Man of War

by Alexander Kent

  He thrust himself away from the table without another glance at Fraser’s calculations; he knew them by heart. It was their ninth day at sea, and they had logged barely one thousand four hundred miles, without sighting another vessel of any kind after leaving the coastal waters of Cornwall. It made the Atlantic seem even vaster, and gave many of the younger hands a sense of loneliness they had never experienced before. The sun, when it appeared, was bright but without warmth; that and wet clothing did little for comfort or discipline.

  He heard some Royal Marines clumping across the deck for another drill or inspection. Captain Souter, their commanding officer, had organized marksmanship contests with his men divided into squads, one competing against the other. They had lined a gangway and fired at pieces of driftwood thrown outboard from the bows. Apart from good training, it had provided a welcome distraction for seamen off watch, some of whom would doubtless have bets riding on the results. Sailors would bet on almost anything, lawful or not.

  But it had not lasted for long. Vice-Admiral Bethune had sent a message requesting that the musketry cease forthwith. It had been disturbing his concentration.

  He was about to look aft and changed his mind. He had no idea what Bethune did for most of the day, but he rarely appeared on deck. Adam made his daily reports on progress, and the ship’s routine. Usually Bethune was reading his confidential papers, or dictating to his secretary. His smart, impassive servant was almost always present, as if Bethune could not bear solitude.

  He walked to the weather side of the quarterdeck, Barclay, the lieutenant who had the watch, moving to the opposite side in the accepted fashion to allow his captain some pretence of privacy.

  He looked along the main deck. It was nearly noon; the galley funnel was giving off its usual greasy plume of smoke. And there would be the customary issue of grog. He watched the shark-blue horizon sloping across the beakhead and jib sails: no sharp edge, but another hint of mist. He looked across at Fraser; he would have noted it. Rain again before the dog-watches. Wet clothing, damp hammocks.

  The midshipmen were grouped around the sailing-master, each with his own sextant, ready to take the noon sights and check the ship’s position. Again. He studied their faces, serious, intent, or anxious, the younger ones at least. Those who were expecting a summons to the examination for lieutenant were more confident, like Vincent, straight-backed, his sextant carelessly held in one hand. Probably very aware of his captain’s presence on deck. And another, Rowley, who came from a long line of sailors, handsome until he smiled. He had lost two front teeth, knocked out by a block in a gale before Adam had assumed command.

  He thought again of Napier; he had all this and much more to overcome.

  Fraser said, “Ready!” and all the sextants swivelled round as eight bells chimed out from the forecastle. The sun was being helpful today, but you could never be sure. It was not unknown for somebody to turn over the half-hour glass too early during each watch, so that a man’s time on deck could be shortened with the sand only partly filtered away. “Warming the glass,” as it was called, could make a mockery of any calculation.

  Fraser and one of his mates were making notes, and one of the youngest midshipmen was holding his hand up to ask a question, as if he were still at school. The noon gun would crash out at Plymouth, and the gulls would rise from the water, screaming and squawking, as if it had never happened before. Adam walked to the hammock nettings and gripped a lashing as the deck tilted over again.

  And she would hear it. Perhaps she’d picture this ship, further and further away. Perhaps she was regretting it. And suppose . . .

  “Excuse me, sir.”

  Adam turned abruptly, and for a second imagined he had voiced his fears aloud.

  It was Tolan, the admiral’s servant, immaculately turned out as always, his calm features without expression.

  He always had the feeling that Tolan missed nothing. Bethune relied on him completely. Always on call, Tolan even had a little cabin of his own, screened off from the admiral’s pantry.

  “Sir Graham sends his compliments, sir, and would you consider joining him in the last dog-watch?”

  It was not a request. It was an order.

  They both turned as there was a sudden confusion on the main deck. A man Adam vaguely recognized as one of the cook’s assistants was running wildly after a chicken which must have escaped from the pen on the lower gun-deck, “the farmyard.” It had doubtless been selected for Bethune’s table this evening.

