Band of Brothers

heedless of the screams, men falling, voices urging them forward.

And then there had been one face, so near that he could smell the sweat and feel his breath, and eyes which had seemed to fill it. He remembered seeing the blade, like a cutlass, and had wanted to cry out; he had been gripping the hanger in his fist as if he were holding on to life itself. The blow to his shoulder had numbed it before the agony began. But the eyes were still staring at him, fixed with shock or disbelief. And then he fell, the weight of his body almost dragging the blade from Bolitho’s fingers.

And a harsh voice almost in his ear; he had never discovered whose. ‘Leave ’im! ’E’s done for!’

Done for. He had killed someone. A lifetime ago.

He could still feel the blade jerk in his fist, as if he had only just been called to action, and seen a human being fall beneath his stroke.

He swung round and found the cabin servant watching him. No sound, no word; he had even lost track of time.

‘Come, sir.’

It was too soon. Where was Martyn? But the door to the inner cabin was open. Waiting.

He thought suddenly, wildly, of Lieutenant Verling’s words this morning.

It is not a contest.

He strode past the servant and heard the screen door close behind him.

Two tables had been placed end to end across the big dining cabin, behind which sat the three captains of the Board. It was like walking onto a stage with no audience, only the three motionless figures who were framed against the flag captain’s private day cabin behind them. The stern and quarter windows held and reflected every sort of light, from the sea below and beyond the poop, to the deepening purple haze of the main anchorage. There were already candles burning, so that the three figures on the other side of the table were almost in shadow.

There was one tall chair facing them. If any uncertainty still lingered in the newcomer’s mind, it was quickly dispelled: a sword, complete with belt, was laid across it.

Bolitho stood beside it, and said, ‘Richard Bolitho, midshipman, sir!’ Even his voice sounded unfamiliar.

He thought fleetingly of Dancer. How had he fared at this table? All it needed was the sword lying across it with the point toward him, and it would be more like a courtmartial than an interview that might lead to promotion.

‘Be at your ease, Mr. Bolitho. You are here today because others are prepared to recommend you. Be truthful and frank with us, and my brother officers and I will be likewise.’

Captain Sir William Proby did not trouble to introduce himself; there was no need. An unorthodox, some said eccentric, officer who had distinguished himself in the Seven Years’ War and in two campaigns in the Caribbean, he had served until recently as acting-commodore with the Channel Fleet. It was rumoured that he was next in line for flag rank.

Bolitho had seen him several times when carrying despatches to his present command, the Scylla a seventy-four like Gorgon, but half her age.

The officer sitting on his right he also knew. Captain Robert Maude was comparatively young, with an alert, intelligent face, and he commanded the Condor, a sleek thirty-two gun frigate, and was doubtless envied by many because of it. Condor was rarely at anchor for long; even now Maude was glancing through the adjoining cabin, perhaps at the shadows on the water, or the small boat passing the flagship’s quarter and showing a solitary lantern.

The third member of the Board sat with one elbow on the table, his free hand resting on some certificates. And a midshipman’s log.

My log.

Even if he had never met or spoken with the unknown seaman, he felt he would have recognised Captain John Greville of the Odin. He could still hear the voice. Greville’s bad. Right the way through.

A narrow, pointed face, not unlike that of Verling, but tight-lipped, very contained. The eyes were in shadow.

Proby said, ‘In matters of general seamanship your reports read well. It seems you suffer from an acute dislike of heights, but you have overcome it.’ A hint of a smile. ‘Outwardly, at least. Having taken charge of a landing party with ship’s boats, what cover would you prepare if resistance was expected?’

‘Round shot, if a gun was available, sir. To give time for my people to move into position.’

Proby opened his mouth as if to answer, and frowned as Captain Greville said sharply, ‘Grape or canister would be far more effective, I would have thought.’

‘Later, perhaps, sir. But there is too much risk with either of hitting my own men.’

Greville ruffled the corners of the papers. ‘A few eggs have to be broken sometimes, Bolitho!’

Proby tapped the table.

‘They are people, John, not eggs.’ But he was smiling as he turned to his other side. ‘You have some points on gunnery, Maude? While we touch upon the subject.’ Polite, but strangers.

Maude leaned forward, and Bolitho guessed that he was very tall. It would be a constant handicap below decks in a frigate.

‘In a large ship of the line, a three-decker,’ he lifted his hand, ‘this one, for instance. The order to beat to quarters has just been called, and the ship cleared for action. You are stationed on the lower gun deck and in charge of a division. What precautions will you take?’ The hand gestured again. ‘Consider it.’ He was leaning back in his chair now, his head slightly on one side, as if completely relaxed, and Bolitho felt his own tension slipping away in response. Maude’s voice, or perhaps his manner, seemed to exclude the others, and ease his uncertainty. It was almost like having a conversation with an old friend.

He said, ‘Lower gun deck, thirty-two pounders, “Long Nines”.’ The hand moved very slightly, and he went on, ‘Nine feet long, sir.’ He saw him nod, as if to encourage him. ‘Seven men in each gun crew, the captain responsible for giving a set task to each one and assigning a number to each. The lower the number, the greater the skill.’

Proby cleared his throat loudly. ‘Suppose this ship is about to engage an enemy to wind’rd? With the deck tilting to the wind, how would seven men manage to haul the gun up to its port? A “Long Nine” weighs a pretty piece, I’d say.’

Bolitho wanted to lick his dry lips. Anything. He answered, ‘Three tons, sir.’ He waited, but nobody commented. ‘I would take men from the gun on the opposite side. With the same precautions to ensure no hands and feet were broken or damaged when the gun recoiled. But bandages should always be close by.’

‘You seem to care a great deal for their welfare, Bolitho. But the fight should always come first.’

Bolitho felt his fingers relax. He had not realised that his hands had been so tightly clenched. It was Greville. In some strange way, the challenge was almost a relief.

He said, ‘Badly injured men cannot fight a gun, sir. It could delay a complete broadside.’

‘But the battle is joined.’ It was Maude again. ‘Loading, firing, and once more running out. Provided, of course, that you have enough men. Is there anything else against which you should guard?’

‘Every third shot or so, I’ll have the barrel cleaned out, its full length, with the worm and then the sponge. Remove any burning fragment. And to prevent a misfire when a new charge is rammed home.’

Maude nodded. ‘Discipline is everything in gunnery, as in most matters in our service. All orders will be obeyed without question – I daresay you have heard that a few hundred times since you donned the King’s coat?’

Bolitho looked at him. A strong, proud face, not unlike the sketches of Captain James Cook he had seen in the Gazette, accompanying tales of his latest voyages. A man you would willingly serve no matter what.

He said, ‘It is far easier to drive than to lead, sir. But I believe that trust is all important. On both sides.’

Maude folded his arms.

‘Only then will you get the dedication you need when the odds are against you.’

Proby glanced past him. ‘Is that all, Maude?’ and swung round abruptly on his chair. ‘What the hell! I gave strict orders!’

But all three captains were on their feet, and the air was suddenly sharp, blowing from the outside world. The creaking of the rigging was audible now, and the occasional scream of gulls circling over incoming fishermen.

Bolitho wanted to turn and identify the newcomer, who had burst uninvited and unexpectedly into this