In Gallant Company

2. A Wild Plan

Lieutenant Richard Bolitho crossed to the weather side of the quarterdeck and gripped the hammock nettings to hold his balance. Towering above and ahead of him, Trojan's great pyramids of sails were impressive, even to one accustomed to the sight. Especially after all the frustration and pain in the last four and a half days, he thought.

The wind which had followed them with such promise from Sandy Hook had changed within hours, as if driven or inspired by the devil himself. Backing and veering without warning, with all hands required to reef or reset the sails throughout each watch. It had taken one complete, miserable day just to work round and clear of the dreaded Nantucket shoals, with sea boiling beneath the long bowsprit as if heated by some force from hell.

Then after raising their progress to four and even five knots the wind would alter yet again, bellowing with savage triumph while the breathless seamen fought to reef the hard canvas, fisting and grappling while their pitching world high above the decks went mad about them.

But this was different. Trojan was standing almost due north, her yards braced round as far as they would to take and hold the wind, and along her lee side the water was creaming past as evidence of real progress.

Bolitho ran his eyes over the upper gundeck. Below the quarterdeck rail he could see the hands resting and chatting, as was the custom while awaiting to see what the cook had produced for the midday meal. By the greasy plume which fell downwind from the galley funnel, Bolitho guessed that it was another concoction of boiled beef hacked from salted casks,

mixed with a soggy assortment of ship's biscuit, oatmeal and scraps saved from yesterday. George Triphook, the senior cook, was hated by almost everyone but his toadies, but unlike some he enjoyed the hatred, and seemed to relish the groans and curses at his efforts.

Bolitho felt suddenly ravenous, but knew the wardroom fare would be little better when he was relieved to snatch his share of it.

He thought of his mother and the great grey house in Falmouth. He walked away from Couzens, his watchful midshipman, who rarely took his eyes off him. How terrible the blow had been. In the Navy you could risk death a dozen ways in any day. Disease, shipwreck or the cannon's roar, the walls of Falmouth church were covered with memorial plaques. The names and deeds of sea-officers, sons of Falmouth who had left port never to return.

But his mother. Surely not her. Always youthful and vivacious. Ready to stand-in and shoulder the responsibility of house and land when her husband, Captain James Bolitho, was away, which was often.

Bolitho and his brother, Hugh, his two sisters, Felicity and Nancy, had all loved her in their own different and special ways. When he had returned home from the Destiny, still shocked and suffering from his wound, he had needed her more than ever. The house had been like a tomb. She was dead. It was impossible to accept even now that she was not back in Falmouth, watching the sea beyond Pendennis Castle, laughing in the manner which was infectious enough to drive all despair aside.

A chill, they had said. Then a sudden fever. It had been over in a matter of weeks.

He could picture his father at this very moment. Captain James, as he was locally known, was well respected. as a magistrate since losing his arm and being removed from active duty. The house in winter, the lanes clogged with mud, the news always late, the countryside too worried by pressures of cold and wet, of lost animals and marauding foxes to heed much for this far-off war. But his father would care. Brooding as a ship-ofwar anchored or weighed in Carrick Roads. Needing, pining for the life which had rejected him, and now completely alone. It must be a million times worse for him, Bolitho thought sadly.

Cairns appeared on deck, and after scrutinizing the compass and glancing at the slate on which a master's mate made his half-hourly calculations he crossed to join Bolitho.

Bolitho touched his hat. 'She holds steady, sir. Nor' by east, full and bye.'

Cairns nodded. He had very pale eyes which could look right through a man.

'We may have to reef if the wind gets up any more. We're taking all we can manage, I think.'

He shaded his eyes before he looked to larboard, for although there was no sun the glare was intent and harsh. It was difficult to see an edge between sea and sky, the water was a desert of restless steel fragments. But the rollers were further apart now, cruising down in serried ranks to lift under Trojan's fat quarter to tilt her further and burst occasionally over the weather gangway before rolling on again towards the opposite horizon.

They had the sea to themselves, for after beating clear of Nantucket and pushing on towards the entrance of Massachusetts Bay they were well clear of both land and local shipping.. Somewhere, some sixty miles across the weather side, lay Boston. There were quite a few aboard Trojan who could remember Boston as it had once been before the bitterness and resentment had flared into anger and blood.

