Pochin groaned. “Blasted Spithead nightingales! Do they never get tired of blowin’ ’em?”

The voices of the bosun’s mates echoed round the berth deck. “All hands! All hands! Stand by to make sail! Anchor party muster on the fo’c’s’le!”

Ferguson stared blankly at the sunlight on the ladder, his mouth hanging open. “He promised! He promised me I could get a letter home!”

Onslow clapped him on the shoulder. “And he’ll promise a lot more, I shouldn’t wonder, lad!” He faced the others, unsmiling. “Well, mates! Do you understand now what I was saying?”

Josling, a bosun’s mate, appeared on the ladder, his face running with sweat. “Are yew deaf? Jump to it there! A taste of my little rope for the last on deck!”

There was a stampede of running feet as the men came to their senses and surged up to the sunlight.

“Stand by the capstan!” The orders clouted their ears. “Hands aloft! Loose tops’ls!”

Allday saw Ferguson staring wildly at the green, inviting island with its low, undulating hills. He felt a lump in his own throat now. It was not unlike Cornwall in the summertime, he thought.

Then he touched Ferguson’s arm and said kindly, “Come on, lad. I’ll race you aloft!”

Vibart’s booming voice filled the air. “Loose heads’ls! Man the braces!”

Allday reached the main-yard and ran quickly along the foot-rope to join the others lying across the thick spar. Below him he could see the busy deck, and over his shoulder he could identify Bolitho’s tall figure by the taffrail.

From forward Herrick yelled, “Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”

Allday dug his toes into the foot-rope as the sail billowed and filled beneath him and the great yard moved ponderously to catch the wind. Already the land was sliding away, and by the time the sails were set and trimmed it would be lost in the haze. Perhaps for ever, he thought.

7

A SPANISH LUGGER

HERRICK moved slightly around the mizzen mast in an effort to remain in the shadow cast by its thick trunk. He found that his eyes were constantly slitted against the harsh glare, his tongue continually moving across his parched lips as the forenoon watch dragged slowly to its conclusion.

Above his head the sails hung limp and lifeless, and there was not a breath of wind to ruffle the flat, empty expanse of sea, upon which the becalmed frigate lay motionless and hushed.

He plucked at his grubby shirt, immediately irritated by the futility of his action. It felt sodden with sweat, yet his whole being seemed to cry out for moisture. He could feel the deck seams gripping stickily at his shoes, and once when he had inadvertently rested his hand on one of the quarterdeck nine-pounders he had almost cried out with pain. The barrel had been as hot as if it had been firing without pause. His lip curled bitterly at the thought. There had been no action, nor was there likely to be under these impossible conditions.