Alexander Kent: Sloop Of War

He stared at himself in the glass. Today?

It seemed that in Antigua you could obtain everything even at such short notice, for a price. And now, instead of his faded lieutenant's uniform, he was looking at the broad blue lapels of commander, the single gold stripe on each sleeve which showed him to be what was to all intent a junior captain. Behind him on the chair a gold-laced cocked hat shone in the filtered sunlight, and like everything else about him, his white waistcoat and breeches, a tight neckcloth and his dusty shoes, even the handsome basket-hilted sword which he had chosen with such care, were so new that they felt like borrowed finery. He had not dared to contemplate the cost, the bribes required to obtain everything within the allotted time. An advance on his well-earned prize money had sufficed for the present?

He touched the lock of black hair which hung rebelliously above his right eye. Beneath it the deeps savage scar which ran to his hairline felt hot, as if it had been a matter of weeks rather than years when he had been struck down by a cutlass?

In spite of his inner tension he grinned at himself? Junior or not, he had taken the first real step. One which would bring him either fame or disgrace, but which like all his family before him he had awaited with both andiety and eagerness?

More footsteps sounded in the passageway and he adjusted his neckcloth and settled the new sword more comfortably on his hip. Once again his image in the mirror was like a stranger's. The uniform, the tense way he was holding his slim figure as if on parades displayed more apprehension than he had believed he harboured?

The footsteps halted outside the door, and in one movement Bolitho swept up the cocked hat and jammed it beneath one arm, trying to ignore his heart pounding against his ribs like a hammer. His mouth was bone dry, yet he could feel the sweat running between his shoulder-blades like warm rain?

Richard Bolitho was twenty-two years old and had been in the King's Navy since the age of twelve. But as he stared fixedly at the gilt door handle he felt more like a frightened midshipman than the man who was about to receive the most coveted gift to be bestowed on any living creature. x command of his own?

The marine sergeant stared at him woodenly." When you're ready, sir. Cap'n Colquhoun will see you now."

"I'm ready, thank you."

The marine eyed him with the merest hint of a smile?

"He'll be glad to know that, I'm sure, sir."

Bolitho did not hear a word. Following the sergeant he strode out into the passageway, and another world?

Captain Vere Colquhoun rose briefly from behind a large desk, made as if to offer his hand, and then sank back into his chair?

"Pray be seated, Bolitho."

He had his back to a window and it was impossible to see his expression. But as Bolitho arranged himself into a narrow, high-backed chair he was well aware of the other man's scrutiny?

Colquhoun said, "You have a good report." He opened a canvas folder and ran his eyes across the attached papers." I see that you were commissioned lieutenant in 'seventy-four." He glanced up sharply? "Well?"

Bolitho replied, "Yes, sir. The Destiny, frigate."

He had been long enough in the Navy to realise that interviews with superior officers took time. Each had his own way, but all seemed to result in being kept hanging on a thread of uneasy expectation. He tried to ignore Colquhoun's bowed head and made himself look instead at the room. White walls and a colourful tiled floor. Some pieces of dark, heavy furniture and one table which was almost covered with handsome decanters. Colquhoun, it appeared, enjoyed life. He shifted his gaze to his new superior. At a guess he was about thirty, and from what he could see from the sunlit window he had finely cut features with a smalls aggressive chin. He had fair hair, pulled back to the nape of his neck like his own, in the current fashions and Bolitho noticed that in spite of his service on the station his skin was remarkably pale?

Colquhoun said, "Your captain speaks well of you.” He rustled his papers." Quite well."

Bolitho tried not to swallow and display the dryness in his throat. Captain Pears of the Trojan had sent a report with him aboard the prize. Had he been aware of Bolitho's later luck with the privateer his report might have been even better. It was strange, he thought. In the three years aboard Pears's ship he had never really understood the man. Sometimes he had imagined his captain disliked him, and at best only tolerated his efforts. Yet now, on this desk, under the eyes of a new superior, Pears's words were showing him in a different light?

"Thank you, sir."

"Hmph." Colquhoun stood up and walked towards the table and then changed his mind. Instead he moved to the window and stared absently at the anchorage." I am commanded to give you your new appointment. It will be up to you to prove your worth, an ability to carry out orders rather than to make play with them for your own advantage."

Bolitho waited. It was impossible to follow this man?

Colquhoun added, "Since the military disaster at Saratoga last year we have seen all the signs of the French increasing their aid to the Americans. Originally they sent supplies and military advisers. Then privateers and soldiers-of-fortune, mercenaries." He spat out the words." Now they are more open in their efforts to use the Americans to further their own ends and regain territory lost to us in the Seven Years War."

Bolitho gripped the hilt of his new sword and tried to remain outwardly calm. Somewhere outside this room was a ship awaiting her new captain. Old or new, large or insignificant as a fighting unit, she was to be all his own. And he had to remain quite still, listening to Captain Colquhoun's observations on the war. Bolitho had been involved in the war since its beginning, and he had already learned from a fellow officer in the Octavia that Colquhoun had arrived from England just six months ago?

Colquhoun was saying in the same dry tone, "But while we command the sea-lanes and supply routes neither the French nor the damned Pope can stop us regaining overyll control of the mainland." He turned slightly, the sun glinting across the gold lace of his coat? "Don't you agree?"

Bolitho shifted in his chair." Up to a point, sir. But…"

Colquhoun snapped, "But is not a word which appeals to me. Either you agree or you disagree."

"I think more should be done to seek out the privateers and destroy them in their bases, sir." He paused, anticipating some caustic remark. Then he continued, "We have too few ships to spare for convoy work. Any attack on merchantmen, pressed home by two or more vessels at once, can play the devil with a solitary escort."

"Really. You surprise me."

Bolitho bit his lip. He had allowed himself to be drawn. Perhaps Colquhoun had been hoping that one of his friends or proteges would be given the new appointment, and saw Bolitho as an intruder. Whatever it was, there seemed to be no doubting his hostility?

"I have, of course, heard of your family, Bolitho? Seafaring stock. None of 'em ever afraid to risk his neck. And out here at this moment we need the best fighting officers we can get."

He turned abruptly to the window." Come over here."

Bolitho crossed to his side and followed his glance towards the ships at anchor?

"Look impressive, don't they?" Colquhoun gave what might have been a sigh." But once at sea, scattered to the winds, they are just a handful. With the Frogs at our backs and threatening England once more we are stretched beyond any safety limit." He gestured across the harbour. A frigate was being careened, heeled right over on her beam, her bilges covered with busa figures, their naked backs shining in the glare like polished mahogany. Colquhoun said, quietly, «Bacchante, thirty-six." He tightened his jaw." My ship? First time I've been able to get her underwater repairs done since I assumed command." Bolitho darted a quick glance at him. He had always dreamed ob commanding a frigate since his first and only experience in the little twenty-eight-gun Destiny? Freedom to move and hit hard at anything but a ship-of-the-line, with all the dash and agility that any young captain could ask for. But Colquhoun did not seem to fit the role. Slightly built, with the pale, petulant good looks of a true aristocrat. His clothes were beautifulla made, and the sword at his hip must be worth two hundred guineas. Colquhoun raised his arm." Look yonder. Beyond my ship you will see the rest of ou_