To Glory We Steer (4 page)

The master watched the captain's slim figure beside the rail and sucked his teeth. Pomfret had never let the frigate have her head. Now she was flying like a mad thing as more and more canvas crept along her yards and exploded, full-bellied before the wind. When he looked at the spiralling mastheads he could almost imagine they were bending. But his eyesight was not so good now, so he made no comment.

Vibart stood at the quarterdeck rail, one foot on a carronade slide, his eyes slitted as he watched the men at their stations. Once he looked back too, towards Portsmouth, where Pomfret had left the ship under orders. Where Bolitho had come aboard to replace him, and by so doing had killed Vibart's own chance of promotion.

He watched Bolitho's profile and felt the anger running through him like fire. It was five thousand miles to Hood's squadron. A lot could happen before that.

He awoke with a start as Bolitho said crisply, “Dismiss the watch below, Mr Vibart, and double the lookouts.” He gestured towards the open channel. “Here, everyone is an enemy.” He gave Vibart a meaning glance and went below.

2 BEWARE, THE
P
RESS!

T
HE GIG
'
S
crew pulled steadily towards the stone jetty and then gratefully tossed their oars as Stockdale growled an order and the bowman jabbed at a ringbolt with his boathook.

Bolitho turned his head to look back at the frigate and smiled slightly to himself. The
Phalarope
was anchored well out in Falmouth Bay, her sleek shape black and stark against the sea and watery sunlight which had at last managed to break through the scudding clouds. The ship had made a slow approach towards the headland, and he had no doubt that her presence had long since been reported, and every able-bodied man in the town would have taken full advantage of the warning to make himself scarce from the dreaded press.

By his side, huddled in his boatcloak, Lieutenant Thomas Herrick sat in silence, his eyes watching the rain-soaked hills beyond the town and the grey, timeless bulk of the castle above Carrick Roads. There were several small craft moored in the safety of the Roads, coasters and tubby fishing boats enjoying the shelter and the protection of the anchorage.

Bolitho said, “A brisk walk will do us good, Mr Herrick. It may be the last chance we get for a while.” He stepped stiffly from the boat and waited until Herrick had followed him up the worn steps. An ancient sailor with a grey beard called, “Welcome, Captain! It is a fine ship you have out there!”

Bolitho nodded. A Cornishman himself, and a native of Falmouth, he knew well enough that it was unlikely any younger men would dare to stay and pass idle remarks to a King's officer. Frigates were too busy to enter port unless for one thing. To gather men.

Vibart had voiced that very thing as the
Phalarope
had swooped through the night, her sails thundering to the wind, her bow throwing back the spray in an unbroken white wake. But when Bolitho had outlined his plan even he had lapsed into silence.

As a boy Bolitho had often seen the approach of a ship-of-war, and had heard the news shouted down the narrow streets, the cry carried from house to house like a distress signal. Young men had dropped their work, bid hasty farewells to their friends and families, and made for the safety of the hills, where they could watch and wait until the ship had made sail and dipped towards the horizon. There was a rough coast road above the cliffs which led northeast away from Falmouth towards Gerrans Bay and St Austell. No press gang would take the time and trouble to follow them. Hampered by weapons and the short breath left by lack of exercise, they would know such efforts to be wasted. No, there were few who were slow or stupid enough to allow the King's men an easy catch.

In pitch darkness Bolitho had turned the ship inshore and heaved to, the deck canting savagely to the stiff wind and the swift offshore currents. Old Proby had been at first doubtful, and then had openly showed his admiration. There were no beacons, and apart from a dull shadow of land there was nothing to show that Bolitho had found the exact point below Gerrans Bay where the chart displayed a tiny crescent of beach.

A landing party had been detailed soon after leaving Portsmouth, and below the quarterdeck, their faces pale in a shaded lantern, the selected men had listened to Bolitho's instructions.

“I am putting you ashore here in the two cutters. You will be in two parties. Mr Vibart and Mr Maynard with one, and Mr Farquhar with the second.” He had sought out the severe face of Brock, the gunner. “Mr Brock will also accompany the second party.” Farquhar might be too eager if left alone, he thought. Brock's experience and self-contained efficiency would make a nice balance.

