3
A Favour for the Captain
Lieutenant Montagu Verling stood at
Gorgon’s quarterdeck rail, his hands on
his hips, watching a party of seamen clambering over the boat-tier
below him. One of the ship’s two cutters swayed across the nettings
like an ungainly whale, while Hoggett, the boatswain, gestured with
his fist, his voice carrying easily above the noise of other work
and the clatter of loose rigging.
‘This will not take
long.’ Verling swore softly as a seaman slithered and fell on the
wet planking. It had been raining all night, and now in the grey
forenoon the weather showed little improvement. Plymouth was almost
hidden in mist, a spire or rooftop showing here and there like
projections of a reef.
Bolitho was also
watching the cutter, now being moved into position above the tier.
At last they were replacing things, and most of the debris left by
the refit had vanished. Some lashings remained to be done, and
canvas awnings had been spread to protect paintwork and fresh
pitch. Between decks, order had already been restored, with stores
and spare equipment stowed away, and messdecks cleared of clutter
and gear that belonged elsewhere in the hull.
He tried to stifle a
yawn, surprised that he had been able to drag himself out of sleep
and present himself on deck at the chime of the bell. He turned to
peer above the quarterdeck nettings with their neatly stacked
hammocks, the cold air wet on his face. Even that did not revive
him, and there was a painful crick in his neck. He saw the topmasts
of the big three-decker drifting out of the mist at the far end of
the anchorage. The flagship; he could even make out the vague dash
of colour from her ensign. The bulk of the ship remained hidden by
the fog. He winced, but his spirits soared at the memory. Had that
been only yesterday? Was it possible?
‘Lower away,
’andsomely there!’ Hoggett’s voice, which seemed even louder on
this raw morning.
The cutter began to
descend, the men on the tackles taking the strain, feet somehow
finding a grip on the slippery planking.
‘’Vast
lowering!’
He heard Dancer give
a groan.
‘My head, Dick. I feel like death!’
Even the Board itself
was hard to fix in the mind, like a dream fast disappearing. Only
certain moments remained clear: the three figures at the table. An
empty chair. And the sudden, startling interruption when the
admiral had made his entrance. Perhaps the handshakes remained most
vivid in his memory. We wish you a speedy
promotion!
Then back to
Gorgon, in darkness, passing an
overloaded boat full of sailors, all of whom sounded drunk,
probably just paid off from some merchantman. He and Dancer had
been unable to stop laughing at the string of curses launched by
their own coxswain. Then, in the midshipmen’s berth, the heavy
silence of some, hunched over written notes, studying or pretending
to, by the flickering light of glims, or apparently asleep, being
shattered as they had risen as one: a midshipman’s salute to any
successful candidate for promotion. Hoarded drinks appearing, which
had ranged from blackstrap to cognac, helped down by beer from the
mess cask, with a mock fight known as ‘Boarders Away!’ to round off
the occasion. It had taken threats of physical violence from the
warrant officers’ mess to quieten the celebration.
Bolitho cleared his
throat, or tried to. And now the captain wanted them aft, in the
great cabin.
Verling waved to the
boatswain as the cutter finally came to rest on the tier. Even the
new paint was unmarked.
He said, ‘The Captain
is going over to Poseidon very soon.
The admiral has called a conference – all senior captains.
Something’s in the wind.’ He gazed critically at the two
midshipmen. ‘Under the circumstances, I
suppose. . . .’ He left the rest
unsaid.
Bolitho thought of
the admiral again, the hand on his arm. I have
duties to perform. Events are moving once more. Was that the
real reason he had interrupted the examination?
Without it, what
might have happened? He recalled Greville’s sarcasm, his refusal to
shake his hand.
He had mentioned it
to Dancer, and he had passed it off by saying, ‘Greville shook
my hand, but I could have done without
it! I still can’t remember half of what I said to them. I was in a
daze!’ It was something shared after that, real. They had hugged
one another, each glad for the other.
And now they were to
see the captain. After all this time, he remained remote, almost
unknown. And yet nothing had any real purpose without him, without
his presence. At any ceremonial, or drill with sails and guns, he
was always there, usually with Verling nearby, an extension of
himself. He was there to announce any achievement by the ship, or
even an individual, and to read the Articles of War before awarding
punishment.
