Form Line Of Battle!

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho stood up. He had started the pot boiling. The next few days would tell him more of these men.

  He said shortly, 'Very well, gentlemen. The wind is still fresh from the nor'-west. We will make sail within the hour.' He glanced at Quarme's set face. 'Call all hands in thirty minutes and prepare to break out the 'anchor. We have nine hundred miles ahead of us before we sight the squadron. Be sure you make good use of them.' He looked round at the others. 'All of you.'

  As they parted across the door he strode quickly out of the wardroom and up to the sun-drenched quarterdeck. He did not know why, but it had been a bad beginning. Pehaps he was still suffering from the fever, or maybe he was too tired from waiting and worrying. Then again it was entirely possible he was unready for a ship such as Hyperion.

  He stood a moment longer and stared up at the towering masts and at the tiny figures working aloft like careless monkeys.

  Allday moved across the deck and said, 'I've told Gimlett to lay out your seagoing gear, Captain.' He breathed in deeply then added, 'I'll be glad to get to sea in my own ship again. I was a mite sick of the hills and the same old sights each day.'

  Bolitho swung round and then checked himself. It was too easy to take out his tiredness and anger on Allday.

  'At least the women in Falmouth will get a rest from your visits, Allday!'

  The coxswain watched Bolitho until he vanished beneath the poop and then grinned broadly. Aloud he muttered, 'You've no need to worry, Captain. You've not changed, and nothing'll change you either!'

  Then he leaned on the nettings and stared across at the anchored ships in the bay.

  2

  A SHOW OF CONFIDENCE

  Bolitho left his cabin and walked quickly towards the quarterdeck. Below the shelter of the poop the two pigtailed helmsmen stiffened beside the big double wheel, but Bolitho paused only long enough to peer at the compass. North-east by north. It seemed as if the card had been riveted in that direction for days. For eight long days since the Hyperion had left Gibraltar the progress had been slow and painful, with the ship only able to maintain an average three knots. Twice they had been becalmed, and since weighing anchor had logged a mere five hundred and twenty miles all told.

  But as he stepped out into the bright midday sunlight Bolltho could see as well as feel the difference. A few minutes earlier a breathless midshipman had run into his quarters to announce that the light, passive breeze was at last freshening, and when he looked up at the masthead pendant he saw it whipping out abeam, and the freshly set sails were filling and booming with renewed purpose.

  Quarme turned back from the quarterdeck rail and touched his hat. 'I've set the t'gallants, sir. Let us hope this wind keeps up.' He looked strained.

  'It will, Mr. Quarme.' Bolitho was wearing neither coat nor hat, and felt something like sensuous pleasure as the wind ruffled his shirt and cooled the dryness of his lips. 'We'll get the royals on her directly.'

  He leaned his hands on the sun-dried rail and stared down at the maindeck. The starboard battery of sixteen guns ,was run out as if for action, and the crews, stripped to the waist and sweating, were completing yet another exercise. Below from the lower gundeck he could hear the squeal and rumble of trucks as the heavy twenty-four-pounders followed their example, and without looking up he said, 'Fifteen minutes to clear for action today, Mr. Quarme. It is not good enough.'

  'The men are tired, sir.' Quarme was careful to keep his reply non-committal. 'But there is some improvement today, I think.'

  Bolitho grunted. With the ship so long in commission with the same company the general seamanship and sail drill were good. There was a slickness to setting and shortening sail which to a landsman might appear almost casual. Bolitho knew from past experience that the average warship put to sea for the first time with her people composed more of pressed and awkward landsmen than trained hands, and for that he was grateful. But a ship of the line was no frigate. Her sailing qualities were normally confined to keeping station and closing the enemy rather than any subtle manoeuvres. It was only when she drew abeam of that enemy, where she would stay until victorious or vanquished, that her true worth could be counted. And whatever Quarme really thought, Bolitho knew that the Hyperion's gunnery was appalling.

  Every day and all day he had exercised the guns through every possible eventuality which he could imagine. From the main armament to the stubby carronades, from the quar

  -'- terdeck twelve-pounders to the marines in their musketry, he had worked every weapon and man without respite. If as Quarme insisted there had been some improvement it was still far from satisfactory.

