ALEXANDER KENT - TO GLORY WE STEER
Herrick had studied Bolitho's brooding profile, aware perhaps for the first time of the man's constant inner battle. 'All the same, sir, she outgunned us!' He had watched for some sign of the Bolitho he had seen waving his sword on the starboard gangway while shots had hammered down around him like hail. But there had been nothing. He had ended lamely, 'You'll see, sir, things will be different after this.'
Bolitho had straightened his back, as if throwing off some invisible weight. When he had turned his grey eyes had been cold and unfeeling. 'I hope you are right, Mr. Herrick! For my part I was disgusted with such a shambles! I dread to contemplate what might have happened in a fight to the finish!'
Herrick had felt himself flushing. 'I was only thinking..
Bolitho had snapped. 'When I require an opinion from my third lieutenant I will let him know! Until that moment, Mr. Herrick, perhaps you would be good enough to make your people get to work! There will be time later for suppositions and self-adulation!' He had swung on his heel and recommencedd his pacing.
Herrick watched the surgeon's party carry another limp corpse from the main hatch and lay it beside the others. Again, another picture of Bolitho. sprang to his mind.
Herrick had been between decks on a tour of inspection with the carpenter. There were no shot holes beneath the Water-line, but it had been his duty to make sure for his own satisfaction. Still dulled by the noise of battle he had followed Ledward beneath the massive, curved beams, his tired eyes half mesmerised by the man's shaded lantern. Together they had stepped through a screen and entered a scene from hell itself.
Lanterns ringed the deck space, to allow none of the horror to escape his eyes, and in the centre of the yellow glare, strapped and writhing like a sacrifice on an altar, was a badly wounded seaman, his leg already half amputated by Tobias Ellice, the surgeon. The latter's fat, brick-red face was devoid of expression as his bloody fingers worked busily with the glittering saw, his chins bouncing in time against the top of his scarlet-daubed apron. His assistants were using all- their strength to restrain the struggling victim and pin his spreadeagled body on top of the platform of sea chests, which sufficed as an operating table. The man had rolled his eyes with each nerve-searing thrust of the saw, had bitten into the leather strap between his teeth until the blood had spurted from his lips, and Ellice had carried on with his amputation.
Around the circle of light the other wretched wounded had awaited their turn, some propped on their elbows as if unable to tear their eyes from the gruesome spectacle. Others lay moaning and sobbing in the shadows, their lives ebbing away and thereby spared the agony of knife and saw. The air had been thick with the stench of blood and rum, the latter being the only true way of killing the victims' senses before their turn came.
Ellice had looked up as the man had kicked out wildly and then fallen lifeless even as the severed limb had dropped into a waiting trough. He had seen Herrick's face stiff with shock and had remarked in his thick, tipsy voice, `A day indeed, Mr. 'Errick! I sew an' I stitch, I saws an' I probes, but still they rushes to join their mates aloft!' He had rolled his rheumy eyes towards heaven and had reached for a squat leather bottle. `Maybe a litle nip for yerself, Mr. 'Errick?' He had lifted it against the light. 'No? Ah well then, a little sustenance for meself!'
He had given the merest nod to his loblolly boy, who in turn had pointed out another man by the ship's rounded side. The latter had been immediately seized and hauled screaming across the chests, his cries unheeded as Ellice wiped his mouth and had then ripped away the shirt from the man's lacerated arm.
Herrick had turned away, his face sweating as the man's scream had probed deeper into his eardrums. He had stopped in his tracks, suddenly aware that Bolitho was standing slightly behind him.
Bolitho had moved slowly around the pain-racked figures, his voice soothing but too soft for Herrick to comprehend. Here he had reached to touch a man's hand as it groped blindly for comfort or reassurance. There he had stopped to close the eyes of a man already dead. At one instant he had paused beneath a spiralling lantern and had asked quietly, `How many, Mr. Ellice? What is the bill?'
Ellice had grunted and gestured to his men that he had completed his ministrations with the limp figure across the sheets. `Twenty killed, Cap'n! Twenty more badly wounded, an' another thirty 'alf an' 'alf!'
It was then that Herrick had seen Bolitho's mask momentarily drop away. There had been pain on his face. Pain and despair. -
Herrick had immediately forgotten his anger and resentment at the captain's remarks earlier on the quarterdeck. The Bolitho he had seen on the. ship's side waving his sword had been real. So, too, was this one.
He stared down at the canvas-shrouded corpses and tried to remember the faces to fit against the names scrawled on each lolling bundle. But already they were fading, lost in memory like the smoke of the battle which had struck them down.
