Second to None

6. None Braver

ADAM BOLITHO closed his small log book and leaned his elbows on the cabin table. For a moment he watched the dying light, the shadows moving evenly across the checkered deck as Unrivalled tilted to a steady wind across the quarter. A fine sunset, the thick glass and the cabin skylight the colour of bronze.

He massaged his eyes and tried to thrust aside the lingering disappointment, and accept what he had perceived as unfairness. Not to himself, but to the ship.

They had done what many would have considered foolhardy, and, having cut out a valuable prize from under the noses of the Dey’s defenders, they had joined the other ships outside the port in an atmosphere of triumph and excitement.

Now Unrivalled sailed alone. At any other time Adam would have welcomed this, the independence beloved of frigate captains.

But he had sensed the resentment when Captain Bouverie had decided to return to Malta with the captured La Fortune, and, as senior officer, to reap the praise and the lion’s share of any reward which might be forthcoming. From what Adam had managed to glean from the French frigate’s log, it seemed that her captain had been employed along the North African coast, snatching up or destroying local shipping with little or no opposition. The circumstances of war must have changed his role to that of a mercenary, under French colours now that Napoleon was back in Europe, but living off whichever ally found his services most useful when there was no other choice.

Adam had known nothing but war all his life, and even while he had been at sea he had been well aware of the constant threat of invasion. He thought of La Fortune ’s captain and others like him. How would I feel, if England was overrun by a ruthless enemy? Would I continue to fight? And for what?

He felt the rudder shudder beneath the counter. The glass was steady, but Cristie insisted that the wind which had given them Rosario and their one chance to cut out the frigate was the forerunner of stronger gusts. It was not unknown in the Mediterranean, even in June.

Two of the cutting-out party who had died of their wounds had been from Unrivalled, and they had been buried immediately.

But it was another source of grievance, and then open protest, now that the prize had disappeared with Matchless. There had been an outbreak of violence in one of the messes, and a petty officer had been threatened when he had intervened. So there would be two men for punishment tomorrow.

Adam disliked the grim ritual of flogging. It too often broke a man who might have made something of himself had he been properly guided. He recalled Galbraith’s words to the midshipman. Inspired. The hard man would only become harder and more unruly. But until there was an alternative…

He frowned as the cabin servant entered and walked down the tilting deck towards him. One of the ship’s boys, his name was Napier, and he had been trained originally to serve the officers in the wardroom. He took his duties very seriously and wore an habitual expression of set determination.

Galbraith had made the choice himself, no doubt wondering why a post-captain did not have a servant of his own.

Click… click… click. Napier wore ill-fitting shoes for this new employment, probably bought from one of the traders who hung around the King’s ships, and the sound grated on Adam’s nerves.

“Napier!” He saw the youth stiffen, and changed his mind. “No matter. Fetch me some of that wine.” He curbed his impatience, knowing he himself was at fault. What is the matter with me? The boy he was going to sponsor for midshipman, the boy he had been trying to fashion in his own image, if he was honest enough to admit it, was dead.

Napier hurried away, pleased to be doing something. Click… click… click. He thought of the state of the French frigate’s stores. La Fortune had been down to her last resources when she had been seized, her powder and shot, salted meat, and even the cheese the Frenchmen took as a part of life almost finished.

He recalled Jago’s remarks about wine, and smiled. There had indeed been plenty of that, under lock and key until Bosanquet of the Royal Marines had shattered it with a well-aimed pistol shot.

Napier brought the bottle and a glass and placed them with great care beside the log book.

Adam could feel the eyes on him as he poured a glass. The Captain. Who lived in this fine cabin and was oblivious to the cramped conditions and brutal humour of the messdecks. Who wanted for nothing.

The wine was cool, and he imagined Catherine selecting it for him. Who else would care about such things? He would eke it out. Like the memory: hold on to it.

The glass almost broke in his fingers as he exclaimed, “Hell’s teeth, boy!” He saw Napier cringe, and said urgently, “No! Not you!” Like calming a frightened animal; he was ashamed that it was always so easy. For the Captain.

He said evenly, “Tell the sentry to fetch the first lieutenant, will you?”

Napier twisted his hands together, staring at the glass.

“Did I do somethin’ wrong, sir?”

Adam shook his head.

