He looked at her letters. She must have written every day. So that he could live her life with her, and share it, week by week, season by season. He clenched his fingers again as the drums beat out their staccato roll. Then the lash, a loud crack across the naked flesh, followed by the shout from M'Clune, the master-at-arms. "One!"
Then the drums again, and the sharp crack of the cat. One of the ship's hard men, Tyacke had said, who had threatened a petty officer.
"Two!"
Yovell looked at his interlaced fingers below the table. It only took one rotten apple, Allday had often proclaimed.
"Three!"
Yovell glanced up again, and then stared as Bolitho got abruptly to his feet, a canvas envelope still gripped in one hand.
He said, with great anxiety, "What is it, Sir Richard?" conscious only of the expression on Bolitho's tanned face. Surprise, disbelief, but above all, a release which he had rarely seen before.
Bolitho seemed to hear him for the first time.
He answered quietly, and yet even the urgent drums could not quench it, "From the Admiralty." He turned, and looked for Allday. "We are to pay off, old friend. We're going home."
Allday let out his breath, very slowly. "Well, that's it an' all about it!" The waiting was over.
17. "Until Hell Freezes"
Yet another forenoon watch was ending, working parties preparing to gather up their tools and equipment, eyes alert for any over-zealous petty officer. The sail maker and his crew had squatted cross-legged in any shade they could find, needles and palms moving busily like back street tailors. The carpenter and his men had continued their endless search for material in need of repair. At times like this, the upper deck was aptly known as the market-place.
Aft, below the poop, some of Frobisher's midshipmen waited with their sextants to shoot the noon sun, some frowning with concentration, and very aware of their captain's tall figure by the quarterdeck rail.
In his mind, Tyacke was seeing the ship's slow progress, east by south, and some one hundred miles to the east of the Sardinian island. It was a sailor's vision, and that of a navigator, but to any layman the sea would appear an empty, glittering desert, as it had been for days. For weeks. They had met only one of their frigates, and had been in contact with another courier vessel; otherwise, they had seen nothing. He saw the first lieutenant making his way aft, pausing to speak with one of the bosun's mates. Like the other officers, Kellett was showing signs of strain. Frobisher had been shorthanded even before her fight with the chebecks, shorthanded long before she had commissioned at Portsmouth, and that, he thought, was due largely to her last captain's indifference.
The thought of Portsmouth brought another stab of anger. More men had been excused from duties because of sickness: poisoned meat, the surgeon had insisted.
Tyacke had an innate distrust of all victualling yards, and an immense dislike and suspicion of the common run of ships' pursers. Between them, yard and purser could dispense food already rotten in the casks without any captain's knowledge, until it was too late. A lot of money changed hands this way, and Tyacke had often heard it said that half of any naval port was owned by dishonest pursers and suppliers.
The casks in question had been put aboard at Portsmouth a year ago. How old they really were would remain a mystery; the date markings burned into every such barrel had been carefully defaced, and men were laid off as a result. Tyacke tightened his jaw. It would not end there.
He glanced at the poop, and imagined the admiral going through his despatches yet again. Was all this a waste of time? Who could say? But, as the captain, Tyacke had to consider the demands of his company, the growing shortages of fresh fruit and even of drinking water. An armed marine sentry by the water cask on deck was evidence of that.
He was staring at one of the midshipmen without realising it, and saw the sextant quiver in his hands. This, perhaps, was not what he had expected when he had donned the King's coat.
He turned away and gave his attention to the topsails, filled but only just; the weather was part of the general malaise. It was the usual north-westerly wind, but without life, sultry, more like the sirocco of this region at a later time of the year.
He considered the orders Bolitho had given him to study. When Frobisher eventually ended her mission and returned to Malta, Bolitho's successor would be there to relieve him; he had very probably already arrived. Vice-Admiral Sir Graham Bethune. Tyacke had sensed Bolitho's surprise at the choice; he knew the officer, and they had served together. The navy was a family… The thought uppermost in his mind returned; it had come, increasingly, to haunt him. Frobisher would be returning to England; Sir Richard would be allowed to lower his flag, to pass the burden to someone else.
For a change.
He had heard Kellett and the others discussing it, when they thought he was out of earshot.
Going home. He had to come to terms with it; it was a concept totally unknown to him in all his years of service. Going home. He knew what it meant to Bolitho, even to
Allday. But to him, England had become something alien, a place only of more scrutiny, more revulsion, more pain. Until that last letter from the woman he had once intended to marry. Interesting, warm, mature, truthful… He had tried to dismiss it, to laugh at himself, to accept that there was nothing for him.
In his heart, he knew that Bolitho had guessed some of it, but had said little. That was their strength.
It had all come to a head when Kellett had blurted it out, a day after they had parted with the schooner. The whole wardroom had been alive with speculation and concern for the future. What would happen to Frobisherl To them?
Tyacke had already asked himself that. Would she end up an empty hulk, in ordinary in some crowded dockyard, or allowed to sink still further to the status of a store ship or a floating prison? It had happened to other ships; Bolitho's Hyperion and even Nelson's Victory had been dragged from ignominy to serve again when the country was in danger of invasion and defeat. To find glory when others had been prepared to let them rot.
Kellett had asked him in his usual quiet fashion, "When we return to the fleet, sir, may I ask, what shall you do?"
It had been then, without any hint or warning, that Tyacke had found his way. his purpose.
"I shall remain with the ship."
Running away was not the answer. It never had been. He belonged.
And Marion would be there to help him. For all kinds of reasons, reasons he would have previously denied, or laughed at, they needed each other.
He thought of Bolitho and his Catherine. Love was the strongest bond.
He heard a step on the deck beside him, but it was not the first lieutenant; it was Avery, squinting at the sea and tugging at his shirt while he stared around from horizon to horizon.
Tyacke said, "I have to see Sir Richard." He hesitated over his choice of words. "It is my duty to advise him."
"I know." Avery watched the vivid blue eyes, Tyacke coming to a decision. He said, "Sir Richard knows this cannot continue much longer. As soon as we return to Malta, it will be out of his hands. But you know him well enough he cannot let it rest. It seems there is some flaw in it, in the pattern, which refuses to fit."
"I know. He spoke of the Spaniard, Captain Martinez, the one you met in Algiers."
Avery nodded, and felt more sweat run down his spine. He often thought of that fine house in London, and of the lovely Susanna; even those, he would exchange at this moment for a bath in pure, clean water.
"There was a brief mention of him in the last despatches from Admiralty. Someone took the time and trouble to look into Sir Richard's report, a lowly clerk most likely!"