To Glory We Steer (29 page)

Pochin's hard voice interrupted his thoughts. “What d'you reckon? D'you think Onslow is right?” He sounded worried. “If there is more trouble aboard this ship we'll all be in it. We'll have to take sides!”

Allday replied flatly, “You'd be a fool to pay heed to that one!” He tried to put some value to his words. “Anyway, the captain'll make short work of him if he tries anything!”

Pochin nodded doubtfully. “Maybe. Dyin' under a French broadside is one thing, but I'll not cough out blood for 'im or the buggers like Onslow!”

The pipes shrilled again, and the men stirred themselves back to work.

Allday kept his eyes down to his task as Quintal, the boatswain, and Josling, one of his mates, walked forward to inspect the forecastle. He heard Josling say, “I see that the old
Cassius
was signalling just now, Mr Quintal?”

Quintal replied in his deep voice, “Aye, lad. We'll be hauling off shortly to our own little patrol area. It'll be a long job, I wouldn't wonder, so see that you keep the hands busy. There's nothing worse for discipline than too much free time.” The rest of his comments were lost to Allday as the two men moved up towards the bowsprit, but he had heard enough.

Phalarope
was to be alone again, and out of sight of the flag-ship. The boatswain was right. With the heat and the dull monotony of an empty patrol, Onslow would find a good breeding ground for more trouble if he could.

He looked sideways at his silent companions, each man apparently engrossed in his own task, yet each no doubt thinking of that green patch of land which they had just left behind.

No ordinary seaman had set foot ashore. Some of the crew had not left a deck for years. It was hardly surprising that men like Onslow could find a ready audience.

He shaded his eyes and stared towards the horizon. Already the distant two-decker seemed smaller, her hull lost in the heat haze below the clear sky. Her sails had merged into one shining pyramid, and as he watched she appeared to sink lower in the glittering sea. Another hour and she would have vanished altogether. After that, he thought coldly, you could trust no man.

Deep below the forecastle deck where Allday sat immersed in his own thoughts was the
Phalarope
's cable tier. In harbour it was a spacious, empty place, but now, as the frigate moved listlessly on the calm water, it was packed to the deckhead with the massive anchor cables. Coil upon coil, the great, salt-hardened ropes added to the sour stench of the bilges and the richer smells of tar and hemp. Stout upright pillars on either side of the shelving hull held the cables clear of the timbers to allow easy access to the ship's fabric at all times. These “carpenter's walks” as they were named ran the full length of the hull below the water-line to afford inspection and, if necessary, repairs in time of battle. Little wider than a man's body, they were usually in total darkness.

But now, as the bow wave swished dully against the timbers and furtive rats continued their endless search for food, a small, shaded lantern cast an eerie light against the piled cable and threw a distorted reflection back to the faces of the men squeezed in the narrow passageway.

Onslow held the lantern higher and peered at the waiting men. He only had to count them to be sure. He knew each man's face and name without need for further examination.

“We must be quick, lads! We'll be missed if we stay too long!”

Like an echo he heard Pook's voice. “Just pay heed to wot 'e says!”

Onslow's teeth gleamed in the darkness. He could feel his legs shaking with wild excitement, like the effect of rum on an empty stomach. “We're pulling away from the other ships. I think the time has almost come to carry out our plan.”

He heard a dull murmur of agreement and grinned even broader. Just by saying
our
instead of
my
acted on these men like the crack of a whip.

“From what Ferguson has told me Bolitho intends to run to the south'rd. The
Phalarope
'll be on the end of the patrol line. No chance of meeting any of the others, y'see?”

A voice asked from the darkness. “ 'Ow can we take the ship on our own?” He broke off with a yelp as Pook drove his elbow into his ribs.

Onslow said calmly, “Leave that part to me. I'll tell you how and when.” He looked at the crouching line of dark figures. All the ones who had come with him from the
Cassius,
and several more recruited in the
Phalarope.
It was far more than he had dared to hope.

“We must get rid of the bloody bullocks. Without their red coats athwart the quarterdeck it'll be easy.”

Pook asked. “Wot about Allday an' the like?”

“Ah yes.” Onslow smiled crookedly. “Master John Allday.”

Pook added gloomily, “The lads
listen
to 'im!”

“And if anything happened to Allday we'd get a lot more on our side, eh?” Onslow's brain was moving ahead of his words. “But it has to be clever. If it looks like our doing we might as well hang ourselves!”

