assistants.
Rooke, Big Harry as he was respectfully known, guessed the reason for Quantock's temper. He was a good first lieutenant, if you happened to be the captain, that was. But he was hard with the people, unrelenting in matters of discipline.
Captain Glazebrook, who had died after a long bout of fever, had been too ill to see what was happening. Quantock probably thought he should be promoted, even be given command of Old Katie. Rooke did not like the first lieutenant, and the thought of him being in command of this ship was like blasphemy.
Quantock said sharply, 'Standards, we must maintain them. I'll not allow anything to interfere with the efficient running of this ship!'
Rooke saw the new captain crossing the deck from the companion. He might have warned another lieutenant but Quantock's outburst was still annoying him.
'And further – '
'Mr Quantock.' Keen waited for the lieutenant to join him where he could not be heard by the men on watch. 'I admire your high standards. I would, however, prefer that you voiced your views to me in future, not the ship's company en masse.'
Bolitho had seen most of it and guessed the rest.
Did his flag at the masthead really make that much difference? Even Keen seemed on edge, regretting perhaps this appointment which was leading nowhere.
No, it was not that. It was uncertainty. An emptiness which the coming of peace had brought. They were used to action, expected it even.
'Deck there! Sail on th' weather-bow!'
Keen looked up and then turned questioningly to Bolitho. Their companion was still there, lurking just below the horizon like an assassin.
Perhaps they would get all the action they wanted even though the ink was barely dry on the peace agreement.
Bolitho continued his pacing with renewed energy, as if he wanted to tire himself out.
He was imagining things, he decided angrily. He was the one who craved excitement, if only to take his mind off the relentless passing of time.
Achates would still be making for Boston when Belinda gave birth. It was like being trapped. Helpless.
Bolitho saw Adam at the forward end of the gun-deck talking with Hawtayne, the young marine lieutenant.
I am as bad as Admiral Sheaffe.
I am envious. Not of success but of youth.
He was so lucky to have Belinda. He was after all ten years older than she. And now that she needed him he was marooned out here like a castaway on a rock.
Why you? He could still hear her voice when she had spoken out in the darkness. Why him indeed?
He stopped and allowed his body to sway with the ship as she rode contemptuously across a long Atlantic trough.
Perhaps it was a kind of madness which had never left him. Being taken prisoner by the French, the escape, the lives it had cost in that final battle with Remond's Flying Squadron had been too much and too soon after being badly wounded.
The pain stabbed through his wound again as if to taunt him. He tried to remember her soft touch in the night, when she had soothed the pain of the scar with her love.
But the picture would not form.
He called, 'Captain Keen, we shall douse all lights and change tack tonight. As soon as it is dark alter course to the nor'-west. By dawn I want to see that strange sail where we can run down on it.'
Keen opened his mouth as if to protest but instead touched his hat. Then he said, ‘I’ll get every stitch on her, sir.'
Bolitho strode into the poop's shadow and made his way aft to his quarters.
He had acted hastily, even childishly, some would say.
Achates was a solitary ship, and yet his responsibility was as great as if he commanded a squadron or even a fleet.
Those around him had not asked to be here. Keen, Quantock, the embittered first lieutenant, even the boatswain's mate named Christy who had been so grateful that he had remembered him, they all deserved better from the man who commanded them.
But there was a difference. To Keen the ship and her company came before all else, and the mission was secondary.
To Bolitho Achates had to remain a symbol and, if necessary, a weapon to enforce his wishes.
It was probably the first time he had considered what his new responsibility entailed, and the realization steadied him.
Allday padded into the cabin and replaced the old sword on its rack. Cleaning it made little difference but it gave him an excuse to come and go as he pleased.
He glanced at Bolitho as he sat on the bench seat by the stern windows, his black hair ruffling in the wind across the quarter.
Bolitho looked calm enough. The sudden squall had passed.
'I was wondering, sir…
Bolitho turned, only half aware he was no longer alone. 'What about?'
'Well, I mean, sir, if you was the governor of this island we're about to toss away to the mounseers, what would you do?'
Bolitho got to his feet and strode to the wine cabinet where he poured two glasses of brandy.
He handed one to the astonished Allday and replied, 'Thank you. You have put your ringer on it.' The brandy burned his lips. 'Do, Allday? I'd stand and fight. And so probably will he.'
Allday breathed out slowly. He did not quite understand what he had done, but it was good to see the frown gone from Bolitho's features.
Bolitho eyed him warmly, 'You should have been in Parliament, Allday.'
Allday put down his empty glass. He had never seen him in quite this mood before.
'I'm too honest, sir.'
Bolitho laughed and turned to watch the patterns and colours twisting in the ship's wake.
There would be no easy solution for San Felipe.
Maybe that was why Sheaffe needed his 'man of action'.
And it had taken Allday to discover it.
'Hands at quarters, sir, ship cleared for action.'
Keen's voice came out of the gloom and Bolitho could barely distinguish him from the other dark figures at the quarterdeck rail.
The Achates' previous captain and Keen's regular drills had made their mark, he thought. All hands had been roused early and had a hot meal before the galley fire had been doused and the ship prepared for battle.
There was little impression of danger or anxiety, however. It was peacetime, so why should they worry?
Bolitho said, 'That was quietly done.'
He shivered as the cold, damp wind whipped over the deck. In an hour or so the sunlight would raise steam from the planks and melt the tarred seams like toffee. 'Steady on west by north, sir.'
Bolitho nodded. That was Knocker's voice, the sailing-master. At the helm and compass he was king. He was a man who rarely smiled. Thin and gaunt with a priest's face, Bolitho thought. But his chartwork and his grip over the ship's daily progress was as good as any master he had ever known.
Some of the gun crews around the quarterdeck were whispering and nudging each other. Anything which broke the regular routine was welcome. What did it matter if their admiral was mad enough to clear for action because of some stupid stranger?
Another voice said, 'Dawn coming up, sir.'
The lieutenant who had spoken sounded awed by the occasion.
Bolitho turned to look astern and saw the horizon begin to betray the division between sea and sky. How many
