Touch and Go Read online

  Selected Historical Fiction Published by McBooks Press

  BY ALEXANDER KENT

  The Complete Midshipman Bolitho

  Stand Into Danger

  In Gallant Company

  Sloop of War

  To Glory We Steer

  Command a King’s Ship

  Passage to Mutiny

  With All Despatch

  Form Line of Battle!

  Enemy in Sight!

  The Flag Captain

  Signal—Close Action!

  The Inshore Squadron

  A Tradition of Victory

  Success to the Brave

  Colours Aloft!

  Honour This Day

  The Only Victor

  Beyond the Reef

  The Darkening Sea

  For My Country’s Freedom

  Cross of St George

  Sword of Honour

  Second to None

  Relentless Pursuit

  Man of War

  Heart of Oak

  BY PHILIP MCCUTCHAN

  Halfhyde’s Island

  Halfhyde and the Guns of Arrest

  Halfhyde to the Narrows

  Halfhyde for the Queen

  Halfhyde Ordered South

  Halfhyde on Zanatu

  BY JAN NEEDLE

  A Fine Boy for Killing

  The Wicked Trade

  The Spithead Nymph

  BY JAMES L. NELSON

  The Only Life That Mattered

  BY JAMES DUFFY

  Sand of the Arena

  The Fight for Rome

  BY DEWEY LAMBDIN

  The French Admiral

  The Gun Ketch

  HMS Cockerel

  A King’s Commander

  Jester’s Fortune

  BY DUDLEY POPE

  Ramage

  Ramage & The Drumbeat

  Ramage & The Freebooters

  Governor Ramage R.N.

  Ramage’s Prize

  Ramage & The Guillotine

  Ramage’s Diamond

  Ramage’s Mutiny

  Ramage & The Rebels

  The Ramage Touch

  Ramage’s Signal

  Ramage & The Renegades

  Ramage’s Devil

  Ramage’s Trial

  Ramage’s Challenge

  Ramage at Trafalgar

  Ramage & The Saracens

  Ramage & The Dido

  BY FREDERICK MARRYAT

  Frank Mildmay or

  The Naval Officer

  Mr Midshipman Easy

  Newton Forster or

  The Merchant Service

  BY V.A. STUART

  Victors and Lords

  The Sepoy Mutiny

  Massacre at Cawnpore

  The Cannons of Lucknow

  The Heroic Garrison

  The Valiant Sailors

  The Brave Captains

  Hazard’s Command

  Hazard of Huntress

  Hazard in Circassia

  Victory at Sebastopol

  Guns to the Far East

  Escape from Hell

  BY DOUGLAS W. JACOBSON

  Night of Flames

  BY JULIAN STOCKWIN

  Kydd

  Artemis

  Seaflower

  Mutiny

  Quarterdeck

  Tenacious

  Command

  The Admiral’s Daughter

  The Privateer’s Revenge

  BY JOHN BIGGINS

  A Sailor of Austria

  The Emperor’s Coloured Coat

  The Two-Headed Eagle

  Tomorrow the World

  BY ALEXANDER FULLERTON

  Storm Force to Narvik

  Last Lift from Crete

  All the Drowning Seas

  A Share of Honour

  The Torch Bearers

  The Gatecrashers

  BY C.N. PARKINSON

  The Guernseyman

  Devil to Pay

  The Fireship

  Touch and Go

  So Near So Far

  Dead Reckoning

  BY DOUGLAS REEMAN

  Badge of Glory

  First to Land

  The Horizon

  Dust on the Sea

  Knife Edge

  BY DAVID DONACHIE

  The Devil’s Own Luck

  The Dying Trade

  A Hanging Matter

  An Element of Chance

  The Scent of Betrayal

  A Game of Bones

  BY BROOS CAMPBELL

  No Quarter

  The War of Knives

  Peter Wicked

  FOR ANN

  Published by McBooks Press 2003

  Copyright © 1977 by C. Northcote Parkinson

  First published in the United States by Houghton Mifflin Co., 1977

  First published in the United Kingdom by John Murray Ltd, 1977

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, Inc., ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.

  Cover painting: Battle of Trafalgar, 21st October, 1805 by

  Thomas Whitcome (1760-1824). Courtesty of

  Christie’s Images/The Bridgeman Art Library.

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Parkinson, C. Northcote (Cyril Northcote), 1909-

  Touch and go / by C. Northcote Parkinson.

  p. cm. -- (The Richard Delancey novels; no. 4)

  ISBN 1-59013-025-1 (alk. paper)

  1. Delancey, Richard (Fictitious character)--Fiction. 2. Great Britain--History, Naval--19th century--Fiction. 3. Napoleonic Wars, 1800-1815--Fiction. 4. Guernsey (Channel Islands)--Fiction. I. Title.

  PR6066.A6955 T6 2003

  823′.914--dc21

  2002012364

  Visit the McBooks historical fiction website at www.mcbooks.com.