  There were jeers and hoots of laughter as the man ducked around the breech of an eighteen-pounder and sprawled headlong, his feet caught in his apron.

  The luckless bird, unable to fly, seemed to bounce up the quarterdeck ladder in a last attempt to get away.

  One of the Royal Marines in the afterguard who had just been dismissed from the drill tossed his musket against the hammock nettings and seized the chicken by its legs. To the cook’s assistant he called, “’Ere, matey, you’ll ’ave to do better next time!”

  The watchkeepers were already being relieved, and Fitzroy, the fourth lieutenant, was about to take over from Barclay, but all Adam saw was Tolan as he reached out and caught the marine by the wrist, and swung him around as if he weighed nothing.

  “Don’t ever leave a musket like that, you bastard!” He thrust the man aside and snatched it up, turning it to hold it within inches of the marine’s face. “See that, damn your eyes? If it had fallen you could have killed somebody!”

  Adam called sharply, “Belay that!” He felt the pain in his side, the wound caused by a dying marine dropping his loaded musket. Another inch, the surgeon had said . . .

  “Carry on, Tolan. Tell Sir Graham I shall be delighted.”

  Strange that he could be so calm after that flash of anger. And something more.

  “Everything all right, sir?” It was Stirling, striding through the crowd of watching seamen as if they did not exist.

  Adam shrugged. “It passed over.” He saw the cook’s assistant hurrying away with the chicken, pursued by ironic cheers, hoots, and clucking from the remaining onlookers.

  Lieutenant Fitzroy had taken over the watch; new lookouts were already perched high aloft. Viewed from the quarterdeck, they looked as if they were about to slide down the horizon.

  Fitzroy said dutifully, “Steady she goes, sir. Sou’ west by west. Full and by.” He touched his hat. “Permission for the cooper to bring new casks on deck?”

  “Granted.” Adam turned away. Routine had taken over once more. Had saved him.

  From what? He saw the sergeant of marines glaring at the man who had so carelessly discarded his firearm. But it was Tolan’s anger and swift reaction that lingered in his mind.

  Stirling was saying, “That fellow had his wits about him, sir. Not what you’d expect.” He straightened up, as if he had gone too far. “I keep thinking I’ve seen him before somewhere.”

  Then something caught his eye and he shouted, “Thompson, flake down that line and do your work smartly for a change!” The first lieutenant was back.

  Dugald Fraser, the sailing-master, folded his arms and stared into the hard glare as if to defy it. He had been at sea all his life and had served in almost every class and size of ship. As master, he was at the top of his profession, something he rarely considered. He did not see the point.

  He watched the sea boil along the weather side, bursting occasionally over the gangway, draining along the scuppers and making the guns shine above their buff-painted carriages.

  The horizon was almost gone, the margin between sea and sky lost in mist and drifting spray.

  “The wind’s veered a piece, sir.” He glanced at Lieutenant Fitzroy by the rail, his body angled steeply against the tilt of the quarterdeck. The helmsmen, too, were clinging to the big spokes, taking the strain of sea and rudder. He tasted the salt hardening on his cracked lips. Fitzroy was young, but he was experienced. He should have acted before this.

  Fitzroy looked over his shoulder as
Athena gave a great shudder, and more water tumbled over the gangway and sluiced down among the men working on deck. The afternoon watch was not yet over, but it would soon be dark in this weather.

  “The captain must be informed.” It sounded like a question.

  Fraser said, “Aye,” and winced as water splashed his face and neck. Nearly June, and it felt like winter. “We should shorten sail an’ let her fall off a point.”

  He almost grinned at Fitzroy’s expression of relief.

  A boatswain’s mate said, “Cap’n’s comin’ up, sir.”

  Fraser watched a working party reel and stagger on the forecastle, making something fast, bare feet slithering on the wet planking, bodies shining, soaked to the skin.

