In Gallant Company (38 page)

The prize-crew got down to work in grim earnest, bringing the ship's head to the south as the wind backed and pushed them hard over, the yards braced round until they would not shift another inch.

Bolitho discarded his hat and coat and stood beside the unprotected wheel, his ears ringing to the roar of wind and sea, his whole body soaking with spray.

It was lucky the
White Hills
carried a spare main-topsail, he thought. The one which had been torn apart by
Trojan
's first shot had been saved for patching but was useless for anything more.

Under reefed topsails and jib, the
White Hills
ran closehauled to the south, away from the islands and danger.

Quinn, stiff-faced and barely speaking, worked with the hands on deck, and without him Bolitho wondered what he would have done. Couzens had the determination and loyalty of ten men, but experience in handling rigging and sails in a full gale he had not.

Stockdale came aft and joined the two hands at the wheel. Like Bolitho he was drenched to the skin, his clothing stained by tar and salt. He grinned through the drifting streamers of spindrift and bobbed his head at Bolitho.

‘Real little lady, ain't she?'

For most of the day they ran with the wind, but towards sunset the strength fell away, and later still the bruised and breathless seamen managed to get aloft and set both mainsail and forecourse. The additional bulging area of canvas pushed the hull over further still, but held her steadier, and more firmly on course.

Bolitho shouted to Quinn, ‘Take over! I'm going below!'

After the noise and confusion on deck it seemed almost quiet once he had lowered himself through the companionway.

How small she seemed after
Trojan
's great girth. He groped his way aft to the cabin, a miniature of Pears' quarters. It was barely large enough to contain Pears' table, he thought. But it looked inviting, and too new to show signs of a previous owner.

He reeled as the sea boiled and thundered along the quarter, and then managed to reach the stern windows. There was nowhere in the cabin, apart from a battened-down skylight, where
he could stand upright. What it was like in the messes, he could well imagine. As a midshipman he had once served in a brig very similar to this one. Fast, lively, and never still.

He wondered what had happened to Tracy's other command, the captured brig which he had renamed
Revenge
. Still attacking British convoys and stalking rich cargoes for ready prize-money.

The cabin door banged open and Moffitt lurched through it carrying a jug of rum.

He said, ‘Mr Frowd thought you might like a drop, sir.'

Bolitho disliked rum, but he needed something. He swallowed it in a gulp, almost choking.

‘Mr Frowd, is he all right?' He must visit him soon, but now he was needed and would have to return to the deck.

Moffitt took the empty goblet and grinned at it admiringly. ‘Aye, sir. I've got him propped in a cot in his cabin. He'll be safe enough.'

‘Good. Get Buller for me.'

Bolitho lay back, feeling the stern rising and then sliding down beneath him, the sea shaking the rudder like a piece of driftwood.

Buller came into the cabin, his head lowered to avoid the beams.

‘Zur?'

‘You take charge of the victuals. Find someone who can cook. If the wind drops some more we'll get the galley fire re-lit and put something hot into our bellies.'

Buller showed his strong teeth. ‘Right away, zur.' Then he too was gone.

Bolitho sighed, the aroma of rum around him like a drug. Chain of command. And he must begin it. No one else was here to goad or encourage his efforts.

His head lolled and he jerked it up with sudden disgust. Like George Probyn. That was a fine beginning. He jumped up and gasped as his head crashed against a beam. But it sobered him even more quickly.

He made his way forward, swaying and feeling his balance with each jubilant lunge of the brig's bowsprit.

Tiny cabins on either side of a small, square space. The
wardroom. Stores, and shot garlands, swaying ranks of pod-like hammocks. The ship smelt new, right down to her mess tables, her great coils of stout cable in the tier forward.

He found the wounded Tracy in a cot, swinging in a tiny cabin which was still unfinished. A red-eyed seaman sat in one corner, a pistol between his feet.

Bolitho peered at the figure in the cot. About thirty, a powerful, hard-faced man, who despite his terrible wound and loss of blood still looked very much alive. But with his arm torn off at the point of the shoulder he would not be much trouble.

He glanced at the sentry and said, ‘Watch him, all the same.'

