In Gallant Company

by Alexander Kent

  The crimp said, ‘Could we come to an agreement nah, sir?’

  ‘No. You wait here. If I get the men, you’ll get paid. If not . . .’ He winked at the grinning marines. ‘We’ll have you seized up and flogged.’

  He strode out into the night, hating the crimp, these detestable methods of getting enough men. Despite the hardships of naval life, there were plenty of volunteers. But there were never enough. Death by many means, and injury by many more, saw to that.

  Stockdale asked, ‘Where, sir?’

  ‘A place called Lucy’s.’

  One of the seamen chuckled. ‘Oi bin there, zur.’

  Bolitho groaned. ‘Then you lead. Carry on.’

  Once in the narrow, sloping street which stank like an open sewer, Bolitho split his men into two groups. Most of the trusted hands had done it before several times. Even pressed men, once settled in their new life, were ready enough to bring the Navy’s rough justice to the fore. If we have to go, why not you! seemed to be their only yardstick.

  Stockdale had vanished to the rear of the building, his cutlass in his belt and carrying instead a cudgel as big as a leg of pork.

  Bolitho stood for a few more seconds, taking deep breaths while he stared at the sealed door, beyond which he could hear someone crooning quietly like a sick dog. They were probably sleeping it off, he thought grimly. If they were there at all.

  He drew his hanger and smashed the pommel against the door several times, shouting, ‘Open, in the King’s name!’

  The response was immediate. Shuffles and startled cries, the muffled tinkle of breaking glass followed by a thud as a would-be escaper fell victim to Stockdale’s cudgel.

  Then the door was flung open, but instead of a rush of figures Bolitho was confronted by a giant of a woman, whom he guessed to be the notorious Lucy. She was as tall and as broad as any sailorman, and had the language to match as she screamed abuse and waved her fists in his face.

  Lanterns were appearing on every hand, and from windows across the street heads were peering down to enjoy the spectacle of Lucy routing the Navy.

  ‘Why, you poxy young bugger!’ She placed her hands on her hips and glowered at Bolitho. ‘’Ow dare you come accusin’ me of ’arbouring deserters!’

  Other women, some half-naked, were creeping down a rickety stairway at the back of the hallway, their painted faces excited and eager to see what would happen.

  ‘I have my duty.’ Bolitho listened to his own voice, disgusted with the jeering woman, humiliated by her contempt.

  Stockdale appeared behind her, his face unsmiling as he wheezed, ‘Got ’em, sir. Six, like ’e said.’

  Bolitho nodded. Stockdale must have found his own way through the rear.

  ‘Well done.’ He felt sudden anger running through him. ‘While we’re here we shall take a look for more innocent citizens.’

  She reached out and seized his lapels, and pursed her lips to spit into his face.

  Bolitho got a brief view of bare, kicking legs and thighs as Stockdale gathered her up in his arms and carried her screaming and cursing down the steps to the street. Without further ado he dropped her face down in a horse trough and held her head under the water for several seconds.

  Then he released her, and as she staggered, retching and gasping for breath, he said, ‘If you talks to the lieutenant like that again, my beauty, I’ll take my snickersnee to yer gizzard, see?’

  He nodded to Bolitho. ‘All right now, sir.’

  Bolitho swallowed hard. He had never seen Stockdale behave like it before.

  ‘Er, thank you.’

  He saw his men nudging each other and grinning, and tried to assert himself. ‘Get on with the search.’ He watched the six deserters lurching past, one holding his head.

  From one of the other houses an anonymous voice yelled, ‘Leave ’em be, you varmints!’

  Bolitho entered the door and looked at the upended chairs, empty bottles and scraps of clothing. It was more like a prison than a place for pleasure, he thought.

  Two additional men were brought down the stairs, one a lobster fisherman, the other protesting that he was not a sailor at all. Bolitho looked at the tattoos on his arms and said softly, ‘I suggest you hold your tongue. If, as I suspect, you are from a King’s ship, it were better to say nothing.’ He saw the man pale under his sunburn, as if he had already seen the noose.

  A seaman clattered down the stairs and said, ‘That’s the lot, sir. ‘Cept for this youngster.’

