Authors: Alexander Kent
Gulliver appeared on the quarterdeck and peered up at the hardening canvas for a long minute without speaking. Then he said, “Wind's getting up. I think we should shorten sail.” He hesitated, watching Bolitho's face. “Will you tell the captain, or shall I?”
Bolitho looked at the topsails as they filled and tightened to the wind. In the dying sunlight they looked like great pink shells. But Gulliver was right, and he should have seen it for himself.
“I'll tell him.”
Gulliver strode to the compass, as if unable to contain his restlessness. “Too good to last. I knew it.”
Bolitho beckoned to Midshipman Cowdroy who was temporarily sharing his watches until Jury was fully recovered.
“My respects to the captain. Tell him the wind is freshening from the nor'-east.”
Cowdroy touched his hat and hurried to the companion. Bolitho bit back his dislike. An arrogant, intolerant bully. He wondered how Rhodes put up with him.
Jury asked quietly, “Are we in for a storm, sir?”
“Unlikely, I think, but it's best to be prepared.” He saw something glitter in Jury's hand and said, “That is a fine looking watch.”
Jury held it out to him, his face filled with pleasure. “It belonged to my father.”
Bolitho opened the guard carefully and saw inside a tiny but perfect portrait of a sea officer. Jury was already very like him.
It was a beautiful watch, made by one of the finest craftsmen in London.
He handed it back and said, “Take good care of it. It must be very valuable.”
Jury slipped it into his breeches pocket. “It is worth a great deal to me. It is all I own of my father.”
Something in his tone affected Bolitho deeply. It made him feel clumsy, angry with himself for not seeing beyond Jury's eagerness to please him. He had no one else in the world who cared.
He said, “Well, my lad, if you keep your wits about you on this voyage it will stand you in good stead later on.” He smiled. “A few years ago who had even heard of James Cook, I wonder? Now he is country's hero, and when he returns from his latest voyage, I've no doubt he'll be promoted yet again.”
Dumaresq's voice made him spin round. “Do not excite the boy, Mr Bolitho. He will want my command in no time!”
Bolitho waited for Dumaresq's decision. You never knew where you were with him.
“We shall shorten sail presently, Mr Bolitho.” He rocked back on his heels and examined each sail in turn. “We'll run while we can.”
As he disappeared through the companion, the master's mate of the watch called, “The cutter is workin' free on the boat tier, sir.”
“Very well.” Bolitho sought out Midshipman Cowdroy again. “Take some hands and secure the cutter, if you please.” He sensed the midshipman's resentment and knew the reason for it. He would be glad to be rid of him from his watch.
Jury had guessed what was happening. “I'll go, sir. It's what I should be doing.”
Cowdroy turned on him and snapped, “You are unwell,
Mr
Jury. Do not strain yourself on our behalf!” He swung away, shouting for a boatswain's mate.
Later, as true to Gulliver's prediction the wind continued to rise and the sea's face changed to an angry array of white crests, Bolitho forgot about the rift he had created between the two midshipmen.
First one reef was taken in, then another, but as the ship staggered and dipped into a worsening sea, Dumaresq ordered all hands aloft to take in all but the main-topsail, so that
Destiny
could lie to and ride out the gale.
Then, to prove it could be gentle as well as perverse, the wind fell away, and when daylight returned the ship was soon drying and steaming in the warm sunshine.
Bolitho was exercising the starboard battery of twelve-pounders when Jury reported that he had been allowed to return to full duty and was no longer to bunk in the sick-bay.
Bolitho had a feeling that something was wrong, but was determined not to become involved.
He said, “The captain intends that ours will be the smartest gun salute they have ever seen or heard in Rio.” He saw several of the bare-backed seamen grinning and rubbing their palms together. “So we'll have a race. The first division against the second, with some wine for the winners.” He had already asked the purser's permission to grant an extra issue of wine.
Codd had thrust out his great upper teeth like the prow of a galley and had cheerfully agreed. “If you pay, Mr Bolitho,
if you pay!
”
Little called, “All ready, sir.”
Bolitho turned to Jury. “You can time them. The division to run out first, twice out of three tries, will take the prize.”
He knew the men were getting impatient, fingering the tackles and handspikes with as much zeal as if they were preparing to fight.
Jury tried to meet Bolitho's eyes. “I have no watch, sir.”
Bolitho stared at him, aware that the captain and Palliser were at the quarterdeck rail to see his men competing with each other.
