Command a King`s Ship

5. The Work of a Demon

Bolitho stood loosely by the quarterdeck rail, his body partly shaded from the harsh glare by the thick mainmast trunk, and watched the routine work around him. Eight bells chimed from the forecastle, and he could hear Herrick and Mudge comparing notes from their noon sights, while Soames, who was officer of the watch, prowled restlessly by the cabin hatch as he awaited his relief.

Just to watch the slow, lethargic movements of the men on the gangways and gun deck was enough. Thirty-four days since they had seen Nervion's destruction on the reef, and nearly two months since weighing anchor at Spithead. It had been hard work all the way, and from the moment the Spanish ship had foundered the atmosphere aboard had been compressed and strained to the limit.

The last few days had been the worst part, he thought. For a while his company had gained some excitement at crossing the Equator, with all its mysteries and myths. He had issued an extra ration of rum, and for a time he had observed some benefit from the change. The new hands had seen the linecrossing as a kind of test which they had somehow managed to pass. The old seamen had grown in stature as they had recounted or lied about the number of occasions they had sailed these waters in other ships. A fiddler had emerged, and after a self-conscious overture had brought some music and scratchy gaiety to their daily lives.

And then, the last of the badly injured Spaniards had begun to die. It had been like the final pressure on them all. Whitmarsh had done all he could. He had carried out several amputations, and as the pitiful cries had floated up from his sickbay Bolitho had felt the brief satisfaction of drawing his company together fading once again. The dying Spaniard had dragged it out for many days. Nearly a month he had ebbed and rallied, sobbing and groaning, or sleeping peacefully while Whitmarsh had stayed with him hour by hour. It had seemed as if the surgeon was testing his own resources, searching for some new cracking point. The last of his patients to die had been the ones mauled by sharks, those which because of their wounds could not be saved or despatched by amputations. Gangrene had set into their flesh, and the whole ship had been pervaded by a stench so revolting that even the most charitable had prayed for the sufferers to die.

He saw the afternoon watch mustering below the quarterdeck, while Lieutenant Davy strode aft and waited for Soames to sign his report in the log. Even Davy looked weary and bedraggled, his handsome face so tanned by hours on duty he could have been a Spaniard.

They all avoided Bolitho's eye. As if they were afraid of him, or that they needed all their energies merely to get through another day.

Davy reported, 'The watch is aft.'

Soames glared at him. 'A moment late, Mr. Davy.'

Davy regarded him disdainfully and then turned to his master's mate. 'Relieve the wheel.'

Soames stamped to the hatch and disappeared below.

Bolitho clenched his hands behind him and took a few steps away from the mast. The only satisfaction was the wind. The previous day, as they had changed tack towards the east and the masthead had reported sighting land far abeam, the westerlies had made themselves felt. As he shaded his eyes to peer aloft he could see the impatient thrust of power in every sail, the mainyard bending and trembling like one giant bow. That blur of land had been Cape Agulhas, the southernmost tip of the African continent. Now, stretching before the crisscross of rigging and shrouds lay the blue emptiness of the Indian Ocean, and like many of his new seamen who had contemplated their crossing the Equator, he was able to consider what together they had achieved to reach this far. The Cape of Good Hope was to all intents the halfway of their voyage, and to this day he had kept his word. Mile upon mile, day after scorching day, driving wildly in blustery squalls, or lying becalmed, with every sail hanging lifeless, he had used everything he knew to keep up their spirits. When that had faltered he had speeded up the daily routine. Gun and sail drill, and competitions between messes for the offwatch hands.

He saw the purser and his assistant waiting beside a puncheon of pork which had just been swayed up from the forward hold. Midshipman Keen stood nearby, trying to appear knowledgeable as Triphook had the new cask opened and proceeded to check through each four-pound piece of salt pork before he allowed it to be carried to the galley. Keen, whose junior authority as midshipman of the watch made him the captain's representative on such occasions, probably imagined it to be a waste of time. Bolitho knew otherwise from past experience. It was well known for dishonest victualling yards to give short measure, or to make up the contents of a cask with hunks of rotten meat, even pieces of old canvas, knowing as they did that by the time a ship's purser discovered the fault he would be well clear of the land and unable to complain. Pursers, too, were known to line their own pockets by sharp practice with their opposite numbers ashore.

Bolitho saw the gaunt purser nod mournfully and mark his ledger, apparently satisfied. Then he followed the little procession forward to the galley, his shoes squeaking as they clung to the sun-heated pitch between the deck seams.