“If I know Falmouth, as soon as the ship appears in the Bay at first light the sort of men we are after will make their way along the coast road as fast as they can go. If your parties keep up a steady march along that road as soon as you leave Pendower Beach, they should run right into your arms. It saves selection, I believe.” He had seen Brock nod his narrow head approvingly. “The boats will return to the ship and you can march straight on to Falmouth.” A few of the men sighed, and he had added calmly, “It is only five miles. It is better than tramping around the town for nothing.”

With Herrick at his side he walked briskly up the sloping road towards the neat houses, his shoes slipping on the worn well-remembered cobbles. By now Vibart must have made some catches, he thought. If not, if he had made his first misjudgement, it would only help to add to the tension in the
Phalarope.

Lieutenant Okes was still aboard in charge of the ship until his return, and Captain Rennie's marines would be able to deter anyone who still hoped to desert. Even a desperate man would find it hard to swim the stretch of tossing water from the anchored frigate.

He glanced sideways at Herrick and said abruptly, “You have been aboard for two years, I believe?” He watched the guard drop behind the lieutenant's eyes. He had an open, homely face, yet there was this reserve, this caution, which seemed to symbolise for Bolitho the attitude of the whole ship. It was as if they were all cowed to a point where they neither trusted nor hoped. He added, “According to the log you were officer of the watch when the trouble started?”

Herrick bit his lip. “Yes, sir. We were beating up from Lorient.

It was during the middle watch and quiet for the time of year.”

Bolitho watched the uncertainty crossing the man's face and felt a touch of pity. It was never easy to be the junior lieutenant in a ship-of-war. Promotion was slow and hard without either luck or influence. He thought of his own first chance, how easily it might have gone against him. One piece of luck had followed hard upon another. As a lieutenant in a ship of the line, at the very time of the American rebellion, he had been sent away in charge of a prize-crew in a captured brig. While heading towards Antigua he had fallen upon a privateer and had fooled her captain into believing that his brig was still an ally. A rush of boarders, a swift and savage clash of steel, and the second ship had been his. Upon arrival at Antigua he had been welcomed by the Commander-in-Chief like a hero. Victories had been scarce, and reverses only too many.

So at the age of twenty-four he had been given command of the
Sparrow.
Again luck had guided his footsteps. The sloop's original commander had died of fever, and her first lieutenant was too junior for the coveted post.

He forced the sympathy to the back of his mind. “How many men were in the mutiny?”

Herrick replied bitterly, “No more than ten. They were trying to release a seaman called Fisher. Captain Pomfret had had him flogged for insubordination the previous day. He had been complaining about the foul food.”

Bolitho nodded. “That is not uncommon.”

“But Captain Pomfret was not satisfied!” The words burst from his lips in an angry flood. “He had him lashed to the bowsprit, without allowing the surgeon even to treat his back!” He shuddered. “In the Bay of Biscay, with frost on the rigging, and he left him lashed there like so much meat!” He controlled himself with an effort and muttered, “I am sorry, sir. I keep thinking about it.”

Bolitho thought back to Pomfret's neat, matter-of-fact recording in the log. The protesting seaman had rushed the quarterdeck and overpowered the quartermaster and master's mate at pistol point. Only Herrick, a man who obviously agreed with everything the seamen had offered as a grievance, stood between them and a full-scale mutiny. Somehow or other he had cowed them with words. He had ordered them back to the forecastle and they had obeyed because they trusted him. The next day Pomfret's vengeance had broken over the ship in a wave of ferocity. Twenty floggings, and two men hanged. He would not wait until the
Phalarope
rejoined the fleet, nor would he wait for higher authority to gauge his actions. Herrick's bitterness was well founded, or was it? On the face of it, Pomfret was within his rights. Perhaps Herrick should have shot down the mutineers, or even have foreseen the coming danger. He could have summoned the afterguard, given his life if necessary. Bolitho chilled at the thought of what might have happened if Herrick too had been overcome while he tried to reason with the desperate seamen. The sleeping officers would have been slaughtered, the ship thrown into chaos in enemy waters. It did not bear thinking about.

He persisted, “And then later, when you rejoined the fleet off Brest and came to action with those French ships. Why was the
Phalarope
not engaged?” Again he saw the wretched emotions, the uncertainty and anger.

