In Gallant Company

by Alexander Kent

  ‘May I suggest something, sir?’

  Pears cut a small piece of cheese for himself and examined it doubtfully.

  ‘It is what you came for, surely.’ He smiled. ‘Speak out.’

  Cairns thrust his hands behind him, his eyes very bright.

  ‘You have heard the master’s views on the chance of fog, sir?’

  Pears nodded. ‘I know these waters well. Fog is common enough, though I would not dare to make such a bold prediction this time.’ He pushed the cheese aside. ‘But if the master says a thing it is usually right.’

  ‘Well, sir, we will have to lie to until it clears.’

  ‘I have already taken that into account, damn it.’

  ‘But so too will our watchdog. Both for his own safety and for fear of losing us. The fog might be an ally to us.’ He hesitated, sensing the captain’s mood. ‘If we could find her and take her by boarding –’ He got no further.

  ‘In God’s name, Mr Cairns, what are you saying? That I should put boats down, fill them with trained hands and send them off into a damned fog? Hell’s teeth, sir, they would be going to certain death!’

  ‘There is a chance there may be another vessel in company.’ Cairns spoke with sudden stubbornness. ‘They will display lights. With good care and the use of a boat’s compass, I think an attack has a good chance.’ He waited, seeing the doubts and arguments in Pears’ eyes. ‘It would give us an extra vessel, and maybe more. Information, news of what the privateers are doing.’

  Pears sat back and stared at him grimly. ‘You are a man of ideas, I’ll give you that.’

  Cairns said, ‘The fourth lieutenant put the thought in my mind, sir.’

  ‘Might have guessed it.’ Pears stood up and walked towards the windows, his thickset frame angled to the deck. ‘Damned Cornishmen. Pirates and wreckers for the most part. Did you know that?’

  Cairns kept his face stiff. ‘I understood that Falmouth, Mr Bolitho’s home, was the last place to hold out for King Charles against Cromwell and Parliament, sir?’

  Pears gave a tight grin. ‘Well said. But this idea is a dangerous thing. We might never find the boats again, and they may not discover the enemy, let alone seize her.’

  Cairns insisted, ‘The fog will reach the other vessel long before us, sir. I would suggest that as soon as that happens we change tack and close with her with every stitch which will draw.’

  ‘But if the wind goes against us.’ Pears held up his hand. ‘Easy, Mr Cairns, I can see your disappointment, but it is my responsibility. I must think of everything.’

  Overhead, and beyond the cabin doors, life was going on as usual. The clank of a pump, the padding of feet across the poop as the watch hurried to trim a yard or splice a fraying halliard.

  Pears said slowly, ‘But it does have the stuff of surprise about it.’ He made up his mind. ‘My compliments to the master and ask him to join us in the chart room.’ He chuckled. ‘Although, knowing him as I do, I suspect he is already there.’

  Out on the windswept quarterdeck, his eyes smarting to salt spray, Bolitho watched the men working overhead, the shivering power of each great sail. Time to reef soon, for the captain to be informed. He had seen the activity beneath the poop, Pears with Cairns entering the small chart room which adjoined Bunce’s cabin.

  A little later Cairns walked out into the drizzle, and Bolitho noticed that he was without his hat. That was very unusual, for Cairns was always smartly turned out, no matter how bad the circumstances.

  ‘Have you had further reports from the masthead?’

  ‘Aye, sir.’

  Bolitho ducked as a sheet of spray burst over the nettings and soaked them both. Cairns barely flinched.

  Bolitho said quickly, ‘As before, the stranger is holding to wind’rd of us, on the same bearing.’

  ‘I will inform the captain.’ Cairns added, ‘No matter, he is here.’

  Bolitho made to cross to the lee side as was customary when the captain came on deck, but the harsh voice caught him.

  ‘Stay, Mr Bolitho.’ Pears strode heavily to the quarterdeck rail, his hat tugged down to his eyes. ‘I believe you have been hatching some wild plan with the first lieutenant?’

  ‘Well, sir, I –’

  ‘Madness.’ Pears watched the straining main-course as it billowed out from its yard. ‘But with a grain, a very small grain of value.’

  Bolitho stared at him. ‘Thank you very much, sir.’

