He had allowed Tyrrell to go ashore whenever possible, and had been surprised to see the change in him. Instead of showing excitement or relief at being amongst men like himself, places he had often visited in his father’s schooner, he withdrew still further, until eventually he avoided leaving the ship unless on some particular duty. Bolitho knew he had been making inquiries about his family’s whereabouts, anything which might give him some hint of their safety or otherwise. Also, he believed that Tyrrell would tell him in his own good time, if that was what he wished.
And then, three months almost to the exact day after watching the French frigate pounding herself to fragments off the hidden bar, Sparrow was once more ready for sea. When the last ship-wright had been escorted ashore, each watched to make certain he took no more than he had brought with him, and the watch-lighters and yard hoys had pulled clear of the side, Bolitho wrote his report for the admiral. Another special mission, to carry despatches, or merely to return to Captain Colquhoun’s command, he now cared very little which it was to be. Just to be under sail again, free of urbane flag officers and inscrutable clerks, it was all he wanted.
When Tyrrell came aft to report the ship cleared of shore workers Bolitho asked, “Will you dine with me this evening? We may be too occupied in the near future.”
Tyrrell looked at him dully. “My pleasure, sir.” He sounded worn out. Spent.
Bolitho stared through the open stern windows towards the anchored ships and the pale houses beyond.
“You may share your worries with me, Mr. Tyrrell, if you wish.” He had not meant to say what he did. But the look of despair on the lieutenant’s face had pushed all caution aside.
Tyrrell watched him by the windows, his eyes in shadow. “I did get news. My father lost his schooners, but that was expected. They went to one side or t’other. Makes no difference. My father also owned a small farmstead. Always said it was like th’ one he had once in England.”
Bolitho turned slowly. “Is that gone, too?”
Tyrrell shrugged. “Th’ war reached th’ territory some months back.” His voice became distant, toneless. “We had a neighbour, called Luke Mason. He an’ I grew up together. Like brothers. When th’ rebellion began Luke was up north selling cattle an’ I was at sea. Luke was always a bit wild, an’ I guess he got carried along by all the excitement. Anyway, he joined up to fight th’ English. But things got bad for his company, they were almost wiped out in some battle or t’other. Luke decided to go home. He had had enough of war, I guess.”
Bolitho bit his lip. “He went to your father?”
“Aye. Trouble was, my father was apparently helping th’ English soldiers with fodder an’ remounts. But he was fond of Luke. He was like family.” He gave a long sigh. “Th’ local colonel heard about it from some goddamn informer. He had my father hanged on a tree and burned th’ house down for good measure.”
Bolitho exclaimed, “My God, I’m sorry!”
Tyrrell did not seem to hear. “Then th’ Americans attacked an’ th’ redcoats retreated.” He looked up at the deckhead and added fiercely, “But Luke was safe. He got out of th’ house before it burned around him. An’ you know what? Th’ American colonel hanged Luke as a deserter!”
He dropped on a chair and fell against the table. “In th’ name of hell, where’s th’ goddamn sense in it all?”
“And your mother?” He watched Tyrrell’s lowered head. His anguish was breaking him apart.
“She died two years back, so she was spared all this. There’s just me now, an’ my sister Jane.” He looked up, his eyes reflecting the sunlight like fires. “After Cap’n Ransome had done with her, she disappeared. Christ alone knows where she is!”
In the sudden silence Bolitho tried to discover how he would feel if, like Tyrrell, he was faced with such an appalling discovery. Ever since he could remember he had been taught to accept the possibility of death and not shirk from it. Most of his ancestors had died at sea in one manner or another. It was an easy thing to do. Quite apart from a brutal end under cannon fire or the plunge of an enemy’s sword, there were countless traps for the unwary. A fall from aloft, drowning, fever, men died as much from these as anything fired from a gun. His brother Hugh had been a lieutenant in the Channel Fleet when he had last seen him. He could be commanding a ship against the French, or at this very moment lying many fathoms down with his men. But the roots would still be there. The house in Falmouth, his father and married sisters. What would he be suffering if, like Tyrrell, he knew all that was broken and trodden down in a country where brother fought brother and men cursed each other in the same language as they struggled and died?
Now Tyrrell, and many more besides, had nothing left. Not even a country.
There was a rap on the door and Graves stepped into the cabin.
“This was delivered by the guardboat, sir.” He held out a canvas envelope.
Bolitho walked to the windows again and slit it open with a knife. He hoped Graves would not notice Tyrell’s misery, that the time taken to read the message would give him a moment to recover.
It was very brief.
He said quietly, “We are ordered to weigh at first light tomorrow. We will be carrying important despatches to the admiral in Antigua.”
He had a mental picture of the endless sea miles, the long passage back to English Harbour and Colquhoun. It was a pity they had ever left in the first place.
Graves said, “I’m not sorry. We’ll have something to boast about this time.”
Bolitho studied him gravely. What an unimaginative man he is.
“My compliments to the master. Tell him to make preparations at once.”
When Graves had gone Bolitho added, “Maybe you’ll wish to postpone dining with me?”
Tyrrell stood up, his fingers touching the table as if to test his own balance.