  He said at length, 'We will exercise the starboard battery again. Pass the word.'

  He made himself cross to the weather side as Quarme shouted his instructions to the maindeck. With the ship on the starboard tack and heeling ponderously to the freshening breeze the guns would have to be manhandled back against the tilting deck before the drill could begin, and Bolitho saw some of the less arduously employed hands pause in their work to watch.

  There was Buckle, the grey-haired sailmaker, squatting with his mates checking and repairing the last of the heavy-weather canvas which the ship had used off Brest, the needles and palms pausing as they turned to stare. Even Gossett, the master, a sextant shining in one huge fist like a child's toy, halted in the patient instruction of two deceptively interested midshipmen and frowned as Lieutenant Rooke's voice echoed around the listless gunners.

  'Now pay attention! Withdraw guns and prepare to loadl' He was standing on the starboard gangway which ran above the battery and linked quarterdeck with forecastle and was staring angrily at his men, his face blotchy with heat and impatience. `The next man to drop a rammer or fall over his feet will dance at the gratings!' He pulled a watch from his pocket. 'Now begin!'

  Grunting and slipping on the sanded planking, the men threw themselves against the guns, their bodies shining with sweat as they levered and spiked the long muzzles back from the open ports until they stood at the full extent of their tackles.

  Bolitho had watched Rooke closely in the eight days. He seemed to carry out his work efficiently enough, but his manner was unpleasant, and he appeared to have difficulty in containing his temper. Only the previous day Bolitho had arranged a contest between both of the maindeck batteries, and the larboard side had won by three minutes. Rooke had been nearly beside himself. Now as his men crouched beside their guns Bolitho could feel the tension Like a physical force.

  Rooke yelled, 'Load!'

  There was a wild scramble, each crew being driven and harangued by its gun-captain as practise cartridges and imaginary balls were cradled into muzzles while the heavier seamen gripped the falls and waited to race their guns for the waiting ports.

  Quarme muttered, 'Better this time, sir.'

  Bolitho did not answer. But it was certainly smoother, in spite of the over-eagerness on the part- of some of the younger men. He saw Rooke gripping the rail as if willing his men to move faster, and knew he was well aware of his captain's presence on the quarterdeck.

  Rooke shouted, 'Run out!'

  Obediently the trucks squealed across the worn planking, and as each gun-captain feverishly sprinted to prime his vent there was a sharp clatter and three of the furthest gunners went sprawling. Every other gun-captain had his hand in the air, but at the leading weapon there was complete confusion.

  Rooke screamed, 'What the hell! What the bloody he111'

  Some of the upper-deck idlers were openly grinning and when Bolitho turned he saw that Lieutenant Fowler, the officer of the watch, was staring at his feet his mouth stifled with his handkerchief.

  Rooke strode along the gangway until he was above the offending gun. 'Bell, I'll see your backbones for this! I'll have you flogged till ...'

  The gun-captain stared up at him his hands spread helplessly. 'T'worn't me, sir! T'were the young gennelman 'ere!' He pointed at Midshipman Seton who was struggling from between two dazed sailors beside the gun. '
'E fell over 'is dirk, sir, an' t'other two went atop of 'im!'

  'Hold your tongue!' Rooke seemed to realise that everyone was staring at him. He said in a more controlled voice, 'And what did you do wrong this time, Mr. Seton?'

  The boy picked up his hat and looked round like a trapped animal. 'Sir, I-I . . .' The words would not come for several seconds. 'I tried t-to help with the f-falls, sir.'

  Rooke sounded quite calm again. 'Did you?' He wiped his mouth with his hand. 'Well, don't stand there slavering! Pay attention when I address you!'

  Bolitho turned away. It was unbearable to see Seton suffering like this, but to interfere now would only undermine Rooke's authority in front of the men.

  Rooke persisted loudly, 'Why in God's name did your mother and father send you to sea, Mr. Seton? Surely there was some other work you could bring confusion to?'

  Some of the men laughed, and then Seton -aid in a strangled voice, 'I-I have none, sir. M-My p-parents a-are ...' He could not go on.

