So do it!’
He glanced at the wheel as the spokes creaked again.
‘Watch your helm, man! And stand up smartly, stay alert!’ He swung away, the boat cloak floating around him. ‘What’s your name? I’ll be watching you !’
The seaman shifted his bare feet on the grating.
‘Archer.’
Egmont looked at Bolitho. ‘I’m going below to check the chart. Watch the helm and call me if you need advice.’
He may have looked at the helmsman. ‘And, Archer, say sir when you speak to an officer in the future!’ He strode to the hatch.
Bolitho clenched his fist.
Then try to act like one!
He heard Sewell gasp, with surprise or disbelief, and realised that he had spoken aloud.
But he smiled, glad he was still able.
‘Something else you’ve learned in Hotspur, Mister Sewell! Don’t lose your temper so easily!’
Andrew Sewell, aged fifteen, and the only son of a hero, said nothing. It was like a hand reaching out, and he was no longer afraid to take it.
The helmsman named Archer called, ‘Wind’s gettin’ up, sir!’
He jerked his head as the wet canvas rattled and cracked loudly above them.
Bolitho nodded. ‘My respects to Mr. Egmont… .’ The mood was still on him. ‘ No . I’ll tell him myself.’
Tired, elated, angry? Sailors often blamed it on the wind.
He reached the hatch and called back, ‘Remember! No passengers! ’
The wheel jerked sharply as both helmsmen gripped the spokes and put their weight against it, but the one named Archer managed to laugh.
‘Easy does it, Tom. Our Dick’s blood is on the boil. He’ll see us right!’
Vague figures were moving to each mast, the watch on deck, and ready for the storm.
Andrew Sewell had heard the quick exchange between the two men at the wheel and felt something quite unknown to him. It was envy.
The next few hours were ones even the old Jacks were unlikely to forget. A blustery succession of squalls became a strong wind that had all hands fighting each onslaught, bruised and blinded by icy spray and the waves that burst across the bulwarks and swept down the scuppers like a tiderace. All through the middle watch the storm continued its assault, until even the most vociferous curses were beaten into silence.
But when the clouds eventually broke and a first hint of dawn showed itself against straining canvas and the crisscross of shining rigging, Hotspur was holding her own, with not a spar or shroud broken.
Bolitho had remembered Tinker Thorne’s admiration for her builder, Old John Barstow, the finest in the West Country ; he had clung to those words more than once in the night when the sea had smashed against the hull or sent men sprawling like rag dolls in its wake.
Tinker’s voice had rarely been silent, and his sturdy form was everywhere. Dragging a man from one task and shoving him into another, putting an extra pair of hands on halliard or brace, or bullying another too dazed to think clearly, to add his weight to the pumps.
And Verling was always there. Down aft, holding himself upright, while he watched the relentless battle of sea against rudder, wind against canvas.
A few men were injured, but none seriously, with cuts and bruises, or rope burns when human hands could no longer control wet cordage squealing through block or cleat.
And as suddenly as it had begun, the wind eased, and it was safe to move about the deck without pain or apprehension.
Bolitho heard Verling say, ‘Another hour, Mr. Egmont, and we’ll get the tops’Is on her. The wind’s backed a piece. I want a landfall on Guernsey, not the coast of France!’ Calmly said, but he was not joking. ‘Check and report any damage. Injuries, too. I’ll need it for my report.’ He patted the compass box. ‘Not bad for a youngster, eh?’
Egmont hurried forward, his boat cloak plastered to his body like a mould. In the poor light it was hard to gauge his reaction to the storm.
”Ere, sir.’ Bolitho felt a mug pushed into his frozen fingers. ‘Get yer blood
He glanced at the wheel as the spokes creaked again.
‘Watch your helm, man! And stand up smartly, stay alert!’ He swung away, the boat cloak floating around him. ‘What’s your name? I’ll be watching you !’
The seaman shifted his bare feet on the grating.
‘Archer.’
Egmont looked at Bolitho. ‘I’m going below to check the chart. Watch the helm and call me if you need advice.’
He may have looked at the helmsman. ‘And, Archer, say sir when you speak to an officer in the future!’ He strode to the hatch.
Bolitho clenched his fist.
Then try to act like one!
He heard Sewell gasp, with surprise or disbelief, and realised that he had spoken aloud.
But he smiled, glad he was still able.
‘Something else you’ve learned in Hotspur, Mister Sewell! Don’t lose your temper so easily!’
Andrew Sewell, aged fifteen, and the only son of a hero, said nothing. It was like a hand reaching out, and he was no longer afraid to take it.
The helmsman named Archer called, ‘Wind’s gettin’ up, sir!’
He jerked his head as the wet canvas rattled and cracked loudly above them.
Bolitho nodded. ‘My respects to Mr. Egmont… .’ The mood was still on him. ‘ No . I’ll tell him myself.’
Tired, elated, angry? Sailors often blamed it on the wind.
He reached the hatch and called back, ‘Remember! No passengers! ’
The wheel jerked sharply as both helmsmen gripped the spokes and put their weight against it, but the one named Archer managed to laugh.
‘Easy does it, Tom. Our Dick’s blood is on the boil. He’ll see us right!’
Vague figures were moving to each mast, the watch on deck, and ready for the storm.
Andrew Sewell had heard the quick exchange between the two men at the wheel and felt something quite unknown to him. It was envy.
The next few hours were ones even the old Jacks were unlikely to forget. A blustery succession of squalls became a strong wind that had all hands fighting each onslaught, bruised and blinded by icy spray and the waves that burst across the bulwarks and swept down the scuppers like a tiderace. All through the middle watch the storm continued its assault, until even the most vociferous curses were beaten into silence.
But when the clouds eventually broke and a first hint of dawn showed itself against straining canvas and the crisscross of shining rigging, Hotspur was holding her own, with not a spar or shroud broken.
Bolitho had remembered Tinker Thorne’s admiration for her builder, Old John Barstow, the finest in the West Country ; he had clung to those words more than once in the night when the sea had smashed against the hull or sent men sprawling like rag dolls in its wake.
Tinker’s voice had rarely been silent, and his sturdy form was everywhere. Dragging a man from one task and shoving him into another, putting an extra pair of hands on halliard or brace, or bullying another too dazed to think clearly, to add his weight to the pumps.
And Verling was always there. Down aft, holding himself upright, while he watched the relentless battle of sea against rudder, wind against canvas.
A few men were injured, but none seriously, with cuts and bruises, or rope burns when human hands could no longer control wet cordage squealing through block or cleat.
And as suddenly as it had begun, the wind eased, and it was safe to move about the deck without pain or apprehension.
Bolitho heard Verling say, ‘Another hour, Mr. Egmont, and we’ll get the tops’Is on her. The wind’s backed a piece. I want a landfall on Guernsey, not the coast of France!’ Calmly said, but he was not joking. ‘Check and report any damage. Injuries, too. I’ll need it for my report.’ He patted the compass box. ‘Not bad for a youngster, eh?’
Egmont hurried forward, his boat cloak plastered to his body like a mould. In the poor light it was hard to gauge his reaction to the storm.
”Ere, sir.’ Bolitho felt a mug pushed into his frozen fingers. ‘Get yer blood
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