Bolitho walked aft towards the abandoned wheel. Voices from the past seemed to be following him, reminding him of this particular moment.
They will be looking to you now. The fight and fury has gone out of them.
He turned and shouted, “Take the prisoners below and put them under guard.”
He sought out a familiar face from others who had followed him blindly without really knowing what they were doing.
“You, Southmead, man the wheel. The rest go with Little and cut free the wreckage alongside.”
He glanced quickly at Jury. His eyes were open and he was trying not to cry out from the pain.
Bolitho forced a smile, his lips frozen and unreal. “We have a prize. Thank you for what you did. It took real courage.”
Jury tried to reply but fainted away again.
Through the wind and spray Bolitho heard the booming challenge of Captain Dumaresq’s voice through a speaking-trumpet.
Bolitho called to Stockdale, “Answer for me. I am spent!”
As the two vessels drew closer, their fine lines marred by broken spars and dangling rigging, Stockdale cupped his big hands and yelled, “The ship is ours, sir!”
There was a ragged cheer from the frigate. It seemed obvious to Bolitho that Dumaresq had not expected to find a single one of them left alive.
Palliser’s crisp tones replaced the captain’s resonant voice. “Lay to if you are able! We must recover Mr Slade and his boat!”
Bolitho imagined he could hear someone laughing.
He raised his hand as the frigate tacked slowly and awkwardly away, men already working on her yards to haul up fresh canvas and reeve new blocks.
Then he looked at the brigantine’s deck, at the wounded men who were moaning quietly or trying to drag themselves away like sick animals will do.
There were some who would never move.
As the light continued to strengthen, Bolitho examined the sword which Jury had flung to save him. In the dull light the blood was like black paint, on the hilt and up to his own wrist.
Little came aft again. The new third lieutenant was young. In a moment he would fling the sword over the side, his guts soured by what they had done together. That would be a pity. Later he would want it to give to his father or his sweetheart.
Little said, “ ’Ere, sir, I’ll take that an’ give it a shamper for you.” He saw Bolitho’s hesitation and added affably, “It’s bin a real mate to you. Always look after yer mates, that’s what Josh Little says, sir.”
Bolitho handed it to him. “I expect you’re right.”
He straightened his back, even though every muscle and fibre seemed to be cutting him like hot bands.
“Lively, men! There’s much to do.” He recalled the captain’s words. “It won’t do it by itself!”
From beneath the foremast and its attendant pile of fallen debris Stockdale watched him and then gave a satisfied nod. One more fight had ended.
Bolitho waited wearily by Dumaresq’s table in Destiny’s cabin, his aching limbs at odds with the frigate’s motion. Dull daylight had revealed the brigantine’s name to be Heloise, outward bound from Bridport in Dorset to the Caribbean, by way of Madeira to take on a cargo of wine.
Dumaresq finished leafing through the brigantine’s log-book and then glanced at Bolitho.
“Do sit, Mr Bolitho. Before you fall down.”
He rose and walked to the quarter windows, pressing his face against the thick glass to seek out the brigantine which was lying in Destiny’s lee. Palliser and a fresh boarding party had gone across earlier, the first lieutenant’s experience in much demand as they sought to repair the damage and get the vessel under way again.
Dumaresq said, “You performed well. Extremely so. For one so young and as yet inexperienced in leading men, you achieved more than I’d dared to hope.” He clasped his powerful hands behind his coat-tails as if to contain his anger. “But seven of our people are dead, others badly injured.” He reached up and banged the skylight with his knuckles. “ Mr Rhodes! Be so good as to find out what the damned surgeon is about!”
Bolitho forgot his tiredness, his previous resentment at being ordered from his prize to make way for the first lieutenant. It was fascinating to watch the slow rise of Dumaresq’s anger. Like a smouldering fuse as it edges towards the first cask of powder. It must have made poor Rhodes jump to hear his captain’s voice rising from the deck at his feet.
Dumaresq turned to Bolitho. “Good men killed. Piracy and murder, no less!”
