Inshore Squadron (9 page)

Three hours later Browne returned from the ship. The
Ajax
was still at anchor and doing nothing to excite suspicion. Her captain had been seen to go ashore, probably to pay his respects to the port admiral before leaving. Equally, he might have gone to seek information about Bolitho.

That night, as Bolitho tried to accustom himself to the vastness and stillness of a large bed, he considered what Inskip had said. So much could depend on the weather as far as the Russian ships were concerned. He listened to the wind moaning around the roof-tops, and played with the idea of leaving the house without telling anyone. He would find one of the noisy taverns he had seen, lose himself in the crowd, just for a precious hour or so.

He must have fallen asleep, for the next thing he knew was that Inskip, looking like a goblin in a long sleeping cap, was shaking his arm, while lanterns and candles bobbed into the room from what appeared to be a crowded passageway.

“What is it?”

He saw Allday, grim-faced and watchful, as if expecting a surprise attack, and Ozzard dragging the chest across the floor like a wrecker with a prize.

Inskip snapped, “I have just had word. The Frenchman has weighed, though God knows how well he will do. It is snowing like the devil!”

Bolitho was on his feet, groping for a shirt, as Inskip added soberly, “A schooner brought worse news. Several British ships have been taken by the Russians. Now, whatever the Danes want, they will be forced into a war.”

Browne pushed through the footmen and servants. Surprisingly, he was fully dressed.

Bolitho shouted, “Fetch a carriage!”

Browne replied calmly, “I heard the news, sir. I've already got one. It's waiting below.”

Inskip stood between Bolitho and the frantic Ozzard.

“You know the rules. You must not sail until a day has passed.”

Bolitho looked at him gravely. “Where will the British merchantmen be held, sir?”

Inskip was taken off guard. “The island of Gotland, I'm told.”

Bolitho sat on the bed and jammed his feet into his shoes.

“I'm going after them, sir, not back to my squadron. And as for the rules, well, I've often found them to be like orders.” He touched Inskip's arm impetuously. “They have to be molded to the requirements of the moment!”

As they bundled into the carriage and the wheels moved sound-lessly over a thickening carpet of snow, Browne said, “I'll lay odds that the Frenchman knows about the British ships, too, sir. He'll cut them out without anyone raising a finger to stop him.”

Bolitho settled back against the seat and composed his thoughts. “Except us, Mr Browne. Except the
Styx.
”

5
T
RUST

B
OLITHO
gripped the quarterdeck rail and peered along the frigate's upper deck, his eyes slitted against the snow and bitter air.

It was a weird, unnatural scene, with the rigging and guns glistening in snow, while seamen slithered and blundered from one task to another like cripples.

He tried to plan clearly, to compress his thoughts on what might lie ahead. But from the moment they had weighed anchor and the first excitement of slipping out of harbour in a snow squall, the weather had defied even the power of thought.

They had been at sea for twelve hours, and by rights it should be daylight. But as they had fought their way south-east, battered and harried by a strong wind from the coast of Sweden, their movements had become jerky, their actions taking longer and longer with each change of watch.

And all the while the blizzard had swept down through shrouds and running rigging, until time and distance had shrunk to the width and length of their ship.

It was all Bolitho could do to prevent his teeth from chattering uncontrollably, and despite his thick boat-cloak he was chilled to the marrow. He had watched the wretched lookouts being relieved from the masthead after less than an hour's duty, and even then they had barely been able to clamber down to safety.

And suppose it was all wasted? The thought grew stronger with each reeling mile, and Bolitho supposed every man aboard was cursing his name as the day dragged on. Or suppose the Frenchman had gone elsewhere? He might even now be running under Herrick's guns, or heading somewhere else entirely.

Captain Neale staggered across the quarterdeck, his chubby features glowing with cold.

He said, “May I suggest you go below, sir? The people know you are aboard. They'll also know you're with them whatever happens.”

Bolitho shuddered and watched the spray surging over the beakhead to freeze like jewels on the nettings. Neale had ordered the lee gunports to be opened. Water trapped long enough to freeze in the scuppers had been known to build up so rapidly it could capsize a vessel far larger than a frigate.

He asked, “Where are we now?”

