Bolitho asked, “Is it land?”
“No, Dick, a ship!” Dancer grinned at him, his face tanned and alert in the bright sunshine.
It was hard to remember the rain and bitter cold, Bolitho thought. The sea was as blue as the sky, and the crisp wind lacking in bite or menace. High above the decks the topsails and topgallants shone like pale shells, while the masthead pendant licked out towards the larboard bow like a long scarlet lance.
“Deck thar!” They all peered up at the tiny black shape of the masthead lookout. “She bain’t answerin’, sir!”
It was then Bolitho realized that this was no ordinary encounter. The captain was by the quarterdeck rail, arms folded, his face in shadow, and nearby Midshipman Marrack and his signalling party were watching their halliards and the bright hoist of flags at the main yard.
What ship?
Bolitho craned over the nettings and felt the spray touching his face and lips from the wash below. Then he saw the other vessel, a black-hulled barquentine, her sails in disarray against the blinding horizon, her masts swaying steeply in the swell.
Bolitho moved further aft and heard Mr Hope, who had the watch, exclaim, “By God, sir, if he don’t answer our signal he must be up to no good, I say!”
Verling turned towards him, his beaky nose displaying his scorn.
“If he wanted, Mr Hope, he could fly with the wind and leave us far astern within the hour.”
“Aye, sir.” Hope sounded downcast.
The captain ignored both of them.
He said, “Pass the word to the gunner, if you please. To run out a bow chaser and fire one ball as near as he can. They’re either drunk or asleep over there.”
But the solitary crash of a forward nine-pounder brought nothing more than a rush of seamen from below decks in the Gorgon herself. The idling barquentine continued to drift, her forward sails almost aback, her big fore-and-aft canvas on main and mizzen shivering in a heat haze.
The captain snapped, “Shorten sail and heave-to, Mr Verling! And send away the quarter boat. I am uneasy about this one.”
Calls shrilled and twittered along the main deck, and within minutes of the captain’s order Gorgon was going about, swinging her heavy hull round into the wind with every sail and shroud quivering and banging in confusion.
Dancer went aft to join Bolitho beneath the hammock nettings.
“D’you think-”
He stopped as Bolitho whispered, “Keep quiet and stay here.”
Bolitho watched the boatswain mustering a boat’s crew on the opposite side of the deck. With Gorgon hove-to and groaning into the wind Hoggett, the boatswain, was preparing the quarter boat to be hauled from astern and manhandled alongside.
The captain was speaking to Verling, his words lost in the sullen boom of flapping canvas. Then the first lieutenant turned abruptly, his nose swinging across the quarterdeck like a swivel gun.
“Pass the word! Mr Tregorren lay aft to take boarding party away!” His nose continued to move as his order was yelled forward along the main deck. “You two midshipmen! Arm yourselves and accompany the fourth lieutenant!”
Bolitho touched his hat. “Aye, aye, sir!” He nudged Dancer. “I knew he would pick the nearest.”
Dancer grinned, the excitement bright in his eyes. “It’s good to be doing something different!”
Down by the entry port the hastily assembled oarsmen and armed seamen crowded above the blue water, their eyes outboard towards the other vessel which had drifted almost abeam and now lay about half a mile distant.
Mr Hope called, “I can read her name, sir!” He sounded cautious after Verling’s earlier sarcasm. “She’s the City ofAthens.!” He was swaying back and forth in the uncomfortable swell, a big telescope held to his eye. “No sign of life aboard!”
Lieutenant Tregorren arrived at the entry port, his frame seeming larger and more forceful without the low-beamed gun deck to restrain it. His eyes flashed across his boarding party.
He said bluntly, “Let no man loose off a pistol or musket by error. Be ready for anything.” His gaze settled on Bolitho and he added, “As for you-”
He broke off as the captain’s voice called from the quarterdeck rail, “Man your boat, Mr Tregorren.” His eyes were like glass in the bright glare. “If it’s fever aboard I want no part of it. Do what you can and be lively with it.”
