Signal, Close Action! Read online

  The seventy-four was moving very slowly into the bay, her lower hull still in deeper shadow. Herrick was coming in, just as he had known he would. No battery on earth would prevent his attempt to complete the plan of attack, nor frighten him from his attempt to rescue the landing party.

  A gun crashed out from the battery, and he gritted his teeth as a tall waterspout erupted violently alongside the ship’s hull. Too close.

  He snapped, ‘Hurry your men, Major! Tell them that the sea is their only way out!’

  6

  Attack at Dawn

  ‘COURSE NOR’-EAST, SIR!’ The helmsman’s voice was hushed.

  ‘Very well.’ Herrick moved restlessly to the weather side of the quarter-deck and peered towards the land.

  As he turned to look along the upper gun deck he realised he could see some of the crews quite clearly, although at first glance it seemed as dark as before.

  He walked aft to where Grubb stood near the wheel with Plowman, his best master’s mate.

  ‘There should have been a signal by now, Mr. Grubb.’

  He ought to have held his silence and kept his anxiety to himself. But it seemed endless. Lysander’s slow and careful approach towards the hidden land, the nerve-stretching tension as the men stood to their guns on each deck, while others waited at braces and halliards in case he should order a sudden change of tack.

  Occasionally from right forward in the chains he heard the leadsman’s cry, the splash beneath the bows as he made another cast.

  There was no chance of a mistake. With the wind holding steady across the larboard quarter, the sea depth checking with that shown on the chart, plus Grubb’s vast local knowledge, there was no room for doubt.

  The sailing master looked even more shapeless with his arms thrust deep into the folds of his heavy coat.

  ‘Mr. Plowman repeats ’e saw the landin’ party safe away, sir. No challenge, nor even a sight of a whisker from the Dons.’ He shook his head and added gloomily, ‘I agrees with you, sir. There ought to ’ave bin a signal long since.’

  Herrick made himself walk forward again to the foot of the great main mast, where Fitz-Clarence was surveying the gun deck below the rail.

  Herrick said, ‘It’s damn quiet.’

  He tried to imagine what Bolitho and the marines were doing. Hiding, captured, perhaps already dead.

  Fitz-Clarence turned and looked at him. ‘It’s lighter, sir. Much.’ He raised one arm to point towards the land.

  Herrick could see without being told that the nearest wedge of darkness had mellowed, and it was possible to see a crescent of sand, the lively movement of spray across some scattered rocks. Lysander was standing very close inshore, but the depth was safe. At any other time it would have been the perfect approach, the ideal conditions which were usually missing when most needed.

  ‘By th’ mark ten!’

  Grubb confirmed it by muttering, ‘The ’eadland must be fine on the larboard bow, sir.’ He coughed throatily. ‘We’ll be able to spit on it within ’alf an hour!’

  Below the quarter-deck rail he heard someone give a short laugh, the immediate bark from a gun captain to silence him.

  The hands had been at their quarters since last night when they had dropped the boats and he had watched them pull towards the land. Down there, and deeper still on the lower gun deck, the waiting seamen were probably whispering their doubts, making jokes about their captain’s caution. What would they say if he lost the ship, and them with her?

  Fitz-Clarence remarked, ‘Pity we are out of contact with Harebell, sir.’

  Herrick snapped, ‘Attend to your duties, Mr. Fitz-Clarence!’

  It was perhaps only a casual comment. Or did the lieutenant mean that if he was too nervous to make a decision one way or the other, he should signal for the little sloop to make the first move?

  He walked a few paces up the tilting deck, feeling the crews of the nine-pounders watching him as he went past. Every gun was loaded and ready behind its closed port. The cutlasses and boarding axes had been honed on a grindstone on the main deck. It seemed hours ago.

  He saw Lieutenant Veitch, who was in charge of the upper deck battery of eighteen-pounders, lounging by the hatchway, chatting with his two midshipmen. Perhaps they did not even care. They were like he had once been. Content to leave it to others. When the events moved too swiftly for thought it was always too late anyway. He shifted his feet and watched the dawn light growing above the land. He had been in many sea fights. Had seen so much, and had known the mercy of survival. But this sort of work was beyond him.

