“Right on time, sir,” was all he had said, and now he was up and about, shouting and instructing the afterguard as if nothing had happened out of the ordinary.
Bolitho saw the legs and ragged trousers of one of the seamen hurrying up the ratlines, the bare feet moving rapidly like paddles. He recognized the man as Jenner before he vanished into the maze of rigging above the deck. Another piece of human flotsam. Jenner was an American, who had fought in the Revolutionary Navy against the British. A good seaman, although something of a dreamer, he had joined his old enemies as if he had become bored with the independence he had helped to win.
Just beneath the quarterdeck, ducking and jumping clear of the thundering crests which swept over the twelve-pounders, was another mystery. A giant Negro, he had been found half dead in a drifting longboat shortly after Bolitho had taken command. He had been naked and cruelly savaged by sun and thirst. Worse, when he was taken below to the surgeon, Gwyther had reported in his precise manner, “The fellow has no tongue. It has been cut out.”
In the drifting longboat they had discovered a metal disc. All it had cut on it was the name Orlando. The name of a ship, a man, a piece of cargo, nobody knew.
Bolitho suspected the boat had been from a slaver and that the big Negro had either tried to escape or had been cast adrift as a warning to others.
But when Tempest had reached land again their survivor did not want to be put ashore, despite all that was said to him in every language which the ship’s company could muster. And that was quite considerable. So, with his new name and rating entered on the muster book as Orlando, a landman, he had been accepted.
Because the American, Jenner, seemed to get on with him better than most, Herrick had put them both in the afterguard. The mizzen mast and its attendant sails and rigging was by far the least complicated of any square- rigged ship, and Orlando’s inability to speak and Jenner’s dreamy attitude, which even the touch of the boatswain’s rattan had failed to cure, would leave them less chance of suffering or causing an accident.
That was typical of Herrick, of course. Always watching over his men. As he had been when Bolitho had first met him in the Phalarope during the war. A ship beset with discontent and inhuman treatment, where a junior officer could reasonably be expected to keep his silence rather than provoke a tyrannical captain. Not so Herrick. His ideals, his stubborn yardstick of right and wrong, had more than once put him into real danger.
Bolitho always hoped that Herrick would get a chance of the promotion he richly deserved. But peace, the countless numbers of sailors thrown on the beach without work or hope had blocked his chances. He was lucky to be employed at all. Unlike Bolitho, whose family and upbringing had been set in tradition, with the sea and ships the only possible career, Herrick came from a poor family. What he had he had worked for because he needed it.
The fact he loved the sea was a hard-won bonus.
“Sir! The fore t’gans’l is tearin’ adrift!”
Bolitho dashed the salt from his eyes and tried to see up through the rigging. Then he heard it, the irregular crack and thunder of canvas freeing itself from the yard, threatening to fill with wind and change the trim of the ship.
Herrick cupped his hands. “Mr Borlase! Send your people aloft! Mr Jury, stand by the main stays’l!”
He turned, panting, “If the t’gans’l carries away without ripping itself to pieces we’ll need the stays’l to give us balance.” He showed his teeth. “God, how quick the mind skips when you need it!”
Bolitho nodded. Herrick had acted well and without waiting for approval. If, as could still happen before the topmen fought their way up the foremast shrouds, the sail freed itself entirely, it would slew the bows round, and their situation in the rising gale could be suddenly critical.
He saw the boatswain mustering his men beneath the mainmast, others wading through waist-deep water to reach their stations. Familiarity, harsh, and sometimes unfair discipline had made them so. In pitch darkness, or in a raging storm, they could find their way about a ship as a blind man will know his own cottage.
Borlase was busy too, his voice matching the wind as he urged the foretopmen into action. When he shouted his voice tended to be shrill and piercing, and Bolitho knew the midshipmen often made unflattering comments about it behind his back. It was strange that few people ever thought about the cabin skylight on the poop. Voices from the watchkeeping officers reached the captain very easily. Bolitho had learned his lesson early as a midshipman when his captain had called from the skylight, “I am sorry, I did not hear that. Where did you say you met the girl?”
