But to those who lived and all too often died on the sea, it meant something else: the need for readiness. Ships to be brought out of dock and stagnation, men to be found to crew, and, if required, fight them. And perhaps officers of merit and experience, captains like Conway, would view any unrest in America as a fresh chance of personal survival. Bolitho had heard his own brother Hugh say as much during their time together in the revenue cutter Avenger. Just weeks ago, and it already seemed like an eternity.
His brother had been reserved, almost unknowable, and not only because he had been in temporary command. He looked over at Dancer. It was strange; he had heard Hugh speaking earnestly and intently to him on several occasions when they had been on watch together. Two people who could have so little in common. And yet . . .
“They’ve seen us at last! Thought they’d bin so long at anchor they’d forgot what they joined for!”
That was the cutter’s other passenger, “Tinker” Thorne, Gorgon’s senior boatswain’s mate. There was no yarn that might be spun around him that could not be true. It was impossible to guess his age, although Bolitho had heard that Tinker had served in one ship or another for twenty-five years. Originally from Dublin, a Patlander, as all Irishmen were nicknamed by the lower deck, it was said he came of gypsy stock, and had begun life mending pots and selling fishing gear on the roads. He was not tall, but stocky and muscular, with skin like old leather and fists that could handle any unruly hawser or argumentative seaman before you could guess the next move. He was watching the Hotspur, her tapering masts rising now above the double-banked oars, his expression amused and a little critical. His eyes were bright blue, like those of a much younger man looking out from a mask. Admired, respected, or hated, “It’s up to you, boyo,” as he was heard to say when the occasion arose.
He shifted around on the thwart and said, “Let some other Jack take the strain while we’re away, eh, sir?”
Nobody else in the ship could speak so offhandedly to Verling.
Verling was still looking astern. His face was hidden, but his thoughts were clear enough.
“I hope so, Tinker. If we’ve forgotten anything . . .”
“Ah, even the cook knows what to do, sir.”
Bolitho watched them with interest. It was important that Hotspur was in safe hands until she was delivered to her destination; and Verling had despatches with him, from Conway and probably the admiral. It seemed significant, and would do Verling’s own chances of promotion no harm.
But every pull of the oars was taking Verling away from the ship, and the life he cared about most, and like Bolitho’s brother Hugh, he had become unfamiliar. It was like meeting a stranger.
He returned his attention to the schooner, larger and heavier than he had first thought, but with a grace any true sailor would relish.
Tinker Thorne saw his eyes, and grinned.
“Old John Barstow is the finest builder in the West Country, that he is. A strange one an’ no mistake, swears to God he’s only once sailed out of sight of land, an’ that was when he was caught in a fog off the Lizard, if you can swallow that!”
The coxswain brought the cutter smoothly alongside, with oars tossed and a bowman ready with his boat hook.
Verling seized the ladder and said, “You can carry on, ’Swain. Watch those tackles when you stow the boat on the tier. It’s all new. Untried.”
“Aye, sir. I’ll keep a weather eye on things.”
He might have been mistaken, but Bolitho thought he and Tinker winked at one another. But Verling was turning to look once more at Gorgon.
A small side party had assembled on the schooner’s deck, and a net was rigged to hoist any personal gear on board.
They waited for Verling, as senior in the boat, to leave first, and Dancer murmured, “Look who’s here, Dick. Surely he’s not coming with us?”
It was Egmont, the newest and most junior in Gorgon’s ward-room. He raised his hat in salute as Verling climbed over the gunwale, while the side party came stiffly to attention, or tried to. The schooner was no two-decker and the seamen were most used to Gorgon’s massive bulk than a hull that seemed alive in the offshore current. Egmont almost lost his balance, but managed to blurt out, “Welcome aboard, sir!”
Verling returned his salute coolly and paused to look forward along the deck. Bolitho could not see his face, but guessed he was missing nothing, not even the young lieutenant’s discomfort and anger. And, he saw, he had no difficulty in keeping his balance.
