In Gallant Company Read Free

service as a topman when a fall from aloft had broken his leg in three places and made him a permanent cripple, met him with a cheery smile. If everyone else was sorry for him, Mackenzie at least was well satisfied. His injuries had given him as much comfort and security as any man could hope to find in a King’s ship.
    â€˜I’ve some coffee, sir. Piping hot, too.’ He had a soft Scottish accent which was very like Cairns’.
    Bolitho peeled off his coat and handed it with his hat to Logan, a ship’s boy who helped in the wardroom.
    â€˜I’d relish that, thank you.’
    The wardroom, which ran the whole breadth of the ship’s stern, was wreathed in tobacco smoke and touched with its own familiar aromas of wine and cheese. Right aft the great stern windows were already in darkness, and as the counter swung slightly to the pull of the massive anchor it was possible to see an occasional light glittering from the shore like a lost star.
    Hutchlike cabins, little more than screens which would be torn down when the ship cleared for action, lined either side. Tiny havens which contained the owner’s cot, chest and a small hanging space. But each was at least private. Apart from the cells, about the only place in the ship a man could be alone.
    Directly above, and in a cabin which matched in size and space that which contained most of his officers, was the captain’s domain. Also on that deck was the master and the first lieutenant, to be in easy reach of the quarterdeck and the helm.
    But here, in the wardroom, was where they all shared their moments off-duty. Where they discussed their hopes and fears, ate their meals and took their wine. The six lieutenants, two marine officers, the sailing master, the purser and the surgeon. It was crowded certainly, but when compared with thebelow-the-waterline quarters of the midshipmen and other warrant officers and specialists, let alone the great majority of seamen and marines, it was luxury indeed.
    Dalyell, the fifth lieutenant, sat beneath the stern windows, his legs crossed and resting on a small keg, a long clay pipe balanced in one hand.
    â€˜George Probyn adrift again, eh, Dick?’
    Bolitho grinned. ‘It is becoming a habit.’
    Sparke, the second lieutenant, a severe-faced man with a coin-shaped scar on one cheek, said, ‘I’d drag him to the captain if
I
were the senior here.’ He returned to a tattered news-sheet and added vehemently, ‘These damned rebels seem to do what they like! Two more transports seized from under our frigates’ noses, and a brig cut out of harbour by one of their bloody privateers! We’re too soft on ’em!’
    Bolitho sat down and stretched, grateful to be out of the wind, even though he knew the illusion of warmth would soon pass.
    His head lolled, and when Mackenzie brought the mug of coffee he had to shake his shoulder to awaken him.
    In companionable silence the
Trojan
’s officers drew comfort from their own resources. Some read, others wrote home, letters which might never reach those for whom they were intended.
    Bolitho drank his coffee and tried to ignore the pain in his forehead. Without thinking, his hand moved up and touched the rebellious lock of black hair above his right eye. Beneath it was a livid scar, the source of the pain. He had received it when he had been in
Destiny
. It often came back to him at moments like this. The illusion of safety, the sudden rush of feet and slashing, hacking weapons. The agony and the blood. Oblivion.
    There was a tap at the outer screen door, and then Mackenzie said to Sparke, who was the senior officer present, ‘Your pardon, sir, but the midshipman of the watch is here.’
    The boy stepped carefully into the wardroom, as if he was walking on precious silk.
    Sparke snapped curtly, ‘What is it, Mr Forbes?’
    â€˜The first lieutenant’s compliments, sir, and will all officers muster in the cabin at two