To Glory We Steer

10

 

THE RED BAIZE BAG

 

For Richard Bolitho each day of captivity seemed longer than the one before, and the daily routine aboard the Andiron dragged into a slow torture. He was allowed the comparative freedom of the frigate's poop, from where he could watch the regular comings and goings of shore boats, the casual routine of a ship at anchor. At night he was returned to, the solitude of a small cabin, and only joined Farquhar and Belsey for meals. Even then it was difficult to talk freely, because one of the privateer's warrant officers always waited close at hand.

It was a week since the Andiron had dropped her anchor, but to Bolitho it felt like an eternity. As each day passed he seemed to withdraw more and more into himself, going over his predicament again and again until his mind felt as if it was bursting.

From his small piece of deck he could see Belsey sitting gloomily on a hatch cover beside Farquhar, both apparently engaged in staring at the empty sea. Like everyone else aboard they were waiting, he thought bitterly. Waiting and wondering when Phalarope would approach the island and fall into the trap. He noticed that Belsey had a fresh bandage on his arm, and thought back to that first and only petty triumph when he had been allowed to join the other two after his meeting with his brother.

It was obvious at the time that both Farquhar and Belsey had already been told who the Andiron's captain really was, just as it was equally plain to see their pitiful relief at his reappearance. Did they really believe that he would desert them and give his allegiance to the enemy? Even now he was surprised and faintly pleased to find that he was angry at the idea.

Belsey had been moving his bandaged arm painfully and had said, `The ship's surgeon is goin' to have a look at it, sir.'

It had been then, and only then that Bolitho had remembered Farquhar's dirk which still lay hidden and used as a splint beneath the crude bandages. Hardly daring to speak, and watched by the others, he had broken a piece of wood from the cabin chair, and with Farquhar's help had replaced the dirk with a piece of polished mahogany. Once Belsey had yelped aloud and Bolitho had snapped, `Keep quiet, you fooll We may have use for this later on!'

The dirk now lay hidden in his own bedding below decks, but after the agonising passing of days he could no longer view the possession of such a puny weapon with much hope.

He had seen little of his brother, and for that he was thankful. Once he had caught sight of him being rowed ashore in his gig. And on other occasions he had watched him staring at the tall mass of headland which towered above the anchored ship.

Bolitho had examined and thought over that one conversation in the stem cabin until he could see meanings where there were none. But he was sure of one thing. Hugh Bolitho was not bluffing. He had no need to.

The Andiron was anchored off the southern tip of the Island of Nevis, a smaller subsidiary of the main island, St. Kitts. Bolitho knew from experience that this small, ovalshaped island was separated by The Narrows a mere two miles or so from St. Kitts itself and a full fifteen miles from the main town of Basseterre where Hood had successfully stood siege until forced to cut his cables and retire to Antigua.

Nevis had been a good choice, Bolitho conceded grimly. During his endless walks up and down the poop he had watched the rapid preparations, the careful cunning which had gone into laying a perfect trap for any ship attempting to seize the Andiron.

The sheltered piece of water was commanded by the jutting promontory of Dogwood Point, while inland and towering like a miniature volcano was the bare outline of Saddle Hill. From either position even a wall-eyed lookout could quickly spot any unusual or suspicious approach and send a report down to both ship and shoreline.

It was so simple that Bolitho had to admit he would have used the same method himself. Perhaps it was because it was his own flesh and blood which was, working out the plan, and a mind like his own was laying the snare.

If Sir Robert Napier had been informed of Andiron's presence here, it was not unreasonable to expect him to take some sort of offensive action. A swift frigate attack would not match up to the smarting loss of St. Kitts, but it would do much for the morale of the embattled British fleet. It did not have to be the Phalarope, of course.

Bolitho discounted the idea immediately. His brother had been right about that, too. Admiral Napier would have few ships at his disposal now that Hood was back in the saddle. In addition, he would see Phalarope's success as an act of justice to purge her name and avenge the memory of his own son.

