Form Line Of Battle!

by Alexander Kent

  He turned on his heel adding, 'Pass the word for Lieutenant Charlois and his mayor. I will see them in my cabin.'

  As he ducked his head unnecessarily beneath the poop he allowed his guard to drop. Nothing which happened now could or would surprise him. Taking on water within gunshot of an enemy port. A loaf of bread on the quarterdeck. And an officer who -broke, not under fire, but under the pressure of his own doubts.

  He heard the clatter of blocks and the flapping protest of canvas as the ship heeled heavily into the wind to drop anchor.

  He found Allday waiting beside his desk, a glass of brandy poured and ready.

  'What are you gaping at, Allday?' He glared angrily at his own reflection in the stern windows. Even in the poor light from the two swinging lanterns he looked strained to the point of exhaustion.

  'Are you all right, Captain?' Allday watched him gravely.

  'It's not my body which is sick this time!' He sat down wearily on the bench seat and stared at the hilt of his sword.

  The coxswain nodded. 'It will come right in the end, Captaro' He swung round angrily as feet clattered in the passageway beyond the door. 'Shall I send them away?'

  Bolitho looked at him with sudden affection. 'No, Allday. If it is all to come right, as you predict, then we must help it along a little!'

  Midshipman Piper stepped briskly into Bolitho's cabin and then faltered as he saw his captain staring astern through the great windows.

  'Mr. Rooke's respects, sir.' Piper's eyes dropped hopefully towards an untouched tray of food on the table. 'The masthead lookout has just sighted Cozar on the lee bow.'

  Bolith did not turn. 'Thank you.' Half to himself he added, 'We will enter harbour in about three hours, all being well.'

  Piper seemed surprised by this display of confidence and nodded with sudden gravity. 'Aye, sir, with the t'gallants and royals drawing so well we shall have no difficulty.'

  Bolitho turned and eyed him emptily. 'There is something you can- do for me, Mr. Piper.' He had not even heard the boy's comment. 'Would you go below and tell Mr. Quarme to join me right away.'

  'Aye, aye, sir.' Piper scurried away, his mind busy as to how he would describe his intimate conversation with the captain to the less informed members of the gunroom.

  Bolitho slumped down on the bench seat and stared at his untouched meal with something like nausea. He was hungry, yet the thought of food sickened him.

  It was strange that after all that had happened he could find no joy, no sense of achievement. In the fresh northwesterly the ship seemed to be ploughing across the whitecapped sea with new life, and even the harsh sunlight lacked its earlier feeling of danger and foreboding. With all sails set and every shroud and stay humming like a part of a finely tuned instrument, the Hyperion sounded as if she was pleased with herself, even grateful for her fresh chance. There were other shipboard noises too which should have given him confidence. Some of the men were singing and calling to one another as they worked high aloft on the swaying yards, their cares momentarily dispersed by the knowledge that there was fresh water in plenty to drink, that the sailor's terror of thirst was moved back in time to become merely another possibility.

  Bolitho stared at the frothing wake and at the handful of swooping gulls which had followed the ship all the way from St. Clar. Even now it was hard to believe what had happened. The furtive boats, and alien French voices in the darkness. Inch's excitement, and the interview with Lieutenant Charlois and the mayor of St. Clar. The latter had been a small, leathery man in a velvet coat, a vital little being of quick gestures and a disarming laugh.

  While every man had worked with a will to sway the fresh water casks aboard, the mayor, whose name was Labouret, had further confirmed everything that Charlois had described. The people of St. Clar had no love for the English, but then as Labouret had remarked, they did not really know them! But the Revolution they did know. What it had done, and what it would do if allowed to continue.

  Bolitho had listened to them with hardly a word of interruption. In his mind he had seen the Revolution through new eyes, and had sensed the same feeling of uncleanness he had endured when his men in the frigate Phalarope had mutinied. That mutiny had been caused by other men's deeds, and had occurred in spite of everything he had done to prevent it and all he had tried to put right. And when it had come it had been as swift and as terrible as if he had provoked it himself.

  And as he had listened closely to the two Frenchmen he had felt deeply for them. To them St. Clar might seem the centre of the whole world, but Bolitho knew that their cause was already lost. They had not caused the Revolution, but like a mutiny it had happened none the less.

