In Gallant Company (27 page)

Midshipman Weston shouted suddenly, ‘
Spite
's signalling, sir!'

Bolitho snatched a telescope from its rack and climbed swiftly into the weather shrouds. It took a few moments to find the little sloop-of-war, their only companion on this ‘adventure', as Cairns had described it. The glass steadied on
Spite
's pale topgallant sails and the bright hoist of flags at her yards.

Weston was saying, ‘From
Spite
. Sail in sight to the south'rd.'

Bolitho turned and looked at him. Weston was now the senior midshipman, and probably smarting at Pears' advice to promote Mr Frowd to acting lieutenant instead of him. Advice from a captain was as good as a command.

Bolitho felt almost sorry for Weston. Almost. Ungainly, overweight, belligerent. He would be a bad officer if he lived long enough.

‘Very well. Keep watching
Spite
. I'll not inform the captain yet.'

Bolitho continued his measured pacing. The air seemed fresh, but when you paused for too long you felt the sun's power right enough. His own shirt was sodden with sweat, and the scar across his shoulder stung like a snakebite.

The sloop's captain would be fretting and eager to be off on his own, he thought. Right now he would be watching the unknown sail, considering, translating details into facts to relay as well as he could with his signal book for his admiral's decision.

Half an hour passed. Smoke gushed from the galley funnel,
and Molesworth, the purser, and his clerk appeared en route for the spirit store to check the daily issue of rum or brandy.

Some marines, who had been drilling on the forecastle, holding off imaginary boarders, marched aft and returned their pikes. There was also a small contingent of marines from the flagship to help fill the gaps until proper replacements could be obtained. Bolitho thought of all the little mounds on the island. Who would care?

Weston called, ‘From
Spite
, sir. Disregard.'

Another small encounter. Most likely a Dutchman on her lawful occasions. Anyway, Cunningham of the
Spite
was satisfied. In fact, the strange sail had probably made off at full speed at the first sign of the sloop's topsails. It paid to be careful these days. The margin between friend and foe changed too often for over-confidence.

Stockdale crossed the quarterdeck on his way aft to the starboard battery.

As he passed he whispered, ‘Admiral, sir.'

Bolitho stiffened and turned as Coutts walked out of the poop and into the glare.

Bolitho touched his hat, wondering briefly if Weston had deliberately failed to warn him.

Coutts smiled easily. ‘'Morning, Bolitho. Still on watch, I see.' He had a pleasant, even voice, unaffected.

Bolitho replied, ‘A moment more, sir.'

Coutts took a glass and studied the far-off
Spite
for several minutes.

‘Good man, Cunningham. Should be posted soon with any luck.'

Bolitho said nothing, but thought of Cunningham's youth. His
luck
. With Coutts' blessing he would be made a full captain, and with the war going as it was he would make post rank within three years. Safe from demotion, on the road to higher things.

‘I can hear your mind at work, Bolitho.' Coutts tossed the glass to Weston. Again, the action was casual, yet timed to the second. ‘Do not fret. When your time arrives you will discover that a captain's life is not all claret and prize-money.' Just for a moment his eyes hardened. ‘But the opportunities are there.
For those who will dare, and who do not use their orders as substitutes for initiative.'

Bolitho said, ‘Yes, sir.'

He did not know what Coutts was implying. That there was hope for him? Or that he was merely revealing his feelings for Pears?

Coutts shrugged his shoulders and added, ‘Dine with me tonight. I will have Ackerman invite a few others.'

Once more, Bolitho discerned the youthful devilment and touch of steel.

‘In my quarters of course. I feel certain the captain will not object.'

He strolled away, nodding to Sambell and Weston as if they were yokels on the village green.

The hands were already gathering on the upper gundeck for the afternoon watch, and Bolitho knew that Dalyell would soon be here to relieve him. Unlike George Probyn, he was never late.

Bolitho was confused by what he had heard. He felt excited at Coutts' interest, yet uneasy because of it. It was like disloyalty to Pears. He smiled at his confusion. Pears probably didn't even like him, so what was the matter?