He tried again to put himself into the position of an attacking captain. He would 'make a slow approach, just to make sure that the information about the Andiron was not suspect, and in order that the lookouts ashore should not see any sign of a masthead before sunset. Then under cover of darkness he would close the shore and drop a full boarding party of perhaps three or four boats. It would not be easy, but a ship foolish enough to anchor away from the defended base might be expected to fall after a swift struggle. He closed his eyes tightly and tried to blot out the picture of the attacking ship at the moment of truth end realisation.

There was a hidden battery of artillery already sighted and ranged across the whole area below the headland. And although to all outward appearances the Andiron was resting confidently below a friendly island, Bolitho had seen the preparations and the care his brother had gone to, to make sure of a victory.

Guns were loaded with grape and depressed behind their closed ports. Boarding nets were already slung, suitably slack to prevent a quick inrush of any who lived through the first holocaust of fire. The Andiron's men slept at their stations, each one armed to the teeth and eager to complete his captain's strategy.

Rockets were rigged on the quarterdeck, and as soon as the boarderss were engaged the rockets would be fired. From further inshore the signal would be passed to a waiting French frigate and the battle would be all but over. The attacking ship would stand no chance if caught without the best part of her crew. And if she closed to give the boarding party support the shore artillery would pound her to fragments before she realised her mistake.

And if it was the Phalarope there was one further despairing thought. Vibart would be in command. It was hard to see his mind working fast enough to deal with such a situation.

Bolitho gritted his teeth and walked slowly to the side. The island looked at peace. The defenders had settled down now and were waiting like himself. Except that when the time came he would be battened below, helpless and wretched as he listened to the death of his own ship. Or worse, her capture, he thought for the hundredth time.

He felt a fresh pang of inner pain as he saw one of the Andiron's cutters unloading fruit alongside. There was no mistaking the bulky shape of Stockdale straddle-legged on the gunwale tossing up the nets of fruit as if they were weightless.

Strangely, that had been almost the hardest thing to bear.

Stockdale of all people. Whether he had been eager or reluctant, Bolitho did not know, but he had gone over with the privateer's crew, and like sheep the other men from his raid ing party had followed suit. He knew he could not blame them. If Stockdale, the captain's trusted coxswain, could change colours, why not they?

Stockdale looked up, squinting against the sun. Then he threw a mock salute, and some of the men laughed delightedly.

The American officer of the watch said dryly: `Sometimes I think there's no such thing as loyalty, Captain! Just a price!'

Bolitho shrugged. `Perhaps.'

The officer seemed glad of a chance to break Bolitho's brooding silence. `I can't get over your being our captain's kin. It makes it kind of unnerving. But then I guess it's that way with you?'

Bolitho glanced quickly at the officer's tanned features. It was a friendly face. And that of a man lonely and tired by war, he thought. He said evenly, `Have you been with him long?'

'A year or so.' The man frowned. 'It seems longer now. He came aboard as first lieutenant, but soon got command when the-skipper was killed in a fight with one of your ships off Cape Cod.' He grinned. 'But I hope I'll be able to go home soon. I've a wife and two boys waiting for me. I should be tending my farm, not fighting King George!'

Bolitho recalled his brother's firm promise that he was returning to Cornwall to claim his rightful inheritance, and felt the same savage bitterness as when he had heard the words the first time.

He controlled his rising emotion and asked quietly, `Do you really think it will be that simple?'

The man stared at him. `What could happen now? I don't mean to add insult to injury, Captain, but I don't really think the British stand much of a chance to regain America.'

Bolitho smiled. `I was thinking more of the French. If as you say American independence will be ratified by all those concerned, do you imagine the French will be prepared to sail away and leave you alone? They have done most of the fighting remember. Without their fleet and supplies do you think you would have succeeded thus far?'

The American scratched his head. `War makes strange allies, Captain.'

'I know. I have seen some of them.' Bolitho looked away. `I think the French will want to stay out here, as they tried to do in Canada.' He shook his head. `You could easily exchange one master for another!'

