Rooke said in the same flat tone, 'We have been in commission for three years. The ship's bottom is as green as grass and she is as slow as an old cow.' There were a few murmurs which might have been agreement and he continued: 'Captain Turner was assured that we would be relieved of our station at Brest and that we should return to Portsmouth within the month.'
Bolitho watched him thoughtfully. So far Rooke was the first to emerge from behind his mask.
He said at length, 'Captain Turner is dead. But I am sure he would not have wished his ship to miss the chance to perform her duty.'
Rowlstone, the surgeon, a small, unhealthy-looking man with crumpled features like uncooked suet, jumped to his feet. 'I did what I could, sir! He died of a bad heart.' He looked round the wardroom wildly. 'Sitting at his desk he was. He was past my help, I tell you!'
Rooke glared at him. 'What would you know about it, man? You're more used to a butcher's knife than any sort of medicine!'
Ashby, the captain of marines, pulled in his stomach and flipped a fragment of dust from his glove-tight uniform. 'He was a good man. We all miss him, y'know.' He stared hard at Bolitho. 'But I agree with you, sir. This is war. The fight's the thing, eh?'
Bolitho smiled dryly. 'Thank you, Ashby. That is very reassuring.'
Then he looked across at Gossett, the ship's master. He was a great barrel of a man, and although seated at the table his head- was almost level with that of the miserable-looking surgeon. 'And.you, Mr. Gossett? What is your opinion?'
Gossett placed his fists on the polished wood and stared hard at them. As well he might. They were like two huge pieces of meat.
He said deeply, 'We've a good set of spare spars an' canvas, sir. Th' ship's old right enough, but she can still fetch up with better an' younger craft.' He grinned so that his small bright eyes receded into his tanned face. 'I once sailed an old seventy-four out of battle with only one mast an' the lower gundeck awash!' He chuckled as if it was one great joke. 'The Frogs'll find us ready enough if they gives us the measure, sir.'
Bolitho stood up. He had started the pot boiling. The next few days would tell him more of these men.
He said shortly, 'Very well, gentlemen. The wind is still fresh from the nor'-west. We will make sail within the hour.' He glanced at Quarme's set face. 'Call all hands in thirty minutes and prepare to break out the 'anchor. We have nine hundred miles ahead of us before we sight the squadron. Be sure you make good use of them.' He looked round at the others. 'All of you.'
As they parted across the door he strode quickly out of the wardroom and up to the sun-drenched quarterdeck. He did not know why, but it had been a bad beginning. Pehaps he was still suffering from the fever, or maybe he was too tired from waiting and worrying. Then again it was entirely possible he was unready for a ship such as Hyperion.
He stood a moment longer and stared up at the towering masts and at the tiny figures working aloft like careless monkeys.
Allday moved across the deck and said, 'I've told Gimlett to lay out your seagoing gear, Captain.' He breathed in deeply then added, 'I'll be glad to get to sea in my own ship again. I was a mite sick of the hills and the same old sights each day.'
Bolitho swung round and then checked himself. It was too easy to take out his tiredness and anger on Allday.
'At least the women in Falmouth will get a rest from your visits, Allday!'
The coxswain watched Bolitho until he vanished beneath the poop and then grinned broadly. Aloud he muttered, 'You've no need to worry, Captain. You've not changed, and nothing'll change you either!'
Then he leaned on the nettings and stared across at the anchored ships in the bay.
2. A SHOW OF CONFIDENCE
Bolitho left his cabin and walked quickly towards the quarterdeck. Below the shelter of the poop the two pigtailed helmsmen stiffened beside the big double wheel, but Bolitho paused only long enough to peer at the compass. North-east by north. It seemed as if the card had been riveted in that direction for days. For eight long days since the Hyperion had left Gibraltar the progress had been slow and painful, with the ship only able to maintain an average three knots. Twice they had been becalmed, and since weighing anchor had logged a mere five hundred and twenty miles all told.
But as he stepped out into the bright midday sunlight Bolltho could see as well as feel the difference. A few minutes earlier a breathless midshipman had run into his quarters to announce that the light, passive breeze was at last freshening, and when he looked up at the masthead pendant he saw it whipping out abeam, and the freshly set sails were filling and booming with renewed purpose.
Quarme turned back from the quarterdeck rail and touched his hat. 'I've set the t'gallants, sir. Let us hope this wind keeps up.' He looked strained.
'It will, Mr. Quarme.' Bolitho was wearing neither coat nor hat, and felt something like sensuous pleasure as the wind ruffled his shirt and cooled the dryness of his lips. 'We'll get the royals on her directly.'
He leaned his hands on the sun-dried rail and stared down at the maindeck. The starboard battery of sixteen guns,was run out as if for action, and the crews, stripped to the waist and sweating, were completing yet another exercise. Below from the lower gundeck he could hear the squeal and rumble of trucks as the heavy twenty-four- pounders followed their example, and without looking up he said, 'Fifteen minutes to clear for action today, Mr. Quarme. It is not good enough.'
'The men are tired, sir.' Quarme was careful to keep his reply non-committal. 'But there is some improvement today, I think.'
Bolitho grunted. With the ship so long in commission with the same company the general seamanship and sail drill were good. There was a slickness to setting and shortening sail which to a landsman might appear almost casual. Bolitho knew from past experience that the average warship put to sea for the first time with her people composed more of pressed and awkward landsmen than trained hands, and for that he was grateful. But a ship of the line was no frigate. Her sailing qualities were normally confined to keeping station and closing the enemy rather than any subtle manoeuvres. It was only when she drew abeam of that enemy, where she would stay until victorious or vanquished, that her true worth could be counted. And whatever Quarme really thought, Bolitho knew that the Hyperion's gunnery was appalling.
Every day and all day he had exercised the guns through every possible eventuality which he could imagine. From the main armament to the stubby carronades, from the quar
– '- terdeck twelve-pounders to the marines in their musketry, he had worked every weapon and man without respite. If as Quarme insisted there had been some improvement it was still far from satisfactory.
He said at length, 'We will exercise the starboard battery again. Pass the word.'
He made himself cross to the weather side as Quarme shouted his instructions to the maindeck. With the ship on the starboard tack and heeling ponderously to the freshening breeze the guns would have to be manhandled back against the tilting deck before the drill could begin, and Bolitho saw some of the less arduously employed hands pause in their work to watch.
There was Buckle, the grey-haired sailmaker, squatting with his mates checking and repairing the last of the heavy-weather canvas which the ship had used off Brest, the needles and palms pausing as they turned to stare. Even Gossett, the master, a sextant shining in one huge fist like a child's toy, halted in the patient instruction of two deceptively interested midshipmen and frowned as Lieutenant Rooke's voice echoed around the listless gunners.
'Now pay attention! Withdraw guns and prepare to loadl' He was standing on the starboard gangway which ran above the battery and linked quarterdeck with forecastle and was staring angrily at his men, his face blotchy with heat and impatience. `The next man to drop a rammer or fall over his feet will dance at the gratings!' He pulled a watch from his pocket. 'Now begin!'
Grunting and slipping on the sanded planking, the men threw themselves against the guns, their bodies shining with sweat as they levered and spiked the long muzzles back from the open ports until they stood at the full extent