“You've lost it? Your father's watch?” He could recall Jury's pride and his sadness as he had shown it to him the previous evening. “Tell me.”
Jury shook his head, his face wretched. “It's gone, sir. That's all I know.”
Bolitho rested his hand on Jury's shoulder. “Easy now. I'll try to think of something.” Impetuously he tugged out his own watch, which had been given to him by his mother. “Use mine.”
Stockdale, who was crouching at one of the guns, had heard all of it, and had been watching the faces of the other men nearby. He had never owned a watch in his life, nor was he likely to, but somehow he knew this one was important. In a crowded world like the ship a thief was dangerous. Sailors were too poor to let such a crime go unpunished. It would be best if he was caught before something worse happened. For his own sake as much as anybody's.
Bolitho waved his arm.
“Run out!”
The second division of guns won easily. It was only to be expected, the losers said, as it contained both Little and Stockdale, the two strongest men in the ship.
But as they shared out their mugs of wine and relaxed beneath the shade of the main-course, Bolitho knew that for Jury at least the moment was spoiled.
He said to Little, “Secure the guns.” He walked aft, some of his men nodding at him as he passed.
Dumaresq waited for him to reach the quarterdeck. “That was smartly done!”
Palliser smiled bleakly. “If we must bribe our people with wine before they can handle the great guns, we shall soon be a dry ship!”
Bolitho blurted out, “Mr Midshipman Jury's watch has been stolen.”
Dumaresq eyed him calmly, “And so? What must I do, Mr Bolitho?”
Bolitho flushed. “I'm sorry, sir. IâI thought . . .”
Dumaresq shaded his eyes to watch a trio of small birds as they dashed abeam, seemingly inches above the water. “I can almost smell the land.” He turned abruptly to Bolitho again. “It was reported to you. Deal with it.”
Bolitho touched his hat as the captain and first lieutenant began to pace up and down the weather side of the deck. He still had a lot to learn.
5 A
M
ATTER OF DISCIPLINE
WITH all her canvas, except topsails and jib, clewed up,
Destiny
glided slowly across the blue water of Rio's outer roadstead. It was oppressively hot with barely enough breeze to raise much more than a ripple beneath her beakhead, but Bolitho could sense the expectancy and excitement around him as they made their way towards the protected anchorage.
Even the most experienced seaman aboard did not deny the impressive majesty of the landfall. They had watched it grow out of the morning mist, and it was now spread out on either beam as if to enfold them. Rio's great mountain was like nothing Bolitho had seen, dwarfing all else like a giant boulder. And beyond, interspersed with patches of lush green forest, were other ridges, steep and pointed like waves which had been turned to stone. Pale beaches, necklaces of surf, and nestling between hills and ocean the city itself. White houses, squat towers and nodding palms, it was a far cry from the English Channel.
To larboard Bolitho saw the first walled battery, the Portuguese flag flapping only occasionally above it in the hard sunlight. Rio was well defended, with enough batteries to dampen the keenest of attackers.
Dumaresq was studying the town and the anchored vessels through his glass.
He said, “Let her fall off a point.”
“West-nor'-west, sir!”
Palliser looked at his captain. “Guard-boat approaching.”
Dumaresq smiled briefly. “Wonders what the hell we are doing here, no doubt.”
Bolitho plucked his shirt away from his skin and envied the half naked seamen while the officers were made to swelter in their heavy dress-coats.
Mr Vallance, the gunner, was already checking his chosen crews to make sure nothing went wrong with his salute to the flag.
Bolitho wondered how many unseen eyes were watching the slow approach of the English frigate. A man-of-war, what did she want? Was she here for peaceful purposes, or with news of another broken treaty in Europe?
“Begin the salute!”
Gun by gun the salute crashed out, the heavy air pressing the thick smoke on the water and blotting out the land.
The Portuguese guard-boat had turned in her own length, propelled by great sweeps, so that she looked like a giant water-beetle.
Somebody commented, “The bugger's leadin' us in.”
The last gun recoiled and the crews threw themselves on the tackles to sponge the smoking muzzles and secure each weapon as a final gesture of peaceful intentions.
A figure waved a flag from the guard-boat, and as the long sweeps rose dripping and still on either beam, Dumaresq remarked dryly, “Not too close in, Mr Palliser. They're taking no chances with us!”
Palliser raised his trumpet to his mouth. “Lee braces there! Hands wear ship!”
