Passage to Mutiny

by Alexander Kent

  But the flag was still there. He closed the glass, angry with his acceptance. Never again.

  “Send the hands to quarters, Mr Herrick. We will anchor two cables from the pier. I need to be able to leave with haste.”

  He shut his ears to the squeal of calls, the immediate rush of feet along gangways and decks. On the forecastle, peering over the bows, was Borlase with the anchor party. He turned, startled by the sudden commotion, and Bolitho wondered briefly if he thought his captain was going mad, or had suffered so much in the open boat that he was beyond a proper decision.

  Herrick hurried across the quarterdeck and touched his hat. “Hands at quarters, sir.” He asked, “Shall we clear for action?”

  “Not yet.”

  Bolitho lifted the glass again and saw several bare-backed figures ducking through the bushes above the nearest beach. So Tinah’s village was not entirely destroyed. He found he was giving thanks, grateful they had been spared.

  He lowered the glass and saw Keen on the gundeck, shading his eyes to stare ashore. Thinking of his beautiful Malua. Remembering the dream.

  Lakey cleared his throat noisily. “We’re losing the wind, sir.”

  Bolitho turned and saw the land sliding out to shield them, and heard the topsails banging restlessly overhead.

  “Very well. We will anchor now.”

  A long pull for the boats’ crews. Equally, it gave Tempest’s guns command of the whole bay.

  “Man th’ lee braces! Hands wear ship!”

  Bolitho took a few paces aft and watched his men, even more shorthanded with the bulk of the company standing at quarters in case the guns were needed.

  They had learned a great deal together in two years. Heavy she might be for a frigate, but she had been good to them.

  Seamen worked feverishly at sheets and clewlines, while others pulled on the braces to bring the yards round together.

  “Helm a’lee!”

  Bolitho crossed the deck so that he could keep a continued watch on the shore and the pier below the settlement.

  “Let go!”

  He barely heard the anchor fall as he said, “I shall need my gig. Also the launch and full landing party of marines. Prideaux will take charge of them personally.” He beckoned to Allday. “Make sure the gig’s crew are properly turned out.” He saw the surprise, or was it hurt, in his face and added, “I know. You’d already so ordered. But this has to look right.”

  He saw the marines tramping from their stations on the poop and in the tops, Sergeant Quare shouting commands, his face so blistered from the open boat that it almost matched his coat.

  Herrick watched the boats being swayed over the nettings, Jury, the boatswain, urging the lowering party with a voice like an angry bullock.

  “It looks as if there has been an attack on the settlement, sir.”

  “Yes.” Bolitho lifted his arms as Allday buckled on his sword. “It proves we were right. Tuke is after this place for himself. He must have used the captured cannon to give Raymond a warning.”

  Herrick licked his lips. “He seems to have an edge on us every time, sir.”

  Bolitho walked to the gangway and looked down at the boats.

  “But for one thing. He seized Hardacre’s schooner and knows all about your message.”

  “I am deeply sorry, sir, I thought . . .”

  Bolitho took his arm. “No, Thomas, it is our only strength. Tuke will think of you still anchored off Rutara Island, afraid to disobey orders, even fearful that the Itak may have overrun the settlement. Also, he will know that without the schooner there is no sensible way of carrying messages between ship and settlement.”

  Herrick stared at him. “I’d have thought the same, in his shoes.” He shook his head. “An open boat, with barely enough water and food to last a few days, and through dangerous islands at that, well, I can see his point of view.”

  “It changes nothing.” Bolitho watched the launch, packed with marines, as it pulled clear of the ship and waited for the gig to move alongside. “It does give us time. But for this, I fear the island would already have fallen.”

  Borlase called, “All ready, sir.”

  “What are my instructions, sir?” Herrick walked with him to the entry port.

  “The usual. A good lookout, and with maybe six guns permanently manned. If all is safe ashore, I shall want a lookout posted on the hill.”

  He lowered himself into the boat while the trill of calls still hung on the humid air.

