To Glory We Steer

3

 

BEEF FOR THE PURSER

 

Twenty days after weighing anchor the frigate Phalarope crossed the thirtieth parallel and heeled sickeningly to a blustering north-west gale. Falmouth lay three thousand miles astern, but the' wind with all its tricks and conning cruelties stayed resolutely with the ship.

As one bell struck briefly from the forecastle and the dull copper sun moved towards the horizon the frigate ploughed across each successive bank of white-crested rollers with neither care nor concern for the men who served her day by day, hour by hour. No sooner was one watch dismissed below than the boatswain's mates would run from hatch to hatch, their calls twittering, their voices hoarse in the thunder of canvas and the never ending hiss of spray.

`All hands! All hands! Shorten sail!'

Later, stiff and dazed from their dizzy climb aloft, the seamen would creep below, their bodies aching, their fingers stiff and bleeding from their fight with the rebellious canvas.

Now, the men off watch crouched in the semi-darkness of the berth deck groping for handholds and listening to the crash of water against the hull even as they tried to finish their evening meal. From the deck beams the swinging lanterns threw strange shadows across their bowed heads, picking out individual faces and actions like scenes from a partially cleaned oil painting.

Below the sealed hatches the air was thick with smells. That of bilge water mixing with sweat and the sour odour of seasickness, and the whole area was filled with sound as the ship fought her own battle with the Atlantic. The steady crash of waves followed by the jubilant surge of water along the deck above, the continuous groaning of timbers and the humming of taut stays, all defied the men to sleep and relax even for a moment.

John Allday sat astride one of the long, scrubbed benches and gnawed carefully at a tough piece of salt beef. Between his strong teeth it felt like leather, but he made himself eat it, and closed his mind to the rancid cask from which it had come. The deep cut on his cheek where Brock's cane had found its mark had healed in an ugly scar, and as his jaws moved steadily on the meat he could feel the skin tightening painfully where blown salt and cold winds had drawn the edges together like crude stitching.

Across the table, and watching him with an unwinking stare, sat Pochin, a giant seaman with shoulders like a cliff. He said at last, `You've settled in right enough, mate.' He smiled bleakly. `All that squit when you was pressed came to nothin'!'

Allday threw a meat bone on to his tin plate and wiped his fingers on a piece of hemp. He regarded the other man with his steady, calm eyes for several seconds and then replied, `I can wait.'

Pochin glared through the gloom, his head cocked to listen to some of the men retching. `Lot of bloody women!' -He looked back at Allday. `I was forgettin', you are an old hand at this:

Allday shrugged and looked down at his palms. `You never get rid of the tar, do you?' He leaned back against the timbers and sighed. `My last ship was the Resolution, seventy-four. I was a foretopman.' He allowed his eyes to close. `A good enough ship. We paid off just a few months before the American Revolution, and I was clean away before the press could lay a finger on me!'

An old, grey-haired man with washed-out blue eyes• said huskily, `Was you really a shepherd like you told 'em?'

Allday nodded. `That, and other things. I had to stay out in the open. To keep away from the towns. I would choke to death under a roof!' He gave a small smile. `Just an occasional run into Falmouth was enough for me. Just enough for a woman, and a glass or two!'

The old seaman, Strachan, pursed his lips and rocked against the table as the ship heeled steeply and sent the plates skittering across the deck. `It sounds like a fair life, mate.' He seemed neither wistful nor envious. It was just a statement. Old Ben Strachan had been in the Navy for forty years, since he had first trod deck as a powder-monkey. Life ashore was a mystery to him, and in his regimented world appeared even more dangerous than the privations afloat.

Allday looked round as a hunched figure rose over the table's edge and threw himself across his arms amongst the litter of food. Bryan Ferguson had been in a continuous torment of seasickness and fear from the very moment Vibart's figure had appeared on that coast road. In Falmouth he had been a clerk working at a local boatyard. Physically he was not a strong man, and now in the swinging lantern's feeble light his face looked as gray as death itself.

