In Gallant Company Read online

  Contents

  About the Book

  About the Author

  Chronology

  Also by Alexander Kent

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Epigraph

  1. Show of Strength

  2. A Wild Plan

  3. The Faithful

  4. Rendezvous

  5. The Quality of Courage

  6. A Lieutenant’s Lot

  7. Hopes and Fears

  8. Fort Exeter

  9. Probyn’s Choice

  10. Night Action

  11. Rear-guard

  12. Rivals

  13. No More Pretence

  14. A Very High Price

  15. Another Chance

  16. Orders

  17. None So Gallant

  Copyright

  About the Book

  The revolution in America has erupted into a full-scale war. Richard Bolitho is a young lieutenant aboard the Trojan, an eighty-gun ship of the line.

  The navy’s main task is to prevent military supplies from reaching Washington’s armies and to destroy the fast-growing fleet of French and American privateers. At a time of shortages and sudden death even a lieutenant can find himself faced with major tasks and decisions. As the Trojan goes about her affairs the threat to Bolitho and his companions makes itself felt from New York to the Caribbean.

  About the Author

  Alexander Kent is the author of twenty-eight acclaimed books featuring Richard Bolitho. Under his own name, Douglas Reeman, and in the course of a career spanning forty-five years, he has written over thirty novels and two non-fiction books.

  The stirring story of the life and times of Richard Bolitho is told in Alexander Kent’s bestselling novels.

  1756 Born Falmouth, son of James Bolitho

  1768 Entered the King’s service as a Midshipman on Manxman

  1772 Midshipman, Gorgon (Midshipman Bolitho)

  1774 Promoted Lieutenant, Destiny: Rio and the Caribbean (Stand into Danger)

  1775–7 Lieutenant, Trojan, during the American Revolution. Later appointed prizemaster (In Gallant Company)

  1778 Promoted Commander, Sparrow. Battle of the Chesapeake (Sloop of War)

  1780 Birth of Adam, illegitimate son of Hugh Bolitho and Kerenza Pascoe

  1782 Promoted Captain, Phalarope; West Indies: Battle of Saints (To Glory We Steer)

  1784 Captain, Undine; India and East Indies (Command a King’s Ship)

  1787 Captain, Tempest; Great South Sea; Tahiti; suffered serious fever (Passage to Mutiny)

  1792 Captain, the Nore; Recruiting (With All Despatch)

  1793 Captain, Hyperion; Mediterranean; Bay of Biscay; West Indies. Adam Pascoe, later Bolitho, enters the King’s service as a midshipman aboard Hyperion (Form Line of Battle! And Enemy in Sight)

  1795 Promoted Flag Captain, Euryalus; involved in the Great Mutiny; Mediterranean; Promoted Commodore (The Flag Captain)

  1798 Battle of the Nile (Signal – Close Action!)

  1800 Promoted Rear-Admiral; Baltic; (The Inshore Squadron)

  1801 Biscay. Prisoner of war (A Tradition of Victory)

  1802 Promoted Vice-Admiral; West Indies (Success to the Brave)

  1803 Mediterranean (Colours Aloft!)

  1805 Battle of Trafalgar (Honour This Day)

  1806–7 Good Hope and the second battle of Copenhagen (The Only Victor)

  1808 Shipwrecked off Africa (Beyond the Reef)

  1809–10 Mauritius campaign (The Darkening Sea)

  1812 Promoted Admiral; Second American War (For My Country’s Freedom)

  1814 Defence of Canada (Cross of St. George)

  1815 Richard Bolitho killed in action (Sword of Honour) Adam Bolitho, Captain, Unrivalled. Mediterranean (Second to None)

  1816 Anti-slavery patrols, Sierra Leone. Battle of Algiers (Relentless Pursuit)

  1817 Flag Captain, Athena; Antigua and Caribbean (Man of War)

  1818 Captain, Onward; Mediterranean (Heart of Oak)

  Also by Alexander Kent:

  Midshipman Bolitho

  Stand Into Danger

  To Glory We Steer

  Passage to Mutiny

  Command a King’s Ship

  Sloop of War

  Enemy in Sight

  With All Despatch

  Flag Captain

  Form Line of Battle

  Success to the Brave

  Tradition of Victory

  Inshore Squadron

  Signal Close Action

  Colours Aloft

  Only Victor

  Honour This Day

  Cross of St George

  Relentless Pursuit

  Sword of Honour

  Second to None

  Man of War

  Heart of Oak

  In Gallant Company

  Alexander Kent

  For Winifred with love

  Our foe was no skulk in his ship I tell you, . . . His was the surly English pluck, and there is no tougher or truer, and never was, and never will be.

