Inshore Squadron (10 page)

The sailing master said, “Well, I dunno, sir . . .” Then he saw the look in Neale's eye and cut his protest short.

The big wheel creaked over, three helmsmen, legs wide apart to keep their balance on the icy deck planking, watching sails and compass like hawks.

Eventually the master said, “East by north, sir . . .”

Bolitho ignored the seamen as they ran to retrim the yards and braces, the heavy tramp of the afterguard as they followed suit. Neale had learned a lot. Stripped to topsails, forecourse and jib,
Styx
was responding well, leaning forward under her icehard canvas as if eager on her own account to do battle.

He looked at the gun crews, huddled together for comfort but ready. The sand on the deck around the long twelve-pounders to prevent the men from slipping already changing to liquid gold.

How bright the marines' coats looked in the strange light. With snow gathering on their hats they could have been a child's toys at Christmas time.

He saw Pascoe by the forward guns, one hand resting on his hanger, his slim outline swaying easily with the regular plunge of the stem. He was talking to another junior lieutenant, probably discussing their chances. It was often like that. Trying to appear calm, to remain sane when your heart was gripped in a vice and you imagined every seaman near you could hear its frantic pounding.

“Land on the lee bow, sir!” A slight pause. “Almost dead ahead!”

Neale called sharply, “Leadsman in the chains, Mr Pickthorn. Begin sounding in fifteen minutes.”

If he was afraid of his command running aground he concealed it very well, Bolitho thought.

Bolitho steadied his glass once more. The land looked very close. An illusion, he knew, but if the wind veered suddenly, or they lost it entirely, they would be hard put to claw away.

Neale said, “Take in the forecourse.” He moved closer to Bolitho. “May I bring her up a point, sir?”

Bolitho lowered the glass and looked at him. “Very well.”

He stared up at the bright flags at each masthead and gaff. He could feel the snowflakes melting on his eyes, moistening his lips. It helped to steady him.

The big forecourse was already booming and flapping reluctantly up to its yard, the seamen spread out above it fisting and kicking the frozen canvas like apes gone mad. Slivers of ice fell through the nets above the gun crews like fragments of broken glass, and Bolitho saw a petty officer stoop to retrieve a piece before jamming it into his mouth.

Another familiar sign. The mouth like dust, when you craved for beer, water, anything.

If only the people in England could see them, he thought grimly. These same sort of men throughout the fleet lived in squalor but fought with dignity and incredible courage. Sweepings from jails some of them perhaps, ill-used ashore and afloat, but they were all that stood between Napoleon or anyone else who became an enemy. He almost smiled as he recalled something his father had once said. “England must love enemies, Richard. We make so many of them!”

The first lieutenant called, “Permission to load, sir?”

Neale glanced at Bolitho then replied, “Yes. But not double-shotted, Mr Pickthorn. With the breeches almost frozen solid, I fear it would do more damage to us than the Frenchies!”

Bolitho gripped his hands together behind him. So confident in him, they even had a mental picture of their enemy firmly fixed. If the bay was empty, that trust would fade just as swiftly.

The leadsman's thick arm was revolving in a slow circle, then he released the lead and line and craned over to watch it splash down beyond the bows.

“By the mark ten!”

Bolitho sensed the master shifting restlessly by the wheel, imagining the craggy bottom gliding beneath the coppered hull.

The lead splashed down again.

“An' a quarter
less
ten!”

Bolitho clamped his jaws together. They had to get as near as possible. He saw the great slab of land rising above the bowsprit and jib-boom, filled with menace.

“By the mark seven!”

The ship's marine lieutenant cleared his throat nervously and one of the quarterdeck seamen jumped with alarm.

“By the mark five!”

Bolitho heard the master whispering to Neale. Thirty feet of water. It was not much with the shelving bottom so close.

“Deep four!” The leadsman sounded quite unperturbed again. As if he was convinced he was about to die and there was nothing he could do about it.

