Passage to Mutiny

2. Isolation

BOLITHO paused on the companion ladder and allowed his eyes time to adapt to the harsh glare.

It was almost eight bells, with the men of the forenoon watch listlessly assembled below the quarterdeck rail to make the changeover.

Bolitho had been on deck two hours earlier, as was his habit. Then, even with the sure knowledge of another scalding day to come, it had seemed refreshing and alive. There had been a dampness on canvas and rigging to add to the deception, but now the sun’s heat had expanded and magnified, and as he stepped on to the quarterdeck he found himself wondering just how long they could continue searching for the Eurotas.

Since leaving Sydney they had made good two thousand five hundred miles. Nearer three thousand with all the changes of tack and the maddening perversity of the wind. Herrick had remarked that itfelt twenty times that much.

Three weeks of searing heat and endless, empty miles.

Bolitho squinted his eyes to try and see beyond the gently pitching bowsprit, but the glare was already so fierce that the sea appeared as polished silver without division between it and the sky.

Slowly he examined the set of each sail. Drawing, but only just, with the yards braced round to hold the vessel on a starboard tack.

He heard the master’s mate report to Lieutenant Borlase, “The watch is aft, sir.”

Then Borlase’s heels squeaked as he crossed the deck, his shoes clinging to the hot pitch between the seams.

Both he and Keen, who was relieving him, were well aware that their captain was present, but were used enough to his ways to know he would not interfere with the routine of changing the watch.

Bolitho heard Keen say, “Aye, sir. Nor’-east by east. Full and bye.”

Then Borlase, curt and impatient. “As usual, nothing to report. I have logged Peterson for insolence. The first lieutenant can deal with him later.” He wiped his streaming face and neck. “Relieve the wheel, if you please.” Then with a nod he vanished through the companionway.

The hands went about their allotted duties and the watch began another long four hours.

Bolitho had seen Herrick right forward with the boatswain and some working parties. The tasks were unending. The ship, like any other, was like a finely tuned instrument, with every inch of rigging and canvas designed and arrayed to play its part. Splicing and stitching, painting and blacking-down rigging, Tempest took a lot of sweat and backbreaking effort.

Herrick saw him and strode aft along the weather gangway, his stocky frame barely angled to the sun-dried planking. It was hardly surprising, for even with courses and topsails set to the wind the hull was hardly heeling to its thrust.

Herrick observed, “Another hard one, sir.” He looked at each mast in turn. “I’ve had the hands turned-to early. It’ll save them from the worst of it. Mr Jury has some heavier tasks on the orlop for this afternoon.”

Bolitho nodded, watching Keen as he moved restlessly around the wheel and compass. Like the other officers he was dressed only in shirt and breeches, and his fair hair was plastered across his forehead with sweat.

He said, “Good, Thomas. I know they’ll curse us for the heavy work, but it will save them from other troubles.”

Herrick knew as well as any officer that too much leisure under these conditions could lead to arguments and worse. In cabin and wardroom it was bad enough. For the company crammed together in their screened quarters or messdecks it would be like part of hell.

Herrick watched him, judging the right moment.

“How much longer, sir?” He stood his ground as Bolitho turned towards him. “I mean, we have covered the full distance. That mail packet reported Eurotas in these waters, safe and on passage. She must have run into trouble. We could barely miss her at this snail’s pace.”

Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and gripped it with both hands. The heated woodwork helped to steady his mind, hold back his uncertainty.

He saw Jacob Twig, the cook, walking purposefully beneath the shadow of a gangway, on his way to see the purser, no doubt. The fresh food and extra stores they had obtained from Sydney had to be eked out within the usual issue of meat from the cask. Salt beef, salt pork, some so hard it was like the ship’s teak. Twig was very dark and extremely tall. When he was in his evil-smelling galley he loomed over the pots and platters like some kind of sorcerer brewing potions.

Bolitho said slowly, “I agree that we have run the full course.”

He tried to picture the missing ship, guess what could or might have befallen her.

In the whole three weeks they had spoken with only two other vessels, small Dutch trading schooners. They had been a week apart, but neither of the masters had reported sighting anything except the usual clusters of native craft amongst the many islands. And it was always prudent to give them a wide berth.

He added, “According to the chart, we are once again due south of Tongatapu. If we come about and steer to take advantage of this wind, I think we could sight land early tomorrow.”

