In Gallant Company

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho peeled off his coat and handed it with his hat to Logan, a ship’s boy who helped in the wardroom.

  ‘I’d relish that, thank you.’

  The wardroom, which ran the whole breadth of the ship’s stern, was wreathed in tobacco smoke and touched with its own familiar aromas of wine and cheese. Right aft the great stern windows were already in darkness, and as the counter swung slightly to the pull of the massive anchor it was possible to see an occasional light glittering from the shore like a lost star.

  Hutchlike cabins, little more than screens which would be torn down when the ship cleared for action, lined either side. Tiny havens which contained the owner’s cot, chest and a small hanging space. But each was at least private. Apart from the cells, about the only place in the ship a man could be alone.

  Directly above, and in a cabin which matched in size and space that which contained most of his officers, was the captain’s domain. Also on that deck was the master and the first lieutenant, to be in easy reach of the quarterdeck and the helm.

  But here, in the wardroom, was where they all shared their moments off-duty. Where they discussed their hopes and fears, ate their meals and took their wine. The six lieutenants, two marine officers, the sailing master, the purser and the surgeon. It was crowded certainly, but when compared with the below-the-waterline quarters of the midshipmen and other warrant officers and specialists, let alone the great majority of seamen and marines, it was luxury indeed.

  Dalyell, the fifth lieutenant, sat beneath the stern windows, his legs crossed and resting on a small keg, a long clay pipe balanced in one hand.

  ‘George Probyn adrift again, eh, Dick?’

  Bolitho grinned. ‘It is becoming a habit.’

  Sparke, the second lieutenant, a severe-faced man with a coin-shaped scar on one cheek, said, ‘I’d drag him to the captain if I were the senior here.’ He returned to a tattered news-sheet and added vehemently, ‘These damned rebels seem to do what they like! Two more transports seized from under our frigates’ noses, and a brig cut out of harbour by one of their bloody privateers! We’re too soft on ’em!’

  Bolitho sat down and stretched, grateful to be out of the wind, even though he knew the illusion of warmth would soon pass.

  His head lolled, and when Mackenzie brought the mug of coffee he had to shake his shoulder to awaken him.

  In companionable silence the Trojan’s officers drew comfort from their own resources. Some read, others wrote home, letters which might never reach those for whom they were intended.

  Bolitho drank his coffee and tried to ignore the pain in his forehead. Without thinking, his hand moved up and touched the rebellious lock of black hair above his right eye. Beneath it was a livid scar, the source of the pain. He had received it when he had been in Destiny. It often came back to him at moments like this. The illusion of safety, the sudden rush of feet and slashing, hacking weapons. The agony and the blood. Oblivion.

  There was a tap at the outer screen door, and then Mackenzie said to Sparke, who was the senior officer present, ‘Your pardon, sir, but the midshipman of the watch is here.’

  The boy stepped carefully into the wardroom, as if he was walking on precious silk.

  Sparke snapped curtly, ‘What is it, Mr Forbes?’

  ‘The first lieutenant’s compliments, sir, and will all officers muster in the cabin at two bells.’

  ‘Very well.’ Sparke waited for the door to close. ‘Now we will see, gentlemen. Maybe we have something of importance to do.’

  Unlike Cairns, the second lieutenant could not conceal the sudden gleam in his eyes. Promotion. Prize money. Or just a chance for action instead of hearing about it.

  He looked at Bolitho. ‘I suggest you change into a clean shirt. The captain seems to have his eye on you.’

  Bolitho stood up, his head brushing the deckhead beams. Two years in this ship, and apart from a dinner in the cabin when they had recommissioned the ship at Bristol, he had barely crossed one social barrier to meet the captain. He was a stern, remote man, and yet always seemed to possess uncanny knowledge of what was happening on every deck in his command.

  Dalyell carefully tapped out his pipe and remarked, ‘Maybe he really likes you, Dick.’

  Raye, the lieutenant of marines, yawned. ‘I don’t think he’s human.’

  Sparke hurried to his cabin, shying away from involvement with any criticism of authority. ‘He is the captain. He does not require to be human.’

