Inshore Squadron (31 page)

Herrick, his hat gone, a pistol gripped in his hand, peered through the smoke and shouted, “Two more of 'em are closing astern!”

There was a great crash, and Grubb yelled hoarsely, “Steerin' carried away, sir!”

A wildly flapping shadow swept overhead, and Bolitho felt himself being dragged roughly aside as the mizzen-topmast, spars and trailing creepers of cut rigging clattered and thundered over the larboard side.

It was like being left naked. Guns crashed and recoiled as before, but as
Benbow
swung helplessly out of control the aim was lost. Men lay buried beneath great coils of fallen rope and blocks, others crept about on hands and knees like terrified dogs. There were many dead, too, including the marine lieutenant, Marston; an overturned cannon had crushed his chest and stomach to bloody pulp.

Swale, the boatswain, was already there with his men, axes flashing, more concerned with freeing their ship from the trailing anchor of wreckage than with their fallen comrades.

Herrick assisted Bolitho to his feet, his eyes wild as he shouted at his first lieutenant.

“Send a master's mate below, Mr Wolfe! Rig emergency steering tackle!”

Bolitho nodded to Allday who had pulled him away from the splintered topmast as it fell.

Major Clinton at the head of some marines charged aft and up to the poop to reinforce his men there as four and then five galleys closed around the
Benbow
's unprotected stern. Again and again the deck jumped and quivered as ball after ball slammed through the counter and quarter gallery, against which the crack of Clinton's muskets sounded puny and useless.

A swivel blasted canister from the maintop, and Bolitho realised that the first Danish ship, which had been totally disabled by
Benbow
's broadsides, had drifted down towards them and was barely fifty yards away. Shots banged back and forth across the narrowing arrowhead of water, and marksmen joined in to try and seek their enemy's officers and add further to the confusion and death.

The midshipman named Keys staggered and toppled sideways, but Allday caught him before he hit the deck.

He stared past Allday at Bolitho, his eyes glazing rapidly as he managed to whisper, “Number . . . sixteen . . . still . . . flies . . . sir!” Then he died.

Bolitho looked up blindly, seeing another midshipman swarming up the main-topgallant mast with his rear-admiral's flag trailing behind him like a banner.

Wolfe jumped back as the last of the mizzen's severed rigging slithered across the deck and vanished over the side.

But he pivoted round again as Major Clinton shouted, “They're boarding us, sir!”

Herrick waved his pistol, but Bolitho shouted, “Save your ship, Thomas!” Then he beckoned to the gun crews at the disengaged side and added, “With me, Benbows!”

Whooping and yelling like demented beings they charged through the poop and down the companion, half of which had been reduced to splinters. Steel clashed on steel, and in the semi-darkness men staggered and reeled through the smoke, cutlasses and boarding axes painting the deckhead and timbers in shining patterns of blood.

A pistol banged out, and through the wardroom's shattered stern windows Bolitho saw men leaping up from the galleys which were hooking on to the counter and fighting their way inboard. Many fell to Clinton's muskets, but still more appeared, yelling and cursing as they grappled with
Benbow
's seamen. Even in the cruel madness of battle they would be well aware that the only way to stay alive now was to win.

Lieutenant Oughton aimed his pistol at a Danish officer, pulled the trigger and gaped at the weapon in horror as it misfired.

The Danish officer parried a sailor's cutlass aside and drove his blade through Oughton's stomach once, and then again, before he had time to cry out.

As Oughton fell the Danish officer saw Bolitho, his eyes widening as in those brief seconds he took in his rank and authority.

Bolitho felt the man's blade slide across his own, saw the Dane's first determination give way to desperation as the hilts locked and Bolitho twisted his wrist as he had done so often in the past.

But as he took the weight on his wounded leg it seemed to weaken under him, the pain making him gasp as he lost the advantage and fell back against the press of men behind him.

Allday's great cutlass flashed across his vision and sank into the officer's forehead like an axe into a log. Allday wrenched it free and swung again at a man who was trying to duck past him. The man screamed and fell, trodden instantly underfoot as the hacking, gasping men fought savagely to hold their ground.

Then it was done, the surviving boarders running to the broken stern to climb back to their galleys or to drop into the sea to escape the reddened cutlasses and pikes.

Wolfe appeared, his face like stone as he stared at the corpses and the glittering runnels of blood.

“We are almost alongside the enemy, sir!”

He saw a man's hand creeping from the shadows to retrieve a fallen pistol. One great foot pinioned the man's wrist to the deck, and with almost contemptuous ease Wolfe struck down with his hanger, cutting off the scream almost before it had begun.

Bolitho gasped, “Leave some spare hands here!”

He heard Allday hurrying after him to the companion, saw the most forward gun crews fading into deeper shadow as the drifting enemy floated slowly alongside. But they continued to fire, cheering and swearing, aware of nothing but the pockmarked hull opposite their muzzles. Men lay dead and dying around the guns but only the other ship seemed to mean anything. Deafened, half-blinded, sickened by the stench of killing, it was likely that some of them had not even noticed the attempt to board their ship from astern.

