Authors: Alexander Kent
He glanced round the small cabin, where they had had so many discussions, made plans, celebrated battles and birthdays with equal enthusiasm. He looked at the great tubs of oranges and lemons which filled most of the available space.
Phaedra
had run down on a Genoese trader just before the sea-mist had enveloped them.
They were short of water, desperately so, but the mass of fresh fruit which Dunstan had
commandeered,
as he had put it, had tilted the balance for the moment.
Dunstan glanced up from the chart and smiled. “Smells like Bridport on market day, don't it?”
His shirt was crumpled and stained, but better that than have the ship's company believe that water rationing did not apply to the officers as well.
Dunstan tapped the chart with his dividers. “Another day, and I shall have to come about. We are sorely needed with the squadron. Besides, Captain Sinclair will have an alternative rendezvous. But for this mist, I'd wager we would have sighted his ship days ago.”
Meheux asked, “Do you know him?”
Dunstan lowered his head to peer more closely at his calculations. “I know
of
him.”
The lieutenant smiled to himself. Dunstan was in command. He would go no further in discussing another captain. Even with his cousin.
Dunstan leaned back and ruffled his wild auburn hair. “God, I itch like a poxed-up whore!” He grinned. “I think Sir Richard intends to join the fleet under Nelson. Though he will take all the blame if the French outpace him and slip back into port in these waters.”
He reached under the table and then produced a decanter of claret. “Better than water anyway.” He poured two large glasses. “I'll bet that our vice-admiral will be in enough hot water as it is! God damn it, any man who can accept the wrath of Admiralty and that of the dandified Inspector General must be made of stern stuff.”
“What was he like as a captain?”
Dunstan looked at him, his eyes distant. “Brave, courteous. No conceit.”
“You liked him?”
Dunstan swallowed the claret; the casual question had slipped through his guard.
“I worshipped the deck he walked on. All of us in the gun-room did, I believe.” He shook his head. “I'd stand beside him any day.”
There was a tap at the door and a midshipman, dressed in an even grubbier shirt than his captain's, peered in at them.
“The second lieutenant's respects, sir, and he thinks the mist may be clearing.”
They looked up as the deck quivered very slightly, and the hull murmured a gentle protest at being disturbed again.
“By God, the wind
is
returning.” Dunstan's eyes gleamed. “My compliments to the second lieutenant, Mr Valliant. I shall come up presently.” As the boy left he winked at Meheux. “With a name like his he should go far in the navy!”
Dunstan held up the decanter and grimaced. It was almost empty.
He remarked, “It will be a drier ship than usual, I fear.” Then he became serious again. “Now this is what I intendâ”
Meheux stared at the decanter as the glass stopper rattled for several seconds.
Their eyes met. Meheux said, “Thunder?”
Dunstan was groping for his shabby hat. “Not this time, by God. That came from iron guns, my friend!”
He slipped his arms into his coat and climbed up the companion ladder to the deck.
He glanced through the drifting mist, seeing his seamen standing and listening. Such a small vessel, yet so many men, he thought vaguely. He tensed as the booming roar sighed through the mist and imagined he could feel the sullen vibration against the hull. Faces had turned aft towards him. Instantly he remembered Bolitho, when they had all stared at him as if expecting salvation and understanding, because he had been their captain.
Dunstan tucked one hand into his old seagoing coat with the tarnished buttons.
I am ready. Now they look to me.
Meheux was the first to speak.
“Shall we stand away until we are sure what is happening, sir?”
He did not reply directly. “Call all hands. Have the people lay aft.”
They came running to the pipe, and when they were all packed from side to side, with some clinging to the mizzen shrouds and on the upturned cutter, Meheux touched his hat, his eyes curious.
“Lower deck cleared, sir.”
Dunstan said, “In a moment we shall clear for action. No fuss, no beat of a drum. Not this time. You will go to quarters in the manner you have learned so well.” He looked at those nearest him, youngsters like their officers, grizzled old hands such as the boatswain and the carpenter. Faces he had taught himself to know and recognise, so that he could call any one of them by name even in pitch darkness. At any other time the thought would have made him smile. For it was often said that his hero Nelson had the same knack of knowing his people, even now that he had reached flag rank.
But he did not smile. “Listen!” The booming roar echoed through the mist. Each man would hear it differently. Ships at war, or the sound of enraged surf on a reef. Thunder across the hills in a home land which had produced most of these men.