The officer yawned and said wearily, `Well, it's not for me to decide, thank the Lord!' He shaded his eyes and peered towards the dark shadow below Saddle Hill. A white and blue dot was moving rapidly down the rough track from the summit in a cloud of dust.

The officer looked meaningly at Bolitho and said briefly, `Horse and rider! That means one thing, Captain. The bait has been accepted. It will be tonight, or not at all!'

There was a shout from the forecastle as a blinding needle of light stabbed out from the bleak headland. Someone was using a heliograph, and from further inland Bolitho heard the eager beating of drums.

He asked, `How did they get a signal?'

The officer closed his mouth and then said not unkindly, `There is a chain of fishing boats out there, Captain. They pass the sighting reports from boat to boat. The nearest one is well in sight of the hill lookouts.' He looked embarrassed. 'Why not try and forget it? There's nothing you can do now. Any more than I could do if the situation were reversed!'

Bolitho looked at him thoughtfully. `Thank you. I will try to remember that.' Then he resumed his pacing, and with a shrug the officer returned to the opposite side of the poop.

The short truce was over. They were no longer fellow sailors. The flashing heliograph had made them enemies once more.

 

`It'll be sunset in one hour!' Daniel Proby, the Phalarope's master, scribbled slowly on his slate and then ambled across to join Herrick by the weather rail. `But in all my experience I've not seen one like this!'

Herrick brought his mind back to the present and followed Proby's mournful gaze across the vast glittering waste of open sea.

For most of the afternoon and early evening the frigate had pushed her way steadily north-east, and now as she lay closer hauled on the port tack, every mast and spar, every inch of straining canvas shone with the hue of burnished copper. The sky, which for days had remained bright blue and empty, was streaked with long cruising clouds, 'streaming like trails of glowing smoke towards the far horizon. It was an angry sky, and the sea was reacting to the change in its own way. Instead of short, choppy whitecaps the surface had altered to advancing lines of hump-backed rollers, one behind the other in neatly matched ranks which made the ship heave and groan as her figurehead lifted to the sky and then plunged forward and down in drawnout, sickening swoops.

Herrick said, `Maybe a storm is coming through from the Atlantic?'

The master shook his head, unconvinced. `You don't get much in the way of storms at this time of year.' He glanced aloft as the sails thundered as if to mock his words. `All the same, we will have to take in another reef if it don't improve a bit.'

In spite of his gloom Herrick was able to smile to himself. He could not see Vibart being happy about that. For two days, since he had received his new orders, he had been driving the ship like a madman. He thought back again to the moment a lookout had sighted the distant sail. For an instant they had all imagined it was a patrolling frigate or the Cassius herself. But it had been a fast-moving brig, her low hull smothered in spray as she had gone about and run down towards the Phalarope.

Her arrival had been an unexpected but welcome diversion as far as Herrick was concerned. The tension aboard the frigate was getting bad enough to feel, like something with a soul of its own. In a matter of days there had been seven floggings, but instead of settling the crew into dumb- servility it had only helped to drive° a firm wedge between quarterdeck and forecastle. There was little chatter or laughter any more between decks, and when an officer passed close by a group of seamen, the latter would lapse into sullen silence and turn their faces away.

Midshipman Maynard had reported, `The brig is Witch of Looe, sir! She has despatches for us!'

Vibart had waited importantly on the quarterdeck, alone and aloof, saying nothing and watching everything.

A boat had skipped across the choppy water, and soon a young lieutenant had climbed aboard carrying the inevitable canvas envelope.

Herrick had been standing nearby, straining his ears and trying to imagine what was happening. He had heard Vibart asking about the flagship and the lieutenant's brief reply.

`These orders are from the admiral, sir. I have nothing to add.'

The reply had been too brief, almost insolent, and Herrick had guessed that the young lieutenant was high enough on the admiral's list of favourites to afford such rudeness.

Vibart had started to tell the brig's messenger about the raid on Mola Island and had then clamped his jaw tightly shut. He had turned on his heel, merely adding for Herrick's benefit, `Get the ship under way again, Mr. Herrick. I have work to do!'

