In Gallant Company

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho controlled his sudden anger, knowing that Sparke’s shouted rebuke must have been heard by most of the men on deck. He waited, sensing the lieutenant’s mood, his all-consuming need to drive the ship with every stitch she would carry.

  Sparke said abruptly, ‘The master’s mate has suggested we stay on this tack until noon.’

  Bolitho forced his mind to grapple with it, to picture their wavering progress on the chart.

  He answered without hesitation, ‘Mr Frowd means we are less likely to run foul of local shipping, or worse, one of our own patrols.’

  ‘Mr Frowd is an idiot!’ He was yelling again. ‘And if you agree with him, you are equally so, damn your eyes!’

  Bolitho swallowed hard, counting seconds as he would for a fall of shot.

  ‘I have to agree with him, sir. He is a man of much experience.’

  ‘And I am not, I suppose!’ He held up his free hand. ‘Do not bother to argue with me. My mind is settled on it. We will change tack in one hour and head directly for the rendezvous. It will cut the time considerably. On this tack we could be another full day!’

  Bolitho tried again. ‘The enemy will not know our exact time of arrival, sir, or indeed if we are coming at all. War leaves no room for such planning.’

  Sparke had not heard him. ‘By the living God, I’ll not let them get away now. I’ve waited long enough, watching others being handed gilt-edged commands because they know somebody at the Admiralty or in Court. Well, Mr Bolitho, not me. I’ve worked all the way. Earned each step up the ladder!’

  He seemed to realize what he had said, that he had laid himself wide open before his subordinate, and added, ‘Now, call the hands! Tell Mr Frowd to prepare his chart.’ He eyed him fixedly, his face very pale in the gloom. ‘I’ll have no arguments. Tell him that also!’

  ‘Have you discussed it with Captain D’Esterre, sir?’

  Sparke laughed. ‘Certainly not. He is a marine. A soldier as far as I am concerned!’

  In the cupboard-like space adjoining the master’s cabin which was the Faithful’s chart room, Bolitho joined Frowd and peered at the calculations and compass directions which had become their daily fare since leaving Trojan’s company.

  Frowd said quietly, ‘It will get us there more quickly, sir. But . . .’

  Bolitho was bent low to avoid the deckhead, conscious of the vessel’s violent motion, the nearness of the sea through the side.

  ‘Aye, Mr Frowd, there are always the buts. We will just have to hope for some luck.’

  Frowd grinned bitterly. ‘I’ve no wish to be killed by my own countrymen, by mistake or otherwise, sir.’

  An hour later, with all hands employed on deck, Faithful clawed around to starboard, pointing her bowsprit towards the invisible land, a single reef in main and foresail, all that Sparke would tolerate. She was leaning right over to leeward, the sea creaming up and over the bulwark, or sluicing across the tethered nine-pounder like surf around a rock.

  It was still extremely cold, and what food the cook managed to produce was soon without warmth, and soggy with spray after its perilous passage along the upper deck.

  As the light strengthened, Sparke sent an extra look-out aloft, with orders to report anything he saw. ‘Even if it is a floating log.’

  Bolitho watched Sparke’s anxiety mount all through the forenoon as the schooner pushed steadily westward. Only once did the look-out sight another sail, but it was lost in spray and distance before he could give either a description or the course she was steering.

  Stockdale was rarely out of Bolitho’s sight, and was using his strength to great advantage as the seamen were ordered from one mast to the other, or made to climb aloft to repair and splice fraying rigging.

  The cry from the masthead when it came was like an unexpected shot.

  ‘Land ho!’

  Men temporarily forgot their discomfort as they squinted through the curtain of rain and spray, searching for the landfall.

  Sparke hung on to the shrouds with his telescope, all dignity forgotten as he waited for the schooner to leap on a steep crest and he found the mark he had been hoping for.

  He jumped down to the deck and glared triumphantly at Frowd.

  ‘Let her fall off a point. That is Cape Henlopen yonder to the nor’-west of us!’ He could not contain himself. ‘Now, Mr Frowd, how about your caution, eh?’

  The helmsman called, ‘West by north, sir! Full an’ bye!’

