The Complete Midshipman Bolitho

by Alexander Kent

  The noise was indescribable, so that when the Pegaso fired a solitary shot from a bow-chaser the sound was almost lost in the thundering boom of sails, the protest of blocks and bar-taut rigging.

  Bolitho saw that the men at the weather braces were hauling with such effort that their bodies were angled back almost to the deck itself. Others ran to aid their companions at halliards and aloft on the yards as they creaked round still further, the sails hardening and swelling like armour to the wind’s thrust.

  Bolitho tried not to look for the reefs, or at Starkie who had climbed into the shrouds to gauge better their progress towards the breaking surf.

  Weakened by the Pegaso’s haphazard shots through the upper rigging, more pieces of severed hemp fell unheeded to the deck and across the rigid shoulders of Taylor, the old gun captain.

  Round and still further round, the masts and yards creaking violently as the brig wheeled on to the opposite tack, the sea sluicing up and over the lee bulwark, which minutes earlier had been towards the enemy.

  Bang. A ball sliced across the heaving water and slammed savagely into the hull, making several men cry out with alarm.

  “Get some hands on the pumps!” Bolitho heard himself yelling orders, but felt like an onlooker, detached from all that was happening.

  Ice-cold, he watched the enemy swinging around and across the stern, or so it appeared from Sandpiper’s violent alteration of course.

  “Now.” His voice was lost in the din, and he shouted with sudden urgency, “As you bear! Fire! ”

  He had seen the Pegaso’s big foresail starting to angle round as her captain decided to change tack and follow the brig.

  He knew Taylor was crouching behind one of the guns, but could not look at him. He heard the hiss of his slow-match, and started with shock as the gun banged out across the water. He saw the Pegaso’s foresail pucker and a large hole appear as if by magic. Explored and strained by the wind and by the sudden alteration of course, the hole spread out in every direction, ripping the sail to fragments.

  Starkie yelled, “He’s still coming round, sir!”

  A lookout’s voice cut across Bolitho’s thoughts like a saw. “Breakers to larboard, sir!”

  But all he could think of was failure. The double-shotted gun had destroyed a sail, but under full canvas it could make no difference now.

  Once through the reef, and it was strange that he had no doubts now Starkie could do it, the pirate would overhaul and board them.

  Taylor loped to the second gun, his face creased in concentration. Fierce gestures with his tarred thumb got a handspike moving here, a tug on a gun tackle there.

  He crouched down, his eyes like slits as he wheezed, “ Easy now! Come on, my little one!”

  The match went home, and with a grating crash the gun hurled itself inboard, smoke eddying back through the port like choking fog.

  Bolitho watched, mesmerized. It took an age, in fact, only seconds. And then as the carefully aimed shot lifted and dropped across the frigate’s bows he saw the bulging jib and staysail tear from top to bottom like old rags.

  The effect was instantaneous. Caught in the middle of changing tack, her sails already in confusion, the Pegaso wallowed heavily in a deep trough, her gunports buried in the sea as she continued to answer the rudder.

  Bolitho heard shouts from the lee side and ran to the nettings, his throat like dust as he saw a green-shouldered rock scudding past the Sandpiper’s side, barely yards clear. In those split seconds he saw the worn shape of the rock, and some tiny black fish which had managed to remain motionless, despite the wind and current, sheltering behind the reef which could tear out a ship’s keel like the string from an orange.

  He darted a glance at Dancer. He looked very pale and wild-eyed, his face and chest soaked with spray as he leaned out to watch the enemy’s progress.

  The Pegaso seemed to stagger, as if taken by an opposite squall, then as she tilted upright her main topgallant mast cracked over and fell straight down to the deck, a tangle of rigging and canvas trailing between the shrouds like weed.

  Starkie yelled incredulously, “See that? She hit a reef !” He was croaking with excitement and awe. “ She struck, by God!”

  Bolitho could not tear his eyes away. The frigate must have smashed hard against a rock shoulder even as she lost power from her forward sails in the middle of a tack. Just a few yards had made all the difference, and he could picture the confusion on deck, the rush of men below to seek out the extent of the damage.