Bolitho walked across the shot-pitted quarterdeck, his eyes fixed on the enemy. Men fired muskets, swivels and pistols, while others, driven almost mad, stood and shook their cutlasses and pikes at the Danes.

Herrick had one hand inside his coat and there was blood on his wrist.

Browne was on his knees bandaging Acting Lieutenant Aggett's leg which had been laid open by a wood splinter.

“Repel boarders!”

With a grinding shudder the two hulls came together in a powerful embrace, yards and rigging snared, gun muzzles overlapping and grating as they continued to drift helplessly downwind.

Clinton waved his stick. “At 'em, marines!”

The red-coated marines ran to the attack, bayonets probing and stabbing through the nets as the first Danish seamen attempted to cut their way through.

Men fell screaming between the hulls, human fenders as the ships rocked and ground together on the swell. Others tried to get away, to be trodden down by their companions or shot in the back in sight of safety.

A pike jabbed through the nets and narrowly missed Allday's chest. Browne parried it away and slashed the attacker across the face before despatching him with a full thrust.

Like survivors on a rock, Grubb and his helmsmen stood clustered around the useless wheel, firing pistols at the figures on the enemy's poop and gangway while their wounded companions reloaded for them as best they could.

Pascoe came running aft with the carronade crews, his hanger flashing dully through the smoke.

Then he skidded to a halt, his feet and legs splattered with blood, as he shouted, “Sir!
Indomitable
's signalling!”

Herrick swore savagely and fired his remaining pistol at a man's head below the nettings.

“Signals? God dammit, we've no time for
them!
”

Browne wiped his mouth and lowered his sword. Then he said hoarsely, “
Indomitable
's repeating a signal from the fleet.
Discontinue the engagement!
Number thirty-nine, sir!”

Bolitho stared past the
Indomitable
's battered hull and trailing shrouds. A frigate, one of Nelson's, was standing far beyond the smoke like an intruder, the signal still flapping to the wind.

“Cease firing!”

Wolfe pointed his hanger at the ship alongside as one by one the Danish seamen dropped their weapons and stood like stricken creatures, knowing that for them it was all over.

Herrick said, “Take charge of our prize, Mr Wolfe!” He turned to look at the ships and at the galleys which even now were fading away into the smoke to seek refuge in their harbour.

The sea was littered with flotsam and broken timber of every sort. Men, friend and enemy alike, clung together for mutual support and awaited rescue, too beaten and shocked to care much who had won. There were many corpses, too, and Inch's
Odin
was so deep by the bows that she looked as if she might capsize at any moment.

Only the
Styx
seemed unmarked, distance hiding her hurt and scars as she shortened sail to search amongst the debris of battle.

Bolitho put his arm round his nephew's shoulder and asked, “D'you still want a frigate, Adam?”

But the reply was lost in a growing wave of cheering, wilder and louder as it spread from ship to ship, with even the wounded croaking at the sky, grateful to be alive, to have come through it once more, or for the first dreadful time.

Herrick picked up his hat and banged it against his knee. Then he put it on his head and said quietly, “
Benbow
's a good ship. I'm
proud
of her!”

Bolitho smiled at his friend, feeling the tiredness and the pain as he glanced at the grinning, smoke-blackened faces around him.

“
Men,
not ships, you once said, Thomas. Remember?”

Grubb blew his nose and then said, “Rudder's answerin', sir!”

Bolitho looked at Browne. It had been a near thing. Even now he was not certain how it might have ended had the frigate not appeared. Perhaps the English and the Danes were too much alike to fight. If so, there would have been no man alive by nightfall.

Browne asked huskily, “Signal, sir?”

“Aye. General signal.
Squadron to form line ahead and astern of flagship as convenient.
”

The flag for close action rippled down from the yard, and as it was removed from the halliards Allday took it and laid it across the face of the dead midshipman.

Bolitho watched and then said quietly, “We will rejoin the fleet, Captain Herrick.”

They looked at each other. Bolitho, Herrick, Pascoe and Allday. Each had had something to sustain him throughout the battle. And this time there was something to hope for in the future.

Even if the weather remained kind to the mauled and bloodied squadron there was much to be done. Friends to be contacted, the dead to be buried, the ships to be made safe for the passage home.

But for this one precious moment, this escape from hell, a new hope would suffice.

E
PILOGUE

T
HE OPEN
carriage paused at the top of a rise while the horses regained their breath and the dust settled around them.

Bolitho removed his cocked hat and allowed the June sunlight to play across his face, his ear picking up the many sounds of insects in the hedgerows, the distant lowing of cattle, the voices of the countryside.

By his side Adam Pascoe stared ahead towards the rooftops of Falmouth, the glassy reflection of Carrick Roads beyond. On the opposite seat, his feet planted firmly on several sea-chests, Allday glanced contentedly around him, lost in his own thoughts and the moment of peace after the jolting ride from Plymouth.

