Alexander Kent - Bolitho 26

by Man of War [lit]

  He thought of Plymouth again. How would he feel? What might he find there?

  He pictured the chart in his mind. A hundred and fifty miles to go, provided the wind remained steady; ‘trustworthy’, another of the sailing master’s descriptions. Once clear of Wight and the Needles they could .. .

  He heard the sentry shout, ”First lieutenant, sir!”

  Another thing he had learned about Stirling. Always on time. To the minute, no matter what was happening on deck.

  He was here now, head bowed beneath the deck head beams, his heavy features expressionless.

  ”I think we shall exercise the eighteen-pounder crews before we pipe a stand easy He noticed that Stirling had the red-covered punishment book, and tried to accept it. He had called him to this very cabin after the flogging which had been ordered in his absence. Upholding discipline, as Stirling had insisted.

  Adam had always hated it, had almost fainted when he had witnessed his first such punishment. It was necessary, as a final resort... He thought of that last flogging, for insolence to Blake, one of Athena’s eight midshipmen. The young seaman in question, Hudson, a maintop man had been called on deck while he was off watch to stand in for another who had suddenly reported sick. Hudson had been in his hammock, the worse for drink after consuming some extra tots by way of celebration.

  It happened; and as a maintop man Hudson was a trained seaman, not some loafer from the local petty sessions. Adam had discovered that Blake was generally unpopular, but was the son of a senior captain, and like most of the other ‘young gentlemen’ was overdue for his examination for lieutenant.

  ”What is it, Mr. Stirling?” He thought of Galbraith in Unrivalled, their gradual understanding of one another despite differences and the barrier of rank. The comparison caught him unprepared, like being stripped. Could he ever call Stirling by his first name, discuss and share their problems here in the great cabin?

  Stirling pouted his lower lip.

  The master-at-arms has just reported a man dead, sir. Nothing any one could do. In the main hold, which is open as you know, sir, ready to take on fresh stores when we anchor.”

  ”It’s Hudson, isn’t it?” He saw the brief start of surprise. ”Tell me.”

  Stirling shrugged. ”Hanged himself. I called the surgeon.”

  Adam was on his feet again, and had moved to the leather chair, running his fingers along the back, like holding on to something.

  ”Hudson was twenty-two years old, a volunteer, and a trained seaman. He was about to be married, and then he was ”awarded” punishment.” His voice was quiet, almost lost in the clatter of rigging and the sea alongside. But he saw Stirling flinch with each word, as if he had sworn at him.

  ”I was left in charge, sir. He was insolent to one of my midshipmen. He had been drinking, too.”

  ”And you ordered two dozen lashes. Was that not extreme for a normally wellbehaved and disciplined hand?” He did not wait for an answer. ”You saw his back after the lash had done its work. He was to be married, God knows rare enough in this life we lead. Would any one want to lie with his new bride, with a back like that?”

  Stirling tugged at his neck cloth as if it was suddenly too tight.

  ”You were in London, sir .. His voice trailed away.

  ”And I supported your decision, Mister Stirling, as is my duty.” He pushed himself away from the chair. ”In future, if in any further doubt, ask meV

  He walked to the stern windows, his body angled to the sloping deck.

  ”We will exercise the upper battery in ten minutes. I intend to time each drill.”

  Stirling left the cabin without another word, and Adam knew he had failed. Stirling would never change. Perhaps he did not know how.

  A man dead. Like the stroke of a pen in the log, and now in the muster book. D.D. Discharged Dead. Was that all there was to a life?

  He moved to the quarter gallery and let the wet breeze soak his hair and face.

  A bad beginning.

  The voice seemed to awaken a broken memory. Like a condemnation.

  Athena, sir? An unlucky ship!

  Calls shrilled and feet pounded on deck as the hands ran to prepare the eighteen-pounders on the lee side for drill. But the voice remained.

  6 Destiny

  Captain Adam Bolitho stood by the quarterdeck rail, only his eyes moving to watch some landmark or another vessel on a converging tack, while all the time the land continued to reach out as if to engulf the whole ship. During the night and early morning the wind had backed a little, slowing their progress and Athena’?” final approach to Plymouth. Adam had been on deck since before dawn, preparing himself for this moment. A captain’s responsibility, when any oversight or impatience could cause a disaster.

