Alexander Kent - Stand into Danger

Clink, clink, clink, the pawls on the capstan moved reluctantly as the men threw themselves on the bars. Whippings and lashings had been cast off from the various coils of halliards and other running rigging, and while the officers and midshipmen were placed at intervals along the decks, like blue and white islets amongst a moving tide of seamen, the ship seemed to come alive, as if she too was aware of the time.

Bolitho darted a glance at the land. No more sun, and a light drizzle had begun to patter across the water, touching the ship and making the waiting men shiver and stamp their bare feet.

Little was whispering fiercely to two of the new seamen, his big hands stabbing out like spades as he made some point or other. He saw Bolitho and sighed.

“Gawd, sir, they’re like blocks o’ wood!”

Bolitho watched his two midshipmen and wondered how he should break the barrier which had sprung up as he had appeared on deck. He had spoken only briefly to them the previous day. Destiny was the first ship to both of them, as she was to all but two of the ‘young gentlemen’. Peter Merrett was so small he seemed unable to find a place amidst the straining ropes and panting, thrusting seamen. He was twelve years old, the son of a prominent Exeter lawyer, who in turn was the brother of an admiral. A formidable combination. Much later on, if he lived, little Merrett might use such influence to his own advantage, and at the cost of others. But now, shivering and not a little frightened, he looked the picture of misery. The other one was Ian Jury, a fourteen-year-old youth from Weymouth. Jury’s father had been a distinguished sea officer but had died in a shipwreck when Ian had still been a child. To the dead captain’s relatives the Navy must have seemed the obvious place for Jury. It would also save them a great deal of trouble.

Bolitho nodded to them.

Jury was tall for his age, a pleasant-faced youth with fair hair and a barely controlled excitement.

Jury was the first to speak. “Do we know where we are bound, sir?”

Bolitho studied him gravely. Under four years between them. Jury was not really like his dead friend, but the hair was similar.

He cursed himself for his brooding and replied, “We shall know soon enough.” His voice came out more sharply than he had intended and he said, “It is a well-kept secret as far as I am concerned.”

Jury watched him, his eyes curious. Bolitho knew what he was thinking, all the things he wanted to ask, to know, to discover in his new, demanding world. As he had once been himself.

Bolitho said, “I shall want you to go aloft to the maintop, Mr Jury, and watch over the hands as they work. You, Mr Merrett, will remain with me to pass messages forrard or aft as need be.”

He smiled as their eyes explored the towering criss-cross of shrouds and rigging, the great main-yard and those above it reaching out on either beam like huge long-bows.

The two senior midshipmen, Henderson and Cowdroy, were aft by the mizzen, while the remaining pair were assisting Rhodes by the foremast.

Stockdale happened to be nearby and wheezed, “Good mornin’ for it, sir.”

Bolitho smiled at his haltered features. “No regrets, Stockdale?”

The big man shook his head. “Nah. I needs a change. This will do me.”

Little grinned from across a long twelve-pounder. “Reckon you could take the main-brace all on yer own!”

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!”