Midshipman Bolitho

by Alexander Kent

Dancer smiled. “I think the captain knows more than he’s prepared to admit. I watched him. He is balancing the value of the victory against damaging it with envy and shame.” He grinned at Eden. “And midshipmen who go round trying to poison their betters!”

  Bolitho nodded. “I agree. Now let us go and eat. Anything, even a ship’s rat, will do for me.”

  They turned towards the companion ladder and froze.

  A figure in an ill-fitting uniform, that of a lieutenant, blocked their way.

  He said, “Nothing to do, eh? Midshipmen are not what they were in my day!”

  They crowded round him, and Bolitho said, “John Grenfell! We thought you dead!”

  Grenfell gripped his hand, his face very grim. “When City of Athens was destroyed, some of us managed to find safety on drifting spars. We hauled them together like a little raft, not knowing what was happening.” He dropped his gaze. “Most of our people were killed. The lucky ones in the cannon fire, the rest when the sharks tore amongst us. The third lieutenant, oh, so many old faces, were slashed to fragments before our eyes.” He shrugged, as if to free himself of the memory. “But we drifted ashore, and as we made our way along the coast, there, as large as life, was the ship standing in to the beach, and Dewar’s bullocks with a dhow full of screaming slaves, an Arab crew and two Portuguese merchants who were so terrified that I think they believed their end had come.” He plucked at his borrowed coat. “So I have been made acting sixth lieutenant. It will do no harm when my examination is called.” He looked into the distance. “But I got the chance at a price I would dearly repay if it were possible.”

  Bolitho said quietly, “But you are safe.”

  Starkie yawned. “I could sleep for a year.” He grinned at Grenfell. “Sir. “

  Grenfell walked with them to the ladder. “I suggest you all get some rest. I have a feeling it will be all the hotter tomorrow, in more ways than one!”

  Mr Turnbull’s knowledge of weather did not desert him. By the time the first dog watch had run its course both vessels were under way again, their sails filling to the breeze. An hour later the wind had steadied to a fresh northerly, and when the hands were assembled aft the air was like a tonic after the sweaty furnace between decks.

  The lieutenants and marine officers were by the poop ladder, watching the captain, who was conferring with Verling and the sailing master.

  Petty officers moved amongst the assembled seamen, checking their muster lists and calling out names, while from the lower gun deck Bolitho could hear the screech of a grindstone as the gunner’s mates attended to the sharpening of cutlasses and boarding axes. The very sound made him shiver, as it always had.

  A lookout bawled, “Deck there! Vessel at anchor off the larboard bow!”

  Dancer had been peering across at Sandpiper’s sails. They were creamy in the fading light, and there was nothing visible of the shot holes and patches.

  Dallas, the second lieutenant, had taken charge of her for the attack. A man Bolitho knew nothing of, and had barely heard utter more than a few necessary orders since he had joined the ship. But the captain’s choice showed that he trusted Dallas for the task. It also suggested he was not entirely satisfied with Tregorren’s part in the cutting-out.

  When Bolitho had seen Starkie over the side to be taken back to the brig, the master’s mate had stared aft towards the captain’s slowly pacing figure. He had grinned.

  “It’s how you gets to be a post captain, young feller, knowing them things!”

  “All midshipmen lay aft to the quarterdeck!”

  They hurried along the gangway and found Verling waiting by the lee nettings, one foot tapping with impatience.

  “Three of you will be required for the attack.” He scowled as Marrack made to speak. “Not you. You will be needed for the signal party.” His cold eyes rested on Bolitho. “As you have just returned to your proper duties with us, I cannot order you to take part either. Mr Pearce,” he turned to the sulky looking midshipman from the lower gun deck, “and …”

  Bolitho glanced at Dancer who gave the briefest nod.

  He called, “Mr Dancer and I would like to volunteer, sir. We sailed very close to the island. It might be of some use.”

  Verling smiled wryly. “Now that Mr Grenfell has placed his foot on the bottom rung of promotion, you three, apart from Mr Marrack, are the oldest. So I suppose I’d better allow you to go.”

  Eden stepped smartly from the rank of midshipmen.