The Bay itself was avoided by all but the foolhardy. It was the home of some of the most able privateers, and Bolitho wondered, not for the first time, if there were any stalking the powerful two-decker at this moment.

Cairns had a muffler around his throat, and asked, 'What make you of the weather, Dick?'

Bolitho watched the men streaming to the hatches on their way to the galley and their cramped messes.

He had taken over the watch as Bunce had been keeping a stern eye on the ritual taking of noon sights, although it was more a routine than to serve any real purpose in this poor visibility. The midshipmen lined up with their sextants, the master's mates watching their progress, or their lack of it.

Bolitho replied calmly, 'Fog.'

Cairns stared at him. 'Is this one of your Celtic fantasies,

man?'

Bolitho smiled. 'The master said fog.'

The first lieutenant sighed. 'Then fog it will be. Though in

this half gale I see no chance of it!'

'Deck there!'

They looked up, caught off guard after so much isolation

Bolitho saw the shortened figure of the mainmast look-out, a tiny shape against the low clouds. It made him dizzy just to watch.

'Sail on th' weather beam, sir!'

The two lieutenants snatched telescopes and climbed into the shrouds. But there was nothing. just the wavecrests, angrier and steeper in the searching lens, and the hard, relentless glare.

'Shall I inform the captain, sir?'

Bolitho watched Cairns ' face as he returned to the deck. He could almost see his mind working. A sail. What did it mean? Unlikely to be friendly. Even a lost and confused ship's master would not fail to understand the dangers hereabouts.

'Not yet.' Cairns glanced meaningly towards the poop. 'He'll have heard the masthead anyway. He'll not fuss until we're

ready.'

Bolitho thought about it. Another view of Captain Pears which he had not considered. But it was true. He never did rush on deck like some captains, afraid for their ships, or impatient for answers to unanswerable questions.

He looked at Cairns ' quiet face again. It was also true that Cairns inspired such trust.

Bolitho asked, 'Shall I go aloft and see for myself?'

Cairns shook his head. 'No. I will. The captain will doubtless want a full report.'

Bolitho watched the first lieutenant hurrying up the shrouds, the telescope slung over his shoulders like a musket. Up and up, around the futtock shrouds and past the hooded swivel gun there to the topmast and further still towards the look-out who sat so calmly on the crosstrees, as if he was on a comfortable village bench.

He dragged his eyes away from Cairns ' progress. It was something he could never get used to or conquer. His hatred of heights. Each time he had to go aloft, which was mercifully rare, he felt the same nausea, the same dread of falling.

He saw a familiar figure on the gundeck below the quarterdeck rail and felt something like affection for the big, ungainly man in checkered shirt and flapping white trousers. One more link with the little Destiny. Stockdale, the muscular prize-fighter he had rescued from a barker outside an inn when he and a dispirited recruiting party had been trying to drum up volunteers for the ship.

Stockdale had taken to the sea in a manner born. As strong as five men, he never abused his power, and was more gentle than many. The angry barker had been hitting Stockdale with a length of chain for losing in a fight with one of Bolitho's men. The man in question must have cheated in some way, for Bolitho had never seen Stockdale beaten since.

He spoke very little, and when he did it was with effort, as his vocal chords had been cruelly damaged in countless barefist fights up and down every fair and pitch in the land.

Seeing him then, stripped to the waist, cut about the back by the barker's chain, had been too much for Bolitho. When he had asked Stockdale to enlist he had said it almost without thinking of the consequences. Stockdale had merely nodded, picked up his things and had followed him to the ship.

And whenever Bolitho needed aid, or was in trouble, Stockdale was always there. Like that last time, when Bolitho had seen the screaming savage rushing at him with a cutlass snatched from a dying seaman. Later he had heard all about it. How Stockdale had rallied the retreating seamen, had picked him up like a child and had carried him to safety.

When Bolitho's appointment to Trojan had arrived, he had imagined that would be an end to their strange relationship. But somehow, then as now, Stockdale had managed it.

He had wheezed, 'One day, you'll be a cap'n, sir. Reckon you'll need a coxswain.'

Bolitho smiled down at him. Stockdale could do almost anything. Splice, reef and steer if need be. But he was a gun captain now, on one of Trojan's upper battery of thirty eighteen

pounders. And naturally he just happened to be in Bolitho's own division.

