Band of Brothers (6 page)
Authors: Alexander Kent
The two midshipmen waited without speaking, listening to the shouted commands and, eventually, the calls as the side was piped and Conway’s gig pulled away. Then Dancer murmured, ‘Whatever ship I join, I’ll never forget
him
.’
him
.’
They left the great cabin in silence, passing the same marine sentry, their weariness, headaches and sore throats forgotten.
Bolitho considered the passage duty Conway had mentioned. Probably helping to move another ship to different moorings, for some refit or overhaul. And after that … He glanced over at Dancer. They would be parted. It was the way of the navy.
Like Conway. Saying goodbye; the hardest duty of all.
4
Hotspur
Martyn Dancer gripped the launch’s gunwale and pointed across the larboard bow.
‘There she is, Dick! The
Hotspur
! I’ll not want to leave this beauty when the time comes!’
Hotspur
! I’ll not want to leave this beauty when the time comes!’
Excitement, or sheer pleasure: Bolitho had not seen him like this before. Perhaps strain and uncertainty, which he had always been able to conceal, were at last giving way.
Bolitho felt it, too. The
Hotspur
, which had not even been discussed until today, as if it were a sworn secret, was a topsail schooner, small if set against any frigate or brig; but her style and lines would catch any real sailor’s eye immediately.
Hotspur
, which had not even been discussed until today, as if it were a sworn secret, was a topsail schooner, small if set against any frigate or brig; but her style and lines would catch any real sailor’s eye immediately.
She was lying at her anchor, and rolling evenly in the swell, showing her copper, bright in the forenoon sun, and the rake of her twin masts. A thoroughbred, and said to be new and untried, straight from her builder.
But the ensign flying from her gaff and the few uniforms moving about her deck were identical to those they had left astern in
Gorgon
, and all the other men-of-war that lay at Plymouth. She was a King’s ship.
Gorgon
, and all the other men-of-war that lay at Plymouth. She was a King’s ship.
It was difficult to accept the speed of the events which had brought them here. From the moment they had reported to the first lieutenant, their feet had barely stopped. Until now.
Verling had explained, almost curtly. They were to be part of a passage crew, not to move some hulk or ship awaiting overhaul, but to deliver
Hotspur
to the authorities in Guernsey, as a replacement for an older vessel used in the waters around the Channel Islands for patrol and pilotage. It was another world to them.
Hotspur
to the authorities in Guernsey, as a replacement for an older vessel used in the waters around the Channel Islands for patrol and pilotage. It was another world to them.
And an escape, after all the waiting and doubt, and then yesterday’s climax. Again he felt the exhilaration run through him, like his friend beside him. Dancer was pointing at the schooner again, calling something to the cutter’s coxswain. And it was the same coxswain and boat’s crew which had taken them to the flagship. He heard Dancer laugh and nudged him sharply with his elbow. This sense of light-hearted freedom and excitement would cut no ice with Verling, who was sitting silent and straight-backed by the tiller. The first lieutenant was always very strict when it came to behaviour in boats, maintaining that the ship would be judged accordingly, as every middy soon learned when he came under that disapproving eye.
But even Verling seemed different. It was something in the air, from the start of the day when the hands had been called to lash up and stow their hammocks.
Bolitho had seen the captain speaking with him just before the cutter had cast off. Maybe it was only imagination, but Conway, too, seemed altered, unlike that brief interlude in the great cabin; the mood of defeat, almost valediction, had vanished, and the old Conway had returned. Bolitho had seen him clap Verling on the shoulder this morning, had even heard him laugh.
There were rumours, of course. In a hull crammed with some six hundred sailors and marines, there were always those. But this time there was substance; the reason for the captains’ conference, they said. More trouble in the colonies, particularly in Boston, Massachusetts. Unrest fuelled by increased taxes and repressive legislation from London had taken a more aggressive form, too often clashing with the local administration and so, eventually, the military. Although the British were hardened to war and the threat of rebellion, the infamous memory of what had come to be called the Boston Massacre had left a far deeper scar on the public conscience than might have been expected; a radical press had made certain of that. Bolitho had still been serving in
Manxman
when it had happened, and remembered poring over accounts in the news-sheets. A crowd of young people disturbing the peace on a winter’s night and coming face-to-face with soldiers from the local garrison, common enough here in England, but more incendiary in a colony chafing under what it believed to be unjust taxation, and seeking a louder voice in its own affairs. At a different time, perhaps a different man might have diffused the situation, but the officer who was present had been convinced that only a show of force would disperse the crowd, and the resulting volley of shots had killed half a dozen of the troublemakers. It was hardly a massacre, but it was bloodshed, and the echoes of those muskets had never since been allowed to fade.
