Signal Close Action (2 page)

Farquhar. All those years ago. It was like another fate which had somehow drawn them together once more, to serve under the same Richard Bolitho. Then it had been in the frigate
Phalarope
in the West Indies during the Americans' fight for independence. Bolitho had been her captain, Herrick his first lieutenant and Farquhar one of the midshipmen. Arrogant, high-born, Farquhar never failed to prick Herrick's resentment. Even looking at his
Osiris
did nothing to help. Her ornate gingerbread and other carving at poop and beak-head displayed a lavish use of real gilt paint as an outward sign of her captain's status and prosperity. So far they had avoided meeting each other, except when Farquhar had reported his arrival at Gibraltar.

Any sort of fresh beginning had faded as Farquhar had drawled, 'I say, you don't seem to have spent much on the old ship, eh?' That same maddening smile. 'Our new lord and master won't like
that,
y'know!'

Suddenly, the lower line of black gunports opened along
Osiris's
sloping side, and with perfect precision the whole battery of thirty-two pounders trundled into the weak sunlight.
As one.

Something like panic ran through Herrick's mind. Farquhar would never allow his ambitious brain to be fogged by some stupid memory or dislike. He had kept his eye on what mattered most to him. Which at this particular minute was to impress the commodore. It happened to be Richard Bolitho, a man more dear to Herrick than any other living being. But if it had been Satan himself Farquhar would have been ready.

As if to make the final stab the midshipman of the watch shouted excitedly, 'Barge shoving off from the jetty, sir!'

Herrick licked his lips. They felt like dry ashes.

'Very well, Mr. Saxby. My compliments to the first lieutenant. He may muster the hands now.'

*

Richard Bolitho walked to the quarter windows of the broad cabin and looked towards the other ships. Despite the importance of the moment, the solemnity of being received aboard his own flagship for the first time in his life, he could not contain his excitement. It was like wine and laughter all bubbling up inside him, held in check by some last reserve.

He turned and saw Herrick watching him from beside the screen door. Some seamen were carefully arranging chests and boxes which had been swayed up from the barge, and he could hear his coxswain, Allday, bawling angrily at someone to take care.

'Well, Thomas, that was a fine welcome.'

He strode across the deck with its neat covering of black and white chequered canvas and took Herrick's hand. Overhead he could hear the thump of boots as the marine guard departed, the returning familiar sounds of normal routine.

Herrick smiled awkwardly. 'Thank you, sir.' He gestured at the baggage. 'I hope you've brought all you need. It seems we may be a while from home.'

Bolitho studied him gravely. Herrick's stocky figure, his round, homely face and those bright blue eyes were almost as familiar as Allday's. But he seemed different somehow. It was only four months, and yet. . .

He thought of all that had happened since that visit to the Admiralty. The discussions with men so senior and powerful that he still could not grasp that promotion could mean so much. Whenever he had mentioned his anxiety over the progress being made with his new flagship he had seen that amused look in their eyes.

The admiral who had given him his appointment, Sir George Beauchamp, had put it into words. 'You'll have to forget that sort of thing now, Bolitho. The captain must deal with the running of a ship. Yours is a more exacting task.'

Eventually he had taken passage to Gibraltar in a fast frigate, pausing in the Tagus with despatches for the flagship of the fleet employed on blockade duty. There he had been given an audience with the admiral, the Earl of St. Vincent, so titled because of his great victory eleven months back. The admiral, still affectionately known as 'Old Jarvy' by many of his subordinates, but only when he was well out of earshot, had greeted him briskly.

'You've got your orders. See you carry 'em out. It's been months since we knew what the French were up to. Our spies in the channel ports reported that Bonaparte visited the coast many times to lay plans for invading England.' He had given his dry chuckle. 'I think my medicine off Cape St. Vincent taught 'em to tread warily where the sea is concerned.

Bonaparte is a land animal. A planner. Unfortunately, we have nobody to match him yet. Not on land, that is.'

Looking back it was hard to measure how much the admiral had managed to explain and describe in that brief interview. He had been on active duty with hardly a break, and yet he had been able to sum up the situation in home waters and the Mediterranean better than any Admiralty official.

The admiral had walked with him to his quarterdeck and had said quietly, 'Beauchamp is the man to plan this sort of mission. But it needs seagoing officers to push those ideas to reality. Your squadron's efforts last year in the Mediterranean told us a great deal about French intentions. Your admiral, Broughton, did not perhaps understand their true significance until it was all too late. For him, that is.' He had given Bolitho a grim stare. 'We must know the worth of putting a fleet into these waters again. If we divide our squadrons for a bad purpose, the French will soon explore our weakness. But your orders will tell you what you must do. Only
you
can decide how you are going to do it.' Again that dry chuckle. 'I wanted Nelson for the task, but he is still sorely weakened by the loss of his arm. Beauchamp chose you for this tickle at Bonaparte's underbelly. I hope for all our sakes it was a wise choice.'

And now, after all the discussions, the searching through reports to discover the value of countless ideas of the enemy's motives and objectives, he was here in his own flagship. Beyond the thick glass windows were other ships, all linked by the dovetailed broad pendant which had broken at the masthead as he had climbed aboard to the slap of muskets and the din of fifes and drums.

And he still could not believe it.
He felt the same as before. As eager to get to sea as he had been in the past whenever he had joined a new ship.

But the difference would soon display itself in all manner of ways. When Herrick had been his first lieutenant he had stood between his captain and company. The link and the barrier. Now Herrick, as flag captain, would stand between him and his other officers, his little squadron and every man-jack aboard each individual ship. Five vessels in all, with over two thousand souls divided amongst them. It was that kind of assessment which brought home the reality of his command,

He asked, 'How is young Adam ? I did not see him when I came aboard.' As he said it he saw the stiffness come to Herrick's face.

