3 THE PRIVATEER
BOLITHO opened his eyes and stared for several seconds at the unlit lantern spiralling above his cot. Despite the weariness in his limbs and the fact he had been on deck repeatedly during the night he found it hard to sleep. Beyond the screen which partitioned his sleeping quarters from the cabin he could see the pale light of dawn, and knew from the lantern’s sluggish movement and the uneasy creak of timbers that the wind was little more than a breeze. He tried to relax, wondering how long it would take to break the habit of awakening with each dawn, to enjoy his new-found privacy.
Feet thudded on the quarterdeck above, and he guessed that soon now the seamen would be turning to for another day. It had been two weeks since the little convoy had sailed from Antigua, and in that time they had covered only half their set distance. One thousand miles in open waters, and each mile marked by perverse winds and no winds at all. Barely an hour passed without the need to call the hands to make or shorten sail, to trim yards in the hope of catching a dying breeze, or to reef against one violent and taunting squall.
Buckle’s gloomy prediction about Sparrow’s sailing qualities in a poor wind had proved only too true. Time and time again she had paid off, her canvas flapping in confusion as yet one more wind had died and left them almost becalmed. Hard work and angry words had eventually brought her back on station again, only to have the whole thing repeated before the end of a watch.
Patrol and scouting duty had been the lot of Sparrow’ s company for most of their commission and they had yet to learn the true misery of convoy over long passages. The two transports had not helped. They appeared totally unwilling to realise the importance of staying in close company, so that if they became scattered by a swift squall it took many hours to urge, threaten and finally drive them back into formation. Colquhoun’s curt signals had only succeeded in antagonising the master of one of them, a big transport named Golden Fleece. On more than one occasion he had ignored the signals altogether or had caused the Fawn to withdraw from her proper station at the head of the convoy in order to commence a verbal exchange which could be heard by everyone else nearby.
Bolitho climbed from the cot and walked slowly into the cabin, feeling the deck lifting gently beneath his bare feet before slipping away in a trough, the motion bringing the usual clatter of blocks, the drawn-out groan of the rudder as the helmsman brought the sloop back under command.
He leaned his hands on the sill of the stern windows and stared out at the empty sea. The two transports, if they were still together, would be somewhere on Sparrow’s starboard bow. Bolitho’s orders were to stay to windward of the well-laden ships so as to be ready to run down on any suspicious vessel and hold the maximum advantage until she was proved friend or foe.
In fact they had sighted an unknown sail on three separate occasions. Far astern, it had been impossible to know if it was the same on each sighting or three individual vessels. Either way, Colquhoun had refused to be drawn to investigate. Bolitho could sympathise with his unwillingness to leave the valuable transports, especially as the wind might choose the very moment when his sparse forces were scattered to play a new trick or bring some real enemy amongst them. On the other hand, he was very conscious of a sense of uneasiness after each call from the masthead. The strange sail was like a will-o’-the-wisp, and if it was hostile could be methodically following the little convoy, awaiting exactly the right moment to attack.
The door opened and Fitch padded into the cabin carrying two jugs. One was coffee, and the other contained water from the galley for Bolitho’s shave. In the pale light from the windows he looked smaller and scrawnier than ever, and as usual kept his eyes averted while he prepared the necessary cup for Bolitho’s first coffee of the day.
“How is it on deck?”
Fitch raised his eyes only slightly. “Mr. Tilby reckons it’ll be another roastin’ day, sir.”
Tilby was the boatswain, a great untidy hulk of a man who was given to some of the most profane language Bolitho had heard in ten years at sea. But his knowledge of weather, his forecast of what each dawn might bring, had been only too accurate.
And under a blazing sun, with little space to find shade or comfort, the Sparrow’s seamen had more torment to face before night found them again. It was amazing how they all managed to survive in such a small hull. What with extra stores and spare spars, powder and shot, and countless other requirements for keeping a ship at sea, some of the men were hard put to find space for a hammock. In addition the Sparrow had all the great lengths of anchor cable to be neatly stowed when she was under way. Several hundred fathoms of thirteen-inch hemp for the main anchors and another hundred of eight-inch for the kedge took up more space than fifty human beings required for even the most basic needs.