He was always the same now, Herrick pondered. Fluctuating between ponderous self-importance and fits of blind rage. From one hour to the next you could never be sure of his reactions, and it was doubly bad because he was always in evidence. Watching and criticising and bawling out fresh orders to overrule those of his subordinates.

Herrick had stopped the lieutenant at the entry port and had tried to get more information.

The officer had regarded him thoughtfully. 'St. Kitts has fallen. The fleet is falling back and regrouping. I am on my way to Antigua now.' He had stared across at his own ship. `But Rodney is said to be on his way back from England with twelve ships; of the line. I hope to God he will be in time.' Then he added quickly, 'Where is your captain?'

'Dead.' Herrick's tongue had lingered on the word. 'We lost him at Mola Island.'

'Well, I don't care much for your new commander, my friend.' The lieutenant had paused above his swaying boat. 'We have been searching for the Phalarope for two days! The admiral will not be pleased that you were off your station, Mola Island or not!' He had rolled his eyes. 'Sir Robert is a stickler for routine.'

Herrick's mind shifted to the next part in the sequence of events which had sent the Phalarope on her new course towards the islands. Vibart had called a meeting in the stem cabin. Every officer and warrant officer had been present, and it was somehow typical of Vibart that while he sat comfortably in his chair, all the others were kept standing.

'Sir Robert Napier has received information that the Andiron is lying off Nevis.' He had plunged into what sounded I very like a carefully rehearsed speech. 'She is apparently carrying out repairs and awaiting fresh orders, but there is no saying how long she will remain there: He had looked slowly around their faces. `Sir Robert requires that we make our way to Nevis forthwith to sink or cut-out the Andiron.' His words had dropped in the cabin like stones in a pool. 'We will make as quick a passage as possible.' He had glared meaningly. 'So make sure there are no mistakes, Mr. Proby!'

Herrick had been studying Vibart during his announcement, and had been surprised by his apparent eagerness to begin the operation. It might be a false piece of intelligence, but if not, it would not be an easy matter to cut-out an anchored ship close inshore to a hostile island.

Then, as Vibart had droned on about details and timing, he had realised that Vibart's demeanour owed much to his own uncertainty. So far, although he had been in command since Bolitho's loss, Okes stood in the best position to gain full credit for past successes against the enemy. He still had to ensure the firmness of his own control, and this new operation was the obvious opportunity.

It was odd that he had sent no despatches across to the Witch of Looe, Herrick thought. It was just as if he wanted to save the whole record for the admiral's car alone. Sir Robert might be angry about Phalarope being off station, but the destruction of the Mola Island battery and transports, and a victory over the privateer Andiron would do much to placate anyone but the devil himself.

But now that Vibart had had time to consider the full implications of his orders he had changed yet again. As the ship drove towards the chosen rendezvous he had grown nervous and edgy, and more than once had let his impatience get the upper hand. Only that morning he had had a man flogged for letting a marline-spike fall from the foreyard. It had struck quivering in the deck within feet of Packwood, a boatswain's mate. Vibart had been brooding on the quarterdeck, watching the boats being checked and moved ready for instant lowering. Packwood's startled shout had given him yet one more outlet for his unpredictable temper.

'Get that man down here!' His voice had stopped all work on the maindeck. 'I saw what he did! That was meant to fall on Packwood!'

Even the boatswain's mate had voiced a protest. 'It's lively aloft today, sir. It was an accident.'

Vibart's face had gone scarlet. 'Silence! Or I'll see your backbones, too!'

Again the dread pipe. 'All hands lay aft to witness punishment!'

Again the agonising passage of time while the grating was rigged and the marines had made a scarlet rectangle on the quarterdeck.

The seaman in question was, a man called Kirk. He was a thin, hollow-eyed sailor who had gone amost deaf after the encounter with the Andiron, his ears apparently permanently damaged by the thundering crash of broadsides.

