Command a King`s Ship

2. Free of the Land

Captain Richard Bolitho stood in the shelter of the stone wall beside the sallyport and peered through the chilling drizzle. It was afternoon, but with the sky so overcast by low cloud it could have been much later.

He was tired and stiff from the long coach ride, and the journey had been made especially irritating by his two jovial companions. Businessmen from the City of London, they had become more loud-voiced after each stop for change of horses and refreshment at the many inns down the Portsmouth road. They were off to France in a packet ship, to contact new agencies there, and so, with luck, expand their trade. To Bolitho it was still hard to accept. Just a year back the Channel had been the only barrier between this country and their common enemy. The moat. The last ditch, as some news-sheet had described it. Now it seemed as if it was all forgotten by such men as his travelling companions. It had become merely an irritating delay which made their journey just so much longer.

He shrugged his shoulders deeper inside his boat-cloak, suddenly impatient for the last moments to pass, so that he could get back to the ship. The cloak was new, from a good London tailor. Rear Admiral Winslade's friend had taken him there, and managed to do so without making Bolitho feel the complete ignoramus. He smiled to himself despite his other uncertainties. He would never get used to London. Too large, too busy, where nobody had time to draw breath. And noisy. No wonder the rich houses around St. James's Square had sent servants out every few hours to spread fresh straw on the roadway. The grinding roar of carriage wheels was enough to wake the dead. It had been a beautiful house, his hosts charming, if slightly amused by his questions. Even now, he was still unsure of their strange ways. It was not just enough to live in that fine, fashionable residence, with its splendid spiral staircase and huge chandeliers. To be right, you had to live on the best side of the square, the east side. Winslade's friends lived there. Bolitho smiled again. They would.

Bolitho had met several very influential people, and his hosts had given two dinner parties with that in mind. He knew well enough from past experience that without their help it would have been impossible. Aboard ship a captain was next only to God. In London society he hardly registered at ail.

But that was behind him now. He was back. His orders would be waiting, and only the actual time of weighing anchor was left to conjecture.

He peered round the wall once more, feeling the wind on his face like a whip. The signal tower had informed Undine of his arrival, and very soon now a boat would arrive at the wooden pier below the wall. He wondered how his coxswain, Allday, was managing. His first ship as captain's coxswain, but Bolitho understood him well enough to know there was little to fear on his behalf. It would be good to see him, too. Something familiar. A face to hold on to.

He glanced up the narrow street to where some servants from the George Inn, where the coach had finally come to rest, were guarding his pile of luggage. He thought of the personal purchases he had made. Maybe London had got some hold on him after all.

When Bolitho had got his first command of the sloop Sparrow during the American Revolution, he had had little time to acquaint himself with luxuries. But in London, with the remains of his prize money, he had made up for it. New shirts, and some comfortable shoes. This great boat-cloak, which the tailor had assured him would keep out even the heaviest downpour. It had been partly Winslade's doing, he was certain of that. His host had casually mentioned that Bolitho's mission in Undine required not merely a competent captain, but one who would look the part, no matter what sort of government official he might meet. There was, he had added gently, a matter of wine.

Together they had gone to a low-beamed shop in St. James's Street. It was not a bit what Bolitho might have imagined. It had the sign of a coffee mill outside its door, and the owners' names, Pickering and Clarke, painted in gold leaf above. It was a friendly place, even intimate. It could almost have been Falmouth.

It was to be hoped the wine had already arrived aboard Undine. Otherwise, it was likely he would have to sail without it, and leave a large hole in his purse as well.

It would be a strange and exciting. sensation to sit in his cabin, hundreds of miles from England, and sample some of that beautiful madeira. It would bring back all those pictures of London again. The buildings, the clever talk, the way women looked at you. Once or twice he had felt uneasy about that. It had reminded him bitterly of New York during the war. The boldness in their faces. The confident arrogance which had seemed like second nature to them.

An idler called, 'Yer boat's a-comin', Cap'n!' He touched his hat. 'I'll give 'ee a 'and!' He hurried away to call the inn servants, his mind dwelling on what he might expect from a frigate's captain.

Bolitho stepped out into the wind, his hat jammed well down over his forehead. It was the Undine's launch, her largest boat, the oars rising and falling like gulls' wings as she headed straight for the pier. It must be a hard pull, he thought. Otherwise Allday would have brought the gig.

