'Very well, Mr. Fowlar. Get the to'gan's'ls off her. If the weather freshens up we may have to reef tops'ls before the night's done.'
Old Mudge rubbed his aching back. 'The weather is a fool!' But nobody heeded him.
Bolitho saw the topmen sliding down to the deck, with barely a word to each other as they were checked again by their petty officers. Around the vibrating bowsprit the spindrift rode in the wind like pale arrows, and high above the deck he saw the topsails hardening and puffing out their bellies to a combined chorus of creaking rigging and blocks.
'Dismiss the watch below.' Herrick's voice was as usual. He took Bolitho's word as he would a rope to save himself from drowning.
In the darkness Bolitho smiled. Perhaps it was better to be so.
In the cabin Don Puigserver sat at the desk and watched the clerk's quill scraping across his written orders. Raymond was leaning against the quarter windows, his face expressionless as he peered into the darkness
Then across his shoulder he said, 'It is a great responsibility, Don Puigserver. I am not sure I can advise in its favour.'
The Spaniard leaned painfully against the chair-back and listened to the regular footsteps across the deck overhead. Up and down.
'It is not mine alone, Senor Raymond. I am in good company, believe me.'
Above and around them the Undine moved and murmured in time with sea and wind. Right forward below the bowsprit the golden nymph stared unwinkingly at the darkened horizon. Decision and destiny, triumph and disappointment meant nothing to her. She had the ocean, and that was life itself.
5. The Work of a Demon
Bolitho stood loosely by the quarterdeck rail, his body partly shaded from the harsh glare by the thick mainmast trunk, and watched the routine work around him. Eight bells chimed from the forecastle, and he could hear Herrick and Mudge comparing notes from their noon sights, while Soames, who was officer of the watch, prowled restlessly by the cabin hatch as he awaited his relief.
Just to watch the slow, lethargic movements of the men on the gangways and gun deck was enough. Thirty- four days since they had seen Nervion's destruction on the reef, and nearly two months since weighing anchor at Spithead. It had been hard work all the way, and from the moment the Spanish ship had foundered the atmosphere aboard had been compressed and strained to the limit.
The last few days had been the worst part, he thought. For a while his company had gained some excitement at crossing the Equator, with all its mysteries and myths. He had issued an extra ration of rum, and for a time he had observed some benefit from the change. The new hands had seen the linecrossing as a kind of test which they had somehow managed to pass. The old seamen had grown in stature as they had recounted or lied about the number of occasions they had sailed these waters in other ships. A fiddler had emerged, and after a self-conscious overture had brought some music and scratchy gaiety to their daily lives.
And then, the last of the badly injured Spaniards had begun to die. It had been like the final pressure on them all. Whitmarsh had done all he could. He had carried out several amputations, and as the pitiful cries had floated up from his sickbay Bolitho had felt the brief satisfaction of drawing his company together fading once again. The dying Spaniard had dragged it out for many days. Nearly a month he had ebbed and rallied, sobbing and groaning, or sleeping peacefully while Whitmarsh had stayed with him hour by hour. It had seemed as if the surgeon was testing his own resources, searching for some new cracking point. The last of his patients to die had been the ones mauled by sharks, those which because of their wounds could not be saved or despatched by amputations. Gangrene had set into their flesh, and the whole ship had been pervaded by a stench so revolting that even the most charitable had prayed for the sufferers to die.
He saw the afternoon watch mustering below the quarterdeck, while Lieutenant Davy strode aft and waited for Soames to sign his report in the log. Even Davy looked weary and bedraggled, his handsome face so tanned by hours on duty he could have been a Spaniard.
They all avoided Bolitho's eye. As if they were afraid of him, or that they needed all their energies merely to get through another day.
Davy reported, 'The watch is aft.'
Soames glared at him. 'A moment late, Mr. Davy.'
Davy regarded him disdainfully and then turned to his master's mate. 'Relieve the wheel.'
Soames stamped to the hatch and disappeared below.
Bolitho clenched his hands behind him and took a few steps away from the mast. The only satisfaction was the wind. The previous day, as they had changed tack towards the east and the masthead had reported sighting land far abeam, the westerlies had made themselves felt. As he shaded his eyes to peer aloft he could see the impatient thrust of power in every sail, the mainyard bending and trembling like one giant bow. That blur of land had been Cape Agulhas, the southernmost tip of the African continent. Now, stretching before the crisscross of rigging and shrouds lay the blue emptiness of the Indian Ocean, and like many of his new seamen who had contemplated their crossing the Equator, he was able to consider what together they had achieved to reach this far. The Cape of Good Hope was to all intents the halfway of their voyage, and to this day he had kept his word. Mile upon mile, day after scorching day, driving wildly in blustery squalls, or lying becalmed, with every sail hanging lifeless, he had used everything he knew to keep up their spirits. When that had faltered he had speeded up the daily routine. Gun and sail drill, and competitions between messes for the offwatch hands.
He saw the purser and his assistant waiting beside a puncheon of pork which had just been swayed up from the forward hold. Midshipman Keen stood nearby, trying to appear knowledgeable as Triphook had the new cask opened and proceeded to check through each four-pound piece of salt pork before he allowed it to be carried to the galley. Keen, whose junior authority as midshipman of the watch made him the captain's representative on such occasions, probably imagined it to be a waste of time. Bolitho knew otherwise from past experience. It was well known for dishonest victualling yards to give short measure, or to make up the contents of a cask with hunks of rotten meat, even pieces of old canvas, knowing as they did that by the time a ship's purser discovered the fault he would be well clear of the land and unable to complain. Pursers, too, were known to line their own pockets by sharp practice with their opposite numbers ashore.
Bolitho saw the gaunt purser nod mournfully and mark his ledger, apparently satisfied. Then he followed the little procession forward to the galley, his shoes squeaking as they clung to the sun-heated pitch between the deck seams.
The heat, the relentless, unbroken days were testing enough. But Bolitho knew it only needed a hint of corruption, some suggestion that the ship's company were being cheated by their officers, and the whole voyage might explode. He had asked himself over and over again if he was allowing his last experience to pray on his mind. Even the word itself, mutiny, had struck fear into the heart of many a captain, especially one far from friendly company and higher authority.
He took a few paces along the side and winced as his wrist brushed against the bulwark. The timbers were bone-dry, the paint cracking, despite regular attention.
He paused and shaded his eyes to watch some large fish jumping far abeam. Valor. It was usually uppermost in his mind. With the new hands, and the need to use much of their precious water supply to help the sick and injured, even rationing might not be enough.
He saw two Negro seamen lounging by the larboard gangway. It was a mixed company indeed. When they had sailed from Spithead it had been varied enough. Now, with the small list of Spanish survivors, they were even more colourful. Apart from the sole Spanish officer, a sad-eyed lieutenant named Roj art, there were ten seamen, two boys who were little more than children, and five soldiers. The latter, at first grateful to have survived, were now openly resentful of their new status. Carried aboard Nervion as part of Puigserver's personal guard, they were now neither fish nor fowl, and while they tried to act as seamen, they were usually found watching Undine's sweating marines with both envy and contempt.
Herrick stepped into his thoughts and reported, 'The master and I agree.' He held out the slate. 'If you would care to examine this, sir.' He sounded unusually guarded.
