Allday hung back below the cabin skylight and gestured above him. 'Up there, sir.'
Bolitho stood beside him and stared up towards the black mass of rigging, and beyond it to the towering main mast with its whipping broad pendant at the truck.
'Yes, I see it.'
Allday studied him gravely. 'That pendant is yours by right, sir. There's many watching it this day who'd have it off you if they had the chance. But while it flies, they will obey. So leave the worrying to others, sir. You’ve got fatter-fish to Cook.'
' Bolitho faced him with surprise. 'Admiral Beauchamp said much the same. If not in the same words, then in the I' same sense.' He slapped Allday's arm. 'And thank you.'
As he strode beneath the poop and out past the big double wheel he was very conscious of the watching men all around him. Once on the quarterdeck, with the wind throwing beads of spray above the nettings and gangway, he saw the press of figures at halliards and braces, the scarlet coats of the marines in the afterguard where they waited to add their weight to that of the seamen.
'Attention on the quarterdeck!'
That would be Gilchrist, the first lieutenant, and Herrick's right hand man. Tall and lean like a bean pole, with a permanent frown, he looked much like a disapproving schoolmaster.
Beyond him were some of the lieutenants, the midshipman 'of the watch and numerous other nameless faces.
Bolitho touched his hat to the deck at large, comparing, despite his determination to avoid it, all this with what he had known and loved as a captain. He would have made certain that he had met and memorised the features and name of every officer aboard just as soon as was possible. The first lieutenant especially. He glanced at Herrick's stocky figure by the quarterdeck rail and wondered if he, too, was making a I comparison.
A voice at Bolitho's elbow said thickly, 'A fine day, sir, if I may make so bold. '
Bolitho turned and saw a broad, red-faced lump of a man who seemed to fill the space of three. Not so much in height but in beam and depth, he stood with his fat legs straddled as if for a sudden gale, his heavy; mournful features studying Bolitho with unmasked curiosity.
He added, 'I’m Grubb, sir. Sailing master.'
Bolitho smiled. 'Thank you, Mr. Grubb.'
He should have known. There had been many tales lingering in the ship about Ben Grubb, Lysander's master at St. Vincent. He had, it was said, played on a tin whistle as the seventy-four had nudged through the enemy formation and after the marine drummer boys had been cut down by grapeshot.
He looked over.Grubb's vast untidy shape and decided it was probably true. He was an odd mixture. His features were like the rest of him. Wrecked by countless winds and storms, the damage well aided by heavy drinking. There was something rather fearsome about him, too. And from now on he would be one of the most valuable men in the squadron.
Grubb took a watch the size of an apple from one pocket and examined it before saying. 'Bout now, I’d suggest, sir. 'Bolitho nodded and turned towards Herrick. He saw Pascoe and one of the midshipmen ready and waiting with the signal party, a petty officer writing on his slate.
'Very well, Captain. We will get the squadron underway, if you please. '
He made himself walk slowly across the littered deck, trying not to look down at the various blocks and tackles which the quarterdeck division had been preparing since dawn. It would be a splendid sight for the Lysander's people to see him catch his toe and pitch headlong amongst them. Strangely enough, the dreadful picture helped to steady him, and he was able to concentrate on the other ships as one by one the flags soared up to the yards to acknowledge Herrick's signal 'Up anchor'.
He heard a midshipman call, 'All acknowledged, sir!' Then Pascoe's voice, quivering slightly to betray his own excitement. 'stand by on the quarterdeck!'
Gilchrist's feet thudded across the planking, and even through his speaking trumpet his tone was disapproving. 'Mr. Yeo, have more hands put to the capstan bars! I want no delays!'
Bolitho did not turn. Yeo was the boatswain. He would meet him in due course. He saw the little Harebell rolling drunkenly, her yards alive with busy seamen. Her cable was up and down, and he thought he saw Inch's scarecrow figure by the quarterdeck rail, one arm pointing across the countless white cat's-paws which moved down with the wind and turned the anchorage into a miniature sea.
Bolitho took a telescope from the midshipman of the watch. As he trained it towards the other two-deckers he asked, 'And what is your name?'
The midshipman was staring at him, almost transfixed. 'saxby, sir.'
Bolitho watched the seamen dashing aft along Nicator's gangways. Saxby was about thirteen. Round-faced and innocent looking. His otherwise pleasant appearance was spoiled when he opened his mouth as both his front teeth were missing.
He steadied the glass and shut Gilchrist's metallic voice from his mind. It was all taking far too long. Caution was one thing. This amounted to a nervous crawl.
He snapped, 'There is some delay, Captain Herrick.'
“Sir?' Herrick sounded off guard.
'Execute the signal, if you please.' He hated doing it, but there was more at stake than personal feelings.
He heard the bark of orders, the muffled shouts of the topmen as they clawed along the vibrating yards.
Then, as the signal was hauled down at the rush, the cry echoed aft from the forecastle, 'Anchor's aweigh!'
Lysander's broad hull dipped heavily to one side, as with her anchor swinging free and the wind already banging