  The captain was hatless, hair blowing unheeded in the wind and wearing one of his old seagoing coats, patched and stitched like any common seaman’s. Fraser was satisfied. You would still know he was the captain no matter how he was dressed.

  Adam was looking at the sky, the masthead pendant whipping out, bar-taut, like a spear. The ship was labouring heavily, but shaking off the crested rollers with each plunge.

  “We will alter course two points. Steer west by south.” He wiped his face with his sleeve, and smiled. “If we can’t fight it, we may as well use it!” He touched Fraser’s arm as he gazed at the sea, and waited for the right moment to move to the compass box. Then he said to the helmsmen, “Are you holding her? Another hand on the helm, maybe?”

  One of them tore his eyes from the flapping driver and shouted, “Not yet, zur! She’m good as gold!” and they laughed as if it was a huge joke.

  Fraser heard it, and inwardly noted it, as he might compose an entry in his log.

  When Captain Ritchie had walked this quarterdeck it had been very different. Passing a casual moment with his sailors would have been unheard of. He had been respected, but Adam Bolitho had something Ritchie would never have recognized. The two helmsmen were tough and experienced, had seen it all, or thought they had. But off watch they would be telling their messmates how the captain had asked their opinion, even joked about it . . . Adam Bolitho did not appear to have changed since the old Achates.

  He heard the captain call, “Mr Fitzroy, you’ll need more hands on deck, and lively too! I am not a mind reader, you know!”

  Calls shrilled and seamen ran to their stations, ready to wear ship, and, when ordered, take in a reef and bring the canvas under control. “And tell Mr Mudge to hoist the quarter-boat aboard. It will be swamped otherwise.”

  There was no edge to his tone, but Fitzroy exclaimed, “I had it bailed an hour back, sir!”

  Adam regarded him thoughtfully. “Send another man down to bail it, and we will have a burial on our hands, I fear.”

  The horizon had finally disappeared, a new darkness creeping beneath a bank of clouds like a cloak.

  “Steady she goes, sir! West by south!”

  A master’s mate muttered, “Bloody wind’s droppin’, Mr Fraser.”

  Fraser tightened his coat about his throat. “Rain’s back too, I see!” Even above the din of sea and thrashing canvas he could hear the heavy drops, like shot being scattered from a gunner’s pouch.

  He saw the captain’s dark eyes flash as he swung round and pushed the soaking hair from his forehead.

  Someone shouted, “Might blow itself out! I was in the Atlantic in ninety-nine when we had the worst storm—” The voice trailed away as Adam lurched to the rail again and waited for the deck to steady itself. He was drenched, the water like ice on his spine and running down his thighs.

  The flashes had died in the mist and advancing rain, but the thunder still hung in the air. And in his memory.

  He said, “Pipe all hands. Fetch the first lieutenant directly.”

  He knew they were staring at him, probably thinking he was losing his nerve.

  Fraser saw it as if it was already written in the log. He was too old a hand to forget.

  It was not just a storm, and if it was, it would not last.

  It was gunfire.

  The Royal Marine sentry outside the admiral’s quarters brought his heels sharply together and as if by magic the screen door opened, one of Bethune’s servants holding it, and bowing his head as Adam entered. Nothing was said. Perhaps Bethune found announcements unnecessary, distracting.

  After the squeak of blocks, with seamen scrambling through and over lively halliards and braces, the admiral’s quarters were like a sanctuary. It was impossible, but here even the motion seemed less, the shipboard noises subdued. Remote.

  The dining space was in darkness, all the candles doused, if they had ever been alight in the first place.

  Adam groped his way past unfamiliar furniture toward the day cabin, where Bethune was sitting at his desk, some dishes before him, a bottle of some kind propped upright in an opened drawer. His coat hung on the back of his chair, and his fine waistcoat was unbuttoned. Somehow, Adam thought, he still managed to look elegant and relaxed. Beyond the desk the stern windows were completely black, but in the reflected light he could see water running down the thick panes, rain or spray, probably both.

  Bethune put his hand to his lips and pulled a chicken bone from his teeth before tossing it into a bowl at his elbow.

