Band of Brothers Page 4

  Verling had tugged out his watch.

  ‘I shall take you aft.’ He faced them again. ‘Several others failed to satisfy the Almighty yesterday.’ He did not smile. ‘Not certain what I would have decided!’

  They followed him aft, not quite reassured.

  Captain Beves Conway was standing by a small desk fastening the cuff of his shirt. His dress uniform coat hung across the back of a chair, with his hat nearby. He was preparing for the admiral.

  They had passed Gorgon‘s surgeon as he was leaving, a stooping figure of indeterminate age, with a thin, almost lipless mouth. Bolitho had heard some of the old Jacks say that he would rather bury you than cure you if you ever fell into his hands, but they said that about most surgeons. He wondered what he had been doing for the captain. He had noticed that Conway sometimes held one shoulder stiffly, like now, as he slipped into his coat. A wound he had taken during the Caribbean campaign against the French, he had heard, although others had hinted at a duel fought, of course, over a lady.

  He realised that there was another person in the cabin, perched on a chest by the screen, the captain’s coxswain. A big, powerful man, always smart and instantly recognisable in his gilt-buttoned coat and nankeen breeches, he seemed to come and go as he chose. More like a trusted companion than a subordinate.

  He was holding a drawn sword now, running a cloth slowly up and down the blade. He glanced briefly at the two midshipmen, but nothing more. He belonged. They were merely visitors.

  Conway smiled.

  ‘You did well, both of you. Full credit to the ship also.’

  Verling said, ‘I’ll come aft when you’re ready, sir.’

  The screen door closed behind him. He had spoken to the marine sentry by name when they had arrived at the lobby. A gift, or careful training? It was impossible to know, but Bolitho guessed it was rare enough. He had known some officers who had never cared to learn a name and match it to a face.

  He had heard Verling quietly rebuking one of the senior midshipmen, who had since gone to another ship. ‘They are people, flesh and blood. Remember that, will you?’

  Bolitho wondered if he had passed or failed at his Board.

  The captain said suddenly, ‘A moment,’ and beckoned. ‘Come and see Condor spread her skirts - a sight that never fails to excite any true sailor!’

  They followed him into the main cabin where the stern windows reached from quarter to quarter, and the panorama of ships and anchorage shimmered against the salt-smeared glass like some unfinished painting.

  And here was the frigate Condor, topsails and fore-courses already set and filling to the wind now shredding the sea mist, her masthead pendant and ensign stiff and bright as metal against the clouds.

  Yesterday. Her captain twisting round in his chair aboard the flagship, gauging the sea, the mood of the weather. Impatient to go. And no wonder.

  He turned as Conway asked, ‘Do you see yourself in command of a frigate one day, Bolitho?’

  ‘Given the chance, sir… .’ He got no further.

  Conway moved closer, watching Condor‘s, outline shorten, her yards shifting as she changed tack toward open water and the sea. He said, ‘Don’t wait to be given the chance. Take it. Or others will.’

  He turned abruptly and walked across the cabin. Bolitho wanted to hold the moment, cherish it. This was the captain, as he might never see him again. Perhaps older than he had thought, but virile and vigorous, something the streaks of grey at his temples and the crows’ feet around his eyes could not flaw or diminish.

  He said, ‘This damned overhaul is all but finished, thank God.’ He looked up and around the cabin, perhaps without seeing it, or seeing it in a way they could not yet understand. ‘This lady will be fit and ready for sea again if I - and the first lieutenant - have any say in the matter. After that -‘ He touched the chair that stood squarely facing the constantly changing panorama. ‘Who can say?’

  His expression changed and seemed angry, embarrassed. He said almost sharply, ‘I have a favour to ask. I’ve taken enough of your time and the ship’s as it is.’

  Bolitho saw Dancer gripping a fold of his coat, another habit he had come to recognise, and sometimes understand. It happened when he was surprised, or moved, by something he had not anticipated.

  Captain Beves Conway, experienced post captain, who had seen action and served in most waters where the ensign commanded respect, had a favour to ask?

