Form Line Of Battle! Read online

  Quarme moved quietly along the rank of officers, murmuring names and adding small additions about their duties. Bolitho kept his face quite impassive. It was fat too early for smiles and general acknowledgments. The real men would emerge later from behind these stiff, respectful faces. But they seemed a general enough collection, he decided vaguely, but so many of them after a frigate. He walked along the rank, past the lieutenants and senior warrant officers to where the midshipmen waited, with fascinated attention. He thought of young Seton and wondered what he was thinking of this awesome spectacle. Terrified, most likely.

  Two marine officers stood rigidly before the scarlet ranks with their white crossbelts and silver buttons, and across the main press of figures beyond were the other warrant officers, the professionals who decided whether a ship would live or die. The boatswain and the carpenter, the cooper and all the rest.

  He felt the sun very warm across his cheek and hurriedly opened his papers. He saw the watching figures crowd forward to hear and see better, and others dropped their eyes as he looked towards them, as if afraid of making a bad impression at such an early moment.

  He read the commission briskly and without emotion. It was addressed to Richard Bolitho, Esquire, from Samuel Hood, Admiral of the Red, and required him to take upon him the charge and command of captain in His Britannic Majesty's ship Hyperion. Most of the men had heard such commissions read before, some no doubt many times, yet as he read through the neat, formal phrases he was conscious of the silence. As if the whole ship were holding her breath.

  Bolitho rolled up the papers and returned them to his pocket. From one corner of his eye he saw Allday move slightly aft towards the quarterdeck ladder. As always he was ready to mark the way for his retreat from formality and discomfort.

  In spite of the sun across the tops of the hammock nettings he felt light-headed and suddenly chilled. But he gritted his teeth and forced himself to remain quite motionless in front of the marines. This was a crucial moment in his life. His impression on his men might later decide their fate as well as his own. He had a sudden, sickening picture of himself falling in a fresh bout of fever with every eye watching his disgrace and humiliation, and surprisingly the mental scene helped to steady him.

  He raised his voice. 'I will not keep you long from your duties, as there is much to do. The water lighters will be alongside directly, for I intend to hold this favourable wind and make sail this afternoon,' He saw two of the lieutenants exchange quick glances and added in a harder note, 'My orders require me to take this ship and join Lord Hood's squadron off Toulon without delay. Once there, we. will make every effort to contain the enemy within his harbours, but if possible, and whenever possible, we will seek him out and destroy him.'

  A slight murmur moved through the packed seamen, and Bolitho guessed that even up to the last moment when the ship was detached from the Brest blockade and ordered to Gibraltar to receive a new captain many hopeful souls aboard had retained the belief that the Hyperion would be returning home. His words, his new commission, had killed that hope stone dead. Now, with the first fragment of spread canvas and the merest puff of wind, every mile which dragged beneath the weed-covered keel would carry them further and further away from England. For many it might be a one-way journey.

  He added more calmly, 'England is at war with a tyrant. We need every ship and every loyal man to overthrow him. See to it that each one of you does his best. In my part I will do mine.'

  He turned on his heel and nodded curtly. 'Carry on, Mr. Quarme. Detail water parties and make sure the purser has plenty of fresh fruit aboard.' He stared across the mist'shrouded bay towards Algeciras. `With Spain our new ally it should not be too difficult.'

  The first lieutenant touched his hat. Then he called, 'Three cheers for King George!'

  Bolitho walked slowly aft, feeling drained and ice cold. The answering cheers were ready enough, but more from duty than feeling.

  He climbed the ladder and walked across the spacious quarterdeck. As he lowered his head beneath the poop Allday said quietly, 'No need to duck here, sir.' He was grinning. 'Plenty of room for you now.'

  Bolitho did not even hear him. Ignoring the rigid marine sentry he stepped over the coaming and into his wide stern cabin. His private world. He was still thinking of the ship as Allday closed the door and began to unpack one of his boxes.

  Richard Bolitho pushed some of the litter of papers across his desk and sat back to rest his eyes. When he examined his pocket watch he realised with a start that he had been poring over the ship's books and records for almost six hours without respite, his busy mind conscious the whole time of the noises beyond the closed door and across the deck above.

  More than once he had almost broken his concentration to go out into the sunlight, if only to satisfy himself that the ship's routine was functioning normally, but each time he had forced himself to sit still and to carry on with his study of the Hyperion's affairs.

