Little grinned from across a long twelve-pounder. “Reckon you could take the main-brace all on yer own!”
Some of the seamen were chattering or pointing out landmarks on the shore as the light began to strengthen.
From the quarterdeck came the instant reprimand. “Mr Bolitho, sir, keep those hands in order! It is more like a cattle-fair than a man-o’-war!”
Bolitho grimaced. “Aye, aye, sir!”
He added for Little’s benefit, “Take the name of anyone who…”
He got no chance to finish as Captain Dumaresq’s cocked hat appeared through the after companion and then with apparent indifference his bulky figure moved to one side of the quarterdeck.
Bolitho whispered fiercely to the midshipmen, “Now listen, you two. Speed is important, but not more so than getting things done correctly. Don’t badger the men unnecessarily, most of them have been at sea for years anyway. Watch and learn, be ready to assist if one of the new hands gets in a tangle.”
They both nodded grimly as if they had just heard words of great wisdom.
“Standing by forrard, sir!”
That was Timbrell, the boatswain. He seemed to be everywhere. Pausing to put a new man’s fingers properly around a brace or away from a block so that when his companions threw their weight on it he would not lose half of his hand. He was equally ready to bring his rattan cane down with a crack on somebody’s shoulders if he thought he was acting stupidly. It brought a yelp of pain, and unsympathetic grins from the others.
Bolitho heard the captain say something, and seconds later the red ensign ran smartly up to the peak and blew out in the wind like painted metal.
Timbrell again. “Anchor’s hove short, sir!” He was leaning over the beak-head, peering intently at the current as it swirled beneath the bowsprit.
“Stand by on the capstan!”
Bolitho darted another glance aft. The place of command. Gulliver with his helmsmen, three today at the big double wheel. Taking no chances. Colpoys with his marines at the mizzen braces, the midshipman of the watch, and the signals midshipman, Henderson, still staring up at the wildly flapping ensign to make sure the halliards had not fouled. With the ship about to leave port, it would be more than his life was worth.
At the quarterdeck rail, Palliser with a master’s mate, and slightly apart from them all, the captain, stout legs well braced, hands beneath his coat-tails, as he stared the full length of his command. To his astonishment, Bolitho saw that Dumaresq was wearing a scarlet waistcoat beneath his coat.
“Loose heads’ls!”
The men up forward stirred into life, an unwary landmen almost getting trampled underfoot as the great areas of canvas flapped and writhed in their sudden freedom.
Palliser glanced at the captain. There was the merest nod. Then the first lieutenant lifted his speaking-trumpet and yelled, “Hands aloft there! Loose tops’ls.”
The ratlines above either gangway were filled with seamen as they rushed up like monkeys towards the yards while other fleet-footed topmen dashed on higher still, ready to play their part when the ship was under way.
Bolitho smiled to hide his anxiety as Jury sped after the clawing, hurrying seamen.
By his side Merrett said hoarsely, “I feel sick, sir.”
Slade, the senior master’s mate, paused and snarled, “Then contain it! Spew up ’ere, my lad, an’ I’ll stretch you across a gun an’ give you six strokes to sharpen your wits!” He hurried on, snapping orders, pushing men to their proper stations, the small midshipman already forgotten.
Merrett sniffed. “Well, I do feel sick!”
Bolitho said, “Stand over there.”
He peered towards the speaking-trumpet and then aloft at his men strung out along the yards, the great billowing mass of the main-topsail already catching pockets of wind and trying to wrench itself free.
“Man the braces! Stand by…”
“Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”
Like a released animal the Destiny paid off into the wind, her sails thundering out from her yards, banging and puffing in a frenzy until with the men straining at the braces to haul the yards round and the helm hard over she came under command.
Bolitho swallowed bile as a man slipped on the mainyard but was hauled to safety by one of his mates.
Round and further still, so that the land seemed to be whirling past the bows and the graceful figurehead in a wild dance.
“More hands to the weather forebrace! Take that man’s name! Mr Slade! See to the anchor and lively now!”
Palliser’s voice was never still. As the anchor rose dripping to the cathead and was swiftly made fast to prevent it battering at the ship’s hull, more men were rushed elsewhere by his demanding trumpet.
“Get the fore and main-courses set!”
The biggest sails boomed out from their yards and hardened like iron in the driving wind. Bolitho paused to straighten his hat and draw breath. The land where he had searched for volunteers was safely on the opposite beam now, and with her masts lining up to the wind and rudder Destiny was already pointing towards the narrows, beyond which the open sea waited like a field of grey.
Men fought with snaking lines, while overhead blocks screamed as braces and halliards took on the strain of muscle against the wind and a growing pyramid of canvas.
Dumaresq had not apparently moved. He was watching the land sliding abeam, his chin tightly jammed into his neckcloth.
Bolitho dashed some rain or spray from his eyes, feeling his own excitement, suddenly grateful he had not lost it. Through the narrows and into the Sound, where Drake had waited to match the Armada, where a hundred admirals had pondered and considered their immediate futures. And where after that?
“Leadsman in the chains, Mr Slade!”
Bolitho knew he was in a frigate now. No careful, portly manoeuvre here. Dumaresq knew there would be many eyes watching from the land even at this early hour. He would cut past the headland as close as he dared, with just a fathom between the keel and disaster. He had the wind, he had the ship to do it.
Behind him he heard Merrett retching helplessly and hoped Palliser would not see him.
Stockdale was bending a line round his palm and elbow in a manner born. On his thick arm it looked like a thread. He and the captain made a good pair.
Stockdale said huskily, “Free, that’s what I am.”
Bolitho made to reply but realized the battered fighter was speaking for his own benefit.
Palliser’s tone stung like a lash. “Mr Bolitho! I shall tell youfirst, as I need the t’gan’sls set as soon as we are through the narrows! It may give you time to complete your dream and attend to your duties, sir!”
Bolitho touched his hat and beckoned to his petty officers. Palliser was all right in the wardroom. On deck he was a tyrant.
He saw Merrett bending over a gun and vomiting into the scuppers.
“Damn your eyes, Mr Merrett! Clean up that mess before you dismiss! And control yourself!”
He turned away, confused and embarrassed. Palliser was not the only one, it seemed.
2. Sudden death
THE WEEK which followed Destiny’s departure from Plymouth was the busiest and the most demanding in Richard Bolitho’s young life.
Once free of the land’s protection, Dumaresq endeavoured to set as much canvas as his ship could safely carry in a rising wind. The world was confined to a nightmare of stinging, ice-cold spray, violent swooping thrusts as the frigate smashed her way through troughs and rearing crests alike. It seemed as if it would never end, with no time to find dry clothing, and what food the cook had been able to prepare and have carried through the pitching hull had to be gulped down in minutes.
Once as Rhodes relieved Bolitho on watch he shouted above the din of cracking canvas and the sea surging
