In Gallant Company

12

Rivals

The day after Rear-Admiral Coutts had shifted his flag to Trojan found Bolitho pacing the quarterdeck, keeping an eye on the forenoon watch and enjoying a fresh north-west breeze. During the night the big ninety-gun Resolute with the frigate in company had vanished astern, and would now be beating back towards New York, the wind making every mile a battle of its own.

For the Trojan things were different, as if Coutts' unexpected arrival had brought a change of circumstances. She must make a fine sight, Bolitho thought as his feet took him up and down the windward side without conscious effort. In her fair-weather canvas, and under courses, topsails and topgallants, she was leaning her shoulder into the blue water, throwing curtains of spray high above her beakhead.

The compass held steady at south, south-east, taking the powerful two-decker well away from the land, down towards the long chain of islands which separated the Atlantic from the Caribbean.

The wind held back the heat, and allowed the less badly wounded and injured men to move about the decks, to find themselves again in their own way. The remainder, some of whom might die before they reached Sandy Hook, had gone with the flagship, as had the prisoners, and Coutts' report of the attack.

Only one captive remained aboard, the Frenchman, Contenay. He took regular walks on deck without an escort, and seemed completely at home in a King's ship.

Bolitho had discovered that he still knew little about his own captain. The brief moments of contact, even warmth, upon his return to the ship had been replaced by Pears' usual stem, remote demeanour. Bolitho thought that the admiral's presence had a lot to do with it.

Coutts had appeared on deck this morning. Youthful, relaxed and apparently interested, he had strolled along the weather gangway, pausing to watch the bare-backed seamen at their work, the carpenter with his crew, the sailmaker and the cooper, the ship's tradesmen who daily changed a man-of-war into a busy street.

He had spoken to the officers and some of the senior hands. The Sage had been impressed by his knowledge of Arctic exploration, and Midshipman Forbes reduced to blushing incoherence by a few well-aimed questions.

If he was troubled at the doubtful prospect of running another enemy supply cache to earth, or at what the commanderin-chief might say at his behaviour, he certainly did not show it. His plans he kept to himself, and only Ackerman, his urbane flag lieutenant, the one Bolitho had seen in a cabin with a half-naked woman, and his personal clerk shared his confidences.

Bolitho decided that would also irritate Pears beyond measure.

A step fell on the deck nearby and Cairns joined him at the rail, his eyes taking in the working parties and the set of each sail with practised authority.

He said, 'The admiral is with our captain. I sense an air of grapeshot close by.' He turned and glanced meaningly at the poop skylight. 'I was glad to leave the great men.'

'No news yet?'

'Not much. Like D'Esterre, the admiral plays a taut hand. He will rise like a comet.' He gestured at the deck. 'Or fall like one.'

With Coutts aboard, Cairns also faced changes. The main result was that he shared more of his thoughts with his second lieutenant.

He added slowly, 'The captain was wanting to know why this ship and not Resolute was selected for the mission.' He smiled grimly. 'The admiral explained, as cool as you please, that Trojan is the faster vessel, and her company deserving of reward for their work.'

Bolitho nodded. 'I suppose so. Resolute has been out here far longer and has had few refits, I believe. She must be foul with weed.'

Cairns eyed him admiringly. 'We'll make a politician of you yet.' He waved Bolitho's confusion aside. 'You see, the backhanded compliment. Coutts lays on treacle with talk of reward and the better ship for the task, then in the next breath he gently reminds Captain Pears that his, own flagship is in truth the more deserving.'

Bolitho pursed his lips. 'That is clever.'

'It takes a rogue to recognize one, Dick.'

'In that case, what is the real reason?'

Cairns frowned. 'I suspect because he wants the flagship on her proper station. That would make sense. Also, he despatched Vanquisher as escort, and because she will be sorely needed elsewhere with the growth of privateers everywhere.'

He dropped his voice as Sambell, master's mate of the watch, strolled past with elaborate indifference on his tanned face.

