Sloop of War

by Alexander Kent

  In the West Indies and along the American coast the work of patrolling took on new importance. As Bolitho had always thought, it was far better for the eyes of the fleet to be left unhampered by close authority. True to his word, the admiral had offered him almost total independence, and had given him scope to patrol and seek out the enemy in his own way, provided, of course, his efforts were rewarded with some success.

  Bolitho leaned back in his chair and stared at the deckhead. Again the word luck seemed to hover in his mind.

  Maulby had scoffed at the explanation. He had once said, “You are successful because you have trained yourself to think like the enemy! God damn it, Dick, I caught a lugger loaded with contraband which had come from as far south as Trinidad, and even that wretched fellow had heard of you and Sparrow!”

  It was certainly true about one thing, Bolitho decided, they had been successful. In the past eighteen months alone they had taken twelve prizes and despatched two small privateers with the loss of twenty killed and wounded and very little damage to the ship.

  He let his eyes wander round the cabin, less elegantly painted now, even shabby after ceaseless service in all weathers. It was strange to realise that apart from the unexpected promotion, symbolised by the dress coat with white lapels and bright gold facings which swung gently inside the sleeping compartment, there was outwardly little to show for it. And yet he was a rich man, and, for the first time in his life, independent of the home and estate in Falmouth. He smiled ruefully. It seemed almost shameful to become moderately wealthy merely because he was doing the one thing he enjoyed.

  He frowned, trying to think of something to purchase if and when they were allowed a stay in port. And they were well overdue for that. Despite her coppered hull, Sparrow’s speed had been reduced by a full knot in otherwise perfect sailing conditions by long clinging weed which defied the copper and their efforts to move it. He would buy some wine perhaps. Good wine, not the bitter-tasting muck which was normally used as the only alternative for foul drinking water. A dozen shirts or more. His mind played with the idea of such luxury. At the present moment he had only two shirts which would bear close inspection.

  It might be possible to find a good sword somewhere. Not like the one which had shattered aboard the privateer, nor the curved hanger which he had used since, but something better. Lasting.

  He heard footsteps beyond the door and knew it was Tyrrell. He would have known it even if it had been another time, a different watch. For since being wounded Tyrrell had been unable to rid himself of a limp and not a little pain.

  The first lieutenant had otherwise not changed very much, he thought. Or maybe the three years had drawn them so close he had not noticed it. Unlike Graves, who seemed to have withdrawn even further and had grown noticeably more nervous after each action or skirmish. Upon his promotion to captain, Bolitho had become entitled to an extra lieutenant, and the appointment fell vacant on the very day the two midshipmen went aboard the flagship to sit for their commissions. Heyward had passed with flying colours, and now, looking back, it was hard to recall him as a midshipman at all. Bethune had unfortunately failed his exams, not once, but three times, and Bolitho repeatedly wondered how best to get rid of him. He had grown very fond of Bethune, but knew that being retained in Sparrow’s confined community was only acting against his remaining, if dwindling, chances. His navigation was hopeless, his ability to take charge of the quarterdeck and set the hands to making or shortening sail was dismal to behold. As a marine officer, or even a foot soldier, he would have been adequate. He could obey orders, even if he found them hard to formulate. Under fire he had shown plenty of courage, and a boyish stoicism which was rarely matched even by a seasoned sailor. Now, aged twenty, and with no hope of gaining the commission he so obviously desired, he stood out like a sore thumb. Heyward had tried to help him, more so than Bolitho had imagined he would. But it was no use. The ship’s company treated him with cheerful acceptance, as they would a child. His burden had not been eased by the appointment of a new midshipman to take Heyward’s place.

  Roger Augustus Fowler, sixteen years of age, and with the pouting features of a petulant pig, had soon learned to add to rather than detract from Bethune’s misery.