He had made no mention of the miscalculation which all but wrecked or dismasted both ships.
He was saying, “I knew they were up to something. It was evident at Funchal that too many ears and eyes were abroad.” He ticked off the points on his strong fingers. “My clerk, just to get the contents of his satchel. Then the brigantine, which must have quit England about the same time as we left Plymouth, happens to be in harbour. Her master must have known I could not beat to wind’rd and make a chase of it. So long as he kept his distance he was safe.”
Bolitho understood. If Destiny had clawed round to approach the other vessel in daylight, the Heloise would have had the advantage of the wind and the distance. The frigate could outpace her in any fair chase, but under cover of darkness the brigantine would easily slip away if expertly handled. Bolitho thought of the gaunt man he had cut down in the fight to hold the deck. He could almost pity him. Almost. Dumaresq had ordered him to be brought across so that Bulkley, the surgeon, could save his life, if that were possible.
Dumaresq added, “By God, it proves something, if more proof were needed. We are on the right scent.”
The marine sentry called, “Surgeon, sir!”
Dumaresq glanced at the perspiring surgeon. “And about bloody time, man!”
Bulkley shrugged, either indifferent to Dumaresq’s explosive temper or so used to it that it meant nothing to him.
“The man is alive, sir. A bad wound but a clean one.” He glanced curiously at Bolitho. “He’s a strong fellow, too. I’m surprised and gratified to see you in one portion!”
Dumaresq snapped, “Never mind all that. How dare that ruffian interfere with a King’s ship. He’ll get no mercy from me, be certain of it!”
He calmed slowly. It was like watching the sea receding, Bolitho thought.
“I must find out what I can from him. Mr Palliser is searching the Heloise’s hull, but in view of what Mr Bolitho took pains to discover, I think it unlikely we will gain much. According to the log she was launched last year and completed just a month back. Though she’s hardly big enough for useful commerce, I’d have thought.”
Bolitho wanted to leave, to try and wash the stain of combat from his hands and mind.
The surgeon remarked, “Mr Jury is well enough. A nasty cut, but he is a healthy boy. There’ll be no after effects.”
Dumaresq gave a smile. “I spoke with him when he was brought up from the cutter. A touch of hero-worship there, I think, Mr Bolitho?”
“He saved my life, sir. He’s no cause to praise me for that.”
Dumaresq nodded. “Hmmm. We shall see.”
He changed tack. “We shall be sailing in company before nightfall. Keep all hands busy, that’s the thing. Mr Palliser will need to rig a jury topgallant mast on that damned pirate, but it must be done.” He glanced at Bolitho. “Pass the word to the quarterdeck. Change masthead lookouts every hour. We’ll use this enforced respite to keep our eyes open for other would-be followers. As it stands, we have a fine little prize, and nobody yet knows anything about it. It might assist in some way.”
Bolitho stood up, his legs heavy again. So there was to be no rest.
Dumaresq said, “Turn up the hands at noon to witness burial, Mr Bolitho. We’ll send the poor fellows on their last journey while we lie to.” He scattered the sentiment by adding, “No sense in wasting time once we are under way.”
Bulkley followed Bolitho past the sentry and towards the ladder which led below to the
main-deck.
The surgeon gave a sigh. “He has the bit between his teeth now.”
Bolitho looked at him to try and understand his feelings. But it was too dark between decks, with only the ship’s sounds and smells rising around them for company.
“Is it the bullion?”
Bulkley lifted his head to listen to the muffled shouts from a boat coming alongside, booming against the hull in the deep swell.
“You are still too young to understand, Richard.” He laid a plump hand on Bolitho’s sleeve. “And that was no sort of criticism, believe me. But I have met men such as our captain, and I know him better than many. He is a fine officer in most respects, if a trifle headstrong. But he yearns for action like a drunkard craves the bottle. He commands this fine frigate, but he feels deep down that it is too late or too early for him. With England at peace, the chances of distinction and advancement are few. It suits me very well, but . . .” he shook his head. “I have said enough, but I know you will respect my confidence.”
