In Gallant Company

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho sat down carefully. His body clean, his clothes fresh and strangely unfamiliar, he was just beginning to feel the slackening of tension.

  They had been good to him. Cairns, the Sage, Dalyell. All of them. And it felt free to be here, in this groaning, overcrowded hull.

  He had no idea what was happening, until now. After the swift passage aboard the sloop, the sadness of seeing more survivors die and be buried over the side, he had found little time, other than to scribble his own version of what had happened. Apart from a few quiet words with Pears as he and the others had been helped aboard, he had not spoken with him at all.

  Pears said, ‘The war makes great demands. We were short of experienced officers, now we are even shorter.’ He stared at the empty table where the report had been lying. ‘Good men killed, others maimed for life. Half my marines gone in the blink of an eye, and now, with two officers taken prisoner to boot, I am feeling like a clergyman with an empty church.’

  Bolitho glanced at Cairns, but his face gave nothing away. He had seen a brig speaking with the flagship that morning, but he knew nothing further.

  He asked, ‘Two officers, sir?’ He must have missed something.

  Pears sighed. ‘Young Huyghue, and now the flagship has told me about Probyn. He was apparently run down by a privateer, one day after leaving you at Fort Exeter.’ He watched Bolitho’s face. ‘Shortest command in naval history, I’d imagine.’

  Bolitho thought of the last time he had seen Probyn. Angry, triumphant, bitter. Now it had all been taken away. His hopes dashed.

  All he could find in his heart was pity.

  ‘So,’ Pears’ voice brought him back with a jerk, ‘you are hereby appointed as second lieutenant of this ship, my ship.’

  Bolitho stared at him dazedly. From fourth to second. He had heard of it happening, but had never expected it like this.

  ‘I – that is, thank you, sir.’

  Pears eyed him flatly. ‘I am glad you did not crow over Probyn’s fate. But I think I could have understood even that.’

  Cairns nodded, his lips parted in a rare smile. ‘Congratulations.’

  Pears waved his large hands. ‘Save them for later and spare me, Mr Cairns. Be about your affairs. Appoint another midshipman to Huyghue’s duties, and I suggest you consider the master’s mate, Frowd, as acting lieutenant. A promising fellow, I think.’

  The marine sentry opened the door gingerly. ‘Beg pardon, sir, midshipman o’ th’ watch is ’ere.’

  It was little Forbes, somehow grown in stature to his title.

  ‘S-sir. Mr Dalyell’s respects, and the flagship has just signalled us to heave to.’

  Pears glanced at Cairns. ‘See to it. I’ll be up presently.’

  As the two lieutenants hurried after the midshipman, Bolitho asked, ‘Why is this?’

  Cairns stared at him. ‘You are out of touch, Dick!’ He pointed to a petty officer with a flag neatly rolled under his arm. ‘Today we will hoist the flag to our mizzen. Rear-Admiral Coutts is to be our very present help in trouble!’

  ‘Flagship?’

  ‘Acting.’ Cairns straightened his hat as they strode forward to the quarterdeck rail. ‘Until Coutts reaps his reward, or lays his head on the block.’

  Seamen were already running to their stations, and Bolitho had to make himself look at the massive trunk of the mainmast, where he had once taken so many orders and goads from Lieutenant Sparke.

  Now he was second lieutenant. With still two months between him and twenty-one years.

  He saw Stockdale watching him and nodding. It was thanks to Stockdale, and some missing faces, that he was here at all.

  ‘All hands! Stand by to wear ship!’

  Cairns’ voice found him with the speaking trumpet. ‘Mr Bolitho, sir! Hurry those men at the braces! They are like old cripples today!’

  Bolitho touched his hat and kept his face straight.

  Across the scrambling seamen he saw Quinn staring at him, still uncertain at his new station. He smiled at him, trying to break the strain that was still there.

  ‘Lively, Mr Quinn!’ He hesitated, holding another memory. ‘Take that man’s name!’

  12

  Rivals

  THE DAY AFTER Rear-Admiral Coutts had shifted his flag to Trojan found Bolitho pacing the quarterdeck, keeping an eye on the forenoon watch and enjoying a fresh north-west breeze. During the night the big ninety-gun Resolute with the frigate in company had vanished astern, and would now be beating back towards New York, the wind making every mile a battle of its own.

