In Gallant Company

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho crossed the quarterdeck, his feet squelching noisily.

  Pears eyed him grimly. ‘Lost the yawl, I see? Loaded, was she?’

  ‘Aye, sir. I believe she was to arm the brig.’ He saw his men limping past, tarred hands reaching out to slap their shoulders. He said softly, ‘Our people did well, sir.’

  He watched the brig spreading her sails again, the torn one little more than rags. He guessed that Pears had sent a master’s mate across, while the marines searched and sorted out the captured crew. Frowd might be made prize-master, it might make up for his badly shattered knee. Whatever Thorndike did for him now, or some hospital later on, he would have a bad limp for the rest of his life. He had reached the rank of lieutenant. Frowd would know better than anyone that his wound would prevent his getting any further.

  It was late afternoon by the time both vessels had cleared the islands and had sea-room again. It was no small relief to see the reefs and swirling currents left far astern.

  When D’Esterre returned to the Trojan he had another interesting find to report.

  The White Hills’ captain was none other than Jonas Tracy, the brother of the man killed when they had seized the schooner Faithful. He had had every intention of fighting his way from under Trojan’s guns, hopeless or not. But the odds had been against him. His company were for the most part new to the trade of a fighting ship, which was the reason for a seasoned privateersman like Tracy being given command in the first place. His reputation, and list of successes against the British, made him an obvious choice. Tracy had ordered his men to put the White Hills about, to try and discover another, narrow passage through the islands. His men, already cowed by the Trojan’s unexpected challenge, were completely beaten when that second, carefully aimed ball had smashed into the brig’s side. It had shattered to fragments on the breech of a gun on the opposite bulwark, and one splinter, the size of a block, had taken Tracy’s arm off at the shoulder. The sight of their tough, hard-swearing captain cut down before their eyes had been more than enough, and they had hauled down their flag.

  Bolitho did not know if Tracy was still alive. It was an ironic twist that he had been firing on the man who was responsible for his brother’s death without knowing it.

  Bolitho was washing himself in his small cabin when he heard a commotion on deck, the distant cry that a sail was in sight.

  The other vessel soon showed herself to be a frigate under full sail. She bore down on Trojan and with little fuss dropped a boat in the water to carry her captain across.

  Bolitho threw on his shirt and breeches and ran on deck. The frigate was called Kittiwake, and Bolitho knew she was one of those he had seen at Antigua.

  With as much ceremony as if they were safely anchored in Plymouth Sound, Trojan received her visitor. As the guard presented muskets, and calls shrilled, Pears stepped forward to greet him. Bolitho realized it was the post-captain who had been on Quinn’s court of inquiry. Not the president, nor the one with the thin lips and vindictive manner, but the third officer who had, as far as Bolitho recalled, said nothing at all.

  Sunset was closing in rapidly when the Kittiwake’s lord and master took his leave, his step less firm than when he had come aboard.

  Bolitho watched the frigate make sail again, her canvas like gold silk in the dying sunlight. She would soon be out of sight, her captain free of admirals and ponderous authority. He sighed.

  Cairns joined him, his eyes on the duty watch who were preparing to get the ship under way again.

  He said quietly, ‘She was from Antigua with despatches. She has been realeased from her squadron to go ahead of us to Jamaica. We are not outcasts after all.’

  He sounded different. Remote.

  ‘Is something wrong?’

  Cairns looked at him, his face glowing in the sunset.

  ‘Captain Pears thinks that the sea war will end in the Caribbean.’

  ‘Not America?’ Bolitho did not understand this mood.

  ‘Like me, I think he believes that the war is already finished. Victories we will have, must have if we are to meet the French when they come out. But to win a war takes more than that, Dick.’ He touched his shoulder and smiled sadly. ‘I am detaining you. The captain wants you aft.’ He walked away, calling sharply, ‘Now then, Mr Dalyell, what is this shambles? Send the topmen aloft and pipe the hands to the braces! It is like a fish market here!’

  Bolitho groped through the shadowed passageway to Pears’ cabin.

  Pears was sitting at his table, studying a bottle of wine with grim concentration.

  He said, ‘Sit down.’