Herrick waited. Reading his mind.

Bolitho said, “I’ll not hazard the ship amidst the reefs, but we can put boats ashore. The local chief is alleged to be friendly. Our ships are not unknown to him, according to Mr Lakey.”

Herrick grimaced. “I’ll take a loaded brace of pistols with me nevertheless, sir! There have been too many good sailors cut down without warning.”

Bolitho turned to watch a sudden flurry in the sea alongside. A shark falling upon a smaller fish, the incident over in a second. Then the surface was smooth again, with just the occasional pointer of the shark’s fin to reveal their patient escort.

He replied, “Some of these islands have had good reason to hate us.” He unconsciously touched the lock of hair which hung above his right eye.

Herrick saw the movement. It was as familiar as Bolitho’s level grey eyes. Beneath the lock of hair was a deep, savage scar which ran right up his forehead. As a junior lieutenant Bolitho had been struck down and all but killed by a native when he had been on an island with his ship’s watering party.

Herrick persisted, “I’ll shoot first, all the same, sir. I’ve come too far to have my brains spilled with a war club!”

Bolitho was suddenly impatient. The thought that the Eurotas might have been overrun by warring islanders appalled him.

“Call the master, Thomas. We’ll lay off a new course and decide what we must do.”

Herrick watched him stride towards the poop, his face completely absorbed.

He said to Keen, “Keep an eye on your watch. We will be needing all hands within the hour.”

Keen did not answer. He remembered Viola Raymond. She had nursed him when he had been put ashore after being wounded. Like some of the others he knew about the captain’s involvement and what Herrick thought about it all. Keen was fond of them both, but especially so of Bolitho. If he was going to search for Viola Raymond, and more risk was to come from their reunion, then it was their business. He watched Herrick’s troubled face. Or was it?

In the small chart room beneath the poop and adjoining the master’s cabin Bolitho leaned over the table watching Lakey’s fingers busy with brass dividers and rule.

“If the wind holds. Noon tomorrow.” Lakey looked up from the table, his lean face silhouetted against an open port.

Beyond it the sea was glittering and painful to look at. How much worse in a big transport loaded with convicts. If the Eurotas was aground somewhere, then the first fear would soon change to something more dangerous. The desire to escape, to be free with even the tiniest chance of survival, could make men do the impossible.

If the wind holds. It must be engraved on every sea officer’s heart, Bolitho thought.

He eyed Lakey thoughtfully. “So be it. One hundred and forty miles to Tongatapu. If we can log five knots and no more once we have changed course, I think your estimate a fair one.”

Lakey shrugged. He rarely rose to either praise or doubt. “I’ll feel happier when I’ve examined our noon sights, sir.”

Bolitho smiled. “Very well.”

He turned on his heel and hurried to the quarterdeck, knowing Lakey would be there when he was needed.

“Ah, Thomas, we will bring her about on the half-hour and steer nor’-west. That will allow us sea room when we are closer to the reefs. Also, if the wind veers we will be better placed to select one of the other islands in the group.”

When a ship’s boy turned the half-hour glass beside the binnacle the hands manned the braces and hauled breathlessly at the frigate’s great yards.

As Tempest wallowed round and allowed herself to be laid on the opposite tack Bolitho was very aware of the time it took to perform the change. Even allowing for the poor wind, he had every available man employed on deck and aloft. He knew the folly of allowing slackness and taking short-cuts even on routine work. In battle, with the biggest proportion of seamen required at the guns and repairing damage, the ship would have to be handled by far fewer. And yet Tempest had answered helm and canvas more with the slow dignity of a ship of the line than a frigate.

It was so easy to get complacent, to put off the back-breaking and thankless work of gun and sail drill with a battle in mind.

Out here, with sometimes months on end and no sight of any other man-of-war, it was hard to build up enthusiasm for such drills, especially when it was only too easy to turn your own back upon it.

Bolitho had one bitter reminder, however. In the years when he had commanded Undine he had been forced into open conflict with a powerful French frigate, the Argus, commanded by Le

Chaumareys, an experienced veteran of the war and one of Admiral

Suffren’s most capable commanders. Although serving under a letter of marque for the self-styled prince, Muljadi, Le Chaumareys had remained a French officer in the best sense of the word. He had even warned Bolitho of the foolishness he would display in trying to fight his Argus, Muljadi’s pirate fleet and the dithering incompetence of governments on the other side of the world. Just two ships could decide the fate of a great area of the Indies. Bolitho’s little Undine and Le Chaumareys’ powerful forty-four.

