Band of Brothers Read online

  They stood facing each other, without speaking or moving, the sounds of rigging and sea distant, unintrusive.

  ‘Tell me, Andrew.’ Bolitho reached out to take his arm, and saw him flinch as if he expected another blow. ‘He struck you, and just before that… .’

  He got no further.

  ‘No. It would only make things worse. D’you think I don’t know? What it’s like - really like?’

  Bolitho felt the anger rising like fire. Egmont’s shock when he had burst into this cabin, and then as quickly, his recovery and arrogance. He could still feel Sewell’s arm; it was shaking. Fear? It went deeper than that.

  He said, ‘I’ll come aft with you right now. Mr. Verling will listen. He has to. And in any case… .’

  But Sewell was shaking his head.

  ‘No.’ He looked at him directly for the first time. ‘It wouldn’t help.’ Then, quite firmly, he pried Bolitho’s fingers from his arm. ‘He would deny it. And … so would I.’

  Someone was shouting; feet thudded across the deck overhead. He still held Verling’s telescope in his other hand. Nothing was making sense.

  Sewell was fumbling with his coat, trying to fasten his buttons, not looking at him now. ‘You will be a good officer, Dick, a fine one. I see the way they respect you, and like you. I always hoped… .’

  He moved abruptly to the door, and to the ladder beyond.

  Bolitho stood very still, his anger giving way to a sense of utter defeat. Because of what he had just seen and heard, and because it mattered.

  There were more shouts, and he found himself on the ladder as if it were an escape. But he kept seeing Sewell’s face, and his fear. He needed help. And I failed him.

  On deck, it seemed nothing had happened, routine taking over as seamen jostled at their stations for making more sail. Hotspur had altered course again, the canvas shivering and cracking, the main and gaff topsails taut across the bulwark, throwing broken reflections across the water alongside.

  ‘Loose tops’ls! Lively there!’

  Verling called, ‘Give it to me!’ He seized the telescope and trained it across the weather bow. ‘Thought you’d fallen outboard. Where the hell were you?’ He did not wait for an answer or seem to expect one, and was already calling to men by the foremast.

  Egmont was near the wheel, shading his eyes to peer up at the topsail yards. He glanced only briefly at Bolitho before returning his attention to the newly released sails as they filled and hardened to the wind. Disinterested. Bolitho heard Sewell’s voice again. He would deny it. And so would I.

  ‘All secure, sir!’ That was Tinker, eyes like slits as he stared at the small figures on the yards, groping their way back to safety.

  Most of the sea was still hidden in darkness, but the sky was lighter, and in so short a time the vessel had taken shape and regained her personality around and above them, faces and voices emerging from groups and shadows.

  Bolitho felt the deck plunge beneath him, exuberant, like the wild creature she was. Hotspur would make a fine and graceful sight even in this poor light, with all sails set and filled, the yards bending like bows under the strain.

  ‘Now that was something, Dick!’ It was Dancer, hatless, his fair hair plastered across a forehead gleaming with spray.

  Verling said, ‘Send half of the hands below, Mr. Egmont. Get some food into them. And don’t be too long about it.’ His mind was already moving on. ‘Two good masthead lookouts.’ He must have sensed a question, and added, ‘One man sees only what he expects to see if he’s left alone too long.’ His arm shot out. ‘Mr. Bolitho, you stand by. I need some keen eyes this morning!’ He might even have smiled. ‘This is no two-decker!’

  Bolitho felt his stomach muscles tighten. Even the mention of climbing aloft could still make his skin crawl.

  Verling was saying, ‘Take my glass with you. I’ll tell you what to watch out for.’

  Dancer said softly, ‘I hope I’m as confident as he is when I’m told to take a ship from one cross on the chart to another. Nothing ever troubles him.’

  They went below, and suddenly he grasped Bolitho’s arm and pulled him against the galley bulkhead.

  ‘I’ve been thinking. You remember what Captain Conway said about young Sewell’s experiences in previous ships? One of them was the Ramillies, wasn’t it, in the Downs Squadron? Where everything started to go against him.’

  Bolitho said nothing, waiting. It was as if Dancer had just been with him. Then he said cautiously, ‘What about Ramillies?’

