To Glory We Steer (7 page)

Another voice cut through the shadows. “Stand aside!” Midshipman Farquhar had to stoop beneath the low beams, but his eyes were steady and bright as they settled on the frozen tableau around the end table. Farquhar's approach had been so stealthy and quiet that not even the men at the opposite end of the deck had noticed him. He snapped, “I am waiting. What is going on here?”

Evans thrust the nearest men aside and threw himself to Farquhar's side. With his hand shaking in both fear and fury he pointed at Betts. “He struck me!
Me,
a warrant officer!”

Farquhar was expressionless. His tight lips and cold stare might have meant either amusement or anger. “Very well, Mr Evans. Kindly lay aft for the master-at-arms.”

As the purser scurried away Farquhar looked round the circle of faces with open contempt. “You never seem to learn, do you?” He turned to Betts, who still stood staring at the meat, his chest heaving as if from tremendous exertion. “You are a fool, Betts! Now you will pay for it!”

Allday pressed his shoulders against the frigate's cold, wet timbers and closed his eyes. It was all happening just as he knew it would. He listened to Betts's uneven breathing and Ferguson's quiet whimpers and felt sick. He thought suddenly of the quiet hillsides and the grey bunches of sheep. The space and the solitude.

Then Farquhar barked, “Take him away, Mr Thain.”

The master-at-arms pushed Betts towards the hatch ladder adding softly, “Not a single flogging since we left Falmouth. I knew such gentleness was a bad mistake!”

Richard Bolitho leaned his palms on the sill of one of the big stern windows and stared out along the ship's frothing wake. Although the cabin itself was already in semi-darkness as the frigate followed the sun towards the horizon, the sea still looked alive, with only a hint of purple as a warning of the approaching night.

Reflected in the salt-speckled glass he could see Vibart's tall shape in the centre of the cabin, his face shadowed beneath the corkscrewing lantern, and behind him against the screen the slim figure of Midshipman Farquhar.

It took most of his self-control to keep himself immobile and calm as he considered what Farquhar had burst in to tell him. Bolitho had been going through the ship's books again trying to draw out Vibart's wooden reserve, to feel his way into the man's mind.

Like everything else during the past twenty days, it had been a hard and seemingly fruitless task. Vibart was too careful to show his hostility in the open and confined himself to short, empty answers, as if he hoarded his knowledge of the ship and her company like a personal possession.

Then Farquhar had entered the cabin with this story of Betts's assault on the purser. It was just one more thing to distract his thoughts from what lay head, from the real task of working the frigate into a single fighting unit.

He made himself turn and face the two officers.

“Sentry! Pass the word for Mr Evans!” He heard the cry passed along the passageway and then added, “It seems to me as if this seaman was provoked.”

Vibart swayed with the ship, his eyes fixed on a point above the captain's shoulder. He said quickly, “Betts is no recruit, sir. He knew what he was doing!”

Bolitho turned to watch the open, empty sea. If only this had not happened just yet, he thought bitterly. A few more days and the damp, wind-buffeted ship would be in the sun, where men soon learned to forget their surroundings and started to look outboard instead of watching each other.

He listened to the hiss and gurgle of water around the rudder, the distant clank of pumps as the duty watch dealt with the inevitable seepage into the bilges. He felt tired and strained to the limit. From the moment the
Phalarope
had weighed anchor he had not spared himself or his efforts to maintain his hold over the ship. He had made a point of speaking to most of the new men, and of establishing contact with the regular crew. He had watched his officers, and had driven the ship to her utmost. It should have been a proud moment for him. The frigate handled well, lively and ready to respond to helm and sail like a thoroughbred.

Most of the new men had been sorted into their most suitable stations, and the sail drill had advanced beyond even his expectations. At the first suitable moment he intended to exercise the guns' crews, but up to this time he had been prevented from much more than allocations of hands to the various divisions by the unceasing wind.

