2
Not A Contest
Waiting was the worst part, more than either
of them would admit. And here they were shut off from life, while
the great ship throbbed and murmured above and around them. The
clerk’s cabin consisted merely of the screens which separated it
from the marines’ quarters and stores, and was devoid of ports; the
only light came from vents above the door and two small lanterns.
How Colchester coped with his letters and files was a
mystery.
It was now afternoon,
and apart from a brief visit by a young midshipman who had hovered
half in and half outside the screen door as a seaman had delivered
a plate of biscuits and a jug of wine, they had seen nobody. The
midshipman, whom Bolitho thought was about twelve years old, seemed
almost too frightened to speak, as if he had been ordered not to
confide in or converse with anyone waiting to face the
Board.
So young. I must have been like that in Manxman. It
had been his first ship.
Even now,
Poseidon was evoking those memories.
Constant movement, like a small town. The click of heels, the thud
of bare feet, and the heavier stamp of boots. He cocked his head.
The marines must have abandoned their ‘barracks’ to carry out
drills on the upper deck, or some special ceremony. This was the
flagship, after all.
Dancer was on his
feet again, his face almost pressed against the door.
‘I’m beginning to
think my father was right, Dick. That I should have followed his
advice and stayed on dry land!’
They listened to the
rumble of gun trucks, one of the upper deck twelve-pounders being
moved. To train a new crew, or for care and maintenance. At least
they were doing something.
Dancer sighed and sat
down again. ‘I was just thinking about your sister.’ He ran his
fingers through his fair hair, a habit Bolitho had come to know and
recognise. He was coming to a decision. ‘It was such a pleasure to
meet her. Nancy . . . I could have talked with her
for ages. I was wondering. . . .’
They both turned as
the door clicked open. Another seaman this time, but the same
midshipman hovering at a distance, the white patches on his uniform
very clean and bright in the filtered sunlight from a grating above
his head.
‘Just come for this
gear, sir.’ The seaman gathered up the plates and the wine jug,
which was empty, although neither of them could recall drinking the
contents.
He half turned as the
midshipman outside the door answered someone who was passing.
Friends, or a matter of duty, it was not clear. But it was like a
signal.
He looked quickly at
Dancer, then leaned over toward Bolitho.
‘I served with Cap’n
James Bolitho, sir. In the old Dunbar,
it was.’ He darted another glance at the door, but the voices were
continuing as before. He added quietly, ‘’E were good to me. I said
I’d never forget. . . .’
Bolitho waited,
afraid to interrupt. This man had served under his father. The
Dunbar had been James Bolitho’s first
command. Well before his own time, but as familiar to him as the
family portraits. The seaman was not going to ask any favours. He
wanted to repay one. And he was afraid, even now.
‘My father, yes.’ He
knew Dancer was listening, but keeping his distance, possibly with
disapproval.
‘Cap’n Greville.’ He
leaned closer, and Bolitho could smell the heavy rum. ‘’E commands
the Odin.’ He reached out as if to
touch his arm, but withdrew just as quickly, perhaps regretting
what he had begun.
The young midshipman
was calling, ‘Tomorrow at noon, John. I’ll not
forget!’
Bolitho said quietly,
‘Tell me. You can rest easy.’
The ship named
Odin was a seventy-four like
Gorgon, and in the same squadron, and
that was all he knew, except that it was important to this seaman
who had once served his father.
The plates and the
jug clashed together and the man blurted out, ‘Greville’s bad,
right the way through.’ He nodded to emphasise it. ‘Right through!’
The door swung
slightly and the young voice rapped, ‘Come along, Webber, don’t
take all day!’
The door closed and
they were alone again. He might have been a ghost.
Bolitho spread his
hands. ‘Maybe I was wrong to let him speak like that. Because he
knew my father, I suppose. But the
rest. . . .’
Dancer made a
cautioning gesture.
‘It cost him
something to come here. He was afraid. More than afraid.’ He seemed
to be listening. ‘One thing I do know. Captain Greville is on the
Board, here and now.’ He regarded Bolitho steadily, his eyes very
blue, like the sky which had begun the day. ‘So be warned, my
friend.’
The door swung
open.
‘Follow me, if you
please.’
Bolitho walked out of
the cabin, trying to remember exactly what the unknown seaman had
said.
But he kept hearing
his father’s voice instead, seeing him. It was the closest they had
been for a long, long time.
The young midshipman
trotted briskly ahead of them, as if he were afraid they might try
to break the silence he had maintained. Perhaps it was policy in
the flagship to keep candidates from any contact that might prepare
or warn them against what lay in store. It was certainly true that
they had seen no other ‘young gentlemen’ here for the same
rendezvous.
