Stand into Danger

4. Blade to Blade

CALLING to each other by name, and matching curses with their unknown adversaries, the Destiny’s small boarding party struggled to hold together. All the while the deck was flung about by the sea, the motion made worse by fallen spars and great creepers of rigging which trailed over the bulwarks and pulled the hull into each trough like a sea-anchor.

Bolitho slashed out at someone opposite him, his blade jarring against steel as he parried away another thrust. Bolitho was a good swordsman, but a hanger was a poor match for a straight blade. Around him men were yelling and gasping, bodies interlocked while they fought with cutlass and dirk, boarding axe and anything which they could lay hands on.

Little bellowed, “Aft, lads! Come on!” He charged along the littered deck, hacking down a crouching shadow with his axe as he ran, and followed by half of the party.

Near Bolitho a man slipped and fell, and then rolled over, protecting his face from the one who stood astride him with a raised cutlass. Bolitho heard the swish of steel, the sickening thud of the blade driving into bone. But when he turned he saw Stockdale wrenching his own blade free before tossing the dead man unceremoniously over the side.

It was a wild, jumbled nightmare. Nothing seemed real, and Bolitho could feel the numbness thrusting through his limbs as he fought off another attacker who had slithered down the shrouds like an agile ape.

He ducked, and felt the man slice above his head, the breath rasping out of him from the force of his swing. Bolitho punched him in the stomach with the knuckle-bow of his hanger, and as he reeled away hacked him hard across the neck, the pain lancing up his arm as if he had been the one to be cut down. Despite the horror and the danger, Bolitho’s mind continued to respond, but like that of an onlooker, somebody uninvolved with the bloody hand-to-hand fighting around him. The vessel was a brigantine, her yards in disarray as she continued to fall downwind. There was a smell of newness about her, a freshly built craft. Her crew must have been dumbfounded when Destiny’s canvas had loomed across their bows, and that shock was the only thing which had so far saved the depleted boarding party.

A man bounded forward, regardless of the slashing figures and sobbing wounded who were being trampled underfoot.

Through his reeling mind one more thought came to Bolitho. This gaunt figure in a blue coat and brass buttons must be the vessel’s master.

The brigantine was temporarily out of control, but within hours that could be put right. And Destiny was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps her damage was much worse than they had thought. You never really considered it might happen to your own ship. Always to another.

Bolitho saw the dull glint of steel and guessed dawn was not far away. Surprisingly, he thought of his mother, glad that she would not see his body when he fell.

The gaunt man yelled, “Drop your sword, rot you!”

Bolitho tried to shout back at him, to rally his men, to give himself a last spur of defiance.

Then the blades crossed, and Bolitho felt the strength of the man through the steel as if it was an extension of his own arm.

Clash, clash, clash, Bolitho parried and cut at the other man, who took every advantage to press and follow each attack.

There was a clang, and Bolitho felt the hanger torn from his fingers, the lanyard around his wrist severed by the force of the blow.

He heard a frantic voice yell, “Here, sir!” It was Jury, as he hurled a sword across the writhing bodies hilt-first.

Bolitho’s desperation came to his aid. Somehow he caught it, twisting it in his grip as he felt its balance and length. Tiny pictures flashed through his mind. His father teaching him and his brother Hugh in the walled kitchen-garden at Falmouth. Then later, matching careful movements against each other.

He sobbed as the other man’s sword cut through his sleeve just below his armpit. Another inch and… He felt the fury sweeping everything else aside, an insanity which seemed to give him back his strength, even his hope.

Bolitho locked blades again, feeling his opponent’s hatred, smelling his strength and his sweat.

He heard Stockdale calling in his strange, husky voice and knew he was being pressed too hard to reach his side. Others had stopped fighting, their wind broken as they stared with glazed eyes at the two swordsmen in their midst.

From another world, or so it seemed, came the crash of a single cannon. A ball hissed over the deck and slammed through a flapping sail like an iron fist. Destiny was nearby, and her captain had taken the risk of killing some of his own men to make his presence felt and understood.

Some of the brigantine’s men threw down their weapons instantly. Others were less fortunate and were felled by the inflamed boarders even as they tried to grasp what was happening.

Bolitho’s adversary shouted wildly, “Too late for you, sir! ”

He thrust Bolitho back with his fist, measured the distance and lunged.

Bolitho heard Jury cry out, saw Little running towards him, his teeth bared like a wild animal.

