To Glory We Steer

by Alexander Kent

  He broke off as Vibart strode back from the maindeck. He touched his hat to the first lieutenant and said formally, 'I have twenty-five men for you in my cutter, sir. The admiral requested they be used as replacements for the ones killed in

  battle.'

  He watched as Vibart climbed down to the port where the marines were already mustering a growing rank of lean looking sailors.

  The officer said quickly, 'I have already spoken enough, my friend. But these men are outcasts. Nearly all have been in serious trouble of one kind or another. I think Sir Robert is more concerned in ridding his flagship of their influence than he is of helping your captain.'

  With a hurried glance at the distant two-decker he made towards his waiting boat. He whispered finally, 'Sir Robert watches everything. No doubt itwill soon be common knowledge that I have spent ten minutes in conversation with you!' Then he was gone.

  Vibart clumped aft, his face wrinkled in a scowl. 'We will read in those men immediately, Mr. Herrick. I suppose the captain will want them dressed like the rest of his precious company? He sniffed. 'In my opinion they look more at home in rags!'

  Herrick followed his angry glance and felt his spirits drop even further. These replacements were not men raw from the press. They were hardened and professional, and at any other time would have been worth their weight in gold. But now they stood idly and insolently watching with all the arrogance of wild animals as the master's mate and Midshipman Maynard sorted them into order and seniority. Curses and beatings would not impress their sort. Even floggings had changed them little, Herrick thought.

  Vibart muttered, 'We'll see how the captain deals with this pretty bunch!'

  Herrick did not speak. He could imagine the difficulties which seemed to be piling up hour by hour. If the captain tried to separate these troublemakers from the rest of the crew he would lose any respect he had gained. If he did not, their influence could wreak havoc on the crowded berth deck.

  .On patrol, out of touch with help, the Phalarope would need all her resources and skill to stay intact and vigilant.

  Herrick had a sudden picture of the Andiron as she must have been when Masterman's crew had surrendered. He stared round the sunny quarterdeck and felt chilled in spite of the glare. He imagined himself, suddenly alone, in a ship where disciplined and loyal seamen had become strangers and mutineers.

  Midshipman Maynard was watching him anxiously. 'Signal, sir. Flag to Phalarope. Complete lightering and proceed to sea with all despatch.'

  Herrick said wearily, 'Acknowledge, Mr. Maynard.'

  Herrick stared over the rail where the seamen toiled with the fresh-water casks and then across at the tall-masted flagship. Almost to himself he muttered, 'You bastard! You just can't wait, can you.'

  Grumbling and cursing, the duty watch climbed down the various ladders and into the already crowded berth deck. Both air and lighting came through the central hatchways, and in addition several canvas chutes had been rigged to help ventilate the overpopulated living spaces. At each scrubbed mess table men sat and made use of their time to their own best advantage. Some repaired clothing, heads bent to catch the filtered sunlight on their needles and coarse thread. Some worked on small model ships, and others merely sprawled yarning with their companions.

  There was a brief lull in the buzz of speculation and rumour as some of the new men pattered down a ladder followed by Belsey, the duty master's mate. All of the men had been read in, had taken the regulation shower under the deck pump, and now stood blinking in the shadows, their bodies pale and naked against the ship's dark sides. Each man carried a new shirt and a rolled pair of trousers, as well as his own small possessions.

  Belsey spun his cane and pointed to the comer mess table where Allday and old Strachan watched the procession in silence. He barked, `You two! You'll be in this mess, got it?' He glared into the dark comer of the berth deck. 'You've been given your watch and action stations, so just get settled in, and look sharp about it!' He raised his voice. 'Show these replacements where to sling their hammocks, and then get this deck cleared up!' He wrinkled his thick nose. 'It's like a bloody pigsty down here.'

  One pf the men detailed dropped his bundle on the table and looked down at Strachan and the others. He was tall and well muscled, and his broad chest was covered in a deep mat of dark hair. He seemed quite unconcerned about his nakedness and the rasp in Belsey's introduction.

  He said calmly, 'Harry Onslow is the name, mates.' He looked over his shoulder. 'An' this is Pook, another good topman from the Cassius!' He spat out the name of the flagship, . and Belsey who was hovering nearby strode across to the crowded table.