  High above the deeply-shadowed decks he heard the topsails and forecourse flapping and then filling hungrily to a sudden thrust of wind. Higher still the topgallant sails were set and drawing well, and he thought he saw one of the masthead lookouts kicking his legs to hold back the chill of the damp air.

  He moved across to the opposite side of the deck, strangely spacious without the marines. He tried to picture each one of the officers throughout his command, from Fitz-Clarence, with his elaborate guise of complete self-confidence, to those like Lieutenant Kipling on the lower gun deck, and Veitch who was apparently so relaxed with his crews below the bulging canvas. With Gilchrist ashore, and Lieutenant Steere with him, he was short-handed enough. But those who remained were barely moulded into a team as yet, and the progress of their gunnery under fire was still to be tested.

  ‘By th’ mark seventeen!’

  He heard himself say, ‘Bring her up a point, Mr. Grubb.’

  ‘Aye, aye, sir!’

  Herrick ignored the sudden scuffle of bare feet as men hurried to trim the yards. He had made a small decision. There was time yet to change it.

  He thought of the rest of the squadron, and mostly of Captain Farquhar. Farquhar had his instructions. With the other two-decker, and Buzzard to watch over their flank, he would be ready to come to his aid as soon as he received the word. When daylight made it possible to contact Harebell . . . Herrick shook himself with sudden desperation. It would all take time. Too much time. Bolitho and the landing party had not made their signal as arranged. To take Lysander into the bay without either support or intelligence from the shore was madness. Bolitho had made that plain enough.

  ‘Course nor’-east by north, sir!’

  ‘Very well.’

  Herrick thought of Farquhar once again. He would love to have him ask for help. Equally, he would despise him if he failed now to make a decision. He was flag captain. How sour the title tasted at this moment.

  He said slowly, ‘We will enter the bay, Mr. Grubb.’ He looked towards Fitz-Clarence’s squared shoulders. ‘Run out the larboard battery, if you please.’

  As the pipe ran from deck to deck and the port lids were heaved open, Herrick heard a muffled cheer, as squealing like disturbed hogs the Lysander’s guns were trundled out. He tried to compose his thoughts, seeing Bolitho’s calm face in his mind.

  Fitz-Clarence reported warily, ‘Larboard guns run out, sir.’

  ‘Thank you. Pass the word forrard to the carronades. Fire only on my command. It is always hard to mark a land target –’ He broke off, sensing the lieutenant’s curious stare. ‘As you will discover.’

  Lysander was heeling quite steeply to the press of sail, but Herrick knew from experience that it was better to hold on to as much agility as possible under these circumstances. No ship had ever got the better of a well-sited shore battery. It was like trying to kill a flea with a feather.

  He crossed to the weather side and held on to the hammock nettings and watched the surge of white water below some fallen rocks. The western headland was slipping abeam, and as Lysander’s jib boom picked up the first thin ray of light like a lance he saw the bay and the solid land-mass beyond.

  He snapped, ‘Alter course two points, Mr. Grubb. Steer nor’ by east.’ He knew Grubb was protesting silently behind him but concentrated on the span and depth of the little bay. It might be empty. Perhaps they had all been wrong from the begi
nning.

  As the braces were manned again, the yards trimmed to hold the wind, he made himself walk aft to the compass, feeling the eyes of the two helmsmen on him as he checked the course and then turned to examine the set of each sail.

  ‘Nor’ by east, sir.’

  He nodded. ‘Good.’

  Grubb added, ‘She’s full an’ bye, sir, as close ’auled as she can be.’

  Herrick was peering up at the great sails, noting how they were starting to flap and shiver. The yards were braced tight round, and the ship must be losing way despite the press of canvas. But it would give him the maximum time and room to move.

  ‘Deck there! Musket fire on the larboard bow!’ A pause and then from the foremast lookout, ‘Ships at anchor, sir! Three on ’em!’

  The sudden crash of a large cannon made more than one man yelp with alarm.

  Herrick held his breath, counting seconds, until with a whine and a loud splash the ball plummeted down well clear of the opposite side.

  ‘Let her fall off a point, Mr. Grubb.’