  Charlois had said finally, 'I kept my word, Captain. You have water and the crew of the sloop Fairfax.' He had smiled with something like embarrassment. 'We must keep the sloop for the present, you understand? It would not be well to show our hand completely, eh?'

  Bolitho understood well enough. If Lord Hood shied away from the idea of a further attack on the mainland, the sloop might be the only token of loyalty for the men of St. Clar to show to a revengeful Revolutionary Court.

  In the dawn's clear light the Hyperion had weighed and butted out into the freshening wind. Apart from the returned company of the sloop and the water, the French had even supplied fresh new casks to replace the Hyperion's rotten and much-used ones. They had made their gesture, and had even sent horsemen to the headlands to make sure that the Hyperion's presence remained undetected and safe.

  In the early light, as the water boats had cast off, Rooke had remarked, 'I doubt the Frogs will keep their mouths shut for long! Some damn fisherman will be off up the coast to sell information to the nearest French garrison!'

  Bolitho had replied coldly, 'Such deceit may have been your own experience, Mr. Rooke. In Cornwall it is not unknown for towns and villages to have that kind of loyalty.'

  Rooke had said nothing. Perhaps in the dawn's pale light he had seen the warning in the captain's eyes.

  Bolitho stared moodily at the written report on his desk. Just a few more lines and it would be done. If he could get Lord Hood's advice and backing a full invasion would still be possible. Either way St. Clar might become a battleground.

  He reached out and touched -the unfinished report. Again his mind clouded with the one thing which had tainted everything else. Maybe if he told Quarme to hold his tongue he could arrange for him to return to England. With the country once more gripped in a war it was unlikely that many would notice the faults of a mere lieutenant. Quarme might start again. By taking it upon himself to send him away, Bolitho knew that he might be able to save him from a court-martial, even if he risked one for himself. There was only Rooks, he bit his lip and frowned. But first of all it depended on Quarme and how he felt after his enforced privacy with his thoughts.

  There was a knock at the door, but when he looked up it was no Quarme but the master.

  'I am sorry, Mr. Gossett, but unless it is an urgent matter it will have to keep.'

  Gossett watched him sadly, his great body swaying with the ship like a tree. 'I just saw young Mr. Piper, sir. 'E was upset, so I thought I'd betterr bring the news meself.'

  Bolitho stared at him, suddenly ice cold.

  Gossett nodded slowly, 'Mr. Quarme is dead, sir. 'Anged 'imself in 'is cabin.'

  'I see.' Bolitho turned away to hide his stricken face.

  The master cleared his throat noisily. 'Poor man, 'e's been very worried of late.'

  Bolitho turned and met the other man's eyes. 'When I took Cozar with the Chanticleer I had occasion to watch Hyperion making those mock attacks to draw the battery's fire. It was superb seamanship.' He let his words hang in the air and saw Gossett's eyes flicker with sudden alarm. 'Seamanship gained from many years in every sort of vessel, and under fire.'

  Gossett shifted his feet. 'I suppose so, sir.'

  'You sailed the Hyperion that day, did you not? I want the truthl'.

  The master lifted his head
with something like defiance. 'I did, sir. 'E was a good officer. But if you'll pardon the liberty, 'e was 'aving a lot o' trouble with 'is wife. She comes o' good stock and likes to live well.' He shrugged wearily. 'Mr. Quarme was a lieutenant an' nothing more, sir.'

  'You mean that he had no money?' Bolitho's voice was toneless.

  `That's right, sir.' The master's tanned face became angry. 'Then there was all this filthy talk about 'im pinching some money that was in 'is keeping . .

  Bolitho held up his hand. 'Why wasn't I told about this?

  Gossett looked away. 'We all knew 'e would never steal from 'is own ship, sir. Not like some as I could mention. 'E was going to 'ave it out with Cap'n Turner, 'e even told me as 'ow Cap'n Turner 'ad found out the true thief.'

  Bolitho said quietly, 'But Turner died of a heart attack.' He thought of the surgeon's guilty outburst at the first conference in the wardroom and Rooke's scathing attack on him.

