ALEXANDER KENT: Richard Bolitho – Midshipman

He was wrapped in a long boatcloak, but his hair blew in the wind while he peered up at the reefed topsails, which with the jib were the only canvas they were able to carry in such a gale. Bolitho had got no nearer than this to his captain since he had come aboard. In the distance he looked very cool and dignified, apparently untouched by the confusion of hurrying seamen and bawling petty officers. Dancer gritted his teeth. 'God, I'm near frozen.' Lieutenant Hope, who was responsible for the foremast, yelled, 'Take 'em aloft, Mr Bolitho! And I want the time cut by minutes before I'm satisfied! '

A whistle shrilled and it all started again. The nimble-footed topmen racing each other up the ratlines while the new hands and less confident followed behind them pursued by threats and not a few blows from the petty officers' rattans to hurry them along. And above it all Verling's voice, distorted and inhuman through his trumpet, controlling and steering everyone. 'Another pull on the weather forebrace! Mr Tregorren, there's a man in your division who needs starting, damn your eyes, sir! Two more hands aft to the mizzen braces! ' He never stopped. Up those rough, shaking ratlines and around the futtock shrouds, hanging out and down above the hull and creaming sea below, clinging with fingers and toes to keep from falling. Then breathless on to the foretop, with men already scrambling further still to the topsail yard, swarming out on either beam like monkeys, clawing and fisting the thick, half frozen canvas to control it, to take in another reef while each billowing section did its best to knock the men from their perches and hurl them aside. Curses and sobs, men swearing terrible oaths as fingernails were torn out by the rough heavy-weather canvas; or they fought off their more frightened companions who clung to them for support. Bolitho gripped a backstay and watched the scene on the other masts. It was almost done, and the ship was answering to the lesser thrust in her sails. Far below, foreshortened like dwarfs, he saw the quarterdeck officers and the afterguard who were securing their halliards and braces. Still by the weather side, the captain was watching the yards. Was he worried? Bolitho wondered. He certainly did not look it. 'Secure, Mr Hope! ' Verling could not resist adding, 'You seem to have some cripples in your division! I suggest extra sail drill in the forenoon! ' Bolitho and Dancer slid to the deck on a backstay to find Mr Hope fuming again. 'God damn it, I shall swing for that one! ' Hope recovered himself and added, 'And for you too, if you don't drive the people harder! ' As Hope strode aft Bolitho said, 'His bark is worse than his bite. Come on, Martyn, let us see what young Starr has saved us for breakfast. There is no point in climbing into a hammock now. They will call the hands directly.' They found a reedy, severe-looking man in a plain blue coat waiting in the midshipmen's berth when they hurried breathlessly into its damp security. Bolitho already knew his name was Henry Scroggs, the captain's clerk, who messed with their neighbours, the master's mates. Scroggs snapped, 'Bolitho, is it not?" He did not wait for an answer. 'Report to the captain. Mr Marrack has injured his arm and Mr Grenfell has the morning watch.' He waited, his face impassive. 'Well, sir, jump to it, if you wish to draw breath again! ' Bolitho stared at him, recalling what Marrack had said about clean shirts, conscious of his own dishevelled appearance. Dancer offered, 'Here, let me help you get dressed.' The clerk snapped, 'No time. Next to Grenfell and Marrack, you are senior, Bolitho. The captain is very definite about such matters.' He swayed as the ship tilted steeply and sent the sea boiling loudly over the upper deck. 'I suggest you make a move! ' Bolitho reached for his hat and said ruefully, 'Very well.' Then ducking beneath the low deckbeams he made his way aft. Bolitho stood breathing hard outside a whitepainted screen door beneath the poop. After the crowded quarters between decks, the shadowy figures of the seamen returning from the work on the yards, it seemed very quiet. Beside the door, standing rigidly in a pool of light from a deckhead lantern, a marine sentry regarded him coldly before calling, 'Signal midshipman, sir I' He further emphasized the introduction by banging the butt of his musket smartly on the deck.

The door opened, and Bolitho saw the captain's servant beckoning him urgently, holding the door open just sufficiently to allow him to enter. Like a footman in a fine house who is not sure of an unwelcome visitor. 'If you would wait 'ere, ' pause, 'sir.' Bolitho waited. It was a fine lobby which opened on to the captain's dining room and which ran the whole breadth of the hull. Glass tinkled quietly in a large mahogany cabinet, while above the long polished table a circular tray of bottles and decanters swung evenly to the ship's motion. The deck was covered in canvas, well-painted in black and white squares, and the nine-pounder cannon on either side of the cabin were discreetly hidden under chintz covers. The door in a further screen opened and the servant said, This way, sir.' He was watching Bolitho with something like despair. The great cabin. Bolitho stood just inside the door, his cocked hat wedged beneath one arm as he stared at the broad expanse of his captain's domain. The cabin was splendid, and made further so by the huge stern windows which were so streaked with salt and dappled spray that in the grey dawn light they looked like those of a cathedral. Captain Beves Conway was sitting at a large desk, leafing slowly through a sheaf of papers. A mug of something hot was steaming by his elbow, and as the lantern above the desk swung this way and that Bolitho saw that he was already dressed in a clean shirt and breeches, and his blue coat with its broad white lapels was laid carefully on a bench seat, his hat and boatcloak nearby. There was nothing about the man's face or appearance to suggest he had just returned from the deck and the bitter wind. He looked up and studied Bolitho without expression.

