4
Hotspur
Martyn Dancer gripped the launch’s gunwale
and pointed across the larboard bow.
‘There she is, Dick!
The Hotspur! I’ll not want to leave
this beauty when the time comes!’
Excitement, or sheer
pleasure: Bolitho had not seen him like this before. Perhaps strain
and uncertainty, which he had always been able to conceal, were at
last giving way.
Bolitho felt it, too.
The Hotspur, which had not even been
discussed until today, as if it were a sworn secret, was a topsail
schooner, small if set against any frigate or brig; but her style
and lines would catch any real sailor’s eye
immediately.
She was lying at her
anchor, and rolling evenly in the swell, showing her copper, bright
in the forenoon sun, and the rake of her twin masts. A
thoroughbred, and said to be new and untried, straight from her
builder.
But the ensign flying
from her gaff and the few uniforms moving about her deck were
identical to those they had left astern in Gorgon, and all the other men-of-war that lay at
Plymouth. She was a King’s ship.
It was difficult to
accept the speed of the events which had brought them here. From
the moment they had reported to the first lieutenant, their feet
had barely stopped. Until now.
Verling had
explained, almost curtly. They were to be part of a passage crew,
not to move some hulk or ship awaiting overhaul, but to deliver
Hotspur to the authorities in Guernsey,
as a replacement for an older vessel used in the waters around the
Channel Islands for patrol and pilotage. It was another world to
them.
And an escape, after
all the waiting and doubt, and then yesterday’s climax. Again he
felt the exhilaration run through him, like his friend beside him.
Dancer was pointing at the schooner again, calling something to the
cutter’s coxswain. And it was the same coxswain and boat’s crew
which had taken them to the flagship. He heard Dancer laugh and
nudged him sharply with his elbow. This sense of light-hearted
freedom and excitement would cut no ice with Verling, who was
sitting silent and straight-backed by the tiller. The first
lieutenant was always very strict when it came to behaviour in
boats, maintaining that the ship would be judged accordingly, as
every middy soon learned when he came under that disapproving
eye.
But even Verling
seemed different. It was something in the air, from the start of
the day when the hands had been called to lash up and stow their
hammocks.
Bolitho had seen the
captain speaking with him just before the cutter had cast off.
Maybe it was only imagination, but Conway, too, seemed altered,
unlike that brief interlude in the great cabin; the mood of defeat,
almost valediction, had vanished, and the old Conway had returned.
Bolitho had seen him clap Verling on the shoulder this morning, had
even heard him laugh.
There were rumours,
of course. In a hull crammed with some six hundred sailors and
marines, there were always those. But this time there was
substance; the reason for the captains’ conference, they said. More
trouble in the colonies, particularly in Boston, Massachusetts.
Unrest fuelled by increased taxes and repressive legislation from
London had taken a more aggressive form, too often clashing with
the local administration and so, eventually, the military. Although
the British were hardened to war and the threat of rebellion, the
infamous memory of what had come to be called the Boston Massacre
had left a far deeper scar on the public conscience than might have
been expected; a radical press had made certain of that. Bolitho
had still been serving in Manxman when
it had happened, and remembered poring over accounts in the
news-sheets. A crowd of young people disturbing the peace on a
winter’s night and coming face-to-face with soldiers from the local
garrison, common enough here in England, but more incendiary in a
colony chafing under what it believed to be unjust taxation, and
seeking a louder voice in its own affairs. At a different time,
perhaps a different man might have diffused the situation, but the
officer who was present had been convinced that only a show of
force would disperse the crowd, and the resulting volley of shots
had killed half a dozen of the troublemakers. It was hardly a
massacre, but it was bloodshed, and the echoes of those muskets had
never since been allowed to fade.
But to those who
lived and all too often died on the sea, it meant something else:
the need for readiness. Ships to be brought out of dock and
stagnation, men to be found to crew, and, if required, fight them.
And perhaps officers of merit and experience, captains like Conway,
would view any unrest in America as a fresh chance of personal
survival. Bolitho had heard his own brother Hugh say as much during
their time together in the revenue cutter Avenger. Just weeks ago, and it already seemed like
an eternity.
His brother had been
reserved, almost unknowable, and not only because he had been in
temporary command. He looked over at Dancer. It was strange; he had
heard Hugh speaking earnestly and intently to him on several
occasions when they had been on watch together. Two people who
could have so little in common. And
yet . . .
‘They’ve seen us at
last! Thought they’d bin so long at anchor they’d forgot what they
joined for!’
That was the cutter’s
other passenger, ‘Tinker’ Thorne, Gorgon’s senior boatswain’s mate. There was no yarn
that might be spun around him that could not be true. It was
impossible to guess his age, although Bolitho had heard that Tinker
had served in one ship or another for twenty-five years. Originally
from Dublin, a Patlander, as all Irishmen were nicknamed by the
lower deck, it was said he came of gypsy stock, and had begun life
mending pots and selling fishing gear on the roads. He was not
tall, but stocky and muscular, with skin like old leather and fists
that could handle any unruly hawser or argumentative seaman before
you could guess the next move. He was watching the Hotspur, her tapering masts rising now above the
double-banked oars, his expression amused and a little critical.
