Inshore Squadron (7 page)

“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 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 vent-hole!”

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
A
JAX

A
LLDAY
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.”

Neale had not changed all that much. He was just a larger edition of the chubby midshipman whom Herrick had described. But he wore his rank and command well, and had used his early experience to good effect.

Bolitho replied, “It brings back memories, Captain Neale. Some bad, but many good ones.”

He saw Neale shifting his feet, eager to be off.

“You carry on, Captain. Get your ship under way again and make as much progress as you can.
Benbow
's sailing master assures me there will be fog about.”

Neale grimaced. “That could be dangerous in the narrows, sir. But if old Grubb says fog, then fog there will be!”

He left the cabin with a nod to Allday, who murmured admiringly, “He's not spoiled, sir. Always liked him.”

Bolitho hid a smile. “
Spoiled?
He's a King's officer, Allday, not a piece of salt pork!”

From the quarterdeck they heard Neale shouting lustily, “Get under way, Mr Pickthorn! Hands to the braces, roundly, if you please! And I'll want the t'gan's'ls on her once we clear the anchorage!”

Feet pounded along the decks, and Bolitho felt the cabin dip as
Styx
responded willingly to the sudden press of canvas. He sat down on the bench seat and surveyed the cabin slowly. He had commanded three frigates during his service. The last one, the thirty-six-gun
Tempest,
had been down in the Great South Sea. That was when they had first heard about the bloody revolution in France. The war had started soon afterwards, and had gone on ever since.

He wondered if Pascoe was exploring the ship, mulling over his uncle's promise to help him get an early transfer. It would be painful to lose him so quickly again. Anything else would be selfishness, Bolitho knew.

Allday murmured, “We're passing abeam of
Benbow,
sir.” He smiled. “She looks big from down here!”

Bolitho watched her as she slid away across the frigate's quarter. Black and buff, shining with spray and damp air. Her upper yards and loosely furled canvas did look hazy, so Grubb's prediction was coming true already. That would give Herrick something else to worry about.

Eventually, Browne came aft to report that
Styx
was standing well clear of the anchorage, and that Pascoe had arranged for the additional seamen to be quartered throughout the ship.

He said, almost as an afterthought, “The captain seems to think we can make good time around the point, but after that he believes the fog will come down.”

Bolitho nodded. “Then we shall anchor. If the fog is bad for us, so too will it prevent others from moving.”

At this time of year fogs could be as common as icy gales. Each had its own special kind of danger, and both were respected by sailors.

But once the frigate had completed her passage around The Skaw and changed tack to steer south along Denmark's opposite coastline, Neale was able to report the fog was little more than a thick sea-mist. The densest part was clinging to the land, and in all probability was trapped in the anchorage they had left astern.

Herrick could cope with that all right. Pay Herrick a sincere compliment and he would be speechless. Put him before a lady and he would be tongue-tied. Gales, fog or the roaring horror of battle and he was like a rock.

They sighted very few craft, and only small vessels at that. Coasters and fishermen, staying near the land, and certainly wary of the lean-looking frigate as she thrust further south towards the narrow sound between Denmark and Sweden. The gateway to the Baltic. A shelter or a trap, according to what your intentions might be.

As soon as it was dark Neale asked permission to anchor. As
Styx
swung slowly to her cable, and the mist filtered through her spars and rigging to make her like a phantom ship, Bolitho walked the quarterdeck, watching the pale stars, the occasional gleam of a light from the land.

Styx
showed only an anchor lantern, and the watch which moved about the forecastle and gangways were fully armed. Mr Pickthorn, her first lieutenant, had even spread boarding nets.

Just to be on the safe side,
as Neale had put it.

Pascoe emerged from the darkness and waited to see if it was convenient to speak

Bolitho beckoned to him. “Here. Let's walk a while. Stand still for long and the blood feels like glacier water.”

They paced back and forth, meeting and passing the men on watch or some of the ship's officers who were also trying to take some exercise in the keen air.

“Our people are settled in, sir.” Pascoe shot him a quick glance. “I have Mr Midshipman Penels with me as messenger. I thought him a bit too young, but Mr Wolfe said he's got to start sometime.” He chuckled. “He's right, I expect.”

“Tomorrow we will enter Copenhagen, Adam. There, I am to meet a British official of some standing.”

He looked towards the tiny lights on the shore. The news would be there already. An English man-of-war. One from the new squadron. What did it mean? Why had she come?

“There are a few questions I will want answering for my own content, too.”

Pascoe did not break into Bolitho's thoughts, even though he was speaking them aloud. He was thinking of Midshipman Penels and his friend Babbage. By some accident, or a petty officer's indifference, Babbage was aboard
Styx
also.

Bolitho asked suddenly, “How are you getting along with my flag lieutenant? The Honourable Oliver Browne?”

Pascoe smiled, his teeth white in the darkness. “With an ‘e,' sir. Very well. He is a strange man. Far removed from most sea officers.
All,
in my own experience. He is always so calm and untroubled. I think that if the Frenchies were to storm aboard at this moment he would pause to finish his meal before joining the fight!”

Captain Neale came on deck and Pascoe excused himself and left.

Bolitho said, “It seems very quiet, Captain.”

“I agree.” Neale peered through the sagging boarding nets. “But I'm careful. Captain Herrick would spit me if I allowed his admiral to run aground, or worse!”

