inboard along the lee side, “It’s the lord and master’s way, Dick! Push the ship to the limit, find the strength of every man aboard!” He ducked as a phantom of freezing spray doused them both. “Officers, too, for that matter!”
Tempers became frayed, and once or twice small incidents of insubordination flared openly, only to be quenched by some heavyfisted petty officer or the threat of formal punishment at the gratings.
The captain was often on deck, moving without effort between compass and chartroom, discussing progress with Gulliver, the master, or the first lieutenant.
And at night it was always worse. Bolitho never seemed to get his head buried in a musty pillow for his watch below before the hoarse cry was carried between deck like a call to arms.
“All hands! All hands aloft an’ reef tops’ls!”
And it was then that Bolitho really noticed the difference. In a ship of the line he had been forced to claw his way aloft with the rest of them, fighting his loathing of heights and conscious only of the need not to show that fear to others. But when it was done, it was done. Now, as a lieutenant, it was all happening just as Dumaresq had prophesied.
In the middle of one fierce gale, as Destiny had tacked and battered her way through the Bay of Biscay, the call had come to take in yet another reef. There had been no moon or stars, just a rearing wall of broken water, white against the outer darkness, to show just how small their ship really was.
Men, dazed by constant work and half blinded by salt spray, had staggered to their stations, and then reluctantly had begun to drag themselves up the vibrating ratlines, then out along the topsail yards. The Destiny had been leaning so steeply to leeward that her main-yard had seemed to be brushing the broken crests alongside.
Forster, the captain of the maintop, and Bolitho’s key petty officer, had yelled, “This man says ’e won’t go aloft, sir! No matter what!”
Bolitho had seized a stay to prevent himself from being flung on his face. “Go yourself, Forster! Without you up there God knows what might happen!” He had peered up at the remainder of his men while all the time the wind had moaned and shrieked, like a demented being enjoying their torment.
Jury had been up there, his body pressed against the shrouds by the force of the wind. On the foremast they had been having the same trouble, with men and cordage, sails and spars all pounded together while the ship had done her best to hurl them into the sea below.
Bolitho had then remembered what Forster had told him. The man in question had been staring at him, a thin, defiant figure in a torn checkered shirt and seaman’s trousers. “What’s the matter with you?” Bolitho had had to yell above the din.
“I can’t go, sir.” The man had shaken his head violently. “Can’t!”
Little had come lurching past, cursing and blaspheming as he helped to haul some new cordage to the mainmast in readiness for use.
He had bellowed, “I’ll drag ’im aloft, sir!”
Bolitho had shouted to the seaman, “Go below and help relieve the pumps!”
Two days later the same man had been reported missing. A search of the ship by Poynter, the master-at-arms, and the ship’s corporal, had revealed nothing.
Little had tried to explain as best as he knew how. “It were like this, sir. You should ’ave made ’im go aloft, even if ’e fell and broke ’is back. Or you could ’ave taken ’im aft for punishment. “E’d ’ave got three dozen lashes, but ’e’d ’ave been a man! ”
Bolitho had reluctantly understood. He had taken away the seaman’s pride. His messmates would have sympathized with a man seized up at the gratings and flogged. Their contempt had been more than that lonely, defiant seaman had been able to stand.
On the sixth day the storm passed on and left them breathless and dazed by its intensity. Sails were reset, and the business of clearing up and repairing put aside any thought of rest.
Now, everyone aboard knew where the ship was first headed. To the Portuguese island of Madeira, although what for was a mystery still. Except to Rhodes, who had confided that it was merely to lay in a great store of wine for the surgeon’s personal use.
Dumaresq had obviously read the report of the seaman’s death in the log, but had said nothing of it to Bolitho. At sea, more men died by accident than ever from ball or cutlass.
But Bolitho blamed himself. The others, Little and Forster, years ahead of him in age and experience, had turned to him because he was their lieutenant.
Forster had remarked indifferently, “Well, ’e weren’t much bloody good anyway, sir.”
All Little had offered had been, “Could ’ave been worse, sir.”
It was amazing to see the difference the weather made. The ship came alive again, and men moved about their work without glancing fearfully across their shoulders or clinging to the shrouds with both arms whenever they went aloft to splice or reeve new blocks.
On the morning of the seventh day, while the smell of cooking started the wagers going as to what the dish would eventually be, the masthead lookout yelled, “Deck there! Land on the lee bow!”
Bolitho had the watch, and beckoned Merrett to bring him a telescope. The midshipman looked like a little old man after the storm and a week of back-breaking work. But he was still alive, and was never late on watch.
“Let me see.” Bolitho levelled the glass through the black shrouds and past the figurehead’s curved shoulder.
Dumaresq’s voice made him start. “ Madeira, Mr Bolitho. An attractive island.”
Bolitho touched his hat. For so heavy a man the captain could move without making a sound.
“I-I’m sorry, sir.”
Dumaresq smiled and took the telescope from Bolitho’s hands.
As he trained it on the distant island he added, “When I was a lieutenant I always made sure that somebody in my watch was ready to warn me of my captain’s approach.”
He glanced at Bolitho, the wide, compelling eyes seeking something. “But not you, I suspect. Not yet anyway.”
He tossed the glass to Merrett and added, “Walk with me. Exercise is good for the soul.”
So up and down along the weather side of the quarterdeck the Destiny’s captain and her most junior lieutenant took their stroll, their feet by-passing ring-bolts and gun-tackles without conscious effort.
Dumaresq spoke briefly of his home in Norfolk, but only as a place. He did not sketch in the people there, his friends, or whether he was married or not.
Bolitho tried to put himself in Dumaresq’s place. Able to walk and speak of other, unimportant things while his ship leaned to a steady wind, her sails set one above the other in ordered array. Her officers, her seamen and marines, the means to sail and fight under any given condition, were all his concern. At this moment they were heading for an island, and afterwards they would sail much further. The responsibility seemed endless. As Bolitho’s father had once wryly remarked, “Only one law remains unchanged for any captain. If he is successful others will reap the credit. If he fails he will take the blame.”
Dumaresq asked suddenly, “Are you settled in now?”
“I think so, sir.”
“Good. If you are still mulling over that seaman’s death, I must ask you to desist. Life is God’s greatest gift. To risk it is one thing, to throw it away is to cheat. He had no right. Best forgotten.”
He turned away as Palliser appeared on deck, the master-atarms bringing up the rear.
Palliser touched his hat to the captain, but his eyes were on Bolitho.
“Two hands for punishment, sir.” He held out his book. “You know them both.”
Dumaresq tilted forward on his toes, so that it appeared as if his heavy body would lose its balance.
“See to it at two bells, Mr Palliser. Get it over and done with. No sense in putting the people off their food.” He strode away, nodding to the master’s mate of the watch like a squire to his gamekeeper.
Palliser closed his book with a snap. “My compliments to Mr Timbrell, and ask him to have a grating rigged.” He crossed to Bolitho’s side. “Well, now?”
Bolitho said, “The captain told me of his home in Norfolk, sir.”
Palliser seemed vaguely disappointed. “I see.”
“Why does the captain wear a red waistcoat, sir?”
