Band of Brothers

deck was steadier, the snaking halliards and braces stiff and taut in their blocks, and each great sail throwing its own pale reflection on the churning water alongside.

‘Steady as you go!’ Verling now, probably watching the final spur of headland. ‘That will be Penlee Point.’ He almost slipped, but a hand reached from somewhere and steadied him. The face he knew, but all he could gasp was, ‘Bless you for that!’

The seaman ducked to avoid another snake of wet cordage as it hissed around its block and grinned. ‘Do the same for me!’ The grin widened. ‘Sir!’

The sky beyond the shrouds and hard canvas seemed clearer, the motion still lively, but easier. Men were pausing at their work to look for a friend, relief, pride, something of each on their faces. Across the quarter the headland had fallen away and lost its menace. This time.

Bolitho gripped a backstay and took a deep breath.

Beyond the straining jib and staysails was open water: the Channel. He felt Dancer lurch against him, his hand on his shoulder.

Yesterday seemed a long way away. They were free.

5

Envy

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