Band of Brothers

Lieutenant Montagu Verling watched them climb down to the launch which had hooked on to the ‘stairs’ beneath the port. Had he ever been like that, he wondered?

‘Cast off! Shove off forrard!’ The boat, caught on the tide, veered away from the big two-decker’s side, oars upright in twin lines, the coxswain gripping the tiller-bar, gauging the moment.

Verling was still watching them. It was not like him, and he was a little surprised by it. The carpenter and the boatswain would be waiting with yet more lists, work to be done, stores or cordage not yet arrived or the wrong sort if they had. For he was the first lieutenant. Right aft, beneath that big ensign curling in a steady south- westerly, the captain was in his quarters, secure in the knowledge that this refit would be completed on time. That would please the admiral, and so on, up the chain of command.

Verling saw the oars fanning out on the launch’s sides, like wings, while the crew leaned aft to take the strain.

Perhaps, one day soon…

‘Give way together!’

He swung round, and saw the new lieutenant trying to catch his eye.

It was wrong to harbour personal dislikes in your own wardroom.

He turned and stared across the shark-blue water, but the launch was already out of sight amongst other anchored ships. Suddenly he was glad that he had made a point of being here when the midshipmen had departed, whatever the outcome of their examinations today.

He rearranged his features into the mask of command and strode toward a working party struggling with another tackle-load of timber.

‘Take a turn, you, Perkins! Jump about, man!’

The first lieutenant had returned.

In spite of the deep swell, the Gorgon’s launch soon gathered way once clear of the two-decker’s side. Fourteen oars, double-banked, pulling in a strong but unhurried stroke, carried her past other anchored men-of-war with apparent ease. The coxswain, a tough and experienced seaman, was unconcerned. The ship had been so long at anchor during the overhaul that he had grown used to most of the other vessels, and the comings and goings of their boats on the endless errands of the squadron. And the man whose flag flew above the powerful three-decker which he could see in miniature, framed between the shoulders of his two bowmen. The flagship. Like most of his mates, the coxswain had never laid eyes on the admiral. But he was here, a presence, and that was enough.

Bolitho tugged his cocked hat more tightly over his forehead. He was shivering, and tightened his fingers around the thwart, damp and unyielding beneath his buttocks. But it was not the cold, nor the occasional needles of spray drifting aft from the stem. They had all discussed it, of course. Something far away in the future, vaguely unreal. He glanced at his companion. Even that was unreal. What had drawn them to one another in the first place? And after today, would they ever meet again? The navy was like that; a family, some described it. But it was hard on true friendship.

They were the same age, with only a month between them, and so different. They had joined Gorgon together, Martyn Dancer having been transferred from another ship which, in turn, had been going into dock for a complete refit. About sixteen months ago. Before that, he had by his own admission served ‘only three months and two days’ in His Britannic Majesty’s service.

Bolitho considered his own beginnings. He had entered the navy as a midshipman at the tender age of twelve. He thought of Falmouth, of all the portraits, the faces that watched him on the stairs, or by the study. The Bolitho family’s might have been a history of the Royal Navy itself.

He thought, too, of his brother Hugh, who had been in temporary command of the revenue cutter Avenger. Less than two months ago. He and Martyn had been ordered to join him. An odd and daring experience. He looked over at his friend. That had been unexpected, too. Hugh, his only brother, had been the stranger.

He turned to watch the flagship. Closer now, her reefed topsails and topgallants almost white in the glare, the viceadmiral’s flag streaming from the foremast truck like blood. And she had been Martyn’s last ship. His only ship. Three months and two days. But he was here today for examination. Like me. Bolitho had served for five years. There would be others today, bracing themselves, gauging the odds. Did hardened, seasoned officers like Verling ever look back and have doubts?

He stared up at the towering masts, the tracery of black rigging and shrouds. Close to, she was even more impressive. A second-rate of ninety guns with a company of some eight hundred officers, seamen and marines. A world of its own. Bolitho’s first ship had been a big three-decker also, and even after some four years aboard in that cramped and busy space there were faces he had never seen twice.

The hull loomed over them, the long bowsprit and jib boom sweeping like a lance. And the figurehead, Poseidon, the god of the sea, resplendent in new gilt paint which alone must have cost a month’s pay. The ‘gilt on the gingerbread’, the sailors called it.

The coxswain called, ‘Stand by! Bows!’

The two bowmen stood and tapped their blades together to signal the crew to be ready. A ship shall be judged by her boats…

There were other boats at the booms or hooked on to the chains. Bolitho saw a lieutenant gesturing to the launch, heard the coxswain mutter, ‘I can see you, sir!’

Martyn touched his sleeve. ‘Here we go, Dick.’ Their eyes met. ‘We’ll show them, eh?’

Like those other times. Not arrogance or conceit. A sort of quiet assurance; he had seen it in the rough and tumble of the midshipmen’s berth, and again in the face of real, chilling danger. All in so short a while, and yet they were like brothers.

‘Boat yer oars!’

The hull lurched against fenders and the coxswain stood by the tiller-bar again, his hat in one hand. He looked at the two midshipmen. One day they’d be like that bloody lieutenant up there at the nettings, waving his arms about.

But he said, ‘Good luck!’

They were on their own.

The officer of the watch checked their names against a well-thumbed list and regarded the newcomers with a cold stare, as if to ensure that they were presentable enough to be allowed further.

He glanced at Dancer’s leather crossbelt. ‘Take in the slack.’ He looked on critically while Dancer tugged the dirk into place and added, ‘This is the flagship, so don’t you forget it.’ He signalled to a young messenger. ‘He’ll take you to the captain’s clerk. Show you where to wait.’

Bolitho said, ‘Are there many here for the Board, sir?’

The lieutenant considered it.

‘They’re not dragging their feet, I’ll say that for them.’ He relented a little. ‘You will be the last today.’ He swung round to beckon to another seaman, and Dancer said quietly, ‘I hope we can get something to eat while we’re waiting!’

Bolitho smiled, and felt sheer hilarity bubbling up. Like a dam breaking. Dancer could do always do it, no matter how tense the situation.

They followed the messenger, the ship reaching around and above them. A teeming world of packed humanity separated only by the invisible boundaries of status or rank. As a mere boy, it had been like being carried on a tide, with all the bumps and bruises, spiritual as well as physical, you might expect along the way. And the characters, the good and the bad, those you trusted on sight, and others on whom you would never turn your back without risk.

And always busy, ceremonial one moment, court martial the next. He felt the smile on his lips again. And always hungry.

The captain’s clerk was a pale, solemn individual, who would have passed as a clergyman ashore or in more suitable surroundings. His cabin was close to the marines’ messdeck and stores, the ‘barracks’ as they termed it, and above the other shipboard sounds they could hear the clatter of weapons and military equipment and the thump of heavy boots.

The captain’s clerk, Colchester, seemed oblivious to everything but his own work, and the position which set