ALEXANDER KENT: In Gallant Company

Take that man's name.

He thought of Cairns as his one chance of showing his mettle had been taken from him. It was another measure of the man, Bolitho thought. Some first lieutenants would have kept all the credit for the idea of boarding the other craft, hoarding it for the final reward.

It was getting dark early again, the low cloud and steady drizzle adding to the discomfort both below and on deck.

Cairns met Bolitho as he came off watch, and said simply, 'I have selected some good hands for you, Dick. The second lieutenant will be in command, assisted by Mr Frowd, who is the ablest master's mate we have, and Mr Midshipman Libby. You will be assisted by Mr Quinn and Mr Couzens.'

Bolitho met his even gaze. Apart from Sparke and Frowd, the master's mate, and to a lesser extent himself, the others were children at this sort of thing. He doubted if either the nervous Quinn or the willing Couzens had ever heard a shot fired other than at wildfowl.

But he said, 'Thank you, sir.' He would show the same attitude that Cairns had displayed to the captain.

Cairns touched his arm. 'Go and find some dry clothing, if you can.' As he turned towards his cabin he added, 'You will have the redoubtable Stockdale in your cutter. I would not be so brave as to try and stop him!'

Bolitho walked through the wardroom and entered his little cabin. There he stripped naked and towelled his damp and chilled limbs until he recovered a sensation of warmth.

Then he sat on his swaying cot and listened to the great ship creaking and shuddering beneath him, the occasional splash of spray as high as the nearest gunport.

This time tomorrow he might be on his way to disaster, if not already dead. He shivered, and rubbed his stomach muscles vigorously to quell his sudden uncertainty.

But at least he would be doing something. He pulled a dean shirt over his head and groped for his breeches.

No sooner had he done so than he heard the distant cry getting louder and closer.

'All hands! All hands! Hands aloft and reef tops'ls!'

He stood up and banged his head on a ring-bolt.

'Damnation!'

Then he was up and hurrying again to that other world of wind and noise, to the Trojan's demands which must always be met.

As he passed Probyn's untidy shape, the lieutenant peered at him and grinned. 'Fog, is it?'

Bolitho grinned back at him. 'Go to hell!'

It took a full two hours to reef to the captain's satisfaction and to prepare the ship for the night. The news of the proposed attack had gone through the ship like fire, and Bolitho heard the many wagers which were being made. The sailor's margin between life and death in this case.

And it would all probably come to nothing. Such things had happened often enough on this commission. Preparation, and then some last-minute hitch.

Bolitho imagined it was going to be an almost impossible thing to find and take the other ship. Equally, he knew he would feel cheated if it was all called off.

He returned to the wardroom to discover that most of the officers had turned into their bunks after such a day of wind and bustle.

The surgeon and Captain D'Esterre sat beneath a solitary lantern playing cards, and alone by the streaming stern windows, staring at the vibrating tiller-head, was Lieutenant Quinn.

In the glow of the swaying lantern he looked younger than ever, if that were possible.

Bolitho sat beside him and shook his head as the boy, Logan, appeared with an earthenware wine jug.

'Are you feeling all right, James?'

Quinn looked at him, startled. 'Yes, thank you, sir.'

Bolitho smiled. 'Richard. Dick, if you like.' He watched the other's despair. 'This is not the midshipman's berth, you know.'

Quinn darted a quick glance at the card players, the mounting pile of coins beside the marine's scarlet sleeve, the dwindling one opposite him.

Then he said quietly, 'You've done this sort of thing before, sir – I mean, Dick.'

Bolitho nodded. 'A few times.'

He did not want to break Quinn's trust now that he had begun.

'I – I thought it would be in the ship when it happened.' Quinn gestured helplessly around the wardroom and the cabin flat beyond. 'You know, all your friends near you, with you. I think I could do that. Put up with the first time. The fighting.'

Bolitho said, 'I know. The ship is home. It can help.'

Quinn clasped his hands and said, 'My family are in the leather trade in the City of London. My father did not wish me to enter the Navy.' His chin lifted very slightly. 'But I was determined. I'd often seen a man-o'-war working down river to the sea. I knew what I wanted.'

Bolitho could well understand the shock Quinn must have endured when he was faced with the reality of a King's ship with all the harsh discipline and the feeling that you, as a new midshipman, are the only one aboard who is in total useless ignorance.

Bolitho had grown up with it and to it. The dark portraits which adorned the walls and staircase of the old Bolitho home in Cornwall were a constant Iiemminder of all who had gone before him. Now he and his brother Hugh were carrying on the tradition. Hugh was in a frigate, now probably in the Mediterranean, while he was here, about to embark in the sort of action they often yarned about in the taverns of Falmouth.

He said, 'It will be all right, James. Mr Sparke is leading us.'

For the first time he saw Quinn smile as he said, 'I must admit he frightens me more than the enemy!'

Bolitho laughed, wondering why it was that Quinn's fear had somehow given him strength.

`Turn into your cot while you can. Try to sleep. Tell Mackenzie you'd like a tot of brandy. George Probyn's cure for

everything!'

Quinn stood up and almost fell as the ship quivered and lunged across the hidden sea.

'No. I must write a letter.'

As he walked away, D'Esterre left the table, pocketing his winnings, and joined Bolitho by the tiller-head.

The surgeon made to follow, but D'Esterre said, 'No more, Robert. Your poor play might blunt my skill!' He smiled. 'Be off with you to your bottles and pills.'

The surgeon did not give his usual laugh, but walked away, feeling for handholds as he went.

D'Esterre gestured towards the silent cabins. 'Is he worried?'

'A little.'

The marine tugged at his tight neckcloth. 'Wish to God I was coming with you. If I can't put my lads to a fight, they will be as rusty as old pikes!'

Bolitho gave a great yawn. 'I'm for bed.' He shook his head as D'Esterre flicked the cards between his fingers. 'I'd not play with you anyway. You have the uncomfortable knack of winning.'

As he lay in his cot, hands thrust behind his head, Bolitho listened to the ship, identifying each sound as it fitted into the pattern and fabric of the hull.

The watch below, slung in their close-packed hammocks like pods, the air foul around them because of the bilges, and because the gunports had to be tightly sealed against sea and rain. Everything bloomed with damp, the deckheads dripping, the pumps clanking mournfully as Trojan worked her massive bulk over a stiff quarter-sea.

On the orlop deck beneath the waterline the surgeon would soon be asleep in his sickbay. He had only a handful of ill or injured men to deal with. It was to be hoped it remained like that.

Further forward in the midshipman's berth all would be quiet, although probably a flickering glim would betray somebody trying to read a complicated navigational problem, with a solution expected in the forenoon by Bunce.

Their own world. Seamen and marines. Painters and caulkers, ropemakers and gun captains, coopers and topmen, as mixed a crowd as you could meet in a whole city.

And right aft, doubtless still at his big table, the one who ruled all of them, the captain.

Bolitho looked up at the darkness. Pears was almost directly above him. With the watchful Foley nearby, and a glass at his elbow as he pondered over the day's events and tomorrow's uncertainties.