Bolitho watched him gravely. He did not know the captain, other than at a distance or seeing him at work with his officers. And yet he was almost certain that Captain Conway was on edge, anxious enough to speak severely to one of his lieutenants in front of the people. He flushed as the cold eyes settled on him.
“You.” The captain half lifted one hand. “What is your name again?”
“Bolitho, sir.” It was strange that nobody ever seemed to remember a midshipman’s name.
“Well, Bolitho, when you have quite finished your daydream, or composing a poem for your doxy, I’d be grateful if you would enter the boat!”
Several seamen lounging at the gangway chuckled, andTregorren rasped angrily, “If I thought you were trying to show me up!” He gave Bolitho a thrust with his palm. “I’ll deal with you later!”
Once in the quarter boat, one of Gorgon’s twenty-eight-foot cutters, the captain’s mood, Tregorren’s hostility and the discomfort of six weeks at sea were pushed from Bolitho’s mind. Crowded in the sternsheets amongst the extra men and weapons, with Tregorren’s great shadow swaying over the labouring oars, he turned and glanced quickly astern. How huge and invulnerable Gorgon appeared from a low-hulled boat. Standing above her rippling reflection, her masts and yards stark and black against the sky, she looked a symbol of sea power.
He could tell from Dancer’s expression that he shared his excitement. He looked leaner than when they had met at the Blue Posts, but tougher and more confident.
Tregorren snapped, “Give the fellow a hail!” He was standing upright in the boat, oblivious to the lively motion as it lifted and sliced over the wave crests.
The bowman cupped his hands. “Ship ahoy!” His voice seemed to echo back like an acknowledgement.
Dancer whispered, “What d’you reckon, Dick?”
Bolitho shook his head. “Not sure.”
He watched the barquentine’s masts lifting above the sweating oarsmen, the way the booms on her main and mizzen creaked and shook without purpose.
“Way ‘nough!”
The oars stilled and the bowman hurled a grapnel high over the vessel’s bulwark.
Tregorren snapped, “Easy now!” He stood staring up at the bulwark, uncertain, or as if he still expected somebody to appear. Then, “Boarders away!”
The boatswain had chosen only experienced hands, and within seconds they were all up and over the sun-dried bulwark and clustered close together beneath the batlike sails.
Tregorren said, “Mr Dancer, take the forrard hatch!” He gestured to a boatswain’s mate, the one who had carried out the flogging. “Thorne, you make certain that the main hatch is secure.” Surprisingly, he drew a pistol from his belt and cocked it carefully. “Mr Bolitho, and you two, will come aft to the poop with me.”
Bolitho glanced at his friend who gave a quick shrug before taking his own men to the forward hatch. Nobody was smiling now. It was like a phantom ship, deserted and neglected, her crew spirited away. He looked towards the Gorgon but even she seemed further away, her protection less certain.
Tregorren said harshly. “This bloody ship stinks!” He stood above a companion-way, his head on one side as he peered down into darkness. “Anyone below?”
But there was no sound other than sea noises and the dismal creak of the unattended wheel.
Tregorren looked at Bolitho. “Down you go.” He seized his wrist and added fiercely, “Well, attend to your pistol, damn you!”
Bolitho drew the heavy weapon from his belt and stared at it.
The lieutenant said, “And don’t turn your back as you go down the ladder!”
Bolitho slid over the coaming and paused to allow his eyes to become used to the gloom between decks. Once below the poop he heard other shipboard sounds, and he had to tell himself they were quite normal. The sluice of water against the hull, the creak and clatter of loose gear. He could smell candle-grease and damp air, the more rancid stenches of bilge and stale food.
He heard a man yell from above, “Nothing forrard, sir!” and relaxed very slightly. On the planks above, muffled but recognizable, Tregorren was moving this way and that, probably wondering what to do next. But he remembered Tregorren’s haste to send him below first and without aid. If he was concerned about this strange, deserted vessel he was certainly indifferent to his midshipman’s safety.
He pushed open a small cabin door and stooped to enter. It was so low beneath the deck beams that he had to shuffle in the darkness like a hunchback, his hands groping to stop the ship from throwing him off balance.
