Passage to Mutiny

by Alexander Kent

  He found Pyper making a list of supplies and said, “Put a man by the pier. To keep watch on the ship.” He said it briskly. Matter of fact. There was no point in putting thoughts in Pyper’s mind if they were not already there. The mention of the ship. Security. Amongst one’s own. While here . . .

  Pyper nodded. “Aye, sir.”

  Despite being made an acting-lieutenant he looked very young. Vulnerable. As Keen had once done when he had first joined Bolitho’s previous command.

  It felt cool inside the hut, and Bolitho looked down at the girl, shocked to see that she had changed in so short a time. Her face was drawn, her mouth twitching, as if she were in a trance.

  Hardacre was wiping her forehead with a cloth. He stood up and said, “I heard about Raymond. Might have guessed he’d be useless. Government spy. Lackey!”

  Bolitho said, “Can you spare a few minutes?”

  Outside again, Hardacre took a flask from his robe and offered it.

  “Safer than water. Makes it easier to stay calm, too.”

  Bolitho let it trickle across his tongue. It was fiery, and yet took away his thirst.

  He said, “I remembered what you said about Rutara Island. About its being a good hiding place for Tuke.”

  Hardacre smiled. “How can you still think of such things? They are beyond us now.”

  “You described it as the Sacred Island.”

  “True. It is a rough, rocky place. Not suitable for habitation. Superstition and fear grew out of it. The people will not land there. To do so is desecration. A sign of war. Tuke would know this.”

  “And de Barras?”

  “I think not.”

  Bolitho remembered the false masts, the pain and the shock of the bombardment. He had known that Tuke would have a plan. Maybe all the rest had been a rehearsal just for this. De Barras would drive into the anchorage, guns firing, whether he knew about Genin and the revolution or not.

  The wildness of battle would soon restore order in his ship, and Tuke’s destruction would keep de Barras’s security for a little longer.

  But the islanders would see and care about none of these things. To them Tuke, de Barras and the English sailors were as one. Hostile, alien, feared. But as soon as they knew of their trespass on to their Sacred Island the last control would snap.

  Tuke would stand off and await his chance as he had done before. Eurotas captured, villages burned and pillaged, people killed without mercy. And after challenging a King’s ship with no more than a simple ruse, de Barras would stand no chance at all.

  He looked at the palm fronds moving gently in a soft breeze. Hardacre’s schooner was lively enough, but Tempest carried a tremendous spread of canvas. He made up his mind.

  “Allday. Get a boat’s crew together. One of Mr Hardacre’s cutters. I am going out to the ship.” He saw Allday’s disbelief and added, “Well, almost .”

  Later, as the boat rose and clipped in a slight swell, Bolitho knew what it was like to be parted from his command.

  The boat kept station on Tempest’s stern, and he was aware of the many figures on the poop and in the mizzen shrouds silently watching as the oars held it in position.

  In the cabin windows Herrick and Borlase were staring down at him, and it was all he could do to remain outwardly calm, even formal.

  “Tell Mr Lakey to lay a course for Rutara Island. I want you to weigh immediately and go there with every stitch you can carry.”

  He could see his clerk, Cheadle, deeper within the cabin. He would be writing it all down. Bolitho never transferred his authority without setting it in writing. And even though his signature would not appear this time, it would be enough to safeguard Herrick if things went wrong. And two-thirds of the ship’s company were listening. The best witnesses of all.

  He added, “It is sacred to the other islanders. I need you to anchor in the lagoon there, but do not put a single man ashore! Do you understand?”

  Herrick nodded firmly. “Aye, sir.”

  “If Tuke’s schooners are there, destroy them, do what you can to drive them away. Your actions will be seen. It will be known that we are not here to smear their beliefs and bring a war amongst them.”

  “And if I meet with Narval, sir?”

  Bolitho looked up at him, trying to feel his way. “You read my instructions. If de Barras is still in command you must tell him about his country. If Narval is under new colours, you must stand off.”

