Alexander Kent - FORM LINE OF BATTLE!

Bolitho leaned back still further in his chair and frowned. It was all so normal, even dull, for a ship of the Hyperion's past and record that it sensed of indifference.

Again he looked around his new quarters, as if to glean some small picture of its late occupant. It was a spacious, even elegant place, he decided, and after the close confines of a frigate seemed palatial.

The day cabin where he was sitting ran the whole width of the stem, over thirty feet from side to side, and the tall stem windows below- which was stationed the handsome carved desk shone in the afternoon sunlight and threw the wide harbour and its anchored shipping across his vision in a colourful panorama.

There was an equally large dining cabin, and on either beam a smaller separate compartment, one for sleeping and the other for the charts.

On a sudden impulse he stood up and walked to the mahogany dining table. It contained six additional leaves, so it seemed that Turner had been a lavish entertainer. All the chairs, as well as the. long bench seat below the stem windown, were of finely tooled green leather, and lying across the normal deck covering of black and white squared canvas was a rich carpet, the price of which Bolitho imagined could have paid a frigate's company of seamen for several months.

He tried to relax his tired mind, to tell himself that it was a lack of self-confidence rather than a true cause for concern which left him so apprehensive.

He stared at himself in a bulkhead mirror, noting the frown which creased his forehead, the patches of sweat across his shirt. Unconsciously he brushed at the lock of black hair above his eye, his fingers touching the deep diagonal scar beneath it and which ran upwards into his hairline. It was odd to think that when the wildly swinging cutlass had cut him down and left him marked for life the Hyperion had even then been sailing within' a few miles of where the fight had occurred.

There was a nervous tap at the door, and before Bolitho

could speak it swung open to reveal a narrow-shouldered man

in a plain blue coat who was carrying a silver tray. Bolitho glared at him. 'Well?'

The man swallowed hard…'Gimlett, sir. I'm yer servant, sir.' He had a piping voice, and with each syllable displayed a set of large, protruding teeth, like a frightened rabbit's.

Bolitho saw the man's eyes swivel towards a small side table upon which was laid his lunch untouched and, unknown to the wretched Gimlett, unseen till this moment.

Bolitho's anger at being disturbed softened slightly. The fear on the man's face was. quite genuine. It had, been known for an irate captain to have his servant flogged for merely spilling a cup of coffee.

Gimlett said, 'If it wasn't to yer liking, sir, I'll… '

'I was not hungry.' The lie was suitable compromise. 'But thank you, Gimlett, for the thought.' He looked at the servant with sudden interest. 'Did you serve Captain Turner for long?'

'Yessir.' Gimlett shuffled from one foot to the other. `He was a fine master to me, sir. Very considerate indeed.'

Bolitho smiled slightly. 'I take it you're a Devon man?'

'Aye, sir. I was chief ostler at the Golden Lion at Plymouth but came away with Cap'n Turner to serve my country the better.' His eyes suddenly fell on the pile of papers on Bolitho's desk and he added hastily, 'Well, I was in a bit of trouble with one of the chambermaids, sir. It seemed the best thing to do all round.'

Bolitho smiled more broadly. Gimlett was apparently under the impression that his late master might have left some written record of his real reason for quitting the land. He said, 'So you were only with Captain Turner while the ship was in the Indies? You did not actually go ashore to his home?' The last question was an effort to clear the look of complete incomprehension from the man's worried features.

'That's right, sir.' He looked around the wide cabin. 'This was his home, sir. He had no family. Just the ship.' He swallowed again, as if afraid he had said too much. 'Can I clear away, sir?'

Bolitho nodded thoughtfully and walked back to the windows. That was the best explanation so far. Under Turner the ship had become a home, a way of life rather than a ship of war. And her company, away from England for three years with neither combat nor hardship to trouble them, would have become equally unprepared for the challenge of blockade and war.

Twice during the day Quarme, the first lieutenant, had visited Bolitho to report on progress. Under Bolitho's casual questioning he too had more or less admitted that Turner was a fair captin but unimaginative, even lethargic.

But it was hard to, assess Quarme's true feelings. He was twenty-eight years old, with calm but uncompromising features, and gave the impression of a man who was just biding his time for better things. As well he might with ships being commissioned on every hand and gaps already left by death and injury. If he stayed out of trouble he might have a small command of his own within the year. The fact that Turner had made no recommendation had at first made Bolitho suspicious. Now as he built up a mental picture of his predecessor he began to realise that Turner probably wanted the ship and everything aboard, including his officer, to remain the same. It was a reasonable, if selfish, explanation, he thought.

There was one further factor in Turner's make-up which still left him feeling troubled. In his private papers which Quarme had opened after his death he had left what amounted to a will. There were a few small bequests to some distant relatives, but the part which caught Bolitho's attention was the neatly written addition at the end.

‘… and to the next captain of this ship I leave and bequest all my furniture and fittings, my wines and my personal belongings, with the true and sincere hope that he will continue to retain them for his own uses and the wellbeing of the ship.’

It was an unusual request indeed.

At first Bolitho had intended to have Allday pack up everything and send it ashore to the Rock garrison. But be had left England in a hurry, so great was his eagerness to join the Hyperion. Apart from his uniforms and a few personal items he had come with little to ease the life of a captain in a ship of the line. Now as he looked round the great cabin he had second thoughts. It was as if by agreeing to Turner's eccentric desires he had allowed the man to remain aboard also. Dead and buried he might be, but in the captain's quarters his memory seemed to hang like a presence.

There was another tap at the door, but this time it was Quarme. He had his hat beneath his arm, and in the reflected sunlight his face looked guarded.

'I have mustered the officers in the wardroom as you ordered, sir.'

As he spoke, four bells of the afternoon watch chimed overhead, and Bolitho guessed he had been waiting for the exact moment of entry.

'Very well, Mr. Quarme. I am ready.' He pulled his uniform coat from a chair back and readjusted his neckcloth. 'I have completed reading the log, you may take it with you.'

Quarme said nothing. Instead he looked at the old sword which hung on the polished bulkhead. It had almost been Allday's first action to hang it there, and as Bolitho followed Quarme's stare he thought of his father and his father before him. Even in the sunlight it looked tarnished and old. But he knew that if he had brought nothing else from Falmouth but that sword it would have been worth more to him than all the rest of his possessions.

He half expected Quarme to comment. As Herrick would have done. He shook himself angrily. It was useless to continue with these pointless comparisons.

He said coldly, 'Lead the way if you please.'

Since his first-ever command, that of the tiny sloop Sparrow, Bolitho had alwaysmade a point of meeting his officers informally on the first possible moment. Now as he followed Quarme out on to the quarterdeck and down a wide ladder to the maindeck he found himself wondering about his new subordinates. He could never rid himself of the feeling of nervousness, although time and time again he bad told himself that it was their part to be the more apprehensive.