Bolitho watched him guardedly. So that was it. Raymond was feeling left out, abandoned, as he himself had done more than once over the past years.
He was saying, “I do not want another Eurotas incident. Nor do I want another anything until I am ready here. It is as I suspected. I am always learning how misguided I have been to trust others. That damned chief, Hardacre’s friend, for instance. Where is the intelligence he promised, eh? Tuke’s head in exchange for my leniency? My weakness, he thinks, no doubt! And Hardacre, mooning about his affairs like the mad monk himself!” He sank into a chair and stared at a half-empty wine bottle.
Bolitho said, “I understand that the expected brig is the Pigeon, sir?”
“Yes.” He looked at him suspiciously. “What of it?”
“I know her master, or did the last time I heard of her whereabouts. William Tremayne. He comes from my home town. Used to be in one of the Falmouth packets. He’d never allow himself to be hoodwinked by Tuke. When you’ve been master of a packet, had to sail alone through every sort of sea to the ends of the globe, you must learn to fight off everything to stay alive.”
Raymond shifted uneasily. “I hope you are correct about him.”
“I would like to take my ship and patrol to the sou’-east of the group, sir.”
“No.” Raymond glared at him. “I need your presence here. When I have heard from de Barras, or the brig, I will know what to do. Until then, I will trouble you to continue with your work.”
He said it so vehemently that Bolitho wondered what else was worrying him.
“Suppose, for instance, the King of Spain has not withdrawn his claims to possessions and trading facilities, eh? For all we know there might be six Spanish sail-of-the-line sweeping right through these waters!” He shook his head. “No. You’ll remain at anchor.”
Bolitho left the room. If only there was some way of getting word to Commodore Sayer in Sydney, not that he could do much. It was strange when you thought about it. Three ships, the Hebrus, Sayer’s elderly sixty-four, Tempest, and now the overdue brig Pigeon. As unmatched as any vessels could be, and yet each of their senior officers was a Cornishman, and each was known to the other.
As he reached the pier he saw Hardacre striding from his schooner.
“Good. You’d better come, too.” He sounded troubled. Angry. “Tinah has news. Of the pirates and that other bloody madman, de Barras.”
Once more in Raymond’s room Hardacre exploded. “Did you know that de Barras has been amongst the islands in the north, acting like Caesar! Canoes have been fired on, and the whole area is smouldering like a tinder-barrel! In God’s name, what were you thinking of to leave him the field, to do as he pleases?”
“Control yourself!” Raymond sounded startled nevertheless. “How did you hear of all this?”
“At least I am still trusted by some of them!” His massive chest heaved painfully. “The chief sent word. Tuke’s anchorage is at Rutara.” He jerked his head towards the ceiling. “The sacred island.” He looked at Bolitho. “Do you know it?”
“Only from sparse detail.”
“Aye.” Hardacre strode this way and that, his hands clasped as if in prayer. “It is a harsh place, without much water apart from rain pools. Just the sort of hole that a man like Tuke would use for a short while.” He sounded worried. “No native would dare land there.”
Raymond licked his lips. “Well, that is good news, surely, if we can trust on it.”
“Trust?” Hardacre looked at him with unmasked contempt. “It has cost Tinah several of his men to get it, and will probably turn some of the other islands against him for helping you.”
Raymond looked down at the table, his fingers drumming on it, loud in the sudden silence.
“De Barras will anchor off North Island after he has carried out his search. You can send your schooner to him forthwith. I will write a despatch for his immediate attention.”
“She is the only vessel I have here at my disposal!”
“That is not my affair. This is.” Raymond eyed him coldly. “I can commandeer the schooner, you know?”
Hardacre turned to the door. Beaten. “I will see the master. Now.” He slammed the door.
Raymond breathed out very slowly. “Well, Captain. Moments ago we were in the dark. Now, if it is to be believed, the news sounds promising. Very.” He gave a thin smile. “Perhaps it is as well that the role of Tuke’s executioner falls to the French. If there are repercussions in high places, we are in a stronger position.”
