Allday trudged towards the boats carrying a net of coconuts. He paused, drew out his cutlass and then selected a nut with great care.
“Here, Captain.” The blade flashed in the sunlight, lopping off the top of the nut like a scalp. “A local brew!” It seemed to amuse him.
Bolitho raised it to his lips and let the milk run over his tongue.
“Thank you. It is like . . .” He put the nut on the sand between his legs, his mind racing. “Allday.” Bolitho’s tone made him stiffen. “Do not turn. On the other side of the cove. Right by the water. I saw a face.”
Allday nodded and called to Frazer, “Big Tom! Put these in the boat.” He turned and walked back up the beach, pausing only by Viola Raymond to pass a brief message.
Bolitho stood up slowly and stretched his arms. There it was again. A quick movement amongst the thick fronds, the sun’s glitter on something bright.
It was taking too long. Men were walking back towards the water, stiff-legged, like players in a travelling band of mummers.
Quare hurried towards Bolitho, his musket over his shoulder. “Where, sir?”
As if to a signal, several figures began to emerge from amongst the thick foliage, fierce-looking natives, totally unlike those Bolitho had seen around the settlement. From North Island or elsewhere hardly mattered now. They had probably hidden themselves much earlier, even before the boats had been hauled ashore. He counted them. More than twenty, and all armed with spears and short, wide-bladed knives. One, obviously a leader of some kind, was adorned with several strings of glass beads. In the reflected sunlight they had betrayed his hiding place.
Bolitho measured the distance. From the top of the beach to the boats. From the silent, watching natives to his own men.
He said quietly, “Stand still, lads. They are trying to discover what we are about. If they think we are from a ship nearby they may go. If not, we could have a fight on our hands.”
Pyper said desperately, “There are some more yonder, sir. By the red flowers.”
No wonder Quare’s lookouts had not seen them. They must have crept along the water’s edge and through the surf itself to bypass the tired sentries.
The one with the beads raised his hand and called something in a thin voice. Then he pointed at Bolitho, recognizing him too as a leader, and then very slowly turned his arm towards Viola Raymond. He bobbed his head and grimaced, then poked his bushy black hair, while those around him did likewise and grinned. He was fascinated by the colour of her hair, and yet his simple mime was more menacing than any open attack.
Bolitho held up his hand. “Friend!”
A few of the natives wandered vaguely by the hissing surf, and Bolitho saw the pattern changing even as he said, “Fall back to the boats, but do it slowly!” He had seen that the apparently aimless movement was an attempt to get between the sailors and the boats, or separate them from the little group beneath the trees.
He thought suddenly of Herrick. This time there was no last-minute help or swivel guns to strike fear into the silent figures on the beach.
He said, “Mr Keen, we will use my boat only. Take charge of it now and get it launched. Sergeant Quare, have some men aid the injured.” He saw Allday and Miller watching him. “We will stand here. Make no further move.”
Bolitho heard the cutter’s keel grating, on sand, the heavy gasps from those who were manhandling it into deeper water. To try and escape with both boats would be madness. It was probable the natives had canoes nearby and would soon overhaul the slow pulling boats and attack them individually. You could not pull an oar and fight at the same time when you were so shorthanded.
The natives were starting to move nearer, and he heard them murmuring between themselves, the sound strangely inhuman, like the twittering of birds.
Allday said, “Something to the left, Captain. More of the buggers. This lot must have been waiting for reinforcements. Just to be on the safe side.”
Bolitho called sharply, “Lively, lads!”
Then he turned as several figures separated from the main group and streaked across the sand towards Viola and the helpless Evans. The wounded marine swung up his musket like a crutch and fired, the ball hitting the first native in the stomach and hurling him down to spatter the pale sand with blood.
The sudden move and the crack of the musket acted like a clarion call, and with a great whoop of frenzy and hatred the natives hurled themselves towards the boats, the air instantly alive with spears and jagged pieces of stone.
Sergeant Quare dropped to one knee and fired, followed immediately by the other muskets. The effect was immediate, and still yelling and whooping the attackers fell back into the green foliage, leaving three of their number dead or dying.
Bolitho drew his pistol and shouted to Pyper, “Get those men down here!”
A spear flitted across his vision and stuck quivering in the wet sand.
The second wave would come at any moment. He saw Blissett and another marine reloading beside Quare, and their wounded comrade hopping down the slope towards the boats, his face twisted with pain and exertion. Orlando was carrying Evans, who was moaning and struggling weakly in his arms, while the other injured seaman was being bustled into the cutter by Frazer and Lenoir.
“Here they come again!”
This time it was more determined, the rocks and stones raining down on the reeling, dazed seamen and marines, and then spears from two angles at once.
But the muskets replied briskly, and Bolitho fired his pistol at a screaming native who had weaved around the crouching marines and was charging straight at the boat. He was knocked sideways, his limbs flailing as he fell into the surf, turning it bright pink.
Bolitho thrust the pistol away and drew his sword.
“Hurry!”
He turned, sickened, as the marine with Blissett gave a terrible shriek and fell on his side, a spear driven hard into his chest.
“This way, sir!”
