Bolitho had once heard a friend of his father’s say that when a King’s ship was away from the fleet, and free of the admiral’s apron strings, all that stood between a captain and chaos were the Articles of War and a line of marines across the poop. And he still recalled his father’s quick retort. ‘It would all depend on that captain!’
Only yesterday… and yet he could feel the change in himself, sense the scrutiny of the younger midshipmen. As if he represented something, some possibility no longer beyond their grasp. How does it feel to be one of them? He was still grappling with his own emotions, and the prospect of a new future.
Verling had tugged out his watch.
‘I shall take you aft.’ He faced them again. ‘Several others failed to satisfy the Almighty yesterday.’ He did not smile. ‘Not certain what I would have decided!’
They followed him aft, not quite reassured.
Captain Beves Conway was standing by a small desk fastening the cuff of his shirt. His dress uniform coat hung across the back of a chair, with his hat nearby. He was preparing for the admiral.
They had passed Gorgon’s surgeon as he was leaving, a stooping figure of indeterminate age, with a thin, almost lipless mouth. Bolitho had heard some of the old Jacks say that he would rather bury you than cure you if you ever fell into his hands, but they said that about most surgeons. He wondered what he had been doing for the captain. He had noticed that Conway sometimes held one shoulder stiffly, like now, as he slipped into his coat. A wound he had taken during the Caribbean campaign against the French, he had heard, although others had hinted at a duel fought, of course, over a lady.
He realised that there was another person in the cabin, perched on a chest by the screen, the captain’s coxswain. A big, powerful man, always smart and instantly recognisable in his gilt-buttoned coat and nankeen breeches, he seemed to come and go as he chose. More like a trusted companion than a subordinate.
He was holding a drawn sword now, running a cloth slowly up and down the blade. He glanced briefly at the two midshipmen, but nothing more. He belonged. They were merely visitors.
Conway smiled.
‘You did well, both of you. Full credit to the ship also.’
Verling said, ‘I’ll come aft when you’re ready, sir.’
The screen door closed behind him. He had spoken to the marine sentry by name when they had arrived at the lobby. A gift, or careful training? It was impossible to know, but Bolitho guessed it was rare enough. He had known some officers who had never cared to learn a name and match it to a face.
He had heard Verling quietly rebuking one of the senior midshipmen, who had since gone to another ship. ‘They are people, flesh and blood. Remember that, will you?’
Bolitho wondered if he had passed or failed at his Board.
The captain said suddenly, ‘A moment,’ and beckoned. ‘Come and see Condor spread her skirts – a sight that never fails to excite any true sailor!’
They followed him into the main cabin where the stern windows reached from quarter to quarter, and the panorama of ships and anchorage shimmered against the salt-smeared glass like some unfinished painting.
And here was the frigate Condor, topsails and fore-courses already set and filling to the wind now shredding the sea mist, her masthead pendant and ensign stiff and bright as metal against the clouds.
Yesterday. Her captain twisting round in his chair aboard the flagship, gauging the sea, the mood of the weather. Impatient to go. And no wonder.
He turned as Conway asked, ‘Do you see yourself in command of a frigate one day, Bolitho?’
‘Given the chance, sir…’ He got no further.
Conway moved closer, watching Condor’s, outline shorten, her yards shifting as she changed tack toward open water and the sea. He said, ‘Don’t wait to be given the chance. Take it. Or others will.’
He turned abruptly and walked across the cabin. Bolitho wanted to hold the moment, cherish it. This was the captain, as he might never see him again. Perhaps older than he had thought, but virile and vigorous, something the streaks of grey at his temples and the crows’ feet around his eyes could not flaw or diminish.
He said, ‘This damned overhaul is all but finished, thank God.’ He looked up and around the cabin, perhaps without seeing it, or seeing it in a way they could not yet understand. ‘This lady will be fit and ready for sea again if I – and the first lieutenant – have any say in the matter. After that -’ He touched the chair that stood squarely facing the constantly changing panorama. ‘Who can say?’
His expression changed and seemed angry, embarrassed. He said almost sharply, ‘I have a favour to ask. I’ve taken enough of your time and the ship’s as it is.’
Bolitho saw Dancer gripping a fold of his coat, another habit he had come to recognise, and sometimes understand. It happened when he was surprised, or moved, by something he had not anticipated.
Captain Beves Conway, experienced post captain, who had seen action and served in most waters where the ensign commanded respect, had a favour to ask?
Beyond these massive timbers, the other world continued to function unimpaired. The trill of a boatswain’s call and a shouted command, too muffled to distinguish. The squeal of tackles as another load of stores or equipment was hoisted aboard. A ship preparing for sea. It was what Conway cared about most. Perhaps all he cared about.
He said, ‘You will be leaving Gorgon shortly on a brief passage duty.’ There was a suggestion of a smile. ‘Not like your daring adventure with the revenue service, Bolitho. I believe your own brother was in command on that occasion. A family affair, it would seem.’ The smile was gone. ‘But it will stand you in good stead when you are finally commissioned. Mr. Verling will give you the details.’
It was like a fist striking out of nowhere.
Conway was leaving the ship. Giving up command. And it was all he had.
‘A new midshipman is joining tomorrow forenoon. His name is Andrew Sewell, and he is fifteen years old.’ He glanced from one to the other, suddenly relaxed, as if some weight had been lifted from him. ‘A mere boy compared with you seasoned mariners. He has everything to learn, and it was his father’s dearest wish that he should follow his family’s tradition and become a sea officer. His father was a great friend of mine, perhaps my best, but, alas, now dead… Just offer him a hand when it is needed. Will you do that?’ Like a challenge. ‘For me?’
Bolitho turned as Dancer asked, ‘First ship, sir?’
‘Not his first.’ Conway looked at the reflections rippling across the curved deckhead. ‘He has served for two months in Odin, Captain Greville, and before that in the Ramillies, with the Downs Squadron.’
He looked from one to the other. ‘I know, from your behaviour and your reports, and what I have seen for myself, that you are well suited to your profession. Maybe because you come from very different backgrounds, or in spite of it. It might be said that young Andrew Sewell is totally unsuited, a victim of circumstances.’ He shrugged, and Bolitho saw the flicker of pain in his face.
The marine sentry stamped his feet, somewhere beyond the screen. Verling must be back, and was waiting.
Conway said, ‘My old friend is dead. It is the last thing I can do for him, and perhaps the least.’
His coxswain had appeared, his hat beneath his arm, and Conway’s sword in his fist. No words: like an understanding between them.
Dancer offered, ‘My father was firmly against my going to sea, sir.’
Bolitho nodded. ‘And I never had any choice, sir.’
Conway held out his arms as his coxswain deftly clipped the sword into place.
‘So be it, and I thank you. Young Andrew must learn that you do not necessarily have to leave your own deck to confront an enemy.’ He shook hands gravely with both of them. ‘May good fortune go with you.’