Verling said, “I trust everything is in hand, Mr Egmont. I see that the boats are stowed, so nobody is still ashore?”
Egmont straightened his back. “As ordered, sir. Ready for sea.”
Bolitho knew he was being unfair to Egmont, but it sounded like a boast, as if he had manned and prepared the Hotspur for duty single-handed.
Verling snapped, “Where is Mr Sewell, our new midshipman? He should be here.”
Bolitho glanced at Dancer. Verling was back in his proper role. He even remembered the midshipman’s name, when he could hardly have found time to meet him.
Egmont licked his lips. “Below, sir. Being sick.” He licked his lips again. Just the mention of it in this choppy sea was having its effect.
Verling had not missed that, either.
“Dismiss the hands. We shall go aft. I trust the chart and sailing instructions are ready, too?” He did not wait for an answer, but pulled out his watch and flicked open the guard with his thumb-nail. “So be it. The tide is right—we shall weigh at noon,” and to the thick-set boatswain’s mate, “Carry on, Tinker. You know your men.”
“Picked ’em meself, sir.”
Even the use of his nickname seemed correct and formal. Only Verling could have carried that off.
He stopped in his stride. “Stow your gear, then report to me.” He saw Dancer peering around and added calmly, “This is no line-of-battle ship, Mr Dancer. I expect you to know every stay, block and spar by the time we drop anchor again!”
The deck lurched as the schooner snubbed at her anchor cable, and Dancer said quietly, “Wind’s getting up. Shan’t be sorry when we do get under way.”
“A moment, you two!” It was Egmont, recovered, it seemed, from his performance earlier. “I know both of you have just satisfied the Board—yesterday, wasn’t it? And you heard what Mr Verling said. Remember it well. Board or no Board, there’ll be no passengers on this deck, I’ll make certain of that. Now stow your gear and be sharp about it!”
They watched him turn away and gesticulate at some seamen, his words lost in the wind. Dancer shrugged.
“He needs a bigger ship, that one, if only for his head.”
Bolitho laughed.
“Let’s go and find our fellow middy. I suspect it wasn’t only the motion that made him vomit!”
Verling paused on the after ladder, his eyes level with the deck coaming.
It would be good to get away from the endless overhaul, clearing up disorder and making the ship, his ship, ready to take her place again, in response to any demand.
In Gorgon he was still the first lieutenant. Transferred to any other ship, he would be just another member of the wardroom, with seniority but no future.
He felt the hull shiver again, heard the clatter of loose rigging. She was alive. Eager to go.
He touched the shining paintwork. So be it, then.
As Tinker Thorne had firmly declared, the men chosen for Hotspur’s passage crew were all skilled and experienced hands, who would be badly missed if their old two-decker was suddenly ordered to sea.
Bolitho recognized most of them, and felt a sense of belonging which was hard to understand, although he had often heard older sailors describe it.
The initial unfamiliarity was gone at the moment of weighing anchor, with the first pressure of bodies leaning on the capstan bars, and the slow clank, clank, clank as the pawls started to respond. All spare hands thrusting in time to Tinker’s hoarse commands. Midshipmen as well; even the cook in h
is white smock.
Two men on the wheel, others waiting to “let go an’ haul!” when the anchor broke free of the ground. Every piece of rigging joining the din, blocks taking the strain, ready for the canvas to fill and take command.
Verling stood by the compass box, his body poised for the moment of truth.
Clank, clank, clank, slower now.
A seaman, right forward above the bowsprit, peered aft and cupped his hands. Even so, his voice was almost drowned by the noise of wind and rigging.
He had seen the stout cable, now taut like a bar, and pointing directly at the stem. Up-and-down.
Then, “Anchor’s aweigh!”
It was something Bolitho would never forget. Nor want to. The sudden slackness on the capstan as the cable came home, the deck tilting, so steeply that the lee scuppers were awash as the hull continued to heel over.
It was exciting, awesome; not even in the lively revenue cutter Avenger had he known anything like it. The great sails cracking and filling to the wind, spray sluicing over them like icy rain. Feet sliding and kicking against the wet planking, gasps and curses from men bent almost double in the battle against wind and rudder.
