Ozzard could usually conceal his feelings, but on this occasion he was glad that his friend was so engrossed.
Now, even Captain Tyacke had somebody waiting for him.
He thought of the street in Wapping, and heard her dying screams. There was nothing left.
Lieutenant Harry Penrose gripped the companion ladder, and leaned back to stare at the sky while his schooner, Tire'ess, scythed through a ridge of broken water. It never failed to excite him, like riding something alive, which, of course, she was.
The rectangle of sky was duller than usual, with large patches of cloud moving like an untidy flock of sheep. Against it he could see the towering fin of the schooner's mainsail; that, too, seemed darker. Perhaps it would rain. They were not short of water, but just to hear rain running through the scuppers and wetting the sun-dried planking would make a welcome change.
He continued on his way, and heard the squeak of a fiddle from one of the tiny mess decks She was a small ship, and a happy ship, a command for the young. Penrose was twenty-two years old and knew he was lucky to have Tireless, and would be sad to leave her when the time came; just as he knew he would not shirk his duty when it called him elsewhere. It was his life, all he had ever wanted, and had dreamed about as a child. His father and grandfather had been sea officers before him. He smiled. Like Bolitho. He had thought many times since of that unexpected meeting, when he had delivered despatches to the flagship. What had he anticipated? That the hero, the navy's own legend, might prove to be only another imposing figure in gold lace?
He had written to his mother about it, embroidering the story a little, but the truth was still fixed firmly in his mind. The next time we meet, I shall expect to see epaulettes on your shoulders. The sort of man you could talk to. The kind of leader you would follow to the cannon's mouth.
He felt the wind on his face, damp, clinging, but still enough to fill the schooner's sails.
Tireless's only other officer, Lieutenant Jack Tyler, waved vaguely toward the bows.
'Masthead just reported a sail to the sou'east, sir.'
Penrose glanced at the sea creaming back from the raked stem.
'I heard the hail. Who is the lookout?'
'Thomas.'
'Good enough for me, Jack.'
They worked watch and watch, with a master's mate standing in when it was convenient. You got to know the ability and strength of every man aboard, and any weakness too.
Tyler said, 'He thinks it's a frigate, but the light's so bad, we may have to wait until tomorrow.'
Penrose rubbed his chin. 'First light? Another day lost. She must be Huntress, our last rendezvous.' He thought of the solitary bag in his cabin and added wryly, 'Important, no doubt. Officers' tailoring bills, tearful letters for the mothers' boys, all vital stuff!'
They laughed, more like brothers than captain and first lieutenant.
They both looked up as the masthead pendant cracked out like a coachman's whip, and Penrose said, 'I think we might do it before dark, Jack. When she sights us she's bound to claw up as quickly as she can. They must be sick of being the last of the patrols, a guard ship of nothing!'
He made up his mind. 'All hands, Jack! Let's get the tops' is on her!' He could not contain his excitement. 'Let's show those old men how she can shift herself!'
Only one pipe was necessary; the fiddle fell silent, and the schooner's narrow deck was soon filled with bustling figures.
Tireless did not have a wheel like most vessels, but still mounted a long tiller-bar fixed directly to the rudder head. The helmsmen gripped it between them, glancing at the mainsail and masthead pendant, with only an occasional scrutiny of the compass. For a moment longer all was confusion, or so it might appear to the ignorant landsman, and then, heeling to the thrust of canvas and rudder. Tireless settled on her new course, spray bursting over her jib and spurting through the sealed gun ports, where her sole armament of four four- pounders tugged at their breechings.
'Sou'east, steady she goes, sir!' Even the senior helmsman was grinning, his sunburned face wet with spray, as if it had indeed started to pour.
The lookout called again, 'Frigate, sir! Larboard bow! Huntress right 'nough!'
Penrose nodded. Thomas would know; he had eyes like a heron. And they had met with Huntress more than a few times on her endless patrols. Penrose thought of her captain. Older than most frigate men, with experience in other ships, and probably in merchantmen too, he was friendly enough, but one who stood no nonsense. Penrose had noticed that he never received anything but official letters with the despatches.
He lifted a telescope and waited for the image to settle in the lens, and at the same time accustomed his legs to the schooner's lively plunges. The habit and the motion had become part of himself.
Even in the dull light he could see the familiar outline, the shining black and buff hull, the cheque red line of closed gun ports. A fifth-rate, not new, but a fine command. He smiled to himself. For a younger man, of course.
He saw her ensign curling from the peak, so clean and white against the dull backdrop. Ant-like figures in her tops, some watching, hoping for a letter to bring back the precious memories, a face, a touch.
Tyler said, 'The bugger's not changing tack! Making us do all the work!'
Penrose grinned. The light was holding. They would pass the bag across and be away before dark, back to Malta. And after that? Not that it truly mattered… Tyler was speaking to the master's mate. 'We'll overreach him at this pace, Ned.' He looked at Penrose. 'We shall have to come about, sir!'
'I know. Take in the mains'll' He moved the glass again as a tiny patch of colour appeared at the frigate's yard.
'She's made her number, sir!'
Tyler was yelling to his men, and the air was alive with banging canvas and the squeal of blocks.
Penrose did not move. He could not.
He shouted, 'Belay that order!' He did not recognise his own voice, hard and desperate.
He ran up the slippery planking and stared at the compass. 'Let her fall off, steer due south! She can take it!'
He seized the lieutenant's arm and saw him staring at him like a stranger.
'Why should he make his number to us, for God's sake?'
'Look, sir!' The seaman was almost incoherent. 'Christ Almighty!'
The telescope in Penrose's wet fingers felt like ice. He had just seen it. A moment later when they would have been wallowing round on to a new tack, they would have been close enough to hear it: the sound of trucks, even as the line of ports opened along the frigate's side to reveal the guns, and the men who had been crouching there, prepared to fire them.
The great sails filled again, and the taut rigging rattled and hummed in protest. But nothing carried away.
Penrose watched the other ship, his mind as cold as the glass in his hands; everything was clear. Huntress had been taken, and within minutes it would have been too late. Someone had tried to warn them, in the only way a seaman would know and recognise.
He felt a muscle jerk in his throat as smoke billowed from the frigate's side to blow instantly inboard again, so that the long tongues of fire looked solid, like furnace bars.
He heard voices crying out as iron crashed across the schooner's deck, and a length of the larboard bulwark was shivered to fragments. Men had fallen, how badly injured Penrose could not tell. But the masts were still standing, and the sails as hard as steel. Only a topsail had been punctured by a shot fired too soon, the wind tearing the canvas to ribbons like a giant ripping paper.
He levelled the glass again, shutting his mind to the pitiful cries, and to the fear which would follow if he allowed it.
The Huntress was changing tack; no wonder she had left it so late. Even in the spray and fading light, he could see the battering she had taken on her opposite side. They had not surrendered without a fight, although that was little enough, for what they had given in exchange.
He swung round and saw the master's mate tying the lieutenant's wrist with his neckerchief.
He strode to his friend, and steadied him. 'Hold on. Jack.' He did not blink as another ragged broadside exploded somewhere. As if it were happening in a dream, and to somebody else.
