Bolitho ducked aside as the jolly boat was swayed up and over the lee bulwark, showering the men who worked the tackles with more icy water. He saw the boatswain, Pyke, directing the operations until the boat was securely made fast on her tier, and could well imagine him as a revenue man. He had a furtive,
even sly, look, and was quite unlike any boatswain he had ever seen.
It would take some getting used to, he thought. Men everywhere, loosening belaying pins and checking the many flaked lines arid halliards as if expecting them to be frozen.
It would be dark early, and the nearest land looked indistinct and blurred, the ramparts at Pendennis and St Mawes already without shape or identity.
Gloag was shouting, `Three men to the tiller! She'll be lively as a parson's daughter when she comes about, lads!'
Bolitho heard someone laugh. That was always a good sign. Gloag might be fearsome, but he was quite obviously respected too.
Dancer said quickly, `Here comes our captain, Dick.'
Bolitho turned as his brother came on deck. In spite of the weather he was without a cloak or even a tarpaulin coat to protect himself. The lapels of his lieutenant's coat were very white in the dull murk around him, and he wore his cocked hat at a slightly rakish angle, like a figure in an unnamed painting.
Bolitho touched his hat. `The master informs me we are ready to get under way, sir.' He was surprised the formality came so easily. But it was the Navy speaking. Not one brother to another.
`Very well. Break out the anchor, if you please. Send the hands to their stations. We'll get the main and fore on her as soon as we weigh and see how she takes 'em. Once clear of the headland I'll want jib and tops'l set.'
Like a Bird
`Reefed, sir?'
The eyes steadied on him for a moment. `We shall see.'
Bolitho hurried towards the blunt bows. It seemed incredible that Avenger could set so much canvas on one mast and in this sort of wind.
He listened to the metallic clink of pawls as the men at the capstan threw their weight on the bars. He pictured the anchor, it's fluke biting into the sea bed, waiting to break free, free of the land. He often thought of it at times like this.
He jerked out of his thoughts as his brother called sharply, `Mr Bolitho! More hands to the mains'l! It will be fierce work directly!'
Gloag was banging his big hands together like boards. `Wind's backed a piece, sir!' He was grinning into the blown spray, his cheeks streaming. `That'll help!'
Bolitho climbed over unfamiliar gun tackles and thick snakes of cordage. Past unknown seamen and petty officers, until he was right above the stem. He saw the straining cable, jerking inboard through the hawse-hole as more men took the strain, while on either side of the stem the tide surged past as if the Avenger herself was already moving ahead.
The boatswain dashed forward to join him. `A good night for it, sir!' He did not bother to explain but made a circling motion with his fist and yelled, ` Hove short, sir!'
Then everything seemed to happen as once. As the anchor started to drag free of the ground the hands on deck threw themselves to the big boomed main sail as if their lives depended on it. Bolitho had to jump clear as the foresail was broken free and started to billow into the wind, only to be knocked aside again as Pyke yelled, `Anchor's aweigh, sir!'
The effect was immediate and startling. With her fore and main filling out like mad things, and the deck canting steeply to the thrust of wind and current, the Avenger seemed to be sliding beam-on towards sure destruction.
Gloag called hoarsely, `Sheet 'em 'ome 'ard, Mr Pyke! Lively now.'
Bolitho felt at a loss and totally in the way as men darted hither and thither, oblivious to the water which surged as high as the lee gunports.
And then, just as suddenly, it was done. Bolitho made his way aft to where three straddle-legged seamen stood by the long tiller-bar, their eyes squinting in concentration as they watched both helm and sails. The Avenger was standing as close to the wind as any vessel he had ever seen, with her big mainsail and the fin-shaped foresail sheeted home as Gloag had ordered, until they were almost fore and aft along the cutter's centre line.
Foam boiled under the counter, and Bolitho saw Dancer watching him from the foredeck, grinning like a boy with a new plaything.
– Hugh was eyeing him too, his mouth compressed in a tight line.
`Well?' One word. Question and threat together. Bolitho nodded. `She's a lady, sir! Like a bird!' The boatswain stumped to the weather rail and
peered at the blurred shoreline.
`Aye, Mr Bolitho, sir. An' I'll wager some devils are watchin' this bird right now!'
The land was edging past, and Bolitho saw the spray whipped off the wave crests like spume as they approached the dangerous turn of the headland.
Pyke cupped his hands. `Stand by to get aloft, there!' He glanced at his commander's set features as if expecting him to cancel his demands for moree canvas. When no word was uttered he added heartily, `An' mebbe a tot for the first one down afterwards!' _
Bolitho made himself take in the darkening deck section, by section, until he could match what he already knew with the bustling seamen and the jumble of rigging and blocks which went to make a vessel stay alive.
Hugh and the master seemed satisfied, he thought, watching the men at work, the set of the sails, with an occasional glance at the compass to confirm some point or other.
What a step I have yet to make, Bolitho thought. From midshipman to a place on the quarterdeck. Like his brother, who at twenty-one was already on another plane. In a few years this first, tiny command would probably be forgotten, and Hugh might have his own frigate. But she would have played her vital part for him all the same. Provided, that was, he kept out of trouble and held his sword in its scabbard.
`Mr Bolitho!'
Hugh's voice made him start.
`I said earlier, we have no passengers in my command!. So stir yourself and put more hands forrard to the jib. We'll set it as soon as the topmen are aloft.'
As dusk yielded to a deeper darkness the Avenger threw herself across the stiffer crests of open sea. Lifting and plunging, throwing up great sheets of spray from her bows, she changed tack to point her stem towards the south.
Hour after hour, Hugh Bolitho drove every one until he was ready to drop. Wet, freezing canvas, ironhard and unyielding to the fingers of salt-blinded men, drowned even the sea's noise with its constant boom and thunder. The screech of blocks as swollen cordage was hauled through, the stamp of feet on deck, an occasional cry from the poop, all joined in one chorus of effort and pain.
Even the cutter's young commander had to admit that too much canvas was too much, and reluctantly he ordered the topsail and jib to be taken in for the remainder of the night.
Eventually the watch below, gasping and bruised, groped their way down for a short respite. Some swore they would never set foot aboard again once they put into port. They always said it. They usually came back.
Others were too tired even to think, but fell on their cramped messdeck to lie amongst the sluicing mixture of sea water and oddments of clothing or loose tackle until the next call from the deck.
'All hands! All hands on deck to shorten sail!' They never had to wait long for that either.
As he lay in a makeshift cot, pitching and swaying with the savage motion, Bolitho found time to wonder
what might have happened if he had gone to London as Dancer had suggested.
There was a smile on his lips as he fell into a deep sleep. It would certainly have been totally different from this, he thought.
4. No Choice