But if this or any other ship was to survive and live from her own resources then such discomforts had to be endured.
He sipped the coffee. If only the wind would freshen and stay with them. It would help drive away the weariness and drudgery of work aloft, and also give him time to drill the guns’ crews to better advantage. They had had few such drills during the first days out of harbour, and once more he had been made aware of the strange attitude of acceptance he had originally noticed. Perhaps they had been so long without actually being called to do battle they had taken the drills as merely something to be tolerated, even expected from a new captain. Their timing had been good enough, if somewhat rigid, they had gone through all the motions of running out, traversing and pointing, but again and again he had felt something was badly lacking. As the crews had faced outboard through their open ports he had sensed their indifference. There was nothing to fight, so what was the point of it all, their relaxed bodies seemed to indicate.
He had tackled Tyrrell about it but the first lieutenant had said cheerfully, “Hell, sir, it don’t signify they won’t be able to fight if th’ time calls for it.”
Bolitho’s sharp reply brought a new barrier between them, and for the moment he was prepared to let it remain.
Captain Ransome must have used the sloop like a personal possession, a yacht, he thought. Sometimes during the night when Bolitho had come down to the cabin after a frustrating hour on deck watching the hands shortening sail yet again he had pictured Ransome with some woman or other. Or Tyrrell pacing the quarterdeck, tearing himself apart as he imagined his sister just a few feet below him. He had not mentioned the matter to Tyrrell since his first outburst, but had found himself wondering about the real story, and what had happened to the girl after Ransome’s sudden death.
Stockdale came into the cabin with the shaving bowl. He glared at Fitch and wheezed, “Get the cap’n’s breakfast!”
To Bolitho he added, “’Nother clear mornin’, sir.” He waited until Bolitho was in his chair and then held the razor against the window. He seemed content with its edge. “Wot we need is a real good blow.” He showed his uneven teeth. “Make some o’ these young puppies jump about!”
Bolitho relaxed as the razor moved precisely over his chin. Stockdale said very little but he always seemed to hit the exact point.
In between strokes he replied, “In another month we’ll be in the hurricane season again, Stockdale. I hope that will satisfy you.”
The big coxswain grunted. “Seen ’em afore. Us’ll see ’em again an’ live to tell of it.”
Bolitho gave up. Nothing, it seemed, could break the man’s supreme confidence in his ability to produce a miracle, even in the face of a hurricane.
Voices rang out overhead, and then he heard feet dashing down the companion ladder from the quarterdeck.
It was Midshipman Heyward, impeccable as ever in spite of being on his feet for much of the night.
“Captain, sir.” He watched Stockdale’s razor poised in midair. “Mr. Graves’s respects and Fawn has just signalled. Sail to the nor’-east.”
Bolitho snatched the towel. “Very well. I will come up.”
Stockdale laid down the bowl. “That same one, sir
?”
Bolitho shook his head. “Unlikely. She’d never overreach us in one night, even if she was after our blood.” He rubbed his face vigorously. “But in this empty sea a sight of anything is welcome.”
When he reached the quarterdeck he found Tyrell and most of the others already there. Below the mainmast the hands had just been mustered in readiness for the morning assault on the decks with holystones and swabs, while others were waiting by the pumps or just staring up at the barely filled sails. Graves touched his hat.
“Masthead lookout has not yet sighted anything, sir.”
Bolitho nodded and strode to the compass. North-west by north. It seemed as if it had been riveted in that direction since time began. It was hardly surprising Fawn had sighted the newcomer first. In her position ahead and slightly to starboard of the transports she was better placed. All the same, he would have wished otherwise. Fawn’s signals and execution of Colquhoun’s orders always seemed to be that much quicker than his.