  He looked at Adam while he dabbed his mouth with a napkin.

  “Anything new to report, Adam?”

  “The wind is steady. Fraser thinks it will hold. So do I. Not strong, but it will see us through the night.”

  “That is not what I asked.” Bethune reached for the bottle, but it was empty. “What do you think it was? Really think?”

  A shadow emerged from the other cabin and a full bottle was placed in the drawer. It was Tolan, as quiet on his feet as he was quick.

  “Gunfire, Sir Graham. Then an explosion.” He could feel the weariness closing around him again. What had taken him on deck without waiting for the officer of the watch to call him? Not the wind or sea. That was experience, standing hundreds of watches in every kind of weather, and almost every ocean.

  He was still not used to this ship. It would take more time. Choose the right moment.

  He thought of his uncle again. Instinct: if you had it, you had to trust in it.

  Bethune was watching Tolan’s hands come from the shadows and fill his goblet. “An attack? Pirates? What other seafarers would be ready and eager to fight in these conditions?” He tasted the wine without comment. “They will be up and away by now, whoever they were.” Then he said curtly, “I’m told that the galley fire is still alight?”

  Adam contained his sudden anger. It sounded like an accusation.

  “I knew we would not be going to quarters. Tomorrow?” He would have shrugged, but his shoulders ached too much. “Things may have changed. I considered that the people should have a hot meal while they can.”

  Bethune smiled. “I was not questioning your judgment, Adam. Far from it.” Just as swiftly, he changed tack. “When do you estimate we shall reach English Harbour?”

  Adam caught sight of his reflection in the sloping windows. Moving slightly to the vibration of the tiller head, like a spectre looking inboard from this violent ocean.

  “The north-east trades will give us a soldier’s wind. I’d estimate two more weeks.”

  “Or thereabouts. What I calculated myself. After that . . .” Bethune held the glass up to the faint light. “We will discover the latest intelligence from the commodore at Antigua and, of course, the governor. I am sure that our ‘allies’ will do all they can to assist!”

  He held one hand to his ear as calls trilled, as if from another world. “You can fill their bellies and warm their souls with rum, but it does not always win popularity.”

  “They are cold, hungry, and tired, Sir Graham. I owe them that, at least.”

  “As you say.”

  Adam left the cabin, the door closing behind him as silently as it had opened.

  He rubbed his eyes. Bethune had not offered him any wine. And he had not wait
ed to share the unfortunate chicken.

  He listened to the hiss of the sea beyond the sealed gunports, and imagined the watch on deck, peering into the darkness, thinking of the echoes of battle, or the death of a ship in distress. Their world.

  Jago was lounging by the companion ladder, but straightened up as Adam seized the handrail.

  He did not need to be told. It was still too close to Algiers and all those other times. When your mind and nerve could become blunted, like a badly used razor.

  “All quiet on deck now, sir.”

  Adam made to pass him. “I’m just going to take a turn around, Luke. It does no harm.”

  Jago didn’t budge. “You’ve not eaten a thin’, sir.” He saw the keen, warning eyes, but persisted, “Bowles told me. Upset, he was, too.”

  Adam reached out impetuously and gripped his arm. “One day, you will go too far!” He shook him gently. “Until then . . . I will go aft. And maybe . . .”

  Jago stood back, and grinned. “Aye, Cap’n. Mebbee —that’s more like it!”

  He watched him climb the companion. A good wet of brandy, or some of that fancy wine the officers gulped down, would do him more good than harm, the mood he was in.

  He remembered the painting he had seen, carefully placed where it would be safe even if they ran into a hurricane. Only a picture, but the woman was real enough. Like Unrivalled, second to none . . .

  A corporal of marines marched past him, another bullock close on his heels. Changing the sentries for the middle watch. For tomorrow . . . no, today.

  He saw the white crossbelts crisp and clear against the shadows of the nearest twenty-four-pounder. Always the reminder.