Passage to Mutiny

by Alexander Kent

  “A flag on a pole, Thomas. A few hard-working servants of the country. Much what we’re used to.”

  Noddall pattered into the cabin, the coffee jug in his paws.

  “There’s some more ’ere, sir.”

  “Good.” Bolitho thrust out his mug. “It makes me sweat, but it is good to taste something which is neither rotten nor rancid for a change.”

  He held the mug to his lips, feeling it burning down to his stomach.

  Another day. The same empty sea. He had taken to counting seconds whenever he went on deck to consult the compass and their estimated position. Seconds before he had to look towards Eurotas’s fat hull. She always seemed to remain in the exact position, held in the frigate’s shrouds as if snared in a giant web. In fact, she was well down to leeward, too far to examine without a glass. Those occasions too had to be measured, rationed.

  He heard some muffled shots and knew the marines were practising again, firing their muskets from the tops at makeshift targets which Sergeant Quare had hurled overboard. He wondered if one of the marksmen was the ex-gamekeeper, Blissett, and whether or not he was remembering the man he had silently killed on the beach.

  Herrick said suddenly, “It’s no use, sir. I must speak my mind.”

  “Good.” Bolitho turned towards him. “I have been expecting something, so be done with it.”

  Herrick put his mug very carefully on the table.

  “It’s all been said before. But I’m no less concerned. Me, I don’t count. I’ll never rise above wardroom rank, and I think I’m glad for it, having seen what command can drag out of a man. But you have a family tradition, sir. When I saw your house in Falmouth, those portraits, all that history, I knew I was lucky to serve under you. I’ve been at sea since I was a lad, like most of us, and I know the measure of a captain. It’s not right that you should be in jeopardy because of all this!”

  Bolitho smiled gravely, despite his inner ache.

  “By all this, I take it you mean my indiscretion? My discovery that I could fall in love like other men?” He shook his head. “No, Thomas, I’ll not let anyone abuse that lady just to hurt me. I’ll see Raymond in hell before that!” He turned away. “Now you’ve made me abandon my self-control.”

  Herrick replied heavily, “At the risk of offending you further, I still believe Commodore Sayer was right to,” he shrugged awkwardly, “to keep you occupied aboard ship.”

  “Perhaps.” Bolitho sat down again and rubbed his eyes with the palms of his hands. “If only—”

  He looked up sharply. “What was that?”

  “A hail from the masthead.”

  Herrick was already on his feet as the call floated down again. “Deck thar! Sail on the lee bow!”

  They both hurried from the cabin and collided with Midshipman Romney who was on his way aft.

  “Sir! Mr Keen’s respects and—”

  Herrick brushed past him. “Aye. We know.”

  Bolitho strode past the wheel, feeling the sun across his shoulders as if he were naked. A glance at the compass and to the trim of the sails told him all he needed. Eurotas was still on station, her big courses filling and deflating, depriving her of any beauty.

  “Anything further?”

  Keen looked at him. “Not yet, sir.” He trained his telescope. “Nothing.”

  “Hmm.” Bolitho tugged out his watch. “Send another lookout aloft, if you please.” He searched round for Midshipman Swift. “Make a signal to Eurotas. Sail in sight to the nor’-east.” He looked at Herrick. “Though in God’s name they should have seen it themselves.”

  Herrick held his peace. Merchantmen rarely maintained a good lookout, especially when they had a naval escort. But there was no point in mentioning it now. He could tell Bolitho’s anxieties were only just below the surface. One spark and . . .

  Bolitho snapped, “In heaven’s name, what are our people doing?”

  “Deck there!” It was the new lookout. “She be a man-o-war, zur!”

  Bolitho turned to Herrick again. “What can she be about, Thomas?”

  “One of ours maybe?”

  “Bless you, Thomas!” He clapped him on the shoulder. “We are the only one of ours in this whole ocean! Even the Governor of New South Wales is having to plead for ships!”

  Herrick watched him, fascinated. The prospect of action was making Bolitho react, no matter what he was enduring privately.

