Band of Brothers

by Kent, Alexander

  Accept, perhaps, but Bolitho had never grown accustomed to it. And yet he had seen some of the older hands bare their backs and boast of their endurance of the cat, as if the terrible scars were something to be carried with pride.

  He could still remember standing with the other midshipmen, the very first time he had heard the pipe, ‘All hands lay aft to witness punishment!’

  He had found himself gripping the arm of another middy, his entire body shaking to every crack of the lash across the torn skin.

  And that other stark and brutal memory, which never completely left him, months or even a year after that, when he had been face-to-face with an enemy, unskilled and desperate, and carried bodily by the stamping, cursing crush of boarders across the other vessel’s deck. Pirates, smugglers, rebels … they were the enemy. Cutlass, pike and boarding axe, their faces masks of hate and anger. Sailors he knew, or thought he knew, stabbing and hacking heedless of the screams, men falling, voices urging them forward.

  And then there had been one face, so near that he could smell the sweat and feel his breath, and eyes which had seemed to fill it. He remembered seeing the blade, like a cutlass, and had wanted to cry out; he had been gripping the hanger in his fist as if he were holding on to life itself. The blow to his shoulder had numbed it before the agony began. But the eyes were still staring at him, fixed with shock or disbelief. And then he fell, the weight of his body almost dragging the blade from Bolitho’s fingers.

  And a harsh voice almost in his ear; he had never discovered whose. ‘Leave ‘im! ‘E’s done for!’

  Done for. He had killed someone. A lifetime ago.

  He could still feel the blade jerk in his fist, as if he had only just been called to action, and seen a human being fall beneath his stroke.

  He swung round and found the cabin servant watching him. No sound, no word; he had even lost track of time.

  ‘Come, sir.’

  It was too soon. Where was Martyn? But the door to the inner cabin was open. Waiting.

  He thought suddenly, wildly, of Lieutenant Verling’s words this morning.

  It is not a contest.

  He strode past the servant and heard the screen door close behind him.

  Two tables had been placed end to end across the big dining cabin, behind which sat the three captains of the Board. It was like walking onto a stage with no audience, only the three motionless figures who were framed against the flag captain’s private day cabin behind them. The stern and quarter windows held and reflected every sort of light, from the sea below and beyond the poop, to the deepening purple haze of the main anchorage. There were already candles burning, so that the three figures on the other side of the table were almost in shadow.

  There was one tall chair facing them. If any uncertainty still lingered in the newcomer’s mind, it was quickly dispelled: a sword, complete with belt, was laid across it.

  Bolitho stood beside it, and said, ‘Richard Bolitho, midshipman, sir!’ Even his voice sounded unfamiliar.

  He thought fleetingly of Dancer. How had he fared at this table? All it needed was the sword lying across it with the point toward him, and it would be more like a courtmartial than an interview that might lead to promotion.

  ‘Be at your ease, Mr. Bolitho. You are here today because others are prepared to recommend you. Be truthful and frank with us, and my brother officers and I will be likewise.’

  Captain Sir William Proby did not trouble to introduce himself; there was no need. An unorthodox, some said eccentric, officer who had distinguished himself in the Seven Years’ War and in two campaigns in the Caribbean, he had served until recently as acting-commodore with the Channel Fleet. It was rumoured that he was next in line for flag rank.

  Bolitho had seen him several times when carrying despatches to his present command, the Scylla a seventy-four like Gorgon, but half her age.

  The officer sitting on his right he also knew. Captain Robert Maude was comparatively young, with an alert, intelligent face, and he commanded the Condor, a sleek thirty-two gun frigate, and was doubtless envied by many because of it. Condor was rarely at anchor for long; even now Maude was glancing through the adjoining cabin, perhaps at the shadows on the water, or the small boat passing the flagship’s quarter and showing a solitary lantern.

  The third member of the Board sat with one elbow on the table, his free hand resting on some certificates. And a midshipman’s log.

  My log.