The journey over moorland and past isolated farmsteads and small hamlets had been like a cleansing, Bolitho thought. After all the weeks and months, and those final devastating broadsides before Nelson had ordered a ceasefire and had declared a truce, the Cornish landscape had affected Bolitho and his companions deeply.

Now,
Benbow
was anchored at Plymouth with the other scarred survivors of the Inshore Squadron. With the exception of Inch's
Odin,
which because of her severe underwater damage had only just managed to reach the safety of the Nore.

Two months since they had watched the crimson galleys returning to harbour like guilty assassins, and now it was difficult to believe any of it had happened.

The green hills, the sheep dotting their slopes, the slow comings and goings of farm waggons and carriers' carts were far removed from the discipline and suffering of a man-of-war.

Only the marked absence of young men in the villages and fields gave a hint of war, otherwise it was as Bolitho had always remembered, had clung to when he had been in far-off places and on other seas.

The Battle of Copenhagen, as it was now being called, was hailed as a great victory. By their determined action the British squadrons had immobilized Denmark completely, and Tsar Paul's hopes of a powerful alliance had been smashed.

Against that, the price had been equally impressive, although far less remarked upon in press and Parliament. The British had lost more men dead and wounded than at the Nile. The Danes' total casualties in killed, wounded and taken prisoner, quite apart from the destruction or capture of their ships, were three times as great.

Bolitho thought of the faces he would not see again. Veitch, who had gone down in his sloop-of-war
Lookout,
Keverne, killed in the last stages of the fight aboard his
Indomitable.
Peel of the
Relentless,
and so many more beside.

And now, while Herrick, soon to be joined at Plymouth by his wife, dealt with the damage to his own command, Bolitho and his nephew had come home.

The carriage started to move once more, downhill this time, the horses nodding their heads together as if aware that food and rest were drawing closer with each turn of the wheels.

Bolitho thought of Lieutenant Browne. After obtaining this carriage for the journey to Falmouth he had made his own way to London. Bolitho had made it perfectly clear to him. If he wished to return to his service when the
Benbow
was put back in commission he would be more than welcome. But if he chose another life in London, using his talents to better effect, that, too, Bolitho would understand. After such a baptism of fire and death, he doubted if Browne's view of daily life would ever be the same again.

Two farm workers, spades over their shoulders, doffed their hats as the carriage rolled past.

Bolitho smiled gravely. The word would soon be round, the grey house on the headland would have lights in the windows tonight. A Bolitho was back again.

Pascoe said suddenly, “I never thought to see this place again, Uncle.”

He said it so forcefully that Bolitho was moved.

He answered, “I know that feeling, Adam.” He touched his arm. “We shall make the most of this stay.”

They spoke little for the last part of the journey. Bolitho felt unsettled, vaguely apprehensive as the wheels clattered on to the hard cobbles of the town.

He looked for familiar faces as they turned to watch the two sea officers being carried through the square. One so young, the other with the bright epaulettes on his shoulders.

A girl, shaking a tablecloth from an inn door, saw Allday and waved to him. Bolitho smiled. Allday at least was recognized, and welcome.

The road narrowed into a lane, lined on either side by mossy flint walls. Flowers barely moved in the warm air, and the grey house appeared to rise from the ground itself as the horses pounded up the last stretch towards the open gates.

Bolitho licked his lips as he saw Ferguson, his one-armed steward, running to meet the carriage, his wife close behind him, already crying with pleasure.

He steeled himself. The first moments were always the hardest, in spite of the warm welcome and good intentions.

“Home, Adam. Yours and mine.”

The youth looked at him searchingly, his eyes bright. “I want to talk about it, Uncle. All of it. After losing
Relentless
I don't think I shall ever be so afraid again.”

Allday waved to some people by the gates, his face split into a grin. But he sounded serious as he said, “I still think it's wrong and damn unfair, sir, an' nothing will make me change my mind!”

Bolitho watched him wearily. “Why so?” He already knew, but it was better to let Allday get it out of his system so that he could enjoy their homecoming in his own way.

Allday gripped the door as the carriage swung round towards the stone steps.

“All them others, sir, getting the glory and the praise. But for you they'd have been wallowing in their own guts long since! You should have got a
knighthood,
an' that's no error!”

He looked at Pascoe for support. “Ain't that right?”

Then he saw Pascoe's expression and turned his head towards the doorway at the top of the steps.

Bolitho held his breath, barely able to trust his own senses.

She stood motionless, her slim figure and long chestnut hair framed against the house's inner darkness, one hand held out towards him as if to consume the last few yards.

Bolitho said quietly, “Thank you, Allday, old friend, but now I know I have won a far greater reward.”

He climbed from the carriage and took her in his arms. Then, watched in silence by Pascoe and Allday, they walked into the house. Together.