He looked at Borlase, waiting with his childlike smile.
“I have carried out the captain’s orders. But there has been not even a smell of Narval or the pirates. If there had been a sea fight, we’d have discovered something surely? Driftwood, corpses, something.”
Herrick forced himself to think back. He had found Hardacre’s small schooner off North Island, but her master had nothing to report. He had been very glad to see Herrick, happier still to be ordered to the settlement. There were too many war canoes in the vicinity for his liking. It was more than probable Bolitho would send the schooner back again, here to Rutara, with fresh instructions. He shook his head angrily. No, he was doing it again. Shutting his eyes. Turning from responsibility.
He considered it more calmly. It could happen at any time in a man-of-war. By accident, in battle, or from disease, a captain might die. Then his subordinate took charge, and so on. There was no other way. And here, thousands of miles from anywhere, it was his own burden now.
He said abruptly, “I will weigh tomorrow.” He saw Borlase’s eyes sharpen. “That schooner should have brought us news.”
Borlase let his lashes hide his eyes. “It is a heavy decision for you.”
“God damn it, d’you think I don’t know that, you fool!”
Borlase flushed. “I am sorry you take that attitude, sir!”
“Good!”
Herrick saw Acting-Lieutenant Swift walking wearily along the larboard gangway. He was on watch. It was like having a wardroom full of children and old men, Herrick thought angrily.
“Mr Swift!” He saw the youth jump. “Recall the boat and change crews. It is your job to remember these things!”
Ross, the big master’s mate who was also appointed acting-lieutenant by Bolitho’s order, strolled across to him.
Herrick glowered. “And don’t you start asking what I am going to do!”
Ross kept his face stiff. “Och, sir, I had no such intention.”
There was a scuffle of feet by the entry port and then Swift ran aft, his sun-reddened face alive with excitement.
“Sir! The sentry saw two men on the island! As I hailed the guard boat they seemed to appear out of nowhere!”
Herrick snatched the glass and trained it on the shore. For a moment he could not find anything because of a dancing haze which made the low hills quiver like jelly. Then he saw them, two staggering, bewildered figures, lurching against one another, sometimes falling, only to rise up and continue towards the sea. Like two drunken scarecrows, he thought.
Ross said sharply, “Those canoes have sighted ’em, sir!”
Herrick swung his telescope round like a swivel gun, masts, rigging and then open water sweeping through the powerful lens and then settling on the nearest canoes. A mile distant, but there was no doubting their purpose. They must have seen the men on the island, too. The closest canoe was a grand affair, with a great castle-like structure in its stern, decorated with man-o’-war birds’ feathers, and richly carved. Must be all of forty feet long, he thought, with professional interest.
He barked, “Rouse the hands, but don’t send them to quarters. Tell Mr Brass to clear away whatever twelve-pounder he thinks fit to bear on those fellows. I’ll have no nonsense from them!”
Calls trilled below his feet, and seamen and marines appeared from all directions.
Borlase remarked, “They’re both white men anyway.”
The guard boat, still unaware of the two men ashore, pulled gratefully into Tempest’s shadow. Herrick ran to the gangway, and as he leaned out under an awning felt the sun on his neck like a branding iron. Schultz, the German boatswain’s mate, was peering up at him.
Herrick yelled, “Go back and lie offshore. Tell those two men to swim out to you. Put one of yours overboard if need be, but keep the boat away from the beach!”
The heads in the launch swivelled from the island to the canoes and back again.
Herrick added, “And, Schultz, let somebody else do the hailing.”
“Ja, zur, I understand!” He grinned.
“God.” Herrick went into the shade again. “This damned heat!”
He looked up at the loosely brailed sails. Ready to release and set in minutes. Tempest was desperately shorthanded, but as prepared to give fight as any ship could be.
A gunport opened, and one of the twelve-pounders trundled squeakily into the sunlight. Mr Brass, the gunner, stood hands on hips, watching the selected crew loading and ramming home a black, shining ball. Beside the gunner, Midshipman Romney, small and delicate against the muscular seamen, was trying not to get in anybody’s way.