  Even if he had never met or spoken with the unknown seaman, he felt he would have recognised Captain John Greville of the Odin. He could still hear the voice. Greville’s bad. Right the way through.

  A narrow, pointed face, not unlike that of Verling, but tight-lipped, very contained. The eyes were in shadow.

  Proby said, ‘In matters of general seamanship your reports read well. It seems you suffer from an acute dislike of heights, but you have overcome it.’ A hint of a smile. ‘Outwardly, at least. Having taken charge of a landing party with ship’s boats, what cover would you prepare if resistance was expected?’

  ‘Round shot, if a gun was available, sir. To give time for my people to move into position.’

  Proby opened his mouth as if to answer, and frowned as Captain Greville said sharply, ‘Grape or canister would be far more effective, I would have thought.’

  ‘Later, perhaps, sir. But there is too much risk with either of hitting my own men.’

  Greville ruffled the corners of the papers. ‘A few eggs have to be broken sometimes, Bolitho!’

  Proby tapped the table.

  ‘They are people, John, not eggs.’ But he was smiling as he turned to his other side. ‘You have some points on gunnery, Maude? While we touch upon the subject.’ Polite, but strangers.

  Maude leaned forward, and Bolitho guessed that he was very tall. It would be a constant handicap below decks in a frigate.

  ‘In a large ship of the line, a three-decker,’ he lifted his hand, ‘this one, for instance. The order to beat to quarters has just been called, and the ship cleared for action. You are stationed on the lower gun deck and in charge of a division. What precautions will you take?’ The hand gestured again. ‘Consider it.’ He was leaning back in his chair now, his head slightly on one side, as if completely relaxed, and Bolitho felt his own tension slipping away in response. Maude’s voice, or perhaps his manner, seemed to exclude the others, and ease his uncertainty. It was almost like having a conversation with an old friend.

  He said, ‘Lower gun deck, thirty-two pounders, “Long Nines”.’ The hand moved very slightly, and he went on, ‘Nine feet long, sir.’ He saw him nod, as if to encourage him. ‘Seven men in each gun crew, the captain responsible for giving a set task to each one and assigning a number to each. The lower the number, the greater the skill.’

  Proby cleared his throat loudly. ‘Suppose this ship is about to engage an enemy to wind’rd? With the deck tilting to the wind, how would seven men manage to haul the gun up to its port? A “Long Nine” weighs a pretty piece, I’d say.’

  Bolitho wanted to lick his dry lips. Anything. He answered, ‘Three tons, sir.’ He waited, but nobody commented. ‘I would take men from the gun on the opposite side. With the same precautions to ensure no hands and feet were broken or damaged when the gun recoiled. But bandages should always be close by.’

  ‘You seem to care a great deal for their welfare, Bolitho. But the fight should always come first.’

  Bolitho felt his fingers relax. He had not realised that his hands had been so tightly clenched. It was Greville. In some strange way, the challenge was almost a relief.

  He said, ‘Badly injured men cannot fight a gun, sir. It could delay a complete broadside.’

  ‘But the battle is joined.’ It was Maude again. ‘Loading, firing, and once more running out. Provided, of course, that you have enough men. Is there anything else against which you should guard?’

  ‘Every third shot or so, I’ll have the barrel cleaned out, its full length, with the worm
and then the sponge. Remove any burning fragment. And to prevent a misfire when a new charge is rammed home.’

  Maude nodded. ‘Discipline is everything in gunnery, as in most matters in our service. All orders will be obeyed without question - I daresay you have heard that a few hundred times since you donned the King’s coat?’

  Bolitho looked at him. A strong, proud face, not unlike the sketches of Captain James Cook he had seen in the Gazette, accompanying tales of his latest voyages. A man you would willingly serve no matter what.

  He said, ‘It is far easier to drive than to lead, sir. But I believe that trust is all important. On both sides.’

  Maude folded his arms.

  ‘Only then will you get the dedication you need when the odds are against you.’

  Proby glanced past him. ‘Is that all, Maude?’ and swung round abruptly on his chair. ‘What the hell! I gave strict orders!’

