Sloop of War

by Alexander Kent

  He was guided between the watching faces, and as the cabin door closed a slow murmur began to grow like combined anger.

  The admiral snapped, “I will not order you to be silent again!”

  “Surely you’re not going to believe that lying hound?” Colquhoun’s voice was shrill. “That . . . that . . . half-wit!”

  The marine captain stepped forward to restrain him but faltered as the admiral said calmly, “Pray continue, Captain Colquhoun.”

  “Oh, I knew about Bolitho and Maulby all right! As thick as thieves!” Colquhoun had turned slightly, his arms outstretched as if to embrace the court. “And I was well aware that Bolitho wanted all the glory for himself. That was why I sent him to the north and gave Maulby the chance to prove himself.” He was speaking very rapidly, and his face was shining with sweat, “I saw through Bolitho’s little game from the start, which was why he tried to condemn me. I knew he wanted to take the Frenchman for himself without giving me time to take up my proper attacking station. An attack overland and with boats indeed!” He stopped, his jaw hanging open with astonishment.

  The admiral said coldly, “So he did not agree with your plan of attack, Captain Colquhoun? Your testimony was a lie?”

  Colquhoun turned and stared at him, his mouth still open, as if he had just been struck by a pistol ball and was beginning to feel its first searing agony.

  “I—I . . .” He reeled away from the table. “I only wanted . . .” he could not go on.

  “March the accused out, Captain Reece!”

  Bolitho watched Colquhoun as he lurched past the assembled officers, his gait less steady than the blind seaman’s had been. It was incredible. Yet despite what had just happened he could sense neither release nor satisfaction. Shame, pity, he did not know what he really felt.

  “You may stand down, Captain Bolitho.” The admiral eyed him calmly. “It will be placed on record that you and your people acted and behaved in the best traditions of the Service.” He turned to the cabin at large. “Court will reassemble in two hours. That is all.”

  Outside the stuffy cabin it felt like a different world. Faces swam around him, hands gripped him, and many voices called greetings and congratulations.

  Tyrrell and Odell, with Buckle bringing up the rear, managed to guide him to a quieter part of the upper deck to await their respective boats. Bolitho saw the small artist and strode across to him.

  “Thank you for what you did.” He held out his hand. “I was hard on you earlier.” He looked round. “Where is that man Richards? I would like to thank him, too. It took true courage to act as he did.”

  “He’s already gone across to a transport, Captain. I asked him to wait, but . . .” He shrugged sadly.

  Bolitho nodded. “I understand. Here we all are, congratulating ourselves, while he has nothing to look forward to and no eyes to see what awaits him either.”

  The little man smiled, his gaze on Bolitho’s face, as if seeking to discover something.

  “My name is Majendie. I would like to speak with you again.”

  Bolitho clapped him on the shoulder, forcing a smile.

  “Then join me in my ship. If we must wait two hours, then I’d rather do it where I have a sense of freedom.”

  The court assembled at the exact moment prescribed, and Bolitho found he was barely able to take his eyes from Colquhoun’s sword. It was pointed towards him, the hilt on the opposite side of the table.

  The senior captain’s voice was lost, too, in his confused thoughts and memories. He heard fragments like “hazarding the lives of men under your command, the ships used at your direction.” And later: “ . . . did lay false evidence to smear the name of a King’s officer and thereby bring discredit on this court.” There was a lot more, but Bolitho heard other voices intermingled with the cold summing-up. Maulby, Tyrrell, even Bethune, they were all in it. And above all, the blind seaman, Richards. He were a good cap’n. Surely there was no better epitaph for any man?

  He jerked from his thoughts as the admiral said, “The sentence is that you be dismissed your ship and be confined under close arrest until such time you may be transported to England.”

  Colquhoun stared at the grave-faced officers and then at his sword.

  Dismissed his ship. Bolitho looked away. They should have hanged him. It would have been kinder.

  A voice broke the silence, “Prisoner and escort, quick march!”

  It was over.

  As the orderlies ushered the chattering spectators towards the quarterdeck, Rear-Admiral Christie came round the table and held out his hand.

