Bankart took a quick swallow and almost choked.
Allday said, 'That's the real stuff, not the muck that the pusser hands out! Most o' the others are scared too.' Allday let the rum float across his tongue and smiled as he recalled when Bolitho had drunk some in his despair and his relief. 'You must learn not to show it.' He shook his wrist gently. 'That takes real courage, believe me, matey.'
'It's different for you, I 'spect.' Bankart took a wary swallow.
'Maybe it is. Our Dick has taken good care o' me. He's a fine man. A friend. Not many can say that, an' I'd lay down me life for him, make no mistake on it!'
Bankart made to get up, his hair brushing a massive deck-head beam. 'I just wanted to tell you, I-'
Allday pulled him down again. ' 'Old still! I knew anyway, or most of it. I was the one who was wrong, I knows that now.' He took another full measure of rum. 'You don't belong in a King's ship. It took courage to volunteer, I can tell you that! They 'ad to press me!' He shook with silent laughter until the pain of his wound stopped him. 'No, a job ashore, with a good 'ome, an' I'll make proper certain you gets one. Until then, do what I tells you and keep out of trouble, see?' There were more voices and he guessed the sailmaker and one of his cronies were coming aft. 'We'll talk again, an' soon, right?'
Bankart looked at him, his eyes shining. 'Thanks, er-'
Allday grinned. 'Call me John if it's easier. But call me Cox'n when there's others about, or I'll tan your hide for you, an' that's no error, son!'
Bankart hesitated, unwilling to break the contact. He said quietly, 'I-I think I might be killed. I wouldn't want to let you down. I've seen the man you are, 'eard what they all say about you. I never bin proud of anyone afore.'
Allday did not even hear the door close. He sat staring at the unfinished model, at a complete loss.
The sailmaker banged into the berth with his friend and asked, 'All right, 'swain? Good-lookin' lad that one.'
Allday looked down. 'Aye. He's my son.'
15. FATE
BOLITHO walked up the sloping quarterdeck and allowed the wet wind to drive all tiredness aside. It was early morning, and around and above him the ship's company prepared for another weary day.
There had been some overnight rain, but Bolitho walked back and forth too far from any handhold if he should slip on the wet planking. It was a struggle but he was slowly regaining his confidence and blamed his earlier despair on self-pity and worse.
He heard Keen speaking with the first lieutenant and knew from the tone in his voice that they were discussing the punishment to be awarded to three seamen during the forenoon.
It was the same throughout the squadron. After Helicon's departure there had been several outbreaks of disorder. Threats or actual violence used against petty officers or each other, with the usual aftermath of floggings. The flagship was no exception; even Keen's humanity had failed to prevent the latest flare-up of tempers, and the harsh justice which would follow.
Bolitho pictured his ships, each living her own life, controlled and led by her individual captain.
An admiral, even a junior one, was not supposed to concern himself with such abstract matters, Bolitho thought. He also knew that a ship was only as strong as her people.
When full daylight found them again his ships would be sailing in line abeam, Argonaute in the centre position. Barracouta, still in her rough disguise, was somewhere astern, ready to rush down from windward to wherever a signal dictated. Rapid, completely alone, was far ahead, tacking back and forth in the hope of finding a fishing boat or some trader who might have some valuable information for them.
They had sighted several such craft but had managed to catch only three. One of the ones which had eluded Rapid's chase until she had been recalled to her station had been a fast schooner. It was customary for any merchantman to fly from a man-of-war, the flag did not matter. But out here any stranger might be an enemy, worse, a spy who would carry news of their strength and movements to Jobert.
It could not last. Bolitho knew it; so probably did his officers. He would have to admit failure and send the brig to seek out Nelson and tell him what had happened. It seemed likely that Nelson would scatter Bolitho's ships amongst his own fleet and wait for the French to fight their way out of Toulon. Jobert would not be considered. Bolitho guessed that the admiral in Malta, maybe even Herrick, imagined that Jobert had become like a crude joke or a figment of Bolitho's imagination.
It was the fourth day since they had parted company with Inch's ship. At any other time it would have been good sailing weather, with a favourable wind and fair visibility for the masthead lookouts along Bolitho's line of ships.
Keen crossed the deck and touched his hat. 'Any special orders today, Sir Richard?' His formality was for the benefit of the helmsmen and master's mate nearby. He sounded strained, or was he critical of his superior's actions and their results?
Bolitho shook his head. 'We will continue the search. The French may have left us alone, but I doubt it.'
Together they watched the ship taking shape around them, the sails and rigging picking up the sun's colour. Abeam, Despatch rolled her bilge into a deep swell, so that her shining hull and lower gunports shone like fragments of glass.
Bolitho looked up at the mainmast, at the lookout's tiny figure.
He said, 'Change the lookouts every hour, Val. I want no tired eyes today.'
Keen glanced at him curiously. 'Today, sir?'
Bolitho shrugged. He had not realized what he had said. Had he meant that he would need to break off the search and admit failure? Or was that same, chilling instinct offering him a warning?
'I feel uneasy, Val.' He thought of breakfast, and the fact he had been pacing the deck for most of the night. To regain his confidence, or was it because he had already lost it completely? 'Tell me if you sight anything.' He strode aft to his quarters where Ozzard and Yovell were waiting for him as usual.
Bolitho sat at the table and watched while Ozzard prepared his breakfast and poured some coffee. He felt in need of a wash from head to toe, and his shirt was crumpled and stale. But, as he had explained to Keen, as the water ration was cut, and if need be would be cut again, it had to be for everyone. Except for Inch, that was. It was painful to see him, sometimes delirious and on other occasions dulled into a state of collapse.
The amputation was still holding well, according to Tuson. But Inch needed to be ashore, in a hospital with those who could give him proper care. Bolitho knew from bitter experience that each shout from the upper deck, every change of wind and rudder, would stir even a dying sailor with old anxieties. Especially a captain.
Ozzard said, 'Just as you like it, sir.' He laid a pewter plate on the table. 'Last of the Maltese bread, I'm afraid, sir.'
Bolitho looked at the thinly sliced pork, fried pale brown in biscuit crumbs. The bread would be like iron, but Ozzard had managed to stop it going mouldy; anyway the black treacle which Bolitho enjoyed would deaden the taste.
He thought of the breakfasts at Falmouth, of Belinda sitting and watching his pleasure. Like a schoolboy, she had said. What would she make of this, he wondered? And down in the messes it was a hundred times worse.
He looked at the open skylight as voices drifted aft from the quarterdeck. Then feet pounded along the passageway and he saw Keen coming into the cabin.
'I beg your pardon for disturbing you, sir.'
Bolitho put down his knife. It was not like Keen to leave the deck in a crisis.
'Rapid is in sight. She has news, sir.'
Bolitho thrust the plate aside and then spread the uninspiring bread with a thick coating of treacle. 'Tell me.'
'She sighted a ship and boarded it. More I cannot say, but Rapid is certainly making all efforts to close with us.'
Bolitho stood up, his mind busy. 'Make more sail and tell our ships to do the same.' With a physical effort he sat down again and bit into the treacled bread. 'I want to speak with Quarrell as soon as we are hove-to.'