He found he was trembling, and it was all he could do to prevent a grin from splitting his face in two. The dark green launch, the oarsmen in their checked shirts and white trousers, it was all there. Like a homecoming.

The oars rose in the air and stood like twin lines of swaying white bones, while the bowman made fast to the jetty and aided a smart midshipman to step ashore.

The latter removed his hat with a flourish and said, 'At your service, sir.'

It was Midshipman Valentine Keen, a very elegant young man who was being appointed to the Undine more to get him away from England than to further his naval advancement, Bolitho suspected. He was the senior midshipman, and if he survived the round voyage would probably return as a lieutenant. At any rate, as a man.

'My boxes are yonder, Mr. Keen.'

He saw Allday standing motionless in the sternsheets, his blue coat and white trousers flapping in the wind, his tanned features barely able to remain impassive.

Theirs was a strange relationship. Allday had come aboard Bolitho's last ship as a pressed man. Yet when the ship had paid off at the end of the war Allday had stayed with him at Falmouth. Servant; guardian. Trusted friend. Now as his coxswain he would be ever nearby. Sometimes an only contact with that other, remote world beyond the cabin bulkhead.

Allday had been a seaman all his life, but for a period when he had been a shepherd in Cornwall, where Bolitho's pressgang had found him. An odd beginning. Bolitho thought of his previous coxswain, Mark Stockdale. A battered ex-prizefighter who could hardly speak because of his maimed vocal cords. He had died protecting Bolitho's back at the Saintes. Poor Stockdale. Bolitho had not even seen him fall.

Allday clambered ashore.

'Everything's ready, Captain. A good meal in the cabin.' He snarled at one of the seamen, 'Grab that chest, you oaf, or I'll have your liver!'

The seaman nodded and grinned.

Bolitho was satisfied. Allday's strange charm seemed to be working already. He could curse and fight like a madman if required. But Bolitho had seen him caring for wounded men and knew his other side. It was no wonder that the girls in farms and villages around Falmouth would miss him. Better though for Allday, Bolitho decided. There had been rumours enough lately about his conquests.

Then at last it was all done. The boat loaded, the idler and servants paid. The oars sending the long launch purposefully through the tossing water.

Bolitho sat in silence, huddled in his cloak, his eyes on the distant frigate. She was beautiful. In some ways more so than Phalarope, if that were possible. Only four years old, she had been built in a yard at Frindsbury on the River Medway. Not far from Herrick's home. One hundred and thirty feet long on her gun deck, and built of good English oak, she was the picture of a shipbuilder's art. No wonder the Admiralty had been loath to lay her up in ordinary like so many of her consorts at the end of the war. She had cost nearly fourteen thousand pounds, as Bolitho had been told more than once. Not that he needed to be reminded. He was lucky to get her.

There was a brief break in the scudding clouds, and the watery light played down along Undine's gun ports to her clean sheathing as she rolled uneasily in the swell. Best Anglesey copper. Stout enough for anything. Bolitho recalled what her previous captain, Stewart, had confided. In a fierce skirmish off Ushant he had been raked by heavy guns from a French seventy-four. Undine had taken four balls right on her waterline. She had been fortunate to reach England afloat. Frigates were meant for speed and hit-and-run fighting, not for matching metal with a line of battleship. Bolitho knew from his own grim experience what that could do to so graceful a hull.

Stewart had added that despite careful supervision he was still unsure as to the perfection of the repairs. With the copper replaced, it took more than internal inspection to discover the true value of a dockyard's overhaul. Copper protected the hull from many sorts of weed and clinging growth which could slow a ship to a painful crawl. But behind it could lurk every captain's real enemy, rot. Rot which could change a perfect hull into a ripe, treacherous trap for the unwary. Admiral Kempenfelt's own flagship, the Royal George, had heeled over and sunk right here in Portsmouth just two years ago, with the loss of hundreds of lives. It was said that her bottom had fallen clean away with rot. If it could happen to a lofty first-rate at anchor, it would do worse to a frigate.

Bolitho came out of his thoughts as he heard the shrill of boatswain's calls above the wind, the stamp of feet as the marines prepared to receive him. He stared up at the towering masts, the movement of figures around the entry port and above in the shrouds. They had had a month to get used to seeing him about the ship, except for the unknown quantity, the newly recruited part of the company. They might be wondering about him now. What he was like. Too harsh, or too easy-going. To them, once the anchor was catted, he was everything, good or bad, skilful or incompetent. There was no other ear to listen to their complaints, no other voice to reward or punish.