His fingers touched a lantern before his face. It was ice-cold.
At that moment a tiny hatch was flung open overhead and a previously concealed skylight wrenched aside. Framed in the blinding glare, Tregorren’s massive head peered down at him.
“What the hell are you doing, Mr Bolitho?”
He fell silent, and when Bolitho turned to follow his stare he saw why.
Sprawled in one corner of the cabin was a man, or all there was left of him.
He had received a terrible head wound from cutlass or axe and had taken several more thrusts in chest and side. In the shaft of sunlight his gaze seemed to be slitted against the brightness, his eyes terrified as they fixed on Bolitho.
Tregorren said at length, “God Almighty!” Then as Bolitho remained stockstill beside the corpse he added roughly, “On deck with you!”
In the bright sunlight again Bolitho found that his hands were shaking badly, although when he looked at them they seemed as before.
Tregorren ordered, “Put a hand on the wheel, Thorne. Mr Dancer, take your men to the main hold and search it. The rest of you begin to take in these damned sails!”
He turned as Dancer called, “Gorgon’s under way again, sir.”
“Yes.“The lieutenant was frowning with the effort of thinking. “She’ll be dropping down within hailing distance. By that time I want some answers.”
It was like putting together parts of a torn and dismembered book. Dancer’s search of the barquentine’s main hold revealed that she had been carrying spirits, mostly rum, but the hold, apart from a few broken and upended casks, was empty. By the starboard rail on the poop, and again on the compass box, they found dried blood and the burn marks from discharged pistols.
The solitary corpse in the cabin must have been the vessel’s master, running below to arm himself, to save some valuables or merely to hide. It was not clear. What was certain was that he had been brutally murdered.
Bolitho heard Tregorren say to the boatswain’s mate, “Must’ve been a mutiny and the devils made off after killing the loyal seamen.
But both of the barquentine’s boats were still hoisted inboard and secured.
Then, when Gorgon’s great pyramid of sails was running slowly across the vessel’s quarter, Heather, one of Dancer’s party, discovered something else. Just aft of the main hold a ball had smashed into the timbers, and when the hull dipped across a deep trough it was possible to see where it had struck the outside of the ship. By leaning out from the shrouds Bolitho saw it shining from its jagged socket like a malevolent black eye.
Tregorren said heavily, “Must have been a pirate of some sort. Put a shot into her when she failed to heave-to and then boarded her.” He ticked off the points on his spatulate fingers. “Then butchered the hands and pitched ‘em overboard. There are sharks a’plenty hereabouts. Then they swayed out the cargo to their own ship and cast off.”
He looked round irritably as Dancer asked, “But why not seize the ship too, sir?”
“I was coming to that,” he replied angrily. But he did not explain further. Instead, he cupped his hands and began to bellow some of his news towards the Gorgon.
Across the narrowing stretch of water Bolitho heard Verling’s voice through his speaking trumpet.
“Continue the search and remain under our lee.”
That was probably to give the captain time to examine his own logs and documents about local shipping. The City of Athens was obviously not a new vessel, and was probably familiar on the rum trade from the West Indies.
Bolitho shivered, imagining himself alone and suddenly faced with a rush of savage, stabbing boarders.
Tregorren said shortly, “Down aft again.” He strode to the companion with Bolitho at his heels.
Even though he knew what he would see it was still a shock. Bolitho tried not to look at the dead man’s face as Tregorren, after a brief hesitation, began to search his pockets. The City ofAthens’s log and charts had vanished, probably overboard, but in a corner of the littered cabin, almost hidden under a bunk, Tregorren found a canvas envelope. It was empty, but had the vessel’s agent’s name in Martinique clearly printed on it. It was better than nothing.
The lieutenant righted an upended chair and sat on it heavily, his head still almost brushing the deck beams. He remained in the same position for several minutes, staring at the corpse, his face dark with concentration.
Bolitho said, “I believe there was a third vessel, sir. That the attackers or pirates saw her sail and decided to make a run for it, knowing that this one would attract first attention.”
