Sloop of War

by Alexander Kent

  He replied, “No, but I am refreshed!”

  The stern cabin was much the same size as his own. There was no other similarity. Plain, even spartan, he was reminded of Tyrrell’s anger, his bitter attack on the woman’s touch. He saw Colquhoun sitting at a table, his chin in his hands as he stared at some newly opened despatches.

  Without pausing he said, “Sit down, both of you. I must give this matter my attention.”

  Maulby looked gravely at Bolitho and dropped one eyelid in a quick wink.

  Bolitho glanced away, Maulby’s easy acceptance of their superior was daunting. The little admiral. It suited Colquhoun very well.

  Maulby seemed well able to remain relaxed, yet he was nobody’s fool. Bolitho had noted the smart way his men had moved about the gun deck, the crisp passing and execution of orders. Bolitho had not met the other captains of Colquhoun’s flotilla. If they were all such odd birds as Maulby it was hardly surprising that Colquhoun was showing signs of strain. Or maybe in such small ships individual characters were more noticeable. He thought of Pears in the old Trojan, his rugged features which had never seemed to alter under any circumstances. In a gale, close to a lee shore, or under enemy fire, witnessing a flogging, or commending some sailor on promotion, he had always seemed remote and beyond personal contact. It was hard to imagine Maulby, he paused, or himself either, with such aloof and godlike powers.

  Colquhoun’s voice broke across his thoughts, sharp and incisive. “Miranda’s captain has brought serious news.” He still did not lift his head. “France has signed an alliance with the Americans. It means that General Washington will have the full support of French regular troops and a powerful fleet.”

  Bolitho shifted in his chair, his mind grappling with Colquhoun’s announcement. The French had already done much to help their new ally, but this would mean that the war was now firmly in the open. It also implied that the French were showing fresh confidence in the Americans’ chance of victory.

  Colquhoun stood up quickly and stared through the stern windows. “The Miranda is carrying despatches and intelligence for the Commander-in-Chief at New York. When he left Plymouth he had a brig in company with duplicate information for Antigua. The ships were caught in a storm shortly after clearing the Channel and the brig was not seen again.”

  Maulby asked quietly, “Taken by the French, sir?”

  Colquhoun swung on him with unexpected anger. “What the hell does it matter? Taken or wrecked, dismasted or bloody well eaten by worms, it makes no difference to us, does it!”

  Suddenly Bolitho realised the cause of his attack. Had Colquhoun remained at Antigua until his own ship had refitted, Maulby would have been in charge of the convoy’s escort. Miranda’s captain, desperate to carry his news to New York, and senior to Maulby, would have ordered him to make arrangements for the information to be taken without delay to Antigua. Nobody could rely on the brig’s survival as an excuse for doing nothing. By a mere twist of fate, or Colquhoun’s determination to keep control of his ships at sea, Miranda’s captain had been able to pass on the decision to him.

  In a calmer tone Colquhoun continued, “It has been reported that the French have been preparing ships for months. From Toulon a whole squadron set sail weeks ago and slipped through the Gibraltar patrols without so much as a squeak of news getting out.” He looked at each of them in turn. “They could be on their way here, to the American coast, anywhere, for all we know, damn their eyes!”

  The Fawn had swung slightly in the slow procession of troughs, and through the swaying windows Bolitho could see the two transports, huge and ungainly, their yards askew as they awaited the next signal. Each transport was filled to the deck seams with much needed supplies for the army in Philadelphia. In the wrong hands they would represent a tremendous prize, and the realisation must be foremost in Colquhoun’s mind.

  Colquhoun said, “Miranda has agreed to stand by the convoy until we contact the inshore squadron. But in this damned weather it might take weeks.”

  Bolitho imagined Colquhoun was picturing the distance like a mental chart. All those miles, with the knowledge that he must eventually make the long passage back to Antigua to resume control of his small force.

  Maulby drawled, “May I suggest that I continue with the transports, sir? With Miranda in company we will be safe enough.” He glanced at Bolitho. “You could then return in Sparrow to English Harbour, pass the news to the admiral and prepare our own ships for further work.”

