Stand into Danger

1. Leave the Past 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, un-seamanlike 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.”

Bolitho tried to remember what the captain had said. Loyalty. Shelve all else until there was time for it, when it could do no damage. Dumaresq had almost echoed his mother’s last words to him. The sea is no place for the unwary.

Feet clattered overhead, and Bolitho heard more heavy nets of stores being swayed inboard to the twitter of a call.

Away from the land again, from the hurt, the sense of loss. Yes, it would be good to go.

True to Lieutenant Rhodes’ information, His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Destiny of twenty-eight guns made ready to weigh anchor on the following Monday morning. The past few days had gone so swiftly for Bolitho he thought life might be quieter at sea than it had been in harbour. Palliser had kept him working watch-on, watch-off with hardly a break. The first lieutenant took nothing at face value and made a point of questioning Bolitho on his daily work, his opinions and suggestions for changing some of the men around on the watch and quarter bills. If he was swift with his sarcasm, Palliser was equally quick to put his subordinate’s ideas to good use.

Bolitho often thought of Rhodes ’ words about the first lieutenant. After a command of his own. He would certainly do his best for the ship and her captain, and be doubly quick to stamp on any incompetence which might eventually be laid at his door.

And Bolitho had worked hard to know the men he would deal with directly. Unlike the great ships of the line, a frigate’s survival depended on her agility and not the thickness of her timbers. Likewise, her company was divided into divisions where they could work with the best results for the ship’s benefit.

The foremast, with all its spread of canvas, course and topsails, topgallants and royals, with the additional foresails, jib and flying jib provided the means to turn with haste, through the wind’s eye if need be, or to luff and cut across an enemy’s vulnerable stern. At the opposite end of the ship the helmsmen and sailing master would use each mast, each scrap of canvas, to lay the vessel on the course required with the least need for manoeuvre.

Bolitho was in charge of the mainmast. The tallest in the ship, it too was graded like the men who would soon be swarming aloft when ordered, no matter how they felt or what the weather threw against them.

The nimble topmen were the cream of the company, while on the deck itself, working at braces and halliards and manning the capstan bars, were the landmen, the newly recruited, or old sailors who could no longer be expected to fight salt-hardened canvas a hundred feet and more above the hull.

Rhodes had the fore, while a master’s mate took charge of the mizzen-mast, supposedly the easiest one in any ship with its limited sail plan and where bodily strength was the first requirement. The afterguard, marines and a handful of seamen were sufficient to attend the mizzen.

Bolitho made a point of meeting the boatswain, a formidablelooking man named Timbrell. Tall, weatherbeaten and scarred like an ancient warrior, he was the king of the vessel’s seamen. Once clear of the land, Timbrell would work under the first lieutenant to rectify storm damage, repair spars and rigging, maintain the paintwork, ensure all the seams were free of leaks, and generally keep an eye on the professionals who would carry out those needs.

The carpenter and his crew, the cooper and the sailmaker, the ropemaker and all the rest.

A seaman to his fingertips, he was a good friend to a new officer, but could be a bad enemy if provoked.

This particular Monday morning had begun early, before daybreak. With the cook providing a hasty meal, as if he too was conscious of the need to get under way.

Lists were checked yet again, names to match voices, faces to put into jobs where they belonged. To a landsman it would have looked like chaos, with lines snaking across the decks, men working aloft astride the great yards as they loosened the sails, hardened overnight by an unexpected frost.

Bolitho had seen the captain come on deck several times. Speaking with Palliser or discussing something with Gulliver, the master. If he was anxious he did not show it, but strode around the quarterdeck with his sure-footed tread like a man thinking of something else beyond the ship.

The officers and warrant officers had changed into their faded sea-going uniforms, so that only Bolitho and most of the young midshipmen looked alien in their new coats and shining buttons.

Bolitho had received two letters from his mother, both together from the Falmouth Mail. He could picture her as he had last seen her. So frail, and so lovely. The lady who had never grown up, some local people said. The Scottish girl who had captivated Captain James Bolitho from their first meeting. She was really too frail to carry the weight of the house and the estate. With his elder brother Hugh at sea somewhere, back aboard his frigate after a short period in command of the revenue cutter Avenger at Falmouth, and their father not yet home, the burden would seem doubly hard. His grown-up sister Felicity had already left home to marry an army officer, while the youngest in the family, Nancy, should have been thinking of a coming marriage of her own.

