Signal, Close Action! Page 13

  Bolitho said, ‘This man served with my father, Thomas.’ He shaded his eyes to look for the enemy. ‘What a small world is bound up in a navy.’

  Herrick nodded and asked Mariot, ‘How old are you?’

  The man shook his head. ‘I can’t rightly recall, sir.’ He patted the gun’s breech. ‘But young enough for this little lady!’

  Bolitho walked slowly back and forth across the deck, his ears deaf to the cheerful shouts which were welcoming the first of the beer. All in one company. A man who had been with his father in India. Allday, his trusted coxswain and friend who had first been brought to him by a press-gang. Herrick, once a junior lieutenant under him, and Adam Pascoe, his brother’s only son, perhaps the link between all of them.

  Herrick was saying, ‘They may be handled poorly, sir, but I’d be happier if we had some support. Even a frigate to snap at their damned backsides!’

  Bolitho paused at the nettings, realising that he was soaked in sweat. ‘Lysander fought and defeated the Athenian fleet nearly four hundred years before our Lord was born. He captured Athens a year later, if my old tutor was to be believed.’ He smiled at Herrick. ‘Surely he will not let us down today?’ He added in a quieter tone, ‘Be easy, Thomas. Your people are watching you. Show one sign of doubt and we may well be done for.’

  Herrick linked his hands behind him, his chin on his neckcloth. ‘Aye. I’m sorry. It is strange how you never get used to the one thing you’ve worked and trained for. The sight of an enemy’s sail, the sound of his broadside. Keep going until he’s struck or gone under.’ He added with unusual bitterness, ‘Those fancy people in England who go all weepy at the sight of a King’s ship working out of harbour never spare a thought for the poor devils who have to man ’em. Who die every day just to keep them in comfort and safety.’

  Bolitho watched him impassively. It was easier to see the old Herrick now. Quick to speak out for the underdog, no matter how much wrath he incurred from his superiors. Which was probably why he was still a junior post-captain.

  He asked, ‘And your sister, Thomas, how is she keeping?’

  Herrick brought his thoughts under control. ‘Emily?’ He looked away. ‘She is missing our mother, no doubt, although she took some looking-after towards the end.’

  Bolitho nodded. ‘And you have hired someone to take care of Emily while you are at sea?’

  Herrick faced him, his eyes staring into the sun. ‘May I ask, sir, are you coming to the matter of Mr. Gilchrist?’

  ‘I had heard something, Thomas.’ He was surprised at Herrick’s tone. His readiness to defend an understanding.

  Herrick’s eyes were almost colourless in the glare. ‘Emily is taken with him. He is a reliable officer, if hasty-tempered at times.’ He lowered his head. ‘And what he has, he has earned, sir.’

  ‘Like you, Thomas.’

  ‘Indeed.’ Herrick sighed. ‘And I care very much for what Emily wants. God knows, she has had precious little in this world!’

  ‘Deck there!’

  Gilchrist was striding across the deck, his hands cupped. ‘What is it?’

  ‘Leadin’ ship is makin’ more sail!’

  Herrick snatched a telescope and hurried to the rail. ‘Damn their eyes! They will try to divide our defences.’

  Bolitho watched him, seeing his mind at work with how best to present his ship to the enemy, yet still holding on to what they had been saying.

  Gilchrist said sharply, ‘They’ll not get too near, sir. They’ll more likely use chain-shot or langridge to try and cripple us. Then rake our stern at leisure and at little risk.’

  Bolitho said, ‘Make a signal to Harebell. We will alter course. Steer sou’-east.’

  Herrick asked huskily, ‘Is it wise, sir? There’s less than a league between us. If we hold on as we are, we might be able to outsail them. With the wind in our favour it’d be hours before the Frogs could beat round and come after us.’

  Bolitho took the glass from him and trained it on the two ships. They were moving, wide apart, towards Lysander’s larboard bow. They were having a hard time to stay so close-hauled, and turning any more towards the wind would put them all aback. Less than three miles. Herrick had always been good at estimating distance. Lysander would touch the leading two-decker bow to bow almost at right angles and then the second Frenchman would act as he saw fit. Go to larboard and present a broadside as Lysander fought herself free from the first embrace, or luff and work round under their stern while they were actually engaging the other one.

