Sloop of War

by Alexander Kent

  There was a sudden silence and then a further tap on the door.

  The lieutenant who stepped into the cabin was not at all what Bolitho had been expecting. Too junior for temporary command, Colquhoun had said, and yet this man was probably two years older than himself. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and deeply tanned. His thick auburn hair brushed the deckhead between the beams so that he seemed to fill the cabin.

  Bolitho glanced up at him calmly. “Mr. Tyrrell?”

  The lieutenant nodded briefly. “Sir.” He took a quick breath. “I must apologise for my late arrival aboard. I have been in th’ flag-ship.”

  Bolitho looked down at the table. Tyrrell had an easy drawl, the mark of a man born and bred in the American colony. He was like a half-tamed animal, and the quickness of his breathing betrayed the anger which he still harboured.

  Bolitho added, “Our sailing orders have just arrived.”

  Tyrrell did not seem to hear. “It was personal business, sir, I hadn’t th’ time to arrange otherwise.”

  “I see.”

  He waited, watching the man as he stared restlessly towards the stern windows. He had a strange way of standing, with one arm hanging down his side, the other inclined towards his sword. Relaxed, but wary. Like someone expecting an attack.

  He continued, “I would have preferred to meet my first lieutenant on board when I arrived.”

  “I have sent Cap’n Ransome’s remains ashore to be conveyed home with his possessions, sir. As you were not yet in command I felt personally free to act as I thought fit.” He looked at Bolitho evenly. “I was aboard th’ flagship to ask, plead if required, for a transfer to another ship. It was refused.”

  “You felt that by being passed over for command that your talents would be better suited elsewhere, is that it?”

  Tyrrell gave a slow smile. It changed him instantly from an angry man to one of obvious charm, with the inbuilt recklessness of a fighter.

  “I really am sorry, sir. But no, it was not that. As you no doubt know, I am what th’ late Cap’n Ransome would term a ‘local colonist.’” He added bitterly, “Although when I came aboard a year back it appeared we were all on th’ same side against th’ rebels.”

  Bolitho stiffened. It was strange he had never considered the feelings of those like Tyrrell before. Good American families, loyal to the Crown, the first to stand together against the sudden revolution in their midst. But as the war had spread, and Britain had fought to retain a grip, then a foothold in the colony, the loyal ones like Tyrrell had all at once become the outsiders.

  He asked quietly, “Where is your home?”

  “Virginia. Gloucester County. My father came out from England to found a coastal shipping trade. I was master of one of his schooners when th’ war began. I have been in th’ King’s service since that time.”

  “And your family?”

  Tyrrell looked away. “God knows. I have heard nothing of them.”

  “And you wished to transfer to a ship nearer home? To take yourself back to what you now consider your own people?” Bolitho did not conceal the bite in his tone.

  “No, sir. That ain’t it.” He raised one arm and dropped it again, his voice angry. “I am a King’s officer, no matter what Ransome chose to believe, damn his eyes!”

  Bolitho stood up. “I will not have talk of your late captain!”

  Tyrrell replied stubbornly, “Cap’n Ransome is safe now in his cask of spirits in th’ hold of a transport. His widow at his great London residence will weep for him, his service which cost him his life.” He laughed shortly. “Fever, they said.” He looked round the cabin. “See all this, sir? A woman’s hand. We barely logged a mile in Sparrow, without him having some damned doxy aboard for company!” He seemed unable to stop himself. “That’s th’ sort of fever which killed him in th’ end, and damned good riddance, if you ask me.”

  Bolitho sat down. Once again the ground had been cut from under him. Women, here in this cabin. He had heard of such things in grander ships, but only occasionally. But in Sparrow, where there could be little safety if called to do battle, it was unthinkable.

  Tyrrell was studying him grimly. “I had to tell you, sir. It’s my way. But I’ll say this one thing more. If disease hadn’t taken him, I’d have killed him myself.”

  Bolitho looked up sharply. “Then you’re a fool! If you have no more strength than in your bare hands then I will ask for your transfer, and make no mistake about it!”

  Tyrrell stared at a point beyond Bolitho’s shoulder.