  Gossett said gruffly, 'I'm sorry I let you down, sir, after all you've done for us an' the ship. But I felt I owed it to 'im y'see'

  'I see.' Bolitho rested his fingers on the waiting report. 'It is no excuse, Mr. Gossett. Your loyalty must always be to the ship, not to individuals.' He eyed the master levelly. 'But thank you for telling me. I expect I would have done the same.'

  Then he said, 'This is just between ourselves, Mr. Gossett.'

  The master nodded firmly. 'Then so it will remain, sir.'

  For a long while after Gossett had left the cabin Bolitho sat quite motionless by the .windows. Then he picked up his pen and wrote swiftly across the bottom of his report '-this gallant officer whom as I earlier reported handled the ship with great courage under constant enemy fire with no regard for his personal safety, later took his own life under tragic circumstances. He was, I am convinced, a sick man, and but for his failure to consider his own welfare before the security of his ship, would have lived to make a place for himself in the Navy where his name would be long remembered.'

  He signed the report and stared at it for several minutes.

  It was little enough, he thought bitterly, and would do nothing for Quarme. But in England it might bring some small comfort to those who read it and still remembered him as the man Gossett had tried to shield from disaster.

  But Bolitho knew that disaster when it came usually attacked from within. From that there was no defence.

  7

  A KNIGHT OF THE BATH

  With all but her topsails and jib clewed up the Hyperion completed her tack and settled sedately on a course towards the harbour entrance. The upper deck and gangways were filled with idlers and unemployed seamen, as with something like awe they stared at the scene which greeted them beyond the fortress and its stark headland.

  Bolitho raised his glass and moved it slowly from side to side. It was hard to remember this as the same barren anchorage he had vacated the previous day. When the masthead lookout had reported seeing topmasts beyond the cliff he had imagined it might be one of Hood's supply ships, or at most a frigate with despatches and new orders. But as the ship glided slowly across the dancing water towards the humped hills he realised there was far more to it than that.

  Anchored in the centre of the natural harbour was a tall three-decker, a rear-admiral's flag drooping listlessly from the mizzen, and beyond her, close to the pier where the carronade had decimated the French troops, lay another large ship, which from her workmanlike appearance could be nothing else but a supply vessel. In the shallower water on the eastern side was a frigate and a small sloop which he quickly recognised as the Chanticleer. The Spanish Princesa was exactly as he had last seen her, but if the assembled vessels were both unexpected and impressive, the activity which surrounded them was even more so.

  Around the ships and plying back and forth to the pier were boats of every shape and size. Cutters and gigs, launches and jolly boats, they seemed endless, and when Bolitho shifted his glass to the hillside beyond the fortress he saw a widely flung rectangle of pointed tents interspersed with tiny scarlet figures and an occasional camp-fire. It seemed as if the army had arrived, too.

  With a start he realised the Hyperion'was already through the protective arm of the entrance, but when he glanced at Rooke he saw that the lieutenant was still standing rigidly by the quarterdeck rail, his speaking trumpet under his arm as if on parade.

  He snapped, 'Wear ship, if you please!'

  Rooke flushed angrily and raised the triumpet. 'Hands wear ship! Lee braces there!'

  Bolitho compressed his lips tightly. Rooke was a good enough officer when it came to fighting and day-to-day routine, but he seemed to shrink in size when it came to taking charge of the Hyperion's great bulk in confined Waters.

  Pearse, the gunner, was standing by the foremast shading his eyes as he peered aft towards the quarterdeck. Bolitho nodded curtly, and with a dull bang the first gun sent the echoes rolling around the cliffs as Hyperion paid her respects to the rear-admiral, whoever he was.

  Bolitho knew he could ignore the routine of saluting. As the guns crashed out at five-second intervals and the ship crept forward in a cloud of drifting smoke he gauged the distance, his eye and brain noting the unruffled water below the tall cliffs, the slackening vigour of the masthead pendant.

  'Tops'l sheets!' Rooke sounded out of breath. 'Tops'! clew lines!'

  Bolitho saw the men strung out along the tapered yards, their tanned arms moving in unison, totally unconcerned by their dizzy height above the deck.

  'Helm alee!'