  Pears ignored him and said to Cairns, ‘The two cutters will have to suffice. I want you to hand-pick each man yourself. You know what we need for this bloody work.’ He watched Cairns’ face and then said almost gently, ‘But you will not be going.’ As Cairns made to protest he added, ‘I cannot spare you. I could die tomorrow, and with you gone too, what would become of Trojan, eh?’

  Bolitho watched both of them. It was like being an intruder to see the disappointment showing for the first time on Cairns’ face.

  Then Cairns replied, ‘Aye, sir. I’ll attend to it.’

  As he strode away, Pears said bluntly, ‘But you can send this one, he’ll not be missed!’

  Pears returned to the poop where Bunce was waiting for him, his straggly hair blowing in the wind like spunyarn.

  He barked, ‘Pass the word to the second lieutenant to lay aft.’

  Bolitho considered his feelings. He was going. So was Sparke. Take that man’s name.

  He thought of Cairns as his one chance of showing his mettle had been taken from him. It was another measure of the man, Bolitho thought. Some first lieutenants would have kept all the credit for the idea of boarding the other craft, hoarding it for the final reward.

  It was getting dark early again, the low cloud and steady drizzle adding to the discomfort both below and on deck.

  Cairns met Bolitho as he came off watch, and said simply, ‘I have selected some good hands for you, Dick. The second lieutenant will be in command, assisted by Mr Frowd, who is the ablest master’s mate we have, and Mr Midshipman Libby. You will be assisted by Mr Quinn and Mr Couzens.’

  Bolitho met his even gaze. Apart from Sparke and Frowd, the master’s mate, and to a lesser extent himself, the others were children at this sort of thing. He doubted if either the nervous Quinn or the willing Couzens had ever heard a shot fired other than at wildfowl.

  But he said, ‘Thank you, sir.’ He would show the same attitude that Cairns had displayed to the captain.

  Cairns touched his arm. ‘Go and find some dry clothing, if you can.’ As he turned towards his cabin he added, ‘You will have the redoubtable Stockdale in your cutter. I would not be so brave as to try and stop him!’

  Bolitho walked through the wardroom and entered his little cabin. There he stripped naked and towelled his damp and chilled limbs until he recovered a sensation of warmth.

  Then he sat on his swaying cot and listened to the great ship creaking and shuddering beneath him, the occasional splash of spray as high as the nearest gunport.

  This time tomorrow he might be on his way to disaster, if not already dead. He shivered, and rubbed his stomach muscles vigorously to quell his sudden uncertainty.

  But at least he would be doing something. He pulled a clean shirt over his head and groped for his breeches.

  No sooner had he done so than he heard the distant cry getting louder and closer.

  ‘All hands! All hands! Hands aloft and reef tops’ Is!’

  He stood up and banged his head on a ring-bolt.

  ‘Damnation!’

  Then he was up and hurrying again to that other world of wind and noise, to the Trojan’s demands which must always be met.

  As he passed Probyn’s untidy shape, the lieutenant peered at him and grinned. ‘Fog, is it?’

  Bolitho grinned back at him. ‘Go to hell!’

  It took a full two hours to reef to the captain’s satisfaction and to prepare the ship for the night. The news of the proposed attack had gone through the ship like fire, and Bolitho heard the many wagers w
hich were being made. The sailor’s margin between life and death in this case.

  And it would all probably come to nothing. Such things had happened often enough on this commission. Preparation, and then some last-minute hitch.

  Bolitho imagined it was going to be an almost impossible thing to find and take the other ship. Equally, he knew he would feel cheated if it was all called off.

  He returned to the wardroom to discover that most of the officers had turned into their bunks after such a day of wind and bustle.

  The surgeon and Captain D’Esterre sat beneath a solitary lantern playing cards, and alone by the streaming stern windows, staring at the vibrating tiller-head, was Lieutenant Quinn.

  In the glow of the swaying lantern he looked younger than ever, if that were possible.

  Bolitho sat beside him and shook his head as the boy, Logan, appeared with an earthenware wine jug.

  ‘Are you feeling all right, James?’

  Quinn looked at him, startled. ‘Yes, thank you, sir.’

