5
Envy
Bolitho clambered through the main hatch,
and seized a stanchion as he steadied himself against the angle of
the deck and waited for his vision to clear. The night was pitch
black, the air and spray stinging his cheeks, driving away all
thoughts of sleep. And that was the odd thing, that he was still
wide awake. It was eight o’clock, and a full eight hours since
Hotspur had weighed anchor and struck
south into the Channel. The thrill and confusion, groping for
unfamiliar cordage and becoming more accustomed to the schooner’s
demands in a brisk north-westerly wind, had settled into a pattern
of order and purpose.
They were divided
into two watches, four hours on, four off, with the dogwatches
giving a brief respite in which to devour a hot meal and fortify
themselves with a tot of rum. It all helped.
Verling was handing
over the watch now, his tall shape just visible against the sliver
of foam beyond the lee bulwark. ‘Sou’ east-by-south, Mr. Egmont.
She should be steady a while now that the topsails are snug.’ The
merest pause, and Bolitho imagined him staring down at the junior
lieutenant, making sure that there was no misunder-standing. ‘Call
me immediately if the sea gets up, or
anything else happens that I ought to know.’
Bolitho moved closer
to the wheel and the two helmsmen. He could see the bare feet of
one, pale against the wet planking. During the first dogwatch he
had seen the same seaman blowing onto his fingers to warm them
against the bitter air, but he was standing barefoot now with no
show of discomfort. He must have soles like leather.
Another shadow moved
past the wheel and he saw a face catch the glow from the compass
box: Andrew Sewell, the new midshipman. They had scarcely spoken
since they had come aboard; Egmont had seen to that. Fifteen years
old, Captain Conway had said. He looked younger. Nervous, shy, or
possibly both, he was a pleasant-faced youth with fair skin and
hazel eyes, and a quick smile that seemed only too rare. He had
helped Bolitho lay out some charts in the precise way that Verling
always seemed to expect. It had been then, in the poor light of the
main cabin, that Bolitho had seen Sewell’s hands. Scarred, torn and
deeply bruised, never given the chance to become accustomed to the
demands of seamanship. Deliberately driven seemed the most likely
explanation; it was common enough even in today’s navy. He
remembered the captain’s obvious concern for him, perhaps not
merely because of his dead father.
Bolitho reached out
impulsively and touched his elbow.
‘Over here, Andrew! A
bit more sheltered!’ He felt him start to pull away, and added,
‘Easy, now.’
Sewell let his arm go
limp.
‘I’ve just been sick
again, Mister. . . .’
‘“Dick” will do very
well.’ He waited, sensing the caution, the doubt. Sewell did not
belong here. Suppose I had felt like that when
I was packed off to sea in Manxman?
He looked up and
watched the fine curve of the great sail above them. Not shapeless
now, and pale blue in a shaft of light as the moon showed itself
between banks of scudding cloud. And the sea, rising and falling
like black glass, reaching out on either beam. Endless, with no
horizon.
Bolitho tugged the
rough tarpaulin coat away from his neck. It had rubbed his skin
raw, but he had not noticed.
He said, ‘This could
be the middle of the Atlantic, or some other great ocean! And just
us sailing across it, think of that.’
Sewell said, ‘You
mean that,’ and hesitated, ‘Dick? How you truly see
it?’
‘I suppose I do. I
can’t really explain. . . .’ Something made him
stop, like a warning, as he felt Sewell move slightly
away.
‘Nothing to do,
then?’ It was Egmont, almost invisible in a boat cloak against the
black water and heavy cloud. ‘I want a good watch kept at all times. Have you checked the deck log and the
set course?’
Bolitho replied,
‘Sou’ east-by-south, sir. Helm is steady.’
Egmont turned toward
Sewell.
‘Did I hear you
spewing up again? God help us all! I want you to check the glass
yourself. Let every grain of sand run free before you turn it, see?
I don’t want you warming the glass every time, just so you can run
below and dream of home. So do it!’
He glanced at the
wheel as the spokes creaked again.
‘Watch your helm,
man! And stand up smartly, stay alert!’ He swung away, the boat
cloak floating around him. ‘What’s your name? I’ll be watching
you!’
The seaman shifted
his bare feet on the grating.
‘Archer.’