“I would like to go too, sir. If not instead of, then with de Barras.”
“You think he will be unable to deal with Tuke? Because of your own rough handling, is that it?” His smile broadened. “Really, you disappoint me to show your pique so openly!”
“It is none of those things, sir.” He looked away, seeing the man dangling from Narval’s stern, dying as he had watched. “Two ships would be better than one. I respect Tuke’s cunning, just as I mistrust de Barras’s ability to contain his own brutality. These islands could become a battleground because of him!”
“You had your chance, Captain Bolitho. The objectives are clearer cut now, and I think de Barras will be eager to fulfil my requirements when he reads the despatch I will send to him.”
“More promises?”
Raymond ignored it. “See that you are in readiness to weigh anchor when I need you. The trap is closing around the pirate, but we still have our work to do here. If only that damned brig would come!”
As Bolitho turned to leave Raymond added casually, “The Eurotas. What is your, er, report on her?”
Bolitho paused. “She is guarded by her own people, and my boats pull round her after dark.”
“I would have been displeased to hear the contrary.” Raymond tapped the table again. “No, I was referring to her readiness for sea.”
“As ordered.” Bolitho watched him, trying to see through his prim severity. “As ready as my own command.”
“Good. That helps me to plan.”
Bolitho returned to the pier and watched his gig pulling towards him. Raymond’s attitude over the transport was a mystery. Eurotas had no master, and a depleted company. If Raymond imagined she could be used beyond an extreme emergency he was going to be disappointed. Unless . . . He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. Unless he intended to transfer his papers and plans on board her and leave the settlement to Hardacre. Could it be he was inwardly afraid of the unseen events? I feel deaf and blind here. Sailors were used to relying on their own meagre resources, but perhaps men like Raymond, trained and educated to ways of Parliament and government, could not survive without news and guidance.
Bolitho awoke violently from a heavy sleep, fighting aside his sheet as he tried to discover what had disturbed him. Then he saw a pair of eyes glowing in the gloom like pale lamps, and he remembered that Orlando, the giant Negro, had been given the chance of acting as his servant. It had apparently been Allday’s idea soon after Noddall’s death, and as he was still going about his new duties, Bolitho assumed his coxswain was satisfied. Although with the amount of cursing and blaspheming he had heard, he might have expected otherwise.
“What is it, man?”
He struggled to sit up, his practised mind taking in that the cot was steady and unmoving, and only the normal sounds of a vessel at anchor penetrated the cabin. It was stuffy, almost airless, and the effort of moving made the sweat trickle across his bare skin.
Orlando bobbed his head and dragged Bolitho’s sheet from the cot, bowing to feel for his shoes.
Allday loomed through the darkness. “Boat alongside, Captain.” He peered at the Negro. “Mr Raymond wants you ashore. The master of the Pigeon is with him, it seems.”
Bolitho lowered his legs to the deck, grappling with the news. Yesterday, his hilltop lookout had reported the sight of a sail to the south-east. Within hours it was recognized as the overdue brig Pigeon, and once more Bolitho had felt the excitement run through his ship like a fresh breez
e. News from home. Keeping a memory alive. All things to all men.
Some of the interest had transmitted itself to the settlement and fires had been lit to bring the heavy scent of wood-smoke and cooked meat to the secluded bay.
And then the wind had dropped, and when darkness had swept over the islands the brig had anchored, to await the safety of the dawn and a secure passage through the reefs.
He heard feet on deck, the rattle of blocks as a boat was hoisted outboard. That would be Herrick’s doing. Making sure his captain had his proper gig and not one of Hardacre’s scarred longboats.
He asked, “What is the time?”
Allday said, “Morning watch has just been called, Captain.” He rubbed his chin. “The Pigeon’s master must have been brought in by boat.”
Bolitho stared at him. How easily Allday got to the bones of it. It had to be something very urgent to bring a brig’s captain ashore after such a long and wearying voyage from England. Was it war with Spain? Would Tempest be ordered home? He thought of it carefully, matching his need against that of his training. She would be safe in Cornwall, while he . . . He swore as Orlando jabbed his stomach accidentally with a massive elbow.
