Band of Brothers

by Alexander Kent

  ‘Picked ‘em meself, sir.’

  Even the use of his nickname seemed correct and formal. Only Verling could have carried that off.

  He stopped in his stride. ‘Stow your gear, then report to me.’ He saw Dancer peering around and added calmly, ‘This is no line-of-battle ship, Mr. Dancer. I expect you to know every stay, block and spar by the time we drop anchor again!’

  The deck lurched as the schooner snubbed at her anchor cable, and Dancer said quietly, ‘Wind’s getting up. Shan’t be sorry when we do get under way.’

  ‘A moment, you two!’ It was Egmont, recovered, it seemed, from his performance earlier. ‘I know both of you have just satisfied the Board - yesterday, wasn’t it? And you heard what Mr. Verling said. Remember it well. Board or no Board, there’ll be no passengers on this deck, I’ll make certain of that. Now stow your gear and be sharp about it!’

  They watched him turn away and gesticulate at some seamen, his words lost in the wind. Dancer shrugged.

  ‘He needs a bigger ship, that one, if only for his head.’

  Bolitho laughed.

  ‘Let’s go and find our fellow middy. I suspect it wasn’t only the motion that made him vomit!’

  Verling paused on the after ladder, his eyes level with the deck coaming.

  It would be good to get away from the endless overhaul, clearing up disorder and making the ship, his ship, ready to take her place again, in response to any demand.

  In Gorgon he was still the first lieutenant. Transferred to any other ship, he would be just another member of the wardroom, with seniority but no future.

  He felt the hull shiver again, heard the clatter of loose rigging. She was alive. Eager to go.

  He touched the shining paintwork. So be it, then.

  As Tinker Thorne had firmly declared, the men chosen for Hotspur‘s passage crew were all skilled and experienced hands, who would be badly missed if their old two-decker was suddenly ordered to sea.

  Bolitho recognised most of them, and felt a sense of belonging which was hard to understand, although he had often heard older sailors describe it.

  The initial unfamiliarity was gone at the moment of weighing anchor, with the first pressure of bodies leaning on the capstan bars, and the slow clank, clank, clank as the pawls started to respond. All spare hands thrusting in time to Tinker’s hoarse commands. Midshipmen as well; even the cook in his white smock.

  Two men on the wheel, others waiting to ‘let go an’ haul!’ when the anchor broke free of the ground. Every piece of rigging joining the din, blocks taking the strain, ready for the canvas to fill and take command.

  Verling stood by the compass box, his body poised for the moment of truth.

  Clank, clank, clank, slower now.

  A seaman, right forward above the bowsprit, peered aft and cupped his hands. Even so, his voice was almost drowned by the noise of wind and rigging.

  He had seen the stout cable, now taut like a bar, and pointing directly at the stem. Up-and-down.

  Then, ‘Anchor’s aweigh!’

  It was something Bolitho would never forget. Nor want to. The sudden slackness on the capstan as the cable came home, the deck tilting, so steeply that the lee scuppers were awash as the hull continued to heel over.

  It was exciting, awesome; not even in the lively revenue cutter Avenger had he known anything like it. The great sails cracking and filling to the wind, spray sluicing over them like icy rain. Feet sliding and kicking against the wet planking, gasps and curses from men bent almost double in the battle against wind and rudder.

  Bolitho had watched plenty of smaller craft getting under way in a brisk wind. It had always fascinated and moved him, like seeing some great seabird spread its wings and lift from the water.

  Even through and above the noise, he could hear Verling’s occasional commands, could imagine him down aft by the wheel, angled against the tilt of the deck, watching each sail and the moving panorama of the land, blurred now as if seen through wet glass.

  And over all Tinker Thorne’s voice, urging, threatening.

  ‘Catch another turn on that pin, Morgan! Move your bloody self, will you!’

  Or, ‘What d’you mean, Atkins, you think? Leave that to Jacks with brains!’

  Bolitho saw the land, a white tower or beacon, bursting spray, rocks along the headland. A ship, too. Moving, anchored, or aground, it was impossible to tell. He knew Verling had put two leadsmen on either bow, a necessary precaution when leaving harbour for the first time, but it would take more than lead and line to save them if they misjudged the next cable or so.

  ‘Over here!‘ Tinker again. ‘You as well, Mr. Bolitho!’ He was even managing to grin through the spray streaming down his leathery face. ‘Remember what you was told, no passengers!’

  Despite the movement and confusion Bolitho found he could smile, even laugh suddenly into the spray. The deck was steadier, the snaking halliards and braces stiff and taut in their blocks, and each great sail throwing its own pale reflection on the churning water alongside.

