In Gallant Company (3 page)

Cairns said nothing, but sipped the claret, half his mind attending to the noises beyond the cabin, the sigh of wind, the groan of timbers.

Pears saw his expression and smiled to himself. Cairns was a good first lieutenant, probably the best he had ever had. He should have a command of his own. A chance, one which only came in war.

But Pears loved his ship more than hopes or dreams. The thought of Sparke taking over as senior lieutenant was like a threat. He was an efficient officer and attended to his guns and his duties perfectly. But imagination he had not. He thought of Probyn, and dismissed him just as quickly. Then there was Bolitho, the fourth. Much like his father, although he sometimes seemed to take his duties too lightly. But his men appeared to like him. That meant a lot in these hard times.

Pears sighed. Bolitho was still a few months short of twenty-one. You needed experienced officers to work a ship of the line. He rubbed his chin to hide his expression. Maybe it was Bolitho's youth and his own mounting years which made him reason in this fashion.

He asked abruptly, ‘Are we in all respects ready for sea?'

Cairns nodded. ‘Aye, sir. I could well use another dozen hands because of injury and ill-health, but that is a small margin these days.'

‘It is indeed. I have known first lieutenants go grey-haired because they could not woo, press or bribe enough hands even to work their ships out of port.'

At the prescribed time the doors were opened and
Trojan
's officers, excluding the midshipmen and junior warrant officers, filed into the great cabin.

It was a rare event, and took a good deal of time to get them into proper order, and for Foley and Hogg, the captain's coxswain, to find the right number of chairs.

It gave Pears time to watch their varying reactions, to see if their presence in strength would make any sort of difference.

Probyn, relieved from his duties by a master's mate, was flushed and very bright-eyed. Just too steady to be true.

Sparke, prim in his severity, and young Dalyell, were seated beside the sixth and junior lieutenant, Quinn, who just five months ago had been a midshipman.

Then there was Erasmus Bunce, the master. He was called the Sage behind his back, and was certainly impressive. In his special trade, which produced more characters and outstanding seaman than any other, Bunce was one to turn any man's head. He was well over six feet tall, deep-chested, and had long, straggly grey hair. But his eyes, deep-set and clear, were almost as black as the thick brows above them. A sage indeed.

Pears watched the master ducking between the overhead beams and was reassured.

Bunce liked his rum, but he loved the ship like a woman. With him to guide her she had little to fear.

Molesworth, the purser, a pale man with a nervous blink, which Pears suspected was due to some undiscovered guilt. Thorndike, the surgeon, who always seemed to be smiling. More
like an actor than a man of blood and bones. Two bright patches of scarlet by the larboard side, the marine officers, D'Esterre and Lieutenant Raye, and of course Cairns, completed the gathering. It did not include all the other warrant officers and specialists. The boatswain, and gunner, the master's mates, and the carpenters, Pears knew them all by sight, sound and quality.

Probyn said in a loud whisper, ‘Mr Bolitho doesn't seem to be here yet?'

Pears frowned, despising Probyn's hypocrisy. He was about as subtle as a hammer.

Cairns suggested, ‘I'll send someone, sir.'

The door opened and closed swiftly and Pears saw Bolitho sliding into an empty chair beside the two marines.

‘Stand up, that officer.' Pears' harsh voice was almost caressing. ‘Ah, it is you, sir, at last.'

Bolitho stood quite still, only his shoulders swaying slightly to the ship's slow roll.

‘I – I am sorry, sir.' Bolitho saw the grin on Dalyell's face as drops of water trickled from under his coat and on to the black and white checkered canvas which covered the deck.

Pears said mildly, ‘Your shirt seems to be rather
wet
, sir.' He turned slightly. ‘Foley, some canvas for that chair. It is hard to replace such things out here.'

Bolitho sat down with a thump, not knowing whether to be angry or humiliated.

He forgot Pears' abrasive tone, and the shirt which he had snatched off the wardroom line still wringing wet, as Pears said more evenly, ‘We will sail at first light, gentlemen. The Governor of New York has received information that the expected convoy from Halifax is likely to be attacked. It is a large assembly of vessels with an escort of two frigates and a sloop-of-war. But in this weather the ships could become scattered, some might endeavour to close with the land to ascertain their bearings.' His fingers changed to a fist. ‘
That
is when our enemy will strike.'