Bolitho had watched plenty of smaller craft getting under way in a brisk wind. It had always fascinated and moved him, like seeing some great sea bird spread its wings and lift from the water.
Even through and above the noise, he could hear Verling’s occasional commands, could imagine him down aft by the wheel, angled against the tilt of the deck, watching each sail and the moving panorama of the land, blurred now as if seen through wet glass.
And over all Tinker Thorne’s voice, urging, threatening.
“Catch another turn on that pin, Morgan! Move your bloody self, will you!”
Or, “What d’you mean, Atkins, you think? Leave that to Jacks with brains!”
Bolitho saw the land, a white tower or beacon, bursting spray, rocks along the headland. A ship, too. Moving, anchored or aground, it was impossible to tell. He knew Verling had put two leadsmen on either bow, a necessary precaution when leaving harbour for the first time, but it would take more than lead and line to save them if they misjudged the next cable or so.
“Over here!” Tinker again. “You as well, Mr Bolitho!” He was even managing to grin through the spray streaming down his leathery face. “Remember what you was told, no passengers! ”
Despite the movement and confusion Bolitho found he could smile, even laugh suddenly into the spray. The deck was steadier, the snaking halliards and braces stiff and taut in their blocks, and each great sail throwing its own pale reflection on the churning water alongside.
“Steady as you go!” Verling now, probably watching the final spur of headland. “That will be Penlee Point.” He almost slipped, but a hand reached from somewhere and steadied him. The face he knew, but all he could gasp was, “Bless you for that!”
The seaman ducked to avoid another snake of wet cordage as it hissed around its block and grinned. “Do the same for me!” The grin widened. “Sir!”
The sky beyond the shrouds and hard canvas seemed clearer, the motion still lively, but easier. Men were pausing at their work to look for a friend, relief, pride, something of each on their faces. Across the quarter the headland had fallen away and lost its menace. This time.
Bolitho gripped a backstay and took a deep breath.
Beyond the straining jib and staysails was open water: the Channel. He felt Dancer lurch against him, his hand on his shoulder.
Yesterday seemed a long way away. They were free.
5 ENVY
BOLITHO CLAMBERED THROUGH the main hatch, and seized a stanchion as he steadied himself against the angle of the deck and waited for his vision to clear. The night was pitch black, the air and spray stinging his cheeks, driving away all thoughts of sleep. And that was the odd thing, that he was still wide awake. It was eight o’clock, and a full eight hours since Hotspur had weighed anchor and struck south into the Channel. The thrill and confusion, groping for unfamiliar cordage and becoming more accustomed to the schooner’s demands in a brisk north-westerly wind, had settled into a pattern of order and purpose.
They were divided into two watches, four hours on, four off, with the dog watches giving a brief respite in which to devour a hot meal and fortify themselves with a tot of rum. It all helped.
Verling was handing over the watch now, his tall shape just visible against the sliver of foam beyond the lee bulwark. “Sou’-east-by-south, Mr Egmont. She should be steady a while now that the topsails are snug.” The merest pause, and Bolitho imagined him staring down at the junior lieutenant, making sure that there was no misunderstanding. “Call me immediately if the sea gets up, or anything else happens that I ought to know.”
Bolitho moved closer to the wheel and the two helmsmen. He could see the bare feet of one, pale against the wet planking. During the first dog watch he had seen the same seaman blowing on to his fingers to warm them against the bitter air, but he was standing barefoot now with no show of discomfort. He must have soles like leather.
Another shadow moved past the wheel and he saw a face catch the glow from the compass box: Andrew Sewell, the new midshipman. They had scarcely spoken since they had come aboard; Egmont had seen to that. Fifteen years old, Captain Conway had said. He looked younger. Nervous, shy or possibly both, he was a pleasant-faced youth with fair skin and hazel eyes, and a quick smile that seemed only too rare. He had helped Bolitho lay out some charts in the precise way that Verling always seemed to expect. It had been then, in the poor light of the main cabin, that Bolitho had seen Sewell’s hands. Scarred, torn and deeply bruised, never given the chance to become accustomed to the demands of seamanship. Deliberately driven seemed the most likely explanation; it was common enough even in today’s navy. He remembered the captain’s obvious concern for him, perhaps not merely because of his dead father.
