Man of War

by Alexander Kent

  But it was as if there had been a crash of thunder, or someone had screamed a name. His name.

  She knew she had pressed the roses against her body, that there was blood on her fingers, like that other time.

  But she knew, and wanted to cry out.

  It was not in the future. It was now. She touched her lips and tasted the blood.

  It was now. And Adam was in peril.

  She stared at the glass again, saw the hand move to touch her body.

  “Adam!”

  And she was afraid.

  16 NO DRUMS . . . NO QUARTER

  “SHIP CLEARED for action, sir. All pumps manned, boats lowered and towing astern.”

  “Thank you, Mr Stirling. That was smartly done.” Adam unclenched each fist beneath his coat, aware for the first time of the force of his grip. The first lieutenant’s tall figure was only a vague shape by the quarterdeck rail, his powerful voice formal, unperturbed, giving no hint of doubt or anxiety. Perhaps that was his strength.

  Adam turned and stared into the darkness. What I need.

  Despite the care and the supervision, every sound had seemed exaggerated while seamen and marines had crept between and above decks to prepare for battle if the need arose. Screens taken down to open the ship from bow to stern, unwanted messdeck clutter tossed overboard, each gun tackle checked and checked again, powder and shot laid in readiness. Touch, familiarity, the results of training, skill, and some hard knocks along the way for old Jacks and new hands alike. Someone had dropped a hand-spike on the deck beside one of the long eighteen-pounders. Beyond the gently swaying hull nobody would hear it. But to the men on deck it sounded like a thunderclap.

  Even the compass light, invisible from a few paces away, seemed to shine like a beacon, but reflected only in the eyes of the senior helmsman.

  In his mind Adam could picture Athena’s slow progress, her course to the southwest, the sea empty. Their solitary consort, the frigate Hostile, was holding well up to windward, ready to dash down in support of her flagship if another vessel, friend or enemy, showed herself when dawn eventually broke.

  Hours yet; they were still only halfway through the middle watch. It was uncanny to sense the people around him. Faces he had come to know, some better than others, always held at a distance. A captain had little choice.

  Hard to believe there were over four hundred souls scattered around and beneath his feet, and each in his own fashion measuring the distance from the land which, hour by hour, was reaching out on either bow. The old hands swore they could smell it; the experienced ones like Fraser the sailing-master and Mudge the boatswain perceived the hazards like marks on a chart.

  Adam heard boots on the damp planking, a whispered word from Lieutenant Kirkland of the Royal Marines to one of his sergeants. Half of Athena’s marines had been sent over to the Villa de Bilbao as part of the attacking force. Kirkland was no doubt pondering what would happen if his superior, the debonair Captain Souter, failed to return from the proposed venture.

  Adam took a few paces to the weather rail and back again. The slavers might already have quit San José; what would Bethune do then? And how, in such a crowded ship, could the vice-admiral manage to remain so distant? The optimism was no longer evident, and his manner was more abrupt, especially toward his young flag-lieutenant.

  He loosened his fingers, which had once more clenched into fists. It was a wild scheme, but all they had. He thought of their reunion with the prize-ship and the frigate Audacity. A wild scheme, maybe, but so far time and weather had been on their side.

  He wondered what Audacity’s captain was thinking as he waited for the first light of dawn. And young David Napier in his new role.

  What he wanted, or was it for my own satisfaction?

  His fingers brushed against the gold lace on his sleeve. It was his best coat, from the same tailor in Plymouth who had helped to transform an eager young boy into a King’s officer.

  He paced slowly along the deck, his feet avoiding tackles and ring-bolts without conscious effort.

  There would be no line of battle. No heavy ship-to-ship encounter like those other times.

  Something his uncle had told him. “They will want to see you, Adam. Their captain. To know you’re there with them when the iron begins to fly.”

  He touched the lace again and felt his jaw tighten. Pride or conceit? He could almost hear James Tyacke’s voice. And for what?

  He felt someone move past him and knew it was Jago.

  “I never care for the waiting, Luke.”

