Stand Into Danger (3 page)

“You there! Belay that!” Bolitho strode forward, watched with both awe and amusement by his men. “Put down that chain at once!”

The barker quailed and then quickly regained his earlier confidence. He had nothing to fear from a young lieutenant. Especially in a district where he was often paid for his services.

“I've me rights!”

Little snarled, “Let me 'andle the bugger, sir! I'll give 'im bloody rights!”

It was all getting out of hand. Some villagers had appeared, too, and Bolitho had a mental picture of his men having a pitched battle with half the countryside before they could get to the launch.

He turned his back on the defiant barker and faced up to the fighter. Near to he was even bigger, but in spite of his size and strength Bolitho saw only his eyes, each of which was partly hidden by lids battered shapeless over the years.

“You know who I am?”

The man nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on Bolitho's mouth as if he was reading every word.

Gently Bolitho asked, “Will you volunteer for the King's service? Join the frigate
Destiny
at Plymouth,” he hesitated, seeing the painful understanding in the man's eyes, “with me?”

Then just as slowly as before he nodded, and without a glance at the gaping barker he picked up his shirt and a small bag.

Bolitho turned to the barker, his anger matched only by his feeling of petty triumph. Once clear of the village he would release the fighter anyway.

The barker yelled, “You can't do that!”

Little stepped forward threateningly. “Stow the noise, matey, an' show respect for a King's officer, or . . .” He left the rest in little doubt.

Bolitho licked his lips. “Fall in, men. Corporal, take charge there!”

He saw the big fighter watching the seamen and called, “Your name, what is it?”

“Stockdale, sir.” Even the name was dragged out. His chords must have been mangled in so many fights that even his voice was broken.

Bolitho smiled at him. “Stockdale. I shall not forget you. You will be free to leave us whenever you wish.” He glanced meaningly at Little. “Before we reach the boat.”

Stockdale looked calmly at the little barker who was sitting on a bench, the chain still dangling from his hand.

Then he wheezed very carefully, “No, sir. I'll not leave you. Not now. Not never.”

Bolitho watched him join up with the others. The man's obvious sincerity was strangely moving.

Little said quietly, “You've no need to worry. This'll be all round the ship in no time.” He leaned forward so that Bolitho could smell the ale and cheese. “I'm in your division, sir, an' I'll beat the block off any bugger who tries to make trouble!”

A shaft of watery sunlight played across the church clock, and as the recruiting party marched stoically towards the next village Bolitho was glad of what he had just done.

Then it began to rain, and he heard Little say, “Not much further, Dipper, then back to the ship for a wet!”

Bolitho looked at Stockdale's broad shoulders. Another volunteer. That made five in all. He lowered his head against the rain. Fifteen to go.

The next village was even worse, especially as there was no inn, and the local farmer only allowed them to sleep for the night in an unused barn, and that was with obvious reluctance. He claimed his house was full of visitors, and anyway . . . That word “anyway” spoke volumes.

The barn leaked in a dozen places and stank like a sewer, and the sailors, like most of their kind, used to the enforced cleanliness of living in close quarters, were loud voiced in their discontent.

Bolitho could not blame them, and when Corporal Dyer came to tell him that the volunteer Stockdale had vanished, he replied, “I'm not surprised, Corporal, but keep an eye on the rest of the party.”

He thought about the missing Stockdale for a long time, and wondered at his own sense of loss. Perhaps Stockdale's simple words had touched him more deeply than he had realized, that he had represented a change of luck, like a talisman.

Little exclaimed, “God Almighty!
Look at this!
”

Stockdale, dripping with rain, stepped into the lantern light and placed a sack at Bolitho's feet. The men crowded round as the treasures were revealed in the yellow glow. Some chickens, fresh bread and crocks of butter, half a meat pie and, more to the point, two big jars of cider.

Little gasped, “You two men, start plucking the chickens. You, Thomas, watch out for unwanted visitors.” He faced Stockdale and thrust out the guinea. “'Ere, matey, you take it. You've bloody earned it!”

Stockdale barely heard. As he bent over his sack he wheezed, “No. 'Twere
'is
money. You keep it.”

