Alexander Kent - Signal-Close Action!

Gilchrist touched his hat and then walked forward along the weather gangway, his shoes clicking on the planking as he strode in the strange bouncing manner which Bolitho had already noticed.

After a moment he ran lightly down the larboard ladder and joined Herrick at the weather nettings.

He said, "A snail's pace. I wish to heaven we could find that wind again."

Herrick watched him warily. "Lysander's copper is clean, sir. And I have checked each sail myself and there is nothing we could do to gain even half a knot."

Bolitho turned, surprised at his tone. "That was not a criticism, Thomas. I know a captain can do many things, but controlling the elements is not one of them."

Herrick forced a smile. "I am sorry, sir. But I have been feeling it badly. So much is expected of us. If we fail before we have begun…" He shrugged. "A whole fleet may suffer later. "

Bolitho stood up on some bollards and steadied himself against the nettings while he peered across the quarter to where Nicator was steering lethargically on the same larboard tack. Her topsails were barely filling, and her masthead pendant lifted only occasionally against the empty sky.

Of the land there was no sign, although the lookouts, clinging like tiny monkeys high above the deck, would be able to see it as a purple blur. The southern shore of Spain, he shivered in spite of the clammy heat, remembering the other times he had come this way. He wondered why Herrick was being so evasive. It was so unlike him to concern himself with what might happen because of "maybes". Again that nagging doubt. Was it because he was feeling his responsibility as too heavy a burden?

He said without turning, "Your senior, Thomas. What do you know of him?"

Herrick sounded guarded. "Mr. Gilchrist? He's competent in his duties. He was in Lysander as second lieutenant when she fought at St. Vincent."

Bolitho bit his lip. He was angry with himself for being unable to hold his silence for more than a day at sea. More than that, he was hurt in a" way he could not explain. Thomas Herrick was a friend, and over the years when they had fought and almost died in one battle after another, had endured thirst and fever, fear and despair, he had never felt such a gulf between them.

He said, "I did not ask about his appointments!" He had not meant it to sound so blunt. "I want to know about the man!"

"I have no complaints, sir. He is a good seaman. "

"And that is enough?"

"It has to be, sir." Herrick was watching him with some- thing like desperation. "It's all I know."

Bolitho stepped down and took out his watch. "I see."

"Look here, sir." Herrick moved his hands vaguely. "Things change. As change they must. I feel so marooned from my ship and people. Whenever I try to rouse the old style of things I become entangled with the affairs of the squadron. Most of my wardroom, are young lieutenants, and some have never heard a gun fired in anger. Young Pascoe, the most junior lieutenant aboard, has seen more action than they have." He was speaking quickly, unable to check the sudden flow of words. "I’ve excellent warrant officers, some of the best I’ve sailed with. But you know how it is, sir, the word has to come from aft, it must"

Bolitho studied him impassively. He wanted to take Herrick aside. To the cabin or a place beyond the scope of watching eyes. To tell him he understood. But then their roles would be as before. Bolitho thinking of a ship's routine and crowded world between decks and Herrick waiting to put his thoughts into deeds like the excellent subordinate he had always been.

He made himself say, "Yes, it must be so. A ship relies on her captain. As I do."

Herrick sighed. "I had to speak-"

Bolitho added slowly, "I did not agree to your appointment because of our friendship. But because I thought you were the most fitting man for the task." He saw his words hitting Herrick's face like blows and continued, "I have not changed my mind about that. "

From the comer of his eye he saw the master's vast bulk surrounded by serious-faced midshipmen as they gathered for the noon ritual of using their sextants to estimate the ship's position. By the rail Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence, the officer of the watch, was making a convincing show of studying the men working above on the main yard, but the stiffness of his shoulders betrayed that he was also trying to hear what his two superiors were discussing.

Bolitho said, 'so let's have no more gloom, eh? There’ll be enough to fret about if we close with an enemy. That has not changed either. "

Herrick stepped back a pace. "Aye, sir." His face was grim. "I am sorry if I disappoint you." He watched as Bolitho returned to the poop ladder before saying quietly, "I will endeavour not to do so again."

Bolitho strode right aft to the taffrail and clasped the gilded scroll work with sudden despair. Try as he might he seemed unable to meet Herrick, to cross the bridge between them. "Deck thar!" The lookout's hoarse cry made him start. "Harebell's signallin"!"

Bolitho hurried to the poop rail and checked himself, fretting until Fitz-Clarence, Lysander's second lieutenant, came out of his thoughts to shout, "Aloft with your glass, Mr. Faulkner! I want that signal, and I want it now!"

The midshipman of the watch, who seconds earlier had been drowsing by the nettings, congratulating himself on being spared Mr. Grubb's formidable instruction in the intricacies of navigation, fled to the lee shrouds and began to climb rapidly towards the maintop.

Fitz-Clarence surveyed his progress, hands on hips, his elegant head thrown back as if he expected the midshipman to slip and fall. The lieutenant seemed to like striking poses. He was very smart, even dapper, and what he lacked in height he obviously tried to replace with a constant show of authority.

Herrick stood by his elbow, hands behind him. Bolitho noticed that the hands were clasping and unclasping, making a lie of his outward calm.

Eventually the boy's shrill voice floated down to them. "From Harebell, sir! Buzzard in sight to the nor"-east!" Bolitho thrust his hands into his pockets, his fingers gripping his watch to steady his sudden anxiety.

Captain Javal was retracing his course to rejoin the squadron. He must have sighted something either too powerful to deal with or to warn his commodore that the enemy were even now giving chase.

He saw Herrick hurry to the ladder, and seconds later he joined him at the rail.

Bolitho said, 'signal the squadron to close on the flagship. We will shorten sail directly to make their task easier."

Herrick stared astern, his gaze very clear in the reflected glare. He said with surprising bitterness, "Osiris is already gaining, sir. Captain Farquhar must have eyes like a cat."

Bolitho watched him in silence. Reading Herrick's mind as if he had shouted it aloud. He knew that if Farquhar was here as flag captain there would have been no hesitation. No need for the commodore to suggest the obvious.

Herrick touched his hat and returned to the ladder. But Gilchrist was already on the quarterdeck, his speaking trumpet in his hand as he snapped, "Bosun's mate! Pipe all hands to shorten sail! Take the name of the last man aloft!"

He turned to look at Herrick, adding, "Council of war, sir?" It sounded like a challenge.

Herrick nodded. "Aye, Mr. Gilchrist." He hesitated. "Captains repair on board."

Bolitho looked away, realising that he had been willing Herrick to speak out. To silence Gilchrist's arrogance once and for all.

The hands came hurrying from their work above and below in answer to the shrill of calls, barely glancing round as they ran to their stations for shortening sail. Bolitho saw Pascoe buttoning his coat as he followed his own men to the quarterdeck, touching his hat to Gilchrist, who responded with, "Take a firm hand of your people, Mr. Pascoe."