Alexander Kent - Stand into Danger

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-atarms 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.