  “Not fight, sir?”

  “Like it or not, Mr Herrick, we are not known to be at war with France.”

  “Is there anything more I can do, sir?” He sounded wretched.

  “Send a short report in Pigeon’s boat. In your own words. Someone should know what we are about.”

  There was no point in mentioning that Raymond had shut them out of the settlement compound. Even Herrick might refuse to obey if he knew that.

  “And, Mr Herrick.” He paused, holding his gaze. “Thomas. You will stay at anchor off Rutara until you get contrary orders. We will be safe here. The defences, and the Eurotas’s remaining guns, still command the entrance.”

  Quietly he said, “Put her about, Allday. This is easy for no one.”

  By the time the boat had reached the pier again there were men already swarming up Tempest’s rigging and out along her yards. That was good, Bolitho thought. It would keep Herrick too busy to think about those he was leaving astern.

  He saw Keen at the inner end of the pier, his shirt open to his waist, his arms hanging at his sides.

  He waited for Bolitho to reach him and then said huskily, “She’s gone, sir.” He looked at the sun. “Just this moment.”

  Allday said, “I’ll deal with it, sir.”

  “No!” Keen swung on him. “I will.” In a gentler tone he added, “But thank you.”

  Bolitho watched him go. It had of course been a dream, hopeless from the beginning. In these beautiful surroundings. He let his gaze move over the beach and nodding fronds, the deep blue water. But they had stood no real chance. The young sea officer. The native girl from a barely known island.

  He quickened his pace. But it had been their dream. No one had had the right to break it.

  “Richard!”

  He swung on his heel, seeing her running down from the makeshift hospital towards him.

  He seized her and held her against him. “Oh, Viola, why did you leave the compound?”

  But she was clinging to him, laughing and weeping all at once.

  “I don’t care! Don’t you see, my darling Richard? No matter what happens, for the very first time we are together!”

  Acting-Lieutenant Francis Pyper watched as they walked into the long hut. He had been feeling afraid, especially after seeing the activity aboard Tempest. Even now she was shortening-in her cable, and within the hour might have disappeared around the headland.

  But he was no longer afraid.

  Sergeant Quare crunched towards him. “Sir? Message for the captain. Two natives sick in the village. He should be told at once.”

  Pyper nodded, his mouth dry. “I will tell him.”

  Quare removed his hat and wiped the inside with his hand. Poor little bastard, he thought. Won’t be long now. They’ll start to drop like flies. He had seen it in the Caribbean. In India. All over the bloody place.

  He saw Blissett walking towards the pier and bellowed, “Do your tunic up! Where the hell d’you think you are, man?”

  That made him feel slightly better.

  “Halt! Who goes there?”

  Bolitho stepped into a white patch of moonlight and showed himself.

  “Sorry, sir.” Sergeant Quare grounded his musket. “Wasn’t expectin’ you again.”

  “All quiet?” He leaned against a tree and listened to the hissing roar of surf along the outer reef. Timeless. Confident.

  “Yessir.” The marine sighed. “They’ve been burnin’ some more poor devils in the village. Heard ’em chantin’ and wailin’.”

  “Yes.”


  Bolitho checked himself from sitting down. He was tired out. Sick and weary from the constant work. It had been eight days since Tempest had set sail, and there was still no word from anybody. Not that he expected much help from the village. There had been several deaths, and Hardacre had told him that some more natives had been found dying in a canoe on the other side of the island. They had been strangers, and had probably brought the disease with them. Itak was the name given to the fever. It wasted its victims away in no time at all. Threw them into a desperate struggle for breath while they burned up from within.

  Each day Bolitho inspected his men, searching for any sign of it. But apart from weariness and strain, they were behaving well. Which was more than could be said for the men inside the compound. Bolitho had sent Keen to request that food and drink be lowered over the palisade. In fact it had been thrown down, and Keen had heard sounds of drunken laughter, as if the place was turning into a madhouse.

