Herrick had screwed up his face, willing that it was a dream. That when he looked again it would all be clean and as before.
But then, as now, it was real. If he looked, the litter of corpses and torn limbs would still be there. And the schooner would be gone.
Prideaux was saying to his corporal, “Put all the muskets together and then inspect the powder and shot. The wounded can do the loading, right?”
“Sir.” Attentive, even now.
Pyper said quietly, “Will it be soon, sir?”
Herrick did not look at him, but watched a bird with scimitar-shaped wings circling far, far up against the washed-out blue sky.
“I expect so.” He added, “But no quarter. Nor do we surrender.”
“I see.”
Then Herrick did turn his head to look at the midshipman. Do you see? The boy who had started to become a man. Did he not ask why he was to die, here of all places?
Someone said, “The buggers are searchin’ about on t’other side of th’ hill, sir.”
Prideaux sounded irritable. “Yes. Well, it won’t take a fox-hound to pick up our trail, will it?”
Herrick raised himself carefully amongst the prickly gorse and looked at the sea. The schooner was stern-on now, standing well out from the landing place.
We could light a fire, make an explosion, but it would only bring down the savages that bit sooner. Anyway, the schooner would not dare to come inshore.
He looked again at the schooner, his mind suddenly clear. The wind. It had shifted. Quite a lot. He stared at the hillside bushes and scrub and tried to fathom its direction.
Prideaux asked, “What is it?”
He was trying to sound disinterested as he always did, and the fact he was not succeeding gave Herrick sudden desperate hope.
He replied quietly, “The captain will come to look for us. The wind. It could make a world of difference. Give him a day’s start.” He looked at Pyper’s strained features. “A whole day. If we can just hang on here.”
The marine who had been speared in the leg said huskily, “That would be fine, sir.”
His friend grinned. “Wot did I tell ’ee, Billy-boy?”
Prideaux scowled. “Don’t raise their hopes. The wind, what is that? Time, how do we know anything?”
Herrick looked at him. “He’ll come. Mark me, Captain Prideaux.” He looked away. “He must.”
Bolitho sat in the cabin going over his written log while a lantern swung back and forth above his head.
All yesterday, and through the long night, they had sailed with as much canvas as they could carry. No one had spoken of risk or caution this time, and he had seen men look away when his gaze had passed over them.
He glanced at the stern windows, realizing with surprise they were already paling with the dawn. He felt suddenly empty and dispirited. Noddall would have reminded him. Hovered around the desk.
He thought of all the faceless bundles sewn in hammocks which he had watched dropped overboard. It could have been ten times worse, but it did not help at all to remind himself.
Wayth, captain of the maintop. Sloper of the carpenter’s crew, and who had done more than anyone to make the newly built jolly boat a success. Marine Kisbee, maintop. Old Fisher, able seaman. William Goalen, second quartermaster, Noddall, cabin servant, and too many others beside. In all fifteen had been killed, and as many more wounded. And for what?
Death for some, discharge for others, and advancement for the lucky ones who filled their shoes.
He rubbed his eyes again, trying to quell the ache in his mind.
There was a tap at the door and Midshipman Swift stepped into the cabin.
“Mr Keen’s respects, sir, and we have just sighted a light to the north’rd.”
“A ship?” He cursed himself for passing back the information as a question. He stood up and placed the thick book inside his desk. “I’ll come up.”
He had been wrong about Herrick too, it seemed. The light must be the schooner. Although even with the shift of wind it seemed strange she had reached this far. He thought about the wind and how they had cursed it so often in the past. When Lakey had told him of the sudden change he had found it hard to conceal his emotion from him.
On the quarterdeck the air was almost chill after the heat of the days and the stuffy restriction below. A quick glance at the compass bowl and another at the flapping mainsail and driver told him the wind was holding as before, and the ship was steering to the north with the island hidden somewhere on the larboard beam. But for the wind, they would have taken perhaps two days, even more, to beat back and forth, to fight round the southern end of the island before returning to search for the schooner’s landing place.