Bolitho crossed to the gangway where the hands were stowing

the hammocks brought up from below. Poor Nancy, she would be missing Bolitho’s dead friend more than anyone, and with nothing to keep her mind free of her loss.

Someone stood beside him and he turned to see the surgeon peering at the shore. The time he had found to speak with the rotund surgeon had been well spent. Another strange member in their company. Ship’s surgeons, in Bolitho’s experience, had been of the poorest quality, butchers for the most part, and their bloody work with knife and saw was as feared by sailors as any enemy broadside.

But Henry Bulkley was a world apart. He had been in a comfortable living in London, at a prestigious address where his clients had been wealthy but demanding.

Bulkley had explained to Bolitho during the quiet of a dog-watch, “I got to hate the tyranny of the sick, the selfishness of people who are only content if they are ill. I came to sea to escape. Now I repair and do not have to waste my time on those too rich to know their own bodies. I am as much a specialist as Mr Vallance, our gunner, or the carpenter, and I share their work in my own way. Or poor Codd, the purser, who frets over each mile logged and sets it against his stores of cheese and salt beef, candles and slop clothing.”

He had smiled contentedly. “And I enjoy the pleasure of seeing other lands. I have sailed with Captain Dumaresq for three years. He, of course, is never sick. He would not permit it to happen!”

Bolitho said, “It is a strange feeling to leave like this. To an unknown destination, a landfall which only the captain and two or three others may know. No war, yet we sail ready to fight.”

He saw the big man called Stockdale mustering in line with the other seamen around the trunk of the mainmast.

The surgeon followed his glance and observed, “I heard something of what happened ashore. You have made a firm convert in that one. My God, he looks like an oak. I say that Little must have tripped him to win his money.” He shot a glance at Bolitho’s profile. “Unless he wanted to come with you? To escape from something, like most of us, eh?”

Bolitho smiled. Bulkley did not know the half of it. Stockdale had been allotted to the mizzen-mast for sail drill, and the quarterdeck six-pounders when the ship cleared for action. It was all in writing and signed with Palliser’s slashing signature.

But somehow Stockdale had managed to alter things. Here he was in Bolitho’s division, and would be stationed on the starboard battery of twelve-pounders which were in Bolitho’s charge.

A quarter-boat pulled strongly from the shoreline, all the others having been hoisted inboard on their tier before the first cock had even considered crowing.

The last link with the land. Dumaresq’s final letters and despatches for the courier. Eventually they would end up on somebody’s desk at the Admiralty. A note would be passed to the First Sea Lord, a mark might be made on one of the great charts there. A small ship leaving under sealed orders. It was nothing new, only the times had changed.

Palliser strode to the quarterdeck rail, his speaking-trumpet beneath his arm, his head darting around like a bird of prey seeking the next victim.

Bolitho looked up at the mainmast truck and was just able to discern the long red masthead pendant as it snapped out towards the quarter. A north-westerly wind. Dumaresq would need at least that to work clear of the anchorage. Never easy at the best of times, and after three months without sea-going activity, it would only require some forgetful seaman or petty officer to relay the wrong order and a proud exit might become a shambles in minutes.

Palliser called, “All officers lay aft, if you please.” He sounded irritable, and was obviously conscious of the importance of the moment.

Bolitho joined Rhodes and Colpoys on the quarterdeck, while the master and the surgeon hovered slightly in the background like intruders.

Palliser said, “We shall weigh in half an hour. Take up your stations, and watch every man. Tell the boatswain’s mates to start anyone shirking his work, and take the name of each malingerer for punishment.” He glanced at Bolitho curiously. “I have put that Stockdale man with you. I am uncertain as to why, but he seemed to feel it was his place. You must have some special gift, Mr Bolitho, though for the life of me I cannot see it!”

They touched their hats and walked away to their various stations.

Palliser’s voice followed them, hollow and insistent through the speaking-trumpet.

“Mr Timbrell! Ten more hands on the capstan! Where is that damn shantyman?”

The trumpet swivelled round like a coachman’s blunderbuss. “Hell’s teeth, Mr Rhodes, I want the anchor hove short this morning, not next week! ”

Clink, clink, clink, the pawls on the capstan moved reluctantly as the men threw themselves on the bars. Whippings and lashings had been cast off from the various coils of halliards and other running rigging, and while the officers and midshipmen were placed at intervals along the decks, like blue and white islets amongst a moving tide of seamen, the ship seemed to come alive, as if she too was aware of the time.