  Borlase asked irritably, “Why all the show of strength? The marines, the gig’s oarsmen in their best chequered shirts? It is more like a courtesy visit than a preparation for evacuation.”

  Herrick studied him calmly. “Evacuation? Never. This is the captain’s way of showing that no matter what others may think or dread, Tempest is as before. A ship of war, Mr Borlase, not a hull full of frightened old women!”

  Keen joined them by the entry port and asked, “Who has gone with the captain?”

  Herrick replied shortly, “Mr Swift. Good experience for him when he does pass for the rank he has borrowed.”

  He turned aside, remembering Bolitho’s words in the cabin before dawn.

  “Not Mr Keen, Thomas. It is too soon. He’ll see his Malua by every tree, hear her voice. No. He needs time. I’ll take young Swift.”

  Herrick sighed. How typical, he thought. He watched the boats pulling into line and turning towards the pier. And how much worse it will be for him.

  Bolitho stood beside one of the long windows in Raymond’s room and listened to the insane screech of birds in the dense under-growth.

  He was surprised at his own calm, his inability to feel either disgust or hatred as he watched Raymond sitting at his carved table.

  Below the window he heard some marines tramping across the compound, their voices and boots unnaturally loud. In the time while he had been away, as he and his boatload of men had fought out each painful day, the settlement itself had gathered a kind of decay.

  Stores had been broached, and empty bottles and casks lay everywhere. Even Raymond had changed, hollow-eyed and dishevelled, his appearance made worse by his soiled shirt. Of all people he had altered the most.

  Bolitho had almost expected the gates to be held shut in his face. Had that happened, he knew he would have been unable to restrain his feelings, or those of his men.

  Raymond had been sitting at the table, as he was now, staring at the door. Perhaps he had never moved since the two boats had left under the cover of night.

  He had said, “So you survived after all? What are you going to do now?”

  Hardacre had met the Tempest’s boats at the pier, and as they had walked together towards the palisades he had described in grim detail what had happened. Over a third of the islanders had died from the fever, and while the guards had cowered behind their defences, and had gone through one drunken escapade after another, Hardacre had done his best to give the others the will to survive.

  Raymond had even driven the convicts from the settlement, and had ordered them to remain in their huts and manage as best they could on their own. Hardacre had helped them also, and had been rewarded by their willingness to ignore Raymond’s unjust order and to assist him in the villages.

  And then, just two dawns ago, the island had awakened to the violent crash of artillery, the splintering destruction of trees as the balls had smashed across the bay from the headland. A schooner had been anchored offshore, and during the night some of Tuke’s men had ferried two big guns on to the island, ready to open fire as soon as they could determine the range.

  It seemed that Raymond had failed to see that sentries were posted, and as neither of his Corps officers had been sober enough to have taken much part in matters, the attack had been swift and completely unexpected.

  Hardacre said bitterly, “It went on for two hours. Some of Tinah’s people were hurt and two killed. The settlement was also hit, but more as a threat than to do damage. Then they withdrew. It may be
that they got warning that Tempest was returning. But they did leave a message for Raymond.”

  The “message” had been pinned to the mutilated corpse of a French officer, the one named Vicariot, who had been de Barras’s senior lieutenant. It had stated that if Raymond and his defenders were to withdraw from the settlement they would be given safe conduct to another island to await rescue. If they did not, they would suffer Vicariot’s fate, as would all those who resisted them.

  Bolitho stood silently by the window, thinking and remembering. If Tuke had known about Tempest’s return he would have attacked earlier without waiting for dramatic gestures. It seemed to be as much a part of the man as his cunning. The ability to use savage cruelty to break down resistance before it had begun.

  One thing was no longer in doubt. Narval was taken, and the flag she would wear was immaterial. Her thirty-six guns, backed up by whatever other forces Tuke could offer, would more than swamp the defences.

  He asked quietly, “Did you know about the village? The numbers who died?” It was incredible and unnerving, but not once had Raymond asked about Viola. Something seemed to snap and he said, “And your wife. She died at sea.” Just to say it aloud was like a betrayal. To share her memory with this selfish, vindictive man was more than he could bear. He added harshly. “She had great courage.”