'He will want to follow this plan to the end. Reap the reward, or cover the flaws as best he can. He would not trust our captain to act alone. And if things go disastrously badly, then he will need a scapegoat other than his own flag captain.' Cairns watched Bolitho's eyes. 'I see that you see.'

'I'll never understand this kind of reasoning.'

Cairns winked. 'One day, you'll be teaching it!'

More feet thudded on the sun-dried planking, and Bolitho saw Pears and the sailing master leaving the chart room, the latter carrying his leather satchel which he used to stow his navigational notes and instruments.

He looked much as usual, turning briefly to examine the compass and the two helmsmen, his eyes glittering in the sunlight beneath the great black brows.

Pears, by comparison, appeared tired and in ill humour, impatient to get whatever it was over and done with.

'We'll soon know where this blessed spot is to be, Dick.' Cairns loosened his neckcloth and sighed. 'I hope it is not another Fort Exeter.'

Bolitho watched the first lieutenant continue on his daily rounds, wondering if Cairns was still brooding over the chances of leaving Trojan and getting a ship of his own.

So far, Trojan's lieutenants had not fared very well away from her protection. Sparke killed, Probyn a prisoner of war, while Bolitho had returned each time like a wayward son.

He saw Quinn without his coat, his shirt sticking to his back like another skin, stepping between the busy sailmaker and his mates, his face still pale and strained. Eighteen years old, he looked far more. Bolitho thought. The savage slash across his chest still troubled him. You could see it in his walk and the tightness of his mouth. A constant reminder of other things, too. That moment at the fort when his nerve had failed, and by the guns when he had almost gone mad because of Rowhurst's scorn.

Midshipman Weston shouted suddenly, 'Spite's signalling, sir!'

Bolitho snatched a telescope from its rack and climbed swiftly into the weather shrouds. It took a few moments to find the little sloop-of-war, their only companion on this 'adventure', as Cairns had described it. The glass steadied on Spite's pale topgallant sails and the bright hoist of flags at her yards.

Weston was saying, 'From Spite. Sail in sight to the south'rd.'

Bolitho turned and looked at him. Weston was now the senior midshipman, and probably smarting at Pears' advice to promote Mr Frowd to acting lieutenant instead of him. Advice from a captain was as good as a command.

Bolitho felt almost sorry for Weston. Almost. Ungainly, overweight, belligerent. He would be a bad officer if he lived long enough.

'Very well. Keep watching Spite. I'll not inform the captain

yet.,

Bolitho continued his measured pacing. The air seemed fresh, but when you paused for too long you felt the sun's power right enough. His own shirt was sodden with sweat, and the scar across his shoulder stung like a snakebite.

The sloop's captain would be fretting and eager to be off on his own, he thought. Right now he would be watching the unknown sail, considering, translating details into facts to relay as well as he could with his signal book for his admiral's decision.

Half an hour passed. Smoke gushed from the galley funnel, and Molesworth, the purser, and his clerk appeared en route for the spirit store to check the daily issue of rum or brandy.

Some marines, who had been drilling on the forecastle, holding off imaginary boarders, marched aft and returned their pikes. There was also a small contingent of marines from the flagship to help fill the gaps until proper replacements could be obtained. Bolitho thought of all the little mounds on the island. Who would care?

Weston called, 'From Spite, sir. Disregard.'

Another small encounter. Most likely a Dutchman on her lawful occasions. Anyway, Cunningham of the Spite was satisfied. In fact, the strange sail had probably made off at full speed at the first sign of the sloop's topsails. It paid to be careful these days. The margin between friend and foe changed too often for over-confidence.

Stockdale crossed the quarterdeck on his way aft to the starboard battery.

As he passed he whispered, 'Admiral, sir.'

Bolitho stiffened and turned as Coutts walked out of the poop and into the glare.

Bolitho touched his hat, wondering briefly if Weston had deliberately failed to warn him.