The other wounded men were quiet enough, bandaged, and cushioned from the fierce motion by spare hammocks, blankets and clothing from the brig's store.

He paused by a wildly swinging lantern, feeling their pain, their lack of understanding. Again, he was ashamed for thinking of his own reward. They on the other hand knew only that they were being carried away from their ship, which good or bad, had been their home. And to where? Some home-bound vessel, and then what? Put ashore, just another cluster of crippled sailors. Heroes to some, figures of fun to others.

‘There'll be some hot food along soon, lads.'

A few heads turned to look at him. One man he recognized as Gallimore, a seaman employed as a painter aboard the
Trojan
. He had been badly injured by canister during the attack on the yawl. He had lost most of his right hand, and had been hit in the face by wood splinters.

He managed to whisper, ‘Where we goin', sir?'

Bolitho knelt down on the deck beside him. The man was dying. He did not know how he knew, or why. Others nearby were more badly hurt, yet bore their pain with defiant, even surly resignation. They would survive.

He said, ‘English Harbour. The surgeons there will help you. You'll see.'

The man reached out, seeking Bolitho's hand. ‘Oi don't want to die, sir. Oi got a wife an' children in Plymouth.' He tried to shake his head. ‘Oi mustn't die, sir.'

Bolitho felt a catch in his throat. Plymouth. It might just as well be Russia.

‘Rest easy, Gallimore.' He withdrew his hand carefully. ‘You are with your friends.'

He walked aft again to the companionway, bent almost double in the space between decks.

The wind and spray were almost welcome. He found Couzens with Stockdale by the wheel, while Quinn was groping along the forecastle with two seamen.

Stockdale said gruffly, ‘All 'oldin' firm, sir. Mr Quinn is lookin' at the weather braces.' He peered up at the dark sky. ‘Wind's backed a piece more. Fallin' off, too.'

The bows lifted towards the sky, then came down in a trough with a shuddering lurch. It was enough to hurl a man from the yards, had there been one up there.

Stockdale muttered, ‘Must be bad for the lads below, sir.'

Bolitho nodded. ‘Gallimore's dying, I think.'

‘I know, sir.'

Stockdale eased the spokes and studied the quivering maintopsail, the canvas ballooning out as if to tear itself from the yard.

Bolitho glanced at him. Of course, Stockdale would have known. He had lived with suffering for most of his life. Death would seem familiar, recognizable.

Quinn came aft along the pale deck, staggering to each swooping dip across the troughs.

He shouted, ‘The larboard anchor was working free, but we've catted it home again!'

Bolitho replied, ‘Get below. Work out two watches for me, and I'll discuss it with you later.'

Quinn shook his head. ‘I don't want to be on my own. I must do something.'

Bolitho thought of the man from Plymouth. ‘Go to the wounded, James. Take some rum, or anything you can find in the cabin, and issue it to those poor devils.'

There was no sense in telling him about Gallimore. Let the dying man join his companions in a last escape. The sailor's balm for everything.

A seaman, accompanied by Buller, ducked down the companion ladder, and Bolitho saw it was a swarthy Italian named Borga. It seemed as if Buller had already chosen a cook, and
Bolitho hoped it was a wise decision. Hot food in a seaman's belly after fisting canvas and trying to stay inboard was one thing, but some foreign concoction might spark off a brawl. He glanced at Stockdale and smiled to himself. If so, it would soon be dealt with.

Another hour, and the stars appeared, the scudding clouds driven off like fleeing vagrants.

Bolitho felt the deck becoming steadier, and wondered what tomorrow would be like, how Bunce would have predicted it.

As promised, a hot meal was produced and issued first to the wounded, and then to the seamen as they were relieved from watch in small groups.

Bolitho ate his with relish, although what he was having he did not know. Boiled meat, oatmeal, ground biscuit, it was also laced with rum. It was like nothing he had ever had, but at that moment would have graced any admiral's table.

To Couzens he said, ‘Are you sorry for your eagerness to join the
White Hills
?'

Couzens shook his head, his stomach creaking with Borga's first meal.

‘Wait till I get home, sir. They'll never believe it.'

