Signal, Close Action!

by Alexander Kent

  He said without turning, ‘Your senior, Thomas. What do you know of him?’

  Herrick sounded guarded. ‘Mr. Gilchrist? He’s competent in his duties. He was in Lysander as second lieutenant when she fought at St. Vincent.’

  Bolitho bit his lip. He was angry with himself for being unable to hold his silence for more than a day at sea. More than that, he was hurt in a way he could not explain. Thomas Herrick was a friend, and over the years when they had fought and almost died in one battle after another, had endured thirst and fever, fear and despair, he had never felt such a gulf between them.

  He said, ‘I did not ask about his appointments!’ He had not meant it to sound so blunt. ‘I want to know about the man!’

  ‘I have no complaints, sir. He is a good seaman.’

  ‘And that is enough?’

  ‘It has to be, sir.’ Herrick was watching him with something like desperation. ‘It’s all I know.’

  Bolitho stepped down and took out his watch. ‘I see.’

  ‘Look here, sir.’ Herrick moved his hands vaguely. ‘Things change. As change they must. I feel so marooned from my ship and people. Whenever I try to rouse the old style of things I become entangled with the affairs of the squadron. Most of my wardroom are young lieutenants, and some have never heard a gun fired in anger. Young Pascoe, the most junior lieutenant aboard, has seen more action than they have.’ He was speaking quickly, unable to check the sudden flow of words. ‘I’ve excellent warrant officers, some of the best I’ve sailed with. But you know how it is, sir, the word has to come from aft, it must!’

  Bolitho studied him impassively. He wanted to take Herrick aside. To the cabin or a place beyond the scope of watching eyes. To tell him he understood. But then their roles would be as before. Bolitho thinking of a ship’s routine and crowded world between decks and Herrick waiting to put his thoughts into deeds like the excellent subordinate he had always been.

  He made himself say, ‘Yes, it must be so. A ship relies on her captain. As I do.’

  Herrick sighed. ‘I had to speak –’

  Bolitho added slowly, ‘I did not agree to your appointment because of our friendship. But because I thought you were the most fitting man for the task.’ He saw his words hitting Herrick’s face like blows and continued, ‘I have not changed my mind about that.’

  From the corner of his eye he saw the master’s vast bulk surrounded by serious-faced midshipmen as they gathered for the noon ritual of using their sextants to estimate the ship’s position. By the rail Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence, the officer of the watch, was making a convincing show of studying the men working above on the main yard, but the stiffness of his shoulders betrayed that he was also trying to hear what his two superiors were discussing.

  Bolitho said, ‘So let’s have no more gloom, eh? There’ll be enough to fret about if we close with an enemy. That has not changed either.’

  Herrick stepped back a pace. ‘Aye, sir.’ His face was grim. ‘I am sorry if I disappoint you.’ He watched as Bolitho returned to the poop ladder before saying quietly, ‘I will endeavour not to do so again.’

  Bolitho strode right aft to the taffrail and clasped the gilded scrollwork with sudden despair. Try as he might he seemed unable to meet Herrick, to cross the bridge between them.

  ‘Deck thar!’ The lookout’s hoarse cry made him start. ‘Harebell’s signallin’!’

  Bolitho hurried to the poop rail and checked himself, fretting until Fitz-Clarence, Lysander’s second lieutenant, came out of his thoughts to shout, ‘Aloft with your glass, Mr. Faulkner! I want that signal, and I want it now!’

  The midshipman of the watch, who seconds earlier had been drowsing by the nettings, congratulating himself on being spared Mr. Grubb’s formidable instruction in the intricacies of navigation, fled to the lee shrouds and began to climb rapidly towards the maintop.

  Fitz-Clarence surveyed his progress, hands on hips, his elegant head thrown back as if he expected the midshipman to slip and fall. The lieutenant seemed to like striking poses. He was very smart, even dapper, and what he lacked in height he obviously tried to replace with a constant show of authority.

  Herrick stood by his elbow, hands behind him. Bolitho noticed that the hands were clasping and unclasping, making a lie of his outward calm.

  Eventually the boy’s shrill voice floated down to them. ‘From Harebell, sir! Buzzard in sight to the nor’-east!’

  Bolitho thrust his hands into his pockets, his fingers gripping his watch to steady his sudden anxiety.

