Bolitho stood up. ‘I’d better get changed then.’
Cairns nodded. ‘You’re to meet the captain at the end of the first dog-watch. He’ll be taking the barge, so make sure the crew are smart and ready. He’s in no mood to suffer slackness, I can tell you.’
Sharp at four bells Captain Pears strode on to the quarterdeck, resplendent in his full-dress uniform and carrying his sword at his side like a pointer. If anything, the glittering gold lace set off against the dark blue coat and white breeches made him appear younger and taller.
Bolitho, also dressed in his best clothes, waited by the entry port, a sword, instead of his usual hanger, slung across his waistcoat on a cross-belt.
He had already examined the barge to ensure it was ready and suitable for Trojan’s captain. It was a fine-looking boat, with a dark red hull and white painted gunwales. In the sternsheets there were matching red cushions, while across the transom was the ship’s name in gilt. Swaying against Trojan’s side, with the oars tossed in two vertical lines, her crew dressed in red and white checkered shirts and black tarred hats, the barge looked good enough for an emperor, Bolitho thought.
Cairns hurried to the side and murmured something to the captain. Molesworth, the nervous-looking purser, was waiting by the mizzen, and Bolitho guessed that Cairns was going ashore with him to bolster his dealings with the victuallers, who, like ships’ chandlers, thought more of personal profit than patriotism.
Captain D’Esterre snapped, ‘Marines, present arms!’
The bayoneted muskets jerked up almost to the canvas awning overhead, and Bolitho momentarily forgot Pears as he recalled the marines on the Faithful’s deck as they had cut down the boarders with the same crisp precision.
Pears seemed to see Bolitho for the first time. ‘Ah, it is you.’ He ran his eye over Bolitho’s best cocked hat, his white lapels and freshly pressed waistcoat. ‘I thought I had a new officer for a while.’
Bolitho smiled. ‘Thank you, sir.’
Pears nodded. ‘Carry on.’
Bolitho ran down the ladder to the boat, where Hogg, the burly coxswain, stood in readiness, his hat in his hand like a grim-faced mourner.
The pipes trilled and then the barge tilted to Pears’ weight as he stepped down and into the sternsheets.
‘Shove off! Out oars!’ Hogg was conscious of his captain and watching telescopes from nearby warships. ‘Give way all!’
Bolitho sat stiffly with his sword between his knees. He found it impossible to relax when he was with the captain. So he watched Trojan instead, seeing her curved tumblehome change shape as the boat swung round and beneath her high stern. He saw the red ensign curling listlessly above the taff rail, the glitter of gilt paint and polished fittings.
Every gunport was open to catch the offshore air, and at each one, withdrawn like a resting beast, Trojan’s considerable artillery showed a round black muzzle. They too were as clean as D’Esterre’s silver buttons.
Bolitho glanced at Pears’ grim profile. What news there was of the war was bad. Stalemate at best, real losses too often for comfort. But whatever Pears thought about the situation and the future he was certainly not going to let down his ship by any sign of slackness.
Beneath her furled sails and crossed yards, shimmering in her own haze of black and buff, Trojan was a sight to stir even the most doubting heart.
Pears said suddenly, ‘Have you heard from your father?’
Bolitho replied, ‘Not of late, sir. He is not much for writing.’
Pears looked directly at him. ‘I was sorry to learn of your mother’s death. I met her just the once at Weymouth. You were at sea, I believe. A gracious lady. It makes me feel old even to remember her.’
Bolitho looked astern at Trojan. So that was part of it, and no wonder. Suppose, just suppose, that Trojan had to fight. Really fight with ships of her own size and fire power. He thought of the officers Pears would carry into battle. Probyn, getting more difficult and morose every day. Dalyell, cheerful but barely equipped to take over his new role as fourth lieutenant. And poor Quinn, tight-lipped and in constant pain from his wound, and confined to light duties under the surgeon’s attention. Now there was Libby, one more boy in a lieutenant’s guise. Pears had good cause to worry about it, he thought. It must be like having a shipload of schoolboys.
‘How many men did you get today?’
