Band of Brothers

by Alexander Kent

  They had ground ashore, with hardly a shudder. When the tide turned again she would be high and dry.

  Bolitho walked aft and watched the brig, heeling slightly as she altered course, her sails hardening, a masthead pendant whipping out like a spear.

  The seaman named Perry shook his fist.

  ‘We did our best, damn their eyes!’

  ‘Not enough… .’ Bolitho flinched as someone gripped his arm. ‘What?’ And saw Keveth’s expression. Not shock or surprise, but the face of a man who could no longer be caught aback by anything.

  He said quietly, ‘An’ there’s a sight, sir. One you’ll long remember.’

  It was Hotspur, lying over to the wind, casting her own shadow like a reflection across the whitecaps. She had skirted the headland, so closely that she appeared to be balanced across it.

  Keveth swung round. ‘Wait, sir! What’re you about?’ He was staring up at him as Bolitho ran to the side and climbed into the shrouds.

  ‘So that he’ll know!’ He was unfolding the collar of his coat, until the white midshipman’s patches were clearly visible. ‘Give me my hat!’

  He reached down and took it without losing sight of the brig. Verling would see him, and know what they had done. That this fight had not been so one-sided after all. That his trust had not been misplaced.

  But who did he really mean? So that he’ll know… .

  ‘Boat! Larboard quarter!’

  Price turned away. ‘Easy, Ted! It’s our lads!’

  He looked up at the midshipman in the shrouds, one hand holding his hat steady against the wind. To others, it might look like a salute. They would not see his torn and stained uniform across the water. But they would see him. And they would not forget.

  Bolitho heard none of it, watching the two sets of sails. On a converging tack, the land rolling back like a screen. There was light on the water now, a faint margin between sea and sky, but hardly visible. Or real.

  Hotspur made a fine sight, the bird unfolding her wings. Ready to attack.

  Too far away to see any movement, but he could hold the image clearly in his mind. Swivel guns manned, puny but deadly at close quarters. Hotspur‘s two bow-chasers would be empty, useless. Someone would answer for that. Later, perhaps, when they read Verling’s log. Written in Martyn’s familiar hand.

  And bright patches of scarlet as if painted on a canvas: Verling had hoisted two ensigns, so that there could be no mistake or excuse. Hotspur had become a man-of-war.

  He heard the boat come alongside, voices, excited greetings. Then silence as they all turned to watch the two vessels, almost overlapping, Hotspur graceful, even fragile, against her adversary.

  There was anger now, alarm too, at the far-off sounds of shots, like someone tapping casually on a tabletop with his fingers.

  Hotspur must have misjudged her change of tack, as if, out of control, she would drive her jib boom through the brig’s foremast shrouds. But she had luffed, and must surely be almost abeam. Then there was a brief, vivid flash, and seconds later the sharp, resonant bang of a swivel gun.

  The seamen around him were suddenly quiet, each man in his mind across the grey water with his friend or companion, and at his proper station. This was like being rendered helpless, cut off from the only world they knew.

  Keveth said, ‘What the hell! If only… .’

  The two vessels were still drifting together, sails in disarray, as if no human hands were at the helm of either.

  There was a great gasp, mounting to a combined growl, like something torn from each man’s heart. Just a small sliver of scarlet, but it was moving slowly up the brig’s overlapping mainyard, and then it broke out to the wind. To match the two flags flying from Hotspur‘s masts.

  Bolitho could not tear his eyes away, despite the wild burst of cheering, and the hard slaps across his shoulders.

  ‘That showed ‘em!’ and ‘That made the murderin’ buggers jump!’

  One seaman, the boat’s coxswain, was trying to make himself heard.

  ‘I’m to take you aboard, sir! Mr. Verling’s orders!’

  Bolitho seized Keveth’s arm and said, ‘You’re in charge, until they send someone to relieve you.’ He shook him gently. ‘I’ll not forget what you did. Believe me.’ He walked after the boat’s coxswain, but paused and looked back at his own small party of sailors. Price, the big Welshman; even he was at a loss for a joke now. Perry, Stiles, and Drury, who was still standing by the stiff and motionless tiller-bar, his face split by one huge grin.

  Then he was in the boat, faster and lighter now without the weight of extra hands sent by Verling. Rising and plunging across each rank of incoming waves, and all the time the tall pyramids of sails seemed to draw no closer. Only once did he turn to gaze back at the beached lugger, and the small cluster of figures by the stern.

  ‘Stand by, bowman!’

