Band of Brothers

‘Old John Barstow is the finest builder in the West Country, that he is. A strange one an’ no mistake, swears to God he’s only once sailed out of sight of land, an’ that was when he was caught in a fog off the Lizard, if you can swallow that!’

The coxswain brought the cutter smoothly alongside, with oars tossed and a bowman ready with his boat hook.

Verling seized the ladder and said, ‘You can carry on, ’Swain. Watch those tackles when you stow the boat on the tier. It’s all new. Untried.’

‘Aye, sir. I’ll keep a weather eye on things.’

He might have been mistaken, but Bolitho thought he and Tinker winked at one another. But Verling was turning to look once more at Gorgon.

A small side party had assembled on the schooner’s deck, and a net was rigged to hoist any personal gear on board.

They waited for Verling, as senior in the boat, to leave first, and Dancer murmured, ‘Look who’s here, Dick. Surely he’s not coming with us?’

It was Egmont, the newest and most junior in Gorgon’s wardroom. He raised his hat in salute as Verling climbed over the gunwale, while the side party came stiffly to attention, or tried to. The schooner was no two-decker and the seamen were more used to Gorgon’s massive bulk than a hull that seemed alive in the offshore current. Egmont almost lost his balance, but managed to blurt out, ‘Welcome aboard, sir!’

Verling returned his salute coolly and paused to look forward along the deck. Bolitho could not see his face, but guessed he was missing nothing, not even the young lieutenant’s discomfort and anger. And, he saw, he had no difficulty in keeping his balance.

Verling said, ‘I trust everything is in hand, Mr. Egmont. I see that the boats are stowed, so nobody is still ashore?’

Egmont straightened his back. ‘As ordered, sir. Ready for sea.’

Bolitho knew he was being unfair to Egmont, but it sounded like a boast, as if he had manned and prepared the Hotspur for duty single-handed.

Verling snapped, ‘Where is Mr. Sewell, our new midshipman? He should be here.’

Bolitho glanced at Dancer. Verling was back in his proper role. He even remembered the midshipman’s name, when he could hardly have found time to meet him.

Egmont licked his lips. ‘Below, sir. Being sick.’ He licked his lips again. Just the mention of it in this choppy sea was having its effect.

Verling had not missed that, either.

‘Dismiss the hands. We shall go aft. I trust the chart and sailing instructions are ready, too?’ He did not wait for an answer, but pulled out his watch and flicked open the guard with his thumbnail. ‘So be it. The tide is right – we shall weigh at noon,’ and to the thick-set boatswain’s mate, ‘Carry on, Tinker. You know your men.’

‘Picked ’em meself, sir.’

Even the use of his nickname seemed correct and formal. Only Verling could have carried that off.

He stopped in his stride. ‘Stow your gear, then report to me.’ He saw Dancer peering around and added calmly, ‘This is no line-of-battle ship, Mr. Dancer. I expect you to know every stay, block and spar by the time we drop anchor again!’

The deck lurched as the schooner snubbed at her anchor cable, and Dancer said quietly, ‘Wind’s getting up. Shan’t be sorry when we do get under way.’

‘A moment, you two!’ It was Egmont, recovered, it seemed, from his performance earlier. ‘I know both of you have just satisfied the Board – yesterday, wasn’t it? And you heard what Mr. Verling said. Remember it well. Board or no Board, there’ll be no passengers on this deck, I’ll make certain of that. Now stow your gear and be sharp about it!’

They watched him turn away and gesticulate at some seamen, his words lost in the wind. Dancer shrugged.

‘He needs a bigger ship, that one, if only for his head.’

Bolitho laughed.

‘Let’s go and find our fellow middy. I suspect it wasn’t only the motion that made him vomit!’

Verling paused on the after ladder, his eyes level with the deck coaming.

It would be good to get away from the endless overhaul, clearing up disorder and making the ship, his ship, ready to take her place again, in response to any demand.

In Gorgon he was still the first lieutenant. Transferred to any other ship, he would be just another member of the wardroom, with seniority but no future.

He felt the hull shiver again, heard the clatter of loose rigging. She was alive. Eager to go.

He touched the shining paintwork. So be it, then.

As Tinker Thorne had firmly declared, the men chosen for Hotspur’s passage crew were all skilled and experienced hands, who would be badly missed if their old two-decker was suddenly ordered to sea.

Bolitho recognised most of them, and felt a sense of belonging which was hard to understand, although he had often heard older sailors describe it.

The initial unfamiliarity was gone at the moment of weighing anchor, with the first pressure of bodies leaning on the capstan bars, and the slow clank, clank, clank as the pawls started to respond. All spare hands thrusting in time to Tinker’s hoarse commands. Midshipmen as well; even the cook in his white smock.

Two men on the wheel, others waiting to ‘let go an’ haul!’ when the anchor broke free of the ground. Every piece of rigging joining the din, blocks taking the strain, ready for the canvas to fill and take command.

Verling stood by the compass box, his body poised for the moment of truth.

Clank, clank, clank, slower now.

A seaman, right forward above the bowsprit, peered aft and cupped his hands. Even so, his voice was almost drowned by the noise of wind and rigging.

He had seen the stout cable, now taut like a bar, and pointing directly at the stem. Up-and- down.

Then, ‘Anchor’s aweigh!’

It was something Bolitho would never forget. Nor want to. The sudden slackness on the capstan as the cable came home, the deck tilting, so steeply that the lee scuppers were awash as the hull continued to heel over.

It was exciting, awesome; not even in the lively revenue cutter Avenger had he known anything like it. The great sails cracking and filling to the wind, spray sluicing over them like icy rain. Feet sliding and kicking against the wet planking, gasps and curses from men bent almost double in the battle against wind and rudder.

Bolitho had watched plenty of smaller craft getting under way in a brisk wind. It had always fascinated and moved him, like seeing some great seabird spread its wings and lift from the water.

Even through and above the noise, he could hear Verling’s occasional commands, could imagine him down aft by the wheel, angled against the tilt of the deck, watching each sail and the moving panorama of the land, blurred now as if seen through wet glass.

And over all Tinker Thorne’s voice, urging, threatening.

‘Catch another turn on that pin, Morgan! Move your bloody self, will you!’

Or, ‘What d’you mean, Atkins, you think? Leave that to Jacks with brains!’

Bolitho saw the land, a white tower or beacon, bursting spray, rocks along the headland. A ship, too. Moving, anchored, or aground, it was impossible to tell. He knew Verling had put two leadsmen on either bow, a necessary precaution when leaving harbour for the first time, but it would take more than lead and line to save them if they misjudged the next cable or so.

‘Over here!’ Tinker again. ‘You as well, Mr. Bolitho!’ He was even managing to grin through the spray streaming down his leathery face. ‘Remember what you was told, no passengers!’

Despite the movement and confusion Bolitho found he could smile, even laugh suddenly into the spray. The