Dalyell appeared, blinking in the sunlight, some crumbs sticking to his coat.

‘The watch is aft, sir.'

Bolitho eyed him gravely. ‘Very well, Mr Dalyell.'

They both winked, their faces hidden from the men, their good spirits masked by the formality.

Quinn, on the larboard gangway, watched the two lieutenants as they supervised the usual milling confusion of changing watches. He had seen, and had felt, the ache of longing rising to match the pain of his wound. Bolitho had come out of it, or if not, had managed to put his memories behind him. While all he could do was to measure each step, calculate every action as he went along. He kept telling himself that his momentary defiance, his stand at the causeway had not been a fluke. That he had failed once, but had fought to retrieve and hold on to his pride again.

He felt that the ship's company were watching him, rating
his confidence. It was why he was lingering on the gangway, waiting for Bolitho before he went below for the noon meal. Bolitho was his strength. His only chance, if chance there was.

Bolitho beckoned to him. ‘Not hungry, James? And I am told that we have some fine beef today, barely a year or so in the cask!' He clapped Quinn on the shoulder. ‘Make the best of it, eh?'

When Quinn faced him he saw the sudden gravity in Bolitho's eyes and knew his words had nothing to do with food.

With her yards re-trimmed and her great spread of canvas filling and banging in the wind,
Trojan
settled down on her new tack.

Bolitho looked at Cairns and touched his hat. ‘Steady as she goes, sir.'

Cairns nodded. ‘Dismiss the watch below, if you please.'

As the seamen and the afterguard hurried thankfully below, Bolitho glanced quickly at Pears, who was with the admiral on the weather side of the quarterdeck.

It was another fiery sunset, and against it the two men were in silhcuette, their faces hidden. But there was no mistaking Coutts' irritation, Pears' dogged stubbornness.

It all seemed a long, long way from the relaxed supper in the great cabin. Coutts had kept the wit and conversation going with little pause, except to recharge the glasses. He had enthralled the young lieutenants with stories of intrigue and corruption in the New York military government. Of the grand houses in London, the men, and in many cases the ladies who held the reins of power.

Once Pears and the sailing master had concluded their calculations, the ship's destination and purpose had gone through each deck like a bolt of lightning.

There was a small island, one of a group, which lay in the passage between Santa Domingo and Puerto Rico. Avoided by all but the most experienced navigators, it would seem to be the ideal place for transferring arms and powder to Washington's growing fleet of supply vessels.

As Coutts had discussed his hopes for a swift ending of the mission, Bolitho and most of the others had sensed his eagerness, his excitement at the prospect of a quick victory. He had known that nothing could outpace him with a warning, no horseman to carry the word that the British were coming. Not this time. With the vast Atlantic at his back, the keen-eyed
Spite
sweeping well ahead, Coutts had had good reason for confidence.

But that had been fifteen days ago. The delays had been unavoidable, but nevertheless had put a marked strain on Coutts and his officers. Several times
Trojan
had been forced to lie to while
Spite
made off under full sail to investigate a strange vessel and then beat the weary miles round again and make her report. The wind too had backed and veered as Bunce had predicted, but had on the whole favoured their slow advance.

Now, with another sunset closing over the ship, Bolitho could sense a growing impatience, even anger in Coutts' quick movements with head and hands.

Once more
Spite
had been sent ahead to discover if the tiny island was in fact the one described in Paget's documents. If it was, Cunningham was to put a boat ashore and if possible discover the strength of the enemy there. If there was nothing at all, he was to report back instantly. Either way, he should have returned by now. With darkness closing in with its usual swiftness, it was very unlikely they would make contact until tomorrow. Another day. More anxiety.

He stiffened and touched his hat as Pears strode past, his feet thudding loudly on the planking. The slam of the chart room door was further evidence of his mood.

Bolitho waited, knowing Coutts was going to speak with him.

‘A long day, Bolitho.'

‘Aye, sir.' Bolitho faced him, trying to discover the man's feelings. ‘But the glass is steady. We should be able to maintain our tack during the night.'

