Band of Brothers

He half turned, as if unwilling to leave. His coxswain had already departed, and Verling’s shadow stood across the outer screen.

‘When you return to the ship your new orders may be waiting for you. If not, then be patient.’ He picked up his hat and visibly squared his shoulders. He was in command again.

The two midshipmen waited without speaking, listening to the shouted commands and, eventually, the calls as the side was piped and Conway’s gig pulled away. Then Dancer murmured, ‘Whatever ship I join, I’ll never forget him.’

They left the great cabin in silence, passing the same marine sentry, their weariness, headaches and sore throats forgotten.

Bolitho considered the passage duty Conway had mentioned. Probably helping to move another ship to different moorings, for some refit or overhaul. And after that… He glanced over at Dancer. They would be parted. It was the way of the navy.

Like Conway. Saying goodbye; the hardest duty of all.

4

Hotspur

Martyn Dancer gripped the launch’s gunwale and pointed across the larboard bow.

‘There she is, Dick! The Hotspur! I’ll not want to leave this beauty when the time comes!’

Excitement, or sheer pleasure: Bolitho had not seen him like this before. Perhaps strain and uncertainty, which he had always been able to conceal, were at last giving way.

Bolitho felt it, too. The Hotspur, which had not even been discussed until today, as if it were a sworn secret, was a topsail schooner, small if set against any frigate or brig; but her style and lines would catch any real sailor’s eye immediately.

She was lying at her anchor, and rolling evenly in the swell, showing her copper, bright in the forenoon sun, and the rake of her twin masts. A thoroughbred, and said to be new and untried, straight from her builder.

But the ensign flying from her gaff and the few uniforms moving about her deck were identical to those they had left astern in Gorgon, and all the other men-of-war that lay at Plymouth. She was a King’s ship.

It was difficult to accept the speed of the events which had brought them here. From the moment they had reported to the first lieutenant, their feet had barely stopped. Until now.

Verling had explained, almost curtly. They were to be part of a passage crew, not to move some hulk or ship awaiting overhaul, but to deliver Hotspur to the authorities in Guernsey, as a replacement for an older vessel used in the waters around the Channel Islands for patrol and pilotage. It was another world to them.

And an escape, after all the waiting and doubt, and then yesterday’s climax. Again he felt the exhilaration run through him, like his friend beside him. Dancer was pointing at the schooner again, calling something to the cutter’s coxswain. And it was the same coxswain and boat’s crew which had taken them to the flagship. He heard Dancer laugh and nudged him sharply with his elbow. This sense of light-hearted freedom and excitement would cut no ice with Verling, who was sitting silent and straight-backed by the tiller. The first lieutenant was always very strict when it came to behaviour in boats, maintaining that the ship would be judged accordingly, as every middy soon learned when he came under that disapproving eye.

But even Verling seemed different. It was something in the air, from the start of the day when the hands had been called to lash up and stow their hammocks.

Bolitho had seen the captain speaking with him just before the cutter had cast off. Maybe it was only imagination, but Conway, too, seemed altered, unlike that brief interlude in the great cabin; the mood of defeat, almost valediction, had vanished, and the old Conway had returned. Bolitho had seen him clap Verling on the shoulder this morning, had even heard him laugh.

There were rumours, of course. In a hull crammed with some six hundred sailors and marines, there were always those. But this time there was substance; the reason for the captains’ conference, they said. More trouble in the colonies, particularly in Boston, Massachusetts. Unrest fuelled by increased taxes and repressive legislation from London had taken a more aggressive form, too often clashing with the local administration and so, eventually, the military. Although the British were hardened to war and the threat of rebellion, the infamous memory of what had come to be called the Boston Massacre had left a far deeper scar on the public conscience than might have been expected; a radical press had made certain of that. Bolitho had still been serving in Manxman when it had happened, and remembered poring over accounts in the news- sheets. A crowd of young people disturbing the peace on a winter’s night and coming face-to-face with soldiers from the local garrison, common enough here in England, but more incendiary in a colony chafing under what it believed to be unjust taxation, and seeking a louder voice in its own affairs. At a different time, perhaps a different man might have diffused the situation, but the officer who was present had been convinced that only a show of force would disperse the crowd, and the resulting volley of shots had killed half a dozen of the troublemakers. It was hardly a massacre, but it was bloodshed, and the echoes of those muskets had never since been allowed to fade.

But to those who lived and all too often died on the sea, it meant something else: the need for readiness. Ships to be brought out of dock and stagnation, men to be found to crew, and, if required, fight them. And perhaps officers of merit and experience, captains like Conway, would view any unrest in America as a fresh chance of personal survival. Bolitho had heard his own brother Hugh say as much during their time together in the revenue cutter Avenger. Just weeks ago, and it already seemed like an eternity.

His brother had been reserved, almost unknowable, and not only because he had been in temporary command. He looked over at Dancer. It was strange; he had heard Hugh speaking earnestly and intently to him on several occasions when they had been on watch together. Two people who could have so little in common. And yet…

‘They’ve seen us at last! Thought they’d bin so long at anchor they’d forgot what they joined for!’

That was the cutter’s other passenger, ‘Tinker’ Thorne, Gorgon’s senior boatswain’s mate. There was no yarn that might be spun around him that could not be true. It was impossible to guess his age, although Bolitho had heard that Tinker had served in one ship or another for twenty-five years. Originally from Dublin, a Patlander, as all Irishmen were nicknamed by the lower deck, it was said he came of gypsy stock, and had begun life mending pots and selling fishing gear on the roads. He was not tall, but stocky and muscular, with skin like old leather and fists that could handle any unruly hawser or argumentative seaman before you could guess the next move. He was watching the Hotspur, her tapering masts rising now above the double-banked oars, his expression amused and a little critical. His eyes were bright blue, like those of a much younger man looking out from a mask. Admired, respected, or hated, ‘It’s up to you, boyo,’ as he was heard to say when the occasion arose.

He shifted around on the thwart and said, ‘Let some other Jack take the strain while we’re away, eh, sir?’

Nobody else in the ship could speak so offhandedly to Verling.

Verling was still looking astern. His face was hidden, but his thoughts were clear enough.

‘I hope so, Tinker. If we’ve forgotten anything…’

‘Ah, even the cook knows what to do, sir.’

Bolitho watched them with interest. It was important that Hotspur was in safe hands until she was delivered to her destination; and Verling had despatches with him, from Conway and probably the admiral. It seemed significant, and would do Verling’s own chances of promotion no harm.

But every pull of the oars was taking Verling away from the ship, and the life he cared about most, and like Bolitho’s brother Hugh, he had become unfamiliar. It was like meeting a stranger.

He returned his attention to the schooner, larger and heavier than he had first thought, but with a grace any true sailor would relish.

Tinker Thorne saw his eyes, and grinned.