Through the criss-cross of rigging and shrouds and slightly to starboard of the rearmost transport he saw the other sloop tacking awkwardly in the gentle westerly breeze. With every stitch of canvas on her braced yards she was barely making headway.
From aloft came the sudden cry, “Deck there! Sail on the starboard beam!”
Tyrrell crossed to Bolitho’s side.
“What d’you think? One of our own?”
Graves said swiftly, “Or a damned Yankee, eh?”
Bolitho saw the exchange of glances, the sudden hostility between them like something physical.
He said calmly, “We will know directly, gentlemen.”
Midshipman Bethune called, “From Fawn, sir. Remain on station.”
Graves said complacently, “There goes Fawn. She’s going about to take a soldier’s wind under her tail.”
Bolitho said, “Get aloft, Mr. Graves. I want to know everything you can discover about that sail.”
Graves stared at him. “I’ve a good hand aloft, sir.”
Bolitho met his resentment gravely. “And now I require a good officer there, too, Mr. Graves. An experienced eye and not just a clear one.”
Graves moved stiffly to the weather shrouds and after the merest hesitation began to climb.
Tyrrell said quietly, “Do him good, that one!”
Bolitho glanced around the crowded quarterdeck.
“Maybe, Mr. Tyrrell. But if you imagine I am using my authority to foster some petty spite between you then I must assure you otherwise.” He lowered his voice. “It is an enemy we are fighting, not each other!”
Then he took a telescope from the rack and walked to the foot of the mizzen mast. Steadying his legs against the uncomfortable motion he trained the glass on the Fawn and then very slowly beyond her. Minutes passed, and then as the distant ship lifted on some large roller he saw her topgallant sails shining in the first sunlight like matched pink shells. She was clawing her way closehauled on a converging course, her yards braced so tightly they were almost fore-and-aft.
Graves yelled down, “Frigate, sir!” A pause as every man looked up at his tiny silhouette against the sky. “English built!”
Bolitho stayed silent. English built perhaps. But who now stood behind her guns? He watched Fawn edging round, her mast-head pendant lifting and curling listlessly. More flags shot up her yards and Bethune yelled, “From Fawn, sir. Recognition signal.” A further pause as he groped through his grubby book. “She’s the Miranda, thirty-two, Captain Selby, sir.”
Buckle said to the deck at large, “From England most likely.”
The light was already stronger, and as he stared across the brightening water Bolitho could feel the first warm rays against his face. From England. Every man aboard was probably thinking of those words. Except for Tyrrell and the colonists in the company. But all the rest would be picturing his own past way of life. Village or farm, some ale house outside a harbour or fishing port. A woman’s face, a child’s last grip before the harder hands of the pressgang.
He found himself thinking of his own home in Falmouth. The great stone house below Pendennis Castle where his father would be waiting and wondering about him and his brother Hugh, while he remained in Cornwall. Like all the Bolitho ancestors, his father had been a sea-officer, but having lost an arm and his health was now confined to a landbound existence, always within sight of the ships and the sea which had forsaken him.
“From Fawn, sir. General. Heave to.”
Colquhoun, it seemed, was quite satisfied with the other ship’s identity. For once the two transports needed no extra goading to obey the signal. Perhaps like the rest they, too, were eager for news from that other world.
Bolitho closed the glass and handed it to a boatswain’s mate.
“Shorten sail, Mr. Tyrrell, and heave to as ordered.” He waited until the lieutenant had shouted for the topmen to get aloft and then added, “That frigate has been hard worked so her mission must be important.”
He had watched the newcomer while she had forged towards the uneven cluster of ships, had seen the great scars on her hull where the sea had pared away the paintwork like a giant knife. Her sails, too, looked much repaired, evidence of a rapid voyage.
Bethune shouted, “Miranda’s hoisted another signal, sir!” He swayed in the shrouds as he tried to level his big telescope. “To Fawn. Captain repair on board.”