  Beyond these massive timbers, the other world continued to function unimpaired. The trill of a boatswain’s call and a shouted command, too muffled to distinguish. The squeal of tackles as another load of stores or equipment was hoisted aboard. A ship preparing for sea. It was what Conway cared about most. Perhaps all he cared about.

  He said, ‘You will be leaving Gorgon shortly on a brief passage duty.’ There was a suggestion of a smile. ‘Not like your daring adventure with the revenue service, Bolitho. I believe your own brother was in command on that occasion. A family affair, it would seem.’ The smile was gone. ‘But it will stand you in good stead when you are finally commissioned. Mr. Verling will give you the details.’

  It was like a fist striking out of nowhere.

  Conway was leaving the ship. Giving up command. And it was all he had.

  ‘A new midshipman is joining tomorrow forenoon. His name is Andrew Sewell, and he is fifteen years old.’ He glanced from one to the other, suddenly relaxed, as if some weight had been lifted from him. ‘A mere boy compared with you seasoned mariners. He has everything to learn, and it was his father’s dearest wish that he should follow his family’s tradition and become a sea officer. His father was a great friend of mine, perhaps my best, but, alas, now dead … Just offer him a hand when it is needed. Will you do that?’ Like a challenge. ‘For me?’

  Bolitho turned as Dancer asked, ‘First ship, sir?’

  ‘Not his first.’ Conway looked at the reflections rippling across the curved deckhead. ‘He has served for two months in Odin, Captain Greville, and before that in the Ramillies, with the Downs Squadron.’

  He looked from one to the other. ‘I know, from your behaviour and your reports, and what I have seen for myself, that you are well suited to your profession. Maybe because you come from very different backgrounds, or in spite of it. It might be said that young Andrew Sewell is totally unsuited, a victim of circumstances.’ He shrugged, and Bolitho saw the flicker of pain in his face.

  The marine sentry stamped his feet, somewhere beyond the screen. Verling must be back, and was waiting.

  Conway said, ‘My old friend is dead. It is the last thing I can do for him, and perhaps the least.’

  His coxswain had appeared, his hat beneath his arm, and Conway’s sword in his fist. No words: like an understanding between them.

  Dancer offered, ‘My father was firmly against my going to sea, sir.’

  Bolitho nodded. ‘And I never had any choice, sir.’

  Conway held out his arms as his coxswain deftly clipped the sword into place.

  ‘So be it, and I thank you. Young Andrew must learn that you do not necessarily have to leave your own deck to confront an enemy.’ He shook hands gravely with both of them. ‘May good fortune go with you.’

  He half turned, as if unwilling to leave. His coxswain had already departed, and Verling’s shadow stood across the outer screen.

  ‘When you return to the ship your new orders may be waiting for you. If not, then be patient.’ He picked up his hat and visibly squared his shoulders. He was in command again.

  The two midshipmen waited without speaking, listening to the shouted commands and, eventually, the calls as the side was piped and Conway’s gig pulled away. Then Dancer murmured, ‘Whatever ship I join, I’ll never forget him.’

  They left the great cabin in silence, passing the same marine sentry, their weariness, headaches and sore throats forgotten.

  Bolitho considered the passage duty Conway had mentioned. Probably helping to move another ship to different moori
ngs, for some refit or overhaul. And after that … He glanced over at Dancer. They would be parted. It was the way of the navy.

  Like Conway. Saying goodbye; the hardest duty of all.

  * * *

  4

  Hotspur

  * * *

  Martyn Dancer gripped the launch’s gunwale and pointed across the larboard bow.

  ‘There she is, Dick! The Hotspur! I’ll not want to leave this beauty when the time comes!’

  Excitement, or sheer pleasure: Bolitho had not seen him like this before. Perhaps strain and uncertainty, which he had always been able to conceal, were at last giving way.

  Bolitho felt it, too. The Hotspur, which had not even been discussed until today, as if it were a sworn secret, was a topsail schooner, small if set against any frigate or brig; but her style and lines would catch any real sailor’s eye immediately.