The heat, the relentless, unbroken days were testing enough. But Bolitho knew it only needed a hint of corruption, some suggestion that the ship's company were being cheated by their officers, and the whole voyage might explode. He had asked himself over and over again if he was allowing his last experience to pray on his mind. Even the word itself, mutiny, had struck fear into the heart of many a captain, especially one far from friendly company and higher authority.

He took a few paces along the side and winced as his wrist brushed against the bulwark. The timbers were bone-dry, the paint cracking, despite regular attention.

He paused and shaded his eyes to watch some large fish jumping far abeam. Valor. It was usually uppermost in his mind. With the new hands, and the need to use much of their precious water supply to help the sick and injured, even rationing might not be enough.

He saw two Negro seamen lounging by the larboard gangway. It was a mixed company indeed. When they had sailed from Spithead it had been varied enough. Now, with the small list of Spanish survivors, they were even more colourful. Apart from the sole Spanish officer, a sad-eyed lieutenant named Roj art, there were ten seamen, two boys who were little more than children, and five soldiers. The latter, at first grateful to have survived, were now openly resentful of their new status. Carried aboard Nervion as part of Puigserver's personal guard, they were now neither fish nor fowl, and while they tried to act as seamen, they were usually found watching Undine's sweating marines with both envy and contempt.

Herrick stepped into his thoughts and reported, 'The master and I agree.' He held out the slate. 'If you would care to examine this, sir.' He sounded unusually guarded.

Mudge ambled into the shadow of the hammock nettings and said, 'If you are about to alter course, sir.' He dragged out his handkerchief. 'It is as good a time as any.' He blew his nose violently.

Herrick said quickly, 'I would like to make a suggestion, sir.'

Mudge moved away and stood patiently near the helmsman.

It was hard to tell if Herrick had just thought of his suggestion, or if he had discussed it with the others.

'Some were a mite surprised when you stood clear of Cape Town, sir.' His eyes were very blue in the glare. 'We could have landed our remaining sick people and taken in fresh water. I doubt that the Dutch governor there would pay much heed to our movements.'

'Do you, Mr. Herrick?'

He saw a puff of dull smoke from the galley. Soon now the offwatch men would be having a meal in the sweltering heat of their messes. The remains of yesterday's salt beef. Skillygolee, as they named it. A mixture of oatmeal gruel, crushed biscuits and lumps of boiled meat. And all that washed down with a full ration of beer. It was likely the latter was stale and without life. But anything was better than the meagre ration of water.

He jerked himself back to Herrick, suddenly irritated. 'And who put you up to this remarkable assessment?' He saw Herrick's face cloud over but added, 'It has an unfamiliar ring to it.'

Herrick said, 'It's just that I do not wish to see you driving yourself, sir. I felt as you did about Nervion's loss, but it is done, and there's an end to it. You did all you could for her people…'

Bolitho said, 'Thank you for your concern, but I am not driving myself or our people to no purpose. I believe we may be needed, even at this moment.'

'Perhaps, sir.'

Bolitho regarded him searchingly. 'Perhaps indeed, but then that is my responsibility. If I have acted wrongly, then you may receive promotion more quickly than you thought.' He turned away. 'When the hands have eaten we will lay her on the new course. Nor'-east by east.' He looked at the masthead pendant. 'See how it blows. We'll get the royals on her directly and run with the wind under our coat-tails while it lasts.'

Herrick bit his lip. 'I still believe we should touch land, sir, if only to collect water.'

'As I do, Mr. Herrick.' He faced him coldly. 'And that I will do whenever I can without arousing interest elsewhere. I have my orders. I intend to carry them out as best I can, do you understand?'

They watched each other, their eyes angry, troubled, and concerned by the sudden flare-up between them.

'Very good, sir.' Herrick stood back, his eyes squinting in the sun. 'You can rely on me.'

'I was beginning to wonder, Mr. Herrick.' Bolitho half stepped forward, one hand outstretched as Herrick swung away, his face taut with dismay.

He had not meant the words to form in that way. If he had ever doubted anything in his life, Herrick's loyalty was not one of them. He felt ashamed and angry. Perhaps the strain of this empty monotony, of carrying men who wanted to do nothing but crawl away from work and the sun, of torturing his mind with plans and doubts, had taken a far greater toll than he had imagined.

He turned on his heel and saw Davy watching him curiously.