  Bolitho heard the pad of bare feet overhead, and wondered how they were managing with the captain away from his familiar place by the rail.

  He sat.

  The cabin looked comfortable and content. Bolitho felt suddenly tired, as if all the strength had drained out of him like sand from an hour-glass.

  Pears announced slowly, ‘We shall have some claret presently.’

  Bolitho licked his lips. ‘Thank you, sir.’ He waited, completely lost. First Cairns, now Pears.

  ‘Captain Viney of the Kittiwake brought orders from the flagship at Antigua. Mr Frowd is appointed into the Maid of Norfolk, armed transport. With all despatch.’

  ‘But, sir, his leg?’

  ‘I know. The surgeon has patched him as best he can.’ His eyes came up and settled firmly on Bolitho’s face. ‘What does he want most in the world?’

  ‘A ship, sir. Perhaps one day, a command of his own.’

  He recalled Frowd’s face aboard the yawl. Perhaps even then he had been thinking of it. A ship, any ship, like the armed transport written in his appointment, would have done.

  ‘I agree. If he languishes here it will be too late. If he returns to Antigua,’ he shrugged, ‘his luck may have changed by then.’

  Bolitho watched him, fascinated by Pears’ authority. He had fought in battles, and was now taking his command to deal with God alone knew what in Jamaica, and yet he had time to think about Frowd.

  ‘Then there is Mr Quinn.’ Pears opened the bottle, his head to one side as the hull shivered and rolled before settling down on a new tack. ‘He was not forgotten.’

  Bolitho waited, trying to discover Pears’ true feelings.

  ‘He is to be returned to Antigua for passage to England. The rest we already know. I have written a letter for his father. It won’t help much. But I want him to understand that his son only had so much courage. When it left him he was as helpless as Frowd with his leg.’ Pears nudged a heavy envelope with the bottle. ‘But he tried, and if more young men were doing that, instead of living in comfort at home, we might be better placed than we are.’

  Bolitho looked at the bulky envelope. Quinn’s life.

  Pears became almost brisk. ‘But enough of that. I have things to do, orders to dictate.’

  He poured two large glasses of claret and held them on the table until Bolitho took one. The ship was leaning so steeply that both would have slithered to the deck otherwise.

  It was strange that no one else was here. He had expected D’Esterre, or perhaps Cairns, once he had completed his duties with the watch on deck.

  Pears raised his glass and said, ‘I expect this will be a long night for you. But there will be longer ones, believe me.’

  He raised his glass, like a thimble in his massive fist.

  ‘I wish you luck, Mr Bolitho, and as our redoubtable sailing master would say, God’s speed.’

  Bolitho stared at him, the claret untouched.

  ‘I am putting you in command of the White Hills. We will part company tomorrow when it is light enough to ferry the wounded over to her.’

  Bolitho tried to think, to clear the astonishment from his mind.

  Then he said, ‘The first lieutenant, sir, with all respect . . .’

  Pears held up his glass. It was empty. Like Probyn’s had once been.

  ‘I was going to send him. I need him here, now more than ever, but h
e deserves an appointment, even as a prize-master.’ He eyed him steadily. ‘As you did to Rear-Admiral Coutts, so did he refuse my suggestion.’ He smiled gravely. ‘So there we are.’

  Bolitho saw his glass being refilled and said dazedly, ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

  Pears grimaced. ‘So get the claret down you, and say your farewells. You can bother the life out of someone else after this!’

  Bolitho found himself outside beside the motionless sentry again, as if it had all been a dream.

  He found Cairns still on deck, leaning against the weather nettings and staring across at the brig’s lights.

  Before Bolitho could speak Cairns said firmly, ‘You are going as prize-master tomorrow. It is settled, if I have to send you across in irons.’

  Bolitho stood beside him, conscious of the movements behind him, the creak of the wheel, the slap of rigging against spars and canvas.

  I expect this will be a long night for you.

  ‘What has happened, Neil?’

  He felt very close to this quiet, soft-spoken Scot.