  But all three captains were on their feet, and the air was suddenly sharp, blowing from the outside world. The creaking of the rigging was audible now, and the occasional scream of gulls circling over incoming fishermen.

  Bolitho wanted to turn and identify the newcomer, who had burst uninvited and unexpectedly into this meeting.

  Like waking from a bad dream, he thought, a nightmare: the three captains rigid behind the table, and Maude’s height indeed compelling him to bend beneath the deckhead beams.

  ‘Excuse my untimely interruption, gentlemen. My barge is alongside, and I would not wish to keep my cox’n waiting much longer. But I wanted to bid you farewell, and thank you for carrying out these duties, from which we shall all benefit in due course.’

  Bolitho flinched as a hand touched his sleeve.

  ‘And who is this? I was assured that you had finished here today.’ It sounded more like an accusation than an apology.

  Bolitho turned and faced him. He had seen him only once before, when his own boat had tossed oars to the barge and he had had the briefest glimpse of Vice-Admiral Sir James Hamilton, the great man himself. His uniform and lace gleaming in the reflected light, cocked hat casually balanced in his other hand. Half smiling now.

  ‘Cornishman, eh?’

  He knew his mouth had moved and he had said something, but it had been like hearing someone else blurting out his name.

  The admiral was looking keenly at him. It felt like being stripped.

  Then he nodded, as if some thought had dropped into place, some inner reference been made.

  ‘I hope the future is kind to you, er, Bolitho.’ He turned away, the contact broken. ‘Now I must leave you. I have duties ashore. Events are moving once more.’ He reached the door and Bolitho could see the flag captain hovering, with a boat cloak draped carefully across his arm.

  For a long time, or so it seemed, they all stood in silence, swaying only occasionally as the flagship pulled at her cable.

  Bolitho realised that Sir William Proby was seated once again, his expression a mixture of bemusement and relief.

  ‘An unforeseen interruption, gentlemen.’ He paused to listen as calls trilled in the distance, followed by the muffled bark of commands. The admiral’s barge was casting off.

  ‘If you have no further questions?’ He was not, apparently, anticipating any. He looked at Bolitho. ‘Be seated, if you please.’

  Bolitho stared at the solitary chair. The sword had vanished.

  Proby scratched his quill across a certificate, and said, ‘On behalf of this Board, Mr. Bolitho, I congratulate you.’ He came around the table before Bolitho could lever himself out of the chair. Proby was a substantial figure, but he had scarcely seen him move.

  He was on his feet finally and Proby was shaking his hand and saying, ‘We wish you a speedy promotion!’ Now it was Maude’s turn, shaking his hand abruptly and looking down at him, with a smile he would always remember. He had passed. It might be next month, or a year from now, before he actually received that lieutenant’s commission. But he had passed. The cabin servant was placing some fine goblets on a tray. But there were only three. He took a deep, deep breath, wanting to laugh, or cry.

  It was over. And it was dark beyond the stern windows. He picked up his hat and walked to the door, almost expecting his legs to fail him. It was over. He must find Martyn, make sure that… . He paused and glanced back at the cabin, the hands reaching for filled glasses. Tomorrow they would have forgotten him, put it behind them. It was only another examination.

  Captain Greville had not shaken his hand. And he was glad of it.

  He saw the bench where they had waited. No turning back. No matter what.

  I am a King’s officer. Almost. Then he did touch his eyes.

  * * *

  3

  A Favour for the Captain

  * * *

  Lieutenant Montagu Verling stood at Gorgon‘s quarterdeck rail, his hands on his hips, watching a party of seamen clambering over the boat-tier below him. One of the ship’s two cutters swayed across the nettings like an ungainly whale, while Hoggett, the boatswain, gestured with his fist, his voice carrying easily above the noise of other work and the clatter of loose rigging.

  ‘This will not take long.’ Verling swore softly as a seaman slithered and fell on the wet planking. It had been raining all night, and now in the grey forenoon the weather showed little improvement. Plymouth was almost hidden in mist, a spire or rooftop showing here and there like projections of a reef.

