Midshipman Bolitho

by Alexander Kent

  MIDSHIPMAN BOLITHO

  Alexander Kent

  the Bolitho novels: 1

  McBooks Press, Inc.

  www.mcbooks.com

  ITHACA, NY

  The Bolitho Novels by Alexander Kent

  The Complete Midshipman Bolitho

  Stand Into Danger

  In Gallant Company

  Sloop of War

  To Glory We Steer

  Command a King’s Ship

  Passage to Mutiny

  With All Despatch

  Form Line of Battle!

  Enemy in Sight!

  The Flag Captain

  Signal-Close Action!

  The Inshore Squadron

  A Tradition of Victory

  Success to the Brave

  Colours Aloft!

  Honour This Day

  The Only Victor

  Beyond the Reef

  The Darkening Sea

  For My Country’s Freedom

  Cross of St George

  Sword of Honour

  Second to None

  Relentless Pursuit

  Man of War

  Heart of Oak

  Midshipman Bolitho By Alexander Kent Richard Bolitho Novels, no. 1 McBooks Press, Inc. Ithaca, New York Published by McBooks Press 2006 Copyright © 1975, Cover and text design by Panda Musgrove.

  Additional copies of this book may be ordered from any bookstore or directly from McBooks Press, Inc., ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850. Please include $5.00 postage and handling with mail orders. New York State residents must add sales tax to total remittance (books & shipping). All McBooks Press publications can also be ordered by calling toll-free 1-888-BOOKS11 (1-888-266-5711). Please call to request a free catalog. Visit the McBooks Press website at www.mcbooks.com. Printed in the United States of America 987654321

  RIGGING OF THE ROYAL NAVY VESSELS OF THE LATE 18TH CENTURY

  Contents

  PREFACE

  1. A SHIP OF THE LINE

  2. OUTWARD BOUND

  3. THE CITY OF ATHENS

  4. ‘CLEAR FOR ACTION!’

  5. CHANGE OF FORTUNE

  6. FACE TO FACE

  7. MR STARKIE’S STORY

  8. ACROSS THE REEF

  9. WITHOUT HONOR

  10. A NAME TO REMEMBER

  PREFACE

  The first book in the Richard Bolitho series, To Glory We Steer, was published in 1968, and at the time I was unaware of the success it might have. I had been an established author and novelist for ten years, and I realized that the abrupt change of pace would be something of a challenge. It was my American publisher, Walter J. Minton, who prodded me into writing that first book as Alexander Kent. He knew that I had always been fascinated by the old navy and the days of sail; as a boy, I remember being taken around Nelson’s flagship Victory at Portsmouth and sensing the excitement of those early times, and I had served in the Royal Navy during the Second World War.

  Since then, there have been many books, and many faces, characters good and bad, settings around the world and ships to mark every stage in Richard Bolitho’s life and career. He was born in Falmouth in the county of Cornwall, the home of so many sailors, and the books follow his experiences from a nervous, twelveyear-old midshipman in an awesome ship of the line, through promotion, to the eventual command of his own vessel, “the most coveted gift,” as he himself described it. It is a life and a journey filled with adventure and danger, and with pain and sorrow too, along the way. Finally, as an admiral of England, he retains those qualities of humility, sensitivity and compassion, and cares deeply for those seamen who live or die at his command. It is a burden of which he is always very aware.

  I am sometimes asked how I created Richard Bolitho, but I always feel that he was already there, that he discovered me. I have come to know and recognize him as a friend, and am often moved by the views and beliefs he expresses.

  So what is Richard Bolitho’s appeal? The times in which he lived have a lot to do with it. They were the last days of the truly independent sailor; once out of sight of land, he had only his own skill and resources upon which to rely. It was, also, an era of bravery and honour, and respect for a courageous enemy.

  And, on a personal level, Bolitho’s refusal to accept injustice towards those he leads is matched by other heroic qualities. He is, above all, a man without conceit.

