Command a King's Ship by Alexander Kent Page B

the open white shirt clearly etched against the nettings and the sea beyond. In the next few weeks Undine would get much smaller, he thought.
    â€œVery well, Mr. Fowlar. Get the to’gan’s’ls off her. If the weather freshens up we may have to reef tops’ls before the night’s done.”
    Old Mudge rubbed his aching back. “The weather is a fool!” But nobody heeded him.
    Bolitho saw the topmen sliding down to the deck, with barely a word to each other as they were checked again by their petty officers. Around the vibrating bowsprit the spindrift rode in the wind like pale arrows, and high above the deck he saw the topsails hardening and puffing out their bellies to a combined chorus of creaking rigging and blocks.
    â€œDismiss the watch below.” Herrick’s voice was as usual. He took Bolitho’s word as he would a rope to save himself from drowning.
    In the darkness Bolitho smiled. Perhaps it was better to be so.
    In the cabin Don Puigserver sat at the desk and watched the clerk’s quill scraping across his written orders. Raymond was lean- ing against the quarter windows, his face expressionless as he peered into the darkness
    Then across his shoulder he said, “It is a great responsibility, Don Puigserver. I am not sure I can advise in its favour.”
    The Spaniard leaned painfully against the chair-back and lis- tened to the regular footsteps across the deck overhead. Up and down.
    â€œIt is not mine alone, Señor Raymond. I am in good company, believe me.”
    Above and around them the Undine moved and murmured in time with sea and wind. Right forward below the bowsprit the golden nymph stared unwinkingly at the darkened horizon. Deci- sion and destiny, triumph and disappointment meant nothing to her. She had the ocean, and that was life itself.

5
THE W ORK OF A DEMON
    B OLITHO stood loosely by the quarterdeck rail, his body partly shaded from the harsh glare by the thick mainmast trunk, and watched the routine work around him. Eight bells chimed from the forecastle, and he could hear Herrick and Mudge comparing notes from their noon sights, while Soames, who was officer of the watch, prowled restlessly by the cabin hatch as he awaited his relief.
    Just to watch the slow, lethargic movements of the men on the gangways and gun deck was enough. Thirty-four days since they had seen Nervion ’s destruction on the reef, and nearly two months since weighing anchor at Spithead. It had been hard work all the way, and from the moment the Spanish ship had foundered the atmosphere aboard had been compressed and strained to the limit.
    The last few days had been the worst part, he thought. For a while his company had gained some excitement at crossing the Equator, with all its mysteries and myths. He had issued an extra ration of rum, and for a time he had observed some benefit from the change. The new hands had seen the line-crossing as a kind of test which they had somehow managed to pass. The old seamen had grown in stature as they had recounted or lied about the num- ber of occasions they had sailed these waters in other ships. A fiddler had emerged, and after a self-conscious overture had brought some music and scratchy gaiety to their daily lives.
    And then, the last of the badly injured Spaniards had begun to die. It had been like the final pressure on them all. Whitmarsh had done all he could. He had carried out several amputations, and as the pitiful cries had floated up from his sickbay Bolitho had felt the brief satisfaction of drawing his company together fading once again. The dying Spaniard had dragged it out for many days. Nearly a month he had ebbed and rallied, sobbing and groaning, or sleeping peacefully while Whitmarsh had stayed with him hour by hour. It had seemed as if the surgeon was testing his own resources, searching for some new cracking point. The last of his patients to die had been the ones mauled by sharks, those which because of their