The Complete Midshipman Bolitho

by Alexander Kent

  He touched the watch fob that hung from his breeches pocket but did not look at it. He had made his point.

  “So you had not forgotten, Mr Dancer. I am glad to know it, sir.”

  As if in confirmation, eight bells chimed out from the forecastle belfry.

  “Attention on the upper deck! Face aft!”

  Calls trilled, and from across the water came the measured blare of a trumpet. Part of life itself. Colours were being hoisted, and there would be several telescopes observing from the shore and the flagship to make certain that no one and no ship was caught unawares.

  Midshipman Martyn Dancer exhaled slowly, and nodded to his friend.

  “Had to go back to the mess, Dick. Forgot my protector, today of all days!”

  It was a small, grotesque carving, more like a demon than a symbol of good fortune, but Dancer was never without it. Bolitho had first seen it after his ordeal with the smugglers. Dancer still bore the bruises, but claimed that his “protector” had saved him from far worse.

  Verling was saying, “I wish you well. We all do. And remember this, the pair of you. You speak for yourselves, but today you represent this ship. ” He permitted himself a thin smile. “Go to it!”

  “Boat’s alongside, sir!”

  Bolitho grinned at his friend. It was only right that they should be together today, after all that had happened.

  Lieutenant Montagu Verling watched them climb down to the launch which had hooked on to the “stairs” beneath the port. Had he ever been like that, he wondered?

  “Cast off ! Shove off forrard!” The boat, caught on the tide, veered away from the big two-decker’s side, oars upright in twin lines, the coxswain gripping the tiller-bar, gauging the moment.

  Verling was still watching them. It was not like him, and he was a little surprised by it. The carpenter and the boatswain would be waiting with yet more lists, work to be done, stores or cord-age not yet arrived or the wrong sort if they had. For he was the first lieutenant. Right aft, beneath that big ensign curling in a steady south-westerly, the captain was in his quarters, secure in the knowledge that this refit would be completed on time. That would please the admiral, and so on, up the chain of command.

  Verling saw the oars fanning out on the launch’s sides, like wings, while the crew leaned aft to take the strain.

  Perhaps, one day soon . . .

  “Give way together! ”

  He swung round, and saw the new lieutenant trying to catch his eye.

  It was wrong to harbour personal dislikes in your own wardroom.

  He turned and stared across the shark-blue water, but the launch was already out of sight amongst other anchored ships. Suddenly he was glad that he had made a point of being here when the midshipmen had departed, whatever the outcome of their examinations today.

  He rearranged his features into the mask of command and strode towards a working party struggling with another tackle-load of timber.

  “Take a turn, you, Perkins! Jump about, man!”

  The first lieutenant had returned.

  In spite of the deep swell, the Gorgon’s launch soon gathered way once clear of the two-decker’s side. Fourteen oars, double-banked, pulling in a powerful but unhurried stroke, carried her past other anchored men-of-war with apparent ease. The coxswain, a tough and experienced seaman, was unconcerned. The ship had been so long at anchor during the overhaul that he had grown used to most of the other vessels, and the comings and goings of their boats on the endless errands of the squadron. And the man whose flag flew above the powerful three-decker which he could see in miniature, framed between the shoulders of his two bowmen. The flagship. Like most of his mates, the coxswain had never laid eyes on the admiral. But he was here, a presence, and that was enough.

  Bolitho tugged his cocked hat more tightly over his forehead. He was shivering, and tightened his fingers around the thwart, damp and unyielding beneath his buttocks. But it was not the cold, nor the occasional needles of spray drifting aft from the stem. They had all discussed it, of course. Something far away in the future, vaguely unreal. He glanced at his companion. Even that was unreal. What had drawn them to one another in the first place? And after today, would they ever meet again? The Navy was like that; a family, some described it. But it was hard on true friendship.

  They were the same age, with only a month between them, and so different. They had joined Gorgon together, Martyn Dancer having been transferred from another ship which, in turn, had been going into dock for a complete refit. About sixteen months ago. Before that, he had by his own admission served “only three months and two days” in His Britannic Majesty’s service.