'Mr. Davy, you have only just taken over your watch, and I would not wish to disrupt your thoughts. But examine the forecourse, if you please, and set some of your hands to put it to rights.' He saw the lieutenant fall back from his anger and added, 'It looks as slack as the watch on deck!'

As he strode to the cabin hatch he saw the lieutenant hurrying to the rail. The fact that the forecourse was not drawing as it should was no excuse for taking out his temper on Davy.

He strode past the sentry and slammed the cabin door behind him. But there was no escape here. Noddall was laying plates on the table, his face stiffly resentful as Mrs. Raymond's maid followed him around the cabin like an amused child.

Raymond was slumped in a chair by the stern windows, apparently dozing, and his wife sat on the bench seat, fanning herself, and watching Noddall's preparations, a look of complete boredom on her face.

Bolitho made to go but she called, 'Come along, Captain. We barely see you from day to day.' She patted the bench seat with the fan. 'Sit awhile. Your precious ship will survive, I think.'

Bolitho sat down and leaned one elbow on the sill. It was good to feel life in the wind again, to watch the lift and swirl of foam as it surged freely from the counter, or came up gurgling around the rudder.

Then he turned slightly and looked at her. She had been aboard all this time and yet he knew little of her. She was watching him now, her eyes partly amused, partly questioning. Probably two or three years older than himself, he thought. Not beautiful, but with the aristocratic presence which commanded instant attention. She had fine, even teeth, and her hair, which she had allowed to flow loosely across her shoulders, was the colour of autumn. While he and the rest of his officers had found difficulty in keeping cool, or finding a clean shirt after the sun's tyranny or some fierce squall in the South Atlantic, she had always managed to remain perfect. As she was now. Her gown was not merely worn, it was arranged, so that he and not she looked out of place against the stern windows. Her earrings were heavy, and he guessed their value would pay most of his marines for a year or more.

She smiled. 'Do you enjoy what you see, Captain?'

Bolitho started. 'I am sorry, ma'am. I am tired.'

She exclaimed, 'How gallant! I am sorry it is only weariness which makes you look at me.' She held up the fan and added, 'I am mocking you, Captain. Do not look so depressed.'

Bolitho smiled. 'Thank you.'

He thought suddenly of that other time. In New York, three years ago. Another ship, his first command, and the world opening up just for him. A woman had shown him that life was not so kind, nor was it easy.

He admitted, 'I have had a lot on my mind. I have been used to action and sharp decisions for most of my life. Merely ~to make sail and face an empty sea day by day is something alien to me. Sometimes -I feel more like a grocery-captain than that of a man-o'-war.'

She watched him thoughtfully. 'I can believe it. I should have realised earlier.' She gave a slow smile, her lashes hiding her eyes. 'Then maybe I would not have offended you.'

Bolitho shook his head. 'Much of it was my fault. I have been so long in ships of war that I have become used to expecting others to share my dedication. If there is a fire I expect all close by to quench it. If a man tries to overrun authority by mutiny or in an enemy's name I would call for others to strike him down, or do so myself.' He faced her gravely. 'That is why I expected you to aid the men injured in the wreck.' He shrugged. 'Again, I expected it. I did not ask.'

She nodded. 'That admission must have surprised you, as much as it did me, Captain.' She showed her teeth. 'It has cleared the air a little?'

'Yes.'

He touched his forehead unconsciously, plucking at the rebellious lock of black hair which clung to the skin with sweat.

He saw her eyes widen as she caught sight of the livid scar beneath and said quickly, 'Forgive me, ma'am. I must go and examine my charts before we dine.'

She watched him as he stood up and said, 'You wear your authority well, Captain.' She glanced at her sleeping husband..'Unlike some.'

Bolitho did not know how to reply. 'I am afraid that is hardly for me to discuss, ma'am.'

He looked up as feet thudded across the deck and shadows flitted above the open skylight.

She asked, 'What is it?'

He did not see the annoyance in her eyes.

'I am not sure. A ship perhaps. I gave orders I was to be informed so that I can take avoiding action.'

Noddall paused, two forks in his hand. 'I 'eard no 'ail from th' mast'ead, sir.'

There was a rap at the door and Herrick stood in the entrance, his chest heaving from exertion.

'I am sorry to burst in.' He looked past Bolitho towards the woman. 'It would be better if you came with me, sir.'