Now this, he fumed inwardly. No wonder the admiral had asked him to watch young Farquhar's behaviour.

There was a tap at the door and Evans stepped gingerly into the cabin, his eyes flickering like beads in the lamplight.

Bolitho gestured impatiently. “Now then, Mr Evans. Let me have the full story.”

He turned to stare at the water again as Evans launched into his account. To start with he seemed nervous, even frightened, but when Bolitho allowed him to continue without interruption or comment his voice grew sharper and more outraged.

Bolitho said at length, “The meat that Betts threw at you. What cask did it come from?”

Evans was caught off guard. “Number twelve, sir. I saw it stowed myself.” He added in a wheedling tone. “I do my best, sir. They are ungrateful dogs for the most part!”

Bolitho turned and tapped the papers on his table. “I checked the stowage myself, too, Mr Evans. Two days ago when the hands were at drill!” He saw a flicker of alarm show itself on Evans's dark face and knew that his lie had gone home. A feeling of sudden anger swept through him like fire. All the things he had told his officers had been for nothing. Even the near-mutiny seemed to have made no impression on the minds of men like Evans and Farquhar.

He snapped, “That cask was in the low stowage, was it not? And how many others were down there, do you think?”

Evans peered nervously around the cabin. “Five or six, sir. They were some of the original stores which I . . .”

Bolitho slammed his fist on the table. “You make me sick, Evans! That cask and those others you have suddenly remembered were probably stowed two years ago before you began the Brest blockade! They most likely leak, and in any case are quite rotten!”

Evans looked at his feet. “I—I did not know, sir.”

Bolitho said harshly, “If I could prove otherwise, Mr Evans, I would have you stripped of your rank and flogged!”

Vibart stirred into life. “I must protest, sir! Mr Evans was acting as he thought fit! Betts struck him. There is no way of avoiding that fact.”

“So it appears, Mr Vibart.” Bolitho stared at him coldly until the other man looked away. “I will certainly back my officers in their efforts to carry out my orders. But senseless punishment at this time will do more harm than good.” He felt suddenly too tired to think clearly, but Vibart's anger seemed to drive him on. “In another two weeks or so we will join the fleet under Sir Samuel Hood, and then there will be more than enough to keep us all occupied.”

He continued more calmly, “Until then, each and every one of you will translate my standing orders into daily fact. Give the men your leadership and try to understand them. No good will ever come of useless brutality. If a man still persists in disobedience, then flogged he will be. But in this particular case I would suggest a more lenient experiment.” He saw Vibart's lower lip quivering with barely controlled anger. “Betts can be awarded extra duties for seven days. The sooner the matter is forgotten, the sooner we can mend the damage!” He gestured briefly, “Carry on with your watch, Mr Farquhar.”

As Evans turned to follow the midshipman Bolitho added flatly, “Oh, Mr Evans, I see no reason for me to mention your neglect in the log.” He saw Evans watching him half gratefully, half fearfully. He finished, “Provided I can show that you purchased the meat for your own purposes, your own mess perhaps?”

Evans blinked at Vibart and then back to Bolitho's impassive face. “Purchase, sir? Me, sir?”

“Yes, Evans,
you!
You can make the payment to my clerk in the forenoon tomorrow. That is all.”

Vibart picked up his hat and waited until the door had closed behind the other man. “Do you require me any more, sir?”

“I just want to tell you one thing more, Mr Vibart. I have taken fully into consideration that you were under considerable strain during your duty with Captain Pomfret. Maybe some of the things you had to do were not to your liking.” He waited, but Vibart stared woodenly across his shoulder. “I am not interested in the past, except as a lesson to everyone of what can happen in a badly run ship! As first lieutenant you are the key officer, the most experienced one aboard who can implement my orders, do you understand?”

“If you say so, sir.”

Bolitho dropped his eyes in case Vibart should see the rising anger there. He had offered Vibart his due share of responsibility, even his confidence, and yet the lieutenant seemed to accept it like a sign of weakness, of some faltering uncertainty. The contempt was as plain in his brevity as if he had shouted it to the ship at large.

