1
The Way Ahead
Midshipman Richard Bolitho threw up one hand
to shade his eyes, surprised by the fierce, reflected glare from
the water alongside. He waited while two seamen lurched past him
half carrying, half dragging, some bulky objects wrapped in canvas
toward the open deck and the hard sunlight. After the semi-darkness
of Gorgon’s between decks, it only
added to his sense of unreality.
He calmed himself.
Another day. For most people,
anyway.
He glanced down at
his uniform, his best. He wanted to smile. The only uniform that would pass muster and avoid
criticism. He flicked off several strands of oakum which he had
collected somewhere along the way from the midshipmen’s berth, his
home in Gorgon for the past year and a
half.
Was that really all
it was?
He took another deep
breath. He was ready; and it was not just another day.
He walked on to the
main deck, adjusting his mind to the noise and outward confusion of
a ship undergoing the indignities of a badly needed overhaul.
Chisels and handsaws, and the constant thud of hammers in the
depths of the hull, while elsewhere men swarmed like monkeys high
above the decks, repairing the miles of standing and running
rigging which gave life to a fighting ship and the sails that drove
her. And now it was almost finished. The stench of tar and paint,
the heaps of discarded cordage and wood fragments, would soon be a
cursed memory. Until the next time.
He gazed across the
nearest eighteen-pounders, black muzzles at rest inboard of their
ports, still smart, disdaining the disorder around them. And
beyond, to the land, hard and sharply etched in the morning light:
the rooftops and towers of old Plymouth, with an occasional glitter
of glass in the sun. And beyond them the familiar rolling hills,
more blue than green at this hour.
He tried not to
quicken his pace, to reveal that things were different merely
because of this particular day. The new year of 1774 was barely a
few days old.
But it was different.
Some seamen flaking
down halliards glanced at him as he passed. He knew them well
enough, but they seemed like strangers. He reached the entry port,
where the captain was piped aboard and ashore, and important
visitors were greeted with the full ceremonial of a King’s ship.
Wardroom officers were also permitted here, but not a midshipman,
unless on duty in his proper station. Richard Bolitho was not yet
eighteen, and he wanted to laugh, to shout, to share it with
someone who was free of doubt or of envy.
Out of the blue and
with less than a few days warning, the signal had arrived: the
appointment every midshipman knew was inevitable. Welcome, dread,
even fear: he might receive it with all or none of these emotions.
Others would decide his fate. He would be examined and be subject
to their decision, and, if successful, he would receive the King’s
commission, and take the monumental step from midshipman to
lieutenant.
He watched a schooner
passing half a cable or so abeam, her sails hard in the wind,
although the waters of Plymouth Sound were yet unbroken, a deep
swell lifting the slender vessel as if it were a toy.
‘Ah, here you are,
Mr. Bolitho.’
It was Verling, the
first lieutenant.
Perhaps he was
waiting to board a boat himself, on some mission for the captain;
it was unlikely he would be leaving the ship, his ship, for any other reason at a time like this.
From dawn until sunset he was always in demand, supervising working
parties, checking daily, even hourly, progress above and below
decks, missing nothing. He was the first lieutenant, and you were
never allowed to forget it.
Bolitho touched his
hat. ‘Aye, sir.’ He was ahead of time, and Verling would expect
that. He was tall and thin, with a strong, beaky nose which seemed
to guide his pitiless eyes straight to any flaw or misdemeanour in
the world around him. His world.
But his appearance
now was unexpected, and almost unnerving.
Verling had turned
his back on the usual handful of watchkeepers who were always close
by the entry port: marine sentries in their scarlet coats and white
crossbelts, a boatswain’s mate with his silver call ready to pipe
or pass any command immediately when so ordered. The sideboys,
smart in their checkered shirts, nimble enough to leap down and
assist any boats coming alongside. And the officer of the watch,
who was making a point of studying the gangway log and frowning
with concentration, for Verling’s benefit no doubt.
Bolitho knew he was
being unfair, but could not help it. The lieutenant was new to the
ship, and to his rank. He had been a midshipman himself only months
ago, but you would never know it from his manner. His name was
Egmont, and he was already heartily disliked.
Verling said,
‘Remember what I told you. It is not a contest, nor an official
corroboration of your general efficiency. The captain’s report will
have dealt with that. It goes deeper, much deeper.’ His eyes moved
briefly to Bolitho’s face but seemed to cover him completely. ‘The
Board will decide, and that decision is final.’ He almost shrugged.
‘This time, in any case.’
He touched the watch
fob that hung from his breeches pocket but did not look at it. He
had made his point.
‘So you had
not forgotten, Mr. Dancer. I am glad to
know it, sir.’
As if in
confirmation, eight bells chimed out from the forecastle
belfry.
‘Attention on the
upper deck! Face aft!’
Calls trilled, and
from across the water came the measured blare of a trumpet. Part of
life itself. Colours were being hoisted, and there would be several
telescopes observing from the shore and the flagship to make
certain that no one and no ship was caught unawares.