  “S-sir! I’d 1-like to v-volunteer, too!”

  Verling glared down at him. “Don’t you stutter at me, you urchin! Get back in line and hold your noise!”

  Eden retreated, beaten before he had started.

  Verling nodded, apparently satisfied.

  “Boats will be lowered as soon as we heave-to. All the marines and sixty seamen will transfer to that floating hell yonder.”

  Dancer whispered, “The captain is sending everyone he can spare.

  Verling rasped, “After the raid, should you be spared, Mr Dancer, you will be awarded five days extra duty. Be silent!”

  The captain walked aft towards the poop, as if on a stroll ashore.

  He paused and asked evenly, “All well, Mr Verling?”

  “Aye, sir.”

  The captain glanced at the three midshipmen who stood where they had been called.

  “Be vigilant.” He looked at his first lieutenant. “Mr Verling will command the attack, so he will expect your best support, as will I.” He leaned forward, seeking out Eden‘s small shape. “You, er, Mr, er, will probably be useful assisting the surgeon in your new and er, surprising capacity.”

  Neither he nor Verling gave even the hint of a smile.

  It was almost dark by the time the transfer of men and weapons had been completed.

  Even before they reached the large dhow Bolitho could smell the stench of slavery. Once on board it was almost overpowering as the seamen and marines clambered below, stooping beneath the crude deck beams and slithering on filth and broken manacles.

  Major Dewar’s corporals were spaced at intervals along the hull to lead or push the new arrivals into the proper places where they would remain until the actual moment of attack. It was as well Eden had been left behind, Bolitho thought. This stench, and the cramped journey, would have made him as sick as a dog.

  Several swivel guns were swayed up from the longboats and mounted on the bulwarks and aft by the high poop.

  There was a smell of rum in the air too, and Bolitho guessed that the captain had thought it prudent to give the attackers something to sustain them.

  Bolitho and the other two midshipmen made their way aft to the poop to report that all the extra seamen and marines were crammed below like pork in a barrel.

  In the half-darkness the marines’ crossbelts stood out very white, their coats merging with the background.

  Hoggett, the Gorgon’s leather-lunged boatswain, was in charge of the dhow’s sails and steering, and Bolitho heard one seaman mutter unkindly, “‘E’d be right at’ome on a blessed slaver, ‘e would!”

  Verling snapped, “Break out the anchor and get this vessel under way, Mr Hoggett! Perhaps the wind will take the stench out of her!”

  He turned as another shadowy figure climbed to the poop.

  “All ready, Mr Tregorren?”

  Dancer said, “So he’s coming too, damn him!”

  “Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”

  Bolitho watched the two seamen using the great sweep oar which stood in place of wheel or tiller. The strange lateen sails creaked up the masts, the sailors slipping and cursing with unfamiliar, and to them, crude rigging.

  Verling had brought a small boat’s compass, and handed it to the boatswain.

  “We will take our time. Stand well offshore. I’d rather not finish the attack like that frigate ended her life, eh, Mr Tregorren? It must have been quite a moment.”

  Tregorren sounded as if his breathing was hurting him.

  He replied thickly, “
It was, sir.”

  Verling dropped the matter.

  “Mr Pearce, show the lantern to Gorgon.”

  Bolitho saw the light blink briefly as Pearce lifted the shutter. Captain Conway would know they had started. In the small glow from the compass Bolitho saw Verling’s beaky profile, and was suddenly glad he was in command.

  He wondered what Tregorren would say to him when next they spoke. If he would continue his deception, or admit that he was not responsible for Pegaso’s destruction.

  Verling’s voice bit into his thoughts.

  “If you have nothing to do, I suggest you sleep until you are called. Otherwise I will discover a task of some enormity for you, even in this vessel!”

  Hidden by the deepening darkness, Bolitho grinned broadly.

  “Aye, aye, sir. Thank you, sir.”

  He settled down against an ancient bronze cannon and rested his chin on his knees. Dancer joined him, and together they stared up at the tiny, pale stars, against which the dhow’s great sails showed like wings.

  “Here we go again, Martyn.”