  Captain Javal was retracing his course to rejoin the squadron. He must have sighted something either too powerful to deal with or to warn his commodore that the enemy were even now giving chase.

  He saw Herrick hurry to the ladder, and seconds later he joined him at the rail.

  Bolitho said, ‘Signal the squadron to close on the flagship. We will shorten sail directly to make their task easier.’

  Herrick stared astern, his gaze very clear in the reflected glare. He said with surprising bitterness, ‘Osiris is already gaining, sir. Captain Farquhar must have eyes like a cat.’

  Bolitho watched him in silence. Reading Herrick’s mind as if he had shouted it aloud. He knew that if Farquhar was here as flag captain there would have been no hesitation. No need for the commodore to suggest the obvious.

  Herrick touched his hat and returned to the ladder. But Gilchrist was already on the quarter-deck, his speaking trumpet in his hand as he snapped, ‘Bosun’s mate! Pipe all hands to shorten sail! Take the name of the last man aloft!’

  He turned to look at Herrick, adding, ‘Council of war, sir?’ It sounded like a challenge.

  Herrick nodded. ‘Aye, Mr. Gilchrist.’ He hesitated. ‘Captains repair on board.’

  Bolitho looked away, realising that he had been willing Herrick to speak out. To silence Gilchrist’s arrogance once and for all.

  The hands came hurrying from their work above and below in answer to the shrill of calls, barely glancing round as they ran to their stations for shortening sail. Bolitho saw Pascoe buttoning his coat as he followed his own men to the quarter-deck, touching his hat to Gilchrist, who responded with, ‘Take a firm hand of your people, Mr. Pascoe.’

  Pascoe looked at him questioningly, his eyes flashing in the sunlight. Then he nodded. ‘I will, sir.’

  ‘By heaven you will indeed!’ Gilchrist’s voice made several seamen pause to stare. ‘I’ll have no favourites in my ship!’

  Pascoe glanced briefly at Bolitho on the poop and then turned on his heel, his seamen closing around him like a protective barrier. Bolitho looked at Herrick. But he was on the weather side, withdrawn from all of them.

  He relaxed very slowly. Gilchrist had made his play openly but too soon. He had displayed to his commodore that he would expect to be upheld by him even against his own nephew. Gilchrist was a remarkable man. There was a lot more to him than Herrick recognised or understood. No mere lieutenant would dare to speak as he had done at such short acquaintance. No amount of personal influence could save a lieutenant from a flag officer, even a mere commodore, should the latter choose to use his authority to his own ends. He had never sailed with Gilchrist before, nor had he even met him. But Lysander’s first lieutenant knew a great deal about him, nonetheless. Knew enough to understand that Bolitho would never use personal ties to show favouritism. But for what purpose?

  He walked to the opposite side of the deck, feeling the sudden heat on his face as the great maincourse was brailed up to the yard, allowing the glare to enfold the deck like a dying fire.

  And from whom was Gilchrist drawing such confidence? He turned to watch the other two-deckers, overhauling steadily, and moving into a short, uneven line. Farquhar? Was he so eager for promotion that he had gained an ally for just that reason? He certainly had both influence and the funds to tempt a man. Or was it Probyn? From what he had seen of that one it seemed unlikely. He was lucky to hold a command in this squadron at all, let alone risk his good name for sp
ite. He thought of Herrick. Impossible.

  Allday appeared on the poop deck and touched his forehead.

  ‘It’ll be an hour or so afore Buzzard’s up to the squadron, sir.’ He looked meaningly at the open skylight. ‘Your servant has cooled some wine in the bilge for you.’

  Bolitho hardly heard him.

  ‘I hope Javal brings us good news.’

  Allday studied him, momentarily taken aback. It was not like Bolitho to speak so openly about his thoughts. He must be worried about something. To Allday it seemed impossible that Bolitho should be troubled about the squadron’s affairs, for in his eyes he could do almost anything. Nor about the dark-eyed Catherine Pareja back there in London. There had been talk in plenty, but that had probably been born of envy, he thought. God knows she was a fine looking woman and did not give a damn for what people might say about such ‘goings-on’. One thing was certain, she was responsible for Bolitho’s recovery from his wound after their last visit to this sea. But that was over and past. It was unlikely they would meet again.

