a broadside.
He heard Lakey’s step beside him. “I have been thinking-”
The sailing master smiled grimly. “My old father on Tresco used to say, leave thinking to horses, Tobias. They’ve bigger heads than yours.” It seemed to amuse him. “We’ve a course to run out, Mr Keen. And no brooding or pining is going to change our captain’s intentions, not by one inch.”
Keen grinned. He liked Lakey, although their worlds were so different.
“I’ll try to contain myself.”
Below in his day cabin Bolitho sat at his desk and worked slowly through the day’s affairs. As in most forenoon watches he received a regular stream of visitors.
Bynoe, the purser, requesting a signature on his ledger of newly opened meat casks. Hard of eye, more so of heart, Bolitho suspected, the purser was better than many he had served with. His rations were fairly issued, and he did not dock a seaman’s meagre pay for some article he had not received and would not remember when the ship eventually paid off.
The surgeon came with his daily sick report. The hands kept remarkably free of hurt and illness, Bolitho was thankful to discover. But when it struck it was without warning or mercy. As with the men lost overboard, and the two left in the care of the Dutch doctors at Coupang.
While he studied each book and ledger placed before him by Cheadle, his clerk, he was conscious too of the life above and around him. They were all extensions of the ship herself. If a man died or was removed the ship lived on, gathering replacements to sustain herself.
He heard the rumble of gun trucks as one by one each cannon, from the long twelve-pounders on the main deck to the snappy six-pounders aft, were hauled inboard and examined by Jack Brass, Tempest’s gunner. It was Brass’s routine arrangement that every week he would check each weapon, and God help the gun captain whose charge failed to reach his standards.
Bolitho had been lucky with his warrant officers and more seasoned men, and was grateful for it. Even his four midshipmen, sent to him originally by parents who wished them to gain experience and advancement which was harder to get elsewhere in peacetime, were more like young lieutenants after two years’ continuous service. Swift and Pyper were seventeen, and already thinking of the time when they would be able to sit for promotion. Fitzmaurice, a pug-faced youth of sixteen, had had much of the arrogance knocked out of him. He came of a very rich family indeed, and had imagined apparently that his commission in Tempest was to be something akin to a courtesy cruise. Herrick and Lakey had taught him otherwise.
The youngest, Evelyn Romney, was fifteen. They all made a change from the usual twelveand thirteen-year- olds you found in most ships, Bolitho thought. Romney had improved the least. He was a naturally shy youth, and lacked the firmness required when dealing with men old enough to be his father. But if Fitzmaurice cursed his family for sending him packing to sea, Romney, who was less able to face up to the demands made on the “young gentlemen,” seemed desperately determined to do well. He obviously loved the Navy, and his attempts to overcome his shyness were pathetic to watch.
Bolitho heard the measured tramp of boots as the marines trooped aft from their daily drills on the forecastle and in the tops. Prideaux would not be with them. He would leave the sweat and discomfort to his sergeant. Then later he would emerge and criticize, his foxy face peering at each of his men in turn. Bolitho had never heard him offer one word of encouragement or praise, even when a marine had been promoted.
More muffled than the sounds near the quarterdeck, he heard the thump of hammers and the occasional rasp of a saw.
Isaac Toby was the ship’s carpenter. Fat, slow-moving and rather vacant-looking, he had the appearance of an untidy owl. But as a carpenter he was an artist. With his own small crew he kept the repairs up to date, although with a vessel built of teak that was the least of his worries. At this moment he would be completing his latest challenge, the building of a new, additional jolly boat. It had been something of a joke to begin with, a casual remark made by the gunner about waste of valuable wood when a seaman had been caught throwing some off-cuts over the side.
Toby had taken it as a personal affront and had said he would build a boat with his own hands out of all the oddments which Brass could discover. The boat was nearly completed, and even Brass had had to admit it was far better than Tempest’s original one.
Bolitho leaned back and ran his fingers through his hair.
Cheadle gathered up the last document and made sure the signature was dry. The clerk was a strange, withdrawn man, as were many of his kind. He had deep, hollow eyes and large, uneven teeth, so that he appeared to be smiling, something he never did, as far as Bolitho knew. To discover anything of his past Bolitho had had to drag it from him word by word. He had been transferred from another ship which had been paid off in Bombay. His captain had assured Bolitho that Cheadle was a good clerk, if somewhat reticent. He had once worked in a grocer’s shop in Canterbury, and prided himself on his service to “the quality.” But so far, even after two years of daily contact, Bolitho had never heard him mention it.
Noddall entered as the clerk left and placed a glass of wine on the desk. With fresh water so much in demand, and the uncertainty of supply a constant worry, Bolitho usually took wine as an easy alternative. He recalled when he had been guided to the famous shop in St James’s, how he had purchased the many fine bottles before his voyage to the other side of the world in Undine. The wine had been reduced to broken glass and spillage during his fight with the Argus, but the memory stayed with him. He touched the watch in his pocket. Like so many others.
Allday sauntered through from the sleeping cabin and watched him gravely.
“Reckon we’ll find ’em, Captain?”
He stood with arms folded across his deep chest, his face and body relaxed. He was more like a companion than a subordinate. How much they had shared together. Bolitho often wondered if Allday missed England. He would certainly be missing the girls. Allday had always had a reputation with them, and more than once had been glad, if not eager, to set sail in haste for fear of husband or irate father.
“I hope so.”
Bolitho sipped the drink. Cheap and stale. Not like the French wine which Herrick had got for him. The Sydney garrison had probably bought a stock from a French ship, or some ambitious trader. If you were prepared to risk your fortune and your life, and pit your wits against fierce natives, pirates and the constant dangers of shipwreck you could sell anything out here.
In the wake of navigators and explorers like Cook had come the others. On some islands, where the natives had lived in simple, idyllic surroundings, the ships had introduced disease and death. The merchant adventurers had set one tribe against another by offering shoddy goods and cheap cloth in exchange for secure moorings from which to barter.
And now everyone was paying for it. Soon, some over-greedy trader would start supplying a tribe with muskets. Bolitho had seen it happen in the Americas, where the French had trained Indians to track and kill the British, and the British had done the same to them.
Afterwards, with their independence won, and with both British and French gone from their newborn country, the Americans had been left with another army in their midst. A nation of Indian warriors which, if joined together, might still drive the settlers into the sea and isolate the new ports and cities.
He added, “I doubt very much that we could have passed the Eurotas without sighting her. We have had double lookouts, and at night have shown enough lights for a blind man to see. Her captain would know of the concern for his late arrival and would try to make contact with any ship of size.”
Allday’s eyes were distant as he watched the sea through the stern windows. With the wind across the larboard quarter the ship was leaning slightly under the pressure, so that the sea appeared to be on the slope. Like most professional seamen, Allday seemed able to stare at the sea without a blink, and yet the horizon was shining fiercely like a tautly stretched thread of gems.
“My guess, Captain, is that she’s put in somewhere for water. Her supply might have gone foul, as ours did once.” He grimaced. “With a hull full of convicts and the like, her captain’d not want to add to his worries, and that’s no error.”
“True.”
Bolitho looked away, remembering the way she had looked. Their carefree disregard for discovery and what might have happened. At Madras, and afterwards. In that wretched, fever-infested colony to which Bolitho’s ship
