Stand Into Danger

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho had seen the captain come on deck several times. Speaking with Palliser or discussing something with Gulliver, the master. If he was anxious he did not show it, but strode around the quarterdeck with his sure-footed tread like a man thinking of something else beyond the ship.

  The officers and warrant officers had changed into their faded sea-going uniforms, so that only Bolitho and most of the young midshipmen looked alien in their new coats and shining buttons.

  Bolitho had received two letters from his mother, both together from the Falmouth Mail. He could picture her as he had last seen her. So frail, and so lovely. The lady who had never grown up, some local people said. The Scottish girl who had captivated Captain James Bolitho from their first meeting. She was really too frail to carry the weight of the house and the estate. With his elder brother Hugh at sea somewhere, back aboard his frigate after a short period in command of the revenue cutter Avenger at Falmouth, and their father not yet home, the burden would seem doubly hard. His grown-up sister Felicity had already left home to marry an army officer, while the youngest in the family, Nancy, should have been thinking of a coming marriage of her own.

  Bolitho crossed to the gangway where the hands were stowing the hammocks brought up from below. Poor Nancy, she would be missing Bolitho’s dead friend more than anyone, and with nothing to keep her mind free of her loss.

  Someone stood beside him and he turned to see the surgeon peering at the shore. The time he had found to speak with the rotund surgeon had been well spent. Another strange member in their company. Ship’s surgeons, in Bolitho’s experience, had been of the poorest quality, butchers for the most part, and their bloody work with knife and saw was as feared by sailors as any enemy broadside.

  But Henry Bulkley was a world apart. He had been in a comfortable living in London, at a prestigious address where his clients had been wealthy but demanding.

  Bulkley had explained to Bolitho during the quiet of a dog-watch, “I got to hate the tyranny of the sick, the selfishness of people who are only content if they are ill. I came to sea to escape. Now I repair and do not have to waste my time on those too rich to know their own bodies. I am as much a specialist as Mr Vallance, our gunner, or the carpenter, and I share their work in my own way. Or poor Codd, the purser, who frets over each mile logged and sets it against his stores of cheese and salt beef, candles and slop clothing.”

  He had smiled contentedly. “And I enjoy the pleasure of seeing other lands. I have sailed with Captain Dumaresq for three years. He, of course, is never sick. He would not permit it to happen!”

  Bolitho said, “It is a strange feeling to leave like this. To an unknown destination, a landfall which only the captain and two or three others may know. No war, yet we sail ready to fight.”

  He saw the big man called Stockdale mustering in line with the other seamen around the trunk of the mainmast.

  The surgeon followed his glance and observed, “I heard something of what happened ashore. You have made a firm convert in that one. My God, he looks like an oak. I say that Little must have tripped him to win his money.” He shot a glance at Bolitho’s profile. “Unless he wanted to come with you? To escape from something, like most of us, eh?”

  Bolitho smiled. Bulkley did not know the half of it. Stockdale had been allotted to the mizzen-mast for sail drill, and the quarter-deck six-pounders when the ship cleared for action. It was all in writing and signed with Palliser’s slashing signature.

  But somehow Stockdale had managed to alter things. Here he was in Bolitho’s division, and would be stationed on the starboard battery of twelve-pounders which were in Bolitho’s charge.

  A quarter-boat pulled strongly from the shoreline, all the others having been hoisted inboard on their tier before the first cock had even considered crowing.

  The last link with the land. Dumaresq’s final letters and despatches for the courier. Eventually they would end up on somebody’s desk at the Admiralty. A note would be passed to the First Sea Lord, a mark might be made on one of the great charts there. A small ship leaving under sealed orders. It was nothing new, only the times had changed.

  Palliser strode to the quarterdeck rail, his speaking-trumpet beneath his arm, his head darting around like a bird of prey seeking the next victim.

  Bolitho looked up at the mainmast truck and was just able to discern the long red masthead pendant as it snapped out towards the quarter. A north-westerly wind. Dumaresq would need at least that to work clear of the anchorage. Never easy at the best of times, and after three months without sea-going activity, it would only require some forgetful seaman or petty officer to relay the wrong order and a proud exit might become a shambles in minutes.

  Palliser called, “All officers lay aft, if you please.” He sounded irritable, and was obviously conscious of the importance of the moment.

  Bolitho joined Rhodes and Colpoys on the quarterdeck, while the master and the surgeon hovered slightly in the background like intruders.

  Palliser said, “We shall weigh in half an hour. Take up your stations, and watch every man. Tell the boatswain’s mates to start anyone shirking his work, and take the name of each malingerer for punishment.” He glanced at Bolitho curiously. “I have put that Stockdale man with you. I am uncertain as to why, but he seemed to feel it was his place. You must have some special gift, Mr Bolitho, though for the life of me I cannot see it!”

