In Gallant Company

by Alexander Kent

  Pears strode to meet Bolitho. ‘Ah, not too knocked about, eh?’ He was restless, off balance.

  Bolitho replied, ‘I was fortunate, sir.’

  ‘Indeed you were.’

  Pears looked round as Coutts came from the adjoining cabin.

  The admiral said, ‘I will be leaving at daylight and transferring to the prize, Bolitho. I intend to head for Antigua and take passage from there in a courier brig, or one of the frigates.’

  Bolitho looked at him, trying to guess where it was leading. He could feel the tension between the two men, see the bitterness in Pears’ eyes. Like physical pain.

  Coutts added calmly, ‘Trojan will follow, of course. Full repairs can be carried out there before she returns to the squadron. I will ensure that the people at Antigua give full attention to it, and to obtaining replacements for –’

  Pears interrupted bluntly, ‘For all the poor devils who died today!’

  Coutts flushed, but turned to Bolitho again.

  ‘I have watched you. You are the right stuff, with the ability and the steel to lead men.’

  Bolitho glanced at Pears’ grim features and was shocked to see his expression. Like a man under sentence.

  ‘Thank you, sir.’

  ‘Therefore . . .’ the word hung in the damp air, ‘I am offering you a new appointment as soon as you reach Antigua. With me.’

  Bolitho stared, realizing what it would do to Pears. With Coutts back in Antigua, or probably in New York before Trojan reached harbour, Pears would have nobody to speak for him but Cairns. A scapegoat. Someone to use to cover Coutts’ costly exercise.

  He was surprised that he could answer without hesitation. It was all he wanted, the one opportunity to transfer to another ship, smaller, faster, like Vanquisher or one of the other frigates. With Coutts’ patronage it would be the best chance he would ever get.

  ‘I thank you, sir.’ He looked at Pears. ‘But my appointment is under Captain Pears. I would wish it to remain so.’

  Coutts regarded him curiously. ‘What an odd fellow you are, Bolitho. Your sentimentality will do for you one day.’ He nodded, curt, final. ‘Good evening.’

  In a daze Bolitho went down a ladder and found himself in the wardroom, remarkably untouched by the battle.

  Cairns followed him a few moments later and took his arm, beckoning to the wardroom servant as he did so.

  ‘Mackenzie, you rogue! Some good brandy for this officer!’

  D’Esterre appeared with his lieutenant and asked, ‘What is happening?’

  Cairns sat down opposite Bolitho and watched him intently.

  ‘It has happened, gentlemen. I have just witnessed a misguided but honest man doing something which was right.’

  Bolitho flushed. ‘I – I didn’t know . . .’

  Cairns took a bottle from Mackenzie and smiled sadly.

  ‘I was outside. Peering through a crack like a schoolboy.’ He became suddenly serious. ‘That was a fine thing you did just now. He’ll never thank you for it, in as many words.’ Cairns raised his glass. ‘But I know him better than most. You gave him something to make up for what Coutts did to his ship!’

  Bolitho thought of the schooner steering somewhere under Trojan’s lee. Tomorrow she would leave them and take with her his chance of promotion.

  He got another surprise. He no longer cared.

  15

  Another Chance

  BOLITHO STOOD IN the shadow of the mainmast’s massive trunk and watched the busy activity around the ship. It was October, and for two months Trojan had been here in English Harbour, Antigua, headquarters of the Caribbean squadrons. There were plenty of ships needing repairs and overhaul, but mostly because of the wear and tear of storms or old age. Trojan’s arrival had aroused plenty of excitement and curiosity as Captain Pears had brought her to rest, with the ensign at half-mast for her many dead.

  Now, looking around the taut rigging and shrouds, the neatly furled sails and skilfully repaired decks, it was hard to picture the battle which had raged here.

  He shaded his eyes to look at the shore. Scattered white buildings, the familiar landfall of Monk’s Hill. A busy procession of boats, yard hoys, water lighters and the inevitable traders offering doubtful wares to the inexperienced and the foolish.

  There had been a lot of changes, not only to the ship herself. New faces from other vessels from England, from ports up and down the Caribbean. All to be tested and worked into the rest of the company.

