To Glory We Steer (19 page)

“Then I will trouble you to keep your opinions to yourself, Mr Herrick!” The deepset eyes were flecked with anger. “You may have considered yourself one of his favourites, but I will have no such behaviour now.”

He turned away from Herrick's taut features as Quintal, the boatswain, touched his hat and rumbled, “All present, sir.”

Vibart strode to the quarterdeck rail and stared down at the upturned faces. Herrick stayed by the helmsmen watching Vibart closely.

Vibart said. “We are back on our patrol. We will shortly make contact with the admiral, and I will in due course tell him of our great success!”

Herrick felt himself tremble with anger. So it was a great success now, was it? When Bolitho was alive it had been foolhardy and dangerous, but now that Vibart stood to reap the full credit for it, it was already a different picture.

“I am not satisfied with the recent slackness of discipline aboard, and I intend that this ship will return to a proper state of efficiency as of now!”

Vibart was staring round the assembled crew, his face flushed. Herrick felt sick. He is enjoying it, he thought. He is actually glad Bolitho is dead!

Herrick turned as Okes stepped through the cabin hatch and walked uncertainly towards him. Herrick took his sleeve and whispered fiercely, “What did you tell Vibart, Matthew? For God's sake, what is the matter with you?”

Okes drew back. “I told him nothing but the truth! Am I to be blamed for Bolitho's misfortunes?”

“And what of young Farquhar? Did you
see
him die?”

Okes looked away. “Of course I did. What the devil are you trying to imply?” But there was a shake in his voice, and Herrick was suddenly reminded of Okes's behaviour during the battle with the privateer. His fear, his complete terror. A man could not change overnight.

“I want to know, Matthew. You had better tell me now.”

Okes seemed to have recovered himself, and when he looked at Herrick his eyes were opaque and expressionless. “I told the truth, damn you!” He tried to smile. “But you should not worry too much. You'll be moving up to second lieutenant!”

Herrick stepped back and looked at him with disgust. “And
you
will be first, no doubt! And both you and Vibart will be the heroes of the day!”

Okes's face drained of colour. “How dare you! You were not there, so it is easy to be jealous and insulting! Bolitho was
only
a man!”

“And
you
are not fit to polish his shoes!” Herrick swung round as Vibart stepped between them.

“I will have no quarrelling aboard my ship, Mr Herrick. Any more of it and I will make an entry in the log!” He looked hard at Okes. “Come to the cabin. I have a few things to say to you.”

Herrick watched them go, sickened and helpless.

Little Neale asked quietly, “What does it all mean, sir?”

Herrick looked down at him, his face grave. “It means that we must watch our step in the weeks ahead, my boy. With the captain gone I feel no security here.”

He stiffened as he saw Evans, the purser, hurrying aft, an aggrieved expression on his ferret face. Behind him Thain, the master-at-arms, ushered two frightened-looking seamen, his face leaving Herrick in no doubt as to what would happen next. Floggings, and more floggings. All the old scores kept hidden while Bolitho had been in command would break into the open like festering sores.

He faced Evans and said sharply, “Well? What is it now?”

Evans smiled nervously. “Caught these men red-handed! Stealing rum they were!”

Herrick's heart sank and he called the men forward. “Is that right?” He realised that both seamen had taken part in the raiding party.

One of the men said sullenly, “Aye, sir. The rum was for one of our mates. 'E was wounded. We reckoned it would 'elp 'im.” His companion nodded in agreement.

Herrick took Evans aside. “It could be true.”

“Of course it is true!” Evans stared at him in amazement. “But that is hardly the point! Stealing is stealing. There is no excuse, and you know it.” He eyed Herrick with little disguised glee. “So you had better inform Mr Vibart.” He drew himself up importantly. “Or I will, Mr Herrick!”

“Don't you get stroppy with me, Evans!” Herrick's face was a mask of fury. “Or I'll have you broken, believe me!” But it was only anger. There was nothing else he could do but inform Vibart.

He handed over the watch to Neale and went wearily below. The sentry opened the cabin door for him before he had reached it, and Herrick guessed that the marine had correctly foreseen his surprise. Vibart had moved into Bolitho's quarters already. It only added to Herrick's sense of nightmarish unreality.

Vibart looked up from the desk and stared at him.

“Two men for punishment.” Herrick saw Okes leaning against the stern windows, his face lost in thought.

Vibart leaned back in the chair. “Say ‘sir' when you address me, Mr Herrick.” He frowned. “I can't imagine why you make such a point of worsening your position.” He continued coldly, “Make a report in the log, Mr Herrick. Punishment at eight bells tomorrow morning. Two dozen lashes apiece.”

Herrick swallowed. “But I have not told you their offence yet, sir!”

“No need.” Vibart gestured towards the open skylight. “I happened to overhear your nonsensical conversation with Mr Evans just now. And I must warn you I do not approve of your apparent wish to toady with men who lie and steal!”

Herrick felt the cabin closing in around him. “Is that all?” He swallowed again.
“Sir?”

“For the present.” Vibart looked almost relaxed. “We will alter course to the south'ard in one hour. Try and make sure that the men do not slacken off during your watch.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Herrick contracted his stomach muscles into a tight knot.

Outside the cabin he turned momentarily and looked back. The door was shut again and the marine sentry stared blankly in front of him beneath the swinging lantern. It was just as if Pomfret had returned and now sat back there in the big cabin. Herrick shook his head and mounted the ladder to the quarterdeck. It was all moving so much to a pattern again that he found himself wondering if Pomfret
had
been the controlling influence which had made the
Phalarope
into a living hell!

When he returned to the deck he saw that the sun had already moved closer to the horizon. The sea was empty, a great desert of silver and purple hues, with an horizon like a knife edge.