  With the breeze all but gone the Hyperion turned lazily into the wind, her remaining sails vanishing as Bolitho dropped his arm with a slice, and from forward came the shout, 'Let go!'

  He half listened to the splash and the attendant rumble of outgoing cable, glad that the saluting guns had finished so that he could think clearly again.

  Midshipman Caswell broke the sudden silence. He had kept his glass trained on the flagship, his mind empty of everything but the necessity of being the first to see the flags break from her yards.

  'Tenacious to Hyperion. Captain repair on board in fifteen minutes.'

  Bolitho saw Allday waiting by the poop. 'Tell Gimlett to lay out my best uniform immediately. Then call away the barge.'

  He saw Gossett staring at the powerful three-decker and asked, 'Do you know her?'

  Gossett pouted thoughtfully. 'She was with us off Brest for a while, sir. Then she went into Plymouth for an overhaul. She weren't carrying any admiral in them days.'

  Caswell looked up from his book. 'Tenacious, ninety guns, sir. Captain Matthew Dash.'

  Bolitho formed a small picture in his mind. 'I met him once,' was all he said., But he was more interested in the rearadmiral. A lot would depend on 'the sort of man he proved to be. Bolitho hurried to his cabin, throwing off his threadbare seagoing coat and tearing at his faded waistcoat.

  Gimlett followed him like an anxious shadow as Bolitho pulled on a clean shirt and ran a comb through his hair. Lord Hood might be senior enough to ignore such niceties, he thought grimly, but this rear-admiral obviously considered otherwise. The fifteen minutes' grace spoke for themselves.

  He heard the splash of his boat alongside and Allday's strident tones calling to the bargemen.

  And all the while his mind was busy with the possibilities now presented by the presence of the ninety-gun ship of the line and the newly landed soldiers. Hood must have seen the value of his first report. It seemed as if action was more than just a rough idea now.

  He cursed as Gimlett adjusted his neckcloth and fussed around him with his swordbelt. He was like an old woman, he thought despairingly.

  Rooke appeared in the open door. 'Barge alongside, sir.' He looked more composed now that the ship had anchored.

  Bolitho thrust his arms into the gold-laced coat with its white lapels and said, 'Have all boats lowered, Mr. Rooke. Send the Fairfax's people ashore and then await my instructions.' He picked up his carefully worded report and added slowly, 'When next we e
nter harbour you must try to get the feel of the ship, do you understand?'

  'I was concerned about the wind, sir.' Rooke eyed him flatly. 'She's got so much weed on her bottom she might do anything.'

  Boltiho reached for his hat. 'Until I decide otherwise you will take the responsibilities of first lieutenant. And those include the wind, and any other damn thing in or around this ship, understand?'

  Rooke straightened his back. 'Aye, aye, sir.'

  'Good.' He strode out into the sunlight, past the side party, and paused by the entry port. 'I see that the Chanticleer is flying her mail pendant, Mr. Rooke. I will send over some despatches, and if there are any letters from our people you had better get them across also.' He paused, his eye falling on the stolid line of bosun's mates, their pipes raised in readiness. The side boys with their rough white gloves, and Inch with his telescope. It seemed odd without any marines.

  Then he added quietly, 'You had best parcel Mr. Quarme's possessions and send them too.' He watched for some flicker of regret or pity in Rooke's eyes. But he merely touched his hat and then stood aside as with a squeal of pipes Bolitho climbed down to the waiting barge.

  Captain Dash of the Tenacious greeted Bolitho warmly. In his middle fifties, he was a square-set, bluff-looking man with a harsh, grating voice but a friendly enough smile. He was one of the Navy's rare products, for he had actually reached his senior post by way of the lower deck, having entered the Navy as a child volunteer and by effort and determination, which Bolitho could only half imagine, had clawed his way to command a ship of the line.

  Bolitho followed him to the wide quarterdeck ladder and asked, 'When did you drop anchor?'

  Dash grinned. 'This forenoon. It has been all hell here since.' He gestured with a worn thumb towards the big transport. 'She's the Welland, an old ex-Indiaman. She's 'brought five hundred of the 91st Foot an' half of the loudestvoiced sergeants in the British Army by the sound of 'em!'