  Herrick said, “And we’ve absolutely no idea what’s happening in the world. We may be at war with Spain or France, anybody!”

  Bolitho walked aft to the wheel again and examined the compass. East-north-east, and the wind still comfortably across the starboard quarter. The stranger was on a converging tack, but it would take hours to come up with her. What would he do if the newcomer turned and fled at the sight of them? He could not leave Eurotas.

  But as the hour ran out and another began the lookouts’ reports showed that the other vessel gave no sign of going about.

  “Set the forecourse, Mr Herrick.” Bolitho crossed the quarterdeck and climbed into the mizzen shrouds. “I shall feel happier if we lie closer to our charge.”

  The hands hurried to their stations, and a few minutes later the frigate’s big foresail filled to the wind and sent a tremor running through the shrouds and rigging like a message.

  Bolitho steadied his glass, waiting for the long, undulating swell to lift the other ship long enough for him to examine her. Then he saw the ship with surprising clarity as with a freak of nature she and Tempest rose together.

  For just a few moments he held her in the lens, then mist and distance distorted the picture, and he lowered himself to the deck.

  “Frigate. French by the cut of her.”

  He peered up at the masthead pendant. “Be up to her in two hours if this wind holds. Within range of a long shot before that.”

  Lakey observed quietly, “We’re not at war with France, sir.”

  “So I believe, Mr Lakey. But we’ll take no chances all the same.”

  He glanced along his command, picturing her wreathed in smoke and flying iron.

  But not this time. The Frenchman was taking his time and making no effort to change tack enough to grapple for the wind-gage.

  He added, “Send the hands to quarters in good time, and make sure we have some experienced eyes at the masthead to see if the Frenchman does likewise.”

  He took the glass again and trained it on the Eurotas. He saw the flash of a gown as she walked across the poop, one hand holding the big hat to prevent the wind taking it from her.

  Oh God. He lowered the glass and she dropped into distance, leaving only the ship.

  “Deck there! She’s run up ’er colours!” A pause. “Frenchie, right enough, zur!”

  Even without a glass Bolitho could see the tiny patch of white breaking from the other ship’s peak as she tacked heavily to hold the wind, her yards braced round until they were all but fore and aft.

  It was a strange feeling. Like many of the men aboard, Bolitho had rarely met a French ship other than across the muzzles of a broadside. He thought of Le Chaumareys and was suddenly sad for him and the waste of his life. Captains were like kings in their own ships, no matter how small. But to the powers which manoeuvred and used them they were expendable pawns.

  He made himself leave the deck and return to his cabin, almost blind from staring across the shining blue water.

  Allday entered the cabin. “I’ll tell Noddall to fetch your coat and hat, Captain.” He grinned. “Those breeches, patched or not, will do for a Frenchman!”

  Bolitho nodded. If the French captain was new to these waters he would want to see every other captain he could. Would he come to Tempest, or would he go to him?

  Noddall scuttled through from the sleeping cabin, carrying the coat over his arm, tutting to himself.

  Bolitho had just finished transforming himself into some semblance of a King’s officer when he heard the pipe, “All hands! Hands to quarters and clear for act
ion!”

  The drums rolled, and he felt the hull quiver as her company rushed to obey.

  By the time he had reached the quarterdeck it was done, even to the sanding of the planking around each gun. It would not be needed, he was quite certain, as he watched the other frigate’s approach. But sand was plentiful, and every drill gained experience for some.

  “Load and run out, sir?”

  “No, Mr Herrick.” He was equally formal.

  He looked along the black guns and bare-backed men. He found he was wishing it was the pirate Mathias Tuke lifting and plunging across the water towards him.

  Midshipman Fitzmaurice came running aft to the quarter-deck ladder and called, “Beg pardon, sir, but Mr Jury sends his respects and says that frigate is the Narval, thirty-six, and that he saw her in Bombay.”

  Bolitho smiled. “Give my thanks to the boatswain.”

  He looked at Herrick. It was always the same in a ship. Always someone who had seen or served in another. No doubt the French captain was receiving similar news about the Tempest. Thirty-six guns. The same as his own. Ball for ball, if so ordered.