  WALT WHITMAN

  1

  Show of Strength

  THE STIFF OFFSHORE wind, which had backed slightly to the north-west during the day, swept across New York’s naval anchorage, bringing no release from the chilling cold and the threat of more snow.

  Tugging heavily at her anchor cables, His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Trojan of eighty guns might appear to a landsman’s unpractised eye as indifferent to both wind and water. But to the men who continued with their work about her decks, or high above them on the slippery yards and rigging, her swaying motion made her anything but that.

  It was March 1777, but to Lieutenant Richard Bolitho, officer of the afternoon watch, it felt like midwinter. It will be dark early, he thought, and the ship’s boats would have to be checked, their moorings doubly secured before night closed in completely.

  He shivered, not so much because of the cold, but because he knew there would be little relief from it once he was allowed to go below. For despite her massive size and armament, the Trojan, a two-decked ship of the line, whose complement of six hundred and fifty officers, seamen and marines lived out their lives within her fat hull, had no more than the galley fires and body-warmth to sustain them, no matter what the elements might do.

  Bolitho raised his telescope and trained it towards the fading waterfront. As the lens passed over other anchored ships of the line, frigates and the general clutter of small supporting craft he found time to wonder at the change. It had been just last summer when Trojan, in company with a great fleet of one hundred and thirty ships, had anchored here, off Staten Island. After the shock of the actual revolution within the American colonies, the occupation of New York and Philadelphia with such a show of force had seemed to those involved as a start on the way back, a compromise.

  It had been such a simple and leisurely affair at the time. After placing his troops under canvas along the green shoreline of Staten Island, General Howe, with a token force of infantry, had gone ashore to take possession. All the preparations by the Continentals and local militia had come to nothing, and even the Staten Island force of four hundred men, who had been commanded by General Washington to defend the redoubts at all costs, had grounded their muskets and obligingly sworn allegiance to the Crown.

  Bolitho lowered the glass as it blurred in drifting snow. It was hard to recall the green island and crowds of onlookers, the Loyalists cheering, the rest watching in grim silence. Now all the colours were in shades of grey. The land, the tossing water, even the ships seemed to have lost their brightness in the persistent and lingering winter.

  He took a few paces this way and that across Trojan’s spacious quarterdeck, his shoes slipping on the planking, his damp clothing tug
ging at him in the wind. He had been in the ship for two years. It was beginning to feel a lifetime. Like many others throughout the fleet, he had felt mixed feelings at the news of the revolution. Surprise and shock. Sympathy and then anger. And above all the sense of helplessness.

  The revolution, which had begun as a mixture of individual ideals, had soon developed into something real and challenging. The war was like nothing they had known before. Big ships of the line like Trojan moved ponderously from one inflamed incident to another, and were well able to cope with anything which was careless enough to stray under their massive broadsides. But the real war was one of communications and supply, of small, fast vessels, sloops, brigs and schooners. And throughout the long winter months, while the overworked ships of the inshore squadrons had patrolled and probed some fifteen hundred miles of coastline, the growing strength of the Continentals had been further aided by Britain’s old enemy, France. Not openly as yet, but it would not be long before the many French privateers which hunted from the Canadian border to the Caribbean showed their true colours. After that, Spain too would be a quick if unwilling ally. Her trade routes from the Spanish Main were perhaps the longest of all, and with little love for England anyway, she would likely take the easiest course.