Bolitho bade him good night and went to his borrowed quarters. He had not realised before just how well known Herrick's devotion had become.

“Take in the maincourse, Mr Pickthorn.” Captain Neale stood very still, his arms folded, as the frigate glided ahead under top-sails, forecourse and jib.

The cold air, the icy droplets of moisture falling from the heavy weather canvas like rain were forgotten as the
Styx
moved slowly towards the last channel.

Two great fortresses, Helsingborg on the Swedish side of the Sound Channel and Kronborg on the Danish, were enough to awe even the most hardened man aboard.

Bolitho took a telescope and trained it on the Danish fortress. It would take an army, and months of siege, to breach it, he thought grimly.

It was almost noon, and the nearer the frigate had drawn to the narrows and the protective batteries on either side, they had sensed the excitement
Styx
's appearance was causing. But if there was no sign of welcome, there was no hostility either.

He glanced along the upper decks. Neale had done well, and his ship looked as perfect as she could be. The marines, conspicuous in their bright uniforms, drawn up in squads on the poop deck. None in the tops, and no swivels had been mounted there either. Seamen moved about their duties, while others stood ready to spread more sail and flee or take in the remaining canvas and anchor.

Neale looked at Bolitho questioningly. “May I begin the salute, sir?”

“If you please.”

Neale said sharply, “Remove the tampions and open the ports.”

He was probably thinking that once he had fired a full salute to the fortress his guns would be empty. But to man his broadsides with anything more than the men required for this ritual might appear like a threat of war.

“Run out, if you please.”

Squeaking and rumbling the
Styx
's guns poked their black muzzles into the harsh light.

“Stand by to dip the colours!”

Bolitho bit his lip. Still no hint from the land. He looked across at the great artillery emplacements. The wind had dropped considerably. If the Danes opened fire,
Styx
would be hard put to come about and beat clear.

She would be hammered into submission in minutes under such conditions.

“Commence the salute, Mr Pickthorn.”

“Fire
One!
”

The bang echoed across the choppy water, to be followed gun for gun by a battery below the fortress. Then, the Danish flag, standing out like a flake of bright metal from a tall staff, dipped slowly in salute.

Allday wiped his mouth with his wrist. “Phew! That was a near thing!”

Bolitho saw
Styx
's gunner marching from cannon to cannon, beating out the time with his fist, oblivious to everything but precision.

There were people visible on the shore now, some running and waving, their mouths soundless in the telescope's lens.

The final gun crashed out, the smoke fanning ahead of the frigate's figurehead.

Captain Neale touched his hat to Bolitho and said, “I think we are accepted, sir.”

Browne, who had been clasping his ears during the salute, said sourly, “But by no means welcome, sir.”

“Guard-boat approaching, sir!”

“Take in the forecourse, Mr Pickthorn. Stand by to receive our visitors!”

Men swarmed out along the yard, fisting and cursing the big foresail as they struggled to furl it with extra smartness, watched by the distant crowds of onlookers.

The guard-boat was an interesting craft. Far longer than a ship's boat, it was propelled by the biggest oars Bolitho had seen outside of a chebeck. Two men to each oar, while just abaft of the deadly-looking prow was a solitary but heavy cannon. Under oars, this miniature gunboat could out-manoeuvre anything larger than a frigate and throw heavy balls through her poop with total safety. Even a frigate would be in trouble if she lost the wind.

Bolitho studied the figures in the ornate cockpit. Two Danish sea officers and two civilians, one, if not two, of the latter obviously English. They looked more suitably dressed for a stroll around Hyde Park than crossing open water in October.

“Man the side! Marines,
fall in!
”

Mr Charles Inskip, the important government official whom Bolitho had been instructed to assist in every possible way, sat stiff-backed in one of Captain Neale's chairs and examined the captured French despatches. He held them at arm's length, and Bolitho guessed his sight was not what it should be. His companion, Mr Alfred Green, apparently less important, stood beside the chair, peering and pouting at each newly turned sheet.

Bolitho heard the Danish sea officers talking and laughing beyond the bulkhead, and guessed they were being traditionally entertained by Neale and some of his lieutenants. Governments could create war from almost anything. Sailors, meeting on their home ground, rarely fell out.

Browne glanced meaningly at Bolitho as Inskip re-read the letter with the broken seal.

Bolitho noticed that when seamen rushed across the deck above, or some heavy block and tackle fell on the planking, Inskip did not even blink. He was obviously a much travelled man, well used to ships of every sort.

Inskip was about fifty, he decided. Neatly but not flamboyantly dressed in a green coat and breeches of similar colour. His head was almost bald, the remaining hair and unfashionable queue hanging down his collar like a rope's end.

He looked up sharply. “This is bad news, Admiral.” His voice was incisive, a bit like Beauchamp's. “I thank God you managed to intercept it.”

“Luck, sir.”

A small smile, pushing the years from the man's features. “Where would we be without it?”

His companion said, “You would have had a warmer reception, Admiral, had the brig
Echo
got here ahead of you.”

Inskip frowned at the interruption. “I have made some progress with the Danish government. They do not wish to join with the Tsar of Russia's proposed alliance, but pressure is mounting. Your arrival may be timely. I thank God you had the good sense to come in a small ship-of-war and not a three-decker or something. It is a powder-keg here, although the Danes, being Danes, are trying to ignore it. I would love to return in happier times.”