In Gallant Company (15 page)

A tall figure emerged from the crush, and Bolitho saw it was Lamb, the flagship's captain. He was a steady-eyed man with features which might at first appear to be severe, even hard. But when he smiled, everything changed.

‘You are Mr Bolitho, I understand?' He held out his hand. ‘Welcome aboard. I heard about your exploits last March and wanted to meet you. We can use men of mettle who have seen what war is all about. It is a hard time, but also one of opportunity for young men such as yourself. If the moment comes, seize your chance. Believe me, Bolitho, they rarely come twice.'

Bolitho thought of the graceful schooner, even the stubby-hulled
Thrush
. His own chance had already come and gone.

‘Come and meet the admiral.' He saw Bolitho's expression and laughed. ‘He will not eat you!'

More pushing to get through the crowd. Flushed faces, loud voices. It was difficult to imagine that the war was just miles away.

He saw a hunched set of blue shoulders and a gold-laced
collar, and groaned inwardly. Ponderous. Slow-moving. A disappointment after all.

But the flag captain pushed the big man aside and revealed a slight figure who barely came up to his shoulder.

Rear-Admiral Graham Coutts looked more like a lieutenant than a flag officer. He had dark brown hair which was tied to the nape of his neck in a casual fashion. He had an equally youthful face, devoid of lines or the usual mask of authority which Bolitho had seen before.

He thrust out his hand. ‘Bolitho, is it? Good.' He nodded and smiled impetuously. ‘Proud to meet you.' He beckoned to some hidden servant. ‘Wine over here!'

Then he said lightly, ‘I know all about you. I suspect that if you and not your superior officer had been leading that boat attack you might even have recaptured the brigantine!' He smiled. ‘No matter. It showed what can be done, given the will.'

An elegant figure in blue velvet walked from a noisy group by the quarter gallery and the admiral said quietly, ‘See that man, Bolitho? That is Sir George Helpman, from London.' His lip curled slightly. ‘An “expert” on our malaise here. A very important person. One to be heard and respected at all times.'

The mood changed, and just as swiftly he was the admiral again. ‘Be off with you, Bolitho. Enjoy what you wish. The food is palatable today.'

He turned away and Bolitho saw him greeting the man from London. He got the impression that Rear-Admiral Coutts did not like him very much. It had sounded like a warning, although what a lowly lieutenant could do to upset matters was hard to imagine.

He thought about Coutts. Not a bit what he had expected. He shied away from what he felt. Admiration. A strange sense of loyalty for the man he had met for just a few minutes. But it was there. It was useless to deny it.

It was getting dark by the time the guests started to leave. Some were so drunk they had to be carried to their boats, others lurched, glassy-eyed and unsupported, fighting each step of the way for fear of disgracing themselves.

Bolitho waited on the quarterdeck, watching the civilians and the officials, the ladies and a few of the military being
helped, pushed or lowered by tackles into the bobbing flotilla of boats alongside.

He had just passed a cabin which he guessed was that of Coutts' flag lieutenant. The door had been slightly ajar, and Bolitho had caught just a brief view before it had swung shut. A woman's body, naked to the waist, her arms wrapped around the officer's head as he tore at her clothing like a madman. And she had been giggling, bubbling with sheer enjoyment.

Her husband or escort was probably lying in one of the boats right now, Bolitho thought. He smiled. Was he shocked or envious again?

A boatswain's mate, harassed by his additional duties, called, ‘Yer captain's comin', sir!'

‘Aye. Call the barge.' Bolitho adjusted his swordbelt and straightened his hat.

Pears appeared with Captain Lamb. The two men shook hands and then Pears followed Bolitho down into the boat.

As the barge edged clear and swung on a swift moving current, Pears made one comment. ‘Disgusting, was it not?'

He then lapsed into silence and did not move until
Trojan
's lighted gunports were close by. Then he said curtly, ‘If that was diplomacy, then thank God I'm a simple sailor!'

Bolitho stood in the swaying boat beside the coxswain, and as Pears reached out for the ladder his foot slipped. Bolitho thought he heard him swear but was not certain. But he felt vaguely honoured to share the moment. Pears was in perfect control again, but only just. That made him seem more human than Bolitho could remember.

