Secret of the Sands by Sara Sheridan Page B

simply have liked to get his account in first. Well, damn the old man – it’s first past the post, the British way and the captain will simply have to lump it.
    Against the sound of the lapping waves, Wellsted does not hear Haines approaching in the darkness.
    ‘I could have you up on charges, Lieutenant, for refusing the captain’s orders. Dinner in my cabin, I said.’
    ‘I didn’t realise it was an order, sir. I thought it more an invitation.’
    Haines makes a derisory grunt. His breath is sour. Wellsted can smell it keenly on the thick, evening air.
    ‘I’m so hurt,’ the captain mumbles, ‘that so many good men, who have now given their lives for the service . . . that you are stealing their credit. It is wickedness, Wellsted, not the act of a gentleman.’
    ‘I found what I found in Socotra,’ Wellsted replies evenly. ‘I simply noted down what I had done. I have named the others.’
    Haines snaps. ‘You were my assistant. An assistant, that is all.’
    Wellsted does not rise to the bait. They have had this argument before and Wellsted can put his hand on his heart and say that the majority of what he claimed in his memoir is his own work. He’ll find his way, by hook or by crook and it will be a better memorial of the men who’ve died than Haines’ interminable snivelling.
    The captain, still outraged, waits a few moments but Wellsted only stares silently towards the inky outline of the shore.
    ‘You were right not to come to my cabin tonight, I suppose,’ Haines continues in a vicious tone. ‘It is a good idea for you to eat alone. It will give you time to think – to consider. Shall we say for the rest of the tour, Lieutenant Wellsted?’
    James knows the man is insulting him. For any officer to be banned from the captain’s table is a dreadful blow. Certainly, the gossip of such disciplinary action will animate the crew for days and when they make port it will be wondered at all over the service. Captain Haines has the outer appearance of bluff liberality, but those who work with him know well enough that he is dogged in his thinking and takes a dislike often to individual members of the crew with little reason. For James, banishment from Haines’ cabin is little skin off his nose, in the long run. The worst the captain can do is work him hard and neglect him a little and he’s survived worse than that. Also, as things stand on board, Wellsted is the only senior officer, which puts Haines over a barrel. The midshipmen are green as gooseberries in a lush, English summer and the captain needs the lieutenant to continue the survey. If Haines hoped that Wellsted would baulk at social disgrace, he is disappointed.
    ‘As you wish, sir. I shall dine alone.’
    The captain brushes his palms together as if he is cleaning them. ‘Well then, carry on, Wellsted. Keep the watch, will you?’
    For hours there is nothing on the sound but the endless, penetrating blackness relieved by the low, whirling brightness of the stars. If you stare at them long enough they send your head spinning. The temperature has plummeted so that the night is merely pleasantly warm after the searing intensity of the day’s sunshine and Wellsted keeps watch comfortably without his jacket. By the light of a candle that is magnified only slightly by a brass ship’s lamp, he writes home to Molyneux Street. Neither his father nor his grandfather can read but he knows his younger siblings, infants when he left, will have learnt, as he did in his time, and will relay the household correspondence to the older generations. ‘Once a person can read,’ Old Thomas said so solemnly that he could have been quoting from the Bible, ‘a person can be employed to hold office, a person can marry above his station, a person can execute wills .’ All the young Wellsteds are literate, even the girls. James’ letters home are relayed, like most Arabian traffic, via Bombay and take weeks to arrive. Still, he writes regularly, never hoping for