Signal Close Action

by Alexander Kent

  He said, ‘We must deploy our ships to best advantage, Thomas. Alter course directly and steer due north on the larboard tack.’

  Across the heaving water he heard the staccato beat of drums, and pictured Nicator’s seamen and marines hurrying to quarters.

  Herrick nodded. ‘Aye, sir. It’ll be more prudent. I’ll have the signal bent on, once Nicator has acknowledged.’

  ‘She has, sir!’ Glasson’s normally sharp voice was hushed.

  Veitch snapped, ‘Then say it, Mr. Glasson! Or your rank will never rise above “acting”!’

  Bolitho did not even hear the exchange. He was thinking. Imagining the breadth of an enemy fleet. The control from one or several flagships.

  He said, ‘Send away the quarter boat, Captain Herrick. Have the despatch bag sent over to Harebell.’ He hesitated. ‘And any letters there may be for England.’

  Shouts echoed along the deck and the boat’s crew dashed aft, Yeo, the boatswain, urging them with his powerful voice.

  Bolitho looked once more at his pendant. Brighter yet again, but there was not much of a wind. His new course and tack would aid their speed a little, but it would still feel like an age before they got to grips with the enemy.

  Pascoe hurried towards him, the heavy bag under his arm.

  ‘Boat’s ready, sir!’

  ‘Off you go, Adam. Don’t delay, and tell Commander Inch to make all speed to rejoin the fleet.’

  Herrick asked, ‘Will we take the wind-gage, d’you think?’

  ‘I am not certain.’ He felt his stomach contract. Hunger? Fear? It was hard to tell. ‘But if it is the force I imagine, it will be large enough to see.’

  Veitch came aft again. ‘Boat’s away, sir. Pulling like the devil.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He pulled out his watch. ‘You may clear for action in fifteen minutes, Mr. Veitch. In the meantime, make to the squadron, Steer north. When that is completed, make one other. To Form line of battle.’

  He walked away as the calls started to shrill and men ran to their stations for altering course. He could leave all that and more to Herrick. Now.

  He ducked his head automatically beneath the poop as Grubb yelled, ‘Stand by at th’ braces there!’ The wheel was going over, the sails flapping and banging and spattering the men beneath with great droplets of moisture.

  In the cabin it seemed very cool, and he sat almost unmoving while Allday gave him a speedy shave and Ozzard plied him with black coffee.

  Ozzard said dolefully, ‘That was the last of it, sir.’

  He heard Allday mutter, ‘Never mind. We’ll take some off a Frenchie, eh?’

  More stamping feet overhead, and the shriek of blocks and rigging.

  Veitch’s voice, hollow in his trumpet. ‘Make fast there! Belay that brace, Bosun!’

  With the lantern giving only a feeble light, the cabin became extra dark, and he imagined the ship heading due north, the others following in a line astern. Soon now.

  There was sudden stillness, broken within seconds by the rattle of drums, sharp and nerve-racking, so that he knew Leroux’s little drummer boys were just above the skylight.

  The hull trembled, each deck giving its own sound and reaction as screens were torn down, chests and unwanted gear stowed below, and every gun captain bustled around his crew like a mother hen.

  Allday stood back and wiped the razor. ‘Eight minutes, sir. Mr. Veitch is learning your ways.’

  Bolitho stood up and waited for Ozzard to bring his best coat.

  He said, ‘Captain Farquhar did the honours last time.’ Their eyes met. ‘I think that is all.’ He smiled. ‘But for the sword.’

  Ozzard watched the pair of them and then darted forward to adjust the bow around Bolitho’s black queue.

  Bolitho recalled his feelings about Farquhar. Like an actor.

  He heard more yells from the upper deck, a clatter of oars as the boat returned alongside.

  He looked at Allday, wondering if he was thinking the same. All together. Herrick and Pascoe, Allday and himself.

  Bolitho said, ‘It’s time.’

  They walked through the screen door, where instead of a dining table and polished chairs there was only open deck, the dark shapes of the waiting guns and their crews stretching away beneath the poop and towards the strengthening daylight.

  He strode past the mizzen mast’s great trunk and tried not to recall the broadside which had ripped through Osiris’s stern like a bloody avalanche.