Bolitho darted a glance at the land. No more sun, and a light drizzle had begun to patter across the water, touching the ship and making the waiting men shiver and stamp their bare feet.

Little was whispering fiercely to two of the new seamen, his big hands stabbing out like spades as he made some point or other. He saw Bolitho and sighed.

“Gawd, sir, they’re like blocks o’ wood!”

Bolitho watched his two midshipmen and wondered how he should break the barrier which had sprung up as he had appeared on deck. He had spoken only briefly to them the previous day. Destiny was the first ship to both of them, as she was to all but two of the ‘young gentlemen’. Peter Merrett was so small he seemed unable to find a place amidst the straining ropes and panting, thrusting seamen. He was twelve years old, the son of a prominent Exeter lawyer, who in turn was the brother of an admiral. A formidable combination. Much later on, if he lived, little Merrett might use such influence to his own advantage, and at the cost of others. But now, shivering and not a little frightened, he looked the picture of misery. The other one was Ian Jury, a fourteen-year-old youth from Weymouth. Jury’s father had been a distinguished sea officer but had died in a shipwreck when Ian had still been a child. To the dead captain’s relatives the Navy must have seemed the obvious place for Jury. It would also save them a great deal of trouble.

Bolitho nodded to them.

Jury was tall for his age, a pleasant-faced youth with fair hair and a barely controlled excitement.

Jury was the first to speak. “Do we know where we are bound, sir?”

Bolitho studied him gravely. Under four years between them. Jury was not really like his dead friend, but the hair was similar.

He cursed himself for his brooding and replied, “We shall know soon enough.” His voice came out more sharply than he had intended and he said, “It is a well-kept secret as far as I am concerned.”

Jury watched him, his eyes curious. Bolitho knew what he was thinking, all the things he wanted to ask, to know, to discover in his new, demanding world. As he had once been himself.

Bolitho said, “I shall want you to go aloft to the maintop, Mr Jury, and watch over the hands as they work. You, Mr Merrett, will remain with me to pass messages forrard or aft as need be.”

He smiled as their eyes explored the towering criss-cross of shrouds and rigging, the great main-yard and those above it reaching out on either beam like huge long-bows.

The two senior midshipmen, Henderson and Cowdroy, were aft by the mizzen, while the remaining pair were assisting Rhodes by the foremast.

Stockdale happened to be nearby and wheezed, “Good mornin’ for it, sir.”

Bolitho smiled at his haltered features. “No regrets, Stockdale?”

The big man shook his head. “Nah. I needs a change. This will do me.”

Little grinned from across a long twelve-pounder. “Reckon you could take the main-brace all on yer own!”

Some of the seamen were chattering or pointing out landmarks on the shore as the light began to strengthen.

From the quarterdeck came the instant reprimand. “Mr Bolitho, sir, keep those hands in order! It is more like a cattle-fair than a man-o’-war!”

Bolitho grimaced. “Aye, aye, sir!”

He added for Little’s benefit, “Take the name of anyone who…”

He got no chance to finish as Captain Dumaresq’s cocked hat appeared through the after companion and then with apparent indifference his bulky figure moved to one side of the quarterdeck.

Bolitho whispered fiercely to the midshipmen, “Now listen, you two. Speed is important, but not more so than getting things done correctly. Don’t badger the men unnecessarily, most of them have been at sea for years anyway. Watch and learn, be ready to assist if one of the new hands gets in a tangle.”

They both nodded grimly as if they had just heard words of great wisdom.

“Standing by forrard, sir!”

That was Timbrell, the boatswain. He seemed to be everywhere. Pausing to put a new man’s fingers properly around a brace or away from a block so that when his companions threw their weight on it he would not lose half of his hand. He was equally ready to bring his rattan cane down with a crack on somebody’s shoulders if he thought he was acting stupidly. It brought a yelp of pain, and unsympathetic grins from the others.

Bolitho heard the captain say something, and seconds later the red ensign ran smartly up to the peak and blew out in the wind like painted metal.

Timbrell again. “Anchor’s hove short, sir!” He was leaning over the beak-head, peering intently at the current as it swirled beneath the bowsprit.

“Stand by on the capstan!”

Bolitho darted another glance aft. The place of command. Gulliver with his helmsmen, three today at the big double wheel. Taking no chances. Colpoys with his marines at the mizzen braces, the midshipman of the watch, and the signals midshipman, Henderson, still staring up at the wildly flapping ensign to make sure the halliards had not fouled. With the ship about to leave port, it would be more than his life was worth.

