Inshore Squadron (12 page)

“Well, Thomas? I'm waiting.”

Herrick bit his lip, as if wishing he had remained silent.

“I heard what you did in the Baltic. I questioned the master of one of the merchantmen you set free. It was a fine piece of work, sir, with just the
Styx
to carry it out.”

Bolitho looked at the grey sea alongside, willing Herrick to get on with it, but equally afraid to break the thread of his ideas.

“I think it unlike the Frogs to send one frigate for that task, sir. They would know your squadron would prevent any attempt to escort the merchantmen to France.” He spread his hands. “And for the life of me I can see no other reason for their actions!”

Bolitho stared at him. “Time and distance, Thomas, is that it?”

Herrick nodded. “Aye, sir. I believe that the Frogs intended to draw our squadron to the west to assist the Channel Fleet and to cut Ropars retreat if his attack on Ireland failed.”

Bolitho gripped his arm. “And all the while Ropars is really sailing further north, around Scotland maybe, and then down the coast of Norway, is
that
what you believe?”

Herrick licked his lips. “Well, er, yes, sir. They'll come south.” He looked at the hazy outline of the Danish coast. “To here.”

“Where they hope to find the back door open for them, eh?” It was so simple it had to be wrong.

Bolitho said, “Signal the squadron to steer west, Thomas, with
Relentless
and
Lookout
as far in the lead as possible without losing visual contact. When you are satisfied with them, come aft and bring the master with you. We'll study the charts and share our ideas.”

Herrick looked at him, less certain now.

“I may be quite wrong, sir. Is it worth the risk?”

“If we fight here, we will be on the lee shore. No, we shall meet them in open water, if at all. Cripple some and send the rest running. I have heard of Admiral Ropars, Thomas. This is just the sort of thing he would attempt.”

Herrick said ruefully, “A bit like you then, sir?”

“Not too much, I hope. Otherwise he may be outguessing us already!”

Bolitho made his way aft to his quarters, past the rigid marine sentry, and then ducked automatically as if he was still aboard the frigate.

For a while he moved restlessly about the cabin, thinking of all that had happened in so short a time. The fragment of chance when
Lookout
had taken the French brig
Echo.
Their arrival in Copenhagen, the attack through the snowstorm, men dying, others cheering.

He heard cheering now, as if his thoughts had come to life, but when he peered through the stern windows he saw the frigate
Styx
close-hauled under a full pyramid of canvas and steering past the slower moving two-deckers. The squadron was cheering one of its own. A scarred victor, going home for repairs and perhaps a hero's welcome.

Allday entered the cabin and replaced the presentation sword on its rack below the other one.

He said, “I was a mite worried back there, sir. Just for a while.”

Bolitho shrugged. “Fate is a strange thing.”

Allday grinned, obviously relieved. “The folk in Falmouth would have been caught aback if you'd broken it, and that's no error, sir!”

Bolitho sat down, suddenly tired. “Fetch me something to drink, if you please.” Then he smiled gravely. “And let us both stop pretending, shall we?”

7
P
REPARE FOR BATTLE

I
T WAS
a very cold morning, and when Bolitho went on deck for his customary walk he felt the chill in the air as he had off Gotland.

He looked at the sky, almost devoid of cloud but, like the sea, leaden grey, without welcome.

With the aid of a telescope he sought out the other ships, studying the early morning activity, sails being set or retrimmed to bring each vessel into a slow-moving line. Of the
Lookout
there was no sign as yet, although the masthead might already be able to see her.

The first lieutenant was pacing along the lee side, his ginger hair flapping beneath his hat to make the only bright colour on deck.

His was not to reason or criticize. Wolfe was the first lieutenant, with a command of his own before too long if he was fortunate. To run the
Benbow
like a perfectly tuned instrument and hand her to his captain in first degree readiness was his sole purpose for being here.

Bolitho dragged his thoughts from the daily routine and considered his own position. Two days they had been heading slowly west and then north. Two days with their Baltic patrol left unattended. Suppose he was wrong? Suppose he had been so eager to exploit the success of the squadron, even in the face of Inskip's doubts and warnings, that he had missed the obvious?

The excitement at seeing
Styx
and her battle scars could not last forever. Soon now and he would have to decide. To continue, or to return to the inshore station. Failing to take his ships, or some of them, to Irish waters, and then missing any sort of contact with the French squadron because of an haphazard idea would not go down at all well with Damerum or the Admiralty.

