brisk north-easterly. Further strains showed themselves like cracks in metal. Arguments broke out amongst the seamen, some trivial, some less so. A man turned on a boatswain's mate who had ordered him aloft for the third time in a watch to splice some worn rigging and was consequently taken aft to be awarded punishment. Bolitho had seen his first flogging at the age of twelve and a half. He had never grown used to it, but he knew what to expect. The newer and younger midshipmen did not. First came the pipe, 'All hands lay aft to witness punishment! ' Next the rigging of a grating on one of the gangways, while the marines trooped athwartships across the poop, their scarlet coats and white crossbelts very clear against the dull, overcast sky. The ship's company seemed to swell out of every hatchway and hiding place, until the decks, shrouds and even the boat tier were crammed with silently watching figures. And then the little procession wended its way to the rigged grating. Hoggett, the boatswain, and his two mates, Beedle, the unsmiling master-at-arms, Bunn, the ship's corporal, with the prisoner and Laidlaw, the surgeon, bringing up the rear. On the quarterdeck, its pale planking dappled with droplets of spume and spray, the officers and warrant officers took their places in order of seniority and importance. By the lee side the midshipmen, all twelve of them, made two short ranks on their own. The prisoner was stripped and then seized up on the grating, his muscled back pale against the scrubbed wood, his face hidden as he listened to the captain's austere voice as he read the relevant Articles of War before finishing with, 'Two dozen, Mr Hoggett.' And so, between the staccato roll of a solitary marine drummer boy, who kept his eyes fixed on the mainyard above his head throughout the flogging, the punishment was carried out. The boatswain's mate who actually used the cat-o'-nine-tails was not a brutal man by nature. But he was powerfully built and had an arm like the branch of an oak. Also, he was well aware that to show leniency would probably invite his changing places with the luckless offender. After eight strokes the seaman's back was a mass of blood. After a dozen it was barely recognizable as human. And so it went on. The roll of the drum and the immediate crack of the lash across the naked back. The youngest midshipman, Eden, fainted, and the second youngest, a pale-faced youth called Knibb, burst into tears, while the rest and not a few of the watching seamen were stiff-faced with horror. After what seemed like an age Hoggett called hoarsely, 'Two dozen, sir! ' Bolitho made himself breathe in and out very slowly as he watched the man being cut down from the grating. His back was torn as if mauled by some beast, the skin quite black from the force and weight of the lash. At no time had he cried out, and for a moment Bolitho imagined he had died under punishment.
But the surgeon looked up at the quarterdeck as he prised the leather strap from between the man's teeth and reported, 'He's fainted, sir.' Then he beckoned his assistants to carry the man below to the sick-bay. The blood was swabbed from the deck, the grating removed, and as the drummer and two other young marines with fifes struck up a lively jig the company slowly returned to normal life once again. Bolitho glanced quickly at the captain. He was expressionless, his fingers tapping a little tattoo on his sword-hilt as if in time with the jig. Dancer exclaimed fiercely, 'What a foul way to treat a man! ' The old sailing master overheard him and rumbled, 'Wait till you've seen a flogging round th' fleet, m'lad, then you will have something to puke on! ' And yet, when the hands went for their mid-meal of salt beef and iron-hard biscuits, washed down with a pint of coarse red wine, Bolitho heard no word of complaint or anger from anyone. It seemed that as in his last ship the rule of the lower deck was that if you got caught you were punished. The fault was being found out. This acceptance was even showing itself in the midshipmen's berth. The first anxiety and awe at not knowing what to do, and when to do it, had given way to a new unity, a toughness which had touched even Eden. Food and comfort were paramount, and the uncertainty of the voyage, what they were being ordered to do, took on less importance. The small compartment which nestled against the ship's curved side had become their home, the space between the white screen door and their heavy chests an area where they ate their crude meals, shared their confidences and fears and learned from one another with each succeeding day. Apart from the sighting of a few murky islands and two distant ships, Gorgon seemed to have the ocean to herself. Daily the midshipmen gathered aft for instruction in navigation under Turnbull's watchful eye. The sun and the stars took on new meaning to some of them, while to the older ones the reality of promotion to lieutenant seemed not so distant and improbable. After a particularly bad gun drill with the thirtytwo- pounders