Then it dawned on him. Herrick feared him almost as much as Pomfret. He was captain. He had taken over the ship where Herrick's own misery and shame moved like a ghost between decks. Gently he added, “I take it that the crew were making their own protest?”

Herrick sunk his chin into his neckcloth. “Yes, sir. There was nothing you could put a name to. Sails were badly set. Gun crews slow in responding.” He laughed sharply. “But it was wasted. Quite wasted!” He looked sideways at Bolitho, a brief spark of defiance in his eyes. “Pomfret usually avoided action if possible!”

Bolitho looked away. You fool, he thought angrily. You have allowed this man to act as a conspirator. You should silence him now, before everyone aboard knows you have accepted an open criticism of Pomfret, a selected captain, without a murmur.

He said slowly, “When you have a command of your own, Herrick, you may feel otherwise. The right course of action is not usually the easiest.” He thought of Vibart's hostility and wondered what
he
had been doing during the mutiny. “I know that every officer must
earn
his men's loyalty.” He hardened his tone. “But a captain has the loyalty of his officers as a right, do I make myself clear?”

Herrick looked straight ahead along the street. “Aye, aye, sir!” The guard was restored. His expression wooden and controlled.

Bolitho halted below the church wall and looked up the familiar street which ran beside the churchyard. At the top of the road was the house, its square, uncompromising shape, the familiar grey stonework as enduring as his memory of it.

He stood looking up at it, suddenly apprehensive, like an intruder. He said, “Carry on, Mr Herrick. Go and see the garrison victualling officer and arrange to have as many fresh eggs and butter sent over to the ship as you can manage.”

Herrick was looking past him towards the big house, his eyes suddenly wistful. “Your home, sir?”

“Yes.” Bolitho began to see Herrick in a different light again. Away from the order and discipline of the frigate and framed by the rain-washed building behind him he looked vaguely defenceless. Bolitho knew from his own methodical study of the ship's papers that Herrick came of a poor, middle-class Kentish family, his father being a clerk. For that reason he would be without influence when he most needed it, and unless he was very fortunate in battle his chances of advancement were slight.

The sight of his home, the confusion of judgement and ideas angered him, and he said sharply, “After you have dealt with the Army perhaps you would care to join me for a glass of wine before we sail, Mr Herrick?” He gestured up the road. “My father will welcome you.”

Herrick opened his mouth, an unspoken refusal caught in midair. He tugged at his cross-belt and said awkwardly, “Thank you, sir.” He touched his hat as Bolitho turned away towards the house.

Herrick stood quite still, the wind tugging at his boatcloak, until Bolitho reached the gates. Then, chin sunk on chest, he walked slowly towards the castle, his brow creased in a deep frown.

Lieutenant Giles Vibart cursed as his feet skidded on loose stones and a seaman cannoned into his back. The grey morning light showed the extent of the previous night's wind, and the long grass and gorse was flattened and glittering with rain. He pulled his watch from inside his coat and then held up his hand.

“We will stop here for a bit!” He saw his order passing down the small party of men, and waited until they had squatted beside the crude track before he crossed to the two midshipmen and the gunner.

“We'll give these idlers ten minutes and then move off again.” He looked round as a shaft of frail sunlight touched his check. “Then you can take a party further inland, Mr Farquhar, in case of stragglers.”

Farquhar shrugged and kicked at a pebble. “Suppose nobody comes, sir?”

Vibart snapped, “Just do as you're told!”

Maynard, the other midshipman, readjusted his dirk and looked anxiously towards the resting seamen. “I hope none of 'em try and desert. The captain would be very displeased!”

The gunner gave a lazy grin. “I picked them myself. They're all old hands.” He picked up a piece of grass and pulled it between his uneven teeth. “All pressed men, too. Much better than volunteers for this job!”

Vibart nodded. “Quite right, Mr Brock. There's nothing better to give an edge to the press. No sailor likes to think others are getting away with it!”

Brock frowned. “An' why should they? It's not right that the fleet is expected to fight bloody battles and keep the country free of the Frogs without help from these lazy, pampered civilians! They make money and live happily with their wives while we do all the hard work!” He spat out the grass. “To hell with 'em, I say!”