  Bolitho saw the youth being pushed through the watching girls and decided against it. Probably someone’s young son, out on an errand, seeking a first thrill in this foul place.

  ‘Very well. Call the others.’

  He looked at the youth, slim-shouldered, eyes downcast and in shadow.

  ‘This is no place for you, boy. Be off, before something worse happens. Where do you live?’

  When there was no reply, Bolitho reached out and lifted the other’s chin, allowing the lantern light to spill over the frightened face.

  He seemed to stand locked in the same position for an age, and yet he was aware of other things happening elsewhere. The feet shuffling on the cobbles as his men sorted their new hands into file, and the distant shout of orders as a military patrol approached from the end of the street.

  Then events moved swiftly. The figure twisted away and was out and through the door before anyone could move.

  A seaman bellowed, ‘Stop that man!’ And along the street Bolitho heard a challenge from the soldiers.

  Bolitho ran out shouting, ‘Wait!’ But it was too late, and the crash of the musket seemed like a cannon in the narrow street.

  He walked past his men and stood over the sprawled figure as a corporal of infantry ran forward and rolled the body on to its back.

  ‘Thought ’e was escapin’ from you, sir!’

  Bolitho got down and unbuttoned the youth’s rough jerkin and shirt. He could feel the skin, still hot and inflamed, and very smooth like the chin had been. There was blood too, glittering in the lantern light as if still alive.

  Bolitho ran his hand over the breast. There was no heart-beat, and he could feel the dead eyes staring at him in the darkness. Hostile and accusing.

  He stood up, sickened. ‘It’s a girl.’

  Then he turned and added, ‘That woman, bring her here.’

  The woman called Lucy edged closer, gripping her hands together as she saw the sprawled corpse.

  Gone was the bluster and coarse arrogance. Bolitho could almost smell her terror.

  He asked, ‘Who was she?’ He was surprised at the sound of his own voice. Flat and unemotional. A stranger’s. ‘I’ll not ask a second time, woman.’

  More noises echoed along the street, and then two mounted figures cantered through the army patrol, and a voice barked, ‘What the hell is going on here?’

  Bolitho touched his hat. ‘Officer of the guard, sir.’

  It was a major, who wore the same insignia as the man who had shot the unknown girl.

  ‘Oh, I see. Well then.’ The major dismounted and stooped over the body. ‘Bring that lantern, Corporal!’ He put his hand under the girl’s head, letting it roll stiffly towards the beam.

  Bolitho watched, unable to take his eyes from the girl’s face.

  The major stood up and said quietly, ‘Fine kettle of fish, Lieutenant.’ He rubbed his chin. ‘I’d better rouse the governor. He’ll not take kindly to it.’

  ‘What is it, sir?’

  The major shook his head. ‘What you don’t know will do you no harm.’ He became businesslike as he snapped to the other mounted soldier, ‘Corporal Fisher! Ride to the post and rouse the adjutant, I want him and a full platoon here on the double.’ He watched the man gallop away and then added, ‘This damned house will be closed and under guard, and you,’ his white-gloved finger shot out towards the shivering Lucy, ‘are under arrest!’

  She almost fell as she pleaded, ‘Why me, sir? What have I done?’

  T
he major stood aside as two soldiers ran to seize her arms. ‘Treason, madam. That’s what!’

  He turned more calmly to Bolitho. ‘I suggest you go about your affairs, sir. I have no doubt you will hear more of this.’ Surprisingly, he gave a quick smile. ‘But if it’s a consolation, you may have stumbled on something of real value. Too many good men have fallen to treachery. Here’s one who will betray no more.’

  Bolitho walked back towards the waterfront in silence. The major had recognized the dead girl, and from the fineness of her bones, the smoothness of her skin, she came from a good family.

  He tried to guess what had been happening before he and his men had burst in, but all he could remember were her eyes as she had looked at his face, when they had both known the truth.

  7

  Hopes and Fears

  BOLITHO MOVED A few paces across the quarterdeck in an attempt to stay in the shadow of Trojan’s great spanker. It was oppressively hot, and despite a steady wind across the quarter it was impossible to draw comfort from it.

