To Glory We Steer (12 page)

Lanterns ringed the deck space, to allow none of the horror to escape his eyes, and in the centre of the yellow glare, strapped and writhing like a sacrifice on an altar, was a badly wounded seaman, his leg already half amputated by Tobias Ellice, the surgeon. The latter's fat, brick-red face was devoid of expression as his bloody fingers worked busily with the glittering saw, his chins bouncing in time against the top of his scarlet-daubed apron. His assistants were using all their strength to restrain the struggling victim and pin his spread-eagled body on top of the platform of sea-chests, which sufficed as an operating table. The man had rolled his eyes with each nerve-searing thrust of the saw, had bitten into the leather strap between his teeth until the blood had spurted from his lips, and Ellice had carried on with his amputation.

Around the circle of light the other wretched wounded had awaited their turn, some propped on their elbows as if unable to tear their eyes from the gruesome spectacle. Others lay moaning and sobbing in the shadows, their lives ebbing away and thereby spared the agony of knife and saw. The air had been thick with the stench of blood and rum, the latter being the only true way of killing the victims' senses before their turn came.

Ellice had looked up as the man had kicked out wildly and then fallen lifeless even as the severed limb had dropped into a waiting trough. He had seen Herrick's face stiff with shock and had remarked in his thick, tipsy voice, “A day indeed, Mr 'Errick! I sew an' I stitch, I saws an' I probes, but still they rushes to join their mates aloft!” He had rolled his rheumy eyes towards heaven and had reached for a squat leather bottle. “Maybe a little nip for yer-self, Mr 'Errick?” He had lifted it against the light. “No? Ah well then, a little sustenance for meself!”

He had given the merest nod to his loblolly boy, who in turn had pointed out another man by the ship's rounded side. The latter had been immediately seized and hauled screaming across the chests, his cries unheeded as Ellice wiped his mouth and had then ripped away the shirt from the man's lacerated arm.

Herrick had turned away, his face sweating as the man's scream had probed deeper into his eardrums. He had stopped in his tracks, suddenly aware that Bolitho was standing slightly behind him.

Bolitho had moved slowly around the pain-racked figures, his voice soothing but too soft for Herrick to comprehend. Here he had reached to touch a man's hand as it groped blindly for comfort or reassurance. There he had stopped to close the eyes of a man already dead. At one instant he had paused beneath a spiralling lantern and had asked quietly, “How many, Mr Ellice? What is the bill?”

Ellice had grunted and gestured to his men that he had completed his ministrations with the limp figure across the sheets. “Twenty killed, Cap'n! Twenty more badly wounded, an' another thirty 'alf an' 'alf!”

It was then that Herrick had seen Bolitho's mask momentarily drop away. There had been pain on his face. Pain and despair.

Herrick had immediately forgotten his anger and resentment at the captain's remarks earlier on the quarterdeck. The Bolitho he had seen on the ship's side waving his sword had been real. So, too, was this one.

He stared down at the canvas-shrouded corpses and tried to remember the faces to fit against the names scrawled on each lolling bundle. But already they were fading, lost in memory like the smoke of the battle which had struck them down.

Herrick started as he caught sight of Lieutenant Okes's thin figure moving slowly along the shadowed main deck. He had hardly seen Okes at all since the action. It was as if the man had been waiting for the hard-driven sailors to finish their work so that he could have the deck to himself.

There had been that moment immediately after the sound of the last shot had rolled away in the smoke. Okes had staggered up through a hatchway, his eyes wild and uncontrolled. He had seemed shocked beyond understanding as he had looked around him, as if expecting to see the enemy ship alongside. Okes had seen Herrick watching him, and his eyes had strayed past to the smoking guns in the battery which he had left to fend for themselves.

He had clutched Herrick's arm, his voice unrestrained and desperate. “Had to go below, Thomas! Had to find those fellows who ran away!” He had swayed and added wildly, “You believe me, don't you?”

Herrick's contempt and anger had faded with the discovery that Okes was terrified almost to a point of madness. The realisation filled him with a mixture of pity and shame.

“Keep your voice down, man!” Herrick had looked round for Vibart. “You damn fool! Try and keep your head!”

He watched Okes now as the man skirted the corpses and then retraced his steps to the stern. He too was reliving his own misery. Destroying himself with the knowledge of his cowardice and disgrace.

Herrick found time to wonder if the captain had noticed Okes's disappearance during the battle. Perhaps not. Maybe Okes would recover after this, he thought grimly, if not, his escape might be less easy the next time.

He saw Midshipman Neale's small figure scampering along the main deck and felt a touch of warmth. The boy had not faltered throughout the fight. He had seen him on several occasions, running with messages, yelling shrilly to the men of his division, or just standing wide-eyed at his station. Neale's loss would have been felt throughout the ship, of that Herrick was quite sure.

