Signal, Close Action!

by Alexander Kent

  Herrick nodded. ‘Very well. Tell Mr. Gilchrist to arrange an exchange with the enemy. Their officers and seamen in return for any of Osiris’s people who managed to swim ashore. And we keep their ship.’

  Bolitho watched him. What a change. Herrick had not even hesitated or asked his aid.

  Herrick faced him again. ‘I’d like to anchor, sir. I understand that the French will not pursue their bombardment for the present. Javal ran their frigate into the shallows and she is hard and fast. He took a sprightly corvette as a prize, and I think the surviving one fled south as fast as he could go.’

  Bolitho replied, ‘Yes, I agree. But it is your decision as flag captain.’

  Herrick looked at him and then smiled sadly. ‘About Captain Farquhar, sir.’

  ‘It is over for him, Thomas. He died because he put facts before ideas. Because he put too much value in his own future perhaps. But when he did die, it was with courage.’

  Herrick sighed. ‘That I never doubted.’

  A figure hurried beneath the poop and said, ‘You’re back safe and sound!’

  It was Ozzard, his sad features set in a rare smile.

  ‘Please come aft, sir!’

  Bolitho shook his head. ‘Later. I want to watch.’

  He looked at the ships which were already anchoring, their boats surging alongside with cargoes of rescued men. Buzzard, pockmarked from the French guns, with her neat prize close by. The other French ship, her broad pendant gone and British flags at every masthead. Immortalité. The name had served her well, he thought. She had survived, and with luck would make a valuable addition to his little squadron.

  He heard a loud explosion and watched scattered fragments falling all around. Osiris’s powder store or a magazine had ignited at last. He saw her open gun ports glowing like lines of red eyes as the fire consumed her from within. Deck by deck, yard by yard.

  His mind ached and he wanted to go to find seclusion, deep in the hull, beyond a man’s voice or a sight of the sea.

  But he stood by the nettings, watching Lysander’s preparations, the hurrying figures of so many familiar faces. Old Grubb, nodding and saying something to him about honour. Major Leroux striding to speak with him, but turning away at the last moment after seeing his expression.

  Fitz-Clarence, and Kipling, little Midshipman Saxby with his gap-toothed grin, and Mariot, the old gun captain, who had served with his father.

  He heard Herrick shout, ‘Tell them to make haste, Mr. Steere! The wind is better placed, and I’d like to weigh before noon.’

  Before noon? Had it taken so little time since dawn? Bolitho stared listlessly at the littered water, the corpses and charred timbers. Just hours since dawn. That was all it had been. Many had died, more would die later.

  He gripped the nettings and took several deep breaths. And he most of all had expected to be killed. That was the strangest part. He had often been near to death in his life at sea. Sometimes so close he had almost felt its presence like another being. This last time had been the worst yet.

  Herrick came back to him again. ‘I hate to leave you, sir. With most of the men at quarters, and the rest all wild with their victory, it is hard to seize a moment when you need it the most.’

  ‘Thank you, Thomas.’ He looked at the blazing Osiris. ‘For them, and for me.’

  Herrick said ruefully, ‘Had I only known, sir.’ He looked away. ‘But I thought it useless to remain at anchor when you had done so much, had wanted so much for the squadron.’

  Bolitho watched him gravely. ‘So you just sailed away, Thomas. With a scrap of paper from your acting-commodore which if it had protected him from higher authority would most certainly have damned you. Your future would have been in ruins.’

  He saw the lines on Herrick’s homely face and guessed that he had thought him dead or captured. By sailing alone from Syracuse he had made his own gesture, just as Inch had described.

  Some boats pulled abeam, being careful to keep well away from the burning two-decker in case there should be an even worse explosion.

  Herrick said, ‘There go the French, sir. They fought well, but were vanquished without the loss of a man to us. We took them in surprise. To us as much as them, I suppose.’

  Bolitho craned over the side and watched the nearest boat. He saw a thin officer, one arm in a sling, and his uniform streaked with blood, staring up at him, his face dull with pain.

  ‘Their commodore.’ He raised one hand above his head and saw the French officer’s companions return the salute. ‘I know how it feels to lose. What he is thinking at this very moment.’