  Herrick listened to the squeak of steering gear, the noisy response from the topgallant sails as the Lysander’s jib boom edged round very slightly towards the out-thrust pointer of the other headland.

  Bang. He was astonished to realise he could now see a pale beach behind the anchored vessels. And some running figures, like insects, without personality.

  Bang. There was a great chorus of shouts as a ball smashed down hard alongside the bow, hurling a curtain of spray over the forecastle.

  Plowman remarked, ‘Good shootin’.’

  Grubb said, ‘Means they was waitin’ for us. Must ’ave known all along.’

  Fitz-Clarence shouted, ‘One of the ships! She’s trying to get under way!’

  Herrick wiped his forehead. He felt frustrated at every turn. Sickened with the new understanding that even surprise was denied them.

  ‘A brig, sir!’ Young Saxby shouted wildly, ‘She’s cut her cable!’

  Herrick saw the flutter of pale canvas as the brig set her foresail and jib, the way her outline was shortening as freed from her anchor she started to pay off towards the sea. The same wind which carried Lysander towards the tell-tale waterspouts of falling shot would take her to safety.

  He drew his sword and walked briskly to the quarter-deck rail. It was a climax of bitterness and worry, of concern for Bolitho and for his own ability.

  ‘Mr. Veitch! As you bear! I want that brig held!’

  The lieutenant came out of his trance and yelled, ‘Gun captains! On the uproll!’ He crouched behind one of his eighteen-pounders, peering through the open port. ‘Fire!’

  The whole battery belched fire and smoke in a long, ragged salvo. As the smoke came funnelling back through the ports, and the gun crews threw themselves into action with sponges and rammers, Herrick saw the sea around the brig pockmarked with great circles of white spray.

  Gun trucks squealed as the eighteen-pounders were heaved and manhandled up the sloping deck to their ports. Captain by captain held up his hand, and then Veitch roared, ‘Fire!’

  Again the long-drawn-out crash of cannon fire, the bright red and orange tongues spitting out from the hull, their heavy balls skipping across the water and throwing up great hoods of spray over and around the brig. When the smoke had drifted clear Herrick saw that the brig’s main mast was gone and she seemed to be drifting helplessly out of command, her decks in chaos.

  He shouted, ‘Cease firing! Mr. Fitz-Clarence, I want both cutters ready to lower in five minutes.’ He was wiping his eyes as more stinging powder-smoke breezed up over the quarter-deck. ‘You take command.’ He gripped the lieutenant’s arm and swung him towards the nettings. ‘That middle vessel is a transport of some sort. Deep hulled. Cut her out before they try to scuttle her. If you get any resistance, stand off, and I’ll rake her as we pass.’ He pushed him towards the ladder and yelled, ‘Mr. Veitch! Shorten sail! Get the to’ga’n’s’ls off her!’

  Grubb peered aloft as a ball slapped through the main topsail like a great metal fist, leaving a hole as big as a man’s waist.

  He said, ‘Gawd A’mighty.’

  Herrick strode about the deck, his mind grappling with one situation to another. As the ship’s angle lessened to the reduced pressure of sails the boarding nets were raised, and with a chorus of yells and cheers the two cutters were swayed up and across the gangway. Men tumbled over the side, cutlasses and muskets held high, while other hands unlashed the oars and thrust away from the ship’s fat side.

  More crashes came from the land, and one ball shrieked through the weather shrouds and made a seaman drop, gasping on to the nets which were spread to protect the guns from falling debris.

  And how quickly the light had filtered and strengthened within the bay. Herrick turned from watching the two boats thrashing around the counter and realised he could see the hill battery, a plume of smoke above it. It would soon be time to wear ship, he thought. Beat back across the bay and cover the cutting-out party and their boats.

  Bang. He turned swiftly as a ball slammed into the lower hull, shaking it to the very planks under his shoes.

  Under topsails, forecourse and jib, Lysander was making very slow progress, and as a target she could not have looked better.

  Herrick said harshly, ‘We will stand off shortly, Mr. Grubb.’ He shut his ears to someone screaming. ‘We have done all we can.’