  ‘Something I heard a minute ago made me stop and think. Surprised Conway didn’t know.’ He turned as if to listen as someone hurried past. ‘Our Mister Egmont was a middy on board at the same time as Sewell. A bully even then, to all accounts.’

  More figures were slipping and clattering down the ladder, jostling one another and laughing, fatigue and injuries forgotten until the next call.

  Bolitho said, ‘Then I’ve just made an enemy,’ and told him what had happened.

  Someone ducked his head through the hatch. Bolitho could see his face clearly despite the lingering gloom between decks.

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘Mr. Verling wants you on deck, sir.’ A quick grin. ‘“Fast as you like”, ‘e says!’

  In the silence that followed, Dancer said lightly, ‘Then I’m sorry to say Egmont’s made another enemy. He seems to have a talent for it.’

  They reached the upper deck together. There was more cloud than earlier, rain too.

  Dancer exclaimed, ‘Thunder! Not another storm, I hope.’

  Bolitho looked at him. The bond between them was even stronger.

  ‘Not on your oath, Martyn. That was cannon fire!’

  * * *

  6

  No Quarter

  * * *

  The deck seemed unusually crowded, all thought of rest and food forgotten. Some men were in the bows, peering or gesturing ahead, calling to one another, voices distorted by the wind. Others had climbed into the shrouds, but the sea was still dark and empty. And there was no more gunfire.

  Verling said, ‘Due south of us.’ His eye lit up as he gazed into the compass. ‘Dead ahead, if I’m not mistaken.’

  ‘At least we can outsail ‘em, sir.’ That was Tinker.

  Egmont snapped, ‘We’re not at war, man!’

  Verling glanced at him. ‘We take no chances, Mr. Egmont. Today’s handshake can easily become tomorrow’s broadside.’

  Dancer murmured, ‘What do you think, Dick? Heavy guns?’

  Bolitho shook his head. ‘Big enough. There was no return fire.’ Ships meeting by accident, a case of mistaken identity in the darkness and foul weather. These were busy trade routes where almost any flag might be sighted. And the possibility of war was never forgotten. Shoot first, was often the first rule.

  Smugglers, privateers, or local pirates, every deepwater sailor had to take his chance.

  Bolitho looked over toward Verling and tried to see it as he would. Facing an unknown threat, considering his own responsibility. The officer in charge … He had heard it said all too frequently. Do wrong and you carried the blame. Do right, and if you were too junior, others reaped the praise.

  Deliver Hotspur to her new command, and return to Plymouth without unnecessary delay. The orders were plain enough. Maybe Verling was weighing the choices that might lie ahead. Fight or run, as Tinker had suggested. Hotspur carried two small bow-chasers, six-pounders, quite enough to deal with trouble in home waters. But no shot had yet been brought aboard. And her four swivel guns would be useless in any serious engagement.

  Verling had made up his mind.

  ‘Stand by to shorten sail. Reef tops’ls and take in the gaff tops’l.’ Another glance at the compass. Bolitho could see his face now without the aid of the lamp. The sky was clearing, the clouds purple toward the horizon, when it was visible.

  He heard Egmont ask, ‘Shall we fight, sir?’

  Verling was gesturing to Dancer. ‘Fetch my logbook, then
stand by me.’ He seemed to recall the question. ‘We’ve no marines to support us this time. Break open the arms chest.’ He did not even raise his voice.

  He looked at Bolitho. ‘Up you go. Sweep to the sou’ east. Take your time. Remember what you saw on the chart.’

  Afterwards, Bolitho recalled how each point was allowed to settle in his mind, take shape. So calmly said when Verling’s entire being must have wanted to ram his meaning home, or even to snatch up the glass and claw his way aloft himself. In case he was mistaken. When Bolitho and the other midshipmen had gathered around Gorgon‘s sailing master, old Turnbull, for their regular instruction in navigation and pilotage, or when they were struggling with the mysteries of the sextant, they had often been warned about the first sight of land. Turnbull had reminded his youthful audience, ‘An error in judgment is no excuse at the court-martial table!’

  He reached the foremast shrouds as Verling shouted, ‘Shorten sail!’