Bolitho stepped from the cabin and pulled the door behind him. In the doorway which opened on to the ship's wardroom he saw a small group waiting for him. They looked confused. Stricken. Like strangers. There was Bellairs, accompanied by his towering sergeant. Triphook, his horse teeth bared as if to snap at an unseen attacker, and cowering just behind him was the ship's cooper, a small hunched petty officer named Joseph Duff. He was the second oldest man aboard, and wore steelrimmed spectacles at his work, although he usually managed to hide them from his messmates for much of the time.

Herrick said quietly, 'Duff has reported that most of the fresh water is undrinkable, sir.' He swallowed under Bolitho's stare. 'He was doing his usual inspection and has just reported to the ship's corporal.'

Triphook was murmuring fervently, 'In all my days. Never, never have I seen the like!'

Bolitho beckoned to the cooper. 'Well, Duff, I am waiting. What is this find which you have discovered?'

Duff blinked at him through the oval glasses. He looked like a grey-haired mole.

'Me usual inspection, sir.'

He grew smaller as they crowded round him. Soames had come from his own cabin, and loomed over Bellairs' shoulder like a cliff.

Duff continued shakily, 'The casks was all good 'uns, I saw to that, sir. First thing I always looks for. I learned me work under a fine old cooper in the Gladiator when I first took on, sir, an'-'

'For God's sake, Duff!' Herrick sounded desperate. 'Tell the captain!'

Duff lowered his head. 'Most of the casks is foul, sir. They 'as to be.'

Sergeant Coaker stepped forward, his boots creaking as the ship tilted in a sudden trough. He was holding a small bundle, but keeping it away from his tunic as if it were alive.

'Open it.'

The sergeant unfolded the parcel very carefully, his face set like stone.

Bolitho felt the deck, soaring violently, tasted the vomit clawing at his throat. Screwed up, as if at the instant shock of amputation, it was tL human hand.

Soames choked, 'In the name of Christ!'

Duff said in a small voice, 'In all of 'em, sir. 'Cept the last two casks by the bulk'ead.'

Triphook said heavily, 'He's right, sir. Bits of flesh.' He trembled violently, his face breaking out in sweat. 'The work of a demon!'

There was a sharp cry of horror, and Bolitho stepped in front of the cooper as Mrs. Raymond gasped, 'I'm going to be sick.' He saw her leaning against the marine sentry, her face like chalk as she stared fixedly at the group by the wardroom.

Bolitho snapped, 'Get rid of that object!' To Noddall's hovering shadow he added, 'Call that damned maid and attend to the lady!' His mind was reeling from Duff's gruesome discovery. What it meant, and what he now had to do. 'Fetch the surgeon.'

Bellairs dabbed his lips with a handkerchief. 'Carry on Sar'nt Coaker. Pass the word for Mr. Whitmarsh.' He glanced at the others. 'Though I doubt he will be able to assist, what?'

Herrick asked, 'Would you care to come in here, sir?' He stood aside to allow Bolitho to enter the wardroom.

It was small and compact, the table laid for a meal, and at odds with the twelve-pounders which were lashed at each open port. Bolitho sat down heavily on a sea chest and stared through the nearest gun port. The fair wind and dancing water held no more attraction. Danger was within the ship. His ship.

Herrick prompted, 'Some wine, sir.'

When he turned Bolitho saw the others watching him. Soames at the top of the table. Bellairs and Triphook seated on the opposite side. In those fleeting seconds he recalled his own life as a junior lieutenant in a frigate. The wardroom was the place you shared not merely your food and your life, you shared your doubts, and drew on your companions for help whenever it was needed. Aft, behind his bulkhead, the captain had been a remote, godly character beyond reach. At no time that he could recall had he imagined a captain required anything but obedience.

It even felt different here. Pistols in a rack. Some shirts hanging to air which the wardroom servant had just washed. The smell of something simmering in a pot.

He replied, 'Thank you. I would relish a glass just now.'

They relaxed slightly and Soames said, 'It will mean turning back, sir.' He thought about it. 'Or making for the African coast mebbee.'

Feet creaked outside the door and then Mudge pushed his way' into the wardroom, his grey hair sprouting as he threw his hat into a corner.

'God blast me eyes, but what's this bloody deed I've bin told?' He saw Bolitho and muttered, 'Beggin' yer pardon, sir. I was not expectin' to discover you in 'ere.'

Herrick held out a glass. 'Some Rhenish, sir.' He did not smile, but his eyes were calm. Almost pleading. 'Still fairly fresh, I think.'

