To Glory We Steer (8 page)

Herrick frowned. Deep down he had the feeling that Bolitho had acted more by instinct than design. As if he was driven like the ship, by mood rather than inclination. He seemed unable to stand still, as if it took physical force to hold himself in one place for more than minutes at a time.

A figure moved darkly at the quarterdeck rail and he heard Midshipman Neale's familiar treble in the darkness.

“Able Seaman Betts has just reported, sir.” He stood staring up at Herrick, gauging his mood.

Herrick had to tear his thoughts back to the present with a jerk. Betts, the man who had escaped a flogging or worse only at Bolitho's intervention, had been ordered to report at three bells for the first part of his punishment. Vibart had made it more than clear what would happen if he failed to execute the orders.

He saw Betts hovering behind the small midshipman and called, “Here, Betts. Look lively!”

The man moved up to the rail and knuckled his forehead. “Sir?”

Herrick gestured upwards towards the invisible topmast. “Up you go then!” He kept the harshness from his tone. He liked Betts, a quiet but competent man, whose sudden flare of anger had surprised him more than he cared to admit. “Get up to the maintop-mast, Betts. You will stand lookout until the first lieutenant orders otherwise.” He felt a touch of pity. One hundred and ten feet above the deck, unsheltered from the cold wind, Betts would be numb within minutes. Herrick had already decided to send Neale up after him with something warm to eat as soon as the galley fire was lit for breakfast.

Betts spat on his hands and replied flatly, “Aye, aye, sir. Seems a fair mornin'?” He could have been remarking on something quite normal and unimportant.

Herrick nodded. “Aye. The wind is dropping and the air is much drier.” It was true. Betts's instinct had grasped the change as soon as he had emerged from the packed, airless berth deck where eighteen inches per man was the accepted hammock space.

Herrick added quietly, “You were lucky, Betts. You could have been dancing at the gratings by eight bells.”

Betts stood staring at him, unmoved and calm. “I'm not sorry for what 'appened, sir. I'd do it again.”

Herrick felt suddenly annoyed with himself for mentioning the matter. That was his trouble, he thought angrily. He always wanted to know and understand the reason for everything. He could not leave matters alone.

He snapped, “Get aloft! And mind you keep a good lookout. The dawn'll be awake soon.” He watched the man's shadow merge with the mainshrouds and followed him with his eye until he was lost in the crisscross of rigging against the stars.

Again he found himself wondering why Bolitho had acted as he had over a man like Betts. Neither Vibart nor Evans had mentioned the matter, which seemed to add rather than detract from the importance of the affair. Perhaps Vibart had overstepped his authority again, he pondered. Under Pomfret the first lieutenant's presence had moved over the ship, controlling every action and dayto-day happening. Now he seemed hampered by Bolitho's calm authority, but the very fact that their disagreement was close to showing itself openly only made things worse. The ship seemed to split in two, divided between the captain and Vibart. Pomfret had remained a frightening force in the background, and Herrick had found his work cut out to stay impartial and out of trouble. Now it appeared as if such neutrality was impossible.

He thought back to the moment he had gone to the big house in Falmouth. Before he had imagined he would find only envy there. His own poor beginnings were hard to shake free. He recalled Bolitho's father, the great pictures along the walls, the air of permanence and tradition, as if the present occupants were merely part of a pattern. Compared with his own small home in Rochester, the house had seemed a veritable palace.

Herrick's father had been a clerk in Rochester, working for the Kentish fruit trade. But Herrick, even as a small child, had watched the ships stealing up the Medway, and had allowed his impressionable mind to build his own future accordingly. For him it was the Navy. Nothing else would do. It was odd because there was no precedent in his family, all of whom had been tradesmen, sprinkled with the occasional soldier.

His father had pleaded in vain. He had warned him of the pitfalls, which were many. Lack of personal standing and financial security made him see only too clearly what his son was attempting to challenge. He even compromised by suggesting a safe berth aboard an Indiaman, but Herrick was quietly adamant.

