come.
It was always a bad moment, he thought. Boats were frail things, but in battle they made an additional menace with their splinters flying like savage darts. Despite the danger, most men would wish them kept aboard. A link, a hope for survival if things went badly.
Keen came back panting hard. 'All done, sir. Mr. Triphook was a trifle perturbed at the extra issue!' His teeth shone in the darkness. 'Wouldyou care for a glass, sir?'
Bolitho disliked rum. But he saw the seamen and marines watching him and exclaimed, 'Indeed I would, Mr. Keen.'
He raised the glass to his mouth, the powerful stench of rum going straight to his empty stomach.
'To us, lads!'
He pictured Herrick and Puigserver aboard their floating
bomb. And to you, Thomas.
Then he was glad he had accepted the rum and added, 'I can noww understand what makes our jacks so fearsome!' It brought more laughs, as he knew it would.
He glanced at the sky. Still without light, or sign of a star.
He said, 'I'll go below.' He touched the midshipman's arm. 'You remain here by the hatch. Call, if I am needed.'
Bolitho climbed down into the darkness, his feet less certain here. Anyone could call him when required, but he must spare Keen an unnecessary visit to the surgeon's domain. It might come soon enough. He recalled the great pulsating wound, Allday's gentleness as he had searched out that bloody splinter.
Another ladder. He paused, feeling the ship groaning around him. Different smellsabounded on this deck. Tar and oakum, and that of tightly compressed humanity, even though the tiny messes were now deserted. And from forward the reek of the great anchor cables, of bilge water and damp clothing. Of a living, working ship.
A feeble lantern showed him the rest of the way to Whitmarsh's crude surgery. The sea-chests lashed together where terrified wounded would be saved or driven to despair. Leather straps to jam between teeth, dressings to contain the pain.
The surgeon's great shadow swayed across the tilting deck. Bolitho watched him narrowly. There was a stronger smell of brandy in the damp air. To quench pain, or to prepare Whitmarsh for his own private hell, he was not certain.
'All well, Mr. Whitmarsh?'
'Aye, sir.'
The surgeon lurched against the chests and braced his knee to the nearest one. He waved one hand around his silent assistants, the loblolly boys, the men who would hold their victims until the work was done. Brutalised by their trade. Without ears for the screams. Beyond pity.
'We are all awaiting whatyou send us, sir.'
Bolitho stared at him coldly. 'Will you never learn?'
The surgeon nodded heavily. 'I have learned well. Oh yes indeed, sir. As I have sawed away at a man's leg, or plugged carpenter's oakum into his empty eye-socket, with nothing to ease his torment but neat spirits, I have come closer to God than most!'
'If that be true, then I pray you get no closer.'
Bolitho nodded to the others and strode towards the ladder.
Whitmarsh called after him, 'Perhaps I shall be greeting you, sir!'
Bolitho did not reply. The surgeon was obviously going completely mad. His obsession with his brother's horrible death, his drinking, and the very way he earned his living were taking their toll. But he had to hang on to what remained of that other man. The one who had spoken of suffering with compassion, of serving others less fortunate.
He thought again of Herrick, and prayed he would get his boat away when the schooner was set upon her final course to destruction. Strange companions he had, too. Puigserver, and the frightened sailmaker from Bristol, finding courage from somewhere to sail back to that place which had broken his mind and body.
'Captain, sir!'
He quickened his pace as Keen's voice came down the next ladder.
'What is it?'
But as he gripped the ladder and turned his face towards the sky's faint rectangle he knew the answer. Slow, heavy drops of rain were falling across the hatchway, like small pebbles dropped from the yards as they tapped on planking or bounced across the gangways.
He dragged himself up the last few steps and hurried aft to the quarterdeck. He was within a few feet of it when the clouds opened and the rain came down in a great roaring, deafening torrent.
He yelled above the deluge, 'How is the wind now?'
Mudge was cringing by the binnacle, his hat awry in the fury of the downpour.
'Veerin', sir! Far as I can tell!'
Water hissed and gurgled down decks and scuppers, and the chilled gun crews pressed beneath the gangways and cowered behind the sealed ports to escape the torrential rain.
Bolitho felt Allday trying to throw the tarpaulin coat over his shoulders, but pushed him away. He was already soaked to the marrow, hair plastered over his forehead, his mind ringing to the din of rain and spray. Yet through it all he managed to keep contact with the ship and her affairs. The deck felt steady enough, despite the angry downpour, and above his head he managed to make out the maintopsail's shape flapping and shining wetly as the wind eased round still further.
He snapped, 'Hands to the braces, Mr. Davy! We will be full and bye directly!' He heard the men groping and cursing as they lurched to obey the orders, the protesting squeak of swollen cordage being hauled through blocks while yards were trimmed to hold the ship on her larboard tack. He called, 'Bring her up a point!'
Men slithered around the big double wheel, and he saw Carwithen punch one of the helmsmen as he bowed under the sheeting rain.
'Nor' by west, sir. Full an' bye she is!'
'Hold her so!'
Bolitho mopped his face with his sleeve:/The probing downpour helped to clear his aching mind, to make him accept what was happening. If the wind continued to veer, even if it stayed where it was, Herrick would be unable to place his schooner in position where he could destroy Muljadi's battery. The disastrous change of wind made the rain feel like tears. Tears for all their hopes, their pathetic determination, which minutes ago had made even the impossible seem undaunting.
He lurched to Mudge's side and shouted, 'How far now, d'you reckon?'
'Four or five mile, no more, sir.' Mudge was staring at the rain with dismay. 'This lot'll pass over quick enough. But then…' He shrugged.
Bolitho looked away. He knew well enough. A rising wind was most likely once the sun appeared. A wind which would do no service to Herrick, and keep Le Chaumareys in the safety of his anchorage. Undine would be helpless. She would be made to stay offshore until the enemy's double strength was prepared and ready to fight on their terms. Or they could turn and run for Pendang Bay with nothing to offer but a final warning.
Davy shouted, 'By God, life is hard!'
Mudge glared at him. 'Life's a bloody rear-guard action, Mr. Davy, from the day you're born!'
Bolitho swung round to silence both of them and then saw that the master's mate's face was clearer than before. He could even see Carwithen scowling at the same luckless helmsman. The dawn was forcing itself to be taken notice of.
He felt the blood racing in his head as he snapped, 'We will attack as before! Pass the word to all hands!'
Davy gaped at him. 'Without destroying the battery, sir?'
'It might not have worked anyway.' He tried to sound calm. 'The enemy will be listening to the rain and thanking God for being at anchor.' He added harshly, 'Are you deaf, man? Tell Mr. Soames to prepare for loading, once the rain is passed!'
Davy nodded jerkily and hurried to the rail.
Captain Bellairs strode to Bolitho's side and remarked coolly, 'Damn risky thing, sir, if you'll pardon my sayin' so.'
