Alexander Kent - Sloop Of War

John Paul Jones

In a little more than a hundred yards' walk from the busy foreshore to the elegant white building at the top of the coast road, but within a minute of leaving the launch Richard Bolitho was damp with sweat. In the broad expanse of English Harbour there had been an illusion of a breeze, but here, as the noon sun stood high above Monk's Hill and bathed the island of Antigua in a shimmering haze, there was no such comfort.

Nevertheless, Bolitho quickened his pace conscious of his rising excitement and a sense of unreality which had been with him since his arrival just a week earlier. Events had moved so fast that he felt unable to keep a grip on them, as if he was a spectator watching somebody else, a being quite alien to his own resources?

Through wide gates, the sand and dust covering his new shoes with a pale layer, and across some well tended gardens towards the building itself. But for the flag which hung limply from its staff it could have been the residence of some rich merchant or shipowner. From the number of Negro servants who were working amidst the flowers and shrubs he guessed that the previous occupant had probably been a dealer in African slaves?

Within the deep porch it felt almost cold after the sun's fierce glare, and he found himself confronted by a red-faced sergeant of marines who, after a cursory glance which covered Bolitho from top to toe, said, "If you will step into this room, sir." His tone, if not offhand was that of a man so used to dealing with the comings and goings of sea-officers that he could no longer become excited by anything or anyone?

Bolitho entered the small room and heard the doors slam behind him. For the first time since he could recall he was quite alone. Alone, and poised on what might be the most important step in his life?

He made himself walk very slowly to the window and stood looking down at the harbour spread below him like some great painting. English Harbour. The headquarters and linchpin of England 's sea power in the Indies and Caribbean. Every type of ship seemed to be here. Stately two-deckers in the deep anchorages their awnings spread and every gun port open to catch the merest breath of air. Lithe frigates and supply vessels, and a whole collection of smaller craft from brigs to schooners, between which countless oared boats plied back and forth like water-beetles?

Somewhere in the building a man shouted loudly and feet clattered in a passageway. Bolitho tore his eyes from the anchored ships and crossed to a wall mirror, his mind suddenly very aware of what the next minutes might bring or take away?

He still could not get used to his change of appearance. He had never imagined that a uniform would alter a man's outward image so much yet leave him inwardly the same. Just weeks ago he had been second lieutenant in the Trojan, an eighty-gun ship-ofthe-line. For three years he had lived, worked and nearly died within her crowded hull, rising from his original position of fourth lieutenant by way of one man's death and the promotion of another. He had become used to the Trojan, even though he had had to fight off the yearning to free himself from her ponderous authority to find more individual scope for his ideas?

Like everyone aboard he had been kept busy enough. With the rebellion in America every ship-of-war was needed as never before. As the rebellion grew and spread and some real hint of its purpose filtered through to the fleet the Trojan was called from one crisis to another?

It seemed incredible that disorganised bands ob men could be welded into armies. Armies strong and agile enough to out-manoeuvre some of the best troops from England. But like most of his companions Bolitho had firmly believed that some sort ob compromise would still present itself. That was until six months ago in October 1777, when the news of Burgoyne's surrender had burst upon them. Overnights or so it seemed, the rebellion had developed into a new and bitter conflict. On the one hand the British with their overstretched resources, and on the other the armies of the American Revolution backed as they were by a whole fleet of privateers from France and Spain. No supply ship could sail alone without the real risk of being taken by such privateers. Even troop convoys were not immune from attack?

It was in the middle of this new hit-and-run war that Bolitho's own life had changed. Trojan had run down and boarded a prize, a handsome brig, off the coast ob Puerto Rico, her holds jammed with contraband goods and powder for the Americans. Caught between two sets of shoals and confronted by the Trojan's impressive artillery, her master decided to surrender without fuss?

Trojan's first lieutenant was badly needed in his own ship as most of the officers were newly appointed and without much experience. To Bolitho fell the lot of prize-master, with orders to take her to Antigua and await further instructions. It was like the beginning to some impossible dream. Freedom, excitement, the room to move and act without his captain's eye upon him, the little brig seemed to offer unlimited possibilities, even though he knew it would not last?

But fate had other ideas. Within a few days they had sighted another, larger brig, well handled, and displaying a heavier armament than was usual for such a craft. There had been no doubt that she was a privateer, and, further, it had seemed likely she was approaching to make a rendezvous with the prize?

There was little time to think, let alone plan. The other ship would outsail and outshoot anything Bolitho's small prize-crew could offer. To fight and die to no purpose was unthinkable, and to surrender without doing so was equally so?

It had turned out to be so simple that looking back it too seemed like part of the dream. Closing the unsuspecting privateer, apparently to pass despatches, they had run alongside and grappled hers both vessels being buried under a mass of fallen spars and canvas in the collision. A volley of musket fire, a wildly yelling rush of boarders, and the other ship was taken, even though her company outnumbered Bolitho's party by four to one. Trojan's seamen were well used to this sort of game. The privateer's crew were not. In fact, it was her captain's first voyage in that capacity?

So instead of one prize Bolitho entered harbour with a pair. With the war going badly on land, and affairs at sea so confused as to be equally disheartening, his arrival under the guns of the harbour's battery was like a tonic. Handshakes from a rear-admiral, smiling greetings from senior captains, Bolitho had been staggered by the welcome?

With the prizes handed over to the dockyard he had been found accommodation in an old hulk called Octavia. Originally a two-decker, she had been all but sunk in a hurricane the previous year, and now served as accommodation ship. Junior officers whiled away the time gambling, sleeping or drinking to excess as they awaited their next appointments. Promotion and transfers, courts martial or passage home as a crippled victim of some encounter with the enemy, the old Octavia had seen them all?

As the days passed, Bolitho began to imagine he had been forgotten. Soon the Trojan would arrive and he would find himself back again in her tight community. Living from day to day. Hoping, yet not daring to hope for too much?

The orders, when they were delivered by an immaculate flag lieutenant, were as brief as they were astounding. By consent of the Commander-in-Chiefs Richard Bolitho would take upon himself the appointment of commander with the rank and benefits attached. The appointment would take effect forthwith? He would furnish himself with all necessary vestments and report to the newly acquired headquarters building in two days' time?