His eyes were bright blue, like those of a much younger man looking
out from a mask. Admired, respected, or hated, ‘It’s up to you,
boyo,’ as he was heard to say when the occasion arose.
He shifted around on
the thwart and said, ‘Let some other Jack take the strain while
we’re away, eh, sir?’
Nobody else in the
ship could speak so offhandedly to Verling.
Verling was still
looking astern. His face was hidden, but his thoughts were clear
enough.
‘I hope so, Tinker.
If we’ve forgotten anything. . . .’
‘Ah, even the cook
knows what to do, sir.’
Bolitho watched them
with interest. It was important that Hotspur was in safe hands until she was delivered
to her destination; and Verling had despatches with him, from
Conway and probably the admiral. It seemed significant, and would
do Verling’s own chances of promotion no harm.
But every pull of the
oars was taking Verling away from the ship, and the life he cared
about most, and like Bolitho’s brother Hugh, he had become
unfamiliar. It was like meeting a stranger.
He returned his
attention to the schooner, larger and heavier than he had first
thought, but with a grace any true sailor would
relish.
Tinker Thorne saw his
eyes, and grinned.
‘Old John Barstow is
the finest builder in the West Country, that he is. A strange one
an’ no mistake, swears to God he’s only once sailed out of sight of
land, an’ that was when he was caught in a fog off the Lizard, if
you can swallow that!’
The coxswain brought
the cutter smoothly alongside, with oars tossed and a bowman ready
with his boat hook.
Verling seized the
ladder and said, ‘You can carry on, ’Swain. Watch those tackles
when you stow the boat on the tier. It’s all new.
Untried.’
‘Aye, sir. I’ll keep
a weather eye on things.’
He might have been
mistaken, but Bolitho thought he and Tinker winked at one another.
But Verling was turning to look once more at Gorgon.
A small side party
had assembled on the schooner’s deck, and a net was rigged to hoist
any personal gear on board.
They waited for
Verling, as senior in the boat, to leave first, and Dancer
murmured, ‘Look who’s here, Dick. Surely he’s not coming with
us?’
It was Egmont, the
newest and most junior in Gorgon’s
wardroom. He raised his hat in salute as Verling climbed over the
gunwale, while the side party came stiffly to attention, or tried
to. The schooner was no two-decker and the seamen were more used to
Gorgon’s massive bulk than a hull that
seemed alive in the offshore current. Egmont almost lost his
balance, but managed to blurt out, ‘Welcome aboard,
sir!’
Verling returned his
salute coolly and paused to look forward along the deck. Bolitho
could not see his face, but guessed he was missing nothing, not
even the young lieutenant’s discomfort and anger. And, he saw, he
had no difficulty in keeping his balance.
Verling said, ‘I
trust everything is in hand, Mr. Egmont. I see that the boats are
stowed, so nobody is still ashore?’
Egmont straightened
his back. ‘As ordered, sir. Ready for sea.’
Bolitho knew he was
being unfair to Egmont, but it sounded like a boast, as if he had
manned and prepared the Hotspur for
duty single-handed.
Verling snapped,
‘Where is Mr. Sewell, our new midshipman? He should be
here.’
Bolitho glanced at
Dancer. Verling was back in his proper role. He even remembered the
midshipman’s name, when he could hardly have found time to meet
him.
Egmont licked his
lips. ‘Below, sir. Being sick.’ He licked his lips again. Just the
mention of it in this choppy sea was having its
effect.
Verling had not
missed that, either.
‘Dismiss the hands.
We shall go aft. I trust the chart and sailing instructions are
ready, too?’ He did not wait for an answer, but pulled out his
watch and flicked open the guard with his thumbnail. ‘So be it. The
tide is right – we shall weigh at noon,’ and to the thick-set
boatswain’s mate, ‘Carry on, Tinker. You know your
men.’
‘Picked ’em meself,
sir.’
Even the use of his
nickname seemed correct and formal. Only Verling could have carried
that off.
He stopped in his
stride. ‘Stow your gear, then report to me.’ He saw Dancer peering
around and added calmly, ‘This is no line-of-battle ship, Mr.
Dancer. I expect you to know every stay, block and spar by the time
we drop anchor again!’
The deck lurched as
the schooner snubbed at her anchor cable, and Dancer said quietly,
‘Wind’s getting up. Shan’t be sorry when we do get under
way.’
‘A moment, you two!’
It was Egmont, recovered, it seemed, from his performance earlier.
‘I know both of you have just satisfied the Board – yesterday,
wasn’t it? And you heard what Mr. Verling said. Remember it well.