  He watched the other ship shortening sail with professional interest. A lighter, sleeker hull than Tempest, well-weathered, as if she had been at sea for a long time. Her sail-handling was excellent, another mark of long usage.

  Bolitho shaded his eyes and looked up at the peak. Out here Tempest sailed under the white ensign, and he wondered if the French captain was looking at it. Remembering.

  “She’s hove to!” Keen strode across the gundeck, ducking to peer over a twelve-pounder. “And dropping a boat!”

  Herrick grinned. “Just a lieutenant, sir. Probably wants us to put him on the course for Paris!”

  But when the young lieutenant eventually clambered aboard from the longboat he seemed anything but lost. He doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and then presented himself to Bolitho.

  “I bring the respects of my capitaine, m’sieu, and the invitation to visit him.” His dark eyes moved swiftly around the manned guns, the swaying line of armed marines.

  “Certainly.”

  Bolitho walked to the entry port and glanced down at the French longboat. The seamen were neatly dressed in striped shirts and white trousers. But they had no life in them. They looked afraid.

  “And who is your captain?”

  The lieutenant seemed to draw himself up another inch or so.

  “He is Jean Michel, Comte de Barras, m’sieu.”

  Bolitho had never heard of him.

  “Very well.”

  He said to Herrick quietly, “Retain the wind-gage, and make sure Eurotas keeps proper station until I return.”

  Then with a nod to the rigid side party he followed the lieutenant into the boat.

  The oarsmen pulled steadily across the water, taking and mounting each round-backed roller with practised ease. He felt the spray stinging his cheeks refreshing him. A vast ocean and the ships meeting by accident on one tiny pinpoint of it.

  A French count and an English captain from Falmouth.

  The officer snapped an order and the boat’s oars rose dripping in two pale lines, while with a flourish the bowman hooked on to the Narval’s main chains. It was expertly done, but Bolitho had the feeling it was as much from fear as from experience.

  He grasped his sword and pulled himself up towards the entry port, very aware of the eyes watching him from the deck above.

  The Narval’s great cabin was in total contrast to Bolitho’s own. Once aboard, he had been met by her captain with barely a word and had been hurried through the formality of the guard and side party with what had seemed like discourtesy. Now, sitting in an ornate gilded chair, his eyes half-blinded by the sunlight, Bolitho examined his host for the first time.

  The Comte de Barras was of very slight build, and framed against the sloping stern windows appeared almost girlish. His dress coat was slightly flared and of superb cut, and Bolitho wished he had not allowed Allday to talk him into coming across in his seagoing breeches.

  The only other occupant of the cabin was a youth, either Indian or Malay, who was busily arranging glasses and a beautifully carved wine cabinet on one of the two tables.

  But the cabin was quite breathtaking. Tempest’s builders had used all their skills in carving and shaping her captain’s quarters with the finest woods in their yard. Narval’s were only to be described as elegant and fanciful in contrast. Rich, beautiful curtains hid the usual screens and doors, and across the deck were several large rugs which must have cost a fortune.

  He realized de Barras was watching him, awaiting his reactions.

  Bolitho said, “You live well, Capitaine.”

  De Barras’s smooth forehead wrinkled in a brief frown. Bolitho’s failure to use his title perhaps, or his treating him as a fellow captain might have offended him.

  But the frown vanished just as quickly, and he sat down very carefully in another gilded chair, the twin of Bolitho’s.

  “I live as best I can in these frugal circumstances.” He spoke perfect English with a slight lisp.

  He snapped his fingers at his young servant. “You must take some wine, er, Captain.” He watched the boy as if daring him to spill any on a carpet.

  It gave Bolitho more time to study de Barras now that his eyes were growing used to the cabin. He could be any age between twenty-five and thirty-five. With delicately fashioned nose and small chin he looked more like a member of some exclusive court than a sea captain. He was, Bolitho had observed when coming aboard, wearing a wig. That too was unusual, and only added to the sense of unreality.

  But the wine was good. More, it was excellent.

  De Barras seemed pleased. “My father owns many vineyards. This wine travels quite well.” Again the small, petulant frown.