Midshipman Martyn
Dancer exhaled slowly, and nodded to his friend.
‘Had to go back to
the mess, Dick. Forgot my protector, today of all
days!’
It was a small,
grotesque carving, more like a demon than a symbol of good fortune,
but Dancer was never without it. Bolitho had first seen it after
his ordeal with the smugglers. Dancer still bore the bruises, but
claimed that his ‘protector’ had saved him from far
worse.
Verling was saying,
‘I wish you well. We all do. And remember this, the pair of you.
You speak for yourselves, but today you represent this ship.’ He permitted himself a thin smile. ‘Go
to it!’
‘Boat’s alongside,
sir!’
Bolitho grinned at
his friend. It was only right that they should be together today,
after all that had happened.
Lieutenant Montagu
Verling watched them climb down to the launch which had hooked on
to the ‘stairs’ beneath the port. Had he ever been like that, he
wondered?
‘Cast off! Shove off forrard!’ The boat, caught on
the tide, veered away from the big two-decker’s side, oars upright
in twin lines, the coxswain gripping the tiller-bar, gauging the
moment.
Verling was still
watching them. It was not like him, and he was a little surprised
by it. The carpenter and the boatswain would be waiting with yet
more lists, work to be done, stores or cordage not yet arrived or
the wrong sort if they had. For he was the first lieutenant. Right
aft, beneath that big ensign curling in a steady south-westerly,
the captain was in his quarters, secure in the knowledge that this
refit would be completed on time. That would please the admiral,
and so on, up the chain of command.
Verling saw the oars
fanning out on the launch’s sides, like wings, while the crew
leaned aft to take the strain.
Perhaps, one day
soon. . . .
‘Give way
together!’
He swung round, and
saw the new lieutenant trying to catch his eye.
It was wrong to
harbour personal dislikes in your own wardroom.
He turned and stared
across the shark-blue water, but the launch was already out of
sight amongst other anchored ships. Suddenly he was glad that he
had made a point of being here when the midshipmen had departed,
whatever the outcome of their examinations today.
He rearranged his
features into the mask of command and strode toward a working party
struggling with another tackle-load of timber.
‘Take a turn, you, Perkins! Jump about, man!’
The first lieutenant
had returned.
In spite of the deep
swell, the Gorgon’s launch soon
gathered way once clear of the two-decker’s side. Fourteen oars,
double-banked, pulling in a strong but unhurried stroke, carried
her past other anchored men-of-war with apparent ease. The
coxswain, a tough and experienced seaman, was unconcerned. The ship
had been so long at anchor during the overhaul that he had grown
used to most of the other vessels, and the comings and goings of
their boats on the endless errands of the squadron. And the man
whose flag flew above the powerful three-decker which he could see
in miniature, framed between the shoulders of his two bowmen. The
flagship. Like most of his mates, the coxswain had never laid eyes
on the admiral. But he was here, a presence, and that was
enough.
Bolitho tugged his
cocked hat more tightly over his forehead. He was shivering, and
tightened his fingers around the thwart, damp and unyielding
beneath his buttocks. But it was not the cold, nor the occasional
needles of spray drifting aft from the stem. They had all discussed
it, of course. Something far away in the future, vaguely unreal. He
glanced at his companion. Even that was unreal. What had drawn them
to one another in the first place? And after today, would they ever
meet again? The navy was like that; a family, some described it.
But it was hard on true friendship.
They were the same
age, with only a month between them, and so different. They had
joined Gorgon together, Martyn Dancer
having been transferred from another ship which, in turn, had been
going into dock for a complete refit. About sixteen months ago.
Before that, he had by his own admission served ‘only three months
and two days’ in His Britannic Majesty’s service.
Bolitho considered
his own beginnings. He had entered the navy as a midshipman at the
tender age of twelve. He thought of Falmouth, of all the portraits,
the faces that watched him on the stairs, or by the study. The
Bolitho family’s might have been a history of the Royal Navy
itself.
He thought, too, of
his brother Hugh, who had been in temporary command of the revenue
cutter Avenger. Less than two months
ago. He and Martyn had been ordered to join him. An odd and daring
experience. He looked over at his friend. That had been unexpected,
too. Hugh, his only brother, had been the stranger.
He turned to watch
the flagship. Closer now, her reefed topsails and topgallants
almost white in the glare, the viceadmiral’s flag streaming from
the foremast truck like blood. And she had been Martyn’s last ship.
His only ship. Three months and two
days. But he was here today for examination. Like me. Bolitho had served for five years. There
would be others today, bracing themselves, gauging the odds. Did
hardened, seasoned officers like Verling ever look back and have
doubts?
He stared up at the
towering masts, the tracery of black rigging and shrouds. Close to,
she was even more impressive. A second-rate of ninety guns with a
company of some eight hundred officers, seamen and marines. A world
of its own. Bolitho’s first ship had been a big three-decker also,
and even after some four years aboard in that cramped and busy
space there were faces he had never seen twice.