  So what then? Lieutenant Pascoe? He grinned. He was a lively young devil. Very like his uncle, and the same as some of the faces in the portraits Allday had seen at the old house in Falmouth.

  He started as Bolitho said sharply, ‘The wine will be red-hot by the time you have decided to stand clear of the companion way!’

  Allday stood aside feeling slightly better. He waited until he heard Bolitho speaking with Ozzard, the cabin servant, through the open skylight, and then sauntered down to the quarter-deck where the afterguard were still busily making up halliards and securing the braces after trimming the sails.

  Pascoe looked up as he passed. ‘You look like a dog with two tails!’

  Allday grinned. ‘Now then, Mr. Pascoe, it’s not fair to take advantage of a poor sailorman!’

  Pascoe shook his head. ‘Advantage of you? When that day comes Bonaparte will be crowned King of England!’

  Gilchrist’s shadow fell between them.

  ‘I believe that you have been given extra duties, Mr. Pascoe?’ He stared at him flatly. ‘By the captain?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Pascoe regarded him without expression.

  ‘Then be so good as to get on with your tasks, Mr. Pascoe.’ He glanced at Allday. ‘And not waste time with the commodore’s coxswain.’ He tapped one foot gently on the deck. ‘A good seaman no doubt, but hardly fitting company for a King’s officer, eh?’

  Allday saw the sudden flash of anger in the youth’s eyes and said hastily, ‘My fault, sir.’

  Gilchrist’s mouth twisted very slightly. ‘Really. I do not recall asking for the opinion of a common seaman. I am not accustomed to passing the time with –’

  They all turned as Bolitho appeared beside the wheel.

  He said harshly, ‘In that case, Mr. Gilchrist, I would be obliged if you would take a glance at the weather forebrace and attend to it, instead of, what was it you said? Passing the time in idle gossip!’

  Gilchrist opened and shut his mouth like a landed fish. Then he said, ‘At once, sir.’

  Herrick appeared by the rail. ‘Is something wrong, sir?’

  Bolitho looked past them, his eyes angry. ‘Very, Captain. And when I discover what it is I will be glad to let you know.’ He glared at the others. ‘All of you!’

  *

  ‘Show me again on the chart.’

  Bolitho stood beside the cabin table as Javal leaned across it. The other captains waited in silence, their bodies swaying while Lysander lifted and dipped heavily in irregular troughs.

  Javal explained, ‘Sighted her at first light, sir.’ His tanned fingers cradled the Spanish coastline as if to trap what he had seen. ‘Small vessel. Schooner most like.’ He glanced calmly at Bolitho, his greasy hair still showing droplets of spray as evidence of the haste with which he had been pulled to the flagship by his boat’s crew. ‘I expect her master took sight of Buzzard and thought prudence to be more use than valour.’

  Farquhar did not try to hide his disappointment. ‘A schooner, you say? God damn it, Javal, I’d hardly think it proper to run for the squadron because of a mere toy!’

  Javal ignored him, his dark eyes still on Bolitho. ‘I have good men for lookouts. I reward ’em from my pocket if they do their work to my satisfaction. I find that more profitable than flogging ’em for failing in their vigilance.’ His eyes seemed to flicker towards Osiris’s captain. ‘Unlike some.’

  Herrick stepped nearer, as if to stop a flare-up of tempers. ‘Then tell us, Javal. My sailing master assures me that a wind is close by, and I’ve little room for passengers. Especially the squadron’s captains.’

  Javal showed his teeth. Like the man, they were jagged.

  ‘She was running with the wind and had all canvas spread. Yet she was making precious little headway.’ He looked at Bolitho. ‘Strange for a Mediterranean schooner, I’d have thought, sir?’

  Bolitho leaned above the chart, his mind going back and forth over Javal’s report. With Buzzard and Harebell sweeping ahead and to windward of the squadron it was unlikely they would have failed to sight the schooner had she overreached them along the coast.

  He saw Javal’s strong fingers touch a point on the chart. Almost to himself he said, ‘Out of Malaga, you think?’

  Javal nodded. ‘Almost certain, sir. And heading to the east’rd. In my opinion she’ll remain at anchor here,’ he tapped the chart again, ‘until nightfall, or such time as she believes her way is safe.’