  “Well done, Bolitho.” He shook Bolitho’s hand warmly. “I have great hopes for young officers of your cut.” He saw Bolitho’s uncertainty and smiled. “It grieved me to treat you as I did. But I had to have your name cleared of that slur. Right or wrong, it would have marked you for the rest of your service.” He sighed wearily. “Only Colquhoun could do it, and it took poor Richards to spark the flint.”

  “Yes, sir. I see that now.”

  The admiral picked up his hat and studied it.

  “Come ashore with me tonight. The Governor is holding a reception. A ghastly business, but it does no harm to see ’em enjoying themselves.” He seemed to sense Bolitho’s mood. “Take it as an order!”

  “Thank you, Sir Evelyn.”

  Bolitho watched him as he walked to his adjoining cabin. An invitation ashore. The admiral could just as easily have sentenced him to ignominy, if fate had not stepped in to aid him.

  He let out a long breath. When did you ever cease to learn about such complex matters?

  Then he strode out to look for his gig amongst the many boats alongside.

  The reception that evening proved to be even more breath-taking and unnerving than Bolitho had imagined it could be. As he handed his hat to a bewigged Negro footman and waited for Rear-Admiral Christie to exchange a few words with another flag officer, he stared up and around the great pillared hall, at the teeming throng of colourful figures who seemed to fill every inch of floor space and a handsome balcony as well. The scarlet coats of the military were very much in the majority, interspersed with velvets and brocades of their ladies, the familiar blue of sea-officers, although Bolitho noted with some alarm that most of the latter appeared to be admirals of one sort or another. Marine officers, too, their white facings and silver buttons distinguishing them from the soldiers, and so many civilians it was a wonder that New York had not come to a standstill. Along one side there were alcoves where Negro footmen and servants were kept busy at long tables, the contents of which were enough to make Bolitho think he was dreaming. The nation was at war, yet those tables were groaning under the weight of food and delicacies of every kind. Meats and huge portions of pie, tempting fruits and a glittering array of silver punch-bowls which were being refilled even as he watched.

  Christie rejoined him and murmured, “Take a good look at ’em, Bolitho. A man needs to know whom he is serving, as well as his cause!”

  A footman in green livery met them at the top of the marble stairs, and after a cursory glance addressed the assembled guests in a voice which would have fitted a foretopman in a gale. “Sir Evelyn Christie, Knight of the Bath, Rear-Admiral of the Red.” He did not bother to announce Bolitho, probably taking him as a mere aide, or some dependent relative.

  Not that it mattered. There was no break in the tide of laughter and conversation, and hardly anybody turned to examine the newcomers.

  Christie moved nimbly through the fringe of the crowd, nodding to a face here, pausing to pat a sleeve or bow to a lady there. It was hard to see him in his role that morning. President of the court. Answerable to nobody when he passed his sentence.

  Bolitho followed the admiral’s slight figure until they reached a table at the far end of the hall. Beyond it and the perspiring foot-men a doorway opened on to a great lawn, where he could see a fountain shining in the reflected glow of lanterns.

  “Well?” Christie waited until each had a h
eavy goblet in his hand. “What do you make of ’em?”

  Bolitho turned to study the press of figures by the alcove, hearing the strings of some invisible orchestra as they joined in a lively quadrille. How anyone could find room to dance he could not imagine.

  “It’s like a fairyland, sir.”

  Christie regarded him with amusement. “Fools’ paradise is a better description!”

  Bolitho tasted the wine. Like the goblet, it was perfect. He relaxed slightly. The question had put him on guard, but the admiral’s comment had shown that he had no intention of testing him.

  Christie added, “A town under siege, and we must accept that is the true position here, is always unreal. It is crammed with refugees and tricksters, merchants out for quick profit who care little for which side they trade with. And as always in a campaign of any size, there are two armies.”

  Bolitho watched him, momentarily forgetting the noise and bustle around him, the despair and anxiety of the morning. As he had believed from the first, Christie’s austere appearance hid a rapier-sharp mind. A brain which could sift and examine each challenge and problem, discarding everything that was superfluous.

  “Two armies, sir?”

