broad Devon dialect, more like a farmer than a ship's clerk. But his handwriting, round like the man, was good, and he had been quite tireless while Bolitho had been preparing to take over the squadron.
He laid some papers on the table and stared unseeingly at the thick glass windows. Dappled with salt and flying spray, they made the other ships look like phantoms, shivering and without reality.
Bolitho leafed through the papers. Ships and men, guns and powder, food and stores to sustain them for weeks and months if need be.
Yovell said carefully, `Your flag lieutenant be on board, zur. He come off shore in the jolly boat.' He concealed a grin. `He had to change into something dry afore he came aft.' It seemed to amuse him.
Bolitho leaned back in his chair and stared up at the deckhead. It took so much paper to get a squadron on the move. Tackles rasped over the poop and blocks clattered in time with running feet. Despairing petty officers whispered hoarse curses and threats, no doubt very aware of the skylight above their admiral's cabin.
The other door opened noiselessly and Bolitho's flag lieutenant stepped lightly over the coaming. Only a certain dampness to his brown hair betrayed his rough crossing from Portsmouth Point, for as usual he was impeccably dressed.
He was twenty-six years old, with deceptively mild eyes and an expression which varied somewhere between blank and slightly bemused.
Lieutenant the Honourable Oliver Browne, whom Admiral Beauchamp had asked Bolitho to take off his hands as a favour, had all the aristocratic good looks of comfortable living and breeding he was not me sort or omcer you would expect to find sharing the hardships of a man-of-war.
Yovell bobbed his head. ''Morning, zur. I have written in your name for the wardroom's accounts.'
The flag lieutenant peered at the ledger and said quietly, 'Browne. With an 'e'.'
Bolitho smiled. 'Have some coffee.' He watched Browne lay his despatch bag on the table and added, 'Nothing new?'
'No, sir. You may proceed to sea when ready. There are no signals from the Admiralty.' He sat down carefully. 'I wish it were to be a warmer climate.'
Bolitho nodded. His instructions were to take his squadron some five hundred miles to the north-western coast of Denmark and there rendezvous with that part of the Channel Fleet which patrolled the approaches to the Baltic in all weathers under every condition. Once in contact with the admiral in command he would receive further orders. It was to be hoped he would have time to whip his squadron into shape before he met with his superior, he thought.
He wondered what most of his officers were thinking about it. Much like Browne probably, except that they had cause to grumble. Most of them had been in the Mediterranean or adjacent waters for years. They would find Denmark and the Baltic a bitter exchange.
Yovell passed his papers to Bolitho for signature with the patience of a village schoolmaster. Then he said, 'I'll have the other copies ready afore we weigh, zur.' Then he was gone, his round shape swaying to the ship's motion like a large ball.
'I think that takes care of everything.' Bolitho watched his blank-faced aide. 'Or does it?' He was still unused to sharing confidences or revealing doubts.
Browne smiled gently. 'Captains' conference this forenoon, sir. With the wind remaining as it is, the sailing master assures me we may weigh at any time after that.'
Bolitho stood up and leaned on the sill of the tall windows. It was good to have old Ben Grubb aboard. As Lysander's sailing master he had been something of a legend. Playing his tin whistle as the ship had sailed to break the enemy's formation and the decks had run with blood, around him. A great lump of a man, the breadth of three, his face was brick-red, ruined by wind and drink in equal proportion. But what he did not under stand about the sea and its ways, the winds to carry you through ice or a tropical storm, was not worth the knowing.
Herrick had been delighted to have Grubb as his sailing master again. He had said, 'I doubt if he'd have taken much notice if I'd have wanted otherwise!'
'Very well. Make a signal to the squadron to that effect. To repair on board at four bells.' He smiled gravely. 'They'll be expecting it anyway.'
Browne gathered up his own collection of signals and papers and then hesitated as Bolitho asked abruptly, 'The admiral with whom we are to rendezvous. Do you know him?'
He was amazed just how easily it came out. Before he would no more have asked a subordinate's views on a senior officer than dance naked on the poop. But they said he must have a flag lieutenant, someone who was versed in naval diplomacy, so he would use him.
`Admiral Sir Samuel Damerum has spent much of his time as a flag officer in India and the East Indies of late, sir. He was expected to move to some high appointment in Whitehall, even Sir George Beauchamp's position was mentioned.'
Bolitho stared at him. It was a different world from his own.
'Sir George Beauchamp told you all this?'
The hint of sarcasm was lost on Browne. 'Naturally, sir. As flag lieutenant it is my place to know such matters.' He gave a casual shrug. 'But instead Admiral Damerum was given his present command. I understand he is experienced, and well versed in matters relating to trade and its protection. I fail to see what Denmark has to do with such knowledge.'
'Carry on, if you please.'
Bolitho sat down again and waited for Browne to depart. He walked with easy grace, like a dancer. More likely a duellist, Bolitho thought grimly. Beauchamp's way of giving him an experienced aide and saving the man at the same time from some unpleasant enquiry.
He thought about Damerum. He had seen his name rise slowly up the Navy List, a man of influence, but always seeming to be on the fringe of things, never in the places of action and victory.
Perhaps his knowledge of trade was the reason for his present post. There had been an unexpected flare-up between Britain and Denmark earlier this same year.
Six Danish merchantmen, escorted by the Freja, a forty-gun frigate, had refused to allow a British squadron to stop and search them for contraband of war.
Denmark was in a difficult position. On the face of it she was neutral, but she depended on trade, nevertheless. With her powerful neighbours, Russia and Sweden, as well as with Britain 's enemies.
The result of this encounter had been sharp and angry. The Danish frigate had fired warning shots at the British vessels, but had been forced to strike her colours after half an hour's fierce battle. The Freja and her six charges had been escorted to the Downs, but after hurried diplomatic exchanges the British had been faced with the humiliating task of repairing the Freja at their own cost and then returning her and the convoy to Denmark.
Peace between Britain and Denmark, friends of long standing, was preserved.
Perhaps Damerum had had a hand in the original confrontation, and was kept at sea with his squadron as an example. Or maybe the Admiralty believed that a constant presence of their ships at the approaches to the Baltic, Bonaparte's back door, as the Gazette had called it, would prevent any more trouble.
There was a tap at the door and Herrick walked into the cabin, his hat jammed beneath his arm.
`Be seated, Thomas.'
He watched his friend, feeling the warmth he held for him. Round-faced and sturdy, with the same dear blue eyes he had seen on their first ship together, here at Spithead. There were small touches of grey on his hair, like hoar-frost on a strong bush, but he was still Herrick.
Herrick gave a great sigh. 'It seems to take them longer not shorter to get things done, sir.' He shook his head. 'Some of them have thumbs instead of fingers. There are far too many folk with pieces of paper to shake in the faces of the pressgangs, prime seamen we could well do with. Hands from the Indiamen, bargemen and coasters. Dammit, sir, it's their war, too!'
Bolitho smiled. 'We've said that a few times, Thomas.' He gestured around the cabin with its green leather chairs and wellmade furniture. 'This is very comfortable. You have a fine vessel
in the Benbow.'
Herrick was as stubborn as ever. `It's men who win battles, sir. Not ships.' He relented and said, `But it's a proud moment, I admit, Benbow's a good sailer, fast for her size, and once we put to sea again I might raise another knot by shifting some more iron shot further aft.' His eyes were far-away, lost in a captain's constant struggle to keep his ship trimmed to best advantage.
