The Complete Midshipman Bolitho

by Alexander Kent

  It seemed to take an age for the drifting fragments of wreckage to become clearly visible, more scattered and reaching out on either bow. There was absolute silence now, the seamen very aware of their kinship with these pathetic remnants which had once been a living vessel.

  Verling was on deck again, and stood with his arms folded, watching the sea, and the strengthening blur of land which had almost been forgotten.

  Hotspur had shortened sail once more, so that her shipboard sounds in the silence added to the atmosphere of uneasiness, with the creak and clatter of loose rigging, and the groan of the rudder and yoke-lines as the helmsmen fought to maintain steerage way.

  Verling said, “I think both boats will be necessary. It will save time. Not that there is much to see.” He was thinking aloud, as if questioning each thought as it came to him.

  Even Tinker’s voice seemed subdued as he watched the first boat being hoisted and swung above and over the gunwale.

  Verling said, “You leave now, Mr Egmont. See what you can discover. Small craft, I’d say.”

  Egmont leaned over the side as some larger fragments of timber bumped against Hotspur’s side.

  Bolitho felt a chill run through him. It was, or had been, a cutter as far as he could tell. Like Avenger . . . There was part of a mast now, and torn sail dragging half-submerged, like a shroud.

  The first boat was pulling away, with Egmont in the bows, leaning over to signal his intentions to his coxswain.

  Verling called, “Now you, Bolitho.” He had his glass up to his eye again, but trained on the spur of land, not the splintered remains drifting below him. “Take Sewell with you. Stay up to wind’rd if you can.”

  He felt as if he were being cut off, abandoned, once the boat was in the water and the headrope cast off.

  “Easy, lads, keep it steady!” He had taken the tiller himself and waited for the oars to pick up the stroke, each man feeling the mood of the sea, trying not to watch the schooner as she fell further and further astern.

  At least the wind had eased. Bolitho felt the salt spray on his mouth and soaking into his shoulders. Sewell was crouched down beside him, his back half turned; impossible to see or know what he was thinking. Hard to believe that the confrontation in the cabin had ever happened. Only this was real.

  He winced as the boat dipped steeply and more spray burst from the oars. This was no cutter or gig built for the open sea.

  “There!” Sewell’s arm shot out. “Oh, God, it’s one of them!” Bolitho stood up, holding fast to the tiller-bar to keep his balance.

  “Bowman! Use your hook!”

  The seaman had boated his oar and was poised in the blunt bows like a harpoonist as more wreckage surged above a trough.

  “Oars! Fend off, lads!”

  It was as if a complete section of the wreck had risen suddenly and violently from the depths, like some act of retribution or spite.

  An oar blade splintered and the seaman pitched across his thwart, the broken loom still grasped in his fists. Surprisingly, nobody shouted or showed any sign of fear. It was too swift, too stark. Not just one corpse, but five or six, tangled together in a mesh of torn canvas and broken planking.

  It lasted only a few seconds, before the corpses and their tangled prison rolled over and dipped beneath the sea.

  Only seconds, but as they fought to bring the boat under command again, the grim picture remained. Staring eyes, bared teeth, gaping wounds, black in the hard light. And the stench of gunpowder. Like the splinters and the burns: they had been fired upon at point-blank range.

  Bolitho tugged at the tiller-bar. “Back water, starboard!” He felt the sea sluicing around his legs, as if the boat had been swamped and was going down.

  He heard Sewell yell, “More wreckage!” He was clambering over the struggling oarsmen, thrusting his legs over the side to fend off another piece of broken timber. Then he must have lost his footing, and slithered bodily over the gunwale, his face contorted with pain.

  The seaman who had been in the bows flung himself over the thwart and seized his arm, just as Bolitho managed to bring the boat under control.

  Nobody spoke; nothing mattered but the slow, steady splash of oars as they regained the stroke and gave all their strength to the fight. Only then did they turn and peer at each other, more gasps than grins, but with the recognition that, this time, they had won.

  Bolitho eased the tiller very slowly, feeling the effort of each stroke, knowing they were in control.

