In Gallant Company

by Alexander Kent

  But the important thing to Bolitho was that the man was untroubled. Not merely by height and discomfort, but by the unexpected appearance of his second lieutenant.

  Bolitho thought of the marine’s grin. That too was suddenly important. There had been no malice, no pleasure at seeing him trodden on by the captain.

  He replied, ‘It will be hot anyway.’ He pointed past the foremast, strangely bare without its topgallant set at the yard. ‘D’you know these waters, Buller?’

  The man considered it. ‘Can’t say I do, zur. But then, can’t say I don’t. One place is like another to a sailorman.’ He chuckled. ‘Less ’e’s let ashore, o’ course.’

  Bolitho thought of the brothel in New York, the woman screaming obscenities in his face, the dead girl’s breast still warm under his palm.

  One place like another. That was true enough, he thought. Even the merchant seamen were the same. Every ship was the last. One more voyage, just enough pay and bounty saved, and it would be used to buy a little alehouse, a chandlery, a smallholding from some country squire. But it never seemed to happen, unless the man was thrown on the beach in peacetime, or rejected as a useless cripple. The sea always won in the end.

  The outboard end of the fore-topsail yard paled slightly, and when he twisted round Bolitho saw the first hint of dawn. He peered down and swallowed hard. The deck, darkly ribbed around by the upper batteries of guns, seemed a mile beneath his dangling legs. He would just have to put up with it. If the hatred of heights had plagued him since his first ship when he had been twelve years old, it was not likely to relent now.

  Bolitho felt the mast and its spars trembling and swaying beneath him. He had gone to sea as a midshipman in 1768. The year Trojan had been launched. He had thought of it before, but this morning, up here and strangely isolated, it seemed like an omen, a warning. He shivered. He was getting as bad as Quinn.

  On the quarterdeck, unaware or indifferent to his second lieutenant’s fancies, Pears paced back and forth across the damp planking.

  Cairns watched him, and aft on the raised poop D’Esterre stood with his arms crossed, thinking of Fort Exeter, of Bolitho, and of his dead marines.

  A door opened and slammed, and voices floated around the quarterdeck to announce the admiral’s arrival. He was followed by his aide, Ackerman, and even in the poor light looked alert and wide awake.

  He paused near the wheel and spoke to Bunce, then with a nod to Cairns said, ‘’Morning, Captain. Is everything ready?’

  Cairns winced. Where Pears was concerned, things were always ready.

  But Pears sounded unruffled. ‘Aye, sir. Cleared for action, but guns not loaded,’ the slightest hint of dryness, ‘or run out.’

  Coutts glanced at him. ‘I can see that.’ He turned away. ‘Spite must be in position now. I suggest you set more sail, Captain. The time for guessing is done.’

  Cairns relayed the order and seconds later, with the topmen rushing out along the upper yards and the wet canvas falling and then billowing sluggishly to the wind, Trojan tilted more steeply to the extra pressure.

  ‘I’ve been looking at the chart again.’ Coutts was half watching the activity above the deck. ‘There seems to be no other anchorage. Deep water to the south’rd and a shoal or two against the shore. Cunningham put his landing party to the south’rd. A clever move. He thinks things out, that one.’

  Pears dragged his eyes from the lithe topmen as they slithered down to the deck again.

  He said, ‘It was the only place, I’d have thought, sir.’

  ‘Really?’

  Coutts moved away with his flag lieutenant, the cut well and truly driven home.

  A few gulls dipped out of the darkness and circled the ship like pieces of spindrift. They seemed to tell of the land’s nearness, and their almost disinterested attitude implied they had other sources of food close by.

  From his dizzy perch Bolitho watched the birds as they floated past him. They reminded him of all those other times, different landfalls, but mostly of Falmouth. The little fishing villages which nestled in rocky clefts along the Cornish coast, the boats coming home, the gulls screaming and mewing above them.

  He came out of his thoughts as Buller said, ‘’Ell, zur, Spite’s well off station!’ He showed some excitement for the first time. ‘There’ll be the devil to pay now!’

  Bolitho found time to marvel that the seaman should care and be so accurate in his opinions. Coutts would be furious, and it might take Trojan a whole day to beat back to her original station and allow Cunningham a second chance.