  Jago watched him in the darkness. So he feels it too. The ship rising above them, the clatter of blocks and rigging, the occasional crack of canvas in a gust of wind over the quarter. Like sailing a ghost ship into nowhere. But Jago used his freedom to come and go as he pleased to keep note of such things: the lines on the chart, the quiet discussions between the sailing-master and his mates, and the captain. It would probably all blow over. Jago was sickened by the way he had seen slaves treated. But it was a fact of life. It was not a sailor’s concern, nothing to die for. Or was it?

  He thought of young Napier, somewhere up ahead in Audacity. He had done well, to all accounts, and he had only been aboard for a dog-watch. He smiled to himself. Mister Napier indeed!

  Adam called, “Take over, Mr Stirling. I’m going below for a while.”

  He hesitated, and heard Stirling answer, “I’ll know where you are, sir.”

  Adam turned on his heel.

  “Come with me.”

  Jago followed him to the companion-way. The same ship, but so different. He should be used to it. How many fights? Sometimes all the ships and the people seemed to overlap in his memory. The din and excitement of battle; and always the pain. There was never time for fear. He grinned. The bloody officers saw to that!

  Adam walked past the guns, hearing the faint squeak of breeching ropes as the hull tilted to wind and sea, the water slapping beneath the sealed ports. Tiny, shuttered lanterns gave light to the lounging figures of the waiting crews. The air was close and humid between decks, and he saw that most of the men had already stripped off their shirts, their bodies shining faintly in the feeble lights like statuary.

  Feet shuffled, and faces came into the glow as men realized their captain was on one of his unheralded rounds. Some wondered why he bothered, when his word was the law which meant life or death to any one he chose. And why he was wearing his dress uniform when it would mark him out to any sniper if the time came, as it had done for others, among them his famous uncle, and Nelson himself.

  A voice called, “Think us’ll fight, zur?”

  Adam stopped. “Fellow Cornishman, eh?”

  The man showed his teeth in a broad grin. “Helston, zur, not too long a walk from your part o’ God’s county, zur!”

  Jago leaned forward to listen, to share it in some way. Like that time at Algiers, when he had watched his face after the fight, and had seen through and beyond the thing they called courage.

  Adam looked past the line of black breeches, the powder and shot. Gone were the mess tables which were normally fixed between each pair of guns. Everyday things, the hooks where a man could sling his hammock: overcrowded, and yet each man an individual.

  Now there was no war, and the enemy was unfamiliar. But to the ordinary Jack, it made no great difference when the guns were run out.

  Jago thought of the men put ashore, unwanted in peace. He had seen plenty of them on pier and jetty, watching the ships, and “swinging the lamp” with each mug of ale.

  Did they remember, he wondered, how they had cursed the navy and the masters who walked the quarterdeck in their fine uniforms?

  Adam said quietly, “I think we shall fight. The enemy flies no flag, nor does he uphold any cause except greed and tyranny over the helpless. So when the time comes, think well on that!”

  The man from Helston called after them, “Us Cornish lads’ll show ’em, Cap’n!”

  There was a burst of cheering, joined by
seamen at the guns on the opposite side, few of whom could have heard what their captain had said.

  A midshipman dodged around the guns until he had caught Adam’s eye.

  “Beg pardon, sir, but Sir Graham sends his compliments, and would you join him aft?”

  “Thank you, Mr Manners. I’ll come directly.” A young, eager face. Uplifted, as if he had just been told something inspiring.

  Jago walked with him to the main companion. Beyond the small lights, the ship was still in darkness. Waiting.

  He realized that Bolitho had turned to face him, as if they were quite alone, the ship deserted.

  “Is that all it takes, Luke? These men don’t even know what we are doing here, or why some will die, as surely they will!”

  Jago stood his ground, knowing it was important, for both of them.

  “You spoke fair, Cap’n. Somebody’s got to do it, an’ if it wasn’t us it would be some other poor Jack. That’s the way it goes, an’ nothing’ll ever change it!”

  He stared down as Adam grasped his arm, and for an instant thought he had at last gone too far.

  But Adam let his hand fall to his side, and said, “So let’s be about it, eh?” As if another voice had spoken.

  The ship was ready. Choice did not come into it.