Manxman
when it had happened, and remembered poring over accounts in the news-sheets. A crowd of young people disturbing the peace on a winter’s night and coming face-to-face with soldiers from the local garrison, common enough here in England, but more incendiary in a colony chafing under what it believed to be unjust taxation, and seeking a louder voice in its own affairs. At a different time, perhaps a different man might have diffused the situation, but the officer who was present had been convinced that only a show of force would disperse the crowd, and the resulting volley of shots had killed half a dozen of the troublemakers. It was hardly a massacre, but it was bloodshed, and the echoes of those muskets had never since been allowed to fade.
But to those who lived and all too often died on the sea, it meant something else: the need for readiness. Ships to be brought out of dock and stagnation, men to be found to crew, and, if required, fight them. And perhaps officers of merit and experience, captains like Conway, would view any unrest in America as a fresh chance of personal survival. Bolitho had heard his own brother Hugh say as much during their time together in the revenue cutter
Avenger
. Just weeks ago, and it already seemed like an eternity.
Avenger
. Just weeks ago, and it already seemed like an eternity.
His brother had been reserved, almost unknowable, and not only because he had been in temporary command. He looked over at Dancer. It was strange; he had heard Hugh speaking earnestly and intently to him on several occasions when they had been on watch together. Two people who could have so little in common. And yet …
‘They’ve seen us at last! Thought they’d bin so long at anchor they’d forgot what they joined for!’
That was the cutter’s other passenger, ‘Tinker’ Thorne,
Gorgon
‘s senior boatswain’s mate. There was no yarn that might be spun around him that could not be true. It was impossible to guess his age, although Bolitho had heard that Tinker had served in one ship or another for twenty-five years. Originally from Dublin, a Patlander, as all Irishmen were nicknamed by the lower deck, it was said he came of gypsy stock, and had begun life mending pots and selling fishing gear on the roads. He was not tall, but stocky and muscular, with skin like old leather and fists that could handle any unruly hawser or argumentative seaman before you could guess the next move. He was watching the
Hotspur
, her tapering masts rising now above the double-banked oars, his expression amused and a little critical. His eyes were bright blue, like those of a much younger man looking out from a mask. Admired, respected, or hated, ‘It’s up to you, boyo,’ as he was heard to say when the occasion arose.
Gorgon
‘s senior boatswain’s mate. There was no yarn that might be spun around him that could not be true. It was impossible to guess his age, although Bolitho had heard that Tinker had served in one ship or another for twenty-five years. Originally from Dublin, a Patlander, as all Irishmen were nicknamed by the lower deck, it was said he came of gypsy stock, and had begun life mending pots and selling fishing gear on the roads. He was not tall, but stocky and muscular, with skin like old leather and fists that could handle any unruly hawser or argumentative seaman before you could guess the next move. He was watching the
Hotspur
, her tapering masts rising now above the double-banked oars, his expression amused and a little critical. His eyes were bright blue, like those of a much younger man looking out from a mask. Admired, respected, or hated, ‘It’s up to you, boyo,’ as he was heard to say when the occasion arose.
He shifted around on the thwart and said, ‘Let some other Jack take the strain while we’re away, eh, sir?’
Nobody else in the ship could speak so offhandedly to Verling.
Verling was still looking astern. His face was hidden, but his thoughts were clear enough.
‘I hope so, Tinker. If we’ve forgotten anything… .’
‘Ah, even the cook knows what to do, sir.’
Bolitho watched them with interest. It was important that
Hotspur
was in safe hands until she was delivered to her destination; and Verling had despatches with him, from Conway and probably the admiral. It seemed significant, and would do Verling’s own chances of promotion no harm.
Hotspur
was in safe hands until she was delivered to her destination; and Verling had despatches with him, from Conway and probably the admiral. It seemed significant, and would do Verling’s own chances of promotion no harm.
But every pull of the oars was taking Verling away from the ship, and the life he cared about most, and like Bolitho’s brother Hugh, he had become unfamiliar. It was like meeting a stranger.
He returned his attention to the schooner, larger and heavier than he had first thought, but with a grace any true sailor would relish.
Tinker Thorne saw his eyes, and grinned.
‘Old John Barstow is the finest builder in the West Country, that he is. A strange one an’ no mistake, swears to God he’s only once sailed out of sight of land, an’ that was when he was caught in a fog off the Lizard, if you can swallow that!’
The coxswain brought the cutter smoothly alongside, with oars tossed and a bowman ready with his boat hook.
Verling seized the ladder and said, ‘You can carry on, ‘Swain. Watch those tackles when you stow the boat on the tier. It’s all new. Untried.’
‘Aye, sir. I’ll keep a weather eye on things.’
He might have been mistaken, but Bolitho thought he and Tinker winked at one another. But Verling was turning to look once more at
Gorgon
.
Gorgon
.
A small side party had assembled on the schooner’s deck, and a net was rigged to hoist any personal gear on board.
They waited for Verling, as senior in the boat, to leave first, and Dancer murmured, ‘Look who’s here, Dick. Surely he’s not coming with us?’