Allday lit one of the lanterns and grinned. “That’s the best of being mute, Captain. You never have to apologize!”
Bolitho peered at his reflection in a mirror. Naked and tou-sled, his hair black across his forehead, he looked more like a vagrant than a captain.
But Orlando bustled about him, fetching lukewarm water from the galley, and while Allday got busy with soap and razor, laid out Bolitho’s clothing as instructed. He did it far better than he should after so brief a training, and Bolitho suspected the Negro had once served in some great estate, or had been in a position to watch others attending their masters. Perhaps, like his ability to speak, his memory had been cut short with some terrible experience.
Herrick came aft and tapped the door. “Gig’s ready, sir.” He watched the little scene in the cabin. “I see that I need not have worried.”
Bolitho slipped into his clean shirt and allowed Allday to fasten the neckcloth. “No more new information?”
“No.” Herrick looked tired. “But the Pigeon has brought some bad news, I think. The good always seems to drag its feet.”
Bolitho snatched up his hat. “We will see.” He hesitated, allowing Allday to hurry on ahead to his gig. “Be ready, Thomas. We may have to weigh at dawn.”
“Aye.” He had obviously thought of little else. “There are only the shore parties unaccounted for. Young Valentine Keen will have to manage.”
Bolitho ran lightly up the companion ladder and felt the cooler air on his cheek. Just past four in the morning, and the decks moist under his shoes. He peered up at the crossed yards and thought the stars were already fading between the shrouds and neatly furled sails.
Men stood aside, and others doffed their hats as he lowered himself into the boat. Through open gunports he saw blurred faces, the watch below trying to guess what was happening. Where he was going in such haste.
As the gig rushed across the smooth water he sat in silence watching the trailing phosphorescence around the dipping blades, the surge of foam from the stem. He saw the Eurotas loom above the fast-moving boat and heard the harsh challenge, “Boat ahoy!” and Allday’s prompt reply, “Passing!”
With so many rumours of unrest and trouble amongst the islands, the ship’s sentries were more alert than usual. Failure to acknowledge a challenge might bring a blast of canister into the boat.
Bolitho saw the lights beyond the pier and knew the whole settlement must be awake.
“Oars!”
Bolitho watched the pier rising above him and heard the clink of metal as the bowman caught a ringbolt with his boat-hook.
Then he was up and striding along the pier, marvelling that the place had become so familiar to him after so short a stay.
He passed one of Prideaux’s pickets, the marine’s crossbelts gleaming white in the darkness. Through the wide gates and past the gibbet where he saw the overseer, Kimura, waiting for him.
“Well?” He could smell the man. Sweat and the pale drink which tasted like rum and which would kill if taken in quantity.
Kimura said in his strange voice, “They wait upstairs, sir. They not tell me nawthin’.”
After the gig and the rough track from the pier Raymond’s room seemed blinding with light.
Raymond was standing in an ankle-length satin coat, his hair ruffled as he glared at the open door. Hardacre was sitting in a chair, his fingers interlaced across his belly, face very grim.
And beside a screened window the Pigeon’s master made a shaggy contrast, bringing the ocean right into the room.
William Tremayne had changed little, Bolitho decided, as he strode towards him and gripped his hand. Broad and short, with spiky grey hair, and eyes so dark they glittered in the lanterns like black coals.
Tremayne grinned. “Dick Bolitho!” He wrung his hand, his palm as rough as timber. “How are ye, me ’andsome? Still a captain, eh?” He chuckled, the sound coming out of the depths to bring Bolitho instant memories. “I’d thought you master o’ the King’s Navy at least by now!”
Raymond said sharply, “Yes, yes! Please sit down, the pair of you. The fond greetings can wait.”
Tremayne peered round under his chair, his dark eyes innocent.
“Now what is it?” Raymond seemed to be verging on an explosion.
Tremayne looked at him sadly. “I am sorry, sir. I thought you were talking to a dog an’ was looking for him, like!”
Raymond cleared his throat, and Bolitho saw that his hands were shaking badly.