To Bolitho he said, “This is for you, sir.”

He held out a bottle which looked like brandy. It made sense. The farmer was probably mixed up with the smuggling “trade” hereabouts.

Stockdale watched Bolitho's face searchingly, then he added, “I'll make you comfortable, you see.”

Bolitho saw him moving about amongst the busy seamen as if he had been doing it all his life.

Little said quietly, “Reckon you can stop frettin' now, sir. Old Stockdale will be worth fifteen men all on his bloody own, by my reckonin'!”

Bolitho drank some of the brandy, the grease from a chicken leg running unheeded across the cuff of his new shirt.

He had learned a lot today, not least about himself.

His head lolled, and he did not feel Stockdale remove the cup from his fingers.

And there was always tomorrow.

1 LEAVE THE
P
AST BEHIND

BOLITHO pulled himself up the
Destiny
's side and raised his hat to the quarterdeck. Gone was the mist and dull cloud, and the houses of Plymouth beyond the Hamoaze seemed to be preening themselves in hard sunshine.

He felt stiff and tired from tramping from village to village, dirty from sleeping in barn and inn alike, and the sight of his six recruits being mustered and then led forward by the master-at-arms did little to raise his spirits. The sixth volunteer had come up to the recruiting party less than an hour before they had reached the long-boat. A neat, unseamanlike figure aged about thirty, who said he was an apothecary's assistant but needed to gain experience on a long voyage so that he might better himself.

It was as unlikely a story as that of the two farm labourers, but Bolitho was too weary to care.

“Ah, I see you are back, Mr Bolitho!”

The first lieutenant was standing at the quarterdeck rail, his tall figure framed against the washed-out sky. His arms were folded and he had obviously been watching the new arrivals from the moment the returning launch had been challenged.

In his crisp voice he added, “Lay aft, if you please.”

Bolitho climbed to the larboard gangway and made his way to the quarterdeck. His companion of three days, the gunner's mate Little, was already bustling down a ladder, going to take a “wet” with his mates, no doubt. He was lost amongst his own world below decks, leaving Bolitho once more a stranger, little different from the moment he had first stepped aboard.

He confronted the first lieutenant and touched his hat. Palliser looked composed and extremely neat, which made Bolitho feel even more like a vagrant.

Bolitho said, “Six hands, sir. The big man was a fighter, and should be a welcome addition. The last one worked for an apothecary in Plymouth.”

His words seemed to be falling like stones. Palliser had not moved and the quarterdeck was unnaturally quiet.

Bolitho ended, “It was the best I could do, sir.”

Palliser pulled out his watch. “Good. Well, the captain has come aboard in your absence. He asked to see you the moment you returned.”

Bolitho stared at him. He had been expecting the heavens to fall. Six men instead of twenty, and one of those would never make a sailor.

Palliser snapped down the guard of his watch and regarded Bolitho coolly. “Has the long sojourn ashore rendered you hard of hearing? The captain wishes to see you. That does not mean now; aboard this ship it means the moment that the captain
thought
of it!”

Bolitho looked ruefully at his muddy shoes and stockings. “I— I'm sorry, sir, I thought you said . . .”

Palliser was already looking elsewhere, his eyes busy on some men working on the forecastle.

“I told you to obtain twenty men. Had I ordered you to bring six, how many would you have found? Two? None at all?” Surprisingly he smiled. “Six will do very well. Now be off to the captain. Pork pie today, so be sharp about your business or there'll be none left.” He turned on his heel, yelling, “Mr Slade, what
are
those idlers doing, damn your eyes!”

Bolitho ran dazedly down the companion ladder and made his way aft. Faces loomed past him in the shadows between the decks, voices fell silent as they watched him pass. The new lieutenant.
Going to see the captain. What is he like? Too easy or too hard?

A marine stood with his musket by his side, swaying slightly as the ship tugged at her anchor. His eyes glittered in the lantern which spiralled from the deckhead, as it did night and day when the captain was in his quarters.

Bolitho made an effort to straighten his neckcloth and push the rebellious hair from his forehead.

