yelling for Poad in one breath.
He examined Bolitho very slowly, his eyes taking in everything from his hair to his new buckled shoes.
He said, “I’m Palliser, the senior.”
He had a crisp way of speaking. He glanced away as Poad ran through the door with a jug of wine.
Bolitho watched the first lieutenant curiously. He was very tall, so that he had to stoop between the deckhead beams. In his late twenties, but with the experience of a man far older. He and Bolitho wore the same uniform, but they were so far apart they could have been standing on either side of an abyss.
“Soyou’re Bolitho.” The eyes swivelled back towards him above the rim of the goblet. “You have a fair report, in words, that is. Well, this is a frigate, Mr Bolitho, not some overmanned third-rate. I need every officer and man working until this ship, my ship, is ready to weigh.” Another fierce swallow. “So report on deck, if you please. Take the launch and get yourself ashore. You must know the lie of the land around here, eh?” He gave a fleeting smile. “Lead a recruiting party to the west bank and examine those villages. Little, gunner’s mate, will assist. He understands the game. There are some posters you can put up at the inns as you go. We need about twenty sound hands, no rubbish. We are up to full complement, but at the end of a long passage that’s another matter. We shall lose a few, have no doubt of it. Anyway, the captain wants it done.”
Bolitho had been thinking of unpacking, of meeting his companions, of having a meal after the long coach journey from Falmouth.
To settle things quite firmly, Palliser said offhandedly, “This is Tuesday, be back aboard noon on Friday. Don’t lose any of your party, and don’t let them pull the wool over your eyes!”
He banged out of the wardroom, calling for somebody else.
Rhodes appeared in the open door and smiled sympathetically. “Hard luck, Richard. But his manner is rougher than his thoughts. He has picked a good shore-party for you. I’ve known some first lieutenants who would give a new junior a collection of moonstruck felons for company, just to give him hell when he returned.” He winked. “Mr Palliser intends to have a command of his own soon. Bear that in mind at all times as I do, it helps considerably!”
Bolitho smiled. “I’d better go at once, in that case.” He hesitated. “And thank you for making me welcome.”
Rhodes sank down in a chair and thought about the noon meal. He heard the clatter of oars alongside and the shout of the launch’s coxswain. What he had seen of Bolitho he liked. Young certainly, but with the restless quality of one who would do well in a tight corner or in a screaming hurricane.
It was strange how you never considered the worries and problems of your betters when you were a midshipman. A lieutenant, junior or not, was a kind of superior being. One who berated and was quick to find fault with the youthful beginners. Now he knew better. Even Palliser was frightened of the captain. Probably the lord and master was terrified of upsetting his admiral, or someone higher still?
Rhodes smiled. But for a few more precious moments there was peace.
Little, the gunner’s mate, stood back, his broad hands on where his hips should have been, and watched as one of his men tacked up another recruiting poster.
Bolitho pulled out his watch and looked across the village green as a church clock chimed midday.
Little said gruffly, “Mebbee time for a wet, sir?”
Bolitho sighed. Another day, after a sleepless night in a tiny, none too clean inn where he worried that his small recruiting party might desert, in spite of what Rhodes had said about their selection. But Little had made sure that part had gone well. He was totally at odds with his name; squat, overweight, even gross, so that his belly sagged heavily over his cutlass belt like a sack. How he managed it on purser’s rations was a marvel. But he was a good hand, seasoned and experienced, and would stand no nonsense.
Bolitho said, “One more stop, Little. Then…,” he gave a rueful smile, “I’ll buy you all a drink.”
They brightened up immediately. Six seamen, a marine corporal and two drummer boys who looked like toy soldiers freshly out of a box. They did not care about the miserable results of their trek from one village to the next. Usually the sight of Bolitho’s party aroused little interest, except amongst the children and a few snapping dogs. Old habits died hard so near to the sea. Many still recalled the dreaded press-gangs when men could be torn from their families and put in a King’s ship to suffer the harsh conditions of a war which few understood even now. And a goodly number had never come back at all.