  Bolitho was also watching the cutter, now being moved into position above the tier. At last they were replacing things, and most of the debris left by the refit had vanished. Some lashings remained to be done, and canvas awnings had been spread to protect paintwork and fresh pitch. Between decks, order had already been restored, with stores and spare equipment stowed away, and messdecks cleared of clutter and gear that belonged elsewhere in the hull.

  He tried to stifle a yawn, surprised that he had been able to drag himself out of sleep and present himself on deck at the chime of the bell. He turned to peer above the quarterdeck nettings with their neatly stacked hammocks, the cold air wet on his face. Even that did not revive him, and there was a painful crick in his neck. He saw the topmasts of the big three-decker drifting out of the mist at the far end of the anchorage. The flagship; he could even make out the vague dash of colour from her ensign. The bulk of the ship remained hidden by the fog. He winced, but his spirits soared at the memory. Had that been only yesterday? Was it possible?

  ‘Lower away, ‘andsomely there!’ Hoggett’s voice, which seemed even louder on this raw morning.

  The cutter began to descend, the men on the tackles taking the strain, feet somehow finding a grip on the slippery planking.

  ”Vast lowering!’

  He heard Dancer give a groan.

  ‘My head, Dick. I feel like death!’

  Even the Board itself was hard to fix in the mind, like a dream fast disappearing. Only certain moments remained clear: the three figures at the table. An empty chair. And the sudden, startling interruption when the admiral had made his entrance. Perhaps the handshakes remained most vivid in his memory. We wish you a speedy promotion!

  Then back to Gorgon, in darkness, passing an overloaded boat full of sailors, all of whom sounded drunk, probably just paid off from some merchantman. He and Dancer had been unable to stop laughing at the string of curses launched by their own coxswain. Then, in the midshipmen’s berth, the heavy silence of some, hunched over written notes, studying or pretending to, by the flickering light of glims, or apparently asleep, being shattered as they had risen as one: a midshipman’s salute to any successful candidate for promotion. Hoarded drinks appearing, which had ranged from blackstrap to cognac, helped down by beer from the mess cask, with a mock fight known as ‘Boarders Away!’ to round off the occasion. It had taken threats of physical violence from the warrant officers’ mess to quieten the celebration.

  Bolitho cleared his throat, or tried to. And now the captain wanted them aft, in the great cabin.

 
; Verling waved to the boatswain as the cutter finally came to rest on the tier. Even the new paint was unmarked.

  He said, ‘The Captain is going over to Poseidon very soon. The admiral has called a conference - all senior captains. Something’s in the wind.’ He gazed critically at the two midshipmen. ‘Under the circumstances, I suppose… .’ He left the rest unsaid.

  Bolitho thought of the admiral again, the hand on his arm. I have duties to perform. Events are moving once more. Was that the real reason he had interrupted the examination?

  Without it, what might have happened? He recalled Greville’s sarcasm, his refusal to shake his hand.

  He had mentioned it to Dancer, and he had passed it off by saying, ‘Greville shook my hand, but I could have done without it! I still can’t remember half of what I said to them. I was in a daze!’ It was something shared after that, real. They had hugged one another, each glad for the other.

  And now they were to see the captain. After all this time, he remained remote, almost unknown. And yet nothing had any real purpose without him, without his presence. At any ceremonial, or drill with sails and guns, he was always there, usually with Verling nearby, an extension of himself. He was there to announce any achievement by the ship, or even an individual, and to read the Articles of War before awarding punishment.

  Bolitho had once heard a friend of his father’s say that when a King’s ship was away from the fleet, and free of the admiral’s apron strings, all that stood between a captain and chaos were the Articles of War and a line of marines across the poop. And he still recalled his father’s quick retort. ‘It would all depend on that captain!’

  Only yesterday … and yet he could feel the change in himself, sense the scrutiny of the younger midshipmen. As if he represented something, some possibility no longer beyond their grasp. How does it feel to be one of them? He was still grappling with his own emotions, and the prospect of a new future.