Bolitho stared. Pears knew everything. Even about his trip ashore.
‘Four, sir.’ It was even worse when you said it aloud.
‘Hmm. We may have better luck when the next convoy arrives.’ Pears shifted on the red cushion. ‘Damned knaves. Prize seamen, protected by the East India Company or some bloody government warrant! Hell’s teeth, you’d think it was a crime to fight for your country! But I’ll get my hands on a few of ’em, exemptions or not.’ He chuckled. ‘By the time their lordships hear about it, we’ll have changed ’em into King’s men!’
Bolitho turned his head as the flagship loomed around another anchored man-of-war.
She was the Resolute, a second-rate of some ninety guns, and a veteran of twenty-five years of service. There were several boats at her booms, and Bolitho guessed it was to be quite a gathering. He looked up at the drooping flag at her mizzen and wondered what their host would be like. Rear-Admiral Graham Coutts, in command of the inshore squadron, had controlled Trojan’s destiny since her first arrival in New York. Bolitho had never laid eyes on him and was curious to know what he was like. Probably another Pears, he decided. Rocklike, unbreakable.
He shifted his attention to the professional side of their arrival. The marines at the entry port, the gleam of steel, the bustle of blue and white and the faint shout of commands.
Pears was sitting as before, but Bolitho noticed that his strong fingers were opening and closing around the sharkskin grip of his sword, the first sign of agitation he had ever noticed in him.
It was a fine sword and must have cost a small fortune. It was a presentation sword, given to Pears for some past deed of individual courage, or more likely a victory over one of England’s enemies.
‘Ready to toss yer oars!’ Hogg was leaning on the balls of his feet, his fingers caressing the tiller-bar as he gauged the final approach. ‘Oars up!’
As one the blades rose and remained motionless in paired lines, the sea water trickling unheeded on to the knees of the bargemen.
Pears nodded to his crew and then climbed sedately up the side, doffing his hat to the shrill calls and the usual ceremony which greeted every captain.
Bolitho counted seconds and then followed. He was met by a thin-nosed lieutenant with a telescope jammed beneath his arm who looked at him as if he had just emerged from some stale cheese.
‘You are to go aft, sir.’ The lieutenant gestured to the poop where Pears, in company with Resolute’s flag captain, was hurrying towards the shade.
Bolitho paused to look around the quarterdeck. Very like Trojan’s. The lines of tethered guns, their tackles neatly turned on to cleats or flaked down on the snow-white planking. Seamen going about their work, a midshipman studying an incoming brig through his glass, his lips moving silently as he read her flag hoist of numbers which would reveal her name and that of her captain.
Down on the gundeck a seaman was standing beside a corporal of marines, while another midshipman was speaking rapidly to a lieutenant. A crime committed? A man about to be taken aft for punishment? Or he might be up for promotion or discharge. It was a familiar scene which could mean so many things.
He sighed. Like the Trojan. And yet again, she was completely different.
Bolitho walked slowly beneath the poop and was startled by the sound of music and the muted laughter of men and women. Every screen had been removed and the admiral’s quarters had been opened up into one huge cabin. By the open stern windows some violinists were playing with great concentration, and amongst the jostling crowd of sea officers, civilians and several ladies, servants in red jackets carried trays laden with glass
es, while others stood at a long table refilling them as fast as they could.
Pears had been swallowed up, and Bolitho nodded to several lieutenants who, like himself, were only here under sufferance.
A tall figure emerged from the crush, and Bolitho saw it was Lamb, the flagship’s captain. He was a steady-eyed man with features which might at first appear to be severe, even hard. But when he smiled, everything changed.
‘You are Mr Bolitho, I understand?’ He held out his hand. ‘Welcome aboard. I heard about your exploits last March and wanted to meet you. We can use men of mettle who have seen what war is all about. It is a hard time, but also one of opportunity for young men such as yourself. If the moment comes, seize your chance. Believe me, Bolitho, they rarely come twice.’
Bolitho thought of the graceful schooner, even the stubby-hulled Thrush. His own chance had already come and gone.
‘Come and meet the admiral.’ He saw Bolitho’s expression and laughed. ‘He will not eat you!’