Bolitho levelled the glass again. Two isolated dwelling houses, like pale bricks on the hillside. Drifting smoke, too, or was it? The snow made it hard to see anything clearly. Smoke from an early morning hearth? Or some forewarned battery heating shot to give the impudent
Styx
a hot reception?

He saw the surf boiling below the headland, the sharp glitter of ice caught in the reflected glare.

“Bring her up two points, Captain Neale.”

He shut the glass with a snap and handed it to a midshipman.

The seamen had been poised for the order like athletes, and as the braces squealed and the yards added their confidence to the rudder, the frigate headed up further to windward; the headland moving back like a great stone door.

The leadsman called, “By the mark ten!”

Somewhere a man gave an ironic cheer.

“Nor' east, sir! Full an' bye!”

Bolitho gripped the quarterdeck rail as he had done so many times in so many ships.

Any moment now. The wind was right, with the ship sailing as close to it as she could and still keep the canvas drawing. Once round the headland it must be quick and definite, the shock of surprise like ice water across a sleeping sailor.

“Run out, if you please.”

Bolitho looked away from the little group of officers. If the bay was empty they would laugh at his pitiful preparations. But if they lost precious minutes to save his pride they would curse him with justification.

As the second lieutenant dropped his hand the guns trundled to the ports, trucks squealing as the crews controlled their downhill advance with tackles and handspikes. It was no easy task with the planking so treacherous.

Almost together the black muzzles of the twelve-pounders thrust through the ports, while here and there a gun captain reached out to brush snow from his charge.

“Starboard battery run out, sir!”

“Deck there!” The tension was broken momentarily as the masthead lookout yelled excitedly, “Ships at anchor round the point, sir!”

Bolitho looked at Neale, and beyond him where Allday was moving his big cutlass back and forth through the air like a wand.

Then forward again, to where his nephew had climbed on to a gun truck to see beyond the nettings.

If every other man-jack aboard had doubted him, these three had not.

“Stand by to wear ship!”

“Hands to the braces there!”

As topmen and others employed at each mast dashed to obey, only the gun crews remained motionless, each captain watching his small world which was held in a square port like a picture.

Neale held up his hand. “Be easy, lads!
Easy
now!”

Bolitho heard him, like someone calming a nervous horse.

He stared hard across the nettings, barely able to control his feelings. It was all there. Half a dozen merchantmen anchored close together. Somehow dejected in their coatings of white snow, their crossed yards devoid of movement or life.

Allday had moved up to his shoulder, as he always did. To be near. To be ready.

Bolitho could bear his heavy breathing as he said, “English ships, sir. No doubt about it.” His thick arm shot forward. “And look yonder! The damn Frenchie!”

Bolitho snatched the glass again and trained it through the masts and rigging. There she was, the
Ajax,
as he remembered her. Further inshore was a second man-of-war, larger and more cumbersome. Probably a cut down two-decker. The escort for the seized merchantmen, riding out the weather or awaiting orders.

The paler outline of the fortress walls was almost lost in drifting snowflakes, but somewhere a trumpet gave a strident blare, and Bolitho pictured the startled, cursing soldiers as they ran to man their defences. No man thought too well when roused from a warm bunk to face this kind of weather.

“Now, Captain Neale! Alter course and cut astern of the merchantmen!”

A long way off a gun boomed out, the sound without menace in the snow. A testing shot? A call to arms? Bolitho could feel the excitement welling up like madness. It was too late, whatever it was.

He put his hand down to steady himself as the wheel went over and the
Styx
changed tack towards the anchorage. His palm touched the brilliantly gilded hilt of his presentation sword and with something like shock he remembered he had left his old blade in the
Benbow.

Allday saw his uncertainty and felt the same anxiety.

Bolitho turned and looked at him. He knew that Allday understood and would be blaming himself.

“Never fear, Allday, we did not know our visit to the Danes would end here.”

They both smiled, but neither was deceived. It was like an omen.