“No, sir. I’d like to come.” He looked round the cabin. “This was th’ last place I saw Jane. It helps a bit now.”
Bolitho watched him leave and heard the slam of a cabin door. Then with a sigh he sat down at the table and began to write in his log.
For seven untroubled days the Sparrow pushed her bowsprit southwards, taking full advantage of a fresh wind which hardly varied in bearing or substance throughout that time. The regrets and brooding despondency which most of the company had felt at New York seemed to have blown away on the wind, and their new freedom shone in the straining canvas which gleamed beneath a cloudless sky. Even the memory of the last fight, the faces of those killed or left behind crippled to await passage home had become part of the past, like old scars which took just so much time to heal.
As Bolitho studied his chart and checked the daily sunsights he felt cause for satisfaction in Sparrow’s performance. She had already logged over a thousand miles, and like himself seemed eager to leave the land as far away as possible. They had not sighted even a solitary sail, and the last hopeful gulls had left them two days earlier.
The routine aboard such a small ship-of-war was regular and carefully planned, so that the overcrowded conditions could be made as comfortable as possible. When not working aloft on sails and rigging the hands spent their time at gun drill or in harmless contests of wrestling and fighting with staves under Stockdale’s professional eye.
On the quarterdeck, too, there was usually some diversion to break the monotony of empty horizons, and Bolitho came to know even more about his officers. Midshipman Heyward had proved himself to be an excellent and skilful swordsman, and spent several of the dog watches instructing Bethune and the master’s mates in the art of fencing. The biggest surprise was Robert Dalkeith. The plump surgeon had come on deck with the finest pair of pistols Bolitho had ever seen. Perfectly matched and made by Dodson of London, they must have cost a small fortune. While one of the ship’s boys had thrown pieces of wood chippings from a gangway, Dalkeith had waited by the nettings and when they had bobbed past on the wash had despatched them without seeming to take aim. Such marksmanship was
rare for any ship’s surgeon, and added to the price of the pistols made Bolitho think more deeply about Dalkeith’s past.
Towards the end of the seventh day Bolitho received his first warning that the weather was changing. The sky, clear and pale blue for so long, became smeared by long tongues of cloud, and the ship reeled more heavily in a deep swell. The glass was unsteady, but it was more the feel of things which told him they were in for a real blow. The wind had backed to the north-west and showed every sign of strengthening, and as he faced it across the taffrail he could sense the mounting power, its clamminess on his skin.
Buckle observed, “Another hurricane, I wonder?”
“Maybe.” Bolitho walked to the compass. “Let her fall off a point.” He left Buckle to his helmsmen and joined Tyrrell by the quarterdeck rail. “The fringe of a storm perhaps. Either way we will have to reef down before dark, maybe much sooner.”
Tyrrell nodded, his eyes on the bulging canvas. “Th’ main-t’gan’sl seems to be drawing well. They did good work aloft while we were in port.” He watched the masthead pendant as it twisted and then flapped out more firmly towards the larboard bow. “Goddamn th’ wind. It backs still further by th’ looks of it.”
Buckle smiled glumly. “Course sou’ sou’-east, sir.” He cursed as the deck tilted steeply and a tall spectre of spray burst above the nettings.
Bolitho considered the matter. They had made a good passage so far. There was no point in tearing the sails off her just to spite the wind. He sighed. Perhaps it would ease again soon.
“Get the t’gallants off her, Mr. Tyrrell. It’s coming down on us now.”
He stood aside as Tyrrell ran for his trumpet. Out from the swaying hull he saw the telltale haze of rain advancing across the uneven swell and blotting out the horizon like a fence of chain-mail.
Within an hour the wind had backed even further and had risen to gale force, with the sea and sky joined together in a torment of bursting wave-crests and torrential rain. It was useless to fight it, and as the clouds gathered and entwined above the swooping mastheads Sparrow turned and ran before it, her topmen fighting and fisting the sodden canvas as yet another reef was made fast. Half-blinded by rain and spray, their feet groping for toe-holds, while with curses and yells they used brute strength to bring the sails under control.
Night came prematurely, and under close-reefed topsails they drove on into the darkness, their world surrounded by huge wave-crests, their lives menaced at every step by the sea as it surged over the gangways and boiled along the decks like a river in flood. Even when the hands were dismissed in watches to find a moment of rest and shelter below there was little to sustain them. Everything was dripping or damp, and the cook had long since given up any idea of producing a hot meal.
Bolitho remained on the quarterdeck, his tarpaulin coat plastered to his body like a shroud while the wind howled and screamed around him. Shrouds and rigging whined like the strings of some mad orchestra, and above the deck, hidden in darkness, the crack and boom of canvas told its own story. In brief lulls the wind seemed to drop, holding its breath as if to consider its efforts against the embattled sloop. In those small moments Bolitho could feel the salt warming on his face, raw to the touch. He could hear the clank of pumps, the muffled shouts from below and on the hidden forecastle as unseen men fought to make fast lashings, seek out severed cordage, or merely to reassure each other they were alive.