  Some of the gun crews turned to watch him, their eyes glittering white in the gloom behind the sealed ports.

  One man called, ‘Yew’m a fair zight today, zur!’ He was finding courage in the darkness and ignored the harsh threats of a petty officer. ‘Bet there’s no better lookin’ sailor in the ’ole fleet!’

  Bolitho smiled. He knew the accent well. A Cornishman like himself. Perhaps even a face he had seen as a youth, now brought close for this encounter.

  He walked past the double wheel and the imperturbable helmsmen. The master and his mates, the midshipman of the watch, little Saxby. And further, to the centre of the quarter deck.

  He saw Pascoe, his head and shoulders soaked in spray, speaking in a fierce whisper to Glasson, who had taken charge of the ship’s signals.

  Pascoe touched his hat to Bolitho and said, ‘I will go below, sir.’

  Bolitho nodded, knowing that some of the seamen nearby were watching them curiously. Pascoe’s new station was down on the lower gun deck with the great thirty-two-pounders. He had Lieutenant Steere as his superior, and a midshipman to fetch and carry messages. Youth indeed for Lysander’s main batteries.

  ‘God be with you, Adam.’

  ‘And you,’ he hesitated, ‘Uncle.’ He shot a smile towards Herrick and then hurried down the companion.

  ‘Deck there! Sails in sight on the larboard bow!’

  Bolitho snapped, ‘Aloft with you, Mr. Veitch. I’d like a firm opinion this morning.’

  He stared at the sky, now pale blue and devoid of cloud. The red blobs of the marine marksmen and swivel gunners in the tops, the great yards and black tarred rigging. A living, vital weapon of war. The most complex and harshly demanding creation of man. Yet in the weak sunlight Lysander had a true beauty, which even her bulk and tonnage could not spoil.

  He crossed to the larboard side and clung to the neatly stacked hammock nettings. Harebell was already fighting round in a steep tack, her topsails flapping, her topgallants and maincourse being set even as he watched.

  Astern he could see the black lines of Nicator’s weather shrouds and tumblehome, but her outline, and Immortalité’s, too, were hidden beyond the sloping poop.

  Major Leroux ran lightly down a ladder and raised his drawn sword to his hat with a flourish.

  ‘I have arranged my men as you ordered, sir. The best marksmen where they will be unhampered by those less accurate.’ He smiled, his eyes far-away. ‘Maybe the French will expect to meet with Nelson?’

  Herrick heard him and laughed. ‘Our gallant admiral must take his turn!’

  Veitch returned to the deck by way of a backstay with as much ease as a twelve-year-old midshipman.

  He wiped his hands on his coat and said, ‘It is the enemy fleet, sir. They seem to be steering south-east, and the bulk of it lies well to windward.’ He hesitated and then said, ‘There is a second squadron directly across our bows on a converging tack, sir. I had a good look at it, and I am certain that one or more of the ships were at Corfu. One of ’em was painted in red and black. I saw her just now, as plain as day.’

  Bolitho looked at Herrick and drove one fist into his palm.

  ‘De Brueys is holding his main squadron to the west of us, Thomas! He must still expect a chance to meet with our fleet!’

  Herrick nodded and said bitterly, ‘If he only knew that they had already gone from here!’

  Bolitho seized his arm. ‘Mr. Veitch is not mistaken!’ He looked at both of them, willing them to understand. ‘De Brueys has kept his othe
r supply ships to the east’rd, protested by his lines of battle!’

  ‘Then I’ll warrant our appearance is causing some cackling!’ Herrick climbed into the weather shrouds with a telescope. ‘I can just make out some sails on the horizon. But you may well be right, Mr. Veitch! Our Frenchmen are protecting their charges from the wrong direction!’ He said in a duller voice, ‘But the French have plenty of time to re-arrange their defences.’

  Bolitho toyed with the idea of going up to the topgallant yard to see for himself.

  ‘There are but three of us, Thomas. The French will have sighted Harebell and may assume she is about to relay our signals to the main fleet.’

  Leroux said quietly, ‘Then I’d not be in Commander Inch’s boots.’

  Some of the gun crews had left their weapons and stood on the gangways to watch the enemy’s slow approach. Like plumed cavalry topping a hard blue rise, the masts and sails began to show themselves even to the men on the gun deck. More and still more, until the horizon seemed engulfed by their sails.

