for another frustrating period.
Mudge added doubtfully, 'You never knows in these waters. Not for sure.'
Bolitho looked at his untidy outline. If Mudge was worried, with all his experience, how much worse it would be for many of the others.
He called, 'Mr. Davy! I am going forrard directly.' He saw the lieutenant's shape detach itself from the rail. 'Tell Mr. Keen to keep me company.'
He slipped out of his tarpaulin coat and handed it to Allday. He had been so occupied with his own thoughts and doubts he had not fully realised how heavily these dragging hours must be affecting his company. He had ordered the ship to be prepared for action as soon as he was satisfied with the final leg of their course towards the Benua islands. Working in almost total darkness, the hands had completed the task almost as quickly as in broad daylight, so familiar had they become with their surroundings. Their home. It was a simple precaution. Sound travelled too easily at sea, and the clatter of screens being torn down, the scrape and squeak of nets being spread above the gun deck and chain slings being rigged to every yard seemed loud enough to wake the dead. But from then on they had nothing to do but wait. To fret on what daylight might bring, or take away.
Keen came out of the darkness, his shirt pale against a black six-pounder.
Bolitho asked, 'How is the wound?' 'Much better, thank you, sir.'
Bolitho smiled. He could almost feel the pain which was probably showing on Keen's face.
'Then take a stroll with me.'
Together they walked along the lee gangway, ducking below the taut nets which Shellabeer's men had rigged to catch falling cordage or worse, seeing the upturned faces of each gun crew, the restless shapes of the marine sentries at hatchways, or powder-monkeys huddled together while they waited to serve the silent cannon.
On to the forecastle, where the squat carronades pointed from either bow like tethered beasts, their crews shivering in the occasional dashes of spray.
Bolitho paused, one hand. gripping the nettings as Undine sidled unsteadily into a deep trough. Most of the seamen were stripped to the waist, their bodies shining faintly above the d rk water alongside.
'All ready, lads?'
He felt them crowd around him, their sudden interest at his arrival. Of necessity, the galley fire had been doused when the ship had gone to quarters. A hot drink now would be worth more than a dozen extra guns, he thought bitterly.
To Keen he said, 'Pass the word to Mr. Davy with my compliments. A double tot of rum for all hands.' He heard the instant response around him, the murmur of appreciation as it flowed aft along the gun deck. 'If the purser complains, tell him he'll have me to reckon with!'
'Thankee, sir! That was right thoughtful, sir!'
He strode to the ladder, turning away in case they could see his face through the darkness, or sense his mood. It was too easy to raise their spirits. So simple that it made him feel cheap, hypocritical. A double tot of rum. A few pence. Whereas within hours they might have given their lives, or their limbs.
Bolitho paced aft beside the main hatch, seeing Soames's great figure towering above that of Tapril, the gunner. He nodded to Fowlar nearby, and to the larboard crews of the twelve-pounders. All were his men, his responsibility.
He thought suddenly of Rear Admiral Sir John Winslade, all those weeks and months ago in his office at the Admiralty. He had needed a, frigate captain he could know and trust. One whose mind he could follow even though it was on the other side of the globe.
He thought, too, of the ragged soldiers below the Admiralty window, one blind, the other begging for the both of them.
All the brave schemes and plans, the lofty preparations for a new world. Yet when it was boiled down, nothing was changed. Undine and Argus were but two ships, and yet their presence and their needs made them no less important than opposing fleets.
And if Undine failed, what would they say in those fine residences in Whitehall and St. James's Square, and in the busy coffee houses where mere rumour grew into fact in minutes? Would they care that men had fought and died for them in the King's name?
Someone gave a hoarse cheer in the gloom, and he guessed the rum had arrived on deck.
He continued aft, hardly aware that he had stopped short in his tracks as his bitterness had given way to anger. How spacious the deck seemed without the boats lying one upon the other across their tier. All were now towing astern, awaiting the moment to be cast adrift, mute spectators of the battle which might come. Which had to 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
