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Authors: Alexander Kent

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BOOK: Band of Brothers
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Tinker had heard Verling’s words to Egmont, and Bolitho saw that he was already mustering some of his topmen, getting ready to loose the topsails.
Hotspur
would fly when that was done. Like the great seabird of his imagination.
‘Go below, one of you, and fetch my glass!’
Bolitho called, ‘Aye, sir!’ and nudged his friend’s arm. ‘You stay and watch for the sun!’ Dancer’s coat sleeve was heavy with spray.
Dancer saw the question in his eyes and shrugged. ‘I put my tarpaulin over one of the injured.’
Bolitho said, ‘You would!’
It was deserted below deck, although he could hear men shouting to one another as they put new lashings on some of the stores
Hotspur
was carrying as additional ballast. He paused to listen to the sea, sluicing and thudding against the hull. Quieter now, but still menacing, showing its power.
He found Verling’s telescope, just inside the tiny cabin which would be the new master’s domain and, when necessary, his retreat.
Verling’s coat was hanging on a hook, swaying with the motion like a restless spectre. When
Hotspur
anchored again, he would go ashore as a well turned-out sea officer, not as a survivor. It was impossible to see him in any other light.
He stiffened, surprised that he had not heard it before. Sewell’s voice, husky, even cowed.
‘I
didn’t
, sir. I was only trying to… .’
He got no further, cut short by Egmont, angry, malicious, sarcastic.
‘What d’ you mean,
you couldn’t help it?
You make me sick, and you still believe that anybody will ever accept
you
for a commission?’ He was laughing now; Bolitho could see him in his mind. Barely out of the midshipmen’s berth himself, and he was behaving like a tyrant.
‘I’ve been watching you, and do you think I’ve not guessed what you’re trying to do?’ There was another sound. A slap. ‘And if I see you again… .’
Bolitho did not know he had moved. It was like the actors in the square at Falmouth; they had all watched them as children, had cheered or hissed to match the mimes and poses.
Egmont swinging round to stare at him, mouth half open, cut short by the interruption, one hand still in the air, after the blow, or preparing another. Sewell, leaning against the curved timbers, covering his cheek or mouth, but his eye fixed on Bolitho.
‘What th’ hell are you doing here?’
Almost as if he had imagined it. Egmont quite calm now, arms at his sides, swaying to the motion, but in control. And the young midshipman, saying nothing, his face guarded, expressionless. Only the red welt by his mouth as evidence.
Bolitho said, ‘I came for the first lieutenant’s glass.’ It was like hearing someone else. Clipped, cold. Like Hugh.
‘Well, don’t just stand there! Take it and go!’
Bolitho looked past him. ‘Are you all right, Andrew?’
Sewell swallowed, and seemed unable to speak. Then he nodded and exclaimed, ‘Yes, of course. It was nothing, you see… .’
Egmont snapped, ‘Hold your tongue!’ and turned to Bolitho again. ‘Go about your duties. I’ll overlook your insolence this time, but… .’ He did not finish it, but swung round and left the cabin.
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.
BOOK: Band of Brothers
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