Bolitho had once
heard a friend of his father’s say that when a King’s ship was away
from the fleet, and free of the admiral’s apron strings, all that
stood between a captain and chaos were the Articles of War and a
line of marines across the poop. And he still recalled his father’s
quick retort. ‘It would all depend on that
captain!’
Only
yesterday . . . and yet he could feel the change in
himself, sense the scrutiny of the younger midshipmen. As if he
represented something, some possibility no longer beyond their
grasp. How does it feel to be one of
them? He was still grappling with his own emotions, and the
prospect of a new future.
Verling had tugged
out his watch.
‘I shall take you
aft.’ He faced them again. ‘Several others failed to satisfy the
Almighty yesterday.’ He did not smile. ‘Not certain what
I would have decided!’
They followed him
aft, not quite reassured.
Captain Beves Conway
was standing by a small desk fastening the cuff of his shirt. His
dress uniform coat hung across the back of a chair, with his hat
nearby. He was preparing for the admiral.
They had passed
Gorgon’s surgeon as he was leaving, a
stooping figure of indeterminate age, with a thin, almost lipless
mouth. Bolitho had heard some of the old Jacks say that he would
rather bury you than cure you if you ever fell into his hands, but
they said that about most surgeons. He wondered what he had been
doing for the captain. He had noticed that Conway sometimes held
one shoulder stiffly, like now, as he slipped into his coat. A
wound he had taken during the Caribbean campaign against the
French, he had heard, although others had hinted at a duel fought,
of course, over a lady.
He realised that
there was another person in the cabin, perched on a chest by the
screen, the captain’s coxswain. A big, powerful man, always smart
and instantly recognisable in his gilt-buttoned coat and nankeen
breeches, he seemed to come and go as he chose. More like a trusted
companion than a subordinate.
He was holding a
drawn sword now, running a cloth slowly up and down the blade. He
glanced briefly at the two midshipmen, but nothing more. He
belonged. They were merely visitors.
Conway
smiled.
‘You did well, both
of you. Full credit to the ship also.’
Verling said, ‘I’ll
come aft when you’re ready, sir.’
The screen door
closed behind him. He had spoken to the marine sentry by name when
they had arrived at the lobby. A gift, or careful training? It was
impossible to know, but Bolitho guessed it was rare enough. He had
known some officers who had never cared to learn a name and match
it to a face.
He had heard Verling
quietly rebuking one of the senior midshipmen, who had since gone
to another ship. ‘They are people, flesh and blood. Remember that,
will you?’
Bolitho wondered if
he had passed or failed at his Board.
The captain said
suddenly, ‘A moment,’ and beckoned. ‘Come and see Condor spread her skirts – a sight that never fails
to excite any true sailor!’
They followed him
into the main cabin where the stern windows reached from quarter to
quarter, and the panorama of ships and anchorage shimmered against
the salt-smeared glass like some unfinished painting.
And here was the
frigate Condor, topsails and
fore-courses already set and filling to the wind now shredding the
sea mist, her masthead pendant and ensign stiff and bright as metal
against the clouds.
Yesterday. Her captain twisting round in his chair
aboard the flagship, gauging the sea, the mood of the weather.
Impatient to go. And no wonder.
He turned as Conway
asked, ‘Do you see yourself in command of a frigate one day,
Bolitho?’
‘Given the chance,
sir. . . .’ He got no further.
Conway moved closer,
watching Condor’s, outline shorten, her
yards shifting as she changed tack toward open water and the sea.
He said, ‘Don’t wait to be given the chance. Take it. Or others
will.’
He turned abruptly
and walked across the cabin. Bolitho wanted to hold the moment,
cherish it. This was the captain, as he
might never see him again. Perhaps older than he had thought, but
virile and vigorous, something the streaks of grey at his temples
and the crows’ feet around his eyes could not flaw or
diminish.
He said, ‘This damned
overhaul is all but finished, thank God.’ He looked up and around
the cabin, perhaps without seeing it, or seeing it in a way they
could not yet understand. ‘This lady will be fit and ready for sea
again if I – and the first lieutenant – have any say in the matter.