  All this and more Bolitho had heard and discussed over and over again until he was sick of it. Whatever the news, good or bad, the Trojan’s role seemed to be getting smaller. Like a rock she remained here in harbour for weeks on end, her company resentful, the officers hoping for a chance to leave her and find their fortunes in swifter, more independent ships.

  Bolitho thought of his last ship, the twenty-eight-gun frigate Destiny. Even as her junior lieutenant, and barely used to the sea-change from midshipman’s berth to wardroom, he had found excitement and satisfaction beyond belief.

  He stamped his feet on the wet planks, seeing the watchkeepers at the opposite side jerk round with alarm. Now he was fourth lieutenant of this great, anchored mammoth, and looked like remaining so.

  Trojan would be better off in the Channel Fleet, he thought. Manoeuvres and showing the flag to the watchful French, and whenever possible slipping ashore to Plymouth or Portsmouth to meet old friends.

  Bolitho turned as familiar footsteps crossed the deck from the poop. It was Cairns, the first lieutenant, who like most of the others had been aboard since the ship had recommissioned in 1775 after being laid up in Bristol where she had originally been built.

  Cairns was tall, lean and very self-contained. If he too was pining over the next step in his career, a command of his own perhaps, he never showed it. He rarely smiled, but nevertheless was a man of great charm. Bolitho both liked and respected him, and often wondered what he thought of the captain.

  Cairns paused, biting his lower lip, as he peered up at the towering criss-cross of shrouds and running rigging. Thinly coated with clinging snow, the yards looked like the branches of gaunt pines.

  He said, ‘The captain will be coming off soon. I’ll be on call, so keep a weather-eye open.’

  Bolitho nodded, gauging the moment. Cairns was twenty-eight, while he was not yet twenty-one. But the span between first and fourth lieutenant was still the greater.

  He asked casually, ‘Any news of our captain’s mission ashore, sir?’

  Cairns seemed absorbed. ‘Get those topmen down, Dick. They’ll be too frozen to turn-to if the weather breaks. Pass the word for the cook to break out some hot soup.’ He grimaced. ‘That should please the miserly bugger.’ He looked at Bolitho. ‘Mission?’

  ‘Well, I thought we might be getting orders.’ He shrugged. ‘Or something.’

  ‘He has been with the commander-in-chief certainly. But I doubt we’ll hear anything stronger than the need for vigilance and an eye to duty!’

  ‘I see.’ Bolitho looked away. He was never sure when Cairns was being completely serious.

  Cairns tugged his coat around his throat. ‘Carry on, Mr Bolitho.’

  They touched their hats to each other, the informality laid aside for the moment.

  Bolitho called, ‘Midshipman of the watch!’ He saw one of the drooping figures break away from the shelter of the hammock nettings and bound towards him.

  ‘Sir!’

  It was Couzens, thirteen years old, and one of the new members of the ship’s company, having been sent out from England aboard a transport. He was round-faced, constantly shivering, but made up for his ignorance with a willingness which neither his superiors nor the ship could break.

  Bolitho told him about the cook, and the captain’s expected return, then instructed him to arrange for piping the relief for the first dog-watch. He passed his instructions without conscious thought, but watched Couzens instead, seeing not him but himself at that tender age. He had been in a ship of the line, too. Chased, harried, bullied by everyone, or so it had seemed. But he had had one hero, a lieutenant who had probably never even noticed him as a human being. And Bolitho had always remembered him. He had never lost his temper without cause. Never found escape in humiliating others when he had received a telling-off from his captain. Bolitho had hoped he would be like that lieutenant one day. He still hoped.

  Couzens nodded firmly. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  Trojan carried nine midshipmen, and Bolitho sometimes wondered how their lives would take shape. Some would rise to flag rank, others drop by the wayside. There would be the usual sprinkling of tyrants and of leaders, of heroes and cowards.

  Later, as the new watch was being mustered below the quarterdeck, one of the look-outs called, ‘Boat approaching, sir!’ The merest pause. ‘’Tis the captain!’

  Bolitho darted a quick glance at the milling confusion below the quarterdeck. The captain could not have chosen a better time to catch them all out.