Pears' harsh voice came down from the entry port, ‘Don't stand there like a priest, Mr Bolitho! ‘Pon my soul, sir, others have work to do, if you do not!'

Bolitho looked at Hogg and grinned. That was more like it.

Amongst other tasks required of ships' lieutenants was the wearying and thankless duty of officer of the guard. In New York, to ease the work of the shorebound authorities, the various ships at anchor were expected to supply a lieutenant for a full twenty-four-hour duty. It entailed checking the various
guardboats which pulled around the jetties and moored ships, to make certain they allowed no enemy agents to get near enough to do damage or discover secret information. Equally, they were required to prevent any of the fleet's seamen from deserting to seek shelter and more doubtful pleasures on the waterfront.

Seamen entrusted with work ashore were often tempted, and drunken, wild-eyed sailors had to be sorted out to await an escort back to their rightful ships, and a few lashes for good measure.

Two nights after his visit to the flagship it fell to
Trojan
's third lieutenant to place himself at the disposal of the port admiral and provost marshal for such duty. New York made him feel uneasy. A city waiting for something to happen, a pattern to settle once and for all. It was a city of constant movement. Refugees arriving from inland, others thronging offices and government buildings in search of relatives lost in the fighting. Some were already leaving for England and for Canada. Others waited to reap rich rewards from the victors, no matter what colour their coats might be. It could be a dangerous place at night, especially along the crowded waterfront with its taverns and brothels, boarding houses and gaming rooms, where anything was available so long as there was gold for the taking.

Bolitho, followed by a file of armed seamen, walked slowly along a line of sun-dried planked buildings, careful to stay close to the wall and avoid any filth which might be thrown or accidentally dropped on to his patrol.

He heard Stockdale's wheezing breath behind him, the occasional clink of weapons as they made their way towards the main jetty. Few people were in view, although behind most of the shuttered windows he could hear music and voices raised in song or blasphemy.

One house stood silhouetted against the swirling water, and he saw the usual marine sentries outside the entrance, a sergeant pacing up and down by a small lantern.

‘'Alt! 'Oo goes there!'

‘Officer of the guard!'

‘Advance an' be recognized!'

It was always the same, even though the marines knew most of the fleet's lieutenants by sight, night or day.

The sergeant stamped to attention. ‘Two men for the
Vanquisher
, sir. Fightin' drunk they are.'

Bolitho walked through some doors and into a large hall. It had once been a fine house, the home of a tea merchant. Now it served the Navy.

‘They seem quiet enough, Sergeant.'

The man grinned unfeelingly. ‘Ah, sir,
now
they is!' He gestured to two inert shapes in leg irons. ‘'Ad to quieten 'em, like.'

Bolitho sat down at a scarred desk, half listening to the noises beyond the doors, the clatter of wheels across the Dutch cobbles, the occasional shriek of some whore.

He looked at the clock. Past midnight. Another four hours to go. At times like this he longed for the
Trojan
, when hours earlier he had pined to be free from her regulated routine.

When the fleet had first arrived off Staten Island, someone had described it as being like London afloat. It had become too much of a reality to be mentioned nowadays. Bolitho had seen two lieutenants from one of the frigates as they had gone into a gaming house. He knew both by sight but little more. In those few moments he had caught a snatch of their conversation.
Sailing on the tide. Going to Antigua with despatches
. What it was to be free. Able to get clear away from this floating muddle of ships.

The sergeant reappeared and regarded him doubtfully.

‘I got a crimp outside, sir.' He jerked his thumb towards the door. ‘I know 'im of old, a rogue but reliable. 'E says there are some 'ands from the brig
Diamond
. Jumped ship afore she weighed three days back.'

Bolitho stood up, reaching for his hanger. ‘What was she?'

The sergeant grinned hugely. ‘No bother, sir. She weren't under no warrant, she was with general cargo from an English port.'

Bolitho nodded. A brig from England. That implied trained seamen, deserters or not.

He said, ‘Bring the, er, crimp inside.'

The man was typical of his trade. Small, greasy, furtive. They were common enough in any seaport. Boarding-house runners who sold information about likely hands to officers of the Press.

