Authors: Alexander Kent
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 watched 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.”
Bolitho explained what had happened from the moment the clerk had left the ship with his bag.
Dumaresq said, “Sergeant Barmouth is nobody's fool. If the bag had been there he would have found it.”
He turned and said something to the courtly gentleman with the beard, and the latter showed a brief flash of alarm before regaining his original composure.
Bolitho pricked up his ears. Dumaresq's host might live in Madeira, but the captain was speaking in Spanish, unless he was much mistaken.
Dumaresq said, “Return to the ship, Mr Bolitho. My compliments to the first lieutenant and ask him to recall the surgeon and any other shore party immediately. I intend to weigh before nightfall.”
Bolitho closed his mind to the obvious difficulties, to say nothing of the risk of leaving harbour in the dark. He sensed the sudden urgency, the apprehension which Lockyer's murder had brought amongst them.
He nodded to the elderly man and then said to Dumaresq, “A lovely house, sir.”
The old man smiled and bowed his head.
Bolitho strode down the stairs with Jury in his shadow, sharing every moment without knowing what was happening.
Bolitho wondered if the captain had noticed. That his host had understood exactly what he had said about his fine house. So if Dumaresq had spoken to him in Spanish it was so that neither he nor Jury should understand.
He decided it was one part of the mystery he would hold to himself.
That night, as promised, Dumaresq took his ship to sea. In light airs, and with all but her topsails and jib brailed up,
Destiny
steered slowly between other anchored vessels, guided by the ship's cutter with a lantern close to the water like a firefly to show her the way.
By dawn, Madeira was just a purple hump on the horizon far astern, and Bolitho was not certain if the mystery still remained there in the alley where Lockyer had drawn his last breath.
3
S
PANISH GOLD
LIEUTENANT Charles Palliser closed the two outer screen doors of Dumaresq's cabin and said, “All present, sir.”
In their various attitudes the
Destiny
's lieutenants and senior warrant officers sat and watched Dumaresq expectantly. It was late afternoon, two days out of Madeira. The ship had a feeling of leisurely routine about her, as with a light north-easterly wind laying her on a starboard tack she cruised steadily into the Atlantic.
Dumaresq glanced up at the skylight as a shadow moved past it. Most likely the master's mate of the watch.
“Shut that, too.”
Bolitho glanced at his companions, wondering if they were sharing his growing sense of curiosity.
This meeting had been inevitable, but Dumaresq had taken great pains to ensure it would come well after his ship had cleared the land.
Dumaresq waited for Palliser to sit down. Then he looked at each man in turn. From the marine officer, past the surgeon, the master and the purser, finally to his three lieutenants.
He said, “You all know about the death of my clerk. A reliable man, even if given to certain eccentricities. He will be hard to replace. However, his murder by some persons unknown means more than the loss of a companion. I have been under sealed orders, but the time is come to reveal some of the task we shall soon be facing. When two people know something it is no longer a secret. An even greater enemy in a small ship is rumour and what it can do to idle minds.”
Bolitho flinched as the wide, compelling eyes paused on him momentarily before passing to some other part of the cabin.
Dumaresq said, “Thirty years ago, before most of this ship's company had drawn breath, one Commodore Anson took an expedition south around Cape Horn and into the Great South Sea. His purpose was to harry Spanish settlements for, as you should know, we were then at war with the Dons.” He nodded grimly. “Again.”
Bolitho thought of the courtly Spaniard in the house behind the harbour at Funchal, the secrecy, the missing bag for which a man had died.
Dumaresq continued, “One thing is certain. Commodore Anson may have been courageous, but his ideas of health and caring for his people were limited.” He looked at the rotund surgeon and allowed his features to soften. “Unlike us, maybe he had no proper doctors to advise him.”
There were several chuckles, and Bolitho guessed the remark had been made to put them more at their ease.
Dumaresq said, “Be that as it may, within three years Anson had lost all of his squadron but his own
Centurion,
and had left thirteen hundred of his people buried at sea with his various escapades. Most of them died from disease, scurvy and bad food. It is likely that if Anson had returned home without further incident he would have faced a court martial and worse.”
Rhodes shifted in his chair, his eyes shining as he whispered, “I
thought
as much, Dick.”
Dumaresq's glance silenced whatever it was Rhodes had been about to impart.