  ‘A fleet indeed, Thomas.’

  Bolitho tilted his hat to keep the light from his eyes. He could feel the sun on his right cheek, the clinging weight of his coat. It would be hotter than this soon. In more ways than one.

  Hour ran into hour, and as the sunlight grew stronger and harsher, the enemy ships took on style and personality. The measured lines of French seventy-fours, and the whole dominated by one great first-rate, the largest ship Bolitho had ever seen. That would be de Brueys’s flagship. He wondered what the French admiral was thinking, how the small line of British ships would look to him and his officers. He wondered, too, if Bonaparte was there with him, watching and despising their brave gesture. Bonaparte was their one real hope. De Brueys was a very experienced and courageous officer, and of all those present he probably understood his enemy’s navy best. His intelligence and cunning were well known and respected. But would Bonaparte be willing to listen to advice now, with Egypt almost in sight and nothing but three ships in his way?

  He said, ‘Tell your marines to strike up a tune of some kind, Major. This waiting burrs the edge off a man’s strength. I know it does off mine!’

  Moments later the drums and fifes led off with The Old East Indiaman, the youthful marines marching up and down the quarter-deck, stumbling only occasionally over a gun tackle or a seaman’s out-thrust leg.

  After some hesitation, and the knowing grins from his mates, Grubb delved into his pocket and joined the fifes with his tin whistle, the one which had become something of a legend.

  ‘Deck there! Enemy frigate steerin’ due south, sir!’

  ‘She’s after Harebell, sir!’

  Bolitho gripped his hands behind him, as with a growing pyramid of sails a powerful frigate tacked away from the unending line of ships and headed towards the sloop.

  Inch had the edge on her. With this slow south-westerly it would be hard for the French captain to overreach him now, and unless he crippled Harebell with a long shot from a bow chaser, he should be safely clear.

  A gun echoed dully across the glittering water, and a thin white fin spurted in the sunlight. It was well short, and brought a ripple of cheers from the watchers in the tops.

  The deck tilted heavily, and one of the marching drummer boys almost pitched headlong.

  Grubb thrust his whistle into his coat and growled, ‘Wind’s gettin’ up, sir!’ To his helmsmen he added, ‘Watch it, my beauties!’

  Bolitho looked at Herrick. ‘You may load and run out when you are ready.’

  He felt the ship lifting and then dipping into a low swell, the spray darting through the beakhead like broken glass.

  Herrick cupped his hands. ‘Mr. Veitch! Pass the word! Load and run out!’

  Leroux said to his lieutenant, ‘Bless my soul, Peter, I do believe that the French are keeping their formations!’

  Nepean peered at him vacantly. ‘But that will surely take us right amongst the second group, sir? Those supply ships seem to be heavily protected also.’ He swallowed hard and blinked the sweat from his eyes. “Pon my word, sir, I think you’re right!’

  The major looked up at the poop. ‘Sar’nt Gritton! Spread your sharpshooters to either side! At this rate I think we will be into the enemy’s centre before he knows it!’

  Bolitho heard all of it. The busy clatter of rammers and handspikes, the shrill of whistles as the guns were run out, one side gleaming like teeth, the other still in a purple shadow.

  Bolitho thought of Pascoe and his great charges, three decks beneath his feet. He wanted him here with him, and yet knew that the lower deck was probably safer.

  ‘Run out, sir!’

  Bolitho took a glass from Midshipman Saxby and it almost dropped to the deck. The boy was shaking badly and trying not to show it. Bolitho ran up a poop ladder and trained the glass astern.

  He said sharply, ‘Signal to Nicator, Mr. Glasson. Make more sail.’

  He returned to the quarter-deck and said, ‘We want no great gap between us.’

  The remark reminded him of Saxby and he said quietly, ‘Take this glass, my lad, and go aft with the marines. Keep

  levelled on Nicator for me, until I say otherwise.’

  Herrick dabbed his face with a handkerchief. ‘Worried about young Saxby, sir?’

  ‘No, Thomas.’ He lowered his voice. ‘About Probyn.’

  ‘Nicator’s acknowledged, sir.’ Glasson sounded very alert now.

