In Gallant Company (2 page)

He said, ‘The captain will be coming off soon. I'll be on call, so keep a weather-eye open.'

Bolitho nodded, gauging the moment. Cairns was
twenty-eight, while he was not yet twenty-one. But the span between first and fourth lieutenant was still the greater.

He asked casually, ‘Any news of our captain's mission ashore, sir?'

Cairns seemed absorbed. ‘Get those topmen down, Dick. They'll be too frozen to turn-to if the weather breaks. Pass the word for the cook to break out some hot soup.' He grimaced. ‘That should please the miserly bugger.' He looked at Bolitho. ‘Mission?'

‘Well, I thought we might be getting orders.' He shrugged. ‘Or something.'

‘He has been with the commander-in-chief certainly. But I doubt we'll hear anything stronger than the need for vigilance and an eye to duty!'

‘I see.' Bolitho looked away. He was never sure when Cairns was being completely serious.

Cairns tugged his coat around his throat. ‘Carry on, Mr Bolitho.'

They touched their hats to each other, the informality laid aside for the moment.

Bolitho called, ‘Midshipman of the watch!' He saw one of the drooping figures break away from the shelter of the hammock nettings and bound towards him.

‘Sir!'

It was Couzens, thirteen years old, and one of the new members of the ship's company, having been sent out from England aboard a transport. He was round-faced, constantly shivering, but made up for his ignorance with a willingness which neither his superiors nor the ship could break.

Bolitho told him about the cook, and the captain's expected return, then instructed him to arrange for piping the relief for the first dog-watch. He passed his instructions without conscious thought, but watched Couzens instead, seeing not him but himself at that tender age. He had been in a ship of the line, too. Chased, harried, bullied by everyone, or so it had seemed. But he had had one hero, a lieutenant who had probably never even noticed him as a human being. And Bolitho had always remembered him. He had never lost his temper without cause. Never found escape in humiliating others when he had received a
telling-off from his captain. Bolitho had hoped he would be like that lieutenant one day. He still hoped.

Couzens nodded firmly. ‘Aye, aye, sir.'

Trojan
carried nine midshipmen, and Bolitho sometimes wondered how their lives would take shape. Some would rise to flag rank, others drop by the wayside. There would be the usual sprinkling of tyrants and of leaders, of heroes and cowards.

Later, as the new watch was being mustered below the quarterdeck, one of the look-outs called, ‘Boat approaching, sir!' The merest pause. ‘'Tis the captain!'

Bolitho darted a quick glance at the milling confusion below the quarterdeck. The captain could not have chosen a better time to catch them all out.

He yelled, ‘Pass the word for the first lieutenant! Man the side, and call the boatswain directly!'

Men dashed hither and thither through the gloom, and while the marines tramped stolidly to the entry port, their cross-belts very white in the poor light, the petty officers tried to muster the relieving watchkeepers into some semblance of order.

A boat appeared, pulling strongly towards the main chains, the bowman already standing erect with his hook at the ready.

‘Boat ahoy?'

The coxswain's cry came back instantly. ‘
Trojan!
'

Their lord and master was back. The man who, next to God, controlled each hour of their lives, who could reward, flog, promote or hang as the situation dictated, was amongst their crowded world once more.

When Bolitho glanced round again he saw that where there had been chaos there was order, with the marines lined up, muskets to their shoulders, their commanding officer, the debonair Captain D'Esterre, standing with his lieutenant, apparently oblivious to wind and cold.

The boatswain's mates were here, moistening their silver calls on their lips, and Cairns, his eyes everywhere, waited to receive his captain.

The boat hooked on to the chains, the muskets slapped and cracked to the present while the calls shrilled in piercing salute. The captain's head and shoulders rose over the side, and while
he doffed his cocked hat to the quarterdeck he too examined the ship, his command, with one sweeping scrutiny.

He said curtly, ‘Come aft, Mr Cairns.' He nodded to the marine officers. ‘Smart turn-out, D'Esterre.' He turned abruptly and snapped, ‘Why are
you
here, Mr Bolitho?' As he spoke, eight bells chimed out from the forecastle. ‘You should have been relieved, surely?'