  ‘I’d better get down and tell the captain.’ He was thinking aloud.

  Why had he mentioned it? Even thought of it? Had it been to stop another wave of frustration throughout the ship, or merely to protect Coutts’ credibility?

  Buller grunted. ‘She probably lost a man over the side.’

  Bolitho did not answer. He hoped Cunningham was the kind of man who would waste valuable time to look for a man overboard. But that was as far as it went. He swung the telescope over his arm and pressed his shoulders against the shivering mast.

  ‘I’ll leave this with you, Buller. When I go down, give us a hail as soon as you can make out what she’s up to.’

  He tried not to think of the drop to the deck, how long it would take if the ship gave a lurch before he could use both hands to hold on again.

  It was like looking through a dark bottle. A few hints of whitecaps, a glassiness on the sea’s face to show that dawn was nearby. Then he saw the pale squares of canvas, barely clear as yet, but rising from the darkness like a broken iceberg.

  Spite must have changed tack considerably, he thought. She was standing in well towards the hidden anchorage, but she should have been miles nearer by now. Buller was right, but there would be more than the devil to pay after this. There would be . . . he stiffened, momentarily forgetting his precarious position.

  ‘Wot is it, zur?’ Buller had sensed something.

  Bolitho did not know what to say. He was wrong of course. Had to be.

  He held the swaying blur of sails in his lens and then, straining every nerve until the wound on his forehead began to throb in time with his heart-beats, he lowered the glass just a fraction.

  Still deep in shadow, but it was there right enough. He wanted it to be a dream, a fault in the telescope. But instead of Spite’s rakish single deck there was something more solid, deep and hard like a double reflection.

  He thrust the glass at the seaman and then cupped his hands to his mouth.

  ‘Deck there! Sail on the starboard bow!’ He hesitated a few moments longer, imagining the sudden tension and astonishment below him. Then, ‘Ship of the line!’

  Buller exclaimed slowly, ‘You done it proper now, zur!’

  Bolitho was already slithering downwards, groping for a backstay, his eyes still holding that menacing outline.

  Coutts was waiting for him, his head thrust forward as he asked, ‘Are you certain?’

  Pears strode past them, his eyes everywhere as he prepared himself for the next vital hours.

  Only once did he glance at Bolitho. Then to Coutts he snapped, ‘He’s certain, sir.’

  Cairns said quietly, ‘Now here’s a fine thing, Dick. She’ll not be one of ours.’

  The admiral heard him and said curtly, ‘I don’t care what she is, Mr Cairns. If she stands against us, then damn your eyes, she’s an enemy in my book!’ He peered after the captain and raised his voice. ‘Have the guns loaded, if you please!’ He seemed to sense Pears’ arguments from the opposite side of the deck. ‘And let me see what this ship of yours can do today!’

  Along either side of the upper gundeck the crews threw themselves on their tackles and handspikes and manhandled their heavy cannon up to the closed ports.

  Bolitho stood by the boat tier, straining his eyes through the gloom as he watched one gun captain after another raise his fist to signify he was loaded and ready.

  Midshipman Huss peered over the m
ain hatch and yelled, ‘Lower gundeck ready, sir!’

  Bolitho pictured Dalyell down there with thirty great thirty-two-pounders. Like everyone else in the wardroom, he had risen in rank, but his experience had altered little. Bolitho knew that if and when Trojan was required to give battle it would test everyone to the limit.

  Quinn crossed from the opposite side and asked, ‘What is going on, Dick?’ He was almost knocked from his feet as some ship’s boys hurried aft with carriers of shot for the quarterdeck nine-pounders.

  Bolitho looked up at the mainmast, through the shaking rigging and spread canvas, recalling his feelings such a short while back when he had watched the other ship through the telescope. It had been fifteen minutes ago, but the daylight seemed reluctant to reveal the newcomer, and only the look-outs, and perhaps the marines in the tops, could see the ship properly.

  He replied, ‘Maybe that ship is here on passage for another port in the Caribbean.’