After all the agony and the hate, it was too easy and without any sort of dignity. He held his balance and did not even have to guide his feet and arms as he stepped aside, using the other man’s charge to flick his blade in one ringing encounter and then drive his own beneath the lost guard and into his chest.

Little dragged the man away and raised his bloodied axe as he tried to struggle free.

Bolitho shouted, “Belay that! Let him be!”

He looked round, feeling dazed and sick, as some of his men gave a wild cheer.

Little let the man fall to the deck and wiped his face with the back of his wrist, as if he too was slowly but reluctantly letting go of the madness. Until the next time.

Bolitho saw Jury sitting with his back against a broken spar, his hands clasped across his stomach. He knelt down and tried to drag Jury’s fingers away. Not him, he thought. Not so soon.

A seaman Bolitho recognized as one of his best maintopmen bent down and jerked the midshipman’s hands apart.

Bolitho swallowed hard and tore the shirt open, remembering Jury’s fear and his trust at the moment of boarding. Bolitho was young, but he had done this sort of thing before.

He peered at the wound and felt like praying. A blade must have been stopped by the large gilt plate on Jury’s cross-belt, he could see the scored metal even in the poor light. It had taken the real force, and the attacker had only managed to scar the youth’s stomach.

The seaman grinned and fashioned a wad from Jury’s torn shirt. “He’ll be all right, sir. Just a nick.”

Bolitho got shakily to his feet, one hand resting on the man’s shoulder for support.

“Thank you, Murray. That was well said.”

The man looked up at him as if trying to understand something.

“I saw him throw that sword to you, sir. It was then that some other bugger made his play.” He wiped his cutlass absently on a piece of sailcloth. “It was the last bloody thing he did do on this earth!”

Bolitho walked aft towards the abandoned wheel. Voices from the past seemed to be following him, reminding him of this particular moment.

They will be looking to you now. The fight and fury has gone out of them.

He turned and shouted, “Take the prisoners below and put them under guard.”

He sought out a familiar face from others who had followed him blindly without really knowing what they were doing.

“You, Southmead, man the wheel. The rest go with Little and cut free the wreckage alongside.”

He glanced quickly at Jury. His eyes were open and he was trying not to cry out from the pain.

Bolitho forced a smile, his lips frozen and unreal. “We have a prize. Thank you for what you did. It took real courage.”

Jury tried to reply but fainted away again.

Through the wind and spray Bolitho heard the booming challenge of Captain Dumaresq’s voice through a speaking-trumpet.

Bolitho called to Stockdale, “Answer for me. I am spent!”

As the two vessels drew closer, their fine lines marred by broken spars and dangling rigging, Stockdale cupped his big hands and yelled, “The ship is ours, sir!”

There was a ragged cheer from the frigate. It seemed obvious to Bolitho that Dumaresq had not expected to find a single one of them left alive.

Palliser’s crisp tones replaced the captain’s resonant voice. “Lay to if you are able! We must recover Mr Slade and his boat!”

Bolitho imagined he could hear someone laughing.

He raised his hand as the frigate tacked slowly and awkwardly away, men already working on her yards to haul up fresh canvas and reeve new blocks.

Then he looked at the brigantine’s deck, at the wounded men who were moaning quietly or trying to drag themselves away like sick animals will do.

There were some who would never move.

As the light continued to strengthen, Bolitho examined the sword which Jury had flung to save him. In the dull light the blood was like black paint, on the hilt and up to his own wrist.

Little came aft again. The new third lieutenant was young. In a moment he would fling the sword over the side, his guts soured by what they had done together. That would be a pity. Later he would want it to give to his father or his sweetheart.

Little said, “ ’Ere, sir, I’ll take that an’ give it a shamper for you.” He saw Bolitho’s hesitation and added affably, “It’s bin a real mate to you. Always look after yer mates, that’s what Josh Little says, sir.”

Bolitho handed it to him. “I expect you’re right.”

He straightened his back, even though every muscle and fibre seemed to be cutting him like hot bands.

“Lively, men! There’s much to do.” He recalled the captain’s words. “It won’t do it by itself!”

From beneath the foremast and its attendant pile of fallen debris Stockdale watched him and then gave a satisfied nod. One more fight had ended.

Bolitho waited wearily by Dumaresq’s table in Destiny’s cabin, his aching limbs at odds with the frigate’s motion. Dull daylight had revealed the brigantine’s name to be Heloise, outward bound from Bridport in Dorset to the Caribbean, by way of Madeira to take on a cargo of wine.

Dumaresq finished leafing through the brigantine’s log-book and then glanced at Bolitho.

