Inshore Squadron (11 page)

Later, when he had been joined by Lieutenant Browne, Bolitho dictated a full report of his discovery and the action against the French frigate. He would leave higher authority to draw its own conclusions about the rights and wrongs of it.

By permitting the French ship to interfere with seized merchantmen within Swedish waters, and in the presence of one of the Tsar's own vessels, it would be a hard knot to untangle, he thought.

He sat back and watched Browne's face. “Have I forgotten anything?”

Browne eyed him for several seconds. “I believe, sir, that the less you put on paper the better. I had time to think while I was boarding the merchantmen, time to place myself in a position where I would have to
act
instead of suggest. You won a battle, nothing to change the face of the world, but the very sort to give heart to the people at home. They hate to see ordinary folk like themselves put upon and humiliated by some foreign power. But others may not be so kindly towards you, sir.”

Bolitho smiled gravely. “Go on, Browne, you have my full attention.”

Browne said, “Admiral Sir Samuel Damerum, sir. He will not be pleased. It might make him look a fool to some, a man who lacks the courage to fight for small causes as well as great ones.” He gave a smile, as if he had gone too far. “As I said, sir, I have had time to change places with the mighty while I have been away. Frankly, I am glad to be a lieutenant, especially a privileged one.”

Bolitho rubbed his chin and glanced at the presentation sword which was lying on a chair. Even the omen had been false. He had been right to act, and though Neale had lost ten men killed it had been worth it. As Browne had pointed out, it was no great panorama of battle, but it would put a small edge to their pride and show that, even standing alone, England would not hesitate to act for her own people.

An hour later he was in a carriage with Inskip being driven to the Palace.

It was late and the streets almost empty. More like the setting for an assassination than an enquiry, he thought. Allday had pleaded to come with him, but Inskip had been adamant.

“Just you, Bolitho. That is an order.” He had been unable to resist adding, “Even you should find this one difficult to mould to suit your requirements!”

Through some gates and then the carriage halted by a narrow side entrance.

Stamping snow from their shoes they were ushered through several doors and into another world. A fairyland of glittering chandeliers and great paintings along the walls. Sounds of music and feminine voices, a place of power and absolute comfort.

But that was as near as they got. They were shown into a small but beautifully decorated room with a blazing fire and walls completely lined with books.

One man was waiting for them. He was elegant like the room, and beautifully clothed in blue velvet. He had heavy gold cuffs which all but reached his elbows, and had the air of a man who never acted hastily or without dignity.

He studied Bolitho thoughtfully, his face almost in shadow. Then he said, “The Adjutant General is not able to be here. He has gone to the mainland.” He spoke with barely an accent, his tone almost caressing in the warm room.

Then he continued, “I will deal with this matter, Rear-Admiral Bolitho. As his aide I am well versed in the whole affair.”

Inskip started to speak. “The fact is, sir, that . . .”

One hand moved up, like a priest about to offer a blessing, and Inskip fell silent.

“Now, let me say this. You saved those six English ships by your action. In their turn they saved you by being there. Had you attacked a French vessel in Scandinavian waters, no matter upon what ideal, neither you nor your ship would have reached England again, be certain of that. Your war is with France, not with us. But we must exist in a world turned upside down by London and Paris, and we shall have no hesitation about drawing our swords to protect what we hold dear.” His voice softened. “That is not to say I do not understand, Admiral. I do, better than you realize perhaps.”

Bolitho said, “Thank you for your understanding, sir. We are an island race. For a thousand years we have had to defend ourselves against attackers. People at war too often forget the rest, and for that I apologize, sir.”

The man turned to the fire, saying gently, “I think my own people invaded your country a few times in the past?”

Bolitho smiled. “Aye, sir. They still say that the girls on the north-east coast got their flaxen hair from the Viking invaders!”

Inskip cleared his throat nervously. “In that case, sir, may I take Rear-Admiral Bolitho with me?”

“Please do.” He did not offer his hand. “I wanted to meet you. To see what sort of man you are.” He gave a brief nod. “I hope that if we meet again it will be under happier circumstances.”

Bolitho followed Inskip and two footmen down the same passageway, his mind still in a whirl.

He said, “I believe I might have fared worse with his superior. I think this one just wanted me out of his country.”

Inskip took his cloak from a footman and waited for the cold air to greet him through the open door.

“Quite possibly, Bolitho.” He glanced at him wryly. “That was the Crown Prince himself!” He shook his head and walked towards the carriage. “Really, Bolitho, you've such a lot to learn!”

Captain Neale entered the cabin, his hat tucked beneath one arm.

“I thought you would wish to know, sir. We have cleared the Sound and are standing into the Kattegat.” He looked both tired and elated as he added, “Our escorts have gone about and left us.”

Bolitho stood up and walked aft to the windows. The snow had completely dispersed and the water looked hard grey and uninviting. The Danes had taken no chances. The
Styx
had been followed by two frigates from the moment she had weighed, and when Bolitho had been driven down to the jetty he had seen soldiers manning the artillery near the fortress. Not a threat. A warning perhaps.

“Thank you.”

Bolitho listened to the doleful clank of pumps, the muffled sounds of hammers and saws as the ship's company continued with the repairs of the short, savage engagement.

It would mean that
Styx
would have to be sent to England where she could carry out a proper and more lasting overhaul. She had earned it, as had her whole company.

He said, “I shall feel at a loss aboard my flagship again. Like a horse in a larger field!” He became serious. “I have completed a full report for you to carry to England. Your part in it will reach the proper authority.”

Neale smiled. “Thank you, sir.”