His thin body was bruised in many places, both from falling against unfamiliar shipboard objects and not least from the angry canes of the bosun's mates and petty officers as the latter sought to drive the new men into the mysteries of seamanship and sail drill.

Day after day it had continued. Harried and chased -from one part of the ship to the next with neither let-up nor mercy. Quivering with terror Ferguson had dragged his way up the swooping shrouds and out along the yards, until he could see the creaming water leaping below him as if to claw at his very feet. The first time he had clung sobbing to the mast, incapable of either moving out along the yard or even down towards the safety of the deck.

Josling, a bosun's mate, had screamed up at him, `Move out, you bugger, or I'll have the hide off you!'

At that particular moment Ferguson's tortured mind had almost broken. With each eager thrust of the frigate's stem, and with every passing hour, Ferguson's home fell further and further astern. And with it went his wife, sinking into the wave-tossed distance like a memory.

Over and over again he had pictured her pale, anxious face as he had last seen her. When the Phalarope had been sighted heading for Falmouth Bay most of the young townsmen had headed for the hills. Ferguson's wife had been ill for three years, and he had seen her get more frail and delicate, and on that day she had been more than unwell and he had begged to stay with her. But gravely she had insisted.

`You go with the others, Bryan. I'll be all right. And I'm not wanting the press to find you here!'

The nightmare became worse when he considered that if he had stayed with her he would still be safe and able to protect and help her.

Allday saidd quietly, `Here, take some food.' He pushed a plate of dark meat across the boards. `You've not eaten for days, man.'

Ferguson dragged his head from his forearms and stared glassily at the relaxed looking seaman. Unbeknown to Allday, Ferguson had almost jumped from the swaying mainyard rather than face another hour of torture. But Allday had rown inboard along the yard, his feet splayed and balanced, one hand held out towards the gasping Ferguson. `Here, mate! Just follow me an' don't look down.' There had been a quiet force in his. tone, like that of a man who expected to be obeyed. He had added harshly, `Don't give that bugger Josling a chance to beat you. The bastard enjoys making you jump!'

He stared now at the man's dark features, at the scar on his cheek, and at his calm, level eyes. Allday had been accepted immediately by the frigate's seamen, whereas the other newly pressed men were still kept at arm's length, as if on trial, until their merits or shortcomings could be properly measured. Perhaps it was because Allday was already hardened to a life at sea. Or maybe it came from the fact he never showed his bitterness at being pressed, or boasted about his life ashore like some of the others.

Ferguson swallowed hard to bite back the rising nausea. `I can't eat it!' He peered wretchedly at the meat. `It's swill!'

Allday grinned. `You'll get used to it!'

Pochin sneered. `You make me spew! I suppose you used to take your wife up to the 'eadland and go moist-eyed at the sight of a King's ship! I'll bet you used to feel so holy, so almighty proud as the ships sailed safely past!'

Ferguson stared at the man's angry face, mesmerised by his hate.

Pochin glared across the canting deck where the other crowded` seamen had fallen silent at his outburst. `You never had a thought for the poor buggers who manned 'em, nor what they was doin'!' He turned back to Ferguson with sud,den malice. `Well, your precious woman'll be out on the 'eadland now with some other pretty boy, I shouldn't wonder.' He made an obscene gesture. `Let's 'ope she finds the time to be proud of you!'

Ferguson staggered to his feet, his eyes wide with a kind of madness. 'I'll kill you for that!'

He swung his fist, but Allday caught his wrist in mid-air. `Save it!' Allday glared at Pochin's grinning face. `His wife is sick, Pochin! Give him some rest!'

Old Ben Strachan said vaguely, `I 'ad a wife once.' He scratched his shaggy ,grey head. `Blessed if I can remember 'er name now!'

Some of the men laughed, and Allday hissed fiercely, `Get a grip, Bryan! You can't beat men like Pochin. He envies you, that's all!'

Ferguson hardly heard the friendly warning in Allday's voice. Pochin's goading tone had opened the misery in his heart with renewed force, so that he could see his wife propped in her bed by the window as clearly as if he had just entered the room. That day, when the press gang had pushed him down the hillside, she would have been sitting there, waiting for his return. Now he was never going back. Would never see her again.