“I intend to continue on this tack.” His eyes moved over them. “One of those ships must be a friend. We shall carry word of our finding to Sir Richard Bolitho and the squadron.”
A solitary voice raised a cheer and Dunstan gave a broad grin. “So stand-to, my lads, and God be with you all!”
He stood back to watch as they scattered to their various stations, while the boatswain and his own party broke out the chain slings and nets for the yards to offer some protection to the gun crews should the worst happen.
Dunstan said quietly, “I think we may have found
La Mouette.
” He kept the other thought to himself. That he hoped Sinclair was as ready for a fight as he was with the lash.
The thuds of screens being taken down, stores and personal belongings being lowered to the orlop deck, helped to muffle the occasional sound of distant thunder.
Lieutenant Meheux touched his hat and reported, “Cleared for action, sir.”
Dunstan nodded and again recalled Bolitho. “Ten minutes this time. They take fairly to their work.” But the mood eluded him and he smiled. “Well done, Josh!”
The sails billowed out loudly, like giants puffing their chests. The deck canted over and Dunstan said, “Bring her up a point! Steer nor'-nor'-west!”
He saw Meheux clipping on his hanger and said, “The people are feeling this.” He looked at the crouching gun crews, the ship's boys with their buckets of sand, the others at the braces or with their fingers gripping the ratlines, ready to dash aloft when the order was piped to make more sail.
Dunstan made up his mind. “Load if you please, Iâ”
There was a great chorus of shouts and Dunstan stared as the mist lifted and swirled to one violent explosion.
He said sharply, “
Load,
Mr Meheux! Keep their minds in your grasp!”
Each gun captain faced aft and raised his fist.
“All loaded, sir!”
They looked aloft as the mist faded more swiftly and laid bare the rippling ensign above the gaff.
Dunstan plucked his chin. “We are ready this time anyway.”
All eyes turned forward as the mist lost its greyness. Something like a fireball exploded through it, the sound going on and on until eventually lost in the beat of canvas, the sluice of water alongside.
“Ship on the starboard bow, sir!”
Dunstan snatched a glass. “Get aloft, Josh. I need your eyes up there today.”
As the first lieutenant swarmed up the mainmast shrouds a warning cry came from the forecastle.
“Wreckage ahead!”
The master's mate of the watch threw his weight onto the wheel with that of the two helmsmen but Dunstan yelled, “Belay that! Steady as you go!” He made himself walk to the side as what appeared to be a giant tusk loomed off the bow. It was always best to meet it head on, he thought grimly.
Phaedra
did not have the timbers of a liner, nor even a frigate. That great pitching spar might have crashed right through the lower hull like a ram.
He watched the severed mast pass down the side, torn shrouds and blackened canvas trailing behind it like foul weed. There were corpses too. Men trapped by the rigging, their faces staring through the lapping water, or their blood surrounding them like pink mist.
Dunstan heard a boatswain's mate bite back a sob as he stared at one of the bobbing corpses. It wore the same blue jacket with white piping as himself.
There was no more doubt as to who had lost the fight.
Some of the small waves crumpled over as the rising wind felt its way across the surface.
Dunstan watched the mist drawing clear, further and further, leaving the sea empty once again. He stiffened as more shouts came from forward.
Something long and dark which barely rose above the uneasy water. There was much weed on it. One of the vessels which should have been released for a much needed overhaul. Surrounded by giant bubbles and a great litter of flotsam and charred remains, it was a ship's keel.
Dunstan said, “Up another point. Hands aloft, Mr Faulkner! As fast as you like!”
High above it all, Lieutenant Meheux clung to the main crosstrees beside the lookout and watched the mist rolling away before him. He saw the other ship's topgallant masts and braced yards, and then as the mist continued to outpace the thrust of the sails, the forepart of the hull and her gilded figurehead.
He slid down a backstay and reached Dunstan in seconds.
Dunstan nodded very slowly. “We both remember
that
ship, Josh. She's
Consortâ
in hell's name I'd know her anywhere!”
He raised his telescope and studied the other vessel as more sails broke to the wind, and her shining hull seemed to shorten while she leaned over on a fresh tack. Towards
Phaedra.
The midshipman was pointing wildly. “Sir! There are men in the water!” He was almost weeping. “Our people!”
Dunstan moved the glass until he saw the thrashing figures, some clinging to pieces of timber, others trying to hold their comrades afloat.