He said, “The news is serious, Bolitho.”
Tremayne interrupted cheerfully, “Aye, ’tis that, Dick. The whole of Europe is quaking fit to bust open!”
Bolitho watched Raymond’s hands. “Spain?”
“Worse.” Raymond seemed to have difficulty in forming his words. “There has been a bloody revolution in France. The mobs have taken the country, thrown the King and his Queen into prison, and they may already be dead, even as we sit here. According to these despatches, thousands are being hunted down and beheaded in the streets. Anyone of noble birth, or touching on the smallest authority, is being taken and butchered. Our channel ports are crammed with refugees.”
Bolitho felt his mouth go dry. Revolution in France. It did not seem possible. There had been food riots and disorders, but so had there been in England after the war. He could well imagine the effect of the news at home. Amongst the foolish and unthinking there would be short-lived enjoyment at seeing an old enemy brought down in confusion. And then would come the cold logic and understanding. The might of France separated only by the English Channel, and with the rule of Terror at its head.
While he had been worrying about Tempest’s role, or had taken the news from Timor to Sydney about the Bounty mutiny, the real world had been put to the torch.
Raymond said, “It will mean war.” He looked at the wall as if expecting to see an enemy. “But nothing like the last one. By comparison that will be remembered as a skirmish!”
Tremayne eyed him curiously and then said to Bolitho, “It all started last July. May have turned into something worse b’now. But still, I reckon it’ll seem like good news to the Frenchie, Genin, or however you pronounces it.”
Bolitho looked at Raymond. “Genin?”
“Yes. Yves Genin. One of the minds behind the revolution. Yesterday he had a price on his head as far as we were concerned. Now . . .”
Bolitho stared at him. “Is that the man de Barras wants to capture?” He saw the uncertainty change to guilt. “You knew! All this while and you knew Genin was no felon, but a man wanted for political reasons!”
“De Barras entrusted me with the news, certainly.” Raymond tried to recover his composure. “I do not have to tell my subordinates everything. Anyway, what is it to you? If de Barras succeeds in taking Genin alive it is his affair. He w
ill be serving new masters himself when he returns to France.”
Tremayne said gruffly, “He’d be a fool to go. They’d have his head in a basket before he could say ‘knife.’ If half the things I’ve heard are true, it must be like Hades in Paris.”
Hardacre spoke for the first time, his voice very slow and level. “You do not understand a word, do you, Mr Raymond?” He stood up and walked to the nearest window and threw aside the blind. “Captain Bolitho can see it, even I, a landsman, can understand, but you?” His voice rose slightly. “You are so full of your own greed and importance you see nothing. There has been a revolution in France. It may even spread to England, and God knows there are some who will never get justice without it. But out here, in the islands which you only see as stepping-stones to your damned future, what does it really mean?” He strode across to the table and thrust his beard at Raymond. “Well, tell me, damn your eyes!”
Bolitho said quietly, “Easy, Mr Hardacre.” He turned to the table. “Had you told me that Genin was the man who had found sanctuary with Tuke, I might have foreseen some of this. Now it may be too late. If Tuke knows about the revolution, he will see Genin not merely as a useful hostage but as a means to an end. Genin is no longer a fugitive, he represents his country, as much as you or I do ours.”
Raymond looked up at him, his eyes glazed. “The Narval? Is that it?”
Bolitho looked away, sickened. “When Narval’s people are told of the uprising in France they’ll tear de Barras and his lieutenants to pieces.”
Tremayne said bluntly, “I reckon he’ll know b’now. I heard of two French packets which rounded the Horn within days o’ me. The news will be across the whole ocean, if I’m any judge.”
Bolitho tried to think without emotion. All the sea fights, the names of captains, French and English alike, which had become a part of history. History which he had helped to fashion. As had Le Chaumareys.
This great sea was alive with countless craft of every kind. From lordly Indiamen to brigs and schooners, and down further still to the tiny native vessels which abounded here. Like insects in a forest, or minute sea creatures. Yes, the news would spread quickly enough.
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