Bolitho nodded to the assembled officers, seeing their expressions of curiosity, of hope perhaps. They depended on him for the future; to them, he was their future, for better or worse.
'I shall go aft directly, Val. I know you are eager to weigh anchor.' He broke off and stared at a group of men who were being mustered by one of the lieutenants. 'That man, Val-'
'Aye, sir. New hands. But the one you're looking at is the selfsame William Owen, Golden Plover's lookout on that unfortunate day.'
Bolitho said, 'Put him ashore. He has a protection. And after what he did-'
But for his respect Keen would have laughed. 'He volunteered, sir. 'Thought we should keep together,' were his words.' He watched Bolitho's unmasked surprise. You don't understand, do you? Not even now. Perhaps you never will.
He led the way aft, knowing that Bolitho was probably recalling the court martial, that bitter memory.
Inside the great cabin Ozzard and Jenour were waiting. Bolitho looked around. Her wine cabinet and cooler was already in position. It had been removed from the ship when he had been reported killed.
Ozzard said apologetically, 'We've not got everything stowed yet, Sir Richard, but I've fresh coffee ready.' He glanced around, proud of what he had managed to achieve in so short a time. Bolitho noticed that he showed no regrets about leaving. After the shipwreck he could have been forgiven for remaining on hard, dry land.
There was an open chest on the black and white checkered deck, and inside he saw some neatly parcelled books. They were new, bound in fine green leather and beautifully tooled in gilt so delicate it might have been finished with a gold pen.
'What are these?'
Ozzard wound his hands into his apron. 'From her ladyship, Sir Richard. Came out in the guard-boat.'
Keen saw his face and said quickly, 'Come with me, Stephen.' To Ozzard he added, 'You may bring Sir Richard some coffee.'
The doors closed and Bolitho heard the sentry put down his musket.
He got down on his knees and studied the collection: all the plays he had lost when Golden Plover had gone down. He took out one volume which lay apart from the rest. Shakespeare's collected sonnets, the printing of which was very clear, obviously chosen with great care to ensure that he could read them easily.
He felt his heart lurch as he saw a ribbon marker closed between the pages: swiftly he opened the book and held it where it would catch the best light on this grey day.
It was her own message, to comfort him when the thought of ageing and separation sought to depress him.
It is the star to every wandering barque,
Whose worth's unknown, altho' his height be taken.
Then he seemed to find her reassurance.
Love's not time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks…
He got up, oblivious to the shouted commands from the deck, the squeal of tackles, the shiver of the capstan through every timber.
He went to the stern windows and hoisted one open, his face and chest instantly drenched in rain and spray.
Just once, he called her name, and across the tumbling water he heard her cry.
Don't leave me.
14. BAD BLOOD
OZZARD waited for the deck to sway upright again before refilling his vice-admiral's cup with fresh coffee.
It was the afternoon of the sixth day since leaving Spithead, and it seemed as if every contested mile of their passage so far had been dogged by foul weather and the inevitable stream of accidents. Captain Keen had been forced to up-anchor with the ship's complement still fifty short, and with so many unskilled landmen aboard it was no wonder there had been injuries, and worse.
One man had vanished during a shrieking gale in the middle of the night, his cries unheard as he was swept over the side by a great white-bearded wave. Others had suffered cracked bones and torn hands, so that Coutts, the surgeon, had pleaded personally with Keen to reduce sail and ride out each storm under reefed canvas.
But day by day, bad weather or not, the drills continued, one mast racing the other to make or shorten sail, the rigging of safety nets over the upper gun deck to become used to doing it even in pitch darkness if required, so that the crews of the thirty-eight 12-pounders would not be crushed by falling spars and rigging should they be called to action.
Deck by deck, from the massive carronades in the bows to the middle and lower gun deck where the main armament of powerful thirty-two-pounders, or 'long nines' as they were nicknamed, the men lived behind sealed ports as great seas boiled along the weather side, and flung solid sheets of water high up over the nettings.
Keen had shown his faith in his warrant officers and those specialists who were the backbone of any ship, and had been quick to display his confidence in them over matters of discipline. With a company so mixed, and with many completely inexperienced, tempers frayed and fists flew on several occasions. It led inevitably to the harsh and degrading spectacle of punishment, the lash laying a man's back in cruel stripes while the rain spread the blood around the gratings, and the marine drummer boys beat out the time between each stroke.
Bolitho, more than any other, knew how Keen hated the use of flogging. But discipline had to be upheld, especially in a ship sailing alone, and each day standing deeper and deeper into the Atlantic.
Keen was equally unbending with his lieutenants and midshipmen. The former he would take aside and speak to in his quiet, contained fashion. If the officer was foolish enough to ignore his advice, the second interview was of a very different nature. James Cross, the sixth lieutenant who had accompanied the barge to ferry Bolitho from Portsmouth Point, was a case in point. He seemed eager enough, but at most duties he had displayed an incompetence which made even the most hardened petty officer groan.
Allday had been heard to comment, 'He'll be the death of someone afore long. Should've been strangled at birth!'
The midshipmen, for the most part, came from established naval families. To sail in the flagship under an officer so renowned, or notorious as some insisted, was a chance of advancement and promotion which could not be overlooked. It was strange that after so many years, victories and setbacks, bloody battles and the demanding rigours of blockade duty, there were many who still believed that the war would soon be over, especially now that English soldiers stood on enemy soil. For young officers hoping for a rewarding life in the King's service, it might be a last chance of making a name for themselves before their lordships cut the fleet to the bone, and cast their sailors, from poop to forecastle, on the beach: such was a nation's gratitude.
Ozzard opened the screen door and Keen stepped into the cabin, his cheeks glowing from the sharp northerly wind.
'Coffee, Val?'
Keen sat down, but his head was still tilted as if he was listening to the activity on the upper deck.
Then he took the coffee and sipped it gratefully. Bolitho watched him, thinking of Joseph Browne's old shop in St James's, to which Catherine had taken him during their visits to London, and where she must have arranged for all the fine coffee, cheeses and wine to be sent to the ship. Close by had been another shop, Lock's the hatters. Bolitho had been reluctant for her to indulge in what he had believed extravagance when she had wanted to buy him a new gold-laced hat, to replace the one he had tossed to Julyan the sailing-master when they had sailed to meet the great San Mateo. She had insisted, reminding him, 'Your hero purchased his hats here. Did he, I wonder, deprive his Emma of the pleasure of paying?'
Bolitho smiled at the memory. So many things found and enjoyed in that other London, which he had never known until she had shown him.
Keen said absently, 'The master says we have logged some 860 miles, give or take. If the wind eases I'll get more canvas on her. I am heartily sick of this!'
