Band of Brothers by Alexander Kent

away all thoughts of sleep. And that was the odd thing, that he was still wide awake. It was eight o’clock, and a full eight hours since Hotspur had weighed anchor and struck south into the Channel. The thrill and confusion, groping for unfamiliar cordage and becoming more accustomed to the schooner’s demands in a brisk north-westerly wind, had settled into a pattern of order and purpose.
    They were divided into two watches, four hours on, four off, with the dogwatches giving a brief respite in which to devour a hot meal and fortify themselves with a tot of rum. It all helped.
    Verling was handing over the watch now, his tall shape just visible against the sliver of foam beyond the lee bulwark. ‘Sou’ east-by-south, Mr. Egmont. She should be steady a while now that the topsails are snug.’ The merest pause, and Bolitho imagined him staring down at the junior lieutenant, making sure that there was no misunder-standing. ‘Call me immediately if the sea gets up, or anything else happens that I ought to know.’
    Bolitho moved closer to the wheel and the two helmsmen. He could see the bare feet of one, pale against the wet planking. During the first dogwatch he had seen the same seaman blowing onto his fingers to warm them against the bitter air, but he was standing barefoot now with no show of discomfort. He must have soles like leather.
    Another shadow moved past the wheel and he saw a face catch the glow from the compass box: Andrew Sewell, the new midshipman. They had scarcely spoken since they had come aboard; Egmont had seen to that. Fifteen years old, Captain Conway had said. He looked younger. Nervous, shy, or possibly both, he was a pleasant-faced youth with fair skin and hazel eyes, and a quick smile that seemed only too rare. He had helped Bolitho lay out some charts in the precise way that Verling always seemed to expect. It had been then, in the poor light of the main cabin, that Bolitho had seen Sewell’s hands. Scarred, torn and deeply bruised, never given the chance to become accustomed to the demands of seamanship. Deliberately driven seemed the most likely explanation; it was common enough even in today’s navy. He remembered the captain’s obvious concern for him, perhaps not merely because of his dead father.
    Bolitho reached out impulsively and touched his elbow.
    ‘Over here, Andrew! A bit more sheltered!’ He felt him start to pull away, and added, ‘Easy, now.’
    Sewell let his arm go limp.
    ‘I’ve just been sick again, Mister… .’
    ‘“Dick” will do very well.’ He waited, sensing the caution, the doubt. Sewell did not belong here. Suppose I had felt like that when I was packed off to sea in Manxman?
    He looked up and watched the fine curve of the great sail above them. Not shapeless now, and pale blue in a shaft of light as the moon showed itself between banks of scudding cloud. And the sea, rising and falling like black glass, reaching out on either beam. Endless, with no horizon.
    Bolitho tugged the rough tarpaulin coat away from his neck. It had rubbed his skin raw, but he had not noticed.
    He said, ‘This could be the middle of the Atlantic, or some other great ocean! And just us sailing across it, think of that.’
    Sewell said, ‘You mean that,’ and hesitated, ‘Dick? How you truly see it?’
    ‘I suppose I do. I can’t really explain… .’ Something made him stop, like a warning, as he felt Sewell move slightly away.
    ‘Nothing to do, then?’ It was Egmont, almost invisible in a boat cloak against the black water and heavy cloud. ‘I want a good watch kept at all times . Have you checked the deck log and the set course?’
    Bolitho replied, ‘Sou’ east-by-south, sir. Helm is steady.’
    Egmont turned toward Sewell.
    ‘Did I hear you spewing up again? God help us all! I want you to check the glass yourself. Let every grain of sand run free before you turn it, see? I don’t want you warming the glass every time, just so you can run below and dream of home.