To Glory We Steer Read Free Page B

forgot the straining seamen and concentrated his full attention on the distant frigate. Now that he was closer he could see the steady pitch and roll of the graceful hull as she strained at the taut cable in the freshening wind. He could even see the flash of bright copper as she showed her bilges, and then as she canted to the opposite side he could make out the busy activity on the main deck below her tall, tapering masts and furled sails. Aft by the entry port there was a neat scarlet rectangle of marines already drawn up to greet him, and momentarily in the wind he caught the sound of twittering pipes and the hoarse bellow of orders.
    She was a fine ship, he thought. One hundred and forty feet of power and living grace. From the high gilt figurehead, a strange bird mounted on the back of a dolphin, to her carved poop with the rippling ensign above she was the proof of a shipbuilder’s art.
    Now he could see the group of officers waiting on the quarter-deck, more than one with his glass raised and trained on the tossing boat. He set his face in an impassive mask, forcibly dampening down the excitement and the sense of challenge which the ship had given him.
    â€œBoat ahoy!” The hail was caught by the wind and tossed to the screaming gulls above.
    Stockdale cupped his hands and yelled, “Phalarope!” There was no doubt now for the waiting officers. No doubt at all that their new overlord was approaching.
    Bolitho opened his cloak and threw it back across his shoulders, the feeble light glinting on his gold lace and the hilt of his sword. Still the frigate grew bigger and bigger, until at last she towered above the boat, blotting out all else.
    As the oarsmen manœuvred towards the entry port Bolitho ran his eye slowly along the masts and yards and the taut black rigging. There was no sign of slackness, everything was as it should be. The hull was well painted; the amount of gold leaf around the figurehead as well as the broad-windowed stern was proof that her last captain had spent a good deal of his own money to make her so.
    The thought of money well spent made him glance briefly at his boxes in the sternsheets. He had brought over a thousand pounds of prize-money back from the Indies, yet apart from the new uniforms and a few small luxuries he had little to show for it. And now he was off to sea again, where a mutineer’s knife might end his life as quickly as a French cannon ball, unless he was constantly vigilant. He suddenly recalled the admiral’s warning, “If you fail, even I cannot help you!”
    The boat lurched alongside and almost threw him from his feet as he jumped clear of the gunwale and began to climb up the spray-dashed side.
    He tried to shut his ears to the crash of sound which greeted him. The trilling pipes from the side party, and the slap of muskets as the marines presented arms; it was too easy and too dangerous to let his guard slip even for an instant. Even to allow himself to enjoy this moment to the full, for which he had been waiting for so long.
    A tall, heavily built lieutenant stepped forward and removed his hat. “Lieutenant Vibart, sir. I am the senior here.” He had a thick, rasping tone, and his face was unsmiling.
    â€œThank you, Mr Vibart.” Bolitho stared past him along the full length of his ship. The gangways on either side of the hull which connected the forecastle with the quarterdeck were crowded with silent men, and others had climbed into the shrouds so that they could see their captain better. His eye moved on, across the neat lines of guns, firmly lashed behind closed ports, the spotless decks and well-flaked lines. Vibart was a good first lieutenant as far as smartness and outward appearance was concerned, he thought.
    Lieutenant Vibart was saying gruffly, “Mr Okes and Mr Herrick, the second and third lieutenants, sir.”
    Bolitho nodded, keeping his expression noncommittal. He had a quick impression of two young