Stand Into Danger (5 page)

Some of the seamen were chattering or pointing out landmarks on the shore as the light began to strengthen.

From the quarterdeck came the instant reprimand. “Mr Bolitho, sir, keep those hands in order! It is more like a cattle-fair than a man-o'-war!”

Bolitho grimaced. “Aye, aye, sir!”

He added for Little's benefit, “Take the name of anyone who . . .”

He got no chance to finish as Captain Dumaresq's cocked hat appeared through the after companion and then with apparent indifference his bulky figure moved to one side of the quarterdeck.

Bolitho whispered fiercely to the midshipmen, “Now listen, you two. Speed is important, but not more so than getting things done correctly. Don't badger the men unnecessarily, most of them have been at sea for years anyway. Watch and learn, be ready to assist if one of the new hands gets in a tangle.”

They both nodded grimly as if they had just heard words of great wisdom.

“Standing by forrard, sir!”

That was Timbrell, the boatswain. He seemed to be everywhere. Pausing to put a new man's fingers properly around a brace or away from a block so that when his companions threw their weight on it he would not lose half of his hand. He was equally ready to bring his rattan cane down with a crack on somebody's shoulders if he thought he was acting stupidly. It brought a yelp of pain, and unsympathetic grins from the others.

Bolitho heard the captain say something, and seconds later the red ensign ran smartly up to the peak and blew out in the wind like painted metal.

Timbrell again. “Anchor's hove short, sir!” He was leaning over the beak-head, peering intently at the current as it swirled beneath the bowsprit.

“Stand by on the capstan!”

Bolitho darted another glance aft. The place of command. Gulliver with his helmsmen, three today at the big double wheel. Taking no chances. Colpoys with his marines at the mizzen braces, the midshipman of the watch, and the signals midshipman, Henderson, still staring up at the wildly flapping ensign to make sure the halliards had not fouled. With the ship about to leave port, it would be more than his life was worth.

At the quarterdeck rail, Palliser with a master's mate, and slightly apart from them all, the captain, stout legs well braced, hands beneath his coat-tails, as he stared the full length of his command. To his astonishment, Bolitho saw that Dumaresq was wearing a scarlet waistcoat beneath his coat.

“Loose heads'ls!”

The men up forward stirred into life, an unwary landmen almost getting trampled underfoot as the great areas of canvas flapped and writhed in their sudden freedom.

Palliser glanced at the captain. There was the merest nod. Then the first lieutenant lifted his speaking-trumpet and yelled, “Hands aloft there!
Loose tops'ls.
”

The ratlines above either gangway were filled with seamen as they rushed up like monkeys towards the yards while other fleet-footed topmen dashed on higher still, ready to play their part when the ship was under way.

Bolitho smiled to hide his anxiety as Jury sped after the clawing, hurrying seamen.

By his side Merrett said hoarsely, “I feel sick, sir.”

Slade, the senior master's mate, paused and snarled, “Then contain it! Spew up 'ere, my lad, an' I'll stretch you across a gun an' give you six strokes to sharpen your wits!” He hurried on, snapping orders, pushing men to their proper stations, the small midshipman already forgotten.

Merrett sniffed. “Well, I
do
feel sick!”

Bolitho said, “Stand over there.”

He peered towards the speaking-trumpet and then aloft at his men strung out along the yards, the great billowing mass of the main-topsail already catching pockets of wind and trying to wrench itself free.

“Man the braces! Stand by . . .”

“Anchor's aweigh, sir!”

Like a released animal the
Destiny
paid off into the wind, her sails thundering out from her yards, banging and puffing in a frenzy until with the men straining at the braces to haul the yards round and the helm hard over she came under command.

Bolitho swallowed bile as a man slipped on the mainyard but was hauled to safety by one of his mates.

Round and further still, so that the land seemed to be whirling past the bows and the graceful figurehead in a wild dance.

“More hands to the weather forebrace! Take that man's name! Mr Slade! See to the anchor and lively now!”

Palliser's voice was never still. As the anchor rose dripping to the cathead and was swiftly made fast to prevent it battering at the ship's hull, more men were rushed elsewhere by his demanding trumpet.

“Get the fore and main-courses set!”

The biggest sails boomed out from their yards and hardened like iron in the driving wind. Bolitho paused to straighten his hat and draw breath. The land where he had searched for volunteers was safely on the opposite beam now, and with her masts lining up to the wind and rudder
Destiny
was already pointing towards the narrows, beyond which the open sea waited like a field of grey.