  Bolitho smiled. ‘Richard. Dick, if you like.’ He watched the other’s despair. ‘This is not the midshipman’s berth, you know.’

  Quinn darted a quick glance at the card players, the mounting pile of coins beside the marine’s scarlet sleeve, the dwindling one opposite him.

  Then he said quietly, ‘You’ve done this sort of thing before, sir – I mean, Dick.’

  Bolitho nodded. ‘A few times.’

  He did not want to break Quinn’s trust now that he had begun.

  ‘I – I thought it would be in the ship when it happened.’ Quinn gestured helplessly around the wardroom and the cabin flat beyond. ‘You know, all your friends near you, with you. I think I could do that. Put up with the first time. The fighting.’

  Bolitho said, ‘I know. The ship is home. It can help.’

  Quinn clasped his hands and said, ‘My family are in the leather trade in the City of London. My father did not wish me to enter the Navy.’ His chin lifted very slightly. ‘But I was determined. I’d often seen a man-o’-war working down river to the sea. I knew what I wanted.’

  Bolitho could well understand the shock Quinn must have endured when he was faced with the reality of a King’s ship with all the harsh discipline and the feeling that you, as a new midshipman, are the only one aboard who is in total useless ignorance.

  Bolitho had grown up with it and to it. The dark portraits which adorned the walls and staircase of the old Bolitho home in Cornwall were a constant reminder of all who had gone before him. Now he and his brother Hugh were carrying on the tradition. Hugh was in a frigate, now probably in the Mediterranean, while he was here, about to embark in the sort of action they often yarned about in the taverns of Falmouth.

  He said, ‘It will be all right, James. Mr Sparke is leading us.’

  For the first time he saw Quinn smile as he said, ‘I must admit he frightens me more than the enemy!’

  Bolitho laughed, wondering why it was that Quinn’s fear had somehow given him strength.

  ‘Turn into your cot while you can. Try to sleep. Tell Mackenzie you’d like a tot of brandy. George Probyn’s cure for everything!’

  Quinn stood up and almost fell as the ship quivered and lunged across the hidden sea.

  ‘No. I must write a letter.’

  As he walked away, D’Esterre left the table, pocketing his winnings, and joined Bolitho by the tiller-head.

  The surgeon made to follow, but D’Esterre said, ‘No more, Robert. Your poor play might blunt my skill!’ He smiled. ‘Be off with you to your bottles and pills.’

  The surgeon did not give his usual laugh, but walked away, feeling for handholds as he went.

  D’Esterre gestured towards the silent cabins. ‘Is he worried?’

  ‘A little.’

  The marine tugged at his tight neckcloth. ‘Wish to God I was coming with you. If I can’t put my lads to a fight, they will be as rusty as old pikes!’

  Bolitho gave a great yawn. ‘I’m for bed.’ He shook his head as D’Esterre flicked the cards between his fingers. ‘I’d not play with you anyway. You have the uncomfortable knack of winning.’

  As he lay in his cot, hands thrust behind his head, Bolitho listened to the ship, identifying each sound as it fitted into the pattern and fabric of the hull.

  The watch below, slung in their close-packed hammocks like pods, the air foul around them because of the bilges, and because the gunports had to be tightly sealed against sea and rain. Everything bloomed with damp, the deckheads dripping, the pumps clanking mournfully as Trojan worked her massive bulk over a stiff quarter-sea.

  On the orlop deck beneath the waterline the surgeon would soon be asleep in his sickbay. He had only a handful of ill or injured men to deal with. It was to be hoped it remained like that.

  Further forward in the midshipman’s berth all would be quiet, although probably a flickering glim would betray somebody trying to read a complicated navigational problem, with a solution expected in the forenoon by Bunce.

  Their own world. Seamen and marines. Painters and caulkers, ropemakers and gun captains, coopers and topmen, as mixed a crowd as you could meet in a whole city.

  And right aft, doubtless still at his big table, the one who ruled all of them, the captain.

  Bolitho looked up at the darkness. Pears was almost directly above him. With the watchful Foley nearby, and a glass at his elbow as he pondered over the day’s events and tomorrow’s uncertainties.