  It had been enough to bring down a topgallant mast, and she must be leaking badly, he thought. And yet the frigate was still coming on, and as he watched, his eyes aching in the glare, he saw a bow-chaser shoot out an orange tongue, and felt the ball shriek past him and crash into the forecastle like a giant’s axe.

  Broken rigging and whirling splinters were hurled everywhere, and he saw three seamen smashed against the bulwark, their cries lost in the wind, but their convulsions marked by spreading patterns of blood.

  Another ball ripped against the hull and ricocheted away over the sea, the deck bucking as if trying to throw the seamen from their feet.

  Bolitho yelled, “Attend the wounded! Tell Mr Eden to put them below!”

  He thought suddenly of Eden’s father in his little surgery, attending to people with gout and stomach trouble. What would he think if he could see his twelve-year-old son trying to drag a gasping seaman to the companion hatch, every foot of the way marked in pain and blood.

  Dancer said despairingly, “The frigate’s closing to board us!” He did not even flinch as a ball whipped above the poop, leaving another hole in the pockmarked sails. “After all we did!”

  Bolitho looked at him and those nearby. The fight, the pathetic determination were going rapidly. And who could blame them? The Pegaso had matched their every move, in spite of being surprised. She was through the reef, and he could see the glitter of waving cutlasses as some of the men ran from the guns in readiness to board. He recalled Starkie’s description of what had happened to Sandpiper’s officers, the torture and the final agony of their deaths.

  He drew his hanger and yelled, “Stand to! Starboard side!” He saw them turn to stare at him incredulously, their eyes dull with despair.

  Bolitho jumped to the weather shrouds and waved his hanger at the Pegaso.

  “They’ll not take us without a fight!”

  Little cameos stood out from the main picture. A man taking out a knife and honing it back and forth across his hand, his eyes on the frigate. Another crossing the deck to face a man who was probably his best, his only friend. Nothing said. Just an expression which told far more than words. Eden by the companion hatch, his face like chalk, and a man’s blood already drying on his shirt, like his own would soon do. Dancer. His hair golden in the sunlight, his chin lifted as he picked up a cutlass and leaned on it. Bolitho saw his other hand gripping into his breeches, like a claw, pinching the flesh to shock him from his fear.

  A man, wounded in the attack on the brig, was propped against a six-pounder, his legs in bandages, but his fingers busy as he loaded pistols and passed them to the others.

  Something like a baying howl came from the Pegaso’s crowded deck as she edged closer abeam, the shadows of her masts and yards reaching across the water as if to snare the brig and engulf her.

  Bolitho blinked and dashed the sweat from his eyes as he stared at one of the frigate’s open gunports. A man, then another, was clambering out and around the black muzzles, and from other ports he saw figures emerging like rats from a sewer.

  Starkie exclaimed, “They’re trying to abandon, sir!” He seized his arm and propelled him to the nettings. “Will you look at that!”

  Bolitho stood at his side and said nothing. More and more men were leaping from the gunports and being carried away like shavings on a mill-race.

  Gauvin, the Pegaso’s fanatical captain, must have put guards on every hatch, and as his ship charged in hopeless, maddened pursuit, he wo
uld have known that the hull damage was fatal.

  Starkie watched the frigate’s bow wave falling away as the great weight of inrushing water slowed her down, the sudden pandemonium on the upper deck as everyone at last realized what was happening.

  He said harshly, “Here, put on your coat.” He even helped Bolitho into it and tugged the collar with its white patches into position.

  He pointed to the Pegaso, which was starting to head away, the inrush of water playing havoc with the rudder’s puny efforts.

  “I want him to see you, and I pray to God he’ll suffer for what he did.”

  When Bolitho looked at him, he added, “I want him to know he was beaten by a midshipman! A boy! ”

  Bolitho turned away, his ears filled with the sounds of a ship destroying itself, as under full sail she continued to slew round across the glittering crests. He heard guns coming loose from tackles and smashing into the opposite side, and spars falling, trapping the stampeding men under masses of black rigging and canvas.

  He heard himself say, “Shorten sail, Martyn. Call all hands.”

  He felt men touching his shoulders, others ran towards him grinning and waving. Not a few were weeping.

  “Deck there!” Everyone had forgotten the lonely man at the masthead. “Sail on th’ starboard bow, sir!” The merest pause and then, “ ’ Tis th’ Gorgon! ”

  Bolitho waved his hand to the masthead and turned to watch the pirate frigate heeling over, the sea around her filled with flotsam and thrashing, bobbing heads.