Coutts had not heard. He rested his hands on the quarterdeck rail and stared down intently at the larboard battery of eighteen-pounders. He was without his hat, and his hair was blowing across his forehead to make him appear even younger.

He asked quietly, ‘Are you like the others? Do you think
me a fool to press on with this mission, a task which has no more substance than a scrap of paper?'

‘I am only a lieutenant, sir. I was not aware of any doubt.'

Coutts laughed bitterly. ‘Doubt? God, man, there's a mountain of it!'

Bolitho waited, feeling the admiral's urgency, his frustration.

Coutts said, ‘When you reach flag rank you believe the world is yours. You are only partly right. I was a frigate captain, and good at my work.'

‘I know, sir.'

‘Thank you.' Coutts seemed surprised. ‘Most people look at an admiral and seem to think he has never been anything else, not an ordinary man at all.' He pointed vaguely through
Trojan
's black web of shrouds and stays. ‘But I believe the information is true. Otherwise I would not have risked my ships and my reputation. I do not care what some soft-spoken official from London thinks of me. I want to get this war over, with more cards on our side than across the enemy's table.' He was speaking quickly, his hands moving eloquently to describe his feelings, his fears. ‘Each extra day brings more enemies against us. Ships to seek out and bring to battle. We have no squadrons to spare, but the enemy's agility is such that we must match his every move. No merchantman is safe without escort. We have even been forced to send armed vessels to the Davis Strait to protect our whaling ships! It is no time for the timid, or the one who waits for the enemy to act first.'

His terse, emphatic manner of speaking, of sharing his thoughts, was something new to Bolitho. It was like seeing the world, his world, opening up to reach far beyond the ship's hull, and further still to every sea where Britain's authority was being challenged.

‘I was wondering, sir.' Bolitho hesitated and then added, ‘Why you did not request ships to be sent from Antigua? We have sailed four times the distance it would have taken the vessels which patrol from there.'

Coutts watched him, his face in shadow, saying nothing, as if he were seeking some criticism in Bolitho's question.

Then he said, ‘I could have sent
Spite
to the admiral at Antigua. It would have been faster certainly.' He turned away.
‘But would they have acted? I think not. The affairs in New York and the threat of Washington's armies seem a long way off in the Caribbean. Only the commander-in-chief could have made a request, and with Sir George Helpman at his elbow, I doubt he would have done more than enter it in his report for the Admiralty.'

Bolitho understood. It was one thing to hear of a victorious sea fight, but nothing to match the sight of a beaten enemy being brought into port, her flag beneath the British ensign.

Coutts had evidence, but that was insufficient. Too many men had died so far to warrant another haphazard scheme. And with Probyn's prize being re-taken by the enemy, even the destruction of Fort Exeter might appear unimportant in far-off London.

But a sharp, determined attack on a supply base, right under the noses of the French who were flaunting their neutrality like a false flag, might sway the balance. Especially if successfully completed before anyone could say no.

Coutts seemed to read his thoughts. ‘Remember this, Bolitho. When you attain high rank, never ask what you shall do. The superior minds of Admiralty tend to say no, rather than encourage risk, which might disturb their rarified existence. Even if you put your career and your life in jeopardy, do as you believe is right, and in the manner best for your country. Acting merely to placate your superiors is living a lie.'

Pears loomed through the dimming light and said harshly, ‘We will shorten sail in one hour, Mr Bolitho. But I'll not lie to. There's too much current for comfort hereabouts.' He looked at the admiral and added curtly, ‘We shall need to be on station for
Spite
's return.'

Coutts took Pears' arm and guided him away, but not far enough for Bolitho to miss the anger in his voice as he snapped, ‘By God, you drive me too hard, Captain! I'll brook no insolence from you, or anyone else, d'you hear?'

Pears rumbled something, but they were out of earshot.

Bolitho saw Couzens, his face glowing in the compass light as he wrote his entry on the master's mate's slate. He seemed to symbolize something. Youth, innocence or ignorance, whichever way you looked at it. They were all being carried forward to what might easily turn into a disaster. Coutts' determination to
win might soon give way to grasping straws. Pears' mistrust of his superior could do for all of them just as easily.