Bolitho looked at him. ‘I think Mr Probyn is detained, sir.'

‘Do you indeed.' The captain had a harsh voice which cut above the din of wind and creaking spars like a cutlass. ‘The responsibility of watchkeeping is as much that of the relief as the one awaiting it.' He glanced at Cairns' impassive face. ‘'Pon my soul, Mr Cairns, not a difficult thing to learn, I'd have thought?'

They walked aft, and Bolitho breathed out very slowly.

Lieutenant George Probyn, his immediate superior, was often late taking over his watch, and other duties too for that matter. He was the odd man in the wardroom, morose, argumentative, bitter, although for what reason Bolitho had not yet discovered. He saw him coming up the starboard ladder, broad, untidy, peering around suspiciously.

Bolitho faced him. ‘The watch is aft, Mr Probyn.'

Probyn wiped his face and then blew his nose in a red handkerchief.

‘I suppose the captain was asking about me?'

Even his question sounded hostile.

‘He noted you were absent.' Bolitho could smell brandy, and added, ‘But he seemed satisfied enough.'

Probyn beckoned to a master's mate and scanned quickly through the deck log which the man held below a lantern.

Bolitho said wearily, ‘Nothing unusual to report. One seaman injured and taken to the sickbay. He fell from the boat tier.'

Probyn sniffed. ‘Shame.' He closed the book. ‘You are relieved.' He watched him broodingly. ‘If I thought anyone was making
trouble
for me behind my back . . .'

Bolitho turned away, hiding his anger. Do not fret, my drunken friend. You are doing that for yourself.

Probyn's rumbling voice followed him to the companion as he put his men to their stations and allotted their tasks.

As he ran lightly down the companion ladder and made his way aft towards the wardroom, Bolitho wondered what the captain was discussing with Cairns.

Once below, the ship seemed to enfold him, contain him with her familiarity. The combined smells of tar and hemp, of bilge and packed humanity, they were as much a part of Bolitho as his own skin.

Mackenzie, the senior wardroom servant, who had ended his service as a topman when a fall from aloft had broken his leg in three places and made him a permanent cripple, met him with a cheery smile. If everyone else was sorry for him, Mackenzie at least was well satisfied. His injuries had given him as much comfort and security as any man could hope to find in a King's ship.

‘I've some coffee, sir. Piping hot, too.' He had a soft Scottish accent which was very like Cairns'.

Bolitho peeled off his coat and handed it with his hat to Logan, a ship's boy who helped in the wardroom.

‘I'd relish that, thank you.'

The wardroom, which ran the whole breadth of the ship's stern, was wreathed in tobacco smoke and touched with its own familiar aromas of wine and cheese. Right aft the great stern windows were already in darkness, and as the counter swung slightly to the pull of the massive anchor it was possible to see an occasional light glittering from the shore like a lost star.

Hutchlike cabins, little more than screens which would be torn down when the ship cleared for action, lined either side. Tiny havens which contained the owner's cot, chest and a small hanging space. But each was at least private. Apart from the cells, about the only place in the ship a man could be alone.

Directly above, and in a cabin which matched in size and space that which contained most of his officers, was the captain's domain. Also on that deck was the master and the first lieutenant, to be in easy reach of the quarterdeck and the helm.

But here, in the wardroom, was where they all shared their moments off-duty. Where they discussed their hopes and fears, ate their meals and took their wine. The six lieutenants, two marine officers, the sailing master, the purser and the surgeon. It was crowded certainly, but when compared with the
below-the-waterline quarters of the midshipmen and other warrant officers and specialists, let alone the great majority of seamen and marines, it was luxury indeed.

Dalyell, the fifth lieutenant, sat beneath the stern windows, his legs crossed and resting on a small keg, a long clay pipe balanced in one hand.

‘George Probyn adrift again, eh, Dick?'

Bolitho grinned. ‘It is becoming a habit.'

Sparke, the second lieutenant, a severe-faced man with a coin-shaped scar on one cheek, said, ‘I'd drag him to the captain if
I
were the senior here.' He returned to a tattered news-sheet and added vehemently, ‘These damned rebels seem to do what they like! Two more transports seized from under our frigates' noses, and a brig cut out of harbour by one of their bloody privateers! We're too soft on 'em!'

