Alexander Kent - THE INSHORE SQUADRON

Herrick said despairingly, 'With Admiral Damerum relieved by our smaller squadron, sir, and you away, as I thought, in Copenhagen, I was split in halves. The Admiralty thinks Ropars has sailed to assist an invasion and uprising in Ireland. Our fleet is so thinly spread, it might be a good moment to try.'

Bolitho nodded, his mind busy. 'Five years ago, when I was Sir Charles Thelwall's flag captain in Euryalus, I saw enough misery on that station. The French tried it then. They just might make another attempt, Thomas.'

Herrick shaded his eyes to squint up at the topgallant yards where some seamen were clinging on with hands and feet as the sails ballooned violently to the wind.'

He said, 'But I decided I could do no useful thing by running for Ireland, sir. We have too few ships.' He looked Bolitho straight in the eyes. 'In any case, sir, you are my flag officer.'

Bolitho smiled. With him in Copenhagen it must have been a hard decision for Herrick. If he had decided wrongly his head would be on the block with his admiral's, loyalty or not.

But he said warmly, `That was well said, Thomas. I'll see you with your own broad pendant before long, mark my words.'

Herrick grimaced. 'I'd not thank you for it, sir!'

He shifted his feet and said, 'The French admiral's strength is a squadron, no more. That we do know. And I'll wager every ship from the Channel Fleet is prowling the enemy's ports in case they try to reinforce this Ropars.'

Bolitho released his grip from the nettings. It did not take long to get used to the change of motion. From the wild plunges of a frigate to the slow, ponderous tilt of a ship of the line.

`Well, Thomas? I'm waiting.'

Herrick bit his lip, as if wishing he had remained silent.

'I heard what you did in the Baltic. I questioned the master of one of the merchantmen you set free. It was a fine piece of work, sir, with just the Styx to carry it out.'

Bolitho looked at the grey sea alongside, willing Herrick to get on with it, but equally afraid to break the thread of his ideas.

'I think it unlike the Frogs to send one frigate for that task, sir. They would know your squadron would prevent any attempt to escort the merchantmen to France.' He spread his hands. 'And for the life of me I can see no other reason for their actions!'

Bolitho stared at him. Time and distance, Thomas, is that it?'

Herrick nodded. `Aye, sir. I believe that the Frogs intended to draw our squadron to the west to assist the Channel Fleet and to cut Ropars retreat if his attack on Ireland failed.'

Bolitho gripped his arm. `And all the while Ropars is really sailing further north, around Scotland maybe, and then down the coast of Norway, is that what you believe?'

Herrick licked his lips. `Well, er, yes, sir. They'll come south.' He looked at the hazy outline of the Danish Coast. 'To here.'

'Where they hope to find the back door open for them, eh?' It was so simple it had to be wrong.

Bolitho said, 'Signal the squadron to steer west, Thomas, with Relentless and Lookout as far in the lead as possible without losing visual contact. When you are satisfied with them, come aft and bring the master with you. We'll study the charts and share our ideas.'

Herrick looked at him, less certain now.

'I may be quite wrong, sir. Is it worth the risk?'

'If we fight here, we will be on the lee shore. No, we shall meet them in open water, if at all. Cripple some and send the rest running. I have heard of Admiral Ropars, Thomas. This is just the sort of thing he would attempt.'

Herrick said ruefully, 'A bit like you then, sir?'

`Not too much, I hope. Otherwise he may be outguessing us already!'

Bolitho made his way aft to his quarters, past the rigid marine sentry, and then ducked automatically as if he was still aboard the frigate.

For a while he moved restlessly about the cabin, thinking of all that had happened in so short a time. The fragment of chance when Lookout had taken the French brig Echo. Their arrival in Copenhagen, the attack through the snowstorm, men dying, others cheering.

He heard cheering now, as if his thoughts had come to life, but when he peered through the stern windows he saw the frigate Styx dose-hauled under a full pyramid of canvas and

steering past the slower moving two-deckers. The squadron was cheering one of its own. A scarred victor, going home for repairs and perhaps a hero's welcome.

Allday entered the cabin and replaced the presentation sword on its rack below the other one.

He said, 'I was a mite worried back there, sir. Just for a while.'

Bolitho shrugged. 'Fate is a strange thing.'

Allday grinned, obviously relieved. `The folk in Falmouth would have been caught aback if you'd broken it, and that's no error, sir!'

Bolitho sat down, suddenly tired. 'Fetch me something to drink, if you please.' Then he smiled gravely. 'And let us both stop pretending, shall we?'

It was a very cold morning, and when Bolitho went on deck for his customary walk he felt the chill in the air as he had off Gotland.

He looked at the sky, almost devoid of cloud but, like the sea, leaden grey, without welcome.

With the aid of a telescope he sought out the other ships, studying the early morning activity, sails being set or retrimmed to bring each vessel into a slow-moving line. Of the Lookout there was no sign as yet, although the masthead might already be able to see her.

The first lieutenant was pacing along the lee side, his ginger hair flapping beneath his hat to make the only bright colour on deck.

His was not to reason or criticize. Wolfe was the first lieutenant, with a command of his own before too long if he was fortunate. To run the Benbow like a perfectly tuned instrument and hand her to his captain in first degree readiness was his sole purpose for being here.