Coutts smiled easily. "Morning, Bolitho, Still on watch, I

see.' He had a pleasant, even voice, unaffected.

Bolitho replied, 'A moment more, sir.'

Coutts took a glass and studied the far-off Spite for several

minutes.

'Good man, Cunningham. Should be posted soon with any luck.'

Bolitho said nothing, but thought of Cunningham's youth. His luck. With Coutts' blessing he would be made a full captain, and with the war going as it was he would make post rank within three years. Safe from demotion, on the road to higher things.

'I can hear your mind at work, Bolitho.' Coutts tossed the glass to Weston. Again, the action was casual, yet timed to the second. 'Do not fret. When your time arrives you will discover that a captain's life is not all claret and prize-money.' Just for a moment his eyes hardened. 'But the opportunities are there.

For those who will dare, and who do not use their orders as substitutes for initiative.'

Bolitho said, 'Yes, sir.'

He did not know what Coutts was implying. That there was hope for him? Or that he was merely revealing his feelings for Pears?

Coutts shrugged his shoulders and added, 'Dine with me tonight. I will have Ackerman invite a few others.'

Once more, Bolitho discerned the youthful devilment and touch of steel.

'In my quarters of course. I feel certain the captain will not object.'

He strolled away, nodding to Sambell and Weston as if they were yokels on the village green.

The hands were already gathering on the upper gundeck for the afternoon watch, and Bolitho knew that Dalyell would soon be here to relieve him. Unlike George Probyn, he was never late.

Bolitho was confused by what he had heard. He felt excited at Coutts' interest, yet uneasy because of it. It was like disloyalty to Pears. He smiled at his confusion. Pears probably didn't even like him, so what was the matter?

Dalyell appeared, blinking in the sunlight, some crumbs sticking to his coat.

'The watch is aft, sir.'

Bolitho eyed him gravely. 'Very well, Mr Dalyell.'

They both winked, their faces hidden from the men, their good spirits masked by the formality.

Quinn, on the larboard gangway, watched the two lieutenants as they supervised the usual milling confusion of changing watches. He had seen, and had felt, the ache of longing rising to match the pain of his wound. Bolitho had come out of it, or if not, had managed to put his memories behind him. While all he could do was to measure each step, calculate every action as he went along. He kept telling himself that his momentary defiance, his stand at the causeway had not been a fluke. That he had failed once, but had fought to retrieve and hold on to his pride again.

He felt that the ship's company were watching him, rating his confidence. It was why he was lingering on the gangway, waiting for Bolitho before he went below for the noon meal. Bolitho was his strength. His only chance, if chance there was.

Bolitho beckoned to him. 'Not hungry, James? And I am told that we have some fine beef today, barely a year or so in the cask!' He clapped Quinn on the shoulder. 'Make the best of it, eh?'

When Quinn faced him he saw the sudden gravity in Bolitho's eyes and knew his words had nothing to do with food.

With her yards re-trimmed and her great spread of canvas filling and banging in the wind, Trojan settled down on her new tack.

Bolitho looked at Cairns and touched his hat. 'Steady as she goes, sir.'

Cairns nodded. 'Dismiss the watch below, if you please.' As the seamen and the afterguard hurried thankfully below,

Bolitho glanced quickly at Pears, who was with the admiral on

the weather side of the quarterdeck.

It was another fiery sunset, and against it the two men were in silhouette, their faces hidden. But there was no mistaking Coutts' irritation, Pears' dogged stubbornness.

It all seemed a long, long way from the relaxed supper in the great cabin. Coutts had kept the wit and conversation going with little pause, except to recharge the glasses. He had enthralled the young lieutenants with stories of intrigue and corruption in the New York military government. Of the grand houses in London, the men, and in many cases the ladies who held the reins of power.

Once Pears and the sailing master had concluded their calculations, the ship's destination and purpose had gone through each deck like a bolt of lightning.

