Signal, Close Action!

by Alexander Kent

  On the other side of the coin, Lysander had lost thirteen dead, either in the battle or later of their wounds. The surgeon had reported another five who might die at any moment, and ten who would almost certainly be fit for duty with any kind of luck.

  The enemy had probably lost far more, as well as the hurt of being driven off by a single ship. But where men were concerned it was of little comfort. They had weeks, perhaps months yet to endure without additional support. Muscle and bone were more important than hemp and oak frames, and men themselves more vital than all besides. He tried not to think of his own report, as yet unfinished at Moffitt’s bony elbow.

  The clerk asked, ‘Will we continue, sir?’ His voice, like the man, was thin and scratchy. His entry in the muster book described him as being aged thirty-eight. He looked nearer sixty.

  Bolitho eyed him gravely. ‘Where did we get to?’

  The pen moved across the papers. ‘During the action the ship was under control the whole time, and only when entangled with the second French vessel’s rigging was she forced to lose way.’ The opaque eyes were level again. ‘Sir?’

  Bolitho stood up and walked to the quarter gallery, his hands behind his back. He could not keep Herrick’s face out of his thoughts. In the battle, at the moment when a collision had shown itself unavoidable. That was the moment. It stood out even above the thunder of gunfire, the awful cries, the twisting scarlet patterns around the wheel. In those vital minutes Herrick had hesitated. Worse than that, at a time when the French had taken the initiative, and might have used it to attack the ship from either side, he had made a wrong decision. It was like hearing his voice, here in the cabin. The anguish as he had ordered Gilchrist to repel boarders. And it had been the wrong order. Defensive action at that stage could have broken Lysander’s morale, quenched her people’s willingness to do battle, as easily as if their flag had been torn down before their eyes.

  He forced himself to think of Herrick as the captain of his ship. Not as Thomas Herrick, his friend. In the past he would have despised any senior officer who had used friendship to cover up failure or incompetence. But now he knew that choice was not that easy, nor so free of prejudice. Herrick had almost pleaded with him not to leave the quarter-deck to join the fighting in the bows. Fondness for him, or a desire to keep his advice and determination close by, or both, the effect could have meant complete disaster. Bolitho had noticed, if only in hindsight, that the French captain had remained aft during the time when Lysander’s boarders had been carving a bloody path through his men. How would the fight have gone, he wondered, if the French captain had rallied his men in the forefront of the struggle, even at the expense of his own life, while his British counterparts had stayed clear and in comparative safety?

  He leaned his hands on the sill below the salt-stained glass. Herrick was no coward, and could no more display disloyalty than he could betray his sister. But up there, on the quarter-deck, when he had been most needed, he had failed.

  Bolitho said shortly, ‘I’ll finish it later, Moffitt.’ He turned and thought he saw a quick gleam of curiosity in his eyes. ‘You may copy out what we have already done.’ It would keep Moffitt busy and the report at arm’s length for a bit longer.

  There was a tap at the screen door and Herrick stepped into the cabin.

  ‘I thought you would like to know at once, sir. Harebell has signalled that she has sighted two sail to the east’rd.’ His blue eyes moved briefly to Moffitt at the table. ‘It will most likely be the rest of the squadron.’ He added bitterly, ‘This time.’

  Bolitho saw his glance fall on the pages of the report and felt something like guilt. As if Herrick had read his mind. His nagging doubt.

  ‘Yes. What is our estimated position?’

  Herrick frowned. ‘At eight bells we fixed it as approximately forty miles north of the island of Majorca. With the poor progress and damage to canvas and helm, even the master will not make a stronger estimate.’

  Bolitho looked at Moffitt. ‘You can go.’ He heard Ozzard letting himself out of the sleeping cabin.

  Herrick asked, ‘What are your orders, sir?’

  ‘When we can rejoin our other ships I intend to call a captains’ conference.’ He walked to the windows again, seeing Herrick’s reflection in the thick glass. ‘After I have heard Captain Farquhar’s explanation for waiting until this second rendezvous, I will say what I think we should do. As flag captain, you must ensure that each ship, from Lysander to Harebell, understands my standing orders exactly. To me, initiative is a worthwhile substitute for blind obedience. But I’ll have no selfish manoeuvres, nor will I tolerate rank disobedience.’