The master
assures
me that the island of Bornholm is on the lee bow, some five miles distant.” Neale wiped his streaming face with his fingers. “I have to take his word, sir, for we could be
anywhere,
as far as I am concerned!”

Neale turned as his first lieutenant hurried towards him, and Bolitho called, “Don't worry about me, Captain Neale. If nothing else, this wind is keeping my head clear!”

He thought of the swift departure from Copenhagen, and wondered if anyone had seen them weigh. He doubted it. But when daylight arrived there would be a few awkward questions for Mr Inskip to answer.

Browne had been as blunt as he had dared. “I think you are wrong to chase the Frenchman, sir. You are sending
Styx,
that is enough. Captain Neale knows the risks, and you might be able to save his name if things go wrong. But if you are with him, who will save
you?
”

Sometime later, as
Styx
had tacked violently clear of the Swedish mainland, Bolitho had heard Pascoe speaking to the flag lieutenant in an angry whisper.

“You don't understand! The admiral has been in far worse situations! He's always managed to fight out of a trap!”

Browne had replied sadly, “He was a captain then. Responsibility is an axe. It can cut either way.” There had been the sound of his hand on Pascoe's shoulder. “But I admire you for your loyalty, believe me.”

Pascoe was up forward at this moment, working with some hands to clear the foretopmast blocks. If they froze, or the cordage, already swollen with snow, followed suit, the
Styx
would be helpless. Like a phantom she would sail on, deeper and deeper into the Baltic.

Allday crossed the deck, his shoes slipping on the slush.

“Ozzard's got some soup, sir.” He glared at the white-crusted sails and added, “I'd rather be becalmed than in this!”

Bolitho watched the next party of seamen clambering down from aloft. It was to be hoped they would find something hot below, too. Knowing Neale, he decided he would manage something for his men.

He looked up at the bulging canvas, following Allday's gaze. Iron hard, and brutal for the seamen who had to fight and control it. And yet it had a strange beauty. The small realization helped to drive his anxieties back into the shadows.

“Then I'll come down. I'd relish some soup, though I doubt if I could keep much else in my stomach!”

Allday grinned and stood aside to allow Bolitho to reach the companionway.

In the years he had served Bolitho he had never once seen him seasick. But there was said to be a first time for everyone.

Right aft, with the stern lifting and falling into a quarter sea, the scene was more like a grotto than a cabin. The windows were laced with fine ice, so that the filtered light made it seem colder than it was.

Bolitho sat and consumed Ozzard's soup, amazed that he could feel his appetite responding readily. More suited to a skinny midshipman than a flag officer, he thought.

Neale joined him later and placed his chart on the table for Bolitho's inspection.

“If the British merchantmen are in fact at Gotland, sir,” Neale jabbed his brass dividers on the chart, “they will be lying here, on the north-western coast.” He looked at Bolitho's intent features. “Below the guns of the fortress, no doubt.”

Bolitho rubbed his chin and tried to transfer the lines and figures into the sea and land, wind and current.

“If the ships are
not
there, Captain Neale, we have come in vain. But Mr Inskip strikes me as a man who is very shrewd and careful with his information. In theory, the ships will be in Swedish waters, but as the Russians seized them, and the French are showing interest, it seems I have little alternative but to cut them out. With the ships freed the motive for war is removed and any hope of the Tsar's success in invading England will melt with the snow.”

Neale pouted, his face full of mixed emotions.

Bolitho watched him and said, “Speak your mind, Captain. I am too well used to Captain Herrick's ways to exclude you from free speech.”

“I doubt that the French will be expecting us to arrive, that is, assuming the
Ajax
is on the same course as ourselves. I will be eager to get to grips with her, sir, my ship owes a few scores. But to speak plainly, I think you have more chance of starting a war than preventing one.” He spread his hands helplessly and looked like a midshipman again. “I cannot imagine why our admiral failed to act on these threats long ago.”

Bolitho glanced away, recalling Browne's words and Admiral Beauchamp's warning. Was Admiral Damerum the root cause of the warning? If so, why? It did not make any sense at all.

“How is the weather?”

Neale smiled, knowing Bolitho was giving himself time to think.

