Bolitho saw the shortened figure of the mainmast look-out, a tiny shape against the low clouds. It made him dizzy just to watch.
'Sail on th' weather beam, sir!'
The two lieutenants snatched telescopes and climbed into the shrouds. But there was nothing. just the wavecrests, angrier and steeper in the searching lens, and the hard, relentless glare.
'Shall I inform the captain, sir?'
Bolitho watched Cairns ' face as he returned to the deck. He could almost see his mind working. A sail. What did it mean? Unlikely to be friendly. Even a lost and confused ship's master would not fail to understand the dangers hereabouts.
'Not yet.' Cairns glanced meaningly towards the poop. 'He'll have heard the masthead anyway. He'll not fuss until we're
ready.'
Bolitho thought about it. Another view of Captain Pears which he had not considered. But it was true. He never did rush on deck like some captains, afraid for their ships, or impatient for answers to unanswerable questions.
He looked at Cairns ' quiet face again. It was also true that Cairns inspired such trust.
Bolitho asked, 'Shall I go aloft and see for myself?'
Cairns shook his head. 'No. I will. The captain will doubtless want a full report.'
Bolitho watched the first lieutenant hurrying up the shrouds, the telescope slung over his shoulders like a musket. Up and up, around the futtock shrouds and past the hooded swivel gun there to the topmast and further still towards the look-out who sat so calmly on the crosstrees, as if he was on a comfortable village bench.
He dragged his eyes away from Cairns ' progress. It was something he could never get used to or conquer. His hatred of heights. Each time he had to go aloft, which was mercifully rare, he felt the same nausea, the same dread of falling.
He saw a familiar figure on the gundeck below the quarterdeck rail and felt something like affection for the big, ungainly man in checkered shirt and flapping white trousers. One more link with the little Destiny. Stockdale, the muscular prize-fighter he had rescued from a barker outside an inn when he and a dispirited recruiting party had been trying to drum up volunteers for the ship.
Stockdale had taken to the sea in a manner born. As strong as five men, he never abused his power, and was more gentle than many. The angry barker had been hitting Stockdale with a length of chain for losing in a fight with one of Bolitho's men. The man in question must have cheated in some way, for Bolitho had never seen Stockdale beaten since.
He spoke very little, and when he did it was with effort, as his vocal chords had been cruelly damaged in countless barefist fights up and down every fair and pitch in the land.
Seeing him then, stripped to the waist, cut about the back by the barker's chain, had been too much for Bolitho. When he had asked Stockdale to enlist he had said it almost without thinking of the consequences. Stockdale had merely nodded, picked up his things and had followed him to the ship.
And whenever Bolitho needed aid, or was in trouble, Stockdale was always there. Like that last time, when Bolitho had seen the screaming savage rushing at him with a cutlass snatched from a dying seaman. Later he had heard all about it. How Stockdale had rallied the retreating seamen, had picked him up like a child and had carried him to safety.
When Bolitho's appointment to Trojan had arrived, he had imagined that would be an end to their strange relationship. But somehow, then as now, Stockdale had managed it.
He had wheezed, 'One day, you'll be a cap'n, sir. Reckon you'll need a coxswain.'
Bolitho smiled down at him. Stockdale could do almost anything. Splice, reef and steer if need be. But he was a gun captain now, on one of Trojan's upper battery of thirty eighteen
pounders. And naturally he just happened to be in Bolitho's own division.
'What d'you think, Stockdale?'
The man's battered face split into a wide grin. 'They be watching us, Mr Bolitho,'
Bolitho saw the painful movements of his throat. The sea's bite was making it hard for Stockdale.
'You think so, eh?'
'Aye.' He sounded very confident. 'They'll know what we're about, an' where we're heading. I wager there'll be other craft hull down where we can't see'em.'
Cairns ' feet hit the deck as he slid down a stay with the agility of a midshipman.
He said, 'Schooner by the cut of her. Can barely make her out, it's so damn hazy.' He shivered in a sudden gust. 'Same tack as ourselves.' He saw Bolitho smile at Stockdale, and asked, 'May I share the joke?'
'Stockdale said that the other sail is watching us, sir. Keeping well up to wind'rd.'
Cairns opened his mouth as if to contradict and then said, 'I fear he may be right. Instead of a show of strength, Trojan may be leading the pack down on to the very booty we are trying to protect.' He rubbed his chin. 'By God, that is a sour thought. I had expected an attack to be on the convoy's rear, the usual straggler cut out before the escort has had time to intervene.'
'All the same.' He rubbed his chin harder. 'They'll not try to attack with Trojan's broadsides so near.'
Bolitho recalled Pears' voice at the conference. The hint of doubt. His suspicion then had now become more real.
Cairns glanced aft, past the two helmsmen who stood straddle-legged by the great double wheel, their eyes moving from sail to compass.
'It's not much to tell the captain, Dick. He has his orders. Trojan is no frigate. If we lost time in some fruitless manoeuvres we might never reach the convoy in time. You have seen the wind's perverse manners hereabouts. It could happen tomorrow. Or now.'
Bolitho said quietly, 'Remember what the Sage said. Fog.' He watched the word hitting Cairns Like a pistol ball. 'If we have to lie to, we'll be no use to anyone.'
Cairns studied him searchingly. 'I should have seen that.
These privateersmen know more about local conditions than any
of us.' He gave a wry smile. 'Except the Sage.' Lieutenant Quinn came on deck and touched his hat. 'I'm to relieve you, sir.'
Ile looked from Bolitho to the straining masses of canvas. Bolitho would only go for a quick meal, especially as he wanted to know about Pears' reactions. But to the sixth lieutenant, eighteen years old, it would seem a lifetime of awesome responsibility, for to all intents and purposes he would control Trojan's destiny for as long as he trod the quarterdeck.
Bolitho made to reassure him but checked himself. Quinn must learn to stand on his own. Any officer who depended on help whenever things got awkward would be useless in a real crisis.
He followed Cairns to the companionway, while Quinn made a big display of checking the compass and the notes in the log.
Cairns said softly, 'He'll be fine. Given time.'
Bolitho sat at the wardroom table while Mackenzie and Logan endeavoured to present the meal as best they could. Boiled meat and gruel. Ship's biscuit with black treacle, and as much cheese as anyone could face. But there was a generous supply of red wine which had arrived in New York with the last convoy. From the lock on Probyn's face he had made very good use of it.
He peered across at Bolitho and asked thickly, 'What was all that din about a sail? Somebody getting a bit nervous, eh?' He leaned forward to peer at the others. 'God, the Navy's changing!'
Bunce sat at the head of the table and intoned deeply without looking up, 'It is not His doing, Mr Probyn. He has no time for the Godless.'
Sparke said unfeelingly, 'This bloody food is swill. I shall get a new cook at the first chance I can. That rogue should be dancing on a halter instead of poisoning us.'
The deck tilted steeply, and hands reached out to seize plates and glasses until the ship rolled upright again.
Bunce took out a watch and looked at it.
Bolitho asked quietly, 'The fog, Mr Bunce. Will it come?'
Thorndike, the surgeon, heard him and laughed. He made a braying sound.