Quite by chance a visiting warship had been laid up near Rochester while repairs had been carried out to her hull. Her captain had been a friend of the man who employed Herrick's father, a grave senior captain who showed neither resentment nor open scorn when the eleven years old boy had waylaid him and told him of his desire to go to sea in a King's ship.

Faced by the captain and his employer, Herrick's father had given in. To do him full justice he had made the best of it by using his meagre savings to send his son on his way, outwardly at least, a young gentleman as good as any of his fellows.

Herrick was now twenty-five. It had been a long and arduous journey from that time. He had learned humiliation and embarrassment for the first time. He had faced unequal opposition of breeding and influence. The starry-eyed boy had been whittled away and hardened like the good Kentish oak beneath his feet. But one thing had not changed. His love of the sea and the Navy stayed over him like a protecting cloak or some strange religion which he only partly understood.

This timeless thing was the same to all men, he decided. It was far above them. It controlled and used everyone alike, no matter what his ambition might be.

He smiled at himself as he continued his endless pacing. He wondered what young Neale, yawning hugely by the rail, would think of his grave faced senior. Or the helmsmen who watched the swinging needle and gauged the pull of the sails. Or Betts, high overhead on his precarious perch, his own thoughts no doubt full of what he had done and what might lie in store for him behind Evans's vengeance.

Maybe it was better to be unimaginative, he thought. To be completely absorbed in day-to-day worries, like Lieutenant Okes for instance. He was a married man, and that was obstacle enough for any young officer. Okes spent his time either fretting about his distant wife or treading warily to avoid Vibart's eye. He was a strange, shallow man, Herrick thought, unsure of himself, and afraid to unbend even with his own kind. It seemed as if he was afraid of becoming too friendly, and nervous of expressing an opinion outside the necessities of duty. As if by so doing he might awake suspicion elsewhere or give a hint of misplaced loyalty.

Herrick moved his stiff shoulders inside his coat and pushed Okes from his thoughts. He might after all be right. Aboard the
Phalarope
it often seemed safer to say nothing, to do nothing which might be wrongly interpreted later.

He stared at the weather rail and noticed with a start that he could see the carved dolphin above the starboard ladder and the fat, ugly cannonade nearby. His thoughts had carried him through another half hour, and soon the dawn would show him an horizon once more. Would bring another day.

Harsh and clear above the hiss of spray he suddenly heard Betts's voice from the masthead. “Deck there! Sail on the starboard bow! Hull down, but it's a ship!”

Snatching his glass from the rack Herrick scrambled up into the mizzen shrouds, his mind working on the unexpected report. The sea was already gathering shape and personality, and there was a finger of grey along where the horizon should be. Up there, high above the swaying deck, Betts would just be able to see the other ship in the dawn's cautious approach.

He snapped, “Mr Neale! Up you go and see what you can discover. If you give me a false report you'll kiss the gunner's daughter before you're much older!”

Neale's face split into a grin, and without a word he scampered like a monkey towards the mainshrouds.

Herrick tried to stay calm, to return to his pacing as he had seen Bolitho do. But the newcomer, if there was indeed a ship, filled him with uncertainty, so that he stared at the dark sea as if willing it to appear.

Betts called again. “She's a frigate, sir! No doubt about it. Steerin' south-east!”

Neale's shrill voice took up the call. “She's running before the wind like a bird, sir! Under all plain sail!”

Herrick breathed out noisily. For one brief instant he had imagined it might be a Frenchman. Even out here, alone and unaided, it was not impossible. But the French rarely sailed fast or far by night. Usually they lay to and rode out the darkness. This was no enemy.

As if to open his thoughts Betts yelled, “I know that rig, sir! She's an English ship right enough!”

“Very well, keep on reporting!” Herrick lowered the speaking trumpet and peered back along the quarterdeck. Even in minutes the place had taken more shape and reality. The deck was pale and grey, and he could see the helmsmen again as familiar faces.