As in Tempest, Bolitho had been blessed with a motley collection of seamen, some of whom had been gathered from prison hulks to make his complement adequate.

All he had had against the Frenchman’s experience and his equally well-trained company had been youth and a freshness of ideas. Le Chaumareys had been away from home for years. His work under another’s flag was to have been his last before returning honourably to his beloved France.

It had been Le Chaumareys’ familiarity with an established routine, his reliance on the same old methods and manoeuvres, which had cost him a victory, and his life.

Bolitho wondered how long it would take him to get too complacent, or so weary with endless patrols and chases after pirates that when a real challenge offered itself he would find himself without the steel to repel it. Or if indeed he would recognize the weakness if there was no one to tell him.

“Course nor’-west, sir. Full and bye.” Herrick wiped his forehead with his wrist. “And no fresher on this tack either!”

Bolitho took a telescope from Midshipman Swift and trained it beyond the bows. Through the taut rigging and shrouds and above the figurehead’s golden shoulder, on and on, to nothing.

“Very well. Dismiss the watch below.” He stopped Herrick as he made to hurry away. “I believe Mr Borlase wishes you to punish a seaman today?”

Herrick watched him gravely. “Aye, sir. Peterson. For insolence. He swore at a bosun’s mate.”

“I see. Then warn the man yourself, Thomas. A flogging for such a triviality will do nothing to help matters.” He looked at some seamen on the deck below and along the gangways. Almost naked, and tanned in a dozen hues, they appeared strong enough, able to control any sudden flare-up of temper which could end in flogging, or worse. “Then have a word with Mr Borlase. I’ll not have him or any officer passing over responsibility in this manner. He was in charge of the watch. He should have dispersed the trouble as soon as he saw it.”

Herrick watched him leave the deck and cursed himself for not stepping into the matter earlier. For letting Borlase get away with it, as he did so often, when you stopped to think about it. When you were tired, sun-dried and dying for a cool breeze it was often much easier to do the work yourself instead of following through the chain of command.

Which is why I’ll never rise above lieutenant.

As Herrick moved up and down the weather side of the deck he was watched for much of the time by Keen and Midshipman

Swift.

From midshipman in the Undine to Tempest’s third lieutenant. When Keen had been raised from acting rank and had passed his examination for lieutenant he had imagined that no reward could provide greater satisfaction.

While he tried to stay under the shadow of the mizzen topsail he watched Herrick and wondered, not for the first time, where the next move would come. Some lieutenants seemed to soar to post rank and higher, like comets. Others remained at the same level year after year until rejected by the Navy and thrown on the beach.

If only he had been old enough to have served with men like Bolitho and Herrick in the real way. Against the French, and the American Revolution, or anyone who faced them across the water and challenged a flag as well as a broadside.

He heard Lakey’s step beside him. “I have been thinking-”

The sailing master smiled grimly. “My old father on Tresco used to say, leave thinking to horses, Tobias. They’ve bigger heads than yours.” It seemed to amuse him. “We’ve a course to run out, Mr Keen. And no brooding or pining is going to change our captain’s intentions, not by one inch.”

Keen grinned. He liked Lakey, although their worlds were so different.

“I’ll try to contain myself.”

Below in his day cabin Bolitho sat at his desk and worked slowly through the day’s affairs. As in most forenoon watches he received a regular stream of visitors.

Bynoe, the purser, requesting a signature on his ledger of newly opened meat casks. Hard of eye, more so of heart, Bolitho suspected, the purser was better than many he had served with. His rations were fairly issued, and he did not dock a seaman’s meagre pay for some article he had not received and would not remember when the ship eventually paid off.

The surgeon came with his daily sick report. The hands kept remarkably free of hurt and illness, Bolitho was thankful to discover. But when it struck it was without warning or mercy. As with the men lost overboard, and the two left in the care of the Dutch doctors at Coupang.

While he studied each book and ledger placed before him by Cheadle, his clerk, he was conscious too of the life above and around him. They were all extensions of the ship herself. If a man died or was removed the ship lived on, gathering replacements to sustain herself.