He staggered to his feet and threw the plate of meat down on the deck. 'I can't!' He was screaming. 'I won't!'

A horse-faced fo'c's'leman named Betts jumped to his feet as if shaken from a deep sleep. `Don't jeer at 'im, mates!' He stood swaying below one of the lanterns. `He's 'ad enough for a bit.'

Pochin groaned. `Lord save us!' He rolled his eyes in mock concern.

Betts snarled, `Jesus Christ! What do you have to suffer before you understand? This man is sick with fear for his wife, and others here have equal troubles. Yet all some of you can do is scoff at 'em!'

Allday shifted in his seat. Ferguson's sudden despair had touched some hidden spring in the men's emotions. Weeks, and in some cases years at sea without ever putting a foot on dry land were beginning to take a cruel toll. But this was dangerous and blind. He held up his hand and said calmly, `Easy, lads. Easy.'

Betts glared down at him,- his salt-reddened eyes only half focusing on Allday's face. `How can you interfere?' His voice was slurred. `We live like animals, on food that was rotten even afore it was put in casks!' He pulled his knife from his belt and drove it into the table. `While those pigs down aft live like kings!' He peered round for support. `Well, ain't I right? That bastard Evans is as sleek as a churchyard rat on what he stole from our food!'

`Well, now. Did I hear my name mentioned?'

The berth deck froze into silence as Evans, the purser, moved into a patch of lamplight.

With his long coat buttoned to his throat and his hair pulled back severely above his narrow face he looked for all the world like a ferret on the attack. He put his head on one side. `Well, I'm waiting!'

Allday watched him narrowly. There was something evil and frightening about the little Welsh purser. All the more so because any one of the men grouped around him could have ended his life with a single blow.

Then Evans' eye fell on the meat beside the table. He

sucked his teeth and asked sadly, `And who did this, then?' No one spoke, and once more the angry roar of the sea and

wind enclosed the staggering berth deck with noise.

Ferguson looked up, his eyes bright and feverish. `I did it.' Evans leaned his narrow shoulders against the massive trunk of the foremast which ran right through both decks and said, ` “I did it, sir.” '

Ferguson mumbled something and then added, `I am sorry, sir:

Allday said coldly, `It was an accident, Mr. Evans. Just an accident.'

`Food is food.' Evans' Welsh accent became more pronounced as his face became angrier. `I cannot hope to keep you men in good health if you waste such excellent meat, now can I?'

Those grouped around the table stared down at the shapeless hunk of rancid beef as it lay gleaming in a patch of

lamplight.

Evans added sharply, `Now, you, whatever your bloody name is, eat it!'         -

Ferguson stared down at the meat, his mind swimming in nausea. The deck was discoloured with water and stained with droppings from the tilting table. There was vomit too, perhaps his own.

Evans said gently, `I am waiting, boyo. One more minute and I'll take you aft. A touch of the cat might teach you some appreciation!'

Ferguson dropped to his knees and picked up the meat. As he lifted it to his mouth Betts pushed forward and tore it from his hands and threw it straight at Evans. `Take it yourself, you bloody devil! Leave him alone!'

For a moment Evans showed the fear in his dark eyes. The men had crowded around him, their bodies rising and falling like a human tide with each roll of the ship. He could feel the menace, the sudden ice touch of terror.

Another voice cut through the shadows. `Stand aside!' Midshipman Farquhar had to stoop beneath the low beams, but his eyes were steady and bright as they settled on the frozen tableau around the end table. Farquhar's approach had been so stealthy and quiet that not even the men at the opposite end of the deck had noticed him. He snapped, 'I am waiting. What is going on here?'

Evans thrust the nearest men aside and threw himself to Farquhar's side. With his hand shaking in both fear and fury he pointed at Betts. `He struck me! Me, a warrant officer!'

