two days, since he had received his new orders, he had been driving the ship like a madman. He thought back again to the moment a lookout had sighted the distant sail. For an instant they had all imagined it was a patrolling frigate or the Cassius herself. But it had been a fast-moving brig, her low hull smothered in spray as she had gone about and run down towards the Phalarope.
Her arrival had been an unexpected but welcome diversion as far as Herrick was concerned. The tension aboard the frigate was getting bad enough to feel, like something with a soul of its own. In a matter of days there had been seven floggings, but instead of settling the crew into dumb- servility it had only helped to drive° a firm wedge between quarterdeck and forecastle. There was little chatter or laughter any more between decks, and when an officer passed close by a group of seamen, the latter would lapse into sullen silence and turn their faces away.
Midshipman Maynard had reported, `The brig is Witch of Looe, sir! She has despatches for us!'
Vibart had waited importantly on the quarterdeck, alone and aloof, saying nothing and watching everything.
A boat had skipped across the choppy water, and soon a young lieutenant had climbed aboard carrying the inevitable canvas envelope.
Herrick had been standing nearby, straining his ears and trying to imagine what was happening. He had heard Vibart asking about the flagship and the lieutenant's brief reply.
`These orders are from the admiral, sir. I have nothing to add.'
The reply had been too brief, almost insolent, and Herrick had guessed that the young lieutenant was high enough on the admiral's list of favourites to afford such rudeness.
Vibart had started to tell the brig's messenger about the raid on Mola Island and had then clamped his jaw tightly shut. He had turned on his heel, merely adding for Herrick's benefit, `Get the ship under way again, Mr. Herrick. I have work to do!'
He was always the same now, Herrick pondered. Fluctuating between ponderous self-importance and fits of blind rage. From one hour to the next you could never be sure of his reactions, and it was doubly bad because he was always in evidence. Watching and criticising and bawling out fresh orders to overrule those of his subordinates.
Herrick had stopped the lieutenant at the entry port and had tried to get more information.
The officer had regarded him thoughtfully. 'St. Kitts has fallen. The fleet is falling back and regrouping. I am on my way to Antigua now.' He had stared across at his own ship. `But Rodney is said to be on his way back from England with twelve ships; of the line. I hope to God he will be in time.' Then he added quickly, 'Where is your captain?'
'Dead.' Herrick's tongue had lingered on the word. 'We lost him at Mola Island.'
'Well, I don't care much for your new commander, my friend.' The lieutenant had paused above his swaying boat. 'We have been searching for the Phalarope for two days! The admiral will not be pleased that you were off your station, Mola Island or not!' He had rolled his eyes. 'Sir Robert is a stickler for routine.'
Herrick's mind shifted to the next part in the sequence of events which had sent the Phalarope on her new course towards the islands. Vibart had called a meeting in the stem cabin. Every officer and warrant officer had been present, and it was somehow typical of Vibart that while he sat comfortably in his chair, all the others were kept standing.
'Sir Robert Napier has received information that the Andiron is lying off Nevis.' He had plunged into what sounded I very like a carefully rehearsed speech. 'She is apparently carrying out repairs and awaiting fresh orders, but there is no saying how long she will remain there: He had looked slowly around their faces. `Sir Robert requires that we make our way to Nevis forthwith to sink or cut-out the Andiron.' His words had dropped in the cabin like stones in a pool. 'We will make as quick a passage as possible.' He had glared meaningly. 'So make sure there are no mistakes, Mr. Proby!'
Herrick had been studying Vibart during his announcement, and had been surprised by his apparent eagerness to begin the operation. It might be a false piece of intelligence, but if not, it would not be an easy matter to cut-out an anchored ship close inshore to a hostile island.
Then, as Vibart had droned on about details and timing, he had realised that Vibart's demeanour owed much to his own uncertainty. So far, although he had been in command since Bolitho's loss, Okes stood in the best position to gain full credit for past successes against the enemy. He still had to ensure the firmness of his own control, and this new operation was the obvious opportunity.
It was odd that he had sent no despatches across to the Witch of Looe, Herrick thought. It was just as if he wanted to save the whole record for the admiral's car alone. Sir Robert might be angry about Phalarope being off station, but the destruction of the Mola Island battery and transports, and a victory over the privateer Andiron would do much to placate anyone but the devil himself.
But now that Vibart had had time to consider the full implications of his orders he had changed yet again. As the ship drove towards the chosen rendezvous he had grown nervous and edgy, and more than once had let his impatience get the upper hand. Only that morning he had had a man flogged for letting a marline-spike fall from the foreyard. It had struck quivering in the deck within feet of Packwood, a boatswain's mate. Vibart had been brooding on the quarterdeck, watching the boats being checked and moved ready for instant lowering. Packwood's startled shout had given him yet one more outlet for his unpredictable temper.
'Get that man down here!' His voice had stopped all work on the maindeck. 'I saw what he did! That was meant to fall on Packwood!'
Even the boatswain's mate had voiced a protest. 'It's lively aloft today, sir. It was an accident.'
Vibart's face had gone scarlet. 'Silence! Or I'll see your backbones, too!'
Again the dread pipe. 'All hands lay aft to witness punishment!'
Again the agonising passage of time while the grating was rigged and the marines had made a scarlet rectangle on the quarterdeck.
The seaman in question was, a man called Kirk. He was a thin, hollow-eyed sailor who had gone amost deaf after the encounter with the Andiron, his ears apparently permanently damaged by the thundering crash of broadsides.
Mr. Quintal, the boatswain, had walked slowly aft, the familiar red baize bag swinging from his wrist as the silent company parted to allow him through.
Up to the last moment, even as Vibart closed the Articles of War and announced harshly, `Four dozen, Mr. Quintal!', Herrick doubted if Kirk had heard a single word.
Only when the boatswain's mates seized him and stripped his thin body and spread-eagled him across the grating like a writhing crucifix did he start to scream and protest.
Most men took their punishment in silence. The tremendous force of a single blow from the cat-o'-nine-tails was enough to drive the wind from the lungs and left little to cry on.
Kirk's cries continued as his wrists were tied in position so that his feet were only just touching the deck, and the boatswain's mates exchanged quick glances, momentarily unnerved by the man's terror.
Quintal drew the lash from the red bag and handed it to Packwood. Gruffly he had said, `Two dozen. Josling can do the other two.' Under his breath he had added, `If he lives that long!'
Vibart had replaced his hat and nodded curtly. `Carry on!'
Herrick had seen plenty of floggings, and had steeled himself to accept what was part of naval life. But this, one had seemed different, and unfair because of Vibart's obvious eagerness.
The marine drummer had struck into a quick roll, and Packwood had drawn back his thick arm.
`One!' The lash came down with a swishing crack.
As usual Herrick had been sickly fascinated by the time it took to show its mark. For a moment there was nothing on the man's naked back, not even a bruise, but even as the lash swung back for the second stroke the whole area of taut skin from the shoulder to the waist opened and shone in a crisscross mass of fine cuts.
'Twol' Kirk screamed and wriggled helplessly on the grating, and Herrick saw blood on his chin and knew that he had bitten through his tongue.
`Three!' Packwood faltered and hit again, his eyes glassy as Kirk's back began to shred into a tangle of bloody flesh.
Vibart's voice had cut through the roll of the drum. 'Harder, Packwood! Don't go easy on the scum, unless you wish to change places with him!'
And so it had continued. Stroke by stroke, to the inhuman rattle of the drum. Kirk had fallen silent and limp
