Herrick shouted, 'Hands to the braces! Alter course two points to larboard, Mr. Mudge!'
Bolitho sought out the frail figure of Potter amongst the unemployed hands below the forecastle, and when he glanced up beckoned him aft.
He slipped out of his heavy coat and handed it with his hat to Allday, saying as calmly as he could, 'I will go aloft myself.'
Allday said nothing. He knew Bolitho well enough to understand what it was costing him.
Potter hurried on to the quarterdeck and knuckled his forehead.
'Sir?'
'D'you think you could climb to the maintop with me?'
Potter stared at him dully. 'If you says so, sir.' Herrick called, 'East not'-east, sir!'
He looked from Bolitho to the mainyard stretching athwartships and vibrating to the great press of canvas below it.
Bolitho unbuckled his sword and gave it to Allday. 'I may need your eyes today, Potter.'
Feeling every man watching him, he swung out on to the weather shrouds and began to climb, his fingers locking so tightly around each ratline that the pain helped to steady him. Up and up, with his gaze fixed on the futtock shrouds which leaned out and around the sturdy maintop where two marines were studying his progress with unblinking curiosity.
Bolitho gritted his teeth and fought the urge to look down. It was infuriating. Unfair. He had first gone to sea at the age of twelve. Year by year he had studied and matured, had replaced his child's infatuation for the Navy with a genuine understanding which had amounted almost to love. He had overcome seasickness, and had learned to hide his loneliness and grief from his companions when his mother had died while he had been at sea. So, too, his father was buried while Bolitho had been fighting Frenchman and American in and around the Caribbean. He had watched men suffer horribly in battle, and his body bore enough scars to show the narrow margin between his own survival and death. Why then, should he be cursed with this hatred of heights?
He felt his shoes scrabbling on the ratlines as he hauled himself out and around the futtock shrouds, his body hanging in space and supported only by fingers and toes.
A marine said admiringly, 'By God, sir, that was a fair climb!'
Bolitho arrived beside him, his chest heaving painfully. He watched the marine to see if he was disguising his sarcasm, but saw it was the same sharpshooter who had discovered the anchored schooner just two days back.
He nodded and allowed himself a glance at the ship far below.
Foreshortened bodies moved about the quarterdeck, and when he looked forward he saw the leadsman in the chains, the blur of his arm as he hurled the heavy weight deftly beyond the bows.
He relaxed, and waited for Potter to scramble up beside him.
For a moment longer he toyed with the idea of forcing himself up the next length of quivering shrouds to the maintopsail yard, but rejected it. Apart from proving something to himself, or showing his capability to those who might be watching from below, it would serve for little. Potter was exhausted by the climb, and if Herrick needed him urgently on deck he would look even more foolish if he fell headlong from his perch.
He unslung the telescope from his shoulder and trained it on the channel between the islets. In the time it had taken him to climb from the deck and regain his wind Undine had cruised over a cable, and it was possible to see the next overlapping islet behind the central hill with its forbidding fortress and steep, sunbaked cliff.
Potter said, 'I never bin to the east'rd side, sir. There's a good channel there, too, I'm told.' He shuddered. 'They used to bury the corpses in the sandbars at low water. What there was left of 'em.'
Bolitho stiffened and momentarily forgot the deck far beneath him. He saw the blacker silhouette of a ship's masts and yards almost hidden around the curve of the inner channel. A frigate.
Potter saw his interest and added dolefully, 'Best place to anchor, sir. The battery on the fortress can protect two channels at once, an' any craft wot chooses to lay there.'
Something pale flapped and broadened against the furthest islet. A small boat hoisting its sail.
Bolitho glanced quickly at the foretopmast where Herrick had run up a big white flag. One way or another they would soon know.
There was a hollow boom, and after what seemed like an age, a tall waterspout shot skywards about a cable off the larboard beam. He trained the glass quickly towards the fortress, but the smoke had already fanned away so it was impossible to gauge the angle of the shot.
He shifted the glass again and saw the boat moving more quickly around a litter of broken rocks, the sail braced back like the fin of a great shark.
He let out a long breath as he saw a white flag flapping from her masthead. His request to parley was accepted. The single shot from the battery was a warning.
Bolitho slung the telescope across his shoulder. 'You stay here, Potter. Keep an eye on everything, and try to remember any item which might be of use. It could well save lives one day.' He nodded casually to the two-marine marksmen. 'I hope you'll not be needed.' He slung a leg over the low barricade and tried not to lower his eyes. 'Argus intends us to do all the sweating!'
The men grinned and nudged each other, as if he had just given them access to some priceless and vital information.
Bolitho swallowed hard and began to make the journey to the deck. When he reached the point where he could see the nettings on the opposite side again he allowed himself to look at the group which awaited him by the bulwark. Herrick was smiling, although whether from relief or amusement it was hard to tell. Bolitho jumped down to the deck and glanced ruefully at his fresh shirt. It was dripping with sweat, and bore a black streak of tar across one shoulder.
He said, 'Never mind. The coat will hide that.' In a brisker tone he added, 'A boat is coming out, Mr. Herrick. Heave-to, if you please, and prepare to anchor.'
He glanced up at the great yards again. It had not been quite so bad as he had imagined that time. Then he thought of the ideal conditions as compared with a screaming gale, or making the same climb in pitch darkness, and changed his mind.
Bolitho allowed Herrick to shout his orders before asking Mudge, 'What did you make of that shot?'
The master regarded him dubiously. 'Old gun, I'd say, sir. From where I was standin' it sounded like a bronze piece.'
Bolitho nodded. 'As I thought, too. It would be likely that they'd still have the original cannon.' He rubbed his chin, thinking aloud. 'So they'd be loath to use heated shot for fear of splitting them.' He grinned at Mudge's mournful expression. 'Not that it matters much, I daresay. If they fired solid rock, they could scarcely fail to hit a ship trying to force the channel!'
Fowlar shouted, 'The boat has an officer aboard, sir.' He grinned. 'Most o' the hands are the colour of coffee, but he's a Frog if ever I saw one.'
Bolitho took a glass and watched the oncoming boat. Locally built, with the familiar high prow and lateen sail, it was moving fast and well on a converging tack. He saw the officer in question, standing easily below the mast, his cocked hat pulled down over his forehead to shade his eyes from the fierce glare. Fowlar was right. There was no mistaking this one.
He made himself walk a few paces away from the side, as with her courses brailed up and her topsails in booming confusion Undine turned noisily into the wind to await her visitors.
Bolitho gripped the rail and watched in silence as the boat surged round and under the main chains, where some of Undine's seamen and Mr. Shellabeer waited to secure her lines and, if necessary, fend off any risk of collision.
He said, 'And now, Mr. Herrick, we shall see.'
He walked along the swaying gangway to the entry port and waited for the officer to scramble aboard. He stood quite alone framed against the cruising ranks of small whitecaps, his eyes exploring Undine's gun deck, the watching seamen and marines above and below him. Seeing Bolitho, he removed his hat with a flourish and gave a small bow.