“Ready, sir!”
Herrick nodded. The canoes were much closer, the paddles rising and dipping in perfect unison. He shivered despite the heat. He remembered other times when he had watched them, without the stout timbers of a ship to protect him.
“May I speak, sir?” It was a young seaman called Gwynne, one of the volunteers Herrick had signed on from the Eurotas. He had settled in well and seemed quite happy with his somewhat harsher surroundings.
“Yes, Gwynne.”
The seaman shifted awkwardly on his bare feet as the officers clustered around him. Even Prideaux was here now, his foxy face set in disapproval.
“Them two fellows, sir. I knows ’em. They’m off Eurotas, same as me.”
Herrick stared at him. “Take the glass, man. Have another look!”
Prideaux said softly, “If it is true, they must have changed sides when Tuke captured the ship in the first place.”
“I know that!” Herrick controlled his frayed temper. “Bring them aft when they get on board.”
Gwynne nodded firmly. “Aye, sir. ’Tis them right ’nough. Tall one’s Latimer, ’e was a foretopman, a simple sort. T’other is Mossel, able-bodied seaman.” He grimaced. “A proper gallows-bird, that one.”
Borlase puffed out his cheeks. “And that is precisely where he will end.”
Herrick nodded to Gwynne. “Thank you. That is most helpful.”
He looked at the two figures who were wading and suddenly swimming towards the boat. The bottom shelved steeply and swiftly, as Herrick had discovered when he had anchored. But Schultz had reached the two struggling swimmers.
“Canoes sheering off, sir!”
Herrick peered towards the sleek canoes and their busy paddles. Maybe they had been waiting to capture these two scarecrows for themselves. Herrick thought of what Tinah had said about the militia lieutenant. Baked alive in clay. It was too horrible even to consider.
He called, “Secure the gun. No sense in wasting a good ball.”
Brass touched his forehead. He looked disappointed, Herrick thought.
He saw the surgeon and one of his loblolly boys waiting at the gangway.
“Bring them to me when you’re satisfied.”
Gwyther stared at him. “They may be very ill, sir. You said there was no water on the island surely?”
“I said satisfied, Mr Gwyther.” Herrick was not prepared for another “question of balance.” “I did not mean when they have had a month’s rest!”
In the cabin he sat at Bolitho’s desk, while Cheadle, the clerk, knelt by a small chest sorting through papers like a ghoul over a coffin.
Captain Prideaux rapped on the door. “Ready, Mr Herrick!”
The two men came into the cabin, blinking dully, and being half supported by Pearse, the ship’s corporal, and Scollay, the master-at-arms.
Gwyther hovered in the rear like an anxious bird. He said, “I suggest they be allowed to sit down, sir.”
Herrick regarded the two men coldly. “When I am ready.”
They were in a bad way. Gaunt and wild-eyed, their mouths and much of their skin were covered with sores, their lips cracked by thirst.
He remembered what Gwynne had said of Mossel, and could well believe it. Squat and beetle-browed, it could not have taken much to change him into a pirate.
Herrick said, “You are from the Eurotas.” He sa
w the dazed exchange of glances. “So you can spare me the story you were going to tell about being shipwrecked mariners and how you were the only survivors. It has been tried before by cleverer and more believable rascals!”
The tall, gangling seaman called Latimer tried to step towards the desk, but Scollay snarled, “Stand still, you bugger!”
Latimer said in a husky, terrified voice, “It wasn’t my fault, sir!”
Prideaux was watching him fixedly, his fingers stroking the hilt of his sword. “It never is.”
The man continued wretchedly, “They took over the ship afore we could do anythin’, I was plannin’ to ’elp rescue the cap’n, but . . .”
The one called Mossel grated, “Hold yer tongue, you fool!”
Herrick regarded him thoughtfully. They must have been hiding on the island for days. Fearful of the watchful canoes, and hoping against hope that a ship would pass close enough to rescue them. But not a King’s ship. Only thirst, and the grim realization they would not stay alive much longer, had forced them to reveal themselves.
