Ahead, the flagship had noted Hannibal’s unweatherly clawing and had considerately paid off a little until the line was whole again but it didn’t mollify Tyrell, who stumped about the deck, like a caged beast.
It was the same throughout the rest of the day, his brooding figure a malignant presence likely to appear silently from behind whenever officers or men were talking together. He did not go below until well into the evening.
The wardroom was in a black mood – there was little talk and few amused asides. Every officer was suffering: even the ponderous first lieutenant, Griffith, had been subject to a tirade in public for some petty shortcoming and he now kept to himself. Bowden occupied his time quietly, reading when he could, sometimes writing long letters home – careful not to express any criticism to his uncle and guardian, now a rear-admiral.
It was the unguessable arbitrary nature of their captain that sapped at morale, on one day demanding haste at all costs, then on another furious at the consequent compromises in quality, sometimes cruelly dismissing the efforts men were making for him, and at the next extravagantly rewarding mediocre performance. It made no sense.
The morning brought with it a heavy tropical downpour. The flagship ahead disappeared in grey-white curtains of solid water and the officer-of-the-watch grew lines of worry, which deepened as they plunged on, blind.
Tyrell paced up and down the quarterdeck, cocked hat jammed tight sending streams of water down his oilskin. Quite able to leave for a comfortable dry cabin, he remained morosely on deck, occasionally looking up at wet sails trailing sheets of water as they caught the rain.
Once, he flashed a gleeful grin at the officer-of-the-watch, who jerked with surprise and answered with a weak smile. ‘Get those good men below in the dry, Bowden, there’s a good fellow,’ he ordered, pointing to four sailors forward.
‘Aye aye, sir,’ Bowden replied, knowing it could well change the rare good mood to a raging tantrum if he objected and pointed out that they were posted in the eye of the ship for the express purpose of warning of collision with the invisible flagship ahead.
The rain stopped, the decks began steaming under a hot sun, and Tyrell finally went below to change. As soon as he had gone the atmosphere brightened.
Bowden caught movement out of the corner of his eye, Midshipman Joyce stealthily descending from aloft. He realised what was going on: the young rascal was engaged in the old game of baiting a marine.
The target was the poop-deck sentry, standing on duty with his musket, motionless and facing inboard. Joyce took out a piece of twine and secured it to the rigging and its other end he ever so carefully tied to the marine’s queue. Mission accomplished, he retired to await results.
Shortly, from out of the cabin spaces, a genial Tyrell emerged, looking about him with satisfaction.
The marine on the deck above snapped to attention, keen to show his alertness on duty by the routine of pacing across the deck to take a new position the other side. He shouldered his musket smartly and stepped out.
The twine tautened – the hapless marine was jerked backwards and crashed down, musket clattering. Disoriented, and on hands and knees, he looked around bewildered for the source of the attack.
The quarterdeck roared with laughter, Tyrell joining in. Joyce, clearly apprehensive at the possible consequences, gave a relieved smile.
When order was restored Tyrell ordered crisply, ‘Sar’nt of the watch, lay aft.’
The beefy soldier reported warily.
‘We’ve a younker here doesn’t show sufficient respect to your Royal Marines, Sar’nt. Give him a musket and set him to marching the length o’ the ship, fore and aft, until I say stop.’
Under the heavy musket the slight midshipman set out in good imitation of a Royal, stiffly swinging his arms and with a professional look of blankness just a trifle overdone. He was encouraged throatily by the sergeant, and shouts of support came as he passed by working seamen along the gangways to the foredeck and the root of the bowsprit, where he stamped around in a creditable ‘about turn’ before marching down the other side.
Bowden watched with relief. Was their tyrant at last lightening up?
Time passed and, visibly tiring under the unfamiliar weight of the musket, Joyce was no longer playing to the gallery, now trudging on in a mindless tramp, eyes fixed to the deck in front of him.
‘Er, sir,’ Bowden ventured, ‘stand down Mr Joyce? He’s been going for an hour.’
‘No.’ There was no compassion of any kind to be seen in his face.
The spiritless plodding went on – and on. Now there was pity and rough sympathy in the looks from the seamen for it was obvious that Joyce was suffering. He stumbled on doggedly, determined not to give in.
‘I’ll be below,’ Tyrell told the officer-of-the-watch and abruptly left.
Joyce crumpled to the deck.
Instantly the skylight on the poop opened and Tyrell popped into view, bellowing, ‘The last order was “march”, Mr Joyce! I have you under my eye, and if you stop again, I’ll see you court-martialled for disobeying a direct order.’
Shocked, the quarterdeck could only look on silently as the lad got to his feet and, with a superhuman effort, thudded the musket down on his shoulder and started off, a nightmarish shamble with staring eyes.
‘Send for the doc,’ Bowden whispered to a messenger.
The surgeon came, a shrivelled individual. ‘That man’s not fit to continue,’ Bowden said in hard tones. ‘Do you not agree, sir?’
Looking about him fearfully, the surgeon went to Joyce who, in his Calvary, didn’t pause, slogging on endlessly, seemingly in a trance. ‘I, er, cannot see that-’
‘What in Hades are you doing there, Surgeon?’ thundered Tyrell, who had shot out on deck.
‘Why, um, this man’s-’
‘Do you think to interfere with my authority, sir?’
‘Er, not at all,’ quavered the man.
‘Then get about your business, sir.’
Bravely the sergeant came up and faced Tyrell. ‘He’s had enough, sir. Can’t you-’
‘I’ll not have my orders questioned!’ he roared, to the deck in general. ‘The next man who interferes will be arrested on the spot.’
The watch on deck lowered their eyes and returned to their motions while the pitiful figure staggered on.
It couldn’t last: near the fore-mast and without a sound the lad collapsed, the musket skittering across the deck. With a piteous effort he tried to rise, swaying on his feet, then dropped, this time moving no more.
Deadly looks were shot aft as seamen ran to him but Tyrell seemed not to notice, gazing up lazily to take in the set of the topgallants, at the seas creaming in to windward.
Bowden felt anger rising. It threatened to overwhelm him. He stared obstinately out to sea until it passed, leaving him shaken.
That night he came off watch at midnight, thankful for the sanctity of his little cot where he could fight down the images of the day. He eventually drifted off into a restless sleep.
At some time in the early hours he was jerked into consciousness by the sudden pandemonium of cries and running feet above.
Heart thumping, he dropped to the deck and, pulling on a coat, headed for the after hatchway as fast as he could.
‘What’s happening?’ he asked hurrying figures in the darkness.
‘Don’t know,’ one man said hoarsely. ‘I’m getting topside, whatever!’
As he fought his way up, Bowden’s mind tried to grapple with sensations. The ship was still under way, for a live deck was under his feet with none of the deadly stillness to betray a grounding on a reef. There were no shots or firing, no stentorian orders or thundering drums in urgent summons to action – just men spilling up on deck from below in a bewildered throng.
He hurried to the wheel. The quartermaster was standing stolidly next to the helmsman.
‘What’s the alarm, man?’ Bowden demanded.