Command a King's Ship

by Alexander Kent

  It was to be hoped the wine had already arrived aboard Undine. Otherwise, it was likely he would have to sail without it, and leave a large hole in his purse as well.

  It would be a strange and exciting. sensation to sit in his cabin, hundreds of miles from England, and sample some of that beautiful madeira. It would bring back all those pictures of London again. The buildings, the clever talk, the way women looked at you. Once or twice he had felt uneasy about that. It had reminded him bitterly of New York during the war. The boldness in their faces. The confident arrogance which had seemed like second nature to them.

  An idler called, 'Yer boat's a-comin', Cap'n!' He touched his hat. 'I'll give 'ee a 'and!' He hurried away to call the inn servants, his mind dwelling on what he might expect from a frigate's captain.

  Bolitho stepped out into the wind, his hat jammed well down over his forehead. It was the Undine's launch, her largest boat, the oars rising and falling like gulls' wings as she headed straight for the pier. It must be a hard pull, he thought. Otherwise Allday would have brought the gig.

  He found he was trembling, and it was all he could do to prevent a grin from splitting his face in two. The dark green launch, the oarsmen in their checked shirts and white trousers, it was all there. Like a homecoming.

  The oars rose in the air and stood like twin lines of swaying white bones, while the bowman made fast to the jetty and aided a smart midshipman to step ashore.

  The latter removed his hat with a flourish and said, `At your service, sir.'

  It was Midshipman Valentine Keen, a very elegant young man who was being appointed to the Undine more to get him away from England than to further his naval advancement, Bolitho suspected. He was the senior midshipman, and if he survived the round voyage would probably return as a lieutenant. At any rate, as a man.

  'My boxes are yonder, Mr. Keen.'

  He saw Allday standing motionless in the sternsheets, his blue coat and white trousers flapping in the wind, his tanned features barely able to remain impassive.

  Theirs was a strange relationship. Allday had come aboard Bolitho's last ship as a pressed man. Yet when the ship had paid off at the end of the war Allday had stayed with him at Falmouth. Servant; guardian. Trusted friend. Now as his coxswain he would be ever nearby. Sometimes an only contact with that other, remote world beyond the cabin bulkhead.

  Allday had been a seaman all his life, but for a period when he had been a shepherd in Cornwall, where Bolitho's pressgang had found him. An odd beginning. Bolitho thought of his previous coxswain, Mark Stockdale. A battered ex-prizefighter who could hardly speak because of his maimed vocal cords. He had died protecting Bolitho's back at the Saintes. Poor Stockdale. Bolitho had not even seen him fall.

  Allday clambered ashore.

  `Everything's ready, Captain. A good meal in the cabin.' He snarled at one of the seamen, `Grab that chest, you oaf, or I'll have your liver!'

  The seaman nodded and grinned.

  Bolitho was satisfied. Allday's strange charm seemed to be working already. He could curse and fight like a madman if required. But Bolitho had seen him caring for wounded men and knew his other side. It was no wonder that the girls in farms and villages around Falmouth would miss him. Better though for Allday, Bolitho decided. There had been rumours enough lately about his conquests.

  Then at last it was all done. The boat loaded, the idler and servants paid. The oars sending the long launch purposefully through the tossing water.

  Bolitho sat in silence, huddled in his cloak, his eyes on the distant frigate. She was beautiful. In some ways more so than Phalarope, if that were possible. Only four years old, she had been built in a yard at Frindsbury on the River Medway. Not far from Herrick's home. One hundred and thirty feet long on her gun deck, and built of good English oak, she was the picture of a shipbuilder's art. No wonder the Admiralty had been loath to lay her up in ordinary like so many of her consorts at the end of the war. She had cost nearly fourteen thousand pounds, as Bolitho had been told more than once. Not that he needed to be reminded. He was lucky to get her.

  There was a brief break in the scudding clouds, and the watery light played down along Undine's gun ports to her clean sheathing as she rolled uneasily in the swell. Best Anglesey copper. Stout enough for anything. Bolitho recalled what her previous captain, Stewart, had confided. In a fierce skirmish off Ushant he had been raked by heavy guns from a French seventy-four. Undine had taken four balls right on her waterline. She had been fortunate to reach England afloat. Frigates were meant for speed and hit-and-run fighting, not for matching metal with a line of battleship. Bolitho knew from his own grim experience what that could do to so graceful a hull.

