Free Inshore Squadron by Alexander Kent Page B

on either side, they had sensed the excitement Styx ’s appearance was causing. But if there was no sign of welcome, there was no hostility either.
    He glanced along the upper decks. Neale had done well, and his ship looked as perfect as she could be. The marines, conspicuous in their bright uniforms, drawn up in squads on the poop deck. None in the tops, and no swivels had been mounted there either. Seamen moved about their duties, while others stood ready to spread more sail and flee or take in the remaining canvas and anchor.
    Neale looked at Bolitho questioningly. “May I begin the salute, sir?”
    â€œIf you please.”
    Neale said sharply, “Remove the tampions and open the ports.”
    He was probably thinking that once he had fired a full salute to the fortress his guns would be empty. But to man his broadsides with anything more than the men required for this ritual might appear like a threat of war.
    â€œRun out, if you please.”
    Squeaking and rumbling the Styx ’s guns poked their black muzzles into the harsh light.
    â€œStand by to dip the colours!”
    Bolitho bit his lip. Still no hint from the land. He looked across at the great artillery emplacements. The wind had dropped considerably. If the Danes opened fire, Styx would be hard put to come about and beat clear.
    She would be hammered into submission in minutes under such conditions.
    â€œCommence the salute, Mr Pickthorn.”
    â€œFire One! ”
    The bang echoed across the choppy water, to be followed gun for gun by a battery below the fortress. Then, the Danish flag, standing out like a flake of bright metal from a tall staff, dipped slowly in salute.
    Allday wiped his mouth with his wrist. “Phew! That was a near thing!”
    Bolitho saw Styx ’s gunner marching from cannon to cannon, beating out the time with his fist, oblivious to everything but precision.
    There were people visible on the shore now, some running and waving, their mouths soundless in the telescope’s lens.
    The final gun crashed out, the smoke fanning ahead of the frigate’s figurehead.
    Captain Neale touched his hat to Bolitho and said, “I think we are accepted, sir.”
    Browne, who had been clasping his ears during the salute, said sourly, “But by no means welcome, sir.”
    â€œGuard-boat approaching, sir!”
    â€œTake in the forecourse, Mr Pickthorn. Stand by to receive our visitors!”
    Men swarmed out along the yard, fisting and cursing the big foresail as they struggled to furl it with extra smartness, watched by the distant crowds of onlookers.
    The guard-boat was an interesting craft. Far longer than a ship’s boat, it was propelled by the biggest oars Bolitho had seen outside of a chebeck. Two men to each oar, while just abaft of the deadly-looking prow was a solitary but heavy cannon. Under oars, this miniature gunboat could out-manoeuvre anything larger than a frigate and throw heavy balls through her poop with total safety. Even a frigate would be in trouble if she lost the wind.
    Bolitho studied the figures in the ornate cockpit. Two Danish sea officers and two civilians, one, if not two, of the latter obviously English. They looked more suitably dressed for a stroll around Hyde Park than crossing open water in October.
    â€œMan the side! Marines, fall in! ”
    Mr Charles Inskip, the important government official whom Bolitho had been instructed to assist in every possible way, sat stiff-backed in one of Captain Neale’s chairs and examined the captured French despatches. He held them at arm’s length, and Bolitho guessed his sight was not what it should be. His companion, Mr Alfred Green, apparently less important, stood beside the chair, peering and pouting at each newly turned sheet.
    Bolitho heard the Danish sea officers talking and laughing beyond the bulkhead, and guessed they were being traditionally entertained by Neale and some of his lieutenants. Governments could