“The
Ajax
has cut her cable, sir!” A midshipman was dancing with excitement. “They are in a real confusion!”

Bolitho watched the first scrap of canvas appear on the other frigate's yards, the steep angle of her masts as wind and current carried her towards the shore.

Neale had drawn his sword and was holding it above the nearest gun crew as if to restrain them. The French ship was standing higher through the snow now, taking on shape and personality. More sails had appeared, and above the din of spray and canvas they heard the rumble of gun trucks, the urgent shrill of a whistle.

Across his shoulder Neale called, “Don't let her fall off too much! We'll hold the Frenchman 'twixt us and any shore battery!”

Bolitho studied the enemy frigate as she appeared to move astern. Neale had forgotten nothing. From the corner of his eye, even as the
Styx
completed her slight change of tack, he saw the captain's sword slice down.

“As you bear!
Fire!
”

6
Q
UICKLY DONE

B
OLITHO
felt his eyes smarting painfully as a freak breeze brought some of the gunsmoke down across the quarterdeck. He watched the guns hurling themselves inboard on their tackles, the fiery orange tongues ripping through the swirling snow, his ears half-deafened by the noise. Then the quarterdeck six-pounders added their sharper notes, the balls falling short or beyond the other ship, some even hitting her.

Like madmen the crews were already sponging out their weapons, ramming home fresh charges and balls before throwing their weight on the tackles once again.

And still the French captain had failed to fire a single shot in reply.

The hands of the gun captains were raised in a ragged line, and the first lieutenant yelled, “Stand by!
Fire!
”

Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the dense smoke being driven downwind towards the other ship. They were on a converging tack, the slightly heavier
Ajax
spreading even her topgallants to fight her way into more open water.

There was a cheer as the
Ajax
's topsails danced and shook to the onslaught, the wind exploring the shot holes and ripping the maincourse apart like an old sack.

Then the enemy replied. At a range of perhaps a cable, the broadside was ill-timed and badly aimed, but Bolitho felt the iron smashing into the
Styx
's hull, and a stray ball striking further aft beneath his feet. The deck rebounded as if being struck by a great hammer, but Neale's gun crews did not even seem to notice.

“Stop your vents! Sponge out! Load!”

All the drills, the training and the threats had paid off.

“Run out!”

The smoke writhed between the two ships, its heart bright with red and orange as if it contained life of its own. Then the balls crashed into the
Styx
's side once more even as she returned the broadside.

Bolitho saw one gun overturned, some of its crew writhing across the deck, leaving patterns of scarlet to mark their agony. Holes appeared in the sails, and Bolitho heard a ball tear above the quarterdeck within feet of where he stood.

Neale was pacing back and forth, watching the helm, the sails, his gun crews, everything.

“Fire!”

Whooping and yelling the men threw themselves on their guns again, barely pausing to see where their shots had gone before they reloaded.

Bolitho walked aft, his feet slipping on slush as he raised his telescope to seek out the other man-of-war. She was still at anchor but her decks were crammed with sailors. But she was not making sail or even running out her artillery, and as he moved the glass further he saw the blue and white flag of Russia. The Tsar wished more than anything else to be a respected friend and ally of Napoleon. His captain obviously thought differently, probably still stunned by the ferocity of
Styx
's attack.

A ball slammed through the nettings behind him and he heard a chorus of cries and shrieks. The line of marines, who had been training their muskets over the tightly packed hammocks in readiness to engage, had been parted by bloody confusion. Men crawled and staggered through the smoke, and two were smashed to bloody gruel on the opposite side.

Their sergeant was yelling, “Stand fast, marines! Face yer front!”

The marine lieutenant was sitting with back to the bulwark, his face in his hands, his fingers the same colour as his coat.

Neale shouted, “The Frenchman has recovered his wits, sir! He'll try using chain-shot presently!”

Bolitho stared quickly around. It had been only minutes, yet felt an eternity. The cluster of English merchantmen were as before, but small figures dashed along their yards and gangways, cheering or calling for aid, it was impossible to tell.

