Alexander Kent - Man of War

Bethune was saying curtly, "I'm not sure about Audacity, and Captain Munro. It is asking rather a lot of him. Young, impetuous…" He turned as voices came from the quarterdeck.

Troubridge remembered the room at the Admiralty, the paintings of ships in battle. A time when Bethune had been young, and probably impetuous himself.

Bethune said, "Ah, Adam, just a word about a few points. In the chart room, I think."

Composed and apparently relaxed, another change.

Troubridge touched the curved hanger at his side.

He was suddenly reminded of Bethune's previous flag lieutenant. They had hardly spoken but for the formalities of handing over the appointment. Angry, resentful; looking back it was hard to determine. He had been too startled by his own unexpected advance up the ladder.

But the outgoing flag lieutenant had noticed the well-shaped and balanced hanger, which had been a gift from Troubridge's father when he had been commissioned, it seemed a lifetime ago. Long forgotten and dismissed from his mind, his parting remark now rang clearly in Troubridge's memory.

"You'll not need that while you serve Sir Graham Bethune, my young friend! I doubt you'll draw close enough to a real enemy! "

He hesitated, the muffled shipboard noises and occasional shadowy movements very stark and real. Something unknown and different was gnawing at him. He recognized it as fear.

The chart room seemed to be filled with people, under unshuttered lights almost blinding after the stuffy darkness. Eraser the sailing master and Harper, his senior mate, Vincent the signals midshipman, stiff-faced with concentration as he scribbled some notes, probably for the first lieutenant. Two boatswain's mates and Tarrant, the third lieutenant, who appeared to be cleaning a telescope.

They all faded away as Bethune leaned both hands on the table and stared at the uppermost chart. Fraser watched impassively. Nobody, not even an admiral, could fault his tidy calculations and clearly printed notes.

"Show me."

Eraser's big brass dividers touched the chart and the neat, converging lines of their course. The points of the dividers stopped above the nearest line of latitude. " San Jose, Sir Graham." His eyes flickered briefly to Bethune's profile, but gave nothing away. "Two hours if the wind holds."

Troubridge found that he was gripping the hanger and pressing it against his hip as if to steady himself. Two hours, the sailing master had said. The little frigate Audacity would begin her mock attack. He wanted to say something, to wipe his eyes in the stinging glare.

Two hours. On the chart the land still looked many miles distant.

Some one said, "Captain's coming, sir."

Troubridge realized for the first time that Bethune's personal servant was also present, in a corner by the chart rack, his eyes shaded by his hat, his mouth a tight line. A man who showed little emotion at any time. Efficient, discreet, probably closer to Bethune than any of them.

Shutters squeaked and then closed again. Troubridge saw the captain framed against the door and the after guard musket rack, now empty. He had known Bolitho for so short a time, only since Bethune had requested his appointment as his flag captain. Commanded would be nearer the truth.

There was never any doubt about it. He had heard one of the old clerks remark, "It's not what you know in Admiralty, it's who you know! " Troubridge looked at Bolitho now. A face he would always remember. Dark eyes, sometimes withdrawn, sometimes hostile, but without the arrogance he had seen and found in many. He recalled Bethune's comment about Audacity's young captain: 'impetuous'. Perhaps that, too, but not one to sacrifice the men he commanded, and led.

He started as Bethune remarked, "When you are with us, Flags, I want to clarify a few final points."

Some one chuckled, and Adam Bolitho smiled directly at him, and said, "Waiting is often the worst part, and that is all but over." He looked at the chart as if his mind was momentarily somewhere else. "I recall reading an account of the opening engagement at Trafalgar. A young lieutenant wrote of it to his parents: here began the din of war." They watched his hand as it touched the chart by Eraser's dividers. "So let us begin…"

Dugald Eraser thought afterwards it was something he would record in his log.

Even though most of Audacity's seamen and marines had been standing to throughout the night, or snatching brief moments to doze at their stations, the crash of her bow-chaser came as a shock. Some ran to the shrouds or climbed the gangways above the tethered guns as if expecting to see something; others, the more experienced hands, glanced at their companions as if to confirm what they already knew.

It was not just another exercise or drill; the plan outlined by the captain through his officers was real. It was now.

A few gulls, early scavengers which had glided down to meet the ship, wheeled angrily away, their screams following the echo of the first shot. They had doubtless flown out from the land. They were that close.

A gun captain pressed his hands on the breech of his twelve-pounder and muttered, "That's right, tell the whole bloody world what we're about! "

The air was warm, his shirt clinging to his skin, but the gun was like ice. He heard somebody laugh nearby and added, "Not much longer, my old beauty! "

On the quarterdeck with one hand loosely touching the rail, Audacity's captain watched the sky. The first hint of a new day; some one less experienced would scarcely have noticed it. In no time now they would see their heavy companion, and all caution would be tossed aside. The real game was about to begin.

He stared along the length of his ship, seeing the waiting gun crews, the sanded decks, the charges ready to be tamped home down each muzzle. Yet there was only darkness. He prided himself that he knew every scar and seam, the faces of the men who would lead, and others who would leap into a gap if those first men fell.

His first lieutenant was beside him; other figures were close by, messengers and boatswain's mates ready to pipe and carry every command to the point of need. Of strength; and it would all come from aft, from their captain.

He could hear the sailing master murmuring to one of his men. He would be missing his senior mate, Mowbray, who had been wounded in the schooner's capture. He was down in the sick bay and the surgeon had already told Munro of his attempts to quit his cot and go on deck where he belonged.

He looked up at the spiralling masthead and felt his lips go dry. He could see the maintop, the black web of shrouds and ratlines. His best lookouts were in their precarious perches, watching, waiting to be the first to sight the heavy barque.

He thought of the officer who was in charge of the Villa de Bilbao, Roger Pointer, who had been with Captain Adam Bolitho at the commodore's meeting. He wiped his face. It seemed so long ago, and yet…

"Deck there! "

Faces peered up, and Munro heard the first lieutenant say, "Peters is first again! A bet to be settled, I think! "

There were chuckles, too.

The lookout called, "Larboard bow, sir! "

That was all, but again Munro felt a shaft of pride. There were not many ships, large or small, where quarterdeck and forecastle maintained so close a liaison.

He felt a hand touch his elbow and said quietly, "I see it, Philip."

Like a pale ghost, a curling patch of mist, then stronger as a gust of wind lifted the big ensign up and clear of the gaff, and close to it the metal of a block caught the first ray of daylight.

Dawn. Almost…

"Another gun, Philip. Some may still be asleep! "

The gun captain was ready. The bang was louder, and the echo drawn out, as if feeling the land.

It would carry on the wind, and men would be running to identify the ship being chased into their sanctuary.