  He had thought about it even as he had been swallowing several mugs of Grace Ferguson’s coffee. He had entered and left Plymouth many times, as a junior officer as well as in command of his own ship. And yet this time seemed completely different, even the widening span of the Sound unfamiliar. Hostile.

  ”Steady she goes, sir, nor’ by west.”

  That was Fraser the sailing master, standing by his chart with one of his mates, ever watchful, one hand hooked into his coat, the fingers drumming soundlessly to show that he was anxious. For his ship or his captain? It was impossible to tell from his rugged features.

  Adam had to stop himself from looking aloft as the main topsail flapped and banged noisily. They were losing the wind, the land acting like a shield.

  He heard Mudge the boatswain bawling orders, and bare feet slithering across the damp planking to obey. Blocks squealed, and spray dripped from the braces as more men added their weight to haul round the great main yard. So close-hauled now that they would appear to be almost fore-and-aft to any observer on the land. Adam recalled Fraser’s words when they had first spoken on this deck.

  An excellent sailer, close to the wind even when under storm stays’ Is

  Adam watched the pale sunlight flash from something ashore. That was less than two months ago, in this same harbour. When he had lost Unrivalled. How was that possible?

  He said, ”Let her fall off a point, Mr. Eraser.” He held out his hand and felt a midshipman lay a telescope across his palm.

  As he raised it to train across the starboard bow he heard Fraser giving his orders, sensed his relief that the captain had noticed the stubborn drift as the wind spilled from the canvas above their heads. Adam steadied the glass and studied the big three-decker, in exactly the same anchorage as when he had first boarded her and had met the famous admiral, Lord Exmouth, in person. When he had told him that he had wanted Unrivalled to be ready to take her place in the van when he commanded the fleet attack on Algiers. That, too, seemed a lifetime ago. Now a rear-admiral’s flag curled from Queen Charlotte’s mizzen, her moment of glory past. Like Unrivalled.

  ”Guardboat, sir!” A hoarse voice, one he had come to recognize among the many still unknown to him: Samuel Fetch, Athena’s gunner, who had been at sea since he was nine years old. He talked about his various charges, from the twenty four pounders to the lowly swivel guns as if they were alive, each with its own peculiarity or drawback. Fetch had been a gun captain aboard the old Bellerophon in Collingwood’s Lee Division at Trafalgar. That made him different. Special. The old Billy Ruffian, as she was affectionately known, was still with the fleet. A survivor, like Fetch.

  Adam trained his glass again, figures working on the forecastle leaping into focus for just a few seconds. Barclay the second lieutenant, with his anchor party, was shading his eyes to stare aft at the quarterdeck, waiting for the signal to drop the larboard anchor.

  A good officer, Adam had decided, working both with the foremast and its complex spars and rigging, and his own battery of guns. More importantly, with his men.

  He heard Stirling shout something to one of the midshipmen, who was hurrying along the starboard gangway. The first lieutenant never seemed to use a speaking trumpet, or even carry one, unlike
most of his trade. He would use just one of his big hands held to his mouth, and his voice carried effortlessly like a fog horn.

  Apart from matters of duty and routine they had spoken very little since the discovery of the body in one of the holds. To him it was in the past, no longer important. It was a common attitude among sailors; Adam had known that for a long time. A man existed as a shipmate from the moment he was signed on. When he left your ship, by choice or enforcement, or like the wretched seaman named Hudson, discharged dead, he was written off. Never look back. Never go back.

  Adam looked up at the masthead pendant, gauging the wind, the strength of it under the lee of the land.

  Sunlight lanced down through the overlapping web of black rigging and made his eye smart.

  It is the ship. I am the stranger here.

  A frigate was something alive. You could feel her every mood, match it with your ability.

  He closed his mind to the doubt.

  Any ship was only as good as her company. And her captain.

  He heard Fraser say to one of his master’s mates, ”About true, I’d say, eh, Simon?”

