To Glory We Steer (26 page)

He thought too of Vibart's attitude since his return to command. Due to his wound and the swirling darkness of pain and sickness he had not seen his face at the actual moment of return. But in the days which had followed, the days and nights of creaking timbers and thundering seas against the hull, he had seen him several times. Once when he had been delirious and sweating in his swaying cot he had seen Vibart standing over him and had heard him ask, “Will he live? Tell me, Mr Ellice, will he
live?
”

Perhaps he had only imagined it. It was hard to tell now. But for a brief moment he was sure he had heard the true resentment in Vibart's voice. He wanted him to die. Just as his return from the dead was still leaving him resentful and bitter.

The door opened and Stockdale said throatily, “I've told Atwell to lay out your best uniform, sir. And he'll be in here shortly to prepare the table.” He stared at Bolitho's worn features and then said flatly, “You'll be taking a rest now, I expect?”

Bolitho glared at him. “I have
work
to do, damn you!”

Stockdale said, “I'll just turn your cot down. A couple of hours until the Dog Watches will do you a power of good.” He ignored Bolitho's expression and added cheerfully, “I see the
Formidable
's here, sir! She's a fine big ship an' no mistake! But then you'd need a big ship to hold an admiral like Rodney!” He stood a moment longer, one hand resting on the cot. “Are you ready now, sir?”

Bolitho gave in. “Well, just two hours. No more.”

He allowed Stockdale to help him into the cot and felt the tiredness closing in on him once more. Stockdale picked up his shoes and said to himself, “You rest there. We'll need a good captain tonight to meet the bloody admiral!”

As he turned Stockdale's eye fell on Bolitho's empty rack above the cot, and for a moment he felt strangely unnerved. The sword was back there somewhere in the wrecked
Andiron.
If only he could have got it back. If only . . .

He stared down at Bolitho's face relaxed in sleep. And he wanted to do something for
me!
He pulled the curtain to shade Bolitho's face from the reflected sunlight and then ambled slowly towards the door.

The tall stone jetty threw a welcome rectangle of dark shade across the
Phalarope
's cutter as it rested easily alongside the steps. Packwood, the boatswain's mate, paused at the top of the steps and looked down at the lolling seamen in the boat. “You can take a break. But nobody leaves the cutter, got it?”

Onslow squatted comfortably on the gunwale and pulled a short clay pipe from his shirt. Under his breath he murmured, “Right, Mr bloody Packwood! We do all the work, and you go off an' fill your belly with rum!”

Most of the other men were too weary to comment. All day they had pulled the cutter back and forth to the anchored frigate, the first excitement of seeing a friendly port again soon giving way to grumbling complaint.

Packwood was in charge of their party, and although a capable man and considered to be fair in his allocation of work, was plagued by a complete lack of imagination. If he had told the men that the work was essential, not only to the
Phalarope
's efficiency, but more important, to the welfare of the crew once she returned to sea, some of the bitterness might have been dulled. As it was, Packwood had been too long in the Navy to seek for unnecessary explanations to anything. Work was work. Orders would be carried out at all times without question.

Pook, Onslow's constant companion, raised himself on his scrawny legs and peered towards the distant houses. He breathed out slowly. “Mother of God! I kin see women!”

Onslow grimaced. “What did you expect? Bloody clergymen?” He watched the men from beneath lowered lids. “The officers will be doing themselves well enough. You see if I'm not right, lads!” He spat over the side. “But just one of you try an' lay a little foot on the shore an' see what happens!” He gestured towards a redcoated marine who was leaning contentedly on his grounded musket. “That bloody bullock'll place a ball between your eyes!”

John Allday lay across the oars and watched Onslow thoughtfully. Every word the man spoke seemed to be carefully weighted and fashioned before it was uttered. He turned as another seaman named Ritchie spoke up from the bow.

Ritchie was a slow-thinking Devon man, with an equally slow manner of speech. “When we was at Nevis Oi didn't see yew runnin' off, Onslow!” He blinked his mild eyes against the glittering water. “Yew had plenty of time to go an' join your rebel friends!”

Allday watched Onslow, expecting a flash of anger. But the tall seaman merely eyed Ritchie with something like pity. “An' what good would that do? If I went over to the rebels or to the Frogs, do you think we'd be any better off?” He had their full attention now. “No, lads. We'd be exchanging one master for another. A fresh flag, but make no mistake, the lash feels the same in any navy!”

Ritchie scratched his head. “Oi still don't see what yew'm gettin' at!”

Pook sneered, “That's because you're stupid, you great ox!”

“Easy, lads.” Onslow dropped his voice. “I meant what I said. Out here or in the Americas a man can live well. A new life, with a chance to make something for himself!” He gave a small smile. “But to start off right a man needs more than hope. He needs money, too!”

Nick Pochin stirred himself and said uneasily, “If the war ends an' we gets paid off, we can go back to our homes.”

“And who'll want to remember you there?” Onslow looked down at him coldly. “You've been away too long, like all the rest of us. There'll be nothing for you but begging on the streets!”

Pochin persisted. “I was a good ploughman once. I could do it again!”

“Aye, maybe you could.” Onslow watched him closely, his eyes full of contempt. “You can push your furrow for the rest of your stupid life. Until the furrow is deep enough for some fat squire to bury you in!”

Another voice asked cautiously, “Well then? What's the point of arguing about it?”

“I'll tell you the point!” Onslow slid from the gunwale like a cat. “Soon we'll be at sea again. You've seen the fleet mustering here. There'll be no rest for the likes of us. The buggers always need an extra frigate!” He pointed at the
Phalarope
as she swung gently at her anchor. “There is our chance, lads! The price of our future!” He lowered his voice again. “We could take the ship!” He spoke very slowly to allow each word to sink in. “Then we could use her to bargain for our own price!” He looked around their grim faces. “Just think of it! We could parley with the other side and name our own amount! Then with the money and a free passage we could split up and go our own ways, every one of us richer than he ever thought possible!”

