It even felt different here. Pistols in a rack. Some shirts hanging to air which the wardroom servant had just washed. The smell of something simmering in a pot.
He replied, 'Thank you. I would relish a glass just now.'
They relaxed slightly and Soames said, 'It will mean turning back, sir.' He thought about it. 'Or making for the African coast mebbee.'
Feet creaked outside the door and then Mudge pushed his way' into the wardroom, his grey hair sprouting as he threw his hat into a corner.
'God blast me eyes, but what's this bloody deed I've bin told?' He saw Bolitho and muttered, 'Beggin' yer pardon, sir. I was not expectin' to discover you in 'ere.'
Herrick held out a glass. 'Some Rhenish, sir.' He did not smile, but his eyes were calm. Almost pleading. 'Still fairly fresh, I think.'
Bolitho sipped it gratefully. 'Thank you.' He tasted the sourness in his throat. 'After what I have just witnessed…' He swung round as the surgeon lurched through the door, his shirt unbuttoned, his gaze bleary.
'You have been told the news, Mr. Whitmarsh?'
He watched the effort he was making to focus his eyes, the growth of stubble on his chin. Whitmarsh had been quietly making up for all the time he had stayed with his patients.
'Well?'
Whitmarsh groped his way to a gun and leaned on it with both hands, sucking air through the open port like a drowning man.
'I heard, sir.' He retched. 'I heard.'
Bolitho watched him impassively. 'As the water casks were fresh when stowed aboard at Spithead, it would seem likely that these human fragments came from your surgery.' He waited, feeling pity for the man, but knowing the need for haste. 'Would you agree?'
'I expect so.'
Whitmarsh lurched to the table and poured a large measure of wine.
Bolitho said sharply,. 'If you drink that, Mr. Whitmarsh, I will see to it that you do not get another drop while you are under my command.' He stood up. 'Now, think, man! Who could have done this?'
Whitmarsh stared at the glass in his hand, his body swaying badly, despite the easy motion.
'I was kept busy. They were in a poor way, sir. I had my loblolly boys and my mate to assist me.' He screwed up his red face in an effort to remember, the sweat dripping off his chin like rain. 'It was Sullivan. I gave him the job of clearing amputated limbs and the like from my sickbay. He was very helpful.' He nodded vaguely. 'It's all coming to me now. Sullivan.' He turned and stared fixedly at Bolitho. 'The manyou had flogged, sir.'
Herrick said harshly, 'Don't be so bloody impertinent to the captain!'
Bolitho found he was suddenly very calm. 'In your opinion, Mr. Whitmarsh, will the casks be any further use after this?'
'None.' The surgeon was still glaring at him. 'They must be scoured at once. The contents thrown overboard. A mouthful of that water, after gangrenous flesh has been in it, and you'll have a raging fever aboard! I've known it happen. There's no cure.'
Bolitho placed his glass on the table very slowly. Giving his mind time to steady.
'It seems that you are not the only one who wishes to turn back, Mr. Herrick. Now take hold of Sullivan and guard him before he does some other mischief.' He turned to Whitmarsh. 'I have not finished with you yet!'
Feet clattered on the quarterdeck ladder and Herrick reappeared in the doorway.
'Sir! That fool Sullivan is aloft on the cro'jack yard! He's raving mad! Nobody can get near him!'
Then Bolitho heard men shouting, more feet pounding overhead.
He said, 'I will go up.'
He found the gangways crowded with seamen and marines, while Don Puigserver and his Spanish lieutenant had joined
The Work of a Demon 8 5
Davy by the quarterdeck rail to watch a bosun's mate who was clinging to the mizzen shrouds and trying to reach Sullivan.
The seaman was perched on the yard, 'totally indifferent to the great billowing sail at his back and the hard sunlight which lanced across his body. He was completely naked, but for his belt, where he carried the broad-bladed dirk which had brought about his flogging in the first place.
Davy said anxiously, 'I did not know what to do, sir. The man is obviously moonstruck or worse.'
The bosun's mate bellowed, 'Now yew get down on deck, or by the livin' Jesus I'll pitch you there meseif!'
Sullivan threw back his head and laughed. It was a shrill, unnerving sound.
'Now, now, Mr. Roskilly! What would you do then? Lay your little rope's. end on me?' He laughed again and then pulled out the knife. 'Come along then, matey! I'm awaitin' you, you goddamned lickspittle!'
Bolitho called, 'Come down, Roskilly! You'll do no good by getting killed!'
Sullivan craned under the vibrating yard. 'Well, blow me down, mates, an' who 'ave we 'ere? Our gallant captain, no less!' He rocked with laughter. 'An' 'e's all aback 'cause poor old Tom Sullivan's spoiled the water for him!'
Some of the watching seamen had been grinning at the spectacle on the quarterdeck. The mention of water soon altered that.
Bolitho looked at the upturned faces, feeling the spreading alarm like the edge of a fire.
He walked aft, his shoes loud in the sudden hush around him. Below the yard he stopped and looked up.
'Come along, Sullivan.' He was in the sunlight and with no shade from the bellying sail above. He felt the sweat pouring down his chest and thighs, just as he could sense the other man's hatred. 'You have done enough today!'
Sullivan cackled. 'Did you hear that, lads? Done enough!' He twisted on the yard, the glare playing across the scars on his back, pale against the tanned skin. 'You've done enough to me, Cap'n bloody Bolitho!'
Herrick snapped, 'Sergeant Coaker! Have one of your marksmen brought aft! That man is a damned danger up there!'
'Belay that!' Bolitho kept his eyes on the crossjack yard. 'He is past reason. I'll not have him shot down like some mad dog.'
He sensed Puigserver was watching him and not the man on the yard, and that Allday was close by, a cutlass in his hand. But they were all excluded. It was between him and Sullivan.
He called, 'I am asking you, Sullivan!' He recalled the woman's face in the cabin. I did not ask.
'You go to hell, Captain!' Sullivan was screaming now, his naked body twisting on the yard as if in torment. 'An' I'll take you there now!'
Bolitho hardly saw his hand move, just the brief flash of sunlight on the blade, and then gasped as the knife cut through his sleeve before embedding itself in the deck by his right shoe. So great was the force that nearly an inch of blade was driven into the planking.
Sullivan was transfixed, a long streamer of spittle trailing to the wind as he stared down at Bolitho at the foot of the mast.
Bolitho remained motionless, feeling the blood running down his elbow and forearm and on to the deck. He did not take his eyes off Sullivan, and the concentration helped to overcome the searing pain left by the blade.
Sullivan stood up wildly and began to scramble outboard along the yard. Everybody began to yell at once, and Bolitho felt Herrick gripping his arm, another wrapping a cloth around it, deadening the pain.
Whitmarsh had appeared below the nettings, and he, too, was shouting at the man framed against the clear sky.
Sullivan turned and spoke in a level voice for the first time. 'And you, too, Doctor! God damn you to hell!' Then he jumped out and down, his body hitting the water with a violent splash.
For a moment he floated past the quarter, and as the spanker's great shadow passed over him he clasped his hands above his head and vanished.
Herrick said, 'We could never pick him up. If we tried to heave-to under this canvas, we'd tear the sticks out of her.'
Bolitho did not know to whom he was speaking. Perhaps to himself.
He walked to the hatch, holding his torn and bloodied sleeve with one hand. He saw the bosun's mate, Roskilly, pulling the knife out of the deck. He was a strong man, but it took him two attempts to tug it clear.