Passage to Mutiny

by Alexander Kent

  He guided her back into the shade and walked into the harsh glare again.

  Raymond was already in the courtyard, he must have run from his room to find what was happening for himself.

  He snapped, “You were going to tell me, Captain?”

  Bolitho looked at him gravely. “Yes.”

  He touched his hat, the movement needing all his self-control. “Now, sir, if I may go to my ship?” He turned away, seeing the brief twist of her gown on a stairway above the yard as she watched him leave.

  Allday already had the gig prepared, the crew ready.

  Bolitho sat in the boat and tried to think clearly as the oars churned the water alive. Tuke, de Barras, Raymond, they all seemed to revolve and blend into one enemy. A last barrier between him and Viola.

  Borlase met him at the entry port.

  “I have reported back to duty, sir.”

  “So I see.”

  Bolitho looked past him at the mingled brown figures of the islanders, the familiar ones of his own seamen and marines.

  “Clear the ship, Mr Borlase. Then let me know when the schooner is ready to make sail.” He saw the confusion in his eyes. “Come along! Let us not be all day!”

  Herrick came hurrying towards him. “I am sorry I was not here to greet you, sir. You must have the wind under your gig!”

  Bolitho nodded vaguely. “I’ll want you to take command of the schooner, Thomas. Use the native crew and Hardacre’s militia. But take Prideaux and twenty marines.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “Action, Thomas. What a way to begin the New Year, eh?”

  Herrick stared at him as if he had gone mad. Then he nodded. “Of course, sir. Tomorrow is the first day of seventeen hundred and ninety. I have been checking the log on each and every day and had forgotten all about it.” He strode towards the quarterdeck ladder calling for the boatswain.

  Aft by the taffrail Bolitho paused to collect his thoughts into some semblance of order. Another year. He had hoped it might be different. The beautiful surroundings and quiet shore made it harder still to accept that she was here also, and denied him. He sighed deeply. And tomorrow, because circumstances insisted, they might be fighting for their lives yet again.

  He watched the boats pulling from different angles towards the ship. The carpenter’s crew and the purser, the guard boat and the surgeon, who had probably been ashore to examine the local vegetation.

  Some of his men had been thinking more of other distractions, and almost everyone had expected at least a few days and nights at anchor.

  He shaded his eyes to look up at the masthead pendant. Still whipping out strongly enough.

  He started to walk towards the companionway. As captain of a man-of-war you must earn respect. But to obtain and hold popularity was somewhat harder.

  Bolitho paced deliberately up and down the weather side of the quarterdeck, his mind going over the sketchy plans while his eye wandered towards the nearest islands as they moved slowly abeam. Their hills and crags were painted like dull copper by a magnificent sunset.

  Ahead, just off the lee bow, was Hardacre’s little schooner, and beyond her a deeper curtain of shadow to mark the closeness of night.

  On the opposite side of the deck his officers chatted quietly, and watched the view as they discussed their ideas of what would happen.

  It was strange not to see Herrick moving about the deck, or hear his familiar voice. In some ways his absence was a blessing, and allowed Bolitho to stay remote, more able to contain his thoughts.

  He heard Lakey murmuring with his two mates, and guessed he was repeating his earlier doubts and anxieties for their benefit. Hereabouts, the straggling islands and humps of the Levu Group were less well charted, some barely at all. Depths and distances were vague and probably pure guesswork.

  But the schooner’s crew knew them well enough, and Herrick would be sure to impress upon them the need for absolute caution when comparing their own draught with that of the frigate. North Island was very small, high-crested, and with a deep inlet to the north-west like something carved by a great axe. The population lived in one village, and as Hardacre had said, drew a regular harvest from the sea. Maybe Tuke had gone there to set up a new base, or to gather stores and water for his ships. So he did have at least two schooners. Viola had been right about that also.

  He found himself thinking about Raymond again, wondering what his hopes really were. He would probably stay in the islands until more help arrived. The usual caravan of secretariat and overseers which always followed. Most of his original staff had either been murdered by Tuke’s men or had stayed in Sydney to recover from wounds, and to put affairs in order for friends and relatives who had also been killed or captured.

