Table of Contents
Cover
Copyright
The Stirring Story
Also by Alexander Kent
Dedication
Contents
Band of Brothers
1. The Way Ahead
2. Not A Contest
3. A Favour for the Captain
4. Hotspur
5. Envy
6. No Quarter
7. Command Decision
8. Lifeline
9. In the King’s Name
Epilogue
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Epub ISBN: 9781409062172
Version 1.0
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Published by Arrow Books in 2006
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Copyright (c) Bolitho Maritime Productions 2005
Alexander Kent has asserted his right under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act, 1988 to be identified as the author of this work
This novel is a work of fiction. Names and characters are the product of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual person’s, living or dead, is entirely coincidental
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First published in the United Kingdom in 2005 by Heinemann
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ISBN 0 09 943632 9
ISBN-13 978009943 6324
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The stirring story of the life and times of Richard Bolitho is told in Alexander Kent’s bestselling novels.
1756 Born Falmouth, son of James Bolitho
1768 Entered the King’s service as a Midshipman on Manxman
1772 Midshipman, Gorgon (Midshipman Bolitho)
1774 Promoted Lieutenant, Destiny: Rio and the Caribbean (Stand into Danger)
1775 - 7 Lieutenant, Trojan, during the American Revolution. Later appointed prizemaster (In Gallant Company)
1778 Promoted Commander, Sparrow. Battle of the Chesapeake (Sloop of War)
1780 Birth of Adam, illegitimate son of Hugh Bolitho and Karenza Pascoe
1782 Promoted Captain, Phalarope; West Indies: Battle of Saints (To Glory We Steer)
1784 Captain, Undine; India and East Indies (Command a King’s Ship)
1787 Captain, Tempest; Great South Sea; Tahiti; suffered serious fever (Passage to Mutiny)
1792 Captain, the Nore; Recruiting (With All Despatch)
1793 Captain, Hyperion; Mediterranean; Bay of Biscay; West Indies. Adam Pascoe, later Bolitho, enters the King’s service as a midshipman aboard Hyperion (Form Line of Battle! And Enemy in Sight)
1795 Promoted Flag Captain, Euryalus; involved in the Great Mutiny; Mediterranean; Promoted Commodore (The Flag Captain)
1798 Battle of the Nile (Signal - Close Action!)
1800 Promoted Rear-Admiral; Baltic; (The Inshore Squadron)
1801 Biscay. Prisoner of war (A Tradition of Victory)
1802 Promoted Vice-Admiral; West Indies (Success to the Brave)
1803 Mediterranean (Colours Aloft!)
1805 Battle of Trafalgar (Honour This Day)
1806 - 7 Good Hope and the second battle of Copenhagen (The Only Victor)
1808 Shipwrecked off Africa (Beyond the Reef)
1809 - 10 Mauritius campaign (The Darkening Sea)
1812 Promoted Admiral; Second American War (For My Country’s Freedom)
1814 Defence of Canada (Cross of St. George)
1815 Richard Bolitho killed in action (Sword of Honour) Adam Bolitho, Captain, Unrivalled. Mediterranean (Second to None)
1816 Anti-slavery patrols, Sierra Leone. Battle of Algiers (Relentless Pursuit)
1817 Flag Captain, Athena; Antigua and Caribbean (Man of War)
1818 Captain, Onward; Mediterranean (Heart of Oak)
Also by Alexander Kent
Man of War
Midshipman Bolitho
Stand Into Danger
In Gallant Company
Sloop of War
To Glory We Steer
Command a King’s Ship
Passage to Mutiny
With All Despatch
Form Line of Battle!
Enemy in Sight!
The Flag Captain
Signal - Close Action
The Inshore Squadron
A Tradition of Victory
Success to the Brave
Colours Aloft!
Honour This Day
The Only Victor
Beyond the Reef
The Darkening Sea
For My Country’s Freedom
Cross of St George
Sword of Honour
Second to None
Relentless Pursuit
Man of War
For you, Boo, with my love.
* * *
Contents
* * *
1. The Way Ahead
2. Not A Contest
3. A Favour for the Captain
4. Hotspur
5. Envy
6. No Quarter
7. Command Decision
8. Lifeline
9. In the King’s Name
Epilogue
* * *
1
The Way Ahead
* * *
Midshipman Richard Bolitho threw up one hand to shade his eyes, surprised by the fierce, reflected glare from the water alongside. He waited while two seamen lurched past him half carrying, half dragging, some bulky objects wrapped in canvas toward the open deck and the hard sunlight. After the semi-darkness of Gorgon‘s between decks, it only added to his sense of unreality.