  Bolitho turned as a ship’s boy reversed the half-hour glass and six bells chimed out from the forecastle. An hour of the forenoon still to run.

  He winced as the sun smashed down between the sails’ shadows and seared his shoulders like a blacksmith’s forge. He took a telescope from its rack and trained it ahead, seeing the flagship Resolute leap to meet him. How quickly things had changed, he thought. Just the day after the mystery of the dead girl orders had been received to weigh and put to sea with the first favourable wind. No mention was made of the destination or the purpose, and up to the last some of the wardroom cynics had expected it to turn into another exercise, a brief display of strength for the Army’s moral support.

  That had been four days ago. Four long days of crawling south with barely a ripple around the rudder to show some progress. It had taken them four days to make good four hundred miles.

  Bolitho swung the glass slowly across the quarter and saw the sun shimmering on the topgallant sails of the frigate Vanquisher, well out to windward, ready to dash down to assist her ponderous consorts if she were needed. He returned to study the flagship again. Just occasionally, as she pitched heavily in a deep swell, he caught sight of another, smaller set of sails, far ahead of the squadron, the admiral’s ‘eyes’.

  As Trojan had weighed anchor and prepared to leave Sandy Hook, Bolitho had watched the sloop-of-war Spite spreading her sails and speeding out of harbour with the minimum of fuss. She was up there now, ready to pass back her signals if she sighted anything which might interest the admiral.

  She was a lovely little vessel of eighteen guns, and Bolitho had discovered her to be the one which had fired on the Faithful before Sparke’s attempt to seize the ordnance brigantine. Her commander was only twenty-four years old, and, like the three other captains here today, knew exactly what he was doing and where he was ordered to go.

  Secrecy seemed to have crept into their world like the first touch of a disease.

  The deck trembled, and he heard the port-lids on the lower battery’s starboard side being opened, and after a pause the squeak of gun trucks as thirty of Trojan’s thirty-two-pounders were run out as if to give battle. If he looked over the side he would be able to see them easily. Just the thought of it was enough. Even the touch of the tinder-dry bulwark or quarterdeck rail was like a burn. What Dalyell, now appointed in charge of the lower gundeck, was suffering, he could barely imagine.

  The sails clapped and rustled overhead, and he glanced up at the trailing pendant, looking for a shift of wind. It seemed steady enough from the north-west, but without the strength they needed to drive the humidity and discomfort from between decks.

  Rumble, rumble, rumble, the thirty-two-pounders were being run in again, and no doubt Dalyell was peering at his watch and consulting with his midshipmen and petty officers. It was taking too long, and Captain Pears had made his requirements plain from the start of the commission. Clear for action in ten minutes or less, and when firing, three rounds every two minutes. This last exercise had sounded twice as long.

  He could picture the stripped and sweating gun crews, struggling to run out those massive cannon. With the ship leaning over on the starboard tack, the guns, each weighing over three tons, had to be hauled bodily up the sloping deck to the ports. This was not the weather for it, but then, it never was, as Cairns had often remarked.

  Bolitho stared across the nettings, picturing the invisible land as he had studied it on the chart during each watch. Cape Hatteras and its shoals lay some twenty miles abeam, and beyond, Pamlico Sound and the rivers of North Carolina.

  But as far as Bolitho and the look-outs were concerned the sea was theirs. Four ships, spread out to obtain best advantage of wind and visibility, moving slowly towards a secret destination. Bolitho thought about their combined companies, which must amount to close on eighteen hundred officers and men.

  Just a few moments earlier he had seen the purser with his clerk hurrying down the main companion, Molesworth carrying his ledger, his clerk with a box of tools which he used for opening casks and checking the quality of their contents.

  It was Monday, and Bolitho could imagine the scribbled instructions in Molesworth’s ledger. Per man this day, one pound of biscuit, one gallon of small beer, one pint of oatmeal, two ounces of butter and four ounces of cheese.

  After that, it was up to Triphook and his mates to do what they could with it.

  No wonder pursers were always worried or dishonest. Sometimes both. Multiply a man’s daily ration by the whole company, and by the long days and weeks at sea, and you got some idea of his problems.