Mr. Quintal, the boatswain, had walked slowly aft, the familiar red baize bag swinging from his wrist as the silent company parted to allow him through.

Up to the last moment, even as Vibart closed the Articles of War and announced harshly, `Four dozen, Mr. Quintal!', Herrick doubted if Kirk had heard a single word.

Only when the boatswain's mates seized him and stripped his thin body and spread-eagled him across the grating like a writhing crucifix did he start to scream and protest.

Most men took their punishment in silence. The tremendous force of a single blow from the cat-o'-nine-tails was enough to drive the wind from the lungs and left little to cry on.

Kirk's cries continued as his wrists were tied in position so that his feet were only just touching the deck, and the boatswain's mates exchanged quick glances, momentarily unnerved by the man's terror.

Quintal drew the lash from the red bag and handed it to Packwood. Gruffly he had said, `Two dozen. Josling can do the other two.' Under his breath he had added, `If he lives that long!'

Vibart had replaced his hat and nodded curtly. `Carry on!'

Herrick had seen plenty of floggings, and had steeled himself to accept what was part of naval life. But this, one had seemed different, and unfair because of Vibart's obvious eagerness.

The marine drummer had struck into a quick roll, and Packwood had drawn back his thick arm.

`One!' The lash came down with a swishing crack.

As usual Herrick had been sickly fascinated by the time it took to show its mark. For a moment there was nothing on the man's naked back, not even a bruise, but even as the lash swung back for the second stroke the whole area of taut skin from the shoulder to the waist opened and shone in a crisscross mass of fine cuts.

'Twol' Kirk screamed and wriggled helplessly on the grating, and Herrick saw blood on his chin and knew that he had bitten through his tongue.

`Three!' Packwood faltered and hit again, his eyes glassy as Kirk's back began to shred into a tangle of bloody flesh.

Vibart's voice had cut through the roll of the drum. 'Harder, Packwood! Don't go easy on the scum, unless you wish to change places with him!'

And so it had continued. Stroke by stroke, to the inhuman rattle of the drum. Kirk had fallen silent and limp after the first dozen, but when Ellice, the surgeon, had pronounced grimly, ' 'E's still alive, sir, but not takin' it well!', Vibart had snapped, `Carry on with punishment!'

Herrick had seen Mishipman Neale holding Maynard's sleeve as if for support as the grisly flogging had continued.

Kirk had little flesh to begin with, and after eighteen strokes Herrick thought he could see the gleam of bone and muscle through the man's butchered skin.

Josling had taken the lash from his fellow boatswain's mate and had run it through his fingers to clear it of flesh and gristle. With a quick glance upwards at Vibart's expressionless face he had carried on with the second two dozen.

At the twentieth stroke Mr. Quintal had knocked up Josling's arm and had said firmly, `That's enough, sir! He's dyin'!'

Kirk's bloodied body had been cut down and carried below, but only after Ellice had backed up the boatswain's quick intervention. He had muttered vaguely, `Might live. Can't say. I think his kidneys have burst.'

Herrick had looked for some sign of pity or even triumph on Vibart's heavy features. But there had been nothing but stony indifference. Captain Pomfret had watched floggings like a man will watch a spectacle of sport, and at each bloody conclusion he was almost elated, as if he had just experienced some perverted sexual act. But not Vibart. There was nothing at all which Herrick could recognise as feeling of 'any sort.

He turned away swiftly as Vibart appeared at the cabin hatch and sniffed at the wind. Vibart studied the strange copper sky and remarked slowly, `Wind's freshened. We'll shorten sail in ten minutes.' He glanced at Proby. `Now, are you sure of our position? Our exact position?'

Proby nodded gloomily. `Aye, sir. Nevis bears nor'-east, near on fifteen miles.'

Vibart regarded him searchingly. `I hope for your sake that is so, Mr. Proby.' He contented himself with another quick bark at the helmsman, `Watch her head, you fool! Keep her close to the wind!'