  Captain Gilbert Brice Pears finished reading the daily log of events aboard his ship and then scrawled his signature, which was hastily dried by Teakle, his clerk.

  Outside the stern windows the harbour and the distant town seemed far-away and unconnected with this spacious, well-lit cabin. There was some good furniture here, and in the neighbouring dining cabin the table was already laid for supper, with Foley, the captain’s servant, neat as a pin in his blue coat and white trousers, hovering to tend his master’s needs.

  Captain Pears leaned back in his chair and glanced round the cabin without seeing it. In two years he had got to know it well.

  He was forty-two years old, but looked older. Thickset, even square, he was as powerful and impressive as the Trojan herself.

  He had heard gossip amongst his officers which amounted almost to discontent. The war, for it must now be accepted as such, seemed to be passing them by. But Pears was a realistic man, and knew that the time would eventually come when he and his command would be able to act as intended when Trojan’s great keel had first tasted salt water just nine years ago. Privateers and raiding parties were one thing, but when the French joined the fray in open strength, and their ships of the line appeared in these waters, Trojan and her heavy consorts would display their true worth.

  He looked up as the marine sentry stamped his boots together outside the screen door, and moments later the first lieutenant rejoined him.

  ‘I have passed the word to the wardroom, sir. All officers to be here at two bells.’

  ‘Good.’

  Pears merely had to look at his servant and Foley was beside him, pouring two tall glasses of claret.

  ‘The fact is, Mr Cairns’ – Pears examined the wine against the nearest lantern – ‘you cannot go on forever fighting a defensive war. Here we are in New York, a claw-hold on a land which is daily becoming more rebellious. In Philadelphia things are little better. Raids and skirmishes, we burn a fort or an outpost, and they catch one of our transports, or ambush a patrol. What is New York? A besieged city. A town under reprieve, but for how long?’

  Cairns said nothing, but sipped the claret, half his mind attending to the noises beyond the cabin, the sigh of wind, the groan of timbers.

  Pears saw his expression and smiled to himself. Cairns was a good first lieutenant, probably the best he had ever had. He should have a command of his own. A chance, one which only came in war.

  But Pears loved his ship more than hopes or dreams. The thought of Sparke taking over as senior lieutenant was like a threat. He was an efficient officer and attended to his guns and his duties perfectly. But imagination he had not. He thought of Probyn, and dismissed him just as quickly. Then there was Bolitho, the fourth. Much like his father, although he sometimes seemed to take his duties too lightly. But his men appeared to like him. That meant a lot in these hard times.

  Pears sighed. Bolitho was still a few months short of twenty-one. You needed experienced officers to work a ship of the line. He rubbed his chin to hide his expression. Maybe it was Bolitho’s youth and his own mounting years which made him reason in this fashion.

  He asked abruptly, ‘Are we in all respects ready for sea?’

  Cairns nodded. ‘Aye, sir. I could well use another dozen hands because of injury and ill-health, but that is a small margin these days.’

  ‘It is indeed. I have known first lieutenants go grey-haired because they could not woo, press or bribe enough hands even to work their ships out of port.’

  At the prescribed
time the doors were opened and Trojan’s officers, excluding the midshipmen and junior warrant officers, filed into the great cabin.

  It was a rare event, and took a good deal of time to get them into proper order, and for Foley and Hogg, the captain’s coxswain, to find the right number of chairs.

  It gave Pears time to watch their varying reactions, to see if their presence in strength would make any sort of difference.

  Probyn, relieved from his duties by a master’s mate, was flushed and very bright-eyed. Just too steady to be true.

  Sparke, prim in his severity, and young Dalyell, were seated beside the sixth and junior lieutenant, Quinn, who just five months ago had been a midshipman.

  Then there was Erasmus Bunce, the master. He was called the Sage behind his back, and was certainly impressive. In his special trade, which produced more characters and outstanding seaman than any other, Bunce was one to turn any man’s head. He was well over six feet tall, deep-chested, and had long, straggly grey hair. But his eyes, deep-set and clear, were almost as black as the thick brows above them. A sage indeed.

  Pears watched the master ducking between the overhead beams and was reassured.

