But today they ate their dinner in silence, as did the rest of the lower deck, and the only human sounds heard above the groaning of the brig were the occasional gruntsor curses of a ship's company at mealtime. Even the infinitely amusing speculation on the doings of David Wright, still somewhere in Boston, could not shake the introspective silence of the troubled men. Wilson ripped the last bite of salt pork apart with his teeth and began to gnaw on it.
"Bleeding Longbottom ain't let up, has he? he said. Silence on the lower deck bothered him. It was a sign of trouble on shipboard.
Barrett grunted. "It's like living his dream, him and McDuff. Bleeding captain letting them do as they pleased."
They continued to eat in silence, hunched over the wooden table under the lower deck beams and eating dry peas with their sheath knives.
"I'm gonna get that bastard, I tell you, next time we get a run ashore. Find him alone..." Harland said, but Israel Barrett kicked him hard in the shins and gestured with a nod of the chin toward the brick oven that occupied a large portion of the forward end of the lower deck.
Bolton stood by the oven, his stooped back stooped even farther under the lower deck beams, clasping his bony hands together and waiting for a pot of water to boil. He was trying hard to appear uninterested in the conversation, and Wilson had no doubt that he hoped to carry gossip as well as boiling water back to Pendexter. Wilson had never known a captain's steward who did not keep his position secure by keeping the captain informed of what was said on the lower deck.
At eight bells the following morning, after the Icarus had spent a frustrating night slatting in the light airs, Bloody Wilson was quite content to lay aft and take the helm. He enjoyed his trick as helmsman, enjoyed the feel of the thick tiller against his thigh, the subtle nudges that he would give to keep the brig on its true course, the way the lively vessel responded to the rudder.
And this morning he had more reason to relish his hour trick, for it was an hour that he was safe from the ministrations of the bosun and his mate. They had started in early that morning, rousing the watch below for duty, cutting down hammock and striking the last men to appear on deck. They had inspected each hammock before it was stowed in the netting, cursing any man whose hammock was not perfectly rolled and forcing him to roll it again. The men had muttered, looking aft to the quarterdeck for relief, but the first officer had the deck and he was staring off to windward and seemed unconcerned with the routine in the waist.
Wilson stepped aft to the tiller and nodded to Dibdin, who stood, as he always did during his watch, just forward and to the weather side of the helmsman.
"East by southeast," said the man at the tiller as he relinquished his charge to Wilson.
"East by southeast, aye."
"Looks like we're finding our wind again," commented Dibdin, nodding toward the sails, now billowed and firm. "How's your weather helm, Wilson?"
Wilson bounced the tiller off his thigh, feeling the weight of the bar. "She seems right, sir," he said, testing the helm again. "She's fine, sir, fine as you please."
"Good. Let me know if she gets too much with the wind building. We can take in that main topmast staysail."
"Aye, sir," said Wilson, and the two men returned to their thoughts as the brig pushed on, east and south.
The holystoning was still under way, a majority of the ship's company crawling on hands and knees to the most inaccessible corners of the deck, when Pendexter and Smeaton appeared on deck. A ship's boy struck one bell and the officers stepped up onto the quarterdeck. Three paces behind came Bolton, carrying Smeaton's pistol case, a horn of powder around his neck.
Pendexter took up the slate on which were written the hourly log entries and glanced over it, then replaced it in the binnacle box without comment. He looked down the length of the deck, then up at the set of the sails.
"All's well, I trust, Mr Dibdin?" he asked cheerfully.
"I see Mr McDuff is hard at it, keeping the Icarus as smart as she can be."
"He's still a bit free with his starter, sir. Drives the men harder than what he needs to. You might have a word with him about that, sir," said Dibdin, turning to the lieutenant.
"Well, now, Mr Dibdin," said Pendexter, a bit flustered. "I don't see Mr McDuff complaining about your navigation, so perhaps you should not concern yourself with how he does his job."
But Dibdin would not be put off. "Beg your pardon, sir. I mean no disrespect, but I've been in great many ships, and I can tell you, it may seem that McDuff is keeping discipline, but he ain't. The way he treats the men is the very worst thing for discipline. Go down on the lower deck sometime, during dinner, and see how quiet it is. That's foul weather on the horizon, sir."
Pendexter cleared his throat and glanced out to windward before turning back to the master. "Now see here, Mr Dibdin. Mr McDuff believes in a taut ship and so do I. I tolerate no slackness aboard the Icarus and I expect my officers and warrant officers to do likewise. To tolerate no slackness, I mean. If the men attend to their duties, they have nothing to fear. Mr McDuff may be harsh, but he's just in his discipline."
Wilson knew that Pendexter had made that speech as much for his benefit as for Dibdin's, hoping that Wilson would carry the word to the lower deck, hoping that he would regale the crew with the story of the firm but fair captain. Not bloody likely.
"Aye, sir," said Dubdin, stepping forward off the quarterdeck and disappearing below.
Smeaton stepped up to the break of the quarterdeck and hailed the bosun. "I say, Mr McDuff, I shall need a hand, if you can spare one."
McDuff nodded and looked around. He poked a nearby seaman with his starter. "Here, Barrett, lay aft and report to Mr Smeaton, and shake a leg."
Barrett stood and walked aft, stopping at the break of the quarterdeck and saluting. Wilson could see from the neutral expression on the old sailor's face that he was expecting Smeaton's order to be stupid.
"Very good, ah, what's your name?"
"Barrett, sir. Israel Barrett, foredeck man."
"Yes, very good, Barrett. Now look here. I want you to run down to the gunroom where you'll find a case of empty wine bottles. Take them up to the larboard cathead there. I'll give you a signal, and each time I do, I want you to toss one of the bottles over the side, toss it about four fathoms from the ship. Do you understand?" Barrett nodded. "Very good. Run along then."
Barrett looked at Wilson and raised his eyebrow in a manner so subtle that only Wilson was aware of the gesture of disgust, then he disappeared below.
"Bolton!" called Smeaton, turning aft. "I say, load those pistols, and I'll thank you not to spill powder all over the deck this time."
The two officers stood on the leeward side of the quarterdeck for half an hour peppering the waves with pistol balls. From what Wilson could divine from their conversation, and from the occasional stolen glance over the side, there was a great disparity in the men's skill, Smeaton being the superior marksman. As slow as the brig was moving, there was time for only one shot apiece. Pendexter always took the first shot, and generally he left the bottle intact for Smeaton to finish off.
"It's really a matter of knowing the weapon, James," said Smeaton after Barrett had thrown the last of the bottles over the side. "And I've had these pistols ten years now, since I was a lad, and I practice with them constantly."