  Raymond had been lucky, or was it that Tuke was cleverer than everyone gave him credit for? To single out Raymond as a hostage, to know he was aboard even before the attack, showed a far superior mind to the usual kind of pirate.

  Borlase crossed the deck. “Permission to shorten sail, sir? It is close on time to change the watch.” He waited, uncertain of Bolitho’s mood. “You did order it, sir.”

  “Yes.” Bolitho nodded. “Call the hands.”

  There was no sense in driving the ship through the islands in pitch darkness. He thought he heard Lakey breathe out with relief as the boatswain’s mates piped the watch on deck to reduce sail.

  The attack would have to be quick and efficiently executed. He moved aft to avoid the hurrying marines and seamen. Tempest would cross and if need be enter the inlet while the schooner’s party landed and attacked the village from the rear. Tuke must feel safe enough. He would not expect one youth to have escaped, to have had the courage to take a canoe all on his own and carry the news to the main island.

  High above the deck he heard the seamen calling to one another as they hung over the yards and fisted the canvas into submission.

  Two of their number had not returned to the ship with the other shore parties. Bolitho had ordered Borlase not to mark them in the log as “Run,” for desertion carried only one penalty. He had heard that Hardacre’s village were planning to hold a heiva to welcome the ships and their companies amongst them, with feasting and dancing, and doubtless some of that drink which had cut his breath like fire.

  Out of a whole company, two desertions were not so bad under the tempting circumstances. If the men returned freely, he would think again. If not, they would most likely end up as unwilling “volunteers” in Hardacre’s militia when the frigate had departed for good.

  He thought about Hardacre, and could find nothing but a grudging admiration. His motives were obscured behind his power, but his feelings for the natives and the islands were sincere enough. But he would lose against Raymond. Idealists always did with men like him.

  He moved to the wheel and examined the compass. North by west. He nodded to the helmsman.

  “Steady as you go.”

  “Aye, zur.” The man’s eyes glowed dully in the last of the sunset.

  Bolitho heard Borlase rapping out orders in his shrill voice. As acting first lieutenant he would let nothing slip past him. After his last experience and the subsequent court martial, he dare not.

  He would take a few hours’ sleep if he could. Another glance at his command, feeling the gentle thrust of wind and rudder, listening to the familiar sounds of rigging and canvas. They were so much a part of his everyday life that he had to listen to hear them.

  Allday was in the cabin, watching Noddall filling a jug with fresh drinking water and placing it beside two biscuits.

  Bolitho thanked him and allowed his coxswain to take away his coat and hat, the trappings of command. He looked at the offering on the table. Water and biscuits. Much what the prisoners eat in the Fleet Prison, he thought.

  Allday asked, “Shall I get the cot ready, Captain?”

  “No. I’ll rest here.”

  Bolitho laid down on the stern bench and thrust his hands behind his head. Through the thick glass he could see the first star
s, distorted in the stout windows, so that they looked like tiny spears.

  He thought of Viola, pictured her lying in her strange bed, listening to the growls and squeaks from the forest. Her maid would be with her, protecting her new mistress in her quiet, stricken manner.

  His head lolled and he was instantly asleep.

  Allday pulled off his shoes and removed the deckhead lantern.

  “Sleep well, Captain.” He shook his head sadly. “You worry enough for the lot of us!”

  9 DECOY

  “GOD’S TEETH, Mr Pyper, what is taking you so long?”

  Herrick mopped his face with his sleeve and peered up at the brightening sky. Below him, some waist-deep in boiling surf, were the remainder of his landing party, while others, notably Finney’s militiamen, were already higher up the steep rocky slope which they had confronted when the schooner’s two boats had carried them here.

  Herrick watched Midshipman Pyper staggering in the water while several brown-skinned islanders tried to keep a boat from smashing itself on the rocks. He hated it when things went wrong because of careless planning or, as in this case, no planning at all.