The captain brushed some invisible dust from his red waistcoat and said, “Anson fell in with a Spanish treasure ship homeward bound with bullion in her holds valued at more than a million guineas.”
Bolitho vaguely remembered reading of the incident. Anson had seized the ship after a swift fight, had even broken off the action in order that the Spaniards could douse a fire which had broken out in their rigging. He had been that eager and desperate to take the treasure ship,
Nuestra Senora de Covadonga,
intact. Prize courts and the powers of Admiralty had long looked on such captures as of greater value than the lives lost to obtain them.
Dumaresq cocked his head, his calm attitude momentarily lost. Bolitho heard the hail from the masthead to report a sail far off to the north. They had already sighted it twice during the day, for it seemed unlikely there would be more than one vessel using this same lonely route.
The captain shrugged. “We shall see.” He did not elaborate but continued, “It was not known until recently that there was another treasure ship on passage to Spain. She was the
Asturias,
a larger vessel than Anson's prize, and therefore more heavily laden.” He darted a glance at the surgeon. “I can see
you
have heard of her?”
Bulkley sat back and interlaced his fingers across his ample stomach. “Indeed I have, sir. She was attacked by an English privateer under the command of a young Dorset man, Captain Piers Garrick. His letter of marque saved him many times from the gallows as a common pirate, but today he is Sir Piers Garrick, well respected, and the past holder of several government posts in the Caribbean.”
Dumaresq smiled grimly. “True, but I suggest you confine your other suspicions to the limits of the wardroom! The
Asturias
was never found, and the privateer was so damaged by the engagement that she too had to be abandoned.”
He looked round, irritated as the sentry called through the door, “Midshipman of the watch,
sir!
”
Bolitho could picture the anxiety on the quarterdeck. Should they disturb the meeting below their feet and risk Dumaresq's displeasure? Or should they just note the strange sail in the log and hope for the best?
Dumaresq said, “Enter.” He did not seem to raise his voice and yet it carried to the outer cabin without effort.
It was Midshipman Cowdroy, a sixteen-year-old youth who Dumaresq had already punished for using unnecessary severity on members of his watch.
He said, “Mr Slade's respects, sir, and that sail has been reported to the north'rd again.” He swallowed hard and seemed to shrink under the captain's stare.
Dumaresq said eventually, “I see. We shall take no action.” As the door closed he added, “Although I fear that stranger is not astern of us by coincidence.”
A bell chimed from the forecastle and Dumaresq said, “Recent information has been found and sworn to that most of the treasure is intact. A million and a half in bullion.”
They stared at him as if he had uttered some terrible obscenity.
Then Rhodes exclaimed, “And we are to discover it, sir?”
Dumaresq smiled at him. “You make it sound very simple, Mr Rhodes, perhaps we shall find it so. But such a vast amount of treasure will, and has already, aroused interest. The Dons will want it back as their rightful property. A prize court will argue that as the ship had already been seized by Garrick's privateer before she managed to escape and hide, the bullion is the property of His Brittanic Majesty.” He lowered his voice, “And there are some who would seize it to further a cause which would do us nothing but harm. So, gentlemen, now you know. Our outward purpose is to complete the King's business. But if the news of this treasure is allowed to run riot elsewhere, I will want to know who is responsible.”
Palliser rose to his feet, his head bowed uncomfortably between the deckhead beams. The rest followed suit.
Dumaresq turned his back and stared at the glittering water which stretched to the horizon astern.
“First we go to Rio de Janeiro. Then I shall know more.”
Bolitho caught his breath. The South Americas, and Rio was all of
5000
miles from his home at Falmouth. It would be the furthest he had yet sailed.
As they made to leave Dumaresq said, “Mr Palliser and Mr Gulliver, remain, if you please.”
Palliser called, “Mr Bolitho, take over my watch until I relieve you.”
They left the cabin, each immersed in his own thoughts. The far-off destination would mean little to the ordinary sailor. The sea was always there, wherever he was, and the ship went with him. Sails had to be trimmed and reset at all hours, no matter what, and a seaman's life was hard whether the final landfall was in England or the Arctic. But let the rumour of treasure run through the ship and things might be very different.
As he climbed to the quarterdeck Bolitho saw the men assembling for the first-watch looking at him curiously, then turning away as he met their eyes, as if they already knew.
Mr Slade touched his hat. “The watch is aft, sir.”