  Men were already at their stations, handling lines and tackles as if they had been serving Hotspur for months, not days.

  Bolitho climbed steadily but slowly, making sure each ratline was underfoot before he took his weight with his arms, Verling’s heavy telescope thumping across his spine. He heard Tinker call after him, ‘Don’t drop that, me son, or the sky’ll fall on you!’

  How he could find time to joke about it was a marvel. Tinker was everywhere, and at once. Ready to help or threaten without hesitation. He should have been promoted to warrant rank; there was not a strand of rope or strip of sail he could not control. But in twenty-five years at sea, he had never learned to read or write.

  Bolitho reached the upper yard, and could feel his heart banging against his ribs. Too long in harbour. Getting soft… .

  The lookout already curled in position, his arm around a stay, turned and peered at him.

  ‘Mornin’, sir!’ He jerked his thumb. ‘Land, larboard bow!’

  Bolitho swallowed and forced himself to look. Sea and haze, an endless expanse of choppy white crests. But no land.

  The lookout was one of Gorgon‘s foretopmen; more to the point, he had been chosen by Tinker for the passage crew.

  He gasped, ‘Tell them, Keveth! No breath!’

  He swung the telescope carefully around and beneath his arm, even as the lookout yelled to the small figures below. With a name like that, he must be a fellow Cornishman. Two wreckers up here together… .

  He opened the telescope with great care, waiting for each roll and shudder running through his perch, causing Hotspur to vibrate from truck to keel.

  Land, sure enough. Another careful breath, gauging the moment. The sea breaking; he could feel the power and height of the waves, but when he lowered the glass to clear his vision there was nothing there. But it was there. The blunt outline of land, sloping to a point which defied the waves. Like the little sketch in Verling’s log.

  Jerbourg Point. Who or what was ‘Jerbourg’, he wondered.

  He made his way down to the deck and hurried aft, slipped and almost fell, lightheaded, as if drunk or in fever.

  Verling listened as he blurted out everything he had seen. He was conscious of his eyes, his patience, as he described the landfall.

  All he said was, ‘Well done.’

  Egmont said loudly, ‘I’ll note it in the log, sir.’

  Bolitho said, ‘The lookout, Keveth. He sighted it first, sir. Without a glass!’

  Verling glanced at both of them, as usual missing nothing.

  ‘A good hand, that one. A fair shot, too, when given the chance.’ The hint of a smile. ‘And should be. He was a poacher before he signed up with a recruiting party. One jump ahead of the hangman, I shouldn’t wonder.’

  ‘Deck there!‘ It was the masthead again. The poacher. ‘Wreckage ahead, larboard bow!’

  Verling did not hesitate. As if he had been expecting it; as if he knew.

  ‘Stand by to lower a boat. Two leadsmen in the chains.’ His hand shot out. ‘Good ones, Tinker. This is no coastline for chances.’

  Egmont asked, ‘You know Guernsey, sir?’

  ‘I’ve sailed close by before.’ He was looking toward the land, which was still invisible. ‘It was enough.’

  He walked to the hatch. ‘Wreckage. Wind and tide make their own landfalls, for us, eh?’

  Dancer commented softly, ‘My God, he keeps a cool head!’ He clasped Bolitho’s arm. ‘Like another ancient mariner not a cable’s length away!’

  It seemed to take an age for the drifting fragments of wreckage to become clearly visible, more scattered, and reaching out on either bow. There was absolute silence now, the seamen very aware of their kinship with these pathetic remnants which had once been a living vessel.

  Verling was on deck again, and stood with his arms folded, watching the sea, and the strengthening blur of land which had almost been forgotten.

  Hotspur had shortened sail once more, so that her shipboard sounds in the silence added to the atmosphere of uneasiness, with the creak and clatter of loose rigging, and the groan of the rudder and yoke-lines as the helmsmen fought to maintain steerage way.

  Verling said, ‘I think both boats will be necessary. It will save time. Not that there is much to see.’ He was thinking aloud, as if questioning each thought as it came to him.

  Even Tinker’s voice seemed subdued as he watched the first boat being hoisted and swung above and over the gunwale.

  Verling said, ‘You leave now, Mr. Egmont. See what you can discover. Small craft, I’d say.’