  ‘Steady as you go!’ Verling now, probably watching the final spur of headland. ‘That will be Penlee Point.’ He almost slipped, but a hand reached from somewhere and steadied him. The face he knew, but all he could gasp was, ‘Bless you for that!’

  The seaman ducked to avoid another snake of wet cordage as it hissed around its block and grinned. ‘Do the same for me!’ The grin widened. ‘Sir!’

  The sky beyond the shrouds and hard canvas seemed clearer, the motion still lively, but easier. Men were pausing at their work to look for a friend, relief, pride, something of each on their faces. Across the quarter the headland had fallen away and lost its menace. This time.

  Bolitho gripped a backstay and took a deep breath.

  Beyond the straining jib and staysails was open water: the Channel. He felt Dancer lurch against him, his hand on his shoulder.

  Yesterday seemed a long way away. They were free.

  * * *

  5

  Envy

  * * *

  Bolitho clambered through the main hatch, and seized a stanchion as he steadied himself against the angle of the deck and waited for his vision to clear. The night was pitch black, the air and spray stinging his cheeks, driving away all thoughts of sleep. And that was the odd thing, that he was still wide awake. It was eight o’clock, and a full eight hours since Hotspur had weighed anchor and struck south into the Channel. The thrill and confusion, groping for unfamiliar cordage and becoming more accustomed to the schooner’s demands in a brisk north-westerly wind, had settled into a pattern of order and purpose.

  They were divided into two watches, four hours on, four off, with the dogwatches giving a brief respite in which to devour a hot meal and fortify themselves with a tot of rum. It all helped.

  Verling was handing over the watch now, his tall shape just visible against the sliver of foam beyond the lee bulwark. ‘Sou’ east-by-south, Mr. Egmont. She should be steady a while now that the topsails are snug.’ The merest pause, and Bolitho imagined him staring down at the junior lieutenant, making sure that there was no misunder-standing. ‘Call me immediately if the sea gets up, or anything else happens that I ought to know.’

  Bolitho moved closer to the wheel and the two helmsmen. He could see the bare feet of one, pale against the wet planking. During the first dogwatch he had seen the same seaman blowing onto his fingers to warm them against the bitter air, but he was standing barefoot now with no show of discomfort. He must have soles like leather.

  Another shadow moved past the wheel and he saw a face catch the glow from the compass box: Andrew Sewell, the new midshipman. They had scarcely spoken since they had come aboard; Egmont had seen to that. Fifteen years old, Captain Conway had said. He looked younger. Nervous, shy, or possibly both, he was a pleasant-faced youth with fair skin and hazel eyes, and a quick smile that seemed only too rare. He had helped Bolitho lay out some charts in the precise way that Verling always seemed to expect. It had been
then, in the poor light of the main cabin, that Bolitho had seen Sewell’s hands. Scarred, torn and deeply bruised, never given the chance to become accustomed to the demands of seamanship. Deliberately driven seemed the most likely explanation; it was common enough even in today’s navy. He remembered the captain’s obvious concern for him, perhaps not merely because of his dead father.

  Bolitho reached out impulsively and touched his elbow.

  ‘Over here, Andrew! A bit more sheltered!’ He felt him start to pull away, and added, ‘Easy, now.’

  Sewell let his arm go limp.

  ‘I’ve just been sick again, Mister… .’

  ‘“Dick” will do very well.’ He waited, sensing the caution, the doubt. Sewell did not belong here. Suppose I had felt like that when I was packed off to sea in Manxman?

  He looked up and watched the fine curve of the great sail above them. Not shapeless now, and pale blue in a shaft of light as the moon showed itself between banks of scudding cloud. And the sea, rising and falling like black glass, reaching out on either beam. Endless, with no horizon.

  Bolitho tugged the rough tarpaulin coat away from his neck. It had rubbed his skin raw, but he had not noticed.

  He said, ‘This could be the middle of the Atlantic, or some other great ocean! And just us sailing across it, think of that.’

  Sewell said, ‘You mean that,’ and hesitated, ‘Dick? How you truly see it?’

  ‘I suppose I do. I can’t really explain… .’ Something made him stop, like a warning, as he felt Sewell move slightly away.

  ‘Nothing to do, then?’ It was Egmont, almost invisible in a boat cloak against the black water and heavy cloud. ‘I want a good watch kept at all times. Have you checked the deck log and the set course?’

  Bolitho replied, ‘Sou’ east-by-south, sir. Helm is steady.’

  Egmont turned toward Sewell.