  Bunce liked his rum, but he loved the ship like a woman. With him to guide her she had little to fear.

  Molesworth, the purser, a pale man with a nervous blink, which Pears suspected was due to some undiscovered guilt. Thorndike, the surgeon, who always seemed to be smiling. More like an actor than a man of blood and bones. Two bright patches of scarlet by the larboard side, the marine officers, D’Esterre and Lieutenant Raye, and of course Cairns, completed the gathering. It did not include all the other warrant officers and specialists. The boatswain, and gunner, the master’s mates, and the carpenters, Pears knew them all by sight, sound and quality.

  Probyn said in a loud whisper, ‘Mr Bolitho doesn’t seem to be here yet?’

  Pears frowned, despising Probyn’s hypocrisy. He was about as subtle as a hammer.

  Cairns suggested, ‘I’ll send someone, sir.’

  The door opened and closed swiftly and Pears saw Bolitho sliding into an empty chair beside the two marines.

  ‘Stand up, that officer.’ Pears’ harsh voice was almost caressing. ‘Ah, it is you, sir, at last.’

  Bolitho stood quite still, only his shoulders swaying slightly to the ship’s slow roll.

  ‘I – I am sorry, sir.’ Bolitho saw the grin on Dalyell’s face as drops of water trickled from under his coat and on to the black and white checkered canvas which covered the deck.

  Pears said mildly, ‘Your shirt seems to be rather wet, sir.’ He turned slightly. ‘Foley, some canvas for that chair. It is hard to replace such things out here.’

  Bolitho sat down with a thump, not knowing whether to be angry or humiliated.

  He forgot Pears’ abrasive tone, and the shirt which he had snatched off the wardroom line still wringing wet, as Pears said more evenly, ‘We will sail at first light, gentlemen. The Governor of New York has received information that the expected convoy from Halifax is likely to be attacked. It is a large assembly of vessels with an escort of two frigates and a sloop-of-war. But in this weather the ships could become scattered, some might endeavour to close with the land to ascertain their bearings.’ His fingers changed to a fist. ‘That is when our enemy will strike.’

  Bolitho leaned forward, ignoring the sodden discomfort around his waist.

  Pears continued, ‘I was saying as much to Mr Cairns. You cannot win a defensive war. We have the ships, but the enemy has the local knowledge to make use of smaller, faster vessels. To have a chance of success we must command and keep open every trade route, search and detain any suspected craft, make our presence felt. Wars are not finally won with ideals, they are won with powder and shot, and that the enemy does not have in quantity. Yet.’ He looked around their faces, his eyes bleak. ‘The Halifax convoy is carrying a great deal of powder and shot, cannon too, which are intended for the military in Philadelphia and here in New York. If just one of those valuable cargoes fell into the wrong hands we would feel the effects for months to come.’ He looked round sharply. ‘Questions?’

  It was Sparke who rose to his feet first.

  ‘Why us, sir? Of course, I am most gratified to be putting to sea in my country’s service, to try and rectify some –’

  Pears said heavily, ‘Please get on with the bones of the matter.’

  Sparke swallowed hard, his scar suddenly very bright on his cheek.

  ‘Why not send frigates, sir?’

  ‘Because there are not enough, there never are enough. Also, the admiral feels that a show of strength might be of more value.’

  Bolitho stiffened, as if he had missed something. It was in the captain’s tone. Just the merest suggestion of doubt. He glanced at his companions but they seemed much as usual. Perhaps he was imagining it, or seeking flaws to cover up his earlier discomfort under Pears’ tongue.

  Pears added, ‘Whatever may happen this time, we must never drop our vigilance. This ship is our first responsibility, our main concern at all times. The war is changing from day to day. Yesterday’s traitor is tomorrow’s patriot. A man who responded to his country’s call,’ he shot a wry smile at Sparke, ‘is now called a Loyalist, as if he and not the others was some sort of freak and outcast.’

  The master, Erasmus Bunce, stood up very slowly, his eyes peering beneath a deckhead beam like twin coals.

  ‘A man must do as he be guided, sir. It is for God to decide who be right in this conflict.’

