He thought of Avery, who had been much quieter than usual. Going over it, perhaps. Reliving what he had found, and what he had thrown away.
He saw Ozzard glide to the screen doors; his keen hearing had detected Tyacke's footsteps despite all the other noises.
Tyacke entered, his hat tucked beneath one arm. There were fine droplets of spray on his coat, and Bolitho guessed he had been up and about since before the cooks had been called.
Ready to get under way, Sir Richard. Wind's holding fresh an' steady, nor' easterly Once clear of St. Helens, I've laid a course to weather the foreland. When we've got sea room I'll come about and steer sou'west." He smiled briefly. "It'll be a bit lively until then, but I shall be able to see what they can do."
No hesitation or uncertainty, despite a different ship, people he scarcely knew, and every glass in the fleet watching him, waiting for a mistake.
"I'll come up." The formality must wait a little longer. Thank you, James. I know what it cost you."
Tyacke looked at him, perhaps remembering that other beginning. The cost is shared this time, sir." As he turned to leave, he added, Twelve hundred miles from Spithead to Gibraltar, our first landfall." He grinned. "They'll have learned something of our standards by that time!"
Bolitho touched the sword at his side, and turned to Allday. "What are your thoughts, old friend?"
Allday glanced up at the skylight as the boatswain's calls shrilled impatiently. Spithead Nightingales, the Jacks called them. They ruled your life.
He replied slowly, "I'm a mite older, Sir Richard, but I feels the same." He glanced at the nearest empty gun port "It's going to be strange, never facing an enemy broadside again."
They went on deck, beneath the poop, and past the big double wheel where the helmsmen were already in position. Four of them: Tyacke was taking no chances.
Despite the wind, it was warmer on deck than he had expected; he felt the new pitch sticking to his shoes as he crossed to the quarterdeck rail. From here to the beak head there were men everywhere, with more already swarming aloft to the topsail yards. Aft by the mizzen mast, the marines were waiting in squads to man the braces and halliards. The old hands claimed it was because the mizzen's sail plan was the simplest, and could mostly be handled from the deck, so that even a 'bullock' could manage it!
Bolitho saw the quick glances, the word passing along the upper deck. Avery was standing by the opposite rail, hat tugged down over the greying hair which was part of the price of his service. Tyacke was speaking with the sailing master, Tregidgo, a straight-backed man with an unsmiling, taciturn countenance. He was a Gornishman, and he had served in Frobisher for the four years since her capture, and under her two captains, Jefferson, whom Rhodes had casually dismissed slipped his cable two years back, buried at sea, poor fellow and Oliphant, who had left in such haste.
Tyacke faced him and touched his hat. "Ready, Sir Richard."
Bolitho glanced up at his flag, streaming against an almost cloudless sky.
"Carry on, Captain Tyacke."
Calls trilled and parties of men dashed below, where they were needed on the other capstan to add their weight to the straining cable. Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch a few passing boats. There were women in one of them, whores going to greet another new arrival at Spithead. It was, unofficially, common practice to allow prostitutes on board, if only to prevent men from desertion and the aftermath of punishment.
"Anchor's hove short, sir!" That was Kellett, the first lieutenant. He was right up forward by the cathead where he could watch the lie of the cable as the heaving, straining men at the capstan bars hauled their ship to her anchor by muscle alone.
Kellett came from an admiral's family. Bolitho had seen him only once since he had come aboard, a young, serious-faced officer with deceptively mild eyes.
"Stand by on the capstan!"
"Loose the heads' is
Some confusion ensued, but there were trained hands well placed to assist or knock the offender into position.
"Hands aloft, loose tops' is
The men were already poised to swarm out along the tapering yards. It was no place for anyone with a bad head for heights. He smiled at himself.
Clank clank clank. The pawls on the capstan were slowing; he imagined the great anchor moving below the ship's shadow, a last grip upon the land.
A fifer and a fiddler broke into a tune, and across the backs of crouching seamen and those at the braces with their eyes lifted to the yards, Bolitho saw Allday watching him, as if nothing stood between them.
So that was what he had been doing.
Bolitho lifted one hand, and he saw a midshipman turn to stare at him. But he saw only Allday, with the shantyman's reedy voice rising even above the squeal of blocks to remind him. To bring it all back once more.
There was a girl in Portsmouth Town…… Heave, my bullies, heave!
He touched his eye. Portsmouth Lass. Only Allday and perhaps one other would have thought of it.
"Anchor's aweigh, sir.r
Frobisher was already swinging round, leaning above her own reflection as the anchor was hoisted up and cat ted home.
He beckoned to Avery. "Walk with me, George."
While men bustled past them and cordage slithered along the deck like snakes, they walked together, as they had before when the guns had flamed and thundered all around them.
"Is there anything I can do, Sir Richard?"
Bolitho shook his head.
How could he explain, to Avery, of all people, that he could not bear to watch the land slide away, and to be alone with his thoughts. And his sense of loss.
Instead, he looked up at his flag, high and clean above the deck.
The last command. He acknowledged it as if he had spoken aloud. Then so be it.
6. Know Your Enemy
Lieutenant George Avery felt the warmth of the noon sun across his shoulders, and walked to the quarterdeck nettings to obtain a better view of the Rock. There were vessels of every description anchored, to take on stores or to await new orders, and around and amongst them boats under sail or oars bustled in endless activity. The towering mass of Gibraltar dwarfed them all, watchful, eternal, a guardian of the gateway to the Mediterranean.
Frobisher's slow approach, the crash and echo of gun salutes, and the brisk exchange of signals were part of the tradition, and once anchored, the ship's company were soon hurrying to other duties, lowering boats and spreading awnings. As during the passage out from England, they were left little time to ponder on their first landfall.
Ten days since the Isle of Wight had vanished astern, not a fast passage by any means, but deliberately planned to exercise the whole company, sails, guns, lowering and recovering boats, until Captain Tyacke was satisfied. If satisfied he was. Hate him, curse him, it made no difference, because every one from seasoned seaman to ship's boy knew that Tyacke never spared himself, nor shied away from anything he demanded of others.
On occasion, he had ordered lieutenants and senior warrant officers to stand down, to be replaced by subordinates, or anyone Tyacke thought should discover the true responsibility of his rank or station. They had skirted Brest and the French coast and entered the Bay of Biscay, unpredictable as ever'
despite the shades of spring, passing close even to Lorient, where Frobisher had been launched.
Then the coast of Portugal, like dark blue smoke in the morning light; into bright sunshine, where, although driven hard, Avery had sensed a change in the company, had seen men pause to grin at one another. To respond.
In the wardroom he had seen it and heard it, too. But as the flag lieutenant he was never part of any company, and that suited him. Until they knew him better, other officers might imagine that he was the admiral's ear, Tyacke's too, ready to pass on their more outspoken opinions. These were divided on Tyacke's ruthless insistence upon drills. Some protested that it was pointless, as there was little likelihood now of action. Others took the view that, as flagship, it was a matter of pride.