rain. Beyond Portsmouth Point the land was almost hidden in murk. It would be good to get away. His pay would mount up, and go towards helping out at home. With his share of prize money which he gained under Bolitho in the West Indies he had been able to buy several small luxuries to make their lot easier until his next return. And when might that be? Two years? It was better never to contemplate such matters.
He saw a ship's boy duck into the rain to turn the hour-glass beside the deserted wheel, and waited for him to chime the hour on the bell. Time to send the working part of the watch below. He grimaced. The wardroom might be little better. Soames under a cloud of inner thought. Davy probing his guard with some new, smart jest or other. Giles Bellairs, the captain of marines, well on the way to intoxication by this time, knowing his hefty sergeant could deal with the affairs of his small detachment. Triphook probably brooding over the issue of clothing to the new men. Typical of the purser. He could face the prospect of a great sea voyage, with each league measured in salt pork and beef, iron-hard biscuit, juice to prevent scurvy, beer and spirits to supplement fresh water which would soon be alive in its casks, and all the thousand other items under his control, with equanimity. But one small issue of clothing, while they still wore what they had come aboard in, was too much for his sense of values. He would learn. He grinned into the cold wind. They all would, once Bolitho brought the ship alive.
More shouts from alongside, and Penn, the midshipman, called anxiously, 'Beg pardon, sir, but I fear the surgeon is in difficulties.'
Herrick frowned. The surgeon's name was Charles Whitmarsh. A man of culture, but one with something troubling him. Most ship's surgeons, in Herrick's experience, had been butchers. Nobody else would go to sea and face the horrors of mangled men screaming and dying after a savage battle with the enemy. In peacetime he had expected it might be different.
Whitmarsh was a drunkard. As Herrick peered down at the jolly boat as it bobbed and curtsied at the chains, he saw a boatswain's mate and two seamen struggling to fit the surgeon into a bowline to assist his passage up the side. He was a big man, almost as large as Soames, and in the grey light his features shone with all the brightness of a marine's coat.
Herrick snapped, 'Have a cargo net lowered, Mr. Penn. It is not dignified, but neither is this, by God!'
Whitmarsh landed eventually on the gun deck, his hair awry, his face set in a great beaming smile. One of his assistants and two marines lifted him bodily and took him aft below the quarterdeck. He would sleep in his small sickbay for a few hours, and then begin again.
Penn asked nervously, 'Is he unwell, sir?'
Herrick looked at the youth gravely. 'A thought tipsy, lad, but well enough to remove a limb or two, I daresay.' He relented and touched his shoulder. 'Go below. Your relief will be up soon.'
He watched him hurry away and grinned. It was hard to recall that he had been like Penn. Unsure, frightened, with each hour presenting some new sight and sound to break his boy's illusions.
A marine yelled, 'Guardboat shovin' off from the sallyport, Sir!'
Herrick nodded. 'Very well.'
That would mean orders for the Undine. He let his gaze move forward between the tall, spiralling masts with their taut maze of shrouds and rigging, the neatly furled canvas and to the bowsprit, below which Undine's beautiful, full-breasted figurehead of a water-nymph stared impassively to every horizon. It also meant that Bolitho would be returning. Today.
And for Thomas Herrick that was more than enough.
2. Free of the Land
Captain Richard Bolitho stood in the shelter of the stone wall beside the sallyport and peered through the chilling drizzle. It was afternoon, but with the sky so overcast by low cloud it could have been much later.
He was tired and stiff from the long coach ride, and the journey had been made especially irritating by his two jovial companions. Businessmen from the City of London, they had become more loud-voiced after each stop for change of horses and refreshment at the many inns down the Portsmouth road. They were off to France in a packet ship, to contact new agencies there, and so, with luck, expand their trade. To Bolitho it was still hard to accept. Just a year back the Channel had been the only barrier between this country and their common enemy. The moat. The last ditch, as some news-sheet had described it. Now it seemed as if it was all forgotten by such men as his travelling companions. It had become merely an irritating delay which made their journey just so much longer.
He shrugged his shoulders deeper inside his boat-cloak, suddenly impatient for the last moments to pass, so that he could get back to the ship. The cloak was new, from a good London tailor. Rear Admiral Winslade's friend had taken him there, and managed to do so without making Bolitho feel the complete ignoramus. He smiled to himself despite his other uncertainties. He would never get used to London. Too large, too busy, where nobody had time to draw breath. And noisy. No wonder the rich houses around St. James's Square had sent servants out every few hours to spread fresh straw on the roadway. The grinding roar of carriage wheels was enough to wake the dead. It had been a beautiful house, his hosts charming, if slightly amused by his questions. Even now, he was still unsure of their strange ways. It was not just enough to live in that fine, fashionable residence, with its splendid spiral staircase and huge chandeliers. To be right, you had to live on the best side of the square, the east side. Winslade's friends lived there. Bolitho smiled again. They would.
Bolitho had met several very influential people, and his hosts had given two dinner parties with that in mind. He knew well enough from past experience that without their help it would have been impossible. Aboard ship a captain was next only to God. In London society he hardly registered at ail.
But that was behind him now. He was back. His orders would be waiting, and only the actual time of weighing anchor was left to conjecture.
He peered round the wall once more, feeling the wind on his face like a whip. The signal tower had informed Undine of his arrival, and very soon now a boat would arrive at the wooden pier below the wall. He wondered how his coxswain, Allday, was managing. His first ship as captain's coxswain, but Bolitho understood him well enough to know there was little to fear on his behalf. It would be good to see him, too. Something familiar. A face to hold on to.
He glanced up the narrow street to where some servants from the George Inn, where the coach had finally come to rest, were guarding his pile of luggage. He thought of the personal purchases he had made. Maybe London had got some hold on him after all.
When Bolitho had got his first command of the sloop Sparrow during the American Revolution, he had had little time to acquaint himself with luxuries. But in London, with the remains of his prize money, he had made up for it. New shirts, and some comfortable shoes. This great boat-cloak, which the tailor had assured him would keep out even the heaviest downpour. It had been partly Winslade's doing, he was certain of that. His host had casually mentioned that Bolitho's mission in Undine required not merely a competent captain, but one who would look the part, no matter what sort of government official he might meet. There was, he had added gently, a matter of wine.
Together they had gone to a low-beamed shop in St. James's Street. It was not a bit what Bolitho might have imagined. It had the sign of a coffee mill outside its door, and the owners' names, Pickering and Clarke, painted in gold leaf above. It was a friendly place, even intimate. It could almost have been Falmouth.
It was to be hoped the wine had already arrived aboard Undine. Otherwise, it was likely he would have to sail without it, and leave a large hole in his purse as well.
It would be a strange and exciting. sensation to sit in his cabin, hundreds of miles from England, and sample some of that beautiful madeira. It would bring back all those pictures of London again. The buildings, the clever talk, the way women looked at you. Once or twice he had felt uneasy about that. It had reminded him bitterly of New York during the war. The boldness in their faces. The confident arrogance which had seemed like second nature to them.
An idler called, 'Yer boat's a-comin', Cap'n!' He touched his hat. 'I'll give 'ee a 'and!' He hurried away to call the inn servants, his mind dwelling on what he might expect from a frigate's captain.
Bolitho stepped out into the wind, his hat jammed well down over his forehead. It was the Undine's launch, her largest boat, the oars rising and falling like gulls' wings as she headed straight for the pier. It must be a hard pull, he thought. Otherwise Allday would have brought the gig.