Farquhar was expressionless. His tight lips and cold stare might have meant either amusement or anger. `Very well, Mr. Evans. Kindly lay aft for the master-at-arms.'

As the purser scurried away Farquhar looked round the circle of faces with open contempt. `You never seem to learn, do you?' He turned to Betts, who still stood staring at the meat, his chest heaving as if from tremendous exertion. `You are a fool, Betts! Now you will pay for it!'

Allday pressed his shoulders against the frigate's cold, wet timbers and closed his eyes. It was all happening just as he knew it would. He listened to Betts' uneven breathing and Ferguson's quiet whimpers and felt sick. Pie thought suddenly of the quiet hillsides and the grey bunches of sheep. The space and the solitude.

Then Farquhar barked, `Take him away, Mr. Thain.'

The master-at-arms pushed Betts towards the hatch ladder adding softly, `Not a single flogging since we left Falmouth. I knew such gentleness was a bad mistake!'

 

Richard Bolitho leaned his palms on the sill of one of the big stem.-windows and stared out along the ship's frothing wake. Although the cabin itself was already in semi-darkness as the frigate followed the sun towards the horizon, the sea still looked alive, with only a hint of purple as a warning of the approaching night.

Reflected in the salt-speckled glass he could see Vibart's tall shape in the centre of the cabin, his face shadowed beneath the corkscrewing lantern, and behind him against the screen the slim figure of Midshipman Farquhar.

It took most of his self-control to keep himself immobile and calm as he considered what Farquhar had burst in to tell him. Bolitho had been going through the ship's books again trying to draw out Vibart's wooden reserve, to feel his way into the man's mind.

Like everything else during the past twenty days, it had been a hard and seemingly fruitless task. Vibart was too careful to show his hostility in the open and confined himself to short, empty answers, as if he hoarded his. knowledge of the ship and her company like a personal possession.

Then Farquhar had entered the cabin with this story of Betts' assault on the purser. It was just one more thing to distract his thoughts from what lay ahead, from the real task of working the frigate into a single fighting unit.

He made himself turn and face the two officers.

'Sentry! Pass the word for Mr. Evans!' He heard the cry passed along the passageway and then added, 'It seems to me as if this seaman was provoked.'

Vibart swayed with the ship, his eyes fixed on a point above the captain's shoulder. He said thickly, 'Betts is no recruit, sir. He knew what he was doing!'

Bolitho turned to watch the open, empty sea. If only this

had not happened just yet, he thought bitterly. A few more days and the damp, wind-buffeted ship would be in the sun, where men soon learned to forget their surroundings and started to look outboard instead of watching each other.

He listened to the hiss and gurgle of water around the rudder, the distant clank of pumps as the duty watch dealt with the inevitable seepage into the bilges. He felt tired and strained to the limit. From the moment the Phalarope had weighed anchor he had not spared himself or his efforts to maintain his hold over the ship. He had made a point of speaking to most of the new men, and of establishing contact with the regular crew. He had watched his officers, and had driven the ship to her utmost. It should have been a proud moment for him. The frigate handled well, lively and ready to respond to helm and sail like a thoroughbred.

Most of the new men had been sorted into their most suitable stations, and the sail drill had advanced beyond even his expectations. At the first suitable moment he intended to exercise the guns crews, but up to this time he had been prevented from much more than allocations of hands to the various divisions by the unceasing wind.

Now this, he fumed inwardly. No wonder the admiral had asked him to watch young Farquhar's behaviour.

There was a tap at the door and Evans stepped gingerly into the cabin, his eyes flickering like beads in the lamplight.

Bolitho gestured impatiently. `Now then, Mr. Eva.ns. Let me have the full story.'

He turned to stare at the water again as Evans launched into his account. To start with he seemed nervous, even frightened, but when Bolitho allowed him to continue without

interruption or comment his voice grew sharper and moreoutraged.

Bolitho said at length. 'The meat that Betts threw at you.

What cask did it come from?'

Evans was caught off guard. 'Number twelve, sir. I saw it stowed myself.' He added in a wheedling tone, 'I do my best, sir. They are ungrateful dogs for the most part!'