  Rooke stared down at him, his hands on his hips. 'No father or mother, Mr. Seton? Then you mast be a bigger bastard than I imagined!'

  Bolitho swung round. 'Mr. Quarme, please fall out the crews and secure guns.' He glanced quickly aloft. 'The wind is holding well. You may set the royals now.' He made himself wait a few more minutes as the pipes passed his order and the topmen swarmed up the ratlines in a tight mass, their bodies black against the clear sky. 'And have Mr. Rooke lay aft.'

  Bolitho walked -to the weather side and thrust his hands behind his back. He could see the growing breeze ruffling the blue water and breaking it here and there into short, lively whitecaps. The noon position was estimated at some thirty miles south-east of Tarragona, but to all intents and purposes the sea was endless and empty. But his calculations had already been verified by the mainmast lookout swaying on his precarious perch almost two hundred feet above the deck. He alone had seen the distant mountains of Spain. His eyes were their only contact with the land. Bolitho was glad he had decided to stand well out to sea to avoid the opposing offshore current. His decision had given him the best of the wind too, and if it held they would find Hood's ships all the sooner. `You sent for me, sir?' Rooke was watching him, his chest heaving with exertion.

  `I did.' Bolitho eyed him calmly. `Your men did quite well. With practive they will improve still further.'

  He saw a slight glimmer in Rooke's eyes which might have been amusement or contempt. He added slowly, 'In future I hope you will refrain from that sort of treatment which you just gave Mr. Seton.'

  Rooke's face was wooden. `He needs discipline, sir. They all do.'

  `I agree entirely. But bullying is another matter, Mr. Rooke.' There was an edge to his tone. 'It does not help discipline to insult and humiliate a midshipman in front of men who may depend on him in battle!'

  `Is that all, sir?' Rooke's hands were trembling against his sides.

  `For the present.' Bolitho looked up as the last of the royals flapped and then hardened to contain the wind. Against the sky the full set of sails gleamed like white pyramids. He added, `You'll get better results by setting a good example, Mr. Rooke.' He watched the lieutenant walk stiffly towards the gangway and frowned. He had made an enemy of Rooke, but it seemed unlikely that a man of his nature would make friends with anyone.

  Quarme hovered nearby. `I am sorry about all that, sir. He is a bit outspoken at times.'

  Bolitho faced him. 'It is a pity you are not more outspoken, Mr. Quarme. I should not have to do your work for you!'

  Quarme looked as if he had received a slap in the face. `My work, sir?'

  `Yes. I do not expect to have to interfere amongst the officers.' He let his words sink in. 'Now let that be the last of it,'

  But as he walked to the opposite side of the deck and began to pace slowly back and forth he knew in his heart that it was not the end of it at all.

  The next four days were much as those which had gone before, with sail and gun drill taking precedence over all other routine. As the Hyperion tacked round the last jutting corner of the Spanish mainland and steered north-east across the Golfe du Lion there was little to ease the weary monotony or to smooth the atmosphere of irritation and resentment.

  During his daily walks on the poop or quarterdeck Bolitho was conscious of his own isolation and the barrier which he had made between himself and his officers. It was necessary, he was more sure of that than ever now. They could resent, even hate, him if they wished, but they had to be drawn together, woven into a weapon which he could use when the time came.

  He was still puzzled by Quarme's attitude to Rooke. When they were together Quarme seemed nervous and unsure of himself, although in all matters of duty he was efficient and hard-working. Perhaps he was awed by Rooke's noble upbringing. It was not uncommon for quite, senior officers, let alone aspiring first lieutenants, to be impressed to the point of servility with a subordinate who might have influence at Court or in Parliament, and who could perhaps be the means of quick advancement. But that seemed unlikely here. They had been too long in the same ship. Surely something would have happened by now.

  Bolitho sat at his desk and toyed unwillingly with another of Gimlett's meals. Through the stern windows he could see the crisp" whiteness of the ship's short wake, and heard the thump and creak of the steering gear as she butted along in the steady, unswerving wind. In the afternoon sunlight the sea threw back a million dancing reflections, and the endless stretch of small, restless whitecaps made him more aware of his. loneliness.

