Richard Bolitho – Midshipman

A whistle shrilled and it all started again. The nimble-footed topmen racing each other up the ratlines while the new hands and less confident followed behind them pursued by threats and not a few blows from the petty officers' rattans to hurry them along. And above it all Verling's voice, distorted and inhuman through his trumpet, controlling and steering everyone. 'Another pull on the weather forebrace! Mr Tregorren, there's a man in your division who needs starting, damn your eyes, sir! Two more hands aft to the mizzen braces! ' He never stopped. Up those rough, shaking ratlines and around the futtock shrouds, hanging out and down above the hull and creaming sea below, clinging with fingers and toes to keep from falling. Then breathless on to the foretop, with men already scrambling further still to the topsail yard, swarming out on either beam like monkeys, clawing and fisting the thick, half frozen canvas to control it, to take in another reef while each billowing section did its best to knock the men from their perches and hurl them aside. Curses and sobs, men swearing terrible oaths as fingernails were torn out by the rough heavy-weather canvas; or they fought off their more frightened companions who clung to them for support. Bolitho gripped a backstay and watched the scene on the other masts. It was almost done, and the ship was answering to the lesser thrust in her sails. Far below, foreshortened like dwarfs, he saw the quarterdeck officers and the afterguard who were securing their halliards and braces. Still by the weather side, the captain was watching the yards. Was he worried? Bolitho wondered. He certainly did not look it. 'Secure, Mr Hope! ' Verling could not resist adding, 'You seem to have some cripples in your division! I suggest extra sail drill in the forenoon! ' Bolitho and Dancer slid to the deck on a backstay to find Mr Hope fuming again. 'God damn it, I shall swing for that one! ' Hope recovered himself and added, 'And for you too, if you don't drive the people harder! ' As Hope strode aft Bolitho said, 'His bark is worse than his bite. Come on, Martyn, let us see what young Starr has saved us for breakfast. There is no point in climbing into a hammock now. They will call the hands directly.' They found a reedy, severe-looking man in a plain blue coat waiting in the midshipmen's berth when they hurried breathlessly into its damp security. Bolitho already knew his name was Henry Scroggs, the captain's clerk, who messed with their neighbours, the master's mates. Scroggs snapped, 'Bolitho, is it not?" He did not wait for an answer. 'Report to the captain. Mr Marrack has injured his arm and Mr Grenfell has the morning watch.' He waited, his face impassive. 'Well, sir, jump to it, if you wish to draw breath again! ' Bolitho stared at him, recalling what Marrack had said about clean shirts, conscious of his own dishevelled appearance. Dancer offered, 'Here, let me help you get dressed.' The clerk snapped, 'No time. Next to Grenfell and Marrack, you are senior, Bolitho. The captain is very definite about such matters.' He swayed as the ship tilted steeply and sent the sea boiling loudly over the upper deck. 'I suggest you make a move! ' Bolitho reached for his hat and said ruefully, 'Very well.' Then ducking beneath the low deckbeams he made his way aft. Bolitho stood breathing hard outside a whitepainted screen door beneath the poop. After the crowded quarters between decks, the shadowy figures of the seamen returning from the work on the yards, it seemed very quiet. Beside the door, standing rigidly in a pool of light from a deckhead lantern, a marine sentry regarded him coldly before calling, 'Signal midshipman, sir I' He further emphasized the introduction by banging the butt of his musket smartly on the deck.