  Printed in the United States of America

  9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2

  Chapter One

  THE “MERLIN”

  “AND A DAMNED good riddance!” exclaimed Rear-Admiral Fothergill. He was tall, grey, elderly and spectacled, a man now chained to his desk who would never go to sea again. He peered short-sightedly at Hoskins, his flag-lieutenant, who was red-faced, portly and short of breath. He frowned now, his blue eyes protuberant and plainly puzzled.

  “Sir?”

  “I mean, Simpson quitting the Merlin. I could never stand the fellow. Always asking for shore leave, always sick, the sloop always under repair.”

  “His marriage was rather recent, sir.”

  “Was that the chief trouble? I supposed that he had made some prize-money and wanted to spend it.”

  “That too, sir. His successor is unmarried, I believe.”

  Hoskins checked the fact, glancing at one document among the sheaf he carried. Yes, he had been right. Was he becoming fussy and old-maidish, he wondered, thinking of flag-lieutenants he had known over the years.

  “Thank God for that. Is he here in Gibraltar?”

  “Yes, sir. He landed yesterday evening from the Birkenhead storeship. Captain Delancey is waiting now in the outer office.”

  “Delancey? Never heard of him. Hand me the List.”

  “He is not listed, sir.”

  “His first command, eh? He’s damned lucky, in that case, to be given the Merlin; and lucky, for that matter, to serve in the Mediterranean. Send him in, Mr Fulmer, and let’s hope that he is an improvement on Simpson.”

  The flag-officer, Gibraltar, had his office on the first floor of an old house overlooking the sunlit harbour. Only the marine sentry at the entrance
distinguished this flat-roofed building from others in the same street. The place was plainly furnished, almost bleak, the whitewashed walls relieved only by the blue and gold of the naval uniforms. There was a quiet bustle of activity with the scratching of quill pens as letters were copied in triplicate, each clerk’s copperplate handwriting as characterless as if each document had been printed. The clerks stood at tall desks with candles fitted for use after dark, the scratch of their quills making a background noise like the sound of insects in a tropical garden.

  A minute later the Rear-Admiral had the newcomer in his presence; a weatherbeaten officer of middling height, something under forty years of age, with dark hair and deep blue eyes, a self-possessed man who was giving nothing away. He was sturdily built with a strong face, deeply lined for his age, his expression that of a man who had known adversity and disappointment. His uniform was spotless, kept for just such an occasion as this. Fothergill guessed that he would rarely look as smart as he did today. He had been and was still most probably, a poor man; no aristocrat, despite his name, and no ornament to the social scene. His letter of appointment and an accompanying letter of recommendation had been handed beforehand to the flag-lieutenant and now lay, opened, on his desk. After making his bow, Delancey stood at attention, his cocked hat under his left arm.

  “Welcome to the Mediterranean, Captain. You will have heard, no doubt, that the Merlin is taking the British Consul back to Tangier. She should be here again in a few days. Please be seated while I read the letters you have brought with you.”

  A few minutes passed in silence and Delancey looked about him. The naval headquarters building was old but largely rebuilt. Delancey guessed that it must have been damaged during the previous war, the new plaster contrasting with the old. A cupboard behind the Admiral’s chair contained leatherbound folio letter books, marked “In” on one shelf and “Out” on the shelf below. There was a ceremonial sword hung from a nail and the door was held open by a cannon-ball. There were several engravings on display, one a coloured etching of Admiral Rooke and two of them scenes of the great siege, both very stiff and formal. Neither artist nor engraver had been in battle, Delancey concluded, and neither could portray the action. As an amateur artist he wondered whether he himself could have done any better. He might have put more life into it—and more death for that matter—but how could any painting or print suggest the noise or the smell of powder? There had been no comparable bombardment since 1783. The great siege had ended with the conclusion of the war itself and it was now 1799, over six years since this new war had begun. As a youngster, seventeen years ago, he had felt that he was making history here, small as his contribution had been. And Gibraltar had of course been the setting for drama with its stage and backcloth, its galleries and pit. To make the most of a battle one needed an audience! He smiled faintly at this idea, turning his head away from the engravings. He saw then that the Admiral was no longer looking at the letter. His eyes were now on Delancey with perhaps a hint of amusement.

  “Not a very accurate picture, I agree. Have you been here before?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Then you need no advice from me. I gather that you were last on the Irish station?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “The Spitfire being your last ship?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Lost, but with no discredit to you. It seems to me that you are fortunate, promoted into a very fine sloop of eighteen guns, copied from the French corvette Amazon and built as recently as 1794. You should by rights have been given the oldest sloop in the service, laid down under George II, taken from the Dutch or built under contract in Bermuda. My own first command was a sloop launched in 1767, ready to sink if anyone so much as sneezed. Indeed, she was lost at sea under my successor, poor fellow. The Merlin is a very different sort of ship and you are lucky to have her. You are unmarried, I have been told. Is that true?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’m glad to hear it. Married officers are always in port with mysterious defects and broken spars. A bachelor myself, my preference is for more active officers, especially in trade protection. Tell me, however, about the situation in Ireland. There was a French landing, I recall, on the west coast. How did the story end?”