  From midshipman to admiral, this is his story, a story of England‘s navy, and of the young America and of France through bloody revolution; a story of the ocean itself.

  1

  A SHIP OF THE LINE

  ALTHOUGH ONLY NOON, the clouds which scudded busily above Portsmouth harbour made it seem closer to evening. For several days a stiff easterly wind had turned the crowded anchorage into angry criss-crossing patterns of whitecaps, and an attendant drizzle gave each buffeted ship and the stout walls of the harbour defences a glistening, metallic sheen.

  On Portsmouth Point itself, solid and uncompromising, stood the Blue Posts Inn. Like inns and hostelries in every busy seaport, it had been added to and altered over the years, but still retained an appearance of a sailor’s haunt. In fact, it was used more by young midshipmen than any other seafarers who came and went with the tides, and because of this it held an atmosphere all of its own. Low-beamed, noisy and not particularly clean, it had seen more than one would-be admiral pass through its scarred doors.

  On this particular day in mid-October 1772, Richard Bolitho sat wedged in a corner of one of the long rooms half listening to the babble of voices around him, the clatter of plates and tankards and the hiss of rain against the small windows. The air was heavy with mixed aromas. Food and ale, tobacco and tar, and each time the street doors opened to a chorus of curses and complaints the keener tang of salt from the waiting ships.

  Bolitho stretched his legs and sighed. After the long and broken coach journey from his home in Falmouth, and a large portion of rabbit pie which was one of the Blue Posts’ favourite dishes for the “young gentlemen,” he was feeling drowsy. He glanced curiously at the other midshipmen nearby. Some were very young. Children, no more than twelve years old at the most. He smiled, despite his normal reserve. When he had joined his first ship as midshipman he too had been twelve. Only by thinking back to that time could he appreciate how he had altered. How the Navy had changed him. He had been exactly like one of the boys along the table from him. Frightened, awed by the noise and outward hostility of a man-of-war, yet somehow determined not to show it, and always imagining that everyone else was entirely unimpressed by his surroundings.

  And that had been four years ago. It was still difficult to accept. Four years in which he had matured and moulded to the ship around him. At first he had believed he would never be able to learn all that was asked and demanded of him. The bewildering complex of rigging and shrouds. The miles of cordage of every shape and length which made a ship move and obey. Sail drill and gun drill, up aloft on dizzily swaying yards in rain and sleet, or on days when it was so hot he had almost fainted and dropped to the deck far below. He had learned to understand the unwritten laws of the world between decks, the loyalties and rules which made everyday life possible in the overcrowded turbulent existence of a King’s ship. He had not only survived, he had come through it better than he had thought possible. But not without some bruises and a few tears to mark his journey.

  Now, on this dismal October day, he was joining his second ship, the seventy-four-gun Gorgon, which lay somewhere at anchor in the Solent.

  He saw a small midshipman wolfing down a huge portion of boiled pork, and smiled grimly. He would live to regret it. It would be a long and lively pull in a boat through this wind.

  He thought suddenly of his home in Cornwall,
the great grey-stone house below Pendennis Castle where he and his brother and two sisters had grown up together. And where for that matter the Bolitho family had been living for generations. It had been different from what he had expected, from what he had dreamed about as he had endured storm and heat alike. For one thing, only his mother and sisters had been there to greet him. His father, who commanded a ship similar to the one he was joining, had been away in Indian waters. His older brother, Hugh, was senior midshipman in a frigate in the Mediterranean. The house had seemed quiet and very still after a ship of the line.

  His new appointment had been delivered on his sixteenth birthday. To proceed with all despatch to His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Gorgon at Spithead, which under the command of Captain Beves Conway was re-commissioning for duty in the King’s name.

  His mother had tried to hide her dismay. His sisters had laughed and cried as the fancy took them.

  When he had made his way to board the Falmouth coach he had seen the farm workers nod to him as he had passed. But no show of surprise. For many, many years Bolithos had left the grey house to join one ship or another. Some of them had never returned.