Bolitho sipped it gratefully. 'Thank you.' He tasted the sourness in his throat. 'After what I have just witnessed…' He swung round as the surgeon lurched through the door, his shirt unbuttoned, his gaze bleary.

'You have been told the news, Mr. Whitmarsh?'

He watched the effort he was making to focus his eyes, the growth of stubble on his chin. Whitmarsh had been quietly making up for all the time he had stayed with his patients.

'Well?'

Whitmarsh groped his way to a gun and leaned on it with both hands, sucking air through the open port like a drowning man.

'I heard, sir.' He retched. 'I heard.'

Bolitho watched him impassively. 'As the water casks were fresh when stowed aboard at Spithead, it would seem likely that these human fragments came from your surgery.' He waited, feeling pity for the man, but knowing the need for haste. 'Would you agree?'

'I expect so.'

Whitmarsh lurched to the table and poured a large measure of wine.

Bolitho said sharply,. 'If you drink that, Mr. Whitmarsh, I will see to it that you do not get another drop while you are under my command.' He stood up. 'Now, think, man! Who could have done this?'

Whitmarsh stared at the glass in his hand, his body swaying badly, despite the easy motion.

'I was kept busy. They were in a poor way, sir. I had my loblolly boys and my mate to assist me.' He screwed up his red face in an effort to remember, the sweat dripping off his chin like rain. 'It was Sullivan. I gave him the job of clearing amputated limbs and the like from my sickbay. He was very helpful.' He nodded vaguely. 'It's all coming to me now. Sullivan.' He turned and stared fixedly at Bolitho. 'The manyou had flogged, sir.'

Herrick said harshly, 'Don't be so bloody impertinent to the captain!'

Bolitho found he was suddenly very calm. 'In your opinion, Mr. Whitmarsh, will the casks be any further use after this?'

'None.' The surgeon was still glaring at him. 'They must be scoured at once. The contents thrown overboard. A mouthful of that water, after gangrenous flesh has been in it, and you'll have a raging fever aboard! I've known it happen. There's no cure.'

Bolitho placed his glass on the table very slowly. Giving his mind time to steady.

'It seems that you are not the only one who wishes to turn back, Mr. Herrick. Now take hold of Sullivan and guard him before he does some other mischief.' He turned to Whitmarsh. 'I have not finished with you yet!'

Feet clattered on the quarterdeck ladder and Herrick reappeared in the doorway.

'Sir! That fool Sullivan is aloft on the cro'jack yard! He's raving mad! Nobody can get near him!'

Then Bolitho heard men shouting, more feet pounding overhead.

He said, 'I will go up.'

He found the gangways crowded with seamen and marines, while Don Puigserver and his Spanish lieutenant had joined

The Work of a Demon 8 5

Davy by the quarterdeck rail to watch a bosun's mate who was clinging to the mizzen shrouds and trying to reach Sullivan.

The seaman was perched on the yard, 'totally indifferent to the great billowing sail at his back and the hard sunlight which lanced across his body. He was completely naked, but for his belt, where he carried the broad-bladed dirk which had brought about his flogging in the first place.

Davy said anxiously, 'I did not know what to do, sir. The man is obviously moonstruck or worse.'

The bosun's mate bellowed, 'Now yew get down on deck, or by the livin' Jesus I'll pitch you there meseif!'

Sullivan threw back his head and laughed. It was a shrill, unnerving sound.

'Now, now, Mr. Roskilly! What would you do then? Lay your little rope's. end on me?' He laughed again and then pulled out the knife. 'Come along then, matey! I'm awaitin' you, you goddamned lickspittle!'

Bolitho called, 'Come down, Roskilly! You'll do no good by getting killed!'

Sullivan craned under the vibrating yard. 'Well, blow me down, mates, an' who 'ave we 'ere? Our gallant captain, no less!' He rocked with laughter. 'An' 'e's all aback 'cause poor old Tom Sullivan's spoiled the water for him!'

Some of the watching seamen had been grinning at the spectacle on the quarterdeck. The mention of water soon altered that.

Bolitho looked at the upturned faces, feeling the spreading alarm like the edge of a fire.

He walked aft, his shoes loud in the sudden hush around him. Below the yard he stopped and looked up.

'Come along, Sullivan.' He was in the sunlight and with no shade from the bellying sail above. He felt the sweat pouring down his chest and thighs, just as he could sense the other man's hatred. 'You have done enough today!'

