Stand Into Danger

by Alexander Kent

  Men, dazed by constant work and half blinded by salt spray, had staggered to their stations, and then reluctantly had begun to drag themselves up the vibrating ratlines, then out along the topsail yards. The Destiny had been leaning so steeply to leeward that her main-yard had seemed to be brushing the broken crests alongside.

  Forster, the captain of the maintop, and Bolitho’s key petty officer, had yelled, “This man says ’e won’t go aloft, sir! No matter what!”

  Bolitho had seized a stay to prevent himself from being flung on his face. “Go yourself, Forster! Without you up there God knows what might happen!” He had peered up at the remainder of his men while all the time the wind had moaned and shrieked, like a demented being enjoying their torment.

  Jury had been up there, his body pressed against the shrouds by the force of the wind. On the foremast they had been having the same trouble, with men and cordage, sails and spars all pounded together while the ship had done her best to hurl them into the sea below.

  Bolitho had then remembered what Forster had told him. The man in question had been staring at him, a thin, defiant figure in a torn checkered shirt and seaman’s trousers. “What’s the matter with you?” Bolitho had had to yell above the din.

  “I can’t go, sir.” The man had shaken his head violently. “Can’t!”

  Little had come lurching past, cursing and blaspheming as he helped to haul some new cordage to the mainmast in readiness for use.

  He had bellowed, “I’ll drag ’im aloft, sir!”

  Bolitho had shouted to the seaman, “Go below and help relieve the pumps!”

  Two days later the same man had been reported missing. A search of the ship by Poynter, the master-at-arms, and the ship’s corporal, had revealed nothing.

  Little had tried to explain as best as he knew how. “It were like this, sir. You should ’ave made ’im go aloft, even if ’e fell and broke ’is back. Or you could ’ave taken ’im aft for punishment. “E’d ’ave got three dozen lashes, but ’e’d ’ave been a man! ”

  Bolitho had reluctantly understood. He had taken away the seaman’s pride. His messmates would have sympathized with a man seized up at the gratings and flogged. Their contempt had been more than that lonely, defiant seaman had been able to stand.

  On the sixth day the storm passed on and left them breathless and dazed by its intensity. Sails were reset, and the business of clearing up and repairing put aside any thought of rest.

  Now, everyone aboard knew where the ship was first headed. To the Portuguese island of Madeira, although what for was a mystery still. Except to Rhodes, who had confided that it was merely to lay in a great store of wine for the surgeon’s personal use.

  Dumaresq had obviously read the report of the seaman’s death in the log, but had said nothing of it to Bolitho. At sea, more men died by accident than ever from ball or cutlass.

  But Bolitho blamed himself. The others, Little and Forster, years ahead of him in age and experience, had turned to him because he was their lieutenant.

  Forster had remarked indifferently, “Well, ’e weren’t much bloody good anyway, sir.”

  All Little had offered had been, “Could ’ave been worse, sir.”

  It was amazing to see the difference the weather made. The ship came alive again, and men moved about their work without glancing fearfully across their shoulders or clinging to the shrouds with both arms whenever they went aloft to splice or reeve new blocks.

  On the morning of the seventh day, while the smell of cooking started the wagers going as to what the dish would eventually be, the masthead lookout yelled, “Deck there! Land on the lee bow!”

  Bolitho had the watch, and beckoned Merrett to bring him a telescope. The midshipman looked like a little old man after the storm and a week of back-breaking work. But he was still alive, and was never late on watch.

  “Let me see.” Bolitho levelled the glass through the black shrouds and past the figurehead’s curved shoulder.

  Dumaresq’s voice made him start. “Madeira, Mr Bolitho. An attractive island.”

  Bolitho touched his hat. For so heavy a man the captain could move without making a sound.

  “I—I’m sorry, sir.”

  Dumaresq smiled and took the telescope from Bolitho’s hands. As he trained it on the distant island he added, “When I was a lieutenant I always made sure that somebody in my watch was ready to warn me of my captain’s approach.”

  He glanced at Bolitho, the wide, compelling eyes seeking something. “But not you, I suspect. Not yet anyway.”