All night the wind battered against them, driving them further and still further to the south-cast. Hour by hour, as Bolitho peered at the compass or reeled below to examine his chart, there was neither rest nor relief from its pounding. Bolitho felt bruised and sick, as if he had been fighting a physical battle, or dragged half-drowned from the sea itself. Despite his reeling mind he thanked God he had not tried to lie to and ride out the storm under a solitary reefed topsail. With this strength of wind and sea Sparrow would never have recovered, could have been all aback and dismasted before anyone had realised what they were truly against.
He could even find a moment to marvel at Sparrow’s behaviour. Uncomfortable she was to every man aboard. Fighting the jerking canvas or working on the pumps with sea and bilge water swirling amongst them like rats in a sewer, their lives were made worse by the motion. Up, higher still, and then down with the sound of thunder across a great crest, every spar and timber shaking as if to rip free of the hull. Food, a few precious possessions, clothing, all surged about the decks in wild abandon, but not a gun tore away from its lashings, not a bolt snapped, nor was any hatch stove in by the attacking sea. Sparrow took it all, rode each assault with the unsteady belligerence of a drunken marine.
By the time they sighted a first hint of grey in the sky the sea had begun to ease, and when the sun peeped languidly above the horizon it was hard to believe they were in the same ocean.
The wind had veered again to the north-west and as they stared with salt-caked eyes at the patches of blue between the clouds they knew they were being left in comparative peace.
Bolitho realised that if he allowed the hands to rest now they would not be able to move again for hours. He looked down at the gun deck and gangways, seeing their tired faces and torn clothing, the way the topmen’s tarred hands were held like claws after their repeated journeys to those treacherous yards to battle with the sails.
He said, “Pass the word for the galley fire to be lit. We must get some hot food into them directly.” He looked up as a shaft of sunlight touched the upper yards so that they shone above the retreating darkness like a triple crucifix. “It will be warm enough soon, Mr. Tyrrell. Rig wind-sails above each hatch and open the weather gun ports.” He let his salt-stiffened lips crack into a smile. “I suggest you forget your usual concern for the ship’s looks and have the hands run their spare clothing aloft to dry out.”
Graves came aft and touched his hat. “Able Seaman Marsh is missing.” He swayed and added wearily, “Foretopman, sir.”
Bolitho let his eyes stray over the starboard quarter. The seaman must have been hurled overboard during the night, and they had not even heard a cry. Which was just as well. They could have done nothing to save him.
“Thank you, Mr. Graves. Note it in the log, if you please.”
He was still watching the sea, the way the night appeared to withdraw itself before the first gold rays, like some retreating assassin. The seaman was out there somewhere, dead and remembered by just a few. His shipmates, and those at home he had left so long ago.
He shook himself and turned to the master. “Mr. Buckle, I hope we can fix our position today. Somewhere to the sou’west of the Bermudas, I have no doubt.” He smiled gently at Buckle’s gloomy expression. “But fifty miles or five hundred, I am not sure.”
Bolitho waited another hour until the ship had been laid on a new tack, her jib-boom prodding towards the southern horizon, her decks and upperworks steaming in the early sunlight as if she was smouldering.
Then he nodded to Tyrrell. “I will take some breakfast.” He sniffed the greasy aroma from the galley funnel. “Even that smell has given me an appetite.”
With the cabin door firmly closed and Stockdale padding around the table with fresh coffee and a pewter plate of fried pork, Bolitho was able to relax, to weigh the value and cost of the night’s work. He had faced his first storm in command. A man had died, but many others had stayed alive. And the Sparrow was once again dipping and creaking around him as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened at all.
Stockdale put a plate with half a loaf of stale bread on it beside a crock of yellow butter. The bread was the last of that brought aboard at New York, the butter probably rancid from the cask. But as Bolitho leaned back in his chair he felt like a king, and the meagre breakfast seemed no less than a banquet.
He stared idly around the cabin. He had survived much in so short a time. It was luck, more than he deserved.
He asked, “Where is Fitch?”
Stockdale showed his teeth. “Dryin’ your sleepin’
gear, sir.” He rarely spoke when Bolitho was eating and thinking. He had learned all about Bolitho’s odd habits long back. He added, “Woman’s work.”
Bolitho laughed, the sound carrying up through the open skylight where Tyrrell had the watch and Buckle was scribbling on his slate beside the binnacle.
Buckle shook his head. “What did I tell you? No worries, that one!”
“Deck there!” Tyrrell stared up at the masthead as the cry came. “Sail! Fine on th’ starboard quarter!”
Feet clattered on the ladder and Bolitho appeared beside him, his jaw still working on some buttered bread.
He said, “I have a feeling about this morning.” He saw a master’s mate by the mainmast trunk and called, “Mr. Raven! Aloft with you!” He held up his hand, halting the man as he ran to the shrouds. “Remember your lesson, as I will.”
Graves had also come on deck, partly shaved and naked to the waist. Bolitho looked around the waiting men, studying each in turn if only to contain his impatience while Raven clawed his way to the masthead. Changed. They were all different in some way. Toughened, more confident perhaps. Like bronzed pirates, held together by their trade—he hesitated—their loyalty.
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