'Easy all!' Allday stood half poised, the tiller bar in his fist. 'Toss your oars!'

The boat thrust forward and the bowman hooked on to the main chains. at the first attempt. Bolitho guessed that Allday had been busy during his stay in London.

He stood up and waited for the right moment, knowing Allday was watching like a cat in case he should slip between launch and ship, or worse, tumble backwards in a welter of flailing arms and legs. Bolitho had seen it happen, and recalled his own cruel amusement at the spectacle of his new captain arriving aboard in a dripping heap.

Then, with the spray barely finding time to catch his legs, he was up and on board, his ears ringing to the shrill of calls and to the slap of marines' muskets while they presented arms. He doffed his hat to the quarterdeck, and nodded to Herrick and the others.

'Good to be back, Mr. Herrick.' His tone was curt.

'Welcome aboard, sir.' Herrick was equally so. But their eyes shone with something more than routine formality. Something which none of the others saw, or shared.

Bolitho removed his cloak and handed it to Midshipman Penn. He turned to allow the fading light to play across the broad white lapels of his dress coat. They would all know he was here. He saw the few hands working aloft on last minute splicing, others crowded on gangways and down on the main deck between the twin lines of black twelve-pounder guns.

He smiled, amused at his own gesture. 'I will go below now.'

'I have placed the orders in your cabin, sir.'

Herrick was bursting with questions. It was obvious from his flat, formal voice. But his eyes, those eyes which were so blue, and which could look so hurt, made a lie of his rigidity.

'Very well, I will call you directly.'

He made to walk aft to the cabin hatchway when he saw some figures gathered just below the quarterdeck rail. In mixed garments, they were in the process of being checked against a list by Lieutenant Davy.

He called, 'New hands, Mr. Davy?'

Herrick said quietly, 'We are still thirty under strength, sir.'

'Aye, Sir.' Davy squinted up through the light drizzle, his handsome face set in a confident smile. 'I am about to get them to make their marks.'

Bolitho crossed to the ladder and ran down to the gun deck. God, how wretched they all looked. Half-starved, ragged, beaten. Even the demanding life aboard ship could surely be no worse than what had made them thus.

He watched Davy's neat, elegant hands as he arranged the book on top of a twelve-pounder's breech.

'Come along now, make your marks.'

They shuffled forward, self-conscious, awkward, and very aware that their new captain was nearby.

Bolitho's eye stopped on the one at the end of the line. A sturdy man, well-muscled, and with a pigtail protruding from beneath his battered hat. One prime seaman at least.

He realised Bolitho was watching him and hurried forward to the gun.

Davy snapped, 'Here now, hold your damn eagerness!' Bolitho asked, 'Your name?' He hesitated. 'Turpin, sir.'

Davy was getting angry. 'Stand still and remove your hat to the captain, damn your eyes! If you know anything, you should know respect!'

But the man stood stockstill, his face a mixture of despair and shame.

Bolitho reached out and removed an old coat which Turpin had been carrying across his right forearm.

He asked gently, 'Where did you lose your right hand, Turpin?'

The man lowered his eyes. 'I was in the Barfear, sir. I lost it at the Chesapeake in '81.' He looked up, his eyes showing pride, but only briefly. 'Gun captain, I was, sir.'

Davy interjected, 'I am most sorry, sir. I did not realise the fellow was crippled. I will have him sent ashore.'

Bolitho said, 'You intended to sign the articles with your left hand. Is it that important?'

Turpin nodded. 'I'm a seaman, sir.' He looked round angrily as one of the recruited men nudged his companion. 'Not like some!' He turned back to Bolitho, his voice falling away. 'I can do anything, sir.'

Bolitho hardly heard him. He was thinking back to the Chesapeake. The smoke and din. The columns of wheeling ships, like armoured knights at Agincourt. You never got away from it. This man Turpin had been nearby, like hundreds of others. Cheering and dying, cursing and working their guns like souls possessed. He thought of the two fat merchants on the coach. So men like that could grow richer.

He said harshly, 'Sign him on, Mr. Davy. One hand from the old Barfleur will be more use to me than many others.'

He strode aft beneath the quarterdeck, angry with himself, and with Davy for not having the compassion to understand. It was a stupid thing to do. Pointless.