Pochin sat up with a jerk. “That's mutiny! You mad bugger, we'd all be caught and hanged!”

Onslow grinned. “Never! After the war is over, who will have time to care about us?”

Pook added gleefully, “He's right! We'd be rich!”

Allday said, “And we'd never see England again!”

“And who cares about that?” Onslow threw back his head. “Do you think we have any chance at present? You saw what they did to Kirk? You've seen men die week by week from disease or the lash. From battle or falling from aloft! And if you escape all that, it's more than likely that you'll get shipped off in some other ship, as
I
was!”

Allday felt a chill at his spine as the uneasiness and resentment moved through the boat like a threat. He said quickly, “Do you think Captain Bolitho would stand for your ideas?” He looked at the others. “I've been through the mill, but I trust the captain. He's a brave and fair man. He'll not let us down!”

Onslow shrugged. “Suit yourself.” He added tightly, “Just so long as you keep your thoughts
to
yourself, mate! If what I said gets out, we'll know where to come a'hunting!”

There was a scattered murmur of assent from the boat, and Allday realised with sudden shock that Onslow's little speech had already gone deep. It was strange that nobody had noticed before how Onslow had persisted in his efforts to rouse the men to mutiny. Perhaps because his words were carefully chosen and without the blind malice of a wronged sailor. The latter was too common to rouse much more than jeers.

He thought, too, of Mathias's death in the hold and Onslow's careful manœuvering to get Ferguson the job as captain's clerk. The pattern was like a slow but deadly disease. When the symptoms came to light the victim was already beyond hope.

He said, “You'll find me ready enough, Onslow! Just you keep out of
my
way!”

Pochin muttered, “Watch out! 'E's comin' back!”

Packwood stood at the top of the steps, his face sweating profusely from a hasty tankard of rum. “Right, my babies! Stand by to take on some more casks!” He swung his rattan casually. “After this trip you can go to your sty and get cleaned up. The admiral is coming to see you all this evening!”

Pook nudged his friend. “That Allday! Is he safe?”

Onslow ran his fingers around the loom of his oar. “The men like him. It must be handled carefully. It needs thinking about.” He watched Allday's naked back rippling in the sunlight. “But
handled
it must be!”

Punctual to the minute, Rear-Admiral Sir Robert Napier stepped through the
Phalarope
's entry port and removed his hat to receive his due respects. As the shrill pipes faded into silence and the marine guard presented arms the frigate's small drummer, accompanied by two reedy fifes, broke into a frail but jaunty march, and with a final glance around the upper-deck Bolitho stepped forward to meet his admiral.

Sir Robert nodded curtly to the assembled officers, and as the marines banged their muskets to the deck he carried out a brief but searching inspection of the guard, followed at a discreet distance by Rennie and Captain Cope of the
Cassius.

Bolitho tried to gauge the admiral's mood or his real reason for his visit from the man's profile, but Sir Robert's pinched face remained sphinx-like and unchanging, even when he fired the occasional question or comment to Rennie about the bearing of the marines.

At the end of the double line of men he paused to survey the main deck. “You keep a smart ship, Bolitho.” There was nothing in his dry tone to suggest either praise or suspicion.

“Thank you, sir.” Bolitho wished that he was alone aboard the flagship in the great stern cabin. There he could face and deal with anything Sir Robert chose to say. These circumstances kept every comment on a formal and controlled level which made his nerves raw with uncertainty.

Whatever the admiral really thought of the ship, Bolitho was certainly satisfied with her appearance. Long before a frantic messenger had reported a flurry of activity aboard the flagship and the smartly crewed barge had pulled swiftly towards the
Phalarope
's side, Bolitho had been round his ship to make absolutely sure that Sir Robert would find no fault with her at least.

The ship's company had manned the side, every eye on the small, gold-laced figure in the stern of the barge, and now as the admiral stood in silent contemplation there was an atmosphere of nervous expectancy which defied even the fifes and drum on the quarterdeck.

The admiral said, “You may dismiss the hands, Bolitho.”

At the prearranged signal the men poured from the main deck, and with a clash of weapons the marines wheeled and followed suit.

Then he said, “I have read the report, Bolitho. It had a great deal to say.” His wintry eyes drifted across Bolitho's set features. “I was particularly interested in the part about the
Andiron
's captain.” He saw Bolitho stiffen and continued calmly, “As a matter of fact I had received information as to his identity, but I thought it best to let you carry out your task.” He shrugged, the movement painful beneath his heavy uniform. “Of course, what I did not know was that you were in fact already a prisoner at his hands.”

“And if you had known, sir?” Bolitho tried to keep his tone relaxed.

“I am not sure. Your first lieutenant is apparently capable in many ways, but I fear he will always be a man who takes orders. A
born
subordinate!”

From the corner of his eye Bolitho saw Captain Cope being ushered below by his own officers, and waited for the admiral to continue. He did not have long to wait.

“
Andiron
is finished. Her very existence was a challenge and an insult to every man in our fleet. I have already passed my views on the matter to the Commander-in-Chief, and I have no doubt you will receive due recognition.” He faced Bolitho squarely. “However, the fact that your own brother once commanded her and is obviously still alive may in some quarters be taken as some sort of connivance on your part.” He walked to the side and stared at the
Cassius.
“I do not happen to take that view myself, Bolitho. I gave you the task, not in spite of the
Andiron
's captain but because of him! You and your ship behaved very well indeed. I have told Sir George Rodney as much.” He added slowly. “But had your brother been killed it might have been better all round.”