The Complete Midshipman Bolitho

by Alexander Kent

  It was over. And it was dark beyond the stern windows. He picked up his hat and walked to the door, almost expecting his legs to fail him. It was over. He must find Martyn, make sure that . . . He paused and glanced back at the cabin, the hands reaching for filled glasses. Tomorrow they would have forgotten him, put it behind them. It was only another examination.

  Captain Greville had not shaken his hand. And he was glad of it.

  He saw the bench where they had waited. No turning back. No matter what.

  I am a King’s officer. Almost. Then he did touch his eyes.

  3 A FAVOUR for the captain

  LIEUTENANT MONTAGU VERLING stood at Gorgon’s quarterdeck rail, his hands on his hips, watching a party of seamen clambering over the boat-tier below him. One of the ship’s two cutters swayed across the nettings like an ungainly whale, while Hoggett, the boatswain, gestured with his fist, his voice carrying easily above the noise of other work and the clatter of loose rigging.

  “This will not take long.” Verling swore softly as a seaman slithered and fell on the wet planking. It had been raining all night, and now in the grey forenoon the weather showed little improvement. Plymouth was almost hidden in mist, a spire or rooftop showing here and there like projections of a reef.

  Bolitho was also watching the cutter, now being moved into position above the tier. At last they were replacing things, and most of the debris left by the refit had vanished. Some lashings remained to be done, and canvas awnings had been spread to protect paintwork and fresh pitch. Between decks order had already been restored, with stores and spare equipment stowed away, and messdecks cleared of clutter and gear that belonged elsewhere in the hull.

  He tried to stifle a yawn, surprised that he had been able to drag himself out of sleep and present himself on deck at the chime of the bell. He turned to peer above the quarterdeck nettings with their neatly stacked hammocks, the cold air wet on his face. Even that did not revive him, and there was a painful crick in his neck. He saw the topmasts of the big three-decker drifting out of the mist at the far end of the anchorage. The flagship; he could even make out the vague dash of colour from her ensign. The bulk of the ship remained hidden by the fog. He winced, but his spirits soared at the memory. Had that been only yesterday? Was it possible?

  “Lower away, ’andsomely there!” Hoggett’s voice, which seemed even louder on this raw morning.

  The cutter began to descend, the men on the tackles taking the strain, feet somehow finding a grip on the slippery planking.

  “ ’Vast lowering!”

  He heard Dancer give a groan.

  “My head, Dick. I feel like death!”

  Even the Board itself was hard to fix in the mind, like a dream fast disappearing. Only certain moments remained clear: the three figures at the table. An empty chair. And the sudden, startling interruption when the admiral had made his entrance. Perhaps the handshakes remained most vivid in his memory. We wish you a speedy promotion!

  Then back to Gorgon, in darkness, passing an overloaded boat full of sailors, all of whom sounded drunk, probably just paid off from some merchantman. He and Dancer had been unable to stop laughing at the string of curses launched by their own coxswain. Then, in the midshipmen’s berth, the heavy silence of some hunched over written notes, studying or pretending to, by the flickering light of glims, or apparently asleep, being shattered as they had risen as one: a midshipman’s salute to any successful candidate for promotion. Hoarded drinks appearing, which had ranged from blackstrap to cognac, helped down by beer from the mess cask, with a mock fight known as “Boarders Away!” to round off the occasion. It had taken threats of physical violence from the warrant officers’ mess to quieten the celebration.

  Bolitho cleared his throat, or tried to. And now the captain wanted them aft, in the great cabin.

  Verling waved to the boatswain as the cutter finally came to rest on the tier. Even the new paint was unmarked.

  He said, “The captain is going over to Poseidon very soon. The admiral has called a conference—all senior captains. Something’s in the wind.” He gazed critically at the two midshipmen. “Under the circumstances, I suppose . . .” He left the rest unsaid.

  Bolitho thought of the admiral again, the hand on his arm. I have duties to perform. Events are moving once more. Was that the real reason he had interrupted the examination?