  He yelled, ‘Pass the word for the first lieutenant! Man the side, and call the boatswain directly!’

  Men dashed hither and thither through the gloom, and while the marines tramped stolidly to the entry port, their cross-belts very white in the poor light, the petty officers tried to muster the relieving watchkeepers into some semblance of order.

  A boat appeared, pulling strongly towards the main chains, the bowman already standing erect with his hook at the ready.

  ‘Boat ahoy?’

  The coxswain’s cry came back instantly. ‘Trojan!’

  Their lord and master was back. The man who, next to God, controlled each hour of their lives, who could reward, flog, promote or hang as the situation dictated, was amongst their crowded world once more.

  When Bolitho glanced round again he saw that where there had been chaos there was order, with the marines lined up, muskets to their shoulders, their commanding officer, the debonair Captain D’Esterre, standing with his lieutenant, apparently oblivious to wind and cold.

  The boatswain’s mates were here, moistening their silver calls on their lips, and Cairns, his eyes everywhere, waited to receive his captain.

  The boat hooked on to the chains, the muskets slapped and cracked to the present while the calls shrilled in piercing salute. The captain’s head and shoulders rose over the side, and while he doffed his cocked hat to the quarterdeck he too examined the ship, his command, with one sweeping scrutiny.

  He said curtly, ‘Come aft, Mr Cairns.’ He nodded to the marine officers. ‘Smart turn-out, D’Esterre.’ He turned abruptly and snapped, ‘Why are you here, Mr Bolitho?’ As he spoke, eight bells chimed out from the forecastle. ‘You should have been relieved, surely?’

  Bolitho looked at him. ‘I think Mr Probyn is detained, sir.’

  ‘Do you indeed.’ The captain had a harsh voice which cut above the din of wind and creaking spars like a cutlass. ‘The responsibility of watchkeeping is as much that of the relief as the one awaiting it.’ He glanced at Cairns’ impassive face. ‘’Pon my soul, Mr Cairns, not a difficult thing to learn, I’d have thought?’

  They walked aft, and Bolitho breathed out very slowly.

  Lieutenant George Probyn, his immedi
ate superior, was often late taking over his watch, and other duties too for that matter. He was the odd man in the wardroom, morose, argumentative, bitter, although for what reason Bolitho had not yet discovered. He saw him coming up the starboard ladder, broad, untidy, peering around suspiciously.

  Bolitho faced him. ‘The watch is aft, Mr Probyn.’

  Probyn wiped his face and then blew his nose in a red handkerchief.

  ‘I suppose the captain was asking about me?’

  Even his question sounded hostile.

  ‘He noted you were absent.’ Bolitho could smell brandy, and added, ‘But he seemed satisfied enough.’

  Probyn beckoned to a master’s mate and scanned quickly through the deck log which the man held below a lantern.

  Bolitho said wearily, ‘Nothing unusual to report. One seaman injured and taken to the sickbay. He fell from the boat tier.’

  Probyn sniffed. ‘Shame.’ He closed the book. ‘You are relieved.’ He watched him broodingly. ‘If I thought anyone was making trouble for me behind my back . . .’

  Bolitho turned away, hiding his anger. Do not fret, my drunken friend. You are doing that for yourself.

  Probyn’s rumbling voice followed him to the companion as he put his men to their stations and allotted their tasks.

  As he ran lightly down the companion ladder and made his way aft towards the wardroom, Bolitho wondered what the captain was discussing with Cairns.

  Once below, the ship seemed to enfold him, contain him with her familiarity. The combined smells of tar and hemp, of bilge and packed humanity, they were as much a part of Bolitho as his own skin.

  Mackenzie, the senior wardroom servant, who had ended his service as a topman when a fall from aloft had broken his leg in three places and made him a permanent cripple, met him with a cheery smile. If everyone else was sorry for him, Mackenzie at least was well satisfied. His injuries had given him as much comfort and security as any man could hope to find in a King’s ship.

  ‘I’ve some coffee, sir. Piping hot, too.’ He had a soft Scottish accent which was very like Cairns’.