'What d'you think, Stockdale?'

The man's battered face split into a wide grin. 'They be watching us, Mr Bolitho,'

Bolitho saw the painful movements of his throat. The sea's bite was making it hard for Stockdale.

'You think so, eh?'

'Aye.' He sounded very confident. 'They'll know what we're about, an' where we're heading. I wager there'll be other craft hull down where we can't see'em.'

Cairns ' feet hit the deck as he slid down a stay with the agility of a midshipman.

He said, 'Schooner by the cut of her. Can barely make her out, it's so damn hazy.' He shivered in a sudden gust. 'Same tack as ourselves.' He saw Bolitho smile at Stockdale, and asked, 'May I share the joke?'

'Stockdale said that the other sail is watching us, sir. Keeping well up to wind'rd.'

Cairns opened his mouth as if to contradict and then said, 'I fear he may be right. Instead of a show of strength, Trojan may be leading the pack down on to the very booty we are trying to protect.' He rubbed his chin. 'By God, that is a sour thought. I had expected an attack to be on the convoy's rear, the usual straggler cut out before the escort has had time to intervene.'

'All the same.' He rubbed his chin harder. 'They'll not try to attack with Trojan's broadsides so near.'

Bolitho recalled Pears' voice at the conference. The hint of doubt. His suspicion then had now become more real.

Cairns glanced aft, past the two helmsmen who stood straddle-legged by the great double wheel, their eyes moving from sail to compass.

'It's not much to tell the captain, Dick. He has his orders. Trojan is no frigate. If we lost time in some fruitless manoeuvres we might never reach the convoy in time. You have seen the wind's perverse manners hereabouts. It could happen tomorrow. Or now.'

Bolitho said quietly, 'Remember what the Sage said. Fog.' He watched the word hitting Cairns Like a pistol ball. 'If we have to lie to, we'll be no use to anyone.'

Cairns studied him searchingly. 'I should have seen that.

These privateersmen know more about local conditions than any

of us.' He gave a wry smile. 'Except the Sage.' Lieutenant Quinn came on deck and touched his hat. 'I'm to relieve you, sir.'

Ile looked from Bolitho to the straining masses of canvas. Bolitho would only go for a quick meal, especially as he wanted to know about Pears' reactions. But to the sixth lieutenant, eighteen years old, it would seem a lifetime of awesome responsibility, for to all intents and purposes he would control Trojan's destiny for as long as he trod the quarterdeck.

Bolitho made to reassure him but checked himself. Quinn must learn to stand on his own. Any officer who depended on help whenever things got awkward would be useless in a real crisis.

He followed Cairns to the companionway, while Quinn made a big display of checking the compass and the notes in the log.

Cairns said softly, 'He'll be fine. Given time.'

Bolitho sat at the wardroom table while Mackenzie and Logan endeavoured to present the meal as best they could. Boiled meat and gruel. Ship's biscuit with black treacle, and as much cheese as anyone could face. But there was a generous supply of red wine which had arrived in New York with the last convoy. From the lock on Probyn's face he had made very good use of it.

He peered across at Bolitho and asked thickly, 'What was all that din about a sail? Somebody getting a bit nervous, eh?' He leaned forward to peer at the others. 'God, the Navy's changing!'

Bunce sat at the head of the table and intoned deeply without looking up, 'It is not His doing, Mr Probyn. He has no time for the Godless.'

Sparke said unfeelingly, 'This bloody food is swill. I shall get a new cook at the first chance I can. That rogue should be dancing on a halter instead of poisoning us.'

The deck tilted steeply, and hands reached out to seize plates and glasses until the ship rolled upright again.

Bunce took out a watch and looked at it.

Bolitho asked quietly, 'The fog, Mr Bunce. Will it come?'

Thorndike, the surgeon, heard him and laughed. He made a braying sound.

'Really, Erasmus! Fog, when she pitches about in this wind!'

Bunce ignored him and replied, 'Tomorrow. We will have to lie to. There is too great a depth to anchor.' He shook his massive head. 'Time lost. More knots to recover.'

He had spoken enough and stood up from the table. As he passed Probyn's chair he said in his deep voice, 'We will have time to see who is nervous then, I'm thinking.'