  'Pay attention!' He stared round the watching faces. 'Don't you start thinking that you've got a real fine fellow here, my friends!' He gave a short grin. 'Turn round, Onslow!' He moved his cane menacingly. 'Just get a bit o' sunlight over You!'

  Onslow turned his body obediently so that the light played across his back. Something like a hollow groan came from the packed sailors, and Belsey added coldly, 'Take a good look, afore you start listening to the like o' this scum!'

  Allday tightened his lips as he saw the savagely mutilated skin on Onslow's body. He could not imagine how many times the man had been flogged, but that he had survived was surely a miracle.

  The whole of his back, from the nape of the neck to the top of his buttocks was ugly with broken and uneven weals, pale and obscene against his tanned arms and legs.

  Ferguson looked away, his mouth quivering.

  Even Pochin, a hard spectator at many floggings, said thickly, "Ere, mate, put yer shirt on!'

  The other man, Pook, was thin and wiry, and although his back also displayed the clawing embrace of the cat, it was nothing compared with Onslow's.

  Belsey sauntered away followed by the other new seamen.

  Onslow pulled the shirt over his head and shook out the clean new trousers. Calmly he remarked, 'What is so different about your captain? Does he like his men to look pretty?' He had a lazy Norfolk accent, and seemed quite unmoved by the horror his scars had unleashed.

  Ferguson said quickly, 'He's different. He stopped Betts being flogged.' He tried to smile. 'You'll be all right aboard this ship, Onslow!'

  Onslow looked him over without expression. 'Who asked you then?'

  'All captains are swine!' Pook was tugging on his trousers, and then strapped a wicked-looking knife around his waist. 'We've had a bellyful in the Cassius!'

  Onslow said, 'Betts, did you say? What happened to him?' 'He attacked the purser.' Pochin looked thoughtful. 'Cap'n Bolitho refused to 'ave 'im flogged.'

  'Where is he now?' The man's eyes were dark and unwinking.

  'Dead. Went over the side with the main t'gallant!'

  ' 'Well, then.' Onslow pushed Ferguson off the bench and squatted in his place. 'It didn't do him much good, did it?'

  Old Strachan folded his carving in a piece of sailcloth and said vaguely, 'But the lad's right. Cap'n Bolitho promised that he would see us fair if we pulled our weight. We'll be taking a run ashore soon.' He squinted towards the hatch. 'Just think of it! A walk through them hills, and maybe a drop o' somethin' from a friendly native!'

  Ferguson tried again. As if he had to believe in somebody to retain his own sanity. 'And Mr. Herrick said he would try and get a letter put aboard the next homebound ship for me. Just to tell my wife I'm alive and well.' His expression was pitiful.

  'You can read and write, can you, little man? Onslow studied him calmly. 'You could be very useful to me.'

  Allday smiled to himself. Already the noise and rumble of voices was returning to the messes. Maybe Ferguson was right. Things might be better from now on. He hoped so, if only for Ferguson's peace of mind.

  Pochin asked sourly, 'How did you get the lash, Onslow?'

  'Oh, the usual.' Onslow was still watching Ferguson, his face deep in thought.

  Pook said ingratiatingly, 'E-kicked a bosun's matel An' afore that he ...'

  Onslow's mout
h opened and shut like a trap. 'Stow it! It's what happens fro n now on that counts!' Then he became calm again. 'I was a boy when I came out here ten years back. For years I've been waiting for -that last voyage home, but it never comes. I've been shipped from one captain to the next. I've stood my watches, and I've faced broadsides more times than I can remember. No, mates, there's no let-up for our sort. The only way out is sewn up in a hammock, or take our own course like the lads in the Andiron.'

  He had every man's attention now. He stood up, his face set and brooding. 'They chose to leave the King's service. To make a new life for themselves out here, or in the Americas!'

  Strachan shook his grey head. 'That's piracy!'

  'You're too old to matter!' There was a bite in Onslow's voice. 'I've - yet to find a fair captain, or one who thought beyond prize money and glory for himself!'

  At that moment shadows darted across the hatches and the air was filled with twittering pipes.

  Pochin groaned. 'Blasted Spithead nightingales! Do they never get tired of blowin' 'em?'