  He tossed the glass to Merrett and added, “Walk with me. Exercise is good for the soul.”

  So up and down along the weather side of the quarterdeck the Destiny’s captain and her most junior lieutenant took their stroll, their feet by-passing ring-bolts and gun-tackles without conscious effort.

  Dumaresq spoke briefly of his home in Norfolk, but only as a place. He did not sketch in the people there, his friends, or whether he was married or not.

  Bolitho tried to put himself in Dumaresq’s place. Able to walk and speak of other, unimportant things while his ship leaned to a steady wind, her sails set one above the other in ordered array. Her officers, her seamen and marines, the means to sail and fight under any given condition, were all his concern. At this moment they were heading for an island, and afterwards they would sail much further. The responsibility seemed endless. As Bolitho’s father had once wryly remarked, “Only one law remains unchanged for any captain. If he is successful others will reap the credit. If he fails he will take the blame.”

  Dumaresq asked suddenly, “Are you settled in now?”

  “I think so, sir.”

  “Good. If you are still mulling over that seaman’s death, I must ask you to desist. Life is God’s greatest gift. To risk it is one thing, to throw it away is to cheat. He had no right. Best forgotten.”

  He turned away as Palliser appeared on deck, the master-at-arms bringing up the rear.

  Palliser touched his hat to the captain, but his eyes were on Bolitho.

  “Two hands for punishment, sir.” He held out his book. “You know them both.”

  Dumaresq tilted forward on his toes, so that it appeared as if his heavy body would lose its balance.

  “See to it at two bells, Mr Palliser. Get it over and done with. No sense in putting the people off their food.” He strode away, nodding to the master’s mate of the watch like a squire to his gamekeeper.

  Palliser closed his book with a snap. “My compliments to Mr Timbrell, and ask him to have a grating rigged.” He crossed to Bolitho’s side. “Well, now?”

  Bolitho said, “The captain told me of his home in Norfolk, sir.”

  Palliser seemed vaguely disappointed. “I see.”

  “Why does the captain wear a red waistcoat, sir?”

  Palliser watched the master-at-arms returning with the boatswain. “Really, I am surprised your confidences did not extend that far.”

  Bolitho hid a smile as Palliser strode away. He did not know either. After three years together that was something.

  Bolitho stood beside Rhodes at the taffrail and watched the colourful activity of Funchal Harbour and its busy waterfront. Destiny lay at her anchor, with only the quarter-boat and the captain’s gig in the water alongside. It did not look as if anyone would be allowed ashore, Bolitho thought.

  Local boats with quaint curling stems and stern-posts milled around the frigate, their occupants holding up fruit and bright shawls, big jars of wine and many other items to tempt the sailors who thronged the gangways or waved from the shrouds and tops.

  Destiny had anchored in mid-afternoon, and all hands had stayed on deck to watch the final approach, drinking in the beauty of what Dumaresq had rightly described as an attractive island. The hills beyond the white buildings were filled with beautiful flowers and shrubs, a sight indeed after the wild passage through the Bay. That, and the two floggings which had been carried out even as the ship had changed tack for their f
inal approach, were forgotten.

  Rhodes smiled and pointed at one boat. It contained three dark-haired girls who lay back on their cushions and stared boldly up at the young officers. It was obvious what they hoped to sell.

  Captain Dumaresq had gone ashore almost as soon as the smoke of the gun salute to the Portuguese governor had dispersed. He had told Palliser he was going to meet the governor and pay his respects, but Rhodes said later, “He’s too excited for a mere social visit, Dick. I smell intrigue in the air.”

  The gig had returned with instructions that Lockyer, the captain’s clerk, was to go ashore with some papers from the cabin strong-box. He was down there now fussing about with his bag of documents while the side-party arranged for a boatswain’s chair to sway him out and down into the gig.

  Palliser joined them and said disdainfully, “Look at the old fool. Never goes ashore, but when he does they have to rig a chair in case he falls and drowns!”

  Rhodes grinned as the clerk was finally lowered into the boat. “Must be the oldest man aboard.”