Herrick glanced aloft and knew that the ship was running perfectly. Vibart was obviously getting more and more on edge as they drew nearer the island. Not afraid. He had never shown a sign of fear at any time. No, it went far deeper, to the lurking possibility of failure.

Vibart saw Herrick watching him and snapped, `Have you detailed the cutting-out parties?'

'Aye, sir. All the boats except the gig are prepared. The gig is' unsuitable for this work.'

'I know that, Mr. Herrick!' Vibart's eyes were flecked with red. 'You will take over-all charge of the boarders with Maynard, Packwood and Parker in charge of the other three boats.' He looked darkly at the men working on deck. 'As a master's mate, Parker will be ideal for getting sail on the Andiron if you succeed in your attack.'

'Yes, sir.' Herrick knew all this. He had detailed each man

personally, and had already decided on his set plan. He asked,

'Do you expect much opposition, sir?'

'We are committed now. It doesn't matter what I think!' Proby consulted his massive watch and said, 'Call all hands! Prepare to shorten sail!'

Herrick wondered why Vibart had left it so long. Several times he had seen fishing boats in the far distance. There was no point in advertising the Phalarope's haste by her obvious press of sail.

The seamen were already climbing the shrouds and pulling themselves out along the swaying yards. With the ship's uncomfortable motion the business of taking in sails was all the more dangerous to the unwary.

Vibart growled, 'This will make us harder to see. And with the wind rising all the time it will save us the trouble of shortening later on.' He seemed to be thinking aloud.

Proby cupped his hands and yelled hoarsely, 'Tops'ls and jib's all we need! Lively there!'

Followed by Vibart's eyes and the urgent shouts of their petty officers the men aloft fought at the thrashing canvas, cursing the wind and the treacherous sails: which tried their utmost to hurl the men from the yards to -the deck beneath.

Herrick felt the ship's motion ease slightly as topgallants and courses contracted and finally submitted to the struggling seamen. He watched the long cruising rollers and gauged the distance between them. It would be more sheltered below Nevis's lee, he thought, but even so it would not be easy to keep the raiding boats together. He caught sight of Okes standing at the lee rail, and found himself wondering why Vibart had not chosen him for the cutting-out expedition. If Okes was so changed and reliable, he was the obvious choice.

Captain Rennie sauntered across the quarterdeck and remarked quietly, 'Congratulations, Herrick. I hope you do well tonight. I wish I could come with you, but the marines are hardly suitable for falling about in boats!'

Herrick smiled. 'Thank you.'

Rennie gestured towards Okes. 'It would seem that our commanding officer knows more than we thought, eh? He will not trust this attack to a man who is as weak as water!'

Herrick glanced quickly at the open skylight. 'Keep your voice down! Your remarks might be taken seriously!'

Rennie shrugged but dropped his voice. 'I feel past caring. Like a man walking on ice. It can only take so much!'

He walked away, and Herrick stood watching the seamen4 shinning down from the work aloft. If only Bolitho were here to inspire and carry them all, he thought heavily. He could imagine the Phalarope sailing into Antigua with Vibart expanding with pleasure as cheers and congratulations marked their return to the fleet and to glory. It would make victory all the more bitter, he thought. But for Bolitho the Phalarope would never have got this far, and if Vibart retained his command the future was bleak indeed.

Tobias Ellice rolled aft and mounted. the quarterdeck ladder, touching his shabby hat and belching simultaneously. 'Kirk's dead,' he grunted abruptly. 'I'm having him sewn up nice an' neat like!'

Herrick replied, 'Very well. I'll put it in the log.' He could smell the rum on the surgeon's breath and wondered how the man was able to perform his duties.

Ellice said, 'You can also put in the log that I'm sick of this ship and the whole bloody lot of you!' He swayed tipsily and would have fallen but for Herrick's arm. He muttered, 'Treat 'em like dogs!' He shook his head vaguely. 'No, not dogs, they live like kings by comparison.'

Herrick regarded him wearily. 'Have you finished?'

