Band of Brothers

meeting.

Like waking from a bad dream, he thought, a nightmare: the three captains rigid behind the table, and Maude’s height indeed compelling him to bend beneath the deckhead beams.

‘Excuse my untimely interruption, gentlemen. My barge is alongside, and I would not wish to keep my cox’n waiting much longer. But I wanted to bid you farewell, and thank you for carrying out these duties, from which we shall all benefit in due course.’

Bolitho flinched as a hand touched his sleeve.

‘And who is this? I was assured that you had finished here today.’ It sounded more like an accusation than an apology.

Bolitho turned and faced him. He had seen him only once before, when his own boat had tossed oars to the barge and he had had the briefest glimpse of Vice-Admiral Sir James Hamilton, the great man himself. His uniform and lace gleaming in the reflected light, cocked hat casually balanced in his other hand. Half smiling now.

‘Cornishman, eh?’

He knew his mouth had moved and he had said something, but it had been like hearing someone else blurting out his name.

The admiral was looking keenly at him. It felt like being stripped.

Then he nodded, as if some thought had dropped into place, some inner reference been made.

‘I hope the future is kind to you, er, Bolitho.’ He turned away, the contact broken. ‘Now I must leave you. I have duties ashore. Events are moving once more.’ He reached the door and Bolitho could see the flag captain hovering, with a boat cloak draped carefully across his arm.

For a long time, or so it seemed, they all stood in silence, swaying only occasionally as the flagship pulled at her cable.

Bolitho realised that Sir William Proby was seated once again, his expression a mixture of bemusement and relief.

‘An unforeseen interruption, gentlemen.’ He paused to listen as calls trilled in the distance, followed by the muffled bark of commands. The admiral’s barge was casting off.

‘If you have no further questions?’ He was not, apparently, anticipating any. He looked at Bolitho. ‘Be seated, if you please.’

Bolitho stared at the solitary chair. The sword had vanished.

Proby scratched his quill across a certificate, and said, ‘On behalf of this Board, Mr. Bolitho, I congratulate you.’ He came around the table before Bolitho could lever himself out of the chair. Proby was a substantial figure, but he had scarcely seen him move.

He was on his feet finally and Proby was shaking his hand and saying, ‘We wish you a speedy promotion!’ Now it was Maude’s turn, shaking his hand abruptly and looking down at him, with a smile he would always remember. He had passed. It might be next month, or a year from now, before he actually received that lieutenant’s commission. But he had passed. The cabin servant was placing some fine goblets on a tray. But there were only three. He took a deep, deep breath, wanting to laugh, or cry.

It was over. And it was dark beyond the stern windows. He picked up his hat and walked to the door, almost expecting his legs to fail him. It was over. He must find Martyn, make sure that… He paused and glanced back at the cabin, the hands reaching for filled glasses. Tomorrow they would have forgotten him, put it behind them. It was only another examination.

Captain Greville had not shaken his hand. And he was glad of it.

He saw the bench where they had waited. No turning back. No matter what.

I am a King’s officer. Almost. Then he did touch his eyes.

3

A Favour for the Captain

Lieutenant Montagu Verling stood at Gorgon’s quarterdeck rail, his hands on his hips, watching a party of seamen clambering over the boat-tier below him. One of the ship’s two cutters swayed across the nettings like an ungainly whale, while Hoggett, the boatswain, gestured with his fist, his voice carrying easily above the noise of other work and the clatter of loose rigging.

‘This will not take long.’ Verling swore softly as a seaman slithered and fell on the wet planking. It had been raining all night, and now in the grey forenoon the weather showed little improvement. Plymouth was almost hidden in mist, a spire or rooftop showing here and there like projections of a reef.

Bolitho was also watching the cutter, now being moved into position above the tier. At last they were replacing things, and most of the debris left by the refit had vanished. Some lashings remained to be done, and canvas awnings had been spread to protect paintwork and fresh pitch. Between decks, order had already been restored, with stores and spare equipment stowed away, and messdecks cleared of clutter and gear that belonged elsewhere in the hull.

He tried to stifle a yawn, surprised that he had been able to drag himself out of sleep and present himself on deck at the chime of the bell. He turned to peer above the quarterdeck nettings with their neatly stacked hammocks, the cold air wet on his face. Even that did not revive him, and there was a painful crick in his neck. He saw the topmasts of the big three-decker drifting out of the mist at the far end of the anchorage. The flagship; he could even make out the vague dash of colour from her ensign. The bulk of the ship remained hidden by the fog. He winced, but his spirits soared at the memory. Had that been only yesterday? Was it possible?

‘Lower away, ’andsomely there!’ Hoggett’s voice, which seemed even louder on this raw morning.

The cutter began to descend, the men on the tackles taking the strain, feet somehow finding a grip on the slippery planking.

‘’Vast lowering!’

He heard Dancer give a groan.

‘My head, Dick. I feel like death!’

Even the Board itself was hard to fix in the mind, like a dream fast disappearing. Only certain moments remained clear: the three figures at the table. An empty chair. And the sudden, startling interruption when the admiral had made his entrance. Perhaps the handshakes remained most vivid in his memory. We wish you a speedy promotion!

Then back to Gorgon, in darkness, passing an overloaded boat full of sailors, all of whom sounded drunk, probably just paid off from some merchantman. He and Dancer had been unable to stop laughing at the string of curses launched by their own coxswain. Then, in the midshipmen’s berth, the heavy silence of some, hunched over written notes, studying or pretending to, by the flickering light of glims, or apparently asleep, being shattered as they had risen as one: a midshipman’s salute to any successful candidate for promotion. Hoarded drinks appearing, which had ranged from blackstrap to cognac, helped down by beer from the mess cask, with a mock fight known as ‘Boarders Away!’ to round off the occasion. It had taken threats of physical violence from the warrant officers’ mess to quieten the celebration.

Bolitho cleared his throat, or tried to. And now the captain wanted them aft, in the great cabin.

Verling waved to the boatswain as the cutter finally came to rest on the tier. Even the new paint was unmarked.

He said, ‘The Captain is going over to Poseidon very soon. The admiral has called a conference – all senior captains. Something’s in the wind.’ He gazed critically at the two midshipmen. ‘Under the circumstances, I suppose…’ He left the rest unsaid.

Bolitho thought of the admiral again, the hand on his arm. I have duties to perform. Events are moving once more. Was that the real reason he had interrupted the examination?

Without it, what might have happened? He recalled Greville’s sarcasm, his refusal to shake his hand.

He had mentioned it to Dancer, and he had passed it off by saying, ‘Greville shook my hand, but I could have done without it! I still can’t remember half of what I said to them. I was in a daze!’ It was something shared after that, real. They had hugged one another, each glad for the other.