  Adam glanced at him. No words were spoken. None were needed.

  ”Man the braces hands wear ship, if you please!”

  Stirling’s voice broke the stillness.

  Tops’1 clew lines! Take that man’s name, Mr. Manners!”

  Adam raised the glass again, watching two slow-moving fishing craft, and a smart schooner spreading sail while she tacked toward the Point and the grey Channel beyond. Then he moved the glass toward the anchored flagship. Beyond her the land was shrouded in mist, where the other fleet still lay. Ghosts, some with great names, remembered for their valour in battle against a common enemy. Hulks now, gun ports empty and blind, masts down, decks littered and neglected.

  He thrust the telescope away and felt it taken by some one. It was all suddenly sharp and in focus, the faces real, waiting.

  He lifted his hand and saw Lieutenant Barclay raise his own in acknowledgment.

  ”Let go!”

  He saw the spray burst over the gilded beak head as the anchor hit the water, and the cable was controlled by compressor under Barclay’s vigilant eye.

  He imagined he could feel Athena slowing, coming to rest, swinging above her own immense shadow.

  Men pounded along the deck, hauling ropes or flaking them down in readiness for the next command from aft. High overhead, the big topsails had already been kicked and fisted into submission and were furled or loosely brailed to dry.

  Soon boats of every kind would be heading out to meet the new arrival. More stores to be loaded, recruits to be found to fill gaps in the muster logs. To await orders, and their admiral.

  Adam unconsciously glanced at the foremast truck where Bethune’s flag would soon be flying. No longer a private ship. How would it be?

  He saw Jago standing down by the boat tier pointing out something to one of the midshipmen, probably thinking of young Napier, or wishing he had remained ashore when he had the chance.

  He turned and looked across the water, the Hamoaze, where the river Tamar, his river, separated Cornwall from the rest of England.

  It might as well be the moon. He shaded his eyes again. Where she had waited to watch Unrivalled weigh anchor and sail to join Lord Exmouth’s fleet, when she had sent over the little note which was inside his coat at this moment. And that last embrace.

  ”Officer of the guard coming aboard, sir!”

  ”Very well, Mr. Truscott, I’ll see him in my quarters.”

  He reached out and touched the big double wheel, now unmanned and motionless, but throbbing quietly to the thrust of the current far below. By keeping busy, things would fall into place. A captain had no choice; and he was lucky. There were many others who would be walking the shore and looking out at the ghost ships, and the sea which had rejected them. The only life they knew or wanted.

  He glanced down at the boat tier and saw Jago looking up, somehow isolated from the bustle around him. Like those other times, when men had died, and their world had exploded about them. And they had come through it, together.

  Jago nodded and then raised one hand slowly; a salute, a greeting, it was more than either.

  The ship had reached out. For both of them.

  Stirling strode aft and touched his hat. ”Ship secured, sir.”

  ”Thank you. It was well done.”

  Stirling said nothing, but stood aside from the companion to allow him to pass.

  Past the Royal Marine sentry and through the screen, shining in its new white paint, and into the great cabin.

  Bowles was opening the quarter gallery to allow some air into the cabin, but turned and gave a sad smile. ”Last time we’ll see old England for a while, sir.”

  Adam nodded. ”So be it, then.”

  As if his uncle had spoken for him.

  George Tolan, personal servant to Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune, stood in one corner of the inn’s courtyard as the carriage was being moved nearer to the vaulted entrance. It was early morning; too early, he thought, after this long and almost leisurely journey from London.

  Now it was over, with Plymouth only fifty miles away. He glanced up at the inn sign: The Royal George of Exeter, the county town of Devon. He had been given a comfortable room, as was the custom with an admiral’s servant, good food, and a bed as big as a barn. He might even have been able to share it with some one, but for Bethune’s sudden attack of urgency.

  The last day on the road, but their journey would take them through country lanes for part of the way. It was Saturday too, and Exeter would be particularly busy, with a market fair at one end of the city and a public hanging at the other.

  He adjusted his smart blue coat and stamped his booted feet to restore the circulation. Or perhaps, like his master, he was getting nervous, unsure of the change from land to ocean again.

