The Complete Midshipman Bolitho

by Alexander Kent

“Aft.”

  “Very well. I’d better see him.”

  Shooting another glance at Dancer he went below, twisting himself around and down the companion like a weasel.

  “Well now.” Dancer pursed his lips in a whistle. “He’s a strange one.”

  The boatswain’s mate of the watch called, “Cap’n wants you below, sir!”

  Bolitho hurried to the ladder, wondering if Whiffin’s return had changed something. Perhaps he and not Dancer was going with the waggons after all.

  His brother looked up sharply as he entered the cabin. Whiffin was sitting near him, filling the air with smoke from a long clay pipe.

  “Sir?”

  “Slight alteration, Richard.” He gave a small smile. “I want you to get ashore and find the chief revenue officer. Hand him this letter, and bring me a signature for it.”

  Bolitho nodded. “I see, sir.”

  “I doubt it, but no matter, so off you go.”

  Bolitho looked at the address scrawled on the wax-sealed envelope and then returned to the deck.

  He led Dancer to the side and said, “If I’m not back aboard before you leave, good luck, Martyn.” He touched his arm and smiled, surprised at his sudden uneasiness. “And take care.”

  Then he climbed on to the jetty and strode quickly towards the town.

  It took over an hour to find the revenue officer in question. He seemed out of sorts, probably because of the extra work he was being given, and also at having to sign for the letter, as if he was not to be trusted.

  When Bolitho returned to the jetty nothing seemed to have changed. Not at first glance. But as he drew nearer to the Avenger’s tall mast and furled sails he realized that the waggons had already gone.

  As he lowered himself to the deck Truscott, the gunner, said, “You’re wanted below, sir.”

  Again? It never stopped. He was still a midshipman, no matter what title Hugh had chosen for him.

  Hugh Bolitho was seated at the table, as if he had not moved. The air was still wreathed in smoke, and it gave the impression that Whiffin had only just left.

  “You didn’t take long, Richard.” He sounded preoccupied. “Good. You can tell Mr Gloag to call the hands and prepare to get under way. We’ll be shorthanded, so see that they know what they are doing.”

  “The waggons are gone.”

  His brother watched him for several seconds. “Yes. Soon after you left.” He raised one eyebrow. “Well?”

  “Is something wrong?” Bolitho stood his ground as he recognized the quick flash of impatience.

  “Whiffin brought news. There is to be an ambush. The waggons will take the road to the east’rd towards Helston, then nor’-east to Truro. Whiffin has made good use of his time ashore and a few guineas in the right palms. If all goes as expected, the attack will be between here and Helston. The coast road is within easy reach of a dozen coves and beaches. Avenger will get under way now and be ready and waiting to offer assistance.”

  Bolitho waited for more. His brother was explaining crisply, confidently, but there was a difference. He sounded as if he was speaking his thoughts aloud to convince himself of something.

  Bolitho said, “And the letter I carried was for the dragoons?”

  Hugh Bolitho leaned back against the curved timbers and said bitterly, “There are no dragoons. They’re not coming.”

  Bolitho could not speak for several moments, seeing only his friend’s face as they had parted, recalling Hugh’s remark about Avenger being short-handed. The plan had been for ten seamen to go with Dancer, while the rest of the escort would be some revenue officers. The dragoons from Truro, superbly trained and experienced, were to have been the main force.

  The fact that Hugh had sent more seamen than intended showed he had known for some while.

  He said, “You knew. Just as you did about the informant Portlock.”

  “Yes. If I had told you, what would you have done, eh?” He looked away. “You’d have passed the news to Mr Dancer, frightened him half to death before he’d even started.”

  “As it is, you might be sending him to his death.”

  “Don’t be so bloody insolent!” Hugh stood up, stooping automatically between the deckhead beams. It made him look as if he was about to spring at his younger brother. “Or so self-righteous!”

  “I could ride after them.” He could hear his own voice. Pleading, knowing at the same time it was wasted. “There’ll be other ways of catching the smugglers, other times.”

  “It is settled. We sail on the tide. The wind has veered and is in our favour.” Hugh lowered his voice. “Rest easy. We’ll manage.”

