Command a King's Ship (36 page)

Bolitho shook his head. “The battery is old. I am almost certain that heated shot will not be available, for fear of splitting the guns. Normally they would not need it. With such an arc of fire, the battery can hit any vessel once it is within the two main channels.”

He smiled to hide the sudden doubt which Bellairs had laid in his mind. Suppose there was heated shot already simmering in furnaces? But he would have seen them, surely? No baskets could hoist glowing balls to that high rampart.

He said, “And we will know that most of that battery is lying in the sea, where it should have been years ago.

“We will weigh at first light tomorrow. The wind seems to be in our favour, and with luck it will serve our purposes. There re- mains just one matter . . .” He paused and saw Herrick watching him from across the cabin.

But he must not think of his friend. The best and firmest one he had ever had. He was his first lieutenant, the most competent officer in the ship. Nothing more counted. It must not.

He continued, “Mr. Herrick will command the schooner.”

Herrick nodded, his face expressionless. “Aye, sir. I'll take six good hands. Should be enough.”

Bolitho held his gaze, the rest of the officers fading around him as he said, “I will leave it to you. If Potter wishes to join with you, then take him.” He saw Whitmarsh rising to protest and added harshly, “He knows the channel. We need all we can get.”

The door opened slightly and Carwithen thrust his head into the lantern light.

“Beg pardon, sir, but the water casks 'ave been stowed, an' a message 'as been sent to say that the schooner is fully loaded.”

His gaze shifted to Fowlar, but there was no recognition. Fowlar's first step to promotion had already marked them apart although it was possible they had never had much in common, Bolitho thought.

“Very well.” Bolitho waited for the door to close. “Carry on, gentlemen. You all have your duties to attend.” He faltered, wondering why there were never the right words when you needed them most. “We will have little time for discussion until this mat- ter is settled.”
Or we are all dead.
“Remember this, and remember it well. Our people will be looking to you, more than they, or you ever expected. Most of them have never been in a real sea fight, and when we last met with
Argus
many still believed we had won a battle rather than secured a retreat. This time there can be no retreat, for us, or the enemy. Le Chaumareys is a fine captain, probably the best ever produced by France. But he has one weak- ness.” He smiled gravely. “One which we have not yet enjoyed. That of supreme confidence in his ship and himself. His belief, and your skill and determination will win the day for us if any- thing can.”

They stood up, silent and grim-faced, as if only just aware of their responsibilities. The finality of their position.

Then as they moved towards the door Bolitho said, “A mo- ment, Mr. Herrick.”

Alone together in the gently pitching cabin, Bolitho said, “I had no choice.”

“I would have been dismayed, had you selected a junior, sir.” Herrick smiled. “So there's an end to it.”

Bolitho held out his hand. “May God protect you, Thomas. If I have misjudged this affair, or the enemy outwits us, then pull back at once. If I signal a recall, then abandon your attempt. If die we must, then I want you with me.”

Herrick gripped his hand tightly, his blue eyes suddenly concerned.

“Enough of this talk, sir! It is not like you.
Win
we must, and here's my hand on it!”

Bolitho followed him towards the door. Hating the moment. Conscious of the weight which he had caused to fall on his own shoulders. She had seen his danger, as had Le Chaumareys. Per- haps Herrick also.

On deck, in the noise and bustle of preparing for sea, the con- tact was at last broken.

Herrick said, “I'll go and pick my hands, sir.”

Bolitho nodded, his heart aching. “Carry on, Mr. Herrick. The second lieutenant will relieve you forthwith.”

As Herrick melted into the shadows Davy crossed the quarter- deck and touched his hat.

Bolitho said, “I am sorry about your schooner. I seem to have little choice in anything at the moment.”

Davy shrugged. “It does not seem to matter any more, sir. For once, I cannot see further than the next few days, nor care either.”

Bolitho seized his arm savagely and swung him round. “Has nothing I said to you made any sense?”

Davy struggled in his fierce grip and blurted out, “I—I am sorry, sir!”

“You will be if I hear you talking like that again! Your respon- sibility is to me, the ship and the people you command. Not to your own personal considerations. When a man starts to believe there are no more tomorrows, he is as good as sewn up in a ham- mock between two round-shot. Think of the tomorrows, believe in them, and the men who depend on your skill, or lack of it, will see their own survival on your face!” He relaxed his hold and added in a steadier tone, “Now be off with you.”

He began to pace along the larboard side, his feet stepping automatically over ringbolts and gun tackles, although his eyes saw none of them. He had not been reprimanding Davy, but himself. It was no time for doubt or recrimination, but only for living the role he had adopted, had earned in a dozen battles or more.