  The voices of the bosun's mates echoed round the berth deck. 'All hands! All hands! Stand by to make sail! Anchor party muster on the fo'c's'le!'

  Ferguson stared blankly at the sunlight on the ladder, his mouth hanging open. 'He promised! He promised me I could got a letter home!'

  Onslow clapped him on the shoulder. 'And he'll promise a lot more, I shouldn't wonder, lad!' He faced the others, unsmiling. 'Well, mates! Do you understand now what I was saying?'

  Josling, a bosun's mate, appeared on the ladder, his face running with sweat. 'Are yew deaf? Jump to it therel A taste of my little rope for the last on deck!'

  There was a stampede of running feet as the men came to their senses and surged up to the sunlight.

  'Stand by the capstan!' The orders clouted their ears. 'Hands aloft! Loose tops'ls!'

  Allday saw Ferguson staring wildly at the green, inviting island with its low, undulating hills. He felt a lump in his own throat now. It was not' unlike Cornwall in the summertime, he thought.

  Then he touched Ferguson's arm and said kindly, `Come on, lad. I'll race you aloft!'

  Vibart's booming voice filled the air. `Loose heads'ls! Man the braces!'

  Allday reached the mainyard and ran quickly along the footrope to join the others lying across the thick spar. Below him he could see the busy deck, and over his shoulder he could identify Bolitho's tall figure by the taffrail.

  From forward Herrick yelled, `Anchor's aweigh, sir!'

  Allday dug his toes into the footrope as the sail billowed and filled beneath him and the great yard moved ponderously to catch the wind. Already the land was sliding away, and by the time the sails were set and trimmed it would be lost in the haze. Perhaps for ever, he thought.

  7

  A SPANISH LUGGER

  Herrick moved slightly around the mizzen mast in an effort to remain in the shadow cast by its thick trunk. He found that his eyes were constantly slitted against the harsh glare, his tongue continually moving across his parched lips as the forenoon watch dragged slowly to its conclusion.

  Above his head the sails hung limp and lifeless, and there was not a breath of wind to ruffle the flat, empty expanse of sea, upon which the becalmed frigate lay motionless and hushed.

  He plucked at his grubby shirt, immediately irritated by the futility of his action. It felt sodden with sweat, yet his whole being seemed to cry out for moisture. He could feel the deck seams gripping stickily at his shoes, and once when he had inadvertently rested his hand on one of the quarterdeck ninepounders he had almost cried out with pain. The barrel had been as hot as if it had been firing without pause. His lips curled bitterly at the thought. There had been no action, nor was there likely to be under these impossible conditions.

  After leaving Antigua the Phalarope had sailed directly to her allotted station, but apart from sighting another patrolling frigate and then later the bulky shape of the Cassius, she had kept the sea to herself.

  And now, to top it all, the frigate was becalmed. For twenty-four hours she had idled aimlessly. above her reflection,. carried at will by the sluggish currents, the lookouts worn and weary from staring hopefully for a squall to break the spell. Seven long days since they had sailed with such haste from Antigua, seven days of watching the burnished horizons and waiting.

  Herrick glanced forward where the duty watch lay like dead men below the dark shadow of the bulwark. Their halfnaked bodies had already lost their pallor, and more than one unseasoned sailor bore savage burns on his skin from the sun's relentless glare.

  Midshipman Neale leaned against the nettings, his round face for once devoid of mischief or interest. Like the rest, he seemed crushed and defeated by the inactivity and heat.

  It was hard to believe that anything else existed outside their own enclosed world. St. Kitts lay some fifty miles to the south-east, and the Anegada Passage which separated the Virgin Islands from the disputed Leewards was spread in an eye-searing haze across the motionless bowsprit.

  Of Hood's efforts to hold St. Kitts they had heard nothing, and for all Herrick could guess even the war might have ended. When they had met the flagship, Bolitho had made a signal requesting the latest information, but the reply had been unhelpful to say the least. The Phalarope had been carrying out gunnery practice, using several old and useless casks as targets. Herrick knew that Bolitho had done it more to break the monotony than with any hope of improving the standards of marksmanship by such methods.

  Cassius's flags had soared angrily to her yards, and soon Maynard had reported warily that the admiral was demanding an immediate cease-fire. `Conserve 'powder and shot', the signal had ordered curtly. So that was that.