  Fowler’s arrival had further enlarged the rift between Bolitho and Colquhoun. The boy was the son of the admiral’s best friend, and so his appointment to this or any ship was very close to a royal command. The offspring of some influential person could be a great handicap to a young and busy captain, but equally he could open doors otherwise denied by the chain of command. Colquhoun had probably seen the boy’s arrival from England as an opportunity in the latter category, and had been outraged when the admiral had chosen Sparrow rather than his frigate Bacchante .

  Fowler had been aboard for eight months and was not popular. It was nothing you could put a name to. Obedient and attentive in the presence of his superiors, he could be equally sharp and sarcastic with seamen old enough to be his father. He had a way of shutting off his expression, using his pale eyes and pouting lips like the extensions of a mask. If he ever reached command rank he would be a tyrant to serve, Bolitho thought.

  There was a tap at the door and Bolitho swept his musings into the background.

  Tyrrell limped into the cabin and sat down at the table. Against his open shirt his skin was burned almost to mahogany, and his hair had become a shade lighter under forgotten suns. He pushed the calculations across the chart and together they looked at Sparrow’s approximate position.

  To the south lay the nearest extensions of the Bahama Islands, the countless spans of cays and reefs, treacherous sandbars and islets. Some eighty miles to the west lay the coast of Florida, and to the east the main routes used by ships going to and fro from the Indies and New York. It was a veritable warren of islands and narrow channels, although to the untried eye of a landsman the sea might appear at peace, broken here and there by restful purple humps of land shrouded in low haze. But to the mariner the chart showed much more, and that was less than he required to know the true margin of safety. The occasional dab of white betrayed a reef, the duller patch on the sea’s face might represent a cloak of weed across some vast pinnacle lurking beneath the surface, the spines of which could tear the keel from a ship like the string from an orange.

  Tyrrell said at length, “I reckon we’ve lost th’ bugger.”

  “Maybe.” Bolitho opened a drawer in the table and took out two long clay pipes. Handing one to Tyrrell he groped for a tobacco bowl and then said, “Is Fawn still in sight?”

  Tyrrell grinned. “Sure enough. ’Bout three miles to th’ east’rd.” He tamped down the tobacco in his pipe and added, “Our masthead lookout thought he saw breakers to th’ sou’-west. If so, that would be the Matanilla Shoal, which fixes our calculations, so to speak.”

  Bolitho lit his pipe from the hanging smoking-lantern and then walked restlessly to the windows. Once near the sill he felt the slow breeze across his face and chest like air fanned from a blacksmith’s forge. When eventually the wind returned to give life to the sails it was to be hoped it came from the south-east as before. It was no time to be driven closer to those deadly shoals. But they had to stay near enough to be able to watch at least three channels while Fawn patrolled further to the east. For six weeks, in company with the other sloop, they had been searching for a big blockade runner, a French flute which had been reported out of Martinique and heading north, most likely for the enemy base of naval operations in Newport, Rhode Island. The information from spies, or those merely after recognition or reward, was always open to doubt. But a flute, which was a large man-of-war with some of her armament removed to facilitate the fast passage of men or stores, was too important to be ignored.

  The flotilla’s third sloop, Heron, was sweeping somewhere to the south, off the Andros Islands, and Colquhoun’s Bacchante had, as far as he knew, remained in more open waters to the west, between the Bahamas and the American mainland.

  Once
away from Colquhoun’s supervision, Bolitho had taken the sloops to their present position. On the chart the chance of making contact with a solitary enemy seemed impossible, but he knew by now that if the sea appeared empty, it was in fact divided into channels by sprawling reefs and cays, and was just as much a hazard to enemy as to friend.

  “If we take her, it’ll be another feather for us.” Tyrrell watched his pipe-smoke drifting through the skylight above him. “I often wonder if it makes all that difference to th’ war.”

  “It all helps, Jethro.”

  Bolitho studied him gravely. How close they had become. Like the use of first names, the ritual pipe-smoking for as long as the tobacco stock lasted, it all seemed to symbolise what the ship had made them.