  That was the difference, he decided. We obey and execute his orders as best we can. But he has to give them. And the reward or the blame must be on his shoulders.

  Bolitho rolled over and buried his face in the musty pillow.

  There were certain advantages in remaining a mere lieutenant.

  3

  The Faithful

  THE FOLLOWING DAY was little different from the preceding ones. Overnight the wind had backed slightly but had lost much of its strength, so that the great, dripping sails filled and sagged in noisy confusion and added in some way to the general air of tension.

  Towards noon, with the drizzle as heavy as ever and the sea an expanse of dirty grey, the pipe echoed around the ship, ‘Hands lay aft to witness punishment!’ It was common enough, and under normal conditions might have excited little comment. In a King’s ship discipline was hard and quickly executed, and the punishment given by members of the company to one of their own caught stealing from a shipmate’s meagre possessions was far worse.

  But today should have been different. After all the weeks and months of frustration and waiting, of being cooped up in harbour with little more comfort than a prison hulk, or beating up and down the coastline on some fruitless mission or other, it had been hoped that this would bring a change.

  The weather did nothing to help. As Bolitho stood with the other lieutenants, while the marines clattered up and across the poop in two scarlet lines, the ship’s company hurried aft. They had to squint against the blown spray and rain, and the biting wind which stirred the dripping canvas with long, uneven gusts. A sullen, unhappy start, Bolitho thought.

  The man to be punished came to the larboard gangway, flanked by Paget, the swarthy master-at-arms, and Mr Tolcher, the boatswain. Paget was a tight-lipped, bitter man, and set against him and the squat boatswain the prisoner looked by far the most innocent.

  Bolitho watched him, a young Swede named Carlsson. He had a clean-cut face with long flaxen hair, and was staring around as if he had never laid eyes on the ship before. He was typical of the Trojan’s mixture, Bolitho thought. You never knew what sort of man you would confront from day to day. Many tongues and races had been gathered up into Trojan’s hull in two years, and yet somehow they all seemed to settle in a very short while of coming aboard.

  Bolitho hated floggings, even though they were part of a sailor’s life. There still seemed to be no alternative for a captain to maintain discipline when far away from higher authority and the company of other ships.

 
The grating was rigged by the gangway, and Balleine, a muscular boatswain’s mate, stood waiting beside it, the red baize bag dangling at his side.

  Cairns crossed the quarterdeck as Pears appeared beneath the poop.

  ‘Company assembled, sir.’ His eyes were expressionless.

  ‘Very well.’

  Pears glanced at the compass and then walked heavily forward to the quarterdeck rail. There was a hush over the crowded seamen who filled the gundeck and overflowed on to the gangways and into the shrouds themselves.

  Bolitho glanced at the midshipmen grouped alongside the older warrant officers. He had been sick at a flogging when he had been a midshipman.

  He thought about Carlsson. Found asleep on watch after a whole day of fighting wind and rebellious canvas.

  With some officers it might have made a difference. But Lieutenant Sparke had no such weakness as sentiment. Bolitho wondered if he was thinking about it now. How it had cast a blight over the very day he was going to lead a boat attack. He glanced sideways at him but saw nothing but Sparke’s usual tight severity.

  Pears nodded. ‘Uncover.’ He removed his hat and tucked it beneath his arm, while the others followed his example.

  Bolitho looked to larboard, half expecting to see the sails of their faithful shadow. During the night the schooner had edged closer, and was now visible from the tops of the lower shrouds, but not from the quarterdeck as yet. That made it harder to accept in a sailor’s simple reasoning. A Yankee rebel cruising along as safe as you please, and one of their own about to be flogged.

  Pears opened the Articles of War and read the relevant numbers with little change from his normal tone. He finished with the words, ‘. . . he shall be punished according to the Laws and Customs of such cases used at sea.’ He replaced his hat, adding, ‘Two dozen lashes.’

  The rest of the proceedings moved swiftly. Carlsson was stripped to the waist and seized up to the grating, his arms spread up and out as if he was crucified.

  Balleine had taken his cat-o’-nine-tails from the red baize bag and was running it through his fingers, his face set in a grim frown. He was to be in Bolitho’s boat for the attack. Was he thinking of that?