  Raymond turned slowly on his chair, his eyes in shadow as he answered, “I guessed as much. She would rather have died with you than live with me.”

  He stood up violently, and an empty bottle rolled unheeded from beneath his pile of documents.

  “You’ve heard about Vicariot? Of the attack?” Raymond spoke quickly, as if afraid of interruption. “They’ll come again. I saw the Frenchman. They had mutilated everything but his face. So I would know. Be in no doubt.” He swung round, his features working wildly. “I have written orders for Hardacre. He will take over the settlement until . . .” He scattered the documents, searching for the one which would give back Hardacre all that he had lost. Except that it would be for a very short time now. “My guards will take the convicts aboard your ship today. Now. In Sydney there may be fresh instructions.”

  Hardacre had remained silent until that point. “You’d leave? Quit the settlement and lay us open to massacre? No militia, not even a schooner, thanks to you!”

  Bolitho looked at him, his mind suddenly clear, like brittle ice.

  “We are not leaving. I too have a document.” He turned to Raymond again. “Remember, sir? My orders from you as to my duties here?” He walked to the window again and watched the fronds moving in the breeze. “We are not running. I do not care what forces come against us. I have listened for too long about the stupidity of sea officers, the ignorance of common sailors. But when things get bad, they are the ones who seem so important all of a sudden. I have heard you talking of war as if it were a game. Of a just war, or a wasted one. It seems to me that a just war is when you in particular are in jeopardy, Mr Raymond, and I am heartily sick of it!”

  Raymond stared at him, his eyes watering. “You’re mad! I knew it!” He waved an arm towards the wall. “You’d throw away your life, your ship, everything, for this dunghill of a place?”

  Bolitho smiled briefly. “A moment ago you were its governor. Things were different then.” He hardened his voice. “Well, not to me!”

  The door banged open and Captain Prideaux marched into the room, his boots clashing across the rush mats like several men at once.

  “I have examined the perimeter, sir.” He ignored Raymond. “My men are setting the convicts to work. The breach in the northern palisade was the worst. Sergeant Quare is dealing with it.”

  Hardacre said, “I will speak with Tinah. He may be able to help.”

  “No.” Bolitho faced him, suddenly glad of Hardacre’s presence, his strength. “If we fail, as well we might, I want his people spared. If it is known they were aiding us, they would have less chance than they do now.”

  Hardacre watched him gravely. “That was bravely said, Captain.”

  “I told you, you are mad!” Raymond was shaking his fists in the air, and spittle ran down his chin as he yelled, “When this is over, I will . . .”

  Hardacre interrupted hotly, “You saw that French officer, you damned fool! There’ll be nothing left to hate or destroy if Captain Bolitho cannot defend us!” He strode to the door. “I will see what I can do to assist the marines.”

  Swift coughed by the open door. “Beg pardon, sir, but I’d like some advice on the best siting of the swivels.”

  “At once, Mr Swift.”

  Bolitho turned on his heel, wondering if both Prideaux and Swift had lingered nearby by arrangement, fearing that he might fall upon Raymond and kill him. He found his hatred for the man had gone. Raymond seemed already to have lost substance and reality.

  At the darkest bend in the stairway he saw a quick movement and felt a girl’s hands gripping his arm. As Prideaux pushed between them, cursing with surprise, the hands slipped, but still clung to Bolitho’s legs, then his shoes.

  He said, “Let her alone.” Then he stooped and aided the girl to her feet. The poor, demented creature was staring at him, her eyes brimming with tears.

  Bolitho said gently, “I loved her, too.” It took all his strength to keep his voice level. “As you did.”

  But she shook her head and pressed her face against his hand.

  Allday was at the foot of the stairs. “She can’t believe it, Captain.” He gestured to a marine. “Take her to safety, but don’t touch her.”

  “I cannot believe it either.”

  Bolitho stood in the blazing sun, his eyes smarting in the glare. He realized dully that Allday carried a bared cutlass. He must have drawn it as the girl had hurled herself from the shadows. To defend him.