“Boat ahoy!” The challenge rang out from the gangway where lanterns glinted on levelled muskets and bayonets.

From the bay itself came the reply, “Don Luis Puigserver wishes to come aboard!”

Davy came hurrying aft. “Is that in order, sir?”

Bolitho smiled, calm again. “I was expecting him, I believe.”

The stocky figure rose through the port and hurried across the deck to greet him.

Puigserver said, “I had to come,
Capitan.
Nervion
's loss made me a part of this. I cannot withdraw until the matter is settled.” He patted the ornate pistols beneath his coat. “And I am an excellent shot, no?”

“I could order you to leave,
Señor.
”

“But?” Puigserver tilted his head to one side. “But you will not. In any case, I have left written word to explain my deeds and my reasons. If we survive the battle, I will tear it to pieces. If not . . .” He left the rest unsaid.

“Then I accept your offer,
Señor.
With gratitude.”

Puigserver walked to the nettings and stared across at a glitter- ing riding-light. “When will the schooner set sail?”

“Before dawn. She will need all the time available to work into her position to best advantage.”

Again the ache. The thought of Herrick sailing his floating magazine into the muzzles of Muljadi's battery.

“I see.” Puigserver yawned. “Then I think I will join your offwatch officers for a glass in the wardroom. You will need your solitude tonight, I am thinking.”

Some hours later Bolitho was awakened by Allday's hand on his shoulder. He had fallen asleep in the cabin, his head on his forearm across the chart where he had been working.

Allday watched him anxiously. “Schooner's weighed, Captain.”

Bolitho rubbed his eyes. Was it almost dawn? He felt suddenly chilled. Desperate for sleep.

Allday added quietly, “Mister Pigsliver's gone, too.”

Bolitho stared at him, wondering if he had expected this. Had known it was what Puigserver had wanted from the moment he had outlined his plan.

“Is she well clear?”

“Aye, Captain.” Allday stretched and yawned. “Stood round the headland half an hour back.” He added slowly, “He'll be good company for Mr. Herrick, and that's no error.”

Bolitho looked at him. “You
knew,
didn't you?”

“Aye, Captain.” Allday watched him sadly. “I thought it for the best.”

Bolitho nodded. “I expect it is.” He walked to the windows as if to see the riding-light still twinkling above the water. “It is a bad thing to be alone.”

Allday glanced at the tarnished sword which hung from the bulkhead. For a moment he thought about Bolitho's other cox- swain, who had died protecting his back from French marksmen at the Saintes. They had come a long way together since those times, he thought. Soon now, it might all end. He looked at Bolitho's shoulders as he peered through the stern windows.

But you will never be alone, Captain. Not while I've a breath left.

17
CLOSE
A
CTION

B
OLITHO
rested his hands on the quarterdeck rail and peered searchingly along his command. In the darkness the decks and gangways made a pale outline against the sea beyond the bows, and only the irregular drift of spray, the swirling white arrowhead from the stem gave any true hint of their progress.

He restrained himself from going aft again to examine his watch by the shaded compass light. Nothing had changed since his last inspection, and he was well aware of the danger of adding to the tension around him.

Three days since they had left the anchorage in Pendang Bay, making good speed with favourable winds for most of the time. They had stood well clear of the land, even the approaches to the little whale-shaped islet, in case Muljadi or Le Chaumareys had thought fit to place another craft there to warn of any unwel- come sail.

The previous evening, just before sunset, they had sighted Herrick's schooner, a tiny dark sliver on the copper-edged horizon, seemingly motionless as she idled to await
Undine
's arrival at the arranged point of rendezvous. A brief dipping signal from a lantern before both vessels had lost each other again in darkness.

Bolitho shivered, feeling the cool, clammy air exploring his face and throat. The middle watch had only just run its course, and there was still an hour or so before any lightening of the sky could be expected. But overnight, while all hands had worked to prepare the ship for action, the clouds had gathered and thickened, brush- ing out the stars so that
Undine
seemed to be sailing remorselessly into a void.

He heard Mudge moving restlessly below the hammock nettings, rubbing his palms together to keep warm. The sailing master seemed unusually preoccupied. Perhaps his rheumatism was troubling him, or like Bolitho, he was thinking of Herrick, somewhere out there on
Undine
's larboard bow.

Bolitho straightened his back and looked up at the blacker outlines of yards and rigging. The ship was sailing under topsails and jibs, and with only the great forecourse hiding the sea ahead of the bowsprit. It was strange to feel so chilled, when within hours the sun would be back to torment them, to add to whatever else lay in store.

He asked, “How is the wind, Mr. Mudge?”