Up another ladder and
past one of the long messdecks. Scrubbed tables and benches between
each pair of guns: home to the men who worked and fought the ship,
and the guns were always here from the moment when the pipe called
them to lash up and stow their hammocks, to Sunset and pipe down.
The constant reminder that this was no safe dwelling but a
man-of-war.
Dancer was close
behind him, and Bolitho wondered if he remembered these
surroundings as intensely after so many months. Like his own first
ship, the noise and the smells, men always in close contact,
cooking or stale food, damp clothing, damp everything. Most of the
hands were at work, but there were still plenty of figures between
decks, and he saw a glance here and there, casual or disinterested;
it was hard to distinguish in the gloom. The gunports that lined
either beam were sealed, a wise precaution against the January
chill and the keen air from the Sound; as in Gorgon, only the galley fires provided any heat,
and they would be kept as low as possible to avoid wasting fuel.
The purser would make sure of that.
Another climb now, to
the impressive expanse of the quarterdeck, where the day seemed
startlingly clear and light. Bolitho stared up at the towering
mizzen mast and spars, the furled sails, and the ensign he had seen
from the launch this morning, still lifting and curling beyond the
poop. About seven hours ago, and the ordeal had not even begun.
They had talked about it often enough, been warned what to expect,
even if they survived the selection process today. Being successful
and actually receiving the coveted commission were often two very
different matters. A sign of the times, with promotion only for the
lucky, and the clouds of war as yet unknown to those of their own
age and service.
A tall lieutenant was
standing by the hammock nettings, a telescope trained on the shore,
and a boatswain’s mate waiting close by. Apart from two seamen
polishing the fittings around the compass box and the great double
wheel by the poop ladders, the deck was deserted. After the
confines of the world below, it seemed an almost sacred
place.
Bolitho looked at the
land. The hills were edged with copper. Hard to believe it would be
dark before long. Perhaps the examination had been postponed.
Cancelled.
‘So. The last two.’
The lieutenant had moved, and sounded impatient. ‘You know what to
do.’ He hardly spared them a glance. ‘Get along with you.’ He was
already striding to the quarterdeck rail, straightening his coat as
he went.
Bolitho stared at the
fresh gilt paintwork, the scrubbed gratings and perfectly flaked
lines and halliards. The empty marines’ mess, the sound of oars
alongside, no doubt at the ornate entry port. The admiral was about
to go ashore, or visit another ship of the line in his
command.
Their youthful guide
quickened his pace past the wheel, and Bolitho saw that the two
seamen were packing away their cleaning gear. Down another hatchway
where the deck planking was covered with black-and-white chequered
canvas, he could see that the hand ropes were smartly pipeclayed,
and a marine sentry, or at least the lower half of one, was
standing rigidly beside the screen doors of the great day and
dining cabin. The admiral’s quarters.
‘Wait!’ Another
screen loomed before them, freshly painted, like white glass in the
light from the quarterdeck, similar to the one directly beneath
them.
Dancer nudged him
with his elbow.
‘The admiral’s on the
prowl. And I thought it was all for us!’
He was even
smiling.
A servant ushered
them into a lobby, partitioned from the main cabin by more screens
which could be hoisted and bolted to the deckhead if the ship was
cleared for action. There were two or three comfortable chairs
sharing the deck space with one of the after battery’s
twelve-pounders.
The cabin servant
studied them severely and pointed to a bench by a sealed
port.
‘When you are
called.’ He had the stiff, tired face of a man who had seen it all
before. Their midshipman guide had vanished.
They sat, side by
side. Almost soundless here, the highest part of the ship. There
was a skylight almost directly above them and Bolitho could see the
mizzen shrouds and part of a spar, the sky holding its light
beyond. After all this time, nearly six years of his life in the
navy, and he still had no head for heights. Even now, when the
sails cracked and shook and the pipe shrilled All hands aloft! he had to force himself to
respond.
‘When we get back to
Gorgon, Dick . . . ’
Dancer was gazing at the screen door. ‘I have something hoarded
away for this occasion.’
Nervous now, unsure?
It went far deeper. He said lightly, ‘You’ll be fine, Martyn.
Under full sail,
remember?’
Dancer said in an odd
voice, ‘You’ll never know,’ but the smile was back. ‘Bless
you!’
‘Mister Midshipman
Dancer?’
They were both on
their feet, unconsciously, and the screen door was being held
partly open by the cabin servant, as if he were guarding
it.
There was no time for
words; perhaps there were none to say. They touched hands, like two
friends passing in the street, and Bolitho was alone.