Dancer said angrily, 'That man Tregorren has the devil in him! ' Little Eden surprised all of them by saying, 'He has the g-gout, if that is the d-devil, Martyn.' They all stared at him as he added in his thin, piping voice, 'My f- father is an apothecary in B-Bristol. He is often c-called to t-treat such cases.' He nodded firmly. 'Mr Tregorren t- takes too much b-brandy for his own g-good.' With this new knowledge at their disposal they were able to watch the fourth lieutenant's behaviour with more interest. Tregorren would lurch beneath the low deck beams, his shadow crossing the gunports like a massive spectre, while at each great cannon the crew would wait for the order to load and run out, to train or elevate as the lieutenant ordered. Each gun weighed three tons and had a crew of fifteen hands to control it and its opposite number on the other side of the deck. Every man had to know exactly what to do, and to keep doing it no matter what. As Tregorren had shouted on many occasions, 'I'll make you bleed a bit, but it's nothing to what an enemy will do, so move yourselves*.' Bolitho was sitting at the slung table in the midshipmen's berth, a candle flickering in an old oyster shell to add some light to that which filtered from a nearby companionway, and writing a letter to his mother. He had no idea when, if ever, she would read it, but it gave him comfort to retain a link with his home. From what he had gathered from his privileged position of aiding Turnbull with the navigation lessons, and his daily scrutiny of the master's charts, he knew that the first part of their passage was almost over. Four thousand miles, the captain had said, and as he had studied the wavering lines of the charts, the daily positions fixed by shooting the sun and the usual calculations on speed and course, he knew all the old excitement of an approaching landfall. Six weeks since weighing anchor at Spithead. Changing tack and constantly reducing or making sail. The ship's track wavered over the charts like an injured beetle. A speedy frigate would have covered the distance and been on her way back to England long since, he thought bitterly. He paused, his pen in mid-air, as he heard muffled shouts from two decks above. He doused the glim and carefully placed it in the chest, and laid the unfinished letter under his next clean shirt. He reached the upper deck and climbed swiftly to the larboard gangway where Dancer and Grenfell were clinging to the nettings, peering towards the glittering horizon. Bolitho asked, 'Is it land?' 'No, Dick, a ship! ' Dancer grinned at him, his face tanned and alert in the bright sunshine. It was hard to remember the rain and bitter cold, Bolitho thought. The sea was as blue as the sky, and the crisp wind lacking in bite or menace. High above the decks the topsails and topgallants shone like pale shells, while the masthead pendant licked out towards the larboard bow like a long scarlet lance. 'Deck thar! ' They all peered up at the tiny black shape of the masthead lookout. 'She bain't answerin', sir! ' It was then Bolitho realized that this was no ordinary encounter. The captain was by the quarterdeck rail, arms folded, his face in shadow, arid nearby Midshipman Marrack and his signalling party were watching their halliards and the bright hoist of flags at the mainyard. What ship? Bolitho craned over the nettings and felt the spray touching his face and lips from the wash below. Then he saw the other vessel, a black-hulled barquentine, her sails in disarray against the blinding horizon, her masts swaying steeply in the swell. Bolitho moved further aft and heard Mr Hope, who had the watch, exclaim, 'By God, sir, if he don't answer our signal he must be up to no good, I say! ' Verling turned towards him, his beaky nose displaying his scorn. 'If he wanted, Mr Hope, he could fly with the wind and leave us far astern within the hour.' 'Aye, sir.' Hope sounded downcast. The captain ignored both of them. He said, 'Pass the word to the gunner, if you please. To run out a bow chaser and fire one ball as near as he can. They're either drunk or asleep over there.' But the solitary crash of a forward nine-pounder brought nothing more than a rush of seamen from below decks in the Gorgon herself. The idling barquentine continued to drift, her forward sails almost aback, her big fore- and-aft canvas on main and mizzen shivering in a heat haze. The captain snapped, 'Shorten sail and heave-to, Mr Verling! And send away the quarter boat. I am uneasy about this one.' Calls shrilled and twittered along the maindeck, and within minutes of the captain's order Gorgon was going about, swinging her heavy hull round into the wind with every sail and shroud quivering and banging in confusion. Dancer went aft to join Bolitho beneath the hammock nettings. 'D'you think -' He stopped as Bolitho whispered, 'Keep quiet and stay here.' Bolitho watched the boatswain mustering a boat's crew on the opposite side of the deck. With Gorgon hove-to and groaning into the wind Hoggett, the boatswain, was preparing the quarter boat to be hauled from astern and manhandled alongside. The captain was speaking to Verling, his words lost in the sullen boom of flapping canvas. Then the first lieutenant turned abruptly, his nose swinging across the quarterdeck like a swivel gun. 'Pass the word! Mr Tregorren lay aft to take boarding party away! ' His nose continued to move as his order was yelled forward along the maindeck. 'Tou two midshipmen! Arm yourselves and accompany the fourth lieutenant! Bolitho touched his hat. 'Aye, aye, sir! ' He nudged Dancer. 'I knew he would pick the nearest.' Dancer grinned, the excitement bright in his eyes. 'It's good to be doing something different! ' Down by the entry port the hastily assembled oarsmen and armed seamen crowded above the blue water, their eyes outboard towards the other vessel which had drifted almost abeam and now lay about half a mile distant. Mr Hope called, 'I can read her name, sir! ' He sounded cautious after Verling's earlier