  Sewell lay in the sternsheets, the trapped water surging across his legs, his lip bleeding where he had bitten through it. Bolitho reached down and wrenched open his coat. His breeches were torn; it must have happened when he had used both legs to kick off that last piece of wreckage. But for his prompt action, the boat might have foundered.

  There was blood, too, a lot of it. He could feel the torn skin, the muscle under his fingers clenched against the pain.

  He exclaimed, “You mad little bugger!”

  Pain, shock and the bitter cold; Sewell was barely able to form the words.

  “I was drowning . . . I couldn’t h-hold on. My fault . . .”

  He cried out as Bolitho knotted a piece of wet rag around his leg, the blood strangely vivid in the grey light.

  Bolitho pulled some canvas across his body and shouted, “You saved the boat! Did you think we’d just leave you?” He was gripping his shoulder now, as if to force him to understand.

  “I just wanted to . . .” He fainted.

  Bolitho swung the tiller-bar against his ribs until the impact steadied him.

  “Enough, lads! Give way, together! ”

  The boat lifted and swayed as the blades brought her under command again. Bolitho clung to Sewell’s sodden coat to ease the shock of each sudden plunge.

  He heard himself gasp, “I know what you wanted! I’ll remind you when we get back on board!”

  Someone yelled, “ ’Ere’s ’ Otspur, sir! Larboard beam!”

  Bolitho wiped his streaming face with his wrist, his eyes raw with salt. A blurred shape, like a sketch on a slate. Unreal. He tugged at Sewell’s coat and gasped, “See? We found her!”

  The rest was a confused daze, the schooner’s shining side rising over them like a breakwater, muffled shouts, and figures leaping down to take the strain and fasten the tackles for hoisting the boat into what suddenly seemed a stable and secure haven. He felt a fist thumping his shoulder, heard Tinker’s familiar, harsh voice.

  “Well done, me boy!” Another thump. “Bloody well done!”

  Then, almost choking over a swallow of raw spirit. Rum, cognac; it could have been anything. But it was working. He could feel every scrape and bruise, but his mind was clearing, like a mist lifting from the sea.

  And Verling. Calm, level, a little less patient now.

  “What did you find?”

  It was all suddenly very sharp. Brutal . . . Like the end of a nightmare. Even the sounds of sea and wind seemed muffled. The ship holding her breath.

  “They were all dead, sir. Killed. Point-blank range.” Like listening to somebody else, the voice flat and contained. “No chance. Taken by surprise, you see.” He could see their faces, the savage wounds and staring eyes. Not a drawn blade or weapon in sight. Cut down. “Grape and canister.” He broke off, coughing, and a hand held a cloth to his mouth. Only a piece of rag, but it seemed strangely warm. Safe.

  He knew it was Dancer.

  Verling again. “Anything more?”

  Bolitho licked his raw lips. He said, “There were two officers. I saw their clothes.” The image was fading. “Their buttons. Officers.”

  Verling said, “Take him below.” His hand touched Bolitho’s arm briefly. “You behaved well. Anything else that comes back to you . . .”

  He was already turning away, his mind grappling with other questions. Bolitho struggled to sit up.

  “Sewell saved the boat, sir. He might have been killed.”

  Verling had stopped and was staring down
at him, his face in shadow against the fast-moving clouds. “ You did nothing, of course.” Somebody even laughed.

  Bolitho was on his feet now. He could feel the deck. Alive again. He should be shivering. Holding on. He was neither.

  Dancer was saying, “When I saw the boat, I thought . . .” He did not continue. Could not.

  Bolitho held on to a backstay and looked at the sea. A deep swell, unbroken now but for a few white horses. No wreckage; not even a splinter to betray what had happened.

  And the dark wedge of land, no nearer, or so it seemed. And yet it reached out on either bow, lifting and falling against Hotspur’s standing and running rigging, as if it, and not the schooner, was moving.

  Dancer said, “Young Sewell seems to be holding out well. I heard the lads say you saved his skin, or most of it. He’ll never forget this day, I’ll wager!” He added bitterly, “Of course, Egmont’s boat found nothing!”

  They were standing in the cabin space, although Bolitho could not recall descending the ladder. Here the ship noises were louder, closer. Creaks and rattles, the sigh of the sea against the hull.