  For the Trojan things were different, as if Coutts’ unexpected arrival had brought a change of circumstances. She must make a fine sight, Bolitho thought as his feet took him up and down the windward side without conscious effort. In her fair-weather canvas, and under courses, topsails and topgallants, she was leaning her shoulder into the blue water, throwing curtains of spray high above her beakhead.

  The compass held steady at south, south-east, taking the powerful two-decker well away from the land, down towards the long chain of islands which separated the Atlantic from the Caribbean.

  The wind held back the heat, and allowed the less badly wounded and injured men to move about the decks, to find themselves again in their own way. The remainder, some of whom might die before they reached Sandy Hook, had gone with the flagship, as had the prisoners, and Coutts’ report of the attack.

  Only one captive remained aboard, the Frenchman, Contenay. He took regular walks on deck without an escort, and seemed completely at home in a King’s ship.

  Bolitho had discovered that he still knew little about his own captain. The brief moments of contact, even warmth, upon his return to the ship had been replaced by Pears’ usual stern, remote demeanour. Bolitho thought that the admiral’s presence had a lot to do with it.

  Coutts had appeared on deck this morning. Youthful, relaxed and apparently interested, he had strolled along the weather gangway, pausing to watch the bare-backed seamen at their work, the carpenter with his crew, the sailmaker and the cooper, the ship’s tradesmen who daily changed a man-of-war into a busy street.

  He had spoken to the officers and some of the senior hands. The Sage had been impressed by his knowledge of Arctic exploration, and Midshipman Forbes reduced to blushing incoherence by a few well-aimed questions.

  If he was troubled at the doubtful prospect of running another enemy supply cache to earth, or at what the commander-in-chief might say at his behaviour, he certainly did not show it. His plans he kept to himself, and only Ackerman, his urbane flag lieutenant, the one Bolitho had seen in a cabin with a half-naked woman, and his personal clerk shared his confidences.

  Bolitho decided that would also irritate Pears beyond measure.

  A step fell on the deck nearby and Cairns joined him at the rail, his eyes taking in the working parties and the set of each sail with practised authority.

  He said, ‘The admiral is with our captain. I sense an air of grapeshot close by.’ He turned and glanced meaningly at the poop skylight. ‘I was glad to leave the great men.’

  ‘No news yet?’

  ‘Not much. Like D’Esterre, the admiral plays a taut hand. He will rise like a comet.’ He gestured at the deck. ‘Or fall like one.’

  With Coutts aboard, Cairns also faced changes. The main result was that he shared more of his thoughts with his second lieutenant.

  He added slowly, ‘The captain was wanting to know why this ship and not Resolute was selected for the mission.’ He smiled grimly. ‘The admiral explained, as cool as you please, that Trojan is the faster vessel, and her company deserving of reward for their work.’

  Bolitho nodded. ‘I suppose so. Resolute has been out here far longer and has had few refits, I believe. She must be foul with weed.’

  Cairns eyed him admiringly. ‘We’ll make a politician of you yet.’ He waved Bolitho’s confusion aside. ‘You see, the backhanded compliment. Coutts lays on treacle with talk of reward and the better ship fo
r the task, then in the next breath he gently reminds Captain Pears that his own flagship is in truth the more deserving.’

  Bolitho pursed his lips. ‘That is clever.’

  ‘It takes a rogue to recognize one, Dick.’

  ‘In that case, what is the real reason?’

  Cairns frowned. ‘I suspect because he wants the flagship on her proper station. That would make sense. Also, he despatched Vanquisher as escort, and because she will be sorely needed elsewhere with the growth of privateers everywhere.’

  He dropped his voice as Sambell, master’s mate of the watch, strolled past with elaborate indifference on his tanned face.

  ‘He will want to follow this plan to the end. Reap the reward, or cover the flaws as best he can. He would not trust our captain to act alone. And if things go disastrously badly, then he will need a scapegoat other than his own flag captain.’ Cairns watched Bolitho’s eyes. ‘I see that you see.’

  ‘I’ll never understand this kind of reasoning.’