Bolitho turned and tapped the papers on his table. 'I checked the stowage myself, too, Mr. Evans. Two days ago when the hands were at drill!' He saw a flicker of alarm show itself on Evans' dark face and knew that his lie had gone home. A feeling of sudden anger swept through him like fire.

All the things he had told his officers had been for nothing.

Even the near-mutiny seemed to have made no impression on the minds of men like Evans and Farquhar.

He snapped, What cask was in the low stowage, was it not? And how many others were down there, do you think?'

Evans peered nervously around the cabin. 'Five or six, sir. They were some of the original stores which I. .

Bolitho slammed his fist on the table. `You make me sick, Evans! That cask and those others you have suddenly remembered were probably stowed two years ago before you began the Brest blockade! They most likely leak, and in any case are quite rotten!'

Evans looked at his feet. 'I-I did not know, sir.'

Bolitho said harshly, 'If I could prove otherwise, Mr. Evans, I would have you stripped of  your rank and flogged!'

Vibart stirred into life. 'I must protest, sir! Mr. Evans was acting as he thought fit! Betts struck him. There is no way of avoiding that fact."

'So it appears, Mr. Vibart.' Bolitho stared at him coldly until the other man looked away. 'I will certainly back my officers in their efforts to carry out my orders. But senseless punishment at this time will do more harm than good.' He felt suddenly too tired to think clearly, but Vibart's anger seemed to drive him on. 'In another two weeks or so we will join the fleet under Sir Samuel Hood, and then there will be more than enough to keep us all occupied.'

He continued more calmly, 'Until then, each and every one of you will translate my standing orders into daily fact. Give the men your leadership and try to understand them. No good will ever come of useless brutality. If a man still persists in disobedience, then flogged he will be. But in this particular case I would suggest a more lenient experiment.' He saw Vibart's lower lip quivering with barely controlled anger. Betts can be awarded extra duties for seven days. The sooner the matter is forgotten, the sooner we can mend the damage!' He gestured briefly, 'Carry on with your watch, Mr. Farquhar.'

As Evans turned -to follow the midshipman Boll added flatly, 'Oh, Mr. Evans, I see -no reason for me to mention your neglect in the log.' He saw Evans watching him half gratefully, half fearfully. He finished. 'Provided I can show that you purchased the meat for your own purposes, your own mess perhaps?'

Evans blinked at Vibart and then back to Bolitho's !inpassive face. 'Purchase, sir? Me, sir?'

'Yes, Evans, you! You can make the payment to my clerk in the forenoon tomorrow. That is all.'

Vibart picked up his hat and waited until the door had closed behind the other man. 'Do you require me any more, sir?'

'I just want to tell you one thing more, Mr. Vibart. I have taken fully into consideration that you were under considerable strain during your duty with Captain Pomfret. Maybe some of the things you had to do were not to your liking.' He waited, but Vibart stared woodenly across his shoulder. 'I am not interested in the past, except as a lesson to everyone of what can happen in a badly run ship! As first lieutenant you are the key officer, the most experienced one aboard who can implement my orders, do you understand?'

'If you say so, sir.'

Bolitho dropped his eyes in case Vibart should see the rising anger there. He had offered Vibart his due share of responsibility, even his confidence, and yet the lieutenant seemed to accept it like a sign of weakness, of some faltering uncertainty. The contempt was as plain in his brevity as if he had shouted it to the ship at large.

It could not be easy for Vibart to take orders from a captain so junior in age and service. Bolitho tried once more to soften his feeling towards Vibarts hgstility.

The latter said suddenly, 'When you have been aboard the Phalarope a little longer, sir, then maybe you will see, it different.' He rocked back on his heels and watched Bolitho's face with-a flat stare.

