Stand Into Danger (31 page)

Moments later, answering as best she could to the flapping canvas,
Destiny
tacked round to larboard, and in seconds, or so it seemed, the schooners lay across her bows.

Bolitho heard the crash of a nine-pounder, and then the other on the opposite bow as Vallance fired.

The topsail schooner seemed to stagger, as if she had run headlong on to a reef. Foremast, sails and yard all crumpled together to swamp her forecastle and slew her round out of command.

Dumaresq yelled, “Break off the action! Bring her about Mr Palliser!”

Bolitho knew that the second schooner was hardly likely to risk sharing her consort's fate. It was a masterful piece of gunlaying. He saw his men sliding down the stays to the deck after setting the extra sails, and wondered how
Destiny
would appear to the enemy's gun-crews as they peered through the smoke and saw one of their number crippled so easily.

It would hardly affect the difference of armament between the two ships, but it would put heart into the British seamen when they most needed it.

“Steady as she goes! Nor' by east, sir!”

Bolitho shouted, “It'll be our turn next!” He saw several of the seamen turn to grin at him, their faces like masks, their eyes glazed by the constant crash of gunfire.

The deck seemed to leap beneath Bolitho's feet, and with astonishment he saw a twelve-pounder from the opposite battery toppled on to its side, two men crushed and screaming under it, while others ducked or fell sprawling to flying splinters.

He heard Rhodes yelling to restore order and the responding bang of several guns, but the damage had been bad, and as Timbrell's men ran to haul away the broken timber and upended gun, the enemy fired again.

Bolitho had no way of knowing how many of
San Augustin
's shots found their mark, but the deck shook so violently he knew it was a massive weight of iron. Woodwork and pieces of broken metal clattered around him, and he covered his face with his arms as a great shadow swooped over the deck.

Stockdale pulled him down and croaked, “Mizzen! They've shot it away!”

Then came the thundering crash as the complete mizzen-mast and spars scythed across the quarterdeck and down over the starboard gangway, snapping rigging and entangling men as it went.

Bolitho staggered to his feet and looked for the enemy. But she seemed to have changed position, her upper yards misting over as she continued to shoot.
Destiny
was listing, the mizzen dragging her round as men ran and stumbled amongst the tangled rigging, their ears too deafened by the noise to react to their orders.

Dumaresq came to the quarterdeck rail and retrieved his hat from his coxswain. He glanced quickly around the upper deck and then said, “More hands aft! Cut that wreckage clear!”

Palliser seemed to rise out of the chaos like a spectre. He was gripping his arm which appeared to be broken, and he looked as if he might collapse.

Dumaresq roared, “
Move yourselves!
And another ensign to the mainmast, Mr Lovelace!”

But it was a boatswain's mate who swarmed up the shrouds through the smoke to replace the ensign which had been shot down with the mizzen. Midshipman Lovelace, who would have been fourteen years old in two weeks' time, lay by the nettings, torn almost in half by a trailing backstay.

Bolitho realized that he had been standing quite motionless while the ship swayed and shuddered about him to the jar of gun-fire.

He grasped Jury's shoulder and said, “Take ten men and assist the boatswain!” He shook him gently. “All right?”

Jury smiled. “Yes, sir.” He ran off into the smoke, calling names as he went.

Stockdale muttered, “We've less than six guns which'll bear on this side!”

Bolitho knew that
Destiny
would be out of control until the mizzen was hacked free. Over the side he could see a marine still clinging to the mizzen-top, another drowning as he watched, dragged under by the great web of rigging. He turned and looked at Dumaresq as he stood like a rock, directing the helmsmen, watching his enemy and making sure his own company could see him there.

Bolitho tore his eyes away. He felt shocked and guilty, as if he had accidentally stolen Dumaresq's secret.

So that was why he wore a scarlet waistcoat. So that none of his men should see.

