The decks had been washed down soon after dawn, and were already bone-dry in the hot southeasterly. A fair wind, enough to fill the sails, for most of the time at least; Audacity was leaning over to larboard, close-hauled as she lay on the starboard tack.
The sailing master was standing with one of his mates near the compass box, outwardly unconcerned, his jaw still working on a piece of pork left over from breakfast.
Munro smiled, feeling the same excitement, which he knew the motion of the man's jaw did not conceal. A week out of harbour, checking the log, the tide, the compass, using the sextant. All to find one tiny cross on the chart.
He saw the two new midshipmen with a boatswain's mate. More instruction. He watched, trying to remember his own first steps.
In one ear and out the other, had been one summing-up.
The younger of the two, David Napier, seemed quieter than most midshipmen, but even in so short a time he had heard well of him. Keen to learn, and ready to try again if something went wrong. Sponsored by his previous captain, a Bolitho. He had never met him before Antigua, but knew his background almost as well as Audacity'?,. Napier had been 'volunteered' by his mother, who had remarried and gone to America. Not a unique story, but the one behind it would be much more interesting, he thought. A well-known frigate captain and the nephew of England 's hero; it seemed strange that he should care so much.
The second newcomer had been foisted on him by another captain as an obligation to some one important. Probably glad to be rid of him. And yet Munro could not have explained why, unless he openly interfered with the routine of his officers. Again he smiled to himself. And the boatswain!
Midshipman Paul Boyce was thickset, heavily built for seventeen, which was unusual; most young gentlemen were always hungry, but the rigour of their duties pared away any surplus weight.
Munro had heard no adverse reports of his work or behaviour in the months since he had come aboard. He was never late on watch or relieving others for duty. The Atlantic had put gun and arms drill to one side, but all hands had been busy aloft and on deck, setting and trimming sails, splicing: those running repairs which made a sailor's lot.
They carried six midshipmen all told. With the fleet cut to the bone and ships being laid up in every major port, they were lucky to get a berth at all.
He glanced at the sea alongside and saw the topgallants reflected on the gently heaving water, the masthead pendant a tiny stab of colour.
He recalled the flag captain he had met at the conference: the vice-admiral's right arm, and with every chance of a glowing future ahead of him. A face you would not forget. And yet during their brief conversations, he had gained the impression that the envy was on Bolitho's side.
He looked at the main deck again and saw Midshipman Boyce coming aft with a master's mate, probably to do some chart work. He remembered that Boyce had injured his wrist somehow and was ordered to stand clear of general seamanship duties. He frowned, trying to recall the details; he would ask the first lieutenant about it.
'Deck therer
Every face peered up, and a seaman about to take another turn on a halliard shaded his eyes with one arm to look aloft.
Even the sailing master's jaw was motionless.
'Land on th' weather bow! '
There were cheers from the forecastle, and knowing grins from the older hands.
Munro touched the rail. The cross on the chart. All those miles.
In his mind he could see it. The Windward Passage, or soon would be, that fifty-mile channel which separated Haiti from Cuba. Hated and feared by some, with difficult currents and badly recorded soundings.
Tomorrow or the next day they would be near the place where the sloop Lotus had made her capture.
He felt the same chill of excitement. This was now. A perfect landfall.
'Mister Napier, come over here! '
The youth stood facing him. Open shirt, none too clean, his white trousers already touched with paint or tar. Tanned skin, a legacy of other seas, in Bolitho's last command.
The surgeon had told Munro about the scar on Napier's leg.
'A miracle he didn't lose it, sir. I've known many a butcher who would have lopped it off without blinking! '
Another story there, too.
'Sir?'
'Can you go aloft for me?'
'Aye, sir.' His feet were bare and he was rubbing one across the other while he stared at the masthead.
'Tell the lookout there's a tot waiting for him when he comes down.'
Napier hesitated by the nettings. 'They say Haiti is an evil place, sir?'
Munro grinned. 'Don't you listen to all those old women between decks! Away you go! '
Napier gripped the shrouds, testing the unyielding roughness. His hands were still not used to it. He thought he saw the midshipman named Boyce staring at him from the poop. Just for a second, and he was gone.
For now.
Napier began to climb, his gaze fixed on the quivering ratlines. It was something he took for granted, and even in his first race up the shrouds with other youngsters in Unrivalled, he had never been troubled by heights.
All in so short a time. He had known fear, and had endured pain; his wounded leg still troubled him, but he refused to admit it. And he had found the closest thing to having a real home, even love, which he had never believed possible.
In all his fifteen years, this was the first time he had been made to hate.
Audacity's midshipmen's berth was no better and no worse than most ships of her size. Situated on the orlop deck below the water-line, it was devoid of natural light, other than that which filtered through gratings in the deck above.
The smells were many and varied, stale or hoarded food, and from the bilges beneath. It was partitioned by midshipmen's chests and a scrubbed table, while hammocks were slung wherever there was a space.
Napier went down to the berth, the 'cockpit', to change into his seagoing uniform for the remainder of the day. Only then could you be certain of the rank and status of Audacity's complement of two hundred.
He adjusted the solitary lantern and opened his chest. On top of the books and clothing, sewing and stitching gear and his best hat, lay the dirk. He had never quite got over it, or the quiet way Captain Bolitho had given it to him to begin his new life, and to mark his fifteenth birthday.
He gripped it and turned it toward the swaying light. It had all started when he had left the dirk lying on the mess table soon after sailing from Plymouth.
There had been two other midshipmen here that day, quietly superior and aloof toward the new arrivals, although they had all been about the same age; and there had been Paul Boyce.
Like a contest, something he should have ignored or accepted.
Boyce had picked up the dirk and exclaimed, 'Look at this! A fine piece of workmanship, and from Salters in the Strand of London indeed! What lowly midshipman can afford such luxury? He has a generous sponsor, this one. I must learn the secret! '
Napier could remember the sudden flash of anger when he had snatched the dirk from Boyce's grip.
One of the others had snapped, 'No arms in the mess, you should know that! '
Boyce had bowed gravely. 'I do not mean to offend. I merely wondered what was given in return?'
On another occasion when they had been working with a party of seamen, re stowing the boats for the long Atlantic passage, Boyce had tried to trip him. But Napier was quick on his feet, and Boyce had fallen and injured his wrist.
I'll not forget! It had been like that ever since, although Boyce was always careful not to show his hostility in the presence of a lieutenant or warrant officer.
But sooner or later… Napier stiffened as he heard voices. One was Boyce, the other was that of Scully, the young mess boy who helped look after the berth and was always hurrying on one errand or another.
Boyce was working himself up into a rage, which seemed to come without effort.
'What do you call this? I told you I wanted two clean shirts! I can't imagine what hovel you were raised in, but
