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.”