“Do sit, Mr Bolitho. Before you fall down.”

He rose and walked to the quarter windows, pressing his face against the thick glass to seek out the brigantine which was lying in Destiny’s lee. Palliser and a fresh boarding party had gone across earlier, the first lieutenant’s experience in much demand as they sought to repair the damage and get the vessel under way again.

Dumaresq said, “You performed well. Extremely so. For one so young and as yet inexperienced in leading men, you achieved more than I’d dared to hope.” He clasped his powerful hands behind his coat-tails as if to contain his anger. “But seven of our people are dead, others badly injured.” He reached up and banged the skylight with his knuckles. “Mr Rhodes! Be so good as to find out what the damned surgeon is about!”

Bolitho forgot his tiredness, his previous resentment at being ordered from his prize to make way for the first lieutenant. It was fascinating to watch the slow rise of Dumaresq’s anger. Like a smouldering fuse as it edges towards the first cask of powder. It must have made poor Rhodes jump to hear his captain’s voice rising from the deck at his feet.

Dumaresq turned to Bolitho. “Good men killed. Piracy and murder, no less!”

He had made no mention of the miscalculation which all but wrecked or dismasted both ships.

He was saying, “I knew they were up to something. It was evident at Funchal that too many ears and eyes were abroad.” He ticked off the points on his strong fingers. “My clerk, just to get the contents of his satchel. Then the brigantine, which must have quit England about the same time as we left Plymouth, happens to be in harbour. Her master must have known I could not beat to wind’rd and make a chase of it. So long as he kept his distance he was safe.”

Bolitho understood. If Destiny had clawed round to approach the other vessel in daylight, the Heloise would have had the advantage of the wind and the distance. The frigate could outpace her in any fair chase, but under cover of darkness the brigantine would easily slip away if expertly handled. Bolitho thought of the gaunt man he had cut down in the fight to hold the deck. He could almost pity him. Almost. Dumaresq had ordered him to be brought across so that Bulkley, the surgeon, could save his life, if that were possible.

Dumaresq added, “By God, it proves something, if more proof were needed. We are on the right scent.”

The marine sentry called, “Surgeon, sir!”

Dumaresq glanced at the perspiring surgeon. “And about bloody time, man!”

Bulkley shrugged, either indifferent to Dumaresq’s explosive temper or so used to it that it meant nothing to him.

“The man is alive, sir. A bad wound but a clean one.” He glanced curiously at Bolitho. “He’s a strong fellow, too. I’m surprised and gratified to see you in one portion!”

Dumaresq snapped, “Never mind all that. How dare that ruffian interfere with a King’s ship. He’ll get no mercy from me, be certain of it!”

He calmed slowly. It was like watching the sea receding, Bolitho thought.

“I must find out what I can from him. Mr Palliser is searching the Heloise’s hull, but in view of what Mr Bolitho took pains to discover, I think it unlikely we will gain much. According to the log she was launched last year and completed just a month back. Though she’s hardly big enough for useful commerce, I’d have thought.”

Bolitho wanted to leave, to try and wash the stain of combat from his hands and mind.

The surgeon remarked, “Mr Jury is well enough. A nasty cut, but he is a healthy boy. There’ll be no after effects.”

Dumaresq gave a smile. “I spoke with him when he was brought up from the cutter. A touch of hero-worship there, I think, Mr Bolitho?”

“He saved my life, sir. He’s no cause to praise me for that.”

Dumaresq nodded. “Hmmm. We shall see.”

He changed tack. “We shall be sailing in company before nightfall. Keep all hands busy, that’s the thing. Mr Palliser will need to rig a jury topgallant mast on that damned pirate, but it must be done.” He glanced at Bolitho. “Pass the word to the quarterdeck. Change masthead lookouts every hour. We’ll use this enforced respite to keep our eyes open for other would-be followers. As it stands, we have a fine little prize, and nobody yet knows anything about it. It might assist in some way.”

Bolitho stood up, his legs heavy again. So there was to be no rest.

Dumaresq said, “Turn up the hands at noon to witness burial, Mr Bolitho. We’ll send the poor fellows on their last journey while we lie to.” He scattered the sentiment by adding, “No sense in wasting time once we are under way.”

Bulkley followed Bolitho past the sentry and towards the ladder which led below to the main-deck.

The surgeon gave a sigh. “He has the bit between his teeth now.”

Bolitho looked at him to try and understand his feelings. But it was too dark between decks, with only the ship’s sounds and smells rising around them for company.

