Alexander Kent - Stand into Danger

Blindly Bolitho stood up and stared around at the destruction and the pain. Stephen Rhodes was dead. The one who had first made him feel welcome, who had taken life at face value, a day at a time.

Then, beyond the broken nettings and punctured hammocks he saw the sea. The sluggish swell was gone. He peered up at the sails. Holed they might be, but they were thrusting out like breast-plates as they pushed the frigate forward into the fight. They had not been beaten. Rhodes had seen it, the wind, he had said. The last thing he had understood on this earth.

He ran to the side and saw San Augustin startlingly close, right there on the starboard bow. Men were shooting at him, there was smoke and noise all around, but he felt nothing. Close to, the enemy ship was no longer so proud and invulnerable, and he could see where Destiny’s claws had left their mark.

He heard Dumaresq’s voice following him along the deck, commanding, all powerful even in its pain. “Ready to starboard, Mr Bolitho!”

Bolitho snatched up Rhodes ’ beautiful sword and waved it wildly.

“Stand to! Double-shotted, lads!”

Musket-balls hammered across the decks like pebbles, and here and there a man fell. But the rest, dragging themselves from the wreckage and leaving Rhodes ’ guns on the larboard side, shambled to obey. To load the remaining twelve-pounders, to crouch like dazed animals as foot by foot the San Augustin’s towering stern loomed over them like a gilded cliff.

“As you bear!”

Who was shouting the orders? Dumaresq, Palliser, or was he himself so stunned by the ferocity of the battle that he had called them himself?

“Fire!”

He saw the guns sliding inboard, the way their crews just stood and watched the destruction as every murderous ball ploughed through the Spanish man-of-war from stern to bow.

None of the gun-captains, not even Stockdale, made any attempt to reload. It was as if each man knew.

The San Augustin was drifting downwind, perhaps her steering shot away, or her officers killed by the last deadly embrace.

Bolitho walked slowly aft and on to the quarterdeck. Wood splinters were everywhere, and there were few men left at the six-pounders to cheer as some of the enemy’s rigging collapsed in a welter of sparks and smoke.

Dumaresq turned stiffly and looked at him. “I think she’s afire.”

Bolitho saw Gulliver, dead by his helmsmen, and Slade in his place, as if he had been meant for master from the beginning. Colpoys, his red coat over his bandaged wounds like a cape, watching his men standing back from their weapons. Palliser, sitting on a cask, while one of Bulkley’s men examined his arm.

He heard himself say, “We’ll lose the treasure, sir.”

An explosion shook the stricken San Augustin, and figures could be seen jumping over the side and trampling down anyone who tried to stop them.

Dumaresq looked down at his red waistcoat. “So will they.”

Bolitho watched the other ship and saw the smoke thickening, the first glint of fire beneath her mainmast. If Garrick was still alive, he would not get far now.

Bulkley arrived on the quarterdeck and said, “You must come below, Captain. I have to examine you.”

“Must!” Dumaresq gave his fierce grin. “It is not a word I choose-” Then he fainted in his coxswain’s arms.

After all that had happened it seemed unbearable. Bolitho watched as Dumaresq’s body was picked up and carried carefully to the companionway.

Palliser joined him by the quarterdeck rail. He looked ashen but said, “We’ll stand off until that ship either sinks or blows up.”

“What shall I do, sir?” It was Midshipman Henderson, who had somehow survived the whole battle at the masthead.

Palliser looked at him. “You will assume Mr Bolitho’s duties.” He hesitated, his eyes on Rhodes ’ body by the foremast. “Mr Bolitho will be second lieutenant.”

A greater explosion than all the previous ones shook San Augustin so violently that her fore and main-topmasts toppled into the smoke and the hull itself began to turn turtle.

Jury climbed up and joined Bolitho to watch the last moments of the ornate ship.

“Was it worth it, sir?”

Bolitho looked at him and at the ship around them. Already there were men working to put the damage to rights, to make the ship live again. There were a thousand things to do, wounded to care for, the remaining schooner chased and caught, prisoners to be rescued and separated from the Spanish sailors. A great deal of work for one small ship and her company, he thought.

He considered Jury’s question, what it had all cost, and what they had discovered in each other. He thought too of what Dumaresq would have to say when he returned to duty. That was a strange thing about Dumaresq. Dying was like defeat, you could never associate it with him.

Bolitho said quietly, “You must never ask that. I’ve learned, and I’m still learning. The ship comes first. Now, let’s be about it, otherwise the lord and master will have harsh words for all of us.”

Startled, he looked at the sword he still grasped in his hand.

Perhaps Rhodes had answered Jury’s question for him?

epilogue

BOLITHO tugged his hat down over his eyes and looked up at the great grey house. There was a squall blowing up the Channel, and the rain which stung his cheeks felt like ice. All the months, all the waiting, and now he was home again. It had been a long, hard journey from Plymouth after Destiny had dropped anchor. The roads were deeply rutted, and there had been so much mud thrown up on the coach windows Bolitho had found it difficult to recognize places which he had known since boyhood.

And now that he was back again he felt a sense of unreality, and, for some reason he could not determine, one of loss.

The house was unchanged, just as it had looked when he had last seen it, almost a year ago.

Stockdale, who had driven with him from Plymouth, shifted his feet uncertainly.

“Are you sure it’s all right fer me to be ’ere, sir?”

Bolitho looked at him. It had been Dumaresq’s last gesture before he had left the ship, before Destiny had been put into the hands of the dockyard for repair and a well-deserved overhaul.

“Take Stockdale. You’ll be getting another ship soon. Keep him with you. A useful fellow.”

Bolitho said quietly, “You’re welcome here. You’ll see.”

He climbed up the worn stone steps and saw the double-doors swing inwards to greet him. Bolitho was not surprised, he had felt in the last few moments that the whole house had been silently watching him.

But it was not old Mrs Tremayne the housekeeper but a young maidservant he did not recognize.

She curtsied and blushed. “Welcome, zur.” Almost in the same breath she added, “Cap’n James is waitin’ for you, zur.”

Bolitho stamped the mud from his shoes and gave the girl his hat and boat-cloak.

He strode through the panelled hall and stepped into the big room he knew so well. There was the fire, blazing brightly as if to hold the winter at bay, gleaming pewter, the filtered smells from the kitchen, security.

Captain James Bolitho moved from the fire and put his hand on his son’s shoulder.

“My God, Richard, I saw you last as a scrawny midshipman. You’ve come home a man!”

Bolitho was shocked by his father’s appearance. He had steeled himself against the loss of an arm, but his father had changed beyond belief. His hair was grey and his eyes were sunken. Because of his sewn-up sleeve he was holding himself awkwardly, something Bolitho had seen other crippled sailors do, fearful of having someone brush against the place where a limb had been.

“Sit down, my boy.” He watched Bolitho fixedly, as if afraid of missing something. “That’s a terrible scar you have there. I must hear all about it.” But there was no enthusiasm in his voice. “Who was that giant I saw you arrive with?”