He ambled to the ladder, leaving an aroma of brandy and tobacco to join the other smells already present.
Bolitho walked forward into the daylight and then ran quickly up a ladder to the quarterdeck. He knew that if he did not keep moving he would fall asleep on his feet.
Destiny’s gun-deck was littered with broken rigging, amidst which the boatswain and the ropemaker stood and discussed what might still be saved. Above the decks the seamen were busy splicing and hammering, and the torn sails were already brought down to be patched and stowed away for emergencies. A ship-of-war was self-sufficient. Nothing could be wasted. Some of that canvas would soon be gliding into the sea-bed, weighted down with round shot to carry the dead to the place where there was only darkness and peace.
Rhodes crossed to his side. “Good to have you back, Dick.” He dropped his voice as they both turned to look across at the drifting brigantine. “The lord and master was like an enraged lion after you’d broken free from the side. I shall tread very warily for the next week.”
Bolitho studied the other vessel. It was more like a dream than ever now. It was hard to believe he had managed to rally his men and take the Heloise after all which had happened. Men had died. He had probably killed at least one of them himself. But it had no meaning. No substance.
He walked to the rail and saw several of the faces on the deck below turn up towards him. What did they think, he wondered? Rhodes seemed genuinely pleased for him, but there would be envy, others might feel he had been too lucky, too successful for one so junior.
Spillane, the surgeon’s new helper, appeared on the lee gangway and threw a parcel over the side.
Bolitho felt sick. What was it? An arm or a leg? It could have been his.
He heard Slade, the master’s mate, yelling abuse at some unfortunate seaman. The Destiny’s recovery of the launch and the thankful shouts of the exhausted crew when she had eventually discovered them had apparently done nothing to make Slade any gentler.
In due course the dead men were buried, while the living stood with bared heads as the captain read a few words from his prayer book.
Then, after a hasty meal and a welcome tot of brandy, the hands turned to again, and the air was filled with the noise of saws and hammers, with strong smells of paint, and tar for the seams, to mark their progress.
Dumaresq came on deck at the end of the afternoon-watch and for several minutes looked at his ship and then at the clearing sky which told him more than any instrument.
He said to Bolitho, who was once more officer of the watch, “Look at our people working. Ashore they are branded as hawbucks and no-good drunkards. But give ’em a piece of rope or a span of timber an’ you’ll see what they can do.”
He spoke with such feeling that Bolitho ventured to ask, “Do you think another war is coming, sir?”
For an instant he thought he had gone too far. Dumaresq turned quickly on his thick legs, his eyes hard as he said, “You have been speaking with that damned sawbones, eh?”
Then he gave a deep chuckle. “There is no need to answer. You have not yet learned deceit.” He moved to the opposite side for his usual stroll, then added, “War? I am depending on it!”
Before darkness closed in to hide one ship from another, Palliser sent word to say he was ready to proceed and would repair the less important damage in the days on passage for Rio.
Slade had gone across to the Heloise to take charge of the prize crew, and Palliser returned in the quarter-boat even as nightfall joined the sky to the horizon like a curtain.
Bolitho marvelled at the way Palliser kept going. He showed no sign of tiredness, and did not spare himself as he bustled about the ship using a lantern to examine every repair and shouting for the culprit if he discovered something which he considered to be shoddy workmanship.
Thankfully Bolitho climbed into his cot, his coat on the deck where it had fallen. Around him Destiny shivered and groaned as she rode a quarter sea without effort, as if she too was grateful for a rest.
It was the same throughout the hull. Bulkley sat in his sick-bay drawing on a long clay pipe and sharing some of his brandy with Codd, the purser.
Outside, barely visible on the orlop deck, the remaining sick and wounded slept or whimpered quietly in the darkness.
In the cabin Dumaresq was at his table writing busily in his personal diary, without a coat, and with his shirt open to the waist. Occasionally he glanced at the screen door as if to pierce it and see the length of his command, his world. And sometimes he looked up at the deckhead as Gulliver’s footsteps told him that the master was still brooding over the collision, fearful the blame might be laid at his door.