He took a glass from Swift, knowing there were more than the duty watch on deck, watching and waiting.
He saw the vessel straight away, and even in the few moments since Swift had reported it to him the light had strengthened, so that he could make out a darker smudge which would be the schooner’s big driver.
“How roundly the dawn comes up.” That was Mackay, the first quartermaster. He sounded calm enough. Glad perhaps that his mate, Goalen, and not himself had gone several hundred fathoms down in a hammock, with a round-shot at his feet to speed the journey.
“Aye.” Lakey’s coat rustled against the compass as he moved about in the gloom like a restless dog. “ ’Nother ten minutes it’ll be blinding your eyeballs out!”
True to the sailing master’s prediction the daylight swept across the islands like the opening of a vivid curtain.
Bolitho watched the schooner, sensed the uncertainty as she tacked, hesitated, as if to turn away.
From the masthead, where Keen had sent him, Midshipman Swift shouted, “No sign of red coats aboard, sir!”
“Blazes!” Borlase had appeared now. “They must have left them there. Or . . .” He did not finish.
“Signal her to heave to.” Bolitho’s voice cut through the speculation like a rapier. “Stand by the quarter boat, Mr Borlase.”
Bolitho watched the wave troughs changing from black to deep blue. From dark menace to friendly deception.
He felt his anxiety giving way to unreasoning impatience. “And pass the word for Mr Brass. Tell him to prepare a bow-chaser directly. If the schooner does not respond, I want a ball as near to her bilge as makes no difference!”
By the companionway, his thick arms folded, Allday listened and watched Bolitho’s words having effect. He saw Jack Brass, the Tempest’s gunner, bustling forward with his mates, and knew he too was well aware of Bolitho’s mood.
“She’s heavin’ to, sir.”
“Very well.” Bolitho let his thoughts carry him along. “We will fall down on her to within hail. It will save time.” He looked at Allday. “We will probably need the launch. Select the best hands you can.”
He slitted his eyes to watch the rolling schooner as the frigate ran down on her. Empty, or all but. Perhaps there was no more time. That would make the defeat even more complete, an acceptance of it impossible. He looked at the quarterdeck rail, remembering Herrick.
He said harshly, “See that the people are well armed. Tell Sergeant Quare to lower two swivels into the launch, and provide some good marksmen for the quarter boat as well.”
Like extensions they were moving from him, acting on his wishes. His ideas.
The schooner was much nearer now. He lowered his telescope and said, “Give them a hail, Mr Keen.” He had seen the schooner’s master, a great hulk of a man, probably born of mixed blood right here in the islands.
Keen’s voice re-echoed across the water, distorted by his speaking trumpet.
Bolitho listened to the hesitant replies, some barely understandable. But the main message was clear enough. The schooner had left without Herrick’s party. They might be dead, as were all the militia. Butchered.
Bolitho glanced at the men around him. With the company already depleted by death and wounds, by Herrick’s landing party and marine
s, Tempest was getting more and more shorthanded.
He made up his mind. It could not be helped.
He said, “Tell the schooner to stand by to receive a boarding party.” He looked at Borlase. “You will take command here until our return.” He snapped, “Well, come along, let us be about it!”
Midshipman Pyper said huskily, “I think we may be safe, sir.”
The sun was beating down on the saucer-shaped depression where Herrick had gathered his party of seamen and marines. He felt as dry as the sand and rock which burned through his clothing like hot metal, and he had to force himself almost physically not to think of water. There was precious little left, and what there was was needed by the wounded. Especially Watt, one of the marines. He had been hit in the shoulder, either by a dart or spear, nobody was sure, or could remember.
He was lying with his head on the marine corporal’s knees, gasping, and drawing his legs up in deep convulsions of pain.
Herrick said, “Too soon to know yet.”
