Sloop of War

by Alexander Kent

  He started with surprise as his eyes fell on a gun muzzle in the first port.

  Heyward said respectfully, “We have a thirty-two-pounder on either bow, sir. The rest of the gun deck is made up of sixteen 12 -pounders.” He flinched as Bolitho turned to look at him. “I beg your pardon, sir, I did not mean to intrude.”

  Bolitho smiled and touched his arm. “I was merely surprised, She seems to have very heavy artillery for such a small ship.” He shook his head. “Those two bow-chasers must have brought many an enemy aback with shock. Nine-pounders are more common in sloops, I believe.”

  The midshipman nodded, but his eyes were on the ship’s side, his lips in an anxious line as he gauged the moment.

  “Put her about!”

  The cutter swung in a tight arc and headed for the main chains. There were many heads lining the gangway, and Bolitho saw the blue and white of an officer’s uniform by the entry port, a press of more figures by the mainmast.

  “Toss your oars!”

  The boat idled towards the chains where the bowman brought down his boathook with a well-timed slash.

  Bolitho stood up in the sternsheets, conscious of all the eyes above and around him. Of Stockdale’s hand, half-raised, ready to steady him if he lost his balance. Of the new sword at his hip and not wanting to look down to make sure it would not tangle with his legs as he climbed up the sleek tumblehome.

  With a quick breath he reached out and hauled himself from the boat. He had been prepared for almost everything but was still taken totally off guard by the piercing shrill of pipes as his head and shoulders rose through the port. Perhaps, more than anything else, the time-honoured salute from a ship to her captain made him realise just how great was the step from lieutenant’s berth to command.

  It was all too much to take in and comprehend in this small cameo. The drawn swords, the boatswain’s mates with their silver calls to their lips, the bare-backed seamen on the gangways and high in the shrouds. Below his feet he felt the deck lift easily, and once more was aware of the change this ship had brought him. After the Trojan’s fat bulk, her massive weight of guns and spars, this sloop even felt alive.

  One officer stepped forward as Bolitho removed his hat to the quarterdeck and said, “Welcome aboard, sir. I am Graves, second lieutenant.”

  Bolitho regarded him searchingly. The lieutenant was young and alert, but had the controlled caution on his dark features of a man much older.

  He half turned and added, “The others are awaiting your pleasure, sir.”

  Bolitho asked, “And the first lieutenant?”

  Graves looked away. “In the flagship sir. He had an appointment.” He faced him quickly. “He meant no disrespect, sir, I am quite sure of that.”

  Bolitho nodded. Graves’s explanation was too swift, too glib. Or that of a man who wished to draw attention to the absent officer’s behaviour by excusing it.

  Graves hurried on, “This is Mr. Buckle, the sailing master, sir. Mr. Dalkeith, surgeon.” His voice followed Bolitho down the small line of senior warrant officers.

  Bolitho marked each face but checked himself from further contact. That would come soon enough, but now his own impression on them was far more vital.

  He stood by the quarterdeck rail and stared down at the gun deck. The Sparrow was one hundred and ten feet long on that deck, but had a broad beam of thirty feet, almost that of a frigate. No wonder she could contain such powerful armament for her size.

  He said, “Have the hands lay aft, Mr. Graves.”

  As the order was passed and the men came pressing down on those already assembled, he drew his commission from his pocket and spread it on the rail. How hot the wood felt beneath his hands.

  Again he darted a glance at the faces beneath him. In so small a ship how did they all manage to exist? There were one hundred and fifteen souls crammed aboard Sparrow, and as they jostled together below the quarterdeck there appeared to be twice that number.

  Graves touched his hat. “All present, sir.”

  Bolitho replied with equal formality, “Thank you.” Then in a steady voice he began to read himself in.

  He had heard other captains do it often enough, but as he read the beautifully penned words he felt once more like a spectator.

  It was addressed to Richard Bolitho, Esquire, and required him forthwith to go on board and take upon him the charge and command of captain in His Britannic Majesty’s Sloop-of-War Sparrow.