  He was safe, and he had no complaints about his work or the man he served. There was always the nagging thought. Not like fear; he had seen that over the past twenty years, knew all its faces, or had told himself often enough to believe it. Except .. . He looked toward the entrance, at the girl who was tipping water into a small garden. She noticed him and smiled. If Bethune had decided to prolong his stay at the Royal George, things might have been very different.

  A few people who were crossing the yard glanced at the blue-coated figure. Tolan was used to it. Not tall, but very erect, shoulders squared, exuding a permanent alertness which he took for granted. Like a soldier, some might think. Which was indeed how George Tolan, aged thirty-nine, had started his adult life.

  He had been born and raised in the old town of Kingston on the banks of the River Thames, the only son of a grocer who from the beginning he knew to be a drunken bully. His mother was cowed by his fits of rage, and the young George Tolan had been beaten often enough to know hatred as his only defense.

  He could still remember the day it had all changed. His father had driven him out of the shop and sent him to get a particular ale from one of his drinking cronies, with the inevitable threat of what he might expect if he took too long about it.

  And there, in the market place, he had seen the army recruiting party. While a drummer boy rattled a slow tattoo, a burly sergeant had nailed up a poster on a stable door, and lastly a young officer had made a short speech about honour and duty, and England’s need for her sons to step forward and volunteer to follow the drum.

  His father never got his special brew, but on that day George Tolan, aged sixteen, had made his mark and been pounded on the back in congratulation by the officer and his sergeant together. He was their only volunteer that day.

  And despite the drills and forced marches, the rough and often brutal humour, and the ritual of field punishment, young George Tolan had loved it.

  As the war with the old enemies, France and her allies, had continued to spread and mount in ferocity, Tolan’s life had changed yet again. As the fleet increased in strength there
was a shortage of marines, the backbone of any fighting ship when it came to action at close quarters, both afloat and in forays ashore. They also acted as a disciplined force which could be called upon to maintain order among ships’ companies which were largely comprised of pressed men, dragged aboard His Majesty’s ships to fight and, when necessary, die without question or protest.

  Some of Tolan’s Surrey regiment were drafted to the Channel Fleet, in his case to an old two-decker, not so different, he supposed, from Athena, soon to be Bethune’s flagship. After tented camps and austere barracks, the day to day experiences were at first a challenge, and then a contest between the marines and the overcrowded world of the mess decks

  It was the first time Tolan had ever seen the sea, but like the Corps itself he grew to accept it.

  Perhaps even then he had been conscious of the invisible barriers which stood between the marines and the overwhelming mass of sailors, pressed or otherwise, and divided forecastle and quarterdeck. At divisions, or when hands were mustered to hear the captain read out the Articles of War while some poor devil was stripped and tied to a grating to receive a flogging, or when they were posted as sentries to stand guard over dwindling water supplies, or to prevent men from deserting when the ship was in harbour or close to the shore. Only in battle, when the enemy’s flag flew high alongside and the air was choked with smoke, did those barriers fall, and they became of one company.

  And then, just twenty years ago, the impossible had happened, and the entire country reeled in shock and fear. The fleet, which admirals and parsons alike had always described as our sure shield against all peril, had mutinied at the Nore and at Spithead. A French invasion was daily expected, and too late the Admiralty had been forced to accept what foul conditions, savage punishment, and in many cases tyrannical discipline had brought down upon their heads.

  Tolan had been reminded of it when he had been listening to the old clerk at the Admiralty, the one who had fought under Black Dick’s command in the old Queen Charlotte at the Glorious First of June, just three years before the mutiny had broken out. Howe himself had been at the Admiralty, but his fairness and undoubted popularity were still remembered by those same men of his old flagship when mutiny had snared her with all the others. Howe and other senior officers were forced to swallow their pride and parley with the mutineers’ delegates, and something far stronger than discipline and fleet orders had won the day. Many officers were removed from duty, some dismissed from the service. Mutineers who had used violence against officers and messmates alike were punished, even hanged. Order was restored, and the country turned to face the enemy across the Channel once again.