Allday was carrying one of the chests aft to the cabin, where a marine stood like a toy soldier beneath the spiralling deckhead lantern.

He said cheerfully, 'That was a good thing you just did, Captain.'

'Don't talk like a fool, Allday!' He strode past' him and winced as his head grazed an overhead beam. When he glared back at Allday his coxswain's homely features were quite expressionless. 'He could probably do your work.'

Allday nodded gravely. 'Aye, sir, it is true that I am overtaxed!'

'Damn your impertinence!' It was useless with Allday. 'I don't know why I tolerate you!'

Allday took his sword and walked with it to the cabin bulkhead.

'I once knew a man in Bodmin, Captain.' He stood back and studied the sword critically. 'Used to hammer a block of wood with a blunt axe, he did. I asked him why he didn't use a sharper blade and finish the job properly.' Allday turned and smiled calmly. 'He said that when the wood was broken he'd have nothing to work his temper on.'

Bolitho sat down at the table. 'Thank you. I must remember to get a better axe.'

Allday grinned. 'My pleasure, Captain.' He strode out to fetch another chest.

Bolitho pulled the heavy sealed envelope towards him. With some education behind him Allday might have become almost anything. He slit open the envelope and smiled to himself. Without it he was quite bad enough.

Herrick stepped into the cabin, his hat tucked under one arm. 'You sent for me, sir?'

Bolitho was standing by the great stern windows, his body moving easily with the ship's motion. Undine had swung her stern to the change of tide, and through the thick glass Herrick could see the distant lights of Portsmouth Point, glimmering and changing shape through the droplets of rain and spray. In the pitching deckhead lanterns the cabin looked snug and inviting. The bench seat around the stern was covered with fine green leather, and Bolitho's desk and chairs stood out against the deck covering of black and white checked canvas like ripe chestnut.

'Sit down, Thomas.'

Bolitho turned slowly and looked at him. He had been back aboard for over an hour, reading and re-reading his orders to ensure he would miss nothing.

He added, 'We will weigh tomorrow afternoon. I have a warrant in my orders which entitles me to accept "volunteers" from the convict hulks in Portsmouth. I would be obliged if you would attend to that as soon after first light as is convenient..'

Herrick nodded, watching Bolitho's grave features, noting the restless movements of his hands, the fact that his carefully prepared meal lay untouched in the adjoining dining space. He was troubled. Uncertain about something.

Bolitho said, 'We are to sail for Teneriffe.' He saw Herrick stiffen and added quietly, 'I know, Thomas. You are like me. It comes hard to tack freely into a port where months back we could have expected a somewhat different welcome.'

Herrick grinned. 'Heated shot, no doubt.'

'There. we will embark two, maybe three passengers. After replenishing whatever stores we lack, we will proceed without further delay to our destination, Madras.' He seemed to be musing aloud. 'Over twelve thousand miles. Long enough to get to know one another. And our ship. The orders state that we will proceed with all haste. For that reason we must ensure our people learn their work well. I want no delays because of carelessness or unnecessary damage to canvas and rigging.'

Herrick rubbed his chin. 'A long haul.'

'Aye, Thomas. A hundred days. That is what I intend.' He smiled, the gravity fading instantly. 'With your help, of course.'

Herrick nodded. 'May I ask what we are expected to accomplish?'

Bolitho looked down at the folded sheets of his orders. 'I still know very little. But I have read quite a lot between the lines.'

He began to pace from side to side, his shadow moving unevenly with the roll of the hull.

'When the war ended, Thomas, it was necessary to make. concessions. To restore a balance. We had captured Trincomalee in Ceylon from the Dutch. The finest naval harbour and the best placed in the Indian Ocean. The French admiral, Suffren, captured it from us, and when war ended gave it back to Holland. We have returned many West Indian islands to France, as well as her Indian stations. And Spain, well, she has been given back Minorca.' He shrugged. 'Many men on both sides died for nothing, it seems.'

Herrick sounded confused. 'But what of us, sir? Did we get nothing out of all this?'

Bolitho smiled. 'I believe we are about to do so. Hence the extreme secrecy and our vague orders concerning Teneriffe.'

He paused and looked down at the stocky lieutenant.

'Without Trincomalee we are in the same position as before the war. We still need a good harbour for our ships. A base to control a wide area. A stepping-stone to expand the East Indies trade.'