He calmed himself. Another day. For most people, anyway.
He glanced down at his uniform, his best. He wanted to smile. The only uniform that would pass muster and avoid criticism. He flicked off several strands of oakum which he had collected somewhere along the way from the midshipmen’s berth, his home in Gorgon for the past year and a half.
Was that really all it was?
He took another deep breath. He was ready; and it was not just another day.
He walked on to the main deck, adjusting his mind to the noise and outward confusion of a ship undergoing the indignities of a badly needed overhaul. Chisels and handsaws, and the constant thud of hammers in the depths of the hull, while elsewhere men swarmed like monkeys high above the decks, repairing the miles of standing and running rigging which gave life to a fighting ship and the sails that drove her. And now it was almost finished. The stench of tar and paint, the heaps of discarded cordage and wood fragments, would soon be a cursed memory. Until the next time.
He gazed across the nearest eighteen-pounders, black muzzles at rest inboard of their ports, still smart, disdaining the disorder around them. And beyond, to the land, hard and sharply etched in the morning light: the rooftops and towers of old Plymouth, with an occasional glitter of glass in the sun. And beyond them the familiar rolling hills, more blue than green at this hour.
He tried not to quicken his pace, to reveal that things were different merely because of this particular day. The new year of 1774 was barely a few days old.
But it was different.
Some seamen flaking down halliards glanced at him as he passed. He knew them well enough, but they seemed like strangers. He reached the entry port, where the captain was piped aboard and ashore, and important visitors were greeted with the full ceremonial of a King’s ship. Wardroom officers were also permitted here, but not a midshipman, unless on duty in his proper station. Richard Bolitho was not yet eighteen, and he wanted to laugh, to shout, to share it with someone who was free of doubt or of envy.
Out of the blue and with less than a few days warning, the signal had arrived: the appointment every midshipman knew was inevitable. Welcome, dread, even fear: he might receive it with all or none of these emotions. Others would decide his fate. He would be examined and be subject to their decision, and, if successful, he would receive the King’s commission, and take the monumental step from midshipman to lieutenant.
He watched a schooner passing half a cable or so abeam, her sails hard in the wind, although the waters of Plymouth Sound were yet unbroken, a deep swell lifting the slender vessel as if it were a toy.
‘Ah, here you are, Mr. Bolitho.’
It was Verling, the first lieutenant.
Perhaps he was waiting to board a boat himself, on some mission for the captain; it was unlikely he would be leaving the ship, his ship, for any other reason at a time like this. From dawn until sunset he was always in demand, supervising working parties, checking daily, even hourly, progress above and below decks, missing nothing. He was the first lieutenant, and you were never allowed to forget it.
Bolitho touched his hat. ‘Aye, sir.’ He was ahead of time, and Verling would expect that. He was tall and thin, with a strong, beaky nose which seemed to guide his pitiless eyes straight to any flaw or misdemeanour in the world around him. His world.
But his appearance now was unexpected, and almost unnerving.
Verling had turned his back on the usual handful of watchkeepers who were always close by the entry port: marine sentries in their scarlet coats and white crossbelts, a boatswain’s mate with his silver call ready to pipe or pass any command immediately when so ordered. The sideboys, smart in their checkered shirts, nimble enough to leap down and assist any boats coming alongside. And the officer of the watch, who was making a point of studying the gangway log and frowning with concentration, for Verling’s benefit no doubt.
Bolitho knew he was being unfair, but could not help it. The lieutenant was new to the ship, and to his rank. He had been a midshipman himself only months ago, but you would never know it from his manner. His name was Egmont, and he was already heartily disliked.
Verling said, ‘Remember what I told you. It is not a contest, nor an official corroboration of your general efficiency. The captain’s report will have dealt with that. It goes deeper, much deeper.’ His eyes moved briefly to Bolitho’s face but seemed to cover him completely. ‘The Board will decide, and that decision is final.’ He almost shrugged. ‘This time, in any case.’
He touched the watch fob that hung from his breeches pocket but did not look at it. He had made his point.
‘So you had not forgotten, Mr. Dancer. I am glad to know it, sir.’
As if in confirmation, eight bells chimed out from the forecastle belfry.
‘Attention on the upper deck! Face aft!’
Calls trilled, and from across the water came the measured blare of a trumpet. Part of life itself. Colours were being hoisted, and there would be several telescopes observing from the shore and the flagship to make certain that no one and no ship was caught unawares.
Midshipman Martyn Dancer exhaled slowly, and nodded to his friend.
‘Had to go back to the mess, Dick. Forgot my protector, today of all days!’