Sullivan cackled. 'Did you hear that, lads? Done enough!' He twisted on the yard, the glare playing across the scars on his back, pale against the tanned skin. 'You've done enough to me, Cap'n bloody Bolitho!'

Herrick snapped, 'Sergeant Coaker! Have one of your marksmen brought aft! That man is a damned danger up there!'

'Belay that!' Bolitho kept his eyes on the crossjack yard. 'He is past reason. I'll not have him shot down like some mad dog.'

He sensed Puigserver was watching him and not the man on the yard, and that Allday was close by, a cutlass in his hand. But they were all excluded. It was between him and Sullivan.

He called, 'I am asking you, Sullivan!' He recalled the woman's face in the cabin. I did not ask.

'You go to hell, Captain!' Sullivan was screaming now, his naked body twisting on the yard as if in torment. 'An' I'll take you there now!'

Bolitho hardly saw his hand move, just the brief flash of sunlight on the blade, and then gasped as the knife cut through his sleeve before embedding itself in the deck by his right shoe. So great was the force that nearly an inch of blade was driven into the planking.

Sullivan was transfixed, a long streamer of spittle trailing to the wind as he stared down at Bolitho at the foot of the mast.

Bolitho remained motionless, feeling the blood running down his elbow and forearm and on to the deck. He did not take his eyes off Sullivan, and the concentration helped to overcome the searing pain left by the blade.

Sullivan stood up wildly and began to scramble outboard along the yard. Everybody began to yell at once, and Bolitho felt Herrick gripping his arm, another wrapping a cloth around it, deadening the pain.

Whitmarsh had appeared below the nettings, and he, too, was shouting at the man framed against the clear sky.

Sullivan turned and spoke in a level voice for the first time. 'And you, too, Doctor! God damn you to hell!' Then he jumped out and down, his body hitting the water with a violent splash.

For a moment he floated past the quarter, and as the spanker's great shadow passed over him he clasped his hands above his head and vanished.

Herrick said, 'We could never pick him up. If we tried to heave-to under this canvas, we'd tear the sticks out of her.'

Bolitho did not know to whom he was speaking. Perhaps to himself.

He walked to the hatch, holding his torn and bloodied sleeve with one hand. He saw the bosun's mate, Roskilly, pulling the knife out of the deck. He was a strong man, but it took him two attempts to tug it clear.

Puigserver followed him below and then stepped in front of him.

'That was a brave thing you did, Capilan.' He sighed. 'But he could have killed you.'

Bolitho nodded. The pain was getting worse. 'We have some hard times ahead, Senor. We must find water, and soon.' He tightened his jaw. 'But I am not turning back.'

Puigserver eyed him sadly. 'You made a gesture. One which might have ended your life. And all for a madman.'

Bolitho walked to the cabin. 'Maybe we were both mad.'

Herrick hurried after him, and as they entered the cabin Bolitho saw there was a chair directly under the skylight. Raymond must have been standing on it to watch the drama overhead.

Mrs. Raymond was aft by the windows. She looked very pale, but came towards him saying, 'Your arm, Captain.' She shouted to her maid, 'Bandages!'

Bolitho realised that Herrick was in the cabin. 'Well?'

Herrick watched him worriedly. 'What you did-'

'It could have killed me. I know.' Bolitho forced a smile. 'I have already been told.'

Herrick breathed out slowly. 'And I believed I knew you, sir.'

'And now?' He looked at him steadily. 'Thomas?'

Herrick grinned. 'I only know that you never cease to surprise me. And others.' He gestured to the deckhead. 'A seaman who has been cursing and complaining for near on a month was just heard to damn Sullivan's soul for threatening the life of his captain.' His grin faded. 'But I'd rather you rallied our people in some other way, sir.'

Bolitho held out his arm as the maid carried a basin to the desk.

'If you know of any way to keep up their spirits, Thomas, I'd be obliged to hear it. In the meantime, call the hands and get the royals on her. I want every stitch she can carry.' He checked him as he made for the door. 'And pass the word. One pint of water per day.' He glanced around the cabin, 'Officers and passengers included,' Herrick hesitated. 'And the surgeon, sir?'

Bolitho looked down at the maid as she cleaned the deep cut on his arm. She returned his glance boldly.

He said, 'I am in good hands, it seems. I will think about Mr. Whitmarsh when I have more time.' He added grimly, 'And at this moment, time is of the greatest value in the world.'

