To Glory We Steer Read Free Page A

wrath of his captain Bolitho had seen Stockdale standing miserably outside a local inn. Stripped to the waist he had made a truly imposing figure, his thickset body a mass of muscle and power. A loud-mouthed barker at his side had called to the small naval recruiting party that Stockdale was a prizefighter of great repute, and that a golden guinea would be immediately awarded to any one of Bolitho’s men who could lay him low. Bolitho had been weary, and the thought of a cool drink at the inn while his men tried their luck overcame his normal objections to what he thought to be a degrading spectacle.
    As it happened, he had had in his party a gunner’s mate who was not only a very proficient fist-fighter but a man quite used to maintaining discipline by that and any other means which came his way. He had thrown aside his jacket, and encouraged by the other sailors had gone to the attack.
    Exactly what had happened next Bolitho was not quite sure. It was said that one of the sailors had managed to trip Stockdale, and that seemed likely, as Bolitho had never seen him beaten since that day, but the next instant, even as Bolitho had been reaching for his ale, there had been a scream of rage from the barker and a great bellow of laughter from the sailors.
    Bolitho had found the gunner’s mate pocketing his guinea while the infuriated barker had proceeded to beat Stockdale with a length of chain, interspersed with threats and curses.
    It was then that Bolitho had discovered that Stockdale accepted loyalty like a manacle. He never flinched from the unjust beating, although he could have killed his tormentor with one blow.
    Pity or disgust drove Bolitho to stop the beating, and the look of dumb gratitude on Stockdale’s battered face only helped to make things worse. Watched by the grinning sailors and the flint-eyed barker he had asked Stockdale to volunteer for the King’s service. The barker had raised a storm of protest at the thought of his living being removed for all time.
    Stockdale had given a brief nod and picked up his shirt without a word. Even now he hardly ever spoke, his vocal cords having been damaged over the years of fighting in one town after another.
    Bolitho had imagined that his angry gesture had ended the matter. But it was not so. Stockdale had settled down aboard ship in a manner born. For all his strength he was gentle and patient, and only one real object seemed to alter his placid way of life. Wherever Bolitho went, so did he.
    At first Bolitho decided to ignore this fact, but when at length he had his own command and required a personal coxswain, Stockdale just seemed to be there, ready. As he was now.
    He was staring emptily at the sea, his body motionless in the wind, his wide white trousers and blue jacket flapping around his limbs like pennants on a heavy ship of the line. He turned at Bolitho’s approach and knuckled his forehead, his deep brown eyes watching his captain with silent concern.
    Bolitho gave a tight smile. “Is everything ready, Stockdale?”
    The man nodded slowly. “I’ve stowed your boxes in the boat, sir.” He glared at the waiting boat’s crew. “I’ve had a word with this lot about how things should be done from now on!”
    Bolitho stepped down into the boat and gathered his cloak tightly around him. Stockdale grunted an order and the boat idled clear of the stonework.
    â€œOut oars! Give way together!” Stockdale swung the tiller and squinted between the oarsmen as the boat turned and bit into the first angry swell.
    Bolitho watched the oarsmen through narrowed eyes. Each man was careful to avoid his scrutiny. The new captain, any captain, was second only to God. He could promote and flog, reward and hang any man aboard and when a ship was out of company, alone on the high seas, the powers were exercised according to a particular captain’s temperament, as Bolitho well knew.
    As the boat pushed into open water he