  A Lieutenant John Pointer had arrived aboard, and because of his seniority had been made fourth lieutenant, as Bolitho had once been. A cheerful young man with a round Yorkshire dialect, he seemed competent and willing to learn.

  Young Midshipman Libby, stripped of his acting rank, had gone to the flagship on one fine morning to face his examination for lieutenant. He had passed with honour, although he was the only one to show surprise at the verdict. Now he had gone, appointed to another two-decker without delay. But his parting had been a sad occasion, both for him and the other midshipmen. There were two more of those as well. Fresh from England, and in Bunce’s view, ‘Less than useless!’

  Of Coutts they had heard nothing, other than he had returned to New York. Promotion or disgrace seemed unimportant in the face of the latest news which even now seemed impossible to grasp.

  In America, General Burgoyne, who had been operating with some success from Canada in the earlier stages of the revolution, had been directed to take control of the Hudson River. He had advanced with his usual determination with some seven thousand troops, expecting to be reinforced by the New York regiments. Someone had decided that there were insufficient soldiers in New York and barely enough to defend the city.

  General Burgoyne had waited in vain, and this month had surrendered with all his men at Saratoga.

  There had been news of greater activity by French privateers, encouraged, and with good cause, by the military defeat.

  Trojan would soon be ready to rejoin the fight, but Bolitho could see no way of retaining a grasp of a rebellious colony even if Britain commanded the sea-lanes. And with more French involvement, that was no certainty either.

  Bolitho moved restlessly to the nettings to watch another trading boat passing Trojan’s glittering reflection. It was hot, but after the earlier months, and the torrential tropical downpours, it seemed almost cool.

  He glanced aft, at the flag which hung so limp and still. It would be even hotter in the great cabin.

  He tried to see Quinn as a stranger, someone he had just met. But he kept recalling him as the most junior lieutenant, when he had just come aboard. Eighteen years old and straight from the midshipman’s berth, beginning as Libby was now for himself. Then again, gasping in agony from the great slash across his chest. After all his quiet confidence, his determination to be a sea officer when his wealthy father wished otherwise.

  These last weeks must have been hell for him. He had been released from his duties, and even if he retained his appointment would now be junior to the new officer, Pointer.

  Because of the activity within the local squadrons, and the general air of expectancy of a French intervention in strength, Quinn’s troubles had taken a low position in priorities.

  Now, in this October of 1777, he was being examined by a board of inquiry in Pears’ cabin. Just one short step from a court martial.

  Bolitho looked at the other ships, so still in the sheltered harbour, each paired above her image in the water, awnings spread, ports open to catch the slightest breeze. Very soon these vessels and more beside would endure what Trojan had suffered under Argonaute’s guns. They would not be fighting brave but untrained rebels, but the flower of France. Discipline would be tightened, failure not tolerated. It made Quinn’s chances seem very slim.

  He turned as Lieutenant Arthur Frowd, officer of the watch, crossed the deck to join him. Like Libby, he had gained his coveted promotion, and now awaited an appointment to a more suitable ship. The most junior lieutenant, he was s
till the oldest in years. In his bright new uniform, with his hair neatly tied to the nape of his neck, he looked as good as any captain, Bolitho thought admiringly.

  Frowd said uneasily, ‘What d’you reckon about him?’ He did not even mention Quinn by name. Like a lot of other people he was probably afraid of being connected with him in any way.

  ‘I’m not certain.’

  Bolitho fidgeted with his sword hilt, wondering why it was taking so long. Cairns had gone aft, as had D’Esterre and Bunce. It was a hateful business, like seeing the court martial Jack on a man-of-war, the ritualistic procession of boats for a flogging around the fleet, or a hanging.

  He said, ‘I was afraid. So it must have been a lot worse for him. But –’

  Frowd said vehemently, ‘But, aye, sir, that small word makes a world of difference. Any common seaman would have been run up to the mainyard by now!’

  Bolitho said nothing and waited for Frowd to walk away to speak with the guard-boat alongside. Frowd did not understand. How could he? To reach a lieutenant’s rank was hard enough for any youth. By way of the lower deck it was much, much harder. And Frowd had done it with his own sweat and little education. He would see Quinn’s failure as a betrayal rather than a weakness.