More pushing to get through the crowd. Flushed faces, loud voices. It was difficult to imagine that the war was just miles away.
He saw a hunched set of blue shoulders and a gold-laced collar, and groaned inwardly. Ponderous. Slow-moving. A disappointment after all.
But the flag captain pushed the big man aside and revealed a slight figure who barely came up to his shoulder.
Rear-Admiral Graham Coutts looked more like a lieutenant than a flag officer. He had dark brown hair which was tied to the nape of his neck in a casual fashion. He had an equally youthful face, devoid of lines or the usual mask of authority which Bolitho had seen before.
He thrust out his hand. ‘Bolitho, is it? Good.’ He nodded and smiled impetuously. ‘Proud to meet you.’ He beckoned to some hidden servant. ‘Wine over here!’
Then he said lightly, ‘I know all about you. I suspect that if you and not your superior officer had been leading that boat attack you might even have recaptured the brigantine!’ He smiled. ‘No matter. It showed what can be done, given the will.’
An elegant figure in blue velvet walked from a noisy group by the quarter gallery and the admiral said quietly, ‘See that man, Bolitho? That is Sir George Helpman, from London.’ His lip curled slightly. ‘An “expert” on our malaise here. A very important person. One to be heard and respected at all times.’
The mood changed, and just as swiftly he was the admiral again. ‘Be off with you, Bolitho. Enjoy what you wish. The food is palatable today.’
He turned away and Bolitho saw him greeting the man from London. He got the impression that Rear-Admiral Coutts did not like him very much. It had sounded like a warning, although what a lowly lieutenant could do to upset matters was hard to imagine.
He thought about Coutts. Not a bit what he had expected. He shied away from what he felt. Admiration. A strange sense of loyalty for the man he had met for just a few minutes. But it was there. It was useless to deny it.
It was getting dark by the time the guests started to leave. Some were so drunk they had to be carried to their boats, others lurched, glassy-eyed and unsupported, fighting each step of the way for fear of disgracing themselves.
Bolitho waited on the quarterdeck, watching the civilians and the officials, the ladies and a few of the military being helped, pushed or lowered by tackles into the bobbing flotilla of boats alongside.
He had just passed a cabin which he guessed was that of Coutts’ flag lieutenant. The door had been slightly ajar, and Bolitho had caught just a brief view before it had swung shut. A woman’s body, naked to the waist, her arms wrapped around the officer’s head as he tore at her clothing like a madman. And she had been giggling, bubbling with sheer enjoyment.
Her husband or escort was probably lying in one of the boats right now, Bolitho thought. He smiled. Was he shocked or envious again?
A boatswain’s mate, harassed by his additional duties, called, ‘Yer captain’s comin’, sir!’
‘Aye. Call the barge.’ Bolitho adjusted his swordbelt and straightened his hat.
Pears appeared with Captain Lamb. The two men shook hands and then Pears followed Bolitho down into the boat.
As the barge edged clear and swung on a swift moving current, Pears made one comment. ‘Disgusting, was it not?’
He then lapsed into silence and did not move until Trojan’s lighted gunports were close by. Then he said curtly, ‘If that was diplomacy, then thank God I’m a simple sailor!’
Bolitho stood in the swaying boat beside the coxswain, and as Pears reached out for the ladder his foot slipped. Bolitho thought he heard him swear but was not certain. But he felt vaguely honoured to share the moment. Pears was in perfect control again, but only just. That made him seem more human than Bolitho could remember.
Pears’ harsh voice came down from the entry port, ‘Don’t stand there like a priest, Mr Bolitho! ‘Pon my soul, sir, others have work to do, if you do not!’
Bolitho looked at Hogg and grinned. That was more like it.
Amongst other tasks required of ships’ lieutenants was the wearying and thankless duty of officer of the guard. In New York, to ease the work of the shorebound authorities, the various ships at anchor were expected to supply a lieutenant for a full twenty-four-hour duty. It entailed checking the various guardboats which pulled around the jetties and moored ships, to make certain they allowed no enemy agents to get near enough to do damage or discover secret information. Equally, they were required to prevent any of the fleet’s seamen from deserting to seek shelter and more doubtful pleasures on the waterfront.