Keen was standing in the cutter’s bows, firing his own pistol and waving for the others to clamber aboard. Bolitho saw Viola’s hair blowing above the gunwale and realized that he and the marines were the only ones still on the beach.
Blissett was trying to drag his companion towards the surf, but Quare punched his shoulder and yelled, “Leave him! He’s done for! Get his musket and move yourself, my lad!” He fired as he spoke and sent another dark figure sprawling.
The next few minutes were a confusion of desperate purpose mixed with revulsion as their attackers turned on the dead marine and started to slash and hack him into an unrecognizable bundle.
Then the oars were out and the cutter was moving swiftly into deep water, the speed of the stroke laying bare their horror and their fear.
“No canoes in sight, sir.”
Bolitho nodded, unable to answer as he sucked in air. By his feet he saw a net full of coconuts, but by having to abandon the other boat they had lost half their supply of food and water.
Sergeant Quare said roughly, “Marine Corneck was a good hand, sir. Came from the next village to me.”
Blissett lay across an oar, his eyes smarting. He had never liked the dead marine much. But to see him cut apart like a carcass made him burn with anger and disgust.
Bolitho watched their varying reactions and matched them against his own. Some small warning had prevented all of them ending up like Corneck. A few more minutes and he might have ordered the boats to be unloaded, fires to be lit. He met her gaze along the boat as she tied a bandage around Jenner’s head. He had been badly cut by a piece of rock. She looked very calm, but her eyes were misty with suppressed emotion. But for the wounded marine’s swift action they might have seized her and dragged her away before anyone could intervene. Even the thought of it made him feel sick.
The only compensation was that there were more men to work the oars and so allow small snatches of respite for the others. Against that . . . he looked at Evans, who was now barely conscious, and at Penneck, the ship’s caulker, wh
o had received a bad gash on the neck from a spear. He took out the flask of rum, feeling their eyes on it, seeing Big Tom Frazer look away to hide his own want.
“A tot each to Evans and Penneck.” He looked at her across their heads. “And, I think, for the lady.”
Keen said hoarsely, “Aye, sir. She most of all.”
But she shook her head. “No. Rum is something I have not been able to admire.”
Several of the men laughed, haltingly at first, and then in a tide of uncontrolled noise which none seemed able to stop.
Bolitho touched Keen’s shoulder. “Let them get it out of their souls. They have enough to face.” He saw Pyper joining with the rest, his laughter changing to helpless tears which ran unheeded down his face like rain.
After a while they pulled themselves together, some surprised, others ashamed, but not one making any comment on their behaviour. The oars began to move up and down again, and within another hour the small cove was lost in a blur of haze which covered the islands astern like fine netting.
Then they rested, issued rations, drank their water, looked around at the sea and each other with dulled acceptance.
Ahead and on either bow the islands were breaking up and growing smaller. They would have to land again and find water, gather supplies. And all the time the sun pursued them, seared down on them, burning away their determination, their will to survive.
And when night eventually found them it was without comfort. For after the shock and fear of their experience on the island, and the heat of the long day, the air seemed like ice, so that those not employed on the oars clung together in shivering cold.
The next day, despite all their caution, the same danger showed itself. Behind the lush vegetation of one island watching eyes followed their weary approach. When they prepared to beach the boat they were attacked as before, beaten and almost knocked senseless by rocks and flying stones, until they were forced to pull into deeper water to find refuge.
Bolitho watched Keen and Pyper issuing the rations, and looked for resentment or mistrust in the faces of the others. The rations had to be exact. One sign of greed or favouritism and these same loyal and disciplined men might fall on each other like crazed wolves.
If only they had been able to get more food before leaving. But if Raymond had found out what they were intending, either from his guards or from the village, they would not even have reached the pier.
Blissett picked up his musket. “Permission to fire, sir!” He was watching a circling sea-bird, his eyes alive with sudden excitement.
Bolitho nodded. “Wait until it is closer. Otherwise our friend will have it.” He glanced astern at the tell-tale dorsal fin. He could accept it now without fear or curiosity. It was just part of the whole. One more hazard.
The bird fell neatly to the first ball. It was a booby, about the size of a duck.
They all stood or crouched staring at it until Bolitho said quietly, “We will divide it. But the blood must be given to the weakest.”
Revolted at first, the men took their little portions and then devoured them with sudden desperation. The blood, carried carefully through the swaying boat, was given to Evans, the wounded seaman called Colter and finally Penneck.
Just before sunset, and another bitter night, they sighted some fast-moving canoes to the north-east. Like harrying dogs, Bolitho thought. Running them down into weakness so they could be killed at leisure. Maybe they thought them to be some of Tuke’s men and were trying to wreak a terrible vengeance. Or they might even be acting for Tuke under threat or promise of reward.
Miller had constructed a sea-anchor with the last scrap of canvas, and Bolitho decided to give everyone a chance to have a brief rest, unbroken by the groan and clatter of oars.
As the boat lifted and rolled across a succession of troughs, Bolitho sat in the sternsheets, his coat around Viola’s shoulders, one arm encircling her and protecting her from the motion.
Once she said, “I am not asleep. I was looking at the stars.”