Bolitho reached out impulsively and touched his elbow.
“Over here, Andrew! A bit more sheltered!” He felt him start to pull away, and added, “Easy, now.”
Sewell let his arm go limp.
“I’ve just been sick again, Mister . . .”
“ ‘Dick’ will do very well.” He waited, sensing the caution, the doubt. Sewell did not belong here. Suppose I had felt like that when I was packed off to sea in Manxman?
He looked up and watched the fine curve of the great sail above them. Not shapeless now, and pale blue in a shaft of light as the moon showed itself between banks of scudding cloud. And the sea, rising and falling like black glass, reaching out on either beam. Endless, with no horizon.
Bolitho tugged the rough tarpaulin coat away from his neck. It had rubbed his skin raw, but he had not noticed.
He said, “This could be the middle of the Atlantic, or some other great ocean! And just us sailing across it, think of that.”
Sewell said, “You mean that,” and hesitated, “Dick? How you truly see it?”
“I suppose I do. I can’t really explain . . .” Something made him stop, like a warning, as he felt Sewell move slightly away.
“Nothing to do, then?” It was Egmont, almost invisible in a boat-cloak against the black water and heavy cloud. “I want a good watch kept at all times. Have you checked the deck log and the set course?”
Bolitho replied, “Sou’-east-by-south, sir. Helm is steady.”
Egmont turned towards Sewell.
“Did I hear you spewing up again? God help us all! I want you to check the glass yourself. Let every grain of sand run free before you turn it, see? I don’t want you warming the glass every time, just so you can run below and dream of home. So do it!”
He glanced at the wheel as the spokes creaked again.
“Watch your helm, man! And stand up smartly, stay alert!” He swung away, the boat-cloak floating around him. “What’s your name? I’ll be watching you! ”
The seaman shifted his bare feet on the grating.
“Archer.”
Egm
ont looked at Bolitho. “I’m going below to check the chart. Watch the helm and call me if you need advice.”
He may have looked at the helmsman. “And, Archer, say sir when you speak to an officer in the future!” He strode to the hatch.
Bolitho clenched his fist.
Then try to act like one!
He heard Sewell gasp, with surprise or disbelief, and realized that he had spoken aloud.
But he smiled, glad he was still able.
“Something else you’ve learned in Hotspur, Mister Sewell! Don’t lose your temper so easily!”
Andrew Sewell, aged fifteen, and the only son of a hero, said nothing. It was like a hand reaching out, and he was no longer afraid to take it.
The helmsman named Archer called, “Wind’s gettin’ up, sir!”
He jerked his head as the wet canvas rattled and cracked loudly above them.
Bolitho nodded. “My respects to Mr Egmont . . .” The mood was still on him. “ No. I’ll tell him myself.”
Tired, elated, angry? Sailors often blamed it on the wind.
He reached the hatch and called back, “Remember! No passengers! ”
The wheel jerked sharply as both helmsmen gripped the spokes and put their weight against it, but the one named Archer managed to laugh.
“Easy does it, Tom. Our Dick’s blood is on the boil. He’ll see us right!”
Vague figures were moving to each mast, the watch on deck, and ready for the storm.
Andrew Sewell had heard the quick exchange between the two men at the wheel and felt something quite unknown to him. It was envy.
The next few hours were ones even the old Jacks were unlikely to forget. A blustery succession of squalls became a strong wind that had all hands fighting each onslaught, bruised and blinded by icy spray and the waves that burst across the bulwarks and swept down the scuppers like a tiderace. All through the middle watch the storm continued its assault, until even the most vociferous curses were beaten into silence.
The Complete Midshipman Bolitho Page 26