Mudge was glad to break the silence. “Still sou'-west, sir. By an' large.” He coughed noisily. “Under most occasions I'd be grateful for that.”

“What are you thinking?”

“Not sure, sir.” Mudge moved away from the seamen waiting by the quarterdeck six-pounders. “It's too
uneven
for my tastes.”

Bolitho turned to peer forward again. The big forecourse seemed to echo Mudge's doubts.
Undine
was steering almost due north, and with the wind coming across her quarter she should have been making easy-going of it. But she was not. The forecourse would billow and harden, making the stays and shrouds hum and vibrate, holding the ship firm for several minutes. Then it would flap and bang in disorder before falling almost limp against the foremast for another frustrating period.

Mudge added doubtfully, “You never knows in these waters. Not for sure.”

Bolitho looked at his untidy outline. If Mudge was worried, with all his experience, how much worse it would be for many of the others.

He called, “Mr. Davy! I am going forrard directly.” He saw the lieutenant's shape detach itself from the rail. “Tell Mr. Keen to keep me company.”

He slipped out of his tarpaulin coat and handed it to Allday. He had been so occupied with his own thoughts and doubts he had not fully realised how heavily these dragging hours must be affect- ing his company. He had ordered the ship to be prepared for action as soon as he was satisfied with the final leg of their course towards the Benua islands. Working in almost total darkness, the hands had completed the task almost as quickly as in broad daylight, so familiar had they become with their surroundings. Their home. It was a simple precaution. Sound travelled too easily at sea, and the clatter of screens being torn down, the scrape and squeak of nets being spread above the gun deck and chain slings being rigged to every yard seemed loud enough to wake the dead. But from then on they had nothing to do but wait. To fret on what daylight might bring, or take away.

Keen came out of the darkness, his shirt pale against a black six-pounder.

Bolitho asked, “How is the wound?”

“Much better, thank you, sir.”

Bolitho smiled. He could almost feel the pain which was prob- ably showing on Keen's face.

“Then take a stroll with me.”

Together they walked along the lee gangway, ducking below the taut nets which Shellabeer's men had rigged to catch falling cordage or worse, seeing the upturned faces of each gun crew, the restless shapes of the marine sentries at hatchways, or powder- monkeys huddled together while they waited to serve the silent cannon.

On to the forecastle, where the squat carronades pointed from either bow like tethered beasts, their crews shivering in the occa- sional dashes of spray.

Bolitho paused, one hand gripping the nettings as
Undine
sidled unsteadily into a deep trough. Most of the seamen were stripped to the waist, their bodies shining faintly above the dark water alongside.

“All ready, lads?”

He felt them crowd around him, their sudden interest at his arrival. Of necessity, the galley fire had been doused when the ship had gone to quarters. A hot drink now would be worth more than a dozen extra guns, he thought bitterly.

To Keen he said, “Pass the word to Mr. Davy with my compli- ments. A double tot of rum for all hands.” He heard the instant response around him, the murmur of appreciation as it flowed aft along the gun deck. “If the purser complains, tell him he'll have me to reckon with!”

“Thankee, sir! That was right thoughtful, sir!”

He strode to the ladder, turning away in case they could see his face through the darkness, or sense his mood. It was too easy to raise their spirits. So simple that it made him feel cheap, hypocriti- cal. A double tot of rum. A few pence. Whereas within hours they might have given their lives, or their limbs.

Bolitho paced aft beside the main hatch, seeing Soames's great figure towering above that of Tapril, the gunner. He nodded to Fowlar nearby, and to the larboard crews of the twelve-pounders. All were his men, his responsibility.

He thought suddenly of Rear Admiral Sir John Winslade, all those weeks and months ago in his office at the Admiralty. He had needed a frigate captain he could know and trust. One whose mind he could follow even though it was on the other side of the globe.

He thought, too, of the ragged soldiers below the Admiralty window, one blind, the other begging for the both of them.

All the brave schemes and plans, the lofty preparations for a new world. Yet when it was boiled down, nothing was changed.
Undine
and
Argus
were but two ships, and yet their presence and their needs made them no less important than opposing fleets.

And if
Undine
failed, what would they say in those fine resi- dences in Whitehall and St. James's Square, and in the busy coffee houses where mere rumour grew into fact in minutes? Would they care that men had fought and died for them in the King's name?

Someone gave a hoarse cheer in the gloom, and he guessed the rum had arrived on deck.

He continued aft, hardly aware that he had stopped short in his tracks as his bitterness had given way to anger. How spacious the deck seemed without the boats lying one upon the other across their tier. All were now towing astern, awaiting the moment to be cast adrift, mute spectators of the battle which might come. Which had to come.