  Out of the sun’s path, across the heaving swell, he also saw a sudden flicker of movement, the knife-edged fins of sharks closing in around the sinking ship. It was over a mile to the nearest beach. It was doubtful if anyone would reach it.

  He raised a telescope to look for the Gorgon, his eyes misty as he saw her fat black-and-buff hull, her towering pyramid of canvas rounding the next headland.

  In another second he thought he would break, be unable to hide his emotion from those about him.

  A great voice bellowed, “What the hell is going on?”

  Lieutenant Tregorren was standing half through the companion hatch, and with his blotchy grey face, his hair matted with wine and worse, he looked for all the world like a corpse emerging from a tomb.

  Bolitho felt the relief flooding through him like madness. He wanted to laugh and cry all at once, and Tregorren’s wild appearance, the realization that he had been completely helpless throughout the fight, broke down all reserves.

  He replied in a shaking voice, “I am sorry we disturbed you, sir.”

  Tregorren faced him and tried to focus a pair of angry red eyes.

  “Disturb?”

  “Aye, sir. But we have been fighting a battle.”

  Starkie said calmly, “Fetch Mr Eden. I fear the lieutenant is going to be ill again!”

  9 Without honor

  CAPTAIN BEVES CONWAY stood by an open stern window and held one hand to his eyes to protect them from the fierce, reflected glare. Through the windows of his cabin the recaptured brig rolled untidily in the swell, her tan sails barely moving as she idled above her own reflection.

  Within a few hours of Sandpiper’s hazardous dash through the reef and the complete destruction of the frigate, the wind had dropped to a mere breath, leaving the heavy Gorgon and her small consort almost becalmed.

  Like a pale yellow smear along the horizon, twisting and wavering in heat-haze, the shore was still visible, but could have been anywhere.

  Conway turned slowly and studied the group by the bulkhead.

  Tregorren, massive and red-eyed, his body swaying to the heavy motion, his face still the colour of ashes.

  The three midshipmen, and the master’s mate, Mr Starkie, standing slightly apart.

  Verling, the first lieutenant, was also present, his nose disapproving as the captain’s servant filled glasses of madeira for the crumpled and dishevelled visitors.

  The captain took a beautifully cut glass from a tray and held it to the filtered sunlight.

  “Your health, gentlemen.” He regarded each of them in turn. “I do not have to say how gratified I am that Sandpiper is again with the fleet.” He turned to listen to the distant tap of hammers across the water as work continued to put right the damage from Pegaso’s cannon fire. “Eventually I will be sending her to report to the admiral at Gibraltar with my despatches.” His gaze rested momentarily on Tregorren. “To cut out a vessel at anchor is never easy. To do it, and to find the extra agility and skill to run an enemy frigate to ground, is worthy of their lordships’ attention.”

  Tregorren stared at some point above the captain’s shoulder.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  The captain’s eyes moved to the midshipmen. “To have survived all this will give you scope for putting the experience to work, both for your own advancement and for the Navy in general.”

  Bolitho darted a quick glance at Tregorren. The man was still staring at the deckhead, and he looked close to another violent attack of vomiting.

  The captain said in the same matter-of-fact tone, “At first light, while you were entering the reefs, I was searching to the south’rd. Quite by chance we came on a heavy dhow, loaded to the gunwales with black ivory.”

  Starkie exclaimed, “Slaves, sir?”

  The captain regarded him coldly. “Slaves.” He gestured with his glass. “I put a boarding party into the vessel, and she is now anchored around the next headland.” He gave a thin smile. “The slaves I put ashore, although I know not if I have done them a favour.” The smile vanished.

  “We have wasted too much time, and lost too many good men. It would take an army to lay siege to the island, and even then it is doubtful how the attack would go.”

  He paused as the marine sentry beyond the door shouted, “Surgeon, sir!”

  The servant hurried to open the door as Laidlaw entered, wiping his hands carefully on a scrap of cloth.

  “Yes?” The captain sounded sharp.

  “You wished to know, sir. Mr Hope is sleeping. I took out the ball, and although I doubt if he’ll ever be rid of discomfort, he’ll not lose an arm.”