  He hardly remembered going alongside, only hands reaching out and down to assist him aboard: familiar faces, but all like strangers. He wanted to shake himself, be carried by this moment and its triumph and thrust the strain or uncertainty, or was it fear, into the retreating shadows.

  He could still feel their hands pounding his shoulders, see their grins, and Keveth’s pride and satisfaction. The victors.

  He stared around, and across to the other vessel’s poop. The wheel was in fragments, the bulwark pitted and broken by the single blast of canister from Hotspur‘s swivel. There was blood, too, and he could hear someone groaning in agony, and another quietly sobbing.

  He saw Egmont, back turned, his drawn sword across his shoulder, quite still, as if on parade.

  ‘This way, sir!’ A seaman touched his arm.

  He saw some of them pause to glance at him, and young Sewell, his rough bandage still dangling from one leg. Staring, raising his hand to acknowledge him, his face changed in some way. Older… .

  Verling was by the compass box, hatless, and without a sword.

  ‘You did damned well,’ he said.

  But Bolitho could not speak, or move. As if everything had stopped. Like the moment when the scarlet ensign had appeared above the brig’s deck.

  He saw that Verling had a bandage around his wrist, and here, also, there was blood. Beyond him, splinters had been torn from the deck. Like feathers, where those few shots had left their mark.

  Verling said, ‘If there was any way… .’ He broke off, and gestured abruptly at the hatch. ‘He’s in the cabin. We did all… .’

  Bolitho did not hear the rest.

  He was down the ladder and in the cabin, where they had sat and waited. Talked about the Board and the future.

  Dancer was on one of the bench seats, his head and shoulders propped on some cushions. He had been watching the door, perhaps listening. Now he tried to reach out, but his arm fell to his side.

  There was one lamp burning in the cabin, near the same skylight beneath which Verling had been standing during that final discussion. The light was moving unsteadily as the hull nudged against the captive vessel alongside, and gave colour to Dancer’s fair hair, but revealed the pallor of his skin and the effort of his breathing. There was a small red stain on his shirt.

  Bolitho took his hand and held it between his own, and watched his eyes, trying to keep the pain at bay, or to experience it himself. Like all those other times.

  ‘I came as soon as I could, Martyn. I didn’t know… .’ He felt the hand move in his, attempting to return his grip.

  He said, ‘You’re here now, Dick. All that matters.’

  Bolitho leaned over him, shielding his face, his eyes, from the light. He could barely hear the words.

  The hand moved again. Then, just one word. ‘Together.’

  Someone spoke. Bolitho had not known there was anybody else in the cabin. It was Tinker.

  ‘Best leave him, sir. He’s gone, I’m afraid.’

  Bolitho touched his friend’s face, gently, to wipe away some tears. The skin was quite still. And he realised the tears were his ow
n.

  Somewhere, in another world, he heard the trill of a boatswain’s call, the response of running feet.

  Tinker was by the door, blocking it. In his years at sea he had seen and done almost everything. In ships as different as the oceans they served, and with captains just as varied. You became hardened to most things. Or you went under.

  He had heard the new activity on deck. He was needed now, more than ever. The prisoners to be put to work, both vessels to be got under way again. Maybe a jury-rig to be fitted aboard the brig’s steering as the helm had been shot away. The first lieutenant had no doubt been yelling for him already.

  But it was the here and now that required him most.

  ‘Listen, me son. Soon, maybe very soon, you’ll be standin’ into a new life. You have their respect, I’ve seen you win it, but that’s only the beginning. You’ll make friends, an’ you’ll lose some of ‘em. Sure, that’s the way of it. It’s a sailor’s lot.’

  The calls were silent, the feet on deck were still. The hard, leathery hand touched his torn sleeve very briefly.

  ‘Just think of the next watch, an’ the next horizon, see?’

  Bolitho turned by the door and glanced back. He could be asleep. Waiting for the next watch.

  He felt his lips move and heard himself speak, and the words were dry and controlled, and the voice unfamiliar.

  ‘I’m ready. When you are.’ He looked at the door again. ‘You’ll never know.’

  The way ahead. Together.

  * * *

  Epilogue

  * * *

  Captain Beves Conway swung away from the stern windows of his day cabin and called, ‘Have him come aft directly, man!’

  He had been watching the thirty-two gun frigate Condor enter harbour and drop anchor with a minimum of fuss and delay; it was what he would expect from a captain like Maude. Always busy, always in demand. He cocked his head to listen to his own ship’s routine, and almost sighed with relief. The disruption of overhaul was finished, until their lordships insisted on another; the constant comings and goings of working parties and dockyard experts and the noise, smells and personal discomfort were being inflicted on some other vessel, and His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Gorgon could now show even a frigate a thing or two if required. Freshly blackened standing rigging and gleaming paintwork were shining brightly, despite a morning so cold and misty that even the usually restless gulls seemed content to float upon the anchorage like discarded wreaths.

