ALEXANDER KENT - Richard Bolitho – Midshipman

Dancer said angrily, 'That man Tregorren has the devil in him! ' Little Eden surprised all of them by saying, 'He has the g-gout, if that is the d-devil, Martyn.' They all stared at him as he added in his thin, piping voice, 'My f-father is an apothecary in B-Bristol. He is often c-called to t-treat such cases.' He nodded firmly. 'Mr Tregorren t-takes too much b-brandy for his own g-good.' With this new knowledge at their disposal they were able to watch the fourth lieutenant's behaviour with more interest. Tregorren would lurch beneath the low deck beams, his shadow crossing the gunports like a massive spectre, while at each great cannon the crew would wait for the order to load and run out, to train or elevate as the lieutenant ordered. Each gun weighed three tons and had a crew of fifteen hands to control it and its opposite number on the other side of the deck. Every man had to know exactly what to do, and to keep doing it no matter what. As Tregorren had shouted on many occasions, 'I'll make you bleed a bit, but it's nothing to what an enemy will do, so move yourselves*.' Bolitho was sitting at the slung table in the midshipmen's berth, a candle flickering in an old oyster shell to add some light to that which filtered from a nearby companionway, and writing a letter to his mother. He had no idea when, if ever, she would read it, but it gave him comfort to retain a link with his home. From what he had gathered from his privileged position of aiding Turnbull with the navigation lessons, and his daily scrutiny of the master's charts, he knew that the first part of their passage was almost over. Four thousand miles, the captain had said, and as he had studied the wavering lines of the charts, the daily positions fixed by shooting the sun and the usual calculations on speed and course, he knew all the old excitement of an approaching landfall. Six weeks since weighing anchor at Spithead. Changing tack and constantly reducing or making sail. The ship's track wavered over the charts like an injured beetle. A speedy frigate would have covered the distance and been on her way back to England long since, he thought bitterly. He paused, his pen in mid-air, as he heard muffled shouts from two decks above. He doused the glim and carefully placed it in the chest, and laid the unfinished letter under his next clean shirt. He reached the upper deck and climbed swiftly to the larboard gangway where Dancer and Grenfell were clinging to the nettings, peering towards the glittering horizon. Bolitho asked, 'Is it land?' 'No, Dick, a ship! ' Dancer grinned at him, his face tanned and alert in the bright sunshine. It was hard to remember the rain and bitter cold, Bolitho thought. The sea was as blue as the sky, and the crisp wind lacking in bite or menace. High above the decks the topsails and topgallants shone like pale shells, while the masthead pendant licked out towards the larboard bow like a long scarlet lance. 'Deck thar! ' They all peered up at the tiny black shape of the masthead lookout. 'She bain't answerin', sir! ' It was then Bolitho realized that this was no ordinary encounter. The captain was by the quarterdeck rail, arms folded, his face in shadow, arid nearby Midshipman Marrack and his signalling party were watching their halliards and the bright hoist of flags at the mainyard. What ship? Bolitho craned over the nettings and felt the spray touching his face and lips from the wash below. Then he saw the other vessel, a black-hulled barquentine, her sails in disarray against the blinding horizon, her masts swaying steeply in the swell. Bolitho moved further aft and heard Mr Hope, who had the watch, exclaim, 'By God, sir, if he don't answer our signal he must be up to no good, I say! ' Verling turned towards him, his beaky nose displaying his scorn. 'If he wanted, Mr Hope, he could fly with the wind and leave us far astern within the hour.' 'Aye, sir.' Hope sounded downcast. The captain ignored both of them. He said, 'Pass the word to the gunner, if you please. To run out a bow chaser and fire one ball as near as he can. They're either drunk or asleep over there.' But the solitary crash of a forward nine-pounder brought nothing more than a rush of seamen from below decks in the Gorgon herself. The idling barquentine continued to drift, her forward sails almost aback, her big fore-and-aft canvas on main and mizzen shivering in a heat haze. The captain snapped, 'Shorten sail and heave-to, Mr Verling! And send away the quarter boat. I am uneasy about this one.' Calls shrilled and twittered along the maindeck, and within minutes of the captain's order Gorgon was going about, swinging her heavy hull round into the wind with every sail and shroud quivering and banging in confusion. Dancer went aft to join Bolitho beneath the hammock nettings. 'D'you think -' He stopped as Bolitho whispered, 'Keep quiet and stay here.' Bolitho watched the boatswain mustering a boat's crew on the opposite side of the deck. With Gorgon hove-to and groaning into the wind Hoggett, the boatswain, was preparing the quarter boat to be hauled from astern and manhandled alongside. The captain was speaking to Verling, his words lost in the sullen boom of flapping canvas. Then the first lieutenant turned abruptly, his nose swinging across the quarterdeck like a swivel gun. 'Pass the word! Mr Tregorren lay aft to take boarding party away! ' His nose continued to move as his order was yelled forward along the maindeck. 'Tou two midshipmen! Arm yourselves and accompany the fourth lieutenant! Bolitho touched his hat. 'Aye, aye, sir! ' He nudged Dancer. 'I knew he would pick the nearest.' Dancer grinned, the excitement bright in his eyes. 'It's good to be doing something different! ' Down by the entry port the hastily assembled oarsmen and armed seamen crowded above the blue water, their eyes outboard towards the other vessel which had drifted almost abeam and now lay about half a mile distant. Mr Hope called, 'I can read her name, sir! ' He sounded cautious after Verling's earlier sarcasm. 'She's the City of Athens? He was swaying back and forth in the uncomfortable swell, a big telescope held to his eye. 'No sign of life aboard! ' Lieutenant Tregorren arrived at the entry port, his frame seeming larger and more forceful without the low-beamed gundeck to restrain it. His eyes flashed across his boarding party. He said bluntly, 'Let no man loose off a pistol or musket by error. Be ready for anything.' His gaze settled on Bolitho and he added, 'As for you -'

He broke off as the captain's voice called from the quarterdeck rail, 'Man your boat, Mr Tregorren.' His eyes were like glass in the bright glare. 'If it's fever aboard I want no part of it. Do what you can and be lively with it.' Bolitho watched him gravely. He did not know the captain, other than at a distance or seeing him at work with his officers. And yet he was almost certain that Captain Conway was on edge, anxious enough to speak severely to one of his lieutenants in front of the people. He flushed as the cold eyes settled on him. 'You.' The captain half lifted one hand. 'What is your name again?' 'Bolitho, sir.' It was strange that nobody ever seemed to remember a midshipman's name. 'Well, Bolitho, when you have quite finished your daydream, or composing a poem for your doxy, I'd be grateful if you would enter the boat! ' Several seamen lounging at the gangway chuckled, and Tregorren rasped angrily, 'If I thought you were trying to show me up! ' He gave Bolitho a thrust with his palm. Til deal with you later! ' Once in the quarter boat, one of Gorgon's twentyeight-foot cutters, the captain's mood, Tregorren's hostility and the discomfort of six weeks at sea were pushed from Bolitho's mind. Crowded in the sternsheets amongst the extra men and weapons, with Tregorren's great shadow swaying over the labouring oars, he turned and glanced quickly astern. How huge and invulnerable Gorgon appeared from a lowhulled boat. Standing above her rippling reflection, her masts and yards stark and black against the sky, she looked a symbol of sea power. He could tell from Dancer's expression that he shared his excitement. He looked leaner than when they had met at the Blue Posts, but tougher and more confident. Tregorren snapped, 'Give the fellow a hail! ' He was standing upright in the boat, oblivious to the lively motion as it lifted and sliced over the wavecrests.