  Once or twice as his voice carried along the deck he heard a man cough or move his feet, and aboard another sloop close by he saw an officer watching the proceedings through a telescope.

  He put the commission in his coat and said, “I will go to my quarters, Mr. Graves.”

  He replaced his hat and walked slowly towards a covered hatch just forward of the mizzen mast. He noticed that the ship’s wheel was completely unsheltered. A bad place in a storm, he thought, or when the balls begin to fly.

  At his back he heard the rising murmur of voices as the men were dismissed, and noticed, too, the heavy smell of cooking in the listless air. He was glad he had restrained himself from making a speech. It would have been vanity, and he knew it. All the same, it was so precious a day that he wanted to share it with all of them in some way.

  In his excitement he had forgotten about the time. Now as he made his way down a ladder to the gun deck and aft behind Graves’s crouched figure he was more than glad he had restricted himself to the formal reading of his appointment. Men kept standing in the sun to hear a pompous speech were one thing. Men kept also from their well-earned meal were something else entirely.

  He gasped as his head crashed against a deck beam.

  Graves spun round. “I beg your pardon, sir!” He seemed terrified Bolitho should blame him for the lack of headroom.

  “I will remember next time.”

  He reached the stern cabin and stepped inside. For an instant he stood motionless, taking in the graceful sloping stern windows which spread from quarter to quarter, displaying the anchorage and the headland like some glistening panorama. The cabin was beautifully painted in pale green, the panels picked out with gold leaf. The deck was concealed with a black and white checked canvas covering, and arranged on either side was a selection of well-made furniture. Gingerly he raised his head and found he could just stand upright between the beams above.

  Graves was watching him worriedly. “I am afraid that after a ship-of-the-line, sir, you’ll find this somewhat cramped.”

  Bolitho smiled. “Have the ship’s books brought to me after you have dined, Mr. Graves. I will also want to meet the other officers informally sometime today.” He paused, seeing again the caution in his eyes. “Including the first lieutenant.”

  Graves bowed himself out and Bolitho turned his back to the closed door.

  Cramped, after a ship-of-the-line, Graves had said. He hurled his hat across the cabin on to the bench seat below the windows. His sword he unbuckled and dropped in a green velvet chair. He was laughing aloud, and the effort to restrain it was almost painful.

  Cramped. He walked, ducking between the beams. It was a palace after the Trojan’s wardroom.

  He sat down beside his hat and stared around the neat, cheerful-looking cabin.

  And it was his own.

  2 FREEDOM

  IT WAS late afternoon when Bolitho finally decided he had read all that there was available about the ship around him. Muster and punishment books, watch-bills and ledgers of stores and victualling returns, the list seemed endless. But at no time was he bored. With his new coat hanging on a chairback, his neckcloth loosened and shirt unbuttoned, he found each item fascinating.

  His predecessor, Captain Ransome, had kept a smart and well-run ship on the face of things. The punishment book had all the usual culprits and awards for minor misdemeanours. A few for drunkenness, even less for insolence and insubordination, and the worst recorded crime was that of a seaman who had struck a petty officer during gun drill.

  Rans
ome had been extremely lucky in one thing. With the ship being commissioned on the Thames he had been able to secure the cream of the press. Men off incoming merchant ships, transfers from vessels laid up in ordinary, he had been in a position to complete his company with far less difficulty than most captains.

  Against the apparent taut atmosphere in the ship was a rather negative list of reports in the log books. Only once had Sparrow been called to action in the two years since leaving England, and then as secondary reinforcement to a frigate attacking a blockade runner. It was little wonder that Midshipman Heyward had showed some concern at his remarks about the big bow-chasers. He had probably imagined his words to be some sort of criticism at their lack of use.