Dunstan climbed into the shrouds and twisted his leg around the tarred cordage to hold himself steady.
The masthead lookout yelled, “Ships to the nor'-east!”
But Dunstan had already seen them. With the mist gone, the horizon was sharp and bright; it reminded him of a naked sword.
Someone was shouting, “It'll be th' squadron! Come on, lads! Kill them buggers!”
Others started to cheer, their voices broken as they watched the survivors from
La Mouette.
Men like themselves. The same dialects, the same uniforms.
Dunstan watched the ships on the horizon until his eye ached. He had seen the red and yellow barricades around their fighting-tops in the powerful lens, something the lookout had not yet recognised.
He lowered the glass and looked sadly at the midshipman. “We must leave those poor devils to die, Mr Valliant.” He ignored the boy's horrified face. “Josh, we will come about and make all haste to find Sir Richard.”
Meheux waited, dazed by the swiftness of disaster.
His captain gestured towards the horizon. “The Dons are coming. A whole bloody squadron of them.”
The air cringed as a shot echoed across the sea. The frigate had fired a ranging ball from one of her bow-chasers. The next oneâ
Dunstan cupped his hands. “Hands aloft! Man the braces! Stand by to come about!” He bit his lip as another ball slammed down and threw up a waterspout as high as the topsail yard. Men ran to obey, and as the yards swung round,
Phaedra
's lee bulwark appeared to dip beneath the water.
Another shot pursued her as the frigate made more sail, her yards alive with men.
Meheux was waving to his topmen with the speaking trumpet. He shouted breathlessly, “If they reach our squadron before we can warn themâ”
Dunstan folded his arms and waited for the next fall of shot. Any one of those nine-pounders could cripple his command, slow her down until she reeled beneath a full broadside as Sinclair had.
“I think it will be more than a squadron at stake, Josh.”
A ball crashed through the taffrail and seared across the deck like a furnace bar. Two men fell dead, without even uttering a cry. Dunstan watched as two others took their place.
“Run, my beauty,
run!
” He looked up at the hardening sails, the masts curving like coachmen's whips.
“Just this once, you are the most important ship in the fleet!”
17 PREPARE FOR
B
ATTLE!
C
APTAIN
Valentine Keen walked up the slanting deck and hunched his shoulders against the wind. How quickly the Mediterranean could change her face at this time of year, he thought. The sky was hidden by deep-bellied clouds, and the sea was no longer like blue silk.
He stared at the murky horizon, at the endless serried ranks of short, steep white horses. It looked hostile and without warmth. There had been some heavy rain in the night and every available man had been roused on deck to gather it in canvas scoops, even in humble buckets. A full glass, washed down with a tot of rum for all hands, seemed to have raised their spirits.
The deck heaved over again, for
Hyperion
was butting as close to the wind as she dared, her reefed topsails glinting with spray as she held station on the other ships astern.
For as Isaac Penhaligon, the master, had commented, with the wind veered again to the nor'-east, it was hard enough to dawdle until Herrick's ships joined them, without the additional problem of clawing into the wind, watch in and watch out. For if they were driven too far to the west, they would find it almost impossible to steer for Toulon should the enemy try to re-enter that harbour.
Keen pictured the chart in his mind. They were already at that point right now, another cross, a new set of bearings and the noon sights. With such poor visibility they could be miles off their estimated course.
Keen walked to the quarterdeck rail and stared along the main deck. As usual it was busy despite the weather. Trigge the sailmaker with his assistants, squatting on the deck, their needles and palms moving intricately like parts of a mill as they repaired heavy-weather canvas brought up from below.
Trigge was experienced enough to know that if they entered the Atlantic in search of the enemy, every spare sail would be needed.
Sheargold the purser, his unsmiling features set in a permanently suspicious frown, was watching as some casks of salt-beef were hoisted through another hatch. Keen did not envy anyone in that trade. Sheargold had to plan for every league sailed, each delay or sudden change of orders which might send the ship in an opposite direction without time to restock his provisions.
Hardly anybody ever felt grateful to Sheargold. It was generally believed between decks that most pursers retired rich, having won their fortunes by scrimping on the sailors' meagre rations.
Major Adams was up forward, standing at an angle on the tilting deck while he studied a squad of marines being put through their paces. How bright the scarlet coats and white crossbelts looked in the dull light, Keen thought.