  She was lying at her anchor, and rolling evenly in the swell, showing her copper, bright in the forenoon sun, and the rake of her twin masts. A thoroughbred, and said to be new and untried, straight from her builder.

  But the ensign flying from her gaff and the few uniforms moving about her deck were identical to those they had left astern in Gorgon, and all the other men-of-war that lay at Plymouth. She was a King’s ship.

  It was difficult to accept the speed of the events which had brought them here. From the moment they had reported to the first lieutenant, their feet had barely stopped. Until now.

  Verling had explained, almost curtly. They were to be part of a passage crew, not to move some hulk or ship awaiting overhaul, but to deliver Hotspur to the authorities in Guernsey, as a replacement for an older vessel used in the waters around the Channel Islands for patrol and pilotage. It was another world to them.

  And an escape, after all the waiting and doubt, and then yesterday’s climax. Again he felt the exhilaration run through him, like his friend beside him. Dancer was pointing at the schooner again, calling something to the cutter’s coxswain. And it was the same coxswain and boat’s crew which had taken them to the flagship. He heard Dancer laugh and nudged him sharply with his elbow. This sense of light-hearted freedom and excitement would cut no ice with Verling, who was sitting silent and straight-backed by the tiller. The first lieutenant was always very strict when it came to behaviour in boats, maintaining that the ship would be judged accordingly, as every middy soon learned when he came under that disapproving eye.

  But even Verling seemed different. It was something in the air, from the start of the day when the hands had been called to lash up and stow their hammocks.

  Bolitho had seen the captain speaking with him just before the cutter had cast off. Maybe it was only imagination, but Conway, too, seemed altered, unlike that brief interlude in the great cabin; the mood of defeat, almost valediction, had vanished, and the old Conway had returned. Bolitho had seen him clap Verling on the shoulder this morning, had even heard him laugh.

  There were rumours, of course. In a hull crammed with some six hundred sailors and marines, there were always those. But this time there was substance; the reason for the captains’ conference, they said. More trouble in the colonies, particularly in Boston, Massachusetts. Unrest fuelled by increased taxes and repressive legislation from London had taken a more aggressive form, too often clashing with the local administration and so, eventually, the military. Although the British were hardened to war and the threat of rebellion, the infamous memory of what had come to be called the Boston Massacre had left a far deeper scar on the public conscience than might have been expected; a radical press had made certain of that. Bolitho had still been serving in Manxman when it had happened, and remembered poring over accounts in the news-sheets. A crowd of young people disturbing the peace on a winter’s night and coming face-to-face with soldiers from the local garrison, common enough here in England, but more incendiary in a colony chafing under what it believed to be unjust taxation, and seeking a louder voice in its own affairs. At a different time, perhaps a different man might have diffused the situation, but the officer who was present had been convinced that only a show of force would disperse the crowd, and the resulting volley of shots had killed half a dozen of the troublemakers. It was hardly a massacre, but it was bloodshed, and the echoes of those muskets had never since been allowed to fade.

  But to those who lived and all too often died on the sea, it meant something else: the need for readiness. Ships to be brought out of dock and stagnation, men to be found to crew, and, if required, fight them. And perhaps officers of merit and experience, captains like Conway, would view any unrest in America as a fresh chance of personal survival. Bolitho had heard his own brother Hugh say as much during their time together in the revenue cutter Avenger. Just weeks ago, and it already seemed like an eternity.

  His brother had been reserved, almost unknowable, and not only because he had been in temporary command. He looked over at Dancer. It was strange; he had heard Hugh speaking earnestly and intently to him on several occasions when they had been on watch together. Two people who could have so little in common. And yet …

  ‘They’ve seen us at last! Thought they’d bin so long at anchor they’d forgot what they joined for!’