  Pears smiled gravely. Old Bunce was known to be very religious, and had once hurled a sailor into Portsmouth harbour merely for taking the Lord’s name into a drunken song.

  Bunce was a Devonian, and had gone to sea at the age of nine or ten. He was now said to be over sixty, but Pears could never picture him ever being young at all.

  He said, ‘Quite so, Mr Bunce. That was well said.’

  Cairns cleared his throat and eyed the master patiently. ‘Was that all, Mr Bunce?’

  The master sat down and folded his arms. ‘It be enough.’

  The captain gestured to Foley. No words seemed to be required here, Bolitho thought.

  Glasses and wine jugs followed, and then Pears said, ‘A toast, gentlemen. To the ship, and damnation to the King’s enemies!’

  Bolitho watched Probyn looking round for the jugs, his glass already emptied.

  He thought of Pears’ voice when he had spoken of the ship. God help George Probyn if he put her on a lee shore after taking too many glasses.

  Soon after that the meeting broke up, and Bolitho realized that he had still got no closer to the captain than by way of a reprimand.

  He sighed. When you were a midshipman you thought a lieutenant’s life was in some sort of heaven. Maybe even captains were in dread of somebody, although at this moment it was hard to believe.

  The next dawn was slightly clearer, but not much. The wind held firm enough from the north-west, and the snow flurries soon gave way to drizzle, which mixed with the blown spray made the decks and rigging shine like dull glass.

  Bolitho had watched one ship or another get under way more times than he could remember. But it never failed to move and excite him. The way every man joined into the chain of command to make the ship work as a living, perfect instrument.

  Each mast had its own divisions of seamen, from the swift-footed topmen to the older, less agile hands who worked the braces and halliards from the deck. As the calls shrilled, and the men poured up on deck through every hatch and companion, it seemed incredible that Trojan’s hull, which from figurehead to taffrail measured two hundred and fifteen feet, could contain so many. Yet within seconds the dashing figures of men and boys, marines and landmen were formed into compact groups, each being checked by leather-lunged petty officers against their various lists and watch-bills.

  The great capstan was already turning, as was its twin on the deck below, and under his shoes Bolitho could almost sense the ship sti
rring, waiting to head towards the open sea.

  Like the mass of seamen and marines, the officers too were at their stations. Probyn with Dalyell to assist him on the forecastle, the foremast their responsibility. Sparke commanded the upper gundeck and the ship’s mainmast, which was her real strength, with all the spars, cordage, canvas and miles of rigging which gave life to the hull beneath. Lastly, the mizzen mast, handled mostly by the afterguard, where young Quinn waited with the marine lieutenant and his men to obey Cairns’ first requirements.

  Bolitho looked across at Sparke. Not an easy man to know, but a pleasure to watch at work. He controlled his seamen and every halliard and brace with the practised ease of a dedicated concert conductor.

  A hush seemed to fall over the ship, and Bolitho looked aft to see the captain walking to the quarterdeck rail, nodding to old Bunce, the Sage, then speaking quietly with his first lieutenant.

  Far above the deck from the mainmast truck the long, scarlet pendant licked and hardened to the wind like bending metal. A good sailing wind, but Bolitho was thankful it was the captain and old Bunce who were taking her through the anchored shipping and not himself.

  He glanced over the side and wondered who was watching. Friends, or spies who might already be passing news to Washington’s agents. Another man-of-war weighing. Where bound? For what purpose?

  He returned his attention inboard. If half what he had heard was true, the enemy probably knew better than they did. There were said to be plenty of loose tongues in New York’s civil and military government circles.

  Cairns raised his speaking trumpet. ‘Get a move on, Mr Tolcher!’

  Tolcher, the squat boatswain, raised his cane and bellowed, ‘More ’ands to th’ capstan! ’Eave, lads!’

  He glared at the shantyman with his fiddle. ‘Play up, you bugger, or I’ll ’ave you on th’ pumps!’

  From forward came the cry, ‘Anchor’s hove short, sir!’

  ‘Hands aloft! Loose tops’ls!’ Cairns’ voice, magnified by the trumpet, pursued and drove them like a clarion. ‘Loose the heads’Is!’