It was a small, grotesque carving, more like a demon than a symbol of good fortune, but Dancer was never without it. Bolitho had first seen it after his ordeal with the smugglers. Dancer still bore the bruises, but claimed that his ‘protector’ had saved him from far worse.
Verling was saying, ‘I wish you well. We all do. And remember this, the pair of you. You speak for yourselves, but today you represent this ship.’ He permitted himself a thin smile. ‘Go to it!’
‘Boat’s alongside, sir!’
Bolitho grinned at his friend. It was only right that they should be together today, after all that had happened.
Lieutenant Montagu Verling watched them climb down to the launch which had hooked on to the ‘stairs’ beneath the port. Had he ever been like that, he wondered?
‘Cast off! Shove off forrard!‘ The boat, caught on the tide, veered away from the big two-decker’s side, oars upright in twin lines, the coxswain gripping the tiller-bar, gauging the moment.
Verling was still watching them. It was not like him, and he was a little surprised by it. The carpenter and the boatswain would be waiting with yet more lists, work to be done, stores or cordage not yet arrived or the wrong sort if they had. For he was the first lieutenant. Right aft, beneath that big ensign curling in a steady south-westerly, the captain was in his quarters, secure in the knowledge that this refit would be completed on time. That would please the admiral, and so on, up the chain of command.
Verling saw the oars fanning out on the launch’s sides, like wings, while the crew leaned aft to take the strain.
Perhaps, one day soon… .
‘Give way together!’
He swung round, and saw the new lieutenant trying to catch his eye.
It was wrong to harbour personal dislikes in your own wardroom.
He turned and stared across the shark-blue water, but the launch was already out of sight amongst other anchored ships. Suddenly he was glad that he had made a point of being here when the midshipmen had departed, whatever the outcome of their examinations today.
He rearranged his features into the mask of command and strode toward a working party struggling with another tackle-load of timber.
‘Take a turn, you, Perkins! Jump about, man!’
The first lieutenant had returned.
In spite of the deep swell, the Gorgon’s launch soon gathered way once clear of the two-decker’s side. Fourteen oars, double-banked, pulling in a strong but unhurried stroke, carried her past other anchored men-of-war with apparent ease. The coxswain, a tough and experienced seaman, was unconcerned. The ship had been so long at anchor during the overhaul that he had grown used to most of the other vessels, and the comings and goings of their boats on the endless errands of the squadron. And the man whose flag flew above the powerful three-decker which he could see in miniature, framed between the shoulders of his two bowmen. The flagship. Like most of his mates, the coxswain had never laid eyes on the admiral. But he was here, a presence, and that was enough.
Bolitho tugged his cocked hat more tightly over his forehead. He was shivering, and tightened his fingers around the thwart, damp and unyielding beneath his buttocks. But it was not the cold, nor the occasional need
les of spray drifting aft from the stem. They had all discussed it, of course. Something far away in the future, vaguely unreal. He glanced at his companion. Even that was unreal. What had drawn them to one another in the first place? And after today, would they ever meet again? The navy was like that; a family, some described it. But it was hard on true friendship.
They were the same age, with only a month between them, and so different. They had joined Gorgon together, Martyn Dancer having been transferred from another ship which, in turn, had been going into dock for a complete refit. About sixteen months ago. Before that, he had by his own admission served ‘only three months and two days’ in His Britannic Majesty’s service.
Bolitho considered his own beginnings. He had entered the navy as a midshipman at the tender age of twelve. He thought of Falmouth, of all the portraits, the faces that watched him on the stairs, or by the study. The Bolitho family’s might have been a history of the Royal Navy itself.
He thought, too, of his brother Hugh, who had been in temporary command of the revenue cutter Avenger. Less than two months ago. He and Martyn had been ordered to join him. An odd and daring experience. He looked over at his friend. That had been unexpected, too. Hugh, his only brother, had been the stranger.
He turned to watch the flagship. Closer now, her reefed topsails and topgallants almost white in the glare, the viceadmiral’s flag streaming from the foremast truck like blood. And she had been Martyn’s last ship. His only ship. Three months and two days. But he was here today for examination. Like me. Bolitho had served for five years. There would be others today, bracing themselves, gauging the odds. Did hardened, seasoned officers like Verling ever look back and have doubts?
He stared up at the towering masts, the tracery of black rigging and shrouds. Close to, she was even more impressive. A second-rate of ninety guns with a company of some eight hundred officers, seamen and marines. A world of its own. Bolitho’s first ship had been a big three-decker also, and even after some four years aboard in that cramped and busy space there were faces he had never seen twice.
Band of Brothers Page 1