There was a small island, one of a group, which lay in the passage between Santa Domingo and Puerto Rico. Avoided by all but the most experienced navigators, it would seem to be the ideal place for transferring arms and powder to Washington 's growing fleet of supply vessels.

A s Coutts had discussed his hopes for a swift ending of the mission, Bolitho and most of the others had sensed his eagerness, his excitement at the prospect of a quick victory. He had known that nothing could outpace him with a warning, no horseman to carry the word that the British were coming. Not this time. With the vast Atlantic at his back, the keen-eyed Spite sweeping well ahead, Coutts had had good reason for confidence.

But that had been fifteen days ago. The delays had been unavoidable, but nevertheless had put a marked strain on Coutts and his officers. Several times Trojan had been forced to lie to while Spite made off under full sail to investigate a strange vessel and then beat the weary miles round again and make her report. The wind too had backed and veered as _ Bunce had predicted, but had on the whole favoured their slow advance.

Now, with another sunset closing over the ship, Bolitho could sense a growing impatience, even anger in Coutts' quick movements with head and hands.

Once more Spite had been sent ahead to discover if the tiny island was in fact the one described in Paget's documents. If it was, Cunningham was to put a boat ashore and if possible discover the strength of the enemy there. If there was nothing at all, he was to report back instantly. Either way, he should have returned by now. With darkness closing in with its usual swiftness, it was very unlikely they would make contact until tomorrow. Another day. More anxiety.

He stiffened and touched his hat as Pears strode past, his feet thudding loudly on the planking. The slam of the chart room door was further evidence of his mood.

Bolitho waited, knowing Coutts was going to speak with him.

'A long day, Bolitho.'

'Aye, sir.' Bolitho faced him, trying to discover the man's feelings. 'But the glass is steady. We should be able to maintain our tack during the night.'

Coutts had not heard. He rested his hands on the quarterdeck rail and stared down intently at the larboard battery of eighteenpounders. He was without his hat, and his hair was blowing across his forehead to make him appear even younger.

He asked quietly, 'Are you like the others? Do you think me a fool to press on with this mission, a task which has no more substance than a scrap of paper?'

'I am only a lieutenant, sir. I was not aware of any doubt.'

Coutts laughed bitterly. 'Doubt? God, man, there's a mountain of it!'

Bolitho waited, feeling the admiral's urgency, his frustration.

Coutts said, 'When you reach flag rank you believe the world is yours. You are only partly right. I was a frigate captain, and good at my work.'

'I know, sir.'

'Thank you.' Coutts seemed surprised. 'Most people look at an admiral and seem to think he has never been anything else, not an ordinary man at all.' He pointed vaguely through Trojan's black web of shrouds and stays. 'But I believe the information is true. Otherwise I would not have risked my ships and my reputation. I do not care what some soft-spoken official from London thinks of me. I want to get this war over, with more cards on our side than across the enemy's table.' He was speaking quickly, his hands moving eloquently to describe his feelings, his fears. `Each extra day brings more enemies against us. Ships to seek out and bring to battle. We have no squadrons to spare, but the enemy's agility is such that we must match his every move. No merchantman is safe without escort. We have even been forced to send armed vessels to the Davis Strait to protect our whaling ships! It is no time for the timid, or the one who waits for the enemy to act first.'

His terse, emphatic manner of speaking, of sharing his thoughts, was something new to Bolitho. It was like seeing the world, his world, opening up to reach far beyond the ship's hull, and further still to every sea where Britain 's authority was being challenged.

'I was wondering, sir.' Bolitho hesitated and then added, 'Why you did not request ships to be sent from Antigua? We have sailed four times the distance it would have taken the vessels which patrol from there.'

Coutts watched him, his face in shadow, saying nothing, as if he were seeking some criticism in Bolitho's question.

Then he said, 'I could have sent Spite to the admiral at Antigua. It would have been faster certainly.' He turned away.