  “Would you behave so calmly, sir, if one of th’ women had been your sister?”

  The door opened a bare inch and Stockdale’s battered face peered in at them. In his hand was balanced a small silver tray, two glasses and a decanter.

  He wheezed, “Thought you might want a bit o’ refreshment, sir.” He watched the two men and added, “Sort o’ celebration like.”

  Bolitho gestured to the table and waited until Stockdale had left. Still without speaking he filled the glasses, conscious of Tyrrell’s eyes following every movement. A bad start. For both of them. If there was still time to make amends it was now. This minute. If Tyrrell took advantage of his surrender, there was no saying where it would lead.

  He handed him a glass and said gravely, “I have two sisters, Mr. Tyrrell. In answer to your question, I daresay that I would not.” He smiled, seeing the sudden surprise in the lieutenant’s eyes. “I suggest you propose a toast for the pair of us, eh?”

  Tyrrell reached out and held his glass against Bolitho’s.

  “Then let’s drink to a new beginning, sir.”

  Bolitho held his glass steady. “No transfer?”

  He shook his head. “None.”

  Bolitho raised the glass. “Then, to a new beginning.” He took a sip and added quietly, “Which is well for you, Mr. Tyrrell. We are sailing tomorrow to join the inshore squadron.” He paused, seeing the sudden desperation on the other man’s features. “Not so very far from the coast of Maryland.”

  Tyrrell said, “Thank God. I know I’m being stupid, but just being off that shoreline again will make th’ world a difference.”

  Bolitho put down his glass. “Then I will meet our officers informally at the close of the first dog watch.” He was careful to make his tone formal again. Each of them had shown enough of his inner reserves for the present. “In the meantime you can take me on an inspection around the ship. And I will want to see everything, good and bad.”

  Tyrrell nodded. “So you shall, sir.” A slow grin spread across his face. “I have a shrewd feeling that Sparrow is going to fly like she’s never done before.” He stood aside as Bolitho threw on his coat and buttoned his shirt. “Now if you will follow me, sir.”

  Bolitho looked at Tyrrell’s broad shoulders as they walked towards the sunlight on the gun deck and held down a sigh. If each day was going to present a battle of wills, it would make the privilege of command a testing experience.

  He said, “We will begin with the starboard battery, Mr. Tyrrell.”

  The first lieutenant paused below the break in the quarterdeck. “As you said, sir. Everything.” He grinned again. “Good and bad.”

  Stockdale picked up Bolitho’s shaving bowl and peered at the untouched breakfast on the cabin table. Overhead and throughout the ship the air was alive with noise and bustle. To a landsman the activity of preparing to get under way would appear haphazard and disorganised, but to the practised eye each man had his place, and his reason for being there. The miles of cordage and rigging, each scrap of sail had a vital part to play if a ship was to move and act to perfection.

  Bolitho crossed to the stern windows and stared at the nearest strip of land. It was a bright morning, with the sky above the hills very pale, washed-out and clean. He could just see the staff above the headland battery, its flag no longer listless but lifting and curling to a fair northeasterly. It was almost physical pain to stay sealed in the cabin, waiting and fretting for the exact moment to s
how himself.

  Voices pealed along the upper deck and shadows flitted busily across the skylight. Occasionally he could hear the plaintive squeak of a fiddle, the distorted rumble of a shanty as the men tramped around the capstan.

  In the past hours and for most of the night he had tossed and turned in his cot, listening to the sea noises, the creak of timbers and rigging, his mind exploring every contingency, his brain bursting to the mental picture of his chart. Every unemployed eye would be watching him this morning. From the flagship’s quarterdeck to some unknown lieutenant who probably hated Bolitho for getting the golden chance which he considered should have been his.

  “The coffee, sir.” Stockdale hovered by the table. “While it’s still ’ot.”

  Bolitho swung round to curse him for breaking his racing thoughts, but the sight of his anxious face was too much for him. As was so often the case.

  He sat down at the table and tried to relax. Stockdale was right. If he had forgotten anything it was already too late. You could cram your head just so much. After that the mind became awash and confused beyond reason.

  He sipped his coffee and stared at the cold meat. He could not touch that. His stomach was already twisting with apprehension, the lean slices of pork would be just enough to tip the balance.