  Sergeant Shears marched across the quarterdeck and touched his hat smartly.

  Bolitho looked at him. ‘Me?’

  ‘Yessir.’ Shears glanced quickly at the men on watch, the sideboys and the sentry. ‘Not doin’ very well, sir.’ He dropped his voice to a whisper. ‘My captain give ’is evidence, and one of the board says, all aughty-like, “wot does a marine know about sea officers!”’ Shears sounded outraged. ‘Never ’eard the like, sir!’

  Bolitho walked quickly aft, gripping his sword tightly to prepare himself.

  Pears’ day cabin had been cleared, the furniture replaced by a bare table, at which were seated three captains.

  There were others present too, seated on chairs to either side, mostly strangers to Bolitho, but he saw the earlier witnesses, Cairns, D’Esterre, and alone, with his hands folded in his lap, Captain Pears.

  The senior captain looked at him coolly. ‘Mr Bolitho?’

  Bolitho tucked his hat under his arm and said, ‘Aye, sir. Second lieutenant.’

  The captain to the right, a sharp-faced man with very thin lips, asked, ‘Were you present on deck when the events which led to this investigation took place?’

  Bolitho saw the clerk’s pen poised above his pile of papers. Then for the first time he looked at Quinn.

  He was standing very stiffly by the door of the dining cabin. He looked as if he was finding it hard to breathe.

  ‘I was, sir.’ How absurd, he thought. They all knew exactly where everyone was. Probably right down to the ship’s cook. ‘I was in charge of the upper gundeck when we engaged the enemy to starboard.’

  The president of the court, a captain Bolitho remembered seeing in New York, said dryly, ‘Forget the formality, if you can. You are not on trial here.’ He glanced at the captain with the thin lips. ‘It would do well to remember that.’ His level gaze returned to Bolitho. ‘What did you see?’

  Bolitho could feel those behind him, watching and waiting. If only he knew what had been said already, especially by the captain.

  He cleared his throat. ‘We’d not been expecting to fight, sir. But the Argonaute had dismasted Spite without any challenge or warning. We had no option.’

  ‘We?’ The question was mild.

  Bolitho flushed and felt clumsy under the three pairs of eyes. ‘I heard the admiral express the view that we should fight if need be, sir.’

  ‘Ah.’ A small smile. ‘Continue.’

  ‘It was a bloody battle, sir, and we were sorely short of good hands even before it began.’ He sensed the scorn in the thin-lipped captain’s eyes and added quietly, ‘That was not meant as an excuse, sir. Had you seen the way our people fought and died that day, you would have known my meaning.’

  He could sense the silence, like the terrible calm before a hurricane. But he could not stop now. What did they know about it? They had probably never had to fight with such inexperienced officers and so few seasoned hands. He thought of the man on the surgeon’s table pleading for his leg, the marine who had been the first to die, falling from the top to drift in the sea alone. There were so many of them. Too many.

  He said, ‘The Frenchman came up to us and drove hard alongside. They boarded, or tried to . . .’ He faltered, seeing the French lieutenant falling between the grinding hulls, his own sword red with blood. ‘But we fought them off.’ He turned and looked directly at Quinn’s stricken face. ‘Mr Quinn was assisting me up to that moment, and stood under the enemy’s fire until action was broken off.’

  The president added, ‘Then you were taken below. Correct?’

  He looked at Bolitho’s tense features and asked, ‘How old are you?’

  ‘Twenty-one, sir. This month.’ He thought he heard someone snigger behind him.

  ‘And you entered the Navy at the age of twelve, I understand. As did most of us. In addition, you come from a distinguished seafaring family.’ His voice hardened suddenly. ‘In your experience as a King’s officer, Mr Bolitho, did you at any time during this series of unfortunate events consider that Mr Quinn’s behaviour was lacking in skill or courage?’

  Bolitho replied quietly, ‘In my opinion, sir –’ He got no further.

  The president persisted, ‘In your experience.’

  Bolitho felt desperate, trapped. ‘I do not know how to answer, sir.’

