Alexander Kent - Band of Brothers

Midshipman Richard Bolitho threw up one hand to shade his eyes, surprised by the fierce, reflected glare from the water alongside. He waited while two seamen lurched past him half carrying, half dragging, some bulky objects wrapped in canvas toward the open deck and the hard sunlight. After the semi-darkness of Gorgon ’s between decks, it only added to his sense of unreality.

He calmed himself. Another day . For most people, anyway.

He glanced down at his uniform, his best. He wanted to smile. The only uniform that would pass muster and avoid criticism. He flicked off several strands of oakum which he had collected somewhere along the way from the midshipmen’s berth, his home in Gorgon for the past year and a half.

Was that really all it was?

He took another deep breath. He was ready; and it was not just another day.

He walked on to the main deck, adjusting his mind to the noise and outward confusion of a ship undergoing the indignities of a badly needed overhaul. Chisels and handsaws, and the constant thud of hammers in the depths of the hull, while elsewhere men swarmed like monkeys high above the decks, repairing the miles of standing and running rigging which gave life to a fighting ship and the sails that drove her. And now it was almost finished. The stench of tar and paint, the heaps of discarded cordage and wood fragments, would soon be a cursed memory. Until the next time.

He gazed across the nearest eighteen-pounders, black muzzles at rest inboard of their ports, still smart, disdaining the disorder around them. And beyond, to the land, hard and sharply etched in the morning light: the rooftops and towers of old Plymouth, with an occasional glitter of glass in the sun. And beyond them the familiar rolling hills, more blue than green at this hour.

He tried not to quicken his pace, to reveal that things were different merely because of this particular day. The new year of 1774 was barely a few days old.

But it was different.

Some seamen flaking down halliards glanced at him as he passed. He knew them well enough, but they seemed like strangers. He reached the entry port, where the captain was piped aboard and ashore, and important visitors were greeted with the full ceremonial of a King’s ship. Wardroom officers were also permitted here, but not a midshipman, unless on duty in his proper station. Richard Bolitho was not yet eighteen, and he wanted to laugh, to shout, to share it with someone who was free of doubt or of envy.

Out of the blue and with less than a few days warning, the signal had arrived: the appointment every midshipman knew was inevitable. Welcome, dread, even fear: he might receive it with all or none of these emotions. Others would decide his fate. He would be examined and be subject to their decision, and, if successful, he would receive the King’s commission, and take the monumental step from midshipman to lieutenant.

He watched a schooner passing half a cable or so abeam, her sails hard in the wind, although the waters of Plymouth Sound were yet unbroken, a deep swell lifting the slender vessel as if it were a toy.

‘Ah, here you are, Mr. Bolitho.’

It was Verling, the first lieutenant.

Perhaps he was waiting to board a boat himself, on some mission for the captain; it was unlikely he would be leaving the ship, his ship, for any other reason at a time like this. From dawn until sunset he was always in demand, supervising working parties, checking daily, even hourly, progress above and below decks, missing nothing. He was the first lieutenant, and you were never allowed to forget it.

Bolitho touched his hat. ‘Aye, sir.’ He was ahead of time, and Verling would expect that. He was tall and thin, with a strong, beaky nose which seemed to guide his pitiless eyes straight to any flaw or misdemeanour in the world around him. His world.

But his appearance now was unexpected, and almost unnerving.

Verling had turned his back on the usual handful of watchkeepers who were always close by the entry port: marine sentries in their scarlet coats and white crossbelts, a boatswain’s mate with his silver call ready to pipe or pass any command immediately when so ordered. The sideboys, smart in their checkered shirts, nimble enough to leap down and assist any boats coming alongside. And the officer of the watch, who was making a point of studying the gangway log and frowning with concentration, for Verling’s benefit no doubt.

Bolitho knew he was being unfair, but could not help it. The lieutenant was new to the ship, and to his rank. He had been a midshipman himself only months ago, but you would never know it from his manner. His name was Egmont, and he was already heartily disliked.

Verling said, ‘Remember what I told you. It is not a contest, nor an official corroboration of your general efficiency. The captain’s report will have dealt with that. It goes deeper, much deeper.’ His eyes moved briefly to Bolitho’s face but seemed to cover him completely. ‘The Board will decide, and that decision is final.’ He almost shrugged. ‘ This time, in any case.’

He touched the watch fob that hung from his breeches pocket but did not look at it. He had made his point.

‘So you had not forgotten, Mr. Dancer. I am glad to know it, sir.’

As if in confirmation, eight bells chimed out from the forecastle belfry.

‘Attention on the upper deck! Face aft!’

Calls trilled, and from across the water came the measured blare of a trumpet. Part of life itself. Colours were being hoisted, and there would be several telescopes observing from the shore and the flagship to make certain that no one and no ship was caught unawares.

Midshipman Martyn Dancer exhaled slowly, and nodded to his friend.

‘Had to go back to the mess, Dick. Forgot my protector, today of all days!’

It was a small, grotesque carving, more like a demon than a symbol of good fortune, but Dancer was never without it. Bolitho had first seen it after his ordeal with the smugglers. Dancer still bore the bruises, but claimed that his ‘protector’ had saved him from far worse.

Verling was saying, ‘I wish you well. We all do. And remember this, the pair of you. You speak for yourselves, but today you represent this ship .’ He permitted himself a thin smile. ‘Go to it!’

‘Boat’s alongside, sir!’

Bolitho grinned at his friend. It was only right that they should be together today, after all that had happened.

Lieutenant Montagu Verling watched them climb down to the launch which had hooked on to the ‘stairs’ beneath the port. Had he ever been like that, he wondered?

‘ Cast off! Shove off forrard! ’ The boat, caught on the tide, veered away from the big two-decker’s side, oars upright in twin lines, the coxswain gripping the tiller-bar, gauging the moment.

Verling was still watching them. It was not like him, and he was a little surprised by it. The carpenter and the boatswain would be waiting with yet more lists, work to be done, stores or cordage not yet arrived or the wrong sort if they had. For he was the first lieutenant. Right aft, beneath that big ensign curling in a steady south-westerly, the captain was in his quarters, secure in the knowledge that this refit would be completed on time. That would please the admiral, and so on, up the chain of command.

Verling saw the oars fanning out on the launch’s sides, like wings, while the crew leaned aft to take the strain.

Perhaps, one day soon …

‘Give way together !’