“A bad lookout is the one who sees only what he expects to see, or what others have told him to expect.” He raised his voice. “Sentry!» When the marine thrust his head around the screen door he said, “My compliments to the first lieutenant, and would you ask him to come aft.” He looked back at the boy. “Today, I am that bad lookout!”

Napier said slowly, “I see, sir.”

Adam smiled. “I think not, but fetch another bottle, will you?”

It was probably only a flaw in his memory. Something to cover his anger at Bouverie’s arrogant but justified action over the prize.

And what of La Fortune? Were there still people who did not know or believe that ships had souls? She was not a new vessel, and must have seen action often enough against the flag which the marine had hoisted at her peak. Now she would probably be sold, most likely to the Dutch government. Another old enemy. Several prizes had already been disposed of in that manner, and yet, as the vice-admiral himself had pointed out, the fleet was as short of frigates as ever.

Galbraith entered the cabin, his eyes taking in the wine, and the anxious servant.

“Sir?”

“Be seated. Some wine?”

He saw the first lieutenant relax slightly.

“The Frenchman we took-she was short of everything, especially powder and shot.”

Galbraith took time to pick up and examine the glass. “We were saying as much earlier, sir.”

So they had been discussing it in the wardroom, and most of all, he had no doubt, the prize-money which might eventually be shared out.

“And yet there was a letter, which Lieutenant Avery translated.” Remembering his bitterness. “To La Fortune ’s captain. Supposedly from a lady.” He noted the immediate interest, and then the doubt. “I can see you think as I did.” He grinned ruefully. “Eventually!”

Galbraith said, “It seems strange that anyone would be able to send a letter to a ship whose whereabouts were largely unknown.”

Adam nodded, his skin ice-cold in spite of the cabin’s warmth.

“To promise the delivery of the one thing they did not need. Wine!”

Galbraith stared past him. “Daniel… I mean, Mr Wynter made a note of the dates in Rosario ’s log, sir.”

“Did he indeed? We may have cause to thank him for his dedication.”

He was on his feet, his shadow angled across the white-painted timbers, as if the hull was leaning hard over.

“My orders are to remain on this station and to await instructions. That I must do. But we shall be seen to be here. There are those who might believe that Matchless has gone to obtain assistance, and that time is now more precious than ever.”

Galbraith watched him, seeing the changing emotions, could almost feel him thinking aloud.

He ventured, “They are expecting supplies, above all powder and shot. If there are other ships sheltering in Algiers…”

Adam paused and touched his shoulder. “And they still have La Fortune ’s captain to help matters along, remember?”

“And we are alone, sir.”

Adam nodded slowly, seeing the chart in his mind. “The Corsican tyrant once said, ‘Wherever wood can swim, there I am sure to find this flag of England.’” The mood left him as quickly. “The truest words he ever spoke.” He realised for the first time that the servant, Napier, had been in the cabin the whole time, and was already refilling the glasses. With the wine from St James’s Street in London. He said, “We have no choice.”

He walked to the stern windows, but there was only a fine line to separate sky from sea. Almost dark. My birthday.

He thought of her, whom he had loved and had lost, and when he looked at the old sword hanging from its rack, reflecting the lantern light, he thought of another who had helped him and was rarely out of his thoughts. Neither had been his to lose in the first place.

He said suddenly, “How did it feel today, having a command of your own again?”

Galbraith did not appear to hesitate.

“Like me, sir, I think the ship felt uneasy without her captain.”

Their eyes met, and held. The barrier was down.

There was nothing else. For either of them.

The carriage with its perfectly matched greys wheeled sharply into the drive and halted at the foot of the steps. Sillitoe jumped down with barely a glance at his coachman.

“Change the horses, man! Quick as you can!”

He knew he was allowing his agitation to show itself, but he was powerless against it. He left the carriage door open, the watery sunlight playing on its crest. Baron Sillitoe of Chiswick.

A servant was sweeping the steps but removed the broom and averted his eyes as Sillitoe ran past him and threw open the double doors before anyone could be there to greet him.

He was late. Too late. And all because he had been delayed by the Prime Minister: some errand for the Prince Regent. It could have waited. Should have waited.

He saw his minute secretary, Marlow, coming towards him from the library. A man who knew all his master’s moods but had remained loyal to him, perhaps because of rather than in spite of them, Marlow recognised his displeasure now, and that there was no point in attempting to appease him.