  Lieutenant Francis Troubridge winced as his shin scraped against a cask propped by a hatch coaming to catch the unwary. He had heard the first lieutenant giving orders for every available barrel or bucket to be filled with sea water in case of fire. Even the empty boat tier had been lined with canvas, and more water pumped into it as a precaution.

  He had mentioned it to Petch, the gunner. Had it been light enough to see his weathered face, he might have discovered amusement there. Or pity. Old Petch, who had been at sea all his life, since the age of nine it was rumoured, had been present at several major battles, and had been a gun captain in the Bellerophon at Trafalgar, in the thick of it.

  Petch would be down there in the main magazine now, slopping about in his old felt slippers, so as not to make a spark or two, as he often said. One spark would be enough; the whole ship could be blasted apart.

  “Them buggers might ’ave furnaces goin’ when we gets there.” He had shaken his grey head. “ ’Eated shot—can be very nasty, sir.”

  Troubridge had already served in a ship of the line, the Superb, under the famous Captain Keats. He had never forgotten the first time they had cleared for action, the exhilaration, nerves tingling, as if he were being caught and carried on a tide race. Men running to their stations, commands barked from every side, the squeal of calls, but above all the urgent, insistent rattle of the drums beating to quarters.

  Petch and some of the others had experienced it many times, seen the faces of messmates and gun crews, seamen and marines, all welded into a single force, like a weapon. Troubridge had been only a midshipman in the Superb, but he had never forgotten the thrill and indescribable awe of that moment.

  He reached the quarterdeck and strode aft to the poop.

  This was so very different. Unreal. The ship thrusting into a sea without stars or horizon. Figures pushing past, voices hushed, breathing like old men, groping at cordage and cold metal, often urged on by hard hands and whispered threats.

  “This way, sir.” Bowles, the cabin servant, loomed from nowhere and plucked at his sleeve.

  Troubridge groped his way into the cabin and peered around. Two 12 -pounders shared this space where the captain’s private quarters had been. The screens were gone; the place where they had talked together, shared a drink, or spoken occasionally of home was now just an extension of the hull. He thought of the portrait he had seen here, the living face he had seen when he and Bolitho had burst into that tawdry studio in London. The lovely body chained and helpless, awaiting her fate. He saw Bowles move toward him and guessed he had spoken her name aloud. Andromeda.

  Would Bolitho be thinking of her at this very moment? Wondering, groping for hope, when all he had before him was duty and obedience?

  Bowles said in a matter-of-fact tone, “I’m going down to the sick bay shortly, sir. Make meself useful, maybe. Anythin’ I can fetch you afore I shove off?”

  Troubridge shook his head. If he took a drink now, he might not be able to stop.

  Aloud he said, “It’s not like going into action at all, is it?”

  Bowles seemed to relax. He had his measure. It always helped.

  “I ’eard Mr Fraser tellin’ someone of a battle ’e was in a while back, with the Dons it was that time, when it took all day to close with the enemy. Imagine, all day, the Spanish tops’ls crawling up an’ over the sea like they was enjoyin’ it!”

  Another shape came out of the darkness. “Sir Graham, John!” He heard a gulp, and, “Sorry, sir, didn’t see you ’ere!”

  It helped to rally Troubridge more than the unseen speaker would ever know.

  Bethune strode past, ducking beneath the deckhead beams, his voice sharp, impatient.

  “I’ve just sent for the captain.”

  Bowles said, “He’s on the lower gun-deck, Sir Graham. I sent word . . .”

  Bethune said something under his breath as the deck swayed over, through an invisible trough. Troubridge heard glass clink against the admiral’s buttons, and thought he could smell cognac.

  He said, “The wind’s holding, Sir Graham. At this rate we should make our landfall as estimated.”

  Bethune snapped, “When I want advice I shall ask for it, Flags! And when I want the captain I do not expect to have to go searching for him!”

  Troubridge listened to spray pattering across the skylight. Perhaps the wind was getting up, or changing? That would throw all their careful plans into disarray.