  There were the usual lists of men transferred to other ships because of promotion and the like. Their places had been filled by what Ransome had termed “local colonist volunteers” in his personal log. Bolitho had lingered a good deal on the previous captain’s daily records. His comments were extremely brief and it was impossible to get even a feel of the man. As he paused to glance around the cabin from time to time Bolitho found himself wondering about Ransome. An experienced and competent officer, obviously a man of good breeding and therefore influence, the cabin seemed at odds with his mental portrait. Extremely attractive, comfortable, yet just that too much removed from what you might expect in a ship-of-war.

  He sighed and leaned back in the chair as his cabin servant, Fitch, padded into the shafted sunlight to remove the remains of his meal.

  Fitch was tiny. A miserable scrap of a man, who had already confessed to having been a petty thief in his unfortunate past. Saved from transportation or worse by the timely arrival of a King’s ship as he awaited sentence at the Assizes, he had accepted life at sea more as an extension to his punishment than any love of service. But he seemed a capable servant and was probably well pleased with his work. It kept him from the heavier tasks on deck, and provided his current master was a humane man he had little to fear.

  Bolitho watched him as he collected the crockery on to a tray. It had been an excellent meal. Cold tongue and fresh vegetables from ashore, and the claret which Fitch had mournfully observed was “the last of Cap’n Ransome’s stock” had been a touch of perfection.

  “Your late captain.” Bolitho saw the small man stiffen. “Did he leave any instruction as to his property aboard?”

  Fitch dropped his eyes. “Mr. Tyrrell ’as attended to it, sir. It’s been sent to a transport for passage ’ome.”

  “He must have been an officer of some consequence.”

  Bolitho hated this form of questioning, but he felt he needed some link, no matter how small, with the man who had controlled this ship from the day she had slid into the water.

  Fitch bit his lip. “’E were a strict cap’n, sir. ’E saw that the ’ands took fairly to their work. If they obeyed, ’e was ’appy. If not . . .” he shrugged his frail shoulders, “then ’e tended to swear a piece.”

  Bolitho nodded. “You may leave.”

  It was useless to proceed with Fitch. His life concerned only the comings and goings. Food and drink, a warm cot, or a swift curse if things were not to his master’s liking.

  Feet padded overhead and he had to restrain himself from running to the stern windows or standing on a chair to peer through the skylight above the table. He thought of his old companions in the Trojan’s wardroom and wondered if they were missing him. Probably not. His promotion would mean a gap, and therefore a step up the ladder for another. He smiled to himself. It would take time to fit himself into this new role. Time and vigilance.

  There was a tap at the door and Mathias Buckle, the sailing master, stepped inside.

  “Do you have a moment, sir?”

  Bolitho gestured to a chair. Again this was so unlike a bigger ship-of-war. There were no marines in the company, and visitors to the captain’s quarters seemed free to come and go almost as they pleased. Perhaps Ransome had encouraged such informality.

  He watched Buckle fitting himself into the chair. He was a short, square-built man, with steady eyes and hair almost as dark as his own. Aged forty, he was the oldest man in the ship.

  Buckle said, “I’d not trouble you, sir, but as the first lieutenant’s away, I thought . . .” He shifted in the chair. “I thought I should settle the matter of promotion for one of the hands.”

  Bolitho listened in silence as Buckle ran through the points which concerned a man named Raven. It was an internal matter, but he was conscious of the importance it represented. The very first time as captain he was being confronted with the affairs of one of his own company.

  Buckle was saying, “I thought, begging your pardon, sir, that we might advance him to master’s mate for a trial period.”

  Bolitho asked, “How long have you been master?”

  “Just in this ship, sir.” Buckle’s clear eyes were distant. “Before that I was master’s mate in the old Warrior, seventy-four.”

  “You’ve done well, Mr. Buckle.” He was trying to place the dialect. London, or further east. Kent.

  “How does she handle?”

  Buckle seemed to consider it. “She’s heavy for her size, sir. All of four hundred and thirty tons. But the better the wind, the live-lier she goes. You can even get the stunsails and royals on her in anything but a true blow.” He frowned. “In a calm she can be the devil’s daughter.” He gestured vaguely. “You’ve probably seen the little port alongside each gun port, sir?”