“She is not here, m’ lord.”

Sillitoe stared up and around the bare, elegant staircase. There were few paintings, although the portrait of his father, the slaver, was a notable exception, and fewer objets d’art. Spartan, some called it. It suited him.

“Lady Somervell was to wait here for me! I told you exactly what I intended-” He stopped abruptly; he was wasting more time. “Tell me.”

He felt empty, shocked that it had been so simple to deceive him. It had to be the case. No one else would dare, dare even to consider it.

Marlow said, “Lady Somervell was here, m’ lord.” He glanced at the open library door, seeing her in his mind. All in black but so beautiful, so contained. “I tried to make her comfortable, but as time passed she became… troubled.”

Sillitoe waited, controlling his impatience, and surprised by Marlow’s concern. He had never thought of his small, mild-mannered secretary as anything but an efficient and trustworthy extension of his own machinations.

Another door opened soundlessly and Guthrie, his valet, stood watching him, his battered features wary. More like a prize-fighter than a servant, as were most of the men entrusted with Sillitoe’s affairs.

“She wanted a carriage, m’ lord. I told her there would be great crowds. Difficulties. But she insisted, and I knew you would expect me to act in your absence. I hope I did right, m’ lord?”

Sillitoe walked past him and stared at the river, the boats, the moored barges. Passengers and crews alike always pointed to this mansion on the bank of the Thames. Known to so many, truly known by none of them.

“You did right, Marlow.” He heard horses stamping on flagstones, his coachman speaking to each by name.

He considered his anger as he would a physical opponent, along the length of a keen blade or beyond the muzzle of a duelling pistol.

He was the Prince Regent’s Inspector-General, and his friend and confidential adviser. On most matters. On expenditure, the manipulations of both army and naval staffs, even on the subject of women. And when the King finally died, still imprisoned in his all-consuming madness, he could expect an even greater authority. Above all, the Prince Regent was his friend.

He attempted to look at it coldly, logically, as was his way with all obstacles. The Prince, “Prinny,” knew better than most the dangers of envy and spite. He was quick to see it among those closest to him, and would do what he could to preserve what he called “a visible stability.” Perhaps he had already tried to warn him what might become of that stability, if his inspector-general were to lose his wits to a woman who had openly scorned and defied that same society for the man she loved.

And I did not realise. He could even accept that. But to believe that the future King had betrayed him, had given him a mission merely to keep him away and safe from slander and ridicule, was beyond belief. Even as he knew it was true. It was the only explanation.

Marlow coughed quietly. “The horses have been changed, m’ lord. Shall I tell William to stand down now?”

Sillitoe regarded him calmly. So Marlow knew too, or guessed.

He thought of Catherine, in this house or around the river’s sweeping bend in Chelsea. Of the night he had burst in with Guthrie and the others and had saved her. Saved her. It was stark in his mind, like blood under the guillotine during the Terror.

He thought of Bethune’s stupid, conniving wife, and Rhodes, who had expected to be created First Lord of the Admiralty. Of Richard Bolitho’s wife; of so many who would be there today. Not to honour a dead hero, but to see Catherine shamed. Destroyed.

Now he could only wonder why he had hesitated.

He said curtly, “I am ready.” He brushed past his valet without seeing the cloak which was to conceal his identity. “That fellow from the Times, the one who wrote so well of Nelson…” He snapped his fingers. “Laurence, yes?”

Marlow nodded, off guard only for a moment.

“I remember him, m’ lord.”

“Find him. Today. I don’t care how, or what it costs. I believe I am owed a favour or two.”

Marlow walked to the entrance and watched Sillitoe climb into the carriage. He could see the mud spattered on the side, evidence of a hard drive. No wonder the horses had been changed.

The carriage was already wheeling round, heading for the fine gates on which the Prince Regent himself had once commented.

He shook his head, recalling without effort the grand display of Nelson’s procession and funeral. A vast armada of boats which had escorted the coffin by barge, from Greenwich to Whitehall, and from the Admiralty to St Paul’s. A procession so long that it reached its destination before the rear had started to move.

Today there would be no body, no procession, but, like the man, it would be long remembered.

And only this morning he had heard that the end of the war was imminent. No longer merely a hope, a prayer. Could one final battle destroy so monstrous, so immortal an influence? He smiled to himself, sadly. Strange that on a day like this it seemed almost secondary.

