He listened to the metallic clink of pawls as the men at the capstan threw their weight on the bars. He pictured the anchor, it's fluke biting into the sea bed, waiting to break free, free of the land. He often thought of it at times like this.
He jerked out of his thoughts as his brother called sharply, `Mr Bolitho! More hands to the mains'l! It will be fierce work directly!'
Gloag was banging his big hands together like boards. `Wind's backed a piece, sir!' He was grinning into the blown spray, his cheeks streaming. `That'll help!'
Bolitho climbed over unfamiliar gun tackles and thick snakes of cordage. Past unknown seamen and petty officers, until he was right above the stem. He saw the straining cable, jerking inboard through the hawse-hole as more men took the strain, while on either side of the stem the tide surged past as if the Avenger herself was already moving ahead.
The boatswain dashed forward to join him. `A good night for it, sir!' He did not bother to explain but made a circling motion with his fist and yelled, ` Hove short, sir!'
Then everything seemed to happen as once. As the anchor started to drag free of the ground the hands on deck threw themselves to the big boomed main sail as if their lives depended on it. Bolitho had to jump clear as the foresail was broken free and started to billow into the wind, only to be knocked aside again as Pyke yelled, `Anchor's aweigh, sir!'
The effect was immediate and startling. With her fore and main filling out like mad things, and the deck canting steeply to the thrust of wind and current, the Avenger seemed to be sliding beam-on towards sure destruction.
Gloag called hoarsely, `Sheet 'em 'ome 'ard, Mr Pyke! Lively now.'
Bolitho felt at a loss and totally in the way as men darted hither and thither, oblivious to the water which surged as high as the lee gunports.
And then, just as suddenly, it was done. Bolitho made his way aft to where three straddle-legged seamen stood by the long tiller-bar, their eyes squinting in concentration as they watched both helm and sails. The Avenger was standing as close to the wind as any vessel he had ever seen, with her big mainsail and the fin-shaped foresail sheeted home as Gloag had ordered, until they were almost fore and aft along the cutter's centre line.
Foam boiled under the counter, and Bolitho saw Dancer watching him from the foredeck, grinning like a boy with a new plaything.
– Hugh was eyeing him too, his mouth compressed in a tight line.
`Well?' One word. Question and threat together. Bolitho nodded. `She's a lady, sir! Like a bird!' The boatswain stumped to the weather rail and
peered at the blurred shoreline.
`Aye, Mr Bolitho, sir. An' I'll wager some devils are watchin' this bird right now!'
The land was edging past, and Bolitho saw the spray whipped off the wave crests like spume as they approached the dangerous turn of the headland.
Pyke cupped his hands. `Stand by to get aloft, there!' He glanced at his commander's set features as if expecting him to cancel his demands for moree canvas. When no word was uttered he added heartily, `An' mebbe a tot for the first one down afterwards!' _
Bolitho made himself take in the darkening deck section, by section, until he could match what he already knew with the bustling seamen and the jumble of rigging and blocks which went to make a vessel stay alive.
Hugh and the master seemed satisfied, he thought, watching the men at work, the set of the sails, with an occasional glance at the compass to confirm some point or other.
What a step I have yet to make, Bolitho thought. From midshipman to a place on the quarterdeck. Like his brother, who at twenty-one was already on another plane. In a few years this first, tiny command would probably be forgotten, and Hugh might have his own frigate. But she would have played her vital part for him all the same. Provided, that was, he kept out of trouble and held his sword in its scabbard.
`Mr Bolitho!'
Hugh's voice made him start.
`I said earlier, we have no passengers in my command!. So stir yourself and put more hands forrard to the jib. We'll set it as soon as the topmen are aloft.'
As dusk yielded to a deeper darkness the Avenger threw herself across the stiffer crests of open sea. Lifting and plunging, throwing up great sheets of spray from her bows, she changed tack to point her stem towards the south.
Hour after hour, Hugh Bolitho drove every one until he was ready to drop. Wet, freezing canvas, ironhard and unyielding to the fingers of salt-blinded men, drowned even the sea's noise with its constant boom and thunder. The screech of blocks as swollen cordage was hauled through, the stamp of feet on deck, an occasional cry from the poop, all joined in one chorus of effort and pain.
Even the cutter's young commander had to admit that too much canvas was too much, and reluctantly he ordered the topsail and jib to be taken in for the remainder of the night.
Eventually the watch below, gasping and bruised, groped their way down for a short respite. Some swore they would never set foot aboard again once they put into port. They always said it. They usually came back.
Others were too tired even to think, but fell on their cramped messdeck to lie amongst the sluicing mixture of sea water and oddments of clothing or loose tackle until the next call from the deck.
'All hands! All hands on deck to shorten sail!' They never had to wait long for that either.
As he lay in a makeshift cot, pitching and swaying with the savage motion, Bolitho found time to wonder
what might have happened if he had gone to London as Dancer had suggested.
There was a smile on his lips as he fell into a deep sleep. It would certainly have been totally different from this, he thought.
4. No Choice
Lieutenant Hugh Bolitho sat wedged into a corner of the Avenger's low cabin, one foot against a frame to hold himself steady. The cutter was alive with creaks and rattles as she drifted sluggishly downwind through a curtain of sleet and snow.
The midshipmen, Gloag, the acting-master, and Pyke, the cutter's sly-faced boatswain, completed the gathering, and the confined space was heavy with damp and the richer tang of brandy.
Bolitho felt as if he had never worn a shred of dry clothing in his life. For over two days, while the Avenger had tacked or beaten her way down the Cornish coastline, he had barely slept for more than minutes at a time. Hugh never seemed to rest. He was always calling for extra vigilance, although who but a madman would be abroad in this weather was hard to fathom. Now, around the dreaded Lizard and its great sprawl of reefs, they lay to under the lee of the shore. And although it was pitch-dark and no land in view, they sensed it, felt it not as a friend but as a treacherous enemy waiting to rip out their keel if they made just one mistake.
Bolitho was impressed by his brother's outward calm, the way he outlined his ideas without any sign of uncertainty. He could tell that Gloag trusted his judgement, although he was old enough to be his
father.
He was saying, `I had intended to put a party ashore, or go myself to meet this informant. However, the weather has other ideas. Any boat might lose her way, and the advantage of surprise would also be lost.'
Bolitho glanced at Dancer, wondering if he was as mystified as himself. Informants, stealthy rendezvous in the dark, it was a different sort of Navy.
Pyke said abruptly, `I knows the place well, sir. It would be where Morgan, the revenue man, was done in. A real likely spot for runnin' a cargo ashore.'
Hugh's eyes settled on him curiously. 'D'you think you could meet this fellow? After all, if he says the birds have flown there's no damn point in my hanging about here.'
Pyke spread his hands. `I can try, sir.'
`Try, dammit, that's not good enough!'
Bolitho watched. Again, Hugh's latent temper was getting the better of him. He saw the almost physical effort as reason took over.