  That was the cutter’s other passenger, ‘Tinker’ Thorne, Gorgon‘s senior boatswain’s mate. There was no yarn that might be spun around him that could not be true. It was impossible to guess his age, although Bolitho had heard that Tinker had served in one ship or another for twenty-five years. Originally from Dublin, a Patlander, as all Irishmen were nicknamed by the lower deck, it was said he came of gypsy stock, and had begun life mending pots and selling fishing gear on the roads. He was not tall, but stocky and muscular, with skin like old leather and fists that could handle any unruly hawser or argumentative seaman before you could guess the next move. He was watching the Hotspur, her tapering masts rising now above the double-banked oars, his expression amused and a little critical. His eyes were bright blue, like those of a much younger man looking out from a mask. Admired, respected, or hated, ‘It’s up to you, boyo,’ as he was heard to say when the occasion arose.

  He shifted around on the thwart and said, ‘Let some other Jack take the strain while we’re away, eh, sir?’

  Nobody else in the ship could speak so offhandedly to Verling.

  Verling was still looking astern. His face was hidden, but his thoughts were clear enough.

  ‘I hope so, Tinker. If we’ve forgotten anything… .’

  ‘Ah, even the cook knows what to do, sir.’

  Bolitho watched them with interest. It was important that Hotspur was in safe hands until she was delivered to her destination; and Verling had despatches with him, from Conway and probably the admiral. It seemed significant, and would do Verling’s own chances of promotion no harm.

  But every pull of the oars was taking Verling away from the ship, and the life he cared about most, and like Bolitho’s brother Hugh, he had become unfamiliar. It was like meeting a stranger.

  He returned his attention to the schooner, larger and heavier than he had first thought, but with a grace any true sailor would relish.

  Tinker Thorne saw his eyes, and grinned.

  ‘Old John Barstow is the finest builder in the West Country, that he is. A strange one an’ no mistake, swears to God he’s only once sailed out of sight of land, an’ that was when he was caught in a fog off the Lizard, if you can swallow that!’

  The coxswain brought the cutter smoothly alongside, with oars tossed and a bowman ready with his boat hook.

  Verling seized the ladder and said, ‘You can carry on, ‘Swain. Watch those tackles when you stow the boat on the tier. It’s all new. Untried.’

  ‘Aye, sir. I’ll keep a weather eye on things.’

  He might have been mistaken, but Bolitho thought he and Tinker winked at one another. But Verling was turning to look once more at Gorgon.

  A small side party had assembled on the schooner’s deck, and a net was rigged to hoist any personal ge
ar on board.

  They waited for Verling, as senior in the boat, to leave first, and Dancer murmured, ‘Look who’s here, Dick. Surely he’s not coming with us?’

  It was Egmont, the newest and most junior in Gorgon‘s wardroom. He raised his hat in salute as Verling climbed over the gunwale, while the side party came stiffly to attention, or tried to. The schooner was no two-decker and the seamen were more used to Gorgon‘s massive bulk than a hull that seemed alive in the offshore current. Egmont almost lost his balance, but managed to blurt out, ‘Welcome aboard, sir!’

  Verling returned his salute coolly and paused to look forward along the deck. Bolitho could not see his face, but guessed he was missing nothing, not even the young lieutenant’s discomfort and anger. And, he saw, he had no difficulty in keeping his balance.

  Verling said, ‘I trust everything is in hand, Mr. Egmont. I see that the boats are stowed, so nobody is still ashore?’

  Egmont straightened his back. ‘As ordered, sir. Ready for sea.’

  Bolitho knew he was being unfair to Egmont, but it sounded like a boast, as if he had manned and prepared the Hotspur for duty single-handed.

  Verling snapped, ‘Where is Mr. Sewell, our new midshipman? He should be here.’

  Bolitho glanced at Dancer. Verling was back in his proper role. He even remembered the midshipman’s name, when he could hardly have found time to meet him.

  Egmont licked his lips. ‘Below, sir. Being sick.’ He licked his lips again. Just the mention of it in this choppy sea was having its effect.

  Verling had not missed that, either.

  ‘Dismiss the hands. We shall go aft. I trust the chart and sailing instructions are ready, too?’ He did not wait for an answer, but pulled out his watch and flicked open the guard with his thumbnail. ‘So be it. The tide is right - we shall weigh at noon,’ and to the thick-set boatswain’s mate, ‘Carry on, Tinker. You know your men.’