A Scandal to Remember (18 page)

“Bring her up, Mr. Whitely.”

The sailing master adjusted his course to make a cautious approach through the reef, where the uneven ocean floor was littered with sharp rocks lurking just below the surface, just waiting to rip the spongy bottom out of his hull.

All around him was sound and motion—the clatter of the pulleys and the creak of the ropes, the shouts of the men on deck and the songs of the topmen above in the yardarms, trimming the sails as
Tenacious
swung itself toward the land and the brightly painted city gleaming out of the jungle.

Blow ye winds westerly, blow ye winds blow.

Jolly sou’westerly, steady she goes.

“Take in the courses.” Dance held his speaking trumpet in one hand, but did not use it. He didn’t need to. The whole ship was attuned to him, the steady center around which everyone else moved. Everyone was poised to do his bidding.

The feeling was heady and marvelous. And unnerving.

But it was his duty. “Prepare to drop the bower anchor.”

“Bower away, sir.”

“And the deck is yours, Mr. Simmons. I should expect a boat from the port authorities out within the half hour. In the meantime, I shall be with the captain.”

“Aye, sir.”

“Mr. Rupert,” Dance called to the indignant midshipman. “Pass word for Mr. Denman to join us in the captain’s cabin. Mr. Whitely, if you’d care to join me.”

Dance had resolved to think more like a captain instead of a lieutenant, and plan ahead. And he had also heard the warning implicit in the men’s grumblings, and had resolved to protect himself from any rumors or accusations that he was acting against the captain’s wishes—he was, but he was acting in the best interests of the ship and the expedition.

He initiated a formal twice-daily report to the captain, who still could not be persuaded to quit his cabin. But if the captain would not come to the ship, Dance would bring the ship to him. Each day he asked one officer and Mr. Denman, acting both as physician and a representative of the expedition, to accompany him while he made his report.

“Who the hell is he?” The old man squinted at Denman just as he had every day, when they presented themselves in his day cabin. “And who the hell are you?”

“I am Lieutenant Dance,” he repeated, just as he always did, “your first lieutenant. And this is the surgeon, Mr. Jackson Denman, sir.”

“You don’t look like an officer to me,” the old man groused as he eyed Denman’s black coat.

“That is because I volunteered my services once aboard, sir.” Jack Denman was all patience as he answered the question yet again. “I came with the expedition of the Royal Society.”

“Are they still here?”

“Yes, sir,” Dance responded, and forbade himself the childish pleasure of asking where else the captain thought they would be in the middle of South America. “We’ll have them with us for some time yet.”

The addled old man turned his back to them in dismissal. “Damn nuisance.”

A damn nuisance that was the entire reason for their voyage. A damn nuisance that the captain, and not Dance, had agreed to long before Dance ever came on board.

“Yes, sir. You may have noticed that we have made the port of Recife in the United Kingdom of Portugal, Brazil, and the Algarves, sir.”

“Oh.” The old man cast only a glance out the stern gallery at the city laid out like a painting before him. “I thought it looked familiar.”

“Yes. I chose to make port here for two reasons, sir. First, the provisions for the guests, which ought to have been paid for by the monies stolen by the purser, Givens, must be replenished as the wardroom officers are not sufficiently provisioned for five extra mouths.” Dance took a very great risk at such candor in front of Mr. Denman, but trying to conceal
Tenacious
’s troubles had only brought accusations down on his head. And he needed to be as utterly open and honest as he could if he were to keep his head from a court-martial.

“So?” The captain kept his face turned away, as if to say, What business is it of mine?

Dance wanted to bash his own head into the beams overhead at the quavery defiance in the captain’s tone—never mind wanting to bash some semblance of understanding and sobriety into the old man himself. “Do I have your permission for the order to purchase victuals for the wardroom?”

“The wardroom buys its own dinners, sir. You’ll get no money from me.”

“No, sir. I did not seek to.” Dance wrote the captain’s response all down in his own log. “But I must seek funds for the second reason we have put in at Recife, that
Tenacious
has parted her foremast, and is sailing wet, sir—working open her bows. The carpenter needs better material to shore up the breast hooks with oak, and not iron strapping, sir. We have the longest stretch of the Atlantic, down the coast of South America and around Cape Horn, ahead of us, sir, and I don’t want the ship working herself apart.”