But Bolitho had seen the fresh, wet stains on it which had run down on to his strong hands as his coxswain, Johns, supported him by the rail.

Midshipman Cowdroy clambered over the debris and yelled, “I need more help forrard, sir!” He looked near to panic.

Bolitho said, “Deal with it!” What Dumaresq had said to him about the stolen watch.
Deal with it.

Axes rang through the smoke, and he felt the deck lurch upright as the broken mast and attendant rigging drifted clear of the side.

How bare it seemed without it and its spread of canvas.

With a start he realized that
San Augustin
lay directly across the bows. She was still firing, but
Destiny
's change of direction which had been caused by the mizzen dragging her round, made her a difficult target. Balls slammed down close to the side or splashed in the sea on either beam.
Destiny
's guns were also blind, except for the bow-chasers, and Bolitho heard their sharper explosions as they reopened fire in deadly earnest.

But another heavy ball smashed under the larboard gangway, toppling two guns and painting the decks red as it cut down a group of men already wounded.

Bolitho saw Rhodes fall, try to recover his stand by the guns and then drop on his side.

He ran to help him, shielding him from the billowing gun-smoke as the world went mad around them.

Rhodes looked directly at him, his eyes free of pain, as he whispered, “The lord and master had his way, you see, Dick?” He looked up at the sky beyond the rigging. “The wind. Here at last but too late.” He reached up to touch Bolitho's shoulder. “Take care. I always knew. . . .” His eyes became fixed and without understanding.

Blindly Bolitho stood up and stared around at the destruction and the pain. Stephen Rhodes was dead. The one who had first made him feel welcome, who had taken life at face value, a day at a time.

Then, beyond the broken nettings and punctured hammocks he saw the sea. The sluggish swell was gone. He peered up at the sails. Holed they might be, but they were thrusting out like breast-plates as they pushed the frigate forward into the fight. They had not been beaten. Rhodes had seen it,
the wind,
he had said. The last thing he had understood on this earth.

He ran to the side and saw
San Augustin
startlingly close, right there on the starboard bow. Men were shooting at him, there was smoke and noise all around, but he felt nothing. Close to, the enemy ship was no longer so proud and invulnerable, and he could see where
Destiny
's claws had left their mark.

He heard Dumaresq's voice following him along the deck, commanding, all powerful even in its pain.
“Ready to starboard, Mr Bolitho!”

Bolitho snatched up Rhodes' beautiful sword and waved it wildly.

“Stand to! Double-shotted, lads!”

Musket-balls hammered across the decks like pebbles, and here and there a man fell. But the rest, dragging themselves from the wreckage and leaving Rhodes' guns on the larboard side, shambled to obey. To load the remaining twelve-pounders, to crouch like dazed animals as foot by foot the
San Augustin
's towering stern loomed over them like a gilded cliff.

“As you bear!”

Who was shouting the orders? Dumaresq, Palliser, or was he himself so stunned by the ferocity of the battle that he had called them himself?

“Fire!”

He saw the guns sliding inboard, the way their crews just stood and watched the destruction as every murderous ball ploughed through the Spanish man-of-war from stern to bow.

None of the gun-captains, not even Stockdale, made any attempt to reload. It was as if each man knew.

The
San Augustin
was drifting downwind, perhaps her steering shot away, or her officers killed by the last deadly embrace.

Bolitho walked slowly aft and on to the quarterdeck. Wood splinters were everywhere, and there were few men left at the six-pounders to cheer as some of the enemy's rigging collapsed in a welter of sparks and smoke.

Dumaresq turned stiffly and looked at him. “I think she's afire.”

Bolitho saw Gulliver, dead by his helmsmen, and Slade in his place, as if he had been meant for master from the beginning. Colpoys, his red coat over his bandaged wounds like a cape, watching his men standing back from their weapons. Palliser, sitting on a cask, while one of Bulkley's men examined his arm.

He heard himself say, “We'll lose the treasure, sir.”

