Daniel Yovell laid down his pen by its little well and tugged out a handkerchief to mop his brow. It looked soiled and crumpled, but he was an old enough hand to appreciate the value of fresh water, no matter what size the ship.
Ile had heard the familiar slap of feet overhead, the bark of orders, the response of squealing blocks and sun- taut cordage. He had always allowed it to remain a mystery, something outside his own daily life. Even here in the great cabin it was stiflingly hot, the deck barely moving, the shadows angled across the beams and frames, unchanged.
He looked over his spectacles and saw the captain leaning against his table, his hands pressed on a chart, some brass dividers where he had just dropped them.
It was over a week since they had quit Funchal, with a better wind than anyone who was interested had expected.
Yovell picked up the pen once more and was thankful for his freedom to come and go in this part of the ship. And more so for the privilege of sharing it without being compromised.
He watched Adam Bolitho now, one hand moving on the chart, as if it was feeling the way. Testing something. Preparing for some unknown obstacle.
Only here, in his own quarters, did he ever seem to show uncertainty, doubt. Like the day they had left Funchal, after discovering that the Portuguese brigantine which had caught his attention had weighed and slipped out of harbour without anyone seeing her leave.
The water lighters had come out to the ship, and once again Yovell had sensed the captain's mood. Why waste time taking on water when they might be at sea, chasing and running down the mysterious Alhatroz?
But it had been the right decision. Water was like gold dust, and along this invisible coastline it might be weeks before they could obtain fresh supplies.
And the brigantine? Like most of Unrivalled's company, he was beginning to think that she was a need rather than a threat.
It was like being totally abandoned, he thought. Every day the horizon was empty, with not even a cry from the masthead. He watched Adam's hand move again, the dividers marking off some new calculation. Yovell had seen the other side to the captain, despite whatever doubts he might have about the purpose of his mission. He had told the first lieutenant to reduce the time spent aloft by all lookouts. They are my eyes. I want them always to be fresh and alert. And he recalled when Galbraith had come aft to ask about the new hand, Ede, and the possibility of his working with the master's mates, for which he seemed more suited than general seamanship.
Some captains might have told their senior lieutenant to deal with it, and not to distract them from more important duties. Instead, Captain Bolitho had said, 'I read his report. I think it is a sensible idea. Keep me informed.'
As watch followed watch, the daily routine took precedence over everything. Sail and gun drill, boat-handling when Unrivalled had been becalmed under a cloudless sky, before a light northwesterly had taken pity on them. Out of necessity or discipline they were becoming used to one another. Making the best of it.
Despite his inner caution, Yovell often found himself making comparisons. He had seen Sir Richard Bolitho trying to distance himself from the hard reality of punishment. As an admiral he had been spared the tradition and spectacle of a flogging, something which he had seemed unable to accept even after his years of service from midshipman to flag officer. MyAdmiral ofEngland, as he had heard Lady Somervell call him several times. A secret between them, and something very dear to her.
Adam Bolitho could not do that. As captain he had to order the relevant punishment, according to the Articles of War, which held the power of life and death over every man aboard.
The old Jacks made light of it. Getting a checkered shirt at the gangway was their casual dismissal of a flogging, no matter what they thought of the rights and wrongs of the punishment. The hard men like Campbell bared their own scars from the cat with something like pride. Or Jago, the captain's coxswain who had once been unjustly flogged, in defiance, even against the authority he served and upheld.
Adam Bolitho would have been at the quarterdeck rail with his officers while the punishment had been carried out. The beat of a drum, the master-at-arms counting each stroke aloud, the boatswain's mate wielding the lash, probably with little thought for the victim but very aware of his own performance, without fear or favour as Partridge would put it.
Neither of the two men under punishment were new to the naw. After two dozen lashes each they were cut down and hauled below to the sickbay, without uttering a sound.
Curiously, Yovell thought, the midshipman who had been involved in the drunken affray had almost fainted.
A shadow dipped over the desk; the captain was looking down at him.
'A few more days, my friend.' Adam glanced at the skylight. 'No wonder the West African station is so unpopular. For us it is had enough. Imagine how it must be for the antislavery patrols, small vessels for the most part, brigs, schooners, even cutters.' He thought suddenly of James Tyacke, who had served on such patrols. The devil with half a fine, the slavers had called him. Tyacke, who had become his uncle's flag captain in Frobisher. Who had been with hirer. He swung away from the desk, angry for allowing it to pierce his defences.
And Tyacke was back there again. In a frigate, but not as a frigate. Adam had heard one long-serving lieutenant describe the work as fit only for 'the haunted and the damned.'
He heard Napier padding about beyond the screen, shoeless, because he was feeling the heat. Or because he does not want to ojjend me.
He looked at Yovell's round shoulders. Have I been so intolerant, so obsessed? He strode to the stern windows, feeling the deck tilt more steeply. The wind. But when he thrust open one of the windows he felt the air on his face and chest, like the door of an open furnace.
He stared at the blue water, the small ridge of crests breaking towards the ship. Little slivers of silver too, flying fish, so there would be sharks as well. Something else for the new men to get used to. Not many could swim if they fell overboard.
It was like sailing into nowhere. His orders were vague, to be interpreted by the senior officer at Freetown, or by the Crown Agent, as the new appointment was grandly called. Probably a civilian, and conferred as a reward or an escape.
He walked away from the glare and then paused abruptly by the desk again.
'What was that?'
Yovell peered up at him. 'I heard nothing, sir.'
Adam listened to the sounds of rigging and the occasional thud of the great rudder.
He clenched his fists. Sailing into nowhere.
Feet outside, then the marine sentry's call. 'First Lieutenant, sir.'
Galbraith entered, his forehead reddened where his hat had been jammed down to shade his eyes.
'What is it?'
Galbraith glanced at Yovell, as if to share it.
'Masthead, sir. Sail on the larboard bow. Standing away.'
Adam wanted to swallow, to moisten his mouth. He could do neither.
He said, 'Call the hands, Leigh. Get the t'gallants on her. My compliments to Mr Cristie. I'd like him in the chartroom without delay.' He looked at him calmly. 'It could be any vessel.' It was infectious; even Yovell was nodding and beaming.
Galbraith grinned. 'I think not, sir!'
Adam snatched up his notes and strode to the screen door, but stopped and looked aft again, where Yovell remained hunched at the desk in silhouette against the dazzling blue backdrop.
He said simply, 'When next you have the will to pray, my friend, I'd be grateful if you'd speak for me.'
Then he was gone, and for the first time since he could remember, Daniel Yovell was guilty of pride.
Lieutenant George Varlo jumped down from the mizzen shrouds, his shirt blackened with tar. Everyone on watch was busy about his duties, like badly rehearsed players, he thought angrily. Careful to avoid his eyes, and no doubt amused by his stained and dishevelled appearance.
He looked up at the topgallant sails, free and bulging now to the steady northwesterly, such as it was, the seamen already sliding down backstays to the deck while the landmen and novices took a slower but safer route by the ratlines, urged on by threats and yells as one mast vied with the other.