Herrick started as he caught sight of Lieutenant Okes' thin figure moving slowly along the shadowed maindeck. He had hardly seen Okes at all since the action. It was as if the man had been waiting for the hard-driven sailors to finish their work so that he could have the deck to himself.
There had been that moment immediately after the sound of the last shot had rolled away in the smoke. Okes had staggered up through a hatchway, his eyes wild and uncontrolled. He had seemed shocked beyond understanding as he had looked around him, as if expecting to see the enemy ship alongside. Okes had seen Herrick watching him, and his eyes had strayed past to the smoking guns in the battery which he had left to fend for themselves.
He had clutched Herrick's arm, his voice unrestrained and desperate. `Had to go below, Thomas! Had to find those fellows who ran away!' He had swayed and added wildly, `You believe me, don't you?'
Herrick's contempt and anger had faded with the discovery that Okes was terrified almost to a point of madness. The realisation filled him with a mixture of pity and shame.
`Keep your voice down, man!' Herrick had looked round for Vibart. `You damn fool! Try and keep your head!'
He watched Okes now as the man skirted the corpses and then retraced his steps to the stern. He too was reliving his own misery. Destroying himself with the knowledge of his cowardice and disgrace.
Herrick found time to wonder if the captain had noticed Okes' disappearance during the battle. Perhaps not. Maybe Okes would recover after this, he thought grimly. If not, his escape might be less easy the next time.
He saw Midshipman Neale's small figure scampering along the maindeck and felt a touch of warmth. The bay had not faltered throughout the fight. He had seen him on several occasions, running with messages, yelling shrilly to the men of his division, or just standing wide-eyed at his station. Neale's loss would have been felt throughout the ship, of that Herrick was quite sure.
He hid a smile as the boy skidded to a halt and touched his hat. `Mr. Herrick, sir! Captain's compliments and would you lay aft to supervise burial party!' He gulped for breath. `There's thirty altogether, sir!'
Herrick adjusted his hat and nodded gravely. `And how are you feeling?'
The boy shrugged. `Hungry, sir!'
Herrick grinned. `Try fattening a ship's rat with biscuit, Mr. Neale. As good as rabbit any day!' He strode aft, leaving Neale staring after him, his forehead creased in a frown.
Neale walked slowly past the bow-chasers, deep in thought. Then he nodded very slowly. `Yes, I might try it,' he said softly.
Bolitho felt his head loll and he jerked himself back against his chair and stared at the pile of reports on his table. All but completed. He rubbed his sore eyes and then stood up.
Astern, through the great windows he could see moonlight on the black water and could hear the gentle sluice and creak
of the rudder below him. His mind was still fogged by the countless orders he had given, the requests and demands he had answered.
Sails and cordage to be repaired, a new spar broken out to replace the missing topgallant. Several of the boats had been damaged and one of the cutters smashed to fragments. In a week, driving the men hard, there would be little outward sign of the battle, he thought wearily. But the scars would be there, deep and constant inside each man's heart.
He recalled the empty deck in the fading light as he had stood over the dead men and had read the well-tried words of the burial service. Midshipman Farquhar had held a light above the book, and he had noticed that his hand had been steady and unwavering.
He still did not like Farquhar, he decided. But he had proved a first-class officer in. combat. That made up for many things.
As the last corpse had splashed alongside to begin its journey
two thousand fathoms deep he had turned, only to stop in surprise as he had realised that the deck had filled silently with men from below decks. Nobody spoke, but here and there a man coughed quietly, and once he had heard a youngster sobbing uncontrollably.
He had wanted to say something to them. To make them understand. He had seen Herrick beside the marine guard, and Vibart's massive figure outlined against the sky at the quarter-deck rail. For a brief moment they all had been together, bound by the bonds of suffering and loss. Words would have soiled the moment. A speech would have sounded cheap. He had walked aft to the ladder and paused beside the wheel.
The helmsman bad stiffened. `Course south-west by south, sir! Full an' by!'
He had returned here. To this one safe, defended place where there was no need for words of any sort.
He looked up angrily as Stockdale padded through the door. The man studied him gravely. `I've told that servant o' yours to bring your supper, Captain.' Stockdale peered disapprovingly at the litter of charts and written reports. `Pork, sir. Nicely sliced and fried, just as you like it.' He held out a bottle. `I took the liberty of breaking out one o' your clarets, sir.'
The tension gripped Bolitho's voice in a vice. `What the hell are you jabbering about?'