He heard the rumble of gun trucks as one by one each cannon, from the long twelve-pounders on the main deck to the snappy six-pounders aft, were hauled inboard and examined by Jack Brass, Tempest’s gunner. It was Brass’s routine arrangement that every week he would check each weapon, and God help the gun captain whose charge failed to reach his standards.

Bolitho had been lucky with his warrant officers and more seasoned men, and was grateful for it. Even his four midshipmen, sent to him originally by parents who wished them to gain experience and advancement which was harder to get elsewhere in peacetime, were more like young lieutenants after two years’ continuous service. Swift and Pyper were seventeen, and already thinking of the time when they would be able to sit for promotion. Fitzmaurice, a pug-faced youth of sixteen, had had much of the arrogance knocked out of him. He came of a very rich family indeed, and had imagined apparently that his commission in Tempest was to be something akin to a courtesy cruise. Herrick and Lakey had taught him otherwise.

The youngest, Evelyn Romney, was fifteen. They all made a change from the usual twelveand thirteen-year-olds you found in most ships, Bolitho thought. Romney had improved the least. He was a naturally shy youth, and lacked the firmness required when dealing with men old enough to be his father. But if Fitzmaurice cursed his family for sending him packing to sea, Romney, who was less able to face up to the demands made on the “young gentlemen,” seemed desperately determined to do well. He obviously loved the Navy, and his attempts to overcome his shyness were pathetic to watch.

Bolitho heard the measured tramp of boots as the marines trooped aft from their daily drills on the forecastle and in the tops. Prideaux would not be with them. He would leave the sweat and discomfort to his sergeant. Then later he would emerge and criticize, his foxy face peering at each of his men in turn. Bolitho had never heard him offer one word of encouragement or praise, even when a marine had been promoted.

More muffled than the sounds near the quarterdeck, he heard the thump of hammers and the occasional rasp of a saw.

Isaac Toby was the ship’s carpenter. Fat, slow-moving and rather vacant-looking, he had the appearance of an untidy owl. But as a carpenter he was an artist. With his own small crew he kept the repairs up to date, although with a vessel built of teak that was the least of his worries. At this moment he would be completing his latest challenge, the building of a new, additional jolly boat. It had been something of a joke to begin with, a casual remark made by the gunner about waste of valuable wood when a seaman had been caught throwing some off-cuts over the side.

Toby had taken it as a personal affront and had said he would build a boat with his own hands out of all the oddments which Brass could discover. The boat was nearly completed, and even Brass had had to admit it was far better than Tempest’s original one.

Bolitho leaned back and ran his fingers through his hair.

Cheadle gathered up the last document and made sure the signature was dry. The clerk was a strange, withdrawn man, as were many of his kind. He had deep, hollow eyes and large, uneven teeth, so that he appeared to be smiling, something he never did, as far as Bolitho knew. To discover anything of his past Bolitho had had to drag it from him word by word. He had been transferred from another ship which had been paid off in Bombay. His captain had assured Bolitho that Cheadle was a good clerk, if somewhat reticent. He had once worked in a grocer’s shop in Canterbury, and prided himself on his service to “the quality.” But so far, even after two years of daily contact, Bolitho had never heard him mention it.

Noddall entered as the clerk left and placed a glass of wine on the desk. With fresh water so much in demand, and the uncertainty of supply a constant worry, Bolitho usually took wine as an easy alternative. He recalled when he had been guided to the famous shop in St James’s, how he had purchased the many fine bottles before his voyage to the other side of the world in Undine. The wine had been reduced to broken glass and spillage during his fight with the Argus, but the memory stayed with him. He touched the watch in his pocket. Like so many others.

Allday sauntered through from the sleeping cabin and watched him gravely.

“Reckon we’ll find ’em, Captain?”

He stood with arms folded across his deep chest, his face and body relaxed. He was more like a companion than a subordinate. How much they had shared together. Bolitho often wondered if Allday missed England. He would certainly be missing the girls. Allday had always had a reputation with them, and more than once had been glad, if not eager, to set sail in haste for fear of husband or irate father.

“I hope so.”

Bolitho sipped the drink. Cheap and stale. Not like the French wine which Herrick had got for him. The Sydney garrison had probably bought a stock from a French ship, or some ambitious trader. If you were prepared to risk your fortune and your life, and pit your wits against fierce natives, pirates and the constant dangers of shipwreck you could sell anything out here.