Throughout the main-deck, where there was barely room to stand upright, the bulk of the ship’s company swung in their hammocks to Destiny’s regular plunging motion. Like lines of neat pods, waiting to give birth in an instant if the wind so ordered or the drums beat to quarters.
Some men, unable to sleep or working their watch on deck, still thought of the short, bitter fight, of moments when they had known fear. Of familiar faces which had been wiped away, or of the prize money the handsome brigantine might bring them.
Tossing in his cot in the sick-bay, Midshipman Jury went over the attack yet again. Of his desperate need to help Bolitho as the lieutenant’s hanger had been hurled away, of the sudden agony across his stomach like a hot iron. He thought of his dead father whom he could scarcely remember and hoped he would have been proud of what he had done.
And Destiny carried them all. From the grim-faced Palliser who sat opposite Colpoys in the deserted wardroom, the cards mocking him from the table, to the servant, Poad, snoring in his hammock, they were all at her mercy as her figurehead reached out for the horizon which never drew any nearer.
Two weeks after seizing the brigantine, Destiny crossed the Equator on her way south. Even the master seemed pleased with their progress and the distance covered. A convenient wind and milder, warmer air did much to raise the men’s spirits and keep them free of illness.
Crossing the line was a new experience for over a third of the ship’s company. Boisterous horse-play and skylarking which accompanied the ceremony were encouraged by a four days’ allowance of wine and spirits for everybody.
With Little, the gunner’s mate, making a formidable Neptune in a painted crown and a beard of spunyarn, accompanied by his bashful queen in the shape of one of the ship’s boys, all the newcomers to his kingdom were soundly ducked and abused.
Afterwards, Dumaresq joined his officers in the wardroom and stated his satisfaction with the ship’s performance and swift passage. They had left the Heloise far astern, with some of her damage still being repaired. Dumaresq was obviously in no mood to delay his own landfall, and had ordered Slade to meet him off Rio with all the haste he could manage.
On most days Destiny pushed her way along under all plain sail, and would have made a fine sight had there been any other vessel to share their ocean. Working hig
h above the decks, or employed in regular sail and gun drill, the new hands began to fit into the routine, and Bolitho saw the pallid skins of those who had come from the debtors’ jails or worse taking on a deeper hue as the sun grew stronger with each passing day.
Another of the men who had been wounded in the fight had died, bringing the total to eight. Watched night and day by one of Colpoys’ marines, the Heloise’s master continued to regain his strength, and Bolitho imagined Dumaresq was set on keeping him alive if only to see him hang for piracy.
Midshipman Jury had been allowed to return to duty, but was confined to working on deck or standing his watch aft. Strangely enough, their brief moment of shared danger and courage seemed to hold him and Bolitho apart, and, although they met several times every day, Bolitho could sense a certain discomfort between them.
Maybe the captain had been right. Perhaps Jury’s hero-worship, as he had termed it, had created an embarrassment rather than a bond.
Little Merrett, on the other hand, seemed to have gained more confidence than anyone would have thought possible. It was as if he had expected to be killed, and that now he was convinced nothing worse could ever happen to him. He ran up the shrouds with the other midshipmen, and during the dog-watches his shrill voice was often heard in some contest or argument with his companions.
One evening, as the ship ghosted along under her courses and topsails and Bolitho took over the first watch for Lieutenant Rhodes, he saw Jury watching the other midshipmen skylarking in the fighting tops, probably wishing he was up there with them.
Bolitho waited for the helmsman to call, “Steady as she goes, sir! Sou’-sou’-west!” Then he crossed to the midshipman’s side and asked, “How is the wound?”
Jury looked at him and smiled. “It no longer hurts, sir. I am lucky.” His fingers strayed to his leather cross-belt and touched the scar on the gilt plate. “Were they really pirates?”
Bolitho shrugged. “I believe they were intent on following us, spies perhaps, but in the eyes of the law they will be seen as pirates.”
Stand Into Danger Page 8