Men fought with snaking lines, while overhead blocks screamed as braces and halliards took on the strain of muscle against the wind and a growing pyramid of canvas.

Dumaresq had not apparently moved. He was watching the land sliding abeam, his chin tightly jammed into his neckcloth.

Bolitho dashed some rain or spray from his eyes, feeling his own excitement, suddenly grateful he had not lost it. Through the narrows and into the Sound, where Drake had waited to match the Armada, where a hundred admirals had pondered and considered their immediate futures. And where after that?

“Leadsman in the chains, Mr Slade!”

Bolitho knew he was in a frigate now. No careful, portly manoeuvre here. Dumaresq knew there would be many eyes watching from the land even at this early hour. He would cut past the headland as close as he dared, with just a fathom between the keel and disaster. He had the wind, he had the ship to do it.

Behind him he heard Merrett retching helplessly and hoped Palliser would not see him.

Stockdale was bending a line round his palm and elbow in a manner born. On his thick arm it looked like a thread. He and the captain made a good pair.

Stockdale said huskily, “Free, that's what I am.”

Bolitho made to reply but realized the battered fighter was speaking for his own benefit.

Palliser's tone stung like a lash. “Mr Bolitho! I shall tell you
first,
as I need the t'gan'sls set as soon as we are through the narrows! It may give you time to complete your dream and attend to your duties, sir!”

Bolitho touched his hat and beckoned to his petty officers. Palliser was all right in the wardroom. On deck he was a tyrant.

He saw Merrett bending over a gun and vomiting into the scuppers.

“Damn your eyes, Mr Merrett! Clean up that mess before you dismiss! And control yourself!”

He turned away, confused and embarrassed. Palliser was not the only one, it seemed.

2
S
UDDEN DEATH

THE WEEK which followed
Destiny
's departure from Plymouth was the busiest and the most demanding in Richard Bolitho's young life.

Once free of the land's protection, Dumaresq endeavoured to set as much canvas as his ship could safely carry in a rising wind. The world was confined to a nightmare of stinging, ice-cold spray, violent swooping thrusts as the frigate smashed her way through troughs and rearing crests alike. It seemed as if it would never end, with no time to find dry clothing, and what food the cook had been able to prepare and have carried through the pitching hull had to be gulped down in minutes.

Once as Rhodes relieved Bolitho on watch he shouted above the din of cracking canvas and the sea surging inboard along the lee side, “It's the lord and master's way, Dick! Push the ship to the limit, find the strength of every man aboard!” He ducked as a phantom of freezing spray doused them both. “Officers, too, for that matter!”

Tempers became frayed, and once or twice small incidents of insubordination flared openly, only to be quenched by some heavy-fisted petty officer or the threat of formal punishment at the gratings.

The captain was often on deck, moving without effort between compass and chartroom, discussing progress with Gulliver, the master, or the first lieutenant.

And at night it was always worse. Bolitho never seemed to get his head buried in a musty pillow for his watch below before the hoarse cry was carried between deck like a call to arms.

“All hands! All hands aloft an' reef tops'ls!”

And it was then that Bolitho really noticed the difference. In a ship of the line he had been forced to claw his way aloft with the rest of them, fighting his loathing of heights and conscious only of the need not to show that fear to others. But when it was done, it was done. Now, as a lieutenant, it was all happening just as Dumaresq had prophesied.

In the middle of one fierce gale, as
Destiny
had tacked and battered her way through the Bay of Biscay, the call had come to take in yet another reef. There had been no moon or stars, just a rearing wall of broken water, white against the outer darkness, to show just how small their ship really was.

Men, dazed by constant work and half blinded by salt spray, had staggered to their stations, and then reluctantly had begun to drag themselves up the vibrating ratlines, then out along the topsail yards. The
Destiny
had been leaning so steeply to leeward that her main-yard had seemed to be brushing the broken crests alongside.

Forster, the captain of the maintop, and Bolitho's key petty officer, had yelled, “This man says 'e won't go aloft, sir! No matter what!”

Bolitho had seized a stay to prevent himself from being flung on his face. “Go yourself, Forster! Without you up there God knows what might happen!” He had peered up at the remainder of his men while all the time the wind had moaned and shrieked, like a demented being enjoying their torment.