Neale saw his glance and suggested, “I'll send the quarter boat, sir! Those poor devils may have no officers to help them escape.”

Bolitho nodded, and as men rushed aft to the quarter boat he said to Browne, “You go.” He clapped him on the shoulder, expecting him to be as relaxed as he looked. But his shoulder was like a carriage spring, and he added quietly, “Captain Neale has enough to contend with.”

Browne licked his lips and winced as more enemy shots crashed into the side, throwing up cruel splinters, one opening a man's arm and hurling him to the deck.

Then he said, “Very well, sir.” He forced a smile. “I shall have a fine view!”

Moments later the boat was pulling lustily towards the merchant ships. Somebody had even had the presence of mind to hoist a British ensign above the transom.

The
Ajax
was moving closer, her gunports flashing fire at regular intervals. But the wind was holding her over, and many of her balls shrieked above the
Styx
's gangway, bringing down oddments of cordage and severed blocks like dead fruit.

Bolitho looked along the gundeck, seeing Pascoe's white breeches faintly through the smoke and snow as he directed the forward guns towards the enemy.

The broadsides were getting more ragged, the men too dazed by the din and thunder of battle to keep up their original timing.

Some lay dead or badly injured, others tried to drag them clear of the recoiling cannon, their faces masks of determination and shock.

There came a wild chorus of yells from the forecastle, and Bolitho saw the Frenchman's foremast part like a carrot, the upper spars and yards, complete with thrashing canvas and rigging and not a few men, plunged across her forecastle. Even through the roar of battle they heard it, like a cliff falling, and the effect was instantaneous. As most of the topmast staggered over the side, trailing broken shrouds like black weed behind it, the frigate swung drunkenly into the wind, the wreckage acting as a giant sea-anchor.

Neale cupped his hands, his sword dangling from his wrist, as he yelled, “Full broadside, Mr Pickthorn! Double-shotted with grape for good measure!”

Wallowing helplessly while her seamen tried to hack the trailing wreckage away, the
Ajax
drifted end-on towards Neale's battery. There was no fear of the double-shotting splitting the breeches now, Bolitho thought. The guns were so overheated that he could feel the nearest one like an open furnace.

He saw one old gun captain cradling each shot in his hard hands before allowing it to be rammed home. It had to be perfect this time.

Neale clambered up into the lee shrouds and snatched his first lieutenant's speaking trumpet to shout, “Strike your colours!
Surrender!
” He sounded almost as if he were pleading. But the only answer was a volley of musket shots, one of which clanged against his sword like a bell.

He climbed down to the deck, his eyes bleak as he stared at the raised fists of his gun captains.

“So be it then.” He looked at his first lieutenant and gave a curt nod.

The broadside, which thundered with mounting fury from bow to stern, gun by gun, as the
Styx
sailed slowly past the enemy's figurehead, was terrible to see. Wreckage flew high in the air and the mainmast fell in a great swooping crash to join the other broken spars alongside. Bolitho thought he saw the frigate drop her bows under the murderous weight of iron, and he saw a young midshipman biting the sleeve of his coat with horror as long tendrils of blood ran from the
Ajax
's scuppers, as if she and not her people were dying.

A master's mate shouted, “The merchantmen are weighing, sir.” He sounded beyond understanding, past belief.

Bolitho nodded, still watching the beaten frigate. Vanquished in battle, but her tricolour was still flying, and he knew from hard experience that she at least would live to fight again.

He guessed that Neale and many of his men still had fire enough to try and seize the
Ajax
as a prize. But they had done plenty, and far more than he had dared hope. To go further, and flaunt the authority of the Swedish commandant and the one-sided neutrality of a Russian warship, would be pushing the odds too far.

He looked instead at the merchantmen. There were six in all, their sailors busily spreading more sails and trying to avoid collision with one another as they steered towards the small frigate which flew four flags for all to see.