  As Bolitho made for the door he added, “Mr Dancer is your friend, and we are brothers. But to all else we are authority, with a plain duty to carry out.” He nodded. “So be about it, eh?”

  Standing aft by the taffrail as he watched the Avenger’s depleted company preparing to take in the mooring lines, Bolitho tried to see it as his brother had suggested. Detached. Uninvolved. It would be simple to recall the waggons. A fast horse would be up to them in less than two hours. But Hugh was not prepared to risk his plan, no matter what chance it had of success without the dragoons’ aid. He would rather put Dancer and two dozen of his own men in mortal danger.

  Standing out of harbour almost into the eye of the wind, the Avenger made a leisurely exit.

  Bolitho watched his brother by the compass, seeking some sign, a hint of his true feelings.

  He heard Gloag say, “Damn this fair weather, I say, sir. We’ll not be able to change tack ’til we’re hid from the land by dusk.” He sounded anxious, which was unusual. “Time’s runnin’ out.”

  Then Bolitho saw through his brother’s guard as he thrust himself away from the compass with a sharp retort. “Keep your miseries to yourself, Mr Gloag! I’m in no mood for them!”

  He went below, and Bolitho heard the cabin door slam shut.

  The acting master remarked to the deck at large, “Squalls ahead.”

  Darkness had closed over the choppy waters of Mounts Bay when Hugh Bolitho came on deck again.

  He nodded to Gloag and the watchkeepers on the lee side and said, “Tell Mr Pyke and the gunner to attend to both boats. They must be armed and ready for hoisting outboard at short notice.”

  He peered at the feeble compass light. “Call the hands and bring her about. Steer due east, if you please.”

  As the word was passed between decks, and the seamen came hurrying once more to their stations, he crossed to where Bolitho stood beside the helmsmen.

  “It’ll be a clear night. Wind’s brisk, but no need to take in a reef.”

  Bolitho barely heard him. He was picturing the cutter’s progress, as if he were a sea bird high overhead.

  From the calculations on the chart, and the new course, he knew that they would be heading inshore again, to dangerous shoal waters, towards the very coastline where the Dutchman had gone aground, and many more fine ships before.

  If Whiffin’s information was correct there would be an attack on the slow-moving waggons. If the attackers already knew of the deception they would be beside themselves with glee. If not, it would still make little difference unless Dancer and his men received help.

  He looked up at the hard-bellied sails, the long whipping tongue of the masthead pendant.

  His brother called, “Very well. Stand by to come about.”

  When order had replaced the confusion of changing tack, and Avenger’s long, pole-like bowsprit was pointing towards the east, the gunner came aft, leaning over to a steeper angle as the wind pushed the hull over.

  “Boats checked an’ ready, sir. An’ I’ve got a good man by the arms chest in case we . . .”

  He swung round as a voice called hoarsely, “Light, sir! On th’ larboard bow!”

  Dark figures slithered down across the tilting deck to the lee side to search for the light.

  Someone said, “Wreckers, mebbe?”

  But Gloag, who had also seen it, said
, “No. It was too regular.” He pointed. “See? There it be again!”

  Bolitho snatched a telescope and tried to train it across the creaming wash of crests and spray. Two flashes. A shuttered lantern. A signal.

  He felt Hugh at his side, heard his telescope squeak as he closed it and said, “Where is that, d’you reckon, Mr Gloag?” Calm again. In charge.

  “ ’Ard t’ tell, sir.”

  Bolitho heard Gloag breathing heavily, any animosity between him and his youthful captain momentarily forgotten.

  Pyke suggested, “Round the point, towards Prah Sands, is my guess, sir.”

  The light blinked out twice like a malevolent eye against the black shoreline.

  Pyke said with disbelief, “God damn their eyes, they’re runnin’ a cargo tonight, the buggers!”

  Bolitho chilled, imagining the unknown vessel, somewhere ahead of the lightless cutter. If they sighted the Avenger they might sheer off. Then again, they might raise an alarm which in turn would warn the ambush. The attack would be brought forward and there would be no hope of quarter.