All these things and more he had tried to describe to Viola Raymond when she had sailed with him as a passenger. He had expected her to be bored, or tolerantly patient. Perhaps from those first conversations had grown the ache he now felt for her safety with each dragging hour.
“I think they are in trouble, sir.” Herrick was leaning over the quarterdeck rail, his back and legs streaming with water. He yelled, “What is it?”
Borlase strode aft, his figure leaning over against the ship’s steep angle.
“Mr Romney, sir! He’s out on the fore t’gans’l yard!” Despite the din of wind and sea he sounded irritated. “There’s enough risk as it is without-”
Bolitho cut him short. “Send up a bosun’s mate! Or someone senior enough for him to trust!” He looked at Herrick, his voice bitter. “Midshipman Romney may never make a lieutenant, but he tries as hard as ten men. I’ll not have him fall because Mr Borlase has not the sense to see the danger.”
He swung away, trying to hold on to the picture of the island, their position and bearing from it. What he must do or avoid when the time came.
Yet all he could see was that terrified boy, clinging to a yard, some hundred and fifty feet above the deck, with a great billowing mass of wind-hardened canvas trying to smash him down and hurl him to certain death. A quick end if he hit the deck, slower by a little if he fell into the sea. He might live long enough to see his ship fade into the darkness, for no boat could be lowered now, and Tempest’s drift would outpace any swimmer.
Bolitho thought too of the shark which was there to greet each new day.
Midshipman Swift blurted out, “I’ll go, sir.” He faltered as both Bolitho and Herrick turned towards him. “He’ll trust me. And besides…” He hesitated. “I promised I would watch out for him.”
They all looked forward as someone yelled, “He’s gone!”
Something pale fell through the rigging and struck the lee side of the forecastle near one of the carronades. It made a sickening sound, and then Bolitho saw the body bounce over into the creaming water which surged back from the stem.
Nobody said anything for several seconds, so that the roaring noises of the storm swept in on them like a fanfare of brutish triumph.
Midshipman Swift said thickly, “I-I’m sorry, sir. I should have- ” Then he pointed along the gundeck. Swaying like a puppet, and suspended on a bowline being lowered rapidly from the foretop, was Midshipman Romney.
Several seamen ran to catch him and lay him on the deck, while Schultz, the bosun’s mate who had been sent aloft to assist him on the yard, hurried aft and stood below the quarterdeck, his face upturned as he said in his thick, guttural voice, “Mr Romney is safe, zur.” He showed his teeth as if in pain as more water surged over the nettings and doused him from head to foot. “He vas trying to save a man from falling.” He shook his big head sadly. “It vas too much, by God. Zey both nearly die!”
“Dawn coming up, sir!” Lakey slapped water from his watchcoat. “Young Mr Romney is lucky to see it.”
Bolitho nodded. “Who was the seaman?”
The bosun’s mate replied, “Tait, zur.” He shrugged. “Good man, I tink.”
By the time the topmen had finally mastered the rebellious sail and returned to the deck the sea had opened up on either beam in a violent, rearing panorama of broken crests and dark troughs.
Herrick said, “And you always hope you’re going to get by without losing a man.” He sighed.
Bolitho saw Allday climbing through the cabin companionway and replied, “That is true.”
He turned with surprise as Allday said, “I’ve brought you something to cheer, sir.”
It was brandy, and Bolitho felt it going through him like fire.
A seaman observed, “That bloody shark’s still arter us, th’ bugger.”
Another answered, “Reckon old Jim Tait made a good meal, eh?”
Bolitho looked at Herrick. No words were needed. Life at sea was hard. Too hard perhaps to reveal weakness, even when a friend had died.
Lakey closed his telescope with a snap.
“I think I know where we are, sir.” He sounded satisfied, separated from the drama which had just left them.