He hid a smile as the boy skidded to a halt and touched his hat. “Mr Herrick, sir! Captain's compliments and would you lay aft to supervise burial party!” He gulped for breath. “There's thirty altogether, sir!”

Herrick adjusted his hat and nodded gravely. “And how are you feeling?”

The boy shrugged. “Hungry, sir!”

Herrick grinned. “Try fattening a ship's rat with biscuit, Mr Neale. As good as a rabbit any day!” He strode aft, leaving Neale staring after him, his forehead creased in a frown.

Neale walked slowly past the bow chasers, deep in thought. Then he nodded very slowly. “Yes, I might try it,” he said softly.

Bolitho felt his head loll and he jerked himself back against his chair and stared at the pile of reports on his table. All but completed. He rubbed his sore eyes and then stood up.

Astern, through the great windows he could see moonlight on the black water and could hear the gentle sluice and creak of the rudder below him. His mind was still fogged by the countless orders he had given, the requests and demands he had answered.

Sails and cordage to be repaired, a new spar broken out to replace the missing topgallant. Several of the boats had been damaged and one of the cutters smashed to fragments. In a week, driving the men hard, there would be little outward sign of the battle, he thought wearily. But the scars would be there, deep and constant inside each man's heart.

He recalled the empty deck in the fading light as he had stood over the dead men and had read the well-tried words of the burial service. Midshipman Farquhar had held a light above the book, and he had noticed that his hand had been steady and unwavering.

He still did not like Farquhar, he decided. But he had proved a first-class officer in combat. That made up for many things.

As the last corpse had splashed alongside to begin its journey two thousand fathoms deep he had turned, only to stop in surprise as he had realised that the deck had filled silently with men from below decks. Nobody spoke, but here and there a man coughed quietly, and once he had heard a youngster sobbing uncontrollably.

He had wanted to say something to them. To make them understand. He had seen Herrick beside the marine guard, and Vibart's massive figure outlined against the sky at the quarterdeck rail. For a brief moment they had all been together, bound by the bonds of suffering and loss. Words would have soiled the moment. A speech would have sounded cheap. He had walked aft to the ladder and paused beside the wheel.

The helmsman had stiffened. “Course south-west by south, sir! Full an' by!”

He had returned here. To this one safe, defended place where there was no need for words of any sort.

He looked up angrily as Stockdale padded through the door. The man studied him gravely. “I've told that servant o' yours to bring your supper, Captain.” Stockdale peered disapprovingly at the litter of charts and written reports. “Pork, sir. Nicely sliced and fried, just as you like it.” He held out a bottle. “I took the liberty of breaking out one o' your clarets, sir.”

The tension gripped Bolitho's voice in a vice. “What the hell are you jabbering about?”

Stockdale was undaunted. “You can flog me for sayin' it, sir, but today was a victory! You done us all proudly. I think you deserve a drink!”

Bolitho stared at him lost for words.

Stockdale began to gather up the papers. “An' further, Captain, I think you deserves a lot more!”

As Bolitho sat in silence watching the big coxswain laying the table for his solitary meal, the
Phalarope
plucked at the light airs and pushed quietly beneath the stars.

From dawn to sunset she had given much. But there would be other days ahead, thanks to her captain.

6 A
S
IGHT OF LAND

B
OLITHO
walked to the starboard side of the quarterdeck and rested his hands on the sun-warmed hammock netting. He did not need either chart or telescope now. It was like a homecoming.

The small island of Antigua had crept up over the horizon in the dawn's light, and now sprawled abeam shimmering in the forenoon sunlight.

Bolitho felt the old excitement of a perfect landfall coursing through his limbs, and he had to make himself continue in his interrupted pacing, if only to control it. Five weeks to a day since the
Phalarope
had showed her stern to the mist and rain of Cornwall. Two weeks since the clash with the privateer, and as he looked quickly along his ship he felt a quick upsurge of pride. All repairs had been completed, and the remaining wounded were well on the mend. The death roll had risen to thirty-five, but the sudden entry into warmer air, with sun and fresh breezes instead of damp and blustering wind, had worked wonders.

The frigate was gliding gently on the port tack, making a perfect pair above her own reflection in the deep blue water. Above her tapering masts the sky was cloudless and full of welcome, and already the eager gulls swooped and screamed around the yards with noisy expectancy.

Antigua, headquarters and main base of the West Indies squadron, a link in the ragged chain of islands which protected the eastern side of the Caribbean. Bolitho felt strangely glad to be back. He half expected to see the crew and deck of the
Sparrow
when he looked across the quarterdeck rail, but already the
Phalarope
's company had grown in focus to overshadow the old memories.

“Deck there! Ship of the line anchored around the headland!”

Okes was officer of the watch and he looked quickly towards Bolitho.