Bolitho relaxed his taut muscles. It was almost a relief that Vibart had shown him the only way to finish the matter. He eyed him coldly. 'I have read every log and report aboard this ship, Mr. Vibart. In all my limited experience I have never known a ship so apparently unwilling to fight the enemy or so incapable 'of performing her duty.' He watched the expression on Vibart's heavy features altering to shocked surprise. 'Well, we are going back to war, Mr. Vibart, and I intend to seek out and engage the enemy, any enemy, at every opportunity!' He dropped his voice. 'And when that happens I will expect to see every man acting as one. There will be no room for petty jealousy and cowardice then!'

A deep flush rose to Vibart's cheeks, but he remained silent.

Bolitho said, 'You are dealing with men, Mr. Vibart, not things! Authority is invested with your -commission. Respect comes later, when you have earned it!'

He dismissed the first lieutenant with a curt nod and then turned back to stare at the creaming wake below the windows.

As the door closed the tension tore at his body like a whip, and he gripped his hands together to prevent their shaking until the pain made him wince. He had made an enemy of Vibart, but there was too much'at stake to do otherwise.

He slumped down on the bench seat as Stockdale pattered into the cabin and began to spread a cloth across the table.

The coxswain said, `I've told your servant to bring your supper, Captain.' There was mistrust in his tone. He disliked Atwell, the cabin steward, and watched him like a dog with a rabbit. 'I don't suppose you'll be havin' any officer to dine with you, sir?

Bolitho glanced at Stockdale, battered and homely like an old piece of furniture, and thought of Vibart's seething bitterness. 'No, Stockdale. I will be alone.'

He leaned back and closed his eyes. Alone and vulnerable, he thought.

 

Lieutenant Thomas Herrick tightened the spray-soaked muffler about his neck and shrugged his shoulders deeper into his watchcoat. Above the black, spiralling masts the stars were small and pale, and even in the keen air he could sense that the dawn was not far away.

The labouring ship herself was in darkness, so that the shapes around the deserted decks were unreal and totally unlike they appeared in daylight. The lashed guns were mere shadows, and the humming shrouds and stays seemed to go straight up to the sky, unattached and endless.

But as Herrick paced the quarterdeck deep in thought, he was able to ignore such things. He had seen them all too often before, and was able to pass each watch with only his mind for company. Once he paused beside the ship's big double wheel where .the two helmsmen stood like dark statues, their faces partly lit in the shaded binnacle lamp as they watched the swinging compass or stared aloft at the trimmed sails.

Three bells struck tinnily from forward, and he saw a ship's boy stir at the rail and then creep, rubbing -his eyes, to trim the compass lamp and adjust the hour-glass.

Time and again he found his eyes drawn to the black rec

,IlI tangle of the cabin hatch, and he wondered whether Bolitho had at last fallen asleep. Three times already during the morning watch, three times in an hour and a half the captain had appeared momentarily on deck, soundless and without warning. With neither coat nor hat, and his white shirt and breeches framed against the tumbling black water, he had seemed ghostlike and without true form, with the restlessness of a tortured spirit. On each occasion he had paused only long enough to peer at the compass or to look at the watch-slate beside the wheel. Then a couple of turns up and down the weather side of the deck and he had vanished below.

At any other time Herrick would have felt both irritated and resentful. It might have implied that the captain was too unsure of his third lieutenant to leave him to take a watch alone. But when Herrick had relieved Lieutenant Okes at four o'clock Okes had whispered quickly that Bolitho had been on deck for most of the night.

Herrick frowned. Deep dowli he had the feeling that Bolitho had acted more by instinct than design. As if he was driven like the ship, by mood rather than inclination. He seemed unable to stand still, as if it took physical force to hold himself in one place for more than minutes at a time.

A figure moved darkly at the quarterdeck rail and he heard Midshipman Neale's familiar treble inn the darkness.

`Able Seaman Betts has just reported, sir.' He stood staring up at Herrick, gauging his mood.

Herrick had to tear his thoughts back to the present with a jerk. Betts, the man who had apparently escaped -a flogging or worse only at Bolitho's intervention, had been ordered to report at three bells for the first part of his punishment. Vibart had made it more than clear what Would happen if he failed to execute the orders.

He saw Betts hovering behind the small midshipman and called, `Here, Betts. Look lively!'

