Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef (7 page)

Admiral Sir James Hamett-Parker’s thin mouth opened and closed like a poacher’s trap.

“How plead you?”

“Not guilty.” Herrick’s reply was equally curt.

“Very well. Be seated. You may presently proceed, Mr Cotgrave, but before doing so, I would remind you that there are some persons present who have no experience of sea fights and strategy other than what they … read.” This brought a few smiles despite the seriousness of the moment. “So it may be required from time to time to explain or describe these terms and variations.” He pressed his fingertips together and stared at the assembled people. “So be it.”

Bolitho leaned forward and watched intently as the Judge Advocate described the various positions of Herrick’s convoy, the North Sea Squadron, and the major fleet commanded by Admiral Gambier, who had been in control of operations at and around Copenhagen.

It was the second day of the court martial, the first having been made up mostly of written evidence and sworn statements. There had also been a dying declaration, which had been further testimony to the ferocity of that battle. A junior lieutenant in Herrick’s Benbow had managed to make it under oath after a second amputation of his crushed legs.

Bolitho had sensed the moment, not here in the great cabin, but on that terrible day when the enemy ships had bombarded Benbow until she had run with blood, and her masts had been torn out of her like rotten sticks. The lieutenant had died even as he had been describing how he had run aft from his division of upper-deck guns, where most of his men had been cut down or dragged below to the surgeon. He had called on Herrick to strike in the name of pity. We were all dying to no purpose, he had said. He had claimed that the rear-admiral had clutched a pistol in one hand and had threatened to shoot him if he did not return to his station. Then the main-topmast had fallen and crushed his legs. But he persisted in his claim that Herrick’s answer had stayed with him. We shall all die today.

One of the clerks had peered at Herrick as if to compare the man on trial with what he was writing.

Another sworn statement had come from Benbow’s surgeon, who was also in hospital. He had stated that he had been unable to deal with the great flood of wounded and dying men. He had sent word to the quarterdeck but had received no reply. The Judge Advocate had looked around the court. “We must keep in mind of course that the ship was fighting for her life. The man sent aft with the message, if indeed that was the case, may well have been killed.”

It had been very damning, all the same. There had followed a short pause for a meal and some wine, the senior officers and important guests to Keen’s own quarters, the remainder to the wardroom.

After that, Captain Varian, at one time in command of the frigate Zest in Herrick’s squadron, and himself awaiting the convenience of a court martial, gave evidence on what he had come to expect under the rear-admiral’s flag. Bolitho had listened with contempt. This was the man who had failed to support Truculent in which Bolitho had been taking passage from Copenhagen, having been sent on a secret mission to parley with the Danes in a futile attempt to avoid war. Truculent had been shadowed by French men-of-war, a trap from which there had been no escape. Only the arrival of Adam’s Anemone had saved the day. But not before Truculent’s captain, Poland, had been killed and many of his men with him.

On that occasion, as now, in the great cabin Varian claimed that Herrick never gave any scope or initiative to his captains. He had only been obeying instructions as Rear-Admiral Herrick would have demanded.

At length the President turned to Herrick. “You are entitled to question this witness. You refused a defence, so it is your privilege.”

Herrick barely glanced at Varian’s pale features. “I do not care to discuss this matter with a man already facing a charge of cowardice.”

He said it with such disgust that it had brought a gasp from the assembled visitors. “He is a coward and a liar, and but for the intervention of others I would have had him arrested myself.”

It had all been much like that. An old carpenter who described the state of Benbow’s hull, with the pump barely containing the intake of water and only wounded men available to use it.

The last witness to be called, even as dusk made it necessary to light all the lanterns in the cabin, had been Herrick’s servant, Murray. A rather pitiful little figure against so much gold lace and glittering regalia.

Under examination he had admitted that Herrick had been drinking very heavily, which had been more than just unusual.

The Judge Advocate had said, “Just what you know, Murray—opinions have no place here.”

He had glanced at Herrick, who had replied, “I was drinking more than usual, he is quite right.”

As the little servant had hurried gratefully away, John Cotgrave had rustled through his papers, gauging the time to a second.

“Of course, I had overlooked the fact you have only recently lost your wife.”

Herrick had seemed oblivious to everyone else there. “She was everything to me. After that—” He had given a tired shrug.

“So it might be suggested that because of grief and personal distress you threw everything into a fight you could not win against overwhelming odds, with a total disregard for the lives in your care?”

Herrick had stared at him coldly. “That is untrue.”

Today had begun with more professional witnesses. Three masters from merchant ships in the convoy, and written testimonies by others who had managed to survive. Several of them had claimed that they could have outsailed the enemy had they been allowed to quit the convoy.

Herrick denied this. “We had to stand together—the enemy had frigates as well as line-of-battle ships. It was our only chance.”

The President leaned forward. “I understand that Admiral Gambier suggested in his despatches to you that you might release your only frigate to his command for the attack on Copenhagen? Did he not leave it to your discretion?”

Herrick faced him. “It seemed urgent. In any case I thought I would meet up with the North Sea squadron for the final approach.”

The Judge Advocate said, “The squadron commanded by Sir Richard Bolitho?”

Herrick did not even blink. “Just so.”

Cotgrave continued, “Now we reach a vital part of the matter, prior to your meeting with the enemy.”

Hamett-Parker tugged out his watch. “I trust it is not a lengthy business, Mr Cotgrave? Some of us would wish to take refreshment!” Somebody laughed but stopped instantly as Hamett-Parker’s cold eyes sought him out.

Cotgrave was unimpressed. “I will try not to waste the court’s time, Sir James.”

He turned to his clerk. “Summon Commander James Tyacke.” To the great cabin he added, “Commander Tyacke is serving in the brig Larne of fourteen guns. A most gallant officer. I must ask all those present to try and show him respect rather than sympathy. It is a matter of …” He got no further.