  There was a knock at the door and Piper, one of the midshipmen, stepped carefully into the cabin. With a full press of sail the Hyperion seemed to stay steady and immovable at one angle, so that against the open door Piper's scraggy body appeared to be leaning over as if in a strong wind.

  'Mr.-Mr. Inch's respects, sir, and he thinks we have just sighted the squadron!' His eyes followed Bolitho across the ,cabin, never leaving him as he pulled on his coat.

  'He thinks?' Bolitho felt strangely relieved. At last something might happen to break the apathy.

  `Sir!'

  Bolitho smiled. Lieutenant Inch was the ship's junior lieutenant, an eager if unsure young man. He would, of course, never commit himself to an actual statement.

  He asked, 'How is Mr. Seton settling down?'

  Piper screwed up his face so that he looked like a wizened monkey. `He's a bit sick, sir.' He sighed. `He's not used to it all yet.'

  Bolitho hid a smile. Piper was also sixteen, yet spoke with the assurance of an admiral.

  He walked past the marine sentry and on to the quarterdeck. The wind was still very fresh, but as he glanced forward across the leaping bowsprit he caught sight of a growing grey wedge of land. They had been following .t it all day, losing it as they ploughed through some open bay and picking it up again near the next headland.

  Quarme said formally, 'Masthead reports six sail of the line to the north, sir.'

  Bolitho saw Inch's long face watching him across the first lieutenant's shoulder. He was nodding vacantly in time with Quarme's words.

  'Very well. Alter course two points to larboard to intercept.'

  He crossed the deck and watched the men pouring up from below as the bosun's mates yelled, 'Hands to the braces there!'

  Gossett stood stolidly near the wheel his lower lip between his teeth as the great yards began to swing round. To the helmsman he growled, ' 'Old 'er, man! Full an' bye!' Then he glanced aloft at the thundering sails and gave a slow smile. Bolitho had seen that smile before and- knew that Gossett was satisfied.

  Bolitho took his glass and steadied his legs against the pitch and roll of the deck. With the wind sweeping down across• the bow and the ship sailing as close as she was able to it the motion was uneven and more pronounced.

  He heard Quarme snap, 'Aloft with you, Mr. Piper, and be sure you make a proper report!'

  Bolitho saw the tall pyramids of sails evenly spaced and shining like polished shells in the sunlight. Even from th
e deck there was no mistaking them.

  He said to the quarterdeck at large, 'Stand by to report all signals.'

  Then, carried by the wind like a flute he heard Piper calling from the mainmast. 'Six ships of the line, sir! The leading one wears the admiral's flag!'

  The six ships were running on the opposite tack, and as Bolitho studied them through his glass he saw them growing in size and detail until the leading one, a huge three-decker with the admiral's flag at the main, filled his lens so that he could see the hull shining with thrown spray, the red and gold of her figurehead.

  As he strained his eye to watch her he saw the tiny black balls streaking up the yards and breaking out like coloured metal in the wind.

  Inch shouted, 'Flagship's signalling, sir!' He was hopping with excitement, as if he personally had spirited the squadron over the horizon.

  Caswell, the signal midshipman, had already perched himself in the mizzen shrouds his big telescope steadied like a gun.

  flying our pendant, sir!' His lips moved slowly, Then he called, 'Victory to Hyperion, "Fake station to windward!"'

  Quarme. said quickly, 'The admiral'll be wanting you to go across, sir.'

  'I imagine so.' Bolitho pushed his hands behind him to hide his excitement. 'Tack the ship and then call my boat's crew and prepare for lowering.'

  Quarme nodded. Then he raised his speaking trumpet. 'Stand by to go about!'

  From beside the wheel Gossett bellowed, 'Ready ho!' Then as the seamen ran to the braces he snapped, 'Helm a'lee!'

  The hands up forward let go the headsail sheets and the Hyperion swung slowly into the wind, every block and sail flapping and banging as if outraged at this sudden change of direction.

  From the maindeck came a yelp of pain, followed by a sharp, 'Lively, you awkward bugger! Lord 'God is watchin! you!'