  As he said it he knew he was deluding himself, or perhaps trying to ease Quinn’s anxiety. The ship was no English man-of-war. Every large vessel was being held within a squadron, just in case France openly joined in the fight. Unlikely to be a Spaniard either. They usually used their larger men-of-war to escort the rich treasure ships from the Main, through the pirate-infested waters and all the way to Santa Cruz and safety. No, it had to be a Frenchman.

  Bolitho chilled with excitement. He had seen French ships in plenty. Well designed and built, they were said to be equally well manned.

  He looked around the tiered boats and saw Coutts, hands behind his back, speaking with Pears and old Bunce. They all appeared calm enough, although with Pears you could never be sure. It was strange to see the quarterdeck so busy in the first light. Crouching gun crews on either side, and further aft, standing against the hammock nettings, D’Esterre’s depleted ranks of marines. Near one battery of nine-pounders he could see Libby, one-time signals midshipman, now acting fifth lieutenant. What must he be thinking, Bolitho wondered? Seventeen years old, and yet if a blast of canister and grape raked the quarterdeck with its bloody furrows he might find himself in temporary command until someone else could reach him. Frowd was there, too. From master’s mate to acting sixth lieutenant. It was mad when you considered it, he was even older than Cairns by a year or two. He was standing quite near Sambell, the other master’s mate. But that was all. Before Sparke had been killed and Probyn captured it had been Jack and Arthur. Now it was sir and Mr Sambell.

  He heard Cairns call, ‘Let her fall off a point!’

  Then later the helmsman’s cry, ‘Steady as she goes, sir! Sou’-east by sou’!’

  The braces were manned, the yards trimmed for the slight alteration of course. Apart from the rustle and grumble of the sails, the ship’s own private sounds, there was silence.

  Bolitho pictured the chart, and beyond the bows the island as it must appear to those who could see. A headland sliding out towards the starboard bow, around which lay the entrance to the anchorage. Where Spite, presumably, was on station after all. God, she would get a surprise when the newcomer showed herself around the shoulder of land. Cunningham’s look-outs would probably mistake her for the Trojan.

  ‘Deck there!’ Buller’s hoarse voice. ‘T’other ship’s shortenin’ sail, zur!’

  Someone said, ‘She’s sighted Spite, ’tis my guess.’

  The larboard battery dipped over slightly to the pressure of wind in the sails, and Bolitho saw the tethered guns glint suddenly as the daylight lanced through the shrouds and halliards.

  Colour was returning to familiar things. Faces emerged as people, features became expressions again. Here and there a man moved, to adjust a gun tackle, or push loose equipment away from a carriage or breech, to brush hair from eyes, to make sure a cutlass or boarding axe was within reach.

  The petty officers and midshipmen stood out at intervals, little blue and white markers in the chain of command.

  Far above the deck, at the highest point, the long masthead pendant licked out ahead like a scarlet serpent. Wind was holding steady, Bolitho thought. Even so, there was no chance of heading off the other ship.

  Quinn whispered, ‘What will the admiral do? What can he do? We’re not at war with France.’

  Midshipman Forbes scurried along the deck, skipping over tackles and flaked halliards like a rabbit.

  He touched his hat and said breathlessly, ‘Captain’s compliments, sir, and would you bring the French lieutenant aft?’

  Bolitho nodded. ‘Very well.’

  Forbes was really enjoying himself. Aft with the mighty, too excited and too young to see the teeth of danger.

  Quinn said, ‘I’ll fetch him.’

  Bolitho shook his head, smiling at the absurdity of it. He had to bring the French officer because Cairns was busy on the quarterdeck and everyone else was too junior. Etiquette would be observed even at the gates of hell, he thought.

  He found the Frenchman on the orlop deck, sitting with the surgeon outside the sickbay while Thorndike’s assistants laid out the makeshift table with his instruments.

  Thorndike asked irritably, ‘What the hell are we doing now?’ He glared at his helpers. ‘Wasting time and dirtying my things. They must be short of work to do!’

  Bolitho said to Contenay, ‘The captain wishes to see you.’

  Together they climbed up through the lower gundeck, a place in almost complete darkness with every port shut and only the slow-matches glowing slightly in the tubs by each division of cannon.

  Contenay said, ‘There is trouble, my friend?’