“Working herself apart,” Muckross echoed in a mincing voice. “You sound like a woman.”

Dance forced himself to push the insult aside. “If you would like more evidence of this than only my assessment, I have the carpenter outside to give you his report himself, sir. And I would ask you to accompany us to the bows, and see how the timbers have worked themselves loose. The pine simply isn’t durable enough, sir. It is not a fit wood for making ships.”

“This ship was built in eighteen and twelve in the king’s own Chatham Shipyard. Do you think you know better than Admiralty shipwrights, sirrah? Do you think so highly of yourself?”

“No, sir.” Dance knew the old man’s belligerence was all to keep himself from having to leave his cabin, but still the barbs stung. “I am recording that you chose not to examine the ship, sir.”

That got the old man’s wandering attention. “What do you mean, recording?”

“My log, sir,” Dance repeated once again. “Of the ship’s progress at sea, of sailing orders and headings and speed. And the rolls of muster and punishment which must be kept, sir. The noon sighting which must be recorded, along with the time calculations to establish longitude.” Every officer kept a log of sorts. Dance had always kept one. He had always paid special attention to taking soundings and charting the seas, while men like Lieutenant Simmons enjoyed charting the land as a cartographer. Dance had no doubt that the sailing master’s own logbook dwelt heavily on the calculations for longitude, and his progress at teaching the trigonometry of navigation to the midshipmen.

But of the captain’s official log, he had no knowledge. It might contain an account of the quarts of gin consumed, for all Dance knew. He only knew that he had never seen it. And that had to change if he were to protect himself from spurious charges of mutinous conduct.

“The log is the captain’s privilege,” the old man asserted. The captain put his considerably reddened nose in the air, and attempted to stare down its length at Dance.

But Dance would not allow himself to feel intimidated. He had to act for the good of the ship, as well as his own neck. “Then I would ask you to exercise that privilege, sir. I have been doing it for you, with Mr. Whitely’s assistance, since you do not come on deck.” Dance held out his book.

Captain Muckross turned to look out the stern gallery windows, but gestured to the table. “Leave it here.”

Dance was instantly wary. He looked over at the small portable writing desk shoved to the side, crammed with unorganized papers. If he left his log with the captain, it would disappear into the mess. “Sir. I’m happy to have you or your clerk copy out my entries, but you can have no reason to keep my personal book.”

He said the words, even though there could be no excuse for disobeying his superior officer. Except that his superior officer was not acting in a truly superior manner, worthy of obedience—the captain was clearly not in his right mind.

But Muckross had enough presence of mind to understand exactly what Dance was not saying. “By God, sir. I don’t need a reason. I am the captain. Do you defy me?”

“No, sir.” Dance felt the short hairs at the nape of his neck stand up. “I will do the work here to copy the entries into your log, if you wish, so that
Tenacious’
s reports are up to date, but…” Dance raked through the weary contents of his brain to think of a way around the captain’s obstinance.

Denman tried to intervene. “I’ll be happy to make the copy of the lieutenant’s observations and navigation into your log, if you have no clerk, sir.”

The captain looked back and forth between the two younger men, as if he could not decide which one to vent his spleen upon.

Denman tried again. “I’ll make an appointment with you each day, at your convenience, sir. I have acted as the private secretary or amanuensis for the Duke of Fenmore, the patron of our expedition, so I am readily qualified.”

Dance waited impatiently for the old man to have the good sense and good grace to bow to the inevitable—if he had any pretense to being the captain, Muckross had to keep a log. Just as Dance himself was going to continue keeping his own log for protection against the vagaries of the captain’s mind, if nothing else.

“No, no. I don’t need a secretary.” He waved Jack off. “No, no.”

“Excellent.” Dance smiled as if the old man had indeed come to an agreement, happy to bring the infernal interview to a close. “But Manning will need to attend you, sir, as I expect the authorities from the port will make the ship any moment and will want to speak to you.”

“Why? I’m not the one who brought us here.”

“No, sir. Is it your wish that I speak on your behalf to the port authorities, sir?”

