Alexander Kent - THE INSHORE SQUADRON

She replied, 'We were speaking of his uncle. He means a lot to him.'

Herrick passed her chair and laid his hand on her shoulder. Oh dear God, I have to leave you soon. Aloud, he said, 'It is mutual, my love. But it is war, and a King's officer has his duty.'

She seized his hand and held it to her cheek without looking at him.

'Oh, stuff, Thomas! You are talking with me now, not one of your sailors!'

He bent over her, feeling awkward and protective at the same time. `You will take good care when we are away, Dulcie.'

She nodded firmly. `I will attend to everything. I shall see that your sister is provided for until her marriage. We shall have a lot to talk about until you return.' She faltered. `When may that be?'

Herrick's head had been so much in a turmoil with his new

command and his unexpected marriage that he had not thought much beyond sailing his ship from Plymouth to Spithead and assembling the little squadron together.

'It will be north, I believe. May take a few months.' He squeezed her hand gently. `Never fear, Dulcie, with our Dick's flag at the masthead we'll be in good hands.'

A voice yelled overhead, 'Secure the upper deck! Side party to muster!'

Calls shrilled like lost spirits between the decks and feet thudded on the planking as marines bustled from their quarters

to fall in at the entry port.

There was a sharp rap at the door and Midshipman Aggett, his wind-reddened eyes fixed on a half-eaten cake on the table, reported breathlessly, 'First lieutenant's respects, sir, and the barge has just shoved off from the sallyport.'

`Very well. I will come up.'

Herrick waited for the youth to leave and said, 'Now we will

know, my dear.'

He took his sword from its rack and clipped it to his belt. She stood up and walked across the cabin to adjust his neck

cloth and pat his white-lapelled coat into place.

`Dear Thomas. I'm so very proud of you.'

Herrick was not a tall man, but as he left the cabin to meet his admiral he felt like a giant.

Unaware of what was happening in his flagship, or indeed the whole squadron, Richard Bolitho sat very upright in the barge's sternsheets and watched the anchored vessels growing larger with each stroke of the oars.

He had recognized several of his old bargemen from the Lysander as he had stepped aboard, back at sea again probably without even a sight of their homes and families.

Allday sat near him, his eyes everywhere as he watched the white-painted oars rising and falling like polished bones. A lieutenant no less was in charge of the boat, Benbow's most junior officer, and he seemed as much ill at ease under Allday's scrutiny as he did in his admiral's company.

Bolitho was wrapped completely in his boat-cloak, with even his hat held firmly beneath it to prevent it from being whipped into the sea.

He watched the leading two-decker, recalling what he knew of her as she took on form and substance through the blown spray.

A third-rate, the strength in any sea fight, she was slightly larger than Lysander. She looked very splendid, he thought, and guessed that Herrick must be equally impressed. He saw the figurehead standing out as if to signal the barge with its raised sword. Vice-Admiral Sir John Benbow, who had died in 1702 after losing a leg by chain-shot. But not before he had lived to see the execution of his captains who had deserted him in battle. It was a fine figurehead, much as the dead admiral must have been. Grave-eyed, with flowing hair, and wearing a shining breastplate of the period. It had been carved by old Izod Lambe of Plymouth, who although said to be nearly blind was still one of the finest in his trade.

How many times he had wanted to go across from Falmouth to see Herrick in the final stages of getting his ship ready for sea. But Herrick might have taken it as lack of trust in his ability. Bolitho more than once had been made to accept that a ship was no longer his direct concern. Like his flag, he was above it. He felt a shiver lance up his spine as he studied the other members of his squadron. Four ships of the line, two frigates and a sloop of war. In all nearly three thousand officers, seamen and marines, and everything which that implied.

The squadron might be new, but many of the faces would be friends. He thought of Keverne and Inch, Neale and Keen, and of the sloop's new commander, Matthew Veitch. He had been Herrick's first lieutenant. Admiral Sir George Beauchamp had kept his word, now it was up to him to do his part.

With men he knew and trusted, who had shared and done so much together.

He smiled in spite of his excitement as he thought of his new flag lieutenant when he had tried to tell him his feelings.

The lieutenant had said, `You make it sound exclusive, sir. As the bard would have it. We happy few.'

Perhaps he had been truer than he had understood.

The barge turned, swaying over a trough, as the lieutenant headed towards the flagship's glistening side.

There they all were. Red coats and cross-belts, the blue and white of the officers, the mass of seamen beyond. Above them all, towering as if to control and embrace them, the three great masts and yards, the mass of shrouds, stays and rigging which were incomprehensible to any landsman but represented the speed and agility of any ship. Benbow, by any standard, was something to be reckoned with.

The oars rose as one while the bowman hooked on to the main chains.

Bolitho handed his cloak to Allday and jammed his hat firmly athwartships across his head.

Everything had gone very quiet, and apart from the surge of the tide between the ship and the swaying barge it seemed almost peaceful.

Allday was standing, too, and had removed his hat while he watched and waited to lend a hand should Bolitho miss his footing.

Then Bolitho stepped out and upwards and hauled himself swiftly towards the entry port.

