Allday's eyes narrowed as he stared at the leaping waves, their long crests curling over to the wind's thrust.
It was like gauging the fall of shot. Up one. Down one. The next would hit home.
He said, 'Matter of fact, she spoke to me afore we left harbour.'
Bolitho stared. To yo«?'
Allday sounded ruffled. 'Well, some women feels free to speak with the likes o' me.'
Bolitho touched his arm again. 'Please, no games, old friend.'
Allday said, 'Told me she was fair bothered about you. Wanted you to know it, like.'
Bolitho banged his fist on the weathered rail. 'I didn't even try to understand. Now I've lost her.' It was spilling out of him, and he knew that only Allday would understand, even if he did not always agree.
Allday's eyes were faraway. 'Knew a lass once in a village where I was livin'. She was fair taken with the squire's son, a real young blade 'e was. She was made for him, an' he never even knew she was alive, the bastard, beggin' your pardon, Sir Richard.'
Bolitho watched him, wondering if Allday had wanted that girl.
Allday said simply, 'One day she threw herself down in front of the squire's coach. She couldn't take no more, I 'spect, and wanted to show him.' He looked at his scarred hands. 'She was killed.'
Bolitho wiped the spray from his face. To show him. Was that what Catherine had done because of him?
Why had he not seen it, accepted that love could never be won the easy way? He thought of Valentine Keen, and his girl with the moonlit eyes. He had risked so much, and won everything because of it.
He heard Allday move away, probably going below for a wet with his friends, or with Ozzard in his pantry.
He walked towards the poop and saw Mr Penhaligon watching the set of each sail, his beefy hands on his hips. Haven pouting as he peered at the compass, Parris watching him, waiting to dismiss the watch below.
Bolitho listened to the regular clank of pumps; the old Hyperion carried all of them. She had seen hundred of hopes dashed, bodies broken on these same decks.
Bolitho's ears seemed to fasten on to a new intrusion.
He exclaimed, 'Gunfire!'
Several men jumped at the sharpness in his voice; Allday, who was still on the ladder, turned and looked towards him.
Then the signals midshipman said excitedly, 'Aye, I hear it, sir!'
Haven strode to the quarterdeck rail, his head moving from side to side, still unable to hear the sound.
Jenour came running from the poop. 'Where away?' He saw Bolitho and flushed. 'I beg your pardon, Sir Richard!'
Bolitho shaded his eyes as the midshipman yelled, 'From Phaedra, sir! Sail to the nor'-west?
Bolitho saw men climbing into the shrouds, their discomfort forgotten. For the moment.
Jenour asked anxiously, 'What does it mean, Sir Richard?'
Bolitho said, 'Signal Phaedra to investigate.' Minutes later when the midshipman's signalling party had run the flags up to the yard Bolitho replied, 'Small cannon, Stephen. Swivels or the like.'
Why had he heard, when so many others around him had not?
He said, 'Signal Tetrarch to close on the flag.'
Allday said admiringly, 'God, look at 'er go!' He was watching the sloop-of-war turning away, showing her copper in the misty sunlight, as she spread more canvas and rounded fiercely until she was close-hauled on the larboard tack.
Allday added, 'Like your Sparrow, eh, Cap'n?" He grinned awkwardly. 'I mean Sir Richard!'
Bolitho took a telescope from the rack. 'I remember. I hope young Dunstan appreciates the greatest gift as I once did.'
None of the others understood and once again Allday was moved by the privilege.
Bolitho lowered the glass. Too much spray and haze, whirling in the wind like smoke.
A privateer perhaps? Crossing swords with a Barbuda trader. Or one of the local patrols braving the wind and sea to chase an enemy corvette? Phaedra would soon know. It might also be a decoy to draw their flimsy defences away from the gold and silver.
He smiled bitterly. How would Haven react to that, he wondered?
'Nor'-west-by-north, sir!' The helmsman had to yell to make himself heard above the roar of wind through the canvas and rigging, pushing the sloop-of-war hard over until it was impossible to stand upright.
Commander Alfred Dunstan gripped the quarterdeck rail and tugged his cocked hat more firmly over his wild auburn hair. He had been Phaedra's captain for eighteen months, his first command, and with luck still on his side might soon be transferring his single epaulette to his right shoulder, the first definite step to post-rank.
He shouted, 'Bring her up two points to wind'rd, Mr Meheux! God damn it, we'll not let it escape, whatever it is!'
He saw the first lieutenant exchange a quick glance with the sailing master. Phaedra seemed to be sailing as close to the wind as she dared, so that her braced yards and bulging sails appeared to be almost fore-and-aft, thrusting her over, the sea boiling around her gunports and deluging the bare-backed seamen until their tanned bodies shone like crude statuary.
Dunstan strained his eyes aloft to watch every sail, and his topmen straddled out along the yards, some doutbless remembering Obdurate's hands who had been lost overboard in the storm.
'Full-an'-bye, sir! Nor'-west-by-west!'
The deck and rigging protested violently, the shrouds making a vibrant thrumming sound as the ship heeled over still further.
The first lieutenant, who was twenty-three, a year younger than his captain, shouted, 'She'll not take much more, sir!'
Dunstan grinned excitedly. He had a sensitive, pointed face and humorous mouth, and some people had told him he looked like Nelson. Dunstan liked the compliment, but had discovered the resemblance himself long ago, even as a midshipman in Bolitho's big first-rate Euryalus.
'A plague on your worries! What are you, an old woman?'
They laughed like schoolboys, for Meheux was the captain's cousin, and each knew almost what the other was thinking.
Dunstan tightened his lips as a line parted on the foretopsail yard with the echo of a pistol shot. But two men were already working out to repair it, and he replied, 'We must beat up to wind'rd in case the buggers show us a clean pair of heels an' we lose them!'
Meheux did not argue; he knew him too well. The sea boiled over the gangway and flung two men, cursing and floundering, into the scuppers. One came up against a tethered cannon and did not move. He had been knocked senseless, or had broken a rib or two. He was dragged to a hatchway, the others crouching like athletes as they gauged the moment to avoid the next incoming torrent of water.
Meheux enjoyed the excitement, just as Dunstan was never happier than when he was free of the fleet's apron strings or an admiral's authority. They did not even know the meaning or source of the gunfire; they might discover that it was another British man-of-war engaged in taking an enemy blockade-runner. If so, there was no chance of sharing the prize-money this time. The other captain would see to that.
Dunstan climbed up the ratlines of the lee shrouds, the waves seeming to swoop at his legs as he hung out to train his telescope while he waited for the next cry from the masthead.
The lookout yelled, 'Fine on the starboard bow, sir!' He broke off as the ship lifted then plunged deeply into a long trough, hard down until her gilded figurehead was awash, as if Phaedra was on her way to the bottom. The crash must have all but shaken the lookout from his precarious perch.
Then he called, 'Two ships, sir! One dismasted!'
Dunstan climbed back again and grinned as he poured water from his hat. 'Fine lookout, Mr Meheux! Give him a guinea!'
The first lieutenant smiled. 'He's one of my men, sir.'