The man moved up to the rail and knuckled his forehead. `Sir?'

Herrick gestured upwards towards the invisible topmast. 'Up you go then!' He kept the harshness from his tone. He liked Betts, a quiet but competent man, whose. sudden flare of anger had surprised him more than he cared to admit. 'Get up to the main topmast, Betts. You will stand lookout until the first lieutenant orders otherwise.' He felt a touch of pity. One hundred and ten feet above the deck, unsheltered from the cold wind, Betts would be numb within minutes. Herrick had already decided to send Neale up after him with something warm to eat as soon as the galley fire was lit for breakfast.

Betts spat on his hands and replied flatly, 'Aye, aye, sir. Seems a fair mornin'?' He could have been remarking on something quite normal and unimportant.

Herrick nodded. 'Aye. The wind is dropping and the air is much drier.' It was true. Betts' instinct had grasped the change as soon as he had emerged from the packed,  where eighteen inches per man was the accepted hammock space.

Herrick added quietly, `You were lucky, Betts. Ybu could have been dancing at the gratings by eight bells.'

Betts stood staring at him, unmoved and calm. `I'm not sorry for what 'appened, sir. I'd do it again.'

Herrick felt suddenly annoyed with himself for mentioning the matter. That was his trouble, he thought angrily. He always wanted to know and understand the reason for everything. He could not leave matters alone.

He snapped, `Get aloft! And mind you keep a good lookout. The dawn'll be awake soon.' He watched the man's shadow merge with the main shrouds and followed him with his eye until he was lost in the criss-cross of rigging against the stars.

Again he found himself wondering why Bolitho had acted as he had over a man like Betts. Neither Vibart nor Evans had mentioned the matter, which seemed to add rather than detract from the importance of the affair. Perhaps Vibart bad overstepped his authority again, he pondered. Under Pomfret the first lieutenant's presence had moved over the ship, controlling every action and day-today happening. Now he seemed hampered by Bolitho's calm authority, but the very fact that their disagreement was close to showing itself openly only made things worse. The ship seemed split in two, divided between the captain and Vibart. Pomfret had remained a frightening force in the background, and Herrick had found his work cut out to stay impartial and out of trouble. Now it appeared as if such neutrality was impossible.

He thought back to the moment he had gone to the big house in Falmouth. Before he had imagined he would find only envy there. His own poor beginnings were hard to shake free. He recalled Bolitho's father,, the great pictures along the walls, the air of permanence and tradition, as if the present occupants were merely part of a pattern. Compared with his own small house in Rochester, the house had seemed a veritable palace.

Herrick's father had been a clerk in Rochester, working for the Kentish fruit trade. But Herrick, even as a small child, had watched the ships stealing up the Medway, and had allowed his impressionable mind to build his own future accordingly. For him it was the Navy. Nothing else would do. It was odd because there was no precedent in his family, all of whom had been tradesmen, sprinkled with the occasional soldier.

His father had pleaded in vain. He had warned him of the pitfalls, which were many. Lack of personal standing and financial security made him see only too clearly what his son was attempting to, challenge. He even compromised by suggesting a safe berth aboard an Indiaman, but Herrick was quietly adamant.

. Quite by chance a visiting warship had been laid up near Rochester while repairs had been carried out to her hull. Her captain had been a friend of the man who employed Herrick's father, a grave senior captain who showed neither resentment nor open scorn when the eleven years old boy had waylaid him and told him of his desire to go to sea in a King's ship.

Faced by the captain and his employer, Herrick's father had,given in. To do him full justice he had made the best of it by using his meagre savings to send his son on his way, outwardly at least, a young gentleman as good as any of his fellows.

Herrick was now twenty-five. It had been a long and arduous journey from that time. He had learned humiliation and embarrassment for the first time. He had faced unequal opposition of breeding and influence. The starry-eyed boy had been whittled away and hardened like the good Kentish oak beneath his -feet. But one thing had not changed. His love of the sea and the Navy stayed over him like a protecting cloak or some strange religion which he only partly understood.