He held her firmly, needing her, fearing for her.
Then she said, “Stop discovering blame, Richard. I wanted to be here with you. Nothing is changed.”
When he made to answer he found she was asleep again.
As the dawn opened up the sky once more they saw even fewer islands, and the ocean seemed far greater and more invincible. They found too that Evans had died in the night.
Bolitho trained his small glass on the nearest land. It was very green, but without any sign of a beach. But it might be their last chance. He looked at Evans’ body, lying on the bottom boards as if asleep. They could bury him there. It would prevent the shark from snatching him away, and so save his men from seeing it happen to one of their own.
When they got ashore they were not attacked, and although Quare’s lookouts did find some old fire places, it looked as if they had lain unused for years. It was so difficult to get a boat inshore without pounding it against the rocks that perhaps native canoes stayed away, too frail to take the risk.
They found a tiny pool with some fresh water. It was from a rainfall, and barely enough to fill Frazer’s cooking pot. But with some of their dwindling supply of salt pork, a collection of small oysters which Pyper discovered amongst the rocks, and a few ship’s biscuits to give it body, Allday and Miller set about preparing their first hot meal. There was dried wood in plenty, and with Allday’s tinder-box and a small magnifying glass which they removed from Evans’ body they used the sun to get a good blaze going.
The little Welshman was buried on a slope under some trees, and the shallow grave covered with flat stones. It was a strange resting place for the Tempest’s painter, Bolitho thought. As he sat with his back against a palm and wrote carefully in a small notebook which was now becoming his log, he wondered how he would describe the place. Not that anyone would ever read about it.
Viola was lying in the shade beside him, the hat across her face.
“Call it Evans’s Isle, Richard.”
He smiled. “Yes. After all, he’s the only one who will be staying here.”
Keen’s voice came from the rocks where the boat was being watched and guarded. “Just sighted some more canoes, sir!”
Bolitho thrust the little book inside his shirt. “Very well. Douse the fire and collect the men. We’re safer in the boat than up here.”
In grim silence they pulled away from the only place which had made them welcome. Sustained for a while by their meal and a brief rest, they turned the stem towards the north once more, leaving Evans alone with his last and only possession.
Like a dying water-beetle the cutter, her oars partly withdrawn and unmoving, rolled across an unbroken swell which stretched as far as an eye could reach.
Bolitho sat with his arm on the tiller bar, breathing very slowly and trying not to look at the sky. The heat was so fierce that the sea had no colour, and merged into the sky like blinding silver.
He thought of writing something in his little book, and knew it was getting harder every time to concentrate on the useless, empty words.
The oarsmen lay across the looms, faces pressed on their arms, the others either crouched against the side of the hull to try and find some shade or slept where they sat, like dead men.
Viola Raymond was beside and a little below him. She was wearing his uniform coat, having removed her torn and stained gown to wash it in salt water. As he looked down at her, seeing the autumn-coloured hair tied back across the collar, he thought she could have been a captain.
She seemed to feel him looking at her and reached out to touch his hand. But she did not look up. Like her companions, she found the glare too painful, too demanding on whatever energy she still had.
“How much rest will you give them?” Her voice was low, but it no longer mattered. No eyes watched them together, and when they touched or held hands it was accepted. Part of their total strength, as it was part of his.
He slitted his eyes, measuring the sun’s angle. “
Not much longer, Viola. We are making less headway every day.”
He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, the movement making the sweat pour down his chest and thighs. It had been four agonizing days since they had left the little island where they had buried Evans. Days and nights of unrelenting, sapping work. Pulling and bailing. Trying to snatch a few moments for sleep and then starting all over again. He considered their present circumstances. They had left the pier eight days ago. It was incredible even to think of the slow, wretched miles which marked their progress. The water was down to a gallon, if that. The salt pork was merely a fistful of rock-hard fragments. He had issued most of the wine in small cupfuls, and they had been lucky enough to hit and kill a noddy two days back. The bird had been divided as before and the blood given to the worst-off. The latter now included a seaman called Robinson who was suffering severely from both sun and thirst, and Penneck, whose spear wound showed signs of poisoning. The ship’s caulker was the only one who was rarely silent. Day or night he moaned and sobbed, feeling his dressing around his throat and occasionally falling into semi-consciousness, still groaning.
Bolitho tightened the grip on her fingers, his eyes smarting as he thought of her husband and his callous indifference, his refusal to think of anything but himself.
“How do you feel?” He waited, knowing she was preparing her reply, then added, “The truth now.”
She returned the pressure on his hand. “Well enough, Captain.” She looked up at him, shading her eyes. “Do not fret so. We will get there. You’ll see.”
Allday stirred and shook himself like a dog. “Ready, lads?”
Penneck started to groan again, and Blissett said savagely, “Stow it, matey, in the name of pity!”
Quare removed his red coat and folded it carefully before taking over an oar. “Easy now, Blissett! The poor devil can’t help himself!”
“Out oars!”
Bolitho watched them, seeing their despair as they struggled with the long oars. Even thrusting them out through the rowlocks seemed as much as they could manage now.
Passage to Mutiny Page 26