Stockdale was undaunted. `You can flog me for sayin' it, sir, but today was a victoryl You done us all proudly. I think you deserve a drink!'
Bolitho stared at him lost for words.
Stockdale began to gather up the papers. 'An' further, Captain, I think you deserves a lot more!'
As Bolitho sat in silence watching the big coxswain laying the table for his solitary meal, the Phalarope plucked at the light airs and pushed quietly beneath the stars.
From dawn to sunset she had given much. But there would be other days ahead, thanks to her captain.
6. A SIGHT OF LAND
Bolitho walked to the starboard side of the quarterdeck and rested his hands on the sun-warmed hammock netting. He did not need either chart or telescope now. It was like a homecoming.
The small island of Antigua had crept up over the horizon in the dawn's light, and now sprawled abeam shimmering in the sunlight.
Bolitho felt the old excitement of a perfect landfall coursing through his limbs, and he had to make himself continue in his interrupted pacing, if only to control it. Five weeks to a day since the Phalarope had showed her stern to the mist and rain of Cornwall. Two weeks since the clash with the privateer, and as he looked quickly along his ship he felt a quick upsurge of pride. All repairs had been completed, and the remaining wounded were well on the mend. The death roll had risen to thirty-five, but the sudden entry into warmer air, with sun and fresh breezes instead of damp and blustering wind, had worked wonders.
The frigate was gliding gently on the port tack, making a perfect pair above her own reflection in the deep blue water. Above her tapering masts, the sky was cloudless and full of welcome, and already the eager gulls swooped and screamed around the yards with noisy expectancy.
Antigua, headquarters and main base of the West Indies squadron, a link in the ragged chain of islands which protected the eastern side of the Caribbean. Bolitho felt strangely glad to be back. He half expected to see the crew and deck of the Sparrow when he looked across the quarterdeck rail, but already the Phalarope's company had grown in focus to overshadow the old memories.
`Deck there! Ship of the line anchored around the headland!'
Okes was officer of the watch and he looked quickly towards Bolitho.
`That will be the flagship most likely, Mr. Okes.' Bolitho glanced up to the new topgallant where the keen-eyed lookout had already seen the tall masts of the other vessel.
The frigate slowly rounded Cape Shirley with its lush green hills and the tumbled mass of rocky headland, and Bolitho watched his men as they thronged the weather side, clinging to shrouds and chains as they drank in the sight of the land. To all but a few of them it was a new experience. Here everything was different, larger than life. The sun was brighter, the thick green vegetation above the gleaming white beaches was like nothing they had ever seen. They shouted to one another, pointing out landmarks, chattering like excited children as the headland slipped past to reveal the bay and the landlocked waters of English Harbour beyond.
Proby called, 'Ready to wear ship, sirl'
Bolitho nodded. The Phalarope had every sail clewed up except topsails and jib, and on the forecastle he could see Herrick watching him as he stood beside the anchor party.
He snapped his fingers. 'My glass, please.'
He took the telescope from Midshipman Maynard and stared fixedly at the two-decker anchored in the centre of the bay. Her gunports were open to collect the offshore breeze, and there were awnings across her wide quarterdeck. His eye fastened on the rear-admiral's flag at her masthead, the gleam of blue and scarlet from watching figures at her poop.
'Mr. Brockl Stand by to fire salute! Eleven guns, if you please!' He closed the glass with a snap. If he could see them, they could see him. There was no point in appearing curious.
He watched the nearest point of land falling away and then added, 'Carry on, Mr. Proby!'
Proby touched his hat. 'Lee braces there! Hands wear ship!'
Bolitho glanced quickly at Okes and waited patiently. At length he said evenly, 'Clear those idlers off the side, Mr. Okes. That is a flagship yonder. I don't want the admiral to think I've brought a lot of bumpkins with me!' He smiled as Okes stuttered out his orders and the petty officers yelled at the unemployed men by the rail.
The salute began to pound and re-echo around the hills as the frigate swung slowly towards the other ship, and more than one man bit his lip as the saluting guns brought back other more terrifying memories.
'Tops'l sheets!' Proby mopped the sweat from his streaming face as he gauged the slow approach to the anchorage. 'Tops'l clew lines!' He looked aft. 'Ready, sir!'
Bolitho nodded, only half listening to the salutes and the staccato bark of orders.
'Helm a' lee!' He watched the quartermaster pulling steadily at the polished spokes and saw the nearest hillside begin to swing across the bows as the Phalarope turned into the wInd and began to lose way.
Now there was no sound but for the gentle lap of water as the ship glided slowly towards the shore.