It could not be easy for Vibart to take orders from a captain so junior in age and service. Bolitho tried once more to soften his feelings towards Vibart's hostility.

The latter said suddenly, “When you have been aboard the
Phalarope
a little longer, sir, then maybe you will see it different.” He rocked back on his heels and watched Bolitho's face with a flat stare.

Bolitho relaxed his taut muscles. It was almost a relief that Vibart had shown him the only way to finish the matter. He eyed him coldly. “I have read every log and report aboard this ship, Mr Vibart. In all my limited
experience
I have never known a ship so apparently unwilling to fight the enemy or so incapable of performing her duty.” He watched the expression on Vibart's heavy features altering to shocked surprise. “Well, we are going back to war, Mr Vibart, and I intend to seek out and engage the enemy,
any
enemy, at every opportunity!” He dropped his voice. “And when that happens I will expect to see every man acting as one. There will be no room for petty jealousy and cowardice then!”

A deep flush rose to Vibart's cheeks, but he remained silent.

Bolitho said, “You are dealing with men, Mr Vibart, not
things!
Authority is invested with your commission. Respect comes later, when you have earned it!”

He dismissed the first lieutenant with a curt nod and then turned back to stare at the creaming wake below the windows. As the door closed the tension tore at his body like a whip, and he gripped his hands together to prevent their shaking until the pain made him wince. He had made an enemy of Vibart, but there was too much at stake to do otherwise.

He slumped down on the bench seat as Stockdale pattered into the cabin and began to spread a cloth across the table.

The coxswain said, “I've told your servant to bring your supper, Captain.” There was mistrust in his tone. He disliked Atwell, the cabin steward, and watched him like a dog with a rabbit. “I don't suppose you'll be havin' any officer to dine with you, sir?”

Bolitho glanced at Stockdale, battered and homely like an old piece of furniture, and thought of Vibart's seething bitterness. “No, Stockdale. I will be alone.”

He leaned back and closed his eyes. Alone and vulnerable, he thought.

Lieutenant Thomas Herrick tightened the spray-soaked muffler about his neck and shrugged his shoulders deeper into his watch-coat. Above the black, spiralling masts the stars were small and pale, and even in the keen air he could sense that the dawn was not far away.

The labouring ship herself was in darkness, so that the shapes around the deserted decks were unreal and totally unlike they appeared in daylight. The lashed guns were mere shadows, and the humming shrouds and stays seemed to go straight up to the sky, unattached and endless.

But as Herrick paced the quarterdeck deep in thought, he was able to ignore such things. He had seen them all too often before, and was able to pass each watch with only his mind for company. Once he paused beside the ship's big double wheel where the two helmsmen stood like dark statues, their faces partly lit in the shaded binnacle lamp as they watched the swinging compass or stared aloft at the trimmed sails.

Three bells struck tinnily from forward, and he saw a ship's boy stir at the rail and then creep, rubbing his eyes, to trim the compass lamp and adjust the hour glass.

Time and again he found his eyes drawn to the black rectangle of the cabin hatch, and he wondered whether Bolitho had at last fallen asleep. Three times already during the morning watch, three times in an hour and a half the captain had appeared momentarily on deck, soundless and without warning. With neither coat nor hat, and his white shirt and breeches framed against the tumbling black water, he had seemed ghostlike and without true form, with the restlessness of a tortured spirit. On each occasion he had paused only long enough to peer at the compass or to look at the watch-slate beside the wheel. Then a couple of turns up and down the weather side of the deck and he had vanished below.

At any other time Herrick would have felt both irritated and resentful. It might have implied that the captain was too unsure of his third lieutenant to leave him to take a watch alone. But when Herrick had relieved Lieutenant Okes at four o'clock Okes had whispered quickly that Bolitho had been on deck for most of the night.