Ellice took a giant red handkerchief from the tail of his coat and blew his nose loudly. 'You can sneer, Mr. Herrick! You're off to gain glory tonight and to test your steel against the enemy.' He bared his teeth and tried to focus Herrick in his rheumy eyes. 'But you'll change yer tune when you're down below waiting for the saw to lop off your pretty arm or take away a leg or two!'

'Only two?' Herrick eyed him with sad amusement.

Ellice became suddenly serious as his rum-sodden mind grappled with Herrick's question. 'You can live without 'em, boy! I've seen it many a time.' He dropped his voice. 'But watch out for your wedding-tackle! A woman'll forgive much, but lose that lot and you might as well be food for the fish!'

Herrick watched him go and then strode aft to the taffrail. Another man dead. Whose turn would it be next?

 

Bryan Ferguson took another cutlass from the deep chest and handed it to old Ben Strachan. The latter peered quickly along the heavy blade and then bent over the grindstone and began to run the cutlass back and forth across the spinning stone, his eyes gleaming brightly in the flying sparks.

Ferguson looked at the berth deck and at the leaping shadows cast by the madly swinging lanterns as the ship rolled and staggered beneath his feet. It was strange how he was now able to retain his balance, and even his stomach seemed able to resist the lurking agony of seasickness.

The low-beamed berth deck was strangely deserted by comparison with its usual appearance of crowded humanity, he thought. Apart from the men selected for the boarding parties, all other available hands were on deck preparing the ship for action. As he watched Strachan concentrating on his sharpening he could hear the menacing rumble of gun trucks as the main armament was carefully loaded and then lashed once more behind 'sealed ports. The decks were already sanded, and he could hear Mr. Brock, the gunner, yelling some last-minute instructions to, his magazine party.

There was a strong smell of neat rum pervading the berth deck, and he turned to stare at the huddled groups of seamen who remained below efijoying a small moment of rest before taking to the boats.

He said quietly to Strachan, `What will happen, do you think?'

Strachan tested the blade and laid it carefully on the pile beside him. `Hard to tell, mate. I've been on a few cuttin' out raids meself. Sometimes it was all over with a few prayers and a few `'Oh my Gods" an' afore you knew what 'ad 'appened you was back aboard none the worse! An' other times you was shocked to be still alive!'

Ferguson nodded, unable to picture the nerve-wrenching horror of a raid in total darkness. His new duties as clerk kept him away from that sort of danger and had somehow thrown him further apart from his companions.

It was all he could do to stay clear of trouble with the first lieutenant. Vibart read every order and account at least twice, and he never failed to follow up a complaint with a threat of punishment.

Ferguson thought back to the floggings and the last one in particular. He had wanted to hide his face, yet was stricken and mesmerised by the relentless punishment so that he had watched it to the end. Kirk had died in the sickbay, but his sobbing cries still seemed to hover in the space which had once been his home.

Strachan remarked, `It's gettin' pretty rough up top. I wouldn't like to be takin' part!' He shook his grey head. `It was as black as a pig's belly when I last took a look!'

Onslow, the big seaman from the Cassius, sauntered across and stared thoughtfully at Ferguson for several seconds. In his checked shirt and tight canvas trousers he looked even taller and more formidable than usual, and his thick hair was tied to the nape of his neck with a piece of red ribbon.

He said. `You'll be staying aboard then?' He smiled. `And quite right, too.' He rested his hand on Ferguson's thin shoulder. `You save your energy, my lad. I'll want to be knowing what is happening down aft in the cabin.'

Ferguson stared at him. `I-I don't understand?'

Onslow yawned and spread his arms. `It's always just as well to know what the officers are planning next, y'see. That's what stops men like us staying rabble. With knowledge,' he tapped his forehead meaningly, `we are equal to them, and ready!'

Lugg, a gunner's mate, ran down a ladder and squinted through the gloom. `Right, you lot! On deck and lively about it! Each man takes a cutlass and muster aft!'

Onslow eyed him calmly. `What, no pistols?'

Lugg replied coldly, `I'11 pistol you if you don't learn some manners!'