Bolitho sat down and stretched, grateful to be out of the wind, even though he knew the illusion of warmth would soon pass.

His head lolled, and when Mackenzie brought the mug of coffee he had to shake his shoulder to awaken him.

In companionable silence the
Trojan
's officers drew comfort from their own resources. Some read, others wrote home, letters which might never reach those for whom they were intended.

Bolitho drank his coffee and tried to ignore the pain in his forehead. Without thinking, his hand moved up and touched the rebellious lock of black hair above his right eye. Beneath it was a livid scar, the source of the pain. He had received it when he had been in
Destiny
. It often came back to him at moments like this. The illusion of safety, the sudden rush of feet and slashing, hacking weapons. The agony and the blood. Oblivion.

There was a tap at the outer screen door, and then Mackenzie said to Sparke, who was the senior officer present, ‘Your pardon, sir, but the midshipman of the watch is here.'

The boy stepped carefully into the wardroom, as if he was walking on precious silk.

Sparke snapped curtly, ‘What is it, Mr Forbes?'

‘The first lieutenant's compliments, sir, and will all officers muster in the cabin at two bells.'

‘Very well.' Sparke waited for the door to close. ‘Now we will see, gentlemen. Maybe we have something of importance to do.'

Unlike Cairns, the second lieutenant could not conceal the sudden gleam in his eyes. Promotion. Prize money. Or just a chance for action instead of hearing about it.

He looked at Bolitho. ‘I suggest
you
change into a clean shirt. The captain seems to have his eye on you.'

Bolitho stood up, his head brushing the deckhead beams. Two years in this ship, and apart from a dinner in the cabin when they had recommissioned the ship at Bristol, he had barely crossed one social barrier to meet the captain. He was a stern, remote man, and yet always seemed to possess uncanny knowledge of what was happening on every deck in his command.

Dalyell carefully tapped out his pipe and remarked, ‘Maybe he really likes you, Dick.'

Raye, the lieutenant of marines, yawned. ‘I don't think he's human.'

Sparke hurried to his cabin, shying away from involvement with any criticism of authority. ‘He is the captain. He does not require to be human.'

Captain Gilbert Brice Pears finished reading the daily log of events aboard his ship and then scrawled his signature, which was hastily dried by Teakle, his clerk.

Outside the stern windows the harbour and the distant town seemed far-away and unconnected with this spacious, well-lit cabin. There was some good furniture here, and in the neighbouring dining cabin the table was already laid for supper, with Foley, the captain's servant, neat as a pin in his blue coat and white trousers, hovering to tend his master's needs.

Captain Pears leaned back in his chair and glanced round the cabin without seeing it. In two years he had got to know it well.

He was forty-two years old, but looked older. Thickset, even square, he was as powerful and impressive as the
Trojan
herself.

He had heard gossip amongst his officers which amounted almost to discontent. The war, for it must now be accepted as
such, seemed to be passing them by. But Pears was a realistic man, and knew that the time would eventually come when he and his command would be able to act as intended when
Trojan
's great keel had first tasted salt water just nine years ago. Privateers and raiding parties were one thing, but when the French joined the fray in open strength, and their ships of the line appeared in these waters,
Trojan
and her heavy consorts would display their true worth.

He looked up as the marine sentry stamped his boots together outside the screen door, and moments later the first lieutenant rejoined him.

‘I have passed the word to the wardroom, sir. All officers to be here at two bells.'

‘Good.'

Pears merely had to look at his servant and Foley was beside him, pouring two tall glasses of claret.

‘The fact is, Mr Cairns' – Pears examined the wine against the nearest lantern – ‘you cannot go on forever fighting a defensive war. Here we are in New York, a claw-hold on a land which is daily becoming more rebellious. In Philadelphia things are little better. Raids and skirmishes, we burn a fort or an outpost, and they catch one of our transports, or ambush a patrol. What is New York? A besieged city. A town under reprieve, but for how long?'