  Cairns winked. ‘One day, you’ll be teaching it!’

  More feet thudded on the sun-dried planking, and Bolitho saw Pears and the sailing master leaving the chart room, the latter carrying his leather satchel which he used to stow his navigational notes and instruments.

  He looked much as usual, turning briefly to examine the compass and the two helmsmen, his eyes glittering in the sunlight beneath the great black brows.

  Pears, by comparison, appeared tired and in ill humour, impatient to get whatever it was over and done with.

  ‘We’ll soon know where this blessed spot is to be, Dick.’ Cairns loosened his neckcloth and sighed. ‘I hope it is not another Fort Exeter.’

  Bolitho watched the first lieutenant continue on his daily rounds, wondering if Cairns was still brooding over the chances of leaving Trojan and getting a ship of his own.

  So far, Trojan’s lieutenants had not fared very well away from her protection. Sparke killed, Probyn a prisoner of war, while Bolitho had returned each time like a wayward son.

  He saw Quinn without his coat, his shirt sticking to his back like another skin, stepping between the busy sailmaker and his mates, his face still pale and strained. Eighteen years old, he looked far more. Bolitho thought. The savage slash across his chest still troubled him. You could see it in his walk and the tightness of his mouth. A constant reminder of other things, too. That moment at the fort when his nerve had failed, and by the guns when he had almost gone mad because of Rowhurst’s scorn.

  Midshipman Weston shouted suddenly, ‘Spite’s signalling, sir!’

  Bolitho snatched a telescope from its rack and climbed swiftly into the weather shrouds. It took a few moments to find the little sloop-of-war, their only companion on this ‘adventure’, as Cairns had described it. The glass steadied on Spite’s pale topgallant sails and the bright hoist of flags at her yards.

  Weston was saying, ‘From Spite. Sail in sight to the south’rd.’

  Bolitho turned and looked at him. Weston was now the senior midshipman, and probably smarting at Pears’ advice to promote Mr Frowd to acting lieutenant instead of him. Advice from a captain was as good as a command.

  Bolitho felt almost sorry for Weston. Almost. Ungainly, overweight, belligerent. He would be a bad officer if he lived long enough.

  ‘Very well. Keep watching Spite. I’ll not inform the captain yet.’

  Bolitho continued his measured pacing. The air seemed fresh, but when you paused for too long you felt the sun’s power right enough. His own shirt was sodden with sweat, and the scar across his shoulder stung like a snakebite.

  The sloop’s captain would be fretting and eager to be off on his own, he thought. Right now he would be watching the unknown sail, considering, translating details into facts to relay as well as he could with his signal book for his admiral’s decision.

  Half an hour passed. Smoke gushed from the galley funnel, and Molesworth, the purser, and his clerk appeared en route for the spirit store to check the daily issue of rum or brandy.

  Some marines, who had been drilling on the forecastle, holding off imaginary boarders, marched aft and returned their pikes. There was also a small contingent of marines from the flagship to help fill the gaps until proper replacements could be obtained. Bolitho thought of all the little mounds on the island. Who would care?

  Weston called, ‘From Spite, sir. Disregard.’

  Another small encounter. Most likely a Dutchman on her lawful occasions. Anyway, Cunningham of the Spite was satisfied. In fact, the strange sail had probably made off at full speed at the first sign of the sloop’s topsails. It paid to be careful these days. The margin between friend and foe changed too often for over-confidence.

  Stockdale crossed the quarterdeck on his way aft to the starboard battery.

  As he passed he whispered, ‘Admiral, sir.’

  Bolitho stiffened and turned as Coutts walked out of the poop and into the glare.

  Bolitho touched his hat, wondering briefly if Weston had deliberately failed to warn him.

  Coutts smiled easily. ‘’Morning, Bolitho. Still on watch, I see.’ He had a pleasant, even voice, unaffected.

  Bolitho replied, ‘A moment more, sir.’

  Coutts took a glass and studied the far-off Spite for several minutes.

  ‘Good man, Cunningham. Should be posted soon with any luck.’

  Bolitho said nothing, but thought of Cunningham’s youth. His luck. With Coutts’ blessing he would be made a full captain, and with the war going as it was he would make post rank within three years. Safe from demotion, on the road to higher things.