Probyn snapped his fingers for some wine and exclaimed angrily, 'He is becoming mad in his old age!' He tried to laugh, but nothing happened.

Captain D'Esterre eyed him calmly. 'At least he seems to have our Lord on his side. What do you have, exactly?'

In the cabin above, Captain Pears sat at his large table, a napkin tucked into his neckcloth. He caught the gust of laughter from the wardroom and said to Cairns, 'They seem happier at sea, eh?'

Cairns nodded. 'So it would appear, sir.' He watched Pears' bowed head and waited for his conclusions or ideas.

Pears said, 'Alone or in company the schooner is a menace to us. If only we had been given a brig or a sloop to chase off these wolves. As it is…' He shrugged.

'May I suggest something, sir?'

Pears cut a small piece of cheese for himself and examined it doubtfully.

'It is what you came for, surely.' He smiled. 'Speak out.'

Cairns thrust his hands behind him, his eyes very bright.

'You have heard the master's views on the chance of fog, sir?'

Pears nodded. 'I know these waters well. Fog is common enough, though I would not dare to make such a bold prediction this time.' He pushed the cheese aside. 'But if the master says a thing it is usually right.'

'Well, sir, we will have to lie to until it clears.'

'I have already taken that into account, damn it.'

'But so too will our watchdog. Both for his own safety and for fear of losing us. The fog might be an ally to us.' He hesitated, sensing the captain's mood. 'If we could find her and take her by boarding-' He got no further.

'In God's name, Mr Cairns, what are you saying? That I should put boats down, fill them with trained hands and send them off into a damned fog? Hell's teeth, sir, they would be going to certain death!'

'There is a chance there may be another vessel in company.' Cairns spoke with sudden stubbornness. 'They will display lights. With good care and the use of a boat's compass, I think an attack has a good chance.' He waited, seeing the doubts and arguments in Pears' eyes. 'It would give us an extra vessel, and maybe more. Information, news of what the privateers are doing.'

Pears sat back and stared at him grimly. 'You are a man of ideas, I'll give you that.'

Cairns said, 'The fourth lieutenant put the thought in my mind, sir.'

'Might have guessed it.' Pears stood up and walked towards the windows, his thickset frame angled to the deck. 'Damned Cornishmen. Pirates and wreckers for the most part. Did you know that?'

Cairns kept his face stiff. 'I understood that Falmouth, Mr Bolitho's home, was the last place to hold out for King Charles against Cromwell and Parliament, sir?'

Pears gave a tight grin. 'Well said. But this idea is a dangerous thing. We might never find the boats again, and they may not discover the enemy, let alone seize her.'

Cairns insisted, 'The fog will reach the other vessel long before us, sir. I would suggest that as soon as that happens we change tack and close with her with every stitch which will draw.'

'But if the wind goes against us.' Pears held up his hand. 'Easy, Mr Cairns, I can see your disappointment, but it is my responsibility. I must think of everything.'

Overhead, and beyond the cabin doors, life was going on as usual. The clank of a pump, the padding of feet across the poop as the watch hurried to trim a yard or splice a fraying halliard.

Pears said slowly, 'But it does have the stuff of surprise about

it.' He made up his mind. 'My compliments to the master and ask him to join us in the chart room.' He chuckled. 'Although, knowing him as I do, I suspect he is already there.'

Out on the windswept quarterdeck, his eyes smarting to salt spray, Bolitho watched the men working overhead, the shivering power of each great sail. Time to reef soon, for the captain to be informed. He had seen the activity beneath the poop, Pears with Cairns entering the small chart room which adjoined Bunce's cabin.

A little later Cairns walked out into the drizzle, and Bolitho noticed that he was without his hat. That was very unusual, for Cairns was always smartly turned out, no matter how bad the circumstances.

'Have you had further reports from the masthead?'

'Aye, sir.'

Bolitho ducked as a sheet of spray burst over the nettings and soaked them both. Cairns barely flinched.

Bolitho said quickly, 'As before, the stranger is holding to wind'rd of us, on the same bearing.'

'I will inform the captain.' Cairns added, 'No matter, he is here.' "

Bolitho made to cross to the lee side as was customary when the captain came on deck, but the harsh voice caught him.