The captain said, 'Name?' 'Bolitho, sir.' His voice sounded different in the broad cabin. 'Yes.1 The captain half turned as his clerk entered the cabin by another small door. In the lamplight and the angled glow from the stern windows Beves Conway had an alert, intelligent profile, but his eyes were hard and gave nothing away. He was speaking curtly to Scroggs, his tone clipped, matter of fact, about things which Bolitho could only guess at. He glanced to one side and saw himself for the first time in a long, gilt-framed mirror. No wonder the cabin servant had looked worried. Richard Bolitho was tall for his years, tall and slim, with hair so black that it made his tanned features seem pale. In his seagoing coat, one which he had bought eighteen months earlier and had all but grown out of, he looked more like a vagrant than a King's officer. He realized with a start that the captain was speaking to him. 'Well, Mr Midshipman, er, Bolitho, due to unforeseen circumstances it seems I must rely on your skills to assist my clerk until Mr Marrack is recovered from his, er, injury.' He regarded him calmly. 'What duties have you in my command?1 'Lower gundeck, sir, and with Mr Hope's division for sail drill.' 'Neither of those require that you should look like a dandy, Mr, er, Bolitho, but in my ship I need all my officers to set a perfect example, no matter what duty they are performing. As a junior officer you will be ready for anything. In this command you lead, you set an example, and wherever this ship takes you, you will not only represent the Navy, joa will be the Jfeayl' 'I understand, sir.' Bolitho tried again. 'We had been aloft to shorten sail, sir, and…' 'Yes.' The captain gave what might have been a wry smile. 'I gave that order. I had been on deck for several hours before I decided it was really necessary.' He pulled a slim gold watch from his breeches. 'Return to your berth on the orlop and put yourself to rights. I want you aft again in ten minutes.' He closed the watch with a snap. 'Precisely.' They were the shortest ten minutes in Bolitho's memory. Helped by Starr and Midshipman Dancer, and hindered by the luckless Eden, who chose the moment to be sick again, he eventually found his way aft to confront the same sentry by the door, but to discover the great cabin already busy with visitors. Lieutenants with questions or reports on storm damage. The master, who, from what Bolitho could gather, was either for or against the possible promotion of one of his mates. Major Dewar of the ship's marines, his jowls as scarlet as his uniform, even the purser, Mr Poland, a veritable weasel of a man, appeared to be calling on the captain. And it was only dawn. The clerk led Bolitho unceremoniously to a small desk by the streaming quarter windows. Outside, through the thick glass, he saw the dull grey sea, the long streaks of breaking foam on every crest. A cluster of gulls dipped and wheeled around the Gorgon's high counter, obviously expecting something to be flung overboard by the cook. Bolitho felt his stomach contract. They would be unlucky, he thought. Between them, the cook and the miserly purser left few scraps for gulls. He heard the captain discussing fresh water with Laidlaw, the surgeon, and something about scouring the empty casks to make them purer for a long voyage. The surgeon was a tired-looking man with deep, hooded eyes and a permanent stoop. Too long in small ships, or too long bent over his luckless victims, Bolitho could only guess. He was saying, 'It's a bad bit of coast there, sir.' The captain replied tersely, 'I know that, damn it. I did not choose to take this ship and all her people to the west coast of Africa just to test your ability at curing ills! ' The clerk leaned over the little desk. He had a dank smell, like unwashed bedding. He said dourly, 'You can begin by copying these orders for the captain. Five of each. Nice and clear, with a firm hand, or you'll be in trouble.' Bolitho waited for Scroggs to shuffle away and then cocked his ear towards the little group around the captain. While he had been struggling into one his clean shirts and a fresh neckcloth, he had discovered that his first awe at meeting the captain had begun to shift to resentment. Conway had dismissed his reason for being improperly dressed as unimportant, even trivial. In its place he had presented his own image, that of the captain always on call, tireless, and never without a solution for anything. But now, as he listened to Conway 's calm, unhurried voice, the mention of some four thousand miles to be sailed, the most profitable courses to be used, food, fresh water, and above all the training and efficiency of the company, he could only marvel. In this cabin, which for a few moments he had regarded as the height of luxury, the captain fought his own private battles. He could share his anxieties with nobody, could divide his responsibility not at all. Bolitho shivered. The great cabin could become a prison for any man who lost his way in doubt. He recalled his own childhood when he had visited his father's ship on those rare and privileged occasions when she had anchored at Falmouth. How different it had been. His father's officers smiling and friendly, some almost subservient in his presence. Rather different from his later introduction as a midshipman, when lieutenants had appeared bad tempered and intolerant. Scroggs was at his side again. 'Take this message to the boatswain and come back immediately.' He thrust a folded piece of paper into his hand. Bolitho picked up his hat and hurried past the big desk. He was almost through the screen door when the captain's voice halted him in his tracks. 'What did you say your name was?' 'Bolitho, sir.' 'Very well. Be off with you, and mark what I said.' Conway looked down at his papers and waited for the door to close. When he glanced up again at the surgeon he said shortly, 'No better way to inform the people of what we are about than to let a new midshipman overhear.' The surgeon regarded him gravely. 'I think I know that boy's family, sir. His grandfather was with Wolfe at Quebec.' 'Really.' Conway was already studying the next paper. The surgeon added softly, 'He was a rear-admiral, sir.' But Conway was elsewhere in his thoughts, his features set in a small frown. The surgeon sighed. Captains were quite unreachable.