  Bolitho walked quickly to the stern windows and watched the slow caress of wind over the blue water. Here and there, just the merest dab of white foam. Grubb was right. The wind was returning as he had prophesied.

  Captain Probyn said thickly, ‘This damn schooner might be anything at all. Or nothing. I agree with Farquhar, there’s no point in –’

  He turned as Farquhar strode to Bolitho’s side, his handsome features suddenly eager.

  ‘I think there is a point after all.’ Farquhar watched Bolitho’s profile. ‘The Dons have an arsenal at Malaga, I believe? A great foundry for artillery?’

  Bolitho smiled slightly, his eyes searching. ‘Yes. I could be mistaken, as could Captain Javal’s lookouts, but a coastal schooner makes good speed, unless well laden.’

  He returned to the table, the others crowding on either side of him.

  ‘The Dons will wish to show their ally they can help in any future campaign against us. Bonaparte needs armaments of every kind, and the waters around Malaga dictate that small ships be used to carry just such weapons.’ He straightened his shoulders, feeling the wound beneath his coat like a burn. ‘It is a small beginning, but it is sooner than I had hoped. We will close the land at dusk and cut her out. At best we may gain information. At worst will seize another vessel for the squadron, eh?’ He could not contain his smile of excitement. It was like a tonic. ‘Does anyone not agree?’

  Probyn shook his head, his features still brooding over Farquhar’s change of heart.

  Javal said, ‘I know the bay where she is anchored.’ He was thinking aloud. ‘After dark we should be able to take her with little trouble.’

  Bolitho could sense them waiting for his next words.

  He said, ‘You will take charge, Captain Javal. I will make a signal to Harebell to assume your duties until this affair is settled.’ He looked at Herrick. ‘I will transfer to Buzzard with some of our own people, say twenty or so good hands. Seamen, not marines. I want no boots and bayonets for this venture.’ He smiled at Javal. ‘I trust you will agree to that?’

  Javal gave a wolfish grin. ‘Willingly!’

  Herrick asked quietly, ‘And the squadron, sir?’

  ‘I will give you your orders.’ He said it deliberately, excluding the others. Showing Probyn and Farquhar where his trust lay. ‘You can stand closer inshore tomorrow, if you feel it prudent. it not, we will make a rendezvous to fit in with Captain Javal’s plan of attack.’

  He glanced quickly around their faces. Farquhar, coo
l and expressionless. But his fingers tapping a little tattoo on the table betrayed his true feelings. Thinking perhaps that he could do the work better than Javal. Better than Herrick.

  Probyn, his heavy face lined with doubt, watching Javal as if to discover something. Considering maybe the extent of Javal’s prize money if he succeeded in taking the schooner, or what would become of the squadron if Buzzard and the commodore came to grief.

  And Herrick? He was never any use at hiding his doubts. His face was set with worry, his eyes almost hidden in a frown as he peered at the chart, seeing perhaps the whole venture laid in bloody ruins.

  There was no such anxiety troubling Javal.

  ‘Then I suggest we make a start, sir.’ He rubbed his hands. ‘Or the bird may quit the coop.’

  If he was feeling any dismay at being accompanied by his commodore he was concealing it admirably, Bolitho thought.

  He replied, ‘Yes. Return to your ships. My flag captain will make known the final orders by signal.’ He lowered his voice. ‘I wish to make one thing clear. The squadron will stay together. I want no foolhardy risks taken, but if an opportunity presents itself I want no hesitation either.’

  They hurried from the cabin and he added slowly, ‘Pass the word, Thomas. Some volunteers and a boat to ferry them to Buzzard without delay. Send Allday to manage it, if you will.’ He looked up, seeing the same wretchedness on Herrick’s face. ‘Well?’

  Herrick said, ‘Must you go, sir? Let me take charge of the attack.’

  Bolitho watched him. He was more afraid of controlling the squadron than he was of the raid. Of being killed even.

  ‘No. Javal is a hard man. And two captains in one ship are never close to success. Rest easy, man, I have no wish to end up dead, or rotting in a Spanish prison. But we must make a beginning. Show our people that we can lead as well as we can command their daily lives.’ He reached out impetuously and touched his arm. It was as stiff as a teak rail. ‘It applies to the pair of us, as well you know.’