Richard Bolitho – Midshipman

2. Outward Bound

'All hands! All hands aloft to reef tops'Is! ' Like the insistent voice in a nightmare the order was piped and repeated along the Gorgon's decks until the ship quivered to the thud of feet as the watch below dashed to their stations to be mustered. Bolitho shook Dancer roughly by the shoulder until he almost fell from his hammock. 'Come on, Martyn! We're shortening sail again! ' He waited as Dancer dragged on his shoes and coat and then together they ran for the nearest ladder. Three, no nearly four days it had gone on like this. From the moment the seventy-four had weighed anchor and started her passage downchannel towards the Atlantic it had been an endless turmoil of re-setting sails, of dragging weary bodies up the shrouds to the vibrating yards, and all the while harried and driven by the first lieutenant's voice from the quarterdeck. Even that had been part of the nightmare, for to make his orders heard above the roar of sea and wind Verling had had to use his speaking trumpet, making his sharp voice a ceaseless goad for the gasping midshipmen. For the new hands it was always worse, of course. A midshipman had very little status in a King's ship. The common seaman had none at all. Bolitho knew that to allow any break in discipline at a moment like changing a ship's tack in a heavy wind could be disastrous, but he was sickened to see unnecessary violence used on a man who was perhaps too terrified by working high above the deck to understand what was required of him. It was no different from the last time. Not yet dawn, but there was a paler hint of grey showing itself in the low clouds, and precious little else to light a way to the shrouds. Lieutenants fretted impatiently as petty officers and master's mates checked their lists of names at the foot of each mast. The marines clumped aft to the mizzen braces, their boots skidding on wet planking, and by the quarterdeck rail the first lieutenant bobbed and pointed, waving his speaking trumpet to emphasize some point or other. Bolitho peered aft to the big double wheel. Four helmsmen were clinging to the spokes so that he guessed there was still a big swell running to test the thrust of sails and rudder. Beside them he could see old Turnbull, the sailing master, shapeless in his heavy coat, his fists like red crabs as he gestured to his quartermaster. Quite alone by the weather nettings was the captain.

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! '