Alexander Kent - Command a King`s Ship

And then, the last of the badly injured Spaniards had begun to die. It had been like the final pressure on them all. Whitmarsh had done all he could. He had carried out several amputations, and as the pitiful cries had floated up from his sickbay Bolitho had felt the brief satisfaction of drawing his company together fading once again. The dying Spaniard had dragged it out for many days. Nearly a month he had ebbed and rallied, sobbing and groaning, or sleeping peacefully while Whitmarsh had stayed with him hour by hour. It had seemed as if the surgeon was testing his own resources, searching for some new cracking point. The last of his patients to die had been the ones mauled by sharks, those which because of their wounds could not be saved or despatched by amputations. Gangrene had set into their flesh, and the whole ship had been pervaded by a stench so revolting that even the most charitable had prayed for the sufferers to die.

He saw the afternoon watch mustering below the quarterdeck, while Lieutenant Davy strode aft and waited for Soames to sign his report in the log. Even Davy looked weary and bedraggled, his handsome face so tanned by hours on duty he could have been a Spaniard.

They all avoided Bolitho's eye. As if they were afraid of him, or that they needed all their energies merely to get through another day.

Davy reported, 'The watch is aft.'

Soames glared at him. 'A moment late, Mr. Davy.'

Davy regarded him disdainfully and then turned to his master's mate. 'Relieve the wheel.'

Soames stamped to the hatch and disappeared below.

Bolitho clenched his hands behind him and took a few steps away from the mast. The only satisfaction was the wind. The previous day, as they had changed tack towards the east and the masthead had reported sighting land far abeam, the westerlies had made themselves felt. As he shaded his eyes to peer aloft he could see the impatient thrust of power in every sail, the mainyard bending and trembling like one giant bow. That blur of land had been Cape Agulhas, the southernmost tip of the African continent. Now, stretching before the crisscross of rigging and shrouds lay the blue emptiness of the Indian Ocean, and like many of his new seamen who had contemplated their crossing the Equator, he was able to consider what together they had achieved to reach this far. The Cape of Good Hope was to all intents the halfway of their voyage, and to this day he had kept his word. Mile upon mile, day after scorching day, driving wildly in blustery squalls, or lying becalmed, with every sail hanging lifeless, he had used everything he knew to keep up their spirits. When that had faltered he had speeded up the daily routine. Gun and sail drill, and competitions between messes for the offwatch hands.

He saw the purser and his assistant waiting beside a puncheon of pork which had just been swayed up from the forward hold. Midshipman Keen stood nearby, trying to appear knowledgeable as Triphook had the new cask opened and proceeded to check through each four-pound piece of salt pork before he allowed it to be carried to the galley. Keen, whose junior authority as midshipman of the watch made him the captain's representative on such occasions, probably imagined it to be a waste of time. Bolitho knew otherwise from past experience. It was well known for dishonest victualling yards to give short measure, or to make up the contents of a cask with hunks of rotten meat, even pieces of old canvas, knowing as they did that by the time a ship's purser discovered the fault he would be well clear of the land and unable to complain. Pursers, too, were known to line their own pockets by sharp practice with their opposite numbers ashore.

Bolitho saw the gaunt purser nod mournfully and mark his ledger, apparently satisfied. Then he followed the little procession forward to the galley, his shoes squeaking as they clung to the sun-heated pitch between the deck seams.

The heat, the relentless, unbroken days were testing enough. But Bolitho knew it only needed a hint of corruption, some suggestion that the ship's company were being cheated by their officers, and the whole voyage might explode. He had asked himself over and over again if he was allowing his last experience to pray on his mind. Even the word itself, mutiny, had struck fear into the heart of many a captain, especially one far from friendly company and higher authority.

He took a few paces along the side and winced as his wrist brushed against the bulwark. The timbers were bone-dry, the paint cracking, despite regular attention.

He paused and shaded his eyes to watch some large fish jumping far abeam. Valor. It was usually uppermost in his mind. With the new hands, and the need to use much of their precious water supply to help the sick and injured, even rationing might not be enough.

He saw two Negro seamen lounging by the larboard gangway. It was a mixed company indeed. When they had sailed from Spithead it had been varied enough. Now, with the small list of Spanish survivors, they were even more colourful. Apart from the sole Spanish officer, a sad-eyed lieutenant named Roj art, there were ten seamen, two boys who were little more than children, and five soldiers. The latter, at first grateful to have survived, were now openly resentful of their new status. Carried aboard Nervion as part of Puigserver's personal guard, they were now neither fish nor fowl, and while they tried to act as seamen, they were usually found watching Undine's sweating marines with both envy and contempt.

Herrick stepped into his thoughts and reported, 'The master and I agree.' He held out the slate. 'If you would care to examine this, sir.' He sounded unusually guarded.

Mudge ambled into the shadow of the hammock nettings and said, 'If you are about to alter course, sir.' He dragged out his handkerchief. 'It is as good a time as any.' He blew his nose violently.

Herrick said quickly, 'I would like to make a suggestion, sir.'

Mudge moved away and stood patiently near the helmsman.

It was hard to tell if Herrick had just thought of his suggestion, or if he had discussed it with the others.

'Some were a mite surprised when you stood clear of Cape Town, sir.' His eyes were very blue in the glare. 'We could have landed our remaining sick people and taken in fresh water. I doubt that the Dutch governor there would pay much heed to our movements.'

'Do you, Mr. Herrick?'

He saw a puff of dull smoke from the galley. Soon now the offwatch men would be having a meal in the sweltering heat of their messes. The remains of yesterday's salt beef. Skillygolee, as they named it. A mixture of oatmeal gruel, crushed biscuits and lumps of boiled meat. And all that washed down with a full ration of beer. It was likely the latter was stale and without life. But anything was better than the meagre ration of water.

He jerked himself back to Herrick, suddenly irritated. 'And who put you up to this remarkable assessment?' He saw Herrick's face cloud over but added, 'It has an unfamiliar ring to it.'

Herrick said, 'It's just that I do not wish to see you driving yourself, sir. I felt as you did about Nervion's loss, but it is done, and there's an end to it. You did all you could for her people…'

Bolitho said, 'Thank you for your concern, but I am not driving myself or our people to no purpose. I believe we may be needed, even at this moment.'

'Perhaps, sir.'

Bolitho regarded him searchingly. 'Perhaps indeed, but then that is my responsibility. If I have acted wrongly, then you may receive promotion more quickly than you thought.' He turned away. 'When the hands have eaten we will lay her on the new course. Nor'-east by east.' He looked at the masthead pendant. 'See how it blows. We'll get the royals on her directly and run with the wind under our coat-tails while it lasts.'

Herrick bit his lip. 'I still believe we should touch land, sir, if only to collect water.'