They all froze as heavy footsteps sounded overhead. Then as they died away Onslow continued easily, “I think Allday guesses what happened to Mathias. He's too clever to live, is that one!” He reached out and gripped Pook's arm. “So we'll make him a bloody martyr, shall we?” He gave a rumbling laugh. “Now we can't do fairer than that!”

The same uncertain voice tried again. “We'll be cut down afore we can raise a finger, I say!”

“
I'll
cut you down, you bugger!” For a moment Onslow's good humour retreated. Then he added more calmly, “Now listen to me, all of you! We must wait a bit longer to get the lads more worried. Then when the time's ripe I'll tell you what I want. That fool Ferguson can keep an eye on the captain's log for me, just so that I know where we are. When we get a bit nearer some land, I'll be ready.”

He snapped his fingers. “Those weapons we brought off from Mola Island. Have you got 'em safely stowed?”

Pook nodded. “Aye, they'll not be discovered!”

“Right then. Get back to your work now, lads. And stay out of trouble. You're all marked men anyway, so don't give the bastards a chance to nail you.”

He watched them creeping away into the darkness beyond the dim lantern and felt satisfied. Now, just as he had told those poor sheep, it was just a matter of time.

14 BLOOD AND
F
RESH WATER

T
OBIAS
E
LLICE
, the
Phalarope
's surgeon, arose wheezing from his uncomfortable stooping position and threw the sweat-stained bandage out of the open stern window. “Right, sir. You kin stand up now if you like.” He stepped away from the bench seat as Bolitho threw his legs over the side and lifted himself to his feet.

Ellice mopped his streaming face and peered closely at the rough scar across Bolitho's ribs. “Not a bad job of work, if I says so meself!” He beamed and licked his lips. “It's thirsty work, an' no mistake!”

Bolitho touched the scar with his fingertips and then stood facing the open windows to allow the tiny breeze to play across his bare skin. It was good to be rid of the bandage, he thought. Its very embrace was a constant reminder of the
Andiron
and all that had gone before. It was well to leave it all in the past. There were troubles enough to deal with today and the next day after that.

It was a full fourteen days since they had sailed with the squadron from Antigua, and almost every one of them had been like this one. Hardly a lick of air which could seriously be called a breeze to fill the hungry sails or even to ventilate the ship. And all the time a broiling sun which seemed to bleach the colour from the sky itself. The nights brought little respite. Between decks the air remained humid and heavy with damp, and the seamen were further wearied by the constant calls to trim sails, only to be dismissed cursing and despairing as the wind died before a single sheet could be handled.

It was enough to break even the sturdiest heart, Bolitho thought heavily. And coupled with the fact that they had not sighted a single sail, and knew nothing of events beyond the mocking horizon, he found it was all he could do to restrain his own mounting impatience.

“How are the men?” He reached for a clean shirt and then relented. The old one would have to do. There was little point in badgering his servant to wash more clothes than necessary.

Ellice shrugged. “Not happy, sir. 'Tis bad enough as it is without hungering after a drink all the time.”

“Water is precious, Mr Ellice.” It was now reduced to a pint a day per man, which was less than adequate. But there was no telling how long it would be before their senseless vigil was broken. He had increased the daily ration of
Miss Taylor,
as the rough white wine from the victualling yard was named, but its satisfaction was only temporary. Within a few hours the drinker would be left as dry as before. He added as an afterthought, “They must get as much fresh fruit as we can spare. It is the only thing to keep down disease out here.”

It was odd how much clamour and argument there had been in Antigua when he had insisted on a full cargo of fruit to be shipped for his crew. Maybe that was what the admiral had meant when he had said, “You are an idealist in many ways!” But to Bolitho's practical mind it was only being sensible. Even though he had paid for the fruit from his own pocket he knew it was more of a good investment than a method of arousing favouritism with his men. A fit and healthy sailor was worth far more than a basket of fruit. In fact, the normal wastage did not stop there. Other men were used to care for their sick comrades, and their work had to be taken on by still more men. And so it went on, yet there were still plenty of captains who could see no further than their prize-money as a measure of success.

He tucked his shirt into his breeches and said, “Take a glass if you will, Mr Ellice.” He looked away ashamed as the big, untidy man shambled quickly to the sideboard and slopped a generous portion of brandy into his goblet. Ellice's hand shook as he poured and downed a second glass before mumbling, “Thankee, sir. That's the first today!”