  So next day Bolitho had gone himself. After waiting in the sun for a long time, watched, and he suspected covered, by two guards in a blockhouse, Raymond had appeared above him.

  Bolitho had said, “We need help, sir. If the people in the village are left to themselves they may become too weak to burn their dead—”

  He had got no further.

  “So you have come to beg, have you? You thought you could override me by sending your ship away! Well, you’ve got your new command now! A native hut, and a handful of ruffians to do your bidding! My precious wife will soon come running back when she sees what she has thrown away!” He had sounded wild, even jubilant.

  Bolitho had made another try. “If I take the watch off the Eurotas I will have enough hands to manage until the fever is gone.”

  “You keep your men away from my ship!” His voice had risen almost to a scream. “My men have orders to open fire if a single boat puts off to her! You’ve lost your ship, Captain, and I’ll not have you touch mine!”

  He had found Keen and the others waiting for him with the news of another death. It was pitiful the way the natives were accepting it. The gods were angry. Tinah knew about Tuke and the sacred island. If the whole of his people discovered the truth too they would see their suffering as the direct result of intrusion.

  He looked at the stars and shivered. If he had acted sooner he might have been able to seize the Eurotas under cover of night. But that was too late. Raymond’s threats, and their own fear of the Itak, would make sure of a hot welcome from the loaded swivels.

  If he could not get word to Herrick, and the schooner failed to return soon, he would know Narval had been taken. In the name of the Revolution or through an open mutiny made no difference now. Tuke would demand payment for his help to Genin’s cause, and the Frenchman could hardly refuse. But how would he do it? A legalized position with the new regime, a ship, a letter of marque, or the promise of gold when Genin eventually reached Paris?

  To make the wound more bitter, Bolitho realized that as soon as Narval had gone and Tuke had obtained the reward he was seeking, news would quite likely arrive to say that England and France had been at war for months.

  It would be the end of Bolitho’s career. In Raymond he had a deadly enemy. And in London they would be looking for a scapegoat to cover their anger at losing both the French frigate and a pirate who would still need to be hunted by men-of-war desperately required in the line of battle.

  He thought of Raymond’s words when he had shouted down at him. That was his only comfort. Viola had worked ceaselessly at his side, carried encouragement from her makeshift hospital to the village where she had helped to nurse the sick and take care of the children left behind.

  She was lying in the hut where he had just left her. He had knelt over her, listening to her regular breathing, afraid to touch her and break her sleep.

  The sergeant asked, “I hope you’ll pardon me, sir, but what are we goin’ to do?”

  “Do?” He ran his fingers up through his hair. “Wait. When the schooner comes I’ll get a message to her master. At least we will know if Narval is still hereabout.”

  “This island, sir. The one you told us of. ’Ow far away is it?”

  “Rutara is well north of here. Some five hundred miles.”

  Bolitho thought of it even as he said the words. The winds had been light but favourable. Herrick should have taken up his station even if he had been unable to destroy Tuke’s schooners. He would certainly not run into the trap which had caught them before.

  He watched the stars growing smaller and fainter. It would soon be time to begin again. Issue rations, make sure his men were clean, and try to keep up their spirits. At least the Itak was not the pox which he had known to kill two-thirds of a ship’s company in a matter of weeks. On land they could build fires, boil water and pursue some sort of routine.

  He said, “Walk with me to the pier. It will be light very soon.”

  How quiet it was in the village. It was hard to believe the beach and shallows had been full of laughing girls and youths. Like Keen’s beautiful Malua.

  “Sir!” Quare’s voice jerked him from his thoughts. “I think I saw a sail!”

  Bolitho jumped on to a slab of rock, straining his eyes into the gloom. But all he saw between sky and sea were breakers, a necklace of surf cut short where it met the headland.

  But it was brightening fast, and he could already see Eurotas’s portly outline, an anchor light still flickering.

  Bolitho looked towards the settlement, but there was no sign of life.

  Quare said stubbornly, “There, sir.”