  Bolitho considered his own beginnings. He had entered the Navy as a midshipman at the tender age of twelve. He thought of Falmouth, of all the portraits, the faces that watched him on the stairs, or by the study. The Bolitho family’s might have been a history of the Royal Navy itself.

  He thought, too, of his brother Hugh, who had been in temporary command of the revenue cutter Avenger. Less than two months ago. He and Martyn had been ordered to join him. An odd and daring experience. He looked over at his friend. That had been unexpected, too. Hugh, his only brother, had been the stranger.

  He turned to watch the flagship. Closer now, her reefed topsails and topgallants almost white in the glare, the vice-admiral’s flag streaming from the foremast truck like blood. And she had been Martyn’s last ship. His only ship. Three months and two days. But he was here today for examination. Like me. Bolitho had served for five years. There would be others today, bracing themselves, gauging the odds. Did hardened, seasoned officers like Verling ever look back and have doubts?

  He stared up at the towering masts, the tracery of black rigging and shrouds. Close to, she was even more impressive. A second-rate of ninety guns with a company of some eight hundred officers, seamen and marines. A world of its own. Bolitho’s first ship had been a big three-decker also, and even after some four years aboard in that cramped and busy space there were faces he had never seen twice.

  The hull loomed over them, the long bowsprit and jib-boom sweeping like a lance. And the figurehead, Poseidon, the Greek god of the sea, resplendent in new gilt paint which alone must have cost a month’s pay. The “gilt on the gingerbread,” the sailors called it.

  The coxswain called, “Stand by! Bows! ”

  The two bowmen stood and tapped their blades together to signal the crew to be ready. A ship shall be judged by her boats . . .

  There were other boats at the booms or hooked on to the chains. Bolitho saw a lieutenant gesturing to the launch, heard the coxswain mutter, “I can see you, sir!”

  Martyn touched his sleeve. “Here we go, Dick.” Their eyes met. “We’ll show them, eh?”

  Like those other times. Not arrogance or conceit. A sort of quiet assurance; he had seen it in the rough and tumble of the midshipmen’s berth, and again in the face of real, chilling danger. All in so short a while, and yet they were like brothers.

  “Boat yer oars!”

  The hull lurched against fenders and the coxswain stood by the tiller-bar again, his hat in one hand. He looked at the two midshipmen. One day they’d be like that bloody lieutenant up there at the nettings, waving his arms about.

  But he said, “Good luck!”

  They were on their own.

  The officer of the watch checked their names against a well-thumbed list and regarded the newcomers with a cold stare, as if to ensure that they were presentable enough to be allowed further.

  He glanced at Dancer’s leather crossbelt. “Take in the slack.” He looked on critically while Dancer tugged the dirk into place and added, “This is the flagship, so don’t you forget it.” He signalled to a young messenger. “He’ll take you to the captain’s clerk. Show you where to wait.”

  Bolitho said, “Are there many here for the Board, sir?”

  The lieutenant considered it.

  “They’re not dragging their feet, I’ll say that for them.” He
relented a little. “You will be the last today.” He swung round to beckon to another seaman, and Dancer said quietly, “I hope we can get something to eat while we’re waiting!”

  Bolitho smiled, and felt sheer hilarity bubbling up. Like a dam breaking. Dancer could always do it, no matter how tense the situation.

  They followed the messenger, the ship reaching around and above them. A teeming world of packed humanity separated only by the invisible boundaries of status or rank. As a mere boy, it had been like being carried on a tide, with all the bumps and bruises, spiritual as well as physical, you might expect along the way. And the characters, the good and the bad, those you trusted on sight, and others on whom you would never turn your back without risk.

  And always busy, ceremonial one moment, court-martial the next. He felt the smile on his lips again. And always hungry.

  The captain’s clerk was a pale, solemn individual, who would have passed as a clergyman ashore or in more suitable surroundings. His cabin was close to the marines’ messdeck and stores, the “barracks” as they termed it, and above the other shipboard sounds they could hear the clatter of weapons and military equipment and the thump of heavy boots.