  Bolitho thought about it. That was something else he had discovered. It was a young company, with very few senior hands like those he had known in the big seventy-four. The sailing master of a man-of-war was usually getting on in years by the time he was appointed, but Gulliver was under thirty.

  Most of the hands lounging at the nettings or employed about the decks looked in good health. It was mostly due to the surgeon, Rhodes had said. That was the value of a medical man who cared, and who had the knowledge to fight the dreaded scurvy and other diseases which could cripple a whole ship.

  Bulkley was one of the few privileged ones. He had gone ashore with orders from the captain to purchase all the fresh fruit and juices he thought necessary, while Codd, the purser, had similar instructions on the matter of vegetables.

  Bolitho removed his hat and let the sun warm his face. It would be good to explore that town. Sit in a shady tavern like those Bulkley and some of the others had described.

  The gig had reached the jetty now and some of Destiny’s marines were making a passage through a watching crowd for old Lockyer to get through.

  Palliser said, “I see that your shadow is nearby.”

  Bolitho turned his head and saw Stockdale kneeling beside a twelve-pounder on the gun-deck. He was listening to Vallance, the ship’s gunner, and then making gestures with his hand beneath the carriage. Bolitho saw Vallance nod and then clap Stockdale on the shoulder.

  That was unusual. He already knew that Vallance was not the easiest warrant officer to get along with. He was jealous about everything in his domain, from magazine to gun crews, from maintenance to the wear and tear of tackle.

  He came aft and touched his hat to Palliser.

  “That new man Stockdale, sir. He’s solved a problem with a gun I’ve been bothered with for months. It was a replacement, y’see. I’ve not been happy about it.” He gave a rare smile. “Stockdale thinks we could get the carriage reset by . . .”

  Palliser spread his hands. “You amaze me, Mr Vallance. But do what you must.” He glanced at Bolitho. “Your man may not say much, but he is certainly finding his place.”

  Bolitho saw Stockdale looking up at him from the gun-deck. He nodded and saw the man smile, his battered face screwed up in the sunlight.

  Jury, who was the midshipman of the watch, called, “Gig’s shoved off, sir!”

  “That was quick!” Rhodes snatched a telescope. “If it’s the captain coming back already, I’d better . . .” He gasped and added quickly, “Sir, they’re bringing Lockyer with them!”

  Palliser took a second glass and levelled it on the green-painted gig. Then he said quietly, “The clerk’s dead. Sergeant Barmouth is holding him.”

  Bolitho took the telescope from Rhodes. For the moment he could see nothing unusual. The smart gig was pulling strongly towards the ship, the white oars rising and falling in perfect unison, the crew in their red checkered shirts and tarred hats a credit to their coxswain.

  Then as the gig swung silently to avoid a drifting log, Bolitho saw the marine sergeant, Barmouth, holding the wispy-haired clerk so that he would not fall into the sternsheets.

  There was a terrible wound across his throat, which in the sunlight was the same colour as the marine’s tunic.

  Rhodes murmured, “And the surgeon’s ashore with most of his assistants. God, there’ll be hell to pay for this!”

  Palliser snapped his fingers. “That man you brought aboard with the other new hands, the apothecary’s assistant? Where is he, Mr Bolitho?”

  Rhodes said quickly, “I’ll fetch him, sir. He was doing some jobs in the sick-bay, just to test him out, the surgeon said.”

  Palliser looked at Jury. “Tell the boatswain’s mate to rig another tackle.” He rubbed his chin. “This was no accident.”

  The local boats parted to allow the gig to glide to the main chains.

  There was something like a great sigh as the small, untidy boat was hauled up the side and swung carefully above the gangway. Some blood ran down on to the deck, and Bolitho saw the man who had joined his recruiting party hurrying with Rhodes to take charge of the corpse.

  The apothecary’s assistant’s name was Spillane. A neat, self-contained man, not the sort who would leave security to seek adventure or even experience, Bolitho would have thought. But he seemed competent, and as he watched him telling the seamen what to do, Bolitho was glad he was aboard.

