TO GLORY WE STEER - ALEXANDER KENT

Herrick stared at him. Bolitho had been away for the best part of two hours, yet the admiral had not even bothered to entertain him or offer him lunch. What the hell could he be thinking of? A young, courageous captain, fresh from England with news, as well as a fine addition to the fleet, should have been welcomed like a brotier!

He thought of his own feelings while he had eaten his meagre meal in the wardroom. Each mouthful had nearly choked him as he had imagined Bolitho dining with the admiral and enjoying the full fare which a flagship could provide in harbour. Poultry, fresh lean pork, even roast potatoes perhaps! The climate was unimportant to Herrick where good, familiar food was concerned.

Now he realised that Bolitho had received nothing. The same feeling of shame and pity moved through him that he had earlier felt for Okes. A slur on Bolitho was an insult to every man aboard, yet the captain carried the full brunt of it.

It was so nn fair, so calculated in its cruelty that Herrick could not containn himself.

`But, sir! Did the admiral not congratulate you?' He fum. bled for words as Bolitho shifted to watch him. `After all you have done for this ship?’

'Thank you for your concern, Herrick.' For a brief moment Bolitho's expression softened. 'Things are not always what they first appear. We must be patient.' There was not a trace of bitterness in his answer, nor was there any warmth either. 'But in war there is little time for personal understanding.' He turned on his heel adding, 'We will have gun drill as soon as we get under way.' He disappeared down the cabin hatch and Herrick looked round in dull amazement.

So Vibart had been right. Phalarope was a marked ship, and would remain one.

The master's mate came aft. 'Boat shovin' off from the Cassius, sir!'

Herrick felt suddenly angry. It was all so pointless, so stupid. 'Very well. It will be bringing despatches. Man the side, if you please.'

He was still angry when a debonair lieutenant climbed up through the port and after removing his hat stood and stared curiously around the deck, as if expecting to see some sort of spectacle.

'Well?' Herrick scowled at the. visitor. 'Have you had a good look?'

The officer blushed and then said, 'My apologies, sir. I was expecting something rather different: He held out a bulky canvas envelope. 'Orders for Captain Bolitho from Sir Robert Napier, Rear-Admiral of the Red.'

It sounded so formal after their first exchange that Herrick could not help smiling. 'Thank you. I'll take 'em aft in a moment.' He studied the officer's tanned face. 'How goes the war out here?'

He shrugged. 'A hopeless muddle. Too much sea and too few ships to cover it!' He became serious. 'St. Kitts is under siege, and the rebels are consolidating up in the north. Everything will depend on how much the French can bring to bear.'

Herrick turned the heavy envelope over in his hands and wondered if he would ever be opening his own orders. In command of his own ship.

'If the privateers are as good as the one we fought then the battle will be a hard one.' Herrick studied the man's face intently, just waiting for some sign of doubt or amusement.

But the lieutenant said quietly, 'We heard about the Andiron. A bad business to lose her so. I hope you get a chance to even the score. What with that renegade John Paul Jones playing hell with our communications, it is only to be expected that others will follow his example.'

Herrick nodded. 'I don't see why it should be a disgrace for Captain Masterman to lose his ship in combat.'

`You have not heard? ' The officer dropped his voice. 'She fought two French frigates at once. At the height of the battle the Andiron was hailed by some American officer aboard one of the enemy ships. He called on the Andiron's people to go over to his side!'

Herrick's jaw dropped. `And you mean that is what happened?'

He nodded. 'Exactly! They would never surrender to Frogs, but this American made it sound like a new life, so what did they have to lose? And of course they will fight all the better against us! Every man-jack knows it will be flogging round the fleet and the gibbet if they are caught now.'

Herrick felt sick. 'How long had Andiron been in commission?'

'I'm not sure. About ten years, I believe.' He saw Herrick's mind working and added grimly, 'So watch your own people. Out here, thousands of miles from home and surrounded by the King's enemies, emotions play a big part in a man's loyalty.' He added meaningly, 'Especially in a slip where trouble has already felt its way!'

He broke off as Vibart strode back from the maindeck. He touched his hat to the first lieutenant and said formally, 'I have twenty-five men for you in my cutter, sir. The admiral requested they be used as replacements for the ones killed in

battle.'

He watched as Vibart climbed down to the port where the marines were already mustering a growing rank of lean looking sailors.

The officer said quickly, 'I have already spoken enough, my friend. But these men are outcasts. Nearly all have been in serious trouble of one kind or another. I think Sir Robert is more concerned in ridding his flagship of their influence than he is of helping your captain.'

