The Complete Midshipman Bolitho

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho turned as his mother said softly, “I’m grateful for your trouble, Sir Henry.” She looked pale, more so in the reflected glare from the snow outside.

  Vyvyan regarded her affectionately. “But for that damned husband of yours, ma’am, I’d have set me cap at you, even if I am a cut-about old villain!”

  She laughed. “I’ll tell him when he returns. It may make him quit the sea.”

  Vyvyan downed the last of the wine and waved another ladle aside. “No, I must be off now. Tell that fool of a coachman to get ready, if you please!” To the room at large he added, “No, don’t do that, ma’am. England will need all her sailors again afore long. Neither the Dons nor the French Court will rest until they have bared their metal against us for another attempt.” He laughed loudly. “Well, let ’em!” He faced the two midshipmen. “With lads like these, I think we can rest easy at night!”

  With a hug for Mrs Bolitho and heavy slaps on the back for the midshipmen he stamped out into the hall, bellowing for his coachman.

  Dancer grinned. “His man must be deaf !”

  Bolitho asked, “Is it time to eat, Mother? We’re starving!”

  She smiled at them warmly. “Soon now. Sir Henry’s visit was unexpected.”

  Two more days passed, each full of interest, and neither spoiling their escape from discipline and the routine life of shipboard.

  Then the post-boy, as he called at the house for something hot to drink, confided that a vessel had been sighted standing inshore towards the entrance to Carrick Roads.

  The wind had veered considerably, and Bolitho knew it would take all of an hour for the incoming vessel to reach an anchorage.

  He asked the post-boy what she was, and he replied with a grimace, “King’s ship, sir. Cutter by the looks of ’er.”

  A cutter. Probably one of those used by the Revenue Service, or better still, under naval command.

  He said quickly, “Shall we go and see her?”

  Dancer was already looking for his coat. “I’m ready.”

  Bolitho’s mother threw up her hands. “No sooner back and you want to go looking at ships again! Just like your father!”

  The air was keen-edged, like ice, but by the time they had walked through the town to the harbour they were glowing like stoves. Good food, with regular sleep and exercise, had worked wonders for both of them.

  Together they stood on the jetty and watched the slow-moving vessel tacking towards her anchorage. She was some seventy feet in length, with a massive beam of over twenty. Single-masted, and with a rounded, blunt bow, she looked cumbersome and heavy, but Bolitho knew from what he had seen elsewhere that properly handled cutters could use their great sail area to tack within five points of the wind and in most weathers. She carried a vast, loose-footed mainsail, and also a squared topsail. A jib and fore completed her display of canvas, although Bolitho knew she could set more, even studding sails if required.

  She was now turning lazily into the wind, her canvas vanishing deftly as her hands prepared to drop anchor. A red ensign and masthead pendant made the only colour against the pewter sky, and Bolitho felt the same old feeling he always did when seeing a part, even a small part, of his own world.

  Blunt and clumsy she might appear, lacking the glinting broadsides and proud figureheads of larger men-of-war, she was nevertheless somebody’s own command.

  He saw the anchor splash down, the usual bustle at the tackles to sway the jolly boat up and over the bulwark.

  Across the choppy water they both heard the twitter of calls, and pictured the scene on board. In that seventy feet of hull they carried a company of nearly sixty souls, although how they managed to sleep, eat and work in such cramped space was hard to fathom. They shared the hull with anchor cables, water, provisions, powder and shot. It left few inches for comfort.

  The jolly boat was in the water now, and Bolitho saw the gleam of white breeches beneath a blue coat as the vessel’s commander climbed down to be pulled ashore.

  As the tide and wind swung the cutter to her cable Bolitho saw her name painted across her raked quarter. Avenger. The dead revenue man would have approved, he thought grimly.

  A small knot of onlookers had gathered on the wall to watch the newcomer. But not too many. People who lived by and off the sea were always wary of a King’s ship, no matter how small.

  Bolitho started as the boat hooked on to the jetty stairs and a burly seaman hurried towards him and knuckled his forehead.

  “Mr Midshipman Bolitho, sir?”

  Dancer chuckled. “Even out of uniform you are recognized, Dick!”

