'Welcome aboard, sir.' Herrick was equally so. But their eyes shone with something more than routine formality. Something which none of the others saw, or shared.
Bolitho removed his cloak and handed it to Midshipman Penn. He turned to allow the fading light to play across the broad white lapels of his dress coat. They would all know he was here. He saw the few hands working aloft on last minute splicing, others crowded on gangways and down on the main deck between the twin lines of black twelve-pounder guns.
He smiled, amused at his own gesture. 'I will go below now.'
'I have placed the orders in your cabin, sir.'
Herrick was bursting with questions. It was obvious from his flat, formal voice. But his eyes, those eyes which were so blue, and which could look so hurt, made a lie of his rigidity.
'Very well, I will call you directly.'
He made to walk aft to the cabin hatchway when he saw some figures gathered just below the quarterdeck rail. In mixed garments, they were in the process of being checked against a list by Lieutenant Davy.
He called, 'New hands, Mr. Davy?'
Herrick said quietly, 'We are still thirty under strength, sir.'
'Aye, Sir.' Davy squinted up through the light drizzle, his handsome face set in a confident smile. 'I am about to get them to make their marks.'
Bolitho crossed to the ladder and ran down to the gun deck. God, how wretched they all looked. Half-starved, ragged, beaten. Even the demanding life aboard ship could surely be no worse than what had made them thus.
He watched Davy's neat, elegant hands as he arranged the book on top of a twelve-pounder's breech.
'Come along now, make your marks.'
They shuffled forward, self-conscious, awkward, and very aware that their new captain was nearby.
Bolitho's eye stopped on the one at the end of the line. A sturdy man, well-muscled, and with a pigtail protruding from beneath his battered hat. One prime seaman at least.
He realised Bolitho was watching him and hurried forward to the gun.
Davy snapped, 'Here now, hold your damn eagerness!' Bolitho asked, 'Your name?' He hesitated. 'Turpin, sir.'
Davy was getting angry. 'Stand still and remove your hat to the captain, damn your eyes! If you know anything, you should know respect!'
But the man stood stockstill, his face a mixture of despair and shame.
Bolitho reached out and removed an old coat which Turpin had been carrying across his right forearm.
He asked gently, 'Where did you lose your right hand, Turpin?'
The man lowered his eyes. 'I was in the Barfear, sir. I lost it at the Chesapeake in '81.' He looked up, his eyes showing pride, but only briefly. 'Gun captain, I was, sir.'
Davy interjected, 'I am most sorry, sir. I did not realise the fellow was crippled. I will have him sent ashore.'
Bolitho said, 'You intended to sign the articles with your left hand. Is it that important?'
Turpin nodded. 'I'm a seaman, sir.' He looked round angrily as one of the recruited men nudged his companion. 'Not like some!' He turned back to Bolitho, his voice falling away. 'I can do anything, sir.'
Bolitho hardly heard him. He was thinking back to the Chesapeake. The smoke and din. The columns of wheeling ships, like armoured knights at Agincourt. You never got away from it. This man Turpin had been nearby, like hundreds of others. Cheering and dying, cursing and working their guns like souls possessed. He thought of the two fat merchants on the coach. So men like that could grow richer.
He said harshly, 'Sign him on, Mr. Davy. One hand from the old Barfleur will be more use to me than many others.'
He strode aft beneath the quarterdeck, angry with himself, and with Davy for not having the compassion to understand. It was a stupid thing to do. Pointless.
Allday was carrying one of the chests aft to the cabin, where a marine stood like a toy soldier beneath the spiralling deckhead lantern.
He said cheerfully, 'That was a good thing you just did, Captain.'
'Don't talk like a fool, Allday!' He strode past' him and winced as his head grazed an overhead beam. When he glared back at Allday his coxswain's homely features were quite expressionless. 'He could probably do your work.'
Allday nodded gravely. 'Aye, sir, it is true that I am overtaxed!'
'Damn your impertinence!' It was useless with Allday. 'I don't know why I tolerate you!'
Allday took his sword and walked with it to the cabin bulkhead.
'I once knew a man in Bodmin, Captain.' He stood back and studied the sword critically. 'Used to hammer a block of wood with a blunt axe, he did. I asked him why he didn't use a sharper blade and finish the job properly.' Allday turned and smiled calmly. 'He said that when the wood was broken he'd have nothing to work his temper on.'
Bolitho sat down at the table. 'Thank you. I must remember to get a better axe.'
Allday grinned. 'My pleasure, Captain.' He strode out to fetch another chest.
Bolitho pulled the heavy sealed envelope towards him. With some education behind him Allday might have become almost anything. He slit open the envelope and smiled to himself. Without it he was quite bad enough.
Herrick stepped into the cabin, his hat tucked under one arm. 'You sent for me, sir?'
Bolitho was standing by the great stern windows, his body moving easily with the ship's motion. Undine had swung her stern to the change of tide, and through the thick glass Herrick could see the distant lights of Portsmouth Point, glimmering and changing shape through the droplets of rain and spray. In the pitching deckhead lanterns the cabin looked snug and inviting. The bench seat around the stern was covered with fine green leather, and Bolitho's desk and chairs stood out against the deck covering of black and white checked canvas like ripe chestnut.
'Sit down, Thomas.'
Bolitho turned slowly and looked at him. He had been back aboard for over an hour, reading and re-reading his orders to ensure he would miss nothing.
He added, 'We will weigh tomorrow afternoon. I have a warrant in my orders which entitles me to accept "volunteers" from the convict hulks in Portsmouth. I would be obliged if you would attend to that as soon after first light as is convenient..'
Herrick nodded, watching Bolitho's grave features, noting the restless movements of his hands, the fact that his carefully prepared meal lay untouched in the adjoining dining space. He was troubled. Uncertain about something.
Bolitho said, 'We are to sail for Teneriffe.' He saw Herrick stiffen and added quietly, 'I know, Thomas. You are like me. It comes hard to tack freely into a port where months back we could have expected a somewhat different welcome.'
Herrick grinned. 'Heated shot, no doubt.'
'There. we will embark two, maybe three passengers. After replenishing whatever stores we lack, we will proceed without further delay to our destination, Madras.' He seemed to be musing aloud. 'Over twelve thousand miles. Long enough to get to know one another. And our ship. The orders state that we will proceed with all haste. For that reason we must ensure our people learn their work well. I want no delays because of carelessness or unnecessary damage to canvas and rigging.'
Herrick rubbed his chin. 'A long haul.'
'Aye, Thomas. A hundred days. That is what I intend.' He smiled, the gravity fading instantly. 'With your help, of course.'
Herrick nodded. 'May I ask what we are expected to accomplish?'
Bolitho looked down at the folded sheets of his orders. 'I still know very little. But I have read quite a lot between the lines.'
He began to pace from side to side, his shadow moving unevenly with the roll of the hull.
'When the war ended, Thomas, it was necessary to make. concessions. To restore a balance. We had captured Trincomalee in Ceylon from the Dutch. The finest naval harbour and the best placed in the Indian Ocean. The French admiral, Suffren, captured it from us, and when war ended gave it back to Holland. We have returned many West Indian islands to France, as well as her Indian stations. And Spain, well, she has been given back Minorca.' He shrugged. 'Many men on both sides died for nothing, it seems.'