Band of Brothers

5

Bolitho clambered through the main hatch, and seized a stanchion as he steadied himself against the angle of the deck and waited for his vision to clear. The night was pitch black, the air and spray stinging his cheeks, driving away all thoughts of sleep. And that was the odd thing, that he was still wide awake. It was eight o’clock, and a full eight hours since Hotspur had weighed anchor and struck south into the Channel. The thrill and confusion, groping for unfamiliar cordage and becoming more accustomed to the schooner’s demands in a brisk north-westerly wind, had settled into a pattern of order and purpose.

They were divided into two watches, four hours on, four off, with the dogwatches giving a brief respite in which to devour a hot meal and fortify themselves with a tot of rum. It all helped.

Verling was handing over the watch now, his tall shape just visible against the sliver of foam beyond the lee bulwark. ‘Sou’ east-by-south, Mr. Egmont. She should be steady a while now that the topsails are snug.’ The merest pause, and Bolitho imagined him staring down at the junior lieutenant, making sure that there was no misunder-standing. ‘Call me immediately if the sea gets up, or anything else happens that I ought to know.’

Bolitho moved closer to the wheel and the two helmsmen. He could see the bare feet of one, pale against the wet planking. During the first dogwatch he had seen the same seaman blowing onto his fingers to warm them against the bitter air, but he was standing barefoot now with no show of discomfort. He must have soles like leather.

Another shadow moved past the wheel and he saw a face catch the glow from the compass box: Andrew Sewell, the new midshipman. They had scarcely spoken since they had come aboard; Egmont had seen to that. Fifteen years old, Captain Conway had said. He looked younger. Nervous, shy, or possibly both, he was a pleasant-faced youth with fair skin and hazel eyes, and a quick smile that seemed only too rare. He had helped Bolitho lay out some charts in the precise way that Verling always seemed to expect. It had been then, in the poor light of the main cabin, that Bolitho had seen Sewell’s hands. Scarred, torn and deeply bruised, never given the chance to become accustomed to the demands of seamanship. Deliberately driven seemed the most likely explanation; it was common enough even in today’s navy. He remembered the captain’s obvious concern for him, perhaps not merely because of his dead father.

Bolitho reached out impulsively and touched his elbow.

‘Over here, Andrew! A bit more sheltered!’ He felt him start to pull away, and added, ‘Easy, now.’

Sewell let his arm go limp.

‘I’ve just been sick again, Mister…’

‘“Dick” will do very well.’ He waited, sensing the caution, the doubt. Sewell did not belong here. Suppose I had felt like that when I was packed off to sea in Manxman?

He looked up and watched the fine curve of the great sail above them. Not shapeless now, and pale blue in a shaft of light as the moon showed itself between banks of scudding cloud. And the sea, rising and falling like black glass, reaching out on either beam. Endless, with no horizon.

Bolitho tugged the rough tarpaulin coat away from his neck. It had rubbed his skin raw, but he had not noticed.

He said, ‘This could be the middle of the Atlantic, or some other great ocean! And just us sailing across it, think of that.’

Sewell said, ‘You mean that,’ and hesitated, ‘Dick? How you truly see it?’

‘I suppose I do. I can’t really explain…’ Something made him stop, like a warning, as he felt Sewell move slightly away.

‘Nothing to do, then?’ It was Egmont, almost invisible in a boat cloak against the black water and heavy cloud. ‘I want a good watch kept at all times. Have you checked the deck log and the set course?’

Bolitho replied, ‘Sou’ east-by-south, sir. Helm is steady.’

Egmont turned toward Sewell.

‘Did I hear you spewing up again? God help us all! I want you to check the glass yourself. Let every grain of sand run free before you turn it, see? I don’t want you warming the glass every time, just so you can run below and dream of home. So do it!’

He glanced at the wheel as the spokes creaked again.

‘Watch your helm, man! And stand up smartly, stay alert!’ He swung away, the boat cloak floating around him. ‘What’s your name? I’ll be watching you!’

The seaman shifted his bare feet on the grating.

‘Archer.’

