Alexander Kent - THE INSHORE SQUADRON

Wolfe looked across at Herrick and touched his hat, his ginger hair flapping from beneath it as if to escape.

`All cables are hove short, sir,' he said in his harsh, toneless voice.

Equally formal, Herrick reported to Bolitho. `The squadron is ready, sir.'

Bolitho nodded, aware of the moment, of the faces, mostly unknown, around him, and the ship which contained all of them.

`Then make a general signal, if you, please.' He hesitated, turning slightly to look across the nettings towards the nearest two-decker, the Odin. Poor Inch had been almost speechless with the pleasure of seeing him again. He finished it abruptly. 'Up anchor.'

Browne was already there with the signal party, pushing urgently at a harassed midshipman who was supposed to be assisting him.

A few more anxious moments, the hoarse cries from forward as the capstan heaved in still more of the dripping cable. `Anchor's aweigh, sir!'

Bolitho had to grip his hands like twin vices behind his back to contain his excitement as one by one his ships weighed and staggered violently downwind beneath a mass of thrashing, booming canvas.

The Benbow was no exception. It seemed an age before the first confusion was overcome, and with her yards braced round, her courses and then the topsails hardening like metal breastplates to the wind, she steadied on her first tack away from the land.

Spray thundered over the weather gangway and up past the hard-eyed figurehead. Men dashed out along the yards or scurried in frantic groups to add their weight to the braces and halliards.

Wolfe had his speaking trumpet to his mouth without a break.

'Mr Pascoe, sir! Get those damned younkers of yours aloft again! It's a shambles up there!'

For an instant Bolitho saw his nephew turn and stare along the length of the deck. As third lieutenant he was in charge of the foremast, about as far from the quarterdeck as he could be.

Bolitho gave a quick nod and saw Pascoe respond just as swiftly, his black hair ruffling across his face. It was like seeing himself at the same age, Bolitho thought.

'Mr Browne. Signal the squadron to form line astern of the flagship.' He saw Herrick watching him and added, `The frigates and our sloop will know their part without unnecessary instructions.'

Herrick grinned, his face streaming with salt spray. They'll know, sir.'

Beating hard to windward, the frigates were already thrusting through bursting curtains of spray to reach their stations where they would watch over their ponderous consorts.

Bolitho walked to the larboard side to look at the land. Grey and shapeless, already losing its identity in the worsening weather.

How many had watched the squadron getting under way? Herrick's wife, Admiral Beauchamp, all' the old crippled sailors thrown on the beach, flotsam of war. Once they had cursed the Navy and its ways, but there would be a few tight throats amongst those same men as they watched the ships make sail.

He heard Wolfe say scathingly, `God, look at him, will you! All ribs and trucks, even his coat looks like a purser's shirt on a handspike!'

Bolitho turned to see who Wolfe had described and saw a thin, flapping figure scurrying towards a companion and vanishing below. His face was pure white, like chalk. Like a death'shead.

Herrick lowered his voice. 'Mr Loveys, the surgeon, sir. I'd not want to see his face looking down at me on the table!'

Bolitho said, 'I agree.'

He took a telescope from a midshipman and levelled it towards the other ships. They were working into line, their sails in confusion as the wind swept across their quarter and thrust them over.

Before they made their rendezvous they would have improved considerably. Sail and gun drill, testing and changing. But if they met with an enemy squadron before that time, and for all Bolitho knew a whole French fleet might be at sea, he would be required and expected to lead his squadron into battle.

He glanced at the companion hatch as if expecting to see the surgeon's skull-like face watching him. It was to be hoped that Loveys would be kept unemployed for a long while yet.

Order was returning to the upper deck. Tangles of cordage had changed into neatly flaked lines or belayed coils. Seamen were gathering at the foot of each mast to be checked and counted. And above all of them, their silhouettes as lively as squirrels in a galeswept forest, the topmen worked to make certain the sails were set and drawing to perfection.

It was time to leave. To give Herrick back his command.

`I will go aft, Captain Herrick.'

Herrick matched his mood. 'Aye, sir. I shall exercise the upper batteries until dusk.'

For nearly a week the squadron battered its way across the North Sea in weather which even Ben Grubb admitted was some of the worst he had endured.

Each night the reeling ships lay to under storm canvas, and with the coming of first light had to repeat the misery of finding their scattered companions. Then, in some sort of formation once more, they proceeded on their north-easterly course, drills and repairs being carried out whenever the weather allowed.

Throughout the squadron there had been several men killed and others injured. The deaths were mostly caused by falls from aloft as repeatedly the dazed and salt-blinded men fought to shorten sail or repair damage to rigging.

In the Benbow several hands had been hurt by their own ignorance. On darkened decks it was possible to be cut down by a line as it was hauled madly through a block. The touch of it on a man's skin was like a red-hot iron.

One man vanished without anyone seeing him go. Washed overboard, left floundering for a few agonizing moments as the two-decker faded into the darkness. a'

Everything was wet and dismally cold. The only, heat was from the galley stove, and it was impossible to dry out clothing in a ship which seemed intent on rolling herself on to her beam-ends.

Whenever he went on deck, Bolitho could sense the gloom around him like something physical. Knowing Herrick as he did, he guessed that nothing more could be done to ease the men's suffering. Some captains would not have cared, but would have ordered their boatswain's mates to flog the last man aloft or the last man down from a duty. But not Herrick. From lieutenant to captain he had remained unswerving in his determination to lead rather than drive, to understand his men rather than use fear as his right of command.

Yet, in spite of all this, three men were seized up and flogged after Herrick had read the relevant Articles of War and the ship had continued to smash her way up and through every succession of crested rollers.

Bolitho had stayed away from the punishments. Even that was no longer his concern. He had paced up and down his cabin, hearing the regular swish and crack across a naked back in time with a marine drummer's staccato beat.

He was beginning to wonder what he, or any other admiral, had to do to remain sane during such periods of misery.

And then, quite suddenly, the wind.dropped slightly, and small isolated patches of blue appeared between the banks of cloud.

Seamen and marines paused to look up and draw breath, hot food was hurried through the messdecks as if in a battle's lull or that the cook could not believe his galley would remain in use for long.

Bolitho went on deck just before midday and felt the difference. The midshipmen, their faces suitably expressionless as the master and his mates watched over their efforts with sextants to check and estimate the ship's position. The men working high above the deck no longer held to each vibrating spar or shroud but moved more easily about their varied tasks. The first lieutenant, leading a little procession of experts, passed down the larboard gangway, pausing to look for anything which needed repairing, painting or splicing. He was followed by Drodge, the gunner, Big Tom Swale, the gap-toothed boatswain, Tregoye, the carpenter, and several of their mates.