  Egmont leaned over the side as some larger fragments of timber bumped against Hotspur‘s side.

  Bolitho felt a chill run through him. It was, or had been, a cutter as far as he could tell. Like Avenger … There was part of a mast now, and torn sail dragging half-submerged, like a shroud.

  The first boat was pulling away, with Egmont in the bows, leaning over to signal his intentions to his coxswain.

  Verling called, ‘Now you, Bolitho.’ He had his glass up to his eye again, but trained on the spur of land, not the splintered remains drifting below him. ‘Take Sewell with you. Stay up to wind’rd if you can.’

  He felt as if he were being cut off, abandoned, once the boat was in the water and the headrope cast off.

  ‘Easy, lads, keep it steady!’ He had taken the tiller himself and waited for the oars to pick up the stroke, each man feeling the mood of the sea, trying not to watch the schooner as she fell further and further astern.

  At least the wind had eased. Bolitho felt the salt spray on his mouth and soaking into his shoulders. Sewell was crouched down beside him, his back half turned; impossible to see or know what he was thinking. Hard to believe that the confrontation in the cabin had ever happened. Only this was real.

  He winced as the boat dipped steeply and more spray burst from the oars. This was no cutter or gig built for the open sea.

  ‘There!‘ Sewell’s arm shot out. ‘Oh, God, it’s one of them!’

  Bolitho stood up, holding fast to the tiller-bar to keep his balance.

  ‘Bowman! Use your hook!’

  The seaman had boated his oar and was poised in the blunt bows like a harpoonist as more wreckage surged above a trough.

  ‘Oars! Fend off, lads!’

  It was as if a complete section of the wreck had risen suddenly and violently from the depths, like some act of retribution or spite.

  An oar blade splintered and the seaman pitched across his thwart, the broken loom still grasped in his fists. Surprisingly, nobody shouted or showed any sign of fear. It was too swift, too stark. Not just one corpse, but five or six, tangled together in a mesh of torn canvas and broken planking.

  It lasted only a few seconds, before the corpses and their tangled prison rolled over and dipped beneath the sea.

  Only seconds, but as they fought to bring the boat under command again, the grim picture remained. Staring eyes, bared teeth, gaping wounds, black in the hard light. And the stench of gunpowder. Like the splinters and the burns
: they had been fired upon at point-blank range.

  Bolitho tugged at the tiller-bar. ‘Back water, starboard!’ He felt the sea sluicing around his legs, as if the boat had been swamped and was going down.

  He heard Sewell yell, ‘More wreckage!’ He was clambering over the struggling oarsmen, thrusting his legs over the side to fend off another piece of broken timber. Then he must have lost his footing, and slithered bodily over the gunwale, his face contorted with pain.

  The seaman who had been in the bows flung himself over the thwart and seized his arm, just as Bolitho managed to bring the boat under control.

  Nobody spoke; nothing mattered but the slow, steady splash of oars as they regained the stroke and gave all their strength to the fight. Only then did they turn and peer at each other, more gasps than grins, but with the recognition that, this time, they had won.

  Bolitho eased the tiller very slowly, feeling the effort of each stroke, knowing they were in control.

  Sewell lay in the sternsheets, the trapped water surging across his legs, his lip bleeding where he had bitten through it. Bolitho reached down and wrenched open his coat. His breeches were torn; it must have happened when he had used both legs to kick off that last piece of wreckage. But for his prompt action, the boat might have foundered.

  There was blood, too, a lot of it. He could feel the torn skin, the muscle under his fingers clenched against the pain.

  He exclaimed, ‘You mad little bugger!’

  Pain, shock, and the bitter cold; Sewell was barely able to form the words.

  ‘I was drowning … I couldn’t h-hold on. My fault… .’

  He cried out as Bolitho knotted a piece of wet rag around his leg, the blood strangely vivid in the grey light.

  Bolitho pulled some canvas across his body and shouted, ‘You saved the boat! Did you think we’d just leave you?’ He was gripping his shoulder now, as if to force him to understand.

  ‘I just wanted to… .’ He fainted.

  Bolitho swung the tiller-bar against his ribs until the impact steadied him.