He paused as he heard Wolfe say in his harsh tones, “Now then, Mr Pascoe, what is all this I hear about you requesting a transfer for the landman Babbage? To the afterguard, y'say?” He leaned forward, towering above the young lieutenant like an ungainly giant.

Pascoe replied, “Well, sir, he was pressed at Plymouth. He comes from Bodmin, and . . .”

Wolfe growled impatiently, “And
I
come from bloody Bristol, so where does that get us, eh?”

Pascoe tried again. “Mr Midshipman Penels asked for the transfer, sir. They grew up together. Babbage worked for Penels' mother when his father died.”

“Is that all?” Wolfe nodded, satisfied. “Well, I already knew that. Which is why I kept 'em, separate, when I got to hear of their connection, so to speak.”

“I see, sir.”

“Oh no you don't, Mr Pascoe, but never mind. You asked, I said no. Now take some men to the foretop and attend the barricade. Mr Swale assures me that it is already cracked with strain. The devils probably used condemned timber when they built it, damn them!”

Pascoe touched his hat and strode to the gangway.

When he was out of earshot Bolitho called, “Mr Wolfe. A moment please.”

Bolitho was quite tall, but Wolfe made him feel like a dwarf.

“Sir?”

“I could not help but overhear that. Perhaps you could share your information with
me?
”

Wolfe grinned, unabashed. “Most certainly, sir. I met the officer in charge of the press at Plymouth when he brought some hands aboard for us. He told me about Babbage. How he had been sent to Plymouth with a message for a storekeeper there.”

“A long way from Bodmin, Mr Wolfe.”

“Aye, sir. It is that. Someone wanted him out of the way. Sent him where his capture would not be discussed or gossiped about, if you get my meaning, sir?”

Bolitho frowned. “Penels' mother?”

“I expect so, sir. With her son at sea, and her man dead, she'd be seeking a new er, husband. Babbage could be a nuisance. Living at the house. Seeing and hearing everything. She couldn't have known Babbage would end up crossing his hawse with our young Mr Penels.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

Bolitho thought of the luckless Babbage. It was not unknown for employers and landowners to get rid of an unwanted servant in this fashion. Send him on a mission and then inform a crimp or the press-gang. The rest was easy.

Wolfe added, “Mr Pascoe will be a good officer, sir. An' I'm not saying that to win your favours. He will learn about the wiles of women all in good time. Time enough then to bother him with such things.” He touched his hat and strode away humming to himself.

Bolitho continued his pacing. There were other sides to the ungainly first lieutenant, he thought.
Not saying that to win your favours.
You only had to look at him to know that!

“Deck there!
Lookout
in sight on the weather bow!”

Bolitho saw the officer of the watch make a note in the log about the first sighting of the day. Far beyond the sloop, Captain Rowley Peel in his
Relentless
would be eagerly scanning a brightening horizon. Thinking of
Styx
's hard-won fight, hoping for a chance for himself and his ship. He was twenty-six, and that was about all Bolitho knew of him. Yet.

There was a clatter of feet on the lee gangway and a tough looking boatswain's mate trudged aft and knuckled his forehead to the same lieutenant who was about to cover the log with its canvas hood.

“Beg pardon, Mr Speke, sir, there's bin a fight on the lower gundeck. Man struck a petty officer with a stool, sir.”

Speke was the second lieutenant, a competent officer, according to Herrick, but inclined to lose his temper too easily.

He said sharply, “Very well, Jones. Tell the master-at-arms, and I will note it in the log for the first lieutenant's attention. Who is it, by the way?”

Somehow, and yet for no sane reason, Bolitho had known who it would be.

“Babbage, sir. Mr Pascoe's division.” As an afterthought he added bluntly, “He's put the petty officer in the sick-bay, sir. Split his skull, he did.”

Speke nodded severely. “That's it then. My compliments to Mr Swale. Tell him a grating will have to be rigged sometime today.”

Bolitho walked to the companionway, his appetite for breakfast gone.

Sailing to seek out an enemy, to die if need be, was hard enough. To have a flogging as well would not help at all.

“Have you any new orders for me, sir?” Herrick stood just inside the screen door, his hat beneath his arm, his faded sea-going coat at odds with the newly furnished cabin.

Bolitho listened to the silence, the ship holding her breath around her company of six hundred and twenty men and boys. It was almost noon. The sky was still free of cloud and rain, and yet between-decks the air was damp and musty, with a touch of the wintry weather to come. Nothing had been reported by the frigate or the sloop, except for a fast-moving schooner which had headed away immediately. Privateer, smuggler or just some hardworking trader trying to stay clear of trouble?