  The seaman added, “My cap’n wishes a word, sir.”

  Mystified, they walked to the stairs as the cocked hat and shoulders of Avenger’s commander appeared above the wet stones.

  Bolitho stared with amazement. “ Hugh! ”

  His brother regarded him impassively. “Aye, Richard.” He nodded to Dancer, and then called to his coxswain, “Return to the ship. My compliments to Mr Gloag, and tell him I will signal when I require the boat.”

  Bolitho watched him, his feelings mixed and confused. Hugh was supposed to be in a frigate, or so he thought. He had changed quite a lot since their last meeting. The lines at his mouth and jaw were deeper, and his voice carried the rasp of authority. But the rest was unchanged. The black hair like his own, and like some of the portraits in the house, tied above his collar with a neat bow. Steady eyes, strained after long hours of sea duty, and the same old air of supreme confidence which had brought them to blows in the past.

  They fell in step, Hugh thrusting past the onlookers with barely a glance.

  As they walked he said, “Is Mother well?” But he sounded distant, his mind elsewhere.

  “She’ll be glad to see you, Hugh. It will make it a real Christmas.”

  Hugh glanced at Dancer. “You’ve all been having a time for yourselves in the old Gorgon, I believe?”

  Bolitho hid a smile. There it was again. The barb, the hint of disbelief.

  Dancer nodded. “You read of it, sir?”

  “Some.” Hugh quickened his pace. “Also I saw the admiral at Plymouth and spoke with your captain.” He stopped by the broad gateway, his eyes examining the house as if for the first time. “I may as well tell you now. You have been placed under my orders until this local matter is cleared up, or my vacancies have been filled.”

  Bolitho stared at him, angered by his abruptness, sorry for Dancer’s position.

  “Vacancies?”

  Hugh regarded him calmly. “Aye. I had to send my senior and some good hands aboard a prize last week. The Navy is hard put for spare officers and men, Richard, although you would not know about that, of course. It may be sunshine in Africa, but it is icy reality here!”

  “Did you ask for us?”

  Hugh shrugged. “Your captain told me you would both be here. Availability and local knowledge decided the rest, right? He approved the transfer.”

  The expression on their mother’s face as they entered the house made up for some of the sudden hurt.

  Dancer said softly, “It may be fun, Dick. Your brother has the cut of an experienced officer.”

  Bolitho replied grudgingly, “He has that, damn it!”

  Bolitho watched Hugh leading their mother into an adjoining room. When she came out again she was no longer smiling.

  “I am so sorry, Dick, and more so for you, Martyn.”

  Dancer said firmly, “You need not be, ma’am. We have both become used to the unexpected.”

  “Nevertheless . . .”

  She turned as Hugh entered the room, a glass of brandy in one hand.

  “ Nevertheless, dear family, it is a serious affair. This is just the tip of the berg. God knows what that fool Morgan was about when he was killed, but no revenue man should act alone.” His eyes moved to Bolitho. “It is far worse than smuggling. At first we believed it was the foul weather. Wrecks are common enough on this coast.”

  Bolitho chilled. So that w
as it. Wreckers. The worst crime of all.

  His brother continued in his clipped tones, “But we have received news of too many rich cargoes lost of late. Silver and gold, spirits and valuable spices. Enough to feed a city, or raise an army.” He shrugged, as if weary of confidences. “But my duty is to seek out these murderers and hand them to the authorities. The whys and wherefores are not for a King’s officer to determine.”

  His mother said huskily, “But wreckers! How could they? Loot and rob helpless seamen . . .”

  Hugh smiled gently. “They see their betters reaping a rich bounty from ships run ashore on their private land. Reason soon flies out of the window, Mother.”

  Dancer protested, “But an accidental wreck is a far cry from being lured aground, sir!”

  Hugh looked away. “Possibly. But not to the leeches who live off the trade.”

  Dancer said, “Your presence here will be well known by now, sir.”

  Hugh nodded. “I will warm a few palms, make a few promises. Some will give information just to send the Avenger somewhere else!”

  Bolitho looked at his friend. This was a different kind of Navy. Where a commanding officer could use bribery to gain information, and then act independently without waiting for ponderous authority to give him its blessing.

