To Glory We Steer (27 page)

“I think I understand, sir.”

“Of course you do!” The admiral's old testiness was breaking through. “To be killed is to be forgotten. But if he is taken in the future, he will have no defence. A public trial and hanging will follow. And I think you realise that such disgrace can smear a whole family!”

“Yes, sir.”

Sir Robert rubbed his hands. “Well, enough of that. You carried out your orders as best you could. That will have to suffice for the present. You did in fact find out about the enemy's intentions. If it is true, it will weigh heavily in your favour.”

He looked up at the gently moving flag and murmured, “We could do with a little good fortune at the moment!”

Sir Robert lapsed into silence until Bolitho had guided him below to his cabin where the other officers were already seated. With the table fully extended and ten officers already crammed round it, the cabin seemed to be full to capacity, and Bolitho found time to wonder why the admiral had bothered to make this journey away from the comparative luxury of his own quarters.

The officers rose to their feet and then sank expectantly into their seats again as Bolitho and the admiral squeezed around the head of the table.

Bolitho also realised for the first time that this was the only occasion he had sat down to dine with all his officers. As Atwell and two hastily recruited messmen began to serve dinner he glanced round the table marking the strange difference which seemed to have come over the familiar faces. They were like embarrassed strangers, he thought vaguely.

Apart from his lieutenants and Captain Rennie he had arranged for the three midshipmen to be present also. As representatives of the ship's warrant officers, Proby, the master, and Tobias Ellice, the surgeon, sat in stiff discomfort, their eyes on their plates.

Still the admiral gave no sign of relaxing. In almost complete silence the dinner went on. But with it came the wine, this time brought by the admiral's personal steward, a tall, disdainful man in a scarlet jacket. It was then that Bolitho began to realise what Sir Robert was doing. Coupled with the tension and the unaccustomed richness of the excellent dinner, the wine began to take effect. When Bolitho noticed that the admiral had hardly eaten more than a bird's share of the food and made a point of keeping the same glass of wine at his elbow, he fully understood.

Voices grew louder, and while Sir Robert sat calmly at Bolitho's side the officers began to talk more freely. Bolitho did not know which he felt more. Annoyance or admiration. Not content with a bald report, no matter how concise, Sir Robert was here to hear for himself. From the men who until now had been mere names from Bolitho's pen.

Some of the strain seemed to drain out of him. Right or wrong, the admiral's sly methods were now beyond his control.

Slowly the story began to unfold. Each phase being taken up and polished by a different officer. The attack on Mola Island and the taking of the battery. The more eloquent elaborated on the plan as a whole, the less capable ones contenting themselves on painting the smaller parts to the overall picture.

There was humour too in some of the recollections. Like the story of Parker, the master's mate, who had commanded the jolly-boat during the attack on the
Andiron.
Separated from the other boats by the rising sea, he had returned to the
Phalarope
only to have his discomfort further increased by a volley of musket fire from some vigilant marines. And the story of Captain Rennie conducting the retreat from Mola Island with his sword in one hand and half a chicken pie in the other. But this sort of reminiscence did not last.

Sir Robert snapped suddenly, “And you, Mr Farquhar, were left behind with the Spanish prisoner?”

Farquhar eyed him carefully, and for a moment Bolitho felt the tension returning to the crowded table. But Farquhar kept his head. Even the fact that it was well known that Sir Robert normally made a point of never addressing anyone below the rank of lieutenant failed to ruffle him.

“Yes, sir. I joined the captain and together we went into captivity.”

The admiral swung round in his chair and peered at Okes, who until now had remained almost silent. “Your part in this business seems to have kept you very busy, Mr Okes?

The lieutenant looked up startled. “Er, yes, sir. I did what I had to do. There was no other way!”

Sir Robert sipped his wine and eyed him coolly. “For an officer who has gained nothing but glory you sound remarkably guarded, Mr Okes. A modicum of modesty is welcome these days, but not when it sounds remarkably like guilt!” For a second longer he held Okes's pale face with his cold eyes, and then he laughed. It was a humourless sound, but it helped to break the sudden and unhappy silence.