  ‘The captain also received a letter. I don’t know who from. It is not his style to whimper. It was a friendly piece of information, if you can call it that. To tell Captain Pears he has been passed over for promotion to flag rank. A captain he will remain.’ He looked up at the stars beyond the black rigging and yards. ‘And when Trojan eventually pays-off, that will be the end for him. Coutts has been ordered to England under a cloud.’ He could not hide his anger, his hurt. ‘But he has wealth, and position.’ He turned and gestured towards the poop. ‘He only has his ship!’

  ‘Thank you for telling me.’

  Cairns’ teeth were very white in the gloom. ‘Away with you, man. Go and pack your chest.’

  As Bolitho was about to leave him he added softly, ‘But you do understand, my friend? I couldn’t desert him now, could I?

  The next morning, bright and early, with both vessels hove to, Trojan’s boats started to ferry the wounded seamen across to the brig. On their return trips they carried the White Hills’ crew into captivity. It must have been one of the shortest commissions in sea history, Bolitho thought.

  Nothing seemed exactly real to him, and he found himself forgetting certain tasks, and checking to discover if he had completed others more than once.

  Each time he went on deck he had to look across at the brig, rolling uncomfortably in steep troughs. But once under sail again she could fly if need be. It was too close a memory to forget how she had been handled.

  Cairns had already told him that Pears was allowing him to select his own prize-crew. Just enough to work the brig in safety, or run before a storm or powerful enemy.

  He did not have to ask Stockdale. He was there, a small bag already packed. His worldly possessions. Pears had also instructed him to take the badly wounded Captain Jonas Tracy to Antigua. He was too severely injured to be moved with the other prisoners, and should be little trouble.

  As the time drew near for him to leave, Bolitho was very aware of his own torn emotions. Small incidents from the past stood out to remind him of his two and a half years in the Trojan. It seemed quite unbelievable that he was leaving her, to place himself at the disposal of the admiral commanding in Antigua. It was like starting life all over again. New faces, fresh surroundings.

  He had been surprised and not a little moved by some of the men who had actually volunteered to go with him.

  Carlsson, the Swede who had been flogged. Dunwoody, the miller’s son, Moffitt, the American, Rabbett, the ex-thief, and old Buller, the topman, the man who had recognized the brig from the start. He had been promoted to petty officer and had shaken his head in astonishment at the news.

  There were others too, as much a part of the big two-decker as her figurehead or her captain.

  He watched Frowd being swayed down to the cutter in a bosun’s chair, his bandaged and splinted leg sticking out like a tusk, and hating it all, the indignity of leaving his ship in this fashion.

  Quinn had already gone across. It would be difficult to stand between those two, Bolitho thought. Bolitho had already seen Frowd looking bitterly at Quinn. He was probably questioning the fairness of it. Why should Quinn, who was being rejected by the Navy, be spared, while he was a cripple?

  Most of the goodbyes had been said already. Last night, and through the morning. Rough handshakes from gunner and boatswain, grins from others he had watched change from boys to men. Like himself.

  D’Esterre had sent some of his own stock of wine across to the brig, and Sergeant Shears had given him a tiny cannon which he had fashioned from odd fragments of silver.

  Cairns found him checking over his list of things which he was required to do and said, ‘The Sage says that we’re in for a blow, Dick. You’d better be going now.’ He thrust out his hand. ‘I’ll say my farewells here.’ He glanced around the deserted wardroom where they had shared so much. ‘It will seem emptier with you gone.’

  ‘I’ll not forget you.’ Bolitho gripped his hand hard. ‘Ever!’

  They walked forward to the companion ladder, and Cairns said suddenly, ‘One thing. Captain Pears thinks you should take another officer to stand watches with you. We cannot spare a master’s mate, and lieutenants are as rare as charity until our replacements arrive. So it will have to be a midshipman.’

  Bolitho thought about it.

  Cairns added, ‘Weston will be acting-lieutenant as of now, and both Lunn and Burslem are better left here to finish their training. That leaves Forbes and Couzens who are young enough to begin again anywhere.’

  Bolitho smiled. ‘I will put it to them.’

  Watched by the lieutenants and marine officers, Erasmus Bunce, the master, beckoned to the two thirteen-year-old midshipmen.