  ‘Did I hear you spewing up again? God help us all! I want you to check the glass yourself. Let every grain of sand run free before you turn it, see? I don’t want you warming the glass every time, just so you can run below and dream of home. So do it!’

  He glanced at the wheel as the spokes creaked again.

  ‘Watch your helm, man! And stand up smartly, stay alert!’ He swung away, the boat cloak floating around him. ‘What’s your name? I’ll be watching you!’

  The seaman shifted his bare feet on the grating.

  ‘Archer.’

  Egmont looked at Bolitho. ‘I’m going below to check the chart. Watch the helm and call me if you need advice.’

  He may have looked at the helmsman. ‘And, Archer, say sir when you speak to an officer in the future!’ He strode to the hatch.

  Bolitho clenched his fist.

  Then try to act like one!

  He heard Sewell gasp, with surprise or disbelief, and realised that he had spoken aloud.

  But he smiled, glad he was still able.

  ‘Something else you’ve learned in Hotspur, Mister Sewell! Don’t lose your temper so easily!’

  Andrew Sewell, aged fifteen, and the only son of a hero, said nothing. It was like a hand reaching out, and he was no longer afraid to take it.

  The helmsman named Archer called, ‘Wind’s gettin’ up, sir!’

  He jerked his head as the wet canvas rattled and cracked loudly above them.

  Bolitho nodded. ‘My respects to Mr. Egmont… .’ The mood was still on him. ‘No. I’ll tell him myself.’

  Tired, elated, angry? Sailors often blamed it on the wind.

  He reached the hatch and called back, ‘Remember! No passengers!’

  The wheel jerked sharply as both helmsmen gripped the spokes and put their weight against it, but the one named Archer managed to laugh.

  ‘Easy does it, Tom. Our Dick’s blood is on the boil. He’ll see us right!’

  Vague figures were moving to each mast, the watch on deck, and ready for the storm.

  Andrew Sewell had heard the quick exchange between the two men at the wheel and felt something quite unknown to him. It was envy.

  The next few hours were ones even the old Jacks were unlikely to forget. A blustery succession of squalls became a strong wind that had all hands fighting each onslaught, bruised and blinded by icy spray and the waves that burst across the bulwarks and swept down the scuppers like a tiderace. All through the middle watch the storm continued its assault, until even the most vociferous curses were beaten into silence.

  But when the clouds eventually broke and a first hint of dawn showed itself against straining canvas and the crisscross of shining rigging, Hotspur was holding her own, with not a spar or shroud broken.

  Bolitho had remembered Tinker Thorne’s admiration for her builder, Old John Barstow, the finest in the West Country; he had clung to those words more than once in the night when the sea had smashed against the hull or sent men sprawling like rag dolls in its wake.

  Tinker’s voice had rarely been silent, and his sturdy form was everywhere. Dragging a man from one task and shoving him into another, putting an extra pair of hands on halliard or brace, or bullying another too dazed to think clearly, to add his weight to the pumps.

  And Verling was always there. Down aft, holding himself upright, while he watched the relentless battle of sea against rudder, wind against canvas.

  A few men were injured, but none seriously, with cuts and bruises, or rope burns when human hands could no longer control wet cordage squealing through block or cleat.

  And as suddenly as it had begun, the wind eased, and it was safe to move about the deck without pain or apprehension.

  Bolitho heard Verling say, ‘Another hour, Mr. Egmont, and we’ll get the tops’Is on her. The wind’s backed a piece. I want a landfall on Guernsey, not the coast of France!’ Calmly said, but he was not joking. ‘Check and report any damage. Injuries, too. I’ll need it for my report.’ He patted the compass box. ‘Not bad for a youngster, eh?’

  Egmont hurried forward, his boat cloak plastered to his body like a mould. In the poor light it was hard to gauge his reaction to the storm.

  ”Ere, sir.’ Bolitho felt a mug pushed into his frozen fingers. ‘Get yer blood movin’ again!’

  Rum, cognac, it could have been anything, but it began to work instantly.

  ‘Thank you, Drury - just in time!’ The seaman laughed. Like Bolitho, he was probably surprised that he had remembered his name.

  Dancer joined him by the foremast and clapped his shoulder.

  ‘Well, that’s all over, Dick!’ His smile was very white against wind-seared features. ”Til the next time!’

  They both looked up. The masthead pendant was just visible against the banks of low cloud, flicking out like a coachman’s whip, but not bar-taut as it must have been for the past few hours.

  Dancer said, ‘I’ll not be sorry to see the sun again!’

  ‘Here? In January?’ They both laughed, and a sailor who was squatting by the forward hatch while his leg was being bandaged stared up at them and grinned.

  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.