Seamen entrusted with work ashore were often tempted, and drunken, wild-eyed sailors had to be sorted out to await an escort back to their rightful ships, and a few lashes for good measure.
Two nights after his visit to the flagship it fell to Trojan’s third lieutenant to place himself at the disposal of the port admiral and provost marshal for such duty. New York made him feel uneasy. A city waiting for something to happen, a pattern to settle once and for all. It was a city of constant movement. Refugees arriving from inland, others thronging offices and government buildings in search of relatives lost in the fighting. Some were already leaving for England and for Canada. Others waited to reap rich rewards from the victors, no matter what colour their coats might be. It could be a dangerous place at night, especially along the crowded waterfront with its taverns and brothels, boarding houses and gaming rooms, where anything was available so long as there was gold for the taking.
Bolitho, followed by a file of armed seamen, walked slowly along a line of sun-dried planked buildings, careful to stay close to the wall and avoid any filth which might be thrown or accidentally dropped on to his patrol.
He heard Stockdale’s wheezing breath behind him, the occasional clink of weapons as they made their way towards the main jetty. Few people were in view, although behind most of the shuttered windows he could hear music and voices raised in song or blasphemy.
One house stood silhouetted against the swirling water, and he saw the usual marine sentries outside the entrance, a sergeant pacing up and down by a small lantern.
‘’Alt! ’Oo goes there!’
‘Officer of the guard!’
‘Advance an’ be recognized!’
It was always the same, even though the marines knew most of the fleet’s lieutenants by sight, night or day.
The sergeant stamped to attention. ‘Two men for the Vanquisher, sir. Fightin’ drunk they are.’
Bolitho walked through some doors and into a large hall. It had once been a fine house, the home of a tea merchant. Now it served the Navy.
‘They seem quiet enough, Sergeant.’
The man grinned unfeelingly. ‘Ah, sir, now they is!’ He gestured to two inert shapes in leg irons. ‘’Ad to quieten ’em, like.’
Bolitho sat down at a scarred desk, half listening to the noises beyond the doors, the clatter of wheels across the Dutch cobbles, the occasional shriek of some whore.
He looked at the
clock. Past midnight. Another four hours to go. At times like this he longed for the Trojan, when hours earlier he had pined to be free from her regulated routine.
When the fleet had first arrived off Staten Island, someone had described it as being like London afloat. It had become too much of a reality to be mentioned nowadays. Bolitho had seen two lieutenants from one of the frigates as they had gone into a gaming house. He knew both by sight but little more. In those few moments he had caught a snatch of their conversation. Sailing on the tide. Going to Antigua with despatches. What it was to be free. Able to get clear away from this floating muddle of ships.
The sergeant reappeared and regarded him doubtfully.
‘I got a crimp outside, sir.’ He jerked his thumb towards the door. ‘I know ’im of old, a rogue but reliable. ’E says there are some ’ands from the brig Diamond. Jumped ship afore she weighed three days back.’
Bolitho stood up, reaching for his hanger. ‘What was she?’
The sergeant grinned hugely. ‘No bother, sir. She weren’t under no warrant, she was with general cargo from an English port.’
Bolitho nodded. A brig from England. That implied trained seamen, deserters or not.
He said, ‘Bring the, er, crimp inside.’
The man was typical of his trade. Small, greasy, furtive. They were common enough in any seaport. Boarding-house runners who sold information about likely hands to officers of the Press.
‘Well?’
The man whined, ‘It be my duty, sir. To ’elp the King’s Navy.’
Bolitho eyed him coldly. The man still retained the accent of the London slums.
‘How many?’
‘Six, sir!’ His eyes glittered. ‘Fine strong lads they be.’
The sergeant said offhandedly, ‘They’re in Lucy’s place.’ He grimaced. ‘Poxed to the eyebrows, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Tell my men to fall in, Sergeant.’ Bolitho tried not to think of the delay this would cause. He would probably miss his sleep altogether.
In Gallant Company Page 11