He knew why the lieutenant was here; that too depressed him.
Borlase licked his lips. “I had occasion to log a seaman, sir.”
“Peterson. I know.”
He saw the merest flicker of surprise before Borlase hurried on, “I see, sir. But I intended that Mr Herrick should award punishment. Peterson was defiant and insolent to his superior, and twelve lashes, at the very least, should be his just deserts!”
The speech had brought a flush to his cheeks. Like a petulant but triumphant child who has found a weakness in authority, Bolitho thought.
He answered quietly, “The bosun’s mate who was defied was Schultz, is that so?” He did not wait for an answer but continued in the same level voice, “He is an excellent seaman, and we are lucky to have him. But,” the word hung in the air, “less than two years back he could speak no tongue but his native German. What language he has mastered is made up of sailors’ talk and slang, the commands needed to obey and instruct others.”
Borlase stared at him blankly. “I don’t see . . .”
“Had you bothered to investigate this matter”—Bolitho could feel his anger mounting, despite his care to control it. Why were men like Borlase never able to learn from mistakes and to accept the lessons?—“you would have treated the incident with a minimum of fuss. I believe that Peterson was slow to respond to an order, and Schultz shouted that he were better on a gallows than on the main yard?” He waited, seeing Borlase’s fingers opening and closing like claws. “Well?”
“Yes, sir. Something like that. Then Peterson called Schultz a pig and a heartless devil.” Borlase nodded firmly. “It was then that I ordered him to be taken below.”
Bolitho locked his fingers behind his head. He felt the sweat trickling down his chest and armpits, the shirt, newly washed and fresh on today, clinging like a wet shroud.
Maybe this was what had occurred in the missing Bounty, or aboard the Eurotas. Men tormented by climate and unceasing work taken off guard by some stupid remark made without real thought. The rest could explode like a powder cask.
He said, “Peterson’s father was hanged at Exeter for murder and theft. But he was wrongly identified, and the real murderer was caught and executed a year later.” His tone hardened. “But not before Peterson’s mother and family had been driven from their home by the dead man’s friends. They received a pardon, but it was somewhat late.” He saw Borlase pale and added, “I do not blame Schultz, because his language is limited. I cannot blame Peterson either. The very mention of a gibbet, the suggestion, no matter how casually made, that he were better use hanging from one, would drive me to rage!”
Borlase muttered haltingly, “I am sorry, sir. I did not know.”
“Which is why I blame you. That man is in your division and was of your watch. I knew, so did the first lieutenant. I trust that you will do something, and soon, to restore his respect. Something you have to earn, Mr Borlase, it does not come with the King’s coat!”
Borlase turned about and left the cabin, and for several moments Bolitho remained quite still in his chair, letting the sea noises intrude again to cover the fierce beats of his heart.
Allday said, “That was a rare quilting, Captain!”
“I told you to leave the cabin!” He stood up, furious with himself for losing his temper, and with Allday for his calm acceptance of it.
“But I did, Captain!” Allday kept his face stiff. “I thought you were calling me aft again.”
Bolitho gave in. “Was it that loud?”
Allday grinned. “I’ve heard worse, but I guessed you had pressing matters on your mind, and might wish to be reminded of them.”
“Thank you.” He felt his mouth giving way to a smile. “And damn you for your insolence.”
The coxswain took down Bolitho’s old sword from the bulkhead and rubbed it against his shirt.
“I think I’ll give it a polish, Captain. Might bring us fortune.”
Bolitho looked up at the open skylight as bare feet pounded over the deck and he heard the sudden squeal of blocks, the boom of canvas. The watch on deck was trimming the sails and resetting the yards again. The wind getting up? A change of direction?
He left the chair and walked swiftly through the day cabin to the outer door.
Keen was still in charge of the watch, and was as competent and reliable as any young officer could be. But Bolitho knew his one weakness. That Keen would rather die than call his captain to aid him if the wind began to change. He also understood why Keen was so unwilling, and the knowledge had so far prevented him from warning the lieutenant of the danger which delayed action could bring.