  Like Borlase, Bolitho thought.

  “Which it needs to do. This vessel has been in unbroken service for three years now, and I have held command for two.”

  “I see.”

  Bolitho watched him, wondering what this strange man really wanted. He noticed how the boy was hovering by de Barras’s elbow. He was not merely attentive. He was terrified.

  De Barras murmured, “And you are bound for?”

  There was nothing to be gained from secrecy. “The Levu Islands.”

  “You are expecting, er, trouble?” He waved one hand carelessly towards the sea, allowing a great show of lace shirt to froth from beneath his sleeve. “Two ships?”

  “We have had trouble.”

  Bolitho wondered if Raymond had a telescope trained on the Narval. He hoped so. Hoped too he was fuming at being excluded.

  “Pirates?”

  Bolitho smiled gently. “I can see you are not surprised.”

  De Barras was taken off guard. “I am merely curious.” He prodded the boy’s shoulder sharply. “More wine!”

  Bolitho asked, “And you are bound for New South Wales?”

  “Yes.” De Barras stood up and walked quickly to the bulkhead and adjusted one of the curtains. “Clumsy fools. They live like swine themselves and have no thought for fine things!” He curbed his sudden irritation and sat down again. “I intend to pay my respects to the governor and replenish my stores there.”

  Bolitho kept his face stiff. The governor would really explode when he saw a French frigate in his bay.

  De Barras added quietly, “I am looking for one such pirate, and have been for many months. He is an Englishman, but a pirate nonetheless. We are both bound to his eventual destruction, eh, m’sieu?” It seemed to amuse him. “He was plundering the waters of the Caribbean, from La Guaira to Martinique. I pursued him to Port of Spain and lost him when his men sacked and burned a village nearby.” His chest was moving with agitation.

  Like a spoiled child, Bolitho thought. Frail he might appear, but he was as dangerous as a serpent underneath.

  Bolitho said, “It is a lot of concern for one man.” He watched for some hint, some sign of what lay behind de Barras’s co
nfidences.

  “He is a man who attracts others.” De Barras sipped his wine delicately. “One without loyalty himself, but one who can instill it in those he leads. I was going to explain these matters to the Governor of New South Wales, but it seems that he may be better informed than I realized.” He came to a decision. “The pirate is called Tuke. He has with him a man who was awaiting deportation from Martinique to France. That was to be one of my missions.” He spat out the words. “This cochon Tuke aided his escape, and now has him with his own foul company!”

  “May I ask about this other man?”

  “It is no matter.” De Barras shrugged. “A traitor to France. An agitateur. But he must be taken and punished before he can cause more unrest.”

  When Bolitho remained silent he added vehemently, “It is in England’s interest also. This traitor will use Tuke’s strength to spread trouble, to rob and sack more and more ships and islands as his own power expands!” He dabbed a droplet of sweat from his chin. “It is your duty!”

  Something threw a shadow across the cabin, and when Bolitho turned towards the windows he imagined he was seeing a spec-tre from a nightmare. Dangling outside was a man, or what was left of him. Suspended by his wrists, with ropes attached to his ankles and which disappeared towards the rudder, he was naked, and his body was a mass of bloody lacerations and great gaping wounds. One eye had been torn from his head, but the other stared fixedly at the ship, while his mouth opened and closed like a black hole.

  De Barras was almost beside himself with anger. “Mon Dieu!” He pushed the frightened boy towards the bulkhead door, pursuing him with angry words and threats.

  Voices sounded overhead, and the dangling body dropped swiftly from view. Bolitho sat stock-still in his chair. He knew what was happening. Had heard about the savage and barbarous custom of keelhauling from old sailors. To punish a man in this manner was to condemn him to an horrific death. The victim was lowered over the bow and dragged along the keel, his progress controlled by lines attached to his hands and feet. After three years in commission, coppered or not, Narval’s keel and bilges would be covered with tiny, razor-sharp growths which would tear a man to fragments unless he was sensible and let himself drown. But man’s instinct was to survive, even when the case was without hope.