“Is it the bullion?”

Bulkley lifted his head to listen to the muffled shouts from a boat coming alongside, booming against the hull in the deep swell.

“You are still too young to understand, Richard.” He laid a plump hand on Bolitho’s sleeve. “And that was no sort of criticism, believe me. But I have met men such as our captain, and I know him better than many. He is a fine officer in most respects, if a trifle headstrong. But he yearns for action like a drunkard craves the bottle. He commands this fine frigate, but he feels deep down that it is too late or too early for him. With England at peace, the chances of distinction and advancement are few. It suits me very well, but…” he shook his head. “I have said enough, but I know you will respect my confidence.”

He ambled to the ladder, leaving an aroma of brandy and tobacco to join the other smells already present.

Bolitho walked forward into the daylight and then ran quickly up a ladder to the quarterdeck. He knew that if he did not keep moving he would fall asleep on his feet.

Destiny’s gun-deck was littered with broken rigging, amidst which the boatswain and the ropemaker stood and discussed what might still be saved. Above the decks the seamen were busy splicing and hammering, and the torn sails were already brought down to be patched and stowed away for emergencies. A ship-of-war was self-sufficient. Nothing could be wasted. Some of that canvas would soon be gliding into the sea-bed, weighted down with round shot to carry the dead to the place where there was only darkness and peace.

Rhodes crossed to his side. “Good to have you back, Dick.” He dropped his voice as they both turned to look across at the drifting brigantine. “The lord and master was like an enraged lion after you’d broken free from the side. I shall tread very warily for the next week.”

Bolitho studied the other vessel. It was more like a dream than ever now. It was hard to believe he had managed to rally his men and take the Heloise after all which had happened. Men had died. He had probably killed at least one of them himself. But it had no meaning. No substance.

He walked to the rail and saw several of the faces on the deck below turn up towards him. What did they think, he wondered? Rhodes seemed genuinely pleased for him, but there would be envy, others might feel he had been too lucky, too successful for one so junior.

Spillane, the surgeon’s new helper, appeared on the lee gangway and threw a parcel over the side.

Bolitho felt sick. What was it? An arm or a leg? It could have been his.

He heard Slade, the master’s mate, yelling abuse at some unfortunate seaman. The Destiny’s recovery of the launch and the thankful shouts of the exhausted crew when she had eventually discovered them had apparently done nothing to make Slade any gentler.

In due course the dead men were buried, while the living stood with bared heads as the captain read a few words from his prayer book.

Then, after a hasty meal and a welcome tot of brandy, the hands turned to again, and the air was filled with the noise of saws and hammers, with strong smells of paint, and tar for the seams, to mark their progress.

Dumaresq came on deck at the end of the afternoon-watch and for several minutes looked at his ship and then at the clearing sky which told him more than any instrument.

He said to Bolitho, who was once more officer of the watch, “Look at our people working. Ashore they are branded as hawbucks and no-good drunkards. But give ’em a piece of rope or a span of timber an’ you’ll see what they can do.”

He spoke with such feeling that Bolitho ventured to ask, “Do you think another war is coming, sir?”

For an instant he thought he had gone too far. Dumaresq turned quickly on his thick legs, his eyes hard as he said, “You have been speaking with that damned sawbones, eh?”

Then he gave a deep chuckle. “There is no need to answer. You have not yet learned deceit.” He moved to the opposite side for his usual stroll, then added, “War? I am depending on it!”

Before darkness closed in to hide one ship from another, Palliser sent word to say he was ready to proceed and would repair the less important damage in the days on passage for Rio.

Slade had gone across to the Heloise to take charge of the prize crew, and Palliser returned in the quarter-boat even as nightfall joined the sky to the horizon like a curtain.

Bolitho marvelled at the way Palliser kept going. He showed no sign of tiredness, and did not spare himself as he bustled about the ship using a lantern to examine every repair and shouting for the culprit if he discovered something which he considered to be shoddy workmanship.

Thankfully Bolitho climbed into his cot, his coat on the deck where it had fallen. Around him Destiny shivered and groaned as she rode a quarter sea without effort, as if she too was grateful for a rest.

It was the same throughout the hull. Bulkley sat in his sick-bay drawing on a long clay pipe and sharing some of his brandy with Codd, the purser.

Outside, barely visible on the orlop deck, the remaining sick and wounded slept or whimpered quietly in the darkness.