After that –’ He touched the chair that stood squarely facing the
constantly changing panorama. ‘Who can say?’
His expression
changed and seemed angry, embarrassed. He said almost sharply, ‘I
have a favour to ask. I’ve taken enough of your time and the ship’s
as it is.’
Bolitho saw Dancer
gripping a fold of his coat, another habit he had come to
recognise, and sometimes understand. It happened when he was
surprised, or moved, by something he had not
anticipated.
Captain Beves Conway,
experienced post captain, who had seen action and served in most
waters where the ensign commanded respect, had a favour to
ask?
Beyond these massive
timbers, the other world continued to function unimpaired. The
trill of a boatswain’s call and a shouted command, too muffled to
distinguish. The squeal of tackles as another load of stores or
equipment was hoisted aboard. A ship preparing for sea. It was what
Conway cared about most. Perhaps all he cared about.
He said, ‘You will be
leaving Gorgon shortly on a brief
passage duty.’ There was a suggestion of a smile. ‘Not like your
daring adventure with the revenue service, Bolitho. I believe your
own brother was in command on that occasion. A family affair, it
would seem.’ The smile was gone. ‘But it will stand you in good
stead when you are finally commissioned. Mr. Verling will give you
the details.’
It was like a fist
striking out of nowhere.
Conway was leaving
the ship. Giving up command. And it was all he had.
‘A new midshipman is
joining tomorrow forenoon. His name is Andrew Sewell, and he is
fifteen years old.’ He glanced from one to the other, suddenly
relaxed, as if some weight had been lifted from him. ‘A mere boy
compared with you seasoned mariners. He has everything to learn,
and it was his father’s dearest wish that he should follow his
family’s tradition and become a sea officer. His father was a great
friend of mine, perhaps my best, but, alas, now
dead . . . Just offer him a hand when it is needed.
Will you do that?’ Like a challenge. ‘For me?’
Bolitho turned as
Dancer asked, ‘First ship, sir?’
‘Not his first.’
Conway looked at the reflections rippling across the curved
deckhead. ‘He has served for two months in Odin, Captain Greville, and before that in the
Ramillies, with the Downs
Squadron.’
He looked from one to
the other. ‘I know, from your behaviour and your reports, and what
I have seen for myself, that you are well suited to your
profession. Maybe because you come from very different backgrounds,
or in spite of it. It might be said that young Andrew Sewell is
totally unsuited, a victim of circumstances.’ He shrugged, and
Bolitho saw the flicker of pain in his face.
The marine sentry
stamped his feet, somewhere beyond the screen. Verling must be
back, and was waiting.
Conway said, ‘My old
friend is dead. It is the last thing I can do for him, and perhaps
the least.’
His coxswain had
appeared, his hat beneath his arm, and Conway’s sword in his fist.
No words: like an understanding between them.
Dancer offered, ‘My
father was firmly against my going to sea, sir.’
Bolitho nodded. ‘And
I never had any choice, sir.’
Conway held out his
arms as his coxswain deftly clipped the sword into
place.
‘So be it, and I
thank you. Young Andrew must learn that you do not necessarily have
to leave your own deck to confront an enemy.’ He shook hands
gravely with both of them. ‘May good fortune go with
you.’
He half turned, as if
unwilling to leave. His coxswain had already departed, and
Verling’s shadow stood across the outer screen.
‘When you return to
the ship your new orders may be waiting for you. If not, then be
patient.’ He picked up his hat and visibly squared his shoulders.
He was in command again.
The two midshipmen
waited without speaking, listening to the shouted commands and,
eventually, the calls as the side was piped and Conway’s gig pulled
away. Then Dancer murmured, ‘Whatever ship I join, I’ll never
forget him.’
They left the great
cabin in silence, passing the same marine sentry, their weariness,
headaches and sore throats forgotten.
Bolitho considered
the passage duty Conway had mentioned. Probably helping to move
another ship to different moorings, for some refit or overhaul. And
after that . . . He glanced over at Dancer. They
would be parted. It was the way of the navy.
Like Conway. Saying
goodbye; the hardest duty of all.