  The door flew open and Nancy rushed across the room and threw her arms around her brother’s neck.

  “Hugh! This really is a gathering of the clan!”

  He held her away and studied her for several seconds.

  “You are a lady now, well almost.” He raised his guard again. “We’ll sail on the tide. I suggest you make your way to the harbour and hail a boat.” His tone hardened. “Don’t fret, Mother, I have become very swift in matters of this sort. We shall have Christmas together if I have anything to say on it!”

  As Bolitho closed the door to go to his room he heard his mother’s voice.

  “But why, Hugh? You were doing so well aboard your ship! Everyone said your captain was pleased with your behaviour!”

  Bolitho hesitated. Unwilling to eavesdrop, but needing to know what was happening.

  Hugh replied shortly, “I left the Laertes and was offered this command. Avenger’s not much, but she’s mine. I can lend weight and authority to the revenue cutters and excisemen, and do much as I please. I have few regrets.”

  “But why did you decide so?”

  “Very well, Mother. It was a convenience, if you must know. I had a disagreement . . .”

  Bolitho heard his mother sob and wanted to go to her.

  He heard Hugh add, “A matter of honour.”

  “Did you kill someone in a duel? Oh, Hugh, what will your father say?”

  Hugh gave a short laugh. “No, I did not kill him. Just cut him a trifle.”

  He must have taken her in his arms for the sobs were quieter and muffled.

  “And Father will not know. Unless you tell him, eh?”

  Dancer waited at the top of the stairs.

  “What is it?”

  Bolitho sighed. “My brother has a quick temper. I think he has been in trouble over an affair.”

  Dancer smiled. “In St James’s there is always someone getting nicked or killed in duels. The King forbids it.” He shrugged. “But it goes on just the same.”

  They helped each other to pack their chests again. Mrs Tremayne would only burst into tears if they asked her to do it, even at the promise of a quick return.

  When they went downstairs again Hugh had disappeared.

  Bolitho kissed his mother, and Dancer took her hand before saying gently, “If I never returned here, ma’am, this one visit would have been a great gift to me.”

  Her chin lifted. “Thank you, Martyn. You are a good boy. Take care, both of you.”

  Two seamen were at the gates, waiting to carry their chests to the boat.

  Bolitho smiled to himself. Hugh had been that certain.

  Confident as ever. In control.

  As they crossed the square by the inn Dancer exclaimed, “Look, Dick, the coach!”

  They both stopped and stared at it as it rumbled off the cobbles and the horn gave a lively blare.

  Back to Plymouth. It was even the same coachman and guard.

  Bolitho gave a great sigh. “We had best get aboard the Avenger. I am afraid Mrs Tremayne’s cooking has blunted my eagerness for duty.”

  They turned towards the sea, and heads bowed made their way on to the jetty.

  3 Like a BIRD

  AFTER A LIVELY CROSSING to the anchored cutter Bolitho found the Avenger surprisingly steady for her size. Holding his hat clapped to his head in the icy wind, he paused by the small companion-way while he studied the vessel’s solitary mast and the broad deck which shone in the grey light like metal. The bulwarks were pierced on either beam to take ten six-pounders, while both forward and right aft by the taffrail he noticed additional mountings for swivel guns. Small she might be, but no slouch in a fight, he decided.

  A figure loomed through a busy throng of working seamen and confronted the two midshipmen. He was a giant in height and girth, with a face so weatherbeaten he looked more like a Spaniard than any Briton.

  He said loudly, “ ’Eard about you.” He thrust out a big, scarred hand. “Andrew Gloag, actin’ master o’ this vessel.”

  Bolitho introduced Dancer and watched them together. The slim, fair midshipman, the great, unshakable figure in the patched blue coat. Gloag may have begun life in Scotland with a name like his, but his dialect was as Devonian as you could imagine.

  “Better lay aft, young gennlemen.” Gloag squinted towards the shore. “We’ll be weighin’ presently, if the cap’n is anything to judge by.” He grinned, revealing several gaps in his teeth. “I ’opes you’re not too much like ’im . I can’t stand a brace o’ you!” He laughed and pushed them towards the companion. “Get below an’ see to yer gear.” He swung away, cupping his hands to bellow,

  “Look alive, you idle bugger! Catch a turn with that line or I’ll skin you for supper!”