  Stewart had added that despite careful supervision he was still unsure as to the perfection of the repairs. With the copper replaced, it took more than internal inspection to discover the true value of a dockyard's overhaul. Copper protected the hull from many sorts of weed and clinging growth which could slow a ship to a painful crawl. But behind it could lurk every captain's real enemy, rot. Rot which could change a perfect hull into a ripe, treacherous trap for the unwary. Admiral Kempenfelt's own flagship, the Royal George, had heeled over and sunk right here in Portsmouth just two years ago, with the loss of hundreds of lives. It was said that her bottom had fallen clean away with rot. If it could happen to a lofty first-rate at anchor, it would do worse to a frigate.

  Bolitho came out of his thoughts as he heard the shrill of boatswain's calls above the wind, the stamp of feet as the marines prepared to receive him. He stared up at the towering masts, the movement of figures around the entry port and above in the shrouds. They had had a month to get used to seeing him about the ship, except for the unknown quantity, the newly recruited part of the company. They might be wondering about him now. What he was like. Too harsh, or too easy-going. To them, once the anchor was catted, he was everything, good or bad, skilful or incompetent. There was no other ear to listen to their complaints, no other voice to reward or punish.

  `Easy all!' Allday stood half poised, the tiller bar in his fist. `Toss your oars!'

  The boat thrust forward and the bowman hooked on to the main chains. at the first attempt. Bolitho guessed that Allday had been busy during his stay in London.

  He stood up and waited for the right moment, knowing Allday was watching like a cat in case he should slip between launch and ship, or worse, tumble backwards in a welter of flailing arms and legs. Bolitho had seen it happen, and recalled his own cruel amusement at the spectacle of his new captain arriving aboard in a dripping heap.

  Then, with the spray barely finding time to catch his legs, he was up and on board, his ears ringing to the shrill of calls and to the slap of marines' muskets while they presented arms. He doffed his hat to the quarterdeck, and nodded to Herrick and the others.

  `Good to be back, Mr. Herrick.' His tone was curt.

  `Welcome aboard, sir.' Herrick was equally so. But their eyes shone with something more than routine formality. Something which none of the others saw, or shared.

  Bolitho removed his cloak and handed it to Midshipman Penn. He turned to allow the fading light to play across the broad white lapels of his dress coat. They would all know he was here. He saw the few hands working aloft on last minute splicing, others crowded on gangways and down on the main deck between the twin lines of black twelve-pounder guns.

  He smiled, amused at his own gesture. `I will go below now.'

  `I have placed the orders in your cabin, sir.'

  Herrick was bursting with questions. It was obvious from his flat, formal voice. But his eyes, those eyes which were so blue, and which could look so hurt, made a lie of his rigidity.

  `Very well, I will call you directly.'

  He made to walk aft to the cabin hatchway when he saw some figures gathered just below the quarterdeck rail. In mixed garments, they were in the process of being checked against a list by Lieutenant Davy.

  He called, `New hands, Mr. Davy?'

  Her
rick said quietly, `We are still thirty under strength, sir.'

  `Aye, Sir.' Davy squinted up through the light drizzle, his

  handsome face set in a confident smile. `I am about to get them

  to make their marks.'

  Bolitho crossed to the ladder and ran down to the gun deck. God, how wretched they all looked. Half-starved, ragged, beaten. Even the demanding life aboard ship could surely be no worse than what had made them thus.

  He watched Davy's neat, elegant hands as he arranged the book on top of a twelve-pounder's breech.

  `Come along now, make your marks.'

  They shuffled forward, self-conscious, awkward, and very aware that their new captain was nearby.

  Bolitho's eye stopped on the one at the end of the line. A sturdy man, well-muscled, and with a pigtail protruding from beneath his battered hat. One prime seaman at least.

  He realised Bolitho was watching him and hurried forward to the gun.

  Davy snapped, `Here now, hold your damn eagerness!' Bolitho asked, `Your name?' He hesitated. 'Turpin, sir.'

  Davy was getting angry. `Stand still and remove your hat to the captain, damn your eyes! If you know anything, you should know respect!'

  But the man stood stockstill, his face a mixture of despair and shame.