Out here a ship's captain was God indeed, he thought bitterly. Only under Bolitho had he felt the meaning of purpose and understanding, and after Pomfret it had seemed like a new chance of life.

He looked aft to the taffrail as if expecting to see Bolitho's tall shape watching the trim of the sails or just waiting for the sun to reach the horizon. Herrick had never disturbed Bolitho at those moments, but had drawn on each occasion to better his own understanding of the man. In his mind's eye he could still see the strong profile, the firm mouth which could be amused and sad almost at the same instant. It did not seem possible that such a man could be wiped out like something from a slate.

He resumed his slow pacing, his chin low on his chest. In this world, he thought, you could never depend on anything.

To the tired men in the longboat the night seemed cold and cheerless, and even those who had cursed the blazing sunlight and bemoaned their urgent thirst found no comfort from the darkness.

Bolitho groped his way aft to where Farquhar was sitting beside the tiller. With Stockdale's assistance he had just dropped a dead seaman over the side while the other men had watched in silence. The sailor in question had been spared the worst of his wound and the suffering of pain and thirst by remaining almost unconscious from the moment he had been shot down by the sloop's deck watch. The longboat was moving so slowly under her small sail that it seemed to take an age for the corpse to bob astern. There was not even an anchor to weight the man's body. In fact there was not much of anything. Just a cask of rancid water and little more than a day's ration of a cup per man.

Bolitho sank into the sternsheets and stared up at the glittering ceiling of stars. “Keep her due south if you can.” He felt dry and aching with fatigue. “I wish we could get a bit more wind in this wretched sail.”

Farquhar said, “I think the boat would sink, sir! It feels rotten and worm-eaten!”

Bolitho eased his legs and thought back over the long, slow passage of time. If that was only the first day, he pondered, what would happen in the next? And the next after that?

The men were quiet enough, but that too could be dangerous. The first relief at escaping from the French could soon give way to mistrust and recriminations. The misery of being a prisoner of war might soon appear comfort itself compared with a living death without food or water.

Farquhar said absently, “In Hampshire there will be snow on the hills now, I expect. All the sheep will be brought down to their feed, and the farm workers will be drinking good ale by their fire-sides.” He licked his lips. “A few will be thinking of us maybe.”

Bolitho nodded, feeling his eyelids droop. “A few.” He thought of his father in the big house and the row of watchful portraits. After this there would be no heir to carry on the family's name, he thought dully. Maybe some rich merchant would buy the house when his father died, and would find time to wonder at the portraits and the other relics of deeds and men soon forgotten. He said, “I am going to try and sleep for an hour. Call me if you need anything.”

He closed his eyes and did not even hear Farquhar's reply.

Then he was aware of his arm being tugged and of the boat swaying and rolling as the listless seamen came to life and crowded excitedly in the bows. For a moment longer he imagined that he was dreaming. Then he heard Farquhar shout, “Look, sir! She came to look for us after all!”

Bolitho staggered to his feet, his sore eyes probing over the heads of his men as he tried to pierce the darkness. Then he saw it. It was more an absence of familiar stars than an actual outline, but as he stared he began to see the contours of something darker and sharper. A ship.

He snapped, “Make a light, Stockdale! Fire some of those rags!”

The sliver of moon struck silver from the distant sails, and against the night's dark blackcloth Bolitho could see the darker tracery of raked masts and rigging. It was a frigate right enough.

The makeshift flare sizzled and then burst into flames, so that once more the eyes were blinded and limited to the small confines of the boat. Some men were cheering, others merely hugged each other and grinned like children.

“Now we shall get an answer to the mystery, Mr Farquhar.” Bolitho pushed the tiller over as the ship changed shape and moved silently above them. He could hear the creak of yards, the sudden flurry of canvas as the frigate started to back her sails and heave-to. He thought he heard a distant hail and the sound of running feet.

He said, “Lower the sail, Stockdale! You men forrard, get ready to catch a line!” But nobody needed any encouragement from him.

The bowsprit swung dizzily barely feet away, and as Stockdale lit another crude flare Bolitho felt the grip of ice around his heart. The frigate's figurehead danced and flickered in the light as if it was alive. A gilt-painted demon wielding a pair of furnace irons like weapons of war.

Stockdale threw the flare into the water and turned to stare at Bolitho. “Did you see, sir? Did you
see?
”

Bolitho let his arm go limp. “Yes, Stockdale. It is the
Andiron!
”

The cheers and jubilation in the longboat died as suddenly as the flare, and the men stood or sat like stricken beings as lanterns shone down from the frigate's deck and a grapnel bit into the boat's gunwale.

His men stood aside to let Bolitho pass as he made his way to the bows and reached out for the dangling ladder which had suddenly appeared. He was still too fatigued and too stunned by the change of events to mark a clear sequence of what was happening. His mind would only record brief, unreal images, magnified and distorted by patches of light from the circle of lanterns. Glittering bayonets, and pressing, curious faces.

As he stepped into the lamplight he heard a mixture of gasps and comments. An Irish voice called, “It's an English officer!” Another with a twangy colonial accent broke in. “Hell it is! It's a
captain!
”

One by one the
Phalarope
's men climbed up the side and were pushed into line against the ship's gangway. An officer in a dark coat and cocked hat pushed through the packed crowd and regarded Bolitho with amusement.

“Welcome aboard, Cap'n! A real pleasure!” He turned and shouted, “Put the men under guard and drop a round shot through that coffin of a boat!” To a massive Negro he added, “Separate any officers amongst them and take 'em aft!” Then to Bolitho he made a mock bow. “Now if you will come with me, I am sure the captain will be glad to make your acquaintance.”