The marine gave him exactly five seconds and then rapped smartly on the deck with his musket.

“Third lieutenant,
sir!
”

The screen door opened and a wispy-haired man in a black coat, probably the captain's clerk, gave Bolitho an impatient, beckoning gesture. Rather like a schoolmaster with a wayward pupil.

Bolitho tucked his hat more firmly beneath his arm and entered the cabin. After the rest of the ship it was spacious, with a second screen separating the stern cabin from the dining space, and what Bolitho took to be the sleeping quarters.

The slanting stern windows which crossed the complete rear of the cabin shone in the sunlight, giving an impression of warmth, while the overhead beams and the various pieces of furniture rippled cheerfully in the sea's reflections.

Captain Henry Vere Dumaresq had been leaning against the sill, apparently peering down at the water, but he turned with unusual lightness as Bolitho entered through the dining space.

Bolitho tried to appear calm and at ease, but it was impossible. The captain was like nobody he had ever seen. His body was broad and thickset, and his head stood straight on his shoulders as if he had no neck at all. It was like the rest of the man, powerful and giving an impression of immense strength. Little had said that Dumaresq was only twenty-eight years old, but he looked ageless, as if he had never changed and never would.

He walked to meet Bolitho, putting each foot down with forceful precision. Bolitho saw his legs, made more prominent by his expensive white stockings. The calves looked as thick as a man's thigh.

“You appear somewhat knocked about, Mr Bolitho.”

Dumaresq had a throaty, resonant voice, one which would carry easily in a full gale, yet Bolitho suspected it might also convey quiet sympathy.

He said awkwardly, “Aye, sir, I—I mean, I was ashore with the recruiting party.”

Dumaresq pointed to a chair. “Sit.” He raised his voice very slightly. “Some claret!”

It had the desired effect, and almost immediately his servant was busily pouring wine into two beautifully cut glasses. Then just as discreetly he withdrew.

Dumaresq sat down opposite Bolitho, barely a yard away. His power and presence were unnerving. Bolitho recalled his last captain. In the big seventy-four he had always been remote, aloof from the happenings of wardroom and gunroom alike. Only at moments of crisis or ceremony had he made his presence felt, and then, as before, always at a distance.

Dumaresq said, “My father had the honour of serving with yours some years back. How is he?”

Bolitho thought of his mother and sister in the house at Falmouth. Waiting for Captain James Bolitho to return home. His mother would be counting the days, perhaps dreading how he might have changed.

He had lost an arm in India, and when his ship had been paid off he had been told he was to be placed on the retired list indefinitely.

Bolitho said, “He is due home, sir. But with an arm gone and no chance to remain in the King's service, I'm not certain what will become of him.” He broke off, startled that he had spoken his thoughts aloud.

But Dumaresq gestured to the glass. “Drink, Mr Bolitho, and speak as you will. It's more important that I should know you than you should care for my views.” It seemed to amuse him. “It comes to all of us. We must consider ourselves fortunate indeed to have
her!
” His head swivelled round as he looked at the cabin. He was speaking of the ship, his ship, as if he loved her more than anything.

Bolitho said, “She is a fine vessel, sir. I am honoured to join her.”

“Yes.”

Dumaresq leaned over to refill the glasses. Again he moved with catlike ease, but used his strength, like his voice, sparingly.

He said, “I learned of your recent grief.” He raised one hand. “No, not from anyone in this ship. I have my own means, and I like to know my officers just as I know my command. We shall be sailing shortly on what may prove a rewarding voyage, then again it may be fruitless. Either way it will not be easy. We must put old memories behind us, reserve not forget them. This is a small ship and each man in her has a part to play.

“You have served under some distinguished captains and you obviously learned well from your service. But in a frigate there are few passengers, and a lieutenant is not one of them. You will make mistakes, and I will allow for that, but misuse your authority and I will fall upon you like a wall of rock. You must avoid making favourites, for they will end up using you if you are not careful.”

He chuckled as he studied Bolitho's grave features.