  The admiral signalled for fresh goblets. “Drink your fill. You’ll not find wine like this elsewhere. Yes, we have the military who daily face the enemy, search out his weakness or try to contain his attacks. Soldiers who live on their feet. Know nothing of clean beds or good food.” He smiled sadly. “Like those you saved in Delaware Bay. Real soldiers.”

  “And the others?”

  Christie grimaced. “Behind every great army there is the organisation.” He gestured towards the crowd. “The military government, the secretariat, and the traders who live off the fighting like leeches.”

  Bolitho eyed the swaying figures outside the alcove with growing uncertainty. He had always mistrusted people of the sort described, but it seemed impossible that it was all so blatant, so dishonest as the admiral had said. And yet . . . he thought of the cheerful, chattering visitors at the court martial. Spectators to a man’s disgrace, but seeing it only as something to break the boredom of their own world.

  Christie watched him thoughtfully. “God alone knows how this war will end. We are fighting too many enemies, over too vast a span of the world to hope for some spectacular victory. But you, and those like you, must be warned if we are to have any chance of honour, let alone mastery over our adversaries.”

  The wine was very strong, and the heat of the hall helped to break Bolitho’s caution.

  “But, Sir Evelyn, surely here in New York, after all that has happened since the rebellion, they must be aware of the true facts?”

  He shrugged, a weary gesture. “The general staff is too busy with its own affairs to retain much concern for what is happening here. And the Governor, if we may call him so, spends so much time in chasing giddy young girls and enjoying his mounting riches, that he has no wish to alter matters. He was once an army quartermaster, therefore an accomplished thief, and is ably supported by a Lieutenant Governor who was originally a customs officer in a city which was renowned only for its smuggling!” He chuckled. “So between them they have tied this place into a bag for their own booty. No merchant or shipmaster can enter or leave without permits, from which our leaders reap a rich profit. New York is crammed with refugees, and the Governor decided that city, church and college moneys should be gathered into a fund for their relief.”

  Bolitho frowned. “Surely that was in good faith?”

  “Maybe. But most of it has been squandered away. Balls and dances, receptions such as this, misses and whores, hangers-on and favourites. It all takes a great deal of money and support.”

  “I see.”

  In fact he did not. When he thought of his ship, the daily risk of injury and death with little comfort or relief, the manner in which every fighting man was facing a determined enemy, he was appalled.

  Christie said, “To me duty stands before all else. I would hang anyone who acted otherwise. But these . . .” he did not hide his contempt, “these maggots deserve no loyalty. If we must fight a war, we should also ensure they have no gain from our sacrifice!”

  Then he smiled, the sudden relaxing of the lines around his eyes and mouth altering him yet again.

  “There, Bolitho, you have learned the next lesson, eh? First you command respect, then a ship. Next you achieve control of more and larger vessels. That is the way of ambition, without which no officer is worth a wet fuse to me.”

  He yawned. “Now I must be off.” He held up one hand. “But you remain and continue your education.”

  “Will you not stay to meet the Governor, sir?”

  Something like panic at the thought of being left abandoned made him show his inner feelings.

  Christie smiled cheerfully “Nobody will meet him tonight. He merely holds these affairs to pay off old debts and to keep his pot aboiling.” He beckoned to a footman. “So enjoy yourself. You have earned it, although I daresay you’d wish rather for London, eh?”

  Bolitho grinned. “Not London, sir.”

  “Ah, of course.” The admiral watched the footman approaching with his hat and boatcloak. “A son of the soil. I forgot.” Then with a nod he moved through the door to merge quickly with the deep shadows on the lawn.

  Bolitho found an empty corner at the end of the table and tried to decide what he should eat. He had to have something, for the wine was doing its work well. He felt unusually light-headed, although he knew that drink was not entirely to blame. By leaving him to fend for himself the admiral had momentarily cut the strings of control. He had given him his head to act and think as he wanted. He could not recall it ever happening like this before.

  A thickset post-captain, his face blotchy with heat and good wine, thrust past him and carved a huge piece of pie, adding several other sorts of cold meat to his plate before any footman could assist him. Bolitho thought of Bethune. The plate would have satisfied even his appetite for several days.

  The senior captain turned and focused his eyes on him.

  “Ah. What ship?”

  “Sparrow, sir.” Bolitho watched him squinting as if to clear his vision.

