Alexander Kent - Stand into Danger

Stockdale watched Bolitho’s face searchingly, then he added, “I’ll make you comfortable, you see.”

Bolitho saw him moving about amongst the busy seamen as if he had been doing it all his life.

Little said quietly, “Reckon you can stop frettin’ now, sir. Old Stockdale will be worth fifteen men all on his bloody own, by my reckonin’!”

Bolitho drank some of the brandy, the grease from a chicken leg running unheeded across the cuff of his new shirt.

He had learned a lot today, not least about himself.

His head lolled, and he did not feel Stockdale remove the cup from his fingers.

And there was always tomorrow.

BOLITHO pulled himself up the Destiny’s side and raised his hat to the quarterdeck. Gone was the mist and dull cloud, and the houses of Plymouth beyond the Hamoaze seemed to be preening themselves in hard sunshine.

He felt stiff and tired from tramping from village to village, dirty from sleeping in barn and inn alike, and the sight of his six recruits being mustered and then led forward by the master-at-arms did little to raise his spirits. The sixth volunteer had come up to the recruiting party less than an hour before they had reached the long-boat. A neat, un-seamanlike figure aged about thirty, who said he was an apothecary’s assistant but needed to gain experience on a long voyage so that he might better himself.

It was as unlikely a story as that of the two farm labourers, but Bolitho was too weary to care.

“Ah, I see you are back, Mr Bolitho!”

The first lieutenant was standing at the quarterdeck rail, his tall figure framed against the washed-out sky. His arms were folded and he had obviously been watching the new arrivals from the moment the returning launch had been challenged.

In his crisp voice he added, “Lay aft, if you please.”

Bolitho climbed to the larboard gangway and made his way to the quarterdeck. His companion of three days, the gunner’s mate Little, was already bustling down a ladder, going to take a “wet” with his mates, no doubt. He was lost amongst his own world below decks, leaving Bolitho once more a stranger, little different from the moment he had first stepped aboard.

He confronted the first lieutenant and touched his hat. Palliser looked composed and extremely neat, which made Bolitho feel even more like a vagrant.

Bolitho said, “Six hands, sir. The big man was a fighter, and should be a welcome addition. The last one worked for an apothecary in Plymouth.”

His words seemed to be falling like stones. Palliser had not moved and the quarterdeck was unnaturally quiet.

Bolitho ended, “It was the best I could do, sir.”

Palliser pulled out his watch. “Good. Well, the captain has come aboard in your absence. He asked to see you the moment you returned.”

Bolitho stared at him. He had been expecting the heavens to fall. Six men instead of twenty, and one of those would never make a sailor.

Palliser snapped down the guard of his watch and regarded Bolitho coolly. “Has the long sojourn ashore rendered you hard of hearing? The captain wishes to see you. That does not mean now; aboard this ship it means the moment that the captain thought of it!”

Bolitho looked ruefully at his muddy shoes and stockings. “I- I’m sorry, sir, I thought you said…”

Palliser was already looking elsewhere, his eyes busy on some men working on the forecastle.

“I told you to obtain twenty men. Had I ordered you to bring six, how many would you have found? Two? None at all?” Surprisingly he smiled. “Six will do very well. Now be off to the captain. Pork pie today, so be sharp about your business or there’ll be none left.” He turned on his heel, yelling, “Mr Slade, what are those idlers doing, damn your eyes!”

Bolitho ran dazedly down the companion ladder and made his way aft. Faces loomed past him in the shadows between the decks, voices fell silent as they watched him pass. The new lieutenant. Going to see the captain. What is he like? Too easy or too hard?

A marine stood with his musket by his side, swaying slightly as the ship tugged at her anchor. His eyes glittered in the lantern which spiralled from the deckhead, as it did night and day when the captain was in his quarters.

Bolitho made an effort to straighten his neckcloth and push the rebellious hair from his forehead.

The marine gave him exactly five seconds and then rapped smartly on the deck with his musket.

“Third lieutenant, sir! ”

The screen door opened and a wispy-haired man in a black coat, probably the captain’s clerk, gave Bolitho an impatient, beckoning gesture. Rather like a schoolmaster with a wayward pupil.

Bolitho tucked his hat more firmly beneath his arm and entered the cabin. After the rest of the ship it was spacious, with a second screen separating the stern cabin from the dining space, and what Bolitho took to be the sleeping quarters.

The slanting stern windows which crossed the complete rear of the cabin shone in the sunlight, giving an impression of warmth, while the overhead beams and the various pieces of furniture rippled cheerfully in the sea’s reflections.

Captain Henry Vere Dumaresq had been leaning against the sill, apparently peering down at the water, but he turned with unusual lightness as Bolitho entered through the dining space.

Bolitho tried to appear calm and at ease, but it was impossible. The captain was like nobody he had ever seen. His body was broad and thickset, and his head stood straight on his shoulders as if he had no neck at all. It was like the rest of the man, powerful and giving an impression of immense strength. Little had said that Dumaresq was only twenty-eight years old, but he looked ageless, as if he had never changed and never would.

He walked to meet Bolitho, putting each foot down with forceful precision. Bolitho saw his legs, made more prominent by his expensive white stockings. The calves looked as thick as a man’s thigh.

“You appear somewhat knocked about, Mr Bolitho.”

Dumaresq had a throaty, resonant voice, one which would carry easily in a full gale, yet Bolitho suspected it might also convey quiet sympathy.

He said awkwardly, “Aye, sir, I-I mean, I was ashore with the recruiting party.”

Dumaresq pointed to a chair. “Sit.” He raised his voice very slightly. “Some claret!”

It had the desired effect, and almost immediately his servant was busily pouring wine into two beautifully cut glasses. Then just as discreetly he withdrew.

Dumaresq sat down opposite Bolitho, barely a yard away. His power and presence were unnerving. Bolitho recalled his last captain. In the big seventy-four he had always been remote, aloof from the happenings of wardroom and gunroom alike. Only at moments of crisis or ceremony had he made his presence felt, and then, as before, always at a distance.

Dumaresq said, “My father had the honour of serving with yours some years back. How is he?”

Bolitho thought of his mother and sister in the house at Falmouth. Waiting for Captain James Bolitho to return home. His mother would be counting the days, perhaps dreading how he might have changed.

He had lost an arm in India, and when his ship had been paid off he had been told he was to be placed on the retired list indefinitely.

Bolitho said, “He is due home, sir. But with an arm gone and no chance to remain in the King’s service, I’m not certain what will become of him.” He broke off, startled that he had spoken his thoughts aloud.

But Dumaresq gestured to the glass. “Drink, Mr Bolitho, and speak as you will. It’s more important that I should know you than you should care for my views.” It seemed to amuse him. “It comes to all of us. We must consider ourselves fortunate indeed to have her!” His head swivelled round as he looked at the cabin. He was speaking of the ship, his ship, as if he loved her more than anything.