To Glory We Steer by Alexander Kent Page B

cruelties stayed resolutely with the ship.
    As one bell struck briefly from the forecastle and the dull copper sun moved towards the horizon the frigate ploughed across each successive bank of white-crested rollers with neither care nor concern for the men who served her day by day, hour by hour. No sooner was one watch dismissed below than the boatswain’s mates would run from hatch to hatch, their calls twittering, their voices hoarse in the thunder of canvas and the never ending hiss of spray.
    â€œAll hands! All hands! Shorten sail!”
    Later, stiff and dazed from their dizzy climb aloft, the seamen would creep below, their bodies aching, their fingers stiff and bleeding from their fight with the rebellious canvas.
    Now, the men off watch crouched in the semi-darkness of the berth deck groping for handholds and listening to the crash of water against the hull even as they tried to finish their evening meal. From the deck beams the swinging lanterns threw strange shadows across their bowed heads, picking out individual faces and actions like scenes from a partially cleaned oil painting.
    Below the sealed hatches the air was thick with smells. That of bilge water mixing with sweat and the sour odour of seasickness, and the whole area was filled with sound as the ship fought her own battle with the Atlantic. The steady crash of waves followed by the jubilant surge of water along the deck above, the continuous groaning of timbers and the humming of taut stays, all defied the men to sleep and relax even for a moment.
    John Allday sat astride one of the long, scrubbed benches and gnawed carefully at a tough piece of salt beef. Between his strong teeth it felt like leather, but he made himself eat it, and closed his mind to the rancid cask from which it had come. The deep cut on his cheek where Brock’s cane had found its mark had healed in an ugly scar, and as his jaws moved steadily on the meat he could feel the skin tightening painfully where blown salt and cold winds had drawn the edges together like crude stitching.
    Across the table, and watching him with an unwinking stare, sat Pochin, a giant seaman with shoulders like a cliff. He said at last, “You’ve settled in right enough, mate.” He smiled bleakly. “All that squit when you was pressed came to nothin’!”
    Allday threw a meat bone on to his tin plate and wiped his fingers on a piece of hemp. He regarded the other man with his steady, calm eyes for several seconds and then replied, “I can wait.”
    Pochin glared through the gloom, his head cocked to listen to some of the men retching. “Lot of bloody women!” He looked back at Allday. “I was forgettin’, you are an old hand at this.”
    Allday shrugged and looked down at his palms. “You never get rid of the tar, do you?” He leaned back against the timbers and sighed. “My last ship was the Resolution, seventy-four. I was a fore-topman.” He allowed his eyes to close. “A good enough ship. We paid off just a few months before the American Revolution, and I was clean away before the press could lay a finger on me!”
    An old, grey-haired man with washed-out blue eyes said huskily, “Was you really a shepherd like you told ’em?”
    Allday nodded. “That, and other things. I had to stay out in the open. To keep away from the towns. I would choke to death under a roof!” He gave a small smile. “Just an occasional run into Falmouth was enough for me. Just enough for a woman, and a glass or two!”
    The old seaman, Strachan, pursed his lips and rocked against the table as the ship heeled steeply and sent the plates skittering across the deck. “It sounds like a fair life, mate.” He seemed neither wistful nor envious. It was just a statement. Old Ben Strachan had been in the Navy for forty years, since he had first trod deck as a powder-monkey. Life ashore was a mystery to him, and in his regimented