  “Never heard of her.” He frowned. “What’s yer name, eh?”

  “Richard Bolitho, sir.”

  The captain shook his head. “Never heard of you either.” He ambled back into the crowd, brushing some of the meat against a pillar without even pausing.

  Bolitho smiled. In these surroundings you soon found a proper awareness of your status.

  “Why, Captain!” The voice made him swing round. “It is! I just knew it was you!”

  Bolitho stared at the girl for several seconds without recognition. She was dressed in a beautiful, low-cut gown, the colour of tawny port wine, and her hair, which hung in ringlets across her bare shoulders, shone beneath the chandeliers like silk.

  He exclaimed, “Miss Hardwicke! I did not know you were here, in America.”

  He felt as foolish as he sounded, but her sudden appearance had caught him entirely aback. She was lovely, more so than he remembered since that far-off day. When she had defied her uncle, General Blundell, had shouted and kicked as his seamen had carried her bodily from the Indiaman before his fight with the Bonaventure .

  And yet she was exactly the same. The smile, half amused, partly mocking. The violet eyes which seemed to strip away his defences and leave him like some inarticulate ploughman.

  She turned to the tall officer at her side, wearing a frogged jacket of the dragoons, and said, “He was so young, so serious, I think all the ladies on board fell in love with the poor man.”

  The dragoon eyed Bolitho coldly. “I think we must hurry, Susannah. I would wish you to meet the general.”

  She reached out and laid a white-gloved hand on Bolitho’s sleeve.

  “It is good to see you again! I have often thought about you and your little ship.” Her smile faded and she became suddenly serious.
“You look well, Captain. Very well. A little older perhaps. A little less . . .” the smile crept back again, “of the boy dressed as a man?”

  He flushed, but was conscious of pleasure to match his confusion.

  “Well, I suppose . . .”

  But she was already turning away as two more escorts pushed from the jostling crowd to join her.

  Then she seemed to make up her mind.

  “Will you dine with me, Captain?” She studied him thoughtfully. “I will send a servant with the invitation.”

  “Yes.” The words came out in a rush. “I would like that very much. Thank you.”

  She gave a mock curtsy, bringing back the memory of their first meeting like a stab in the heart.

  “Then it is settled.”

  The crowd eddied and swayed and seemed to swallow her up completely.

  Bolitho took another goblet and walked unsteadily towards the lawn. Susannah, the dragoon had called her. It was perfect for her.

  He stopped beside the tinkling fountain and stared at it for several minutes. The reception had turned out to be a success after all, and made the morning seem just a blurred memory.

  14 JOIN THE LADIES

  THREE DAYS after the Governor’s reception the Sparrow was to all intents ready for sea again. Bolitho had carried out a careful inspection, and under Lock’s anxious scrutiny had signed the final manifest for stores and supplies. The last days had been uneventful, almost lazy, and Bolitho found it easier to understand, if not share, New York’s apparent lethargy. It was an unreal existence, with the war seen only at the end of a marching column of soldiers, or in some colourful account on the news-sheets.

  The flotilla’s other surviving sloop, Heron, had recently dropped anchor at Sandy Hook, and was now waiting hopefully for a similar overhaul.

  On this particular forenoon Bolitho sat in his cabin enjoying a glass of good claret with Heron’s commander, Thomas Farr. The latter had been a lieutenant at their last meeting, but Maulby’s death had given him a well-deserved promotion. He was elderly for his rank, probably ten years or so older than himself, Bolitho decided. A big, broad-shouldered man, uncouth, and with a ripe turn of phrase which reminded him vaguely of Tilby. He had come to his present appointment by a roundabout route. Sent to sea as a boy of eight years old, he had been in merchant service for most of his life. Coasters and mailpackets, Indiamen and humbler craft, he had eventually risen to command a collier brig out of Cardiff. With England embroiled in war he had offered his services to the Navy and been gratefully accepted. For if his manners and background marked him apart from many of his brother officers, his experience and skill in sail put him well ahead of them. Paradoxically, Heron was smaller than Sparrow, and like her commander had begun life as a merchantman. Consequently, her armament of fourteen guns was of lesser size. She had already gathered several good prizes, nonetheless.