He wanted to sit
down, to gather his thoughts, perhaps in one of those comfortable
chairs, as some act of defiance. Instead, he stood directly beneath
the skylight and stared up at the mizzen shrouds and the empty sky,
and very slowly, an inch at a time, made his mind and body relax,
come to terms with this moment. They had even joked about it.
Looked sometimes at the lieutenants and wondered if they had ever
had qualms, and, in some cases, how they had passed. And again the
face and the words of the seaman kept coming back. He should have
stopped him there and then. They were all told often enough never
to listen to gossip or condone it. In the crowded world of a
man-of-war, it could end in face-to-face confrontation,
insubordination, or worse.
He concentrated on
the screen door. The great cabin was part of, but so completely
separate from, this vast three-decker. Here the captain could
entertain his particular friends and favoured subordinates, even
the most junior if it suited him. Bolitho himself had been invited
into the captain’s quarters aboard Gorgon on two occasions, once on the King’s
birthday, when as the youngest present he had been required to give
the Loyal Toast, and another to wait upon some female guests, and
ensure that they did not stumble on the ladders between decks or
entangle their gowns while entering or leaving the boats
alongside.
He thought of Dancer
again. Always so at ease with women, outwardly anyway. It was not
something false, or done for effect; Bolitho had known plenty like
that. Martyn Dancer was of a different breed, something he had
noticed even when they had first met. His father was a wealthy,
worldly man, of influence and authority, who had made it plain from
the outset that he was opposed to his son’s choice of career.
Throwing his wits to the wind, as he
had put it more than once.
And he had seen it in
his sister’s eyes when she and Martyn had talked and laughed
together. And in the watchful glances from his mother.
He walked to the
opposite end of the screened lobby and peered through to the big
double wheel, at the scrubbed gratings where two or more helmsmen
would stand when the ship was under way, and heeling over to her
towering pyramid of canvas. Another grating was propped upright by
the mizzen, probably to dry, but suddenly reminiscent of those
far-off days in Manxman and the first
flogging he had ever witnessed. It was something you had to accept,
a necessary discipline. What else would deter the persistent
offender?
Accept, perhaps, but
Bolitho had never grown accustomed to it. And yet he had seen some
of the older hands bare their backs and boast of their endurance of
the cat, as if the terrible scars were something to be carried with
pride.
He could still
remember standing with the other midshipmen, the very first time he
had heard the pipe, ‘All hands lay aft to witness
punishment!’
He had found himself
gripping the arm of another middy, his entire body shaking to every
crack of the lash across the torn skin.
And that other stark
and brutal memory, which never completely left him, months or even
a year after that, when he had been face-to-face with an enemy,
unskilled and desperate, and carried bodily by the stamping,
cursing crush of boarders across the other vessel’s deck. Pirates,
smugglers, rebels . . . they were the enemy.
Cutlass, pike and boarding axe, their faces masks of hate and
anger. Sailors he knew, or thought he knew, stabbing and hacking
heedless of the screams, men falling, voices urging them
forward.
And then there had
been one face, so near that he could smell the sweat and feel his
breath, and eyes which had seemed to fill it. He remembered seeing
the blade, like a cutlass, and had wanted to cry out; he had been
gripping the hanger in his fist as if he were holding on to life
itself. The blow to his shoulder had numbed it before the agony
began. But the eyes were still staring at him, fixed with shock or
disbelief. And then he fell, the weight of his body almost dragging
the blade from Bolitho’s fingers.
And a harsh voice
almost in his ear; he had never discovered whose. ‘Leave ’im! ’E’s
done for!’
Done for. He had killed someone. A lifetime
ago.
He could still feel
the blade jerk in his fist, as if he had only just been called to
action, and seen a human being fall beneath his
stroke.
He swung round and
found the cabin servant watching him. No sound, no word; he had
even lost track of time.
‘Come,
sir.’
It was too soon.
Where was Martyn? But the door to the inner cabin was open.
Waiting.
He thought suddenly,
wildly, of Lieutenant Verling’s words this morning.
It is not a contest.
He strode past the
servant and heard the screen door close behind him.
Two tables had been
placed end to end across the big dining cabin, behind which sat the
three captains of the Board. It was like walking onto a stage with
no audience, only the three motionless figures who were framed
against the flag captain’s private day cabin behind them. The stern
and quarter windows held and reflected every sort of light, from
the sea below and beyond the poop, to the deepening purple haze of
the main anchorage. There were already candles burning, so that the
three figures on the other side of the table were almost in
shadow.