“There is more to being a lieutenant than growing up. The people will look to you when they are in trouble, and you will have to act as you think best. Those other days ended when you quit the midshipman's berth. In a small ship there is no room for friction. You have to become a
part
of her, d'you see?”

Bolitho found himself sitting on the edge of his chair. This strange man gripped his attention like a vice. His eyes, set wide apart, equally compelling, insistent.

Bolitho nodded. “Yes, sir. I do.”

Dumaresq looked up as two bells chimed out from forward.

“Go and have your meal. I've no doubt you're hungry. Mr Palliser's crafty schemes for recruiting new hands usually bring an appetite if nothing more.”

As Bolitho rose to his feet Dumaresq added quietly, “This voyage will be important to a lot of people. Our midshipmen are mostly from influential parents who are eager to see they get a chance to distinguish themselves when most of the fleet is rotting or laid up in-ordinary. Our professional warrant officers are excellent, and there is a strong backbone of prime seamen. The rest will learn. One last thing, Mr Bolitho, and I trust I will not have to repeat it. In
Destiny,
loyalty is paramount. To me, to this ship, and to His Britannic Majesty,
in that order!
”

Bolitho found himself outside the screen door, his senses still reeling from the brief interview.

Poad was hovering nearby, bobbing excitedly. “All done, sir? I've 'ad yer gear stowed where it'll be safe, just like you ordered.” He led the way to the wardroom. “I managed to 'old up the meal 'til you was ready, sir.”

Bolitho stepped into the wardroom and, unlike the last time, the place was noisy with chatter and seemingly full of people.

Palliser stood up and said abruptly, “Our new member, gentlemen!”

Bolitho saw Rhodes grinning at him and was glad of his friendly face.

He shook hands and murmured what he hoped was the right thing. The sailing master, Julius Gulliver, was exactly as Rhodes had described him, ill at ease, almost furtive. John Colpoys, the lieutenant who commanded the ship's marine contingent, made a splash of scarlet as he shook Bolitho's hand and drawled, “Charmed, m'dear fellah.”

The surgeon was round and jolly-looking, like an untidy owl, with a rich aroma of brandy and tobacco. There was Samuel Codd, the purser, unusually cheerful for one of his trade, Bolitho thought, and certainly no subject for a portrait. He had very large upper teeth and a tiny receding chin, so that it looked as if half of his face was successfully devouring the other.

Colpoys said, “I hope you can play cards.”

Rhodes smiled. “Give him a chance.” To Bolitho he said, “He'll have the shirt off your back if you let him.”

Bolitho sat down at the table next to the surgeon. The latter placed some gold-rimmed glasses on his nose. They looked completely lost above his red cheeks.

He said, “Pork pie. A sure sign we are soon to leave here. After that”—he glanced at the purser—“we will be back to meat from Samuel's stores, most of it condemned some twenty years ago, I daresay.”

Glasses clinked, and the air became heady with steam and the smell of food.

Bolitho looked along the table. So this was what wardroom officers were like when out of sight of their subordinates.

Rhodes whispered, “What did you make of him?”

“The captain?” Bolitho thought about it, trying to keep his memories in their proper order. “I was impressed. He is so, so . . .”

Rhodes beckoned Poad to bring the wine jug. “Ugly?”

Bolitho smiled. “Different. A bit frightening.”

Palliser's voice cut through the conversation. “You will inspect the ship when you have eaten, Richard. Truck to keel, fo'c'sle to taffrail. What you cannot understand, ask me. Meet as many of the junior warrant officers as you can, and memorize your own divisional list.” He dropped one eyelid to the marine but not quickly enough for Bolitho to miss it. “I am certain he will wish to see that his men measure up to those he so skilfully brought us today.”

Bolitho looked down as a plate was thrust before him. There was little of the actual plate left visible around the pile of food.

Palliser had called him by his first name, had even made a casual joke about the volunteers. So these were the real men behind the stiff attitudes and the chain of command on the upper deck.

He raised his eyes and glanced along the table. Given a chance he would be happy amongst them, he thought.

Rhodes said between mouthfuls, “I've heard we're sailing on Monday's tide. A fellow from the port admiral's office was aboard yesterday. He is usually right.”