An explosion shook the stricken
San Augustin,
and figures could be seen jumping over the side and trampling down anyone who tried to stop them.

Dumaresq looked down at his red waistcoat. “So will they.”

Bolitho watched the other ship and saw the smoke thickening, the first glint of fire beneath her mainmast. If Garrick was still alive, he would not get far now.

Bulkley arrived on the quarterdeck and said, “You must come below, Captain. I have to examine you.”

“Must!”
Dumaresq gave his fierce grin. “It is not a word I choose—” Then he fainted in his coxswain's arms.

After all that had happened it seemed unbearable. Bolitho watched as Dumaresq's body was picked up and carried carefully to the companionway.

Palliser joined him by the quarterdeck rail. He looked ashen but said, “We'll stand off until that ship either sinks or blows up.”

“What shall I do, sir?” It was Midshipman Henderson, who had somehow survived the whole battle at the masthead.

Palliser looked at him. “You will assume Mr Bolitho's duties.” He hesitated, his eyes on Rhodes' body by the foremast. “Mr Bolitho will be second lieutenant.”

A greater explosion than all the previous ones shook
San Augustin
so violently that her fore and main-topmasts toppled into the smoke and the hull itself began to turn turtle.

Jury climbed up and joined Bolitho to watch the last moments of the ornate ship.

“Was it worth it, sir?”

Bolitho looked at him and at the ship around them. Already there were men working to put the damage to rights, to make the ship live again. There were a thousand things to do, wounded to care for, the remaining schooner chased and caught, prisoners to be rescued and separated from the Spanish sailors. A great deal of work for one small ship and her company, he thought.

He considered Jury's question, what it had all cost, and what they had discovered in each other. He thought too of what Dumaresq would have to say when he returned to duty. That was a strange thing about Dumaresq. Dying was like defeat, you could never associate it with him.

Bolitho said quietly, “You must never ask that. I've learned, and I'm still learning. The ship comes first. Now, let's be about it, otherwise the lord and master will have harsh words for all of us.”

Startled, he looked at the sword he still grasped in his hand.

Perhaps Rhodes had answered Jury's question for him?

E
PILOGUE

BOLITHO tugged his hat down over his eyes and looked up at the great grey house. There was a squall blowing up the Channel, and the rain which stung his cheeks felt like ice. All the months, all the waiting, and now he was home again. It had been a long, hard journey from Plymouth after
Destiny
had dropped anchor. The roads were deeply rutted, and there had been so much mud thrown up on the coach windows Bolitho had found it difficult to recognize places which he had known since boyhood.

And now that he was back again he felt a sense of unreality, and, for some reason he could not determine, one of loss.

The house was unchanged, just as it had looked when he had last seen it, almost a year ago.

Stockdale, who had driven with him from Plymouth, shifted his feet uncertainly.

“Are you sure it's all right fer me to be 'ere, sir?”

Bolitho looked at him. It had been Dumaresq's last gesture before he had left the ship, before
Destiny
had been put into the hands of the dockyard for repair and a well-deserved overhaul.

“Take Stockdale. You'll be getting another ship soon. Keep him with you. A useful fellow.”

Bolitho said quietly, “You're welcome here. You'll see.”

He climbed up the worn stone steps and saw the double-doors swing inwards to greet him. Bolitho was not surprised, he had felt in the last few moments that the whole house had been silently watching him.

But it was not old Mrs Tremayne the housekeeper but a young maidservant he did not recognize.

She curtsied and blushed. “Welcome, zur.” Almost in the same breath she added, “Cap'n James is waitin' for you, zur.”

Bolitho stamped the mud from his shoes and gave the girl his hat and boat-cloak.

He strode through the panelled hall and stepped into the big room he knew so well. There was the fire, blazing brightly as if to hold the winter at bay, gleaming pewter, the filtered smells from the kitchen, security.

