'Thankee, sir! That was right thoughtful, sir!'
He strode to the ladder, turning away in case they could see his face through the darkness, or sense his mood. It was too easy to raise their spirits. So simple that it made him feel cheap, hypocritical. A double tot of rum. A few pence. Whereas within hours they might have given their lives, or their limbs.
Bolitho paced aft beside the main hatch, seeing Soames's great figure towering above that of Tapril, the gunner. He nodded to Fowlar nearby, and to the larboard crews of the twelve-pounders. All were his men, his responsibility.
He thought suddenly of Rear Admiral Sir John Winslade, all those weeks and months ago in his office at the Admiralty. He had needed a, frigate captain he could know and trust. One whose mind he could follow even though it was on the other side of the globe.
He thought, too, of the ragged soldiers below the Admiralty window, one blind, the other begging for the both of them.
All the brave schemes and plans, the lofty preparations for a new world. Yet when it was boiled down, nothing was changed. Undine and Argus were but two ships, and yet their presence and their needs made them no less important than opposing fleets.
And if Undine failed, what would they say in those fine residences in Whitehall and St. James's Square, and in the busy coffee houses where mere rumour grew into fact in minutes? Would they care that men had fought and died for them in the King's name?
Someone gave a hoarse cheer in the gloom, and he guessed the rum had arrived on deck.
He continued aft, hardly aware that he had stopped short in his tracks as his bitterness had given way to anger. How spacious the deck seemed without the boats lying one upon the other across their tier. All were now towing astern, awaiting the moment to be cast adrift, mute spectators of the battle which might come. Which had to come.
It was always a bad moment, he thought. Boats were frail things, but in battle they made an additional menace with their splinters flying like savage darts. Despite the danger, most men would wish them kept aboard. A link, a hope for survival if things went badly.
Keen came back panting hard. 'All done, sir. Mr. Triphook was a trifle perturbed at the extra issue!' His teeth shone in the darkness. 'Wouldyou care for a glass, sir?'
Bolitho disliked rum. But he saw the seamen and marines watching him and exclaimed, 'Indeed I would, Mr. Keen.'
He raised the glass to his mouth, the powerful stench of rum going straight to his empty stomach.
'To us, lads!'
He pictured Herrick and Puigserver aboard their floating
bomb. And to you, Thomas.
Then he was glad he had accepted the rum and added, 'I can noww understand what makes our jacks so fearsome!' It brought more laughs, as he knew it would.
He glanced at the sky. Still without light, or sign of a star.
He said, 'I'll go below.' He touched the midshipman's arm. 'You remain here by the hatch. Call, if I am needed.'
Bolitho climbed down into the darkness, his feet less certain here. Anyone could call him when required, but he must spare Keen an unnecessary visit to the surgeon's domain. It might come soon enough. He recalled the great pulsating wound, Allday's gentleness as he had searched out that bloody splinter.
Another ladder. He paused, feeling the ship groaning around him. Different smellsabounded on this deck. Tar and oakum, and that of tightly compressed humanity, even though the tiny messes were now deserted. And from forward the reek of the great anchor cables, of bilge water and damp clothing. Of a living, working ship.
A feeble lantern showed him the rest of the way to Whitmarsh's crude surgery. The sea-chests lashed together where terrified wounded would be saved or driven to despair. Leather straps to jam between teeth, dressings to contain the pain.
The surgeon's great shadow swayed across the tilting deck. Bolitho watched him narrowly. There was a stronger smell of brandy in the damp air. To quench pain, or to prepare Whitmarsh for his own private hell, he was not certain.
'All well, Mr. Whitmarsh?'
'Aye, sir.'
The surgeon lurched against the chests and braced his knee to the nearest one. He waved one hand around his silent assistants, the loblolly boys, the men who would hold their victims until the work was done. Brutalised by their trade. Without ears for the screams. Beyond pity.
'We are all awaiting whatyou send us, sir.'
Bolitho stared at him coldly. 'Will you never learn?'
The surgeon nodded heavily. 'I have learned well. Oh yes indeed, sir. As I have sawed away at a man's leg, or plugged carpenter's oakum into his empty eye-socket, with nothing to ease his torment but neat spirits, I have come closer to God than most!'
'If that be true, then I pray you get no closer.'
Bolitho nodded to the others and strode towards the ladder.
Whitmarsh called after him, 'Perhaps I shall be greeting you, sir!'
Bolitho did not reply. The surgeon was obviously going completely mad. His obsession with his brother's horrible death, his drinking, and the very way he earned his living were taking their toll. But he had to hang on to what remained of that other man. The one who had spoken of suffering with compassion, of serving others less fortunate.
He thought again of Herrick, and prayed he would get his boat away when the schooner was set upon her final course to destruction. Strange companions he had, too. Puigserver, and the frightened sailmaker from Bristol, finding courage from somewhere to sail back to that place which had broken his mind and body.
'Captain, sir!'
He quickened his pace as Keen's voice came down the next ladder.
'What is it?'
But as he gripped the ladder and turned his face towards the sky's faint rectangle he knew the answer. Slow, heavy drops of rain were falling across the hatchway, like small pebbles dropped from the yards as they tapped on planking or bounced across the gangways.
He dragged himself up the last few steps and hurried aft to the quarterdeck. He was within a few feet of it when the clouds opened and the rain came down in a great roaring, deafening torrent.
He yelled above the deluge, 'How is the wind now?'
Mudge was cringing by the binnacle, his hat awry in the fury of the downpour.
'Veerin', sir! Far as I can tell!'
Water hissed and gurgled down decks and scuppers, and the chilled gun crews pressed beneath the gangways and cowered behind the sealed ports to escape the torrential rain.
Bolitho felt Allday trying to throw the tarpaulin coat over his shoulders, but pushed him away. He was already soaked to the marrow, hair plastered over his forehead, his mind ringing to the din of rain and spray. Yet through it all he managed to keep contact with the ship and her affairs. The deck felt steady enough, despite the angry downpour, and above his head he managed to make out the maintopsail's shape flapping and shining wetly as the wind eased round still further.
He snapped, 'Hands to the braces, Mr. Davy! We will be full and bye directly!' He heard the men groping and cursing as they lurched to obey the orders, the protesting squeak of swollen cordage being hauled through blocks while yards were trimmed to hold the ship on her larboard tack. He called, 'Bring her up a point!'
Men slithered around the big double wheel, and he saw Carwithen punch one of the helmsmen as he bowed under the sheeting rain.
'Nor' by west, sir. Full an' bye she is!'
'Hold her so!'
Bolitho mopped his face with his sleeve:/The probing downpour helped to clear his aching mind, to make him accept what was happening. If the wind continued to veer, even if it stayed where it was, Herrick would be unable to place his schooner in position where he could destroy Muljadi's battery. The disastrous change of wind made the rain feel like tears. Tears for all their hopes, their pathetic determination, which minutes ago had made even the impossible seem undaunting.