Sillitoe pressed himself into a corner of the carriage and listened to the changing sound of the iron-shod wheels as the horses entered yet another narrow street. Grey stone buildings, blank windows, the offices of bankers and lawyers, of wealthy merchants whose trade reached across the world. The hub, as Sir Wilfred Lafargue liked to call it. The coachman, William, knew this part of London, and had managed to avoid the main roads, most of which had been filled with aimless crowds, so different from its usual bustle and purpose. For this was Sunday, and around St Paul ’s it would be even worse. He felt for his watch but decided against it. Half an hour at the most. But for the delay with the Prime Minister, he would have had ample time in hand, no matter what.

He leaned forward and tapped the roof with his sword.

“What is it now? Why are we slowing down, man?”

William hung over the side of his perch.

“Street’s blocked, m’ lord!” He sounded apprehensive; he had already had a taste of Sillitoe’s temper on the drive to Chiswick House.

Sillitoe jerked a strap and lowered the window. So narrow here. Like a cavern. The smell of horses and soot…

He could see a mass of people, and what appeared to be a carriage. There were soldiers, too, and one, a helmeted officer, was already trotting towards them. Young, but lacking neither intelligence nor experience, his eyes moved swiftly to take in Sillitoe’s clothing and the bright sash of the order across his chest, and then the coat of arms on the door.

“The way is blocked, sir!”

William glared down at him.

“My lord!”

The officer exclaimed, “I beg your pardon, my lord, I did not know…”

Sillitoe snapped, “Must get through to St Paul ’s. I do not have to explain why, I trust.” He could feel the anger rising again; this was only the calm before the storm. He studied the officer coldly. “Fourteenth Light Dragoons. I know your agent, at Gray’s Inn, I believe?”

He saw the shot go home.

“A vehicle has lost a wheel, my lord. It could not have happened in a worse place. I have already had to turn back one carriage-a lady-”

“A lady?” It was Catherine. It had to be. He glanced at the shining helmets and restless horses, and said sharply, “I suggest you dismount those pretty warriors and remove the obstruction.”

“I-I am not certain. My orders-”

Sillitoe leaned back. “If you value your commission, Lieutenant.”

It took only minutes for the dragoons to drag the vehicle to one side, and for William to drive the length of the street.

Deliberate? An accident? Or was it what Richard Bolitho had always called Fate?

He thought of her. On foot, hemmed in by gaping, curious faces. He looked out again and saw St Paul ’s. Close to, it dominated everything, so that the silence was all the more impressive.

“Stop now!”

He knew William was against it, and was probably wishing the massive Guthrie was here with him, but he climbed down to calm the horses before they became troubled by the slow-moving crowds, and the unnatural silence.

What might they have done? Would they have dared to turn her back at the cathedral’s imposing entrance, on some paltry excuse, perhaps because there was no record of her invitation? Catherine, of all people. On this damnable day.

He quickened his pace, used to staring eyes and peering faces, beyond their reach, or so he believed now.

A hand plucked at his coat. “Would you buy some flowers to honour his memory, sir?”

Sillitoe thrust him aside with a curt, “Out of my way!”

Then he stopped, as if he had no control of his limbs. It explained the silence, the complete stillness, the like of which this place had never witnessed.

Catherine, too, stood quite still, and erect, surrounded by people and yet utterly detached from them.

Across the cathedral steps was an uneven rank of men. Sailors, or they had been before they had been cut down in battle. Men without arms, or hobbling on wooden stumps. Men with burned and scarred faces, victims of a hundred different battles and as many ships, but today joined as one. Sillitoe tried to reason with it, coldly, as was his habit. They were probably from the naval hospital at Greenwich and must have come upriver for this occasion, as if they had been drawn to it by the same power which had stopped him in his tracks. All wore scraps of uniform, some displayed tattoos on their arms; one, in a sea officer’s uniform, was wearing his sword.

Sillitoe wanted to go to her. Not to speak, but only to be beside her. But he did not move.

Catherine was aware of the silence; she had even seen the mounted dragoons ordered to remove the wrecked vehicle. But it was all somewhere else. Not here. Not now.

She stood, unmoving, watching the man in the officer’s uniform as he stepped slowly forward from the watching barrier of crippled sailors. The ones with wooden spars. Half-timbered Jacks, as Allday called them. She trembled. But he always said it without contempt, and without pity, for they were himself.