  Colquhoun stared at him, his eyes unseeing.

  “God damn the complacency of our precious Government! For years this has been brewing, and while the French have been building new ships, ours have been allowed to go rotten for want of money. If the Channel Fleet were to be ordered to sea tomorrow I doubt that more than twenty sail of the line would be capable!” He saw their surprise and nodded vehemently. “Oh yes, gentlemen, while you have been out here imagining that all would be ready if once the call came, I have been made to stay silent and watch it happening.” He struck the table with his fist. “Some flag officers are too concerned with political power and gracious living to care for the wants of the fleet!”

  He sat down heavily. “I must decide . . .”

  The door opened slightly and a frightened-looking midshipman said, “From Miranda, sir. She requests instructions . . .” He got no further.

  “Tell him to mind his manners!” Colquhoun glared at him hotly. “It is my decision!”

  Bolitho glanced at Maulby. For the first time in his life he was beginning to realise the meaning of command. Whatever Colquhoun decided could be equally right or wrong. Bolitho had learned one thing well. If you made a right decision, others often received the credit. But make a wrong one and you were in no doubt where the blame would he.

  Colquhoun said suddenly, “Send for your clerk, Maulby. I will dictate new orders for . . .” he looked at Bolitho, “for Sparrow.”

  He seemed to be speaking his thoughts aloud. “I do not doubt your ability, Bolitho, but you lack experience. I will need Maulby’s Fawn with me until I know what is to happen next.” He gestured to the table as the ship’s clerk entered the cabin. “You must remain with the transports. Miranda’s captain will give you guidance, and you will obey him to the best of your skill. Your orders will allow you to return to the flotilla when the transports have been delivered.” He paused and added softly, “Delivered.”

  Bolitho rose to his feet. “Aye, sir.”

  “Now get out and leave me to draft these orders.”

  Maulby took Bolitho’s elbow and guided him towards the gun deck.

  “I think the little admiral is worried, my friend.” He sighed. “I was hoping to rid my ship of his presence and pass him on to you.” He turned and gave a quick grin. “There is no justice in this world!”

  Bolitho, saw his gig falling and rising in the swell, Stockdale shading his eyes as he watched the sloop for a recall.

  He said, “The news is bad, but not unexpected. At least the pretence is done with.”

  Maulby nodded gravely. “No comfort, I fear, to the lamb about to be devoured.”

  Bolitho stared at him. “Not that serious surely?”

  “I am not certain. What the Frogs do today the damned Spaniards will copy tomorrow. Soon we will have the whole world at our throats.” He frowned. “The little admiral is right on one score. It seems that our Government is run by demons, most of whom appear determined to drive the rest of us to madness.”

  The first lieutenant hurried into view and proffered a freshly sealed envelope.

  Maulby clapped Bolitho on the shoulder and said cheerfully, “Think of us sometimes. While you enjoy your leisurely voyage, I will be forced to share my table with him.” He rubbed his hands. “But with any luck he may get promotion and vanish forever.”

  The lieutenant said urgently, “Captain Colquhoun’s compliments, and will you join him immediately?”

  Maulby nodded and held out his hand.

  “Until we
meet again, Bolitho.” He seemed unwilling to let him leave. Then he said awkwardly, “Be warned, my friend. You have a fine command, but you also have a large number of colonists in your company.” He tried to smile. “If the war goes badly, there are some who might be tempted to change allegiance. In their shoes I could perhaps feel the same.”

  Bolitho met his gaze and nodded. “Thank you. I will remember it.”

  Maulby did not hide his relief. “There, I knew you were a good fellow! Not one to treat my clumsy advice as patronage.”

  Bolitho grinned. “You took a risk. I might have gone to

  Colquhoun and told him of your name for him.”

  “I would have denied it!”

  “Naturally!”

  They both laughed.

  Then as the gig hooked on to the chains they became formal again. Even before Bolitho had reached the boat flags were soaring up the Fawn’ s yards, and an acknowledgment appeared above the frigate with equal speed.

