Alexander Kent - THE INSHORE SQUADRON

Herrick suggested, 'Probably a blockade runner, sir.'

Ozzard hurried in with Bolitho's coat and held it out like a Spaniard tormenting a bull.

Bolitho said, 'Are either of the frigates in sight yet?'

More explosions echoed against the Benbow's side. Short and

sharp. Lookout's bow-chasers from their sound.

Herrick replied, 'Not when I was on deck, sir. Relentless

should be away to the sou'-west and Styx down to lee'rd as

instructed.'

'Good.' He slipped into his coat. It felt damp. 'Let us see for ourselves.'

The sky was much brighter when they walked from beneath the poop, and Wolfe hurried to meet them. 'Masthead reports Lookout in sight, sir. She's in company with another smaller craft. Either a brig or a ship with one mast shot out of her!' He bared his teeth.

Bolitho could read his mind. An early capture. Prize-money. A command for somebody. Even a temporary one as prizemaster was all it needed in wartime. And some luck. Bolitho had had both, and had so won his own first command.

People bustled about the quarterdeck, securing the pumps and scrubbers, faces still obscured in shadow. But all well aware that their admiral was up and about. What did it mean to them? A sea fight? Death or mutilation? It would certainly be a break in the monotony of daily routine.

Bolitho saw some of the officers on the lee side of the deck. Byrd and Manley, the fourth and fifth lieutenants, and, younger still, Courtenay, the sixth, whom Allday had ousted from his barge.

He must find time to meet and get to know them. He was lucky to know the minds of the officers who captained the squadron, but if the Benbow was driven into a hard battle, a young lieutenant could find himself in command after one devastating broadside.

Wolfe had a telescope to his eye and said, 'Here comes Relentless! I can just see her sky-scrapers. She-scents the smell of battle, sir.'

Bolitho could imagine the activity aboard the thirty-six-gun frigate. He had met her young captain, Rowley Peel, only twice. He was the odd one out in the squadron, but was quick to move when need be. Dashing down from his station to protect his heavier consorts, to harry the enemy, to attempt whatever was so ordered by the flagship.

Old Grubb rumbled, 'Better day today. Fine an' clear.' He lapsed into silence again, his hands thrust deeply into his shabby watch-coat.

Wolfe saw Pascoe on the larboard gangway and called harshly, 'Would you go aloft, Mr Pascoe. Take a glass and see what you can determine.'

Pascoe threw his hat to a seaman and ran to the weather shrouds. He was amongst the black tangle of rigging and beyond the mainyard before Bolitho could watch his progress. Bolitho thought of his own hatred for heights, what it had cost him at Pascoe's age. He felt his mouth lift in a smile. It would sound ridiculous to tell somebody that one of the fruits of his promotion had been that he no longer had to climb up those headspinning shrouds.

Pascoe called down, his voice clear above the drumming beat of canvas and rigging.

'Lookout has grappled, sir! The other one is a brig. She wears

no flag but they are hoisting our colours now!'

Several of the idlers on the gangways and gundeck cheered,

and Herrick exclaimed

'So soon. Well done. Well done.'

Bolitho nodded. `You trained your old first lieutenant well, Thomas.'

Lieutenant Browne appeared through the after companion, buttoning his coat and saying, 'I heard something. What is happening?'

Wolfe said to the sailing master, 'A lot of use he'll be!' Herrick answered, 'We have taken a prize, Mr Browne. I fear you have missed it.'

Several of the nearby seamen were grinning and nudging each other. Bolitho sensed the change. There was a better feeling already.

'Deck there! Land on the lee bow!'

Herrick and the master bustled to the chart room beneath the poop to consult their findings.

That would be The Skaw. As far as the strange brig was concerned, it had been a near thing. An hour earlier and she would havee slipped away unseen.

Bolitho said, `I will take breakfast now. Let me know when Lookout is near enough to exchange signals.'

Herrick stood by the chart room entrance, shading his eyes as if he expected to see the other vessels.

'Mr Grubb thinks we should be off The Skaw before noon if the wind stays with us.'

'I agree. Once there you may signal the squadron to anchor in succession.' Bolitho nodded to the other officers and made his way aft.

Herrick gave a great sigh. He tended to worry when Bolitho was nearby, but he worried all the more when he was gone.

Pascoe slithered down to the deck and retrieved his hat. He was about to approach the quarterdeck when a small figure stepped from between two eighteen-pounders and said, `Excuse me, sir!' It was Midshipman Penels.

`Yes?' Pascoe paused and studied the boy. Was I ever 'like that?

'I – I don't know how to explain, sir.'

He sounded and looked so despairing that Pascoe said, 'Speak out.'

