18

A TRADITION OF VICTORY

JOHN ALLDAY tied his neckerchief tightly around his head and ears and then dashed the sweat from his face with one forearm. Right forward on the frigate’s tapered forecastle he had an uninterrupted view of the Cassius, and ahead of her he could just see part of the Volcano’s upper rigging. Deliberately he turned his back on them and on the smoke-shrouded tangle of ships beyond. He looked down at McIntosh, the gunner’s mate, who was on his knees beside one of the carronades as if in prayer.

As Allday had slithered to the deck from the main-yard, Brock, the gunner, had halted him with a sharp. “Here you!” For a moment they had faced each other once again. Allday, the pressed seaman, whose skin still bore the scars of Brock’s cane, and who had nearly hanged because of another’s treachery and cunning. And the gunner, hard-faced and expressionless, who rarely showed any trace of his inner feelings, if he had any.

Brock had gestured with his cane. “Up forrard, you! Join the crews on the carronades!”

Allday had made to run off but Brock had added harshly, “I was wrong about you it seems!” It was not an apology. Just a statement of fact. “So get up there and do your best!” His thin mouth had moved in what might have been a smile. “My God, Allday, your sheep would be proud of you today!”

He smiled at the recollection and then looked round with surprise as Ferguson scrambled up beside him. His eyes were bright with fear, and he clung to the hammock nettings as if he would fall without their support.

McIntosh grunted, “What do you want here?”

“I-I was sent, sir.” Ferguson licked his lips. “I’m no use for anything else.”

McIntosh turned back to his inspection of the training tackles. “Christ Almighty!” was his only comment.

“Don’t look at the ships, Bryan.” Allday picked up his cutlass and ran it through his belt. The hilt felt warm against his naked back. “Just don’t think about ’em. Keep down behind the nettings and do as I do.” He forced a grin. “We have a fine view from here!”

Ritchie, the stolid Devon seaman, ran his fingers over the shot rack and asked vaguely, “Wot are we to shoot at, Mr McIntosh?”

The gunner’s mate was edgy. “The captain hasn’t told me yet! When he does, I’ll tell you!”

Ritchie shrugged. “Us’ll roast they devils!” He peered at the Cassius. “The Frogs’ll turn an’ run!”

Kemp, one of the loaders, grimaced. “When they sees you they will!”

Ferguson lowered his head against his arm. “It’s madness! We’ll all be killed!”

Allday studied him sadly. He is right, he thought. Nothing can live against such a force. He said kindly, “It’s April, Bryan. Just think how it looks in Cornwall, eh? The hedgerows and the green fields . . .”

Ferguson stared at him. “For God’s sake, what are you talking about?”

Allday replied calmly, “Have you forgotten already what nearly happened to us, Bryan?” He hardened his voice, knowing that Ferguson was at breaking point. “Remember Nick Pochin?” He saw Ferguson flinch, but carried on. “Well, he’s dead, hanged aboard the Cassius with the other fools!”