'I was about to tell you, sir. He is with the surgeon.' He looked at the deck. 'A slight accident, but, thank God, no real harm done.'

Bolitho replied, 'The truth, Thomas. Is my nephew ill ?'

Herrick looked up, his blue eyes suddenly angry. 'A stupid argument with his opposite number in the
Osiris,
sir. Her sixth lieutenant gave some sort of insult. They went ashore on their separate duties but arranged to meet and settle the matter.'

Bolitho made himself walk slowly to the stern windows and stare down at the swirling water around the rudder.

'A duel?'

Just the sound of the word made him feel sick. Despairing. Like father like son ? It was not possible.

'High spirits more like.' Herrick sounded unconvinced. 'Neither was badly hurt, though I gather Adam nicked the other fellow the worse.'

Bolitho turned and regarded him calmly. 'I will see him directly.'

Herrick swallowed. 'With your permission, sir, I should like to deal with the matter myself.'

Bolitho nodded slowly, feeling a great gap yawning between him and his friend.

He said quietly, 'Of course, Thomas. Adam Pascoe is my nephew. But he is one
oiyour
officers now.'

Herrick tried to relax.
‘I
am deeply sorry to trouble you in your first hour, sir. Not for the whole world would I wish that.'

'I know.' He smiled gravely. 'It was foolish of me to interfere. I was a flag captain and often resented my superior's hand in my own affairs.'

Herrick looked around the big cabin, eager to change the subject.

'I hope everything is to your liking, sir. Your servant is preparing a meal, and I have had some hands detailed to stow your chests for you.'

'Thank you. It seems most satisfactory.'

He stopped. It was happening again. The formal tones. The offering and an acceptance. When they had always been used to sharing. Understanding.

Herrick asked suddenly, 'Will we be putting to sea soon, sir?'

'Aye, Thomas. Tomorrow forenoon if the wind stays favourable.' He pulled the watch from his pocket and snapped open the guard. 'I would wish to see my officers —' He faltered. Even that was changed. He added, 'To see the other captains as soon as is convenient. I received some more despatches from the governor here, but after I have read them I should like to tell the squadron what we are about.' He smiled. 'Don't look so troubled, Thomas. It is as hard for me as for you.'

For a brief moment Bolitho saw the old light in Herrick's eyes. The warmth and trust which could so easily turn to hurt.

Herrick replied, 'I feel like an old foot in a new shoe.' He smiled, too. 'I'll not let you down.'

He turned and left the cabin, and after a discreet pause Allday and two seamen carrying a large case strode through the door. Allday glanced swiftly round the cabin and seemed to approve.

Bolitho relaxed very slowly. Allday was always the same, and for that he was suddenly grateful. Even his new blue jacket with the large gilt buttons, the nankeen trousers and buckled shoes which Bolitho had purchased for him to reveal his new status as a commodore's own coxswain did little to hide his thickset, rugged individuality.

Bolitho unfastened his sword and gave it to him.

'Well, Allday, what do you make of her, eh ?'

The man eyed him calmly. 'A well-found ship,' he hesitated over the word, 'sir'.

Even Allday had been made to alter his ways. Never in the past had he called him anything but 'Captain'. It was their own unrehearsed arrangement. The new rank had changed that, too.

Allday read his thoughts and grinned ruefully. 'Sorry about that, sir.' He glared at the two seamen who were watching them curiously, the case balanced between them. 'But I can wait. It'll be
Sir
Richard
afore long, and that's no error!
'

Allday waited until the seamen had gone and said quietly, 'I reckon you'd like to be left alone now, sir. I'll see that your servant is warned about your customs.'

Bolitho nodded. 'You know me too well.'

Allday closed the door behind him and glanced coldly at the ramrod-stiff marine sentry outside the cabin. To himself he murmured, 'Better'n you'll ever know.'

On the quarterdeck once more, Herrick walked slowly to the nettings and stared at the other ships. It had been a bad beginning. For both of them. Perhaps it was all in his own mind, like his dislike for Farquhar. The latter obviously did not give a damn for him, so why should he get so easily ruffled?

Bolitho had looked exactly as he had known he would. The same gravity which could alter in an instant to a youthful exuberance. His hair was as black as ever, his slim figure no different, apart from the obvious stiffness in his right shoulder. He counted the months. Nearly seven it must be now, when Bolitho had been marked down by a musket ball. T
he lines at the corners of his mo
uth were a little deeper. Pain, responsibility ? Parts of each, he decided.

He saw the officer of the watch eyeing him cautiously and called, 'We will signal the squadron, Mr. Kipling. All captains repair on board when I so order.'

He pictured them putting on their best uniforms. Inch in his tiny cabin, Farquhar in his lavish quarters. But each and all would be wondering, as he was. Where bound? What to expect ? The price for both.

Alone in his cabin Bolitho heard feet thudding along the deck overhead, and after a momentary hesitation threw off his dress coat with its solitary gold stripe and seated himself at his desk. He slit open the large canvas envelope but still hesitated over reading the neatly written despatches.

He kept seeing Herrick's anxious face. They were almost the same age, and yet Herrick seemed to have grown much older, his brown hair marked here and there like hoar frost. It was hard not to see him as his best friend. He had to think of him as a strength, the flag captain of a squadron which had never acted as a single unit before. A rough task for any man, and for Thomas Herrick
...
he tried to hold back the sudden doubts. Herrick's poor beginnings, the son of a clerk, his very honesty which had marked him out as a man who could be trusted under any known circumstances, could hinder his overall judgement. Herrick was a man who would obey any lawful order without question, with no consideration for his own life or ruin. But to assume control of the squadron if its commodore should die in battle ?