Bolitho had managed to obtain four volunteers so far. Four, and Palliser was expecting twenty. He had sent them back with an escort to the boat in case they should have a change of heart. Two of them were seamen, but the others were labourers from a farm who had lost their jobs, “unfairly,” they both said. Bolitho suspected they were willing to volunteer for a more pressing reason, but it was no time to ask questions.
They tramped across the deserted green, the muddy grass splashing up from Bolitho’s shoes and on to his new stockings.
Little had already quickened his pace, and Bolitho wondered if he had done the right thing to offer them all a drink.
He shrugged inwardly. So far nothing had gone right. Matters could hardly get much worse.
Little hissed, “There be some men, sir!” He rubbed his big hands together and said to the corporal, “Now, Dipper, get your little lads to strike up a tune, eh?”
The two minute marines waited for their corporal to relay the order, then while one beat a lively tap on his drum the other drew a fife from his cross-belt and broke into what sounded like a jig.
The corporal’s name was Dyer. Bolitho asked, “Why do you call him Dipper?”
Little grinned, baring several broken teeth, the true mark of a fighter.
“Bless you, sir, ’cause he were a pickpocket afore he saw the light and joined the bullocks!”
The little group of men by the inn seemed to melt away as the seamen and marines drew near.
Two figures remained, and a more incongruous pair it was hard to imagine.
One was small and darting, with a sharp voice which carried easily above the fife and drum. The other was big and powerful, stripped to the waist, his arms and fists hanging at his sides like weapons waiting to be used.
The small man, a barker, enraged earlier by the sudden departure of his audience, saw the sailors and beckoned excitedly.
“Well, well, well, wot ’ave we ’ere then? Sons of the sea, the British Jack Tar!” He doffed his hat to Bolitho. “An’ a real gentleman in command, no doubt of that!”
Bolitho said wearily, “Fall the men out, Little. I’ll have the landlord send some ale and cheese.”
The barker was shouting, “Which one of you brave lads will stand up to this fighter of mine?” His eyes darted amongst them. “A guinea for the man who can stand two minutes against ’im!” The coin flashed between his fingers. “You don’t ’ave to win, my brave boys, just stand and fight for two minutes! ”
He had their full attention now, and Bolitho heard the corporal murmur to Little, “Wot about it, Josh? A ’ole bleedin’ guinea!”
Bolitho paused by the inn door and glanced at the prize-fighter for the first time. He looked as strong as ten, and yet there was something despairing and pathetic about him. He was not looking at any of the seamen but apparently staring into space. His nose had been broken, and his face showed the punishment of many fights. Country fairs, for the farming gentry, for anyone who would wager on seeing men fight for a bloody victory. Bolitho was not certain which one he despised more, the man who lived off the fighter or the one who laid bets on his pain.
He said shortly, “I shall be inside, Little.” All at once the thought of a glass of ale or cider beckoned him like a wilful spirit.
Little was already thinking of other things. “Aye, sir.”
It was a friendly little inn, and the landlord hurried to greet Bolitho, his head almost brushing the ceiling. A fire burned brightly in its box, and there was a smell of freshly baked bread and smoked hams.
“You sit down there, Lieutenant. I’ll see to your men presently.” He saw Bolitho’s expression. “Begging your pardon sir, but you’re wasting your time hereabouts. The war took too many away to follow the drum, an’ those what came back went elsewhere to the big towns like Truro an’ Exeter to get work.” He shook his head. “Me now, if I was twenty years younger I might have signed on.” He grinned. “Then again…”
Some while later, Richard Bolitho sat in a high-backed chair beside the fire, the mud drying on his stockings, his coat unbuttoned to allow for the excellent pie the landlord’s wife had brought for him. A big, elderly dog lay by his feet, pulsating gently as it enjoyed the heat and dreamed of some past exploit.