  Herrick said, ‘I understand, sir.’

  Bolitho turned to face him. ‘What do you think, Thomas?’ He waited, willing him to speak out. ‘Really think?’

  Herrick shrugged. ‘I believe that Farquhar is petty-minded, and eager enough for advancement, that he will act as he thinks fit whenever possible.’

  ‘I see.’

  Bolitho crossed to his wine cabinet and touched it with his fingertips. He could see her smiling at him, hear her infectious laugh as she had watched his pleasure with the gift. So warm, so generous with her love. Reckless, too, with her hostility for anyone who had dared to show criticism of their brief affair.

  ‘Is that all, sir?’ Herrick was studying him, his face tired and grim.

  ‘No, Thomas.’ He turned, hating the strain on Herrick’s features. He had probably not slept more than an hour or two at a time since the battle. ‘It is not all.’

  He gestured to a chair, but Herrick remained standing, as he had known he would. He cursed inwardly. That was the trouble. They knew each other too well for any sort of conflict.

  He said, ‘I must complete my report for the admiral. Sooner or later I will have to send a despatch to him, my personal understanding of the situation here. Upon it might well depend a whole new strategy. If I am wrong, there is far more than my head at stake. If St. Vincent sends a great fleet to the Mediterranean, and we discover too late that the French have sailed west instead of east, maybe to join their squadrons from the Biscay ports, England, and not merely a battle, will be lost.’

  ‘I realise that, sir. A heavy responsibility.’

  Bolitho stared at him. ‘Are you deliberately being evasive? You know damned well what I mean! This is an important mission, with no risk too great to complete it. When I send my first despatch to the admiral, I must also tell him the state of my squadron.’

  Herrick faced him stubbornly. ‘While the rest of the squadron took itself elsewhere, sir, our people fought and acted better than I’d have believed possible. I’ve said as much in my own report.’

  Bolitho shook his head sadly. ‘And what of you, Thomas? What must I write of your part in it?’

  He watched the strain growing on Herrick’s face. ‘I am not speaking of your seamanship, your bearing under fire, nor would I dare to.’

  Herrick looked past him. ‘I did my best.’

  Bolitho hesitated, but knew that this, and only this, was the moment. He said flatly, ‘It was not good enough. And you know it.’

  Overhead, a faint cry came from a lookout. ‘Deck there! Sail on the lee bow!’ So Farquhar’s ships, if they were such, were in sight from Lysander.

  Herrick replied, ‘If that is what you believe, sir, I suggest you say as much in your report.’

  Bolitho stared at him. ‘Don’t be such a damned fool!’ He could feel the blood churning in his head, the wildness from the battle returning. ‘You were slow, Thomas! You waited too long before each decision. You know as well as I that in a broadside battle you’ve no time for reflections!’

  Herrick watched his rising anger with apparent calm. ‘Do you think I don’t realise that?’ He shrugged, the movement helpless or despairing. ‘When I lost Impulsive last year I began to feel doubts. About my strength, my nerve, if you like.’ He looked away. ‘I sailed Lysander into that bay because I had to, something drew me there, l
ike times in the past when I just knew it must be done. You sent no signal, but deep inside me I felt you were there, waiting, expecting me to come. Perhaps I felt as you did about Adam Pascoe. It went deeper than logic.’

  Bolitho asked quietly, ‘And four days ago?’

  Herrick faced him again. ‘I watched those two ships. Hour by hour I watched them drawing nearer. Imagined their people at quarters, peering along their gun muzzles at me. And when you decided to attack them single-handed, and we had the second one right across our bows, I could barely speak or move. I heard my voice passing orders. But beyond it I was like stone. Something dead.’ He wiped his forehead with one hand. The skin was damp with sweat. ‘I can’t do it. That battle last year decided it for me.’

  Bolitho stood up and walked slowly to the windows. He recalled Herrick’s excitement at the Admiralty when he had been appointed flag captain. A pleasure rising to match his own. They had not questioned the dangers or pitfalls of their mission. And neither of them had once considered his own ability to manage it.

