Command a King's Ship by Alexander Kent Read Free Book Online Page B

Shellabeer, get those damned idlers aft on the double, I say!”
    Shellabeer was the boatswain, a swarthy, taciturn man who looked more like a Spaniard than a Devonian.
    Bolitho leaned back, his hands on his hips, watching the swift figures dashing out on the vibrating yards like monkeys. It made him feel sick to watch their indifference to such heights.
    First one, then the next great topsail billowed and banged loosely in confusion, while the seamen on the yards clung on, calling to each other, or jeering at their opposite numbers on the other masts.
    â€œAnchor’s aweigh, sir!”
    Like a thing released from chains the frigate swung dizzily across the steep troughs, men falling and slithering at the braces as they fought to haul the great yards round, to cup the wind and master it.
    â€œLee braces there! Heave away!” Herrick was hoarse.
    Bolitho gritted his teeth and forced himself to remain quite still as she plunged further astride the wind. Here and there a bosun’s mate struck out with his rope starter or pushed a man bodily to brace or halliard.
    Then with a booming roar like thunder the sails filled and hardened to the wind’s steady thrust, the deck canting over and holding steady as the helmsmen threw themselves on their spokes.
    He made himself take a glass from Midshipman Keen and trained it across the starboard quarter, keeping his face impassive, even though he was almost shaking with excitement and relief.
    The sail drill was very bad, the placing of trained men too sketchy for comfort, but they were away! Free of the land.
    He saw a few people on the Point watching them heel over on the larboard tack, the top of a shining carriage just below the wall. Perhaps it was Armitage’s mother, weeping as she watched her offspring being taken from her.
    The master shouted gruffly, “Sou’-west by west, sir! Full an’ bye!”
    When Bolitho turned to answer him he saw that the master was nodding with something like approval.
    â€œThank you, Mr. Mudge. We will get the courses on her di- rectly.”
    He walked forward to join Herrick at the rail, his body angled steeply to the deck. Some of the confusion was being cleared, with men picking their way amidst loose coils of rope like survivors from a battle.
    Herrick looked at him sadly. “It was terrible, sir.”
    â€œI agree, Mr. Herrick.” He could not restrain a smile. “But it will improve, eh?”
    By late afternoon Undine had beaten clear of the Isle of Wight and was standing well out in the Channel.
    By evening only her reefed topsails were visible, and soon even they had disappeared.

3
A M I XED GATHERING
    O N THE morning of the fourteenth day after weighing anchor at Spithead Bolitho was in his cabin sipping a mug of coffee and pondering for the countless time on what he had achieved.
    The previous evening they had sighted the dull hump of Teneriffe sprawled like a cloud across the horizon, and he had decided to heave-to and avoid the hazards of a night approach. Fourteen days. It felt an eternity. They had been plagued by foul weather for much of that time. Flicking over the pages of his personal log he could see the countless, frustrating entries. Head- winds, occasional but fierce gales, and the constant need to shorten sail, to reef down and ride it out as best they could. The dreaded Bay of Biscay had been kind to them, that at least was a mercy. Otherwise, with almost half the ship’s company too seasick to ven- ture aloft, or too terrified to scramble out along the dizzily pitching yards without physical violence being used on them, it was likely Undine might have reached no further.
    Bolitho appreciated what it must be like for many of his men. Shrieking winds, overcrowded conditions in a creaking, rolling hull where their food, if they could face it, often ended up in a mess of bilge water and vomit. It produced a kind of numbness, like that given to a man left abandoned in the sea.