Bolitho glanced at the shadow of the stern, close to the barely moving wake. The sun was high in the sky. It was more than likely that Ellice had already consumed a goodly portion from his private store.

“I did not see you go ashore in Antigua, Mr Ellice? You had only to ask.”

Ellice licked his lips and shot a quick glance at the decanter. “I never go on land now, sir, thankee all the same. At first I used to wander like a lovesick girl amongst the grass and weep when the shoreline dropped over the sea's edge.” He saw Bolitho nod towards the decanter and hurriedly poured another drink. “Now when the ship sails I hardly looks up.” He shook his head as if to restore some broken memory. “Anyway, I've seen it all!”

There was a tap at the door, but before Bolitho could call, it burst open and Lieutenant Vibart stamped into the cabin. He looked strained and angry, and wasted no time in breaking his news.

“I have to report that we are almost out of fresh water, sir.”

Bolitho studied him for a few seconds. “What do you mean?”

Vibart glanced round the cabin. “I have the cooper outside, sir. It might save time if
he
told you!”

Bolitho ignored Vibart's insolent manner. “Send him in.” He was glad that the sea's reflected glare kept his face in deep shadow. At every turn events seemed to twist and mock at his efforts. Now this, the one predominant worry, had been fanned alight even as he had been openly discussing it with Ellice.

Mr Trevenen, the
Phalarope
's cooper, was an undersized warrant officer who was known for his extremely bad eyesight. Too long in too many darkened holds had left him half blind, like some creature of the night. Now, as he stood blinking and shifting uneasily under Bolitho's stare he looked small and defenceless.

Bolitho stifled his usual feeling of pity which inevitably arose on the rare occasions of meeting the cooper. “Well, spit it out, man! What the hell have you discovered?”

Trevenen gulped miserably. “I've been doin' my rounds, sir. You see I always does 'em on a Thursday. If you build up a system of inspections you can . . .”

Vibart bellowed, “
Tell
him, you old fool!”

The cooper said in a small voice, “Two thirds of me casks are foul with salt water, sir.” He peered at his feet. “I don't understand it, sir. In all my years afloat I never seen nothin' like it.”

“Hold your damned tongue!” Vibart looked as if he would strike the wretched man. “Admit that you made a mistake at Antigua. You're so bloody blind you don't know the difference! If I had my way I'd . . .”

Bolitho made himself speak slowly to give his mind time to recover from the shock. “If you please, Mr Vibart! I think
I
can evaluate the extent of this information!” He turned again to Trevenen. “Are you sure now?”

The wrinkled head nodded violently. “No mistake about it, sir!” He looked up, his faded eyes filling his face. “In all my years, sir, I never . . .”

“I know, Mr Trevenen, you just told us.” Bolitho added to Vibart sharply, “Have the casks checked for yourself, Mr Vibart. Separate the fresh ones from the others, and see that the salt water is drained away and the wood cleaned off.”

He strode to the chart and leaned across it, his face set in a deep frown. “We are here.” He tapped the chart with the heavy dividers. “Fifty miles south-west of Guadeloupe, give or take a mile.” He picked up his ruler and ran it across the thick parchment. “There are some small islands to the south of us. Uninhabited and useless except for wrecking the unwary sailor.” He made a small cross on the chart and stood up. “Call the hands and prepare to wear ship, Mr Vibart. This breeze, slight though it is, will suit our purpose.”

He looked across at Trevenen. “Whatever the reason for this, be it seepage or sheer carelessness, we must have water, and quickly! So prepare your party to take on a fresh supply.”

Trevenen blinked at him. He looked like a man who had just heard of a miracle at first hand.

Bolitho continued, “We should make a landfall within two days, sooner if the wind finds us again. I have visited these islands before.” He touched the scar beneath the dark forelock of hair. “There are streams and quite reliable pools on some of them.”

Vibart said heavily, “The admiral gave no orders about leaving our station, sir.”

“Would you have the men die of thirst, Mr Vibart?” Bolitho stared down at the chart again. “But if you are worried I will have my clerk make an entry in the patrol report today.” He smiled wryly. “Should I vanish again, you will have the necessary shield from Sir Robert's anger!”

Ellice said dreamily, “I was in a ship once when this 'appened. Two of the seamen ran amuck for want of water!”

Vibart snarled, “Well you at least will be untroubled by
that,
I imagine!”

