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!’
6
The deck seemed unusually crowded, all thought of rest and food forgotten. Some men were in the bows, peering or gesturing ahead, calling to one another, voices distorted by the wind. Others had climbed into the shrouds, but the sea was still dark and empty. And there was no more gunfire.
Verling said, ‘Due south of us.’ His eye lit up as he gazed into the compass. ‘Dead ahead, if I’m not mistaken.’
‘At least we can outsail ’em, sir.’ That was Tinker.
Egmont snapped, ‘We’re not at war, man!’
Verling glanced at him. ‘We take no chances, Mr. Egmont. Today’s handshake can easily become tomorrow’s broadside.’
Dancer murmured, ‘What do you think, Dick? Heavy guns?’
Bolitho shook his head. ‘Big enough. There was no return fire.’ Ships meeting by accident, a case of mistaken identity in the darkness and foul weather. These were busy trade routes where almost any flag might be sighted. And the possibility of war was never forgotten. Shoot first, was often the first rule.
Smugglers, privateers, or local pirates, every deepwater sailor had to take his chance.
Bolitho looked over toward Verling and tried to see it as he would. Facing an unknown threat, considering his own responsibility. The officer in charge… He had heard it said all too frequently. Do wrong and you carried the blame. Do right, and if you were too junior, others reaped the praise.
Deliver Hotspur to her new command, and return to Plymouth without unnecessary delay. The orders were plain enough. Maybe Verling was weighing the choices that might lie ahead. Fight or run, as Tinker had suggested. Hotspur carried two small bow-chasers, six-pounders, quite enough to deal with trouble in home waters. But no shot had yet been brought aboard. And her four swivel guns would be useless in any serious engagement.
Verling had made up his mind.
‘Stand by to shorten sail. Reef tops’ls and take in the gaff tops’l.’ Another glance at the compass. Bolitho could see his face now without the aid of the lamp. The sky was clearing, the clouds purple toward the horizon, when it was visible.
He heard Egmont ask, ‘Shall we fight, sir?’
Verling was gesturing to Dancer. ‘Fetch my logbook, then stand by me.’ He seemed to recall the question. ‘We’ve no marines to support us this time. Break open the arms chest.’ He did not even raise his voice.
He looked at Bolitho. ‘Up you go. Sweep to the sou’ east. Take your time. Remember what you saw on the chart.’
Afterwards, Bolitho recalled how each point was allowed to settle in his mind, take shape. So calmly said when Verling’s entire being must have wanted to ram his meaning home, or even to snatch up the glass and claw his way aloft himself. In case he was mistaken. When Bolitho and the other midshipmen had gathered around Gorgon’s sailing master, old Turnbull, for their regular instruction in navigation and pilotage, or when they were struggling with the mysteries of the sextant, they had often been warned about the first sight of land. Turnbull had reminded his youthful audience, ‘An error in judgment is no excuse at the court-martial table!’
He reached the foremast shrouds as Verling shouted, ‘Shorten sail!’
Men were already at their stations, handling lines and tackles as if they had been serving Hotspur for months, not days.
Bolitho climbed steadily but slowly, making sure each ratline was underfoot before he took his weight with his arms, Verling’s heavy telescope thumping across his spine. He heard Tinker call after him, ‘Don’t drop that, me son, or the sky’ll fall on you!’
How he could find time to joke about it was a marvel. Tinker was everywhere, and at once. Ready to help or threaten without hesitation. He should have been promoted to warrant rank; there was not a strand of rope or strip of sail he could not control. But in twenty-five years at sea, he had never learned to read or write.
Bolitho reached the upper yard, and could feel his heart banging against his ribs. Too long in harbour. Getting soft…
The lookout already curled in position, his arm around a stay, turned and peered at him.
‘Mornin’, sir!’ He jerked his thumb. ‘Land, larboard bow!’
Bolitho swallowed and forced himself to look. Sea and haze, an endless expanse of choppy white crests. But no land.
The lookout was one of Gorgon’s foretopmen; more to the point, he had been chosen by Tinker for the passage crew.