  Bolitho had made no comment, but Herrick knew his captain well enough now to understand the sudden anger in his grey eyes. It was as if the admiral bad gone out of his way to isolate the Phalarope, as a doctor would separate a leper from his fellow humans.

  He jerked from his thoughts as Bolitho's head and shoulders appeared through the cabin hatch. Like the other officers, he was dressed in shirt and white breeches, and his dark hair was clinging to his forehead with sweat. He looked strained and edgy, and Herrick could almost feel restlessness which was making Bolitho fret at the inaction around him.

  Herrick said, `Still no wind, sir.'

  Bolitho shot him an angry glance and then seemed to control himself. `Thank you, Mr. Herrick. So I see.' He walked to the compass and glanced at the two listless helmsmen. Then he moved to the starboard rail, and Herrick saw him wince as the sun smote his shoulders like a furnace.

  Bolitho said quietly, `How are the men?'

  Herrick replied vaguely, `Not happy, sir. It is bad enough out here, without short water rations!'

  `Quite so.' Bolitho nodded without turning. 'But it is necessary. God knows how long we will be pinned down like this.'

  His hand moved vaguely to the scar beneath the rebellious forelock of hair. Herrick had seen him touch the livid mark on several previous occasions, usually when he appeared to be entirely wrapped in his own thoughts. Once Herrick had questioned Stockdale about it, and learned that it had happened when Bolitho, as a junior lieutenant, had been sent ashore to an island with a small party of seamen to refill water casks.

  Unknown to the captain or anyone else, the island had not been uninhabited, and almost as soon as the launch had grated up the beach the party had been ambushed by a horde of yelling natives. One had snatched up a cutlass from a dying sailor and attacked Bolitho as he had tried to rally his outnumbered men. In his thick, jolting voice Stockdale had described the scene around the launch, with half the sailors butchered or dying and the others falling back desperately in a frantic effort to regain the safety of the sea. Bolitho had fallen, separated from. his men, his face masked in blood from the cutlass slash which should have killed him. The sailors who survived were all for leaving their officer, whom they supposed to be dead anyway, but at the last minute they rallied, and as mor
e boats pulled to their aid Bolitho was dragged to safety.

  Herrick knew there was a lot more to it than that. Just as he guessed that it had been Stockdale's massive right arm which had held the men from panic and had saved the man he now served like a devoted dog.

  Bolitho walked forward to the quarterdeck rail and stared towards the bows. `The haze, Mr. Herrick. It looks not unlike a Channel mist.'

  Herrick's dry lips cracked into a rueful smile. `I never thought I would miss the Channel Fleet, sir. But how I would like to hear the wind and feel the cold spray again.'

  `Maybe.' Bolitho seemed lost in his thoughts. `But I have a feeling the wind will return soon.'

  Herrick stared at him. It was not a boast or an empty statement of hope. It was like another small picture of the man's quiet confidence, he thought.

  There was a step on the deck behind them and Vibart said harshly, `A word, Captain.'

  Bolitho replied, `What is it?'

  `Your clerk, Mathias, sir.' Vibart watched Bolitho's impassive face as he continued, `He's had a bad fall in the hold, sir.'

  `How bad?'

  Vibart shook his head. `He'll not see another day, I'm thinking.' There was no pity in his voice.

  Bolitho bit his lip. 'I sent him down there myself to check some stores.' He looked up suddenly, his face clouded with concern. `Are you sure nothing can be done for him?'

  `The surgeon says not.' Vibart sounded indifferent. `Apart from his ribs, which are badly stove in, he's got a split in his skull you could put a marline-spike through!'

  'I see.' Bolitho stared down at his hands on the rail. 'I hardly knew the man, but he was a hard worker and tried to do his best.' He shook his head. `To die in action is one thing, but this ...'

  Herrick said quickly, `I will get another clerk, sir. There is a man, Ferguson, one of those pressed in Falmouth. He can read and write, and is more used to that sort of work.' Herrick recalled Ferguson's wretched expression as the ship had left Antigua. He had promised to help him get a letter away to his wife. Perhaps this release from the heavy duties of seamanship and the harsh control of the petty officers would make up for the omission in some way.