'But would they have acted? I think not. The affairs in New York and the threat of Washington 's armies seem a long way off in the Caribbean. Only the commander-in-chief could have made a request, and with Sir George Helpman at his elbow, I doubt he would have done more than enter it in his report for the Admiralty.'

Bolitho understood. It was one thing to hear of a victorious sea fight, but nothing to match the sight of a beaten enemy being brought into port, her flag beneath the British ensign.

Coutts had evidence, but that was insufficient. Too many men had died so far to warrant another haphazard scheme. And with Probyn's prize being re-taken by the enemy, even the destruction of Fort Exeter might appear unimportant in far-off London.

But a sharp, determined attack on a supply base, right under the noses of the French who were flaunting their neutrality like a false flag, might sway the balance. Especially if successfully completed before anyone could say no.

Coutts seemed to read his thoughts. 'Remember this, Bolitho. When you attain high rank, never ask what you shall do. The superior minds of Admiralty tend to say no, rather than encourage risk, which might disturb their rarified existence. Even if you put your career and your life in jeopardy, do as you believe is right, and in the manner best for your country. Acting merely to placate your superiors is living a lie.'

Pears loomed through the dimming light and said harshly, 'We will shorten sail in one hour, Mr Bolitho. But I'll not lie to. There's too much current for comfort hereabouts.' He looked at the admiral and added curtly, 'We shall need to be on station for Spite's return.'

Coutts took Pears' arm and guided him away, but not far enough for Bolitho to miss the anger in his voice as he snapped, 'By God, you drive me too hard, Captain! I'll brook no insolence from you, or anyone else, d'you hear?'

Pears rumbled something, but they were out of earshot.

Bolitho saw Couzens, his face glowing in the compass light as he wrote his entry on the master's mate's slate. He seemed to symbolize something. Youth, innocence or ignorance, whichever way you looked at it. They were all being carried forward to what might easily turn into a disaster. Coutts' determination to win might soon give way to grasping straws. Pears' mistrust of his superior could do for all of them just as easily.

Bolitho was torn between them. He admired Coutts more than he could say. Yet he could understand Pears' more cautious approach. The old and the new. One man at the peak of his career, whereas the admiral saw himself in a far greater role in the not too distant future.

He heard Cairns on the upper gundeck speaking with Tolcher, the boatswain.

Discussing tomorrow's routine which could never be allowed to falter. Not in war or peace, and no matter what kind of man walked the poop in lordly silence. The ship came first. Tomorrow, and all the other tomorrows. Painting to be done, a man to be flogged, another to be promoted, rigging and spars to be overhauled. It never ceased.

He remembered suddenly what Probyn had said about taking full advantage of any chance which offered itself. It was as if he had heard him speak aloud.

Well, Cairns would be off the ship soon. Even Pears could not refuse the next time. Bolitho sighed, finding no comfort in the fact that in a matter of weeks or days he might be doing Cairns ' work until Pears could find himself a more experienced replacement.

Cairns would make a good commander. Fair, firm and intelligent. A few more like him and there would be victories enough to satisfy everyone, he thought bitterly.

Midshipman Couzens crossed the deck and asked, 'Will we see any more action, sir?'

Bolitho considered it.

'You know as much as I.'

Couzens stepped back to hide his expression. He had seen Bolitho discussing important matters with the admiral. Naturally he would not allow himself to share such privileged information with a mere midshipman. But that Bolitho knew that he knew was almost as good as sharing it, he thought.

To everyone's relief, and no little surprise, the Spite's topsails were reported by the masthead look-out within minutes of the first dawn light. A tiny, pale pyramid of sails, drawing nearer and nearer with such maddening slowness that Bolitho could sense the mood around him like a threat.

The decks were holystoned, and the hands had their breakfast washed down with beer. Then they mustered for the many tasks throughout the ship, and more than one petty officer had to use threats and brute force to stop his men from peering outboard to see how much nearer the sloop had come.

When she had beaten as close as she could manage, she went about and lay hove to under Trojan's lee, and a boat was dropped smartly in the water to carry Cunningham in person to make his report.