Bolitho smiled in spite of his troubled thoughts. “Carry on, Mr Vibart. Have the hands mustered to their stations. I will be up directly.” He watched the door quiver in its frame and then said to Ellice, “You asked for that, Mr Ellice!”

The surgeon was unmoved, “With all due respect to the first lieutenant, sir, but he was too long aboard a slaver, if you ask me. To 'im men is just bloody extra cargo!”

“That will do, Mr Ellice.” Bolitho glanced at the decanter. As if by magic it had emptied during his talk with Trevenen. “I suggest you take a turn around the main deck.”

Ellice peered at him uncertainly. Then he grinned. “Aye, sir. So I will. It'll give me a fair appetite!” He ambled away, his shabby coat hanging around him like a sack. Rain or fine, sun or sheeting squalls, Ellice was never dressed differently. Some had even suggested he slept in his clothes.

Bolitho dismissed him from his mind as the pipes shrilled and the decks thudded with bare feet as the men ran to their stations for wearing ship.

Within an hour the
Phalarope
had gone about, her sails flat and listless in the relentless glare. But in spite of the outward stillness there was enough power in the breeze to cause a small ripple beneath her gilt figurehead, and at the mainmast truck the commissioning pendant flapped and whipped with lonely agitation, as if it commanded the only strength the wind had to offer.

Lieutenant Herrick walked slowly aft along the main deck, his eyes moving from side to side as he watched the men flaking down ropes and putting a last tautness in sheets and braces. He knew that they were discussing the news about the contaminated water, and other things beside, but as he passed even the usually friendly ones fell silent. The past two weeks of heat and dull discomfort were showing their teeth now, he decided. No one complained or grumbled any more. That was the worst sign of all.

He halted as Midshipman Maynard appeared below the quarterdeck and leaned heavily on a twelve-pounder. Beneath his tan his thin features were as pale as death, and his legs looked as if they were near collapse.

Herrick crossed to his side. “What is it, lad? Are you ill?”

Maynard turned and stared at him, his eyes opaque with fear. For a moment he could not speak, then the words poured from his dry lips in a flood.

“I've just come from below, sir.” He screwed up his face. “I was sent down to the orlop to fetch Mr Evans.” He swallowed hard and tried to speak coherently. “I found him in his cabin, sir.” He retched and swayed against the gun.

Herrick gripped his arm and whispered fiercely, “Go on, lad! What the hell is wrong?”

“Dead!” The word was wrung from his lips. “My God, sir! He's been cut to pieces!” He stared at Herrick's grim features, reliving the nightmare of his discovery. He repeated faintly, “Cut to pieces.”

“Keep your voice down!” Herrick struggled to control his shocked thoughts. In a calmer tone he called, “Mr Quintal! Take Mr Maynard aft and see that he is kept alone!”

The boatswain, caught in the act of reprimanding a seaman, stared from one to the other. He touched his forehead and said gruffly, “Aye, aye, sir.” Then he asked quietly, “Is somethin' up, sir?”

Herrick looked at Quintal's broad, competent face and answered flatly, “It seems that the purser is dead. Mr Quintal!” He saw the quick start of alarm in the man's eyes and added, “Show no sign! This ship is like a tinderbox as it is.”

Herrick watched the boatswain leading the young midshipman into the shadow of the quarterdeck and then glanced quickly around him. Everything looked as it had two minutes earlier.

Lieutenant Okes had the watch and was standing at the quarterdeck rail, his eyes up at the topsails. Further aft Herrick could see the captain in conversation with Vibart and Rennie, while at the wheel the two helmsmen looked as if they had been at their posts since time began.

Herrick walked slowly towards the lower cabin hatch. He made himself move calmly, but his heart felt as if it was in his throat.

With all hands employed trimming sails the lower deck was deserted and strangely alien. A few lanterns swung on their hooks, and as he began to climb down the second and last ladder Herrick could sense an air of menace and danger. Even so, he was totally unprepared for the sight in the purser's tiny cabin.

Deep in the hull of the ship the stillness was all the more apparent, and the solitary lantern on the low deckhead cast a steady circle of light on a scene which made Herrick's throat choke with bile. Evans, the purser, must have been secreting a bag of flour for his own private uses when his assailant had struck him down. He lay spread-eagled on the upended sack, his eyes bright in the lamplight, while from his severed throat a great torrent of dark blood seeped and congealed in the scattered flour. There was blood everywhere, and as Herrick stared with fixed horror at the corpse at his feet he saw that Evans had been stabbed and slashed as if by some crazed beast.