There might be new orders in the other frigate. Maybe the American war was already over and they would return to Brest or England. In his heart Herrick felt a sudden twinge of disappointment. At first the prospect of another long commission in the unhappy
Phalarope
had appalled him. Now, with the thought that he might never see the West Indies at all, he was not so sure.

Neale slithered straight down a backstay, disdaining shrouds and ratlines, and ran panting to the quarterdeck.

Herrick made up his mind. “My respects to the captain, Mr Neale, and tell him we have sighted a King's ship. She'll be up to us in an hour, maybe much less. He will wish to prepare himself.”

Neale hurried down the hatchway and Herrick stared across the tumbling waste of water. Bolitho would be even more concerned, he thought. If the
Phalarope
was ordered home now, all his plans and promises would be without meaning. He would have lost his private battle before he had had time to begin.

There was a soft step beside him and Bolitho said. “Now, Mr Herrick, what about this ship?”

4 THE
S
IGNAL

B
OLITHO
steadied his glasses against the weather rigging and waited for the other ship to leap into focus. In the time it had taken him to walk from his cabin to the quarterdeck and listen to Herrick's excited report, the dawn sun had slowly clawed its way over the horizon so that already the endless waste of tossing whitecaps was touched with pale gold, the shadows gone from the short, steep waves.

The other vessel made a fine sight in the strengthening light, he thought, with her tall pyramids of full sails and the unbroken curtain of spray bursting around the high bow. She was moving fast, her topmast glittering in the weak sunlight like crucifixes.

Over his shoulder he called, “You have a good lookout, Mr Herrick! He is to be complimented for such an early sighting.”

Even for a trained seaman it was not easy to pick out a ship from the shadows of night and dawn and identify her. She was English right enough, and there was a certain familiarity about her.

Vaguely in the background he could hear the boatswain's mates calling the hands, the shrill twitter of pipes.

“All hands! All hands! Show a leg!”

He could imagine the sleep-dazed men tumbling from their hammocks groaning and protesting, while from forward came the usual mixture of smells from the galley. Another day, but this time it would be different. The sea was no longer empty and hostile. The other ship might make the men remember that they were part of something real and important.

He saw the frigate's big yards begin to change shape and heard Herrick say, “She's going about, sir. She'll be up to us shortly!”

Bolitho nodded absently. The stranger would swing round to run parallel, keeping the
Phalarope
down to leeward. As Herrick had suggested, it might mean new orders.

He climbed down from the rigging suddenly chilled and tired. The keen spray had moulded his shirt to his body and his hair felt wet against his cheek. He noticed that his ship had changed yet again. The quarterdeck seemed thronged with figures, the officers keeping to the lee side, but with their glasses raised and watching the other frigate.

Midshipman Maynard looked anxiously towards the stranger and strained his eyes through his big telescope. As he was in charge of signals he knew that Bolitho would be watching him.

The main deck was also alive with newly awakened seamen, and the bosun's mates had to use their ropes' ends more than usual to drive them away from the bulwark as they peered across the water at the frigate's approach. Chattering and excited they stowed their hammocks in the nettings and still staring abeam moved reluctantly towards the galley hatch.

Bolitho lifted his glass again as tiny black balls soared to the other ship's yards and broke out to the wind.

Vibart leaned against the binnacle and growled at Maynard, “Come on then! Read it out!”

Maynard blinked the spray from his wet eyes and flicked rapidly through his book. “She's made her number, sir! She's the
Andiron,
thirty-eight, Cap'n Masterman.”

Bolitho closed his glass with a snap. Of course. He should have known her immediately. When in
Sparrow
he had often seen her on patrol off the American coast. Masterman was an old hand at the game. A senior captain, he had chalked up many successes against the enemy.

The
Andiron
had completed her manœuvre and was settling down on the same course as the
Phalarope.
Her sudden wide turn had taken her across the
Phalarope
's beam, but as her sails bellied and filled once more she began to overhaul to windward.