  Without it, what might have happened? He recalled Greville’s sarcasm, his refusal to shake his hand.

  He had mentioned it to Dancer, and he had passed it off by saying, “Greville shook my hand, but I could have done without it! I still can’t remember half of what I said to them. I was in a daze!” It was something shared after that, real. They had hugged one another, each glad for the other.

  And now they were to see the captain. After all this time, he remained remote, almost unknown. And yet nothing had any real purpose without him, without his presence. At any ceremonial, or drill with sails and guns, he was always there, usually with Verling nearby, an extension of himself. He was there to announce any achievement by the ship, or even an individual, and to read the Articles of War before awarding punishment.

  Bolitho had once heard a friend of his father’s say that when a King’s ship was away from the fleet, and free of the admiral’s apron strings, all that stood between a captain and chaos were the Articles of War and a line of marines across the poop. And he still recalled his father’s quick retort. “It would all depend on that captain! ”

  Only yesterday . . . and yet he could feel the change in himself, sense the scrutiny of the younger midshipmen. As if he represented something, some possibility no longer beyond their grasp. How does it feel to be one of them? He was still grappling with his own emotions, and the prospect of a new future.

  Verling had tugged out his watch.

  “I shall take you aft.” He faced them again. “Several others failed to satisfy the Almighty yesterday.” He did not smile. “Not certain what I would have decided!”

  They followed him aft, not quite reassured.

  Captain Beves Conway was standing by a small desk fastening the cuff of his shirt. His dress uniform coat hung across the back of a chair, with his hat nearby. He was preparing for the admiral.

  They had passed Gorgon’s surgeon as he was leaving, a stooping figure of indeterminate age, with a thin, almost lipless mouth. Bolitho had heard some of the old Jacks say that he would rather bury you than cure you if you ever fell into his hands, but they said that about most surgeons. He wondered what he had been doing for the captain. He had noticed that Conway sometimes held one shoulder stiffly, like now, as he slipped into his coat. A wound he had taken during the Caribbean campaign against the French, he had heard, although others had hinted at a duel fought, of course, over a lady.

  He realized that there was another person in the cabin, perched on a chest by the screen, the captain’s coxswain. A big, powerful man, always smart and instantly recognizable in his gilt-buttoned coat and nankeen breeches, he seemed to come and go as he chose. More like a trusted companion than a subordinate.

  He was holding a drawn sword now, running a cloth slowly up and down the blade. He glanced briefly at the two midshipmen, but nothing more. He belonged. They were merely visitors.

  Conway smiled.

  “You did well, both of you. Full credit to the ship also.”

  Verling said, “I’ll come aft when you’re ready, sir.”

  The screen door closed behind him. He had spoken to the marine sentry by name when they had arrived at the lobby. A gift, or careful training? It was impossible to know, but Bolitho guessed it was rare enough. He had known some officers who had never cared to learn a name and match it to a face.

  He had heard Verling quietly rebuking one of the senior midshipmen, who had since gone to another ship. “They are people, flesh and blood. Remember that, will you?”

  Bolitho wondered if he had passed or failed at his Board.

  The captain said suddenly, “A moment,�
�� and beckoned. “Come and see Condor spread her skirts—a sight that never fails to excite any true sailor!”

  They followed him into the main cabin where the stern windows reached from quarter to quarter, and the panorama of ships and anchorage shimmered against the salt-smeared glass like some unfinished painting.

  And here was the frigate Condor, topsails and forecourses already set and filling to the wind now shredding the sea mist, her masthead pendant and ensign stiff and bright as metal against the clouds.

  Yesterday. Her captain twisting round in his chair aboard the flagship, gauging the sea, the mood of the weather. Impatient to go. And no wonder.

  He turned as Conway asked, “Do you see yourself in command of a frigate one day, Bolitho?”

  “Given the chance, sir . . .” He got no further.

  Conway moved closer, watching Condor’s outline shorten, her yards shifting as she changed tack towards open water and the sea. He said, “Don’t wait to be given the chance. Take it. Or others will.”