  Dancer sighed. “But we kept together. That’s the main thing.”

  10

  A NAME TO REMEMBER

  “WIND’S BACKED AGAIN, sir!”

  The boatswain’s hoarse voice made Bolitho nudge Dancer with his elbow and rouse him.

  He saw Verling and Tregorren consulting the compass, and when he looked up at the ragged mainmast pendant he saw it was lifting and whipping to a new thrust of wind. The sky was paler, and as he struggled to his feet he felt every muscle throbbing with cramp.

  Verling commented flatly, “We will beat clear of the headland nevertheless.” His arm shot out, black against the sky. “There! I can see surf below the point!” The arm darted round. “You midshipmen, get below and rouse the people. My compliments to Major Dewar, and tell him we will pass very close inshore. I want no marine or seaman on deck who has not been so ordered.”

  A block squeaked, and Bolitho saw a large flag jerking up to the foremost lateen sail. In daylight it would be seen as a black one, similar to that worn by the Pegaso. He shivered, despite his excitement.

  “Come on, Martyn, we’d better hurry.”

  He retched and covered his mouth with his sleeve as he plunged down into the fat-bellied hold. In the glitter of a solitary lantern the crowded seamen and marines could have been another slave cargo. The realization came like an ice-cold shock. If this attack failed, the survivors would end as no better than the poor wretches released by Captain Conway. Although the corsair, RaIs Haddam, recruited many white mercenaries to man his ships and expand his grip across the trade routes, he had little love or respect for them. If half of what was said of him was true, it was more than likely he would keep captured British seamen to replace those very same slaves.

  Dewar listened to his message and grunted.

  “‘Bout time. I’m aching like a sick cow.”

  Dancer coughed and gasped, “I am glad we were on deck, sir.”

  The marines exchanged glances and Dewar said, “Spoiled young devils! It is the discomfort I object to. The smell is no worse than any field ofbattle.” He grinned at Dancer’s nausea. “Especially after a few days, when the crows have been at work, eh?”

  He stood up, ducking under the beams. “Marines, stand-to! Sar’nt Halse, inspect the weapons!”

  Bolitho returned to the poop, and found to his surprise that it was already bright enough to see the land drifting abeam, the dancing spray amongst some angry-looking rocks.

  Dancer murmured, “A lee shore. If the first lieutenant had taken an hour longer we’d have been hard put to beat clear.”

  “Sir! I can see someone on the point!”

  Verling raised a telescope. “Yes. He’s gone from view now. Probably a lookout of some kind. He won’t get across to the island, but the corsair may have a sort of signalling arrangement.” He was thinking aloud.

  The wind made the great sails bang noisily, and the poorly made rigging looked as if it might tear apart at any second. But it must be stronger than it appeared, Bolitho decided. He watched Hoggett supervising the helmsmen, the easy way the dhow turned to starboard to let the nearest rocks slip past the quarter with a bare twenty feet to spare. The dhow handled well. He smiled tightly. So it should. Arab sailors were using them long before ships like Gorgon were even dreamed of.

  Pearce said, “There’s the fortress.” He grimaced. “God, it looks a mite larger from this side!”

  It was still shrouded in gloom, with only the upper tower and battery catching the first feeble light.

  There was a sharp bang, and for an instant Bolitho imagined the fortress had seen through Captain Conway’s ruse and could not restrain the gunners from firing.

  He ducked as a ball whipped high overhead and threw a fanlike waterspout amongst the rocks.

  “Sandpiper, sir!” A seaman almost prodded Verling in his excitement to point across the larboard beam. “She fired!”

  Verling lowered his glass and studied him coldly.

  “Thank you. I did not imagine it was an act of God!”

  Another shot banged out, and this time the ball smashed down across the bows in direct line with their approach.

  Verling gave a thin smile. “Let her fall off, Mr Hoggett. I know Mr Dallas has an excellent gun captain with him in Sandpiper, but we’ll not take too many chances.”

  The dhow tilted steeply as the helmsmen brought her further round towards the island.

  “Fire the er, stern-chaser.”