Bolitho watched Maynard's signal party hoisting the
Phalarope
's number and wondered what Masterman would say when he eventually discovered that he was now in command. The signal books would still show Pomfret as captain.

Maynard shouted, “Signal, sir!
Andiron
to
Phalarope.
Heave to, have despatches on board.”

The sunlight glittered along the
Andiron
's closed ports as she swung slightly down on the other ship.

Herrick said, “She'll not need to lower a boat, sir. She could drift a raft across.” He rubbed his hands. “I wonder if she has any fresh vegetables aboard?”

Bolitho smiled. This was just what he had hoped for. A distraction to take their minds off themselves if only for a passing moment.

“Carry on, Mr Vibart. Heave to, if you please!”

Vibart lifted his speaking trumpet. “Main tops'l braces! Look alive there!”

Stockdale appeared at Bolitho's side holding his captain's blue coat and cocked hat. He squinted at the other ship and grinned. “Like old times, Captain.” He peered forward as Quintal, the boatswain, let loose a stream of curses and obscenities. The men had been slow to respond to the sudden orders, and already there was chaos on the crowded deck where off-duty idlers collided with others who were struggling with spray-swollen braces.

Maynard said hoarsely, “Signal, sir!” His lips moved slowly as he spelled out the message. “Have you news of Hood's squadron?”

Quintal had at last got his men sorted out, and with sails flap-ping and thundering the
Phalarope
began to swing heavily into the wind.

Bolitho had half slipped his arms into his coat, but pushed Stockdale aside as Maynard's words chilled his mind like ice. Masterman would never ask such a question. Even if he had lost his squadron he would certainly know that
Phalarope
was a stranger and had never served in these waters before. His mind rebelled, and he stared mesmerised as his ship continued to swing until the
Andiron
's bowsprit seemed to point at right-angles across his own.

Vibart turned startled and confused as Bolitho yelled, “Belay that order, Mr Vibart! Stand by to go about!”

He ignored the surprised gasps and the fresh clamour of orders and concentrated his reeling thoughts on the other ship. Suppose he had made a mistake? It was too late now. Perhaps it had been too late from the moment the
Andiron
had appeared.

Then he saw the other frigate's bows beginning to swing round still further. With her yards turning as one she altered course and charged down towards the helpless
Phalarope.
A few more seconds and the way would have been lost from the
Phalarope
's sails, and the
Andiron
would have crossed her unprotected stern, unchallenged and overwhelming.

Bolitho felt his ship labouring round, his ears deaf to the cries and curses from officers and men alike. The weeks of sail drill in all weathers were taking charge, and like puppets the seamen tugged at sheets and braces, their minds too dazed by their captain's behaviour to understand what was happening.

Vibart yelled. “My God, sir! We'll collide!” He stared past Bolitho's tense figure towards the onrushing frigate. Still the
Phalarope
wallowed round, her bowsprit following the other ship like a compass needle.

Bolitho snapped, “Steer south-east! Out second reefs!” He did not listen to his repeated orders but walked briskly towards the scarlet-coated marine drummer boy beside the cabin hatch.

“Beat to quarters!”

He saw the boy's dull expression giving way to something like horror. But again training and discipline took charge, and as the drum began to stutter its warning tattoo the tide of men on the main deck swayed, faltered and then surged in opposite directions as gun crews rushed madly to their weapons.

Vibart gasped, “Her ports are opening! My God, she's running up her colours!”

Bolitho saw the striped flag breaking to the crosswind and followed Vibart's shocked stare as the frigate's ports opened and the concealed guns trundled outwards like a row of shining teeth.

He said harshly, “Clear for action, Mr Vibart! Have the guns loaded and run out immediately!” He checked Vibart as he ran to the rail. “It will take all of ten minutes. I will try to give you that amount of time!”