In the wake of navigators and explorers like Cook had come the others. On some islands, where the natives had lived in simple, idyllic surroundings, the ships had introduced disease and death. The merchant adventurers had set one tribe against another by offering shoddy goods and cheap cloth in exchange for secure moorings from which to barter.

And now everyone was paying for it. Soon, some over-greedy trader would start supplying a tribe with muskets. Bolitho had seen it happen in the Americas, where the French had trained Indians to track and kill the British, and the British had done the same to them.

Afterwards, with their independence won, and with both British and French gone from their newborn country, the Americans had been left with another army in their midst. A nation of Indian warriors which, if joined together, might still drive the settlers into the sea and isolate the new ports and cities.

He added, “I doubt very much that we could have passed the Eurotas without sighting her. We have had double lookouts, and at night have shown enough lights for a blind man to see. Her captain would know of the concern for his late arrival and would try to make contact with any ship of size.”

Allday’s eyes were distant as he watched the sea through the stern windows. With the wind across the larboard quarter the ship was leaning slightly under the pressure, so that the sea appeared to be on the slope. Like most professional seamen, Allday seemed able to stare at the sea without a blink, and yet the horizon was shining fiercely like a tautly stretched thread of gems.

“My guess, Captain, is that she’s put in somewhere for water. Her supply might have gone foul, as ours did once.” He grimaced. “With a hull full of convicts and the like, her captain’d not want to add to his worries, and that’s no error.”

“True.”

Bolitho looked away, remembering the way she had looked. Their carefree disregard for discovery and what might have happened. At Madras, and afterwards. In that wretched, fever-infested colony to which Bolitho’s ship had been sent to lend authority to yet another governor. Often he had sweated at the thought of those possibilities. A door being flung open, her face and shoulders pale as he tried to hide her from her husband. But nobody had come to break their passions, and the ache of losing her was even harder to accept.

He felt anger, too. What could James Raymond be thinking of to drag her out here again? European women found the climate cruel and demanding, and for Raymond there was no such need. His fine house, his authority, all he had gained at others’ expense would have made it easy to leave her in security and comfort amongst people and customs she understood.

There was a rap at the door and Borlase peered through the screen, his face less mild than usual.

“I was wondering if I might speak with you, sir.” He looked quickly at Allday. “But if it is inconvenient…”

Bolitho gestured to Allday, and as he left the cabin said, “Be brief, Mr Borlase. I intend to exercise the twelve-pounders before noon.”

He knew why the lieutenant was here; that too depressed him.

Borlase licked his lips. “I had occasion to log a seaman, sir.”

“Peterson. I know.”

He saw the merest flicker of surprise before Borlase hurried on, “I see, sir. But I intended that Mr Herrick should award punishment. Peterson was defiant and insolent to his superior, and twelve lashes, at the very least, should be his just deserts!”

The speech had brought a flush to his cheeks. Like a petulant but triumphant child who has found a weakness in authority, Bolitho thought.

He answered quietly, “The bosun’s mate who was defied was Schultz, is that so?” He did not wait for an answer but continued in the same level voice, “He is an excellent seaman, and we are lucky to have him. But,” the word hung in the air, “less than two years back he could speak no tongue but his native German. What language he has mastered is made up of sailors’ talk and slang, the commands needed to obey and instruct others.”

Borlase stared at him blankly. “I don’t see…”

“Had you bothered to investigate this matter”-Bolitho could feel his anger mounting, despite his care to control it. Why were men like Borlase never able to learn from mistakes and to accept the lessons?-“you would have treated the incident with a minimum of fuss. I believe that Peterson was slow to respond to an order, and Schultz shouted that he were better on a gallows than on the main yard?” He waited, seeing Borlase’s fingers opening and closing like claws. “Well?”

“Yes, sir. Something like that. Then Peterson called Schultz a pig and a heartless devil.” Borlase nodded firmly. “It was then that I ordered him to be taken below.”

Bolitho locked his fingers behind his head. He felt the sweat trickling down his chest and armpits, the shirt, newly washed and fresh on today, clinging like a wet shroud.

Maybe this was what had occurred in the missing Bounty, or aboard the Eurotas. Men tormented by climate and unceasing work taken off guard by some stupid remark made without real thought. The rest could explode like a powder cask.