Like parts of an intricate pattern the seamen and their petty officers ran to their stations.
“Tops'l sheets!” Palliser's voice roused the sea-birds from the water upon which they had only just alighted after the din of the salute. “Tops'l clew-lines!”
Dumaresq said, “So be it, Mr Palliser. Anchor.”
“Helm a'lee!”
Destiny
turned slowly into the wind, the way going off her as she responded to the helm.
“Let go!”
There was a splash from forward as the big anchor plummeted down, while strung out on the topsail yards the seamen deftly furled the sails as if each mast was controlled by one invisible hand.
“Away gig's crew! Away quarter-boat!”
Bare feet stampeded across the hot decks while
Destiny
took the strain of her cable and then swung to the pull of the ocean.
Dumaresq thrust his hands behind his back. “Signal the guard-boat alongside, if you please. I shall have to go ashore and pay my respects to the Viceroy. It is best to get such ponderous matters over and done with.”
He nodded to Gulliver and his mates by the wheel. “Well done.”
Gulliver searched the captain's face as if expecting a trap. Finding none, he replied thankfully, “My first visit here as master, sir.”
Their eyes met. Had the collision been any worse it would have been the last time for both of them.
Bolitho was kept busy with his own men and had little time to watch the Portuguese officers come aboard. They looked resplendent in their proud uniforms and showed no discomfort in the blistering heat. The town was almost hidden in mist and haze, which gave it an added air of enchantment. Pale buildings, and craft with colourful sails and a rig not unlike Arab traders which Bolitho had seen off the coast of Africa.
“Dismiss the watch below, Mr Bolitho.” Palliser's brisk voice caught him off guard. “Then stand by with the marine escort to accompany the captain ashore.”
Bolitho ducked thankfully beneath the quarterdeck and made his way aft. In contrast with the upper deck it seemed almost cool.
In the gloom he all but collided with the surgeon as he clambered up from the main-deck. He seemed unusually agitated and said, “I must see the captain. I fear the brigantine's master is dying.”
Bolitho went through the wardroom to his tiny cabin to collect his sword and his best hat for the journey ashore.
They had discovered little about the
Heloise
's master, other than he was a Dorset man named Jacob Triscott. As Bulkley had remarked previously, it was not much incentive to stay alive when only the hangman's rope awaited him. Bolitho found that the news troubled him deeply. To kill a man in self-defence, and in the line of duty, was to be expected. But now the man who had tried to cut him down was dying, and the delay seemed unfair and without dignity.
Rhodes stamped into the wardroom behind him. “I'm parched. With all these visitors aboard, I'll be worn out in no time.”
As Bolitho came out of his cabin Rhodes exclaimed, “What is it?”
“The brigantine's master is dying.”
“I know.” He shrugged. “Him or you. It's the only way to see it.” He added, “Forget about it. The lord and master will be the one to get annoyed. He was banking on getting information from the wretch before he expired. One way or another.”
He followed Bolitho through the screen door and together they looked forward, to the waiting glare of the upper deck.
Rhodes asked, “Any luck with young Jury's watch?”
Bolitho smiled grimly. “The captain told me to deal with it.”
“He would.”
“I expect he's forgotten about it by now, but I must do something. Jury has had enough trouble already.”
Johns, the captain's personal coxswain, dressed in his best blue jacket with gilt buttons, strode past. He saw Bolitho and said, “Gig's in the water, sir. You'd best be there, too.”
Rhodes clapped Bolitho on the shoulder. “The lord and master would not take kindly to being kept waiting!”
As Bolitho was about to follow the coxswain, Rhodes said quietly, “Look, Dick, if you'd like me to do something about that damned watch while you're ashore . . .”
Bolitho shook his head. “No, but thank you. The thief is most likely from my division. To search every man and turn his possessions out on the deck would destroy whatever trust and loyalty I've managed to build up so far. I'll think of something.”
Rhodes said, “I just hope young Jury has not merely mislaid the timepiece; a loss is one thing, a theft another.”
They fell silent as they approached the starboard gangway where the side-party had fallen in to pay its respects to the captain.
But Dumaresq was standing with his thick legs apart, his head jutting forward as he shouted to the surgeon, “No, sir,
he shall not die!
Not until I have the information!”
Bulkley spread his hands helplessly. “But the man is going, sir. There is nothing more I can do.”