  Herrick regarded him anxiously. ‘He has his freedom, sir.’

  ‘From his thoughts, Thomas? I think not.’

  He turned abruptly inboard. ‘Once we are clear of this place I want a full report from Captain Probyn.’

  Herrick watched him, sensing his bitterness and anger. ‘Aye, sir.’

  Bolitho faced him again. ‘But I’ll not let anything more spoil the pleasure of seeing you again, my friend!’ He smiled, his exhaustion making him appear somehow defenceless. ‘I had a message for you anyway, Thomas. From a delightful lady, who even now is planning a welcome for you in Kent!’

  Herrick stammered, ‘Hell, sir, I mean –’ He grinned. ‘Did you meet her then?’

  ‘It is what I am saying, Thomas.’ He took his arm. ‘I hope I am there at your wedding, as you were at . . .’ He stopped and looked away.

  ‘I’d be honoured, sir, if it ever comes to it.’

  Veitch hurried across the quarter-deck, grinning to the laughs and taunts which attended his wild entrance.

  Herrick smiled. ‘Another Lysander has got home, sir.’ He looked at Bolitho and added, ‘But if you’ve no objection, I’d like to make him my first lieutenant immediately. Mr. Fitz-Clarence can command the corvette and Mr. Gilchrist the French seventy-four. That is, until other appointments can be arranged.’

  ‘As I said, Thomas, you are the flag captain. Your opinions are mine. I suppose always have been without either of us knowing. But have you asked Captain Javal about his officers?’

  Herrick smiled. ‘I hailed him in the battle. He escaped unscathed, but . . .’ He looked Bolitho in the eyes. ‘We have only one frigate. She needs to be better than all she meets. Anyway, Javal will be content with his prize money.’

  He became serious again as Fitz-Clarence hurried aft, his face full of questions. ‘I’ll deal with him, if I may.’

  Pascoe came to the side and said quietly, ‘It feels strange to be back.’

  Bolitho nodded. ‘For you especially, Adam.’

  ‘For me?’ The dark eyes were surprised.

  ‘With Gilchrist and Fitz-Clarence in temporary command of the prizes,’ he saw Pascoe’s face clear with understanding, ‘you will step up two places to Lysander’s fourth lieutenant. And at eighteen that is fair gain!’

  He thought suddenly of Guthrie, Osiris’s second lieutenant. At least Pascoe had not got his advancement by another’s death, or a gap left by someone like Guthrie, his mind unhinged by the cruelty of battle. And he thought, too, of Probyn, seeing him again as a lieutenant. His excuses, his constant drunkenness.

  If all these men had died today because of him, there was no influence or authority in the world to save him.

  He saw Pascoe’s expression and knew he must have shown his own anger as he thought of Probyn.

  He said, ‘You’ve earned it, and far more beside.’ He turned to watch the white flag of parley being pulled past on one of Lysander’s boats. ‘Your father would have been proud of you.’

  Bolitho walked away to join Herrick by the gangway. He did not see Pascoe’s face, but knew in his heart he had just given him a far greater reward than promotion.

  *

  Bolitho was writing in the cabin when Herrick came aft to see him. It was a full week since they had sailed from Corfu with its bitter sights and memories, and after steering south and east around the countless Greek islands they had discove
red a safe anchorage where further repairs could be carried out.

  For the time of year, the weather was surprisingly bad. If he hoped to return to Syracuse with his squadron intact, Bolitho knew he would have to make sure they could withstand the passage there.

  Buzzard had been badly mauled, and had received several holes below her waterline. Once, in a heavy gust of wind as they had fought to shorten sail, he had thought that the frigate was about to founder. But Javal had kept Buzzard alive, working her and his men until the immediate danger had passed.

  The captured two-decker, Immortalité, had also endured several hazards in the gales. With her company of spare hands taken from all the squadron, and the bulk comprising Osiris’s survivors, she had not found the time to settle into a single unit. Her jury steering had carried away twice before she had been brought under command, and Bolitho could do nothing but admire the determination of her temporary captain, Lieutenant Gilchrist. Herrick had certainly been right in his choice. In fact, with their resources stretched and reduced by battle, it was hard to know how they would have managed without him.