“That will be the flagship most likely, Mr Okes.” Bolitho glanced up to the new topgallant where the keen-eyed lookout had already seen the tall masts of the other vessel.

The frigate slowly rounded Cape Shirley with its lush green hills and the tumbled mass of rocky headland, and Bolitho watched his men as they thronged the weather side, clinging to shrouds and chains as they drank in the sight of the land. To all but a few of them it was a new experience. Here everything was different, larger than life. The sun was brighter, the thick green vegetation above the gleaming white beaches was like nothing they had ever seen. They shouted to one another, pointing out landmarks, chattering like excited children as the headland slipped past to reveal the bay and the landlocked waters of English Harbour beyond.

Proby called, “Ready to wear ship, sir!”

Bolitho nodded. The
Phalarope
had every sail clewed up except topsails and jib, and on the forecastle he could see Herrick watching him as he stood beside the anchor party.

He snapped his fingers. “My glass, please.”

He took the telescope from Midshipman Maynard and stared fixedly at the two-decker anchored in the centre of the bay. Her gunports were open to collect the offshore breeze, and there were awnings across her wide quarterdeck. His eye fastened on the rear-admiral's flag at her masthead, the gleam of blue and scarlet from watching figures at her poop.

“Mr Brock! Stand by to fire salute! Eleven guns, if you please!” He closed the glass with a snap. If he could see them, they could see him. There was no point in appearing curious.

He watched the nearest point of land falling away and then added, “Carry on, Mr Proby!”

Proby touched his hat. “Lee braces there! Hands wear ship!”

Bolitho glanced quickly at Okes and waited patiently. At length he said evenly, “Clear those idlers off the side, Mr Okes. That is a flagship yonder. I don't want the admiral to think I've brought a lot of bumpkins with me!” He smiled as Okes stuttered out his orders and the petty officers yelled at the unemployed men by the rail.

The salute began to pound and re-echo around the hills as the frigate swung slowly towards the other ship, and more than one man bit his lip as the saluting guns brought back other more terrifying memories.

“Tops'l sheets!” Proby mopped the sweat from his streaming face as he gauged the slow approach to the anchorage. “Tops'l clew lines!” He looked aft. “Ready, sir!”

Bolitho nodded, only half listening to the salutes and the staccato bark of orders.

“Helm a' lee!” He watched the quartermaster pulling steadily at the polished spokes and saw the nearest hillside begin to swing across the bows as the
Phalarope
turned into the wind and began to lose way.

Now there was no sound but for the gentle lap of water as the ship glided slowly towards the shore.

Bolitho called, “Let go!”

There was a splash from forward followed by the jubilant roar of cable as the anchor plunged into the clear water.

Maynard said excitedly, “Signal, sir! From
Cassius
to
Phalarope.
Captain to repair on board.”

Bolitho nodded. He had been expecting it and was already changed into his best uniform. “Call away the gig, Mr Okes, and see that its crew is properly turned out!” He saw the harassed lieutenant hurry away and wondered momentarily what was worrying him. He seemed strained. His mind only half on his duty.

Vibart came aft and touched his hat. “Any orders, sir?”

Bolitho watched the boat being swayed out, the petty officer in charge using his cane more than usual, as if he too was well aware of the watching flagship.

“You can stand by to take on fresh water, Mr Vibart. We will no doubt be warping through into English Harbour directly, and the men can go ashore and stretch their legs. They've earned it.”

Vibart looked as if he was going to argue but merely replied, “Aye, aye, sir. I'll see to it.”

Bolitho looked across at the two-decker. The
Cassius,
seventy-four, flagship of Rear-Admiral Sir Robert Napier. He was said to be a stickler for promptness and smartness, although Bolitho had never actually met him before.

He climbed down the ladder and walked slowly towards the entry port. It was strange to realise that he had been in command for only five weeks. It seemed as if he had been aboard for months. The faces of the side party were familiar now, and already he was able to pick out the personalities and the weaknesses.

Captain Rennie saluted with his sword and the guard presented arms.

Bolitho removed his hat and then replaced it as the gig idled alongside with Stockdale glaring from the tiller. The pipes twittered and shrilled, and as he stepped into the gig he looked up at the ship's side, at the fresh paint and neat repairs which hid the clawing scars of battle. Things might have been a lot worse, he thought, as he settled himself in the sternsheets.

The oars sent the little boat scudding across the calm water, and when Bolitho looked astern he saw that his men were still staring after him. He held their lives in his hands. He had always known that. But before the short battle some might have doubted his ability. They might even have thought him to be like Pomfret.

He thrust the thought to the back of his mind as the flagship grew and towered above him. They did not have to like him, he decided. But trust him they must.

Rear-Admiral Sir Robert Napier did not rise from his desk but waved Bolitho towards a chair by the broad stern gallery. He was a small, irritable-looking man with stooping shoulders and sparse grey hair. He seemed bowed down by the weight of his dress coat, and his thin mouth was fixed in an expression of pernickety disapproval.

