Inshore Squadron Read Online Free Page B

mind from the sounds of a ship preparing for a new day. He knew Herrick had been on deck since dawn, and that if he went up to join him it would only hamper the business of getting Benbow and the rest of his command ready to weigh.
    It could be bad enough at any time. War had left severe shortages of ships, material and experience. But most of all, trained seamen. In a new ship, as part of a freshly formed squadron, it must seem even worse to Bolitho’s captains and their officers.
    And Bolitho needed to go on deck. To clear his mind, to get the feel of his ships, to be part of the whole.
    Ozzard peered in at him and then padded across the deck with its covering of black and white chequered canvas to pour some more strong coffee.
    Bolitho had not got to know his servant much more than when they had first met aboard Herrick’s Lysander in the Mediterranean. Even in his neat blue jacket and striped trousers he still looked more like a lawyer’s clerk than any seafarer. It was said he had only escaped the gallows by running to hide in the fleet, but he had proved his worth in loyalty and a kind of withdrawn understanding.
    He had shown the other side of his knowledge when Bolitho had taken him to the house in Falmouth. Laws and taxes were becoming more complicated with each new year of war, and Ferguson, Bolitho’s one-armed steward, had admitted that the accounts had never looked better than after Ozzard’s attention.
    The marine sentry beyond the screen door rapped his musket on the deck and called, “Your clerk, sir!”
    Ozzard flitted to the door to admit Bolitho’s new addition, Daniel Yovell. He was a jolly, red-faced man with a 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 deck head. 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 noislessly 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 the sort of officer 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?”
    â€œNo, 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