He reached the quarterdeck and saw the hands at the braces and the yards trimmed to take a slight alteration in the wind’s direction.
Starling, master’s mate-of-the-watch, touched his forehead and reported, “Wind’s backed a mite, sir. An’ ’tis risen, too.”
His voice was extra loud, and Bolitho guessed he was warning his lieutenant that the captain was about.
Bolitho consulted the compass and the set of the sails. They were hard and filling well. They might gain another knot for a few hours, with any luck.
Keen hurried in from the quarterdeck rail, his face anxious.
Bolitho nodded impassively. “We will call the hands to exercise the main armament in an hour’s time, Mr Keen.” He saw the surprise and the relief on Keen’s face. “Something wrong?”
Keen swallowed hard. “N—no, sir. Nothing. I just thought . . .” He broke off.
Bolitho turned aft to the poop. Keen would never make a good liar.
Keen watched him walk to the comparative seclusion of the stern and then whispered fiercely, “Did he say anything, Mr Starling?”
The master’s mate eyed him cheerfully. Like most of the others he liked Keen. Many, once raised to the rank of lieutenant, thought themselves too proud to speak with mere sailormen.
He replied, “I think ’e just wanted you to know ’e was there, sir. In case you needed ’im like.” He showed his teeth. “But o’ course, we didn’t, did we, sir?” He walked away chuckling to himself, and to supervise the flaking down of disordered halliards.
Keen thrust his hands behind him as he had seen Bolitho do so often and began to pace the deck, ignoring the heat and the thirst which was making his mouth like clay. It was difficult to fathom the captain sometimes. To know if he was sharing something with you or holding it to himself for his own amusement.
Keen had heard his voice through the cabin skylight, although he had not known what was said. But Bolitho’s tone, and Borlase’s face when he had appeared on deck, had told him far more.
It never stopped for a captain. Never. He saw Allday walking along the gundeck carrying the sword under his arm. He could almost envy him his confidences with the captain. More even than Herrick he seemed to be the one who really shared them.
He swung round, startled, as Bolitho called from the taffrail, “Mr Keen, I fully realize your intention to keep your body in a healthy condition by walking back and forth under the sun, but would you please exercise your mind also and send some hands to the fore-tops’l brace. It too needs your urgent attention.”
Keen nodded and hurried to the rail.
No matter what other problems might be on the captain’s thoughts his eyes were in no way affected.
3 A STRANGE MESSAGE
BOLITHO raised a telescope to his eye and winced as the hot metal touched his skin.
Since first light, when the masthead lookout had reported sighting land, Tempest had continued her slow approach, the first excitement giving way to a feeling of tension.
He studied the islands with methodical care, noting the various hills, the one on the nearest headland which looked for all the world like a bowed monk with his cowl pulled over his head. How close it looked through the powerful lens, but he knew that the first spit of land was a good three miles away. Beyond it, and further still, other islands and tiny humps of bare rock overlapped
in profusion, giving an impression of one ungainly barrier of land.
A seaman’s head and shoulder loomed through the glass, and Bolitho steadied it as he focused upon Tempest’s cutter which had been lowered soon after dawn. Under a tiny scrap of sail, it was pushing ahead of the frigate, and he could see an occasional splash beyond the bows as a leadsman took regular soundings to mark their approach.
For if the sea looked placid and inviting, Bolitho knew danger was rarely far off. Close to the nearest headland, where the sea was green rather than blue, he had seen a darker smudge beneath the surface. Like a giant stain, or a submerged patch of devil’s weed. Reefs were here in plenty. There was no room at all for taking chances.
Without lowering the glass he said, “Let her fall off a point, Mr Lakey.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” The sailing master sounded tense.
Bolitho continued to study the nearest island. Uninhabited, or did those lush slopes hide curious eyes? He recalled how he had landed on one such beach. Lulled by the heady scents of palms and unfamiliar vegetation, free for a while from the spartan life aboard ship, he had been totally unprepared for the sudden rush of screaming, stabbing savages. It still came back to him, especially at moments like this.