He listened to the marine’s groans. He was in agony. Maybe his wound had been deliberately poisoned; he had heard of such things. Darts which left men or animals to die in dreadful suffering. Once, the corporal had tried to adjust the crude bandage, and Herrick had been forced to look away from the wound, in spite of all he had seen during his years at sea. Like a ripening, obscene fruit.
Prideaux sat with his boots out-thrust, dragging a stalk of sun-bleached grass through his teeth. His eyes were distant as he said, “We’ve got to keep Watt quiet. Those devils are not far off. I know it in my bones. Watt’ll raise an attack if we’re not careful.”
Herrick looked away. Prideaux was doing it again. Passing an idea, like a hint. Leaving it for him to decide.
He said, “Corporal Morrison, give the man some water.”
The corporal shook his head. “Not much in the flasks, sir.” He shrugged and held one to the man’s lips. “Still, I suppose . . .”
A seaman on lookout called sharply, “Some of ’em comin’ now, sir!”
The dull acceptance and lethargy vanished as they struggled to their allotted places, seizing weapons, screwing up their faces.
Herrick watched as a file of natives came down a narrow gully on the opposite side of the hill and padded swiftly towards the sea. They did not hesitate even to glance at the carnage which lay rotting in the sun, but hurried on into the shallows by the rocks where Herrick and his men had come ashore.
Pyper said, “They’re looking at the longboat.”
Herrick nodded. Pyper was right. He remembered then seeing the village boats all ablaze. Their only way to reach other islands. To trade. To seek revenge. Or to escape.
“They must have been back to their village. That means the pirates have gone. Probably had a boat standing offshore all the while.”
Herrick could not disguise his bitterness. While Tempest had tacked round the point and into a trap, and he and his men had fought for their lives, the pirates had carried on with their well-laid plan. They might have failed to sink the frigate, but they had shown what they could do with a mere handful of men.
He saw the longboat lifting sluggishly in the surf, the water sliding across her bottom boards as the natives hauled and guided it into the shallows.
Herrick tried not to listen to another man being given water. He watched the natives, knowing he would have to do something and soon. The night had been friendly enough, apart from the insects. After the horror of the day, the systematic massacre of Finney’s men, and their own desperate plight, all they had wanted to do was fall into exhausted sleep.
But like the memory of his boyhood friend on the bank of the Medway, the menace and danger were still waiting with the dawn. There were no more rations, and certainly not enough water for another day. If they left the depression to search for a pool they would be seen or heard.
Prideaux had remarked during the night, “Tempest’ ll not come. The captain’ll think we’re dead. We will be, too.”
Herrick had turned on him with such force he had said very little since. But when their eyes had met in the first light, after they had searched an empty sea, Herrick had seen the same rebuke, the same contempt.
He heard the corporal say, “It’s all gone, mate. See? Empty!”
“Mother of God! The pain! Help me!”
Herrick pushed them from his mind, watching the busy figures in and around the beached longboat. He thought he saw water through the starboard side between the planks. That was not too bad. Not like being stove in from the bottom.
He rolled over and propped himself on one elbow, ignoring the rawness of his throat, the cracks in his lips. He had started up from that beach yesterday morning with twenty-nine others, excluding Finney’s men. Five had been killed, and four were badly wounded. Hardly anyone had survived without a cut or bruise to remind him of their struggle.
He took each man in turn. Some were almost finished, barely able to hold a musket. Others lay hollow-eyed and desperate. Watching the sky over the rim of their heated prison. Pyper looked weary. But he was young, as strong as a lion. Prideaux; he of all of them seemed unchanged.
Herrick sighed, and shifted his attention to the boat. It was half a cable over open land. If they waited until night it was likely the boat would be gone, especially if the natives wanted it to raise an alarm in other islands.
He pictured them running down the slope, the satisfaction of being the ones with the upper hand, as they shot and cut their way to the boat. Then he thought of the others. Too sick or wounded to move on their own.