  Time and distance, hours and days spent in every sort of condition, they had all left their mark on Sparrow’s company. Even the necessary changes brought about by death and injury, transfer and discharge had seemed unable to break the little ship’s hold on their destiny. Over a third of the company were replacements made since he had taken command, and apart from colonists, included a sprinkling of Negroes, some merchant seamen pressed from a home-bound ship, and a solitary Greek who had deserted his own vessel only to be taken aboard a French brig as a captive. The brig, seized as a prize by Sparrow, had yielded several new hands, and the Greek had proved to be an excellent assistant cook.

  “How long will you give her?”

  Bolitho considered the question. “Another week maybe. If she doesn’t show herself, I think we can assume she’s slipped past us, or turned back somewhere. She might have run into one of the patrols further south.”

  “Aye.” Tyrrell yawned. “An’ then we can get some time in port.”

  Feet pounded overhead and they heard Buckle shout, “Call all hands! Th’ wind’s a’coming back!”

  Then there was a rap on the door and Bethune peered in at them, his round face sweating badly.

  “Mr. Buckle’s respects, sir. The wind is freshening from the sou’-east. Fawn’s tops’ls are already filling.”

  “I’ll come up.” Bolitho waited until the midshipman had withdrawn before asking quietly, “What am I to do about him?”

  Tyrrell shrugged. “He’ll not get promoted unless by a miracle. Maybe if we put him in charge of our next prize?” He shook his head before Bolitho could comment. “Almighty God, the lad’d lose his way an’ th’ prize!”

  On deck they found the hands already being mustered while overhead the sails were stirring uneasily, the masthead pendant lifting as the first breeze reached it.

  “Man th’ braces!” Tyrrell strode to the rail and squinted into the glare. “It’ll be up to us soon, lads.”

  Bolitho shaded his eyes to stare at the other sloop as her sails suddenly filled and brought her round in a slow pirouette. Across the sea’s glittering face he saw the first ruffle of wind, then felt the sun-dried planking lift under his shoes, the immediate response of blocks and halliards.

  The Sparrow’s decks were like tinder and it made no difference how many times they were doused down. Paintwork was blistered by the heat, and as he turned to watch the busy seamen he realised it was hard to tell the Negroes from his original company. Lean and sun-dried maybe, he thought, but they looked healthy and bright-eyed, ready for anything.

  Tyrrell called, “Shall I have th’ larboard cutter towed astern now, sir?”

  Bolitho nodded. Only by towing them alternately could they hope to keep them from drying out and opening their seams. Even half filling them with water on board seemed to have small effect.

  “Yes. Tell Mr. Tilby to . . .” He checked himself and added, “Pass the word to the boatswain, if you please.”

  After six months, it was still difficult not to speak his name, or expect to see his sweating features peering aft at the quarterdeck.

  They had run down a Spanish schooner off the Great Bahama Bank, but had been forced to fire on her when she refused to yield. Then, with grapnels flying like snakes, Sparrow had surged alongside in the manner so well practised that it was accepted without comment even by the new men. A few pistol shots, the sight of the half-naked boarders with drawn cutlasses had been enough to quench the Spaniard’s resistance and it was all over almost before it had begun. Sometime in the middle of it, while men had dashed to shorten sail and prepare for boarding, as Bolitho had waved his arm to signal the Spanish master to strike and avoid bloodshed, Tilby had died.

  Not in the heat and terror of close action or under an enemy broadside, but quietly and without fuss while he had stood at the foot of the foremast, his favourite place where he usually kept an eye on the workings of his ship. Dalkeith had examined him and reported that the boatswain’s heart had given out, like a clock which had run its course and could take no more.

  His death made a deep impression on everyone who had known him. To die in such a way was unthinkable. Tilby, who had survived battles at sea and countless drunken brawls in taverns the world over, had gone without a man seeing his passing.