Jury had been up there, his body pressed against the shrouds by the force of the wind. On the foremast they had been having the same trouble, with men and cordage, sails and spars all pounded together while the ship had done her best to hurl them into the sea below.

Bolitho had then remembered what Forster had told him. The man in question had been staring at him, a thin, defiant figure in a torn checkered shirt and seaman's trousers. “What's the matter with you?” Bolitho had had to yell above the din.

“I can't go, sir.” The man had shaken his head violently.
“Can't!”

Little had come lurching past, cursing and blaspheming as he helped to haul some new cordage to the mainmast in readiness for use.

He had bellowed, “I'll drag 'im aloft, sir!”

Bolitho had shouted to the seaman, “Go below and help relieve the pumps!”

Two days later the same man had been reported missing. A search of the ship by Poynter, the master-at-arms, and the ship's corporal, had revealed nothing.

Little had tried to explain as best as he knew how. “It were like this, sir. You should 'ave
made
'im go aloft, even if 'e fell and broke 'is back. Or you could 'ave taken 'im aft for punishment. “E'd 'ave got three dozen lashes, but 'e'd 'ave been a
man!
”

Bolitho had reluctantly understood. He had taken away the seaman's pride. His messmates would have sympathized with a man seized up at the gratings and flogged. Their contempt had been more than that lonely, defiant seaman had been able to stand.

On the sixth day the storm passed on and left them breathless and dazed by its intensity. Sails were reset, and the business of clearing up and repairing put aside any thought of rest.

Now, everyone aboard knew where the ship was first headed. To the Portuguese island of Madeira, although what for was a mystery still. Except to Rhodes, who had confided that it was merely to lay in a great store of wine for the surgeon's personal use.

Dumaresq had obviously read the report of the seaman's death in the log, but had said nothing of it to Bolitho. At sea, more men died by accident than ever from ball or cutlass.

But Bolitho blamed himself. The others, Little and Forster, years ahead of him in age and experience, had turned to him because he was their lieutenant.

Forster had remarked indifferently, “Well, 'e weren't much bloody good anyway, sir.”

All Little had offered had been, “Could 'ave been worse, sir.”

It was amazing to see the difference the weather made. The ship came alive again, and men moved about their work without glancing fearfully across their shoulders or clinging to the shrouds with both arms whenever they went aloft to splice or reeve new blocks.

On the morning of the seventh day, while the smell of cooking started the wagers going as to what the dish would eventually be, the masthead lookout yelled, “Deck there! Land on the lee bow!”

Bolitho had the watch, and beckoned Merrett to bring him a telescope. The midshipman looked like a little old man after the storm and a week of back-breaking work. But he was still alive, and was never late on watch.

“Let me see.” Bolitho levelled the glass through the black shrouds and past the figurehead's curved shoulder.

Dumaresq's voice made him start. “Madeira, Mr Bolitho. An attractive island.”

Bolitho touched his hat. For so heavy a man the captain could move without making a sound.

“I—I'm sorry, sir.”

Dumaresq smiled and took the telescope from Bolitho's hands. As he trained it on the distant island he added, “When I was a lieutenant I always made sure that somebody in my watch was ready to warn me of my captain's approach.”

He glanced at Bolitho, the wide, compelling eyes seeking something. “But not you, I suspect. Not yet anyway.”

He tossed the glass to Merrett and added, “Walk with me. Exercise is good for the soul.”

So up and down along the weather side of the quarterdeck the
Destiny
's captain and her most junior lieutenant took their stroll, their feet by-passing ring-bolts and gun-tackles without conscious effort.

Dumaresq spoke briefly of his home in Norfolk, but only as a place. He did not sketch in the people there, his friends, or whether he was married or not.

Bolitho tried to put himself in Dumaresq's place. Able to walk and speak of other, unimportant things while his ship leaned to a steady wind, her sails set one above the other in ordered array. Her officers, her seamen and marines, the means to sail and fight under any given condition, were all his concern. At this moment they were heading for an island, and afterwards they would sail much further. The responsibility seemed endless. As Bolitho's father had once wryly remarked, “Only one law remains unchanged for any captain. If he is successful others will reap the credit. If he fails he will take the blame.”

Dumaresq asked suddenly, “Are you settled in now?”

“I think so, sir.”