  Bolitho turned and stared at his friend, seeing him as if for the first time since he had been hauled aboard.

  “We might never have known, but for the gunfire. It was the merest chance.” He held up his arm and saw that the sleeve was torn from wrist to elbow. He had felt nothing. “We can’t simply sail past and forget it, as if nothing has happened!”

  Dancer shook his head. “It’s up to the first lieutenant, Dick. I was watching him just now. He’ll not turn his back on it.” He regarded him grimly. “He can’t. Even if he wanted to.”

  Someone called his name, and he said, “We’ll soon know. I’m just thankful you’re still in one piece.” He was trying to smile, but it eluded him. Instead, he lightly punched the torn sleeve. “Young Andy Sewell has you to look up to now!”

  He swung away to find out who had called him. “That makes two of us!”

  Bolitho stood by the cabin door, and tried to calm his thoughts, put them in order. Fear, anger, relief. And something else. It was pride.

  “Ah, here you are, sir! ” It was Tinker, almost filling the space. He had a cutlass under one arm, and was holding out a slim-bladed hanger with his other hand. “More to your fancy, I thought.” He was grinning, although watching him keenly. “Mister Verling’s orders. Seems we’re goin’ after the bastards!”

  Who? Where? With what? It had never been in doubt.

  Feet thumped overhead and Bolitho heard the impatient squeal of blocks, the flap and bang of canvas free in the wind. Hotspur was under way once more.

  Verling’s decision, right or wrong. For him, there was no choice.

  Tinker nodded slowly, as if reading his thoughts.

  “Are ye ready?”

  Bolitho could hear Verling’s voice, Egmont’s too. But he was thinking of the staring, dead faces in the water.

  He fastened the belt at the waist and allowed the hanger to fall against his thigh.

  Tomorrow’s enemy. He said, “Aye. So be it.”

  7 COMMAND decision

  LIEUTENANT MONTAGU VERLING stood by the cabin table, his head slightly bent between the deck beams, his face in shadow. The fingers of his left hand rested only lightly on the table while his body swayed to the schooner’s motion. Even that seemed easier; you could almost feel the nearness of land. Something physical. Outside, the sky, like the sea, was grey, and the wind, although steady, had dropped. The sails were heavy with rain and spray.

  Here in the cabin, the light was no better, despite a couple of lamps. Verling’s chart was spread almost directly beneath the small cabin skylight, strangely clear as it appeared to move slowly from side to side with each steady roll.

  Bolitho saw the brass dividers in Verling’s right hand move again, the points tapping the chart. Perhaps he was reconsidering, ensuring he had forgotten nothing, sifting fact and speculation.

  Bolitho glanced at Dancer. The quill in his hand had hesitated, poised over his log and the record of events he was keeping for Verling. Achievement, or a legal defense; all would depend on the next few hours.

  Verling had turned slightly, and the angle freed his features of shadow. He looked calm and alert, as if he were quite alone here, and this was just another day.

  Bolitho wanted to turn and look once more around the cabin, record the images in his mind, and the others who were sharing this moment. Dancer, opposite, with the open log, the ink on the page already dry, the writing the sloping, cultured hand he had come to know so well. He could imagine it that of a captain, perhaps even a flag officer, making some comment for posterity on the occasion of some great battle at sea. Beside Dancer, staring at the chart although his eyes were scarcely moving, Lieutenant Egmont, the corners of his mouth turned down. What was he thinking, feeling? Impatience, doubt or fear?

  And Midshipman Andrew Sewell, lying propped on a bench seat, his bandaged legs thrust out, his eyes tightly shut. When he awoke from the oblivion of pain and rum, he would be different, feel different. Another chance awaited him. He might even come to accept the life he had not chosen, lived though it must be in his father’s far-reaching shadow.

  The door creaked, and without looking Bolitho knew it was Tinker Thorne blocking the passageway, sharing the meeting but, as always, with an ear tuned to the ship, the sounds of sea, wind and rigging clearer to him than any chart or conference of war.

  Bolitho touched the hanger that lay against his leg. And they were not at war. That must be uppermost in Verling’s mind at this very moment. He looked up, and realized that Verling was staring directly at him, but when he spoke it was to all of them. And to the ship, which should have been delivered to St Peter Port on Guernsey’s east coast today, as stated in his orders.