With a hurried glance at the distant two-decker he made towards his waiting boat. He whispered finally, 'Sir Robert watches everything. No doubt itwill soon be common knowledge that I have spent ten minutes in conversation with you!' Then he was gone.

Vibart clumped aft, his face wrinkled in a scowl. 'We will read in those men immediately, Mr. Herrick. I suppose the captain will want them dressed like the rest of his precious company? He sniffed. 'In my opinion they look more at home in rags!'

Herrick followed his angry glance and felt his spirits drop even further. These replacements were not men raw from the press. They were hardened and professional, and at any other time would have been worth their weight in gold. But now they stood idly and insolently watching with all the arrogance of wild animals as the master's mate and Midshipman Maynard sorted them into order and seniority. Curses and beatings would not impress their sort. Even floggings had changed them little, Herrick thought.

Vibart muttered, 'We'll see how the captain deals with this pretty bunch!'

Herrick did not speak. He could imagine the difficulties which seemed to be piling up hour by hour. If the captain tried to separate these troublemakers from the rest of the crew he would lose any respect he had gained. If he did not, their influence could wreak havoc on the crowded berth deck.

.On patrol, out of touch with help, the Phalarope would need all her resources and skill to stay intact and vigilant.

Herrick had a sudden picture of the Andiron as she must have been when Masterman's crew had surrendered. He stared round the sunny quarterdeck and felt chilled in spite of the glare. He imagined himself, suddenly alone, in a ship where disciplined and loyal seamen had become strangers and mutineers.

Midshipman Maynard was watching him anxiously. 'Signal, sir. Flag to Phalarope. Complete lightering and proceed to sea with all despatch.'

Herrick said wearily, 'Acknowledge, Mr. Maynard.'

Herrick stared over the rail where the seamen toiled with the fresh-water casks and then across at the tall-masted flagship. Almost to himself he muttered, 'You bastard! You just can't wait, can you.'

Grumbling and cursing, the duty watch climbed down the various ladders and into the already crowded berth deck. Both air and lighting came through the central hatchways, and in addition several canvas chutes had been rigged to help ventilate the overpopulated living spaces. At each scrubbed mess table men sat and made use of their time to their own best advantage. Some repaired clothing, heads bent to catch the filtered sunlight on their needles and coarse thread. Some worked on small model ships, and others merely sprawled yarning with their companions.

There was a brief lull in the buzz of speculation and rumour as some of the new men pattered down a ladder followed by Belsey, the duty master's mate. All of the men had been read in, had taken the regulation shower under the deck pump, and now stood blinking in the shadows, their bodies pale and naked against the ship's dark sides. Each man carried a new shirt and a rolled pair of trousers, as well as his own small possessions.

Belsey spun his cane and pointed to the comer mess table where Allday and old Strachan watched the procession in silence. He barked, `You two! You'll be in this mess, got it?' He glared into the dark comer of the berth deck. 'You've been given your watch and action stations, so just get settled in, and look sharp about it!' He raised his voice. 'Show these replacements where to sling their hammocks, and then get this deck cleared up!' He wrinkled his thick nose. 'It's like a bloody pigsty down here.'

One pf the men detailed dropped his bundle on the table and looked down at Strachan and the others. He was tall and well muscled, and his broad chest was covered in a deep mat of dark hair. He seemed quite unconcerned about his nakedness and the rasp in Belsey's introduction.

He said calmly, 'Harry Onslow is the name, mates.' He looked over his shoulder. 'An' this is Pook, another good topman from the Cassius!' He spat out the name of the flagship,. and Belsey who was hovering nearby strode across to the crowded table.

'Pay attention!' He stared round the watching faces. 'Don't you start thinking that you've got a real fine fellow here, my friends!' He gave a short grin. 'Turn round, Onslow!' He moved his cane menacingly. 'Just get a bit o' sunlight over You!'

Onslow turned his body obediently so that the light played across his back. Something like a hollow groan came from the packed sailors, and Belsey added coldly, 'Take a good look, afore you start listening to the like o' this scum!'

Allday tightened his lips as he saw the savagely mutilated skin on Onslow's body. He could not imagine how many times the man had been flogged, but that he had survived was surely a miracle.

The whole of his back, from the nape of the neck to the top of his buttocks was ugly with broken and uneven weals, pale and obscene against his tanned arms and legs.

Ferguson looked away, his mouth quivering.

Even Pochin, a hard spectator at many floggings, said thickly, "Ere, mate, put yer shirt on!'

The other man, Pook, was thin and wiry, and although his back also displayed the clawing embrace of the cat, it was nothing compared with Onslow's.

Belsey sauntered away followed by the other new seamen.

