper, “I don’t know why he doesn’t get rid of that old sword, or leave it at home.”
Allday did not bother to reply but strolled after Bolitho to take his own place on the quarterdeck.
But he thought about Ozzard’s remark all the same. When Richard Bolitho parted with that old sword it would be because there was no life in his hand to grasp it.
Bolitho walked out past the helmsmen and ran his eye over the assembled officers and seamen. He felt his eyes smarting to the wind, the chill in the air as it whipped around his legs.
Wolfe looked across at Herrick and touched his hat, his ginger hair flapping from beneath it as if to escape.
“All cables are hove short, sir,” he said in his harsh, toneless voice.
Equally formal, Herrick reported to Bolitho. “The squadron is ready, sir.”
Bolitho nodded, aware of the moment, of the faces, mostly unknown, around him, and the ship which contained all of them.
“Then make a general signal, if you please.” He hesitated, turning slightly to look across the nettings towards the nearest two-decker, the Odin. Poor Inch had been almost speechless with the pleasure of seeing him again. He finished it abruptly. “Up anchor.”
Browne was already there with the signal party, pushing urgently at a harassed midshipman who was supposed to be assisting him.
A few more anxious moments, the hoarse cries from forward as the capstan heaved in still more of the dripping cable.
“Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”
Inshore Squadron Page 3