It was Egmont, the newest and most junior in
Gorgon
‘s wardroom. He raised his hat in salute as Verling climbed over the gunwale, while the side party came stiffly to attention, or tried to. The schooner was no two-decker and the seamen were more used to
Gorgon
‘s massive bulk than a hull that seemed alive in the offshore current. Egmont almost lost his balance, but managed to blurt out, ‘Welcome aboard, sir!’
Gorgon
‘s wardroom. He raised his hat in salute as Verling climbed over the gunwale, while the side party came stiffly to attention, or tried to. The schooner was no two-decker and the seamen were more used to
Gorgon
‘s massive bulk than a hull that seemed alive in the offshore current. Egmont almost lost his balance, but managed to blurt out, ‘Welcome aboard, sir!’
Verling returned his salute coolly and paused to look forward along the deck. Bolitho could not see his face, but guessed he was missing nothing, not even the young lieutenant’s discomfort and anger. And, he saw, he had no difficulty in keeping his balance.
Verling said, ‘I trust everything is in hand, Mr. Egmont. I see that the boats are stowed, so nobody is still ashore?’
Egmont straightened his back. ‘As ordered, sir. Ready for sea.’
Bolitho knew he was being unfair to Egmont, but it sounded like a boast, as if he had manned and prepared the
Hotspur
for duty single-handed.
Hotspur
for duty single-handed.
Verling snapped, ‘Where is Mr. Sewell, our new midshipman? He should be here.’
Bolitho glanced at Dancer. Verling was back in his proper role. He even remembered the midshipman’s name, when he could hardly have found time to meet him.
Egmont licked his lips. ‘Below, sir. Being sick.’ He licked his lips again. Just the mention of it in this choppy sea was having its effect.
Verling had not missed that, either.
‘Dismiss the hands. We shall go aft. I trust the chart and sailing instructions are ready, too?’ He did not wait for an answer, but pulled out his watch and flicked open the guard with his thumbnail. ‘So be it. The tide is right - we shall weigh at noon,’ and to the thick-set boatswain’s mate, ‘Carry on, Tinker. You know your men.’
‘Picked ‘em meself, sir.’
Even the use of his nickname seemed correct and formal. Only Verling could have carried that off.
He stopped in his stride. ‘Stow your gear, then report to me.’ He saw Dancer peering around and added calmly, ‘This is no line-of-battle ship, Mr. Dancer. I expect you to know every stay, block and spar by the time we drop anchor again!’
The deck lurched as the schooner snubbed at her anchor cable, and Dancer said quietly, ‘Wind’s getting up. Shan’t be sorry when we do get under way.’
‘A moment, you two!’ It was Egmont, recovered, it seemed, from his performance earlier. ‘I know both of you have just satisfied the Board - yesterday, wasn’t it? And you heard what Mr. Verling said. Remember it well. Board or no Board, there’ll be no passengers on this deck,
I’ll
make certain of that. Now stow your gear and be sharp about it!’
I’ll
make certain of that. Now stow your gear and be sharp about it!’
They watched him turn away and gesticulate at some seamen, his words lost in the wind. Dancer shrugged.
‘He needs a bigger ship, that one, if only for his head.’
Bolitho laughed.
‘Let’s go and find our fellow middy. I suspect it wasn’t only the motion that made him vomit!’
Verling paused on the after ladder, his eyes level with the deck coaming.
It would be good to get away from the endless overhaul, clearing up disorder and making the ship, his ship, ready to take her place again, in response to any demand.
In
Gorgon
he was still the first lieutenant. Transferred to any other ship, he would be just another member of the wardroom, with seniority but no future.
Gorgon
he was still the first lieutenant. Transferred to any other ship, he would be just another member of the wardroom, with seniority but no future.
He felt the hull shiver again, heard the clatter of loose rigging. She was alive. Eager to go.
He touched the shining paintwork.
So be it, then
.
So be it, then
.
As Tinker Thorne had firmly declared, the men chosen for
Hotspur
‘s passage crew were all skilled and experienced hands, who would be badly missed if their old two-decker was suddenly ordered to sea.
Hotspur
‘s passage crew were all skilled and experienced hands, who would be badly missed if their old two-decker was suddenly ordered to sea.
Bolitho recognised most of them, and felt a sense of belonging which was hard to understand, although he had often heard older sailors describe it.
The initial unfamiliarity was gone at the moment of weighing anchor, with the first pressure of bodies leaning on the capstan bars, and the slow
clank, clank, clank
as the pawls started to respond. All spare hands thrusting in time to Tinker’s hoarse commands. Midshipmen as well; even the cook in his white smock.
clank, clank, clank
as the pawls started to respond. All spare hands thrusting in time to Tinker’s hoarse commands. Midshipmen as well; even the cook in his white smock.
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