Issue VII
Contents
I
Flagship
II
Author's introduction from Captain Richard Bolitho, RN
III
The Inshore Squadron
Author's
Note
I
Flagship
Throughout the Royal Navy's long and varied history,
one belief has barely changed. Junior officers have always considered
their own lot to be harder and more demanding than their immediate superiors,
and that once they have taken the vital step up the ladder of promotion
and seniority things will change for the better.
In the eighteenth and nineteenth
century navy, aboard an overcrowded and disciplined man-of-war, that belief
was even more positive, but then as now was very often wrong.
Youthful midshipmen, many packed
off to sea at the tender age of twelve or less, while they were chased
and harried by their lieutenants and betters, prayed for that unbelievable
day when they would pass their exams and trade the gunroom's petty tyranny
for the security and well-being of the wardroom.
The fortunate ones, having
gained their commissions as lieutenants, were soon to discover that the
responsibility which went with the uniform was far greater than they had
imagined possible. Watched with amused contempt by the ship's seasoned
sailing master, berated by their first lieutenant, they had to begin all
over again. That big step from gunroom to quarterdeck also brought
the captain into close and stark perspective. No longer the remote
figure on the poop made almost godlike by distance, the captain was only
too real and always quick to trim his new subordinates down to size.
But with time and experience
came confidence. The ability to stand watch in all but a full gale,
determined to stay in control and avoid calling the captain on deck for
advice or to assume command. It was a long and uncertain climb for
most lieutenants. The rules were few but well-tested. Never
mistake foolhardiness for confidence. Never put pride before safety
when the ship was standing into danger. Not least, never offend
the captain.
As with most young men however,
the more they learned, the greater the problems they overcame, the more
certain they became that could don a captain's epaulette and do his
work with equal panache. Given the chance.
It rarely occurred to many
of them that once alone, aft in his great cabin, their lord and master
had only his own resources to sustain him. To share a doubt with
even a trusted subordinate could provoke uncertainty at the very moment
of peril. Gun-to-gun in the bloody business of close action that
same officer might look aft to his captain and find himself doubting the
leadership and example he desperately needed.
The daily routine aboard ship,
promotion and punishment, the distance sailed, the assessment of ability
or the discovery of incompetence, all eventually arrived on the captain's
table. For his was the final responsibility whatever happened.
Reward and honour came to the fortunate ones, but courts martial and oblivion
were too common for complacency.
And what of the captain of
a flagship? Surely from time to time as his admiral took his daily
stroll on poop or quarterdeck he must have felt a touch of envy, the same
old belief that he could command not just this ship but the whole squadron
or fleet?
In those years of almost continuous
war and unrest, the navy's admirals, the flag officers, were hard put to
protect the trade routes and blockade the enemy's fleets without stretching
their ships and men to the limit.
While the ponderous ships-of-the-line
tacked back and forth outside some hostile port or estuary, or rode out
a storm in any sea from the Atlantic to the Caribbean, the flag officers
who commanded their destinies fretted about news and the ability to obtain
it from any and every source.
With sea distances so great
and the time taken for vessels to move from one point on a chart to another,
intelligence reports and despatches were often out-of-date before they
had left the Admiralty or some other naval headquarters.
Most information came via passing
merchantmen and coastal traders, and this was often more reliable than
that which filtered from embassies and consulates abroad.
Either way, the admiral concerned
could never afford to ignore it. He had to weigh each piece of news
and then act on it. He might discover to his cost that ships destroyed
by his command, or shore installations laid in ruins by landing parties
of his marines, were in fact those of a country now friendly to Britain
when they had been at war when he had last heard.
Every fleet was short of frigates,
the admiral's eyes and teeth. Faster than anything heavier, and heavier
than anything faster, they were the vital link between some far-off, unidentified
sail and the ship which proudly flew the admiral's own command flag.
It is worth mentioning, I think, that when a large
fleet was at sea it was common to have several admirals in command of smaller
squadrons within it.
