Band of Brothers by Alexander Kent Page B

movin’ again!’
    Rum, cognac, it could have been anything, but it began to work instantly.
    ‘Thank you, Drury - just in time!’ The seaman laughed. Like Bolitho, he was probably surprised that he had remembered his name.
    Dancer joined him by the foremast and clapped his shoulder.
    ‘Well, that’s all over, Dick!’ His smile was very white against wind-seared features. ”Til the next time!’
    They both looked up. The masthead pendant was just visible against the banks of low cloud, flicking out like a coachman’s whip, but not bar-taut as it must have been for the past few hours.
    Dancer said, ‘I’ll not be sorry to see the sun again!’
    ‘ Here? In January?’ They both laughed, and a sailor who was squatting by the forward hatch while his leg was being bandaged stared up at them and grinned.
    Tinker had heard Verling’s words to Egmont, and Bolitho saw that he was already mustering some of his topmen, getting ready to loose the topsails. Hotspur would fly when that was done. Like the great seabird of his imagination.
    ‘Go below, one of you, and fetch my glass!’
    Bolitho called, ‘Aye, sir!’ and nudged his friend’s arm. ‘You stay and watch for the sun!’ Dancer’s coat sleeve was heavy with spray.
    Dancer saw the question in his eyes and shrugged. ‘I put my tarpaulin over one of the injured.’
    Bolitho said, ‘You would!’
    It was deserted below deck, although he could hear men shouting to one another as they put new lashings on some of the stores Hotspur was carrying as additional ballast. He paused to listen to the sea, sluicing and thudding against the hull. Quieter now, but still menacing, showing its power.
    He found Verling’s telescope, just inside the tiny cabin which would be the new master’s domain and, when necessary, his retreat.
    Verling’s coat was hanging on a hook, swaying with the motion like a restless spectre. When Hotspur anchored again, he would go ashore as a well turned-out sea officer, not as a survivor. It was impossible to see him in any other light.
    He stiffened, surprised that he had not heard it before. Sewell’s voice, husky, even cowed.
    ‘I didn’t , sir. I was only trying to… .’
    He got no further, cut short by Egmont, angry, malicious, sarcastic.
    ‘What d’ you mean, you couldn’t help it? You make me sick, and you still believe that anybody will ever accept you for a commission?’ He was laughing now; Bolitho could see him in his mind. Barely out of the midshipmen’s berth himself, and he was behaving like a tyrant.
    ‘I’ve been watching you, and do you think I’ve not guessed what you’re trying to do?’ There was another sound. A slap. ‘And if I see you again… .’
    Bolitho did not know he had moved. It was like the actors in the square at Falmouth; they had all watched them as children, had cheered or hissed to match the mimes and poses.
    Egmont swinging round to stare at him, mouth half open, cut short by the interruption, one hand still in the air, after the blow, or preparing another. Sewell, leaning against the curved timbers, covering his cheek or mouth, but his eye fixed on Bolitho.
    ‘What th’ hell are you doing here?’
    Almost as if he had imagined it. Egmont quite calm now, arms at his sides, swaying to the motion, but in control. And the young midshipman, saying nothing, his face guarded, expressionless. Only the red welt by his mouth as evidence.
    Bolitho said, ‘I came for the first lieutenant’s glass.’ It was like hearing someone else. Clipped, cold. Like Hugh.
    ‘Well, don’t just stand there! Take it and go!’
    Bolitho looked past him. ‘Are you all right, Andrew?’
    Sewell swallowed, and seemed unable to speak. Then he nodded and exclaimed, ‘Yes, of course. It was nothing, you see… .’
    Egmont snapped, ‘Hold your tongue!’ and turned to Bolitho again. ‘Go about your duties. I’ll overlook your insolence this time, but… .’ He did not finish it, but swung round and left the