“Good. If you are still mulling over that seaman's death, I must ask you to desist. Life is God's greatest gift. To risk it is one thing, to throw it away is to cheat. He had no
right.
Best forgotten.”

He turned away as Palliser appeared on deck, the master-at-arms bringing up the rear.

Palliser touched his hat to the captain, but his eyes were on Bolitho.

“Two hands for punishment, sir.” He held out his book. “You know them both.”

Dumaresq tilted forward on his toes, so that it appeared as if his heavy body would lose its balance.

“See to it at two bells, Mr Palliser. Get it over and done with. No sense in putting the people off their food.” He strode away, nodding to the master's mate of the watch like a squire to his gamekeeper.

Palliser closed his book with a snap. “My compliments to Mr Timbrell, and ask him to have a grating rigged.” He crossed to Bolitho's side. “Well, now?”

Bolitho said, “The captain told me of his home in Norfolk, sir.”

Palliser seemed vaguely disappointed. “I see.”

“Why does the captain wear a red waistcoat, sir?”

Palliser watched the master-at-arms returning with the boatswain. “Really, I am surprised your confidences did not extend that far.”

Bolitho hid a smile as Palliser strode away. He did not know either. After three years together that was something.

Bolitho stood beside Rhodes at the taffrail and watched the colourful activity of Funchal Harbour and its busy waterfront.
Destiny
lay at her anchor, with only the quarter-boat and the captain's gig in the water alongside. It did not look as if anyone would be allowed ashore, Bolitho thought.

Local boats with quaint curling stems and stern-posts milled around the frigate, their occupants holding up fruit and bright shawls, big jars of wine and many other items to tempt the sailors who thronged the gangways or waved from the shrouds and tops.

Destiny
had anchored in mid-afternoon, and all hands had stayed on deck to watch the final approach, drinking in the beauty of what Dumaresq had rightly described as an attractive island. The hills beyond the white buildings were filled with beautiful flowers and shrubs, a sight indeed after the wild passage through the Bay. That, and the two floggings which had been carried out even as the ship had changed tack for their final approach, were forgotten.

Rhodes smiled and pointed at one boat. It contained three dark-haired girls who lay back on their cushions and stared boldly up at the young officers. It was obvious what they hoped to sell.

Captain Dumaresq had gone ashore almost as soon as the smoke of the gun salute to the Portuguese governor had dispersed. He had told Palliser he was going to meet the governor and pay his respects, but Rhodes said later, “He's too excited for a mere social visit, Dick. I smell intrigue in the air.”

The gig had returned with instructions that Lockyer, the captain's clerk, was to go ashore with some papers from the cabin strong-box. He was down there now fussing about with his bag of documents while the side-party arranged for a boatswain's chair to sway him out and down into the gig.

Palliser joined them and said disdainfully, “Look at the old fool. Never goes ashore, but when he does they have to rig a chair in case he falls and drowns!”

Rhodes grinned as the clerk was finally lowered into the boat. “Must be the oldest man aboard.”

Bolitho thought about it. That was something else he had discovered. It was a young company, with very few senior hands like those he had known in the big seventy-four. The sailing master of a man-of-war was usually getting on in years by the time he was appointed, but Gulliver was under thirty.

Most of the hands lounging at the nettings or employed about the decks looked in good health. It was mostly due to the surgeon, Rhodes had said. That was the value of a medical man who cared, and who had the knowledge to fight the dreaded scurvy and other diseases which could cripple a whole ship.

Bulkley was one of the few privileged ones. He had gone ashore with orders from the captain to purchase all the fresh fruit and juices he thought necessary, while Codd, the purser, had similar instructions on the matter of vegetables.

Bolitho removed his hat and let the sun warm his face. It would be good to explore that town. Sit in a shady tavern like those Bulkley and some of the others had described.

The gig had reached the jetty now and some of
Destiny
's marines were making a passage through a watching crowd for old Lockyer to get through.

Palliser said, “I see that your shadow is nearby.”

Bolitho turned his head and saw Stockdale kneeling beside a twelve-pounder on the gun-deck. He was listening to Vallance, the ship's gunner, and then making gestures with his hand beneath the carriage. Bolitho saw Vallance nod and then clap Stockdale on the shoulder.

That was unusual. He already knew that Vallance was not the easiest warrant officer to get along with. He was jealous about everything in his domain, from magazine to gun crews, from maintenance to the wear and tear of tackle.