  Bolitho had not. He said slowly, “I am not too sure.”

  Buckle smiled for the first time. “If you gets becalmed you may run a sweep through each o’ those ports, sir. Clear lower deck and get every man-jack on the sweeps and you can still get a knot or two out of her.”

  Bolitho looked away. Reading the ship’s books and correspondence had not even told him the half of it. He felt vaguely angry that his first lieutenant was still not present. Normally the departing captain would have been aboard to tell him the ship’s behaviour and failings, or at least the senior lieutenant.

  Buckle said, “You’ll soon get the feel of her, sir. She’s the best yet.”

  Bolitho eyed him thoughtfully. The master was nobody’s fool, and yet, like Graves, he seemed to be holding back. Maybe waiting for him to display his strength or weakness to them.

  He made himself reply coldly, “We shall see about that, Mr. Buckle.”

  When he glanced up he saw the man watching him with sudden anxiety. He added, “Any other matter?”

  Buckle rose to his feet. “No, sir.”

  “Good. I anticipate that sailing orders will be arriving shortly. I will expect the ship to be ready.”

  Buckle nodded. “Aye, sir. Have no fear.”

  Bolitho relented slightly. It was just possible his own uncertainty was making him unnecessarily harsh towards his sailing master. And it was equally likely he would need Buckle’s guiding hand very much until he got the feel of his new command.

  He said, “I have no doubt that I will be as satisfied with your appointment as Captain Ransome was.”

  Buckle swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.” He stared round the low cabin. “Thank you, sir.”

  The door closed behind him and Bolitho ran his fingers through his hair. Just a few hours since he had climbed aboard to the squeal of pipes and already he was beginning to feel different.

  It was all so alien to his past life when you could argue and compete with your companions, curse your captain behind his back or reveal his weakness which only you really understood. As from today a mere word could bring a shutter across a man’s eyes or make him fear for his own safety. Buckle was eighteen years his senior, yet at the first hint of Bolitho’s displeasure had almost cringed.

  He closed his eyes and tried to fathom out how he should proceed. To try to be too popular was to be a fool. To hold unswervingly to matters of discipline and order was to be a tyrant. He recalled Colquhoun’s words and grinned ruefully. Until you reached Colquhoun’s lofty post-r
ank you could never be certain of anything.

  Somewhere beyond the bulkhead he heard a challenge and a shouted reply from a boat. Then the squeak of a hull alongside, the patter of feet on a gangway. It seemed unreal and incredible that the ship, his ship, was running her affairs while he just sat here at the table. He sighed again and stared at the pile of papers and books. It would take longer than he had imagined to adjust.

  There was another rap at the door and Graves ducked inside, removing his hat and jamming it under his arm as he announced, “The guardboat has just been alongside, sir.” He held out a heavily sealed canvas envelope. “From the flag, sir.”

  Bolitho took it and laid it carelessly on the table. His sailing orders without doubt, and he had to restrain himself from acting as he truly felt. He wanted to rip them open, to know and understand what was required of him.

  He saw Graves looking round the cabin, his eyes passing swiftly over the discarded dress coat, the hat lying on the bench seat, and finally on Bolitho’s unbuttoned shirt.

  Graves said quickly, “Will you wish me to stay, sir?”

  “No. I will inform you of their content when I have had time to study them.”

  Graves nodded. “I am waiting for the last water-lighter to come out to us, sir. I have sent the cooper ashore to speed them up, but . . .”

  Bolitho smiled. “Then attend to it, if you please.”

  Bolitho watched him leave and then slit open the envelope. He was still reading the neatly worded orders when he heard voices in the passageway beyond the door. Graves first, curt and resentful, then another, calm to begin with and then loud with anger. The latter finished with, “Well, how in God’s name was I to know? You could have made a signal, you bloody fool!”