Jenour wrote in his book and said, “Immediately, Sir Richard.” He almost ran from the cabin.
Bolitho looked at Blachford. “I shall send Phaedra to recall the rest of the squadron. When Herrick joins me, I intend to move to the west. If there is to be a fight, then we shall share it.” He smiled and added, “You will be more than welcome here if that happens.”
Keen came back and asked, “Will you send Phaedra, Sir Richard?”
“Yes.”
Bolitho thought, Val’s mind matches my own. He is thinking it a pity it could not be Adam going to tell Herrick the news.
Blachford remarked, “But it may end in another blockade?”
Keen shook his head. “I think not, Sir Piers. There is too much at stake here.”
Bolitho nodded. “Not least, Villeneuve’s honour.”
He walked to the stern windows and wondered how long it would take Dunstan to work his sloop-of-war back to the squadron.
So Nelson had quit the land to rejoin his Victory? He must feel it too. Bolitho ran his palms over the worn sill of the stern windows and watched the sea rise and fall beneath the counter. Two old ships. He thought of the sallyport where he had released his hold on Catherine that last time. Nelson would have used those same stairs. One day they would meet. It was inevitable. Dear Inch had met him, and Adam was on speaking terms. He smiled to himself. Our Nel.
There were whispers at the screen door, then Keen said, “ Phaedra is in sight, Sir Richard.”
“Good. We’ll send her on her way before dusk with any luck.”
Bolitho threw off his gold-laced coat and sat at the table. “I shall write my orders, Mr Yovell. Tell your clerk to prepare copies for every captain.”
He stared at the sun glinting across the fresh ink.
Upon receipt of these orders you are to proceed with all despatch— Right or wrong, it was a time for action.
Herrick sat squarely in Hyperion’s stern cabin and grasped a tankard of ginger-beer with both hands.
“It feels strange.” He dropped his eyes. “Why should that be?”
Bolitho walked about the cabin, remembering his own feelings when the lookouts had sighted Benbow and her two consorts in the dawn light.
He could understand Herrick’s feelings. Two men drawn together like passing ships on an ocean. Now he was here, and not even the coolness Bolitho had seen between him and Keen as the latter had greeted his arrival on board could dispel a sense of relief.
Bolitho said, “I have decided to head west now that we are joined, Thomas.”
Herrick looked up, but his eyes seemed drawn to the elegant wine cabinet in the corner of the cabin. He probably saw Catherine’s hand here too.
“I am not certain it is wise.” He pouted, and then shrugged. “But if we are called to support Nelson, then the closer we are to the Strait the better, I suppose.” He did not sound very certain. “At least we can face the enemy if he comes our way in the narrows.”
Bolitho listened to the tramp of feet as the afterguard manned the mizzen braces for changing tack again. Eight ships of the line, a frigate and a small sloop-of-war. It was no fleet, but he was as proud of them as a man could be.
Only one was missing, the little prize frigate La Mouette which Herrick had sent further north to scout for any coastal shipping from which she might glean some information.
Herrick said, “If the Frogs decide not to venture out, we shall remain in ignorance of their next plan of attack. What then?” He waved Ozzard aside as he made to bring the tray and some claret. “No, I would relish some more ginger-beer.”
Bolitho turned away. Was it really that, or had Herrick become so rigid in his bias against Catherine that he would take nothing from her cabinet? He tried to dismiss the thought as unworthy, petty, but it still persisted.
He said, “We’ll move in separate formations, Thomas. If the weather remains our ally, we shall stand two miles or more apart. It will give our mastheads a better scan of the horizons. If the enemy is chased our way, we should have good warning of it, eh?” He made to smile. “It is never wise to stand in the path of a charging bull!”
Herrick said abruptly, “When we return home, what will you do?” He moved his shoes on the deck. “Share your life with another?”
Bolitho braced his legs as the ship heeled slightly to an extra thrust in her canvas.
He replied, “I share nothing. Catherine is my life.”
“Dulcie said—” The blue eyes lifted and watched him stubbornly. “She believes you will regret it.”
Bolitho glanced at the wine cabinet, the folded fan lying on top of it.
“You can go with the stream, Thomas, or fight against it.”
“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—”
Bolitho smiled, and recalled his thoughts when he had written his orders.
A time for action. It was like an epitaph.
16 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 a few yards on either beam, and from the deck the upper shrouds and 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 main course 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 seagull 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 midshipman of the watch, a boatswain’s mate, their faces shining 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 gun deck 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 sign 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 legs 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 gun deck 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 report!” 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’s mate of the watch 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 probing 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 had cramp in both hands. He watched the captain at the forward end of the gangway, one hand resting on the packed hammock nettings. A man without a care in the world, anyone 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-o’-war!”
“Who is that fool up there?” Sinclair glared into the swirling mist.
Wright answered, “Tully, sir. A reliable seaman.”
“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 snooty 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 fore-topsail 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! Damn it, they are like cripples today!”
The wind tilted the hull, and Wright saw spray lift above the beakhead. 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 to stare, half-blinded, 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 recognise La Mouette as French-built. 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 banner of mist. Then like a curtain rising the sea became bright and clear, 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 clearly 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 someone yelled, “Christ! She’s runnin’ 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.
Honour This Day Page 24