  Frowd replied grimly, ‘The wind’s shifted, sir. Not much as yet, but we’re heading for shallows to the south’rd of Delaware Bay.’

  Sparke grimaced. ‘More caution!’

  ‘It is my duty to warn you on these matters, sir.’ He stood his ground.

  Bolitho said, ‘Mr Frowd is largely responsible for this final landfall, sir.’

  ‘That I will acknowledge at the right time, provided –’

  He stared up the mast as a look-out yelled, ‘Deck there! Sail on th’ larboard quarter!’

  ‘God damn!’ Sparke stared up until his eyes brimmed over with water. ‘Ask the fool what she is!’

  Midshipman Libby was already swarming up the weather shrouds, his feet moving like paddles in his efforts to reach the look-out.

  Then he shouted, ‘Too small for a frigate, sir! But I think she’s sighted us!’

  Bolitho watched the tossing grey water. They would all be able to see the newcomer soon. Too small for a frigate, Libby had said. But like one in appearance. Three masts, square-rigged. A sloop-of-war. Faithful’s slender hull would be no match for a sloop’s sixteen or eighteen cannon.

  ‘We had better come about, sir, and hoist our recognition signal.’ He saw the uncertainty on Sparke’s narrow features, the scar very bright on his cheek, like a red penny.

  The other look-out called excitedly, ‘Two small craft to loo’rd, sir! Standin’ inshore.’

  Bolitho bit his lip. Probably local coasting craft, in company for mutual protection, and steering for the bay.

  Their presence ruled out the possibility of parleying with the patrolling sloop. If they were nearby, so too might other, less friendly eyes.

  Frowd suggested helpfully, ‘If we come about now, sir, we can outsail her, even to wind’rd. I’ve been in schooners afore, and I know what they can do.’

  Sparke’s voice rose almost to a scream. ‘How dare you question my judgement! I’ll have you disrated if you speak like that to me again! Come about, wait and see, run away. God damn it, you’re more like an old woman than a master’s mate!’

  Frowd looked away, angry and hurt.

  Bolitho broke in, ‘I know what he was trying to say, sir.’ He watched Sparke’s eyes swivel towards him but did not drop his gaze. ‘We can stand off and wait a better chance. If we continue, even with the darkness soon upon us, that sloop-of-war has only to bide her time, to hold us in the shallows until we go aground, or admit defeat. The people we are supposed to meet and capture will not wait to share the same fate, I think.’

  When Sparke spoke again he was very composed, even calm. ‘I will overlook your anxiety on Mr Frowd’s behalf, for I have observed your tendency to become involved in petty matters.’ He nodded to Frowd. ‘Carry on. Hold this tack as long as the wind favours it. In half an hour send a good leadsman to the chains.’ He smiled wryly. ‘Will that satisfy you?’

  Frowd knuckled his forehead. ‘Aye, aye, sir.’

  When the half-hour glass was turned beside the compass the other vessel’s topgallant sails were in sight from the deck.

  D’Esterre, very pale from the hold’s discomfort, came up to Bolitho and said hoarsely, ‘God, I am so sick, I would wish to die.’ He peered at the sloop’s straining sails and added, ‘Will she catch us?’

  ‘I think not. She’s bound to go about soon.’ He pointed to the creaming wash alongside. ‘There’s barely eight fathom under our keel, and it’ll soon be half as much.’

  The marine stared at the water with amazement. ‘You have done nothing to reassure me
, Dick!’

  Bolitho could imagine the activity aboard the pursuing sloop. She would be almost as big as the Destiny, he thought wistfully. Fast, agile, free of the fleet’s ponderous authority. Every glass would now be trained on the scurrying Faithful and her strange red device. The bow-chasers were probably run out with the hope of a crippling shot. Her captain would be waiting to see what the schooner might do and act accordingly. After months of dreary patrol work, with precious little help from the coastal villages, he would see the schooner as some small reward. When the truth was discovered, and Sparke had to explain what he had been doing, there would be a double-hell to pay.

  He could understand Sparke’s eagerness to get to grips with the enemy and do what Pears expected of him. But Frowd’s advice had been sound, and he should have taken it. Now, they would have the sloop to contend with while they hunted for the Colonists and the craft they would be using to ferry powder and shot to a safe hiding place.