“And you, Mr Herrick?” Sir Robert craned round his own captain to stare along the table. “Your exploits at Nevis seem a trifle haphazard? But against that you obtained the result you intended no doubt?”

Herrick gave a broad grin. “Captain Bolitho has already pointed out to me the pitfalls of too much luck, sir!”

“Did he indeed?” The admiral's eyebrows rose slightly. “I am gratified to hear it.”

And on it went in the same vein. The admiral would question and listen, or when that failed would openly provoke the luckless officer into some excited and unguarded reply.

The loyal toast was called for by the junior officer present. Midshipman Neale, dwarfed on either side by Proby and Ellice, squeaked, “Gentlemen, the King!” and then sank into a blushing silence.

Bolitho noticed that the admiral's right hand was curled like a claw around his goblet, and when the latter saw him looking at it the admiral snapped petulantly, “Damned rheumatism! Had it for years!”

For a few moments Bolitho took time to appreciate the man sitting by his side. Not the admiral, with all his petty foibles, his unfair uses of privilege and rank, but the actual man.

He was old, probably in his sixties, and to Bolitho's knowledge had not set foot ashore for more than a few days at a time in the last ten years. He had shifted his flag from ship to ship, dealing with problems and strategy which Bolitho could only half imagine.

The admiral was looking at him unwinkingly. “Are you still wondering why I came, Bolitho?” He did not wait for an answer. “I commanded a frigate myself many years ago. The happiest time in the Navy for me. Life was easier in many ways then. But the stakes were not so high.” The shutter dropped again. “I came because I wanted to see what you have
made
of this ship.” He tugged at his chin as if to seek some way of avoiding a compliment. “What I find does not displease me entirely.” He dropped his voice, so that it was almost lost in the newly awakened conversation around the table. “Most of your officers appear to have great respect for you. I know from experience that it is very hard to come by!”

Bolitho gave a small smile, “Thank you, sir.”

“And you can remove that stupid smile from your face!” The admiral shifted beneath his coat. “I like to know the men whom I command! When I see a sail on the horizon I don't wish to know the size of her guns or the state of her paintwork. I want to know the mind of the man in control, see?” He stared over the heads of the lolling officers. “England is fighting for her life. It is a war of defence now. The attack will come later, perhaps years later, after I am dead and buried! But until that time England depends on her ships, maybe only a couple of hundred ships which are in a position to act to full advantage!” He tapped on the table, so that the others fell silent and turned to listen. “And those ships depend on their captains and no one else!”

Bolitho opened his mouth to speak but the admiral said testily, “Hear me out! I know your reputation now. You are an idealist in many ways. You have hopes for better conditions for your men, so that they can make the sea an honourable career again.” He waved a finger. “When I was younger I wanted all those things and more beside. But a good captain is the one who accepts all these difficulties as they stand and still manages to run an efficient ship, one worthy of honour and praise.”

He glared round the table. “Well, gentlemen, did I make myself understood?”

Bolitho followed his gaze. Vibart, flushed and unsmiling. Herrick, still grinning and unquenched by the admiral's earlier sarcasm. Rennie, stiff-backed but with eyes so glassy that they were beyond focus. Old Daniel Proby, humbled by being with such illustrious company, yet whose face was stiff with sudden pride, as if he had heard a deeper meaning in the admiral's words. And Ellice, the bucolic surgeon, who had been drinking without pause since they had arrived at table. Bolitho could find time to pity Ellice. Poorly paid, like all ships' surgeons it was no wonder he was more of a butcher than a doctor. It was a race which would win. Drink or a fatal mistake, it was merely a matter of time.

Okes, still smarting from the admiral's keen appraisal of the half-remembered attack on Mola Island. Bolitho noticed how he kept darting quick, desperate glances towards Farquhar, who by comparison was calm and impassive, his thoughts perhaps far away. Maybe still back there below the shattered bridge where he had been left to die by the man who now sat watching him. The fact that Farquhar had made neither comment nor complaint must be all the more worrying for Okes, Bolitho thought grimly.