  Stockdale peered through the windows. “It will be a good passage, sir. Long enough to get the measure of these fellows.”

  Bolitho glanced up at him. He must be a mind-reader. In company with another sloop they were to escort two fat transports with supplies for the troops at Philadelphia once a rendezvous with the inshore squadron had been made. Two thousand miles, mostly in open waters, would certainly allow him time to test himself and his company. He had met his officers in the small wardroom the previous evening. With the exception of Tyrrell, all had been aboard since commissioning at Greenwich. He felt vaguely jealous of their obvious familiarity with the Sparrow . The two midshipmen, each eighteen years old, had joined as untrained novices. They had grown up in the Sparrow, and were now hopefully awaiting promotion. It was a pity they were only midshipmen, he thought. They might vie too much for their captain’s approval, where, in a larger ship and with more competition amongst the “young gentlemen” it would be less direct.

  Buckle had said little during their informal meeting. Reserved, and no doubt waiting to see how his captain would behave under sail, he had restricted himself to matters of navigation.

  Robert Dalkeith, the surgeon, was an odd one. Young, but already too plump for his own good, he was also completely bald, and wore a bright red wig. But he appeared more skilled in his trade than was usual in a King’s ship, as well as cultivated, and Bolitho imagined there was more to him than he showed at face value.

  Lock, the purser, a bobbing, genial stick of a man, completed the gathering.

  Graves had joined them later, making a good deal of noise about his trouble with the water-lighters, the difficulties in obtaining help ashore for loading boats, in fact the list had been formidable.

  Tyrrell had interrupted cheerfully, “It ain’t fair, Hector. You being singled out to be a bloody martyr like this!”

  Graves had frowned and then forced a smile when the others had joined Tyrrell in the laughter.

  Bolitho leaned back and stared at the skylight. He was not sure of Graves either. A hard worker. Ransome’s toady? It was hard to see where the latent bad feeling had started between him and Tyrrell. But it was there right enough.

  “Captain, sir?”

  Bolitho started and looked at the door. Midshipman Bethune was standing with his hat under his arm, his free hand grasping the hilt of his dirk. He was round-faced, sturdy youth, and his face was a mass of dark freckles.

  “Well?”

  Bethune swallowed. “Mr. Tyrrell’s respects, sir, and the transports have weighed. Fawn has her preparative hoisted, sir.” He glanced curiously round the cabin.

  Bolitho nodded gravely. “I will be up directly!”

  With elaborate care he forced himself to take another sip of coffee. It almost choked him. Fawn was the other sloop for the escort and would be carrying Colquhoun, in addition to her commander, as senior officer.

  The midshipman was still inside the cabin. He added awkwardly, “I am from Cornwall, too, sir.”

  Bolitho smiled in spite of his tension. The competition had begun already.

  He replied, “I will try not to hold it against you, Mr. Bethune.” He dropped his eyes as the boy fled from the cabin.

  He stood up and took his hat from Stockdale. Then with a brief nod he strode out towards the waiting sunlight.

  The gangways and decks seemed more crowded than ever as seamen ran this way and that, pursued by the hoarse shouts of their petty officers. As he reached the quarterdeck he saw two heavy transports idling towards the headland, their tan sails flapping and billowing in the breeze.

  Tyrrell touched his hat. “Anchor’s hove short, sir.”

  “Thank you.”

  Bolitho strode to the larboard side and stared towards the anchored Fawn. He could see the muddle of men at her capstan, the scurrying preparations as the cable became bar-taut beneath her beakhead.

  He crossed to the opposite side, trying to ignore the seamen who were poised at their stations on every hand. Beyond the nearest headland towards the hard blue horizon he saw a lively pattern of small white horses. Once outside this sheltered anchorage it would be good sailing weather. He glanced at the sluggish swirl of currents around a nearby storeship and bit his lip. He had to get free of all the shipping first.

  “Fawn’s signal is close up, sir!” Bethune was clinging to the shrouds with his telescope, although Colquhoun’s signal was clear enough to be seen without any glass.

  “Stand by on the capstan!”