‘Well?'

The man whined, ‘It be my duty, sir. To 'elp the King's Navy.'

Bolitho eyed him coldly. The man still retained the accent of the London slums.

‘How many?'

‘Six, sir!' His eyes glittered. ‘Fine strong lads they be.'

The sergeant said offhandedly, ‘They're in Lucy's place.' He grimaced. ‘Poxed to the eyebrows, I shouldn't wonder.'

‘Tell my men to fall in, Sergeant.' Bolitho tried not to think of the delay this would cause. He would probably miss his sleep altogether.

The crimp said, ‘Could we come to an agreement nah, sir?'

‘No. You wait here. If I get the men, you'll get paid. If not . . .' He winked at the grinning marines. ‘We'll have you seized up and flogged.'

He strode out into the night, hating the crimp, these detestable methods of getting enough men. Despite the hardships of naval life, there were plenty of volunteers. But there were never enough. Death by many means, and injury by many more, saw to that.

Stockdale asked, ‘Where, sir?'

‘A place called Lucy's.'

One of the seamen chuckled. ‘Oi bin there, zur.'

Bolitho groaned. ‘Then you lead. Carry on.'

Once in the narrow, sloping street which stank like an open sewer, Bolitho split his men into two groups. Most of the trusted hands had done it before several times. Even pressed men, once settled in their new life, were ready enough to bring the Navy's rough justice to the fore.
If we have to go, why not you!
seemed to be their only yardstick.

Stockdale had vanished to the rear of the building, his cutlass in his belt and carrying instead a cudgel as big as a leg of pork.

Bolitho stood for a few more seconds, taking deep breaths while he stared at the sealed door, beyond which he could hear someone crooning quietly like a sick dog. They were probably sleeping it off, he thought grimly. If they were there at all.

He drew his hanger and smashed the pommel against the door several times, shouting, ‘Open, in the King's name!'

The response was immediate. Shuffles and startled cries, the muffled tinkle of breaking glass followed by a thud as a would-be escaper fell victim to Stockdale's cudgel.

Then the door was flung open, but instead of a rush of figures Bolitho was confronted by a giant of a woman, whom he guessed to be the notorious Lucy. She was as tall and as broad as any sailorman, and had the language to match as she screamed abuse and waved her fists in his face.

Lanterns were appearing on every hand, and from windows across the street heads were peering down to enjoy the spectacle of Lucy routing the Navy.

‘Why, you poxy young bugger!' She placed her hands on her hips and glowered at Bolitho. ‘'Ow dare you come accusin' me of 'arbouring deserters!'

Other women, some half-naked, were creeping down a rickety stairway at the back of the hallway, their painted faces excited and eager to see what would happen.

‘I have my duty.' Bolitho listened to his own voice, disgusted with the jeering woman, humiliated by her contempt.

Stockdale appeared behind her, his face unsmiling as he wheezed, ‘Got 'em, sir. Six, like 'e said.'

Bolitho nodded. Stockdale must have found his own way through the rear.

‘Well done.' He felt sudden anger running through him. ‘While we're here we shall take a look for more
innocent
citizens.'

She reached out and seized his lapels, and pursed her lips to spit into his face.

Bolitho got a brief view of bare, kicking legs and thighs as Stockdale gathered her up in his arms and carried her screaming and cursing down the steps to the street. Without further ado he dropped her face down in a horse trough and held her head under the water for several seconds.

Then he released her, and as she staggered, retching and gasping for breath, he said, ‘If you talks to the lieutenant like that again, my beauty, I'll take my snickersnee to yer gizzard, see?'

He nodded to Bolitho. ‘All right now, sir.'

Bolitho swallowed hard. He had never seen Stockdale behave like it before.

‘Er, thank you.'

He saw his men nudging each other and grinning, and tried to assert himself. ‘Get on with the search.' He watched the six deserters lurching past, one holding his head.

From one of the other houses an anonymous voice yelled, ‘Leave 'em be, you varmints!'

Bolitho entered the door and looked at the upended chairs, empty bottles and scraps of clothing. It was more like a prison than a place for pleasure, he thought.