Band of Brothers

He saw that Verling had a bandage around his wrist, and here, also, there was blood. Beyond him, splinters had been torn from the deck. Like feathers, where those few shots had left their mark.

Verling said, ‘If there was any way…’ He broke off, and gestured abruptly at the hatch. ‘He’s in the cabin. We did all…’

Bolitho did not hear the rest.

He was down the ladder and in the cabin, where they had sat and waited. Talked about the Board and the future.

Dancer was on one of the bench seats, his head and shoulders propped on some cushions. He had been watching the door, perhaps listening. Now he tried to reach out, but his arm fell to his side.

There was one lamp burning in the cabin, near the same skylight beneath which Verling had been standing during that final discussion. The light was moving unsteadily as the hull nudged against the captive vessel alongside, and gave colour to Dancer’s fair hair, but revealed the pallor of his skin and the effort of his breathing. There was a small red stain on his shirt.

Bolitho took his hand and held it between his own, and watched his eyes, trying to keep the pain at bay, or to experience it himself. Like all those other times.

‘I came as soon as I could, Martyn. I didn’t know…’ He felt the hand move in his, attempting to return his grip.

He said, ‘You’re here now, Dick. All that matters.’

Bolitho leaned over him, shielding his face, his eyes, from the light. He could barely hear the words.

The hand moved again. Then, just one word. ‘Together.’

Someone spoke. Bolitho had not known there was anybody else in the cabin. It was Tinker.

‘Best leave him, sir. He’s gone, I’m afraid.’

Bolitho touched his friend’s face, gently, to wipe away some tears. The skin was quite still. And he realised the tears were his own.

Somewhere, in another world, he heard the trill of a boatswain’s call, the response of running feet.

Tinker was by the door, blocking it. In his years at sea he had seen and done almost everything. In ships as different as the oceans they served, and with captains just as varied. You became hardened to most things. Or you went under.

He had heard the new activity on deck. He was needed now, more than ever. The prisoners to be put to work, both vessels to be got under way again. Maybe a jury-rig to be fitted aboard the brig’s steering as the helm had been shot away. The first lieutenant had no doubt been yelling for him already.

But it was the here and now that required him most.

‘Listen, me son. Soon, maybe very soon, you’ll be standin’ into a new life. You have their respect, I’ve seen you win it, but that’s only the beginning. You’ll make friends, an’ you’ll lose some of ’em. Sure, that’s the way of it. It’s a sailor’s lot.’

The calls were silent, the feet on deck were still. The hard, leathery hand touched his torn sleeve very briefly.

‘Just think of the next watch, an’ the next horizon, see?’

Bolitho turned by the door and glanced back. He could be asleep. Waiting for the next watch.

He felt his lips move and heard himself speak, and the words were dry and controlled, and the voice unfamiliar.

‘I’m ready. When you are.’ He looked at the door again. ‘You’ll never know.’

The way ahead. Together.

Epilogue

Captain Beves Conway swung away from the stern windows of his day cabin and called, ‘Have him come aft directly, man!’

He had been watching the thirty-two gun frigate Condor enter harbour and drop anchor with a minimum of fuss and delay; it was what he would expect from a captain like Maude. Always busy, always in demand. He cocked his head to listen to his own ship’s routine, and almost sighed with relief. The disruption of overhaul was finished, until their lordships insisted on another; the constant comings and goings of working parties and dockyard experts and the noise, smells and personal discomfort were being inflicted on some other vessel, and His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Gorgon could now show even a frigate a thing or two if required. Freshly blackened standing rigging and gleaming paintwork were shining brightly, despite a morning so cold and misty that even the usually restless gulls seemed content to float upon the anchorage like discarded wreaths.

The screen door opened a few inches, and the lieutenant said, ‘Mr. Bolitho, sir. He has apologised for the state of his uniform.’ He said it without a smile, unlike Verling. It felt strange to have another officer standing in for him until his return from Guernsey. Verling would be fretting over the delay. He would have heard all the latest news from the colonies when Condor had called at St. Peter Port with the admiral’s despatches.

It would be good to have him back as first lieutenant. Although he might feel quite differently about it, after his brief but exciting flirtation with the schooner Hotspur.

Conway glanced at the letters lying open on his desk; they had been sent across from Condor within minutes of her anchor hitting the bottom.

One letter had been from his old friend’s son, Midshipman Andrew Sewell. He was still with Verling and the passage crew in Guernsey, but the short, simple note had seemed like a reward, something which had warmed him more than he would have believed, or hoped.

The door opened, and Richard Bolitho walked into the cabin. This was only just February, and much had happened since their last meeting, the Board held in the flagship, which was still moored in exactly the same position as the day when several ‘young gentlemen’ had been required to face their tormentors. They all had to endure it, and laughed about it afterwards. The fortunate ones, anyway.

He strode to meet him and clasped his hands.

‘So good to see you again, my boy! I want to hear all about the capture of the smugglers, and the contraband you helped to seize. It will carry some weight, I can tell you, with their lordships, and above!’

He guided him to a chair and the table where a servant had laid out some wine and his best goblets.

‘I arranged for you to take passage in Condor. I hope it was a pleasant, if uneventful one?’ He did not wait for a reply; he rarely did. ‘I know you will have a good deal to do, and I shall not delay you unnecessarily. My clerk will take care of the other matters.’

Bolitho leaned his back against the chair. The same ship; even the weather, cold and grey, had not changed. The houses of Plymouth, like the ranks of anchored ships, were still half-shrouded in mist. It had seemed to take an eternity for the frigate to make her entrance and anchor.

And yet only days had passed since it had begun. When they had climbed aboard Hotspur, a lifetime ago.

He glanced down at the breeches someone had loaned him, and at the makeshift patches on his coat. Reminders, like the cuts and bruises on his body.

The captain had poured the wine himself and was smiling down at him.

‘I am very proud of you, Richard. One of my midshipmen.’ He raised his glass. ‘No need for you to be delayed when it could be avoided. I had a word with the flag captain.’ He was refilling his glass, although Bolitho did not recall tasting the wine. ‘And I wanted to do it myself.’ He pulled open a drawer and took out an unsealed envelope. ‘You are free to leave the ship and complete your arrangements.’

He watched him take the envelope, the ‘scrap of parchment’ they all joked about. Afterwards.

‘Your commission, Richard. None better deserved!’

Bolitho saw his goblet being refilled. And still he could taste nothing.

It was here. The moment, the impossible step. He had seen some of the frigate’s midshipmen glancing over at him during their brief time together. All so young, like Sewell… although Sewell had seemed suddenly mature.