  ‘I can hear your mind at work, Bolitho.’ Coutts tossed the glass to Weston. Again, the action was casual, yet timed to the second. ‘Do not fret. When your time arrives you will discover that a captain’s life is not all claret and prize-money.’ Just for a moment his eyes hardened. ‘But the opportunities are there. For those who will dare, and who do not use their orders as substitutes for initiative.’

  Bolitho said, ‘Yes, sir.’

  He did not know what Coutts was implying. That there was hope for him? Or that he was merely revealing his feelings for Pears?

  Coutts shrugged his shoulders and added, ‘Dine with me tonight. I will have Ackerman invite a few others.’

  Once more, Bolitho discerned the youthful devilment and touch of steel.

  ‘In my quarters of course. I feel certain the captain will not object.’

  He strolled away, nodding to Sambell and Weston as if they were yokels on the village green.

  The hands were already gathering on the upper gundeck for the afternoon watch, and Bolitho knew that Dalyell would soon be here to relieve him. Unlike George Probyn, he was never late.

  Bolitho was confused by what he had heard. He felt excited at Coutts’ interest, yet uneasy because of it. It was like disloyalty to Pears. He smiled at his confusion. Pears probably didn’t even like him, so what was the matter?

  Dalyell appeared, blinking in the sunlight, some crumbs sticking to his coat.

  ‘The watch is aft, sir.’

  Bolitho eyed him gravely. ‘Very well, Mr Dalyell.’

  They both winked, their faces hidden from the men, their good spirits masked by the formality.

  Quinn, on the larboard gangway, watched the two lieutenants as they supervised the usual milling confusion of changing watches. He had seen, and had felt, the ache of longing rising to match the pain of his wound. Bolitho had come out of it, or if not, had managed to put his memories behind him. While all he could do was to measure each step, calculate every action as he went along. He kept telling himself that his momentary defiance, his stand at the causeway had not been a fluke. That he had failed once, but had fought to retrieve and hold on to his pride again.

  He felt that the ship’s company were watching him, rating his confidence. It was why he was lingering on the gangway, waiting for Bolitho before he went below for the noon meal. Bolitho was his strength. His only chance, if chance
there was.

  Bolitho beckoned to him. ‘Not hungry, James? And I am told that we have some fine beef today, barely a year or so in the cask!’ He clapped Quinn on the shoulder. ‘Make the best of it, eh?’

  When Quinn faced him he saw the sudden gravity in Bolitho’s eyes and knew his words had nothing to do with food.

  With her yards re-trimmed and her great spread of canvas filling and banging in the wind, Trojan settled down on her new tack.

  Bolitho looked at Cairns and touched his hat. ‘Steady as she goes, sir.’

  Cairns nodded. ‘Dismiss the watch below, if you please.’

  As the seamen and the afterguard hurried thankfully below, Bolitho glanced quickly at Pears, who was with the admiral on the weather side of the quarterdeck.

  It was another fiery sunset, and against it the two men were in silhcuette, their faces hidden. But there was no mistaking Coutts’ irritation, Pears’ dogged stubbornness.

  It all seemed a long, long way from the relaxed supper in the great cabin. Coutts had kept the wit and conversation going with little pause, except to recharge the glasses. He had enthralled the young lieutenants with stories of intrigue and corruption in the New York military government. Of the grand houses in London, the men, and in many cases the ladies who held the reins of power.

  Once Pears and the sailing master had concluded their calculations, the ship’s destination and purpose had gone through each deck like a bolt of lightning.

  There was a small island, one of a group, which lay in the passage between Santa Domingo and Puerto Rico. Avoided by all but the most experienced navigators, it would seem to be the ideal place for transferring arms and powder to Washington’s growing fleet of supply vessels.

  As Coutts had discussed his hopes for a swift ending of the mission, Bolitho and most of the others had sensed his eagerness, his excitement at the prospect of a quick victory. He had known that nothing could outpace him with a warning, no horseman to carry the word that the British were coming. Not this time. With the vast Atlantic at his back, the keen-eyed Spite sweeping well ahead, Coutts had had good reason for confidence.