  Two more balls skipped over the blue water like a pair of darting sharks. One whipped between the two cutters narrowly missing the frantic oar blades, the other thudded into Lysander’s side just below the beakhead.

  He made himself watch the efforts of the two cutters. One had already grappled the heavy transport ship, the other was exchanging musket fire with darting figures along her poop.

  He must recall the boats also. The whole venture was a shambles. He turned to Midshipman Saxby, who was standing with the signal party, when he heard a man yell with disbelief, ‘Sir! On t’other battery, sir!’

  From the yards and the gun decks men began to cheer, and as Herrick stared fixedly at the hairline mast above the Spanish battery he saw the flag jerking to the top, the same one which was streaming from Lysander’s peak.

  Grubb muttered, ‘I can see scarlet! Them bloody bullocks got there after all!’

  The rest of the voices were drowned in one tremendous explosion. It swelled out and down from the headland, hurling rocks and fragments right along the beach and scattering some soldiers who had been trying to approach the battery from there.

  Herrick tried to control his grin. ‘Heave-to, Mr. Veitch!’ He nodded sharply. ‘Yes, you! Promotion comes fast in a ship of war!’

  He pointed at the transport. The explosion in the remaining battery had finished all resistance, and he could see Fitz-Clarence’s men swarming aboard, the Spanish flag dipping to confirm the capture. The second brig was under way, her sails filling as she made all possible speed to escape destruction.

  Herrick watched her calmly. ‘Harebell will catch that one.’

  Sails awry and thundering, Lysander came up into the wind. No more shots were fired from the land, and along the foreshore only the dead and injured remained to mark the extent of the bombardment.

  ‘Get more boats lowered.’ Herrick gauged the slow drift across the bay. ‘We may have to anchor, but I want every man-jack picked up.’

  Saxby shouted, ‘Commodore’s coming along the beach now, sir!’ He was hopping up and down. ‘And here come the marines!’

  Herrick gripped the rail and watched the untidy procession with something like awe. He saw Lieutenant Steere standing up to his waist in water beside a boat which his seamen must have unearthed somewhere. The hesitant steps of the wounded being carried aboard, the two cutters speeding from the prize ship to help the others.

  Grubb ambled to his side. ‘It’ll give the Dons somethin’ to bite on, sir.’

  Herrick nodded. One ship sunk, a larger one captured, and the defences in ruins. />
  He stiffened. ‘Mr. Saxby! Give me your glass!’

  Grubb stared at him. ‘What is it, might I ask, sir?’

  Herrick handed him the glass and replied quietly, ‘The commodore has his nephew with him.’

  The master gave a low whistle. ‘His cox’n, too, be God.’ He snapped the glass shut. ‘I don’t reckon I can stand any more miracles in one day!’

  Herrick walked slowly along the gangway, unable to take his eyes from the approaching boat. It had been a near thing. He had almost not made the decision. Perhaps Grubb was right about miracles.

  He sought out Veitch’s figure on the quarter-deck. ‘Stand by to receive the commodore!’

  Moments later Bolitho clambered up and through the entry port. His face was grimy with smoke and his elbows were showing through his sleeves, but he was smiling in a way which Herrick had almost forgotten.

  Bolitho said, ‘That was a fine piece of timing, Thomas!’

  ‘I almost obeyed your orders, sir.’ Herrick grinned awkwardly. ‘Then I remembered what you would have done in my place.’

  Bolitho threw back his head and took several deep breaths. It had been very close. Leroux’s men had fired three heated balls into the other battery, and he had thought they might surrender. But they had been urged on and rallied again and again by a slim, fanatical officer. Allday had said he was the camp’s commandant. The Spaniard had also managed to keep up an accurate bombardment with his seaward cannon, and at least two balls had hit Lysander, maybe more.

  Then, as the ship had seemed about to tack away from the merciless cannon fire, one of Leroux’s heated shots had ploughed into the battery’s powder store. It had ended there, and he had seen the Spanish captain torn apart in the blast, his sword still waving in the air.

  He turned and watched as Pascoe limped through the port, accompanied by cheers and laughter as some of the gun crews clustered round to slap his shoulders or point at his wine-stained uniform.

  Herrick shook his head. ‘And I doubted if we could do it, sir.’