  He looked up and smiled as Herrick entered the cabin. ‘Sit down, Thomas. Have some wine.’

  Herrick sat, and waited until Ozzard had brought him a goblet.

  Bolitho said, ‘I’ve been making my report. As soon as the weather eases I want Fitz-Clarence to sail for Syracuse and then on to Gibraltar.’ He added, ‘D’you think he can do that?’

  Herrick grinned over his glass. ‘I think he will find his way, sir.’ He grimaced as a gust of wind brought spindrift splashing across the stern windows. ‘But it may be a while yet. I’m grateful we found this little island. Major Leroux had his pickets ashore, but says it seems uninhabited. It will give us shelter at least, until Javal and Gilchrist have done some more repairs.’

  Bolitho looked at his thick report. ‘Mr. Gilchrist has shown up well, Thomas.’ He glanced across the cabin, seeing faces in his imagination. ‘I’ve recommended that he be made commander at the first opportunity and given a ship of his own. A brig, most likely. It should teach him the more human side of command. A small ship with a vast amount of work!’

  ‘Thank you, sir. I’m glad. I know he got off badly with you, and I blame myself for it. But he’s had a hard climb to get where he is, and I admire his tenacity.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Bolitho thought of the letters he had written for the despatch bag. To Farquhar’s widowed mother, to others who would know before long that a husband or father would never come home.

  Herrick hesitated and then said, ‘Mr. Grubb fears that the adverse winds will not blow out for days, sir. Maybe weeks. We’re snug enough here, and I was wondering if you’d wish the other business to be dealt with now.’

  They looked at each other.

  Bolitho replied, ‘You were right to remind me.’ Perhaps he had only been putting it off, avoiding a confrontation. ‘I’ll have Captain Probyn aboard tomorrow, unless there’s a full gale again.’

  Herrick seemed relieved. ‘I read his account, sir. Straightforward grounding in a badly charted channel. When I reached Nicator, I saw she was on a bar. Not badly, but enough for us to need a kedge-anchor.’

  Bolitho stood up and walked to the wine cabinet. Over and over again he had thought about Herrick’s sudden and vital arrival at the scene of battle. With the aid of Lysander’s log, the master’s lengthy explanation and what he had managed to drag from Herrick himself, he had built up a picture of the ship’s movements after leaving Syracuse.

  Driven by that strange loyalty, Herrick had sailed not direct to Corfu, but much further south and to the coast of Africa. East and still further east, the lookouts scanning every mile for a ship, or better still, a fleet. When he recalled Herrick’s early despair, his apparent inability to contain the work of flag captain, it was all the more incredible.

  All those long, empty miles, until finally they had sighted the walls of Alexandria and the Bay of Aboukir which guided them to the mouth of the great Nile itself.

  When he had praised Herrick for his stubborn determination, his inbuilt belief in Bolitho’s conclusions, Herrick had said, ‘You convinced me, sir. And when I told the people that, they seemed content to go where I wanted.’ He had shown some embarrassment when Leroux had said, ‘Captain Herrick made a speech to all hands which I think must have reached you, sir, wherever you were at the time!’

  With no sign of a French fleet, Herrick had decided to make for Corfu. Confident that the supply ships would be there, and imagining the squadron still at anchor in Syracuse, he had sailed into the attack. From north to south, he had explained, was better for surprise, and left the wider channel as an escape route.

  But he had run down on Nicator. Two ships meeting as if by plan, timed to the hour of attack.

  The same storm which had scattered Bolitho’s depleted squadron had sent the faster Lysander as far as the Nile and back across the sea to Corfu.

  Bolitho refilled their goblets and returned to the table.

  ‘Unless there has been a great change, Thomas, we can only believe that the French will soon move to attack. The corvette which escaped from Corfu may have returned there, but far more likely she will have headed for France.’ He glanced at the streaked windows and listened to the moan of wind through the shrouds and furled sails. ‘She may have a hard fight, but we must accept that she will get to a port before anyone else.’

  Herrick nodded slowly. ‘True. So the French admiral may decide to come out at last. If he knows that his heavy artillery is on the sea bed, he’ll anticipate a running battle. It makes good sense.’

  Bolitho said, ‘We are badly placed here. With these prevailing winds we need to be much further west again. Where we can be of use to our fleet when it comes.’