  He said, ‘You are too tired to think properly.’

  ‘Please, sir.’ Herrick’s voice was hoarse. ‘Don’t show pity, or humiliate me with understanding! You know what this is costing me, in God’s name spare me further shame!’

  Feet clattered in the passageway and Bolitho said, ‘Leave me, I’d like to think.’ He tried to find the words, despising himself for causing him such pain. ‘Your value is too great for me to abuse it.’

  The door opened slightly and Midshipman Saxby poked his head into the cabin.

  ‘Captain, sir?’ He smiled nervously as he saw Bolitho and showed the gap in his front teeth. ‘Mr. Gilchrist’s respects, and could you come on deck?’

  When Herrick remained silent, Bolitho asked, ‘Is something wrong?’

  Saxby swallowed. ‘N-no, sir. The first lieutenant wishes to turn up the hands to witness punishment.’

  Herrick came out of his thoughts and said harshly, ‘I am coming, Mr. Saxby.’ He glanced at Bolitho. ‘I am sorry, sir.’

  Bolitho looked for a long while at the closed door. It had been like watching Herrick’s eyes peering from a strange mask. A prisoner. What had he said? Something dead.

  He turned as Ozzard padded silently into the cabin from the other door. Overhead and beyond the bulkhead he heard the stamp of booted feet as Leroux’s men tramped aft, the more subdued movements of the company assembling to witness punishment.

  Ozzard asked mildly, ‘Can I do anything, sir?’

  Bolitho looked up at the skylight, hearing a dull thud as the grating was rigged for the man to be seized up and flogged.

  ‘Yes. Close that skylight!’ He frowned. ‘I did not mean to shout at you.’

  He strode to the opposite side. Damn Gilchrist and his punishments. What was he trying or prove, and to whom?

  Ozzard said warily, ‘Your clerk’s outside, sir.’

  ‘Fetch him.’

  Moffitt re-entered the cabin and blinked in the reflected sunlight.

  He said, ‘I’ve finished the first part, sir, and I thought –’

  ‘Wait.’ Bolitho had raised his voice, as if to drown the sound of the lash across a man’s naked back. ‘I wish you to write a letter.’

  Overhead, the drum rolled and stopped, and the flat crack of the cat on bare skin intruded once again.

  ‘Ready, sir?’

  Moffitt, like Ozzard who was humming quietly in the sleeping cabin, was unmoved by the slow, drawn-out ritual of punishment. While he . . .

  Bolitho snapped, ‘Address it to Captain Charles Farquhar, of His Brittanic Majesty’s Ship Osiris.’

  He rested his forehead against the sun-warmed glass and looked down at the frothing water below the counter. How inviting it was. Cool. Cleansing.

  Behind him he heard Moffitt’s nib scratching across the paper. It never faltered to the roll of the drum, the crack of the lash.

  Farquhar would have a good reason for being off station. Of that he was certain.

  ‘Sir?’

  He bunched his fists tight against his thighs until the pain steadied him.

  ‘Upon receipt of this order you will make all arrangements to proceed on board Lysander, flagship, the transfer to be effected immediately.’ He hesitated again, fighting his will. ‘And there take on the duties and appointments of flag captain.’

  This time the nib did falter.

  He continued, ‘Your present post will be assumed by Captain Thomas Herrick.’

  He walked to the table and looked over Moffitt’s narrow shoulder. ‘I will want two copies directly.’ He reached out and took the pen. He felt Moffitt staring at it, as if defying it to move. Almost savagely he wrote, ‘Given under my hand, aboard His Majesty’s Ship Lysander. Signed, Richard Bolitho, Commodore.’

  It was done.

  *

  With the hands dismissed from witnessing punishment, and the approaching ships confirmed as Osiris and Nicator, Thomas Herrick returned to the cabin to make his report.

  Bolitho sat below the great span of windows, watching Osiris’s yards swinging smartly, her sails retaking the wind as she assumed station astern of Lysander.

  He said quietly, ‘I want both captains aboard directly.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Herrick looked tired. ‘I have already made the signal. I will heave-to when all ships are on proper station. Osiris wishes to communicate immediately.’