  “It is obvious that whatever vessel was responsible for so ruthless and unprovoked an attack on the cutter was already engaged in some unlawful mission. Smuggling is too commonplace between these islands and the mainland to provoke such an attack, or the murder of unprepared sailors and their officers.”

  Egmont said, “I didn’t see them, sir. But if Mr Bolitho says otherwise . . .”

  Verling interjected, “You will what? ”

  In the silence that followed, he tapped the chart with his dividers.

  “You don’t have to be told that these are dangerous waters. Among these reefs and shallows, pilotage is often a dire necessity, even for visitors familiar with this coastline.” His eyes returned to Bolitho. “Those men who were killed had not been preparing to fight or to withstand an attack, correct?”

  Dancer’s pen was moving again, the scratching quite audible above the sounds of the hull and the sea.

  “Correct, sir.”

  Verling nodded. “Which is why they were killed. Because they recognized the other vessel.”

  “Local smugglers, sir?” He shook his head. “Then why the force of arms, the point-blank range?”

  Egmont cleared his throat and said stiffly, “Mistaken identity perhaps, sir?” When Verling did not answer, he hurried on, “We can proceed to St Peter Port and hand over Hotspur as planned. Warn the garrison—they can send troopers overland, or maybe there will be some local patrol vessel armed and ready to deal with this intruder.” His eyes flicked over Bolitho. “Smuggler, or the like.”

  Dancer laid down his pen and said quietly, “I learned a good deal about local trade, sir. My father used to instruct me on the subject. Gin from Rotterdam, brandy from France and Spain, rum from the West Indies. Some five to six million gallons of it were imported each year.” He looked up at Verling, the blue eyes very clear. “And tobacco from Virginia. All for sale to our own traders,” he paused, “and smugglers. It made St Peter Port rich. Adventurous.”

  Egmont said scornfully, “I don’t see that your boyhood lessons in ‘local trade’ can be of any interest here!”

  Dancer did not look at him; he was speaking only to Verling. “My father also dealt with a number
of ships which traded in tea.”

  Egmont looked as if he were about to burst out laughing, but stifled it abruptly as Verling said, “You have a good brain, Mr Dancer. I can see why your father had a rather different course charted for you.” He banged the table with his knuckles. “Ships familiar with these waters, but suitable for the ocean as well. And big enough to carry powerful guns for self-defense,” he looked around the cabin, “or murder.”

  He swung away from the table. “Call all hands. We will change tack directly. Then have the people lay aft. They shall hear what we are about, and what I intend!”

  He strode to the adjoining cabin and closed the door.

  Dangerous, reckless; many would say irresponsible.

  Bolitho looked over at Dancer, now closing the log.

  Certainly the bravest.

  Bolitho tightened his neckcloth and winced at the water running on his skin, soaking his shoulder. Rain or spray, it made no difference now. He stared along the glistening deck, beyond the foremast and flapping canvas to the land, the rugged outline of which seemed to stretch from bow to bow. It, too, was blurred by a heavier belt of rain sweeping out to meet them.

  Verling was taking no unnecessary chances, with topsails reefed and a minimum of canvas, and a leadsman in the chains on either bow.

  Even now he heard one of them call out, “No bottom, sir!”

  Plenty of room for any shift of tack. So far. But he knew from the chart how swiftly that could change. There were sandbars, and a scattered necklace of reef less than a mile distant.

  He glanced over his sodden shoulder at the helmsmen, eyes slitted against the downpour as they peered up at the shaking canvas and the vague shadow of the masthead pendant, barely lifting in the wind. Verling was close by, hands behind his back, hat pulled low over his forehead.

  What was he thinking now? The seamen at their stations, wet and shivering, were probably hating him, although an hour ago, even less, he had seen some of them nod with approval; a couple had even raised a cheer. The grim remains of the cutter and its crew had been stark in each man’s mind.

  This was different. Sailors took risks every day, although few would admit it. They obeyed orders; it was their life. But suppose Verling was wrong, and he was taking an unnecessary risk with Hotspur, and the life of every man aboard?