  And now it was all beginning again for Richard Bolitho. He had vowed that there were mistakes he would never repeat, some lessons he would remember above all else. A midshipman was neither fish nor fowl. He stood between the lieutenants and the true backbone of any vessel, the warrant officers. At one end of the ship, aloof and unreachable like some sort of god, was the captain. Above, around and beyond the overcrowded midshipmen’s berth were the ship’s company. Seamen and marines, volunteers and pressed men alike, packed together between decks, yet at all times separated by status and experience. Harsh discipline was the rule rather than the exception, danger and death from working the ship in all weathers were too commonplace to mention.

  When landsmen saw a King’s ship working clear of the shore, her yards alive with sailors and freshly set sails, when they heard the bang of gun-salutes, the lusty voices of those at the capstan joining in a well-tried shanty, they knew nothing of that other world within the deep hull. Which was probably just as well.

  “Anyone sitting here?”

  Bolitho came out of his thoughts and looked up. Another midshipman, fair-haired and blue-eyed, was smiling at him.

  The newcomer added, “Martyn Dancer. I’m joining the Gorgon. The landlord pointed you out to me.”

  Bolitho introduced himself and moved along the bench.

  “Not your first ship.”

  Dancer smiled sadly. “Almost. I was in the flagship until she went into dock. My experience amounts to three months and two days.” He saw Bolitho’s expression. “I started late. My father was unwilling to let me go to sea.” He shrugged. “But I had my way in the end.”

  Bolitho liked what he saw. Dancer had certainly begun his sea career late. He was about his own age, and had the quiet, cultured voice of a good family. A town family, he decided.

  Dancer was saying, “I have heard that we are sailing for West Africa. But then …”

  Bolitho grinned. “It is as good a rumour as any. I heard it too. It will be better than beating back and forth with the Channel Fleet.”

  Dancer grimaced. “The Seven Years War has been over for nine years. I’d have thought the French would be at us again by now, if only to get their Canadian possessions back.”

  Bolitho turned as two crippled seamen approached the landlord who was watching one of his girls ladling stew into pewter pots.

  No real war for nine years. It was true enough. And yet there were still other conflicts around the world which never stopped. Uprisings and piracy, colonies fighting their new masters, they had claimed as many victims as any line of battle.

  The landlord said harshly, “Be off with you! I want no beggars here!”

  One of the sailors, his right arm amputated almost to the shoulder, retorted angrily, “I’m no bloody beggar! I was in the old Marlborough, seventy-four, with Rear-Admiral Rodney!”

  There was complete silence in the long room, and Bolitho saw that several of the younger midshipmen were staring at the two cripples with something like horror.

  The second man exclaimed anxiously, “Leave it be, Ted! The devil will give us nothin’!”

  Dancer said, “Give them all they need.” He dropped his eyes, confused and angry. “I will pay.”

  Bolitho looked at him, sharing his concern. His shame.

  “That was well said, Martyn.” He touched his sleeve impetuously. “I am glad we are joining together.”

  They both looked up as a shadow fell between them and one of the smoky lanterns.

  The one-armed man was staring at them, his face very grim.

  He said quietly, “Thank you, young gentlemen.” He thrust out his hand. “Good luck go with you. I reckon I’m seeing two captains.”

  He moved away as one of the serving girls carried two steaming pots of food to a side table, adding for the room’s benefit, “Some of you take heed of this day. A lesson for you.”

  The landlord thrust his large bulk towards the midshipmen as the buzz of conversation slowly returned.

  “I’ll take your damn money now!” He glared at Dancer. “And after that …”

  Bolitho said calmly, “After that, landlord, you will bring two glasses of brandy for us.” He watched the man’s mounting fury, gauging the moment as he would the fall of a nine-pound shot. “I would mind your manners if I were you. My friend here is fortunately in good humour. But his father owns most of the land around this point.”

  The landlord swallowed hard. “But, God bless you, sir, I was only teasing! I’ll bring the brandy at once. The best I have, and I trust you will allow me to pay for it.” He hurried away, his face suddenly worried.