Bolitho leaned forward, ignoring the sodden discomfort around his waist.

Pears continued, ‘I was saying as much to Mr Cairns. You cannot
win
a defensive war. We have the ships, but the enemy
has the local knowledge to make use of smaller, faster vessels. To have a chance of success we must command and keep open every trade route, search and detain any suspected craft, make our presence felt. Wars are not finally won with ideals, they are won with powder and shot, and
that
the enemy does not have in quantity.
Yet
.' He looked around their faces, his eyes bleak. ‘The Halifax convoy is carrying a great deal of powder and shot, cannon too, which are intended for the military in Philadelphia and here in New York. If just one of those valuable cargoes fell into the wrong hands we would feel the effects for months to come.' He looked round sharply. ‘Questions?'

It was Sparke who rose to his feet first.

‘Why us, sir? Of course, I am most gratified to be putting to sea in my country's service, to try and rectify some –'

Pears said heavily, ‘
Please
get on with the bones of the matter.'

Sparke swallowed hard, his scar suddenly very bright on his cheek.

‘Why not send frigates, sir?'

‘Because there are not enough, there never
are
enough. Also, the admiral feels that a show of strength might be of more value.'

Bolitho stiffened, as if he had missed something. It was in the captain's tone. Just the merest suggestion of doubt. He glanced at his companions but they seemed much as usual. Perhaps he was imagining it, or seeking flaws to cover up his earlier discomfort under Pears' tongue.

Pears added, ‘Whatever may happen this time, we must never drop our vigilance. This ship is our first responsibility, our main concern at all times. The war is changing from day to day. Yesterday's traitor is tomorrow's patriot. A man who responded to his country's call,' he shot a wry smile at Sparke, ‘is now called a Loyalist, as if he and not the others was some sort of freak and outcast.'

The master, Erasmus Bunce, stood up very slowly, his eyes peering beneath a deckhead beam like twin coals.

‘A man must do as he be guided, sir. It is for God to decide who be right in this conflict.'

Pears smiled gravely. Old Bunce was known to be very
religious, and had once hurled a sailor into Portsmouth harbour merely for taking the Lord's name into a drunken song.

Bunce was a Devonian, and had gone to sea at the age of nine or ten. He was now said to be over sixty, but Pears could never picture him ever being young at all.

He said, ‘Quite so, Mr Bunce. That was well said.'

Cairns cleared his throat and eyed the master patiently. ‘Was that all, Mr Bunce?'

The master sat down and folded his arms. ‘It be enough.'

The captain gestured to Foley. No words seemed to be required here, Bolitho thought.

Glasses and wine jugs followed, and then Pears said, ‘A toast, gentlemen. To the ship, and damnation to the King's enemies!'

Bolitho watched Probyn looking round for the jugs, his glass already emptied.

He thought of Pears' voice when he had spoken of the ship. God help George Probyn if he put her on a lee shore after taking too many glasses.

Soon after that the meeting broke up, and Bolitho realized that he had still got no closer to the captain than by way of a reprimand.

He sighed. When you were a midshipman you thought a lieutenant's life was in some sort of heaven. Maybe even captains were in dread of somebody, although at this moment it was hard to believe.

The next dawn was slightly clearer, but not much. The wind held firm enough from the north-west, and the snow flurries soon gave way to drizzle, which mixed with the blown spray made the decks and rigging shine like dull glass.

Bolitho had watched one ship or another get under way more times than he could remember. But it never failed to move and excite him. The way every man joined into the chain of command to make the ship work as a living, perfect instrument.

Each mast had its own divisions of seamen, from the swift-footed topmen to the older, less agile hands who worked the
braces and halliards from the deck. As the calls shrilled, and the men poured up on deck through every hatch and companion, it seemed incredible that
Trojan
's hull, which from figurehead to taffrail measured two hundred and fifteen feet, could contain so many. Yet within seconds the dashing figures of men and boys, marines and landmen were formed into compact groups, each being checked by leather-lunged petty officers against their various lists and watch-bills.