It was always a bad moment, he thought. Boats were frail things, but in battle they made an additional menace with their splinters flying like savage darts. Despite the danger, most men would wish them kept aboard. A link, a hope for survival if things went badly.

Keen came back panting hard. “All done, sir. Mr. Triphook was a trifle perturbed at the extra issue!” His teeth shone in the dark- ness. “Would
you
care for a glass, sir?”

Bolitho disliked rum. But he saw the seamen and marines watching him and exclaimed, “Indeed I would, Mr. Keen.”

He raised the glass to his mouth, the powerful stench of rum going straight to his empty stomach.

“To us, lads!”

He pictured Herrick and Puigserver aboard their floating bomb.
And to you, Thomas.

Then he was glad he had accepted the rum and added, “I can now understand what makes our jacks so fearsome!” It brought more laughs, as he knew it would.

He glanced at the sky. Still without light, or sign of a star.

He said, “I'll go below.” He touched the midshipman's arm. “You remain here by the hatch. Call, if I am needed.”

Bolitho climbed down into the darkness, his feet less certain here. Anyone could call him when required, but he must spare Keen an unnecessary visit to the surgeon's domain. It might come soon enough. He recalled the great pulsating wound, Allday's gentleness as he had searched out that bloody splinter.

Another ladder. He paused, feeling the ship groaning around him. Different smells abounded on this deck. Tar and oakum, and that of tightly compressed humanity, even though the tiny messes were now deserted. And from forward the reek of the great anchor cables, of bilge water and damp clothing. Of a living, working ship.

A feeble lantern showed him the rest of the way to Whitmarsh's crude surgery. The sea-chests lashed together where terrified wounded would be saved or driven to despair. Leather straps to jam between teeth, dressings to contain the pain.

The surgeon's great shadow swayed across the tilting deck. Bolitho watched him narrowly. There was a stronger smell of brandy in the damp air. To quench pain, or to prepare Whitmarsh for his own private hell, he was not certain.

“All well, Mr. Whitmarsh?”

“Aye, sir.”

The surgeon lurched against the chests and braced his knee to the nearest one. He waved one hand around his silent assistants, the loblolly boys, the men who would hold their victims until the work was done. Brutalised by their trade. Without ears for the screams. Beyond pity.

“We are all awaiting what
you
send us, sir.”

Bolitho stared at him coldly. “Will you never learn?”

The surgeon nodded heavily. “I have learned well. Oh yes indeed, sir. As I have sawed away at a man's leg, or plugged car- penter's oakum into his empty eye-socket, with nothing to ease his torment but neat spirits, I have come closer to God than most!”

“If that be true, then I pray you get no closer.”

Bolitho nodded to the others and strode towards the ladder.

Whitmarsh called after him, “Perhaps I shall be greeting
you
, sir!”

Bolitho did not reply. The surgeon was obviously going com- pletely mad. His obsession with his brother's horrible death, his drinking, and the very way he earned his living were taking their toll. But he had to hang on to what remained of that other man. The one who had spoken of suffering with compassion, of serving others less fortunate.

He thought again of Herrick, and prayed he would get his boat away when the schooner was set upon her final course to destruc- tion. Strange companions he had, too. Puigserver, and the frightened sailmaker from Bristol, finding courage from some- where to sail back to that place which had broken his mind and body.

“Captain, sir!”

He quickened his pace as Keen's voice came down the next ladder.

“What is it?”

But as he gripped the ladder and turned his face towards the sky's faint rectangle he knew the answer. Slow, heavy drops of rain were falling across the hatchway, like small pebbles dropped from the yards as they tapped on planking or bounced across the gang- ways.

He dragged himself up the last few steps and hurried aft to the quarterdeck. He was within a few feet of it when the clouds opened and the rain came down in a great roaring, deafening tor- rent.

He yelled above the deluge, “How is the wind now?”

Mudge was cringing by the binnacle, his hat awry in the fury of the downpour.

“Veerin', sir! Far as I can tell!”

Water hissed and gurgled down decks and scuppers, and the chilled gun crews pressed beneath the gangways and cowered be- hind the sealed ports to escape the torrential rain.

Bolitho felt Allday trying to throw the tarpaulin coat over his shoulders, but pushed him away. He was already soaked to the marrow, hair plastered over his forehead, his mind ringing to the din of rain and spray. Yet through it all he managed to keep contact with the ship and her affairs. The deck felt steady enough, despite the angry downpour, and above his head he managed to make out the maintopsail's shape flapping and shining wetly as the wind eased round still further.