He was aware of the sudden bark of orders, the slap and stamp of marines presenting arms simultaneously with the fifers breaking into Heart o f Oak.

Faces, blurred and vague, loomed to meet him as he stepped on to the deck, and as the calls shrilled and died in salute, Bolitho removed his hat to the quarterdeck and to the ship's captain as he strode to greet him.

Herrick removed his hat 'and swallowed hard. 'Welcome aboard, sir.'

They both stared up as some halliards were jerked taut by the signal party.

There it was, a symbol and a statement, Bolitho's own flag streaming from the mizzen like a banner.

The nearest onlookers would have watched for some extra sign as the youthful-looking rear-admiral replaced his hat and shook hands with their captain.

But that was all they saw, for what Bolitho.and Herrick shared at that moment was invisible but to each other.

By dawn the following day the wind had backed considerably, and once again the Solent was alive with angry wavecrests. Aboard the flagship, and all the rest of Bolitho's small squadron, the motion was uncomfortable as each vessel tugged at her anchor as if determined to drive aground.

When the first dull light gave colour to the glistening ships, Bolitho sat in his stern cabin re-reading his carefully worded instructions and trying at the same time to detach his mind from the sounds of a ship preparing for a new day. He knew Herrick had been on deck since dawn, and that if he went up to join him it would only hamper the business of getting Benbow and the rest of his command ready to weigh.

It could be bad enough at any. time. War had left severe shortages of ships, material and experience. But most of all trained seamen. In a new ship, as part of a freshly formed squadron, it must seem even worse to Bolitho's captains and their officers.

And Bolitho needed to go on deck. To clear his mind, to get the feel of his ships, to be part of the whole.

Ozzard peered in at him and then padded across the deck with its covering of black and white chequered canvas to pour some more strong coffee.

Bolitho had not got to know his servant much more than when they had first met aboard Herrick's Lysander in the Mediterranean. Even in his neat blue jacket and striped trousers he still looked more like a lawyer's clerk than any seafarer. It was said he had only escaped the gallows by running to hide in the fleet, but he had proved his worth in loyalty and a kind of withdrawn understanding.

He had shown the other side of his knowledge when Bolitho had taken him to the house in Falmouth. Laws and taxes were becoming more complicated with each new year of war, and Ferguson, Bolitho's one-armed steward, had admitted that the accounts had never looked better than after Ozzard's attention.

The marine sentry beyond the screen door rapped his musket on the deck and called, `Your clerk, sir!'

Ozzard flitted to the door to admit Bolitho's new addition, Daniel Yovell. He was a jolly, red-faced man with a broad Devon dialect, more like a farmer than a ship's clerk. But his handwriting, round like the man, was good, and he had been quite tireless while Bolitho had been preparing to take over the squadron.

He laid some papers on the table and stared unseeingly at the thick glass windows. Dappled with salt and flying spray, they made the other ships look like phantoms, shivering and without reality.

Bolitho leafed through the papers. Ships and men, guns and powder, food and stores to sustain them for weeks and months if need be.

Yovell said carefully, `Your flag lieutenant be on board, zur. He come off shore in the jolly boat.' He concealed a grin. `He had to change into something dry afore he came aft.' It seemed to amuse him.

Bolitho leaned back in his chair and stared up at the deckhead. It took so much paper to get a squadron on the move. Tackles rasped over the poop and blocks clattered in time with running feet. Despairing petty officers whispered hoarse curses and threats, no doubt very aware of the skylight above their admiral's cabin.

The other door opened noiselessly and Bolitho's flag lieutenant stepped lightly over the coaming. Only a certain dampness to his brown hair betrayed his rough crossing from Portsmouth Point, for as usual he was impeccably dressed.

He was twenty-six years old, with deceptively mild eyes and an expression which varied somewhere between blank and slightly bemused.

Lieutenant the Honourable Oliver Browne, whom Admiral Beauchamp had asked Bolitho to take off his hands as a favour, had all the aristocratic good looks of comfortable living and breeding he was not me sort or omcer you would expect to find sharing the hardships of a man-of-war.

Yovell bobbed his head. ''Morning, zur. I have written in your name for the wardroom's accounts.'

The flag lieutenant peered at the ledger and said quietly, 'Browne. With an "e".'

Bolitho smiled. 'Have some coffee.' He watched Browne lay his despatch bag on the table and added, 'Nothing new?'

'No, sir. You may proceed to sea when ready. There are no signals from the Admiralty.' He sat down carefully. 'I wish it were to be a warmer climate.'

Bolitho nodded. His instructions were to take his squadron some five hundred miles to the north-western coast of Denmark and there rendezvous with that part of the Channel Fleet which patrolled the approaches to the Baltic in all weathers under every condition. Once in contact with the admiral in command he would receive further orders. It was to be hoped he would have time to whip his squadron into shape before he met with his superior, he thought.

He wondered what most of his officers were thinking about it. Much like Browne probably, except that they had cause to grumble. Most of them had been in the Mediterranean or adjacent waters for years. They would find Denmark and the Baltic a bitter exchange.