And the two other midshipmen, Maynard and Neale. Excited and untouched by the deeper channels of comment and thought around them. Bolitho was suddenly very aware of his responsibility to all of them.

The admiral stood up and lifted his glass. “A toast!” His pale eyes flashed below the low beams. “Death to the French!”

The glasses came up as one and the voices rumbled the reply, “And confusion to our enemies!”

The admiral called to his captain, “Time we were going, Cope!”

Bolitho followed him to the upper-deck, only half listening to the scamper of feet and the hurried creak of oars alongside. It was over. The admiral would never admit a mistake, but Bolitho knew that the worst was behind him.
Phalarope
was free of disgrace at last.

He lifted his hat as the admiral crossed to the port and waited until he had vanished to the waiting barge. Then he clamped on his hat and began to pace the deserted quarterdeck, his hands clasped behind him.

The admiral had also made it plain in his own way that if the ship was free of disgrace it was up to her captain to keep her so.

He looked at the riding lights dancing across the water and listened to the plaintive scrape of a violin and the accompanying sadness of an old shanty. If the men could still sing there was hope for all of them, he thought.

13 DANGER FROM
W
ITHIN

T
HE PIPES
shrilled in salute as Richard Bolitho stepped through the ornate entry port and on to the
Formidable
's wide deck. Automatically he doffed his hat to the quarterdeck, and as he returned the greeting of the flagship's officer of the watch he allowed his eyes to move swiftly up and around him, taking in the busy activity, the seemingly endless deck space and the long lines of gleaming guns.

An impeccable midshipman in white gloves crossed the deck at a trot, and under the beady eye of the duty officer led Bolitho aft towards the great stern cabin, to which every available captain had been summoned at an hour's notice.

Bolitho had been toying with his lonely breakfast, pondering on the previous night's strange dinner party and Sir Robert Napier's persistent questions, when Maynard had hurried into his cabin with news of the signal. As he had hurriedly changed into his best uniform Bolitho had wondered why Sir Robert had not mentioned this meeting with the Commander-in-Chief. He must have known about it. As Bolitho had stared unseeingly at his reflection in the bulkhead mirror he had wondered if Sir Robert was making just one more private test. He probably kept his glass trained on the
Phalarope
's deck from the moment
Formidable
had hoisted her general signal.

He almost cannoned into the midshipman and realised that they had reached the great cabin. The youngster called, “Captain Richard Bolitho of the
Phalarope!
”

But only those officers standing near the door took any notice, and soon returned to their own busy conversation. For that Bolitho was grateful. He made his way to one corner of the cabin, and as one messman took his hat another placed a tall glass of sherry in his hand. Neither spoke a word, and Bolitho guessed that it was no easy matter to remain calm and unruffled when serving the Commander-in-Chief.

He sipped at his glass and carefully studied the other officers. There must be about thirty captains present, he decided. Captains of every size and shape, of every age and seniority. After the first scrutiny Bolitho decided that he must be the most junior, but just as he had reached this conclusion he felt a movement at his elbow and turned to meet the gaze of a tall, gangling lieutenant whom he vaguely remembered as the commander of the little brig,
Witch of Looe.

The latter raised his glass and said quietly, “Your health, sir! I was coming across to see you and tell you how glad I am of your safe return.”

Bolitho smiled. “Thank you.” He shrugged. “I am afraid your name has escaped me.”

“Philip Dancer, sir.”

“I will remember it in future.” Bolitho saw the lieutenant loosening his neckcloth with one finger and suddenly realised that he was actually nervous. It was not easy to be so junior in such an illustrious gathering. He said quickly, “I expect this seems a bit luxurious after your little brig?”

Dancer grimaced. “Just a bit.”

They both looked at the great stern windows with the wide gallery beyond where the admiral could take an undisturbed walk above the ship's own wake. There were long boxes of potted plants too, and on the handsome sideboard Bolitho caught a glimpse of gleaming silver and cut glass below a fine painting of Hampton Court Palace.

Then the buzz of conversation died away, and every man turned to face a side door as the small procession entered the cabin.

