There was a brief break in the scudding clouds, and the watery light played down along Undine's gun ports to her clean sheathing as she rolled uneasily in the swell. Best Anglesey copper. Stout enough for anything. Bolitho recalled what her previous captain, Stewart, had confided. In a fierce skirmish off Ushant he had been raked by heavy guns from a French seventy-four. Undine had taken four balls right on her waterline. She had been fortunate to reach England afloat. Frigates were meant for speed and hit-and-run fighting, not for matching metal with a line of battleship. Bolitho knew from his own grim experience what that could do to so graceful a hull.
Stewart had added that despite careful supervision he was still unsure as to the perfection of the repairs. With the copper replaced, it took more than internal inspection to discover the true value of a dockyard's overhaul. Copper protected the hull from many sorts of weed and clinging growth which could slow a ship to a painful crawl. But behind it could lurk every captain's real enemy, rot. Rot which could change a perfect hull into a ripe, treacherous trap for the unwary. Admiral Kempenfelt's own flagship, the Royal George, had heeled over and sunk right here in Portsmouth just two years ago, with the loss of hundreds of lives. It was said that her bottom had fallen clean away with rot. If it could happen to a lofty first-rate at anchor, it would do worse to a frigate.
Bolitho came out of his thoughts as he heard the shrill of boatswain's calls above the wind, the stamp of feet as the marines prepared to receive him. He stared up at the towering masts, the movement of figures around the entry port and above in the shrouds. They had had a month to get used to seeing him about the ship, except for the unknown quantity, the newly recruited part of the company. They might be wondering about him now. What he was like. Too harsh, or too easy-going. To them, once the anchor was catted, he was everything, good or bad, skilful or incompetent. There was no other ear to listen to their complaints, no other voice to reward or punish.
'Easy all!' Allday stood half poised, the tiller bar in his fist. 'Toss your oars!'
The boat thrust forward and the bowman hooked on to the main chains. at the first attempt. Bolitho guessed that Allday had been busy during his stay in London.
He stood up and waited for the right moment, knowing Allday was watching like a cat in case he should slip between launch and ship, or worse, tumble backwards in a welter of flailing arms and legs. Bolitho had seen it happen, and recalled his own cruel amusement at the spectacle of his new captain arriving aboard in a dripping heap.
Then, with the spray barely finding time to catch his legs, he was up and on board, his ears ringing to the shrill of calls and to the slap of marines' muskets while they presented arms. He doffed his hat to the quarterdeck, and nodded to Herrick and the others.
'Good to be back, Mr. Herrick.' His tone was curt.
'Welcome aboard, sir.' Herrick was equally so. But their eyes shone with something more than routine formality. Something which none of the others saw, or shared.
Bolitho removed his cloak and handed it to Midshipman Penn. He turned to allow the fading light to play across the broad white lapels of his dress coat. They would all know he was here. He saw the few hands working aloft on last minute splicing, others crowded on gangways and down on the main deck between the twin lines of black twelve-pounder guns.
He smiled, amused at his own gesture. 'I will go below now.'
'I have placed the orders in your cabin, sir.'
Herrick was bursting with questions. It was obvious from his flat, formal voice. But his eyes, those eyes which were so blue, and which could look so hurt, made a lie of his rigidity.
'Very well, I will call you directly.'
He made to walk aft to the cabin hatchway when he saw some figures gathered just below the quarterdeck rail. In mixed garments, they were in the process of being checked against a list by Lieutenant Davy.
He called, 'New hands, Mr. Davy?'
Herrick said quietly, 'We are still thirty under strength, sir.'
'Aye, Sir.' Davy squinted up through the light drizzle, his handsome face set in a confident smile. 'I am about to get them to make their marks.'
Bolitho crossed to the ladder and ran down to the gun deck. God, how wretched they all looked. Half-starved, ragged, beaten. Even the demanding life aboard ship could surely be no worse than what had made them thus.
He watched Davy's neat, elegant hands as he arranged the book on top of a twelve-pounder's breech.
'Come along now, make your marks.'
They shuffled forward, self-conscious, awkward, and very aware that their new captain was nearby.
Bolitho's eye stopped on the one at the end of the line. A sturdy man, well-muscled, and with a pigtail protruding from beneath his battered hat. One prime seaman at least.
He realised Bolitho was watching him and hurried forward to the gun.
Davy snapped, 'Here now, hold your damn eagerness!' Bolitho asked, 'Your name?' He hesitated. 'Turpin, sir.'
Davy was getting angry. 'Stand still and remove your hat to the captain, damn your eyes! If you know anything, you should know respect!'
But the man stood stockstill, his face a mixture of despair and shame.
Bolitho reached out and removed an old coat which Turpin had been carrying across his right forearm.
He asked gently, 'Where did you lose your right hand, Turpin?'
The man lowered his eyes. 'I was in the Barfear, sir. I lost it at the Chesapeake in '81.' He looked up, his eyes showing pride, but only briefly. 'Gun captain, I was, sir.'
Davy interjected, 'I am most sorry, sir. I did not realise the fellow was crippled. I will have him sent ashore.'
Bolitho said, 'You intended to sign the articles with your left hand. Is it that important?'
Turpin nodded. 'I'm a seaman, sir.' He looked round angrily as one of the recruited men nudged his companion. 'Not like some!' He turned back to Bolitho, his voice falling away. 'I can do anything, sir.'
Bolitho hardly heard him. He was thinking back to the Chesapeake. The smoke and din. The columns of wheeling ships, like armoured knights at Agincourt. You never got away from it. This man Turpin had been nearby, like hundreds of others. Cheering and dying, cursing and working their guns like souls possessed. He thought of the two fat merchants on the coach. So men like that could grow richer.
He said harshly, 'Sign him on, Mr. Davy. One hand from the old Barfleur will be more use to me than many others.'
He strode aft beneath the quarterdeck, angry with himself, and with Davy for not having the compassion to understand. It was a stupid thing to do. Pointless.
Allday was carrying one of the chests aft to the cabin, where a marine stood like a toy soldier beneath the spiralling deckhead lantern.
He said cheerfully, 'That was a good thing you just did, Captain.'
'Don't talk like a fool, Allday!' He strode past' him and winced as his head grazed an overhead beam. When he glared back at Allday his coxswain's homely features were quite expressionless. 'He could probably do your work.'
Allday nodded gravely. 'Aye, sir, it is true that I am overtaxed!'
'Damn your impertinence!' It was useless with Allday. 'I don't know why I tolerate you!'
Allday took his sword and walked with it to the cabin bulkhead.
'I once knew a man in Bodmin, Captain.' He stood back and studied the sword critically. 'Used to hammer a block of wood with a blunt axe, he did. I asked him why he didn't use a sharper blade and finish the job properly.' Allday turned and smiled calmly. 'He said that when the wood was broken he'd have nothing to work his temper on.'