“I have been reading your reports, Bolitho.” His eyes flickered across the younger man's face and then returned to the desk. “I am still not quite clear about your action with the
Andiron.
”

Bolitho tried to relax in the hard chair, but something in the admiral's querulous tone sparked off a small warning.

Bolitho had been met at the flagship's entry port with due ceremony and greeted courteously by the
Cassius
's captain. The latter had appeared uneasy and worried, as well he might with a man like Sir Robert aboard, Bolitho thought dryly. The first sign that all was not well had been when he had been ushered into a cabin adjoining the admiral's quarters and told to wait for an audience. His log and reports had been whisked away, and he had stayed fretting in the airless cabin for the best part of an hour.

He said carefully, “We made a good voyage, in spite of the engagement, sir. All repairs were carried out without loss of sailing time.”

The admiral eyed him coldly. “Is that a boast?”

“No, sir,” Bolitho replied patiently. “But I imagined that the need for frigates is still acute out here.”

The other man ruffled the documents with a wizened hand. “Mmm, quite so. But the
Andiron,
Bolitho? How did she manage to escape?”

Bolitho stared at him, caught off guard. “Escape, sir? She nearly laid us by the heels, as I have stated in my report.”

“I read that, dammit!” The eyes glowed dangerously. “Are you trying to tell me that she ran away?” He looked aft through a window to where the
Phalarope
swung at her anchor like a carved model. “I see little sign of combat or damage, Bolitho?”

“We were well supplied with spare spars and canvas, sir. The dockyard foresaw such an eventuality when they fitted her out.” The admiral's tone was getting under his skin and he could feel his anger smouldering, ignoring the warning in the man's eyes.

“I see. Captain Masterman lost
Andiron
after engaging two French frigates four months back, Bolitho. The French gave the captured ship to their new allies, the Americans.” The contempt was clear in his voice. “And you state that although your ship was disabled and outgunned she made off without attempting to press home her advantage?” There was anger in his voice. “Well,
are
you?”

“Exactly, sir.” Bolitho controlled his answer with an effort. “My men fought well. I think the enemy had had enough. If I had been able to give chase I would have done so.”

“So you say, Bolitho!” The admiral put his head on one side, like a small, spiteful bird. “I know all about your ship. I have read Admiral Longford's letter and all that he had to say about the trouble there was aboard when with the Channel Fleet. I am not impressed, to say the least!”

Bolitho felt the colour rising to his cheeks. The admiral's insinuation was obvious. In his view the
Phalarope
was a marked ship and unacceptable, no matter what she achieved. He said coldly, “I did not run away, sir. It happened just as I stated in the report. In my opinion the privateer was unwilling to sustain more damage.” He had a sudden picture of the crashing broadside, the chain shot ripping away the enemy's sails and rigging like cobwebs. Then another picture of the silent dead being dropped overboard. He added, “My men did as well as I had hoped, sir. They had little time to defend themselves.”

“Please don't take that tone with me, Bolitho!” The admiral stared at him hotly. “
I
will decide what standards your people have reached.”

“Yes, sir.” Bolitho felt drained. There was no point in arguing with this man.

“See that you remember it in future.” He dropped his eyes to the papers and said, “Sir George Rodney has sailed to reorganise his fleet. He will be returning from England at any time. Sir Samuel Hood is away at St Kitts, defending it from the French.”

Bolitho said quietly, “St Kitts, sir?” It was barely one hundred miles to the west of his chair aboard the flagship, yet the admiral spoke as if it was the other side of the world.

“Yes. The French landed troops on the island and tried to drive our garrison into the sea. But Admiral Hood's squadron retook the anchorage, and even now is holding all the main positions, including Basseterre, the chief town.” He glared at Bolitho's thoughtful face. “But that is not your concern. I am in command here until either the Commander-in-Chief returns or Admiral Hood sees fit to relieve me. You will take your orders from
me!
”

Bolitho's mind only half attended to the other man's irritable voice. In his mind he could see the tiny island of St Kitts and knew exactly what its safety meant to the harassed British. The French were strong in these waters, and had been more than instrumental to the British defeats at the Chesapeake the previous year. Driven from the American mainland, the British squadrons would depend more and more on their chain of island bases for supplies and repairs. If they fell, there would be nothing to prevent the French or their allies from swallowing up every last possession in the Caribbean.

The French fleet in the West Indies was well trained and battle hardened. Their admiral, Count de Grasse, had more than once out-guessed and outfought the hard-pressed ships of the British. It had been de Grasse who had driven a wedge between Admiral Graves and the beleaguered Cornwallis, who had assisted the rebel general, Washington, and had organised the American privateers into useful and deadly opponents.