"To loved ones. May they be patient with us."
Tyacke drank the toast but said nothing, as he had no one to care if he lived or died.
He glanced at Bolitho's expression and was deeply moved nonetheless. For a moment at least he was with her, no matter the many miles which held them apart.
Allday wiped his glittering razor and grunted, "That should do it, Sir Richard. About all the water is fit for in this ship! " He did not conceal his disgust. "It'll be a fisherman's dory next at this pace, I'm thinking."
Bolitho sighed and slipped into the same crumpled shirt. It was the luxury he missed the most, a clean shirt when he needed it. Like stockings; they seemed to mark his progress from midshipmen's berth to flagofficer. Even as a lowly lieutenant there had been occasions when he had but two pairs of stockings to his name. But in many ways they had been good times; or maybe they always were, in hindsight-the memories of youth.
He thought of Tyacke's brief mention of his midshipman. Something was wrong there. He glanced up at the pale glow in the skylight. Dawn already; he was surprised that he had slept without waking once.
Allday gestured to the coffee and added, "Barely kills the taste! "
Bolitho smiled. How Allday could shave him when he could scarcely stand upright beneath the skylight was a marvel. He could never recall him cutting his face once.
He was right about the coffee. He decided to send a despatch regarding beer for the sweltering ships. It would help until they could take on fresh water.
Commodore Warren should have made some arrangements. Perhaps he no longer cared? Bolitho pushed the coffee away. Or maybe somebody wanted him out of the way. Like me.
He heard the sluice of water and the crank of a pump as the hands washed down the deck for a new day. Like everything else in the sixty-five-foot schooner, the sounds were always close, more personal than in any larger craft.
"I'll go up." He rose from the seat and winced as his head glanced off a deckhead beam.
Allday folded his razor away with great care and muttered, "Bloody little paintpot, that's all she is! " Then he followed Bolitho up the short companion ladder and into the damp wind.
Bolitho walked to the compass box. How much steeper the angle of the deck seemed than when he had been below. There appeared to be people everywhere, swabbing down, working in the shrouds, or engaged in the many tasks with running-rigging and coiled halliards.
Tyacke touched his forehead, "Morning, sir. Steady at sou'east-by-south." He raised one arm and pointed over the bulwark. "That's the beginning of the Cape, sir, 'bout four miles abeam." He smiled, proud of his little ship. "I'd not risk weathering it much closer. You have to be careful not to be deceived by the soundings hereabouts. There's no bottom according to some charts, but if you glance yonder you'll see a reef all the same! " It seemed to amuse him. Another challenge perhaps?
Bolitho turned and saw all the watching eyes drop or return to their various tasks. Like pulling on a line of puppets.
Tyacke said quietly, "Don't mind them, sir. The highest ranking officer who came aboard before you, begging your pardon, was the commander in charge of the guard at Gibraltar."
Simcox joined them and said, "Sky's clearin', sir." It was a totally unnecessary comment and Bolitho knew that he was like the rest, nervous in his presence.
"When do you become appointed Master, Mr Simcox?"
The man shifted his feet. "Not certain, Sir Richard." He glanced at his friend and Bolitho could guess what was troubling him. Leaving Miranda; taking away Tyacke's only prop.
Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the sea changing colour in the faint sunshine. Plenty of birds this morning, messengers from the land. He looked abeam and saw the mass of Table Mountain, and another across the larboard bow still wreathed in mist, with only its high, craggy ridges bathed in gold.
Simcox cleared his throat. "The wind favours us, Sir Richard, but I've known ships caught in a gale to the south'rd o' this point, blown all the way to Cape Agulhas afore they could fight their way back! "
Bolitho nodded. Experience? Or was it a warning? Suppose there were men-of-war around the jutting tusk of the Cape? It was unlikely they would wish to reveal themselves for the sake of one frail schooner. But Supreme had been small too when the frigate had run down on her.
Tyacke lowered his telescope and said, "Call all hands, Ben." The first name had slipped out by accident. "We will wear ship and steer due east." He glanced at Bolitho. "Into the lion's den! "
Bolitho looked up at the whipping pendant. Yes, Tyacke would miss the acting-master when he was promoted to full warrant rank. He might even see his replacement as another intruder.
He said, "It is the only way, Mr Tyacke, but I shall not hazard the ship unduly."
The seamen ran to the braces and halliards, fingers loosening belaying pins, casting off lines from their cleats with such deft familiarity that they needed no shouts or curses to hasten them. The sky was growing brighter by the minute, and Bolitho felt his stomach muscles tighten when he considered what he must do. He could sense Allday gazing at him while he stood ready to assist the helmsmen if needed.
It had not just been stockings which had marked Bolitho's change of fortune. Once he had gained promotion to lieutenant at the tender age of eighteen, he had been freed from the one duty he had feared and hated most. As a lieutenant, no longer did he have to scramble up the treacherous ratlines to his particular station aloft whenever the pipe was shrilled between decks, or while he stood his watch with the others.
He had never gotten used to it. In all weathers, with the ship hidden below by a drifting mist of spray and spindrift, he had clung to his precarious perch, watching his men, some of whom had been sent aloft for the first time in their lives. He had seen sailors fall to an agonising death on the deck, hurled from rigging and yard by the force of a gale, or by billowing canvas which had refused all efforts to quell it.
Others had dropped into the sea, to surface perhaps in time to see their ship vanishing into a squall. It was no wonder that young men fled when the press gangs were on the prowl.
"Stand by aft! " Tyacke wiped the spray from his scarred face with the back of his hand, his eyes everywhere while he studied his men and the set of each sail.
"Let go an' haul! Roundly there! Tom, another hand on th' forebrace! "
The shadows of the main and staysail seemed to pass right over the busy figures as the long tiller bar went down, the canvas and rigging clattering in protest.
Bolitho could feel his shoes slipping, and saw the sea creaming under the lee rail as Tyacke brought her round. He saw too the uneven barrier of land stagger across the bowsprit while the schooner continued to swing.
Allday muttered, "By God, she can turn on a sovereign! " But everyone was too busy, and the noise too overwhelming, to hear what might be admiration instead of scorn.
"Meet her! Steady as you go! Now, let her fall off a point! "
The senior helmsman croaked, "Steady she goes, sir! East by north! "
"Secure! " Tyacke peered up into the glare. "Hands aloft to reef tops'l, Mr Simcox! " A quick grin flashed between them. "With the wind abeam it'll not do the work intended, and we might lose it."
The twin masts swayed almost vertical and then leaned over once more to the wind's thrust.
Bolitho said, "A glass, if you please." He tried not to swallow. "I am going to the foremast to take a look." He ignored Allday's unspoken protest. "I imagine that there will not be too many watching eyes this early! "
Without giving himself time to change his mind he strode forward, and after a quick glance at the surging water leaping up from the stem, he swung himself on to the weather bulwark and dug his hands and feet into the ratlines. Up and up, his steps mounting the shivering and protesting shrouds. Never look down. He had never forgotten that. He heard rather than saw the topmen descending the opposite side, their work done as quickly as thought. What must they think, he wondered? A viceadmiral making an exhibition of himself, for some reason known only to himself. The masthead lookout had watched him all the way, and as he clambered, gasping, to the lower yard he said cheerfully, "Foine day, Zur Richard! "