It was essential for the captain
of some courier-brig or schooner, outward bound with important despatches
for the senior officer, to be able to recognise the flagship concerned.
Even more so was the ability to identify her in the heat and din of battle.
A small hoist of signal flags could make all the difference between victory
and disaster.
An admiral's flagship was identified
by his flag being flown at the mainmast. A vice-admiral flew his
flag from the foremast, and a rear-admiral, the most junior, hoisted his
at the mizzen.
At night, the senior officer
showed three lanterns above his taffrail, the second-in-command two, and
every other vessel one. In addition all flag officers displayed a
lantern from the rear of the maintop. These were known as top-lights,
the term was also used as naval slang for eyes.
An admiral had to be able to
sum up a situation before it happened. Once engaged with an enemy
force it took far too long to manoeuvre his ships to best advantage so
he had to bear every possibility in mind. To keep his ships where
they controlled the largest area, to retain the wind-gage and hold a potential
enemy to leeward, these things were rarely far from his thoughts.
Unlike his captains he could no longer concern himself with the men who
crewed his ships. They were part of a whole, the fleet in being,
which by his example and skill could be forged into a single and effective
weapon.
Only when the guns began to
roar and the sea's face became masked in dense smoke would the admiral,
be he very senior or a newly appointed rear admiral, know if he had acted
wisely, or if within hours he would see his hopes, like his ships, scattered
and in chaos.
Whatever the outcome, the flag
officers of those harsh but stirring times had to share their success or
failure with the lowliest sailor and the youngest midshipman around them.
An admiral was always a prized target for the enemy's marksmen in the fighting
tops, for just as his flagship had to be recognised at all times, so must
he show an example without flinching.
Several famous admirals were
to die in combat in such a fashion. At the Battle of the Nile in
1798, the French Admiral Brueys continued to direct the conduct of his
fleet although legless and with the stumps bound in crude tourniquets while
he perched in a chair on his quarterdeck. His agony ended only when
his great flagship L'Orient was blasted apart when a magazine caught
fire. Seven years later, the little admiral who had beaten him and
destroyed his fleet was to fall to a French sharpshooter as he walked the
deck of the Victory at Trafalgar.
How many historic events have
begun, I wonder, with an agitated lieutenant reporting to his captain,
"Signal from the Flag, sir!"?
If the true feelings of the
man who had ordered such a signal to be hoisted had been known, it is doubtful
if many would have envied him his power, and his flagship.
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II
Author's
introduction
From Captain Richard Bolitho, RN
Published August 1978
Omnibus containing Sloop of War,
To Glory We Steer,
and Command a King's Ship
It is a particular
pleasure for me to have these three Richard Bolitho stories brought together
into one volume. They span only six years in Bolitho's life, but
those years were the ones in which he learnt what it meant to carry the
responsibilities of command – of command of ships of war at sea
for months, and sometimes years, on end with little or no direction from
any superior authority. These were times when an ally could become
an enemy almost overnight and when the total weight of decisions that might
precipitate a major conflict – or even a war – could rest
on the shoulders of a young naval captain.
Today it is extraordinary to think of this: to realise that a naval officer
in his early twenties would be in command of a thirty-two gun frigate,
far from the main fleet, and responsible for a ship's company of about
200 men, many of whom would be seasoned veterans old enough to be his father.
This volume contains the first Bolitho story which was published in 1968.
However, this is not the first in the chronological sequence of Bolitho's
career. When I conceived Bolitho I felt that the stories would remain
fresher – and possibly present a greater challenge to me – if they were
written out of order. In this way I hoped to vary the plots and,
equally importantly, the backgrounds to the stories; there are now
twelve published books dealing with Bolitho's life from 1772, when he was
a midshipman on the Gorgon, to 1798, when he was promoted commodore.
