Alexander Kent - Man of War

Feet shuffled, and faces came into the glow as men realized their captain was on one of his unheralded rounds. Some wondered why he bothered, when his word was the law which meant life or death to any one he chose. And why he was wearing his dress uniform when it would mark him out to any sniper if the time came, as it had done for others, among them his famous uncle, and Nelson himself.

A voice called, "Think us'll fight, zur?"

Adam stopped. "Fellow Cornishman, eh?"

The man snowed his teeth in a broad grin. "Helston, zur, not too long a walk from your part o' God's county, zur! "

Jago leaned forward to listen, to share it in some way. Like that time at Algiers, when he had watched his face after the fight, and had seen through and beyond the thing they called courage.

Adam looked past the line of black breeches, the powder and shot. Gone were the mess tables which were normally fixed between each pair of guns. Everyday things, the hooks where a man could sling his hammock: overcrowded, and yet each man an individual.

Now there was no war, and the enemy was unfamiliar. But to the ordinary Jack, it made no difference when the guns were run out.

Jago thought of the men put ashore, unwanted in peace. He had seen plenty of them on pier and jetty, watching the ships, and 'swinging the lamp' with each mug of ale.

Did they remember, he wondered, how they had cursed the navy and the masters who walked the quarterdeck in their fine uniforms?

Adam said quietly, "I think we shall fight. The enemy flies no flag, nor does he uphold any cause except greed and tyranny over the helpless. So when the time comes, think well on that! "

The man from Helston called after them, "Us Cornish lads'll show 'em, Cap'n! "

There was a burst of cheering, joined by seamen at the guns on the opposite side, few of whom could have heard what their captain had said.

A midshipman dodged around the guns until he had caught Adam's eye.

"Beg pardon, sir, but Sir Graham sends his compliments, and would you join him aft?"

"Thank you, Mr. Manners. I'll come directly." A young, eager face. Uplifted, as if he had just been told something inspiring.

Jago walked with him to the main companion. Beyond the small lights, the ship was still in darkness. Waiting.

He realized that Bolitho had turned to face him, as if they were quite alone, the ship deserted.

"Is that all it takes, Luke? These men don't even know what we are doing here, or why some will die, as surely they will! "

Jago stood his ground, knowing it was important, for both of them.

"You spoke fair, Cap'n. Somebody's got to do it, an' if it wasn't us it would be some other poor Jack. That's the way it goes, an' nothing'll ever change it! "

He stared down as Adam grasped his arm, and for an instant thought he had at last gone too far.

But Adam let his hand fall to his side, and said, "So let's be about it, eh?" As if another voice had spoken.

The ship was ready. Choice did not come into it.

Lieutenant Francis Troubridge winced as his shin scraped against a cask propped by a hatch coaming to catch the unwary. He had heard the first lieutenant giving orders for every available barrel or bucket to be filled with sea water in case of fire. Even the empty boat tier had been lined with canvas, and more water pumped into it as a precaution.

He had mentioned it to Fetch, the gunner. Had it been light enough to see his weathered face, he might have discovered amusement there. Or pity. Old Fetch, who had been at sea all his life, since the age of nine it was rumoured, had been present at several major battles, and had been a gun captain in the Bellerophon at Trafalgar, in the thick of it.

Fetch would be down there in the main magazine now, slopping about in his old felt slippers, so as not to make a spark or two, as he often said. One spark would be enough; the whole ship could be blasted apart.

"Them buggers might 'ave furnaces goin' when we gets there." He had shaken his grey head. "Bated shot can be very nasty, sir."

Troubridge had already served in a ship of the line, the Superb, under the famous Captain Keats. He had never forgotten the first time they had cleared for action, the exhilaration, nerves tingling, as if he were being caught and carried on a tide race. Men running to their stations, commands barked from every side, the squeal of calls, but above all the urgent, insistent rattle of the drums beating to quarters.

Fetch and some of the others had experienced it many times, seen the faces of messmates and gun crews, seamen and marines, all welded into a single force, like a weapon. Troubridge had been only a midshipman in the Superb, but he had never forgotten the thrill and indescribable awe of that moment.

He reached the quarterdeck and strode aft to the poop.

This was so very different. Unreal. The ship thrusting into a sea without stars or horizon. Figures pushing past, voices hushed, breathing like old men, groping at cordage and cold metal, often urged on by hard hands and whispered threats.

"This way, sir." Bowles, the cabin servant, loomed from nowhere and plucked at his sleeve.

Troubridge groped his way into the cabin and peered around. Two twelve pounders shared this space where the captain's private quarters had been. The screens were gone; the place where they had talked together, shared a drink or spoken occasionally of home, was now just an extension of the hull. He thought of the portrait he had seen here, the living face he had seen when he and Bolitho had burst into that tawdry studio in London. The lovely body chained and helpless, awaiting her fate. He saw Bowles move toward him and guessed he had spoken her name aloud. Andromeda.

Would Bolitho be thinking of her at this very moment? Wondering, groping for hope, when all he had before him was duty and obedience?

Bowles said in a matter-of-fact tone, "I'm going down to the sick bay shortly, sir. Make me self useful, maybe. Anythin' I can fetch you afore I shove off?"

Troubridge shook his head. If he took a drink now, he might not be able to stop.

Aloud he said, "It's not like going into action at all, is it?"

Bowles seemed to relax. He had his measure. It always helped.

"I 'eard Mr. Fraser tellin' some one of a battle 'e was in a while back, with the Dons it was that time, when it took all day to close with the enemy. Imagine, all day, the Spanish tops' is crawling up an' over the sea like they was enjoyin' it! "

Another shape came out of the darkness. "Sir Graham, John! " He heard a gulp, and, "Sorry, sir, didn't see you 'ere! "

It helped to rally Troubridge more than the unseen speaker would ever know.

Bethune strode past, ducking beneath the deck head beams, his voice sharp, impatient.

"I've just sent for the captain."

Bowles said, "He's on the lower gun deck, Sir Graham. I sent word…"

Bethune said something under his breath as the deck swayed over, through an invisible trough. Troubridge heard glass clink against the admiral's buttons, and thought he could smell cognac.

He said, "The wind's holding, Sir Graham. At this rate we should make our landfall as estimated."

Bethune snapped, "When I want advice I shall ask for it, Flags! And when I want the captain I do not expect to have to go searching for him! "

Troubridge listened to spray pattering across the skylight. Perhaps the wind was getting up, or changing? That would throw all their careful plans into disarray.

He imagined the anchorage, as it was marked on the chart, as it was described by the sailing master and, of all people, George Crawford the surgeon, who had visited San Jose in his first ship. It was little enough, but sailors had survived on less.

Troubridge was calm again. It had given him time. This was a mood in which he had never seen Bethune before. A hardness which defied his normally easy nature.