Band of Brothers

unknown to him. It was envy.

The next few hours were ones even the old Jacks were unlikely to forget. A blustery succession of squalls became a strong wind that had all hands fighting each onslaught, bruised and blinded by icy spray and the waves that burst across the bulwarks and swept down the scuppers like a tiderace. All through the middle watch the storm continued its assault, until even the most vociferous curses were beaten into silence.

But when the clouds eventually broke and a first hint of dawn showed itself against straining canvas and the crisscross of shining rigging, Hotspur was holding her own, with not a spar or shroud broken.

Bolitho had remembered Tinker Thorne’s admiration for her builder, Old John Barstow, the finest in the West Country; he had clung to those words more than once in the night when the sea had smashed against the hull or sent men sprawling like rag dolls in its wake.

Tinker’s voice had rarely been silent, and his sturdy form was everywhere. Dragging a man from one task and shoving him into another, putting an extra pair of hands on halliard or brace, or bullying another too dazed to think clearly, to add his weight to the pumps.

And Verling was always there. Down aft, holding himself upright, while he watched the relentless battle of sea against rudder, wind against canvas.

A few men were injured, but none seriously, with cuts and bruises, or rope burns when human hands could no longer control wet cordage squealing through block or cleat.

And as suddenly as it had begun, the wind eased, and it was safe to move about the deck without pain or apprehension.

Bolitho heard Verling say, ‘Another hour, Mr. Egmont, and we’ll get the tops’Is on her. The wind’s backed a piece. I want a landfall on Guernsey, not the coast of France!’ Calmly said, but he was not joking. ‘Check and report any damage. Injuries, too. I’ll need it for my report.’ He patted the compass box. ‘Not bad for a youngster, eh?’

Egmont hurried forward, his boat cloak plastered to his body like a mould. In the poor light it was hard to gauge his reaction to the storm.

‘’Ere, sir.’ Bolitho felt a mug pushed into his frozen fingers. ‘Get yer blood movin’ again!’

Rum, cognac, it could have been anything, but it began to work instantly.

‘Thank you, Drury – just in time!’ The seaman laughed. Like Bolitho, he was probably surprised that he had remembered his name.

Dancer joined him by the foremast and clapped his shoulder.

‘Well, that’s all over, Dick!’ His smile was very white against wind-seared features. ‘’Til the next time!’

They both looked up. The masthead pendant was just visible against the banks of low cloud, flicking out like a coachman’s whip, but not bar-taut as it must have been for the past few hours.

Dancer said, ‘I’ll not be sorry to see the sun again!’

‘Here? In January?’ They both laughed, and a sailor who was squatting by the forward hatch while his leg was being bandaged stared up at them and grinned.

Tinker had heard Verling’s words to Egmont, and Bolitho saw that he was already mustering some of his topmen, getting ready to loose the topsails. Hotspur would fly when that was done. Like the great seabird of his imagination.

‘Go below, one of you, and fetch my glass!’

Bolitho called, ‘Aye, sir!’ and nudged his friend’s arm. ‘You stay and watch for the sun!’ Dancer’s coat sleeve was heavy with spray.

Dancer saw the question in his eyes and shrugged. ‘I put my tarpaulin over one of the injured.’

Bolitho said, ‘You would!’

It was deserted below deck, although he could hear men shouting to one another as they put new lashings on some of the stores Hotspur was carrying as additional ballast. He paused to listen to the sea, sluicing and thudding against the hull. Quieter now, but still menacing, showing its power.

He found Verling’s telescope, just inside the tiny cabin which would be the new master’s domain and, when necessary, his retreat.

Verling’s coat was hanging on a hook, swaying with the motion like a restless spectre. When Hotspur anchored again, he would go ashore as a well turned-out sea officer, not as a survivor. It was impossible to see him in any other light.

He stiffened, surprised that he had not heard it before. Sewell’s voice, husky, even cowed.

‘I didn’t, sir. I was only trying to…’

He got no further, cut short by Egmont, angry, malicious, sarcastic.

‘What d’ you mean, you couldn’t help it? You make me sick, and you still believe that anybody will ever accept you for a commission?’ He was laughing now; Bolitho could see him in his mind. Barely out of the midshipmen’s berth himself, and he was behaving like a tyrant.

‘I’ve been watching you, and do you think I’ve not guessed what you’re trying to do?’ There was another sound. A slap. ‘And if I see you again…’

Bolitho did not know he had moved. It was like the actors in the square at Falmouth; they had all watched them as children, had cheered or hissed to match the mimes and poses.

Egmont swinging round to stare at him, mouth half open, cut short by the interruption, one hand still in the air, after the blow, or preparing another. Sewell, leaning against the curved timbers, covering his cheek or mouth, but his eye fixed on Bolitho.

‘What th’ hell are you doing here?’

Almost as if he had imagined it. Egmont quite calm now, arms at his sides, swaying to the motion, but in control. And the young midshipman, saying nothing, his face guarded, expressionless. Only the red welt by his mouth as evidence.

Bolitho said, ‘I came for the first lieutenant’s glass.’ It was like hearing someone else. Clipped, cold. Like Hugh.

‘Well, don’t just stand there! Take it and go!’

Bolitho looked past him. ‘Are you all right, Andrew?’

Sewell swallowed, and seemed unable to speak. Then he nodded and exclaimed, ‘Yes, of course. It was nothing, you see…’

Egmont snapped, ‘Hold your tongue!’ and turned to Bolitho again. ‘Go about your duties. I’ll overlook your insolence this time, but…’ He did not finish it, but swung round and left the cabin.

They stood facing each other, without speaking or moving, the sounds of rigging and sea distant, unintrusive.

‘Tell me, Andrew.’ Bolitho reached out to take his arm, and saw him flinch as if he expected another blow. ‘He struck you, and just before that…’

He got no further.

‘No. It would only make things worse. D’you think I don’t know? What it’s like – really like?’

Bolitho felt the anger rising like fire. Egmont’s shock when he had burst into this cabin, and then as quickly, his recovery and arrogance. He could still feel Sewell’s arm; it was shaking. Fear? It went deeper than that.

He said, ‘I’ll come aft with you right now. Mr. Verling will listen. He has to. And in any case…’

But Sewell was shaking his head.

‘No.’ He looked at him directly for the first time. ‘It wouldn’t help.’ Then, quite firmly, he pried Bolitho’s fingers from his arm. ‘He would deny it. And… so would I.’

Someone was shouting; feet thudded across the deck overhead. He still held Verling’s telescope in his other hand. Nothing was making sense.

Sewell was fumbling with his coat, trying to fasten his buttons, not looking at him now. ‘You will be a good officer, Dick, a fine one. I see the way they respect you, and like you. I always hoped…’

He moved abruptly to the door, and to the ladder beyond.

Bolitho stood very still, his anger giving way to a sense of utter defeat. Because of what he had just seen and heard, and because it mattered.