Egmont looked at Bolitho. ‘I’m going below to check the chart. Watch the helm and call me if you need advice.’

He may have looked at the helmsman. ‘And, Archer, say sir when you speak to an officer in the future!’ He strode to the hatch.

Bolitho clenched his fist.

Then try to act like one!

He heard Sewell gasp, with surprise or disbelief, and realised that he had spoken aloud.

But he smiled, glad he was still able.

‘Something else you’ve learned in Hotspur, Mister Sewell! Don’t lose your temper so easily!’

Andrew Sewell, aged fifteen, and the only son of a hero, said nothing. It was like a hand reaching out, and he was no longer afraid to take it.

The helmsman named Archer called, ‘Wind’s gettin’ up, sir!’

He jerked his head as the wet canvas rattled and cracked loudly above them.

Bolitho nodded. ‘My respects to Mr. Egmont…’ The mood was still on him. ‘No. I’ll tell him myself.’

Tired, elated, angry? Sailors often blamed it on the wind.

He reached the hatch and called back, ‘Remember! No passengers!’

The wheel jerked sharply as both helmsmen gripped the spokes and put their weight against it, but the one named Archer managed to laugh.

‘Easy does it, Tom. Our Dick’s blood is on the boil. He’ll see us right!’

Vague figures were moving to each mast, the watch on deck, and ready for the storm.

Andrew Sewell had heard the quick exchange between the two men at the wheel and felt something quite unknown to him. It was envy.

The next few hours were ones even the old Jacks were unlikely to forget. A blustery succession of squalls became a strong wind that had all hands fighting each onslaught, bruised and blinded by icy spray and the waves that burst across the bulwarks and swept down the scuppers like a tiderace. All through the middle watch the storm continued its assault, until even the most vociferous curses were beaten into silence.

But when the clouds eventually broke and a first hint of dawn showed itself against straining canvas and the crisscross of shining rigging, Hotspur was holding her own, with not a spar or shroud broken.

Bolitho had remembered Tinker Thorne’s admiration for her builder, Old John Barstow, the finest in the West Country; he had clung to those words more than once in the night when the sea had smashed against the hull or sent men sprawling like rag dolls in its wake.

Tinker’s voice had rarely been silent, and his sturdy form was everywhere. Dragging a man from one task and shoving him into another, putting an extra pair of hands on halliard or brace, or bullying another too dazed to think clearly, to add his weight to the pumps.

And Verling was always there. Down aft, holding himself upright, while he watched the relentless battle of sea against rudder, wind against canvas.

A few men were injured, but none seriously, with cuts and bruises, or rope burns when human hands could no longer control wet cordage squealing through block or cleat.

And as suddenly as it had begun, the wind eased, and it was safe to move about the deck without pain or apprehension.

Bolitho heard Verling say, ‘Another hour, Mr. Egmont, and we’ll get the tops’Is on her. The wind’s backed a piece. I want a landfall on Guernsey, not the coast of France!’ Calmly said, but he was not joking. ‘Check and report any damage. Injuries, too. I’ll need it for my report.’ He patted the compass box. ‘Not bad for a youngster, eh?’

Egmont hurried forward, his boat cloak plastered to his body like a mould. In the poor light it was hard to gauge his reaction to the storm.

‘’Ere, sir.’ Bolitho felt a mug pushed into his frozen fingers. ‘Get yer blood movin’ again!’

Rum, cognac, it could have been anything, but it began to work instantly.

‘Thank you, Drury – just in time!’ The seaman laughed. Like Bolitho, he was probably surprised that he had remembered his name.

Dancer joined him by the foremast and clapped his shoulder.

‘Well, that’s all over, Dick!’ His smile was very white against wind-seared features. ‘’Til the next time!’

They both looked up. The masthead pendant was just visible against the banks of low cloud, flicking out like a coachman’s whip, but not bar-taut as it must have been for the past few hours.

Dancer said, ‘I’ll not be sorry to see the sun again!’

‘Here? In January?’ They both laughed, and a sailor who was squatting by the forward hatch while his leg was being bandaged stared up at them and grinned.