For an instant he thought Tregorren had not heard.
Then the lieutenant said softly, “When I require aid from you, Mr Bolitho, I will ask for it.” He looked up, his eyes in shadow. “You may be a post captain’s son, and the grandson of a flag officer, but to me you are a midshipman, less than nothing in my book!”
“I-I’m sorry.” Bolitho felt himself tense with anger. “I meant no offence.”
“Oh yes, I know your family.” Tregorren’s chest was lifting with exertion and suppressed fury. “I’ve seen the fine house, the tablets on the church wall! Well, I had no safe background to help me, and by God I’ll see you get no favours in my ship, understood?” He swung away, controlling his voice with obvious effort. “Now tell someone to cast down a line and haul that corpse on deck. Then have ‘em clean up the cabin, it stinks like a gallow’s-tip down here!”
He touched the leg of his chair. There was dried blood on it, black in the filtered sunlight.
Almost to himself he muttered, “Probably yesterday. Otherwise the rats would have found their way in here.”
He jammed on his salt-stained hat and ducked out of the cabin.
Later, while Bolitho and Dancer waited by the bulwark and watched the lieutenant being pulled across to Gorgon’s side to make his report, Bolitho told his friend something of what had happened between them.
Dancer eyed him sadly. “I’ll wager he intends to put your ideas to the captain, Dick. It would be just like him.”
Bolitho touched his arm, recalling Tregorren’s last words before he had dropped into the boat.
“Keep steerage way until told what to do, and send a good lookout aloft.” He had pointed at the corpse by the wheel. “And throw that overboard. It’s how some of you’ll end up, I shouldn’t wonder.”
Bolitho looked now at the empty space where the unknown man had lain. Callous and senseless.
He said, “I’ve a few more ideas yet.” He smiled, trying to forget his anger. “At least I know why he dislikes me.”
Dancer followed his mood. “Remember that poor cripple in the Blue Posts, Dick?” He gestured around the deck and at the handful of seamen. “He said we would both be captains, and, by God, we have a ship of our own already!”
4
‘CLEAR FOR ACTION!’
THE GORGON’S WARDROOM, situated directly below the captain’s great cabin, and which was approximately the same size, was packed with figures from bulkhead to stern windows. It was lined with small,
white-painted cabins and used as a home and diningspace by the lieutenants, the master, the marine officers and Laidlaw, the surgeon.
But in the pink glow of sunset through the stern windows and beneath several spiralling lanterns, the wardroom was filled with almost everyone above the rank of petty officer, except those needed to work the ship.
Bolitho and Dancer found themselves a space on the larboard side by an open window and looked round hopefully for some refreshments. But if the wardroom was required to donate its space for a conference it was not apparently inclined to make its guests welcome.
For most of the day, while Gorgon and her small consort had ghosted along under reduced canvas, Bolitho and Dancer had fretted and speculated about what was going to happen, and what their part would be. A boat had eventually been sent for them to rejoin Gorgon, the boatswain’s mate, Thorne, saying with as much sarcasm as he dared, “I think I can manage to take charge till you young gennlemen get back, sir.” He had served ten years with the fleet.
Now, as they waited with the other midshipmen, ignored by the lieutenants and marine officers, Bolitho and his friend watched the screen door by the trunk of the mizzen mast which pinioned the ship from poop to keel. It was like being in a theatre waiting for the principal actor to appear, or for an Assize judge to take his place and begin a trial.
Bolitho glanced around the wardroom, not for the first time. Different again from the spacious cabin overhead, it was nevertheless a palace after the midshipmen’s berth and gun-room. Even the little cabin doors which left the occupants barely more room than a cupboard suggested privacy and something personal. A table and some good chairs were scattered amongst the standing figures and not jammed together against the curved and often dripping side of the orlop.
He turned and leaned over the sill, seeing the froth from the rudder very pink in the sunset, the million dancing mirrors which streamed down from the horizon. It was hard to think of murder and danger, a man being hacked to death in the trim barquentine which sailed under Gorgon’s lee.
Midshipman Bolitho Page 4