Free To Glory We Steer by Alexander Kent

him. Bolitho had been going through the ship’s books again trying to draw out Vibart’s wooden reserve, to feel his way into the man’s mind.
    Like everything else during the past twenty days, it had been a hard and seemingly fruitless task. Vibart was too careful to show his hostility in the open and confined himself to short, empty answers, as if he hoarded his knowledge of the ship and her company like a personal possession.
    Then Farquhar had entered the cabin with this story of Betts’s assault on the purser. It was just one more thing to distract his thoughts from what lay head, from the real task of working the frigate into a single fighting unit.
    He made himself turn and face the two officers.
    â€œSentry! Pass the word for Mr Evans!” He heard the cry passed along the passageway and then added, “It seems to me as if this seaman was provoked.”
    Vibart swayed with the ship, his eyes fixed on a point above the captain’s shoulder. He said quickly, “Betts is no recruit, sir. He knew what he was doing!”
    Bolitho turned to watch the open, empty sea. If only this had not happened just yet, he thought bitterly. A few more days and the damp, wind-buffeted ship would be in the sun, where men soon learned to forget their surroundings and started to look outboard instead of watching each other.
    He listened to the hiss and gurgle of water around the rudder, the distant clank of pumps as the duty watch dealt with the inevitable seepage into the bilges. He felt tired and strained to the limit. From the moment the Phalarope had weighed anchor he had not spared himself or his efforts to maintain his hold over the ship. He had made a point of speaking to most of the new men, and of establishing contact with the regular crew. He had watched his officers, and had driven the ship to her utmost. It should have been a proud moment for him. The frigate handled well, lively and ready to respond to helm and sail like a thoroughbred.
    Most of the new men had been sorted into their most suitable stations, and the sail drill had advanced beyond even his expectations. At the first suitable moment he intended to exercise the guns’ crews, but up to this time he had been prevented from much more than allocations of hands to the various divisions by the unceasing wind.
    Now this, he fumed inwardly. No wonder the admiral had asked him to watch young Farquhar’s behaviour.
    There was a tap at the door and Evans stepped gingerly into the cabin, his eyes flickering like beads in the lamplight.
    Bolitho gestured impatiently. “Now then, Mr Evans. Let me have the full story.”
    He turned to stare at the water again as Evans launched into his account. To start with he seemed nervous, even frightened, but when Bolitho allowed him to continue without interruption or comment his voice grew sharper and more outraged.
    Bolitho said at length, “The meat that Betts threw at you. What cask did it come from?”
    Evans was caught off guard. “Number twelve, sir. I saw it stowed myself.” He added in a wheedling tone. “I do my best, sir. They are ungrateful dogs for the most part!”
    Bolitho turned and tapped the papers on his table. “I checked the stowage myself, too, Mr Evans. Two days ago when the hands were at drill!” He saw a flicker of alarm show itself on Evans’s dark face and knew that his lie had gone home. A feeling of sudden anger swept through him like fire. All the things he had told his officers had been for nothing. Even the near-mutiny seemed to have made no impression on the minds of men like Evans and Farquhar.
    He snapped, “That cask was in the low stowage, was it not? And how many others were down there, do you think?”
    Evans peered nervously around the cabin. “Five or six, sir. They were some of the original stores which I . . .”
    Bolitho slammed his fist on the table. “You make me sick, Evans! That cask and those