The great capstan was already turning, as was its twin on the deck below, and under his shoes Bolitho could almost sense the ship stirring, waiting to head towards the open sea.

Like the mass of seamen and marines, the officers too were at their stations. Probyn with Dalyell to assist him on the forecastle, the foremast their responsibility. Sparke commanded the upper gundeck and the ship's mainmast, which was her real strength, with all the spars, cordage, canvas and miles of rigging which gave life to the hull beneath. Lastly, the mizzen mast, handled mostly by the afterguard, where young Quinn waited with the marine lieutenant and his men to obey Cairns' first requirements.

Bolitho looked across at Sparke. Not an easy man to know, but a pleasure to watch at work. He controlled his seamen and every halliard and brace with the practised ease of a dedicated concert conductor.

A hush seemed to fall over the ship, and Bolitho looked aft to see the captain walking to the quarterdeck rail, nodding to old Bunce, the Sage, then speaking quietly with his first lieutenant.

Far above the deck from the mainmast truck the long, scarlet pendant licked and hardened to the wind like bending metal. A good sailing wind, but Bolitho was thankful it was the captain and old Bunce who were taking her through the anchored shipping and not himself.

He glanced over the side and wondered who was watching. Friends, or spies who might already be passing news to Washington's agents. Another man-of-war weighing. Where bound? For what purpose?

He returned his attention inboard. If half what he had heard was true, the enemy probably knew better than they did. There
were said to be plenty of loose tongues in New York's civil and military government circles.

Cairns raised his speaking trumpet. ‘Get a move on, Mr Tolcher!'

Tolcher, the squat boatswain, raised his cane and bellowed, ‘More 'ands to th' capstan! '
Eave
, lads!'

He glared at the shantyman with his fiddle. ‘Play up, you bugger, or I'll 'ave you on th' pumps!'

From forward came the cry, ‘Anchor's hove short, sir!'

‘Hands aloft! Loose tops'ls!' Cairns' voice, magnified by the trumpet, pursued and drove them like a clarion. ‘Loose the heads'Is!'

Released to the wind the canvas erupted and flapped in wild confusion, while spread along the swaying yards like monkeys the topmen fought to bring it under control until the right moment.

Sparke called, ‘Man your braces! Mr Bolitho, take that man's name!'

‘Aye, sir!'

Bolitho smiled into the drizzle. It was always the same with Sparke.
Take that man's name
. There was nobody in particular, but it gave the seamen the idea that Sparke had eyes everywhere.

Again the hoarse voice from the bows, ‘Anchor's aweigh, sir!'

Released from the ground, her first anchor already hoisted and catted,
Trojan
side-stepped heavily across the wind, her sails spreading and thundering like a bombardment as the men hauled at the braces, their bodies straining back, angled down almost to the deck.

Round and further still, the yards swinging to hold the wind, the sails freed one by one to harden like steel breastplates until the ship was thrusting her shoulder in foam, her lower gunports awash along the lee side.

Bolitho ran from one section to the next, his hat knocked awry, his ears ringing with the squeal of blocks and the boom of canvas, and above all the groaning and vibrating chorus from every stay and shroud.

When he paused for breath he saw the outline of Sandy Hook sliding abeam, some men waiting in a small yawl to wave as the great ship stood over them.

He heard Cairns' voice again. ‘Get the t'gan'sls on her!'

Bolitho peered up the length of the mainmast with its great bending yards. He saw midshipmen in the tops, and seamen racing each other to set more canvas. When he looked aft again he saw Bunce with his hands thrust behind him, his face like carved rock as he watched over his ship. Then he nodded very slowly. That was as near to satisfaction as Bolitho had ever seen him display.

He pictured the ship as she would look from the land, her fierce, glaring figurehead, the Trojan warrior with the redcrested helmet. Spray bursting up and over the beakhead and bowsprit, the massive black and buff hull glistening and reflecting the cruising whitecaps alongside, as if to wash herself clean from the land.

Probyn's voice sounded raw as he shouted at his men to secure the second anchor. He would need plenty to drink after this, Bolitho thought.