Neale wiped his smoke-grimed features and said, “Your flag lieutenant will not be the same again, I fear, sir.” He sighed as a wounded man was carried past. “Nor any of us, for that matter.”

He turned to watch the nearest merchantman passing abeam, her larboard gangway alive with cheering men.

He added dryly, “We did what we came to do, sir. I think it only fair we borrow a few of their prime seamen? The least they can do to show their gratitude!”

Pascoe came aft and touched his hat. He waited for Neale to walk away to deal with the countless problems left behind by the fight, then said, “That was quickly done, sir!”

Bolitho rested one hand on his shoulder. “Barely twenty minutes. I can scarce believe it. Captain Neale is a fine seaman.”

Pascoe did not look at him, but his mouth twitched in a smile.

“I believe he learned a lot in his first ship, Uncle?”

Mr Charles Inskip strode back and forth through the high-ceilinged room as if it were no longer big enough to contain him. Even his wig, which he had donned to lend dignity to his authority, was knocked awry with his agitation.

“God damn it, Bolitho, what am I to
do
about you?” He did not wait for a reply. “You abuse the Danish neutrality and slink off in the night with some cock-and-bull scheme for a cutting-out expedition, and now you are back here in Cophenhagen! You do not even have the sense to stay away!”

Bolitho waited for the squall to pass. He could sympathize with Inskip's unwelcome role here, but he had no regrets about the released ships. By now they would be passing through the narrows and out into the North Sea. To have left them in the Tsar's hands, to be handed possibly to the French as some kind of gift or bribe, was unthinkable. It would have been even more cruel to leave their luckless crews to rot in some prison camp or freeze to death in alien surroundings.

He said impassively, “It was the least I could do, sir. The merchantmen have no cause to fear attack from the Danes. They were wrongly seized, much as the Danish ships were impounded by us this year. But if I had not anchored here again, had trailed my coat instead beneath the shore batteries of the Sound Channel, I would have provoked a disaster.”

He thought suddenly of the passage back. No one had had time to precede them and yet rumour had outpaced everything. The waterfront had been packed with silent townspeople, in spite of the bitter cold, and later, when permission had been granted by the port admiral to carry out repairs and to carry the dead ashore for burial, something like a great sigh had gone up from the watchers.

Inskip did not seem to hear him. “I might have expected such action from one of your captains. But the flag officer of a squadron,
indeed not!
Just by being there you represented your King and parliament.”

“You mean that a mere captain could be dismissed, court martialled, if things went against him, sir?”

Inskip paused in his agitated pacing and said, “Well? You know the risks as well as the rewards for command!”

Bolitho knew he was getting nowhere and said, “Anyway, I should like to send word to my flag captain, if that is possible. I told him I might be away from the squadron for a week at the most. It is that now.”

Inskip glared at him. “Oh dammit, Bolitho. I did not say you could not achieve what you set out to do. It was your method I doubted.” He gave a wry grin. “I have already sent a message to your squadron.” He shook his head. “I cannot imagine what they will say in Parliament, or here in the Palace, but I'd have given a lot to see you free our merchantmen! My aide has already spoken with your Captain Neale. That young man told him that the
Styx
dished up the enemy in no more than twenty minutes!”

Bolitho recalled Herrick's comment.
Men, not ships, win battles.

“True, sir. It was the fastest frigate action I have yet witnessed.”

Inskip regarded him calmly. “I suggest you were more than a mere witness.” He crossed to the window and peered at the square below. “The snow has stopped.” Almost off-handedly he added, “You must prepare yourself to meet the Adjutant General while you are here. Possibly this evening. In the meantime you will remain as my guest.”

“And the ship, sir?”

“I am assured she will be allowed to leave when temporary repairs are completed. But . . .” the word hung in the air as he turned to face Bolitho, “your stay will be rather more permanent if the Danes request me to hand you over to them.”

He rubbed his hands as an elegant footman entered with a tray and said, “But for now we will toast your, er, victory, eh?”