  Bolitho nodded and climbed on to a nine-pounder, one hand resting on a seaman’s bare shoulder. Heading on a diagonal tack towards Lysander’s larboard bow he saw the French men-of-war reforming to protect their scattered convoy of supply ships.

  He counted them carefully. Four ships of the line. Odds against his own strength, but not too much so. Beyond the overlapping straggle of supply vessels he saw the squared sails of a frigate, snapping at the heels of those vital ships like a Cornish sheepdog when a fox was after the lambs.

  He looked past Veitch without seeing him. An hour more at the most. The French admiral would know by then that there were no more British ships close by. What then? Revenge and destruction of the little squadron? Or on to Alexandria in case there was one more trick to play?

  Bolitho saw the gleam of red amongst the enemy’s formation and knew it was the supply ship from Corfu. Veitch would remember. He’d had plenty of opportunity to watch her and her scattering consorts while he had set fire to the hillside to protect Osiris from the guns. And she would be carrying more of those great guns. Without the last of them, de Brueys would never dare to anchor inside Alexandria’s narrow entrance. He would need their protection for his ships and the landing of so many soldiers and stores. Denied them, he would do it as Herrick had described, in Aboukir Bay.

  And with any kind of luck, Nelson would find them there. After that, it would be up to him.

  He looked along Lysander’s decks, his heart heavy. And what of us? We did our best.

  He heard several bangs, and saw smoke drifting downwind from the leading French two-decker. Some of the balls whipped across the low waves like flying fish, but were well clear of Lysander.

  It was a show of anger. A sign that the French were ready and eager for battle after so long preparing behind their booms and harbour batteries.

  Herrick said, ‘Bow chaser, Mr. Veitch! Try a ranging ball or two!’

  The crash of the larboard bow chaser brought some cheers from those who were unable to see the enemy’s show of strength.

  Below the quarter-deck, other men were already wrapping their neckerchiefs around their ears, and placing their cutlasses and boarding axes in close reach.

  Bolitho heard Glasson say, ‘Half a cable short!’ But nobody answered him.

  The leading French ship was firm placed towards Lysander’s larboard bow, sailing as close to the wind as she could, every sail fully visible on her tightly braced yards.

  Bolitho watched narrowly, gauging time and distance. Whether they would collide or brea
k the enemy’s line. They had to get amongst the supply ships.

  A ripple of bright orange tongues from the leading ship, and this time the controlled broadside was better directed. He felt the hull jerk, and heard the searing whine of iron passing over the poop.

  Up and down between the eighteen-pounders and their motionless crews, Kipling, the second lieutenant, walked unhurriedly, his drawn sword over his shoulder like a stick.

  ‘Easy, my lads!’ He was speaking almost softly. As if calming a horse. ‘Stand-to and face your front!’

  Bolitho saw the Frenchman’s forecourse stretched and hard-bellied on its yard, and it looked for all the world as if it was spread on Lysander’s bowsprit and jib boom.

  Bolitho snapped, ‘Let her fall off two points!’

  He nodded to Herrick as Grubb’s men put up their helm.

  ‘As you bear! Fire!’

  *

  From forward to aft, Lysander’s larboard guns fired, reloaded and fired again, smoke and fire belching from her ports, the trucks squealing as the crews trundled them back again for another broadside.

  Bolitho gritted his teeth, feeling the deck shaking violently to the guns’ recoil. His eyes smarted as he trained his glass beyond the bow, seeing the Frenchman’s sails jerking and tearing under the barrage. Some of Lysander’s guns would not bear on the French leader, but he hoped that the heavier balls from the thirty-two-pounders might be finding targets over and beyond her stern.

  Herrick shouted, ‘The French captain’s altered course, sir!’ He cursed as the enemy ship fired, the broadside haphazard and ill-timed, but nevertheless deadly. Great thuds shook the hull, and two large holes appeared in the main topsail.

  Bolitho watched the enemy’s yards moving, narrowing the exposed sails as she turned slightly away. To give her gun crews a better chance to fire and to take advantage of the wind, which by being so close-hauled had been denied her.

  Bolitho said sharply, ‘Alter course to larboard again! Steer north by west!’

  He had not wasted his first broadsides. It had unnerved the enemy captain enough to make him edge round to return fire. It would take him far too long to work his ship back so close to the wind.