Bolitho pictured Quinn, sitting below with the wounded, and thought of Pears writing a letter to his father.
He tried
.

He thought too of the despatches he was carrying from Captain Pears to the admiral at Antigua. It was probably safer not to know what Pears had said about him, although it would certainly affect his immediate future. But he still did not really understand Pears, only that under his command he had learned more than he had first realized.

Bolitho stared up at the sky. ‘I think we've seen the worst of it. Better fetch Mr Quinn on deck.'

Couzens watched him and blurted out, ‘I can stand watch, sir.'

Stockdale grinned lazily. ‘Aye, sir, he can at that. I'll be on deck, too.' He hid his grin from the midshipman. ‘Though I'll not be needed, I'm thinkin'.'

‘Very well.' Bolitho smiled. ‘Call me if you're in any doubt.'

He lowered himself through the companionway, glad he had given Couzens the opportunity to face responsibility, surprised
too that he had been able to trust him without hesitation.

As he found his way to his small cabin, he heard Frowd snoring loudly and the clatter of a goblet rolling back and forth across the deck.

Tomorrow would be a lot of hard work. First to try to estimate their position and drift, then to set a new course which with luck would carry them to the Leeward Islands and Antigua.

On the chart it did not seem so far, but the prevailing winds would be against them for much of the passage, and it could take days to make good the loss of being driven south.

And once in Antigua, what then? Would the French lieutenant still be there, taking lonely walks in the sun, on his honour not to try and escape?

He laid down on the bench beneath the stern windows, ready to run on deck at the first unusual sound. But Bolitho was fast asleep in a matter of seconds.

It was noon, two days after leaving the
Trojan
, but a lifetime of new experiences and problems.

The weather was less demanding now, and the
White Hills
was leaning over on the larboard tack, with even her big spanker set and filled by the wind. The vessel felt clean and dry after the storm, and the makeshift routine which Bolitho had worked out with Quinn and Frowd was performing well.

Frowd was on deck, seated on a hatch cover, his leg propped before him as a constant reminder.

Couzens stood by the wheel, while Bolitho and Quinn checked their sextants and compared calculations.

He saw the seaman Dunwoody walk to the lee bulwark and hurl a bucket of slops over the side. He had just emerged from the forecastle, so had probably been with Gallimore. He had still not died, but had been moved to the cable tier, the only place where the stench of the great slimy rope was matched by his own. His wound had gone gangrenous, and it seemed impossible for any man to stand the misery of it.

Quinn said wearily, ‘I think we are both right, sir. With the wind staying as it is, we should make a landfall the day after tomorrow.'

Bolitho handed his instrument to Couzens. So it was
sir
again. The last link broken.

He said, ‘I agree. We may sight the island of Nevis tomorrow, and after that it will be a hard beat all the way across to Antigua.'

He felt a sharp sense of loss. The thought of losing the
White Hills
seemed unbearable. It was ridiculous of course. Just a few days, but what confidence she had given him, or had discovered in him.

Bolitho glanced along the sunlit deck. Even that no longer seemed so narrow and confined after
Trojan
's spacious gundeck.

Some of the wounded were resting in the shade, chatting quietly, or watching the other hands at work with professional interest.

Bolitho asked quietly, ‘What will you do, James?'

Quinn looked away. ‘As my father pleases, I expect. I seem to have the knack of obeying orders.' He faced Bolitho suddenly. ‘One day. If you want to, I – I mean, if you have nowhere to go, would you care to see me?'

Bolitho nodded, wanting to strip away his despair. It was killing him with no less mercy than Gallimore's wounds.

‘I will be happy to, James.' He smiled. ‘Although I've no doubt your father will think badly of a mere lieutenant in his house. I expect you'll be a rich merchant by the time I get to London.'

Quinn studied him anxiously. Something in Bolitho's tone seemed to comfort him and he said, ‘I thank you for that. And much more.'

‘Deck there! Sail on the weather bow!'

Bolitho stared up at the look-out. He tried to see the
White Hills
like a cross on a chart. There were so many islands, French, British, Dutch. This sail could be any kind of ship.