  Bolitho nodded. Farquhar would have news for him. News important enough to explain his absence from the original rendezvous. Bolitho did not look at the sealed envelope on his desk. The news he in turn would give Farquhar would make even him take notice.

  He said, ‘I have made no note in the official log, or my own report about what you told me earlier.’ He saw Herrick’s shoulders sag. ‘But I accept your word, naturally.’ He heard the clatter of blocks and the groan of cordage as the ship rolled heavily under reduced canvas, knowing that at any minute he would have to face the others. To begin again. He continued, ‘I could shift my pendant to another ship, Thomas. But I recall only too clearly what happened when that was done when I held a similar command. The whole company took it as a personal slight, a lack of faith by the admiral in their ability and trust. I thought it unfair then, as I do now.’

  Herrick’s voice was husky. ‘I understand. I don’t relish the prospect of failure, and what it will mean. Equally, I’ll not protest against something which I have begun.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘Because of my feelings for the Navy, and for you, I’d kill myself rather than risk lives and a cause, to cover my faults.’

  Bolitho watched him sadly. ‘I am not removing you from duty.’

  Herrick exclaimed, ‘Then why have you agreed that –’

  Bolitho stood up quickly. ‘What would you have me do, eh? Give Gilchrist command and send you home? Replace you with Javal perhaps, when we have but one frigate for this whole mission?’ He looked away. ‘I am giving you Osiris. She is a well-found ship, and trained to a high standard.’ He heard Herrick’s intake of breath but went on remorselessly. ‘You will not have to worry about the affairs of the squadron for the present, but concentrate instead on command. What you make of it is up to you. But I trust you, above all else, to do your duty well.’ He turned slowly and was shocked to see that Herrick was as before, unnaturally calm. ‘Farquhar will assume your present duties until . . .’

  Herrick nodded. ‘If that is your order, sir.’

  ‘Order?’ Bolitho made to move towards him. ‘Do you think I want you faced day by day with the officers and men you have trained and commanded since you took Lysander? To know that every hour brings a doubt, a fear that you will let them down in some way?’ He shook his head. ‘That I will not do. Nor will I, can I, jeopardise the squadron’s strength because of something which is precious to me.’

  Herrick looked round the cabin. ‘Very well. I will prepare to leave.’

  ‘No slur will fall on you, Thomas. I will see to that. But I’d rather see you captain of
some worn-out brig than breaking your heart on the beach, deprived of the one life you love, and for which you have given so much.’

  Herrick seemed momentarily confused. He said, ‘Farquhar. I never liked him. Even as a midshipman, I never really liked him.’ He turned to the door. ‘I little thought it would end like this.’

  Bolitho crossed the cabin towards him and held out his hands. ‘Not end, Thomas!’

  But Herrick kept his hands at his sides. ‘We will see, sir.’ He left without looking back.

  Allday entered the cabin, and after a slight hesitation took the sword from its rack and examined it.

  Bolitho sat down on the bench seat again and watched him miserably.

  ‘Cap’n Herrick’s off then, sir?’ Allday kept his eyes on the sword.

  ‘Don’t you start at me, Allday.’ But there was no bite to his tone. ‘I have taken enough for one day. For a thousand days.’

  Allday looked at him, his eyes very clear in the reflected light. ‘You did right, sir.’ He smiled sadly. ‘I’m just a common seaman, who but for you would be working aloft or being punished for some petty fault or other. But I’m a man, and I’ve notions for those I serve, an’ –’ he seemed at a loss, ‘– and feel strong for.’ He drew the old sword carefully and held the blade in line with the sun, apparently studying its edge. ‘Cap’n Herrick is a good man. In another ship he will find his feet again.’ The sword went into its scabbard with a sharp click. ‘But if not, then the deck of the flagship is no place for him, sir.’

  Bolitho stared at him. It had happened often in the past, but never before had he needed Allday’s support more. In his ship, indeed the whole of his little squadron, there was no man with whom he could really share his fears, his doubts. When he had crossed from wardroom to cabin, and then been given his own broad pendant, he had left such luxuries behind him for good.