  The screen door opened a few inches, and the lieutenant said, ‘Mr. Bolitho, sir. He has apologised for the state of his uniform.’ He said it without a smile, unlike Verling. It felt strange to have another officer standing in for him until his return from Guernsey. Verling would be fretting over the delay. He would have heard all the latest news from the colonies when Condor had called at St. Peter Port with the admiral’s despatches.

  It would be good to have him back as first lieutenant. Although he might feel quite differently about it, after his brief but exciting flirtation with the schooner Hotspur.

  Conway glanced at the letters lying open on his desk; they had been sent across from Condor within minutes of her anchor hitting the bottom.

  One letter had been from his old friend’s son, Midshipman Andrew Sewell. He was still with Verling and the passage crew in Guernsey, but the short, simple note had seemed like a reward, something which had warmed him more than he would have believed, or hoped.

  The door opened, and Richard Bolitho walked into the cabin. This was only just February, and much had happened since their last meeting, the Board held in the flagship, which was still moored in exactly the same position as the day when several ‘young gentlemen’ had been required to face their tormentors. They all had to endure it, and laughed about it afterwards. The fortunate ones, anyway.

  He strode to meet him and clasped his hands.

  ‘So good to see you again, my boy! I want to hear all about the capture of the smugglers, and the contraband you helped to seize. It will carry some weight, I can tell you, with their lordships, and above!’

  He guided him to a chair and the table where a servant had laid out some wine and his best goblets.

  ‘I arranged for you to take passage in Condor. I hope it was a pleasant, if uneventful one?’ He did not wait for a reply; he rarely did. ‘I know you will have a good deal to do, and I shall not delay you unnecessarily. My clerk will take care of the other matters.’

  Bolitho leaned his back against the chair. The same ship; even the weather, cold and grey, had not changed. The houses of Plymouth, like the ranks of anchored ships, were still half-shrouded in mist. It had seemed to take an eternity for the frigate to make her entrance and anchor.

  And yet only days had passed since it had begun. When they had climbed aboard Hotspur, a lifetime ago.

  He glanced down at the breeches someone had loaned him, and at the makeshift patches on his coat. Reminders, like the cuts and bruises on his body.

  The captain had poured the wine himself and was smiling down at him.

  ‘I am very proud of you, Richard. One of my midshipmen.’ He raised his glass. ‘No need for you to be delayed when it could be avoided. I had a word with the flag captain.’ He was refilling his glass, although Bolitho did not recall tasting the wine. ‘And I wanted to do it myself.’ He pulled open a drawer and took out an unsealed envelope. ‘You are free to leave the ship and complete your arrangements.’

  He watched him take the envelope, the ‘scrap of parchment’ they all joked about. Afterwards.

  ‘Your commission, Richard. None better deserved!’

  Bolitho saw his goblet being refilled. And still he could taste nothing.

  It was here. The moment, the impossible step. He had seen some of the frigate’s midshipmen glancing over at him during their brief time together. All so young, like Sewell … although Sewell had seemed suddenly mature.

  And his first appointment. You are herewith directed and commanded, upon receipt of these orders … The rest was blurred.

  But it was a frigate, named Destiny.

  Conway was saying, ‘I shall delay you no longer.’ He looked over at the desk. ‘Young Andrew Sewell has told me what you did for him. It helped him more than you can know. His father would have been obliged to you, had he been here himself to thank you.’

  Bolitho stood up; there were voices in the outer cabin. He was grateful for the interruption, and so, possibly, was the captain.

  He said, ‘Martyn Dancer was a great help to him, sir. They got on well together.’

  Conway walked with him to the screen door, and impetuously put his arm around Bolitho’s shoulder. Afterwards, the cabin servant remarked that he had never seen Conway do anything like it, and it was never repeated.

  Conway said, ‘Then my thanks are to you both.’ He looked again at the stern windows. ‘God be with you when you join Destiny,’ and he paused. ‘As a King’s officer.’

  Out on the broad quarterdeck the air was still misty, but there was a gleam on the water, as if the sun were about to break through.

  He would go to Falmouth and tell his mother and sister. It would have to be a brief visit, and he was glad of that also.

  He looked around the familiar decks, and at the groups of seamen and marines.

  This was the past. Ahead lay the new horizon.

  “The wings of opportunity are fledged with the feathers of death.”

  Sir Francis Drake