  Bolitho looked at Dancer and Eden and smiled. It was something. The rest was over, part of a nightmare which even Tregorren’s failure to admit that he had had no hand in the final action could not spoil.

  He glanced at Starkie, who was studying Tregorren with something like hatred.

  The captain added, “At dusk, provided the wind returns, which Mr Turnbull assures me it will, we will make contact with our new prize. At dawn I intend to send Sandpiper to chase the dhow towards the fortress. Gorgon will, of course, supply full support.”

  Bolitho swallowed another glass of madeira, barely realizing that the cabin servant had refilled it more than once. His stomach was quite empty, and the wine was making him feel light-headed and dizzy.

  One fact stood out. The captain had no intention of giving in to the pirates who occupied the island. By retaking Sandpiper they had added another arm to their reach, and the watchers on the fortress’s battery would have been able to see quite clearly how the brig had lured their one major vessel on to the reefs.

  Verling snapped, “Understood?”

  Bolitho exclaimed, “They’ll think we’re chasing a cargo of slaves, and be too busy firing at Sandpiper to watch the dhow, sir?”

  The captain looked at him and then glanced across at Tregorren.

  “What d’you think, Mr Tregorren?”

  The lieutenant seemed to come out of a trance. “Yes, sir. That is . . .”

  The captain nodded. “Quite.”

  He walked aft again and studied the brig for some time.

  “Mr Starkie will return to his ship and be prepared to assist whichever officers I appoint to take charge, and to sail eventually with my despatches.” He swung round, his eyes hard in the light. “Had I thought that you had any part in losing Sandpiper in the first place, by negligence or lack of courage, I can assure you that you
would not be here now, and your chances of advancement would have been smashed.” He smiled, the effort making him older rather than the opposite. “You did very well, Mr Starkie. I only wish I could keep you in my command. But I think that when you reach higher authority your efforts will be better rewarded.” He nodded. “Carry on, gentlemen.”

  They left the cabin in a daze, the captain already in conference with Verling and the surgeon.

  Bolitho shook Starkie’s rough hand and exclaimed, “I’m glad for you! But for your skill, and accepting an idea which to most people would have seemed quite mad, we would not be here at all!”

  Starkie studied him gravely, as if searching for something he could not understand.

  “But for you, I’d still be in irons and awaiting death.”

  He turned as Tregorren strode to the companion ladder on his way down to the wardroom.

  “I wanted to speak out.” Starkie’s eyes were bitter. “But as you said nothing, I thought it best to hold my peace. He is without honour!”

  Eden stammered, “It’s n-not r-right, D-Dick! H-he’ll get the c-credit!” He was almost weeping. “He j-just stood th-there and t-took it all!”

  Dancer smiled. “I think the captain knows more than he’s prepared to admit. I watched him. He is balancing the value of the victory against damaging it with envy and shame.” He grinned at Eden. “ And midshipmen who go round trying to poison their betters!”

  Bolitho nodded. “I agree. Now let us go and eat. Anything, even a ship’s rat, will do for me.”

  They turned towards the companion ladder and froze.

  A figure in an ill-fitting uniform, that of a lieutenant, blocked their way.

  He said, “Nothing to do, eh? Midshipmen are not what they were in my day!”

  They crowded round him, and Bolitho said, “John Grenfell! We thought you dead!”

  Grenfell gripped his hand, his face very grim. “When City of Athens was destroyed, some of us managed to find safety on drifting spars. We hauled them together like a little raft, not knowing what was happening.” He dropped his gaze. “Most of our people were killed. The lucky ones in the cannon fire, the rest when the sharks tore amongst us. The third lieutenant, oh, so many old faces, were slashed to fragments before our eyes.” He shrugged, as if to free himself of the memory. “But we drifted ashore, and as we made our way along the coast, there, as large as life, was the ship standing in to the beach, and Dewar’s bullocks with a dhow full of screaming slaves, an Arab crew and two Portuguese merchants who were so terrified that I think they believed their end had come.” He plucked at his borrowed coat. “So I have been made acting sixth lieutenant. It will do no harm when my examination is called.” He looked into the distance. “But I got the chance at a price I would dearly repay if it were possible.”