ALEXANDER KENT - TO GLORY WE STEER

He dropped his eyes to the deck as Vibart said, `May I ask if we're being despatched to the Indies because of the trouble we had aboard, sir?' He stared unflinchingly at Bolitho's grey eyes, his voice challenging.

'You may ask.' Bolitho watched him narrowly. There was something dominant about Vibart. A sense of inner force which seemed to cow all the others into mere spectators. He said calmly, 'I have studied the reports and the logs. I consider that the near-mutiny,' he let his voice hang on the last word, 'was caused as much by negligence as anything else.'

Vibart replied hotly, 'Captain Pomfret trusted his officers, sir!' He pointed to the books on the table. 'You can see from the log books that the ship did all which could be expected of her!'

Bolitho pulled a book from beneath the others and saw Vibart look momentarily off guard.

'I often find that this, the punishment book, is a better gauge of a ship's efficiency.' He turned the pages idly, forcibly hiding the disgust he had felt when he had first examined it. 'In the past six months over a thousand lashes were awarded to the crew.' His voice was cold. 'Some men received four dozen at a time. One apparently died after punishment.'

Vibart said thickly, 'You can't win men by weakness, sir!'

'Nor by senseless cruelty, Mr. Vibart!' His tone was like a whip. 'In future I will have more attention to leadership than to brutality in my ship!' He controlled his voice with an effort. 'Also, I want every man fitted out with proper clothing from the slop chest before we reach Falmouth. This is a King's ship and not a Spanish slaver!'

There was a sudden heavy silence, so that ship and sea intruded into the cabin. The clatter of deck gear, the sluice of the tide around the rudder, and the distant bark of commands added to Bolitho's sense of isolation.

He continued evenly, 'At Falmouth we will make efforts to increase our company to full strength. I 'will send parties of trusted hands ashore to press suitable men for service. Not cripples and young boys, but men. Do I make myself clear?'

Most of them nodded. Lieutenant Okes said carefully, 'I have often read of your exploits in the Gazette, sir.' He swallowed painfully and glanced quickly at Herrick. 'I think the whole ship will be happy to have you as captain.' His voice trailed away miserably and he fidgeted with his sward.

Bolitho nodded. `Thank you, 'Mr. Okes.' He could not afford to add anything else. Okes might be seeking favouritism, or making haste to cover up some old misdemeanour. But still, it was a beginning.

He added, 'I cannot alter what Captain Pomfret did or did not do. I have my own ways, and I expect them to be considered at all times.' From the corner of his eye he saw the master shaking his head doubtfully. 'Do you wish to say anything, Mr. Proby?'

The old man looked up with a jerk, his jowls shaking. 'Er, no, sir! I was just thinking it will make a change to navigate in some deep water instead o' all these shoals an' mudbanks!' He smiled, the effort only adding to his mournful appearance. 'The young gentlemen will benefit from a long voyage, no doubt?'

' It was meant in all seriousness, but the midshipman Neale nudged his companion Maynard and they both tittered. Then Neale saw Vibart's frown and hurriedly looked at his feet.

Bolitho nodded. 'Very well, gentlemen, prepare to get under way. I will come on deck in ten minutes.' He met Vibart's eye. 'I shall be interested to see the men at their stations, Mr. Vibart. A bit of sail drill might take their minds off their troubles for a while!'

The officers filed away and Stockdale firmly closed the door. Bolitho sat down and stared at the piles of books and papers. He had tried to find an opening and had failed. There was a barrier, a shield of resentment, or was it fear? He had to find out himself. He could trust no one, confide in nobody until he was sure of his ground.

He looked at Stockdale and asked quietly, 'Well, how do you like the Phalarope?'

The ex-fighter swallowed hard, as he always did to clear his maimed cords. 'She's a good craft, Captain.' He nodded slowly. 'But I don't care much for the meat inside the bones!' He placed Bolitho's sword carefully beside the pistol rack and added meaningly, 'I should keep these by you, Captain. Just in case!'

Richard Bolitho climbed the ladder to the quarterdeck and made himself walk slowly to the weather rail. The frigate was alive with fresh activity, and he could see men standing at the capstan bars, while others waited below the masts with their petty officers. He gauged the wind against his cheek and glanced quickly aloft at the masthead pendant. The ship tugged at her cable eagerly and fretfully, as if she too wanted to be free of the land once again, and Bolitho curbed his own impatience as he watched and waited the final preparations for sea.

The decks gleamed with blown spray and drizzle, and he realised with a start that he was already soaked to the skin. But perhaps it was just as well that his seamen should see him unshrouded in watchcoat and unprotected from the weather as indeed they were themselves.

He caught sight of the midshipman Maynard hovering by the lee rail, and again thanked God for his ability to remember names after hearing or reading them but once.

`You are in charge of signals, Mr. Maynard?' The youth nodded, his thin body looking like a scarecrow against the angry water alongside. `Very well. Make a signal to the Flag. "Ready to proceed".'

He saw the flags soaring aloft and immediately forgot them as Vibart strode aft his face set in a grim frown.

`Anchor's hove short, sir!' He touched his hat. `All stores secured!'

`Very well.' Bolitho lifted his glass and watched the flags blowing out from the shore signal tower. Maybe, just to the right, from his warm room at the inn, the admiral would be watching.

Maynard yelled, `Reply, sir! "God speed and good luck"!'

Bolitho handed his glass to Stockdale and thrust his hands beneath the tails of his coat. `Get the ship under way if you please. Lay a course to, weather the headland.' He would take no part in it. He would watch each man. And every man would know it.

The boatswain's mates took up the cry, `Hands aloft! Loose tops'Is!'

The rigging and shrouds were suddenly alive with swarming figures as the topmen ran aloft as surefooted as cats, the laggards urged on mercilessly by the petty officers with fists and ropes ends alike.

'Break out the anchor!' Mr. Quintal, the barrel-chested boatswain, swung his cane over the straining forecastle hands. `Heave! Put yer backs into it, you whimperin' old women!' His cane whacked down and a man cried out. `Heave! Heave!' The capstan jerked and then cranked steadily as the dripping cable came inboard.

`Loose heads'ls!' The cry was passed along the deck like a chant. High above, the released canvas flapped and banged in the wind, and the men strung out along the swaying yards like ants kicked and grappled with each growing area of rebellious sail.

Bolitho ignored the flying spray and watched the men dashing from one job to the next. The shorthandedness was all the more apparent now with the topmen aloft.

Herrick called from the bows, `Anchor's aweigh, sir!'

Like a released animal the frigate paid off into the wind, her deck heeling, sharply as the gust found and held her.

Vibart grated. `Man the braces there! Look alive!'

The men at the braces laid back heaving and panting until the great yards began to squeak round. Then the wind filled the sails and the billowing canvas thundered out hard and full as the Phalarope went about and gathered way.

By the time the anchor was catted and made fast the land was already drawing away on the starboard quarter, the Isle of Wight quite invisible in a curtain of drizzle and spray.

Everything creaked and banged as the ship continued to swing on course, with shrouds and rigging whining like the strings of some mad orchestra.