To Glory We Steer (3 page)

He ran lightly down the ladder, his head automatically bowed beneath the low deck beams. Right aft, below a spiralling lantern, a red-coated marine snapped to attention outside his cabin door. Beyond it would be his haven, the only place aboard a crowded ship where he could think and dream alone.

Stockdale held open the door and stood aside as Bolitho entered the cabin, which after
Sparrow
's cramped and spartan quarters seemed almost spacious.

The sloping stern windows ran the whole width of the main cabin and the thick glass gave a panoramic picture of tossing water and the hostile, grey sky. The air was heavy and damp, and once again he was conscious of the cold in his limbs. It would be good to get back to the sun, he thought. To see blue and gold through those windows, and know again the peace of a friendly sea.

A partition hid his sleeping quarters and another concealed the small chartroom. The main cabin itself contained a good table and matching chairs, as well as a bulkhead desk and a hanging wardrobe for his uniforms which even now Stockdale was unpacking from the boxes.

The previous captain had done well for himself, Bolitho thought. On either side of the cabin, discreetly hidden in a canvas cover, was a big twelve-pounder, lashed down like some leashed beast, so that even here, in the captain's own domain, the air would be filled with smoke and death when action found the frigate.

He made himself sit quietly on the padded bench below the windows, and ignoring Stockdale's furtive movements and shipboard noises above and beyond the door, began to read his orders.

But apart from the usual directions the orders told him nothing. There were extra marines aboard, with a full captain in charge of them instead of the original sergeant. That was interesting. Sir Henry Langford obviously considered that if all else failed Bolitho could defend himself with the afterguard.

He slammed the thick papers on the table and frowned. He did not want protection. He had meant what he had said. He wanted loyalty. No, he
needed
loyalty!

The deck canted beneath him and he heard the patter of bare feet overhead. In spite of everything he was glad to be leaving the land. At sea you had room to think, and space to act. Only time was at a premium.

Exactly ten minutes after Bolitho had left the quarterdeck the officers filed through the door into his cabin.

Vibart, his head lowered beneath the deck beams, introduced each one in order of seniority in the same rasping tone.

Okes and Herrick, the two other lieutenants, and Daniel Proby, the master. The latter was old and weathered like carved wood, his body round-shouldered beneath his well-worn coat. He had a lugubrious, heavy-jowled face, and the most mournful eyes Bolitho had ever seen. Then there was Captain Rennie of the marines, a slim and languid young man with deceptively lazy eyes. Bolitho thought that he at least would guess that there might still be trouble in the offing.

The three midshipmen stood quietly in the background. Farquhar was the most senior, and Bolitho felt a small pang of uneasiness as he studied the youth's tight lips and haughty expression. The admiral's nephew might be an ally. He could equally be the admiral's spy. The other young gentlemen, Neale and Maynard, seemed pleasant enough, with the usual crumpled cheekiness which most midshipmen reserved as their defence against officers and seamen alike. Neale was minute and chubby, and could not be more than thirteen, Bolitho thought. Maynard, on the other hand, was keen-eyed and as skinny as a pike, and watched his captain with a fixed and intent expression which might mean anything.

Then there were the senior warrant officers. The professional men. Evans, the purser, a small ferret in a plain dark coat, dwarfed by Ellice, the surgeon, brick-red and perspiring, with anxious rheumy eyes.

Bolitho stood with his back to the windows, his hands clasped behind him. He waited until Vibart had finished speaking and then said, “We shall get to know each other better very soon, gentlemen. For the moment let me say that I shall expect all of you to do your best to pull the ship's people together into one efficient company. When I left the Indies things were not going well for England. It is likely, indeed it is more than probable, that the French will take full advantage of our military commitments in that area for their own ends. Action will certainly seek us out, and when that happens I want this ship to give a good account of herself.” He watched their faces, trying to pierce their guarded expressions. His gaze fell on Herrick, the third lieutenant. He was a round-faced, competent looking officer, but there was an air of assumed attentiveness about him, like one who had been betrayed in the past and no longer trusted a first impression.

He dropped his eyes to the deck as Vibart said, “May I ask if we're being despatched to the Indies because of the trouble we had aboard, sir?” He stared unflinchingly at Bolitho's grey eyes, his voice challenging.

“You may ask.” Bolitho watched him narrowly. There was something dominant about Vibart. A sense of inner force which seemed to cow all the others into mere spectators. He said calmly, “I have studied the reports and the logs. I consider that the near-mutiny,” he let his voice hang on the last word, “was caused as much by negligence as anything else.”

Vibart replied hotly, “Captain Pomfret trusted his officers, sir!” He pointed to the books on the table. “You can see from the log books that the ship did all which could be expected of her!”

Bolitho pulled a book from beneath the others and saw Vibart look momentarily off guard.

“I often find that this, the punishment book, is a better gauge of a ship's efficiency.” He turned the pages idly, forcibly hiding the disgust he had felt when he had first examined it. “In the past six months over a thousand lashes were awarded to the crew.” His voice was cold. “Some men received four dozen at a time. One apparently died after punishment.”

Vibart said thickly, “You can't win men by weakness, sir!”

“Nor by senseless cruelty, Mr Vibart!” His tone was like a whip. “In future I will have more attention to leadership than to brutality in my ship!” He controlled his voice with an effort. “Also, I want every man fitted out with proper clothing from the slop chest before we reach Falmouth. This is a King's ship and not a Spanish slaver!”

There was a sudden heavy silence, so that ship and sea intruded into the cabin. The clatter of deck gear, the sluice of the tide around the rudder, and the distant bark of commands added to Bolitho's sense of isolation.

He continued evenly, “At Falmouth we will make efforts to increase our company to full strength. I will send parties of trusted hands ashore to press suitable men for service. Not cripples and young boys, but men. Do I make myself clear?”