Egmont looked at
Bolitho. ‘I’m going below to check the chart. Watch the helm and
call me if you need advice.’
He may have looked at
the helmsman. ‘And, Archer, say sir
when you speak to an officer in the future!’ He strode to the
hatch.
Bolitho clenched his
fist.
Then try to act like one!
He heard Sewell gasp,
with surprise or disbelief, and realised that he had spoken
aloud.
But he smiled, glad
he was still able.
‘Something else
you’ve learned in Hotspur, Mister
Sewell! Don’t lose your temper so easily!’
Andrew Sewell, aged
fifteen, and the only son of a hero, said nothing. It was like a
hand reaching out, and he was no longer afraid to take
it.
The helmsman named
Archer called, ‘Wind’s gettin’ up, sir!’
He jerked his head as
the wet canvas rattled and cracked loudly above them.
Bolitho nodded. ‘My
respects to Mr. Egmont. . . .’ The mood was still on
him. ‘No. I’ll tell him
myself.’
Tired, elated, angry?
Sailors often blamed it on the wind.
He reached the hatch
and called back, ‘Remember! No
passengers!’
The wheel jerked
sharply as both helmsmen gripped the spokes and put their weight
against it, but the one named Archer managed to laugh.
‘Easy does it, Tom.
Our Dick’s blood is on the boil. He’ll see us right!’
Vague figures were
moving to each mast, the watch on deck, and ready for the
storm.
Andrew Sewell had
heard the quick exchange between the two men at the wheel and felt
something quite unknown to him. It was envy.
The next few hours
were ones even the old Jacks were unlikely to forget. A blustery
succession of squalls became a strong wind that had all hands
fighting each onslaught, bruised and blinded by icy spray and the
waves that burst across the bulwarks and swept down the scuppers
like a tiderace. All through the middle watch the storm continued
its assault, until even the most vociferous curses were beaten into
silence.
But when the clouds
eventually broke and a first hint of dawn showed itself against
straining canvas and the crisscross of shining rigging,
Hotspur was holding her own, with not a
spar or shroud broken.
Bolitho had
remembered Tinker Thorne’s admiration for her builder, Old John
Barstow, the finest in the West
Country; he had clung to those words more than once in the
night when the sea had smashed against the hull or sent men
sprawling like rag dolls in its wake.
Tinker’s voice had
rarely been silent, and his sturdy form was everywhere. Dragging a
man from one task and shoving him into another, putting an extra
pair of hands on halliard or brace, or bullying another too dazed
to think clearly, to add his weight to the pumps.
And Verling was
always there. Down aft, holding himself upright, while he watched
the relentless battle of sea against rudder, wind against
canvas.
A few men were
injured, but none seriously, with cuts and bruises, or rope burns
when human hands could no longer control wet cordage squealing
through block or cleat.
And as suddenly as it
had begun, the wind eased, and it was safe to move about the deck
without pain or apprehension.
Bolitho heard Verling
say, ‘Another hour, Mr. Egmont, and we’ll get the tops’Is on her.
The wind’s backed a piece. I want a landfall on Guernsey, not the
coast of France!’ Calmly said, but he was not joking. ‘Check and
report any damage. Injuries, too. I’ll need it for my report.’ He
patted the compass box. ‘Not bad for a youngster, eh?’
Egmont hurried
forward, his boat cloak plastered to his body like a mould. In the
poor light it was hard to gauge his reaction to the
storm.
‘’Ere, sir.’ Bolitho
felt a mug pushed into his frozen fingers. ‘Get yer blood movin’
again!’
Rum, cognac, it could
have been anything, but it began to work instantly.
‘Thank you, Drury –
just in time!’ The seaman laughed. Like Bolitho, he was probably
surprised that he had remembered his name.
Dancer joined him by
the foremast and clapped his shoulder.
‘Well, that’s all
over, Dick!’ His smile was very white against wind-seared features.
‘’Til the next time!’
They both looked up.
The masthead pendant was just visible against the banks of low
cloud, flicking out like a coachman’s whip, but not bar-taut as it
must have been for the past few hours.
Dancer said, ‘I’ll
not be sorry to see the sun again!’
‘Here? In January?’ They both laughed, and a sailor
who was squatting by the forward hatch while his leg was being
bandaged stared up at them and grinned.