  ‘A ship. One of yours.’

  It was strange, Bolitho thought, it was easier to speak with the Frenchman than the surgeon.

  ‘Mon Dieu.’ Contenay nodded to a marine sentry at the next hatchway and added, ‘I will have to watch my words, I think.’

  On deck it was much brighter. It seemed impossible that it had changed so much in the time to go to the orlop and back again.

  On the quarterdeck Bolitho announced, ‘M’sieu Contenay, sir.’

  Pears glared at him. ‘Over here.’ He strode across to the nettings where Coutts and the flag lieutenant were training telescopes towards the other ship.

  Bolitho stole a quick glance at her. He had not been mistaken. She made a proud sight, leaning over, close-hauled on the starboard tack, her topgallant sails and maincourse already brailed up to the yards, her bilge clearly visible as she tacked towards the entrance.

  ‘The prisoner, sir.’ Pears too was looking at the other vessel.

  Coutts lowered his glass and regarded the Frenchman calmly. ‘Ah yes. The ship yonder, m’sieu, do you know her?’

  Contenay’s mouth turned down, as if he was about to refuse an answer. Then he shrugged and replied, ‘She is the Argonaute.’

  Ackerman nodded. ‘Thought as much, sir. I saw her once off Guadeloupe. A seventy-four. Fine looking ship.’

  Pears said heavily, ‘She too wears a rear-admiral’s flag.’ He glanced questioningly at Contenay.

  He said, ‘It is true. Contre-Amiral André Lemercier.’

  Coutts eyed him searchingly. ‘You were one of his officers, am I right?’

  ‘I am one of his officers, m’sieu.’ He looked towards the other two-decker. ‘It is all I am prepared or required to say.’

  Pears exploded, ‘You mind your manners, sir! We don’t need to be told more. You were aiding the King’s enemies, abetting an unlawful rebellion, and now you expect to be treated as an innocent bystander!’

  Coutts seemed surprised at the outburst. ‘Well said, Captain. But I think the lieutenant is well aware of what he has done, and where he stands.’

  Bolitho watched, fascinated, hoping Pears would not notice him and order him down to the gundeck.

  A private drama which excluded everyone else, and yet which could decide their future.

  Cairns said quietly, ‘Here is a problem for the admiral, Dick. Is it a real stalemate? Or shall we force our views on the Frenchma
n?’

  Bolitho watched Coutts’ youthful profile. He was no doubt regretting his shift of flag now. His ninety-gun Resolute would be more than a match for the French seventy-four. Trojan had no such advantage. About the same size, and with just two more guns than the Argonaute, she was undermanned and lacking experienced officers.

  If Contenay was typical of Argonaute’s wardroom, she would be an adversary to reckon with. What the hell was Cunningham doing? A sloop-of-war was far too frail to match iron with the line of battle, but an extra show of strength, no matter how small, would be doubly welcome.

  ‘Take the prisoner down. I may require him presently.’ Coutts beckoned to D’Esterre. ‘Attend to it.’ To Bolitho he said, ‘Warn the masthead to report what Spite is doing the instant he sights her.’

  Bolitho hurried to the quarterdeck ladder. The masthead look-out, like everyone else above deck, was probably more interested in the French two-decker than in Spite.

  Trojan maintained her set course, every telescope trained on the other ship as she moved at right angles across the bows, nearer and nearer to the headland.

  Coutts must be worried. He could not anchor, and if he continued past the entrance he would lose the wind-gage and it might take hours to beat back again. If he stood out to sea, the same must apply. His only course was to follow the Frenchman, who obviously intended to ignore Trojan’s intentions, to treat her as if she did not exist.

  The headland was sloping more quickly now, to reveal the one on the opposite side of the entrance. Two green arms reaching out to receive them.

  Bolitho felt the mounting glare from the sun, the sudden dryness in his throat as the look-out yelled, ‘Deck there! Spite’s aground, zur!’

  Something like a sigh ran along the Trojan’s decks.

  Of all the bad luck, this was it. Cunningham must have misjudged his entrance, or had been deceived by the currents. It was humiliating enough for Coutts. For Cunningham it must be the end of the world, Bolitho thought.