The Hector herself almost seemed eager to act on the captain’s decision. She was a swift and powerful ship of war no matter what her recent history. Merriot, officer of the watch, nodded in approval as she raced along. It was good to have a plan of action.
Captain Pearson might have barely a clue about how to manage a fighting frigate, but he wasn’t short on ideas. That was perfectly manageable. A captain who could puzzle out the best way to implement difficult orders from the admiral, backed by lieutenants and a Master who knew how to get the best out of the ship and her company, could hope to function at least as well as if the captain knew all about the sea but only obeyed orders woodenly.
Of course creative thinking on the part of the Captain might land himself in trouble with Admiral Strachan if everything went wrong, but that was a risk that had to be taken. It was almost better to do anything, anything at all, rather than scull around the Atlantic in a haze of indecision. And the company seemed to have caught something of the Captain’s mood, as well. There was less of the sullen hopelessness that had infected her as recently as English Harbour, so few days ago.
Perhaps the Hector’s company were looking forward to a fight. Lieutenant Merriot was; he was making no bones about it. Some of the men had caught this idea of the American’s, the one about using massed boarding pikes in a kind of echo of how the Greeks or Romans or whoever it was used to fight, and he had to admit, watching a knot of twenty-odd men with headless pikestaffs practicing together, it would frighten the life out of him to see a mob like that charging at him. In a narrow way, with a thicket of points coming towards a man anything from knee to face height, too many to dodge or knock aside, it would be murderous. Even dropping one or two of the attackers wouldn’t keep the rest of the formation skewering you or even trampling over you by sheer might and main. As much or more to the point, if the tactic had the enthusiasm of the men using it, that alone might be enough to carry them through a fight.
Not that they were likely to be encountering serious opposition in these waters. The blockade of the French and Spanish ports were keeping most of the enemy’s ships of war shut up at home. Anything they encountered locally was more likely to be a coastal trader, with or without the attentions of a guardia costa; or else something that, like the El Cordobes, had been plying her trade between South America and Africa and not sighting home waters in years. Even if they did sight a Spanish frigate, Merriot didn’t expect one to be a match for the Hector, even if nominally her equal gun for gun and with a larger company into the bargain. The heart had gone out of the Spanish some time since Drake’s day and they were no longer the terror of the high seas.
But the renegade was going to be a different matter, if they could find her.
Kester Johanssen was excused general duties until further notice, but he wasn’t so sure that this was a blessing, at that, and even having the captain’s secretary to help him wasn’t lightening the load so very much. He should have known better, of course. Everyone knew that only an idiot volunteered for any chore, however tempting. All very well for the Captain to ask him how he fancied running a ship of his very own for a change, but if he’d known that it would mean faking up a whole set of ship’s papers, he’d have thought twice about it, especially as there wasn’t another Swede, literate or otherwise, on the Hector’s muster book.
At least most log entries only comprised fake courses and speeds, and with a little prompting from him, Worstead could write these out for him. Then, no-one would expect a small merchant ship’s crew to be recorded in the same meticulous detail as a man of war’s. Even so, there was a lot of work to be done, and hands rough from pulling on ropes and pushing the bars of the capstan suffered something close to torture at handling a pen all day. Still, as each page was finished, there was not too much difficulty in making it look months older than it was. A few hours in the mid-day scorch aged paper almost fast enough for a man to see, this close to the Equator.
When the bell clanged twice, signalling one o’clock in the afternoon, Johanssen put his pen down and gave a tired sigh. “Time for some grub, Inky. See you back at four bells.”
Worstead nodded. He didn’t ordinarily stand for much familiarity from a mere deckhand, even one rated “Able”, but Johanssen gave the impression that he was better got along with than not. The scar on his cheek was plainly the legacy of an altercation with a knife, and since the Swede was still here to show it off, no doubt the man who’d put the scar there had not won the fight in the end. He picked up the Swede’s pen, noted with exasperation that the heavy-handed lummox had just about ruined the point, and unfolded his knife to cut a new one with an ease born of long practice.
The crew of Number Three gun were waiting for him at their scrubbed table; at least Atkins and the Jew, Jacobs, were, and just as Johanssen seated himself, Wynton arrived with the midday rations. These were basic. In the sweltering heat of a tropical noon, no-one was planning to sweat over a hot galley stove, nor did anyone especially need a hot meal. But at least the bread barge was well filled, even if “bread” was a slightly optimistic term for something designed for keeping qualities above any consideration of taste, and that was never entirely free of weevils.
“You got us any slush?” Atkins demanded, taking first pick from the barge. Caleb nodded and produced a mug from under his sleeve, nearly full of watery grease.
“Here. Only you’ll have to give me something for it. I don’t want anything for myself, but O’Reilley’ll skin me if he doesn’t get his share.”
“Okay.” Atkins dug out a quid of tobacco; it was probably the most negotiable currency in the whole Navy. He cut it and handed half over. “So, you fancy being one of Captain Johanssen’s loyal hands, Wynton?”