“Nor’-west by north, sir! Steady as she goes!”
“Very well.” Bolitho turned slightly towards Herrick. “Nothing, Thomas. Not even smoke from a fire.”
Herrick replied, “I don’t like it.” He too had a glass trained on the islands. “At this crawl any lookout would have sighted us long ago.”
As if to confirm his words six bells chimed out from the forecastle. Eleven o’clock. A long while since dawn.
Bolitho bit his lip. Too long. He did not know the Eurotas, but she was a well-found ship and no stranger to these waters. Her captain, James Lloyd, had an equally sound reputation. But even if the ship had foundered on a reef, surely some survivors would have got clear in the boats?
He lowered the glass and watched a shark rise momentarily to show the whole of its sleek back to the sunlight, barely an oar’s length from the side.
Midshipman Swift said, “Cutter’s signalling, sir.” Even his voice was hushed. Like the hot breeze. Like the ship.
Bolitho raised the glass again and saw Starling, one of the master’s mates, standing upright in the sternsheets, his arm outstretched.
“Take note, Mr Lakey.” Bolitho shut the glass with a snap. “The boat has sighted shoals to the nor’-west.”
He looked up, shading his eyes with his forearm. Under top-sails and jib only Tempest was making poor headway. But they had to stay alert. Be ready to come about, in a baby’s breath if necessary, and fight clear of those hidden reefs.
He watched the sails, barely filling, and the shortened shapes of the lookouts. Just to watch them made him feel dizzy. One was not even holding on to his perch in the crosstrees, and Bolitho could see his leg jerking up and down, probably in time with a song only he could hear.
Lakey left the wheel, where two helmsmen stood crushed by the blazing sunlight, and walked to the quarterdeck rail.
Bolitho turned to face him, dragging at his shoe which had stuck to the deck seams.
Lakey said quietly, “Been thinking, sir. There’s another island. To the nor’-east. On the chart it shows no name, but sailors call it the Island of Five Hills.” He shrugged. “For the hills are all there are of it. I went ashore there some years back when I was serving in the old Fowey. The hills give good shelter to an anchorage, and there’s a beach, too. We put in looking for water.” He sighed, remembering. “But apart from rock pools we were unlucky.”
Herrick said, “Well, Eurotas is hardly likely to be there, is she?” He could barely hide his impatience. Like most of those around him he was feeling the strain.
Lakey was unmoved. “It’s not that, sir. If the ship was damaged, holed mebbe. Well, she could be beached in safety, with far less chance of attack by natives an’ the like than on the larger islands.” He frowned. “I should have thought of it earlier.”
Bolitho looked at him, thinking hard. “No matter. It makes good sense, and as we have to pass through the islands anyway, we’ll lose nothing by extending the search a little.”
“Mr Starling’s signalling again, sir.” Swift’s tanned face was screwed up with concentration as he watched the cutter through the big signals telescope. “Reefs close to larboard, but still no bottom.”
Lakey breathed out slowly. “The chart is right about that, anyway.”
Bolitho plucked the shirt away from his chest. It was wringing wet.
“Nevertheless, we will begin sounding ourselves. Pass the word forward to the leadsman.”
It must be like a great spiky cavern down there, Bolitho thought. He could picture Tempest’s hull as it would be seen by fish or merman. Dull against the glittering surface, idling forward between the reefs, while far beneath her keel the sea fell away to blackness. To a silent world.
Somebody must have sighted the ship. Even if the lookouts could see no sign of life there would be other eyes about. The word would be passed through the islands quicker than any known signal. A ship was near. A man-of-war. Once Tempest had passed by the people would emerge to continue their lives in their own way. Preying on each other, hunting, fishing. Killing.
“No bottom, zur!”
Bolitho watched the cutter thoughtfully. “Call away the quarter boat, Mr Borlase. Take her yourself, and run close inshore once we are through the reefs. No risks, but keep an eye open for wreckage washed into caves or on the beaches. Arm your people and mount a swivel in the bows.”
