cryin' like a baby, sir, and all the time we was lookin' at 'is face.'
An anonymous voice spoke up from the darkness. 'That's roight, sir! Cut from eye to chin it were, an' no nose at all!'
Bolitho walked slowly to the nettings. Poor Fowler. He had been a good-looking lieutenant before the French officer's sword had felled him at his side.
He heard Bunce say to Herrick, 'I tried to stop 'im, sir, but 'e just went mad! 'E was nearly naked, an' I couldn't 'old 'im.' He shuddered again. 'E just kept runnin', and dived clear afore we could reach 'im!'
Bolitho watched the boat dipping and rising on the ebony water, the oars striking bright patterns of phosphorescence which seemed to cling to the blades like ghostly weed.
`Can't see nuthin', sir!' The coxswain was standing upright in his boat.
Bolitho said shortly, 'Recall the boat, Mr. Herrick, and put the ship back on course.'
He walked past the silent, watching figures and saw inch trying to console Midshipman Lory, who had been a great friend of Fowler's. He said, 'Mr. Inch, you are now third lieutenant, it seems. I hope that is the last promotion for some time by these means.'
Then he strode into his cabin and stared round at the discarded wineglasses. He tried to pull the ~ stopper from a decanter but it was stuck fast, and because of his disabled arm he was unable to get any purchase on it, 'Gimlettl' He banged the decanter down savagely as the servant ran anxiously into the cabin. 'Get me a glass of wine, and quickly!'
When he lifted it to his lips he saw that his hand was shaking badly and he could do nothing about it. But it was not fever this time. He could feel the anger and despair rising inside him like a flood, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from hurling the glass at the bulkhead. He was not blaming himself for Fowler's death, but for letting him stay alive. He should have left him to die in the blazing Fairfax. At least he' would have been spared the agony and the terror, the dragging hours while he fingered his bandages and his shocked mind lingered on what lay beneath.
Fowler would have been remembered as,a brave man. Not as a poor, crazed wreck. Why did the dead lack dignity? How could it be that a man you knew, someone whose habits were as familiar as your own, could change in seconds to nothing? An empty shell.
He banged down the glass. 'Another!'
And he had just finished telling the others of such events which could prey on the minds of men. Fowler was no longer a man, it seemed, but an event!
He thought of Pomfret and what he was doing to him, to his whole ship. 'Damn you! Damn you to hell!' His voice shook with anger, so that Gimlett recoiled like some beaten dog.
Then he took told of himself with one savage effort. 'It is all right, Gimlett. Have no fear.' He held up his glass against a lantern and waited for the wine to settle and stay motionless in the beam like blood. 'I was not shouting at you. You can leave now.'
Alone once more Bolitho sat down heavily, and after a few moments drew the girl's folded letter from his coat and began to read.
15. THE PEOPLE COME FIRST
If Bolitho had been prepared and ready to bolster his ship's morale in the face of Pomfret's imposed isolation the reality was far worse than even he had expected. As one week followed another the Hyperion maintained her seemingly endless patrol, a great, empty rectangle of open sea, broken only occasionally by the distant coast of France or the brooding shadow of Cozar Island.
Twice they met with the sloop Chanticleer, but Bolitho learned little to ease his mounting apprehension. The sloop's role was almost as wretched as his own, for the unpredictable Mediterranean weather with its sudden squalls and maddening calms played havoc with so small a vessel. Bellamy, her commander, was as perplexed as he was by the complete lack of news from Pomfret's headquarters. There was more rumour than fact. It was said the French were bombarding St. Clar with siege guns, that the fighting had moved so close to the town it was hardly safe to walk in the streets.
But aboard Hyperion the vague speculation was as unimportant as it was remote, for on her crowded decks the reality was only today, and the day after that. And Bolitho knew that his men had tried hard not to show their disappointment and resentment. They had fallen in with his wishes, and for a full month the ship had been live with contests and friendly rivalry of every shape and form. Prizes had been given for the,best scrimshaw work and carved models, for hornpipes and jigs, even for the countless small objects made with loving care by the older hands. Tiny, delicate snuff-boxes, cut and polished from hardened nuggets of salt beef, combs and brooches, constructed from little more than bones and pieces of glass.
But it could not last. Small arguments flared into fights, complaints grew and fanned through the ship's tight community, and once a petty officer was struck in the face by an enraged seaman. The latter, of course, resulted in a flogging. It was soon followed by others.
And the officers were not immune from the spreading disease of dissatisfaction and- unrest. There had been a card game in the wardroom when Rooke had accused the purser of cheating. But for Herrick's firm intervention they might have drawn blood. But even his watchful eye could not see everything.
Bolitho's one ally was the weather. As the weeks dragged by it worsened considerably, and often the seamen were too weary from setting sails and then reefing again within the hour, to have the energy even for eating. Not that there was anything worth eating now. What fresh food Bolitho had obtained from St. Clar had soon vanished, and the whole ship was down to basic rations of salted beef or pork, to weevily biscuit and little else.
On the eleventh week, as the Hyperion plunged closehauled on the southerly leg of her patrol, the sharp gale which had been with them for several days eased and backed, and with the change came the rain.
Bolitho stood at the weather side of the quarterdeck and watched the rain advancing towards and over his ship like a steel curtain. He was wearing neither coat nor hat, and allowed the rain to soak hard across his face and chest until he was completely drenched. After the ship's rancid water the rain felt and tasted like pure wine, and as he stood squinting into the wind he noticed that some of his men working along the upper deck were also standing in the downpour like himself, as if to cleanse themselves of their despair.
Tomlin, the boatswain, stood by the forecastle supervising the hastily spread canvas scoops, while Crane, the cooper, was shouting at his assistants to prepare the empty casks for filling before the rain ceased. So now there would not even be the excuse of gathering fresh water to allow him to return to port, Bolitho thought wryly. How quickly an ally could become an enemy.
Herrick crossed the deck, his hair streaming and plastered across his forehead. 'When this clears we should sight Cozar off the larboard bow, sir.' He grimaced. 'It seems as if I am always saying that.'
He was right. Sighting the island meant nothing more than the end of the leg. Then Hyperion wheeled round towards the mainland for the next slow haul.
Bolitho leaned out over the rail as the ship heeled heavily to the wind, heedless of the rain and spray across his spine and legs. When the old ship tilted he saw without effort the great streamers of dragging weed floating up from her bilges. It was like a small submarine jungle, he thought bitterly. No Wonder Hyperion was so slow. There were years of sea growth. Each weed meant a mile or so of ocean under that pitted keel, every barnacle and gnawing fungus a hundred turns of the wheel. He tasted salt between his teeth, and when he looked up he saw that the rain had passed on, ruffling the sharp wave crests as it drove on and away to the east.
`Deck there!' The masthead lookout's voice carried above the wind. `Sail on the larboard bow!'
Bolitho looked at Herrick. Both had been expecting the man to sight Cozar. A ship was so uncommon as to be a major happening.
Bolitho said quickly, `Shake out the second reef, Mr. Herrick! We will run down on her and take a look!'
But there was no chance of missing the unexpected ship, for as her topsails lifted brightly in a sudden shaft of watery sunlight she went about and headed for the Hyperion.
Piper was already in the mizzen shrouds with his glass when the first flags broke from the other ship's yards. 'She's the Harvester, sir!' He spluttered as a burst of spray lifted over the weather bulwark and all but threw him from his perch. He gasped, 'Harvester to Hyperion. Have despatches on board!'