Bolitho stood with the side party to receive the youthful commander, and did not envy him at all. He had seen Coutts pacing the poop and staring at the Spite, and had also felt Pears' harsh reprimands more than once during the morning about matters which at any other time he would have thought too trivial for comment.

But Cunningham showed no anxiety as he climbed through the entry port and doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and saluting marines. His eyes passed over Bolitho without even a blink of recognition and then he strode aft to meet the captain.

Later, Bolitho was summoned to the great cabin, where he found Cairns already waiting with the flag lieutenant.

He was not really surprised at being called aft. It was customary for the first lieutenant and his immediate subordinate to be invited, if only to listen, when some important manoeuvre was to be undertaken.

They could hear Pears' voice from the dining cabin, loud and angry, and Cunningham's clipped, almost matter of fact tone as he explained something.

Cairns looked at Lieutenant Ackerman. 'They seem to be in a sour mood today.'

Ackerman kept his face blank. 'The admiral will have his way.'

A screen door was thrust open and the three other men entered the cabin abruptly, like late arrivals in a theatre.

Bolitho looked at Coutts. Gone was the uncertainty.

He said lightly, 'Well, gentlemen, Major Paget's piece of intelligence has proved its worth.' He nodded to Cunningham. 'Tell them.'

Cunningham explained how he had discovered the little island, and under cover of darkness had put a landing party ashore. It had taken longer than expected, but after sighting wood-smoke he had guessed there were people there and every care had to be taken to avoid detection.

Bolitho guessed he had been rehearsing that part on his way over in the boat. To forestall any criticism which, once made, might damage his chances of reward.

He said, 'There is a good anchorage, not large, but well concealed from seaward. There are several huts, and plenty of evidence that ships put in to load and unload cargo, even to refit if need be.'

Pears asked, 'Who did you send?'

Bolitho waited, seeing Courts' brief smile as the sloop's commander replied just as sharply, 'I went myself, sir. I was not mistaken about what I saw.'

Coutts asked, 'What else?'

Cunningham was still glaring at Pears. 'A sizeable schooner is anchored there. Privateer. No doubt of it.'

They exchanged glances, and Coutts said, 'She'll be waiting for another vessel. I'll lay odds that there are enough weapons to supply two regiments!'

Pears persisted, 'But suppose there's nothing but the schooner.' He looked round the cabin with something like dismay. 'Like taking a cudgel to crack a small egg!'

'The first part of the information is correct, Captain Pears.' Coutts was watching him. Compelling, insisting. 'Why do you still doubt the rest? This island is obviously chosen for its access. From the Leeward or Windward Islands, from as far south as the Spanish Main, it would present an excellent place for exchange, even for rearming a merchant vessel and changing her to a privateer.' He did not conceal his impatience. 'This time we'll cut them off at the roots. For good.'

He started to move around the cabin, as if unable to hold his excitement in check.

'Think of it. All we have to do is trap them in their anchorage and seize whatever vessel tries to enter. The French will think again about allowing their people to be laid so low. A setback like that would also give their Spanish friends something to ponder on before they run like jackals to sample the spoils.'

Bolitho tried to see it like an outsider. To avoid considering Coutts as his superior, someone he had shared a few weeks of his life with.

Was this discovery really that important? Or was Coutts merely blowing it up like a bladder to make it appear so?

A few huts and a schooner did not sound very promising, and it was obvious from Pears' resentful expression that he thought much the same.

When he looked again the mood had changed once more. Foley, the cabin servant, was here, and glasses of wine were already being handed round as if to celebrate Cunningham's news.

Coutts raised his glass. 'I'll give you a sentiment.' He was smiling broadly. 'To a victory, gentlemen. And let us make it as painless as we can!'

He had turned to look through the stern windows and did not see Pears place his glass on the tray, untouched.

Bolitho tasted the wine, but like the mood it was suddenly bitter.