stomach hanging over his cutlass-belt. Ellis Pearse, boatswain’s mate, a bushy-browed man who had shown the same satisfaction as Bolitho that Murray had deserted. Pearse would have been the man to flog him, and he had always liked Murray. And of course, there was Stockdale, his thick arms folded over his chest as he surveyed the brigantine’s deck, remembering perhaps that fierce, desperate struggle when Bolitho had fought hand to hand with the vessel’s master.
Dutchy Vorbink, foretopman, who had left the East India Company and exchanged their ordered and well-paid life for that of a man-of-war. He spoke little English, unless he wanted to, so nobody had discovered his true reason for volunteering.
There were faces which had now become people to Bolitho. Some coarse and brutalized, others who would brawl with the best of them but were equally quick to put right a wrong for a less outspoken messmate.
Bolitho said, “Mr Spillane, examine the arms chest and make a list of weapons. Little, you had better go through the magazine.” He looked around at the few swivel guns, two of which had been sent across from Destiny. “Hardly enough to start a war.”
It brought a few grins and chuckles, and Stockdale muttered, “There’s still some prisoners battened below, sir.”
Bolitho looked at Little. He had forgotten about the Heloise’s original company. Those not killed or wounded had been detained here. Safe enough, but in the event of trouble they would have to be watched.
Little showed his uneven teeth. “All taken care of, sir. I got Olsson on guard. They’d be too scared to challenge ’im!”
Bolitho agreed. Olsson was a Swede and was said to be half mad. It shone from his eyes which were like washed-out blue glass. A good seaman who could reef and steer and turn his hand to anything, but when they had boarded this same brigantine Bolitho had chilled to Olsson’s crazy screams as he had cleaved his way through his opponents.
He forced a grin. “I’d think twice myself.”
Pearse groaned as the sails shivered and then flapped dully against rigging and spars.
“There goes the bloody wind.”
Bolitho crossed to the bulwark and leaned out over the blue water. He saw the wind’s ripple on the surface moving away far ahead of the bows like a great shoal of fish. The brigantine lifted and sighed in the swell, blocks and sails clattering in protest as the power went with the wind.
“Man your boats!” Palliser was watching from beside the helmsmen.
Bare feet padded over the hot deck seams as the first crews went away in the quarter-boat, as well as Destiny’s cutter which they had kept in tow beneath the counter.
It took far too long to lay out the towing warps and pass them to the boats. Then with each boat angled away on either bow the painful, dreary business began.
They could not hope to make any speed, but it would prevent the vessel from drifting completely out of command, and when the wind came they would be ready.
Bolitho stood above the larboard anchor and watched the towlines tautening and then sagging beneath the glittering water as the oarsmen threw their weight into play.
Little shook his head. “Mr Jury’s no ’and for this, sir. ’E’ll need to use ’is starter on that lot.”
Bolitho could see the difference between the two towing boats. Jury’s was yawing badly, and a couple of the oars were barely cutting beneath the surface. The other boat, with Midshipman Ingrave in charge, was making better progress, and Bolitho knew why. Ingrave was not a bully, but he was well aware of his superiors watching from the brigantine, and was using a rope’s end on some of his men to make them work harder at the oars.
Bolitho walked aft and said to Palliser, “I’ll change the crews in an hour, sir.”
“Good.” Palliser was watching the sails and then the compass. “She’s got steerage-way at least. Few thanks to the larboard boat.”
Bolitho said nothing. He knew only too well what it was like as a midshipman to be suddenly thrown into an unpopular job. But Palliser did not press the point, which was something. Bolitho thought of his own sudden acceptance of his new role. He had not asked Palliser about changing the boats’ crews, he had told him, and the first lieutenant had accepted without question. Palliser was as wily as Dumaresq. In their very different ways they were able to draw out exactly what they required from their subordinates.
He glanced at Slade, who was shading his eyes to peer at the sky. A man who wanted promotion above all else. Dumaresq used that too, to extract the best from the intolerant master’s mate, which in turn would aid him when his chance of advancement finally came. Even Palliser had his mind set on his own command, and this temporary duty in charge of Heloise would stand very well on his record.
All through the day the relentless boat-pulling went on, while not even a faint breeze came to revive the sails. They hung from the yards, limp and useless, like the men who tumbled aboard from the boats as soon as they were relieved. Too exhausted to do much more than gulp down a double ration of wine which Slade had broached from the hold, they fell about like dead men.
In the cabin aft, tiny as it was, but adequate when compared with the rest of the space between decks, the relieved midshipmen and their lieutenants tried to find escape from the heat and the dangerous need to drink and keep on drinking.
With Palliser asleep and Slade on watch, Bolitho sat at the small table, his head lolling as he tried to keep his mind awake. Opposite him, his lips cracked from the sun’s glare, Jury rested his head on his hands and looked into space.
Ingrave was away with the boats again, but even his keenness was flagging badly.
Bolitho asked, “How do you feel?”
Jury smiled painfully, “Dreadful, sir.” He tried to straighten his back and plucked his sodden shirt away from his skin.
Bolitho pushed a bottle towards him. “Drink this.” He saw the youth hesitate and insisted, “I’ll stand your trick in the boats if you like. It’s better than sitting here and waiting.”
Jury poured a cup of wine and said, “No, sir, but thank you. I’ll go when I’m called.”
Bolitho smiled. He had toyed with the idea of telling Stockdale to go with the midshipman. One sight of him would put a stopper on any slackness or insubordination. But Jury was right. To make it easy for him when he most needed confidence and experience would only lay a snare for later on.
“I-I was thinking, sir.” He looked across guardedly. “About Murray. D’you think he’ll be all right?”
Bolitho thought about it. Even that was an effort. “Maybe. Provided he stays away from the sea. I’ve known men who have quit the Navy to return and find security under a different name in the service they had originally reviled. But that can be dangerous. The Navy is a family. There is always a familiar face and a memory to match it.”
He thought of Dumaresq and Egmont. Each linked by Dumaresq’s dead father, just as he was now involved with whatever they might attempt.
Jury said, “I often think about him. Of what happened on deck.” He glanced up at the low beams as if expecting to hear the ring of steel, the desperate shuffle of men circling each other for a kill. Then he looked at Bolitho and added, “I’m sorry. I was told to put it from my mind.”
A call shrilled and a voice yelled, “Away boats’ crews! Lively there!”
Jury stood up, his fair hair brushing the deckhead.
Bolitho said quietly, “I was told much the same when I joined the Destiny. Like you, I still have the same difficulty.”
He remained at the table, listening to the thump of boats alongside, the clatter of oars as the crews changed around yet again.
The door opened and bent double like a crippled sailor Palliser groped his way to a chair and thankfully sat down. He too listened to the boats thrashing away from the hull, the sluggish response from the tiller-head as the brigantine submitted to the tow.
Then he said flatly, “I’m going to lose that devil. After getting this far, it’s all been cut from under me.”
Bolitho could feel the disappointment like a physical thing, and the fact Palliser had made no effort to hide his despair was strangely sad.
He pushed the bottle and cup across the table. “Why not take a glass, sir.”
Palliser looked up from his thoughts, his eyes flashing. Then he smiled wearily and took the cup.