  Verling stood aside as some seamen who had been working on one of the old bronze cannons plunged a slow-match into the pitted touch-hole and jumped clear.

  The ancient bronze barrel was almost worn out, but the resonant bang was far louder than anyone had expected.

  Verling said, “That should do it. If we fire it again, I fear it will explode in our midst.”

  Bolitho saw the brig for the first time. Close-hauled on a converging tack, she was heeling well over to the wind, her sails merged into one pale pyramid in the dawn light.

  He saw the flash of another gun, and winced as the ball pounded close to the waterline, dousing seamen and crouching marines in falling spray.

  Verling remarked angrily, “Mr Dallas is too good an actor. A few more like that and I will have to take him to task.” He smiled at the boatswain. “Later, of course.”

  “He’s worried.” Dancer peered through the bulwark. “I’ve never heard him make jokes before.”

  “Listen!” Verling held up his hand. “A trumpet! We’ve roused them at last!”

  He became serious. “Divide up the people, Mr Tregorren. You know what to do. There is some kind of jetty on the eastern side, right beneath the fortress. I am told it is where the traders bring the slaves, and from whence they ferry them to seagoing vessels.”

  He placed his hat on the deck and glanced quickly at the others around him.

  “Remove any items of uniform which might be recognized, and keep out of sight as much as possible. Pass the word to the marines to stand fast and wait for the order. No matter what.”

  The brig was closing fast, several of her snappy six-pounders loosing-off shot, some of which fell dangerously near to the dhow.

  A great boom shattered the air, and seconds later Bolitho saw a waterspout shoot skywards just beyond Sandpiper’s bowsprit.

  Her sails were in disarray as Lieutenant Dallas brought her even closer, running up his ensign to the gaff as if to further infuriate the enemy.

  Several more flashes lit the battery wall, and the splashes, although as big as the first, were haphazard and nowhere near the brig.

  Bolitho supposed that the gun crews were still half-asleep, or could not believe that a vessel so frail, one which had already been seized below these same cannon, would dare press any nearer.

  He bit his lip as another heavy ball passed between the brig’s two masts. It was a miracle that neither was hit, but he saw several lengths of cut riggi
ng drifting in the wind like jungle creeper.

  One direct hit in a vital spot was all the battery needed to render the Sandpiper helpless. At least long enough for her to drive ashore and be taken.

  Verling’s voice was right in his ear.

  “Don’t keep staring at Sandpiper. Keep your eyes and mind ahead. We could be quite wrong about the entrance. Mr Starkie’s memory may have played tricks on him.”

  Bolitho darted a quick glance at Verling. Without his hat to balance it, the nose looked even beakier and larger. He saw something else on his face. Determination, anxiety, both were there. But also a kind of recklessness.

  Bolitho looked away. He had seen a similar expression on the face of a highwayman as he had been driven to the gibbet.

  Sunlight felt its way gingerly over the land and played across the fortress walls. There were several heads peering from the weathered embrasures, and then Bolitho saw what appeared to be a flagstaff poking out of the ground at the foot of the furthest wall.

  Verling had already seen it.

  “The entrance.” He turned to Hoggett. “That must be a mast, just inside. Another dhow most likely.” He wiped his narrow face with the back of his arm. “Steer for it.”

  Tregorren hurried aft, hard put to hide his great bulk beneath the litter of spare sails and fishing gear which covered the slaver’s filthy deck from side to side.

  “All ready, sir.”

  He saw Bolitho and met his gaze without blinking. Defiance? It was difficult to see any emotion in the man. Even his colour was returning, and Bolitho wondered what would happen if he found time to take more drink before the attack.

  “Sandpiper’s going about, sir. She’s going to try another attack.”

  Bolitho held his breath as two balls fell on either side of the brig’s sleek hull, as with sails flapping and banging she turned across the wind’s eye for another attempt to head off the dhow.

  He saw the first sunlight shining on weapons above the battery wall and imagined the defenders jeering at the brig’s retreat. Small she might be, and recaptured from them was a hard fact to swallow. But she was still a symbol of power of the world’s greatest navy. And now, against their massive cannon, she was as helpless as a sick horse.