  There was a muffled bang, the sound blown away by the wind almost as quickly.

  A ball slashed along the nearest wave crest, and Stockdale said admiringly, ‘Not bad shooting.’

  A second ball ripped right above the schooner’s poop, and then Sparke, who had been standing rigidly like a statue, shouted harshly, ‘There! What did I tell you? She’s wearing! Going about, just as I said she would!’

  Bolitho watched the angle of the sloop’s yards changing, the momentary confusion of her sails before she leaned over on the opposite tack.

  Midshipman Weston exclaimed, ‘That was most clever of you, sir. I would never have believed . . .’

  Bolitho felt his lips crease into a smile, in spite of his anxiety. Sparke, no matter what mood he was in, had little time for crawlers.

  ‘Hold your tongue! When I want praise from you I will ask for it! Now be about your duties, or I’ll have Balleine lay his rattan across your fat rump!’

  Weston scurried away, his face screwed up with humiliation as he pushed through some grinning seamen.

  Sparke said, ‘We will shorten sail, Mr Bolitho. Tell Balleine to close up his anchor party in case we have to let go in haste. See that our people are all armed, and that the gunner’s mate knows what to do when required.’ His eyes fell on Stockdale. ‘Get below and put on one of the coats in the cabin. Captain Tracy was about your build, I believe. You’ll not be near enough for them to spy the difference.’

  Bolitho gave his orders, and felt some relief at Sparke’s sudden return to his old self. Right or wrong, successful or not, it was better to be with the devil one knew.

  He came out of his thoughts as Sparke snapped, ‘Really, must I do everything?’

  As the evening gloom followed them towards the land, Faithful’s approach became more stealthy and cautious. The hands waited to take in the sails, or to put the schooner into the wind should they run across some uncharted sandbar or reef, and every few minutes the leadsman’s mournful chant from the forecastle reminded anyone who might still be in doubt of their precarious position.

  Later, a little before midnight, Faithful’s anchor splashed down, and she came to rest once again.

  5

  The Quality of Courage

  ‘IT’S GETTING LIGHTER, sir.’ Bolitho stood beside the motionless wheel and watched the water around the anchored schooner until his eyes throbbed with strain.

  Sparke grunted but said nothing, his jaw working up and down on a nugget of cheese.

  Bolitho could feel the tension, made more extreme by the noises of sea and creaking timbers. They were anchored in a strange, powerful current, so that the Faithful repeatedly rode forward until her anchor was almost apeak. If the tide fell sharply, and you could not always trust the navigational instructions, she might become impaled on one of the flukes.

  Another difference was the lack of order and discipline about the decks. Uniforms and the familiar blue jackets of the boatswain’s and master’s mates had been put below, and the men lounged around the bulwarks in varying attitudes of relaxed indifference to their officers.

  Only the marines, crammed like fish in a barrel, were still sealed in the hold, awaiting the signal which might never come.

  Sparke remarked quietly, ‘Even this schooner would make a fine command, a good start for any ambitious officer.’

  Bolitho watched him cut another piece of cheese, his hands quite steady as he added, ‘She’ll go to the prize court, but after that . . .’

  Bolitho looked away, but it was another jumping fish which had caught his eye. He must not think about afterwards. For Sparke it would mean almost certain promotion, maybe a command of his own, this schooner even. It was obviously uppermost in his mind just now.

  And why not? Bolitho pushed his envy aside as best he could. He himself, if he avoided death or serious injury, would soon be back in Trojan’s crowded belly. He thought of Quinn as he had last seen him and shivered. Perhaps it was because of the wound he had taken on his skull. He reached up and touched it cautiously, as if expecting the agony to come again. But injury was more on his mind than it had been before he had been slashed down. Seeing Quinn’s gaping wound had made it nearer, as if the odds were going against him with each new risk and action.

  When you were very young, like Couzens or Midshipman Forbes, the sights were just as terrible. But pain and death only seemed to happen to others, never to you. Now, Bolitho knew differently.

  Stockdale trod heavily across the deck, his head lowered as if in deep thought, his hands locked behind him. In a long blue coat, he looked every inch a captain, especially one of a privateer.