  Sergeant Barmouth was saying, “Yessir, I’d just made sure that the clerk was safely through the crowd, an’ was about to take my stand on the jetty again, when I ’eard a cry, then everyone started yellin’ an’ carryin’ on, you know, sir, like they does in these parts.”

  Palliser nodded abruptly. “Quite so, Sergeant. What then?”

  “I found ’im in an alley, sir. ’Is throat was slit.”

  He paled as he saw his own officer striding angrily across the quarterdeck. He would have to repeat everything for Colpoys’ sake. The marine lieutenant, like most of his corps, disliked interference by the sea officers, no matter how pressing the reason.

  Palliser said distantly, “And his bag was missing.”

  “Yessir.”

  Palliser made up his mind. “Mr Bolitho, take the quarter-boat, a midshipman and six extra hands. I’ll give you an address where you will find the captain. Tell him what has happened. No dramatics, just the facts as you know them.”

  Bolitho touched his hat, excited, even though he was still shocked by the suddenness of Lockyer’s brutal death. So Palliser did know more of what the captain was doing than he proclaimed. When he looked at the scrap of paper which Palliser thrust into his hand he knew it was not the governor’s residence, or any other official place for that matter.

  “Take Mr Jury, and select six men yourself. I want them smartly turned out.”

  Bolitho beckoned to Jury and heard Palliser say to Rhodes, “I might have sent you, but Mr Bolitho and Jury have newer uniforms and may bring less discredit on my ship!”

  In next to no time they were being pulled across the water towards the shore. Bolitho had been at sea for a week, but it seemed longer, so great was the change in his surroundings.

  Jury said, “Thank you for taking me, sir.”

  Bolitho thought of Palliser’s parting shot. He could not resist a sarcastic jibe. And yet he had been the one to think of Spillane, the one to see what Stockdale was doing with the gun. A man of many faces, Bolitho thought.

  He replied, “Don’t let the men wander about.”

  He broke off as he saw Stockdale, half hidden by the boat’s oarsmen. Somehow he had found time to change into his checked shirt and white trousers and equip himself with a cutlass.

  Stockdale pretended not to see his surprise.

  Bolitho shook his head. “Forget what I said. I do not think you will have any trouble after all.”

  What had the big man said? I’ll not leave you. Not now. Not never.

  The boat’s coxswain w
atched narrowly and then thrust the tiller bar hard over.

  “Toss yer oars!”

  The boat came to a halt by some stone stairs and the bowman hooked on to a rusty chain.

  Bolitho adjusted his sword-belt and looked up at the watching townspeople. They appeared very friendly. Yet a man had just been murdered a few yards away.

  He said, “Fall in on the jetty.”

  He climbed up the stairs and touched his hat to Colpoys’ pickets. The marines looked extremely cheerful, and despite their rigid attitudes in front of a ship’s officer, they smelled strongly of drink, and one of them had a flower protruding from his collar.

  Bolitho took his bearings and strode towards the nearest street with as much confidence as he could muster. The sailors tramped behind him, exchanging winks and grins with women on balconies and in windows above the street.

  Jury asked, “Who would want to kill poor Lockyer, sir?”

  “Who indeed?”

  Bolitho hesitated and then turned down a narrow alley where the roofs nodded towards each other as if to blot out the sky. There was a heady scent of flowers, and he heard someone playing a stringed instrument in one of the houses.

  Bolitho checked his piece of paper and looked at an iron gate which opened on to a courtyard with a fountain in its centre. They had arrived.

  He saw Jury staring round at the strangeness of everything, and remembered himself in similar circumstances.

  He said quietly, “You come with me.” He raised his voice, “Stockdale, take charge out here. Nobody is to leave until I give the word, understood?”

  Stockdale nodded grimly. He would probably batter any would-be troublemaker senseless.

  A servant led them to a cool room above the courtyard where Dumaresq was drinking wine with an elderly man who had a pointed white beard and skin like finely tooled leather.

  Dumaresq did not stand. “Yes, Mr Bolitho?” If he was startled by their unheralded arrival he hid it very well. “Trouble?”

  Bolitho glanced at the old man but Dumaresq said curtly, “You are with friends here.”