  Bolitho settled himself in the sternsheets and stared towards his ship. Colquhoun had taken the responsibility and made a decision. His own responsibility was just beginning.

  Lieutenant Tyrrell turned as Bolitho’s head and shoulders rose through the quarterdeck hatch and waited until he had made his usual inspection of the sails and compass before remarking, “She’s running well, sir.”

  Bolitho walked across the tilting deck and rested his hands on the rail, feeling the hull quivering beneath him like a living creature. The noon sun stood high over the ship, but he was able to ignore it, conscious only of the well-filled sails, the leap of spray up and over the bowsprit. It had been five days since Fawn had turned back for Antigua, and it seemed as if Colquhoun’s disappearance from their midst had brought a change of luck and weather. Perverse as ever, but for once on their side, the wind had backed suddenly to south-south-west and had freshened into a lively blow which had hardly dropped during the whole time. Under bulging canvas the ships had driven on towards the American coast, which according to the most recent calculations now lay some two hundred and fifty miles away. The heavy merchantmen had maintained a good five knots, satisfied perhaps that Miranda’s captain was content to leave them to their own devices. The frigate’s signals had been confined for the most part to Sparrow . For within twenty-four hours of leaving Fawn the masthead lookout had sighted a solitary sail once again, far astern of the convoy, a tiny white flaw on the horizon.

  Bolitho had sent Graves aloft with a telescope, but even he had been unable to identify the mysterious follower. Next he signalled to the frigate, requesting permission to investigate. He had been refused. Miranda’ s captain was probably regretting his meeting with the convoy. But for their dragging weight he would have reached his objective by now and would have borne no blame for failing to pass his news to Antigua. But once in contact with the slower vessels he had no choice but to act as he had. Also, he would be fully aware that once beyond his control Sparrow might become too involved with a separate situation to return, and thus leave him with total responsibility for the transports.

  The unknown sail had not been sighted again, and Bolitho had accepted that Miranda’s captain had been right, if over cautious, to restrain his efforts.

  He looked at Tyrrell’s bronzed features and nodded. “I am well satisfied.”

  He watched some foretopmen sliding down the backstays, racing each other to the deck after their work aloft. Buckle was right. She moved like a bird with any sort of wind. He watched the Bear, the transport closest to his own ship, and wished they were free of the convoy. Then he could really put Sparrow to the test. Royals, even studding sails could be rigged, if only to find out what she could accomplish under every stitch of canvas.

  Most of the unemployed officers were on deck enjoying their usual gossip before the midday meal, careful to stay on the lee side and as much out of his way as possible.

  He saw Dalkeith, the surgeon, laughing with Buckle, his head very white in its baldness under the harsh light. The red wig was being vigorously shaken by the wardroom servant, and Bolitho guessed it had been given some sort of a wash. Lock, the purser, was in a more serious conversation with young Heyward, opening and ruffling a big ledger in the wind as he explained some point of victualling which might place the midshipman’s knowledge above that of his friend Bethune. The latter, being on watch, stood untidily by the quarterdeck rail, his shirt open to his waist and massaging his stomach with one hand. Bolitho smiled. The boy was no doubt hungry. Midshipmen like Bethune usually were.

  Down on the gun deck many of the seamen were lounging beneath the sails’ great shadows or passing the time like their officers. The boatswain was with his own friend Yule, the gunner, and together they would have made a frightening pair of highwaymen, Bolitho thought. Whereas Tilby was vast and ungainly, his heavy features seamed with too much drink, Yule was swarthy and lithe, like a stoat, with darting, flinty eyes which were forever on the move.

  As he glanced from group to group he was again reminded of his new-found isolation. Privacy which could lead to loneliness. Privilege which might become a burden.

  He thrust his hands behind him and began to pace slowly along the weather side, letting the warm wind ruffle his hair and play with his open shirt. Somewhere out there beyond the hammock nettings was the coast of America. It would be strange to drop anchor only to find the war had finished, that blood had proved too strong in the face of France’s new challenge. If England were to admit to America’s independence then perhaps both nations would unite against France and settle her ambitions once and for all. He glanced at Tyrrell’s profile and wondered if he was thinking the same.