It was virtually impossible to find any privacy in a ship-ofwar. Apart from the captain, and possibly a man deep in the ship's cells, there was always a crowd.

Pascoe knew very little about the newest midshipman. He was from Cornwall, and that was all he had to go on.

He said, 'You are from Bodmin, I believe?'

'Yes, sir.' Penels looked around like a trapped animal. 'There's someone in your division, sir. Someone I grew up with back in England.'

Pascoe stood aside as a file of marines stamped past on their way to one of their complicated drills.

Penels explained, 'His name is John Babbage, sir. He was taken by the press-gang at Plymouth. I didn't know until we were at sea. He worked for my mother after my father died, sir. He was good to me. My best friend.'

Pascoe looked away. It was not his place to interfere. In any case, Penels should have gone to the first lieutenant or the master.

But he remembered his own beginning. The long, hungry walk from Penzance to Falmouth. Just a boy, and quite alone.

`Why did you approach me, Mr Penels? The truth now.'

'My friend said you are a good officer, sir. Not so sharp as some.'

Pascoe formed a mental picture of this unfortunate Babbage. A wild-eyed youth, nearer his own age than Penels', he would have thought.

`Well, we are with the squadron now, Mr Penels. Had you come to me in port I might have been able to do something.' He thought of Wolfe and knew it would have made little difference even then.

A ship needed men. Every hand she could get. Wolfe was a good officer in many ways, but he was short of sympathy for any catch brought aboard by the press.

But it. must be hard for both Penels and his friend of boyhood days.

In the same hull, yet neither knowing the other was aboard until the ship was standing out to sea. Separated not only by rank and station, but also by the ship's own geography. Penels served with the afterguard for sail drill and duty with the quarterdeck nine-pounders. Babbage was classed as a landman in his own division at the foremast. Babbage was young and agile. With luck he should soon learn to run aloft with the topmen, the aristocrats of seamanship.

He heard himself say, 'I will look into it. I'll not promise anything though.'

He strode away, unable to bear the gratitude in Penels' eyes.

Commander Matthew Veitch arrived in Bolitho's cabin and looked around him curiously. On his left shoulder the single epaulette denoting his rank glittered in bright contrast to his shabby sea-going coat. Veitch had served with Bolitho before and knew he would get no thanks for wasting time to change his clothing before he reported to the flagship.

Bolitho said, 'Sit down and tell me about it.'

It felt strange to be at anchor again. The four ships of the line were all lying to their cables in close formation, with the Danish coast clearly visible through the quarter windows. The frigates were still on patrol, like watchdogs, they rarely rested.

The sloop, with her prize, were also at anchor off Skaw Point, which in recent months had become the fleet's general rendezvous and resting place.

Veitch stretched his long legs. 'The prize is a merchant brig, sir, the Echo out of Cherbourg. Slipped through our patrols in a storm last week, her master says: She made a run for it, so I raked her promptly.'

Bolitho glanced at the bulkhead door. Beyond it Browne, who had a good knowledge of French, was busy going through the Echo's papers which Veitch had brought aboard.

A French brig. Without obvious cargo or passengers. She had taken considerable risk in running the blockade, more again when she had attempted to outsail the Lookout.

'Where bound?'

Veitch shrugged. 'Her master had false papers, I suspect. But the charts were found stuffed in the lazarette by one of my midshipmen with the boarding party.' He grinned. 'The lad was searching for food, no doubt, but I'll not spoil his glory because of that!' He became serious again. 'Two points were marked, sir. Copenhagen and Stockholm.'

Herrick moved restlessly away from the quarter windows and said, 'It smells, sir.'

Bolitho looked at him. 'You think as I do, Thomas? The French are in some way mixed up with Tsar Paul's discontent?'

Herrick replied, 'I feel certain of it, sir. The more they can put under arms, the better it is for them. We'll have the whole world against us if they have their way!'

The door opened and Browne entered the cabin. He held one letter in his hand, the broken seal shining dully like blood.' He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

'What does it say?' Bolitho had noticed that Browne never shared a single word of information with anyone else present without his permission.

'It is addressed to a French government official in Copenhagen, sir.'

They all looked at each other. It was like some prearranged gathering of friends and enemies alike.

Browne continued in his unemotional tone, 'It is from the military commander in Toulon, and has reached this far via Paris and Cherbourg.'

Herrick could not contain his impatience. 'Don't keep us in suspense, man!'

Browne merely glanced at him. 'The French forces in Malta have surrendered to the British blockading squadron, sir. It happened last month.'

Herrick sounded perplexed. 'Well, surely that's good news? With Malta in our hands the Frenchies will have to tread warily in the Mediterranean in future!'