  ‘A volunteer is needed, young gentlemen.’ Bunce glared at them disdainfully. ‘Though what use either o’ you will be to Mr Bolitho, I can’t say.’

  They both stepped forward, Couzens with such a look of pleading on his round face that Bunce asked, ‘Is your gear packed?’

  Couzens nodded excitedly, and Forbes looked near to tears as he shook his head.

  Bunce said, ‘Mr Couzens, off you go, and lively. It must be the Lord’s blessing to clear the ship of your high spirits and skylarking!’ He looked at Bolitho and dropped one eyelid like a gunport. ‘Satisfied?’

  ‘Aye.’

  Bolitho shook their hands, trying to hold back his emotion.

  D’Esterre was the last. ‘Good luck, Dick. We’ll meet again. I shall miss you.’

  Bolitho looked across at the White Hills, seeing the wave crests rolling along her hull, making her sway more and more steeply.

  His orders were in his pocket, in a heavily sealed envelope. He waited to go, but the ship held on to him.

  He walked towards the entry port, seeing the gig rising and falling alongside. In for a blow, Bunce had said. Perhaps it was just as well. To hasten the break and keep him too busy for regrets.

  Cairns said quietly, ‘Here is the captain.’

  Pears strolled across the quarterdeck, his coat-tails flapping out like studding sails, while he held on to his gold-laced hat with one hand.

  ‘Prepare to get under way, Mr Cairns. I’ll not lose this wind.’ He seemed to see Bolitho for the first time. ‘Still here, sir?’ His eyebrows went up. ‘’Pon my soul . . .’ For once he did not finish. Instead he walked across and held out his big hand.

  ‘Be off with you now. My regards to your father when next you see him.’ He turned away and moved aft towards the compass.

  Bolitho touched his hat to the quarterdeck, and clutching his hanger to his hip hurried down into the boat.

  The oars dipped into the water, and immediately Trojan fell away, the men on the gangways turning to continue with their work while others ran up the ratlines to loose the topsails again.

  Couzens stared back at the ship, his eyes watering in the wind. It looked as if he was crying. Unknown to Bolitho, it was the happiest day in th
e midshipman’s short life.

  Bolitho raised his hand, and saw Cairns doing the same. Of Pears there was no sign. Like the Trojan, he was letting go.

  Bolitho turned his back and studied the White Hills. His for so short a time. But his.

  As Bunce had predicted, the wind rose rapidly to gale force, and with it the sea changed its face from cruising white horses to long, violent troughs with ragged yellow crests.

  The prize-crew got down to work in grim earnest, bringing the ship’s head to the south as the wind backed and pushed them hard over, the yards braced round until they would not shift another inch.

  Bolitho discarded his hat and coat and stood beside the unprotected wheel, his ears ringing to the roar of wind and sea, his whole body soaking with spray.

  It was lucky the White Hills carried a spare main-topsail, he thought. The one which had been torn apart by Trojan’s first shot had been saved for patching but was useless for anything more.

  Under reefed topsails and jib, the White Hills ran closehauled to the south, away from the islands and danger.

  Quinn, stiff-faced and barely speaking, worked with the hands on deck, and without him Bolitho wondered what he would have done. Couzens had the determination and loyalty of ten men, but experience in handling rigging and sails in a full gale he had not.

  Stockdale came aft and joined the two hands at the wheel. Like Bolitho he was drenched to the skin, his clothing stained by tar and salt. He grinned through the drifting streamers of spindrift and bobbed his head at Bolitho.

  ‘Real little lady, ain’t she?’

  For most of the day they ran with the wind, but towards sunset the strength fell away, and later still the bruised and breathless seamen managed to get aloft and set both mainsail and forecourse. The additional bulging area of canvas pushed the hull over further still, but held her steadier, and more firmly on course.

  Bolitho shouted to Quinn, ‘Take over! I’m going below!’

  After the noise and confusion on deck it seemed almost quiet once he had lowered himself through the companionway.

  How small she seemed after Trojan’s great girth. He groped his way aft to the cabin, a miniature of Pears’ quarters. It was barely large enough to contain Pears’ table, he thought. But it looked inviting, and too new to show signs of a previous owner.