The deck canted as the ship steadied on her new course around and away from the other frigate. But the
Andiron
was already turning on the same circle, her sails flapping as she headed into the wind in an effort to close the range. From her peak the new American flag made a patch of bright colour against the tan sails, and Bolitho had to tear his mind back to the present to stop himself thinking of what would have happened but for that one stupid signal.

Andiron
would have crossed the
Phalarope
's unprotected stern and her gunners, hitherto concealed behind the bulwark and sealed ports, would have poured shot after shot through the big cabin windows. The balls would have screamed and torn the full length of his command, and with half the men still below, helpless and unprepared, the disaster would have been over within minutes.

Even now it might be too late.
Andiron
was the bigger ship, and her deep keel was better for this sort of handling. Already she was cutting across the
Phalarope
's stern and beating rapidly up to wind-ward to regain her first advantage. In another fifteen minutes she would try the same manœuvre again, or she could be content to close the range from the larboard quarter. With the wind in her favour action could not be avoided.

He made himself walk to the taffrail and stare back at the other ship. The pretence had gone now, and he could see the crouching gunners, the clusters of officers on the canting quarterdeck. What had happened to Masterman? he wondered. He were better dead than know his proud ship to be a privateer.

He turned his back on the
Andiron
's dark hull and looked along his own command. The chaos had gone and to the unpractised eye the ship looked ready and eager for battle.

On both sides the guns had been run out and the gun captains were testing their trigger lines and passing hoarse orders to their men. Boys ran the length of the deck throwing down sand to give the gunners a firm grip when the time came, while others scuttled from gun to gun with water buckets for the swabs and to damp down any sudden fire.

Vibart stood below the quarterdeck rail and yelled, “Cleared for action, sir! All guns loaded with double shot and grape!”

“Very well, Mr Vibart.” Bolitho walked slowly towards the rail and ran his eye along the larboard side guns. They would be the first to engage. His heart sank as he picked out faults in the pattern like flaws in a painting.

At one gun a captain was even having to put a rope fall into the hands of one of his men, as the poor wretch stared at it without comprehension. His mind was too full of fear, his eyes too mesmerised by the overtaking frigate with her long row of guns to heed what the petty officer was saying. At each gun there were men like this. With so many new hands, pressed from unwarlike jobs ashore, this danger was inevitable.

Given time, he could have trained each and every one of them. Bolitho banged his fist slowly on the rail. Well, there
was
no more time.
Andiron
not only had more guns, but they were eighteen-pounders against
Phalarope
's twelve-pounders. Most of her crew would no doubt be made up of English deserters and seasoned sailors who were no strangers to battle. Any crew which could take the
Andiron
from Captain Masterman was a force to be feared.

At his back Captain Rennie stood nonchalantly by the hammock nettings, his sword looped to his wrist with a gold lanyard, as he watched Sergeant Garwood dressing his men into neat scarlet ranks. There was something very reassuring about the marines, Bolitho thought grimly, but their muskets would not be much use against eighteen-pounders!

All at once the remorse and despair he had been enduring since the
Andiron
's first treachery had shown with her flag gave way to something like blind rage. It was too late for the “if onlys” and the “maybes.” He had brought his ship and his men to this. His was the sole responsibility. He had recognised the American's trap just in time to save them all from the first blow, but he should have seen it earlier.

He walked to the rail and shouted along the deck, “Now listen to me, men! In a few moments we are going to give battle to that ship!” He saw every face turned towards him, but already they had lost meaning and personality. They were a crew. Good or bad, only time would show. But that they should all trust him was essential.

“Just take your time and obey orders, no matter what is happening around you! Each gun is fitted with the new flintlock, but make sure there is a slow-match at hand in case of failure!”

He saw Okes look across from the starboard battery to where Herrick waited by his own guns. A quick exchange of glances which might have meant anything.

He felt Stockdale slipping the coat over his shoulders and then the firm clasp of the swordbelt around his waist. He watched the powerful frigate plunging over towards the larboard quarter, his eyes gauging the speed and the distance.