  “Well, sir, General Humbert landed at Killala with hardly more than a thousand men. He was to have been reinforced but Bompart’s squadron, with troops embarked, was intercepted by Sir John Borlase Warren. Humbert took Castlebar and drove off the Kilkenny Militia but then came face to face with Lord Cornwallis. He had no choice after that and surrendered at Ballinamuck—”

  “He surrendered where?”

  “At Ballinamuck, sir. Irish place names are often rather uncouth. Had all the French troops, four thousand of them, landed at the same place and at the same time, the Irish might have joined them. There will be no rising now, though. Lord Cornwallis has thirty thousand men and the coasts are well patrolled by our cruisers. We should have no more trouble in that quarter.”

  “So General Humbert achieved nothing, eh?”

  “I wouldn’t say that, sir. He broke up the Bishop of Killala’s diocesan conference.”

  “Did he, though? I should like to hear your story. Perhaps you would care to dine with me today?”

  “With pleasure, sir.”

  After Delancey had gone the flag-lieutenant produced for the Rear-Admiral a copy of a recent Gazette, brought by the Birken-head along with the newspapers and the mail.

  The Rear-Admiral read the gazette letter slowly and with gaining interest. Written by Captain Ashley and dated September 14th 1798, it described how the Hercule came into Killala Bay after Humbert had landed and after Savary’s squadron had gone and went on to describe an operation which resulted in the total destruction of the Hercule and the Spitfire and ended with Ashley’s words of highest commendation, recommending Delancey for promotion.

  “You have read this?” the Rear-Admiral asked.

  “Yes, sir,” replied the flag-lieutenant.

  “Don’t you find it almost incredible?”

  “I think there is much to be read between the lines.”

  “So there is, by God. But I know Ashley and would believe him. So did their Lordships. My conclusion must be that Delancey is an outstanding officer.”

  “No doubt of it, sir.”

  “Well, we must make him tell us the whole story.”

  No attempt was made to extract the story until the Rear-Admiral’s guests had reached their dessert, nor was Delancey very forthcoming even then. It was a small party, held at the Admiral’s house, the other guests being Captain Price of the frigate Cynthia who was going home on promotion to command a ship of the line, a Colonel of Artillery, a Major of the Royal Marines, two gentlemen from the Dockyard and a doctor. Sitting at the head of his mahogany table, with a portrait of George II behind him, the Rear-Admiral did the honours with practised ease. The usual toasts were drunk, the last to the new captain of the Merlin. This was the cue for Delancey to hold forth but he did so very briefly.

  “But look, Delancey, the story outlined in Captain Ashley’s letter to the Commander-in-Chief is not easily understood. It seems that you attacked a French seventy-four almost single-handed, blowing her rudder off before anyone could say ‘Mon dieu!’ If it is as easy as that, why don’t we all do it?”

  The question, posed by Captain Price, was fair enough, but Delancey seemed to hesitate over his answer.

  “I was very fortunate,” he admitted finally, “in finding the perfect target for a fireship attack. The chances against it are overwhelmingly adverse and the chance of a fireship being there when wanted is surely remote. But if you ask how the trick was done I can say no more than this: study how the stage conjuror deceives his audience! His secret is a simple one. At each moment he does something, he ensures that the audience is looking at something else. Should you still think me clever, sir, I must remind you of two important facts. First, I owed my life to a couple of seamen who chose to
disobey my orders. Second, I had to sacrifice the wounded from my own ship, blown up in the Hercule.”

  There was a minute’s silence after this, broken by the Rear-Admiral who said:

  “And that is the worst thing of all, paying in lives for what has to be done. . . . And now I want to hear about the Bishop of Killala!”

  The dinner party passed off pleasantly and Delancey learnt, informally, what work awaited him. The Rear-Admiral took him aside afterwards and made his role sufficiently clear. The Merlin would be employed in convoy protection and would operate between Gibraltar and the Levant. There was a French army cooped up in Egypt since the Battle of the Nile but this would be none of his concern. His task would be to protect trade and deal with enemy cruisers, especially in the western half of the Mediterranean. French corvettes and privateers were numerous and enterprising and British merchantmen had to proceed in convoy under naval escort.

  It would be his fate, he gathered, to plod endlessly back and forth between Gibraltar, Port Mahon, Malta, Palermo and Cyprus, with little chance of gaining distinction and still less of making prize-money. He would wear out his signal flags in urging merchantmen to make more sail and expend his powder in warning them to keep in formation. He would also have to take the blame when they ignored him and were captured. He was fortunate in his ship, as the Rear-Admiral repeated, but he would gain no credit, it seemed, and make no prize-money. Nor could he complain for he had much to learn, as he realised, and this was almost his first command.

  Two days later Delancey stood on the King’s Bastion and watched the Merlin come into the anchorage. With him were David Stock, volunteer (first class), Luke Tanner, coxswain, and John Teesdale, captain’s steward; the men he had been entitled to bring with him from his last ship.