“Do what you like,” was the captain’s testy answer. “But keep them away from me. Functionaries,” he muttered. “They pester a man to death.”

“Yes, sir.” Dance bowed as if the man had actually given a command. “I will meet with the port authority on your behalf. And then I’ll be taking the cutter and a party of men inshore. Do you care to have your gig swayed out, sir, and visit the city yourself?”

All Dance got for the suggestion was a surly growl. “Don’t be daft, boy. Don’t be daft. Just let me be.”

“Yes, sir. As you wish.” Dance bowed to his captain, as did Denman at his side. “Thank you. I’ll see to everything.” Just as he had been doing since Portsmouth.

And the city laid out around him like a bright jewel might as well have been Portsmouth for all the pleasure he could take in it. It mattered not where in the world they were, only that they be able to get the things necessary for them to continue their voyage.

But the naturalists were as enthusiastic as Dance was practical. “And you, Mr. Denman?” he asked the surgeon as they climbed together to the quarterdeck. “Are you looking forward to exploring Recife?”

“Yes. Sir Richard has made arrangements to visit a fellow botanist living here, Mr. John Mawe, who has an exceptional collection of natural specimens, including medicinal herbs and antiscorbutics.”

“Anti…?”

“Precautions against scurvy and other wasting diseases.”

“That’s what the grog is for, man—limes and rum. And I’ve no doubt but that we’ll take on as much fresh fruit and vegetables as we can store.” And afford. Dance could already feel the pinch on his pockets.

“Yes, but I was hoping to make some progress on a prevention that did not include such a large quantity of alcoholic spirits.” Here was something of the sober physician Denman looked. “In the present circumstance, I thought it might be helpful to keep the ship clean of alcohol.”

Dance moved to the lee rail where the wind would take their conversation across the bay. Still, he lowered his voice. “Do you think it would do any good? Manning says they have already tried to take him off the drink, to no avail. And Mr. Ransome and the captain’s steward both say that he cannot go without it. Says he shakes and has fits if we should try to do so.”

Now it was Jack Denman’s turn to look weary behind his spectacles. “Then he will drink himself to death.”

Dance could only agree. “I suppose. And it only remains to see when he will do so.” And then he shook off the damp air of fatalism. “But it will likely not be today. And so we must make other plans.”

Parties of men were forming along the starboard rail, hoping to be included on the inshore crew.

“Cutter’s ready, sir.” Ransome was at the quarterdeck rail with his restrained obedience. “I’ve a party ready to take on water.”

“Very good, Mr. Ransome.” Dance acknowledged the bosun with a touch of his hat. “But I’m putting Lieutenant Simmons in charge of the party for taking on water. I need you here, guarding the rail to keep anyone else from wandering off into those green hills.”

Ransome was too smart a man to let too much show on his broad face. But he couldn’t mask his dissatisfaction. “Begging your pardon, sir, but Lieutenant Simmons ain’t been with us long enough to know the men, and know who’s a good character.”

“And that is why I have given him this test, Mr. Ransome,” Dance lied. Because he simply wasn’t sure about Ransome, unsure about just how much and how far to trust him. The bosun had never been openly disobedient, and he did seem to know his job as well as he had promised. But there was still some disquiet that sat at the back of Dance’s brain like a surly fishwife, resisting all attempts to like the man. “Mr. Whitely will have the deck, while you will have the rail. I leave it to your discretion and judgment in allowing locals who might approach in boats, to come on board.” Dance could already see the bumboat women with their dories laden with small provisions and other comforts making their way from the quay. Those that stayed on board
Tenacious
would have some fun as well as those that went ashore. Maybe even more, as the men in the cutter would be under the charge of the two lieutenants, and those remaining on board would be under Ransome’s more aggressively lenient rule.

Lieutenant Simmons was already in the stern of one of the two cutters bobbing in the jade-green water. Three of the older naturalists were seated in his boat. But not Miss Burke.

She had somehow contrived to be in the other boat. The one that he would take charge of. Anticipation of the pleasure of her company was like the jolt of hot coffee in the morning, cleaning the thoughts of everything else from his mind—she was choosing to be with him.