Dumaresq looked at the waiting gig and at the quarter-boat nearby with Colpoys' marine escort already crammed aboard. He was expected at the Viceroy's residence, and to delay might provoke bad feelings which he would certainly wish to avoid if he needed Portuguese co-operation.
He swung on Palliser. “Dammit,
you
deal with it. Tell that rogue Triscott that if he will reveal the details of his mission and his original destination I shall send a letter to his parish in Dorset. It will ensure that he is remembered as an honest man. Impress upon him what that will mean to his family and his friends.” He glared at Palliser's doubtful features. “God damn it, Mr Palliser, think of something, will you?”
Palliser asked mildly, “And if he spits in my face?”
“I'll hang him here and now, and see how his family like
that!
”
Bulkley stepped forward. “Be easy, sir, the man is dying, he cannot hurt anyone.”
“Go back to him and do as I say. That is an order.” He turned to Palliser. “Tell Mr Timbrell to rig a halter to the main-yard. I'll run that bugger up to it, dying or not, if he refuses to help!”
Palliser followed him to the entry port. “It will be a signed declaration, sir.” He nodded slowly. “I'll get a witness and have his words written down for you.”
Dumaresq smiled tightly. “Good man. See to it.” He saw Bolitho and snapped, “Into the gig with you. Now let us see this Viceroy, eh?”
Once clear of the side Dumaresq turned to study his ship, his eyes almost closed against the reflected glare.
“A fine surgeon is Bulkley, but a bit of an old woman at times. Anyone would think we are here for our health, instead of seeking a hidden fortune.”
Bolitho tried to relax, his buttocks burning on the sun-heated thwart as he attempted to sit as squarely as his captain.
The brief confidence led him to ask, “Will there really be any treasure, sir?” He was careful to keep his voice low so that the stroke oarsman should not hear him.
Dumaresq tightened his fingers around his sword hilt and stared at the land.
“It is somewhere, that I do know. In what form it now is remains to be seen, but that is why we are here. Why we were in Madeira when I went to the house of a very old friend. But something immense is happening. Because of it my clerk was killed. Because of it the
Heloise
played the dangerous game of trying to follow us. And now poor Bulkley wants me to read a prayer for a rogue who may hold a vital clue. A man who nearly killed my young and
sentimental
third lieutenant.” He turned and regarded Bolitho curiously. “Are you still in irons over Jury's watch?”
Bolitho swallowed. The captain had not forgotten after all.
“I am going to deal with the matter, sir. Just as soon as I can.”
“Hmmm. Don't make a drudgery of it. You are one of my officers. If a crime is committed the culprit must be punished. Severely. These poor fellows have barely a coin between them. I'll not see them abused by some common thief, though God knows many of them began life like that!”
Dumaresq did not raise his voice nor look at his coxswain, but said, “See what you can do, Johns.”
It was all he said, but Bolitho sensed a powerful bond between the captain and his coxswain.
Dumaresq stared toward the landing-stairs. There were more uniforms and some horses. A carriage, too, probably to carry the visitors to the residency.
Dumaresq pouted and said, “You can accompany me. Good experience for you.” He chuckled. “When the treasure ship
Asturias
broke off the engagement all those thirty years ago, it was later rumoured she entered Rio. It was also suggested that the Portuguese authorities had a hand in what happened to the bullion.” He smiled broadly. “So some of the people on that jetty are probably more worried than I at this moment.”
The bowman raised his boat-hook as with oars tossed the gig moved against the landing-stairs with barely a quiver.
Dumaresq's smile had gone. “Now let us get on with it. I want to get back as soon as possible and see how Mr Palliser's persuasion is progressing.”
At the top of the stairs a file of Colpoys' marines, their faces the colour of their coats in the blazing sunshine, snapped to attention. Opposite them, in white tunics with brilliant yellow trappings, was a guard of Portuguese soldiers.
Dumaresq shook hands and bowed to several of the waiting dignitaries as greetings were formally exchanged and translated. A crowd of onlookers stood watching nearby, and Bolitho was struck by the number of black faces amongst them. Slaves or servants from the big estates and plantations. Brought thousands of miles to this place where, with luck, they might be bought by a kind master. If unlucky, they would not last very long.
Then Dumaresq climbed into the carriage with three of the Portuguese while others mounted their horses.
Colpoys sheathed his sword and glared up at the Viceroy's residence on a lush hillside and complained, “We shall have to march, dammit! I am a marine, not a bloody foot-soldier!”