This timeless thing was the same to all men, he decided. It was far above them. It controlled and used everyone alike, no matter what his ambition might be.

He smiled at himself as he continued his endless pacing. He wondered what young Neale, yawning hugely by the rail, would think of his grave faced senior. Or the helmsmen who watched the swinging needle and gauged the pull of the sails. Or Betts, high overhead on his precarious perch, his own thoughts no doubt full of what he had done and what might lie in store for him behind Evans' vengeance.

Maybe it was better to be unimaginative, he thought. To be completely absorbed in day-to-day worries, like Lieutenant

Okes for instance. He was a married man, and that was obstacle enough for any young officer. Okes spent his time either fretting about his distant wife or treading warily to avoid Vibart's eye. He was a strange, shallow man, Herrick thought, unsure of himself, and afraid to unbend even with his own kind. It seemed as if he was afraid of becoming too friendly, and nervous of expressing an opinion outside the necessities of duty. As if by so doing he might awake suspicion elsewhere or give a hint of misplaced loyalty.

Herrick moved his stiff shoulders inside his, coat and pushed Okes from his thoughts. He might after all be right. Aboard the Phalarope it often seemed safer to say nothing, to do nothing which might be wrongly interpreted later.

He stared at the weather rail and noticed with a start that he could see the carved dolphin above the starboard ladder and the fat, ugly carronade nearby. His thoughts had carried him through another half hour, and soon the dawn would show him an horizon once more. Would bring another day.

Harsh and clear above the hiss of spray he suddenly heard Betts' voice from the masthead. `Deck there! Sail on the starboard bow! Hull down, but it's a ship!'

Snatching his glass from the rack Herrick scrambled up into the mizzen shrouds, his mind working on the unexpected report. The sea was already gathering shape and personality, and there was a finger of grey along where the horizon should be. Up there, high above the swaying deck, Betts would just be able to see the other ship in the dawn's cautious approach.

He snapped, `Mr. Neale! Up you go and see what you can discover. If you give me a false report you'll kiss the gunner's daughter before you're much older!'

Neale's face split into a grin, and without a word he scampered like a monkey towards the main shrouds.

Herrick tried to stay calm, to return to his pacing as he had seen Bolitho do. But the newcomer, if there was indeed a ship, filled him with uncertainty, so that he stared at the dark sea as if willing it to appear.

Betts called again. `She's a frigate, sir! No doubt about it. Steerin' south-east!'

Neale's shrill voice took up the call. `She's running before the wind like a bird, sir! Under all plain sail!'

Herrick breathed out noisily. For one brief instant he had imagined it might be a Frenchman. Even out here, alone and unaided, it was not impossible. But the French rarely sailed fast or far by night. Usually they lay to and rode out the darkness. This was no enemy.

As if to open his thoughts Betts yelled, `I know that rig, sir! She's an English ship right enough!,

'Very well, keep on reporting!' Herrick lowered the speaking trumpet and peered back along the quarterdeck. Even in minutes the place had taken more shape and reality. The deck was pale and grey, and he could see the helmsmen again as familiar faces.

There might be new orders in the other frigate. Maybe the American war was already over and they would return, to Brest or England In his heart Herrick felt a sudden twinge of disappointment. At first the prospect of another long commission in the unhappy Phalarope had appalled him. Now, with the thought that he might never see the West Indies at all, he was not so sure.

Neale slithered straight down a backstay, disdaining shrouds and ratlines, and ran panting to the quarterdeck.

Herrick made up his mind. `My respects to the captain, Mr. Neale, and tell him we have sighted a King's ship. She will be up to us in an hour, maybe much less. He will wish to prepare himself.'

Neale hurried down the hatchway and Herrick stared across the tumbling waste of water. Bolitho would be even more concerned, he thought. If the Phalarope was ordered home now, all his plans and promises would be without meaning. He would have lost his private battle before he had had time to begin.

There was a soft step beside him and Bolitho said, `Now, Mr. Herrick, what about this ship?'