Tinker had heard Verling’s words to Egmont, and Bolitho saw that he was already mustering some of his topmen, getting ready to loose the topsails. Hotspur would fly when that was done. Like the great seabird of his imagination.

‘Go below, one of you, and fetch my glass!’

Bolitho called, ‘Aye, sir!’ and nudged his friend’s arm. ‘You stay and watch for the sun!’ Dancer’s coat sleeve was heavy with spray.

Dancer saw the question in his eyes and shrugged. ‘I put my tarpaulin over one of the injured.’

Bolitho said, ‘You would!’

It was deserted below deck, although he could hear men shouting to one another as they put new lashings on some of the stores Hotspur was carrying as additional ballast. He paused to listen to the sea, sluicing and thudding against the hull. Quieter now, but still menacing, showing its power.

He found Verling’s telescope, just inside the tiny cabin which would be the new master’s domain and, when necessary, his retreat.

Verling’s coat was hanging on a hook, swaying with the motion like a restless spectre. When Hotspur anchored again, he would go ashore as a well turned-out sea officer, not as a survivor. It was impossible to see him in any other light.

He stiffened, surprised that he had not heard it before. Sewell’s voice, husky, even cowed.

‘I didn’t, sir. I was only trying to…’

He got no further, cut short by Egmont, angry, malicious, sarcastic.

‘What d’ you mean, you couldn’t help it? You make me sick, and you still believe that anybody will ever accept you for a commission?’ He was laughing now; Bolitho could see him in his mind. Barely out of the midshipmen’s berth himself, and he was behaving like a tyrant.

‘I’ve been watching you, and do you think I’ve not guessed what you’re trying to do?’ There was another sound. A slap. ‘And if I see you again…’

Bolitho did not know he had moved. It was like the actors in the square at Falmouth; they had all watched them as children, had cheered or hissed to match the mimes and poses.

Egmont swinging round to stare at him, mouth half open, cut short by the interruption, one hand still in the air, after the blow, or preparing another. Sewell, leaning against the curved timbers, covering his cheek or mouth, but his eye fixed on Bolitho.

‘What th’ hell are you doing here?’

Almost as if he had imagined it. Egmont quite calm now, arms at his sides, swaying to the motion, but in control. And the young midshipman, saying nothing, his face guarded, expressionless. Only the red welt by his mouth as evidence.

Bolitho said, ‘I came for the first lieutenant’s glass.’ It was like hearing someone else. Clipped, cold. Like Hugh.

‘Well, don’t just stand there! Take it and go!’

Bolitho looked past him. ‘Are you all right, Andrew?’

Sewell swallowed, and seemed unable to speak. Then he nodded and exclaimed, ‘Yes, of course. It was nothing, you see…’

Egmont snapped, ‘Hold your tongue!’ and turned to Bolitho again. ‘Go about your duties. I’ll overlook your insolence this time, but…’ He did not finish it, but swung round and left the cabin.

They stood facing each other, without speaking or moving, the sounds of rigging and sea distant, unintrusive.

‘Tell me, Andrew.’ Bolitho reached out to take his arm, and saw him flinch as if he expected another blow. ‘He struck you, and just before that…’

He got no further.

‘No. It would only make things worse. D’you think I don’t know? What it’s like – really like?’

Bolitho felt the anger rising like fire. Egmont’s shock when he had burst into this cabin, and then as quickly, his recovery and arrogance. He could still feel Sewell’s arm; it was shaking. Fear? It went deeper than that.

He said, ‘I’ll come aft with you right now. Mr. Verling will listen. He has to. And in any case…’

But Sewell was shaking his head.

‘No.’ He looked at him directly for the first time. ‘It wouldn’t help.’ Then, quite firmly, he pried Bolitho’s fingers from his arm. ‘He would deny it. And… so would I.’

Someone was shouting; feet thudded across the deck overhead. He still held Verling’s telescope in his other hand. Nothing was making sense.