  When Tyrrell had collected his possessions Bolitho had been dismayed to see that there was hardly anything to barter amongst the company and thereby raise money for dependents he might have in England. Two small wood carvings of ships he had once served, and one of them was broken, a collection of foreign coins, and his silver call which had been presented to him by no less a person than Captain Oliver of the Menelaus where he had served as a bosun’s mate. Poor Tilby, he had not even learned to write his own name, and his language was limited to the profane for much of the time. But he knew ships, and he knew Sparrow like his own body.

  Harry Glass, the senior boatswain’s mate, had been promoted in his place, but like most of the others seemed unable to accept that he was now independent of Tilby’s booming voice and ever-vigilant eye.

  As he watched the cutter rising from its chocks on the gun deck Bolitho wondered if indeed Tilby had anyone ashore to grieve for him. He touched the sun-heated taffrail and shuddered. He was a captain now, the realisation of a dream which had been with him since he could remember. If the war suddenly ended, or other circumstances forced him to leave the Navy, he would drop from his present foothold like a falling stone. Not being confirmed to post-rank, he would end up as a mere lieutenant on half-pay, and all this would just be a mocking memory. But how much worse for those like Tilby. He ran his eyes quickly across the men nearest to him as they worked at the braces to set Sparrow before the wind again. They had nothing. A little prize money if they were fortunate, some bounty maybe from a charitable captain, otherwise they would be thrown on the beach less able to face the demands of the outside world than when they had volunteered or been pressed into service. It was unjust. Worse, it was dishonourable to treat men so shabbily, when without their sacrifice and courage their country would have fallen to an enemy years ago.

  He began to pace the deck, his chin sunk on his chest. Perhaps one day they could change it. Make the Navy a Service where men from all walks of life would be as glad as he was to serve in reasonable security.

  “Deck thar! Breakers on the larboard bow!”

  He came out of his thoughts and said. “Bring her round two points, Mr. Buckle. We will give those reefs a wide berth until we are clear.”

  “Aye, sir.”

  He turned his attention to the other sloop, noting that Maulby had managed to repaint his hull in spite of the heat. Fawn was exactly the same colour as Sparrow, and to any uncertain eye would appear a twin. It was another part of Bolitho’s hard-won experience. When sailing separately, the fact they looked so similar helped to keep the enemy or his spies guessing. Like the flag locker, which he had stocked with almost every foreign flag in the book. Deception and surprise had been the enemy’s game. Bolitho was reaping the benefit of their past success and turning the tables against them.

  “West nor’-west, sir! Steady as she goes!”

  “Very well.” He glanced at the compass and at the set of the main topsails. “Not much of a wi
nd, Mr. Buckle, but it suffices for the present.”

  All afternoon and into early evening the two sloops continued on the same tack, with the wind showing no sign of changing in strength or bearing.

  The first dog watch was just drawing to its close and Bolitho was making another attempt to complete his letter when a sail was reported to the south-west. Signalling Fawn to remain in company, Bolitho altered course to investigate, but as the newcomer showed no sign of running he guessed it was a friendly ship. The masthead soon confirmed that she was in fact the flotilla’s little schooner Lucifer, a vessel kept as busy if not busier than any of them, carrying despatches and poking into coves and bays where even sloops found little room to move in safety.

  In the dull bronze sunlight she made a pretty sight, with her big fore-and-aft sails spread like wings across her narrow hull as she tacked towards the sloops, her signal flags soaring aloft to break in brightly coloured squares.

  Bethune called, “Have despatches on board, sir!”

  Bolitho looked at Tyrrell. “Heave to, if you please.” To Bethune he added, “Make to Fawn . Remain in close company.” He crossed to the rail as Tyrrell lowered his speaking trumpet. “You can never be sure. She might have good news for us.”

  Tyrrell gripped the rail, grimacing with pain as, with sails slapping fussily, Sparrow came up into the wind.

  “Damn this leg!” In a calmer tone he said, “Good or bad, it’s grand to see a friend. I was beginning to think we had th’ bloody sea to ourselves.”

  A jolly boat was already on its way, and Bolitho saw that Lieutenant Odell, the schooner’s captain, was coming in person, and felt a sudden twinge of hopeful excitement.