  He imagined the anchorage, as it was marked on the chart, as it was described by the sailing-master and, of all people, George Crawford, the surgeon, who had visited San José in his first ship. It was little enough, but sailors had survived on less.

  Troubridge was calm again. It had given him time. This was a mood in which he had never seen Bethune before. A hardness which defied his normally easy nature.

  Bethune was saying curtly, “I’m not sure about Audacity, and Captain Munro. It is asking rather a lot of him. Young, impetuous . . .” He turned as voices came from the quarterdeck.

  Troubridge remembered the room at the Admiralty, the paintings of ships in battle. A time when Bethune had been young, and probably impetuous himself.

  Bethune said, “Ah, Adam, just a word about a few points. In the chartroom, I think.”

  Composed and apparently relaxed, another change.

  Troubridge touched the curved hanger at his side.

  He was suddenly reminded of Bethune’s previous flag-lieutenant. They had hardly spoken but for the formalities of handing over the appointment. Angry, resentful; looking back it was hard to determine. He had been too startled by his own unexpected advance up the ladder.

  But the outgoing flag-lieutenant had noticed the well-shaped and balanced hanger, which had been a gift from Troubridge’s father when he had been commissioned, it seemed a lifetime ago. Long forgotten and dismissed from his mind, his parting remark now rang clearly in Troubridge’s memory.

  “You’ll not need that while you serve Sir Graham Bethune, my young friend! I doubt you’ll draw close enough to a real enemy!”

  He hesitated, the muffled shipboard noises and occasional shadowy movements very stark and real. Something unknown and different was gnawing at him. He recognized it as fear.

  The chartroom seemed to be filled with people, under unshuttered lights almost blinding after the stuffy darkness. Fraser, the sailing-master, and Harper, his senior mate, Vincent, the signals midshipman, stiff-faced with concentration as he scribbled some notes, probably for the first lieutenant. Two boatswain’s mates and Tarrant, the third lieutenant, who appeared to be cleaning a telescope.

  They all faded away as Bethune leaned both hands on the table and stared at the uppermost chart. Fraser watch
ed impassively. Nobody, not even an admiral, could fault his tidy calculations and clearly printed notes.

  “Show me.”

  Fraser’s big brass dividers touched the chart and the neat, converging lines of their course. The points of the dividers stopped above the nearest line of latitude. “San José, Sir Graham.” His eyes flickered briefly to Bethune’s profile, but gave nothing away. “Two hours if the wind holds.”

  Troubridge found he was gripping the hanger and pressing it against his hip as if to steady himself. Two hours, the sailing-master had said. The little frigate Audacity would begin her mock attack. He wanted to say something, to wipe his eyes in the stinging glare.

  Two hours. On the chart, land still looked many miles distant.

  Someone said, “Captain’s coming, sir.”

  Troubridge realized for the first time that Bethune’s personal servant was also present, in a corner by the chart rack, his eyes shaded by his hat, his mouth a tight line. A man who showed little emotion at any time. Efficient, discreet, probably closer to Bethune than any of them.

  Shutters squeaked and then closed again. Troubridge saw the captain framed against the door and the afterguard’s musket rack, now empty. He had known Bolitho for so short a time, only since Bethune had requested his appointment as his flag-captain. Commanded would be nearer the truth.

  There was never any doubt about it. He had heard one of the old clerks remark, “It’s not what you know in Admiralty, it’s who you know!” Troubridge looked at Bolitho now. A face he would always remember. Dark eyes, sometimes withdrawn, sometimes hostile, but without the arrogance he had seen and found in many. He recalled Bethune’s comment about Audacity’s young captain: “impetuous.” Perhaps that, too, but not one to sacrifice the men he commanded, and led.

  He started as Bethune remarked, “When you are with us, Flags, I want to clarify a few final points.”

  Someone chuckled, and Adam Bolitho smiled directly at him, and said, “Waiting is often the worst part, and that is all but over.” He looked at the chart as if his mind was momentarily somewhere else. “I recall reading an account of the opening engagement at Trafalgar. A young lieutenant wrote of it to his parents: Here began the din of war.” They watched his hand as it touched the chart by Fraser’s dividers. “So let us begin . . .”