  ‘If it comes.’ Herrick sighed. ‘But we’ve done what we can so far.’

  ‘Yes.’ He thought of the sea-burials which attended each day after the battle. ‘And they’ll not find us wanting.’

  There was a tap at the door and Midshipman Saxby said anxiously, ‘Mr. Glasson sends his respects, sir, and could you come on deck.’

  Bolitho looked at Herrick and gave a quick wink. With two lieutenants short, the vacancies had gone to the senior midshipmen. Glasson, more sharp-faced and seemingly sourer than ever, was making the most of it. He rarely held a watch without calling Herrick or Veitch to attend one of his tantrums over duty or apparent incompetence of some seaman or other.

  Herrick stood up. ‘I’ll come up.’ In a quieter tone he said, ‘I’ll put this little prig over my knee in view of the whole ship’s company if he tries my patience much more!’

  Bolitho smiled gravely. ‘Our wardroom gets younger every day, Thomas.’

  ‘Or we get older.’ Herrick shook his head. ‘These youngsters! If I’d called down to my captain when I was commissioned lieutenant, I’d have been torn into small pieces unless the ship had been actually falling apart!’

  Faintly above the wind and ship noises Bolitho heard the hail, ‘Boat ahoy?’ and the reply from somewhere near Lysander’s quarter, ‘Nicator!’

  Herrick looked at him questioningly. ‘Mr. Glasson is not troubling me for a trivial cause this time!’ He reached for his hat. ‘Captain Probyn is coming aboard without waiting for your summons.’

  ‘So it seems.’ He listened to the marines clattering towards the entry port. ‘Bring him aft, Thomas. And we shall see.’

  Captain George Probyn loomed into the cabin, his coat and breeches blotchy with spray from the hard pull to the ship. His face was even redder than before, and as he stared belligerently around the cabin he said, ‘I trust you will see me, sir?’

  ‘I do see you.’ Bolitho gestured to a chair. ‘Well?’

  Probyn sank into the chair and glared at him. ‘I’ll not mince words, sir. I’ve been hearing things. About my ship, and what happened off Corfu. I’ll not stand by and have my good name slandered, bandied about by rogues not fit to wear the King’s coat!’ He p
ointed at the papers on the table. ‘I made a full and proper report. It will stand any scrutiny, a damned court of enquiry if need be!’

  Bolitho said quietly, ‘Some claret for the captain, Ozzard.’ He added, ‘Or brandy, perhaps?’

  Probyn nodded. ‘Brandy. Better for a man in these damned waters.’ He almost snatched the goblet from Ozzard and downed the drink in one huge swallow. ‘If I may, sir?’ He thrust the glass to Ozzard for refilling.

  Despite the persistent wind which swept across the little bay and sent countless white-horses amongst the anchored ships, the air in the sealed cabin was warm and humid. Bolitho had put on his coat to receive Probyn, but was wishing that he was still in his shirt. He watched the brandy moving into Probyn’s eyes and voice, blurring and distorting as he repeated, almost word for word, how his sailing master and the officer of the watch, a young booby if ever I saw one, the leadsman in the chains, I had him seized up and flogged double quick, I can tell you, and several others had made the grounding inevitable.

  Bolitho waited until there was a pause while Ozzard filled the goblet again. The servant’s eyes were lowered, but he could not hide his interest. His experience as a lawyer’s clerk was probably too much for his normal reserve.

  Then Bolitho said calmly, ‘So you were not actually there when it happened?’

  ‘There?’ The red-rimmed eyes fixed on him with obvious effort. ‘Of course I was there!’

  ‘I’ll trouble you to keep a civil tongue in your head, Captain.’ Bolitho kept his tone level, even gentle, but saw a warning show itself on Probyn’s reddened features.

  ‘Yes. Yes, I apologise. It’s been troubling me, thinking you might blame me in some way for what –’

  ‘Well, Captain, where were you in Nicator when she struck?’

  ‘Let me see now.’ He pouted heavily. ‘Must be exact, eh? Like we used to be in the old Trojan when we were lieutenants together.’

  Bolitho remained very still, watching the emotions and blurred memories on Probyn’s heavy features.