Browne did not smile. 'It should be known, sir, Tsar Paul of Russia had become the so-called head of the Grand Knights of Malta. When the French captured the island he was furious. This letter explains that the French government had offered to transfer the rule of Malta to the Tsar, knowing full well, of course, that the island would fall to the British anyway.'

Herrick spread his hands. 'I still don't see where we come in?'

Bolitho said quietly, 'The British will not leave Malta, Thomas. It will be too valuable to us, as you just remarked. The French have made a clever move. What better way of turning the Tsar and his friends finally against us? We and not the French are now between him and his precious Knights of Malta.'

Browne said, `That sums it up, sir.'

'Obviously, Sir Samuel Damerum knew nothing of this.

Because of bad weather the news has moved slowly.'

Veitch cleared his throat. 'But you have the letter, sir.' Bolitho smiled gravely. 'I have indeed, thanks to you.' 'Will you act on it, sir?' Browne watched him impassively. Bolitho walked to the windows and stared at the anchored

ships.

`There is no one else here. I think the sooner we act the better.'

Herrick said, 'It's all getting beyond me, sir.'

Bolitho came to a series of decisions. It would all probably be too late, couriers could have reached Copenhagen overland if necessary. But if not, he would get no thanks from the Admiralty for dragging his feet.

'Send for my clerk. I'll make out orders for the brig. Commander Veitch, you may select a prize-crew for her. I want her to go with all speed to Great Yarmouth. Choose an intelligent prize-master, for I'll need him to take my despatches by the fastest means to London.' He looked at Herrick. 'I will shift my flag to Styx. Signal her accordingly.' He saw all the arguments, the protests building up on Herrick's round face and added quietly, 'I'd not ask you to take Benbow under the batteries of Elsinore, Thomas, if we are already at war! And if we are still at peace, a frigate will present a less threatening image.'

His clerk, Yovell, was already in the cabin, opening up his little writing desk which he kept available for such occasions.

Bolitho looked at Veitch. 'You will take over Styx 's duties for the present.'

From a corner of his eye he saw Yovell preparing his pens and ink ready to write new orders for the brig, a report for the Admiralty, a sentence of death, too, if that was asked of him.

To Herrick he said, 'You will command the squadron until I return, If I am longer than a week without sending word, you will act accordingly.'

Herrick saw he was beaten. 'And when will you leave?'

'I hope to be aboard Styx and under way before we lose the light.

After Herrick and Veitch had left to carry out his instructions, Bolitho asked the lieutenant, 'Do you think I am acting unwisely?' He saw Browne's rare uncertainty and added, `Come on, man, you should know me better after more than a week at sea together. I'll not bite off your head if I disagree with what you say. But I may not heed it either.'

Browne shrugged. 'In a way I share the flag captain's apprehension, sir. I know your background, and I have read of many of your past exploits with admiration.' He looked Bolitho straight in the eyes. `Like Captain Herrick, I see you as a fighting sailor, not as a diplomat.'

Bolitho recalled his visit to Damerum's flagship. He had thought it strange then that Damerum had not taken the initiative himself. He was a senior flag officer and well respected. Most such men would have expected it, demanded it in many cases.

Browne added quietly, 'But you are left with little room for manoeuvre now, sir. I would merely suggest, from my own experience with Admiral Sir George Beauchamp, that you tread warily. A victor is one thing, but a scapegoat is often more easily discovered.'

Herrick came back rubbing his hands. He looked cold.

` Styx has acknowledged our signal, sir. May I suggest you take some extra hands with you?' He grinned ruefully. 'I know there's no point in me protesting any more, so I took the liberty of telling Mr Wolfe to detail thirty seamen and a couple of junior officers. One lieutenant, and I thought a midshipman for messages and so forth.'

Bolitho nodded. 'That was thoughtful, Thomas. I think Captain Neale will appreciate it, too.'

Herrick sighed. 'Captain Neale.' He shook his head. 'I still think of him as that greasy cherub we pushed through the venthole!'

Bolitho steadied his thoughts again. They were too often racing ahead like halliards gone mad and fouling their blocks.

What Browne had said made sense.

'Well, Yovell, write what I shall tell you.'

Herrick was about to leave again and asked, 'Which

lieutenant, sir?'

Mr Pascoe.' He smiled. 'But I expect you already thought of that, too!'

4. The Ajax

Allday and Ozzard carried a small chest of Bolitho's clothing and personal effects and laid it in the Styx 's stern cabin. Captain John Neale watched Bolitho's reactions as he looked around and said, 'I hope you will be comfortable, sir.'