Tinker had heard
Verling’s words to Egmont, and Bolitho saw that he was already
mustering some of his topmen, getting ready to loose the topsails.
Hotspur would fly when that was done.
Like the great seabird of his imagination.
‘Go below, one of
you, and fetch my glass!’
Bolitho called, ‘Aye,
sir!’ and nudged his friend’s arm. ‘You stay and watch for the
sun!’ Dancer’s coat sleeve was heavy with spray.
Dancer saw the
question in his eyes and shrugged. ‘I put my tarpaulin over one of
the injured.’
Bolitho said, ‘You
would!’
It was deserted below
deck, although he could hear men shouting to one another as they
put new lashings on some of the stores Hotspur was carrying as additional ballast. He
paused to listen to the sea, sluicing and thudding against the
hull. Quieter now, but still menacing, showing its
power.
He found Verling’s
telescope, just inside the tiny cabin which would be the new
master’s domain and, when necessary, his retreat.
Verling’s coat was
hanging on a hook, swaying with the motion like a restless spectre.
When Hotspur anchored again, he would
go ashore as a well turned-out sea officer, not as a survivor. It
was impossible to see him in any other light.
He stiffened,
surprised that he had not heard it before. Sewell’s voice, husky,
even cowed.
‘I didn’t, sir. I was only trying
to. . . .’
He got no further,
cut short by Egmont, angry, malicious, sarcastic.
‘What d’ you mean,
you couldn’t help it? You make me sick,
and you still believe that anybody will ever accept you for a commission?’ He was laughing now; Bolitho
could see him in his mind. Barely out of the midshipmen’s berth
himself, and he was behaving like a tyrant.
‘I’ve been watching
you, and do you think I’ve not guessed what you’re trying to do?’
There was another sound. A slap. ‘And if I see you
again. . . .’
Bolitho did not know
he had moved. It was like the actors in the square at Falmouth;
they had all watched them as children, had cheered or hissed to
match the mimes and poses.
Egmont swinging round
to stare at him, mouth half open, cut short by the interruption,
one hand still in the air, after the blow, or preparing another.
Sewell, leaning against the curved timbers, covering his cheek or
mouth, but his eye fixed on Bolitho.
‘What th’ hell are
you doing here?’
Almost as if he had
imagined it. Egmont quite calm now, arms at his sides, swaying to
the motion, but in control. And the young midshipman, saying
nothing, his face guarded, expressionless. Only the red welt by his
mouth as evidence.
Bolitho said, ‘I came
for the first lieutenant’s glass.’ It was like hearing someone
else. Clipped, cold. Like Hugh.
‘Well, don’t just
stand there! Take it and go!’
Bolitho looked past
him. ‘Are you all right, Andrew?’
Sewell swallowed, and
seemed unable to speak. Then he nodded and exclaimed, ‘Yes, of
course. It was nothing, you see. . . .’
Egmont snapped, ‘Hold
your tongue!’ and turned to Bolitho again. ‘Go about your duties.
I’ll overlook your insolence this time, but. . . .’
He did not finish it, but swung round and left the
cabin.
They stood facing
each other, without speaking or moving, the sounds of rigging and
sea distant, unintrusive.
‘Tell me, Andrew.’
Bolitho reached out to take his arm, and saw him flinch as if he
expected another blow. ‘He struck you,
and just before that. . . .’
He got no
further.
‘No. It would only
make things worse. D’you think I don’t know? What it’s like –
really like?’
Bolitho felt the
anger rising like fire. Egmont’s shock when he had burst into this
cabin, and then as quickly, his recovery and arrogance. He could
still feel Sewell’s arm; it was shaking. Fear? It went deeper than
that.
He said, ‘I’ll come
aft with you right now. Mr. Verling will listen. He has to. And in any
case. . . .’
But Sewell was
shaking his head.
‘No.’ He looked at him directly for the first time.
‘It wouldn’t help.’ Then, quite firmly, he pried Bolitho’s fingers
from his arm. ‘He would deny it. And . . . so would
I.’
Someone was shouting;
feet thudded across the deck overhead. He still held Verling’s
telescope in his other hand. Nothing was making sense.