Prideaux said very quietly, “We could rush the boat and make certain that none of those savages is left alive. How many are there? Ten at most.” He did not drop his eyes as Herrick faced him. “The rest of the village would think we’d run for it. Once in safety we could send help for the wounded.”
Herrick studied him. Loathing him for reading his mind, for his casual dismissal of those who were dying behind him. For being able to think clearly and without sentiment.
He replied hotly, “Or we could kill them ourselves, eh? Make it easier all round!”
Prideaux said, “Oh, for God’s sake!”
Herrick felt suddenly light-headed. Wild. He turned towards the others and said, “Now, lads, this is what I intend.” When he began he found he could not stop. “We’ll wait a mite longer until they’ve done some repairs on our boat.” He felt a lump in his throat as the marine with the spear wound tried to grin at his feeble joke. “Then we’ll go. Together.” This last word seemed to hang above all of them.
Herrick continued, “Half of us will fight, the others will help the injured.”
He tried not to picture that long, naked slope. Half a cable. One hundred desperate yards.
“What then, sir?” It was the corporal.
“We’ll head for the nearest island where we can take stock. Get some—” he tried not to lick his parched lips, “—water.”
Pyper said, “They’re moving the boat again, sir.”
They peered over the rim, and Herrick saw the boat was riding up and down in the surf, while three of the natives worked inside and the rest steadied it as best they could while the search for leaks went on.
They must need the boat more urgently than I thought.
Now that he had made some sort of decision, Herrick felt better. He had no idea how many of them would be able to get away, but anything could be faced if the only alternative was being rounded up and slaughtered like beasts.
“Damn!” Prideaux scrambled up beside one of his men who was pointing inland. Another party was coming from the direction of the village, and there were many more this time.
Prideaux looked at Herrick. He said nothing, but it was as clear in his eyes as if he had. This is our only chance.
Herrick stood up. “Collect your weapons. Easy, lads.” He examined his own pistols and loosened his sword. Thinking of Bolitho. Of all those other times. “Corporal, select the best marks-men.” He looked at Pyp
er. “Stay with Corporal Morrison and make sure he leaves some fit men to carry the wounded.” He gripped his wrist. “We’ve not much time.”
Herrick’s mind was cringing from the swiftness of events. He tried to concentrate on the boat. The distance from it. If they held off the newcomers, the wounded and their helpers would be killed by the men on the beach. If they charged down and attacked them now, the wounded would be left behind.
He looked at Prideaux’s thin features. “Well? You’re the marine. What should I do?”
Prideaux eyed him with surprise. “Attack now. Leave two sharpshooters with the wounded. When we’ve taken the boat the rest of us can cover their retreat. The others from the village will make perfect targets as they come down the slope.” His lips twisted in a brief smile. “That is how a marine would do it.”
Herrick rubbed his chin. “Makes sense.”
He looked at Pyper. All of them.
“Ready, lads.”
He glanced at the glittering bayonets, the crossbelts of powder and shot. The extra muskets, loaded and slung on anyone with a shoulder to spare.
He drew his sword and saw there was a dried bloodstain on it.
“Follow me.”
It was at that moment, as two of the men hoisted the marine, Watt, that he gave a terrible scream of agony. It seemed to strike everyone motionless, even the natives in and around the boat stood stock-still, their eyes white as they stared up the hillside.
A man called, “God, the wound is broken, sir!”
Watt screamed again, kicking as the pain tore through him.
There was a crack, and Herrick saw Watt’s head jerk back from the corporal’s fist.
Morrison gasped, “Sorry, matey, but we’ve work to do!”
Prideaux shouted, “Charge!” And the handful of marines ran down the slope, yelling enough for a full platoon. Herrick, Pyper and two seamen went with them, eyes blind to everything but the boat and the startled, scattering figures.
Spears were seized and hurled blindly, and one of the seamen fell gasping on the sand, a broken shaft sticking from his chest.
Passage to Mutiny Page 19