  Herrick’s plan gave them and the prize an excellent chance of escaping both. It also meant running away, with a real possibility of a long stern-chase until they met up with another enemy force. He cursed Farquhar silently. With three ships facing them the enemy would soon change their tactics.

  He walked aft, feeling Grubb’s eyes on him as he checked the compass. North-east by north, with the friendly west wind holding across the quarter. He looked at Grubb’s ruined features.

  ‘Well? Will it hold, d’you think?’

  ‘The wind, sir?’ He wiped his watery eye. ‘Aye.’ He nodded his head towards the nearest gun crews and beyond to the upper deck. ‘It’s them I ain’t so sure of.’

  Gilchrist was striding past and halted on the other side of the wheel, his voice scornful. ‘Really, Mr. Grubb! If we are to weep before we fight, I see no hope for anyone!’

  Grubb stared at him stubbornly. ‘You was in this ship at St. Vincent, sir. Like me an’ some of the others.’

  ‘Yes.’ Gilchrist had a way of speaking to Grubb but projecting his words to Bolitho. ‘I’m proud of it.’

  Grubb shrugged. ‘They was a trained company. Cap’n Dyke ’ad ’ad this ship in more scrapes than I can shake a stick at.’ He turned to Bolitho. ‘You knows, sir.’ He did not actually look at Gilchrist. ‘Better’n anyone, if I’m a judge.’

  Bolitho walked forward to the rail, deep in thought. ‘Have Harebell and the prize acknowledged?’

  Gilchrist followed him, his shoes tapping. ‘Aye, sir.’

  ‘Then tell me! I’m not a damned magician!’ He calmed himself. ‘Execute the signal.’

  He looked at Grubb’s reddened face. ‘Lay her on the starboard tack.’

  Men rushed to the braces, the afterguard’s boots keeping perfect time as they hauled the mizzen yards round, letting the sails empty and then billow out again, tilting the ship on an opposite tack.

  Bolitho raised his glass, his legs straddled as the deck dipped under him. He found he could shut out the bellowed orders, the flap and thunder of sails overhead, and hold on to the small, silent world in the lens.

  He saw a darker shadow pass across the leading ship’s foresail. She was edging slightly away, feeling a new strength as she allowed the wind to move a few points further abaft her beam.

  ‘Course sou’-east, sir!’

  Gilchrist snapped, ‘Mr. Luce, what of the others?’

  Luce was equally sharp in his reply, well aware of the tension between his superiors. ‘Harebell and prize on station astern, sir.’

  Bolitho pursed his lips and watched his two enemies. They were getting larger every minute, and he could see the bright tricolours at their peaks, the flash of sunlight on raised telescopes or weapons. They would have seen the commodore’s broad pendant. A valuable capture. A suitable ending to this impudent gesture.

  Herrick was beside him. ‘They’re both falling off a few points. Our change of course has aided them. They could take the wind-gage from us if we overreach them.’

  ‘Which is why we must make certain they don’t.’ He pointed his arm at the other ships. ‘I have given them more wind, as you say, Thomas. If we continue on this tack we will be abeam of the leading Frenchman in a half-hour. His consort may then try to rake our disengaged side.’

  ‘However.’ He saw Major Leroux turn slightly and smile at him. ‘What they will not be able to do is steer upwind with us so near. They would be in irons.’

  Herrick was unimpres
sed. ‘I know. But now, they don’t have to worry about that, sir.’

  Bolitho looked at him. ‘Consult with the master and your first lieutenant. In ten minutes I intend that we shall wear ship.’ He saw an unspoken protest on Herrick’s face but continued, ‘We will then lay her on the same tack as earlier and steer nor’-east.’

  He watched the slow understanding moving over his features like sunlight through departing cloud.

  Herrick said slowly, ‘By God, we’ll either collide with one of ’em or –’

  ‘Or we shall pass between them. They cannot luff without risking damage to spars and canvas. If they turn and run downwind we will rake their sterns. If they stay as they are, we will engage from either battery as we sail through.’ He held on to Herrick’s stare. ‘After that, your guess is as good as mine!’

  He added, ‘Now attend to it. I’m going to speak with the people.’