There was a rasp of steel as each hurrying figure took a cutlass, and once or twice Ferguson spoke to a passing familiar face, but each time he received no answer.

Strachan wiped his hands and muttered, `Save yer breath, mate. They're thinkin' of what lies ahead. There'll be talk - enough later, I shouldn't wonder!'

John Allday hung back to the last. Then he picked up a cutlass and swung it slowly in the lamplight. Quietly he said, `Be careful of Onslow, Bryan. He is a born troublemaker. I don't trust him an inch!'

Ferguson studied his friend with surprise and something like guilt. Since his unexpected change of jobs to captain's clerk he had seemingly drifted away from Allday's quiet protection, and whenever he had returned to the berth deck it had always been Onslow or his friend Pook who had dragged him into a tight circle of chatter and speculation.

Allday saw the uncertainty on Ferguson's face and added, `You saw the flogging, Bryan. Be warned!'

`But Onslow is on our side, surely?' Ferguson wanted to understand. `You heard him talking today. He was as sickened as the rest of us!'

`I heard him.' Allday's mouth twisted in a grim smile. `But he only talks. He is never the one who goes to the gratings!'

Old Strachan mumbled, `I seen a lad like 'im in the old Gorgon. Stirred up the men till they never knew which way ter jump. They'anged'im in the end!'

`And they'll hang all of us if he keeps up this mutinous talk!' Aliday's eyes flashed. `We are here, and we must make the best of it!'

Lugg peered down the ladder and bellowed, `Come up on deck, you idle bugger! You're the last as usual!' But there was no real anger in his voice. He was as tense and jumpy as everyone else aboard.

Ferguson called, `Good luck!' but Allday was already running on deck, his eyes momentarily blinded in the darkness which enclosed the pitching hull like a cloak.

Overhead there were few stars, and then only occasionally visible between the low scudding clouds.

Petty officers were bawling names, and slipping and cursing the seamen pushed into separate parties near the boats which were already clear of their chocks and ready to be swayed outboard.

Allday saw the white lapels of Lieutenant Derrick's coat gleaming faintly against the dark sky and eras strangely glad he was going with his boat. Midshipman Maynard seemed a likeable enough youngster, but he lacked both experience and confidence. He could see him now whispering furtively to his small friend Neale below the quarterdeck.

Herrick said sharply, 'Now listen to me, lads! I will lead in the launch. The cutter will follow close astern and then the pinnace. Mr. Parker will stay last in the jolly boat.' He had to shout above the moaning wind, and Allday glanced uneasily at the creaming water alongside and the rising spectres of blown spray. It would be a hard pull, he thought, and automatically spat on his hands.

He pricked up his ears as Parker, the master's mate, reported, `All present, Mr. Herrick. Sixty-six men all told!'

`Very good. I will inform the ..: He faltered and added harshly, `I will tell Mr. Vibart!'

Allday bit his lip. There was no love lost between Herrick and the new captain, he thought.

He saw Onslow leaning negligently against a pike rack and remembered Ferguson's uneasiness. It was odd how eager Onslow had been to see Ferguson appointed as clerk, he decided. And how convenient it had been that Mathias, Bolitho's original clerk, had died in the hold.

"Sway out the cutter!' Mr. Quintal groped his way towards the tackle. `Hoist away there!'

Allday faltered, his mind suddenly filled with one, stark picture. He had been masthead lookout the morning Mathias had fallen to his death. It was strange how he had not thought of the connection before. He had seen the clerk climbing through the small inspection hatch shortly before he had been found unconscious and dying. But there had already been someone else in the hold before that! He looked quickly at Onslow, remembering the exact moment and the fact that it had been Onslow who had reported the clerk's fall.

He felt Quintal's hard hand on his shoulder and threw his weight against the tackle with the others. All at once the sea seemed to become rougher and the Phalarope seemed to shrink by comparison.

Through his racing thoughts he heard Onslow say casually, `We'll give the buggers a taste of steel!'

But who did he mean? Allday wondered.