  “We will shorten sail, Mr Gloag. Mr Truscott, have the guns loaded with grape and canister.” The sharpness in his tone held the gunner motionless. “But do it piece by piece. I don’t want to hear a sound!” Hugh peered round for a boatswain’s mate. “Pass the word forrard. A flogging for the first man to alert the enemy. A golden guinea for the first man to sight him!”

  Bolitho crossed the deck before he knew what he was doing.

  “You’re not going after her?”

  His brother faced him, although his face was hidden in the gloom.

  “What did you expect? If I let her slip away we could lose both. This way we might do for all the devils at once!”

  He swung away as the hands ran to the braces and halliards. “I’ve no choice.”

  7 A TRAGEDY

  AS THE AVENGER PLOUGHED her way through each succession of wave crests, Bolitho found it harder to contain his anxiety. The cutter seemed to be making an incredible noise, and although he knew it would not be heard beyond half a cable, he could find no comfort. The sluice of water against the hull, the boom of heavy canvas with the attendant strains and rattles in the rigging, all joined in an ever-changing crescendo.

  The topsail had been taken in, as had the jib, but even under fore and mainsail alone Avenger would stand out to any watchful smuggler.

  As Gloag had mentioned, it was a fair night. Now that their eyes had become accustomed to it, it seemed even brighter. No clouds, a million glittering stars to reflect on the frothing waves and spume, and when you looked up the sails were like great, quivering wings.

  A man craned over a stocky six-pounder and thrust out his arm.

  “There, sir! Fine on th’ lee bow!”

  Figures moved about the decks, as if taking part in a well practised dance. Here and there a telescope squeaked or a man whispered to his companion. Some in speculation, others probably in envy for the man who would receive a golden guinea.

  Hugh Bolitho said, “Schooner, showing no lights. Under full sail too.” He shut his glass with a snap. “Bit of luck. He’ll be making more din than we are.” He dispensed with conjecture and added shortly, “Bring her up a point, Mr Gloag. I don’t want the devil to slip past us. We’ll hold the wind-gage if we can.”

  Voices passed hushed orders, and cordage squeaked through the sheaves while overhead the big mainsail shivered violently before filling again to the alteration of course.

  Bolitho glanced at the compass as the helmsman said hoarsely, “East by south, sir.”

  “Man the larboard battery.” Hugh sounded completely absorbed. “Open the ports.”

  Bolitho watched the port lids being hauled open to reveal the glistening mane of water alongside. Avenger was heeling so far over that spray came leaping inboard over the six-pounders and deadly-looking swivels.

  Normally Bolitho would have felt like the rest of the men around him. Tense, committed, slightly wild at the prospect of a fight. But he could not lose himself this time, and kept thinking of the waggons, the outnumbered escort, the sudden horror of an ambush.

  A light spurted in the darkness, and for an instant he thought some careless seaman had dropped a lantern on the other vessel. Then he heard a distant crack, like a man breaking a nut in his palms, and knew it was a pistol shot. A warning, a signal. Now it did not matter which.

  “Put up your helm, Mr Gloag!” Hugh’s voice, loud now that caution was pointless, made the men at the tiller start. “Stand by on deck!”

  There were more flashes, doing more to reveal the other vessel’s size and sail plan than to harm the crouching seamen.

  The distance was rapidly falling away, the big sails sweeping the cutter downwind like a bird of prey, and then they saw the schooner rising through the darkness, her canvas in confusion as she tried to change tack and beat clear.

  Bolitho watched his brother as he stood by the weather rail, one foot on a bollard, as if he was watching a race.

  “As you bear, Mr Truscott! On the uproll!”

  A further pause, and across the choppy water Bolitho heard muffled shouts, a vague rasp of metal.

  Then, “Fire!”

  At a range of less than seventy yards the larboard battery hurled themselves inboard on their tackles, their long orange tongues as blinding as their explosions were deafening. Unlike the heavy artillery of a ship of the line, or even a frigate, Avenger’s little six-pounders had voices which scraped the insides of the brain.

  Bolitho pictured the effect of the sweeping hail of grape and close-packed canister as it cut into the other vessel’s deck. He heard a spar fall, saw splashes alongside the darkened schooner as rigging and perhaps men dropped from the masts like dead fruit.