  Bolitho reached out and removed an old coat which Turpin had been carrying across his right forearm.

  He asked gently, `Where did you lose your right hand, Turpin?'

  The man lowered his eyes. `I was in the Barfear, sir. I lost it at the Chesapeake in '81.' He looked up, his eyes showing pride, but only briefly. `Gun captain, I was, sir.'

  Davy interjected, `I am most sorry, sir. I did not realise the fellow was crippled. I will have him sent ashore.'

  Bolitho said, `You intended to sign the articles with your left hand. Is it that important?'

  Turpin nodded. `I'm a seaman, sir.' He looked round angrily as one of the recruited men nudged his companion. `Not like some!' He turned back to Bolitho, his voice falling away. `I can do anything, sir.'

  Bolitho hardly heard him. He was thinking back to the Chesapeake. The smoke and din. The columns of wheeling ships, like armoured knights at Agincourt. You never got away

  from it. This man Turpin had been nearby, like hundreds of others. Cheering and dying, cursing and working their guns like souls possessed. He thought of the two fat merchants on the coach. So men like that could grow richer.

  He said harshly, `Sign him on, Mr. Davy. One hand from the old Barfleur will be more use to me than many others.'

  He strode aft beneath the quarterdeck, angry with himself, and with Davy for not having the compassion to understand. It was a stupid thing to do. Pointless.

  Allday was carrying one of the chests aft to the cabin, where a marine stood like a toy soldier beneath the spiralling deckhead lantern.

  He said cheerfully, `That was a good thing you just did, Captain.'

  `Don't talk like a fool, Allday!' He strode past' him and winced as his head grazed an overhead beam. When he glared back at Allday his coxswain's homely features were quite expressionless. `He could probably doyour work.'

  Allday nodded gravely. `Aye, sir, it is true that I am overtaxed!'

  `Damn your impertinence!' It was useless with Allday. `I don't know why I tolerate you!'

  Allday took his sword and walked with it to the cabin bulkhead.

  `I once knew a man in Bodmin, Captain.' He stood back and studied the sword critically. `Used to hammer a block of wood with a blunt axe, he did. I asked him why he didn't use a sharper blade and finish the job properly.' Allday turned and smiled calmly. `He said that when the wood was broken he'd have nothing to work his temper on.'

  Bolitho sat down at the table. `Thank you. I must remember to get a better axe.'

  Allday grinned. 'My pleasure, Captain.' He strode out to fetch another chest.

  Bolitho pulled the heavy sealed envelope towards him. With some education behind him Allday might have become almost anything. He slit open the envelope and smiled to himself. Without it he was quite bad enough.

  Herrick stepped into the cabin, his hat tucked under one arm. `You sent for me, sir?'

  Bolitho was standing by the great stern windows, his body moving easily with the ship's motion. Undine had swung her stern to the change of tide, and through the thick glass Herrick could see the distant lights of Portsmouth Point, glimmering and changing shape through the droplets of rain and spray. In the pitching deckhead lanterns the cabin looked snug and inviting. The bench seat around the stern was covered with fine green leather, and Bolitho's desk and chairs stood out against the deck covering of black and white checked canvas like ripe chestnut.

  `Sit down, Thomas.'

  Bolitho turned slowly and looked at him. He had been back aboard for over an hour, reading and re-reading his orders to ensure he would miss nothing.

  He added, `We will weigh tomorrow afternoon. I have a warrant in my orders which entitles me to accept "volunteers" from the convict hulks in Portsmouth. I would be obliged if you would attend to that as soon after first light as is convenient..'

  Herrick nodded, watching Bolitho's grave features, noting the restless movements of his hands, the fact that his carefully prepared meal lay untouched in the adjoining dining space. He was troubled. Uncertain about something.

  Bolitho said, `We are to sail for Teneriffe.' He saw Herrick stiffen and added quietly, `I know, Thomas. You are like me. It comes hard to tack freely into a port where months back we could have expected a somewhat different welcome.'

  Herrick grinned. `Heated shot, no doubt.'

  `There. we will embark two, maybe three passengers. After replenishing whatever stores we lack, we will proceed without further delay to our destination, Madras.' He seemed to be musing aloud. `Over twelve thousand miles. Long enough to get to know one another. And our ship. The orders state that we will proceed with all haste. For that reason we must ensure our people learn their work well. I want no delays because of carelessness or unnecessary damage to canvas and rigging.'