Once again Fawn’s response was swift, her big gig being swayed out within minutes of the signal. Bolitho could imagine Colquhoun hurrying to the other ship and the Miranda’s consternation when they discovered that he was senior to their own captain.
Whatever it entailed, the matter was obviously urgent, and not merely an exchange of gossip at this chance encounter in open waters.
Bolitho rubbed his chin and said, “I’m going below. Call me if anything happens.”
In the cabin he found Stockdale waiting with his coat and sword, his lopsided grin very broad as he muttered, “Thought you’d be wantin’ these, sir.”
Fitch was gripping the table, his legs spread apart as the sloop rolled and staggered in the uncomfortable troughs, the power gone from her sails. He was staring at the breakfast he had just brought, his narrow features resigned.
Bolitho smiled. “Never fear, I’ll find time to eat it later.”
It was strange that the mere sight of another ship, the obscure hint of excitement, had given him an appetite at last. He gulped down some coffee as Stockdale adjusted his swordbelt before handing him the coat.
Perhaps Miranda had discovered an enemy and needed help to attack them. Maybe the war was over, or another had broken out elsewhere. The possibilities seemed endless.
He looked up and saw Tyrrell peering through the open skylight.
“Cap’n, sir! The Fawn’s gig is shoving off from th’ frigate.”
Bolitho replied, “Thank you.” He forcibly disguised his disappointment. “That was quick.”
Tyrrell vanished and he added quietly, “There’ll be time for breakfast after all.”
He was mistaken. Even as he began to unfasten his swordbelt Tyrrell’s face reappeared at the skylight, his words filling the cabin as he shouted, “From Fawn, sir. Repair on board forthwith.”
Stockdale bounded from the cabin, his hoarse voice bellowing for the gig’s crew which the boatswain had already thought prudent to muster.
With frantic haste the boat was swung outboard and dropped alongside, where with little thought for dignity or safety, Bolitho hurled himself into the sternsheets, his sword clattering against the gunwale and almost tripping him on top of the oarsmen.
Stockdale bawled, “Give way all!” In a lower but no less menacing tone he added, “An’ remember, my beauties, if one o’ you misses a stroke you’ll ’ave me to answer!”
The gig seemed to fly across the water, and when at last Bolitho regained his composure and looked astern he saw the Sparrow was already a cable clear. She was pitching steeply in the swell, her sails rippling and flashing in
disorder while she lay hove to in the pale sunlight. In spite of his own busy thoughts and anxiety he could still find time to admire her. In the past he had often watched the stern cabin of a passing man-of-war and pondered about her captain, what sort of person, his qualities or lack of them. It was very hard to accept that the Sparrow’s cabin was his own and that others might be wondering about him.
He turned and saw Fawn’s outline overlapping that of the idling frigate, figures moving round her entry port to receive him with all formality. He smiled to himself. In the face of hell it seemed likely that no captain, no matter how junior, was expected to go without his proper acknowledgment.
Bolitho was met at the entry port by Maulby, Fawn’s commander. He was very thin, and but for a pronounced stoop would have stood well over six feet. Life between a sloop’s decks must be uncomfortable for such a man, Bolitho thought.
He appeared a few years older than himself and had a drawling, bored manner of speaking. But he seemed pleasant enough and made him welcome.
As they ducked beneath the quarterdeck Maulby said, “The little admiral is excited, it would seem.”
Bolitho paused and stared at him. “Who?”
Maulby shrugged loosely. “In the flotilla we always refer to Colquhoun as our little admiral. He has a way of inserting himself in the role without actually holding the necessary rank!” He laughed, his bent shoulders touching a deckhead beam so that he appeared to be supporting it with his own frame. “You look shocked, my friend?”
Bolitho grinned. Maulby, he decided, was a man you could like and trust on sight. But he had never before heard such comments made about a superior by two subordinates meeting for the first time. In some ships it would be inviting disaster and oblivion.
Sloop of War Page 5