  Tyrrell ran to the rail and cupped his big hands. “Loose th’ heads’ls!”

  Beside the wheel Buckle stood near the two helmsmen, his eyes watching Bolitho.

  “Breeze is freshening a mite, sir.”

  “Yes.”

  Bolitho walked to the rail and stared along his command. He saw Graves watching over the anchor party, Midshipman Heyward at the foot of the mainmast with his division of seamen.

  “Signal, sir! Up anchor!”

  “Hands aloft and loose tops’ls!”

  He stood back to watch the seamen surging up the shrouds and out along the swaying yards, their bodies black against the sky. Tyrrell said very little, and Bolitho observed that the topmen were well able to manage without added inducement from the deck. As canvas thundered loosely from the yards and the ship gave a longdrawn shudder, he saw the Fawn’s masts already swinging across the stern, her foretopsail filling to the wind as she heeled over.

  Bethune called, “Signal! Make haste, sir!” He lowered his glass, trying to avoid Bolitho’s eye.

  “Man the braces!”

  He tried to shut out Colquhoun’s last signal. Maybe he was endeavouring to goad him into doing something foolish. Perhaps he was always the same. But nothing must or would spoil this moment.

  From forward came the cry, “Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”

  Free of the land the Sparrow tilted steeply to the wind, the headland sliding across her jib-boom as with more and more canvas thundering and hardening from her yards she paid off into the wind.

  Blocks clattered and whined, and high above the decks the seamen sprang about like monkeys.

  Bolitho looked at Buckle. “Lay her on the larboard tack. Then set a course to weather the headland.” He held the master’s gaze and added, “We will get the courses on her directly and see if we can take the edge off Fawn’s lead.”

  Moments later, with her courses and topsails filling to the morning breeze, the Sparrow glided swiftly past an anchored two-decker which wore a vice-admiral’s flag at the fore.

  Bolitho glanced at Tyrrell and saw him give a quick grimace. He might have cause to regret his application for transfer, Bolitho thought. And so, if his trust in Tyrrell proved false,
would he.

  Between two anchored Indiamen and on down the fairway towards that beckoning headland. Small craft bobbed astern in the frothing wake, and when Bolitho moved from studying the compass he saw they had already cut Fawn’s lead by half a cable.

  Buckle glanced at the surgeon who was clinging to the mizzen shrouds with one hand and holding on to his outrageous wig with the other.

  He winked. “We have a rare one here, Mr. Dalkeith.”

  Dalkeith kept his face immobile as Bolitho glanced aft towards him before replying, “Poor Captain Ransome would never have left port with such dash, eh?” He gave a sly grin. “But then, at this time o’ the morning he would have been somewhat tired!”

  They both laughed.

  Bolitho’s voice brought them up with a jerk.

  “There is a yawl on the larboard bow, Mr. Buckle. Laugh later with my blessing, but run her down within sight of the flagship and you will laugh to another tune!”

  He turned back to the rail as Buckle hurled himself towards his helmsman.

  The tip of the headland was already dropping abeam, and he felt the Sparrow’s stem bite into the first gentle roller, her deck tilting still further under her press of canvas.

  Tyrrell shouted, “Anchor’s secured, sir!” Spray had soaked his face and shirt but he was grinning broadly.

  Bolitho nodded. “Good. Now get the forecourse trimmed. It looks like a piece of untidy linen.” But he could not hold his severity. “By God, she flies, does she not?”

  He looked aloft at the squared sails and braced yards, the masthead pendant which flicked out like a coachman’s whip. He had seen it all before so many times, but now it felt as if it was unique.

  Bethune called, “From Fawn, sir. Take station to wind’rd!”

  Bolitho smiled at him. “Acknowledge.”

  To the quarterdeck at large he added, “A fine morning!”

  By the hatchway Stockdale watched Bolitho’s pleasure and felt inwardly happy. He ran his eye over the hurrying seamen as they slithered down once more to the deck. Tanned and healthy, what did they know about anything? He picked his uneven teeth with an ivory pin. The captain had seen more action in the past years than they knew about. He watched Bolitho’s squared shoulders as he paced restlessly on the weather side. Given time, they’d come to find out, he decided.