He was a hard master's mate and unpopular with many of the people, especially those who did not rise to his impressive standards of seamanship.
Bolitho waited for the helmsmen to be relieved, the usual handing over from one watch to the next. A glance aloft at the set of the yards and sails, examine the compass and the chalked notes on the slate made by the midshipman on duty.
Gulliver came on deck, banging his palms together as he did when he was worried.
Slade asked, “Trouble, sir?”
Gulliver eyed him warily. He had been in Slade's position too recently to take any comment as casual. Seeking favours perhaps? Or a way of suggesting that he was out of his depth with the ward-room officers aft?
He snapped, “At the next turn of the glass we will alter course.” He peered at the tilting compass, “Sou'-west by west. The captain intends to see the t'gan'sls, though with these light winds under our coat-tails I doubt if we can coax another knot out of her.”
Slade squinted up at the masthead lookout. “So the strange sail means something.”
Palliser's voice preceded him up the companion ladder. “It
means,
Mr Slade, that if that sail is still there tomorrow morning she is indeed following us.”
Bolitho saw the worry in Gulliver's eyes and guessed what Dumaresq must have said to him and Palliser.
“Surely there is nothing we can do about that, sir? We are not at war.”
Palliser regarded him calmly. “There is quite a lot we can do about it.” He nodded to emphasize the point. “So be ready.”
As Bolitho made to leave the quarterdeck in his care Palliser called after him, “And I shall be timing those laggards of yours when all hands are piped to make more sail.”
Bolitho touched his hat. “I am honoured, sir.”
Rhodes was waiting for him on the gun-deck. “Well done, Dick. He'll respect you if you stand up to him.”
They walked aft to the wardroom and Rhodes said, “The lord and master is going to take that other vessel, you know that, don't you, Dick?”
Bolitho threw his hat on to one of the guns and sat down at the wardroom table.
“I suppose so.” His mind drifted back again, to the coves and cliffs of Cornwall. “Last year, Stephen, I was doing temporary duty aboard a revenue cutter.”
Rhodes was about to make a joke of it but saw the sudden pain in Bolitho's eyes.
Bolitho said, “There was a man then, a big and respected landowner. He died trying to flee the country. It was proved he had been smuggling arms for an uprising in America. Maybe the captain thinks this is similar, and all this time that gold has been waiting for the right use.” He grimaced, surprised at his own gravity. “But let's talk about Rio. I am looking forward to that.”
Colpoys strolled into the wardroom and arranged himself carefully in a chair.
To Rhodes he said, “The first lieutenant says you are to select a midshipman to assist with the clerical duties in the cabin.” He crossed his legs and remarked, “Didn't know the young fellas could write!”
Their laughter died as the surgeon, unusually grim-faced, entered, and after a quick glance around to make certain they were undisturbed, said, “The gunner's just told me something interesting. He was asked by one of his mates if they would need to move some of the twelve-pounder shot forward to make room for the bullion.” He let his words sink in. “How long has it been? Fifteen minutes? Ten? It must be the shortest secret of any day!”
Bolitho listened to the regular creak and clatter of rigging and spars, the movement of the watch on deck overhead.
So be ready,
Palliser had said. It had suddenly adopted another meaning altogether.
The morning after Dumaresq's disclosures about the treasure ship found the strange sail still lying far astern.
Bolitho had the morning-watch, and had sensed the growing tension as the light hardened across the horizon and faces around him took on shape and personality.
Then came the cry, “Deck there! Sail to th' nor'-east!”
Dumaresq must have been ready for it, expecting it. He came on deck within minutes, and after a cursory glance at the compass and the flapping sails, observed, “Wind's dropping off.” He looked at Bolitho. “This is a damnable business.” He recovered himself instantly. “I shall have breakfast now. Send Mr Slade aloft when he comes on watch. He has an eye for most craft. Tell him to study that stranger, though God knows she is cunning enough to keep her distance and still not lose us.”
Bolitho watched him until he had disappeared below and then looked along
Destiny
's full length. It was the ship's busiest time, with seamen at work with holy-stones on the deck planking, others cleaning guns and checking running and standing rigging under Mr Timbrell's critical eye. The marines were going through one of their many, seemingly complicated drills with muskets and fixed bayonets, while Colpoys kept at a distance, leaving the work to his sergeant.