Herrick grunted. 'I'd have thought the East India Company had got all it wanted.'

Bolitho's mind returned to the men on the coach. Others he had met in London.

'There are those in authority who see power as the essential foundation of national superiority. Commercial wealth as a means to such power.' He glanced at a twelve-pounder gun at the forward end of his cabin, its squat outline masked by a chintz cover. 'And war as the means to all three.'

Herrick bit his lip. 'And we are to be the "probe", so to speak?'

'I may be quite wrong, Thomas. But you must know my thinking. Just in case things go against us.'

He remembered Winslade's words at the Admiralty. The task I anm giving yon would be better handled by a squadron. He wanted someone he could trust. Or did he merely need a scapegoat should things go wrong? Bolitho had always complained bitterly about being tied to too strict orders. His new ones were so vague that he felt even more restricted. Only one thing was clear. He would take on board a Mr. James Raymond at Teneriffe, and place the ship at his disposal. Raymond was a trusted government courier, and would be carrying the latest despatches to Madras.

Herrick remarked, 'It will take some getting used to. But being at sea again in a ship such as Undine will make a world of difference.'

Bolitho nodded. 'We must ensure that our people are prepared for anything, peace or no peace. Where we are going they may be less inclined to accept our views without argument.'

He sat down on the bench and stared through the spattered glass.

'I will speak with the other officers at eight bells tomorrow while you are in the hulks.' He smiled at Herrick's reflection. 'I am sending you because you will understand. You'll not frighten them all to death!'

He stood up quickly.

'Now, Thomas, we will take a glass of claret.'

Herrick leaned forward. 'That was a goodly selection you had sent from London, sir.'

Bolitho shook his head. 'We will save that for more trying times.' He lifted a decanter from its rack. 'This is more usual to our tastes!'

They drank their claret in comfortable silence. Bolitho was thinking how strange it was to be sitting quietly when the voyage which lay ahead demanded so much of all of them. But it was useless to prowl about the decks or poke into stores and spirit rooms. Undine was ready for sea. As ready as she could ever be. He thought of his officers, the extensions of his ideas and authority. He knew little of any of them. Soames was a competent seaman, but was inclinded to harshness when things did not go right immediately. His superior, Davy, was harder to know. Outwardly cool and unruffled, he had a ruthless streak like many of his kind. The sailing master was called Ezekiel Mudge, a broad lump of a man who looked old enough to be his grandfather. In fact he 'vas sixty, and certainly the oldest master Bolitho had met. Old Mudge would prove to be one of the most important when they reached the Indian Ocean. He had originally served in the East India Company, and had endured more storms, shipwrecks, pirates and a dozen other hazards than any man alive, if his record was to be believed. He had a huge beaked nose, with the eyes perched on either side of it like tiny, bright stones. A formidable person, and one who would be watching his captain's seamanship for flaws, Bolitho was certain of that.

The three midshipmen seemed fairly average. Penn was the youngest, and had come aboard three days after his twelfth birthday. Keen and Armitage were both seventeen, but whereas the former showed the same elegant carelessness as Lieutenant Davy, Armitage appeared to be forever looking over his shoulder. A mother's boy. Four days after he had reported aboard with his gleaming new uniform and polished dirk his mother had in fact come to Portsmouth to visit him. Her husband was a man of some influence, and she had swept into the dockyard in a beautiful carriage like some visiting duchess.

Bolitho had greeted her briefly and allowed her to meet Armitage in the seclusion of the wardroom. If she had seen the actual quarters where her child was to serve his months at sea she would probably have collapsed.

He had had to send Herrick in the end to interrupt the embraces and the mother's plaintive sobs with a feeble excuse about Armitage being required for duty. Duty; he could hardly move abous the ship without falling headlong over a block or a ringbolt.

Giles Bellairs, the debonair captain of marines, was more like a caricature than a real person. Incredibly smart, shoulders always rigidly squared, he looked as if he had had his uniforms moulded around his limbs like wax. He spoke in short, clipped sentences, and barely extended much beyond matters of hunting, wildfowling and, of course, drill. His marines were his whole life, although he hardly ever seemed to utter much in the way of orders. His massive sergeant, Coaker, took care of the close contact with the marines, and Bellairs contented himself with an occasional 'Carry on, Sar'nt Coaker!' or 'I say, Sar'nt, that fellah's like a bundle of old rags, what?' He was one of the few people in Bolitho's experience who could get completely drunk without any outward change of expression.