Sewell was fumbling
with his coat, trying to fasten his buttons, not looking at him
now. ‘You will be a good officer, Dick, a fine one. I see the way
they respect you, and like you. I
always hoped. . . .’
He moved abruptly to
the door, and to the ladder beyond.
Bolitho stood very
still, his anger giving way to a sense of utter defeat. Because of
what he had just seen and heard, and because it
mattered.
There were more
shouts, and he found himself on the ladder as if it were an escape.
But he kept seeing Sewell’s face, and his fear. He needed help.
And I failed him.
On deck, it seemed
nothing had happened, routine taking over as seamen jostled at
their stations for making more sail. Hotspur had altered course again, the canvas
shivering and cracking, the main and gaff topsails taut across the
bulwark, throwing broken reflections across the water
alongside.
‘Loose tops’ls! Lively there!’
Verling called, ‘Give
it to me!’ He seized the telescope and trained it across the
weather bow. ‘Thought you’d fallen outboard. Where the hell were
you?’ He did not wait for an answer or seem to expect one, and was
already calling to men by the foremast.
Egmont was near the
wheel, shading his eyes to peer up at the topsail yards. He glanced
only briefly at Bolitho before returning his attention to the newly
released sails as they filled and hardened to the wind.
Disinterested. Bolitho heard Sewell’s voice again. He would deny it. And so would I.
‘All secure, sir!’
That was Tinker, eyes like slits as he stared at the small figures
on the yards, groping their way back to safety.
Most of the sea was
still hidden in darkness, but the sky was lighter, and in so short
a time the vessel had taken shape and regained her personality
around and above them, faces and voices emerging from groups and
shadows.
Bolitho felt the deck
plunge beneath him, exuberant, like the wild creature she was.
Hotspur would make a fine and graceful
sight even in this poor light, with all sails set and filled, the
yards bending like bows under the strain.
‘Now that was
something, Dick!’ It was Dancer,
hatless, his fair hair plastered across a forehead gleaming with
spray.
Verling said, ‘Send
half of the hands below, Mr. Egmont. Get some food into them. And
don’t be too long about it.’ His mind was already moving on. ‘Two
good masthead lookouts.’ He must have sensed a question, and added,
‘One man sees only what he expects to see if he’s left alone too
long.’ His arm shot out. ‘Mr. Bolitho, you stand by. I need some keen eyes this morning!’
He might even have smiled. ‘This is no two-decker!’
Bolitho felt his
stomach muscles tighten. Even the mention of climbing aloft could
still make his skin crawl.
Verling was saying,
‘Take my glass with you. I’ll tell you what to watch out
for.’
Dancer said softly,
‘I hope I’m as confident as he is when I’m told to take a ship from
one cross on the chart to another. Nothing ever troubles
him.’
They went below, and
suddenly he grasped Bolitho’s arm and pulled him against the galley
bulkhead.
‘I’ve been thinking.
You remember what Captain Conway said about young Sewell’s
experiences in previous ships? One of them was the Ramillies, wasn’t it, in the Downs Squadron? Where
everything started to go against him.’
Bolitho said nothing,
waiting. It was as if Dancer had just been with him. Then he said
cautiously, ‘What about Ramillies?’
‘Something I heard a
minute ago made me stop and think. Surprised Conway didn’t know.’
He turned as if to listen as someone hurried past. ‘Our Mister
Egmont was a middy on board at the same time as Sewell. A bully
even then, to all accounts.’
More figures were
slipping and clattering down the ladder, jostling one another and
laughing, fatigue and injuries forgotten until the next
call.
Bolitho said, ‘Then
I’ve just made an enemy,’ and told him what had
happened.
Someone ducked his
head through the hatch. Bolitho could see his face clearly despite
the lingering gloom between decks.
‘What is
it?’
‘Mr. Verling wants
you on deck, sir.’ A quick grin. ‘“Fast as you like”, ’e
says!’
In the silence that
followed, Dancer said lightly, ‘Then I’m sorry to say Egmont’s made
another enemy. He seems to have a talent for it.’
They reached the
upper deck together. There was more cloud than earlier, rain
too.
Dancer exclaimed,
‘Thunder! Not another storm, I hope.’
Bolitho looked at
him. The bond between them was even stronger.
‘Not on your oath,
Martyn. That was cannon fire!’