In companionable silence the Trojan's officers drew comfort from their own resources. Some read, others wrote home, letters which might never reach those for whom they were intended.
Bolitho drank his coffee and tried to ignore the pain in his forehead. Without thinking, his hand moved up and touched the rebellious lock of black hair above his right eye. Beneath it was a livid scar, the source of the pain. He had received it when he had been in Destiny. It often came back to him at moments like this. The illusion of safety, the sudden rush of feet and slashing, hacking weapons. The agony and the blood. Oblivion.
There was a tap at the outer screen door, and then Mackenzie said to Sparke, who was the senior officer present, 'Your pardon, sir, but the midshipman of the watch is here.'
The boy stepped carefully into the wardroom, as if he was walking on precious silk.
Sparke snapped curtly, 'What is it, Mr Forbes?'
'The first lieutenant's compliments, sir, and will all officers muster in the cabin at two bells_'
'Very well.' Sparke waited for the door to close. 'Now we will see, gentlemen. Maybe we have something of importance to do.'
Unlike Cairns, the second lieutenant could not conceal the sudden gleam in his eyes. Promotion. Prize money. Or just a chance for action instead of hearing about it.
He looked at Bolitho. 'I suggest yoii'chanfe into a clean shirt. The captain seems to have his eye on you.'
Bolitho stood up, his head brushing the deckhead beams. Two years in this ship, and apart from a dinner in the cabin when they had recommissioned the ship at Bristol, he had barely crossed one social barrier to meet the captain. He was a stern, remote man, and yet always seemed to possess uncanny kn.owledge-of what was happening on every deck in his command.
Dalyell carefully tapped out his pipe and remarked, 'Maybe he really likes you, Dick.'
Raye, the lieutenant of marines, yawned. 'I don't think he's human.'
Sparke hurried to his cabin, shying away from involvement with any criticism of authority. 'He is the captain. He does not require to be human.'
Captain Gilbert Brice Pears finished reading the daily log of events aboard his ship and then scrawled his signature, which was hastily dried by Teakle, his clerk…
Outside the stem windows the harbour and the distant town seemed far-away and unconnected with this spacious, well-lit cabin. There was some good furniture here, and in the neighbouring dining cabin the table was already laid for supper, with Foley, the captain's servant, neat as a pin in his blue coat and white trousers, hovering to tend his master's needs.
Captain Pears leaned back in his chair and glanced round the cabin without seeing it, In two years he had got to know it well.
He was forty-two years old, but looked older. Thickset, even square, he was as powerful and impressive as the Trojan herself.
He had heard gossip amongst his officers which amounted almost to discontent. The war, for it must now be accepted as such, seemed to be passing them by. But Pears was a realistic man, and knew that the time would eventually come when he and his command would be able to act as intended when Trojan's great keel had first tasted salt water just nine years ago. Privateers and raiding parties were one thing, but when the French joined the fray in open strength, and their ships of the line appeared in these waters, Trojan and her heavy consorts would display their true worth.
He looked up as the marine sentry stamped his boots together outside the screen door, and moments later the first lieutenant rejoined him.
'I have passed the word to the wardroom, sir. All officers to be here at two bells.'
'Good.'
Pears merely had to look at his servant and Foley was beside him, pouring two tall glasses of claret.
'The fact is, Mr Cairns ' – Pears examined the wine against the nearest lantern – `you cannot go on forever fighting a defensive war. Here we are in New York, a claw-hold on a land which is daily becoming more rebellious. In Philadelphia things are little better. Raids and skirmishes, we burn a fort or an outpost, and they catch one of our transports, or ambush a patrol. What is New York? A besieged city. A town under reprieve, but for how long?'
Cairns said nothing, but sipped the claret, half his mind attending to the noises beyond the cabin, the sigh of wind, the groan of timbers.
Pears saw his expression and smiled to himself. Cairns was a good first lieutenant, probably the best he had ever had. He should have a command of his own. A chance, one which only came in war.
But Pears loved his ship more than hopes or dreams. The thought of Sparke taking over as senior lieutenant was like a threat. He was an efficient officer and attended to his guns and his duties perfectly. But imagination he had not. He thought of Probyn, and dismissed him just as quickly. Then there was Bolitho, the fourth. Much like his father, although he sometimes seemed to take his duties too lightly. But his men appeared to like him. That meant a lot in these hard times.
Pears sighed. Bolitho was still a few months short of twentyone. You needed experienced officers to work a ship of the line. He rubbed his chin to hide his expression. Maybe it was Bolitho s youth and his own mounting years which made him reason in this fashion.
He asked abruptly, 'Are we in all respects ready for sea?'
Cairns nodded. `Aye, sir. I could well use another dozen hands because of injury and ill-health, but that is a small margin these days.'
'It is indeed. I have known first lieutenants go grey-haired because they could not woo, press or bribe enough hands even to work their ships out of port.'
At the prescribed time the doors were opened and Trojan's officers, excluding the midshipmen and junior warrant officers, filed into the great cabin.
It was a rare event, and took a good deal of time to get them into proper order, and for Foley and Hogg, the captain's coxswain, to find the right number of chairs.
It gave Pears time to watch their varying reactions, to see if their presence in strength would make any sort of difference.
Probyn, relieved from his duties by a master's mate, was flushed and very bright-eyed. just too steady to be true.
Sparke, prim in his severity, and young Dalyell, were seated beside the sixth and junior lieutenant, Quinn, who just five months ago had been a midshipman.
Then there was Erasmus Bunce, the master. He was called the Sage behind his back, and was certainly impressive. In his special trade, which produced more characters and outstanding seaman than any other, Bunce was one to turn any man's head, He was well over six feet tall, deep-chested, and had long, straggly grey hair. But his eyes, deep-set and clear, were almost as black as the thick brows above them. A sage indeed.
Pears watched the master ducking between the overhead beams and was reassured.
Bunce liked his rum, but he loved the ship like a woman. With him to guide her she had little to fear.
Molesworth, the purser, a pale man with a nervous blink, which Pears suspected was due to some undiscovered guilt. Thorndike, the surgeon, who always seemed to be smiling. More like an actor than a man of blood and bones. Two bright patches of scarlet by the larboard side, the marine officers, D'Esterre and Lieutenant Raye, and of course Cairns, completed the gathering. It did not include all the other warrant officers and specialists. The boatswain, and gunner, the master's mates, and the carpenters, Pears knew them all by sight, sound and quality.
Probyn said in a loud whisper, Mr Bolitho doesn't seem to be here yet?'
Pears frowned, despising Probyn's hypocrisy. He was about as subtle as a hammer.
Cairns suggested, 'I'll send someone, sir.'
The door opened and closed swiftly and Pears saw Bolitho
sliding into an empty chair beside the two marines.
'Stand up, that officer.' Pears' harsh voice was almost caress
ing. 'Ah, it is you, sir, at last.'
Bolitho stood quite still, only his shoulders swaying slightly to the ship's slow roll.
'I – I am sorry, sir.' Bolitho saw the grin on Dalyell's face as drops of water trickled from under his coat and on to the black and white checkered canvas which covered the deck.
Pears said mildly, 'Your shirt seems to be rather wet, sir.' He turned slightly. 'Foley, some canvas for that chair.