  He expected to be rebuked, even dismissed from the court, but the president merely asked, ‘He was your friend, is that it?’

  Bolitho looked across at Quinn, suddenly hating the three captains, the gaping spectators, everything.

  He said firmly, ‘He is my friend, sir.’ He heard the murmur of surprise and expectancy but added, ‘Maybe he was afraid, but so was I, as were many more. To deny it would be foolish.’

  Before he turned back to the table he saw Quinn lift his chin with pathetic defiance.

  Bolitho said, ‘His record has been a good one. And I have had him with me on several difficult missions. He has been badly wounded and –’

  The thin-lipped captain leaned over to look at his companions. ‘I think we have heard enough. This witness has little to add.’ He glanced at Bolitho. ‘I understand that you declined a new appointment which Rear-Admiral Coutts was prepared to offer? Tell me, was that lack of ambition on your part?’

  The president frowned, and then turned as feet moved heavily on the deck.

  Without looking, Bolitho knew it was Pears.

  The president asked, ‘You wished to say something, Captain Pears?’

  The familiar harsh voice was remarkably calm. ‘The last question. I feel I should answer. It was not lack of ambition, sir. In my family we call it loyalty, dammit!’

  The president held up his hand to still the sudden excitement. ‘Quite so.’ He looked sadly at Bolitho. ‘However, I am afraid that in the case of Lieutenant Quinn loyalty is not enough.’ He stood up, and throughout the cabin the spectators and witnesses lurched to their feet. ‘The inquiry is adjourned.’

  Outside, on the sunlit quarterdeck, Bolitho waited for the visitors to leave.

  Dalyell and the new lieutenant, Pointer, were with him when Quinn appeared on deck.

  He crossed over to him and murmured, ‘Thank you for what you said, Dick.’

  Bolitho shrugged. ‘It didn’t seem to help much.’

  Dalyell said quietly, ‘You have more courage than I, Dick. That cold-eyed captain scared hell out of me, just looking at him!’

  Quinn said, ‘Anyway, the president was right. I could not move. It was like being dead, unable to help.’

  He saw Cairns approaching and added quickly, ‘I shall go to my cabin.’

  The first lieutenant leaned over the rail and watched the boats alongside.

  Then he said, ‘I hope we can get back to sea soon.’<
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  The others moved away and Bolitho asked, ‘Did the captain kill Quinn’s chances, Neil?’

  Cairns eyed him thoughtfully. ‘No. I did. I witnessed it, but was less involved than you. Suppose you had been marked down by one of the Frenchman’s sharpshooters, or broken by chain-shot. Do you think Quinn could have held the fo’c’sle and driven off the boarders?’ He smiled gravely and gripped Bolitho’s arm. ‘I’ll not ask you to betray a friendship. But you know, as well as I, that we would have been made to strike to the Argonaute if Quinn had been left in charge forrard.’ He looked along the deck, probably remembering it, as Bolitho was. He said, ‘There are more lives at stake than the honour of one man.’

  Bolitho felt sick. Knowing Cairns was right, but feeling only pity for Quinn.

  ‘What will they decide?’

  Cairns replied, ‘The admiral who commands here will be aware of this. It has taken long enough to come to light. He will also know of Quinn’s father, his power in the City.’

  Bolitho could feel the man’s bitterness as he added, ‘He’ll not hang.’

  After lunch the court was recalled, and Cairns was proved correct.

  The court of inquiry had decided that Lieutenant James Quinn had been rendered unfit by cause of injury in the King’s service to continue with active duty. Upon confirmation from the commander-in-chief, he would be sent ashore to await passage home to England. After that he would be discharged from the Navy.

  Nobody outside would know of his disgrace. Except the one man who really cared, and Bolitho doubted very much if Quinn could carry that final burden for long.

  Two days later, with Quinn’s fate still unconfirmed, Trojan weighed and put to sea.

  It would, it appeared, take a little longer.

  Two and a half days after leaving English Harbour Trojan was steering due west, under reefed topsails and forecourse in a stiff following wind. It was a good opportunity to exercise the old and new hands together in sail drill, as with spray bursting over the poop and quarterdeck the two-decker pointed her jib at the misty horizon.