  The captain’s clerk, Colchester, seemed oblivious to everything but his own work, and the position which set him apart from the crowded world around him.

  He waited for the two midshipmen to seat themselves on a bench half-covered by documents neatly tied with blue ribbon. It looked chaotic, but Bolitho had the feeling that Colchester would know immediately if a single item was misplaced.

  He regarded them with an expression that might have been patience or boredom.

  “The Board today consists of three captains, unlike the more usual practise of one captain and two junior officers.” He cleared his throat, the sound like a gunshot in the paper-filled cabin.

  Three captains. Dancer had told him what to expect, to warn him, this very morning, while they had been trying to dress and prepare themselves mentally in the noise and upheaval of the midshipmen’s berth. It had seemed worse than usual, and the mess space was further reduced by stores and bedding from the sick quarters nearby.

  How had Dancer known about the Board’s members?

  He did not seem troubled by it, but that was Dancer. His way, his shield. No wonder he had won a kind of respect even from some of the hard men in Gorgon’s company.

  And from Bolitho’s sister Nancy, in the short time Dancer had stayed at the house in Falmouth. She was only sixteen, and it was hard for Bolitho to accept her as a woman. She was more used to the youngsters around Falmouth, farmers’ sons, and the callow young men who made up the bulk of the officers at the garrisons in Pendennis and Truro. But it had not been merely his imagination. She and Dancer had seemed to belong together.

  Three captains. There was no point in wondering why. A sudden sense of urgency? Unlikely. There were far too many officers in a state of stalemate, with no prospect of promotion. Only war increased demand, and cleared the way on the Navy List.

  Or perhaps it was the admiral’s idea . . .

  He looked over at Dancer, who appeared serenely oblivious.

  Colchester said, “You will wait here until you are called.” He got slowly to his feet, his lank hair brushing the deckhead beams. “Be patient, gentlemen. Always fire on the uproll . . .”

  Dancer watched him leave, and said, “If I get through today, Dick, I shall always owe it to you!”

  Not so confident, then. Bolitho looked away, the words lingering in his mind. He had thought it was the other way around.

  2 Not a CONTEST

  WAITING WAS THE WORST PART, more than either of them would admit. And here they were shut off from life, while the great ship throbbed and murmured above and around them. The clerk’s cabin consisted merely of the screens which separated it from the marines’ quarters and stores, and was devoid of ports; the only light came from vents above the door and two small lanterns. How Colchester coped with his letters and files was a mystery.

  It was now afternoon, and apart from a brief visit by a young midshipman who had hovered half in and half outside the screen door as a seaman had delivered a plate of biscuits and a jug of wine, they had seen nobody. The midshipman, whom Bolitho thought was about twelve years old, seemed almost too frightened to speak, as if he had been ordered not to confide in or converse with anyone waiting to face the Board.

  So young. I must have been like that in Manxman. It had been his first ship.

  Even now, Poseidon was evoking those memories. Constant movement, like a small town. The click of heels, the thud of bare feet and the heavier stamp of boots. He cocked his head. The marines must have abandoned their “barracks” to carry out drills on the upper deck, or some special ceremony. This was the flagship, after all.

  Dancer was on his feet again, his face almost pressed against the door.

  “I’m beginning to think my father was right, Dick. That I should have followed his advice and stayed on dry land!”

  They listened to the rumble of gun trucks, one of the upper deck twelve-pounders being moved. To train a new crew, or for care and maintenance. At least they were doing something.

  Dancer sighed and sat down again. “I was just thinking about your sister.” He ran his fingers through his fair hair, a habit Bolitho had come to know and recognize. He was coming to a decision. “It was such a pleasure to meet her. Nancy . . . I could have talked with her for ages. I was wondering . . .”

  They both turned as the door clicked open. Another seaman this time, but the same midshipman hovering at a distance, the white patches on his uniform very clean and bright in the filtered sunlight from a grating above his head.