  He added simply, “Who will take care of her, Allday?”

  “I dunno, Captain.” He fell in step beside him. “There should be a place for everybody.” He looked away, his voice suddenly husky. “The bloody world is big enough surely!” He sheathed his cutlass angrily. “I’m fair sorry about that, Captain. I forgot myself.”

  Bolitho said nothing. I would have it no other way.

  Then he took the watch from his pocket, and found he could do so without hesitation. Her strength was still with him.

  He said, “Come. We’ll go round the defences and see for ourselves.”

  Allday grinned, relieved and strangely moved. “Aye, Captain.”

  As they walked towards the gates and a marine sentry stamped his boots together, Prideaux remarked, “God’s teeth, Mr Swift, you would think they were on Plymouth Hoe!”

  The youth nodded, aware he was seeing something fine, and yet unable to put a name to it.

  Prideaux stared at him and exclaimed, “Not you, too! Be about your duties, sir, or acting-lieutenant or not, I’ll set my sword to your rump, damme if I don’t!”

  For the remainder of the day, and all through the following one, boats plied busily between Tempest and the shore. Bolitho seemed to be everywhere, listening to ideas, which slow to come at first, grew and became more adventurous at the slightest encouragement.

  Allday stayed with him the whole time, guarding and worrying, seeing the strain and determination laying firm hold in his captain. He did not care that even the shamefaced members of the Corps had returned to their duties at the settlement and had taken Prideaux’s orders without a murmur. Nor did he find comfort in the fact that even the laziest and most unreliable seaman was working through each watch without a rest, and with little more than a grumble. He knew better than most that without Bolitho none of the plans would be worth more than a wet fuse.

  As Bolitho stood on the hillside watching the seamen gathering bales of dried grass and palm leaves, or shoring up the battered palisade, Allday waited. He saw the way he seemed to grow more content with each new challenge. As if he was trying to please someone nobody else could see. And he knew well enough who that was.

  Just before the da
rkness threw shadows over the bay the lookouts reported a sail to the east.

  Bolitho returned to his ship, strangely calm and without any sort of tiredness.

  The sand had run out, and he was glad. One way or the other, they would end it here.

  17 A STUBBORN MAN

  HERRICK hesitated by the screen door and watched Bolitho for several seconds. He must have fallen asleep at the desk, and as he lay with his face pillowed on his arms the lantern which swung from the deckhead threw his shadow from side to side, as if he and not the ship were moving.

  “It’s time, sir.”

  Herrick laid his hand on Bolitho’s shoulder. Through the shirt his skin felt hot. Burning. He hated disturbing him, but even Herrick would not risk his displeasure on this morning.

  Bolitho looked up slowly and then massaged his eyes. “Thank you.” He stared around the dark cabin and then at the windows. They too were black and held only the cabin’s reflections.

  “It will be dawn in half an hour, sir. I’ve sent the hands to breakfast, like you said. A hot meal, and a tot to wash it down. The cook will douse the galley fires when I pass the word.”

  He paused, annoyed at the interruption as Allday entered the cabin with a jug of steaming coffee.

  Bolitho stretched and waited for the coffee to burn through his stomach. Strong and bitter. He imagined his men eating their extra ration of salt pork or beef, jesting with each other about the unexpected issue of rum. Yet he had slept like the dead, and had heard nothing when his ship had awakened to a new day. For some, if not all of them, it might well be the last.

  “Will I fetch Hugoe, Captain?”

  Allday poured some more coffee. He had been out of his hammock and down to the galley for Bolitho’s shaving water much earlier, but showed little sign of fatigue.

  “No.” Bolitho rubbed his hands vigorously up and down his arms. He felt cold, and yet his mind was crystal-clear, as if he had enjoyed a full night’s sleep in his bed at Falmouth. “He’ll be sorely needed in the wardroom.”

  Allday showed his teeth, knowing that was not the reason at all. “Very well then. I’ll get some breakfast for you.”