  Midshipman Couzens, standing discreetly by the lee rail with his telescope ready to train on the flagship, hissed, ‘Captain, sir!’

  Bolitho turned swiftly, the effort making the sweat run between his shoulder blades and gather at his waistband like hot rain.

  He touched his hat. ‘Sou’-sou’-west, sir. Full and bye.’

  Pears glanced at him impassively. ‘The wind appears to have veered in the last hour. But not enough to make any difference.’

  He said nothing further, and Bolitho crossed to the lee side to allow his captain the freedom of the deck.

  Pears paced slowly up and down, his face totally absorbed.

  What was he thinking about, Bolitho wondered? His orders, or his wife and family in England?

  Pears paused and swivelled his head towards him. ‘Pipe some hands forrard, Mr Bolitho. The weather forebrace is as slack as this watch, dammit! ‘Pon my soul, sir, you’ll have to do better!’

  Bolitho nodded. ‘Aye, sir. At once.’

  He gestured to Couzens, and a moment later some seamen were hauling lustily, each knowing he was under the captain’s scrutiny.

  Bolitho found himself pondering over Pears’ behaviour. The forebrace had seemed no slacker than you might expect in the rising and falling gusts of wind. Was it just to keep him on his toes? He thought suddenly of Sparke and his, take that man’s name.

  The memory saddened him.

  He saw Quinn coming up the ladder from the gundeck and nodded to him, adding a quick shake of the head to warn him of Pears’ presence.

  Quinn was doing far better than Bolitho had dared hope. He had got his colour back, and could walk upright without twisting his face in readiness for the pain.

  Bolitho had seen the great scar on Quinn’s breast. If his attacker had not been startled and taken off guard, his blade would have sliced through bone and muscle to the heart itself.

  The voice settled on the young fifth lieutenant like a mesh.

  ‘Mr Quinn!’

  ‘Sir!’ He hurried across the deck, his face working anxiously as to what he had done wrong.

  Pears studied him grimly. ‘I am indeed glad to see you are up and about.’

  Quinn smiled gratefully. ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Pears continued with his daily walk. ‘You will exercise your men at repelling boarders this afte
rnoon. Then, if we remain on this tack, you will put the new hands aloft for sail drill.’ He nodded curtly. ‘That should restore your well-being better than any pills, eh?’

  Couzens yelled excitedly, ‘Signal from Flag, sir!’ He was peering through his big telescope, his forehead wrinkled like that of an old man as he read the hoist of coloured bunting at Resolute’s yard. ‘Make more sail, sir!’

  Pears growled, ‘Call the hands. Get the royals on her. Stuns’ls too if she can take them.’ He strode aft as the master appeared beneath the poop, and Bolitho heard him say in his harsh tone ‘More sail, that is all he can think of, damn it!’

  Cairns hurried up as the calls trilled between decks and brought the watch below scampering to their stations.

  ‘Hands aloft! Set the royals!’

  Cairns saw Bolitho and shrugged. ‘The captain is in a foul mood, Dick. We lay each course a day ahead, but I am as wise as you as to where we are bound.’ He looked to see that Pears was not close by. ‘It has always been his way to explain, to share his views with us. But now, it seems our admiral has other ideas.’

  Bolitho thought of the admiral’s youthful enthusiasm. Maybe Pears had become staid, out of touch with things.

  But there was nothing wrong with his eyes as he yelled, ‘Mr Cairns, sir! Get those topmen aloft, flog them if you must! I’ll not be goaded again by the flagship!’

  It was noon by the time the royals and then the great, batlike studding sails had been set on either beam. The flagship had also made as much sail as she could carry, and appeared to be buried under the towering pyramids of pale canvas.

  Lieutenant Probyn relieved Bolitho without his usual sarcasm or complaint, but remarked, ‘I see no gain in this at all. Day after day, with ne’er a word of explanation. It makes me uneasy, and that’s no lie!’

  But two more days were to pass before anyone had settled on the truth of the matter.

  Rear-Admiral Coutts’ little squadron continued on its southerly course and then swung south-east, skirting Cape Fear, so aptly named, to take advantage of the wind’s sudden eagerness to help them.