Onslow pulled the shirt over his head and shook out the clean new trousers. Calmly he remarked, 'What is so different about your captain? Does he like his men to look pretty?' He had a lazy Norfolk accent, and seemed quite unmoved by the horror his scars had unleashed.

Ferguson said quickly, 'He's different. He stopped Betts being flogged.' He tried to smile. 'You'll be all right aboard this ship, Onslow!'

Onslow looked him over without expression. 'Who asked you then?'

'All captains are swine!' Pook was tugging on his trousers, and then strapped a wicked-looking knife around his waist. 'We've had a bellyful in the Cassius!'

Onslow said, 'Betts, did you say? What happened to him?' 'He attacked the purser.' Pochin looked thoughtful. 'Cap'n Bolitho refused to 'ave 'im flogged.'

'Where is he now?' The man's eyes were dark and unwinking.

'Dead. Went over the side with the main t'gallant!'

' 'Well, then.' Onslow pushed Ferguson off the bench and squatted in his place. 'It didn't do him much good, did it?'

Old Strachan folded his carving in a piece of sailcloth and said vaguely, 'But the lad's right. Cap'n Bolitho promised that he would see us fair if we pulled our weight. We'll be taking a run ashore soon.' He squinted towards the hatch. 'Just think of it! A walk through them hills, and maybe a drop o' somethin' from a friendly native!'

Ferguson tried again. As if he had to believe in somebody to retain his own sanity. 'And Mr. Herrick said he would try and get a letter put aboard the next homebound ship for me. Just to tell my wife I'm alive and well.' His expression was pitiful.

'You can read and write, can you, little man? Onslow studied him calmly. 'You could be very useful to me.'

Allday smiled to himself. Already the noise and rumble of voices was returning to the messes. Maybe Ferguson was right. Things might be better from now on. He hoped so, if only for Ferguson 's peace of mind.

Pochin asked sourly, 'How did you get the lash, Onslow?'

'Oh, the usual.' Onslow was still watching Ferguson, his face deep in thought.

Pook said ingratiatingly, 'E-kicked a bosun's matel An' afore that he…'

Onslow's mouth opened and shut like a trap. 'Stow it! It's what happens fro n now on that counts!' Then he became calm again. 'I was a boy when I came out here ten years back. For years I've been waiting for -that last voyage home, but it never comes. I've been shipped from one captain to the next. I've stood my watches, and I've faced broadsides more times than I can remember. No, mates, there's no let-up for our sort. The only way out is sewn up in a hammock, or take our own course like the lads in the Andiron.'

He had every man's attention now. He stood up, his face set and brooding. 'They chose to leave the King's service. To make a new life for themselves out here, or in the Americas!'

Strachan shook his grey head. 'That's piracy!'

'You're too old to matter!' There was a bite in Onslow's voice. 'I've – yet to find a fair captain, or one who thought beyond prize money and glory for himself!'

At that moment shadows darted across the hatches and the air was filled with twittering pipes.

Pochin groaned. 'Blasted Spithead nightingales! Do they never get tired of blowin' 'em?'

The voices of the bosun's mates echoed round the berth deck. 'All hands! All hands! Stand by to make sail! Anchor party muster on the fo'c's'le!'

Ferguson stared blankly at the sunlight on the ladder, his mouth hanging open. 'He promised! He promised me I could got a letter home!'

Onslow clapped him on the shoulder. 'And he'll promise a lot more, I shouldn't wonder, lad!' He faced the others, unsmiling. 'Well, mates! Do you understand now what I was saying?'

Josling, a bosun's mate, appeared on the ladder, his face running with sweat. 'Are yew deaf? Jump to it therel A taste of my little rope for the last on deck!'

There was a stampede of running feet as the men came to their senses and surged up to the sunlight.

'Stand by the capstan!' The orders clouted their ears. 'Hands aloft! Loose tops'ls!'

Allday saw Ferguson staring wildly at the green, inviting island with its low, undulating hills. He felt a lump in his own throat now. It was not' unlike Cornwall in the summertime, he thought.

Then he touched Ferguson 's arm and said kindly, `Come on, lad. I'll race you aloft!'

Vibart's booming voice filled the air. `Loose heads'ls! Man the braces!'

Allday reached the mainyard and ran quickly along the footrope to join the others lying across the thick spar. Below him he could see the busy deck, and over his shoulder he could identify Bolitho's tall figure by the taffrail.

From forward Herrick yelled, `Anchor's aweigh, sir!'

Allday dug his toes into the footrope as the sail billowed and filled beneath him and the great yard moved ponderously to catch the wind. Already the land was sliding away, and by the time the sails were set and trimmed it would be lost in the haze. Perhaps for ever, he thought.