The hull loomed over
them, the long bowsprit and jib boom sweeping like a lance. And the
figurehead, Poseidon, the god of the
sea, resplendent in new gilt paint which alone must have cost a
month’s pay. The ‘gilt on the gingerbread’, the sailors called
it.
The coxswain called,
‘Stand by! Bows!’
The two bowmen stood
and tapped their blades together to signal the crew to be ready.
A ship shall be judged by her
boats. . . .
There were other
boats at the booms or hooked on to the chains. Bolitho saw a
lieutenant gesturing to the launch, heard the coxswain mutter, ‘I
can see you, sir!’
Martyn touched his
sleeve. ‘Here we go, Dick.’ Their eyes met. ‘We’ll show them,
eh?’
Like those other
times. Not arrogance or conceit. A sort of quiet assurance; he had
seen it in the rough and tumble of the midshipmen’s berth, and
again in the face of real, chilling danger. All in so short a
while, and yet they were like brothers.
‘Boat yer
oars!’
The hull lurched
against fenders and the coxswain stood by the tiller-bar again, his
hat in one hand. He looked at the two midshipmen. One day they’d be
like that bloody lieutenant up there at the nettings, waving his
arms about.
But he said, ‘Good
luck!’
They were on their
own.
The officer of the
watch checked their names against a well-thumbed list and regarded
the newcomers with a cold stare, as if to ensure that they were
presentable enough to be allowed further.
He glanced at
Dancer’s leather crossbelt. ‘Take in the slack.’ He looked on
critically while Dancer tugged the dirk into place and added, ‘This
is the flagship, so don’t you forget it.’ He signalled to a young
messenger. ‘He’ll take you to the captain’s clerk. Show you where
to wait.’
Bolitho said, ‘Are
there many here for the Board, sir?’
The lieutenant
considered it.
‘They’re not dragging
their feet, I’ll say that for them.’ He relented a little. ‘You
will be the last today.’ He swung round to beckon to another
seaman, and Dancer said quietly, ‘I hope we can get something to
eat while we’re waiting!’
Bolitho smiled, and
felt sheer hilarity bubbling up. Like a dam breaking. Dancer could
do always do it, no matter how tense the situation.
They followed the
messenger, the ship reaching around and above them. A teeming world
of packed humanity separated only by the invisible boundaries of
status or rank. As a mere boy, it had been like being carried on a
tide, with all the bumps and bruises, spiritual as well as
physical, you might expect along the way. And the characters, the
good and the bad, those you trusted on sight, and others on whom
you would never turn your back without risk.
And always busy,
ceremonial one moment, court martial the next. He felt the smile on
his lips again. And always hungry.
The captain’s clerk
was a pale, solemn individual, who would have passed as a clergyman
ashore or in more suitable surroundings. His cabin was close to the
marines’ messdeck and stores, the ‘barracks’ as they termed it, and
above the other shipboard sounds they could hear the clatter of
weapons and military equipment and the thump of heavy
boots.
The captain’s clerk,
Colchester, seemed oblivious to everything but his own work, and
the position which set him apart from the crowded world around
him.
He waited for the two
midshipmen to seat themselves on a bench half-covered by documents
neatly tied with blue ribbon. It looked chaotic, but Bolitho had
the feeling that Colchester would know immediately if a single item
was misplaced.
He regarded them with
an expression that might have been patience or
boredom.
‘The Board today
consists of three captains, unlike the more usual practice of one
captain and two junior officers.’ He cleared his throat, the sound
like a gunshot in the paper-filled cabin.
Three captains.
Dancer had told him what to expect, to warn him, this very morning,
while they had been trying to dress and prepare themselves mentally
in the noise and upheaval of the midshipmen’s berth. It had seemed
worse than usual, and the mess space was further reduced by stores
and bedding from the sick quarters nearby.
How had Dancer known
about the Board’s members?
He did not seem
troubled by it, but that was Dancer. His way, his shield. No wonder
he had won a kind of respect even from some of the hard men in
Gorgon’s company.
And from Bolitho’s
sister Nancy, in the short time Dancer had stayed at the house in
Falmouth. She was only sixteen, and it was hard for Bolitho to
accept her as a woman. She was more used to the youngsters around
Falmouth, farmers’ sons, and the callow young men who made up the
bulk of the officers at the garrisons in Pendennis and Truro. But
it had not been merely his imagination. She and Dancer had seemed
to belong together.
Three captains. There was no point in wondering
why. A sudden sense of urgency? Unlikely. There were far too many
officers in a state of stalemate, with no prospect of promotion.
Only war increased demand, and cleared the way on the Navy
List.
Or perhaps it was the
admiral’s idea. . . .
He looked over at
Dancer, who appeared serenely oblivious.
Colchester said, ‘You
will wait here until you are called.’ He got slowly to his feet,
his lank hair brushing the deckhead beams. ‘Be patient, gentlemen.
Always fire on the uproll. . . .’
Dancer watched him
leave, and said, ‘If I get through today, Dick, I shall always owe
it to you!’
Not so confident,
then. Bolitho looked away, the words lingering in his mind. He had
thought it was the other way around.