could recall how he had endured the first hours, how he would have given anything for a friendly word when it was most needed. He said, 'It looks fine. Better than my last ship.' The boy called Eden asked, 'Really?' Grenfell smiled. 'It's what you make it.' He swung round as a diminutive figure scrambled past the screen door. 'This is your servant. His name is Starr, but he doesn't say much. Just tell him what you need and I'll arrange it with the purser.' Starr was even younger than Eden. Probably about ten, and small for his age. He had the pinched features of a child from the slums, and his arms were so thin they were like sticks. Bolitho asked quietly, 'Where are you from?' The boy eyed him warily. ' Newcastle, sir. Me dad was a miner there. He was killed in a fall.' His voice was toneless, as if he was speaking of another world. Til damn well killjcu if you treat my shirts like this one! ' Bolitho turned as another midshipman, flushed from the wind and rain, strode beneath the low beams. With Grenfell he was obviously one of the ship's three midshipmen remaining from the last commission, and like Grenfell too, still awaiting the chance to sit an examination for lieutenant. He was in ill humour, and had the sullen good looks of one bred to authority. Grenfell said, 'Easy, Samuel. The new boys are with us.' The other one seemed to realize he was surrounded with awkward looking newcomers and snapped, 'I'm Samuel Marrack. Signals midshipman and captain's messenger.' Dancer said, 'It sounds important.' Marrack stared at him. 'It is. And when you appear before our illustrious captain it is best to do it in a clean shirt! ' He lashed out at the small servant with his hat and added, 'So remember that in future, you hound! ' He threw himself on to a chest. 'Get me some wine. I'm as dry as dust.' Bolitho sat down beside Dancer and watched the others opening and shutting their chests like blind men. He had hoped to be appointed to a frigate like his brother. Free of the fleet's heavy authority, able to cover great distances in a third of the time it would take the ponderous Gorgon, and with all the possibilities of adventure he had so often dreamed of. But Gorgon was his new home, and he would have to make the best of her for as long as the Navy dictated. A ship of the line.
2. Outward Bound
'All hands! All hands aloft to reef tops'Is! ' Like the insistent voice in a nightmare the order was piped and repeated along the Gorgon's decks until the ship quivered to the thud of feet as the watch below dashed to their stations to be mustered. Bolitho shook Dancer roughly by the shoulder until he almost fell from his hammock. 'Come on, Martyn! We're shortening sail again! ' He waited as Dancer dragged on his shoes and coat and then together they ran for the nearest ladder. Three, no nearly four days it had gone on like this. From the moment the seventy- four had weighed anchor and started her passage downchannel towards the Atlantic it had been an endless turmoil of re-setting sails, of dragging weary bodies up the shrouds to the vibrating yards, and all the while harried and driven by the first lieutenant's voice from the quarterdeck. Even that had been part of the nightmare, for to make his orders heard above the roar of sea and wind Verling had had to use his speaking trumpet, making his sharp voice a ceaseless goad for the gasping midshipmen. For the new hands it was always worse, of course. A midshipman had very little status in a King's ship. The common seaman had none at all. Bolitho knew that to allow any break in discipline at a moment like changing a ship's tack in a heavy wind could be disastrous, but he was sickened to see unnecessary violence used on a man who was perhaps too terrified by working high above the deck to understand what was required of him. It was no different from the last time. Not yet dawn, but there was a paler hint of grey showing itself in the low clouds, and precious little else to light a way to the shrouds. Lieutenants fretted impatiently as petty officers and master's mates checked their lists of names at the foot of each mast. The marines clumped aft to the mizzen braces, their boots skidding on wet planking, and by the quarterdeck rail the first lieutenant bobbed and pointed, waving his speaking trumpet to emphasize some point or other. Bolitho peered aft to the big double wheel. Four helmsmen were clinging to the spokes so that he guessed there was still a big swell running to test the thrust of sails and rudder. Beside them he could see old Turnbull, the sailing master, shapeless in his heavy coat, his fists like red crabs as he gestured to his quartermaster. Quite alone by the weather nettings was the captain.
