had staggered up through a hatchway, his eyes wild and uncontrolled. He had seemed shocked beyond understanding as he had looked around him, as if expecting to see the enemy ship alongside. Okes had seen Herrick watching him, and his eyes had strayed past to the smoking guns in the battery which he had left to fend for themselves.
He had clutched Herrick's arm, his voice unrestrained and desperate. `Had to go below, Thomas! Had to find those fellows who ran away!' He had swayed and added wildly, `You believe me, don't you?'
Herrick's contempt and anger had faded with the discovery that Okes was terrified almost to a point of madness. The realisation filled him with a mixture of pity and shame.
`Keep your voice down, man!' Herrick had looked round for Vibart. `You damn fool! Try and keep your head!'
He watched Okes now as the man skirted the corpses and then retraced his steps to the stern. He too was reliving his own misery. Destroying himself with the knowledge of his cowardice and disgrace.
Herrick found time to wonder if the captain had noticed Okes' disappearance during the battle. Perhaps not. Maybe Okes would recover after this, he thought grimly. If not, his escape might be less easy the next time.
He saw Midshipman Neale's small figure scampering along the maindeck and felt a touch of warmth. The bay had not faltered throughout the fight. He had seen him on several occasions, running with messages, yelling shrilly to the men of his division, or just standing wide-eyed at his station. Neale's loss would have been felt throughout the ship, of that Herrick was quite sure.
He hid a smile as the boy skidded to a halt and touched his hat. `Mr. Herrick, sir! Captain's compliments and would you lay aft to supervise burial party!' He gulped for breath. `There's thirty altogether, sir!'
Herrick adjusted his hat and nodded gravely. `And how are you feeling?'
The boy shrugged. `Hungry, sir!'
Herrick grinned. `Try fattening a ship's rat with biscuit, Mr. Neale. As good as rabbit any day!' He strode aft, leaving Neale staring after him, his forehead creased in a frown.
Neale walked slowly past the bow-chasers, deep in thought. Then he nodded very slowly. `Yes, I might try it,' he said softly.
Bolitho felt his head loll and he jerked himself back against his chair and stared at the pile of reports on his table. All but completed. He rubbed his sore eyes and then stood up.
Astern, through the great windows he could see moonlight on the black water and could hear the gentle sluice and creak
of the rudder below him. His mind was still fogged by the countless orders he had given, the requests and demands he had answered.
Sails and cordage to be repaired, a new spar broken out to replace the missing topgallant. Several of the boats had been damaged and one of the cutters smashed to fragments. In a week, driving the men hard, there would be little outward sign of the battle, he thought wearily. But the scars would be there, deep and constant inside each man's heart.
He recalled the empty deck in the fading light as he had stood over the dead men and had read the well-tried words of the burial service. Midshipman Farquhar had held a light above the book, and he had noticed that his hand had been steady and unwavering.
He still did not like Farquhar, he decided. But he had proved a first-class officer in. combat. That made up for many things.
As the last corpse had splashed alongside to begin its journey
two thousand fathoms deep he had turned, only to stop in surprise as he had realised that the deck had filled silently with men from below decks. Nobody spoke, but here and there a man coughed quietly, and once he had heard a youngster sobbing uncontrollably.
He had wanted to say something to them. To make them understand. He had seen Herrick beside the marine guard, and Vibart's massive figure outlined against the sky at the quarter-deck rail. For a brief moment they all had been together, bound by the bonds of suffering and loss. Words would have soiled the moment. A speech would have sounded cheap. He had walked aft to the ladder and paused beside the wheel.
The helmsman bad stiffened. `Course south-west by south, sir! Full an' by!'
He had returned here. To this one safe, defended place where there was no need for words of any sort.
He looked up angrily as Stockdale padded through the door. The man studied him gravely. `I've told that servant o' yours to bring your supper, Captain.' Stockdale peered disapprovingly at the litter of charts and written reports. `Pork, sir. Nicely sliced and fried, just as you like it.' He held out a bottle. `I took the liberty of breaking out one o' your clarets, sir.'
The tension gripped Bolitho's voice in a vice. `What the hell are you jabbering about?'
Stockdale was undaunted. `You can flog me for sayin' it, sir, but today was a victoryl You done us all proudly. I think you deserve a drink!'
Bolitho stared at him lost for words.
Stockdale began to gather up the papers. 'An' further, Captain, I think you deserves a lot more!'
As Bolitho sat in silence watching the big coxswain laying the table for his solitary meal, the Phalarope plucked at the light airs and pushed quietly beneath the stars.
From dawn to sunset she had given much. But there would be other days ahead, thanks to her captain.
6. A SIGHT OF LAND
Bolitho walked to the starboard side of the quarterdeck and rested his hands on the sun-warmed hammock netting. He did not need either chart or telescope now. It was like a homecoming.
The small island of Antigua had crept up over the horizon in the dawn's light, and now sprawled abeam shimmering in the sunlight.
Bolitho felt the old excitement of a perfect landfall coursing through his limbs, and he had to make himself continue in his interrupted pacing, if only to control it. Five weeks to a day since the Phalarope had showed her stern to the mist and rain of Cornwall. Two weeks since the clash with the privateer, and as he looked quickly along his ship he felt a quick upsurge of pride. All repairs had been completed, and the remaining wounded were well on the mend. The death roll had risen to thirty-five, but the sudden entry into warmer air, with sun and fresh breezes instead of damp and blustering wind, had worked wonders.
The frigate was gliding gently on the port tack, making a perfect pair above her own reflection in the deep blue water. Above her tapering masts, the sky was cloudless and full of welcome, and already the eager gulls swooped and screamed around the yards with noisy expectancy.
Antigua, headquarters and main base of the West Indies squadron, a link in the ragged chain of islands which protected the eastern side of the Caribbean. Bolitho felt strangely glad to be back. He half expected to see the crew and deck of the Sparrow when he looked across the quarterdeck rail, but already the Phalarope's company had grown in focus to overshadow the old memories.
`Deck there! Ship of the line anchored around the headland!'
Okes was officer of the watch and he looked quickly towards Bolitho.
`That will be the flagship most likely, Mr. Okes.' Bolitho glanced up to the new topgallant where the keen-eyed lookout had already seen the tall masts of the other vessel.
The frigate slowly rounded Cape Shirley with its lush green hills and the tumbled mass of rocky headland, and Bolitho watched his men as they thronged the weather side, clinging to shrouds and chains as they drank in the sight of the land. To all but a few of them it was a new experience. Here everything was different, larger than life. The sun was brighter, the thick green vegetation above the gleaming white beaches was like nothing they had ever seen. They shouted to one another, pointing out landmarks, chattering like excited children as the headland slipped past to reveal the bay and the landlocked waters of English Harbour beyond.
Proby called, 'Ready to wear ship, sirl'
Bolitho nodded. The Phalarope had every sail clewed up except topsails and jib, and on the forecastle he could see Herrick watching him as he stood beside the anchor party.
He snapped his fingers. 'My glass, please.'