Something like a sigh of dismay came from all sides as Tyacke’s tall figure strode aft beneath the deckhead beams. In his early thirties, he had been with Bolitho at the Cape, when he had taken a fireship to destroy anchored enemy supply vessels and so cut short the siege of the town and harbour. In doing so he had seen his beloved command, the little schooner Miranda, sunk by the enemy. Bolitho had personally promoted him and given him the brig.

Tyacke would have been handsome, as his profile suggested, but one complete side of his face had been scored away to leave it like raw flesh; how the right eye had survived was a miracle. He had been at the battle of the Nile as a lieutenant on the lower gun deck of the old Majestic. They had come up to the big French Tonnant and had continued close-action until the enemy had hauled down her colours. Had the French captain known the true state of the English third-rate he might have persisted. The dead had been everywhere; even her captain, Westcott, had been killed. Tyacke had been flung across the deck, his face seared and torn, although he could never remember afterwards precisely what had happened. An exploding charge, an enemy wad through a gunport; he simply did not know, and there had been nobody near him left alive to tell him.

He faced the court now, his terrible wound in shadow, a private man, a man of courage. He had nothing but his ship. Even the girl he had loved had turned away from him when she learned what had happened.

He saw Bolitho, and smiled faintly in recognition. No, he was not quite alone any more. He had come to admire Bolitho more than he could have believed possible.

The Judge Advocate confronted him, angry with the court and perhaps with himself for trying to avoid Tyacke’s impassive stare.

“You were the first to sight the French vessels, Commander Tyacke.”

Tyacke glanced at Herrick. “Yes, sir. We came on the ships quite by accident. One of the big three-deckers was unknown to me. I discovered much later that she was in fact Spanish, taken into the French command, so we had no cause to recognise her.” He hesitated. “Vice-Admiral Bolitho knew her, of course.”

One of the court leaned over to whisper something and Hamett-Parker said, “She was the San Mateo, which destroyed Sir Richard’s flagship Hyperion before Trafalgar.” He nodded irritably. “Continue.”

Tyacke looked at him with dislike. “We beat as close as we could but they were on to us, and gave us a good peppering before we could show them a clean pair of heels. Eventually we found the convoy and I closed to report to the rear-admiral in charge.”

One of the captains asked, “Had the frigate already left the convoy?”

“Aye, sir.” He paused, expecting something further, then he said, “I told Rear-Admiral Herrick what I had seen.”

“How did he receive you?”

“I spoke through a speaking-trumpet, sir.” He added with barely concealed sarcasm, “The enemy were too close for comfort, and there seemed some urgency in the air!”

The Judge Advocate smiled. “That was well said, Commander Tyacke.” The mood changed back again. “Now it is very important that you recall exactly what the rear-admiral’s reply was. I imagine it would have been written in Larne’s signal book?”

“Probably.” Tyacke ignored his frown. “As I recall, Rear-Admiral Herrick ordered me to find Sir Richard Bolitho’s North Sea squadron. Then he changed his mind and told me to report directly to Admiral Gambier’s flagship Prince of Wales off Copenhagen.”

Cotgrave said quietly, “Even after seven months, during which time you must have had much to occupy your attention, the fact that Rear-Admiral Herrick changed his mind still seems to surprise you? Pray tell the court why.”

Tyacke was caught off guard. He replied, “Sir Richard Bolitho was his friend, sir, and in any case …”

“In any case, Commander Tyacke, it would have been sensible, would it not, to find Sir Richard’s squadron first, as it was only in a supporting role against the Danes at that time?”

The President snapped, “You will answer, sir!”

Tyacke said evenly, “That must have been what I was thinking.”

Cotgrave turned to Herrick. “You have a question or two perhaps?”

Herrick regarded him calmly. “None. This officer speaks the truth, as well as being a most gallant fighter.”

One of the captains said, “There is a question from the back, sir.”

“I am sorry to interrupt the proceedings, even delay refreshment, but the President did offer to have matters explained to a mere landsman.”

Bolitho turned round, remembering the voice but unable to identify the speaker. Someone with a great deal of authority to make a joke at Hamett-Parker’s expense without fear of attack. Dressed all in black, it was Sir Paul Sillitoe, once the Prime Minister’s personal adviser, whom Bolitho had first met at a reception at Godschale’s grand house near Blackwall Reach. That had been before the attack on Copenhagen.

Sillitoe was thin-faced and dark, with deep hooded eyes, very self-contained; and a man one would never know, really know. But he had been charming to Catherine on that occasion when the Duke of Portland, the prime minister at the time, had attempted to snub her. Standing amidst so many now, he was still quite alone.

Sillitoe continued, “I would be grateful if you would clarify the difference ‘twixt two seafaring terms which have been mentioned several times already.” He looked directly at Bolitho and gave the briefest of smiles. Bolitho could imagine him doing the very same while peering along the barrel of a duelling pistol.

Sillitoe went on silkily, “One witness will describe the convoy’s possible tactics as being ‘scattered,’ and another will term it ‘dispersed. ‘ I am all confusion.”

Bolitho thought his tone suggested otherwise, and could not help wondering if Sillitoe had interrupted the Judge Advocate for a different purpose.

The latter said patiently, “If it pleases, Sir Paul. To scatter a convoy means that each ship’s master can go his own way, that is to say, move out from the centre like the spokes of a wheel. To disperse would mean to leave each master to sail as he pleases, but all to the original destination. Is that clear, Sir Paul?”

“One further question, if you will bear with me, sir. The ships’ masters who have claimed they could have outsailed the enemy ships—were they all requesting the order to disperse?”

Cotgrave glanced questioningly at the President and then replied, “They did, Sir Paul.”