He was wrapped in a long boatcloak, but his hair blew in the wind while he peered up at the reefed topsails, which with the jib were the only canvas they were able to carry in such a gale. Bolitho had got no nearer than this to his captain since he had come aboard. In the distance he looked very cool and dignified, apparently untouched by the confusion of hurrying seamen and bawling petty officers. Dancer gritted his teeth. 'God, I'm near frozen.' Lieutenant Hope, who was responsible for the foremast, yelled, 'Take 'em aloft, Mr Bolitho! And I want the time cut by minutes before I'm satisfied! '
A whistle shrilled and it all started again. The nimble-footed topmen racing each other up the ratlines while the new hands and less confident followed behind them pursued by threats and not a few blows from the petty officers' rattans to hurry them along. And above it all Verling's voice, distorted and inhuman through his trumpet, controlling and steering everyone. 'Another pull on the weather forebrace! Mr Tregorren, there's a man in your division who needs starting, damn your eyes, sir! Two more hands aft to the mizzen braces! ' He never stopped. Up those rough, shaking ratlines and around the futtock shrouds, hanging out and down above the hull and creaming sea below, clinging with fingers and toes to keep from falling. Then breathless on to the foretop, with men already scrambling further still to the topsail yard, swarming out on either beam like monkeys, clawing and fisting the thick, half frozen canvas to control it, to take in another reef while each billowing section did its best to knock the men from their perches and hurl them aside. Curses and sobs, men swearing terrible oaths as fingernails were torn out by the rough heavy-weather canvas; or they fought off their more frightened companions who clung to them for support. Bolitho gripped a backstay and watched the scene on the other masts. It was almost done, and the ship was answering to the lesser thrust in her sails. Far below, foreshortened like dwarfs, he saw the quarterdeck officers and the afterguard who were securing their halliards and braces. Still by the weather side, the captain was watching the yards. Was he worried? Bolitho wondered. He certainly did not look it. 'Secure, Mr Hope! ' Verling could not resist adding, 'You seem to have some cripples in your division! I suggest extra sail drill in the forenoon! ' Bolitho and Dancer slid to the deck on a backstay to find Mr Hope fuming again. 'God damn it, I shall swing for that one! ' Hope recovered himself and added, 'And for you too, if you don't drive the people harder! ' As Hope strode aft Bolitho said, 'His bark is worse than his bite. Come on, Martyn, let us see what young Starr has saved us for breakfast. There is no point in climbing into a hammock now. They will call the hands directly.' They found a reedy, severe-looking man in a plain blue coat waiting in the midshipmen's berth when they hurried breathlessly into its damp security. Bolitho already knew his name was Henry Scroggs, the captain's clerk, who messed with their neighbours, the master's mates. Scroggs snapped, 'Bolitho, is it not?' He did not wait for an answer. 'Report to the captain. Mr Marrack has injured his arm and Mr Grenfell has the morning watch.' He waited, his face impassive. 'Well, sir, jump to it, if you wish to draw breath again! ' Bolitho stared at him, recalling what Marrack had said about clean shirts, conscious of his own dishevelled appearance. Dancer offered, 'Here, let me help you get dressed.' The clerk snapped, 'No time. Next to Grenfell and Marrack, you are senior, Bolitho. The captain is very definite about such matters.' He swayed as the ship tilted steeply and sent the sea boiling loudly over the upper deck. 'I suggest you make a move! ' Bolitho reached for his hat and said ruefully, 'Very well.' Then ducking beneath the low deckbeams he made his way aft. Bolitho stood breathing hard outside a whitepainted screen door beneath the poop. After the crowded quarters between decks, the shadowy figures of the seamen returning from the work on the yards, it seemed very quiet. Beside the door, standing rigidly in a pool of light from a deckhead lantern, a marine sentry regarded him coldly before calling, 'Signal midshipman, sir I' He further emphasized the introduction by banging the butt of his musket smartly on the deck.
The door opened, and Bolitho saw the captain's servant beckoning him urgently, holding the door open just sufficiently to allow him to enter. Like a footman in a fine house who is not sure of an unwelcome visitor. 'If you would wait 'ere, ' pause, 'sir.' Bolitho waited. It was a fine lobby which opened on to the captain's dining room and which ran the whole breadth of the hull. Glass tinkled quietly in a large mahogany cabinet, while above the long polished table a circular tray of bottles and decanters swung evenly to the ship's motion. The deck was covered in canvas, well-painted in black and white squares, and the nine-pounder cannon on either side of the cabin were discreetly hidden under chintz covers. The door in a further screen opened and the servant said, This way, sir.' He was watching Bolitho with something like despair. The great cabin. Bolitho stood just inside the door, his cocked hat wedged beneath one arm as he stared at the broad expanse of his captain's domain. The cabin was splendid, and made further so by the huge stern windows which were so streaked with salt and dappled spray that in the grey dawn light they looked like those of a cathedral. Captain Beves Conway was sitting at a large desk, leafing