He heard the boatswain, Sam Lintott, discussing the new cutter with one of his mates. The latter was the villainous-looking one named Dacie. Keen had been told of his part in the cutting-out of the Spanish treasure-ship. He could believe all that he had heard. With his eye patch, and crooked shoulder, Dacie would frighten anybody.
Lieutenant Parris approached the rail and touched his hat.
“Permission to exercise the quarterdeck guns this afternoon, sir?”
Keen nodded. “They will not thank you, Mr Parris, but I think it a good idea.”
Parris looked out to sea. “Shall we meet the French, sir?”
Keen glanced at him. Outwardly easy and forthcoming with the sailors, there was something else within the man, something he was grappling with, even in casual conversation. Getting his command? Keen did not know why he had lost it in the first place. He had heard about Haven's animosity towards him. Maybe there had been another superior officer with whom he had crossed swords.
He replied, “Sir Richard is torn between the need to watch the approaches to Toulon, and the strong possibility we will be called to support the fleet.” He thought of Bolitho in the cabin, dictating letters to Yovell or his clerk, telling young Jenour what might be expected of him if they met with the enemy. Keen had already discussed the possibility with Bolitho.
Bolitho had seemed preoccupied. “I do not have the time to call all my captains aboard. I must pray that they know me well enough to respond when I so order.”
I do not have the time.
It was uncanny. Bolitho seemed to accept it, as if a battle was inevitable.
Parris said, “I wonder if we shall see Viscount Somervell again.”
Keen stared at him. “Why should that concern you?” He softened his tone and added, “I would think he is better off away from us.”
Parris nodded. “Yes, IâI'm sorry I mentioned it, sir.” He saw the doubt in Keen's eyes. “It is nothing to do with Sir Richard's involvement.”
Keen looked away. “I should hope not.” He was angry at Parris's interest. More so with himself for his instant rush of protectiveness.
Involvement.
What everybody was probably calling it.
Keen walked to the weather side and tried to empty his mind. He took a telescope from the midshipman-of-the-watch and steadied it on the ships astern.
The three seventy-fours were somehow managing to hold their positions. The fourth, Merrye's
Capricious,
was almost invisible in spray and blown spume. She was far astern of the others, while work was continued to replace the main-topgallant mast which had carried away in a sudden squall before they could shorten sail.
He smiled. A captain's responsibility never ceased. The man who was seen by others as a kind of god, would nevertheless pace his cabin and fret about everything.
A lookout yelled, “Deck there!
Tybalt
is signallin'!”
Keen looked at the midshipman. “Up you go, Mr Furnival.
Tybalt
must have news for us.”
Later, Keen went down to the cabin and reported to Bolitho.
“
Tybalt
has the rest of the squadron in sight to the east'rd, Sir Richard.”
Bolitho glanced across his scattered papers and smiled. He looked and sounded tired.
“That is something, Val.” He gestured to a chair. “I'd ask you to join us, but you'll be needed on deck until the ships are closer.”
As he left, Sir Piers Blachford said, “A good man. I like him.” He was half-lying in one of Bolitho's chair.
The heron at rest.
Yovell gathered up his letters and the notes he would add to his various copies.
Ozzard entered to collect the empty coffee cups, while Allday, standing just inside the adjoining door, was slowly polishing the magnificent presentation sword. Bolitho's gift from the people of Falmouth for his achievements in this same sea and the events which had led up to the Battle of the Nile.
Bolitho glanced up. “Thank you, Ozzard.”
Blachford slapped one bony fist into his palm.
“Of course. I remember now. Ozzard is an unusual name, is it not?”
Allday's polishing cloth had stilled on the blade.
Blachford nodded, remembering. “Your secretary and all the letters he has to copy must have brought it back to me. My people once used the services of a scrivener down by the London docks. Unusual.”
Bolitho looked at the letter which he might complete when the others had left him. He would share his feelings with Catherine. Tell her of his uncertainty about what lay ahead. It was like speaking with her. Like the moments when they had lain together, and she had encouraged him to talk, had shared those parts of his life which were still a mystery to her.
He replied, “I've never asked him about it.”
But Blachford had not heard. “I don't know how I could have forgotten it. I was directly involved. There was the most dastardly murder done, almost opposite the scrivener's shop. How could one forget that?”
There was a crash of breaking crockery from the pantry and Bolitho half-rose from his chair.