Triphook, the purser, appeared very competent, if grudging with his rations. He had taken a lot of care to ensure that the victualling yard had not filled the lower hold with rotten casks, to be discovered too late to take action. That in itself was rare.

Bolitho's thoughts came back to the surgeon. He had been aboard for two weeks. Had he been able to get a replacement he would have done so. Whitmarsh was a drunkard in the worst sense. Sober he had a quiet, even gentle manner. Drunk, which was often, he seemed to come apart like an old sail in a sudden squall.

He tightened his jaw. Whitmarsh would mend his ways. Or else…

Feet scraped across the planks overhead and Herrick said, 'There's a few below decks tonight who'll be wondering if they've done a'right by signing on.' He chuckled. 'Too late now.'

Bolitho stared astern at the black, swirling water, hearing the urgent tide banging and squeaking around the rudder.

'Aye. It's a long step from land to sea. Far more so than most people realise.' He returned his glass to the rack. 'I think I shall turn in now. It will be a long day tomorrow.'

Herrick stood up and nodded. 'I'll bid you goodnight, sir.'

He knew full well that Bolitho would stay awake for hours yet. Pacing and planning, searching for last-minute faults, possible mistakes in the arrangement of watch-bills and delegation of duties. Bolitho would know he was aware of this fact, too.

The door closed and Bolitho walked right aft to lean his hands on the centre sill. He could feel the woodwork vibrating under his palms, the hull trembling all around him in time to the squeak of stays, the clatter and slap of halliards and blocks.

Who would watch them go? Would anyone care? One more ship slipping down channel like hundreds before her.

There was a nervous tap at the door, and Noddall, the cabin servant, pattered into the lantern light. A small man, with the pointed face of an anxious rodent. He even held his hands in front of him like two nervous paws.

'Yer supper, sir. You've not touched it.' He started to gather up the plates. 'Won't do, sir. It won't do.'

Bolitho smiled as Noddall scampered away to his pantry. He was so absorbed in his own little world it seemed as if he had not even noticed there was a change of command.

He threw his new cloak across his shoulders and left the cabin. On the pitch-dark quarterdeck he groped his way aft to the taffrail and stared towards the land. Countless lights and hidden houses. He turned and looked along his ship, the wind blowing his hair across his face, the chill making him hold his breath. The riding light reflected on the taut shrouds like pale gold, and right forward he saw a smaller lantern, where the lonely anchor watch kept a wary eye on the cable.

It felt different, he decided. No sentries on each gangway to watch for a sneak attack or a mass attempt at desertion. No nets to delay a sudden rush of enemy boarders. He touched a quarterdeck six-pounder with one hand. It felt like wet ice. But for how long, he wondered?

The master's mate of the watch prowled past, and then sheered away as he saw his captain by the rail.

'All's well, zur!' he called.

'Thank you.'

Bolitho did not know the man's name. Not yet. In the next hundred days he would know more than their names, he thought. As they would about him.

With a sigh he returned to his cabin, his hair plastered to his head, his cheeks tingling from the cold. There was no sign of Noddall, but the cot was ready for him, and there was something hot in a mug nearby.

A minute after his head was or. the pillow he was fast asleep.

The next day dawned as grey as the one before, but overnight the rain had stopped, and the wind held firm from the southeast.

All forenoon the work went on without relaxation, the petty officers checking and re-checking their lists of names, putting them to faces, making sure seasoned hands were spaced among the untried and untrained.

Bolitho dictated a final report to his clerk, a dried-up man named Pope, and then signed it in readiness for the last boat. He found time to speak with his officers, and seek out Mr. Tapril, the gunner, in his magazine to discuss moving some of the spare gun parts and tackle further aft and help adjust the vessel's trim until she had consumed some of her own stores to compensate for it.

He was changing into his seagoing coat, with its faded lace and dull buttons, when Herrick entered the cabin and reported he had brought fifteen new man from the hulks.

'What was it like?'

Herrick sighed. 'It was a sort of hell, sir. I could have got treble the number, a whole company of 'em, if I'd been able to bring their women and wives, too.'

Bolitho paused as he tied his neckcloth. 'Women? In the hulks?'

'Aye, sir.' I-Ierrick shuddered. 'I hope I never see the like again.'

'Very well. Sign them on, but don't give them anything to do just yet. I doubt they've the strength to lift a marlin spike after being penned up like that.'