“Still snowing, sir, but no worse. My sailing master believes it may clear towards dawn.”

They both looked meaningly at the chart. By that time, events might have been decided for them.

Close-hauled on the larboard tack the frigate
Styx
drove steadily to the north, the sea sluicing over the weather bulwark and smashing down on the opposite side in regular assaults. Men too numbed by the wet and cold to speak kept a constant watch on running tackles and the trim of each yard, minds blank to all else but the pain and the danger.

Unseen on one beam was the Swedish coastline, and then as the frigate passed the southernmost point of Gotland the sea became choppier but less violent as she began the final part of her journey.

Bolitho was up and dressed before first light, so restless that Allday had a harder time than usual shaving him. The ice was still clinging to the stern windows, but when the dawn eventually broke through it was brighter, and even promised a hint of sunlight.

Bolitho snatched up his hat and looked at Allday. “God, you take your time, man!”

Allday wiped his razor methodically. “Time was when admirals had patience, sir.”

Bolitho smiled at him and hurried on deck, the breath knocked instantly from his body by the keen wind.

Figures bustled about on every hand, and when Bolitho took a glass from the rack he saw the sprawling island of Gotland to starboard, blurred and humped in the dim light, like a sleeping sea-monster. It was said to be a strange place, with its fortified city and tales of raids and counter-raids going back over hundreds of years. It was not difficult to picture the Viking long-ships sweeping towards that inhospitable coast, he thought.

Neale crossed the deck and touched his hat.

“Permission to clear for action, sir? The people have been fed, but the benefit of a hot meal will soon fade if they are not kept busy.”

“Carry on, if you please. You command here. I am a passenger.”

Neale walked away, hiding a smile.

“Mr Pickthorn! Beat to quarters and clear for action!” He turned and held Bolitho's gaze, cutting back the years. “And I want two minutes lopped off the time, d'you hear?”

The sun probed through the drifting flurries of snow and touched the taut sails with the colour of pewter. Everything shone, even the sailors' hair as they ran to obey the urgent tattoo of drums had droplets of melting ice as if they had been dragged up from the sea-bed.

Pascoe strode past buckling on his curved hanger and calling the names of the
Benbow
's men. Bolitho noticed that when he called one in particular, a new hand named Babbage, he paused, and studied him gravely, separating him from the crowd with a quick scrutiny.

A candidate for promotion, or someone to be warned for carelessness? Bolitho caught his nephew's eye and nodded to him.

“Well, you have a frigate, Adam. How does it feel?”

Pascoe smiled broadly. “Like the
wind,
sir!”

The first lieutenant, puffing with exertion and red from the keen air, called, “Ship cleared for action, sir!”

Neale closed his watch with a snap. “Smartly done, Mr Pickthorn.”

Then he turned and touched his hat to Bolitho.

“We are yours to lead, sir.”

Browne watched the preparations and then the sudden stillness along the gundeck and said half to himself, “But to where, I wonder?”

Bolitho moved the telescope carefully along the grey shoreline. If only the snow would go altogether. Yet in his heart he knew it was their only ally, their one guard against detection.

Figures moved restlessly around and past him. The occasional clink of metal or the scrape of a handspike intruded into the telescope's small, circular world to distract him.

He tried to recall everything he had studied on the chart and in Neale's notes. A headland should be standing out somewhere on the lee bow, and around it would lie the ships.

Bolitho bit his lip to contain his racing thoughts and anxieties.
Maybe, could, might, perhaps,
they were useless to him now.

He heard Neale say, “Shall I run up the colours, sir?”

“Please do. I suggest you hoist an ensign to the fore and main also. If our captured merchantmen are over yonder, they'll need all the convincing we can offer.”

He glanced up at the mizzen truck where his own flag had been broken when he had transferred from the
Benbow.
It might make the French, and anyone else who would otherwise try to attack them, imagine that other ships were on their way in support. Even very junior admirals were not expected to stray about in frigates.

Bolitho asked, “How is the wind?”

The master replied instantly, “Shifted a point, sir. Nor' west-erly.”

Bolitho nodded, too absorbed in his thoughts to notice how an edge had come to his voice.

“Let her fall off three points, if you will. We'll weather the headland as close as we can.”