'Stay, Mr Bolitho.' Pears strode heavily to the quarterdeck rail, his hat tugged down to his eyes. 'I believe you have been hatching some wild plan with the first lieutenant?'

'Well, sir, I -'

'Madness.' Pears watched the straining main-course as it billowed out from its yard. 'But with a grain, a very small grain of value.'

Bolitho stared at him. 'Thank you very much, sir.'

Pears ignored him and said to Cairns, 'The two cutters will have to suffice. I want you to hand-pick each -man yourself. You know what we need for this bloody work.' He watched Cairns ' face and then said almost gently, 'But you will not be going.' As Cairns made to protest he added, 'I cannot spare you. I could die tomorrow, and with you gone too, what would become of Trojan, eh?'

Bolitho watched both of them. It was like being an intruder to see the disappointment showing for the first time on Cairns ' face.

Then Cairns replied, 'Aye, sir. I'll attend to it.'

As he strode away, Pears said bluntly, 'But you can send this one, he'll not be missed!'

Pears returned to the poop where Bunce was waiting for him,

his straggly hair blowing in the wind like spunyarn.

He barked, 'Pass the word to the second lieutenant to lay aft.' Bolitho considered his feelings. He was going. So was Sparke.

Take that man's name.

He thought of Cairns as his one chance of showing his mettle had been taken from him. It was another measure of the man, Bolitho thought. Some first lieutenants would have kept all the credit for the idea of boarding the other craft, hoarding it for the final reward.

It was getting dark early again, the low cloud and steady drizzle adding to the discomfort both below and on deck.

Cairns met Bolitho as he came off watch, and said simply, 'I have selected some good hands for you, Dick. The second lieutenant will be in command, assisted by Mr Frowd, who is the ablest master's mate we have, and Mr Midshipman Libby. You will be assisted by Mr Quinn and Mr Couzens.'

Bolitho met his even gaze. Apart from Sparke and Frowd, the master's mate, and to a lesser extent himself, the others were children at this sort of thing. He doubted if either the nervous Quinn or the willing Couzens had ever heard a shot fired other than at wildfowl.

But he said, 'Thank you, sir.' He would show the same attitude that Cairns had displayed to the captain.

Cairns touched his arm. 'Go and find some dry clothing, if you can.' As he turned towards his cabin he added, 'You will have the redoubtable Stockdale in your cutter. I would not be so brave as to try and stop him!'

Bolitho walked through the wardroom and entered his little cabin. There he stripped naked and towelled his damp and chilled limbs until he recovered a sensation of warmth.

Then he sat on his swaying cot and listened to the great ship creaking and shuddering beneath him, the occasional splash of spray as high as the nearest gunport.

This time tomorrow he might be on his way to disaster, if not already dead. He shivered, and rubbed his stomach muscles vigorously to quell his sudden uncertainty.

But at least he would be doing something. He pulled a dean shirt over his head and groped for his breeches.

No sooner had he done so than he heard the distant cry getting louder and closer.

'All hands! All hands! Hands aloft and reef tops'ls!'

He stood up and banged his head on a ring-bolt.

'Damnation!'

Then he was up and hurrying again to that other world of wind and noise, to the Trojan's demands which must always be met.

As he passed Probyn's untidy shape, the lieutenant peered at him and grinned. 'Fog, is it?'

Bolitho grinned back at him. 'Go to hell!'

It took a full two hours to reef to the captain's satisfaction and to prepare the ship for the night. The news of the proposed attack had gone through the ship like fire, and Bolitho heard the many wagers which were being made. The sailor's margin between life and death in this case.

And it would all probably come to nothing. Such things had happened often enough on this commission. Preparation, and then some last-minute hitch.

Bolitho imagined it was going to be an almost impossible thing to find and take the other ship. Equally, he knew he would feel cheated if it was all called off.

He returned to the wardroom to discover that most of the officers had turned into their bunks after such a day of wind and bustle.

The surgeon and Captain D'Esterre sat beneath a solitary lantern playing cards, and alone by the streaming stern windows, staring at the vibrating tiller-head, was Lieutenant Quinn.

In the glow of the swaying lantern he looked younger than ever, if that were possible.

Bolitho sat beside him and shook his head as the boy, Logan, appeared with an earthenware wine jug.

'Are you feeling all right, James?'