  He strode to the quarter-deck rail and waited until most of the seamen were peering aft towards him. He saw Lieutenant Veitch, arms relaxed, standing with his back to the enemy, his hanger already unsheathed and glinting. Near him, two midshipmen and a gunner’s mate. All part of the pattern. The red-coated marine at each hatch, ready to stop any terrified man from fleeing below. And along either side, half hidden by the gangways which joined forecastle to quarter-deck, were the men who would see the enemy through the ports. Would keep their heads no matter what. Or go under.

  Bolitho said, ‘Up yonder, lads, are two fine French gentlemen.’ He saw the stiff grins of the older men, the nervous twisting of heads of the others, turning as if they expected to see the enemy right here on board. ‘For most of you this is the first time. While you serve your country it will not be the last. A few days ago you did well. A prize taken, another ship sunk by these eighteen-pounders.’

  He pictured two similar lines of men on the deck below, waiting in almost complete darkness for the ports to open and run out the massive thirty-two pounders. They would be trying to hear what he was saying, the word being carried by ship’s boys and midshipmen, and probably distorted along the way.

  ‘But this is no brig, lads. Nor a newly-built shore battery.’ He saw the words reaching them. ‘Two ships of the line, and fine vessels they are.’

  He heard Grubb whisper, ‘Anytime now, sir.’

  Bolitho looked along the crowded deck, well sanded to save the men from slipping in battle. ‘But they have a fault, nonetheless. They are crewed by Frenchmen, not Englishmen!’

  He turned aft, seeing the men waving and cheering, the grins on the faces of the midshipmen, as if they were going on a Royal cruise. He felt sickened with himself. Angry that he could make it sound so simple.

  He said sharply, ‘Pass the order to load, if you please. Then run out the larboard guns.’ He saw a flash of doubt and added, ‘Yes, the larboard ones. They must be made to think we are sticking to our –’ he smiled grimly, ‘– our guns!’ He walked quickly to the opposite side. ‘And stop them cheering. They’ll need all their wind directly.’

  ‘I’m here, sir.’

  He raised his arms and allowed Allday to buckle on his sword. Allday was no better. He was doing this deliberately. Letting the seamen and marines see how calm they were.

  He looked at him and said softly, ‘We are a fine pair.’

  Allday gave a secret smile. ‘At least we are a pair again, sir.’ He stared towards the enemy, his eyes calm. ‘It’ll not be easy.’ He watched the ship with professional interest. ‘Still, I don’t suppose they’re looking forward to it either!’

  ‘Run out!’

  The pipe was repeated to the deck below, and hesitantly at first, as if testing the quality of the air, the Lysander’s larboard guns trundled into the sunlight like black teeth.

  ‘Frenchies are running out, too, sir.’

  ‘Good.’

  Bolitho pulled out his watch and flicked open the guard. It was warm from resting against his thigh. He snapped it shut. Within a short time it could be as cold as its owner.

  A dull bang echoed across the choppy strip of water, and seconds later a thin spout of spray burst up alongside. It brought a baying growl of anger from Lysander’s gun crews, but Bolitho heard Veitch yell, ‘Be ready! Starboard guns prepare to run out.’ He squinted at the quarter-deck and saw Herrick nod. ‘Both sides will engage independently!’

  A youth at one of the nine-pounders whispered something, and Mariot, the old gun captain, replied, ‘’E means separate, see?’ He saw Bolitho’s brief smile and added, ‘We’m ready for th’ buggers, sir.’ He moved inboard from his gun, paying out the trigger line as he went. ‘Just like we done in th’ old Scylla!’

  Pascoe called, ‘The enemy are shortening sail!’

  Bolitho nodded, watching the leading Frenchman’s topgallant sails vanishing as if by magic. Preparing to meet Lysander’s challenge. If they continued on this converging course either of the French captains would be well placed for the first broadsides.

  He looked at Herrick. Beyond him, Gilchrist was poised by the rail, his speaking trumpet already raised.

  Bolitho said, ‘Very well. This is the time, Captain Herrick.’ He held his gaze. ‘Put up your helm, and let’s be amongst them!’

  Gilchrist yelled, ‘Braces there!’ He was weaving from side to side, his voice like metal as he urged the seamen to greater efforts. ‘Heave! Heave!’

  Bolitho gripped the poop ladder and felt the ship shuddering, every stay and shroud humming with strain as the great yards started to creak round. He heard the helmsmen panting with exertion as they threw their weight on the spokes, hauling the wheel over and further still.