  He turned abruptly and walked across the cabin. Bolitho wanted to hold the moment, cherish it. This was the captain, as he might never see him again. Perhaps older than he had thought, but virile and vigorous, something the streaks of grey at his temples and the crows’ feet around his eyes could not flaw or diminish.

  He said, “This damned overhaul is all but finished, thank God.” He looked up and around the cabin, perhaps without seeing it, or seeing it in a way they could not yet understand. “This lady will be fit and ready for sea again if I—and the first lieutenant— have any say in the matter. After that—” He touched the chair that stood squarely facing the constantly changing panorama. “Who can say?”

  His expression changed and seemed angry, embarrassed. He said almost sharply, “I have a favour to ask. I’ve taken enough of your time and the ship’s as it is.”

  Bolitho saw Dancer gripping a fold of his coat, another habit he had come to recognize, and sometimes understand. It happened when he was surprised, or moved, by something he had not anticipated.

  Captain Beves Conway, experienced post captain, who had seen action and served in most waters where the ensign commanded respect, had a favour to ask?

  Beyond these massive timbers, the other world continued to function unimpaired. The trill of a boatswain’s call and a shouted command, too muffled to distinguish. The squeal of tackles as another load of stores or equipment was hoisted aboard. A ship preparing for sea. It was what Conway cared about most. Perhaps all he cared about.

  He said, “You will be leaving Gorgon shortly on a brief passage duty.” There was a suggestion of a smile. “Not like your daring adventure with the revenue service, Bolitho. I believe your own brother was in command on that occasion. A family affair, it would seem.” The smile was gone. “But it will stand you in good stead when you are finally commissioned. Mr Verling will give you the details.”

  It was like a fist striking out of nowhere.

  Conway was leaving the ship. Giving up command. And it was all he had.

  “A new midshipman is joining tomorrow forenoon. His name is Andrew Sewell, and he is fifteen years old.” He glanced from one to the other, suddenly relaxed, as if some weight had been lifted from him. “A mere boy compared with you seasoned mariners. He has everything to learn, and it was his father’s dearest wish that he should follow his family’s tradition and become a sea officer. His father was a great friend of mine, perhaps my best, but, alas, now dead . . . Just offer him a hand when it is needed. Will you do that?” Like a challenge. “For me? ”

  Bolitho turned as Dancer asked, “First ship, sir?”

  “Not his first.” Conway looked at the reflections rippling across the curved deckhead. “He has served for two months in Odin, Captain Greville, and before that in the Ramillies, with the Downs Squadron.”

  He looked from one to the other. “I know, from your behaviour and your reports, and what I have seen for myself, that you are well suited to your profession. Maybe because you come from very different backgrounds, or in spite of it. It might be said that young Andrew Sewell is totally unsuited, a victim of circumstances.” He shrugged, and Bolitho saw the flicker of pain in his face.

  The marine sentry stamped his feet, somewhere beyond the screen. Verling must be back, and was waiting.

  Conway said, “My old friend is dead. It is the last thing I can do for him, and perhaps the least.”

  His coxswain had appeared, his hat beneath his arm, and Conway’s sword in his fist. No words: like an understanding between them.

  Dancer offered, “My father was firmly against my going to sea, sir.”

  Bolitho nodded. “And I never had any choice, sir.”

  Conway held out his arms as his coxswain deftly clipped the sword into place.

  “So be it, and I thank you. Young Andrew must learn that you do not necessarily have to leave your own deck to confront an enemy.” He shook hands gravely with both of them. “May good fortune go with you.”

  He half turned, as if unwilling to leave. His coxswain had already departed, and Verling’s shadow stood across the outer screen.

  “When you return to the ship your new orders may be waiting for you. If not, then be patient.” He picked up his hat and visibly squared his shoulders. He was in command again.

  The two midshipmen waited without speaking, listening to the shouted commands and, eventually, the calls as the side was piped and Conway’s gig pulled away. Then Dancer murmured, “Whatever ship I join, I’ll never forget him. ”

  They left the great cabin in silence, passing the same marine sentry, their weariness, headaches and sore throats forgotten.