  “Just come for this gear, sir.” The seaman gathered up the plates and the wine jug, which was empty, although neither of them could recall drinking the contents.

  He half turned as the midshipman outside the door answered someone who was passing. Friends, or a matter of duty, it was not clear. But it was like a signal.

  He looked quickly at Dancer', then leaned over towards Bolitho.

  “I served with Cap’n James Bolitho, sir. In the old Dunbar, it was.” He darted another glance at the door, but the voices were continuing as before. He added quietly, “ ’E were good to me. I said I’d never forget . . .”

  Bolitho waited, afraid to interrupt. This man had served under his father. The Dunbar had been James Bolitho’s first command. Well before his own time, but as familiar to him as the family portraits. The seaman was not going to ask any favours. He wanted to repay one. And he was afraid, even now.

  “My father, yes.” He knew Dancer was listening, but keeping his distance, possibly with disapproval.

  “Cap’n Greville.” He leaned closer, and Bolitho could smell the heavy rum. “ ’E commands the Odin. ” He reached out as if to touch his arm, but withdrew just as quickly, perhaps regretting what he had begun.

  The young midshipman was calling, “Tomorrow at noon, John. I’ll not forget!”

  Bolitho said quietly, “Tell me. You can rest easy.”

  The ship named Odin was a seventy-four like Gorgon, and in the same squadron, and that was all he knew, except that it was important to this seaman who had once served his father.

  The plates and the jug clashed together and the man blurted out, “Greville’s bad, right the way through.” He nodded to emphasise it. “Right through!”

  The door swung slightly and the young voice rapped, “Come along, Webber, don’t take all day!”

  The door closed and they were alone again. He might have been a ghost.

  Bolitho spread his hands. “Maybe I was wrong to let him speak like that. Because he knew my father, I suppose. But the rest . . .”

  Dancer made a cautioning gesture.

  “It cost him something to come here. He was afraid. More than afraid.” He seemed to be listening. “One thing I do know. Captain Greville is on the Board, here and now.” He regarded Bolitho steadily, his eyes very blue, like
the sky which had begun the day. “So be warned, my friend.”

  The door swung open.

  “Follow me, if you please.”

  Bolitho walked out of the cabin, trying to remember exactly what the unknown seaman had said.

  But he kept hearing his father’s voice instead, seeing him. It was the closest they had been for a long, long time.

  The young midshipman trotted briskly ahead of them, as if he were afraid they might try to break the silence he had maintained.

  Perhaps it was policy in the flagship to keep candidates from any contact that might prepare or warn them against what lay in store. It was certainly true that they had seen no other “young gentlemen” here for the same rendezvous.

  Up another ladder and past one of the long messdecks. Scrubbed tables and benches between each pair of guns: home to the men who worked and fought the ship, and the guns were always here from the moment when the pipe called them to lash up and stow their hammocks, to sunset and pipe down. The constant reminder that this was no safe dwelling but a man-of-war.

  Dancer was close behind him, and Bolitho wondered if he remembered these surroundings as intensely after so many months. Like his own first ship, the noise and the smells, men always in close contact, cooking or stale food, damp clothing, damp everything. Most of the hands were at work, but there were still plenty of figures between decks, and he saw a glance here and there, casual or disinterested; it was hard to distinguish in the gloom. The gunports that lined either beam were sealed, a wise precaution against the January chill and the keen air from the Sound; as in Gorgon, only the galley fires provided any heat, and they would be kept as low as possible to avoid wasting fuel. The purser would make sure of that.

  Another climb now, to the impressive expanse of the quarter-deck, where the day seemed startlingly clear and light. Bolitho stared up at the towering mizzen mast and spars, the furled sails, and the ensign he had seen from the launch this morning, still lifting and curling beyond the poop. About seven hours ago, and the ordeal had not even begun. They had talked about it often enough, been warned what to expect, even if they survived the selection process today. Being successful and actually receiving the coveted commission were often two very different matters. A sign of the times, with promotion only for the lucky, and the clouds of war as yet unknown to those of their own age and service.