he could see the hands resting and chatting, as was the custom while awaiting to see what the cook had produced for the midday meal. By the greasy plume which fell downwind from the galley funnel, Bolitho guessed that it was another concoction of boiled beef hacked from salted casks,mixed with a soggy assortment of shipâs biscuit, oatmeal and scraps saved from yesterday. George Triphook, the senior cook, was hated by almost everyone but his toadies, but unlike some he enjoyed the hatred, and seemed to relish the groans and curses at his efforts.
Bolitho felt suddenly ravenous, but knew the wardroom fare would be little better when he was relieved to snatch his share of it.
He thought of his mother and the great grey house in Falmouth. He walked away from Couzens, his watchful midshipman, who rarely took his eyes off him. How terrible the blow had been. In the Navy you could risk death a dozen ways in any day. Disease, shipwreck or the cannonâs roar, the walls of Falmouth church were covered with memorial plaques. The names and deeds of sea-officers, sons of Falmouth who had left port never to return.
But his mother. Surely not her. Always youthful and vivacious. Ready to stand-in and shoulder the responsibility of house and land when her husband, Captain James Bolitho, was away, which was often.
Bolitho and his brother, Hugh, his two sisters, Felicity and Nancy, had all loved her in their own different and special ways. When he had returned home from the
Destiny
, still shocked and suffering from his wound, he had needed her more than ever. The house had been like a tomb. She was dead. It was impossible to accept even now that she was not back in Falmouth, watching the sea beyond Pendennis Castle, laughing in the manner which was infectious enough to drive all despair aside.
A chill, they had said. Then a sudden fever. It had been over in a matter of weeks.
He could picture his father at this very moment. Captain James, as he was locally known, was well respected as a magistrate since losing his arm and being removed from active duty. The house in winter, the lanes clogged with mud, the news always late, the countryside too worried by pressures of cold and wet, of lost animals and marauding foxes to heed much for this far-off war. But his father would care. Brooding as a ship-of-war anchored or weighed in Carrick Roads. Needing, piningfor the life which had rejected him, and now completely alone.
It must be a million times worse for him, Bolitho thought sadly.
Cairns appeared on deck, and after scrutinizing the compass and glancing at the slate on which a masterâs mate made his half-hourly calculations he crossed to join Bolitho.
Bolitho touched his hat. âShe holds steady, sir. Norâ by east, full and bye.â
Cairns nodded. He had very pale eyes which could look right through a man.
âWe may have to reef if the wind gets up any more. Weâre taking all we can manage, I think.â
He shaded his eyes before he looked to larboard, for although there was no sun the glare was intent and harsh. It was difficult to see an edge between sea and sky, the water was a desert of restless steel fragments. But the rollers were further apart now, cruising down in serried ranks to lift under
Trojan
âs fat quarter to tilt her further and burst occasionally over the weather gangway before rolling on again towards the opposite horizon.
They had the sea to themselves, for after beating clear of Nantucket and pushing on towards the entrance of Massachusetts Bay they were well clear of both land and local shipping. Somewhere, some sixty miles across the weather side, lay Boston. There were quite a few aboard
Trojan
who could remember Boston as it had once been before the bitterness and resentment had flared into anger and blood.
The Bay itself was avoided by all but the foolhardy. It was the home of some of the most able privateers, and Bolitho wondered, not for the first time, if there were any
Lindsay Paige, Mary Smith