  Metal rasped in the gloom, and Sparke snapped, ‘Take that man’s name! I want absolute silence on deck!’

  Bolitho peered up at the mainmast, searching for the masthead pendant. The wind had shifted further in the night and had backed almost due south. If that sloop had sailed past their position in the hope of beating back again at first light, she would find it doubly hard, and it would take far longer to achieve.

  Another figure was beside the wheel, a seaman named Moffitt. Originally from Devon, he had come to America with his father as a young boy to settle in New Hampshire. But when the revolution had been recognized as something more than some ill-organized uprisings, Moffitt’s father had found himself on the wrong side. Labelled a Loyalist, he had fled with his family to Halifax, and his hard-worked farm had been taken by his new enemy. Moffitt had been away from home at the time and had been seized, then forced into a ship of the Revolutionary Navy, one of the first American privateers which had sailed from Newburyport.

  Their activities had not lasted for long, and the privateer had been chased and taken by a British frigate. For her company it had meant prison, but for Moffitt it had been a chance to change sides once more, to gain his revenge in his own way against those who had ruined his father.

  Now he was beside the wheel, waiting to play his part.

  Bolitho heard the approaching hiss of rain as it advanced from the darkness and then fell across the deck and furled sails in a relentless downpour. He tried to keep his hands from getting numb, his body from shivering. It was more than just the discomfort, the anxious misery of waiting. It would make the daylight slow to drive away the night, to give them the vision to know what was happening. Without help they had no chance of finding those they had come to capture. This coastline was riddled with creeks and inlets, bays and the mouths of many rivers, large and small. You could hide a ship of the line here provided you did not mind her going high and dry at low water.

  But the land was there, lying across the choppy water like a great black slab. Eventually it would reveal itself. Into coves and trees, hills and undergrowth, where only Indians and animals had ever trod. Around it, and sometimes across it, the two armies manoeuvred, scouted and occasionally clashed in fierce battles of musket and bayonet, hunting-knife and sword.

  Whatever the miseries endured by seamen, their life was far the best, Bolitho decided. You carried your home with you. It was up to
you what you made of it.

  ‘Boat approaching, sir!’

  It was Balleine, a hand cupped round his ear, reminding Bolitho of the last moments before they had boarded this same schooner.

  For a moment Sparke did not move or speak, and Bolitho imagined he had not heard.

  Then he said softly, ‘Pass the word. Be ready for treachery.’

  As Balleine loped away along the deck Sparke said, ‘I hear it.’

  It was a regular splash of oars, the efforts noisy against a powerful current.

  Bolitho said, ‘Small boat, sir.’

  ‘Yes.’

  The boat appeared with startling suddenness, being swirled towards the schooner’s bows like a piece of driftwood. A stout fishing dory with about five men aboard.

  Then just as quickly it was gone, steered or carried on the current, it was as if they had all imagined it.

  Frowd said, ‘Not likely to be fishing, sir. Not this time o’ day.’

  Surprisingly, Sparke was almost jovial as he said, ‘They are just testing us. Seeing what we are about. A King’s ship would have given them a dose of canister or grape to send them on their way, as would a smuggler. I’ve no doubt they’ve been passing here every night and day for a week or more. Just to be on the safe side.’ His teeth showed in his shadowy face. ‘I’ll give them something to remember all their lives!’

  The word went along the deck once more and the seamen relaxed slightly, their bodies numbed by the rain and the raw cold.

  Overhead the clouds moved swiftly, parting occasionally to allow the colours of dawn to intrude. Grey and blue water, the lush dark green of the land, white crests and the snakelike swirls of an inshore current. They could have been anchored anywhere, but Bolitho knew from his past two years’ service that beyond the nearest cape, sheltered by the bay and the entrance to the Delaware River, were towns and settlements, farms and isolated families who had enough to worry about without a war in their midst.

  Bolitho’s excitement at being at sea again in the calling which had been followed by all his ancestors had soon become soured by his experiences. Many of those he had had to fight had been men like himself, from the West Country, or from Kent, from Newcastle and the Border towns, or from Scotland and Wales. They had chosen this new country, risked much to forge a new life. Because of others in high places, of deep loyalties and deeper mistrusts, the break had come as swiftly as the fall of an axe.