  Dancer said incredulously, “But my father is a tea merchant in the City of London! I doubt if he has ever seen Portsmouth Point in his life!” He shook his head. “I think I shall have to sharpen my wits if I am to keep pace with you, Richard!”

  Bolitho smiled gravely. “Dick, if you don’t mind.”

  As they were sipping their brandy the street door was flung wide open. This time it did not close. Framed in the entrance was a lieutenant in a streaming tarpaulin coat, his cocked hat sodden from spray and rain.

  He barked, “All midshipmen for the Gorgon to muster at the sallyport at once. There is a party of men outside to take your chests to the boat.”

  He strode to the fire and snatched a goblet of brandy from the landlord.

  “It’s blowing like hell outside.” He held his reddened hands above the blaze. “God help us.”

  As an afterthought he added, “Who is the senior amongst you?”

  Bolitho saw the anxious exchange of glances, the way that the snug contentment had given way to something like panic.

  He said, “I think I am, sir. Richard Bolitho.”

  The lieutenant eyed him suspiciously. “So be it. March ‘em to the sallyport and report to the boat’s cox’n. I will be along shortly.” He raised his voice. “And when I get there, I want every mother’s son of you ready to leave, see?”

  The smallest midshipman said desperately, “I think I’m going to be sick!”

  Somebody laughed, but the lieutenant roared, “You’re going to be sick, sir! Say sir when you address an officer, damn you!”

  The landlord’s wife watched the untidy cluster of midshipmen hurrying towards the rain.

  “Yew’m a bit hard on ‘em, Mr Hope, sir.”

  The lieutenant grinned. “We all had to go through it, m’dear. Anyway, the captain’s difficult enough as it is, what with one thing and t’other. If I’m adrift with the new midshipmen then I’ll be in for a broadside!”

  Outside on the wet cobbles Bolitho watched some seamen loading the black chests into an assortment of barrows. Burly and tanned, they looked like experienced sailors, and he guessed that the captain was taking no chances by allowing less reliable members of his company ashore in case they deserted.

/>   In weeks, even days, he would know these men and many more. He would not fall into the old traps as in his other ship. He knew now that trust was something you had to earn, not a gift which went with the uniform.

  He nodded to the senior hand. “We will move off directly.”

  The man grinned at him. “Not the first time for you then, sir?”

  Bolitho fell in step beside Dancer. “Or the last.”

  At the sallyport they found the boat’s coxswain sheltering behind the wall. Beyond it the Solent heaved and broke to endless ranks of cruising wave crests, and against the leaden sky the few gulls looked like white spindrift.

  The coxswain touched his hat. “I suggest you get ‘em all aboard, sir. There’s quite a tide runnin’ an’ the first lieutenant wants the boat to do another trip afore the dog watches.” He dropped his voice. “‘Is name is Mr Verling, sir. Be warned. ‘E’s a mite rough on some young gennlemen. Likes ‘em to try their ‘ands at everythin’ ‘e does.” He chuckled unfeelingly. “Gawd, look at’em.‘E’ll’ave’em for breakfast.”

  Bolitho snapped, “And I you, if you don’t stop gossiping.”

  Dancer stared at him as the man hurried away.

  Bolitho said, “I’ve met his sort before, Martyn. The next minute he’d be asking permission to go off for a quick tot of rum.” He grinned. “I think the lieutenant back there would be displeased, never mind the formidable Mr Verling.”

  The officer in question appeared by the wall, his eyes somewhat glassy.

  “Into the boat! Lively there!”

  Dancer said quietly, “I think maybe my father was right!”

  Bolitho waited for the others to clamber down the slippery ladder towards the pitching longboat.

  “I’m not sorry to go back to sea.” And he was surprised to find that he meant it.

  The journey from the sallyport to the anchored two-decker took the best part of an hour. During the trip in the madly leaping longboat the midshipmen who managed to survive being violently sick had plenty of time to study their new home as she grew larger and taller through the relentless rain.