He held the glass on the leading ship. She was turning away, displaying her length, the twin lines of chequered gunports. Her sails were in disarray, he could see them criss-crossing with shadows as her master tried to hold the wind until he had completed his change of course.
He said, 'she handles badly, Thomas.' He bit his lip, trying to picture his own ship from the enemy's viewpoint. It would take an hour before they were at grips. To have a chance against two powerful seventy-fours he must hold on to the wind-gage. At least until he could rake one, or pass between the pair of them. He added slowly, 'Too long in port' maybe. Like us, they need all the drill they can manage. '
Bolitho watched Harebell's slender hull passing across the bows on a converging tack, her officers steeply angled on the small quarterdeck. He thought he saw Inch waving his hat, but forgot him as Luce's men hoisted the signal for Harebell to take up her new station. As a mere spectator, at worst a survivor who would carry the news to the admiral or Farquhar.
He walked to the gangway and ran his eyes along the upper deck, The worst part. The waiting. It was a pity only half the company had found time to eat before the call to quarters.
He asked. 'Do we have any beer left, Thomas?' Herrick nodded. 'I believe so. Though I doubt that the purser will be pleased to broach it at this moment.'
'But he will not be fighting.' Bolitho saw his remark rippling along the nearest group of gun crews. 'Pass the word for it to he issued directly.'
He turned away. It was a cheap way of raising their morale. But it was all he had.
He returned to the quarterdeck and stood with one foot balanced on a nine-pounder. Its captain peered up at him and knuckled his forehead. Bolitho smiled at him. The man was old, or looked it. His hard hands covered with tar, his arms entwined with fierce, blue-coloured tattoos.
He asked, 'And who are you?'
The man showed his uneven teeth. 'Mariot, sir.' He hesitated, doubtful at prolonging a conversation with his commodore. Then he said, 'served with your father, sir, in the old Scylla.'
Bolitho stared at him. He wondered if Mariot would ever have told him had he been on another gun in some other part of the ship.
He asked, 'Were you there when they took off his arm?' Mariot nodded, his faded eyes far away. 'Aye, sir. He were a fine man, I served none better. 'He grinned awkwardly 'savin' your presence, sir.'
Herrick stopped beside him, his face questioning. Bolitho said, 'This man served with my father, Thomas.' He shaded his eyes to look for the enemy. 'What a small world is bound up in a navy.'
Herrick nodded and asked Mariot, 'How old are you?' The man shook his head. 'I can't rightly recall, sir.' He patted the gun's breech. 'But young enough for this little lady!'
Bolitho walked slowly back and forth across the deck, his 'ears deaf to the cheerful shouts which were welcoming the first of the beer. All in one company. A man who had been with his father in India. Allday, his trusted coxswain and friend who had first been brought to him by a press-gang. Herrick, once a junior lieutenant under him, and Adam Pascoe. His brother's only son, perhaps the link between all of them.
Herrick was saying, 'They may be handled poorly, sir, but I’d be happier if we had had some support. Even a frigate to snap at their damned backsides!'
Bolitho paused at the nettings, realising that he was soaked in sweat. 'Lysander fought and defeated the Athenian fleet nearly four hundred years before our Lord was born. He captured Athens a year later, if my old tutor was to be believed.' He smiled at Herrick. 'surely he will not let us down today?' He added in a quieter tone, 'Be easy, Thomas. Your people are watching you. Show one sign of doubt and we may well be done for.'
Herrick linked his hands behind him, his chin on his neckcloth. 'Aye. I’m sorry. It is strange how you never get used to the one thing you’ve worked and trained for, The sight of an enemy's sail, the sound of his broadside. Keep going until he's struck or gone under.' He added with unusual bitterness, 'Those fancy people in England who go all weepy at the sight of a King's ship working out of harbour never spare a thought for the 'poor devils who have to man 'em. Who die every day just to keep them in comfort and safety. '
Bolitho watched him impassively. It was easier to see the old Herrick now. Quick to speak out for the underdog, no matter how much wrath he incurred from his superiors. Which was probably why he was still a junior post- captain.
He asked, 'And your sister, Thomas, how is she keeping?' Herrick brought his thoughts under control. 'Emily?' He looked away. 'she is missing our mother, no doubt, although she took some looking-after towards the end.'
Bolitho nodded. 'And you have hired someone to take care of Emily while you are at sea?'
Herrick faced him, his eyes staring into the sun. 'May I ask, sir, are you coming to the matter of Mr. Gilchrist?'
'I had heard something, Thomas.' He was surprised at Herrick's tone. His readiness to defend an understanding.
Herrick's eyes were almost colourless in the glare. 'Emily is taken with him. He is a reliable officer, if hasty- tempered at times.' He lowered his head. 'And what he has, he has earned, sir.'
'Like you, Thomas.'
'Indeed.' Herrick sighed. 'And I care very much for what Emily wants. God knows, she has had precious little in this world!'
'Deck there!'
Gilchrist was striding across the deck, his hands cupped. 'What is it?'
'Leadin' ship is makin' more sail!'
Herrick snatched a telescope and hurried to the rail. 'Damn their eyes! They will try to divide our defences.'
Bolitho watched 'him, seeing his mind at work with how best to present his ship to the enemy, yet still holding on to what they had been saying.