But Allday said quickly, “I'll go. He must have fallen over.”
Blachford picked up a book he had been reading and remarked, “Not surprised in this sickening motion.”
Bolitho watched him, but there was nothing on his pointed face to suggest anything other than passing interest.
Bolitho had seen Allday's expression, had almost heard his unspoken warning.
Coincidence? There had been too many of those. Bolitho examined his feelings.
Do I want to know more?
He stood up. “I am going to take my walk.”
He could feel Blachford's eyes following him as he left the cabin.
It was not until the next day that Herrick's three ships were close enough to exchange signals.
Bolitho watched the flags soaring aloft, Jenour's unusual sharpness with the signals midshipmen, as if he understood the mood which was gripping his vice-admiral.
Bolitho held on to a stay and studied the new arrivals, the way they and his own seventy-fours lay about haphazardly under reduced canvas, as if they and not their captains were awaiting instructions.
The weather had not improved, and overnight had built the sea into a parade of steep swells. Bolitho covered his damaged eye with one hand. His skin was wet and hot, indeed like the fever which had brought him and Catherine together.
Keen crossed the slippery planking and stood beside him, his telescope tilted beneath his arm to keep the lens free of salt spray.
“The wind holds steady from the nor'-east, Sir Richard.”
“I know.” Bolitho tried not to listen to the clank of pumps. The old ship was working badly, and the pumps had continued all through the night watches. Thank God Keen knew his profession and the extent of his complete authority. Haven would have been flogging his luckless sailors by now, he thought bitterly. Hardly an hour had passed without the hands being piped aloft to make or shorten sail. Manning the pumps, lashing loose gear in the uncomfortable motionâit took patience as well as discipline to keep men from flying at each other's throats. The officers were not immune to it. Tempers flared out of all proportion if a lieutenant was just minutes late relieving his opposite number; he had heard Keen telling one of them to try and act up to the coat he wore. It was not easy for any of them.
Bolitho said, “If it gets any worse we'll not be able to put down any boats.” He studied his scattered ships.
Waiting for his lead.
He saw
Benbow
swaying steeply as she hove-to, her sails billowing and cracking, shining in the filtered glare like buckled breastplates.
Herrick was coming to see him. Face to face. It was typical of him.
Herrick's barge had to make three attempts before the bowman could hook on to the main-chains.
In the cabin the sounds faded, and only the sloping horizon, blurred by the thick glass of the stern windows, appeared to be swaying, as if to tip the weatherbeaten ships into a void.
Herrick got straight to the point.
“I wish to know what you intend.” He shook his head as Ozzard hovered nearby with a tray in his hand. “No, but thank you.” To Bolitho he added, “I'd not want to be marooned here, away from my flagship.” He glanced at the spray running down the glass. “I don't like this at all.”
Bolitho said, “No sign of
La Mouette,
Thomas?” He saw Herrick shake his head. “I sent
Phaedra
to hunt for her.”
Herrick leaned forward in his chair. “Captain Sinclair knows what he is about. He will find the squadron.”
Bolitho said, “I will use every vessel which can scout for us. It was not a criticism.”
Herrick settled back again. “I think we should stand towards Toulon. Then we shall know, one way or the other.”
Bolitho rested his hands on the table. He could feel the whole ship shivering through it, the rudder jerking against helm and wind.
“If the enemy intend to re-enter the Mediterranean, Thomas, we could lose them just as easily as Nelson lost contact when they ran to the west.” He made up his mind. “I intend to head for Gibraltar. If we still have no news we shall proceed through the Strait and join the fleet. I see no other choice.”
Herrick eyed him stubbornly. “Or we can stay here and wait. No one can blame us. We shall certainly be damned if we miss the enemy when they break through to Toulon.”
“I would blame
myself,
Thomas. My head tells me one thing, instinct directs me otherwise.”
Herrick cocked his head to listen to the pumps. “Is it that bad?”
“She will stand more of it.”
“I sent
Absolute
into harbour because she was too rotten.”
Bolitho retorted, “I could use her too, rotten or not.”
Herrick stood up and walked to the stern windows. “I should leave. I mean no disrespect, but my barge will have a hard pull as it is.”
Bolitho faced him. “
Listen to me,
Thomas. I don't care what you think about my private life, for private it is not apparently. I need your support, for fight we shall.” He clapped his hand to his heart. “I know it.”