  He shut Tyrrell’s personal problems from his mind and tried to concentrate on the string of affairs which daily needed his attention. The water supply should be replenished as soon as possible. The casks were poor, and water soon became rancid in this climate. And he would purchase fresh fruit whenever they contacted the land or some supply vessel. It was amazing that the ship’s company had stayed so healthy when Ransome had failed to take such simple precautions. Aboard the old Trojan he had not seen one case of scurvy in the three years he had been in her, evidence of Captain Pears’s concern for his men and a valuable lesson to all his subordinates. He had already spoken about it to Lock, and after some hesitation the purser had muttered, “A costly affair, sir.”

  “Costlier if our people go down with disease, Mr. Lock. I have known a whole squadron rendered useless because of such skinflint methods.”

  Then there was the matter of a flogging, his first as captain. He had always disliked unnecessary use of punishment even though he knew it to be necessary on occasions. In the Navy discipline was harsh and instant, and when a ship was miles from home and other authority, it was a captain’s deterrent to insubordination and final confusion. Some captains used it without thought. Brutal and inhuman floggings were commonplace in many ships, and as a young midshipman Bolitho had nearly fainted after one such spectacle. Other captains, weak and inefficient, left authority to subordinates and shut their ears to its misuse.

  But for the most part the English seaman knew the measure of his service, and if he took chances was prepared to accept the consequences. And if one man thieved or cheated another of his messmates he had no mercy at all. The justice of the lower deck was equally feared to that of a captain.

  But this case was different, or could be from what he knew of it. A seaman had defied Lieutenant Graves during a night watch when the hands had been called to reef topsails in an unexpected squall. He had shouted at the officer and called him a “heartless bugger” within earshot of some twenty other people.

  In confidence Tyrrell had asked Bolitho to accept the seaman’s explanation. He was a good hand, and Graves had provoked him in a fit of anger when he had failed to reach his station on the mainyard with his companions.

  A dirty Yankee bastard. They were the words Graves had used. Too lazy to do his proper duty, and no doubt too gutless to fight whe
n the time came.

  All this and Tyrell’s heated attack on Graves’s handling of the matter were fresh proof of the latent tension amongst the company under his command.

  Graves had been adamant. The man had insulted him in front of his watch and must be punished.

  He was right in one respect. His authority had to be upheld or he would never be able to retain control again.

  Bolitho blamed himself. If he had had more time to consider this unusual situation, or had taken less comfort from his own new position, he could have prevented it. By example or by forcing his will on his officers he might have made them realise that such behaviour would not be tolerated. But that was all too late now. It had happened.

  He had compromised by standing the man over, knowing then as at this moment that he was merely postponing the inevitable.

  He glanced up towards the mainyard, braced hard round as the ship heeled close-hauled on a larboard tack. He could see the man now, naked but for a scrap of canvas, working with some others on the endless business of re-splicing and repairs high above the deck. Did Tyrrell really think the man was provoked? he wondered. Or was he standing up for him because he imagined Graves was getting at him by punishing another colonist?

  “Deck there!” The masthead lookout’s cry was muffled by the wind and the lively crack of sails. “Miranda’s signallin’!”

  Bolitho swung round. “Jump to it, Mr. Bethune! You are half asleep today!”

  Tyrrell stood aside as the midshipman ran to the lee shrouds with his telescope.

  “Thinking of his next meal!” He was smiling at the boy’s confusion.

  “It seems that the masthead lookout was the only one in this watch thinking of his duty, Mr. Tyrrell!”

  The edge of his voice brought a flush to the lieutenant’s face and he turned away without answering.

  Bethune called, “From Miranda, sir! Sail to the nor’-west!”

  “Acknowledge.”

  Bolitho was angry with Tyrrell’s careless attitude, angrier still more with his own unfair outburst.