Most of them nodded. Lieutenant Okes said carefully, “I have often read of your exploits in the
Gazette,
sir.” He swallowed painfully and glanced quickly at Herrick. “I think the whole ship will be happy to have you as captain.” His voice trailed away miserably and he fidgeted with his sword.

Bolitho nodded. “Thank you, Mr Okes.” He could not afford to add anything else. Okes might be seeking favouritism, or making haste to cover up some old misdemeanour. But still, it was a beginning.

He added, “I cannot alter what Captain Pomfret did or did not do. I have my own ways, and I expect them to be considered at all times.” From the corner of his eye he saw the master shaking his head doubtfully. “Do you wish to say anything, Mr Proby?”

The old man looked up with a jerk, his jowls shaking. “Er, no, sir! I was just thinking it will make a change to navigate in some deep water instead o' all these shoals an' mudbanks!” He smiled, the effort only adding to his mournful appearance. “The young gentlemen will benefit from a long voyage, no doubt?”

It was meant in all seriousness, but the midshipman Neale nudged his companion Maynard and they both tittered. Then Neale saw Vibart's frown and hurriedly looked at his feet.

Bolitho nodded. “Very well, gentlemen, prepare to get under way. I will come on deck in ten minutes.” He met Vibart's eye. “I shall be interested to see the men at their stations, Mr Vibart. A bit of sail drill might take their minds off their troubles for a while!”

The officers filed away and Stockdale firmly closed the door. Bolitho sat down and stared at the piles of books and papers. He had tried to find an opening and had failed. There was a barrier, a shield of resentment, or was it fear? He had to find out himself. He could trust no one, confide in nobody until he was sure of his ground. He looked at Stockdale and asked quietly, “Well, how do
you
like the
Phalarope?
”

The ex-fighter swallowed hard, as he always did to clear his maimed chords. “She's a good craft, Captain.” He nodded slowly. “But I don't care much for the meat inside the bones!” He placed Bolitho's sword carefully beside the pistol rack and added mean-ingly, “I should keep these by you, Captain. Just in case!”

Richard Bolitho climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck and made himself walk slowly to the weather rail. The frigate was alive with fresh activity, and he could see men standing at the capstan bars, while others waited below the masts with their petty officers. He gauged the wind against his cheek and glanced quickly aloft at the masthead pennant. The ship tugged at her cable eagerly and fretfully, as if she too wanted to be free of the land once again, and Bolitho curbed his own impatience as he watched and waited the final preparations for sea.

The decks gleamed with blown spray and drizzle, and he realised with a start that he was already soaked to the skin. But perhaps it was just as well that his seamen should see him unshrouded in watchcoat and unprotected from the weather as indeed they were themselves.

He caught sight of the midshipman Maynard hovering by the lee rail, and again thanked God for his ability to remember names after hearing or reading them but once.

“You are in charge of signals, Mr Maynard?” The youth nodded, his thin body looking like a scarecrow against the angry water alongside. “Very well. Make a signal to the Flag. ‘Ready to proceed.'”

He saw the flags soaring aloft and immediately forgot them as Vibart strode aft, his face set in a grim frown.

“Anchor's hove short, sir!” He touched his hat. “All stores secured!”

“Very well.” Bolitho lifted his glass and watched the flags blowing out from the shore signal tower. Maybe, just to the right, from his warm room at the inn, the admiral would be watching.

Maynard yelled, “Reply, sir! ‘God speed and good luck'!”

Bolitho handed his glass to Stockdale and thrust his hands beneath the tails of his coat. “Get the ship under way if you please. Lay a course to weather the headland.” He would take no part in it. He would watch every man. And every man would know it.

The boatswain's mates took up the cry, “Hands aloft! Loose tops'ls!”

The rigging and shrouds were suddenly alive with swarming figures as the topmen ran aloft as surefooted as cats, the laggards urged on mercilessly by the petty officers with fists and ropes' ends alike.

“Break out the anchor!” Mr Quintal, the barrel-chested boatswain, swung his cane over the straining forecastle hands. “Heave! Put yer backs into it, you whimperin' old women!” His cane whacked down and a man cried out. “Heave! Heave!” The capstan jerked and then cranked steadily as the dripping cable came inboard.

“Loose heads'ls!” The cry was passed along the deck like a chant. High above, the released canvas flapped and banged in the wind, and the men strung out along the swaying yards like ants kicked and grappled with each growing area of rebellious sail.

Bolitho ignored the flying spray and watched the men dashing from one job to the next. The shorthandedness was all the more apparent now with the topmen aloft.

Herrick called from the bows, “Anchor's aweigh, sir!”

Like a released animal the frigate paid off into the wind, her deck heeling sharply as the gust found and held her.

Vibart grated, “Man the braces there! Look alive!”

The men at the braces laid back heaving and panting until the great yards began to squeak round. Then the wind filled the sails and the billowing canvas thundered out hard and full as the
Phalarope
went about and gathered way.

By the time the anchor was catted and made fast the land was already drawing away on the starboard quarter, the Isle of Wight quite invisible in a curtain of drizzle and spray.

Everything creaked and banged as the ship continued to swing on course, with shrouds and rigging whining like the strings of some mad orchestra.

Bolitho watched the unwanted men sliding down the stays and adding their weight to the men at the braces. “Lay her on the port tack, Mr Vibart.” He looked back across the taffrail and tried to recall what was so terrible about Captain Pomfret. He remembered the man's cold eyes, and the cowed faces of his men.

Proby was standing hump-backed beside the quartermaster, his battered old hat over his ears like a candlesnuffer. Bolitho said, “Let her run freely, Mr Proby. There may be need for reefing down later, but I want to reach Falmouth as soon as possible.”