At the quarterdeck rail, Palliser with a master’s mate, and slightly apart from them all, the captain, stout legs well braced, hands beneath his coat-tails, as he stared the full length of his command. To his astonishment, Bolitho saw that Dumaresq was wearing a scarlet waistcoat beneath his coat.

“Loose heads’ls!”

The men up forward stirred into life, an unwary landmen almost getting trampled underfoot as the great areas of canvas flapped and writhed in their sudden freedom.

Palliser glanced at the captain. There was the merest nod. Then the first lieutenant lifted his speaking-trumpet and yelled, “Hands aloft there! Loose tops’ls.”

The ratlines above either gangway were filled with seamen as they rushed up like monkeys towards the yards while other fleet-footed topmen dashed on higher still, ready to play their part when the ship was under way.

Bolitho smiled to hide his anxiety as Jury sped after the clawing, hurrying seamen.

By his side Merrett said hoarsely, “I feel sick, sir.”

Slade, the senior master’s mate, paused and snarled, “Then contain it! Spew up ’ere, my lad, an’ I’ll stretch you across a gun an’ give you six strokes to sharpen your wits!” He hurried on, snapping orders, pushing men to their proper stations, the small midshipman already forgotten.

Merrett sniffed. “Well, I do feel sick!”

Bolitho said, “Stand over there.”

He peered towards the speaking-trumpet and then aloft at his men strung out along the yards, the great billowing mass of the main-topsail already catching pockets of wind and trying to wrench itself free.

“Man the braces! Stand by…”

“Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”

Like a released animal the Destiny paid off into the wind, her sails thundering out from her yards, banging and puffing in a frenzy until with the men straining at the braces to haul the yards round and the helm hard over she came under command.

Bolitho swallowed bile as a man slipped on the mainyard but was hauled to safety by one of his mates.

Round and further still, so that the land seemed to be whirling past the bows and the graceful figurehead in a wild dance.

“More hands to the weather forebrace! Take that man’s name! Mr Slade! See to the anchor and lively now!”

Palliser’s voice was never still. As the anchor rose dripping to the cathead and was swiftly made fast to prevent it battering at the ship’s hull, more men were rushed elsewhere by his demanding trumpet.

“Get the fore and main-courses set!”

The biggest sails boomed out from their yards and hardened like iron in the driving wind. Bolitho paused to straighten his hat and draw breath. The land where he had searched for volunteers was safely on the opposite beam now, and with her masts lining up to the wind and rudder Destiny was already pointing towards the narrows, beyond which the open sea waited like a field of grey.

Men fought with snaking lines, while overhead blocks screamed as braces and halliards took on the strain of muscle against the wind and a growing pyramid of canvas.

Dumaresq had not apparently moved. He was watching the land sliding abeam, his chin tightly jammed into his neckcloth.

Bolitho dashed some rain or spray from his eyes, feeling his own excitement, suddenly grateful he had not lost it. Through the narrows and into the Sound, where Drake had waited to match the Armada, where a hundred admirals had pondered and considered their immediate futures. And where after that?

“Leadsman in the chains, Mr Slade!”

Bolitho knew he was in a frigate now. No careful, portly manoeuvre here. Dumaresq knew there would be many eyes watching from the land even at this early hour. He would cut past the headland as close as he dared, with just a fathom between the keel and disaster. He had the wind, he had the ship to do it.

Behind him he heard Merrett retching helplessly and hoped Palliser would not see him.

Stockdale was bending a line round his palm and elbow in a manner born. On his thick arm it looked like a thread. He and the captain made a good pair.

Stockdale said huskily, “Free, that’s what I am.”

Bolitho made to reply but realized the battered fighter was speaking for his own benefit.

Palliser’s tone stung like a lash. “Mr Bolitho! I shall tell youfirst, as I need the t’gan’sls set as soon as we are through the narrows! It may give you time to complete your dream and attend to your duties, sir!”

Bolitho touched his hat and beckoned to his petty officers. Palliser was all right in the wardroom. On deck he was a tyrant.

He saw Merrett bending over a gun and vomiting into the scuppers.

“Damn your eyes, Mr Merrett! Clean up that mess before you dismiss! And control yourself!”

He turned away, confused and embarrassed. Palliser was not the only one, it seemed.