The officer was closer now, and she realised that his uniform was that of a lieutenant. Clean and well-pressed, but the careful stitching and repairs were evident. He had one hand on another man’s shoulder, and when she saw his eyes she knew that he was blind, although they were clear and bright. And motionless.

His companion murmured something, and he removed his cocked hat with a flourish. His grey hair and threadbare uniform did not belong to this moment; he was the young lieutenant again. And these were his men.

He held out his hand and for an instant she saw him falter, until she reached out to him and took it in hers.

“You are welcome here.” Very gently, he kissed her hand. Still no one spoke or moved. As if this vignette were caught in time, like these ragged, proud reminders who had come to honour her.

Then he said, “We all knew Sir Richard. Some of us served with or under him. He would have wished you to be so met today.”

She heard a step beside her and knew it was Sillitoe.

She murmured, “I thought… I thought…”

He slipped his hand beneath her elbow and said, “I know what you thought. What you were intended to think.”

Without looking above or beyond the watching figures, he knew that the great doors had opened.

He said, “Thank you, gentlemen. No admiral’s lady could ever have a braver guard of honour!”

There were smiles now, and one man reached out to touch Catherine’s gown, muttering something, beaming at her while tears streamed down his cheeks. She removed her black veil, and stared up the steps.

“I do not have the words, Lieutenant. But later…” But there was no grey-haired officer, or perhaps her eyes were too blurred to see. A ghost, then. Like those who lay with Richard.

“Take me in, please.”

She did not hear the stir of surprise that ran through that towering place like a sudden wind through dry leaves, nor see the admiration, or outrage, or the angry disappointment, as Sillitoe guided her to his pew, which otherwise would have been empty.

She gripped her left hand in her right, feeling the ring her lover had placed there on Zenoria Keen’s wedding day.

In the eyes of God, we are married.

She could not look ahead, and dared not think of what was past, that which she could never regain.

It was a proud day, for Richard, and for all those who had loved him.

And, only for this moment, they would be together.

It was just before dawn that the full force of the wind made itself known. Joshua Cristie, Unrivalled’s taciturn sailing-master, found no comfort in the fact that his predictions had proved right, for this was the enemy. Others might fear the cannon’s roar and the surgeon’s knife, but Cristie was a sailor to his fingertips, like most of his forebears, and saw the weather’s moods as his foes. As he gripped a stanchion to steady himself on the lurching deck he watched the sky, burning like molten copper, with long, dark clouds scudding beneath it as if they were already ashes.

They had shortened sail during the middle watch; he had heard the captain giving orders as he had hurried to the chartroom to collect his precious instruments.

The captain seemed well able to make his immediate demands understood. On the face of it, Unrivalled was a smart and disciplined ship. On the face of it. But Cristie knew that it was only on the surface. Until men were truly tested to the limit, they would not know. She was still a new ship, and like any other was only as strong as the men who served her, and the chain of command which directed them as surely as any rudder. Unless.

The captain was here now, his old seagoing coat flapping in the wind, the dark hair pressed against his face by the flying spray. Even that looked like droplets of copper in the strange light.

“Let her fall off a point, Mr Cristie! Steer south-west-by-south!”

More men ran across to halliards and braces, some only half-dressed after the urgent call for all hands.

Cristie shouted, “Still backing a piece, sir! She’ll not hold this close to the wind for much longer!”

The captain seemed to hang on to his words, then swung round to face him. Cristie tested the moment, as he would a sounding or a compass bearing.

“We could come about and run with it, sir.” He hesitated, his mind grappling with the crack and thunder of canvas, the drone of straining rigging. “Or we could lie to under close-reefed main tops’l!”

Galbraith was yelling for more hands, and a few anonymous figures were in the mizzen top, cutting away broken cordage.

Cristie heard the captain say, “No. We’ll hold as close as we can.” He was staring up at the swaying yards, the sickening motion making each plunge seem as if the ship were out of control.

But there were two more men on the big double-wheel, and as a solid curtain of spray burst over them and the quartermasters, they looked like survivors clinging to a capsizing wreck.

Adam Bolitho watched a party of seamen securing the hammock nettings. It was not vital. Seamen had slept in sodden hammocks before, and they would again. But it gave them a sense of purpose, kept them occupied when, even now, fear might be striding amongst them.