Captain James Bolitho moved from the fire and put his hand on his son's shoulder.

“My God, Richard, I saw you last as a scrawny midshipman. You've come home a man!”

Bolitho was shocked by his father's appearance. He had steeled himself against the loss of an arm, but his father had changed beyond belief. His hair was grey and his eyes were sunken. Because of his sewn-up sleeve he was holding himself awkwardly, something Bolitho had seen other crippled sailors do, fearful of having someone brush against the place where a limb had been.

“Sit down, my boy.” He watched Bolitho fixedly, as if afraid of missing something. “That's a terrible scar you have there. I must hear all about it.” But there was no enthusiasm in his voice. “Who was that giant I saw you arrive with?”

Bolitho gripped the arms of his chair. “A man called Stockdale.”

He was suddenly aware of the quiet, the deadly, clinging silence.

He asked, “Tell me, Father. Is something wrong?”

His father walked to a window and stared unseeingly through the sleet-washed glass.

“There have been letters, of course. They'll catch up with you one day.” He turned heavily. “Your mother died a month ago, Richard.”

Bolitho stared at him, unable to move, unwilling to accept it.

“Died?”

“She had a short illness. A fever of sorts. We did all we could.”

Bolitho said quietly, “I think I knew. Just now. Outside the house. She always gave the place light.”

Dead.
He had been planning what he was going to tell her, how he would have quietened her concern over his scar.

His father said distantly, “Your ship was reported some days back.”

“Yes. Then fog came down. We had to anchor.”

He thought suddenly of the faces he had left, how much he needed them at this moment. Dumaresq, who had gone to the Admiralty to explain the loss of the treasure, or to be congratulated for depriving a potential enemy of it. Palliser, who had got his command of a brig at Spithead. Young Jury, with a break in his voice when they had shaken hands for the last time.

“I heard of some of your exploits. It sounds as if Dumaresq made quite a name for himself. I hope the Admiralty see it that way. Your brother is away with the fleet.”

Bolitho tried to contain his emotion. Words, just words. He had known his father would be like this. Pride. It was always a question of pride with him, first and foremost.

“Is Nancy at home?”

His father looked at him distantly. “You won't know that either. Your sister married the squire's son, young Lewis Roxby. Your mother said it was on the rebound after that other wretched business.” He sighed. “So there it is.”

Bolitho leaned back against the chair, pressing his shoulders against the carved oak to control his sorrow.

His father had lost the sea. Now he was alone, too. This great house which looked across the slopes of Pendennis Castle or out across the busy comings and goings of Carrick Roads. Each a constant reminder of what he had lost, of what had been taken from him.

He said gently, “
Destiny
has paid off, Father. I can stay.”

It was as if he had shouted some terrible oath. Captain James strode from the window and stood looking down at him.

“I never want to hear that! You are
my
son and a King's officer. For generations we've left this house, and some have never come back. There's war in the air, and we'll need all our sons.” He paused and added softly, “A messenger came here just two days back. An appointment already.”

Bolitho stood up and moved about the room, touching familiar things without feeling them.

His father added, “She's the
Trojan,
eighty guns. There's going to be a war right enough if they're recommissioning
her.
”

“I see.”

Not a lithe frigate, but another great ship of the line. A new world to explore and master. Perhaps it was just as well. Something to fill his mind, to keep him busy until he could accept all which had happened.

“Now I think we should take a glass together, Richard. Ring for the girl. You must tell me all about it. The ship, her people, everything. Leave nothing out. It's all I have now. Memories.”

Bolitho said, “Well, Father, it was a year ago when I joined
Destiny
at Plymouth under Captain Dumaresq . . .”

When the young maidservant entered with the glasses and wine from the cellar, she saw the gray-headed Captain James sitting opposite his youngest son. They were talking about ships and foreign parts. There was no sign of grief or despair in their reunion.

But she did not understand. It was all a question of pride.