Alexander Kent: Command a King`s Ship

He had had the usual flowery-worded handbills distributed around the port and nearby villages. He had sent recruiting parties as far inland as Guildford on the Portsmouth Road, but with small success. And now, as he followed the messenger towards some high gilded doors he knew Undine was still fifty short of her complement.

In one thing Bolitho had been more fortunate. Undine's previous captain had kept a shrewd eye on his ship's professional men. Bolitho had taken charge to discover that Undine still carried the hard core of senior men, the warrant officers, a first class sailmaker, and one of the most economical carpenters he had ever watched at work. His predecessor had quit the Navy for good to seek a career in Parliament. Or as he had put it, 'I've had a bellyful of fighting with iron. From now on, my young friend, I'll do it with slander!'

Rear Admiral Sir John Winslade was standing with his back to a fire, his coat-tails parted to allow the maximum warmth to reach him. Few people knew much about him. He had distinguished himself vaguely in some single-ship action off Brest, and had then been neatly placed inside the Admiralty. There was nothing about his pale, austere features to distinguish him in any way. In fact, he was so ordinary that his gold-laced coat seemed to be wearing him rather than the other way round.

Bolitho was twenty-seven and a half years old, but had already held two commands, and knew enough about senior officers not to take them at face value.

Winslade let his coat-tails drop and waited for Bolitho to reach him. He held out his hand and said, 'You are punctual. It is just as well. We have much to discuss.' He moved to a small lacquered table. 'Some claret, I think.' He smiled for the first time. It was like the sunlight in Whitehall. Frail, and easily removed.

He pulled up a chair for Bolitho. 'Your health, Captain.' He added, 'I suppose you know why I asked for you to be given this command?'

Bolitho cleared his throat. 'I assumed, sir, that as Captain Stewart was entering politics that you required another for…'

Winslade gave a wry smile. 'Please, Bolitho. Modesty at the expense of sincerity is just so much top-hamper. I trust you will bear that in mind?'

He sipped at his claret and continued in the same dry voice, 'For this particular commission I have to be sure of Undine's captain. You will be on the other side of the globe. I have to know what you are thinking so that I can act on such despatches as I might receive in due course.'

Bolitho tried to relax. 'Thank you.' He smiled awkwardly. 'I mean, for your trust, sir.'

'Quite so.' Winslade reached for the decanter. 'I know your background, your record, especially in the recent war with France and her Allies. Your behaviour when you were on the American station reads favourably. A full scale war and a bloody rebellion inAmerica must have been a good schoolroom for so young a commander. But that war is done with. It is up to us,' he smiled slightly, 'some of us, to ensure that we are never forced into such a helpless stalemate again.'

Bolitho exclaimed, 'We did not lose the war, sir.'

'We did not win it either. That is more to the point.'

Bolitho thought suddenly of the last battle. The screams and yells on every side, the crash of gunfire and falling spars. So many had died that day. So many familiar faces just swept away. Others had been left, like the two ragged soldiers, to fend as best they could.

He said quietly, 'We did our best, sir.'

The admiral was watching him thoughtfully. 'I agree. You may not have won a war, but you did win a respite of sorts. A time to draw breath and face facts.'

'You think the peace will not last, sir?'

'An enemy is always an enemy, Bolitho. Only the vanquished know peace of mind. Oh yes, we will fight again, be sure of it.' He put down his glass and added sharply, 'Now, about your ship. Are you prepared?'

Bolitho met his gaze. 'I am still short of hands, but the ship is as ready as she will ever be, sir. I had her warped out of the dockyard two days ago, and she is now anchored at Spithead awaiting final provisioning.'

'How short?'

Two words, but they left no room for manoeuvre.

'Fifty, Sir. But my lieutenants are still trying to gather more.'

The admiral did not blink. 'I see. Well, it's up to you. In the meantime I will obtain a warrant for you to take some "volunteers" from the prison hulks in Portsmouth harbour.'

Bolitho said, 'It's a sad thing that we must rely on convicts.'

'They are men. That is all you require at the moment. As it is, you will probably be doing some of the wretches a favour. Most of 'em were to be transported to the penal colonies in America. Now, with America gone, we will have to look elsewhere for new settlements. There is some talk of Botany Bay, in New Holland, but it may be rumour, of course.'

He stood up and walked to a window. 'I knew your father. I was saddened to hear of his death. While you were in the West Indies, I believe?' He did not wait for a reply. 'This mission would have been well cut for him. Something to get his teeth into. Self-dependence, decisions to be made on the spot which could make or break the man in command. Everything a young frigate captain dreams of, right?'

'Yes, Sir.'

He pictured his father as he had last seen him. The very day he had sailed for the Indies in Phalarope. A tired, broken man. Made bitter by his other son's betrayal. Hugh Bolitho had been the apple of his eye. Four years older than Richard, he had been a born gambler, and had ended in killing a brother officer in a duel. Worse, he had fled to America, to join the Revolutionary forces and later to command a privateer against the British. It had been that knowledge which had really killed Bolitho's father, no matter what the doctor had said.

He tightened his grip on his glass. Much of his prize money had gone into buying back land which his father had sold to pay Hugh's debts. But nothing could buy back his honour. It was fortunate that Hugh had died. If they had ever met again Bolitho imagined he might kill him for what he had done.

'More claret?' Winslade seemed absorbed with his own thoughts. 'I'm sending you to Madras. There you will report to…, well, it will be in your final orders. No sense in idle gossip.' He added, 'Just in case you cannot get your ship manned, eh?'

'I'll get them, sir. If I have to go to Cornwall.'

'I hope that will not be necessary.'

Winslade changed tack again. 'During the American campaign you probably noticed that there was little co-operation between military and civilian government. The forces on the ground fought the battles and confided in neither. That must not happen again. The task I am giving you would be better handled by a squadron, with an admiral's flag for good measure. But it would invite attention, and that Parliament will not tolerate in this uneasy peace.'

He asked suddenly, 'Where are you staying in London?'

'The George at Southwark.'

'I will give you an address. A friend's residence in St. James's Square.' He smiled at Bolitho's grave features. 'Come, don't look so gloomy. It is time you made your way in affairs and put the line of battle behind you. Your mission may bring you to eyes other than those of jaded flag officers. Get to know people. It can do nothing but good. I will send a courier with instructions for your first lieutenant.' He darted him a quick glance. 'Herrick, I gather. From your last ship.'

'Yes, Sir.' It sounded like 'of course'. There had never been any doubt whom he would ask for if he got another ship.

'Well then, Mr. Herrick it is. He can take charge of local matters. I'll need you in London for four days.' He hardened his tone as Bolitho looked about to protest. 'At least!'

The admiral regarded Bolitho for several seconds. Craving to get back to his ship, uncertain of himself in these overwhelming surroundings. It was all there and more besides. As Bolitho had entered the room it had been like seeing his father all those long years ago. Tall, slim, with that black hair tied at the nape of his neck. The loose lock which hung above his right eye told another story. Once as he had raised his glass it had fallen aside to display a livid scar which ran high into the hairline. Winslade was glad about his choice. There was intelligence on Bolitho's grave features, and compassion too, which even his service in seven years of war had not displaced. He could have picked from a hundred captains, but he had wanted one who needed a ship and the sea and not merely the security such things represented. He also required a man who could think and act accordingly. Not one who would rest content on the weight of his broadsides. Bolitho's record had shown plainly enough that he was rarely content to use written orders as a substitute for initiative. Several admirals had growled as much when Winslade had put his name forward for command. But he had got his way, for Winslade had the weight of Parliament behind him, which was another rarity.