Alexander Kent - Command a King`s Ship

Herrick knew better than most about such things, and yet he had intervened personally to persuade Bolitho to avoid the floggings. It was their first real disagreement, and Bolitho had hated to see the sudden hurt in Herrick's eyes.

Bolitho had said, 'This is a new company. It takes time to weld people together so that each can rely on his companion under all circumstances. Many are entirely ignorant of the Navy's ways and its demands. They hate to see "others" getting away with crimes they themselves avoid. At this stage we cannot allow them to split into separate groups. Old hands and the new recruits, professional criminals and the weak ones who have no protection but to ally themselves with some other faction.'

Herrick had persisted, 'But in peacetime, sir, maybe it takes all the longer.'

'We can't afford the luxury of finding out.' He had hardened his voice. 'You know how I feel. It is not easy.'

The thief had taken his punishment without a whimper, a dozen lashes at the gratings while Undine had cruised along beneath a clearing sky, some gulls throwing their shadows round and round across the tense drama below.

As he had read from the Articles of War, Bolitho had looked along his command at the watching men in shrouds and rigging, the sharp red lines of Bellairs' marines, Herrick and all the rest. The second culprit had been a brute of a man called Sullivan. He had volunteered to a recruiting party outside Portsmouth, and had all the looks of a hardened criminal_ But he had served in a King's ship before and should have been an asset.

Three dozen lashes. Little enough in the Navy's view for half killing a fellow seaman. Had he laid a hand on an officer he would have faced death rather than a flogging.

The actual punishment was terrible. Sullivan had broken down completely at the first blow across his naked back, and as the boatswain's mates took turns to lay the lash over his shoulders and spine he had wriggled and screamed like a madman, his mouth frothing with foam, his eyes like marbles in his distorted face.

Mr. Midshipman Armitage had almost fainted, and some of those who had just recovered from their own sickness had vomited in unison, despite the harsh shouts from their petty officers.

Then it had ended, the watching men giving a kind of sigh as they were dismissed below.

Sullivan had been cut down and carried to Whitmarsh's sickbay, where no doubt he had been restored by a plentiful ration of rum.

Each day following the punishment, as he had paced the quarterdeck or supervised a change of tack, Bolitho had felt the eyes watching him. Seeing him perhaps as enemy rather than commander. He had told himself often enough that when you accepted the honour of command you carried all of it. Not just the authority and the pride of controlling a living, vital ship, but the knocks and kicks as well.

There was a tap on the door and Herrick stepped into the cabin.

'About another hour, sir. With your permission I will give the order to clew up all canvas except tops'ls and jib. It will make our entrance more easy to manage.'

'Have some coffee, Thomas.' He relaxed as Herrick seated himself across the table. 'I am burning to know what we are about.'

Herrick took a mug and tested the coffee with his tongue.

'Me, too.' He smiled over the rim. 'Once or twice back there I thought we might never reach land!'

'Yes. I can feel for many of our people. Some will never have seen the sea, let alone driver. so far from England. Now, they know that Africa lies somewhere over the larboard bulwark. That we are going to the other side of the earth. Some are even beginning to feel like seamen, when just weeks back they had thumbs where their fingers should be.'

Herrick's smile widened. 'Due to you, sir. I am sometimes very thankful that I hold no command. Or chance of one either.'

Bolitho watched him thoughtfully. The rift was healed.

'I am afraid the choice may not be yours, Thomas.' He stood up. 'In fact, I shall see that you get command whenever the opportunity offers itself, if only to drive some of your wild idealism into the bilges!'

They grinned at each other like conspirators.

'Now be off with you while I change into a better coat.' He grimaced. 'To show our Spanish friends some respect, eh?

A little over an hour later, gliding above her own reflection, Undine moved slowly towards the anchorage in the roads. In the bright sunlight the island of Teneriffe seemed to abound with colour, and Bolitho heard several of the watching seamen gasping with awe. The hills were no longer hidden in shadow, but danced on the glare with every shade and hue. And everything was brighter and larger, at least it appeared so to the new hands. Shimmering white buildings, brilliant blue sea, with beaches and surf to make a man catch his breath and stare.

Allday stood aft by the cabin hatch and remarked, 'I'll bet some Don'd like to rake us as we come by!'

Bolitho ran his eye quickly along his ship, trying to see her as those ashore would. She looked very smart, and gave little hint of the sweat and effort which had gone to make her so. The best ensign fluttered from the gaff, the scarlet matching that of the marines' swaying lines athwart the quarterdeck. On the larboard gangway Tapril, the gunner, was having a last hurried discussion with his mates in readiness to begin a salute to the Spanish flag which flew so proudly above the headland battery.

Old Mudge was beside the wheel, hands hidden in the folds of his watchcoat. He seemed to retain the same clothing no matter what the weather might do, hot or cold, rain or fine. He kept a variety of instruments and personal items in his capacious pockets, and Bolitho guessed that sometime, long past, he had been made to rush on deck and stay there with half of his things still scattered around his cabin.

He growled to the helmsmen and they edged the wheel over a few spokes, the main topsail filling and then drooping again as the ship idled beneath the land's protection.

Herrick trained his glass on the land and then said, 'Passing the point now, sir!'

'Very well.' Bolitho waved his hand to Tapril. 'Begin the salute.'

And as the English frigate continued slowly towards her anchorage the frail morning air shook and trembled to the regular crash of cannon fire. Gun for gun the Spanish replied, the smoke hanging almost motionless above the shallowing water.

Bolitho gripped his hands together behind him, feeling the sweat exploring his spine under his heavy dress coat and making one of his new shirts cling like a wet towel.

It was strange to stand so impassively as the slow barrage went on around him. Like some trick or dream. At any moment he half-expected to see the bulwark blast apart, or a ball to come screaming amongst the rigid marines and cut them to a bloody gruel.

The last shot hammered his ears, and as the drifting smoke moved away from the decks he saw another frigate anchored at the head of the roads. Spanish, larger than Undine, her colours and pendants very bright against the green shore beyond. Her captain, too, had probably been remembering, he thought.

He glanced up at the masthead pendant as it whipped halfheartedly in the breeze. Soon now. More orders. A new piece to fit into the puzzle.

Mudge blew his great nose loudly, a thing he always did before carrying out some part of his duties. 'Ready, sir.'

'Very well. Man the braces. Hands wear ship, if you please.' Bare feet padded across the newly-scrubbed decks in a steady rush to obey his repeated order, and Bolitho breathed out slowly as each man reached his station without mishap. 'Tops'l sheets!'

The flag above the battery dipped in the glare and then returned to its proper place. Some small boats were shoving off from the land, and Bolitho saw that many were loaded with