  Finney and his other lieutenant, a dull-eyed man called Hogg, had been certain of the right place to land the party. Herrick glared at the pitching schooner which had anchored nearly a cable offshore. That showed just how much they knew of landing places!

  The result had been several long trips back and forth with the two small boats, and by now it was well past the time when they should have been moving inland.

  Pyper scrambled up the slope, water trickling from his shirt and breeches, his face beset with worry. Like Swift, he was seventeen, and looked forward to promotion if and when a chance came. He did not want to irritate his first lieutenant.

  “All ready, sir.”

  Captain Prideaux called from the top of the slope, “I should damn well think so!” Despite the discomfort he, of all present, looked impeccable as usual.

  Herrick bit back an oath. “Send the marine skirmishers ahead, if you please.”

  “Done.” Prideaux’s foxy face gave a sly smile. “I’ve got those bloody guides to hurry their carcasses, too!” He drew out his slim hanger and lopped the head off a plant. “So?”

  Herrick gritted his teeth. “So be it.”

  He waved his hand over his head, and with some further delay his mixed party started to move inland.

  Finney observed cheerfully, “The village is right at the top of the inlet. Most of the huts are on stilts, their backs in the hillside. If Tuke’s men are in there, they’ll be like rats in a cask when your ship blocks the seaward end!” The prospect of a fight seemed to please him.

  Down the straggling line of guides and marine skirmishers came the message. There was smoke in the air. Strong stench of burning.

  Prideaux said, “They must be destroying the village.” He did not sound as if he cared.

  Herrick slapped a stinging insect from his neck and tried to fathom it out. Tuke had attacked the island, and was creating his usual terror and murder. But why? If he needed supplies, which seemed unlikely after his rich haul from the Eurotas, why waste time in sacking the place? Likewise, if he was setting up a new hiding place, why burn it down first? Nothing made sense. He thought of discussing it with Prideaux but checked himself. The marine always seemed to be sneering at everyone he considered beneath his station in life. Too bloody clever by half.

  He glanced at the two militia lieutenants as they strode easily amongst their ragged retainers. They would know nothing. It seemed likely they left all their thinking to Hardacre.

  Herrick thought about Bolitho and pictured him here. Now. What would he do? He grinned in spite of his apprehension. He was not here. He had sent his first lieutenant.

  He looked up, sniffing the air. There was the smoke right enough. It was shimmering over a low hill, staining the sky.

  Prideaux said harshly, “By God, this is hard going!”

  Midshipman Pyper turned to Herrick and said, “I think I should go ahead with a guide, sir.” He was rather a serious youth, but likeable.

  Herrick paused, hiding his surprise. That was what Bolitho would have done.

  “I was thinking along that tack, Mr Pyper. But I’ll go myself.” He waved to Finney. “Halt the men and put out your pickets. I want the best guide, double-quick!” It was amazing how easily it was coming to him now. “Right, Mr Pyper, you can come too.” He slapped his shoulder.

  Pyper stared at him, unaware what he had done to excite his lieutenant.

  “Aye, sir.”

  Prideaux said wearily, “Attack from the rear. Five or six volleys and a charge of canister would do just as well. Less work, too. They’d run like rabbits. Right under Tempest’s guns.”

  Herrick looked at him, trying to mask his anger. Prideaux always swept other people’s plans away with a few simple remarks. The trouble was, he always sounded so confident.

  “We shall see,” Herrick replied stiffly. “And in the meantime . . .”

  He turned and hurried towards the waiting guide, a squat native, quite naked, and whose ears were split and transfixed by sharp bones.

  Pyper grimaced. “He stinks a bit, sir.”

  The guide showed his teeth. They were filed like marlin spikes.

  “God.” Herrick examined his pistol and loosened his sword. “Come along then.”

  The island was tiny, but after blundering and crawling over scrub and stone, and thrusting between tightly interwoven fronds, Herrick imagined it must be twice the size of Kent.

  The guide bobbed round some rotting trunks and jabbed his hand towards the thickening smoke. He was excited.