Bolitho waited by the open stern windows and watched the moon making a fine path across the water. The sea looked unusually choppy, but he knew it was from a steep undertow which explored the depths many miles from the African coast. At his back he heard the others moving into the cabin and finding somewhere to sit, the sounds of goblets and wine as Noddall went about his business. Despite the cool air after the day's blazing sunlight his body felt drained and stiff, and about him the ship creaked and groaned, her timbers so dried-out that it was a wonder she was not leaking like an old bucket.

A week since Sullivan had jumped to his death, Seven long days while he had taken his ship inshore time and time again, only to stand off at the report of some sail, or an unexplained sighting of a native craft.

Now, he could delay no longer. He had been visited by Whitmarsh that afternoon, a man so tormented by his own worries that it had been a difficult interview. Whitmarsh had made it quite definite that he could no longer be held responsible if Bolitho persisted in staying clear of land. The two remaining casks of water were almost empty, and what remained was little better than scum. More men were lying ill on the orlop deck, and those fit enough to work ship had to be watched by the minute. Tempers flared, and petty officers went about their duties with an eye on their backs for a knifethrust in a momentary display of madness.

Herrick reported, 'All ready, sir.' Like the others. Tense. Watchful.

Bolitho turned and looked around his officers. All but Soames, who was on duty, were present. Even the three midshipmen. He watched them gravely. It might teach them something, he thought.

'I intend to close the land again tomorrow.'

He saw Don Puigserver by the bulkhead with his lieutenant. Raymond a few feet away from him, rubbing his face in sharp, agitated movements.

Davy said, 'Makes fine sense, sir.' He swallowed some wine. 'If we give our people more rum to drink as we cut down the water, we'll be too tipsy to do anything!' He forced a smile. 'A fine situation it would be!'

Bolitho turned to Mudge. He was in the largest chair, still wearing his thick coat, and staring up at the open skylight as a moth darted into the lantern's beam. He saw Bolitho's expression and sighed.

'I called at this place just the once, sir. When I was master's mate in the Windsor, Indiaman. We was in much the same trouble ourselves then. No water, becalmed for weeks on end, an' with 'alf the people goin' wild with thirst.'

Bolitho asked, 'But there is water available?'

Mudge moved his chair towards the desk in short, squeaky jerks. Then he jabbed the open chart with his thumb.

'We'm now in th' Mozambique Channel, as we all knows.' He glared at Midshipman Armitage. "Cept for some too hignorant to learn aright!' He continued in a more unruffled tone, 'Th' African coast is fair wild 'ereabouts, an' not a lot be known about it. Ships put in, of course.' His eyes gleamed as he looked up at Bolitho. Tor water. To trade mebbee. An' to find theirselves some black ivory from time to time.'

Midshipman Keen was leaning over his shoulder, his face the only one present which showed little sign of strain.

'Black ivory, sir?'

Herrick said sharply, 'Slaves.'

Mudge leaned back comfortably. 'It follows that we must be careful. Land in force, get the water, if I can recall exactly where it is, and stand out to sea agin.'

Bellairs said, 'My marines will give a good account, thank you!'

Mudge regarded him scornfully. 'Just so, Cap'n Bellairs, sir. In their pretty coats, with their drums and fifes, I can picture it a fair treat!' He added harshly, 'They'd 'ave 'em for breakfast afore they could polish their bloody boots!'

'Well, really!' Bellairs was shocked.

Bolitho nodded. 'Very well then. The wind is staying with us, so we should be able to anchor by noon tomorrow.'

Mudge agreed. 'Aye. But not close inshore, sir. There's a fair bit o' reef just around the point. It'll mean every boat in th' water, an' a 'ard pull for all 'ands.'

'Yes.' Bolitho looked at Davy. 'You can arrange the arming of each boat with the gunner. Swivels for launch and cutter. Musketoons for the rest.' He glanced round at their intent faces. 'I'll want an officer with each party. Some of our people will need watching, if only for their own sakes.' He let his words sink in. 'Remember it well. Many of them are quite raw to this sort of work, although because we have been together for over two months, you may see them as veterans. They are not, so treat them accordingly. Lead them, do not be content to leave your work to others less qualified.'

He saw the midshipmen exchanging glances like boys about to take part in some private escapade. Keen, his eyes sparkling with excitement. Little Penn, openly impressed by being included. Poor Armitage, his forehead raw red from being on watch for a few moments without a hat. They were even less experienced than most of the men.