One of the books in this omnibus is, as I have said, the first Bolitho
story to be published: To Glory We Steer. The others are Sloop
of War and Command a King's Ship, and the three stories are
now chronologically arranged. Sloop of War in 1778,
the year in which Bolitho takes command of the Sparrow, a small,
fast and well-armed sloop, and has as its climax the Battle of the Chesapeake
off the eastern seaboard of North America. To Glory We Steer
is set during the last years of the American War of Independence, when
as a junior captain Bolitho is ordered to take his frigate Phalarope
to the Caribbean. Command a King's Ship again has him in command
of a frigate, the Undine, but in this book the main setting is the
East Indies – at that time a little known area where there is no set line
of battle or declared cause to rally a ship's company.
Together the three novels cover the years from 1778, the date of his first
independent command, to 1784 – the years in which the young Bolitho is
tested to the full and during which he is moulded to achieve the senior
ranks of flag captain, squadron commodore, and rear admiral in other stories.
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III
The Inshore Squadron
 Acclaimed
as 'one of our foremost writers of naval fiction' (Sunday Times),
Alexander Kent has gone from strength to strength since his first Richard
Bolitho Novel appeared ten years ago. Fine storytelling, careful
attention to historical background and sweeping scenes of naval action
account for the world-wide success of his books. The Inshore Squadron
is the twelfth Richard Bolitho story and chronologically it follows the
events covered by Signal – Close Action!
In September 1800 Richard Bolitho, a freshly appointed rear-admiral, assumes
command of his own squadron – but, as the cruel demands of war spread from
Europe to the Baltic, he soon realizes that his experience, gained in the
line of battle, has ill-prepared him for the intricate manoeuvring of power
politics.
Under his flag, the Inshore Squadron has to ride out the bitter hardship
of blockade duty and the swift, deadly encounters with the enemy.
An old hatred steps from the past to pose a personal threat to him, but
at the gates of Cagen, where his flag flies amidst the fury of battle,
Bolitho must put all private hopes and fears behind him.
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Author's
Note
Looking back
over the ten years of Richard Bolitho's stories I am often amazed at the
way he has taken over my life. I feel more like his aide or respectful
secretary than his author, and after all this time I am still learning
about him and discovering new sides to his nature.
I know from the many letters I receive and from the varied suggestions
and inquiries which come my way that others may see him differently, or
identify with characteristics which interest them most. About half
of the letters I get are from women. There seems to be no age barrier,
and I am in regular correspondence with some very senior citizens as well
as young girls who are still in school.
Good or bad, the eighteenth-century was the melting-pot of the world we
now know. Perhaps Richard Bolitho strikes a spark of romance, or
mirrors a time, which if hard and demanding was also one of gallantry and
honour.
Of course I hear from people whose lives are or have been closely bound
to the sea. Merchant seamen, yachtsmen, naval men of all ranks and
of several nations. Only this year during a tour of South Africa
I was made an honorary member of the tug-masters' association, although
I suspect that I was only "standing in" for Bolitho.
When I begin a story I rarely know more than the historical and factual
background. Bolitho seems to have a will of his own, and I have to
watch closely in case he should change the plot as it progresses!
I get to know his ships, his officers and seamen, much as I learned to
understand sailors of my own time and generation.
Sometimes when the evening is quiet, and I have finished work for the day,
I find myself looking at one of the old naval swords or relics which share
my home with me, and wondering. About a man who held such a sword,
who lived and died in a world like Bolitho's. What was he really
like, what were his hopes and fears?
When I am on one of my reserach trips, especially around the seaports of
this country, I am very aware of the characters who play such a part in
my life. Around Plymouth, or walking down a lane in Cornwall I can
picture them without effort. Herrick and young Pascoe, Allday with
his lazy smile and an eye for the wenches, and of course Bolitho himself.
Abroad too, in Tahiti, or along the restless coastline of Brittany I sometimes
imagine I can see a far-off pyramid of sails, or sunlight reflecting from
a raised telescope.
I no longer imagine for an instant that I created Richard Bolitho.
I believe he found me, and for that I am very grateful.
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