Bolitho looked at his friend, knowing what was bothering him. It was unfair on Herrick, he thought. It had been his idea to disregard the advice brought by the courier brig. His plan to quit their proper station to meet the enemy in open water. It was wrong that he had this new worry on his mind as well.

Gently he asked, “Can I help, Thomas? It is this matter of punishment, am I right?”

Herrick stared at him. “Aye, sir. I am fair turned-about by it. Young Adam came to me about Babbage. Takes the blame on himself. He'll think me a bloody tyrant if I don't interfere.”

“You know about Babbage?”

Herrick nodded. “I do now. Mr Wolfe told me.” He looked up at the deckhead and added, “I'm not blaming him, of course. He sees it as plain duty to keep such matters away from his captain.” He tried to smile. “As I used to from you.”

“I was thinking that.”

Herrick said, “I've looked into the matter fully. The petty officer provoked Babbage, probably without knowing it. Babbage is an orphan, which only makes it worse.”

Bolitho nodded. No wonder his nephew was upset. He was an orphan also.

“We are involved, Thomas.”

“Aye, sir. That's the curse of it. If it was any other man I'd have no hesitation. Right or wrong, I'll not have my petty officers laid low and damn near killed. I hate flogging, as you well know, sir, but this sort of thing cannot be tolerated.”

Bolitho stood up. “Would you like me to come on deck? My presence might show that is not merely a whim but a requirement of duty.”

Herrick's blue eyes were unwavering. “No, sir, this is my ship. If there was a fault, I should have seen it for myself.”

“Whatever you say.” Bolitho smiled gravely. “It does you credit, Thomas, to worry about one man at a time like this.”

Herrick moved to the door. “Will you speak with Adam, sir?”

“He is my nephew, Thomas, and very close to me. But as you said when I hoisted my broad pendant aboard your old
Lysander,
he is one of your officers.”

Herrick sighed. “I shall think twice in future before I venture such remarks.”

The door closed and another opened as Yovell, the clerk, entered with one of his files.

As the calls shrilled along the gundecks and the boatswain's mates yelled, “All hands! All hands lay aft to witness punishment!” Yovell looked up at the skylight and murmured, “Will Oi close the lower shutter, zur?”

“No.”

They were all doing it. Shielding him from a world he had known since he had been twelve years old.

“Prepare to write some new orders for the squadron. We will alter course this afternoon and return to our station.”

He heard Herrick's voice, as if through a padded wall. Slow and clear, like the man.

He found he was tensing his stomach muscles, and knew Yovell was watching him.

The drum rolled, and he heard the lash cut across the man's naked back like a pistol shot. Bolitho could see it exactly as if he were there on deck. Grim faces, the ship carrying them along while the punishment continued.

At the third stroke of the lash he heard Babbage scream, wildly, in terror, like a woman in agony.

Crack.

Yovell muttered, “Lord love us, zur, 'e's taking it badly.”

Two dozen lashes were the absolute minimum for Babbage's assault. Many captains would have awarded a hundred or worse. Herrick would make it as little as possible. To spare the victim without destroying the petty officer's authority when he eventually returned to duty.

Crack.

Bolitho stood up violently, the awful screams probing his ears like knives.

The drum faltered and someone shouted to restore order.

Then Bolitho heard another cry, far away, from the dizzy mast-head.

“
Lookout
's signalling, sir!”

Bolitho sat down again, his heart drumming against his ribs, his fingers gripping the arms of the chair. The screaming was still going on but the flogging had stopped.

It took physical effort to remain seated.

He said, “Now, tell me about the despatches you wish me to sign.”

Yovell swallowed hard. “ 'Ere, zur.” He laid the canvas file in which he carried his carefully penned letters on the table.

Bolitho ran his eyes over the round handwriting but saw nothing but the little sloop-of-war showing her hoist of signal flags which she was no doubt repeating from the
Relentless.

There was a tap at the door and Browne entered carefully.

“Signal from
Relentless,
sir.
Five sail to the north-west.
”

Bolitho stood up. “Thank you. Keep me informed.” As the flag lieutenant made to withdraw he asked, “What happened on deck?”

Browne looked at him blankly. “The man under punishment could not stand the pain, sir. Five blows and the surgeon asked for the boatswain's mate to desist while he examined him.” He smiled briefly. “He should thank the masthead lookout for keeping his eyes open. He's a lucky fellow.”