Bolitho dragged his thoughts from the daily routine and considered his own position. Two days they had been heading slowly west and then north. Two days with their Baltic patrol left unattended. Suppose he was wrong? Suppose he had been so eager to exploit the success of the squadron, even in the face of Inskip's doubts and warnings, that hehad missed the obvious?

The excitement at seeing Styx and her battle scars could not last forever. Soon now and he would have to decide. To continue, or to return to the inshore station. Failing to take his ships, or some of them, to Irish waters, and then missing any sort of contact with the French squadron because of an haphazard idea would not go down at all well with Damerum or the Admiralty.

He paused as he heard Wolfe say in his harsh tones, `Now then, Mr Pascoe, what is all this I hear about you requesting a transfer for the landman Babbage? To the aftergu`ard, y' say?' He leaned forward, towering above the young lieutenant like an ungainly giant.

Pascoe replied, `Well, sir, he was pressed at Plymouth. He comes from Bodmin, and…

Wolfe growled impatiently, `And I come from bloody Bristol, so where does that get us, eh?'

Pascoe tried again. 'Mr Midshipman Penels asked for the transfer, sir. They grew up together. Babbage worked for Penels' mother when his father died.'

'Is that all?' Wolfe nodded, satisfied. `Well, I already knew that. Which is why I kept 'em separate, when I got to hear of their connection, so to speak.'

'I see, sir.'

'Oh no you don't, Mr Pascoe, but never mind. You asked, I said no. Now take some men to the foretop and attend the barricade. Mr Swale assures me that it is already cracked with strain. The devils probably used condemned timber when they built it, damn them!'

Pascoe touched his hat and strode to the gangway.

When he was out of earshot Bolitho called, Mr Wolfe. A moment please.'

Bolitho was quite tall, but Wolfe made him feel like a dwarf.

`Sir?'

`I could not help but overhear that. Perhaps you could share your information with me?'

Wolfe grinned, unabashed. 'Most certainly, sir. I met the officer in charge of the press at Plymouth when he brought some hands aboard for us. He told me about Babbage. How he had been sent to Plymouth with a message for a storekeeper there.'

'A long way from Bodmin, Mr Wolfe.'

`Aye, sir. It is that. Someone wanted him out of the way. Sent him where his capture would not be discussed or gossiped about, if you get my meaning, sir?'

Bolitho frowned. 'Penels' mother?'

'I expect so, sir. With her son at sea, and her man dead, she'd be seeking a new er, husband. Babbage could be a nuisance. Living at the house. Seeing and hearing everything. She couldn't have known Babbage would end up crossing his hawse with our young Mr Penels.'

'Thank you for telling me.'

Bolitho thought of the luckless Babbage. It was not unknown for employers and landowners to get rid of an unwanted servant in this fashion. Send him on a mission and then inform a crimp or the press-gang. The rest was easy.

Wolfe added, 'Mr Pascoe will be a good officer, sir. An' I'm not saying that to win your favours. He will learn about the wiles of women all in good time. Time enough then to bother him with such things.' He touched his hat and strode away humming to himself.

Bolitho continued his pacing. There were other sides to the ungainly first lieutenant, he thought. Not saying that to win your favours. You only had to look at him to know that!

'Deck there! Lookout in sight on the weather bow!'

Bolitho saw the officer of the watch make a note in the log about the first sighting of the day. Far beyond the sloop, Captain Rowley Peel in his Relentless would be eagerly scanning a brightening horizon. Thinking of Styx 's hard-won fight, hoping for a chance for himself and his ship. He was twentysix, and that was about all Bolitho knew of him. Yet.

There was a clatter of feet on the lee gangway and a toughlooking boatswain's mate trudged aft and knuckled his forehead to the same lieutenant who was about to cover the log with its canvas hood.

'Beg pardon, Mr Speke, sir, there's bin a fight on the lower gundeck. Man struck a petty officer with a stool, sir.'

Speke was the second lieutenant, a competent officer, according to Herrick, but inclined to lose his temper too easily.

'He said sharply, 'Very well, Jones. Tell the master-at-arms, end I will note it in the log for the first lieutenant's attention. Who is it, by the way?'

Somehow, and yet for no sane reason, Bolitho had known who it would be.

'Babbage, sir. Mr Pascoe's division.' As an afterthought he added bluntly, 'He's put the petty officer in the sick-bay, sir. Split his skull, he did.'

Speke nodded severely. 'That's it then. My compliments to Mr Swale. Tell him a grating will have to be rigged sometime today.'

Bolitho walked to the companionway, his appetite for breakfast gone.

Sailing to seek out an enemy, to die if need be, was hard enough. To have a flogging as well would not help at all.

'Have you any new orders for me, sir?' Herrick stood just inside the screen door, his hat beneath his arm, his faded sea-going coat at odds with the newly furnished cabin.

Bolitho listened to the silence,. the ship holding her breath around her company of six hundred and twenty men and boys. It was almost noon. The sky was still free of cloud and rain, and yet between-decks the air was damp and musty, with a touch of the wintry weather to come. Nothing had been reported by the frigate or the sloop, except for a fast-moving schooner which had headed away immediately. Privateer, smuggler or just some.hardworking trader trying to stay clear of trouble?

Bolitho looked at his friend, knowing what was bothering him. It was unfair on Herrick, he thought. It had been his idea to disregard the advice brought by the courier brig. His plan to quit their proper station to meet the enemy in open water. It was wrong that he had this new worry on his mind as well.