Borlase, who had been a spectator like most of the ship’s company, forced his sun-dulled mind to react.
“Aye, sir.” He cupped his hands. “Quarter boat’s crew lay aft!”
Tempest was moving so slowly that it was not even necessary to heave to while the men tumbled into the boat and thrust off from the side.
Bolitho watched until Borlase had got his men working the boat properly and had a sail hoisted to the solitary mast. It was better to do something than merely stand still and brood.
It would also confuse any hostile eye on the shore. Boats in the water without obvious purpose could mean anything, and would delay the passing of messages until the reason became clearer.
“By th’ mark twenty, zur!” A pause as the leadsman hauled in his line hand-over-hand. “Rocky bottom!”
Bolitho looked at Herrick. If the tallow in the bottom of the lead held no sand it was likely they were right above the reef at its safest point. Twenty fathoms were as secure as a hundred.
Starling in his cutter would not even have known it was there, for with a boat’s smaller lead and line of half that length he would be unaware that the worst was over. But his sounding was still essential. A sudden uplift of reef, an uncharted pinnacle, no matter how small, could tear out Tempest’s bilge like an axe through a hammock.
He watched the surf writhing beneath another headland. No wonder old sailormen kept their audiences enthralled with tales of sirens and mermaids luring ships to their deaths. It all looked so peaceful, so inviting.
“No bottom, zur!”
Bolitho moved restlessly to the starboard side and tried not to think of fresh, cool drinking water. Like that which you found in streams and brooks in Cornwall. So clear and refreshing it was like wine.
He saw Keen watching him, his face in a frown. Probably thinks me mad to keep on looking, searching.
He heard the rattle of canvas and blocks as another weak gust filled the sails to make the masthead pendant lick out like a long tongue. Few of the seamen and marines were speaking, or even showing much interest in the passing islands. The gurgle of water alongside, the creak of the wheel were the loudest sounds to be heard.
“Deep nineteen!” It was like a dirge as the leadsman hauled in his line yet again.
Lakey said suddenly, “There’s the island, sir! Fine on the starboard bow. The hills overlap from this bearing, but fi
ve there are, with the anchorage beneath the second and third, as I recall.”
Bolitho took a glass from Midshipman Romney who had been hovering nearby with his sextant in readiness for the noon ritual of shooting the sun under Lakey’s demanding eye. Poor Romney could not even do that properly. The other three midshipmen were now as proficient as any lieutenant. Better than some.
He saw the hills, stark and bald of vegetation nearer the top. But for Lakey’s hoard of sea knowledge he would never have guessed there were five hills in a row. What a terrible place to be shipwrecked or marooned. No vessel, unless driven off course by a storm or on some unlawful mission, would pass this way. A man could die of madness as easily as of thirst.
“By the mark fifteen!”
Bolitho touched Romney’s shoulder, feeling his skin jump beneath the grubby shirt.
“You keep an eye on Mr Borlase’s boat. If it becomes hidden around a point, or lost from view for any time, inform Mr Herrick at once.”
He saw the boy looking up at him. As ever, desperately eager, yet already fearful of making some new mistake.
Bolitho added quietly, “You are excused noon sights, Mr Romney. I know our position well enough. But I do not wish to lose a boat’s crew.”
Romney touched his forehead and hurried to the nettings, his telescope making him all the more pathetic.
Lakey said gruffly, “Never make a sea officer. Never in this life.”
“By the deep twelve!”
Bolitho looked away. He doubted if it would get much shallower just yet, but the leadsman’s regular reminder calls helped to steady his thoughts.
Without turning he knew Allday was behind him. Despite his solid build Allday could, when he desired, tread like a cat.
He said, “I could fetch you a drink, Captain?”
Bolitho shook his head. “Later. It’s not time.”
Allday strode forward to the rail, his head to one side.
“Cannon fire!”
If he had voiced some terrible obscenity against King and country his words could not have had a more startling effect.
Passage to Mutiny Page 5