  Herrick said tightly, “We’ll have a look.”

  He dropped on his knees once again and followed the guide’s scarred and dusty rump through a clump of prickly scrub.

  Pyper exclaimed, “Masts and yards, sir! They’re anchored right below the village, where the smoke is coming from!”

  Herrick shook his head. “Insolent buggers. They are that sure of their safety while they do their work.” He rubbed his hands, “Tempest will be able to take her time and blow them apart as she pleases.” He turned round with difficulty. “We’ll tell the others.” He looked at the Midshipman. “Well?”

  Pyper flushed. “I thought—well, I was once told—”

  “Spit it out or we’ll be here all day!”

  Pyper said firmly, “Hadn’t we better look at those vessels first, sir? One might be better armed than the other. Perhaps we could get our sharpshooters to pick off her seamen if she seems likely to weigh first.” He added lamely, “I am sorry, sir.”

  Herrick sighed. “You are quite right.” It must be the heat. “I should have thought of it.”

  Leaving the perplexed guide amongst the scrub, Herrick and the midshipman wriggled further towards a dip in the bill. Then they saw the inlet, a line of huts blazing and crackling along the far bank like torches, and smoke hiding the water beneath them.

  To the left was a jutting wedge of land, while closer to the hill and partly hidden from Herrick were the other huts. But he could only stare at the jutting piece of land and the beach below it.

  “There are the ships, Mr Pyper.”

  He could still not really accept it. The masts and yards looked real enough, but they were rigged to stand on the short beach, held upright by long stays and plaited creepers. There was even a masthead pendant on one of them, and Herrick realized that the loosely brailed-up sails were in fact crude matting.

  The truth thrust into his dazed thoughts like ice water. If they seemed genuine to him this close, to Tempest’s masthead lookouts as she forged towards the headland they would appear perfect. Two vessels at anchor, their crews intent on pillage and murder ashore.

  Pyper stared at him, his face filled with confusion.

  “What will we do, sir?”

  Herrick felt his throat go dry. Just above the out-thrust wedge of land he had seen something move. Tempest was he
re already. He could picture her exactly as if she were not hidden. Guns manned. Officers at their stations. Bolitho and Lakey on the quarterdeck.

  He felt something akin to panic. What was waiting for her? Where were the pirates? He could hear occasional musket and pistol shots, and there was much more smoke now.

  Something glinted beyond the burning huts, and Pyper said thickly, “A battery. Some big guns, sir.”

  So that was it. It was all frighteningly clear to Herrick. Like walking to the edge of a grave and seeing yourself there.

  The message, the dummy masts, the burning village had been a combined plan. To lure Tempest to the inlet.

  Herrick stood up, regardless of the danger. Due to the wretched schooner, to everything which had happened since their arrival in the islands, Bolitho was unwarned and unready.

  He heard himself say, “Run back! Tell Captain Prideaux I want a full-scale attack here and now!” He saw the shocked understanding on Pyper’s face. “I know. We’ll not be able to get away. But we’ll save the ship. Remember that.”

  Then, as Pyper stumbled away and the naked guide watched him with fixed fascination, Herrick cocked his pistol and drew his sword.

  “By th’ mark seven!”

  Bolitho looked at Lakey’s intent face as the leadsman’s voice drifted aft from the chains. He restrained himself from using a telescope again and stood with his hands on his hips, trying to visualize his ship and the narrowing strip of water, the undulating barrier of land as a single panorama. After coming on deck before dawn, and going over the charts and calculations with Lakey and his two lieutenants, Bolitho was as prepared as any captain could be when approaching a little-known island. Island? It was not much more than the ridge of a drowned mountain, he thought.

  He watched the surge of current around the nearest clump of rocks, the drag of it as it receded in a bright welter of spray. But the wind, hesitant though it was so near to land, was still holding, and steady. He glanced up at the long masthead pendant as it licked away towards the starboard bow. Wind and depth. The ability to stop the ship and anchor. The procession of thoughts and precautions trooped through his mind like persistent beetles.