Aloud he exclaimed, “What can I do?”
But the only answer came from the sea and the rumble of the rudder beneath Dumaresq’s cabin.
The first week of the Destiny’s passage passed swiftly enough, with several blustery squalls to keep the hands busy and to hold back the scorching heat.
Up and around Cabo Branco then north-west for the Spanish Main and the Indies. There were longer periods of low breezes, and some of no wind at all when the boats were put down and the gruelling work of warping the ship by muscle and sweat was enforced.
Fresh water ran lower as a direct consequence, and with neither rain nor the prospect of an early landfall it was rationed. After a week it was cut further still to a pint a day per man.
During his daily watches under the blazing sun, Bolitho saw very little of Egmont’s wife. He told himself it was for her good as well as his own. There were troubles enough to contend with. Outbreaks of insubordination which ended in fists and kicks or the use of a petty officer’s starter. But Dumaresq refrained from having any of his men flogged, and Bolitho wondered if it was because he was eager to keep the peace or holding his hand for his passengers’ benefit.
Bulkley was showing signs of anxiety, too. Three men had gone down with scurvy. In spite of his care and the regular issue of fruit juice, the surgeon was unable to prevent it.
Once, while he had been lingering in the shadow of the big driver, Bolitho had heard Dumaresq’s voice through the cabin skylight, dismissing Bulkley’s pleas, even blaming him for not taking better precautions for his sick seamen.
Bulkley must have been examining the chart, because he had protested, “Why not Barbados, Captain? We could anchor off Bridgetown and arrange for fresh water to be brought out to us. What we have left is crawling with vermin, and I’ll not answer for the people’s health if you insist on driving them like this!”
“God damn your eyes, sir! I’ll tell you who you shall answer to, believe me! I’ll not go to Barbados and shout to the whole world what we are doing. You attend to your duties and I shall do the same!”
And there it had ended.
Seventeen days after parting from the Rosario the wind found them again, and with even her studding-sails set Destiny gathered way like the thoroughbred she was.
But perhaps it was already too late to prevent some kind of explosion. It was like a chain reaction. Slade, the master’s mate, still brooding over Palliser’s contempt, and knowing it would likely hinder, even prevent any chance of promotion, poured abuse on Midshipman Merrett for failing to calculate the ship’s noon position correctly. Merrett had overcome his early timidity, but he was only twelve years old. To be berated so harshly in front of several hands and the two helmsmen were more than enough for him. He burst into tears.
Rhodes was officer of the watch and could have intervened.
Instead he remained, by the weather side, his hat tilted against the sun, his ears deaf to Merrett’s outburst.
Bolitho was below the mainmast watching some of his topmen reeving a new block at the topgallant yard and heard most of it.
Stockdale was with him, and muttered, “It’s like an overloaded waggon, sir. Somethin’s got to give.”
Merrett dropped his hat and was rubbing his eyes with his knuckles when a seaman picked up the hat and handed it to him, his eyes angry as he glanced at the master’s mate.
Slade yelled, “How dare you interfere between your betters?”
The seaman, one of the after-guard, retorted hotly, “Dammit, Mr Slade, ’e’s doin’ ’is best! It’s bad enough for the bloody rest of us, let alone fer ’im!”
Slade seemed to go purple.
He screamed, “Master-at-arms! Secure that man!” He turned on the quarterdeck at large. “I’ll see his backbone at the gratings!”
Poynter and the ship’s corporal arrived and seized the defiant seaman.
The latter showed no sign of relenting. “Like Murray, eh? A good ’and an’ a loyal shipmate, and they was goin’ to flog ’im, too!”
Bolitho heard a growl of agreement from the men around him.
Rhodes came out of his torpor and called, “Pipe down there! What’s going on?”
Slade said, “This man defied me, and swore at me, so he did!” He was becoming dangerously calm and glaring at the seaman as if he would strike him dead.
Rhodes said uncertainly, “In that case…”
“In that case, Mr Rhodes, have the man put in irons. I’ll have no defiance in my ship.”
Dumaresq had appeared as if by magic.
Slade swallowed and said, “This man was interfering, sir.”
“I heard you.” Dumaresq thrust his hands behind his back. “As did the whole ship, I would imagine.” He glanced at Merrett and snapped, “Stop snivelling, boy!”
The midshipman stopped, like a clock, and looked about him with embarrassment.
Dumaresq eyed the seaman and added, “That was a costly gesture, Adams. A dozen lashes.”
Bolitho knew that Dumaresq could do nothing but uphold his subordinates, right or wrong, and a dozen lashes was minimal, just a headache, the old hands would term it.
But an hour later, as the lash rose and then cracked with terrible force across the man’s naked back, Bolitho realized just how frail was their hold over the ship’s company with land so far away.
The gratings were unrigged, the man named Adams was carried below grunting with pain to be revived with a wash-down of salt water and a liberal dose of rum. The spots of blood were swabbed away, and to all intents everything was as before.
Bolitho had relieved Rhodes in charge of the watch, and heard Dumaresq say to the master’s mate, “Discipline is upheld. For all our sakes.” He fixed Slade with his compelling stare. “For your own safety, I would suggest you stay out of my way!”
Bolitho turned aside so that Slade should not see him watching. But he had seen Slade’s face. Like that of a man who had been expecting a reprieve only to feel his arms being pinioned by the hangman.
All that night Bolitho thought about the girl named Aurora. It was impossible to get near her. She had been given half of the stern cabin, while Egmont made the best of a cot in the dining space. Dumaresq slept in the chartroom nearby, and there was always the servant and the marine sentry to prevent any casual caller from entering.
As he lay in his cot, his naked body sweating in the unmoving air, Bolitho pictured himself entering her cabin and holding her in his arms. He groaned at the torment, and tried to ignore the thirst which had left his mouth like a kiln. The water was foul and in short supply, and to keep drinking wine as a substitute was inviting disaster.
He heard uncertain footsteps in the wardroom and then a gentle tap on his screen door.
Bolitho rolled out of the cot, groping for his shirt as he asked, “Who is it?”
It was Spillane, the captain’s new clerk. Despite the hour he was neat and tidy, and his shirt looked as if it had just been washed, although how he had managed it was a mystery.
Spillane said politely, “I have a message for you, sir.” He was looking at Bolitho’s tousled hair and casual nakedness as he continued, “From the lady.”
Bolitho darted a quick glance around the wardroom. Only the regular creaks and groans of the ship’s timbers and the occasional murmur of canvas from above broke the silence.
He found he was whispering. “Where is it, then?”
Spillane replied, “By word of mouth, sir. She’d not put pen to paper.”
Bolitho stared. Now Spillane was a conspirator whether he wanted to be or not.
“Go on.”
Spillane lowered his voice further still. “You take over the morning-watch at four o’clock, sir.” His precise, landsman’s expression made him seem even more out of place here.
“Aye.”
“The lady will endeavour to come on deck. For a breath of air, if someone is bold enough to question her.”
“Is that all?”
“It is, sir.” Spillane was watching him closely in the faint light from a shuttered lantern. “Did you expect more?”