Quinn looked at him, startled. 'Yes, thank you, sir.'

Bolitho smiled. 'Richard. Dick, if you like.' He watched the other's despair. 'This is not the midshipman's berth, you know.'

Quinn darted a quick glance at the card players, the mounting pile of coins beside the marine's scarlet sleeve, the dwindling one opposite him.

Then he said quietly, 'You've done this sort of thing before, sir – I mean, Dick.'

Bolitho nodded. 'A few times.'

He did not want to break Quinn's trust now that he had begun.

'I – I thought it would be in the ship when it happened.' Quinn gestured helplessly around the wardroom and the cabin flat beyond. 'You know, all your friends near you, with you. I think I could do that. Put up with the first time. The fighting.'

Bolitho said, 'I know. The ship is home. It can help.'

Quinn clasped his hands and said, 'My family are in the leather trade in the City of London. My father did not wish me to enter the Navy.' His chin lifted very slightly. 'But I was determined. I'd often seen a man-o'-war working down river to the sea. I knew what I wanted.'

Bolitho could well understand the shock Quinn must have endured when he was faced with the reality of a King's ship with all the harsh discipline and the feeling that you, as a new midshipman, are the only one aboard who is in total useless ignorance.

Bolitho had grown up with it and to it. The dark portraits which adorned the walls and staircase of the old Bolitho home in Cornwall were a constant Iiemminder of all who had gone before him. Now he and his brother Hugh were carrying on the tradition. Hugh was in a frigate, now probably in the Mediterranean, while he was here, about to embark in the sort of action they often yarned about in the taverns of Falmouth.

He said, 'It will be all right, James. Mr Sparke is leading us.'

For the first time he saw Quinn smile as he said, 'I must admit he frightens me more than the enemy!'

Bolitho laughed, wondering why it was that Quinn's fear had somehow given him strength.

`Turn into your cot while you can. Try to sleep. Tell Mackenzie you'd like a tot of brandy. George Probyn's cure for

everything!'

Quinn stood up and almost fell as the ship quivered and lunged across the hidden sea.

'No. I must write a letter.'

As he walked away, D'Esterre left the table, pocketing his winnings, and joined Bolitho by the tiller-head.

The surgeon made to follow, but D'Esterre said, 'No more, Robert. Your poor play might blunt my skill!' He smiled. 'Be off with you to your bottles and pills.'

The surgeon did not give his usual laugh, but walked away, feeling for handholds as he went.

D'Esterre gestured towards the silent cabins. 'Is he worried?'

'A little.'

The marine tugged at his tight neckcloth. 'Wish to God I was coming with you. If I can't put my lads to a fight, they will be as rusty as old pikes!'

Bolitho gave a great yawn. 'I'm for bed.' He shook his head as D'Esterre flicked the cards between his fingers. 'I'd not play with you anyway. You have the uncomfortable knack of winning.'

As he lay in his cot, hands thrust behind his head, Bolitho listened to the ship, identifying each sound as it fitted into the pattern and fabric of the hull.

The watch below, slung in their close-packed hammocks like pods, the air foul around them because of the bilges, and because the gunports had to be tightly sealed against sea and rain. Everything bloomed with damp, the deckheads dripping, the pumps clanking mournfully as Trojan worked her massive bulk over a stiff quarter-sea.

On the orlop deck beneath the waterline the surgeon would soon be asleep in his sickbay. He had only a handful of ill or injured men to deal with. It was to be hoped it remained like that.

Further forward in the midshipman's berth all would be quiet, although probably a flickering glim would betray somebody trying to read a complicated navigational problem, with a solution expected in the forenoon by Bunce.

Their own world. Seamen and marines. Painters and caulkers, ropemakers and gun captains, coopers and topmen, as mixed a crowd as you could meet in a whole city.

And right aft, doubtless still at his big table, the one who ruled all of them, the captain.

Bolitho looked up at the darkness. Pears was almost directly above him. With the watchful Foley nearby, and a glass at his elbow as he pondered over the day's events and tomorrow's uncertainties.

That was the difference, he decided. We obey and execute his orders as best we can. But he has to give them. And the reward or the blame must be on his shoulders.

Bolitho rolled over and buried his face in the musty pillow.

There were certain advantages in remaining a mere lieutenant.