  Bolitho considered the passage duty Conway had mentioned. Probably helping to move another ship to different moorings, for some refit or overhaul. And after that . . . He glanced over at Dancer. They would be parted. It was the way of the Navy.

  Like Conway. Saying goodbye; the hardest duty of all.

  4 HOTSPUR

  MARTYN DANCER GRIPPED the launch’s gunwale and pointed across the larboard bow.

  “There she is, Dick! The Hotspur! I’ll not want to leave this beauty when the time comes!”

  Excitement, or sheer pleasure: Bolitho had not seen him like this before. Perhaps strain and uncertainty, which he had always been able to conceal, was at last giving way.

  Bolitho felt it, too. The Hotspur, which had not even been discussed until today, as if it were a sworn secret, was a topsail schooner, small if set against any frigate or brig; but her style and lines would catch any real sailor’s eye immediately.

  She was lying at her anchor, and rolling evenly in the swell, showing her copper, bright in the forenoon sun, and the rake of her twin masts. A thoroughbred, and said to be new and untried, straight from her builder.

  But the ensign flying from her gaff and the few uniforms moving about her deck were identical to those they had left astern in Gorgon, and all the other men-of-war that lay at Plymouth. She was a King’s ship.

  It was difficult to accept the speed of the events which had brought them here. From the moment they had reported to the first lieutenant, their feet had barely stopped. Until now.

  Verling had explained, almost curtly. They were to be part of a passage crew, not to move some hulk or ship awaiting overhaul, but to deliver Hotspur to the authorities in Guernsey, as a replacement for an older vessel used in the waters around the Channel Islands for patrol and pilotage. It was another world to them.

  And an escape, after all the waiting and doubt, and then yesterday’s climax. Again he felt the exhilaration run through him, like his friend beside him. Dancer was pointing at the schooner again, calling something to the cutter’s coxswain. And it was the same coxswain and boat’s crew which had taken them to the flagship. He heard Dancer laugh and nudged him sharply with his elbow. This sense of light-hearted freedom and excitement would cut no ice with Verling, who was sitting silent and straight-backed by the tiller. The first lieutenant was always very str
ict when it came to behaviour in boats, maintaining that the ship would be judged accordingly, as every middy soon learned when he came under that disapproving eye.

  But even Verling seemed different. It was something in the air, from the start of the day when the hands had been called to lash up and stow their hammocks.

  Bolitho had seen the captain speaking with him just before the cutter had cast off. Maybe it was only imagination, but Conway, too, seemed altered, unlike that brief interlude in the great cabin; the mood of defeat, almost valediction, had vanished, and the old Conway had returned. Bolitho had seen him clap Verling on the shoulder this morning, had even heard him laugh.

  There were rumours, of course. In a hull crammed with some six hundred sailors and marines, there were always those. But this time there was substance; the reason for the captains’ conference, they said. More trouble in the colonies, particularly in Boston, Massachusetts. Unrest fuelled by increased taxes and repressive legislation from London had taken a more aggressive form, too often clashing with the local administration and so, eventually, the military. Although the British were hardened to war and the threat of rebellion, the infamous memory of what had come to be called the Boston Massacre had left a far deeper scar on the public conscience than might have been expected; a radical press had made certain of that. Bolitho had still been serving in Manxman when it had happened, and remembered poring over accounts in the news-sheets. A crowd of young people disturbing the peace on a winter’s night and coming face-to-face with soldiers from the local garrison, common enough here in England, but more incendiary in a colony chafing under what it believed to be unjust taxation, and seeking a louder voice in its own affairs. At a different time, perhaps a different man might have diffused the situation, but the officer who was present had been convinced that only a show of force would disperse the crowd, and the resulting volley of shots had killed half a dozen of the troublemakers. It was hardly a massacre, but it was bloodshed, and the echoes of those muskets had never since been allowed to fade.