Bolitho was shocked to see the change which had come over Sir George Rodney since he had last seen him some two years earlier. Beneath the resplendent uniform with its bright ribbon and decorations the admiral's once upright figure appeared bent and drooping, and his mouth, now set in a tight line, betrayed the illness which had plagued him for so many months. It was hard to picture him as the same man who had overwhelmed a powerful enemy force only two years ago to break through and relieve the besiged fortress of Gibraltar, or who had attacked and sacked St Eustatius and taken over three million sterling back to England as a prize.

But the eyes were the same. Hard and steady, as if they drew and contained all the energy of his being.

At his side his second-in-command, Sir Samuel Hood, made a sharp contrast. He looked calm and composed as he studied the assembled officers, his features dominated by his large, arrogant nose and high forehead.

Behind his two superiors Sir Robert Napier looked almost insignificant, Bolitho thought.

Sir George Rodney lowered himself into a tall chair and folded his hands in his lap. Then he said curtly, “I wanted you all here to tell you that it now seems likely the French and their allies will attempt a final overthrow of English forces in this area.” He coughed shortly and dabbed his mouth with a handkerchief. “Comte de Grasse has assembled a strong force of ships of the line, the most powerful vessels ever gathered under one flag, and were I in his fortunate position I would have no hesitation in preparing to do battle.”

He coughed again, and Bolitho felt a tremor of uneasiness transmit itself through the watching officers. The strain of years of planning and fighting were paring Rodney away like a knife blade. When he had sailed for England there was not an officer in his fleet who did not believe it was his last journey and that another would return to take his place. But somewhere within that tired body was a soul of steel. Rodney intended to see no replacement in the West Indies to take either the fruits of his hard and unsparing work or the shame and misery of possible defeat.

Sir Samuel Hood said evenly, “Intelligence has reached us that there is more to de Grasse's intentions than a mere sea victory. He has been gathering seasoned French troops, as well as supplying arms and assistance to the American colonials. He is a shrewd and dedicated strategist, and I believe he intends to exploit whatever successes he has already made.” He looked suddenly across the nearest heads and fixed his heavy lidded eyes on Bolitho.

“The captain of the frigate
Phalarope
has added to this information in no little amount, gentlemen!”

For a few seconds every head in the cabin turned to stare at him, and caught off guard by this turn of events Bolitho felt a tinge of confusion.

In those few seconds he got a vague impression of faces and the reactions of their owners. Some nodded approvingly, and some merely eyed him with barely masked envy. Others studied his face as if to search out some deeper meaning from the admiral's comment. A small item of praise from Hood, and therefore condoned by the great Rodney himself, could immediately mark Bolitho as a firm rival in the ladder of promotion and reward.

Hood added dryly: “Now that you all know each other, we will continue! From this day forward our vigilance must be stepped up. Our patrols must make every effort to watch each enemy port and spare no efforts to pass information back to me. When de Grasse breaks out it will be swift and final. If we cannot call his challenge and close him in battle we are done for, and make no mistake about it!”

His deep, booming voice filled the crowded cabin, so that Bolitho could almost feel the import of his words like a physical force.

The admiral went on tirelessly and methodically to outline the known whereabouts of supply ships and enemy forces. He showed neither strain nor impatience, and there was nothing at all in his manner to betray the fact that he had only recently returned to Antigua after holding St Kitts against the whole French military force and their attendant fleet.

Sir George Rodney interrupted, “I want every one of you to study and familiarise yourselves with my signal requirements.” He looked sharply around the cabin. “I will not tolerate any officer misunderstanding my signals, any more than I accept excuses for failing to execute same!”

Several captains exchanged quick glances. It was well known that when Rodney had tried to close the French admiral de Guichen off Martinique, and had not succeeded because some of his captains had failed either to understand or react to his signals, he had been quite ruthless. More than one captain now lived on miserly half-pay in England with nothing but disgrace and bad memories for comfort.

Rodney continued in a calmer tone, “Watch for my signals. Wherever, and on whatever ship my flag flies,
watch for my signals!
” He leaned back and stared at the deckhead. “This time there will be no second chance. We will win a great victory, or we will lose everything!”