There was one tall
chair facing them. If any uncertainty still lingered in the
newcomer’s mind, it was quickly dispelled: a sword, complete with
belt, was laid across it.
Bolitho stood beside
it, and said, ‘Richard Bolitho, midshipman, sir!’ Even his voice
sounded unfamiliar.
He thought fleetingly
of Dancer. How had he fared at this table? All it needed was the
sword lying across it with the point toward him, and it would be
more like a courtmartial than an interview that might lead to
promotion.
‘Be at your ease, Mr.
Bolitho. You are here today because others are prepared to
recommend you. Be truthful and frank with us, and my brother
officers and I will be likewise.’
Captain Sir William
Proby did not trouble to introduce himself; there was no need. An
unorthodox, some said eccentric, officer who had distinguished
himself in the Seven Years’ War and in two campaigns in the
Caribbean, he had served until recently as acting-commodore with
the Channel Fleet. It was rumoured that he was next in line for
flag rank.
Bolitho had seen him
several times when carrying despatches to his present command, the
Scylla a seventy-four like Gorgon, but half her age.
The officer sitting
on his right he also knew. Captain Robert Maude was comparatively
young, with an alert, intelligent face, and he commanded the
Condor, a sleek thirty-two gun frigate,
and was doubtless envied by many because of it. Condor was rarely at anchor for long; even now
Maude was glancing through the adjoining cabin, perhaps at the
shadows on the water, or the small boat passing the flagship’s
quarter and showing a solitary lantern.
The third member of
the Board sat with one elbow on the table, his free hand resting on
some certificates. And a midshipman’s log.
My log.
Even if he had never
met or spoken with the unknown seaman, he felt he would have
recognised Captain John Greville of the Odin. He could still hear the voice. Greville’s bad. Right the way through.
A narrow, pointed
face, not unlike that of Verling, but tight-lipped, very contained.
The eyes were in shadow.
Proby said, ‘In
matters of general seamanship your reports read well. It seems you
suffer from an acute dislike of heights, but you have overcome it.’
A hint of a smile. ‘Outwardly, at least. Having taken charge of a
landing party with ship’s boats, what cover would you prepare if
resistance was expected?’
‘Round shot, if a gun
was available, sir. To give time for my people to move into
position.’
Proby opened his
mouth as if to answer, and frowned as Captain Greville said
sharply, ‘Grape or canister would be far more effective, I would
have thought.’
‘Later, perhaps, sir.
But there is too much risk with either of hitting my own
men.’
Greville ruffled the
corners of the papers. ‘A few eggs have to be broken sometimes,
Bolitho!’
Proby tapped the
table.
‘They are
people, John, not eggs.’ But he was
smiling as he turned to his other side. ‘You have some points on
gunnery, Maude? While we touch upon the subject.’ Polite, but
strangers.
Maude leaned forward,
and Bolitho guessed that he was very tall. It would be a constant
handicap below decks in a frigate.
‘In a large ship of
the line, a three-decker,’ he lifted his hand, ‘this one, for
instance. The order to beat to quarters has just been called, and
the ship cleared for action. You are stationed on the lower gun
deck and in charge of a division. What precautions will you take?’
The hand gestured again. ‘Consider it.’ He was leaning back in his
chair now, his head slightly on one side, as if completely relaxed,
and Bolitho felt his own tension slipping away in response. Maude’s
voice, or perhaps his manner, seemed to exclude the others, and
ease his uncertainty. It was almost like having a conversation with
an old friend.
He said, ‘Lower gun
deck, thirty-two pounders, “Long Nines”.’ The hand moved very
slightly, and he went on, ‘Nine feet long, sir.’ He saw him nod, as
if to encourage him. ‘Seven men in each gun crew, the captain
responsible for giving a set task to each one and assigning a
number to each. The lower the number, the greater the
skill.’
Proby cleared his
throat loudly. ‘Suppose this ship is about to engage an enemy to
wind’rd? With the deck tilting to the wind, how would seven men
manage to haul the gun up to its port? A “Long Nine” weighs a
pretty piece, I’d say.’
Bolitho wanted to
lick his dry lips. Anything. He answered, ‘Three tons, sir.’ He
waited, but nobody commented. ‘I would take men from the gun on the
opposite side. With the same precautions to ensure no hands and
feet were broken or damaged when the gun recoiled. But bandages
should always be close by.’
‘You seem to care a
great deal for their welfare, Bolitho. But the fight should always
come first.’
Bolitho felt his
fingers relax. He had not realised that his hands had been so
tightly clenched. It was Greville. In some strange way, the
challenge was almost a relief.