A midshipman appeared in the open door.

'Mr. Davy's respect, sir.' His eyes darted around the cabin, missing nothing. 'And the anchor's hove short.'

'Thank you.' Bolitho smiled. 'Next time stay awhile, Mr. Penn, and have a better look.'

The boy vanished, and Bolitho looked steadily at Herrick. 'Well, Thomas?'

Herrick nodded firmly. 'Aye, sir. I'm ready. It's been a long wait.'

They climbed up to the quarterdeck together, and while Herrick moved to the forward rail with his speaking trumpet, Bolitho stood aft, a little apart from the others who were gathered restlessly at their stations.

Clink, clink, clink, the capstan was turning more slowly now, the men's backs bent almost double as the hull pulled heavilyy on the anchor.

Bolitho looked at the master's untidy shape beside the double wheel. He had four helmsmen. He was taking no chances, it seemed. With the helm, or his new captain's skill.

'Get the ship under way, if you please.' He saw Herrick's trumpet moving. 'Once clear of this local shipping we will lay her on the larboard tack and steer sou'-west by west.'

Old Mudge nodded heavily, one eye hidden beyond the headland of a nose.

'Aye, aye, sir.'

Herrick yelled, 'Stand by on the capstan!' He shaded his eyes to peer up at the masthead pendant. 'Loose heads'ls!'

The answering flap and clatter of released canvas made several new men peer round, confused and startled. A petty officer thrust a line into a man's hand and bellowed, ''Old it, you bugger! Don't stand there like a bloody woman!'

Bolitho saw a bosun's mate right forward astride the bowsprit, one arm circling above his head as the cable grew stiffer and more vertical beneath the gilded water-nymph.

'Hands aloft! Loose tops'ls!'

Bolitho relaxed slightly as the nimble-footed topmen swarmed up the ratlines on either beam. No sense in rushing it this first time. The watching eyes ashore could think what they liked. He'd get no thanks for letting her drive ashore.

'Man the braces!'

Herrick was hanging over the rail, his trumpet moving from side to side like a coachman's blunderbuss.

'Lively there! Mr. Shellabeer, get those damned idlers aft on the double, I say!'

Shellabeer was the boatswain, a swarthy, taciturn man who looked more like a Spaniard than a Devonian.

Bolitho leaned back, his hands on his hips, watching the swift figures dashing out on the vibrating yards like monkeys. It made him feel sick to watch their indifference to such heights.

First one, then the next great topsail billowed and banged loosely in confusion, while the seamen on the yards clung on, calling to each other, or jeering at their opposite numbers on the other masts.

'Anchor's aweigh, sir!'

Like a thing released from chains the frigate swung dizzily across the steep troughs, men falling and slithering at the braces as they fought to haul the great yards round, to cup the wind and master it.

'Lee braces there! Heave away!' Herrick was hoarse.

Bolitho gritted his teeth and forced himself to remain quite still as she plunged further and further astride the wind. Here and there a bosun's mate struck out with his rope starter or pushed a man bodily to brace or halliard.

Then with a booming roar like thunder the sails filled and hardened to the wind's steady thrust, the deck canting over and holding steady as the helmsmen threw themselves on their spokes. -

He made himself take a glass from Midshipman Keen and trained it across the starboard quarter, keeping his face impassive, even though he was almost shaking with excitement and relief.

The sail drill was very bad, the placing of trained men too sketchy for comfort, but they were away! Free of the land.

He saw a few people on the Point watching them heel over on the larboard tack, the top of a shining carriage just below the wall. Perhaps it was Armitage's mother, weeping as she watched her offspring being taken from her.

The master shouted gruffly, 'Sou'-west by west, sir! Full an' bye!'

When Bolitho turned to answer him he saw that the master was nodding with something like approval.

'Thank you, Mr. Mudge. We will get the courses on her directly.'

He walked forward to join Herrick at the rail, his body angled steeply to the deck. Some of the confusion was being cleared, with men picking their way amidst loose coils of rope like survivors from a battle.

Herrick looked at him sadly. 'It was terrible, sir.'

'I agree, Mr. Herrick.' He could not restrain a smile. 'But it will improve, eh?'

By late afternoon Undine had beaten clear of the Isle of Wight and was standing well out in the Channel.

By evening only her reefed topsails were visible, and soon even they had disappeared.