  They touched their hats and walked away to their various stations.

  Palliser’s voice followed them, hollow and insistent through the speaking-trumpet.

  “Mr Timbrell! Ten more hands on the capstan! Where is that damn shantyman?”

  The trumpet swivelled round like a coachman’s blunderbuss. “Hell’s teeth, Mr Rhodes, I want the anchor hove short this morning, not next week! ”

  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 ou
t 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!”

  Palliser’s voice was never still. As the anchor rose dripping to the cathead and was swiftly made fast to prevent it battering at the ship’s hull, more men were rushed elsewhere by his demanding trumpet.

  “Get the fore and main-courses set!”

  The biggest sails boomed out from their yards and hardened like iron in the driving wind. Bolitho paused to straighten his hat and draw breath. The land where he had searched for volunteers was safely on the opposite beam now, and with her masts lining up to the wind and rudder Destiny was already pointing towards the narrows, beyond which the open sea waited like a field of grey.

  Men fought with snaking lines, while overhead blocks screamed as braces and halliards took on the strain of muscle against the wind and a growing pyramid of canvas.

  Dumaresq had not apparently moved. He was watching the land sliding abeam, his chin tightly jammed into his neckcloth.

  Bolitho dashed some rain or spray from his eyes, feeling his own excitement, suddenly grateful he had not lost it. Through the narrows and into the Sound, where Drake had waited to match the Armada, where a hundred admirals had pondered and considered their immediate futures. And where after that?

  “Leadsman in the chains, Mr Slade!”

  Bolitho knew he was in a frigate now. No careful, portly manoeuvre here. Dumaresq knew there would be many eyes watching from the land even at this early hour. He would cut past the headland as close as he dared, with just a fathom between the keel and disaster. He had the wind, he had the ship to do it.

  Behind him he heard Merrett retching helplessly and hoped Palliser would not see him.

  Stockdale was bending a line round his palm and elbow in a manner born. On his thick arm it looked like a thread. He and the captain made a good pair.

  Stockdale said huskily, “Free, that’s what I am.”

  Bolitho made to reply but realized the battered fighter was speaking for his own benefit.

  Palliser’s tone stung like a lash. “Mr Bolitho! I shall tell you first, as I need the t’gan’sls set as soon as we are through the narrows! It may give you time to complete your dream and attend to your duties, sir!”

  Bolitho touched his hat and beckoned to his petty officers. Palliser was all right in the wardroom. On deck he was a tyrant.

  He saw Merrett bending over a gun and vomiting into the scuppers.

  “Damn your eyes, Mr Merrett! Clean up that mess before you dismiss! And contro
l yourself!”

  He turned away, confused and embarrassed. Palliser was not the only one, it seemed.

  2 SUDDEN DEATH

  THE WEEK which followed Destiny’s departure from Plymouth was the busiest and the most demanding in Richard Bolitho’s young life.

  Once free of the land’s protection, Dumaresq endeavoured to set as much canvas as his ship could safely carry in a rising wind. The world was confined to a nightmare of stinging, ice-cold spray, violent swooping thrusts as the frigate smashed her way through troughs and rearing crests alike. It seemed as if it would never end, with no time to find dry clothing, and what food the cook had been able to prepare and have carried through the pitching hull had to be gulped down in minutes.

  Once as Rhodes relieved Bolitho on watch he shouted above the din of cracking canvas and the sea surging inboard along the lee side, “It’s the lord and master’s way, Dick! Push the ship to the limit, find the strength of every man aboard!” He ducked as a phantom of freezing spray doused them both. “Officers, too, for that matter!”

  Tempers became frayed, and once or twice small incidents of insubordination flared openly, only to be quenched by some heavy-fisted petty officer or the threat of formal punishment at the gratings.

  The captain was often on deck, moving without effort between compass and chartroom, discussing progress with Gulliver, the master, or the first lieutenant.

  And at night it was always worse. Bolitho never seemed to get his head buried in a musty pillow for his watch below before the hoarse cry was carried between deck like a call to arms.

  “All hands! All hands aloft an’ reef tops’ls!”

  And it was then that Bolitho really noticed the difference. In a ship of the line he had been forced to claw his way aloft with the rest of them, fighting his loathing of heights and conscious only of the need not to show that fear to others. But when it was done, it was done. Now, as a lieutenant, it was all happening just as Dumaresq had prophesied.

  In the middle of one fierce gale, as Destiny had tacked and battered her way through the Bay of Biscay, the call had come to take in yet another reef. There had been no moon or stars, just a rearing wall of broken water, white against the outer darkness, to show just how small their ship really was.