He said, ‘Badly
injured men cannot fight a gun, sir. It could delay a complete
broadside.’
‘But the battle is
joined.’ It was Maude again. ‘Loading, firing, and once more
running out. Provided, of course, that you
have enough men. Is there anything else against which you
should guard?’
‘Every third shot or
so, I’ll have the barrel cleaned out, its full length, with the
worm and then the sponge. Remove any burning fragment. And to
prevent a misfire when a new charge is rammed home.’
Maude nodded.
‘Discipline is everything in gunnery, as in most matters in our
service. All orders will be obeyed without
question – I daresay you have heard that a few hundred times
since you donned the King’s coat?’
Bolitho looked at
him. A strong, proud face, not unlike the sketches of Captain James
Cook he had seen in the Gazette,
accompanying tales of his latest voyages. A man you would willingly
serve no matter what.
He said, ‘It is far
easier to drive than to lead, sir. But I believe that trust is all
important. On both sides.’
Maude folded his
arms.
‘Only then will you
get the dedication you need when the odds are against
you.’
Proby glanced past
him. ‘Is that all, Maude?’ and swung round abruptly on his chair.
‘What the hell! I gave strict
orders!’
But all three
captains were on their feet, and the air was suddenly sharp,
blowing from the outside world. The creaking of the rigging was
audible now, and the occasional scream of gulls circling over
incoming fishermen.
Bolitho wanted to
turn and identify the newcomer, who had burst uninvited and
unexpectedly into this meeting.
Like waking from a
bad dream, he thought, a nightmare: the three captains rigid behind
the table, and Maude’s height indeed compelling him to bend beneath
the deckhead beams.
‘Excuse my untimely
interruption, gentlemen. My barge is alongside, and I would not
wish to keep my cox’n waiting much longer. But I wanted to bid you
farewell, and thank you for carrying out these duties, from which
we shall all benefit in due course.’
Bolitho flinched as a
hand touched his sleeve.
‘And who is this? I
was assured that you had finished here today.’ It sounded more like
an accusation than an apology.
Bolitho turned and
faced him. He had seen him only once before, when his own boat had
tossed oars to the barge and he had had the briefest glimpse of
Vice-Admiral Sir James Hamilton, the great man himself. His uniform
and lace gleaming in the reflected light, cocked hat casually
balanced in his other hand. Half smiling now.
‘Cornishman,
eh?’
He knew his mouth had
moved and he had said something, but it had been like hearing
someone else blurting out his name.
The admiral was
looking keenly at him. It felt like being stripped.
Then he nodded, as if
some thought had dropped into place, some inner reference been
made.
‘I hope the future is
kind to you, er, Bolitho.’ He turned away, the contact broken. ‘Now
I must leave you. I have duties ashore. Events are moving once
more.’ He reached the door and Bolitho could see the flag captain
hovering, with a boat cloak draped carefully across his
arm.
For a long time, or
so it seemed, they all stood in silence, swaying only occasionally
as the flagship pulled at her cable.
Bolitho realised that
Sir William Proby was seated once again, his expression a mixture
of bemusement and relief.
‘An unforeseen
interruption, gentlemen.’ He paused to listen as calls trilled in
the distance, followed by the muffled bark of commands. The
admiral’s barge was casting off.
‘If you have no
further questions?’ He was not, apparently, anticipating any. He
looked at Bolitho. ‘Be seated, if you please.’
Bolitho stared at the
solitary chair. The sword had vanished.
Proby scratched his
quill across a certificate, and said, ‘On behalf of this Board, Mr.
Bolitho, I congratulate you.’ He came around the table before
Bolitho could lever himself out of the chair. Proby was a
substantial figure, but he had scarcely seen him move.
He was on his feet
finally and Proby was shaking his hand and saying, ‘We wish you a
speedy promotion!’ Now it was Maude’s turn, shaking his hand
abruptly and looking down at him, with a smile he would always
remember. He had passed. It might be next month, or a year from
now, before he actually received that lieutenant’s commission.
But he had passed. The cabin servant
was placing some fine goblets on a tray. But there were only three.
He took a deep, deep breath, wanting to laugh, or cry.
It was over. And it
was dark beyond the stern windows. He picked up his hat and walked
to the door, almost expecting his legs to fail him. It was over. He must find Martyn, make sure
that. . . . He paused and glanced back at the cabin,
the hands reaching for filled glasses. Tomorrow they would have
forgotten him, put it behind them. It was only another
examination.
Captain Greville had
not shaken his hand. And he was glad of it.
He saw the bench
where they had waited. No turning back. No matter
what.
I am a King’s officer. Almost. Then he did touch
his eyes.