  Veitch was shouting above the thunder of billowing canvas, ‘Starboard battery! Run out!’

  Bolitho looked aloft at his pendant, willing it to hold direction, while all around him seamen and marines were rushing to obey the demands from their officers and bosun’s mates.

  He lowered his head and watched the leading French ship. Was it imagination? He held his breath, and then as the deck under his shoes began to heave over the opposite way he saw the French ship gathering speed, swinging past Lysander’s bowsprit and flapping jib as if caught in a tide-race.

  ‘’Old ’er steady!’ Grubb sounded fierce. ‘’Nother man on th’ wheel, ’ere!’

  The yards ceased their creaking and steadied on the larboard tack, the topsails hard-bellied again, thrusting the ship over until spray sluiced above the lower line of port lids where the gun captains were already shouting their readiness to fire.

  Herrick tugged at his hat as the wind blew more spindrift over the hammock nettings and across the smooth planks between the guns. It dried almost as soon as it had fallen, like summer rain, Bolitho thought.

  ‘Course nor’-east, sir!’

  ‘Steady as you go.’

  Bolitho raised his glass, feeling the wind whipping at his coat as he trained it on the enemy. His sudden alteration of course had caught the two French captains by surprise. He saw the leading ship’s ornate stern slipping past Lysander’s starboard bow, the gap widening more and more until he could see the second seventy-four’s jib boom pushing through the left side of his lens.

  A ripple of orange tongues darted from the leading Frenchman’s hull, and he heard some of the balls hissing overhead, the sharp crack of a stay parting somewhere in their path.

  He strode across the deck and seized Herrick’s arm. ‘The fool fired too soon.’ He gestured towards the waiting seamen. ‘Starboard battery, Thomas. Give him a broadside! With luck there’ll be time to reload before we cut across his stern.’

  Herrick waved his arm. ‘As you bear!’

  The earsplitting roar of the broadside, the great spouting bank of choking smoke as it was blown towards the enemy, made several of the marines loose off their muskets. They had no hope of finding a target, and Sergeant Gritton bellowed, ‘Punishment for the next bugger to fire without orders!’

  Bolitho stood on a bollard to peer above the hammock nettings, hi
s eyes smarting in smoke as he watched for some sign of damage. The enemy’s sails were pockmarked with shot holes, and he saw a gap in the boat tier, an upended launch split in halves. But the tricolour was still there, and the ship was holding direction as before.

  He heard his men cheering and whooping and snapped, ‘Reload! I want three rounds every two minutes.’ He saw Gilchrist staring at him. ‘Gunnery is all we have now.’

  There was a ragged crash of cannon fire from larboard, and he realised that the second Frenchman was trying to hit Lysander with his forward guns, the only ones which would bear.

  Veitch was yelling, ‘Larboard battery!’ His hanger glittered above his head. ‘As you bear, lads!’

  Bolitho saw one of the midshipmen scuttling to the hatch to pass the order.

  The hanger cut downwards. ‘Fire!’

  Once more the ship shook and bucked violently as both gun decks erupted in a slow and regular broadside. Men were already hurling themselves on the tackles and handspikes, reaching blindly for charges and fresh shot, many of them retching as smoke funnelled downwind to hide the deck from view.

  Veitch shouted wildly, ‘Faster! Come on, number three! Sponge out!’

  Bolitho wiped his streaming face, his mouth like dust as he watched the Frenchman’s foresail flapping in all directions like a torn sheet, the long black scars along the enemy’s forecastle where some of the broadside had gone home.

  The leading French ship was still on the same course, her captain probably unwilling to expose his stern until the last moment. Or hoping his consort might produce some kind of miracle.

  Herrick said, ‘All loaded and run out again.’ His face was streaked with grime. ‘Less than two minutes, by my reckoning!’

  ‘Fire!’

  The starboard guns hurled themselves inboard on the tackles, the orange-tinged smoke rolling downwind towards the Frenchman which now appeared to lie diagonally across the starboard bow.

  Bolitho gritted his teeth, seeing Lysander’s drifting smoke light up again to the enemy’s immediate reply. The deck jerked under him, and he saw men duck as the balls shrieked low over the quarter-deck, some dropping in the sea almost a mile away.