Board or no Board, there’ll be no passengers on this deck,
I’ll make certain of that. Now stow
your gear and be sharp about it!’
They watched him turn
away and gesticulate at some seamen, his words lost in the wind.
Dancer shrugged.
‘He needs a bigger
ship, that one, if only for his head.’
Bolitho
laughed.
‘Let’s go and find
our fellow middy. I suspect it wasn’t only the motion that made him
vomit!’
Verling paused on the
after ladder, his eyes level with the deck coaming.
It would be good to
get away from the endless overhaul, clearing up disorder and making
the ship, his ship, ready to take her place again, in response to
any demand.
In Gorgon he was still the first lieutenant.
Transferred to any other ship, he would be just another member of
the wardroom, with seniority but no future.
He felt the hull
shiver again, heard the clatter of loose rigging. She was alive.
Eager to go.
He touched the
shining paintwork. So be it,
then.
As Tinker Thorne had
firmly declared, the men chosen for Hotspur’s passage crew were all skilled and
experienced hands, who would be badly missed if their old
two-decker was suddenly ordered to sea.
Bolitho recognised
most of them, and felt a sense of belonging which was hard to
understand, although he had often heard older sailors describe
it.
The initial
unfamiliarity was gone at the moment of weighing anchor, with the
first pressure of bodies leaning on the capstan bars, and the slow
clank, clank, clank as the pawls
started to respond. All spare hands thrusting in time to Tinker’s
hoarse commands. Midshipmen as well; even the cook in his white
smock.
Two men on the wheel,
others waiting to ‘let go an’ haul!’ when the anchor broke free of
the ground. Every piece of rigging joining the din, blocks taking
the strain, ready for the canvas to fill and take
command.
Verling stood by the
compass box, his body poised for the moment of truth.
Clank, clank, clank, slower now.
A seaman, right
forward above the bowsprit, peered aft and cupped his hands. Even
so, his voice was almost drowned by the noise of wind and
rigging.
He had seen the stout
cable, now taut like a bar, and pointing directly at the stem.
Up-and-down.
Then, ‘Anchor’s
aweigh!’
It was something
Bolitho would never forget. Nor want to. The sudden slackness on
the capstan as the cable came home, the deck tilting, so steeply
that the lee scuppers were awash as the hull continued to heel
over.
It was exciting,
awesome; not even in the lively revenue cutter Avenger had he known anything like it. The great
sails cracking and filling to the wind, spray sluicing over them
like icy rain. Feet sliding and kicking against the wet planking,
gasps and curses from men bent almost double in the battle against
wind and rudder.
Bolitho had watched
plenty of smaller craft getting under way in a brisk wind. It had
always fascinated and moved him, like seeing some great seabird
spread its wings and lift from the water.
Even through and
above the noise, he could hear Verling’s occasional commands, could
imagine him down aft by the wheel, angled against the tilt of the
deck, watching each sail and the moving panorama of the land,
blurred now as if seen through wet glass.
And over all Tinker
Thorne’s voice, urging, threatening.
‘Catch another turn
on that pin, Morgan! Move your bloody self, will you!’
Or, ‘What d’you mean,
Atkins, you think? Leave that to Jacks
with brains!’
Bolitho saw the land,
a white tower or beacon, bursting spray, rocks along the headland.
A ship, too. Moving, anchored, or aground, it was impossible to
tell. He knew Verling had put two leadsmen on either bow, a
necessary precaution when leaving harbour for the first time, but
it would take more than lead and line to save them if they
misjudged the next cable or so.
‘Over here!’ Tinker again. ‘You as well, Mr.
Bolitho!’ He was even managing to grin through the spray streaming
down his leathery face. ‘Remember what you was told, no passengers!’
Despite the movement
and confusion Bolitho found he could smile, even laugh suddenly
into the spray. The deck was steadier, the snaking halliards and
braces stiff and taut in their blocks, and each great sail throwing
its own pale reflection on the churning water
alongside.
‘Steady as you go!’
Verling now, probably watching the final spur of headland. ‘That
will be Penlee Point.’ He almost slipped, but a hand reached from
somewhere and steadied him. The face he knew, but all he could gasp
was, ‘Bless you for that!’
The seaman ducked to
avoid another snake of wet cordage as it hissed around its block
and grinned. ‘Do the same for me!’ The grin widened. ‘Sir!’
The sky beyond the
shrouds and hard canvas seemed clearer, the motion still lively,
but easier. Men were pausing at their work to look for a friend,
relief, pride, something of each on their faces. Across the quarter
the headland had fallen away and lost its menace. This
time.
Bolitho gripped a
backstay and took a deep breath.
Beyond the straining
jib and staysails was open water: the Channel. He felt Dancer lurch
against him, his hand on his shoulder.
Yesterday seemed a
long way away. They were free.