He nodded to Hood, who added briefly, “Orders will be issued immediately to senior officers of squadrons. From the moment you leave here the fleet will be in all respects ready for sea. It is up to our patrolling frigates and sloops to watch the enemy's lairs like hounds.” He pounded the table with his fist. “Give the Commander-in-Chief the scent and the kill is assured!”

There was a murmur of approval, and Bolitho realised that the meeting was over.

Lieutenant Dancer said quietly, “I wonder where our squadron will be sent? I would hate to miss the final scene when it comes!”

Bolitho nodded, mentally smiling at the picture of the tiny
Witch of Looe
engaging de Grasse's three-deckers. Aloud he said, “There are never enough frigates. In every war it is the same story. Too little too late!” But he could say it without bitterness.
Phalarope
would be needed more than ever now. With the vast sea areas, the complex hiding places amongst the lines of scattered islands, every frigate would have more than enough to do.

He realised with a start that a sharp-faced flag-lieutenant had crossed the cabin to stop him leaving with the others.

“Sir George Rodney wishes to speak to you.”

Bolitho hitched up his sword and walked across the thick carpet. By the table he halted, half listening to the retreating scrape of footsteps. He heard the door close and the distant shrill of pipes speeding the exit of the fleet's captains, and for a terrible moment he thought he had misunderstood the flag-lieutenant's words.

Rodney was still sitting in his chair, his eyes half closed as he stared at the deckhead. Hood and Sir Robert Napier were completely engrossed in a chart on a nearby desk, and even the mess-men seemed busy and oblivious to the young captain by the table.

Then Rodney lowered his eyes and said wearily, “I know your father, Bolitho. We sailed together, of course. A very gallant officer, and a good friend.” He let his gaze move slowly across Bolitho's tanned face and down the length of his body. “You have a lot of him in you.” He nodded. “I am glad to have you under my command.”

Bolitho thought of his father alone in the big house, watching the ships in the bay. He said, “Thank you, sir. My father wished to be remembered to you.”

Rodney did not seem to hear. “There is so much to do. So few ships for the task.” He sighed deeply. “I am sorry you had to meet your only brother in such a fashion.” His eyes were suddenly fixed and unwavering.

Bolitho saw Sir Robert Napier stiffen beside the chart and heard himself reply, “He believes what he is doing is right, sir.”

The eyes were still hard on his face. “And what do
you
believe?”

“He is my brother, sir. But if we meet again I will not betray my cause.” He hesitated. “Or your trust, sir.”

Rodney nodded. “I never doubted it, my boy.”

Sir Samuel Hood coughed politely, and Rodney said with sudden briskness, “Return to your ship, Bolitho. I hope that both you and your father will be spared further hurt.” His eyes were cold as he added, “It is easy to do your duty when there is no alternative. Yours was not an easy choice. Nor will it be if your brother is taken!”

He lapsed into silence, and the flag-lieutenant said impatiently, “Your hat, sir! And I have just called for your boat!”

Bolitho followed the harassed officer into the sunlight, his mind still dwelling on the admiral's words. So the whole fleet would now know about his brother. In the confined, monastic world of ships permanently at sea he would be discussed and measured against past exploits and future events.

He ran down the gangway to the waiting boat and stared across at the anchored
Phalarope.
Once she had been on trial. Now it was the turn of her captain.

On the evening of the same day that Bolitho had attended the conference aboard the
Formidable,
and with a minimum of fuss or ceremony, the
Phalarope
weighed and headed for the open sea.

The following morning found her a bare fifty miles to the southwest, her full set of sails drawing on the gentle breeze which did little to ease the growing power of the sun.

But this time she was not completely alone. Even from the deck it was possible to see the
Cassius,
her tall pyramids of canvas golden in the early sunlight as she moved on a ponderous and slow parallel course. Somewhere beyond her, hidden below the lip of the horizon, was the frigate
Volcano.
Invisible, and ahead of the slow-moving formation, Lieutenant Dancer's tiny
Witch of Looe
alone enjoyed a certain freedom of movement beyond the scrutiny of her admiral.