  This time he did see it, like a pale fin rising above the distant surf, shivering through the spray, but moving inshore even while he watched.

  A schooner. Small and well handled.

  He said, “Go and rouse Mr Keen. Tell him I want a message sent to Hardacre to say his schooner is returning.”

  The vessel’s master would take more notice of him than of Raymond, that was certain. He heard Quare’s boots crunching back up the slope, and somewhere a child crying, the sound strangely sad.

  Then from behind him she said, “I woke up. You’d gone.”

  She came to his side and he put his arm around her shoulders, feeling her warmth.

  “It’s the schooner.” He tried to sound calm. “I wonder what news she’ll bring.”

  The sails were end-on now, tilting steeply to the wind. It must be much stronger outside the bay’s protection, he thought. Being ashore was like being crippled. You had to wait for others. He could even imagine how Raymond felt about it.

  He squeezed her shoulders. “Please God let it be good news!”

  Hazy light played across the horizon, like smoky liquid spilling over the edge of the earth. It touched the twin masts, Hardacre’s rag of a pendant, as the vessel drove close to the reef and tacked expertly in a welter of spray and spindrift.

  Keen came along the path, tucking his shirt into his breeches. He saw Viola Raymond and said, “Oh, good morning, ma’am.”

  “Hello, Val.” She smiled, seeing the dark shadows under his eyes, sharing his pain.

  Bolitho said, “Hardacre will be here soon, I expect.”

  He glanced at the palisades. He would wait until the schooner was warped alongside the pier and then walk down to her deck. Nobody from the settlement would be able to prevent him, and they were too frightened to leave the compound’s protection The bay was opening up on either hand, and they stood in silence watching the colours emerge from the darkness, the still and threatening shadows come alive with movement and simple beauty.

  Keen would be thinking of her, running down the beach into the sea with him. Laughing.

  “She’s back then.” Hardacre stood on the hard sand, hands on hips, watching his schooner take on personality. “And about time, too.”

  Bolitho shaded his eyes and watched for some sort of signal from the Eurotas or from the palisades. If Raymond ordered her to anchor and await his pleasure he would have to think of someth
ing else.

  Hardacre remarked suddenly, “That’s very unusual.”

  Bolitho looked at him. “What?”

  “The master knows this bay like his own soul. He usually begins to wear ship at that point, when the wind stands as it does today.”

  Bolitho turned back to the little schooner, a sudden chill of warning pricking his brain.

  “Mr Keen, go to the gates and rouse the sentry! Tell the fools to challenge the schooner!”

  He watched the small vessel, and then heard Keen shouting up at the blockhouse by the gates. He stiffened, she was altering course yet again, towards the Eurotas.

  Hardacre said, “In God’s name, what is the madman doing?”

  Bolitho snapped, “Get me a musket!” He saw Quare on the slope. “Quick! Fire yours!”

  Damp, or over-eagerness, made the musket misfire, and Bolitho heard Quare growling like an angry dog as he prepared another shot.

  From the palisade came a thick, unsteady voice, full of sleep and protest, and Keen returned, saying angrily, “That man should be . . .” He saw Bolitho’s expression and turned to watch the ships.

  Even the crack of the musket did not break their fixed attention, although the chorus of awakened birds was enough to alarm the whole island.

  Slowly, faintly at first, and next with terrible resolve, a column of smoke erupted from the schooner’s deck. Then a flame, licking out from a hatch like an orange tongue, consuming the jib sail in ashes.

  Keen said with a gasp, “Fireship!”

  “Rouse the men!”

  Bolitho saw the schooner stagger as part of her maindeck collapsed in a great gust of flame and sparks. Like things released from hell the fires exploded across sails and tarred rigging, hanging the little ship into one massive torch. Bolitho could even see the blaze reflected in Eurotas’s furled canvas and shrouds as the wind carried it unwaveringly towards the anchored ship’s side.

  “A boat’s cast off, sir!” Quare was reloading frantically. “The buggers will get away!”