He looked at the chart. But for Sullivan they might have made the whole voyage to Madras without a pause, despite their shortages. Herrick had tried to help by saying it was bad luck. Puigserver had stated that he was behind him, whatever he decided was best for the ship. But it was still his decision, and nobody else could change that.

Some of those present in the cabin had stopped speaking with the surgeon altogether, and perhaps for that reason alone Bolitho had made no further comment about his choice of Sullivan as a helper, giving him the opportunity, crazy or not, of fouling the water supply. He saw him only on matters of sick reports, and each time was shocked by his appearance. The man was boiling inside, bitter, and yet unable to share his problems. He did not even want to.

He heard a woman's voice, saw the others look up at the skylight as feet passed overhead. Mrs. Raymond and her maid taking their usual stroll under the stars. He hoped Soames would ensure they did not stray from the quarterdeck. He would not answer for their safety at the hands of some of the seamen. He could understand how many of them felt.

To the volunteers it must seem a far cry from the recruiting posters, and to the men from the prison hulks it might now appear to be a bad exchange of circumstances. Even those hiding from crimes committed ashore would find room for doubt and resentment. The crimes would have faded with the fear of arrest and trial. But the heat and thirst, and the daily grind of disciplined duty were only too real.

He saw Raymond biting his lip, his eyes following the footsteps as if he was seeing through the deckhead itself. If anything, he and his wife were moving further apart by being confined in the ship. It was a strange relationship.

He thought back over the past days and one particular incident. He had been in his small makeshift cabin in the chart space, and Allday had been changing the bandage on his arm for him. She had entered the cabin without knocking, in fact, neither of them had heard her approach. She had stood by the open port, quite relaxed, and had watched him without saying a word. Bolitho had been stripped to the waist, and as he reached for a fresh shirt she had said softly, 'I see you bear yet another scar, Captain.'

Bolitho's hand had gone to his side, suddenly conscious of the ragged mark where a pistol ball had missed his ribs by a thread. He had seen it exactly, as he was seeing it now. The privateer's tilting deck, the American lieutenant running towards him, taking aim. The crash of a shot. The sharp, stabbing agony. Oblivion.

Allday had said rudely, 'The captain's dressing! Ships' ways are different from those ashore, it seems!'

But she had stood firm, her lips slightly parted, while she watched him. But how could she have understood what he was thinking? That the ball had been fired by one of his own brother's officers. A traitor. A wanted renegade, now dead and forgotten by most.

But not by me.

He shook himself out of his brooding thoughts. Nothing mattered now but the work in hand. Water. All that he needed to take them to Madras. Beyond that was another challenge. It could wait.

He said, 'That is all, gentlemen.' He realised he had spoken more abruptly than intended and added, 'We have a fine ship. One of the most efficient and modern devices created by man. We can give a good account of ourselves to any vessel but a ship of the line.' He paused as Herrick smiled at him, bridging the gap between them as he, too, remembered. 'Except for rare, and not to be encouraged, occasions! But without water to drink we are like stumbling old men, with neither the means nor the will to face another day. Remember what I have said. Be vigilant. For the moment that is all I ask of you.'

They filed out of the cabin, leaving him with Puigserver and Raymond. Raymond looked hopefully at the Spaniard, but when he made no attempt to take his usual walk on deck he, too, left the cabin.

Bolitho sat down and watched the moonlight as it played across the Undine's bubbling wake.

'What is the matter with him, Senor?' It was strange how easy it was to talk to him.

Just over a year back he had been an enemy. One Bolitho would have killed in battle had he not called for quarter. He smiled to himself. Or the other way round. He was a powerful man, that was certain, and much of his counsel he kept to himself. But Bolitho trusted him. The ship's company, for the most part, had also accepted him as their own. Like Allday, who had long given up trying to pronounce his name, they called him Mister Pigsliver. But they said it with something near to affection.

Puigserver regarded him with quiet amusement.

'My dear Capitan, he is like a watchdog. He fears for his wife, what she will do, rather than what others will do to her!' He chuckled, the sound rising from his belly. 'She, I think, is beginning to enjoy the game, knowing that every man aboard sees her in a different eye. She stands proudly, a tigress in our midst.'

'You seem to know a great deal about her, Senor.'

The smile broadened. 'You know your ships, Capitan. Unlike me, I fear you still have much to learn about women, eh?'

Bolitho made to protest and then changed his mind. The memory was still too painful to leave room for a denial.