Unrivalled was leaning hard over, her lee bulwark almost awash, water spurting past the forward carronades and knocking men off their feet like skittles.

He held his breath, counting seconds as the bows dipped yet again, the hull quivering as it smashed into solid water, as if she had driven ashore.

He cupped his hands. “Fore t’gan’s’l’s carried away!” He saw Galbraith staring at him. “Leave it! Not worth risking lives!”

He watched the sail destroy itself, being ripped apart as if by giant, invisible hands until there were only shreds.

Men were clambering across the boat-tier now, urged on by the boatswain’s powerful bellow. If a boat came adrift it would run amok on the deck, maiming and killing if not secured.

He heard Partridge shout, “Make a bloody seaman of ye yet, damned if I don’t!”

Old Stranace would be down there too. Dragging himself from gun to gun, checking each breeching rope, making sure that his equipment was not being lost or damaged.

Adam shivered, and felt the icy water exploring his spine and buttocks. But it was not that. It was a wildness, an elation he had not felt since he had lost Anemone.

The ship’s backbone, the professionals. They never broke.

Midshipman Fielding was knocked sideways by a block swinging from a severed halliard. A seaman caught his arm and pulled him to his feet. Adam recognised the man as one of those due to be flogged. Today… He even saw the man grin. Like Jago. Amused. Contemptuous.

He seemed to hear John Allday’s voice, when they had served together. His summing up of a ship’s ability or otherwise.

Aft the most honour, mebbe, but forrard the better men!

He could see the horizon now, blurred with spray, writhing in the fierce light. Men’s faces, bodies soaked and bruised, some with nails torn out by the tormented canvas they had fisted and kicked into submission, their world confined to a dizzily swaying yard, their strength that of the men up there with them.

But was it worth it? To risk so much, everything, on a frail belief?

A boatswain’s mate ran past him, one arm out-thrust, his mouth a soundless hole as the wind’s fury increased to an insane scream. Adam thought he had seen something fall, probably from the maintopsail yard, hardly making a splash as it hit the sea and was swamped by the water surging back from the stem.

Not even a cry. The fall had probably killed him. But suppose he lived long enough to break surface and see his ship already fading into the storm?

It happened often enough, something which landsmen never considered when they saw a King’s ship passing proudly at a safe distance.

Midshipman Bellairs wiped his face with his sleeve and gasped, “It can’t go on!”

Cristie heard him, and exclaimed harshly, “Later on you’ll remember this, my lad! When you’re striding your own deck and making poor Jack’s life a bloody misery! Leastways I hope you’ll remember, for all our sakes!”

He watched the captain, his body angled to the quarterdeck, his voice carrying above the wild chorus of wind and sea.

“It’s what you want to be, right?” He liked Bellairs; he would make a good officer, given the chance. He glanced at the captain again. And the example. Cristie had seen the best and the worst of them in his day. His own family had grown up in Tynemouth, in the next street to Collingwood, Nelson’s friend and second-in-command at Trafalgar.

He heard Lieutenant Massie say, “I’ll not answer for the jib if we try to come about!”

Cristie nudged the midshipman and repeated, “Remember it, see!”

He moved away as the captain strode towards him.

“What say you, Mr Cristie? Do you think me mad to drive her so?”

Cristie did not know if Bellairs was listening, nor did he care. It was nothing he could mark on his chart, or record in the log. And nobody else would understand. The captain, the one who drove himself and everybody else, who had not hesitated to lead his own men on a cutting-out raid which had seemed an almost certain disaster, had asked him. Not told him, as was every captain’s right.

He heard himself say, “There’s your answer, sir!” He watched his face as he looked at the widening bank of blue sky as it spread from horizon to horizon. The wind had lessened, so that the rattle of broken rigging and the flapping tails of torn canvas intruded for the first time. Soon the sun would show above the retreating cloud, and steam would rise from these wet, treacherous decks.

Men were pausing to draw breath, to peer around for messmates or for a special friend, as they might after action. Two of the younger midshipmen were actually grinning at one another and shaking hands with a kind of jubilant triumph.

Adam saw all and none of it. He was staring up, at the first lookout to risk the perilous climb aloft.

“Deck there! Sail on th’ weather bow!”

He turned to Cristie and said quietly, “And there, my friend, lies the enemy.”