  Time and experience would show him the real strength and weakness of his new command, but with just a few hours alone in his quarters he had already built up a working picture in his mind. From what he had read and examined it seemed as if the Hyperion under the command of the late Captain Turner had been the essence of normality. The punishment book, which Bolitho had inspected first, and which he always considered to be the safest measure of a ship's captain if not the performance of his command, showed the usual list of petty offenders, with the punishments of flogging and disrating no more or less than one might expect. On the West Indies station there had been various deaths reported from fever and careless shipboard accidents, and the daily log books showed nothing out of the ordinary.

  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 tab
le 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.

  The wardroom was directly beneath his own cabin, with the same set of wide wmdows across the stem. But the sides were lined with tiny cabins, and the corners jammed with sea-chests and the litter of personal equipment. Two of the ship's upper battery of twelve-pounders were also present, and Bolitho was briefly gratified that unlike the wardroom his own cabin would be spared the chaos and damage when the ship cleared for action.

  The wardroom was crowded with standing figures, for apart from the five lieutenants and marine officers Bolitho had made sure that the midshipmen and senior warrant officers were also present. These latter were the true link be

  tween poop and forecastle, as he knew from hard experience.

  He seated himself at the head of the long table and placed his hat beside a rolled chart. `Seat yourselves, gentlemen, or stand if you desire. I would not wish you to change your habits for my temporary convenience.' There was some polite laughter. The captain was, after all, merely, a guest in a wardroom, although Bolitho had often wondered what might happen if such a privilege be denied. He opened the chart slowly, knowing that their eyes were still on him rather than it.

  'As you are now aware, we sail to join Lord Hood. It is understood that in Toulon there are certain forces who, although French, are firmly against the present Revolutionary Government, and with help may well be the tools to overthrow it. By showing our strength and using every opportunity to harass the enemy's shipping we may have the chance to aid that state of affairs.' He looked up and caught sight of young Seton's face framed between the shoulders of the two marines.

  He continued evenly, 'By the middle of July, Lord Hood will have such a force available as to make all this possible. Every ship will be needed. It is therefore essential that each officr does his utmost to ensure there is no wastage in effort or training.' He looked around their intent faces. 'We may not be free to return here or to any other supply base for some time to come, is that understood?'

  Quarme said quietly, 'I think the second lieutenant has a question, sir.'

  Bolitho glanced across to where a languid, bored-looking young offcer was sitting on one of the chests. He said, 'I forget your name for the moment.'

  The lieutenant eyed him coolly. 'Sir Philip Rooke, sir.'

  There was nothing insolent in his tone but Bolitho could see it in the man's pale eyes like a challenge.

  `Well, Mr. Rooke, and what is the question?' Bolitho's voice was equally calm.

  Rooke sa
id in the same flat tone, 'We have been in commission for three years. The ship's bottom is as green as grass and she is as slow as an old cow.' There were a few murmurs which might have been agreement and he continued: 'Captain Turner was assured that we would be relieved of our station at Brest and that we should return to Portsmouth within the month.'

  Bolitho watched him thoughtfully. So far Rooke was the first to emerge from behind his mask.

  He said at length, 'Captain Turner is dead. But I am sure he would not have wished his ship to miss the chance to perform her duty.'

  Rowlstone, the surgeon, a small, unhealthy-looking man with crumpled features like uncooked suet, jumped to his feet. 'I did what I could, sir! He died of a bad heart.' He looked round the wardroom wildly. 'Sitting at his desk he was. He was past my help, I tell you!'

  Rooke glared at him. 'What would you know about it, man? You're more used to a butcher's knife than any sort of medicine!'

  Ashby, the captain of marines, pulled in his stomach and flipped a fragment of dust from his glove-tight uniform. 'He was a good man. We all miss him, y'know.' He stared hard at Bolitho. 'But I agree with you, sir. This is war. The fight's the thing, eh?'

  Bolitho smiled dryly. 'Thank you, Ashby. That is very reassuring.'

  Then he looked across at Gossett, the ship's master. He was a great barrel of a man, and although seated at the table his head- was almost level with that of the miserable-looking surgeon. 'And.you, Mr. Gossett? What is your opinion?'

  Gossett placed his fists on the polished wood and stared hard at them. As well he might. They were like two huge pieces of meat.

  He said deeply, 'We've a good set of spare spars an' canvas, sir. Th' ship's old right enough, but she can still fetch up with better an' younger craft.' He grinned so that his small bright eyes receded into his tanned face. 'I once sailed an old seventy-four out of battle with only one mast an' the lower gundeck awash!' He chuckled as if it was one great joke. 'The Frogs'll find us ready enough if they gives us the measure, sir.'