Bolitho grunted. With the ship so long in commission with the same company the general seamanship and sail drill were good. There was a slickness to setting and shortening sail which to a landsman might appear almost casual. Bolitho knew from past experience that the average warship put to sea for the first time with her people composed more of pressed and awkward landsmen than trained hands, and for that he was grateful. But a ship of the line was no frigate. Her sailing qualities were normally confined to keeping station and closing the enemy rather than any subtle manoeuvres. It was only when she drew abeam of that enemy, where she would stay until victorious or vanquished, that her true worth could be counted. And whatever Quarme really thought, Bolitho knew that the Hyperion's gunnery was appalling.
Every day and all day he had exercised the guns through every possible eventuality which he could imagine. From the main armament to the stubby carronades, from the quar
– '- terdeck twelve-pounders to the marines in their musketry, he had worked every weapon and man without respite. If as Quarme insisted there had been some improvement it was still far from satisfactory.
He said at length, 'We will exercise the starboard battery again. Pass the word.'
He made himself cross to the weather side as Quarme shouted his instructions to the maindeck. With the ship on the starboard tack and heeling ponderously to the freshening breeze the guns would have to be manhandled back against the tilting deck before the drill could begin, and Bolitho saw some of the less arduously employed hands pause in their work to watch.
There was Buckle, the grey-haired sailmaker, squatting with his mates checking and repairing the last of the heavy-weather canvas which the ship had used off Brest, the needles and palms pausing as they turned to stare. Even Gossett, the master, a sextant shining in one huge fist like a child's toy, halted in the patient instruction of two deceptively interested midshipmen and frowned as Lieutenant Rooke's voice echoed around the listless gunners.
'Now pay attention! Withdraw guns and prepare to loadl' He was standing on the starboard gangway which ran above the battery and linked quarterdeck with forecastle and was staring angrily at his men, his face blotchy with heat and impatience. `The next man to drop a rammer or fall over his feet will dance at the gratings!' He pulled a watch from his pocket. 'Now begin!'
Grunting and slipping on the sanded planking, the men threw themselves against the guns, their bodies shining with sweat as they levered and spiked the long muzzles back from the open ports until they stood at the full extent of their tackles.
Bolitho had watched Rooke closely in the eight days. He seemed to carry out his work efficiently enough, but his manner was unpleasant, and he appeared to have difficulty in containing his temper. Only the previous day Bolitho had arranged a contest between both of the maindeck batteries, and the larboard side had won by three minutes. Rooke had been nearly beside himself. Now as his men crouched beside their guns Bolitho could feel the tension Like a physical force.
Rooke yelled, 'Load!'
There was a wild scramble, each crew being driven and harangued by its gun-captain as practise cartridges and imaginary balls were cradled into muzzles while the heavier seamen gripped the falls and waited to race their guns for the waiting ports.
Quarme muttered, 'Better this time, sir.'
Bolitho did not answer. But it was certainly smoother, in spite of the over-eagerness on the part- of some of the younger men. He saw Rooke gripping the rail as if willing his men to move faster, and knew he was well aware of his captain's presence on the quarterdeck.
Rooke shouted, 'Run out!'
Obediently the trucks squealed across the worn planking, and as each gun-captain feverishly sprinted to prime his vent there was a sharp clatter and three of the furthest gunners went sprawling. Every other gun-captain had his hand in the air, but at the leading weapon there was complete confusion.
Rooke screamed, 'What the hell! What the bloody hell!'
Some of the upper-deck idlers were openly grinning and when Bolitho turned he saw that Lieutenant Fowler, the officer of the watch, was staring at his feet his mouth stifled with his handkerchief.
Rooke strode along the gangway until he was above the offending gun. ' Bell, I'll see your backbones for this! I'll have you flogged till…'
The gun-captain stared up at him his hands spread helplessly. 'T'worn't me, sir! T'were the young gennelman 'ere!' He pointed at Midshipman Seton who was struggling from between two dazed sailors beside the gun. ' 'E fell over 'is dirk, sir, an' t'other two went atop of 'im!'
'Hold your tongue!' Rooke seemed to realise that everyone was staring at him. He said in a more controlled voice, 'And what did you do wrong this time, Mr. Seton?'
The boy picked up his hat and looked round like a trapped animal. 'Sir, I-I…' The words would not come for several seconds. 'I tried t-to help with the f-falls, sir.'
Rooke sounded quite calm again. 'Did you?' He wiped his mouth with his hand. 'Well, don't stand there slavering! Pay attention when I address you!'
Bolitho turned away. It was unbearable to see Seton suffering like this, but to interfere now would only undermine Rooke's authority in front of the men.
Rooke persisted loudly, 'Why in God's name did your mother and father send you to sea, Mr. Seton? Surely there was some other work you could bring confusion to?'
Some of the men laughed, and then Seton -aid in a strangled voice, 'I-I have none, sir. M-My p-parents a-are…' He could not go on.
Rooke stared down at him, his hands on his hips. 'No father or mother, Mr. Seton? Then you mast be a bigger bastard than I imagined!'
Bolitho swung round. 'Mr. Quarme, please fall out the crews and secure guns.' He glanced quickly aloft. 'The wind is holding well. You may set the royals now.' He made himself wait a few more minutes as the pipes passed his order and the topmen swarmed up the ratlines in a tight mass, their bodies black against the clear sky. 'And have Mr. Rooke lay aft.'
Bolitho walked -to the weather side and thrust his hands behind his back. He could see the growing breeze ruffling the blue water and breaking it here and there into short, lively whitecaps. The noon position was estimated at some thirty miles south-east of Tarragona, but to all intents and purposes the sea was endless and empty. But his calculations had already been verified by the mainmast lookout swaying on his precarious perch almost two hundred feet above the deck. He alone had seen the distant mountains of Spain. His eyes were their only contact with the land. Bolitho was glad he had decided to stand well out to sea to avoid the opposing offshore current. His decision had given him the best of the wind too, and if it held they would find Hood's ships all the sooner. `You sent for me, sir?' Rooke was watching him, his chest heaving with exertion.
`I did.' Bolitho eyed him calmly. `Your men did quite well. With practive they will improve still further.'
He saw a slight glimmer in Rooke's eyes which might have been amusement or contempt. He added slowly, 'In future I hope you will refrain from that sort of treatment which you just gave Mr. Seton.'
Rooke's face was wooden. `He needs discipline, sir. They all do.'
`I agree entirely. But bullying is another matter, Mr. Rooke.' There was an edge to his tone. 'It does not help discipline to insult and humiliate a midshipman in front of men who may depend on him in battle!'
`Is that all, sir?' Rooke's hands were trembling against his sides.
`For the present.' Bolitho looked up as the last of the royals flapped and then hardened to contain the wind. Against the sky the full set of sails gleamed like white pyramids. He added, `You'll get better results by setting a good example, Mr. Rooke.' He watched the lieutenant walk stiffly towards the gangway and frowned. He had made an enemy of Rooke, but it seemed unlikely that a man of his nature would make friends with anyone.