He said, “Peterson’s father was hanged at Exeter for murder and theft. But he was wrongly identified, and the real murderer was caught and executed a year later.” His tone hardened. “But not before Peterson’s mother and family had been driven from their home by the dead man’s friends. They received a pardon, but it was somewhat late.” He saw Borlase pale and added, “I do not blame Schultz, because his language is limited. I cannot blame Peterson either. The very mention of a gibbet, the suggestion, no matter how casually made, that he were better use hanging from one, would drive me to rage!”

Borlase muttered haltingly, “I am sorry, sir. I did not know.”

“Which is why I blame you. That man is in your division and was of your watch. I knew, so did the first lieutenant. I trust that you will do something, and soon, to restore his respect. Something you have to earn, Mr Borlase, it does not come with the King’s coat!”

Borlase turned about and left the cabin, and for several moments Bolitho remained quite still in his chair, letting the sea noises intrude again to cover the fierce beats of his heart.

Allday said, “That was a rare quilting, Captain!”

“I told you to leave the cabin!” He stood up, furious with himself for losing his temper, and with Allday for his calm acceptance of it.

“But I did, Captain!” Allday kept his face stiff. “I thought you were calling me aft again.”

Bolitho gave in. “Was it that loud?”

Allday grinned. “I’ve heard worse, but I guessed you had pressing matters on your mind, and might wish to be reminded of them.”

“Thank you.” He felt his mouth giving way to a smile. “And damn you for your insolence.”

The coxswain took down Bolitho’s old sword from the bulkhead and rubbed it against his shirt.

“I think I’ll give it a polish, Captain. Might bring us fortune.”

Bolitho looked up at the open skylight as bare feet pounded over the deck and he heard the sudden squeal of blocks, the boom of canvas. The watch on deck was trimming the sails and resetting the yards again. The wind getting up? A change of direction?

He left the chair and walked swiftly through the day cabin to the outer door.

Keen was still in charge of the watch, and was as competent and reliable as any young officer could be. But Bolitho knew his one weakness. That Keen would rather die than call his captain to aid him if the wind began to change. He also understood why Keen was so unwilling, and the knowledge had so far prevented him from warning the lieutenant of the danger which delayed action could bring.

He reached the quarterdeck and saw the hands at the braces and the yards trimmed to take a slight alteration in the wind’s direction.

Starling, master’s mate-of-the-watch, touched his forehead and reported, “Wind’s backed a mite, sir. An’ ’tis risen, too.”

His voice was extra loud, and Bolitho guessed he was warning his lieutenant that the captain was about.

Bolitho consulted the compass and the set of the sails. They were hard and filling well. They might gain another knot for a few hours, with any luck.

Keen hurried in from the quarterdeck rail, his face anxious.

Bolitho nodded impassively. “We will call the hands to exercise the main armament in an hour’s time, Mr Keen.” He saw the surprise and the relief on Keen’s face. “Something wrong?”

Keen swallowed hard. “N-no, sir. Nothing. I just thought…” He broke off.

Bolitho turned aft to the poop. Keen would never make a good liar.

Keen watched him walk to the comparative seclusion of the stern and then whispered fiercely, “Did he say anything, Mr Starling?”

The master’s mate eyed him cheerfully. Like most of the others he liked Keen. Many, once raised to the rank of lieutenant, thought themselves too proud to speak with mere sailormen.

He replied, “I think ’e just wanted you to know ’e was there, sir. In case you needed ’im like.” He showed his teeth. “But o’ course, we didn’t, did we, sir?” He walked away chuckling to himself, and to supervise the flaking down of disordered halliards.

Keen thrust his hands behind him as he had seen Bolitho do so often and began to pace the deck, ignoring the heat and the thirst which was making his mouth like clay. It was difficult to fathom the captain sometimes. To know if he was sharing something with you or holding it to himself for his own amusement.

Keen had heard his voice through the cabin skylight, although he had not known what was said. But Bolitho’s tone, and Borlase’s face when he had appeared on deck, had told him far more.

It never stopped for a captain. Never. He saw Allday walking along the gundeck carrying the sword under his arm. He could almost envy him his confidences with the captain. More even than Herrick he seemed to be the one who really shared them.

He swung round, startled, as Bolitho called from the taffrail, “Mr Keen, I fully realize your intention to keep your body in a healthy condition by walking back and forth under the sun, but would you please exercise your mind also and send some hands to the fore-tops’l brace. It too needs your urgent attention.”

Keen nodded and hurried to the rail.

No matter what other problems might be on the captain’s thoughts his eyes were in no way affected.