  Herrick rubbed his chin. `A long haul.'

  `Aye, Thomas. A hundred days. That is what I intend.' He smiled, the gravity fading instantly. `With your help, of course.'

  Herrick nodded. `May I ask what we are expected to accomplish?'

  Bolitho looked down at the folded sheets of his orders. `I still know very little. But I have read quite a lot between the lines.'

  He began to pace from side to side, his shadow moving unevenly with the roll of the hull.

  `When the war ended, Thomas, it was necessary to make. concessions. To restore a balance. We had captured Trincomalee in Ceylon from the Dutch. The finest naval harbour and the best placed in the Indian Ocean. The French admiral, Suffren, captured it from us, and when war ended gave it back to Holland. We have returned many West Indian islands to France, as well as her Indian stations. And Spain, well, she has been given back Minorca.' He shrugged. `Many men on both sides died for nothing, it seems.'

  Herrick sounded confused. `But what of us, sir? Did we get nothing out of all this?'

  Bolitho smiled. `I believe we are about to do so. Hence the extreme secrecy and our vague orders concerning Teneriffe.'

  He paused and looked down at the stocky lieutenant.

  `Without Trincomalee we are in the same position as before the war. We still need a good harbour for our ships. A base to control a wide area. A stepping-stone to expand the East Indies trade.'

  Herrick grunted. `I'd have thought the East India Company had got all it wanted.'

  Bolitho's mind returned to the men on the coach. Others he had met in London.

  `There are those in authority who see power as the essential foundation of national superiority. Commercial wealth as a means to such power.' He glanced at a twelve-pounder gun at the forward end of his cabin, its squat outline masked by a chintz cover. `And war as the means to all three.'

  Herrick bit his lip. `And we are to be the "probe", so to spea
k ?'

  `I may be quite wrong, Thomas. But you must know my thinking. Just in case things go against us.'

  He remembered Winslade's words at the Admiralty. The task I anm giving yon would be better handled by a squadron. He wanted someone he could trust. Or did he merely need a scapegoat should things go wrong? Bolitho had always complained bitterly about being tied to too strict orders. His new ones were so vague that he felt even more restricted. Only one thing was clear. He would take on board a Mr. James Raymond at Teneriffe, and place the ship at his disposal. Raymond was a trusted government courier, and would be carrying the latest despatches to Madras.

  Herrick remarked, `It will take some getting used to. But being at sea again in a ship such as Undine will make a world of difference.'

  Bolitho nodded. `We must ensure that our people are prepared for anything, peace or no peace. Where we are going they may be less inclined to accept our views without argument.'

  He sat down on the bench and stared through the spattered glass.

  `I will speak with the other officers at eight bells tomorrow while you are in the hulks.' He smiled at Herrick's reflection. `I am sending you because you will understand. You'll not frighten them all to death!'

  He stood up quickly.

  `Now, Thomas, we will take a glass of claret.'

  Herrick leaned forward. `That was a goodly selection you had sent from London, sir.'

  Bolitho shook his head. `We will save that for more trying times.' He lifted a decanter from its rack. `This is more usual to our tastes!'

  They drank their claret in comfortable silence. Bolitho was thinking how strange it was to be sitting quietly when the voyage which lay ahead demanded so much of all of them. But it was useless to prowl about the decks or poke into stores and spirit rooms. Undine was ready for sea. As ready as she could ever be. He thought of his officers, the extensions of his ideas and authority. He knew little of any of them. Soames was a competent seaman, but was inclinded to harshness when things did not go right immediately. His superior, Davy, was harder to know. Outwardly cool and unruffled, he had a ruthless streak like many of his kind. The sailing master was called Ezekiel Mudge, a broad lump of a man who looked old enough to be his grandfather. In fact he `vas sixty, and certainly the oldest master Bolitho had met. Old Mudge would prove to be one of the most important when they reached the Indian Ocean. He had originally served in the East India Company, and had endured more storms, shipwrecks, pirates and a dozen other hazards than any man alive, if his record was to be believed. He had a huge beaked nose, with the eyes perched on either side of it like tiny, bright stones. A formidable person, and one who would be watching his captain's seamanship for flaws, Bolitho was certain of that.