Sewell was fumbling with his coat, trying to fasten his buttons, not looking at him now. ‘You will be a good officer, Dick, a fine one. I see the way they respect you, and like you. I always hoped…’

He moved abruptly to the door, and to the ladder beyond.

Bolitho stood very still, his anger giving way to a sense of utter defeat. Because of what he had just seen and heard, and because it mattered.

There were more shouts, and he found himself on the ladder as if it were an escape. But he kept seeing Sewell’s face, and his fear. He needed help. And I failed him.

On deck, it seemed nothing had happened, routine taking over as seamen jostled at their stations for making more sail. Hotspur had altered course again, the canvas shivering and cracking, the main and gaff topsails taut across the bulwark, throwing broken reflections across the water alongside.

‘Loose tops’ls! Lively there!’

Verling called, ‘Give it to me!’ He seized the telescope and trained it across the weather bow. ‘Thought you’d fallen outboard. Where the hell were you?’ He did not wait for an answer or seem to expect one, and was already calling to men by the foremast.

Egmont was near the wheel, shading his eyes to peer up at the topsail yards. He glanced only briefly at Bolitho before returning his attention to the newly released sails as they filled and hardened to the wind. Disinterested. Bolitho heard Sewell’s voice again. He would deny it. And so would I.

‘All secure, sir!’ That was Tinker, eyes like slits as he stared at the small figures on the yards, groping their way back to safety.

Most of the sea was still hidden in darkness, but the sky was lighter, and in so short a time the vessel had taken shape and regained her personality around and above them, faces and voices emerging from groups and shadows.

Bolitho felt the deck plunge beneath him, exuberant, like the wild creature she was. Hotspur would make a fine and graceful sight even in this poor light, with all sails set and filled, the yards bending like bows under the strain.

‘Now that was something, Dick!’ It was Dancer, hatless, his fair hair plastered across a forehead gleaming with spray.

Verling said, ‘Send half of the hands below, Mr. Egmont. Get some food into them. And don’t be too long about it.’ His mind was already moving on. ‘Two good masthead lookouts.’ He must have sensed a question, and added, ‘One man sees only what he expects to see if he’s left alone too long.’ His arm shot out. ‘Mr. Bolitho, you stand by. I need some keen eyes this morning!’ He might even have smiled. ‘This is no two-decker!’

Bolitho felt his stomach muscles tighten. Even the mention of climbing aloft could still make his skin crawl.

Verling was saying, ‘Take my glass with you. I’ll tell you what to watch out for.’

Dancer said softly, ‘I hope I’m as confident as he is when I’m told to take a ship from one cross on the chart to another. Nothing ever troubles him.’

They went below, and suddenly he grasped Bolitho’s arm and pulled him against the galley bulkhead.

‘I’ve been thinking. You remember what Captain Conway said about young Sewell’s experiences in previous ships? One of them was the Ramillies, wasn’t it, in the Downs Squadron? Where everything started to go against him.’

Bolitho said nothing, waiting. It was as if Dancer had just been with him. Then he said cautiously, ‘What about Ramillies?’

‘Something I heard a minute ago made me stop and think. Surprised Conway didn’t know.’ He turned as if to listen as someone hurried past. ‘Our Mister Egmont was a middy on board at the same time as Sewell. A bully even then, to all accounts.’

More figures were slipping and clattering down the ladder, jostling one another and laughing, fatigue and injuries forgotten until the next call.

Bolitho said, ‘Then I’ve just made an enemy,’ and told him what had happened.

Someone ducked his head through the hatch. Bolitho could see his face clearly despite the lingering gloom between decks.

‘What is it?’

‘Mr. Verling wants you on deck, sir.’ A quick grin. ‘“Fast as you like”, ’e says!’

In the silence that followed, Dancer said lightly, ‘Then I’m sorry to say Egmont’s made another enemy. He seems to have a talent for it.’

They reached the upper deck together. There was more cloud than earlier, rain too.

Dancer exclaimed, ‘Thunder! Not another storm, I hope.’

Bolitho looked at him. The bond between them was even stronger.

‘Not on your oath, Martyn. That was cannon fire!’