He said quietly, “Send for the boatswain.” He saw Midshipman Fitzmaurice in the doorway. “My compliments to Mr Jury. Tell him I wish to have a halter run out to the mainyard immediately.”
The effect was immediate. Latimer fell on his knees, sobbing, “It’s not right, sir! Please don’t ’ang me! T’others forced me into it! We ’ad no choice!”
Herrick said, “There are plenty of men who did not join the pirates, and are alive to say so.”
Fitzmaurice asked politely, “Shall I tell the boatswain, sir.
“Let me consider.” Herrick watched Latimer being hauled to his feet.
Mossel said, “We’ll ’ang anyways, so what the ’ell.” He winced as the ship’s corporal drove his fist into his side.
Herrick stood up, sickened at Latimer’s grovelling, and his own part in bringing it about. But time was running out. There was more at stake than the neck of a bloody mutineer.
He snapped, “Take him outside.” To Latimer he added, “And you, sit on that chest. I’ll not have your filth on the captain’s furniture.”
As the door closed behind the other man, Latimer asked timidly, “You are not the cap’n then, sir?”
“No. So you see, what my captain knows nothing of will not disturb him. I can hang you here and now, and no one will care a jot. I can take you back to land and say that you, er, aided my enquiries, and they will believe it. The captain is bound by certain rules. I am not.” He watched the lie exploring the man’s mind, then he shouted, “So tell me, damn you, or you will dance on air before eight bells!”
The story which Latimer blurted out was as fantastic as it was frightening.
In his cracked, husky voice the man who had been a fore-topman under the murdered Captain Lloyd told of his service aboard one of the pirate schooners, the one which was commanded by Mathias Tuke. Feared, and with good reason, Tuke nevertheless built a sort of respect amongst his men. Latimer told of his attack on an island, how he had landed guns, and set fire to a village. He described acts of murder and bestial cruelty, which by his example had spread to his crew, so that death became almost too commonplace to mention.
He explained that the Frenchman, Yves Genin, had also been aboard, but had taken no part in the killing and plunder. He seemed to have some sort of understanding with his brutal companion.
Latimer heard them having an argument one night, after a whole day of drinking. Tuke had raved that he did not need Genin at all, that just the rumour of his being aboard was enough to entice that madman de Barras into a trap.
Genin had replied just as hotly that his own men aboard the Narval would not act without his word.
Herrick listened, spellbound. So that was it, almost as Bolitho had described it would be. Genin was bait, but he had some of his followers already hiding amongst the French frigate’s company. They probably signed on when de Barras was chasing after his escaped prisoner.
Latimer left the worst part until the end.
He said in his failing voice, “Just afore Tuke put us ashore ’e fell on the schooner from the settlement. ’E tortured ’er master and threw ’im to the sharks. But not afore ’e’d discovered all about your ship and where you was. ’E laughed like a madman, and all the while ’e was burnin’ the schooner’s master with a red ’ot blade.”
Herrick stared at him. So the schooner had never even reached the settlement. Tempest was up here, and known to be here.
He asked, “Anything more?”
Latimer looked at his tarry hands. “We took a small trader, Dutch, I think she was. She ’ad letters aboard. News about the trouble in France.”
“God Almighty.” The fat was in the fire now. “And then?”
“Me and Mossel was caught stealin’ from the booty, sir. Cap’n Tuke marooned us ’ere. Knowin’ there was no water an’ that them black devils would kill us if we tried to leave.”
Herrick nodded. “Your Captain Tuke is a clever man. He knew that we would come. That we would think those canoes were watching for us, and remain at anchor.” He looked at Prideaux. “So when he passes the word to Genin’s people aboard Narval there will be a mutiny, and in many ways I can understand that. But a pirate he will remain.”
Prideaux shook his head. “I think not. If he can make use of Narval, effect one great capture with her assistance, he might well seek respectability and recognition, and Genin could give it to him.”
Herrick bit his lip. “Mebbe, but we’re not in Henry Morgan’s times now.”