  Bolitho and Dancer clambered breathlessly down a short ladder and groped their way to a small stern cabin, banging their heads more than once on the low deckhead beams. The Avenger seemed to enfold them with her own sounds and smells. Some familiar and some less so. She felt like a workboat more than a man-of-war. In a class all of her own. Like Andrew Gloag, whose loud voice carried easily through wind and stout timbers alike. A master’s mate and acting master. He might never command the quarterdeck of a ship like Gorgon, but here he was a king.

  It was hard to picture him working with Hugh. He thought suddenly of his brother, wondering, as he often did, why he felt that he never really knew him.

  Hugh was changed in some ways. Harder, more confident, if that were possible. More to the point, he was unhappy.

  Dancer pushed his chest into a vacant corner and sat on it, his head almost reaching one of the deck beams.

  “What do you make of it all, Dick?”

  Bolitho listened to the creak and groan of timbers, the rattle and slap of wet rigging somewhere overhead. It would get more lively once they cleared the Roads.

  “Wrecking, smuggling, I believe the two always go hand in hand, Martyn. But the port admiral at Plymouth must have heard more than we, if he’s so willing to send the Avenger. ”

  “I heard your brother say that he had lost his senior by putting him in a prize, Dick. I wonder what happened to the cutter’s last commander?” He smiled. “Your brother seems to have a way of getting rid of people.” The smile vanished. “I am sorry. That was a stupid thing to say!”

  Bolitho touched his sleeve. “No. You’re right. He does have that way with him.”

  Oars thrashed alongside, accompanied by more curses and threats from Mr Gloag.

  “Jolly boat’s away again.” Bolitho grimaced. “Hugh’ll be coming aboard now.”

  It took Lieutenant Hugh Bolitho longer than expected to return to his command. When he did arrive he was drenched in spray, grim-
faced and obviously in ill humour.

  In the cabin he threw himself down on a bench and snapped, “When I come aboard I expect to be met by my officers.” He glared at the midshipmen. “This is no ship of the line with ten men for each trivial task. This is . . .” He swung round on the bench as a frightened looking seaman peered in at them. “Where the hell have you been, Warwick?” He did not wait for a reply. “Bring some brandy and something hot to go with it.” The man fled.

  In a calmer tone he continued, “In a King’s ship, no matter how small, you must always keep up an example.”

  Bolitho said, “I’m sorry. I thought as we are only attached to your command . . .”

  Hugh smiled. “Attached, pressed, volunteered, I don’t care which. You’re both my officers until the word says otherwise. There’s work to do.”

  He looked up as Gloag came through the door, his great frame doubled over like a weird hunchback.

  “Sit you down, Mr Gloag. We’ll take a glass before we set sail. All well?”

  The master removed his battered hat, and Bolitho saw with surprise he was quite bald, like a brown egg, with the hair at his neck and cheeks as thick as spun yarn as if to compensate for his loss.

  Hugh said, “You will assume duties of second-in-command, Richard. Mr Dancer will assist you. Two halves to make the whole, eh?” He smiled at his joke.

  Gloag seemed to sense the atmosphere and rumbled, “I ’eard that you took command of a brig, the pair of you, when your lieutenants were too sick or injured to be of use?”

  Dancer nodded, his eyes shining. “Aye, sir. The Sandpiper. Dick took command like a veteran!”

  Hugh said, “Good, here’s the brandy.” Half to himself he added, “We want no heroes cluttering these decks, thank you.”

  Bolitho looked at his friend and winked. They had scored a small victory over Hugh’s sarcasm.

  He asked, “What about the smugglers, Mr Gloag?”

  “Oh, this an’ that. Spirits and spices, silks and other such nonsense for them with too much money. Mr Pyke says we’ll soon ’ave ’em by the ’eels.”

  Dancer looked at him. “Pyke?”

  Hugh Bolitho pushed some goblets across a low table. “Pyke’s my boatswain. Used to be a preventative officer himself before he got more sense and signed to wear the King’s coat.” He held up his goblet. “Welcome, gentlemen.”