“And now, I'll leave you in peace to run your command as you will and carry me to the squadron as quickly as possible.”

Neale began to withdraw, then said, “My first lieutenant is very pleased with the new hands that he took from the merchantmen, sir. All prime seamen, although at this moment they seem uncertain what is happening, or whether they have exchanged one hell for another.”

The following morning, as Bolitho was finishing his breakfast, one which Ozzard described as more fitting for a prisoner of war, Neale came down to report that his lookouts had sighted a sail, confirmed almost immediately as the frigate
Relentless.

Almost before she had topped the horizon the
Relentless
was hoisting signals to be seen and repeated by the sloop-of-war
Lookout
to the remainder of the squadron.

Bolitho could imagine their feelings. Herrick's patrols would have sighted the released merchantmen, and what he had not discovered from them he would have guessed.

A first blood for the new squadron. Something to brag about when the weather got a man down and the food was too vile even to discuss.

Later when Bolitho went on deck he noticed that Allday had preceded him with his sea-chest, as if he too was more than eager to be getting back to the
Benbow.

He saw Pascoe and the small midshipman, Penels, standing on the larboard gangway pointing towards the ships, and then as the anchored squadron hove slowly into view he saw him turn and look aft, his expression puzzled.

Neale said, “Hand me a glass.” He trained it beyond the other frigate as she went gracefully about and steered back towards the squadron. “Captain Herrick is prepared to weigh, it seems.” He handed the glass to Bolitho and watched his reactions.

Bolitho levelled the telescope on the
Benbow
's shining hull as she swung tightly to her cable. Neale was right. The sails were loosely brailed up and not furled neatly as he might have expected. The cable was all but hove short, as were those of the other twodeckers. He felt suddenly uneasy but said as calmly as he could, “We must be patient.”

Neale nodded doubtfully and then called, “Get the royals on her, Mr Pickthorn! We are in a hurry this morning!”

The
Benbow
's signal midshipman lowered his telescope and reported, “The squadron has weighed, sir!”

Bolitho gripped the hammock nettings and watched first one and then the next ship heeling over to the wind, sails filling and emptying until they had completed their manoeuvre. Wolfe, the first lieutenant, was doing most of the work on the quarterdeck, which was not Herrick's way at all, and gave some hint of his anxiety.

It had been barely fifteen minutes since Bolitho had clambered through the entry port, fifteen minutes of bustle and outward confusion while the seamen had dashed out on the yards or hauled at halliards and braces as if they had been timed to act at the very moment of his appearance.

In between his many duties, Herrick had said, “A courier brig came from the Nore, sir. Her commander had despatches for Admiral Damerum, but of course his squadron had already gone its different ways.” Some of his anxiety had left his face as he had added thankfully, “By God, it is
good
to have you back, sir. I was at my wits' end as to what course to take.”

Piece by piece, in between exasperating delays while Herrick ordered a change of tack or the reduction of sail while the squadron formed into line astern, Bolitho discovered what had happened. He did not once interrupt or hurry Herrick. He wanted it in his own words and not in some carefully prepared oration for his benefit.

One fact stood out above all else. A French squadron had broken out of Brest and had vanished into the blue. It was known to be under the flag of
Vice-Admiral
Alfred Ropars, an experienced and daring officer. He had taken advantage of the terrible weather, but more than that, he had sent out two of his frigates under cover of darkness to attack and seize the only British patrol which was close enough inshore to see what was happening. Bolitho thought of Inskip's views on a captain's authority and value. The commander of the captured frigate would lose everything. His previous successes, his whole career would be sacrificed to wipe the slate clean.

But Bolitho knew how easily it could happen. Back and forth, up and down, in every sort of sea and wind, the weather-beaten ships of the blockading squadrons often became over-confident, too certain that the French would be sensible enough to stay in port rather than risk a fight.

Ropars must have timed it well. With the patrol captured, his own heavier ships were out and away before dawn.

The courier brig's information was scanty but for one thing. Ropars had sailed north. Not west to the Caribbean or south to the Mediterranean, but north.

Herrick said despairingly, “With Admiral Damerum relieved by our smaller squadron, sir, and you away, as I thought, in Copenhagen, I was split in halves. The Admiralty thinks Ropars has sailed to assist an invasion and uprising in Ireland. Our fleet is so thinly spread, it might be a good moment to try.”

Bolitho nodded, his mind busy. “Five years ago, when I was Sir Charles Thelwall's flag captain in
Euryalus,
I saw enough misery on that station. The French tried it then. They just might make another attempt, Thomas.”

Herrick shaded his eyes to squint up at the topgallant yards where some seamen were clinging on with hands and feet as the sails ballooned violently to the wind.

He said, “But I decided I could do no useful thing by running for Ireland, sir. We have too few ships.” He looked Bolitho straight in the eyes. “In any case, sir,
you
are my flag officer.”

Bolitho smiled. With him in Copenhagen it must have been a hard decision for Herrick. If he had decided wrongly his head would be on the block with his admiral's, loyalty or not.

But he said warmly, “That was well said, Thomas. I'll see you with your own broad pendant before long, mark my words.”

Herrick grimaced. “I'd not thank you for it, sir!”

He shifted his feet and said, “The French admiral's strength is a squadron, no more. That we do know. And I'll wager every ship from the Channel Fleet is prowling the enemy's ports in case they try to reinforce this Ropars.”

Bolitho released his grip from the nettings. It did not take long to get used to the change of motion. From the wild plunges of a frigate to the slow, ponderous tilt of a ship of the line.