In the cabin Dumaresq was at his table writing busily in his personal diary, without a coat, and with his shirt open to the waist. Occasionally he glanced at the screen door as if to pierce it and see the length of his command, his world. And sometimes he looked up at the deckhead as Gulliver’s footsteps told him that the master was still brooding over the collision, fearful the blame might be laid at his door.

Throughout the main-deck, where there was barely room to stand upright, the bulk of the ship’s company swung in their hammocks to Destiny’s regular plunging motion. Like lines of neat pods, waiting to give birth in an instant if the wind so ordered or the drums beat to quarters.

Some men, unable to sleep or working their watch on deck, still thought of the short, bitter fight, of moments when they had known fear. Of familiar faces which had been wiped away, or of the prize money the handsome brigantine might bring them.

Tossing in his cot in the sick-bay, Midshipman Jury went over the attack yet again. Of his desperate need to help Bolitho as the lieutenant’s hanger had been hurled away, of the sudden agony across his stomach like a hot iron. He thought of his dead father whom he could scarcely remember and hoped he would have been proud of what he had done.

And Destiny carried them all. From the grim-faced Palliser who sat opposite Colpoys in the deserted wardroom, the cards mocking him from the table, to the servant, Poad, snoring in his hammock, they were all at her mercy as her figurehead reached out for the horizon which never drew any nearer.

Two weeks after seizing the brigantine, Destiny crossed the Equator on her way south. Even the master seemed pleased with their progress and the distance covered. A convenient wind and milder, warmer air did much to raise the men’s spirits and keep them free of illness.

Crossing the line was a new experience for over a third of the ship’s company. Boisterous horse-play and skylarking which accompanied the ceremony were encouraged by a four days’ allowance of wine and spirits for everybody.

With Little, the gunner’s mate, making a formidable Neptune in a painted crown and a beard of spunyarn, accompanied by his bashful queen in the shape of one of the ship’s boys, all the newcomers to his kingdom were soundly ducked and abused.

Afterwards, Dumaresq joined his officers in the wardroom and stated his satisfaction with the ship’s performance and swift passage. They had left the Heloise far astern, with some of her damage still being repaired. Dumaresq was obviously in no mood to delay his own landfall, and had ordered Slade to meet him off Rio with all the haste he could manage.

On most days Destiny pushed her way along under all plain sail, and would have made a fine sight had there been any other vessel to share their ocean. Working high above the decks, or employed in regular sail and gun drill, the new hands began to fit into the routine, and Bolitho saw the pallid skins of those who had come from the debtors’ jails or worse taking on a deeper hue as the sun grew stronger with each passing day.

Another of the men who had been wounded in the fight had died, bringing the total to eight. Watched night and day by one of Colpoys’ marines, the Heloise’s master continued to regain his strength, and Bolitho imagined Dumaresq was set on keeping him alive if only to see him hang for piracy.

Midshipman Jury had been allowed to return to duty, but was confined to working on deck or standing his watch aft. Strangely enough, their brief moment of shared danger and courage seemed to hold him and Bolitho apart, and, although they met several times every day, Bolitho could sense a certain discomfort between them.

Maybe the captain had been right. Perhaps Jury’s heroworship, as he had termed it, had created an embarrassment rather than a bond.

Little Merrett, on the other hand, seemed to have gained more confidence than anyone would have thought possible. It was as if he had expected to be killed, and that now he was convinced nothing worse could ever happen to him. He ran up the shrouds with the other midshipmen, and during the dog-watches his shrill voice was often heard in some contest or argument with his companions.

One evening, as the ship ghosted along under her courses and topsails and Bolitho took over the first watch for Lieutenant Rhodes, he saw Jury watching the other midshipmen skylarking in the fighting tops, probably wishing he was up there with them.

Bolitho waited for the helmsman to call, “Steady as she goes, sir! Sou’-sou’-west!” Then he crossed to the midshipman’s side and asked, “How is the wound?”

Jury looked at him and smiled. “It no longer hurts, sir. I am lucky.” His fingers strayed to his leather cross-belt and touched the scar on the gilt plate. “Were they really pirates?”

Bolitho shrugged. “I believe they were intent on following us, spies perhaps, but in the eyes of the law they will be seen as pirates.”

He had thought a great deal about it since that terrible night. He suspected Dumaresq and Palliser knew a lot more than they were telling, that the captured brigantine was deeply involved with Destiny’s secret mission and her brief stay at Funchal.

He said, “But if we maintain this pace we shall be in Rio in a week’s time. Then I daresay we shall learn the truth.”

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 the 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. I-I 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.