  “Sponge out! Load!”

  Hugh Bolitho had drawn his sword, and in the misty starlight it shone in his hand like a piece of thin ice. The same one he had used to settle a matter of honour. Probably many others too, Bolitho thought despairingly.

  “Fire!”

  Even as the small broadside crashed out again, shaking the hull like a giant fist, a few cracks and flashes showed that the smugglers were not ready to surrender.

  Hugh Bolitho yelled, “Stand by to board!” He did not even look round as a man fell kicking on the deck with a musket ball in his neck.

  How many times they must have drilled and practised this, Bolitho thought as he dragged out his hanger. The gun crews left their smoking charges and seized up cutlasses and pikes, axes and dirks, while the remainder of the hands threw themselves on sheets and halliards. At the moment of collision between the two hulls,

  Avenger’s sails seemed to vanish like magic, so that with the way off her heavy, downwind plunge she came alongside the other vessel with one heart-stopping lurch.

  But stripping off her sails had lessened the chance of dismasting her, likewise she did not rebound away from her adversary, so that as grapnels soared through the darkness and more shots and cries echoed between the hulls, the first boarders swarmed across the bulwark.

  Pyke yelled, “Back, lads!”

  Even that was like part of a rehearsed dance. As the cheering boarders threw themselves inboard again, two swivels exploded from the forecastle, scything through a crowd of screaming figures who seconds earlier had been rushing to repel the attack.

  Hugh Bolitho pointed his sword. “ Now! At ’em, lads!” Then he was up and over, slashing at a man as he did so, and catching one of his own as he all but fell between the two grinding hulls.

  Bolitho ran to the forecastle, waving his hanger to the last party of boarders.

  Yelling and cheering like demons they clambered over the gap. One man fell beside Bolitho without a sound, another threw his hand to his face and screamed, the sound ending with a sharp gasp as a boarding pike came out of the darkness and impaled him.

  Shoulder to shoulder Bolitho’s men advanced along the schooner’s deck, while from the cutter alongside the remaining seamen y
elled advice and warnings, accompanied by pistol-fire and a few well aimed missiles.

  Bolitho felt his shoes slithering on the remains left by the swivels’ murderous onslaught. He shut his mind to all else but the faces which loomed and faded before him, the jarring ache of steel as he kept up his guard and probed for weakness in an opponent’s defence.

  Across the heads and shoulders of the yelling, cursing men he saw his brother’s white lapels, heard his voice as he urged his party forward, separating and dividing the defenders into smaller and smaller groups.

  Someone yelled, “ That’s for Jackie Trillo, you bugger!” A cutlass swung like a scythe, almost cutting a man’s head from his shoulders.

  “Strike! Throw down your arms!”

  But a few more were to fall before the cutlasses and pikes clattered on the planking amongst the corpses and groaning wounded.

  Then Bolitho saw his brother point his sword at a man by the untended wheel.

  “Have your people anchor. If you desist or try to scuttle, I will have you seized up and flogged.” He sheathed his sword. “Then hanged.”

  Bolitho hurried to his side. “The whole of Cornwall will have heard this!”

  Hugh did not seem to be listening. “Not Frenchies as I suspected. They sound like Colonists.” He turned abruptly and nodded. “Yes, I agree. We will leave the prize anchored here, under guard. Have two swivels hoisted across and trained on the prisoners. Then put a petty officer in charge. He’ll know how to deal with them. He’d rather die than face me after letting them escape!”

  Bolitho followed him, his mind awhirl as he watched his brother’s progress. Passing orders, answering questions, his hands moving to emphasize a point or to indicate what he wanted done.

  Pyke shouted, “Anchor’s down, sir!”

  “Good.” Hugh Bolitho strode to the side. “The rest of you, come with me. Mr Gloag! Cast off and get the ship under way, if you please!”

  Blocks squeaked, and like rearing spectres the sails rose above the listing, pock-marked schooner. Reluctantly at first, and then with gathering speed, the Avenger jerked and bumped her way free of the other vessel’s side, the sails filling immediately to carry her clear.