Latimer was looking at them anxiously. “I did ’ear tell of some supply ships, sir. The Dutch trader told Tuke. They’re comin’ round the ’Orn on passage for New South Wales.”
Herrick turned to Prideaux again. “So there you have it. He’ll find a new base for himself. Mount his captured guns and prepare to make the biggest capture of his life.” He glanced at the stern windows, seeing the purple shadows feeling out from the land. He made up his mind. “Damn it, Captain Prideaux, we’ll weigh tomorrow and return to the settlement. I daren’t up-anchor now and work through these reefs in the dark. It was bad enough getting into the place.”
“An’ us, sir?”
Herrick studied Latimer for several seconds. “Your companion will hang, though not at my hands. I’ll see what I can do for you. You may have saved many lives. It could help.”
He turned away as the man was bustled weeping from the cabin.
Prideaux said bitterly, “Save lives, by God! We’re incapable of being anywhere in time now! I think we should return to Sydney. Let the commodore take the responsibility.”
Herrick felt better now he had made a decision. Without the schooner Bolitho could not get word to him. It was up to Tempest to rejoin her proper commander, no matter at what risk from fever.
He said, “Pass the word for Mr Lakey. I wish to discuss tomorrow’s sailing plans. After that we will hold a conference in here.”
Alone in the cabin Herrick walked to the windows and stared out at the restless water. A light wind, but there had been quite a storm the previous night, a long way off, but the sea had been choppy even here. You could never be certain of weather.
Lakey stepped into the cabin.
Herrick said, “We’re going for the captain, Mr Lakey.”
The sailing master regarded him and answered dryly, “About time.”
Blissett half-stood and half-crouched right in the cutter’s bows, gripping the stemhead with his hands to retain his balance. He was desperately tired, and his stomach ached so much from hunger he felt sick and lightheaded. At his back the oars rose and fell, very slowly, the stroke ragged and uncertain.
He gritted his teeth against the bitter cold. In a matter of an hour of so it would be sun-up, and after that . . . he tried not to think of it, to concentrate on anything to stop his head from lolling. He heard the occasional squeak of the tiller and pictured Lieutenant Keen sitting there, using the stars to hold the boat roughly on course. The viol
ent storm had swept away the lamp for the compass, and it took every ounce of skill to keep the boat from veering away, the oarsmen too fatigued to notice.
Which was why Blissett was posted in the bows. Apart from being one of the strongest men in the boat, his past life as a game-keeper, used to peering over long distances of his master’s estate, had blessed him with excellent eyesight. He had no idea if the island they had sighted before nightfall was the one they wanted, nor did he much care. But it was more than possible, worn out as they were, that they might pull right past it in the darkness. He yawned and tried to stop his shivering.
He could feel Penneck watching him from the bottom of the boat. Wild, crazy eyes. You start your raving again and I’ll drive my musket into your mouth. He stiffened as something white moved in the darkness. But it was not a bird. Just a dart of spindrift whipped from the crest of a wave.
The sea already seemed brighter, he thought anxiously. The sun would come soon. The suffering.
Someone climbed over the thwart behind him and asked huskily, “Nothing?” It was the sergeant. Getting ready to do his stint on an oar.
Blissett shook his head. “Dawn coming up.”
“Aye.” Quare sounded very low.
“Never mind, Sergeant.” Blissett suddenly needed Quare to be the same as he always was. Confident. Hard. “We’ll manage.”
Quare smiled wearily, grimacing at the pain in his sore lips. “If you say so.”
Blissett turned from him. If Quare really thought . . . He froze, blinking rapidly as something upset the sea’s regular pattern.
In a small voice he said, “Sergeant, up ahead! It’s land!” He gripped Quare’s arm. “Please God, tell me I’m right!”
Quare swallowed hard and nodded. “You’re right, lad. I see it.” He swivelled round towards the stern. “Land ho!”
Oars went momentarily out of control as men struggled to their feet or fumbled blindly across the thwarts.
Bolitho could not move, as he had been drowsing, one arm around Viola’s shoulders.
He said, “Mr Keen! What d’you see?”
Passage to Mutiny Page 28