Alexander Kent - Stand into Danger

To larboard Bolitho saw the first walled battery, the Portuguese flag flapping only occasionally above it in the hard sunlight. Rio was well defended, with enough batteries to dampen the keenest of attackers.

Dumaresq was studying the town and the anchored vessels through his glass.

He said, “Let her fall off a point.”

“West-nor’-west, sir!”

Palliser looked at his captain. “Guard-boat approaching.”

Dumaresq smiled briefly. “Wonders what the hell we are doing here, no doubt.”

Bolitho plucked his shirt away from his skin and envied the half naked seamen while the officers were made to swelter in their heavy dress-coats.

Mr Vallance, the gunner, was already checking his chosen crews to make sure nothing went wrong with his salute to the flag.

Bolitho wondered how many unseen eyes were watching the slow approach of the English frigate. A man-of-war, what did she want? Was she here for peaceful purposes, or with news of another broken treaty in Europe?

“Begin the salute!”

Gun by gun the salute crashed out, the heavy air pressing the thick smoke on the water and blotting out the land.

The Portuguese guard-boat had turned in her own length, propelled by great sweeps, so that she looked like a giant water-beetle.

Somebody commented, “The bugger’s leadin’ us in.”

The last gun recoiled and the crews threw themselves on the tackles to sponge the smoking muzzles and secure each weapon as a final gesture of peaceful intentions.

A figure waved a flag from the guard-boat, and as the long sweeps rose dripping and still on either beam, Dumaresq remarked dryly, “Not too close in, Mr Palliser. They’re taking no chances with us!”

Palliser raised his trumpet to his mouth. “Lee braces there! Hands wear ship!”

Like parts of an intricate pattern the seamen and their petty officers ran to their stations.

“Tops’l sheets!” Palliser’s voice roused the sea-birds from the water upon which they had only just alighted after the din of the salute. “Tops’l clew-lines!”

Dumaresq said, “So be it, Mr Palliser. Anchor.”

“Helm a’lee!”

Destiny turned slowly into the wind, the way going off her as she responded to the helm.

“Let go!”

There was a splash from forward as the big anchor plummeted down, while strung out on the topsail yards the seamen deftly furled the sails as if each mast was controlled by one invisible hand.

“Away gig’s crew! Away quarter-boat!”

Bare feet stampeded across the hot decks while Destiny took the strain of her cable and then swung to the pull of the ocean.

Dumaresq thrust his hands behind his back. “Signal the guard-boat alongside, if you please. I shall have to go ashore and pay my respects to the Viceroy. It is best to get such ponderous matters over and done with.”

He nodded to Gulliver and his mates by the wheel. “Well done.”

Gulliver searched the captain’s face as if expecting a trap. Finding none, he replied thankfully, “My first visit here as master, sir.”

Their eyes met. Had the collision been any worse it would have been the last time for both of them.

Bolitho was kept busy with his own men and had little time to watch the Portuguese officers come aboard. They looked resplendent in their proud uniforms and showed no discomfort in the blistering heat. The town was almost hidden in mist and haze, which gave it an added air of enchantment. Pale buildings, and craft with colourful sails and a rig not unlike Arab traders which Bolitho had seen off the coast of Africa.

“Dismiss the watch below, Mr Bolitho.” Palliser’s brisk voice caught him off guard. “Then stand by with the marine escort to accompany the captain ashore.”

Bolitho ducked thankfully beneath the quarterdeck and made his way aft. In contrast with the upper deck it seemed almost cool.

In the gloom he all but collided with the surgeon as he clambered up from the main-deck. He seemed unusually agitated and said, “I must see the captain. I fear the brigantine’s master is dying.”

Bolitho went through the wardroom to his tiny cabin to collect his sword and his best hat for the journey ashore.

They had discovered little about the Heloise’s master, other than he was a Dorset man named Jacob Triscott. As Bulkley had remarked previously, it was not much incentive to stay alive when only the hangman’s rope awaited him. Bolitho found that the news troubled him deeply. To kill a man in self-defence, and in the line of duty, was to be expected. But now the man who had tried to cut him down was dying, and the delay seemed unfair and without dignity.

Rhodes stamped into the wardroom behind him. “I’m parched. With all these visitors aboard, I’ll be worn out in no time.”

As Bolitho came out of his cabin Rhodes exclaimed, “What is it?”

“The brigantine’s master is dying.”

“I know.” He shrugged. “Him or you. It’s the only way to see it.” He added, “Forget about it. The lord and master will be the one to get annoyed. He was banking on getting information from the wretch before he expired. One way or another.”

He followed Bolitho through the screen door and together they looked forward, to the waiting glare of the upper deck.

Rhodes asked, “Any luck with young Jury’s watch?”

Bolitho smiled grimly. “The captain told me to deal with it.”

“He would.”

“I expect he’s forgotten about it by now, but I must do something. Jury has had enough trouble already.”

Johns, the captain’s personal coxswain, dressed in his best blue jacket with gilt buttons, strode past. He saw Bolitho and said, “Gig’s in the water, sir. You’d best be there, too.”

Rhodes clapped Bolitho on the shoulder. “The lord and master would not take kindly to being kept waiting!”

As Bolitho was about to follow the coxswain, Rhodes said quietly, “Look, Dick, if you’d like me to do something about that damned watch while you’re ashore…”

Bolitho shook his head. “No, but thank you. The thief is most likely from my division. To search every man and turn his possessions out on the deck would destroy whatever trust and loyalty I’ve managed to build up so far. I’ll think of something.”

Rhodes said, “I just hope young Jury has not merely mislaid the timepiece; a loss is one thing, a theft another.”

They fell silent as they approached the starboard gangway where the side-party had fallen in to pay its respects to the captain.

But Dumaresq was standing with his thick legs apart, his head jutting forward as he shouted to the surgeon, “No, sir, he shall not die! Not until I have the information!”

Bulkley spread his hands helplessly. “But the man is going, sir. There is nothing more I can do.”

Dumaresq looked at the waiting gig and at the quarter-boat nearby with Colpoys’ marine escort already crammed aboard. He was expected at the Viceroy’s residence, and to delay might provoke bad feelings which he would certainly wish to avoid if he needed Portuguese co-operation.

He swung on Palliser. “Dammit,you deal with it. Tell that rogue Triscott that if he will reveal the details of his mission and his original destination I shall send a letter to his parish in Dorset. It will ensure that he is remembered as an honest man. Impress upon him what that will mean to his family and his friends.” He glared at Palliser’s doubtful features. “God damn it, Mr Palliser, think of something, will you?”

Palliser asked mildly, “And if he spits in my face?”

“I’ll hang him here and now, and see how his family like that!”

Bulkley stepped forward. “Be easy, sir, the man is dying, he cannot hurt anyone.”

“Go back to him and do as I say. That is an order.” He turned to Palliser. “Tell Mr Timbrell to rig a halter to the main-yard. I’ll run that bugger up to it, dying or not, if he refuses to help!”