Bolitho stood up and walked to the windows. “I couldn’t eat. Not today.”
“You must, sir.” Herrick gestured to Allday and he left the cabin. “It may be a while before we get another chance.”
“True.”
Bolitho peered down at the water below the counter. But there was only the merest glint to show the pull of the current. It still surprised him at the speed with which the dawn broke. Many throughout the ship would be wishing it might never come.
He said quietly, “If we fail today, Thomas.” He stopped, uncertain how to continue. He did not wish Herrick to accept a possibility of defeat, but he needed him to know how much his friendship meant, how it sustained him.
Herrick protested, “Bless you, sir, you mustn’t talk like that!”
Bolitho turned and faced him. “There is a letter in the strong-box. For you.” He held up his hand. “If I fall, I want you to know that I have arranged some benefits for you.”
Herrick strode to him and exclaimed, “I’ll hear no more, sir!
I—I’ll not have it!”
Bolitho smiled. “So be it.” He walked up and down the cabin. “I would it were as cold as this for a whole day. A sea-fight is blistering enough without the sun’s distractions!”
Herrick dropped his gaze. Bolitho was shivering badly. Lack of sleep, total exhaustion from the open boat, it was all starting to show.
He said, “I’ll be off, sir.”
“Yes. We will go to quarters as soon as they have eaten.”
He saw Herrick’s apparent satisfaction and waited for him to leave. Then he sat down and started to go over his plans again, searching for flaws, or improvements.
He poured another mug of coffee, picturing his ship as she lay in darkness. Two guard boats pulled around her at all times, while on shore Prideaux had mounted pickets to patrol the beach and headland. They would have to be withdrawn when it was light. Tempest was so shorthanded, whereas the enemy . . . he shivered and drained the last of the coffee. Enemy. How easily the word came. He recalled the French he had seen when he had visited Narval. With such cruel treatment they would probably have mutinied anyway, revolted against de Barras and his sadism. The uprising in France gave them even wider scope for vengeance. A battle would seem a small price to pay for their release.
Bolitho tried to form an image of Tuke, but the memory of the livid brand on Viola’s shoulder made him close his mind to him. Instead he thought of her, hanging on to each detail, afraid something might be lost in his memory.
Allday brought his breakfast, but said nothing as Bolitho pushed it aside. In silence he shaved him, and brought a clean shirt from the chest as he had seen Noddall do so many times.
The ship felt very quiet, with just the sluggish motion and the creak of timbers to break the stillness.
Light filtered through the windows and across the chequered canvas of the deck.
Bolitho slipped into his coat and grimaced at himself in the bulkhead mirror. In the weak light he looked pale, so that his coat and breeches and the gold lace stood out in sharp contrast.
Allday said quietly, “We’ve stood like this a few times, Captain.” He glanced up at the skylight as feet moved restlessly overhead. “I never get used to it.”
Bolitho felt his coat, glad of it for once to hold the chill at bay until the sun rose above the islands once again.
“Nor I.”
The door opened slightly and Midshipman Fitzmaurice poked his pug-face around it.
“The first lieutenant’s respects, sir, and he wishes to clear for action if it is convenient?”
Bolitho nodded, conscious of the youth’s formality. “My compliments to Mr Herrick. Tell him I am ready.”
Moments later the stillness was broken by the twitter of calls, the stamp of running feet and all the preparation for battle which to a landsman would appear no better than chaos.
The staccato beat of the two drums on the quarterdeck echoed around the bay, reaching the settlement and further still to the village. To the tired sentries on the headland, and to the wounded marine called Billy-boy who had been given his own special task ashore.
And also to a wild-eyed girl who lay alone in her hut, her mind destroyed, but her memory hanging on to the one person who had helped and protected her.
As the sun found the Tempest’s main topgallant masthead, and made the whipping pendant change from white to copper, Herrick touched his hat and reported, “Cleared for action, sir.” He said it proudly, for despite his shortages, the operation had been completed in less than fifteen minutes.
Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and looked down at the silent figures. He recalled Allday’s remark. We’ve stood like this a few times. And his own response.
The shadowy figures below him, and crouched around the quarterdeck, would they understand when the call came? He wondered if de Barras was still alive, how it must have been for him when the latent hatred had exploded into mutiny.
“Deck there! Ship to the east’rd! At anchor, sir!”
Bolitho walked to the nettings, his hands behind his back. Still just the one. Bait perhaps to draw him into another trap. A watchdog, while others prepared a different form of attack. It was too early even to guess.
He saw Fitzmaurice speaking to the signals party, and considered the change which had affected all of them. Swift now walked the gundeck with Borlase, and Keen stood aft, watching over the quarterdeck six-pounders. He saw Pyper too, doubled up with pain from his burns and salt sores, standing with the carronade crews on the forecastle.
He heard the American, Jenner, say something to another seaman, and half expected to see Orlando with him. He shivered. Boys into men. Men into oblivion.
The masthead again. “’Tis a schooner, sir!” He would have a perfect view. The strengthening glow directly behind the other vessel, while Tempest still lay in deep shadow.
Bolitho said, “We will know soon what to expect.”
“Aye, sir.” Herrick was on the opposite side of the deck, and raised his voice so that it would carry more easily. “Not really worth our while, is she, sir?”
It brought a few laughs, as both of them knew it would.
Bolitho turned and saw Ross watching him closely. “Get aloft with a glass, Mr Ross. I want you to take your time. Examine the schooner as you have never done before.”
He watched him thrust through the boarding nets and climb nimbly up the main shrouds, the telescope bobbing on his shoulder like a poacher’s gun.
Then he looked at the masthead pendant. The wind had backed during the night, but was steady enough from the northwest. It was well sheltered in the bay, but the schooner would not venture inside the reef and risk being grounded, for she would be anchored right in the wind’s path.
Everything must happen here. Hardacre had added his knowledge to Lakey’s, and it was quite impossible for an attack to be launched overland from the other side of the island. There was no safe landing place, and the threat of attack from hostile natives, no matter what Tinah had promised, would need treble the force which Tuke and his men possessed.
Sunlight slipped gently across the upper yards and sails, and the hill above the settlement stood out from shadow as if detached from all else.
Ross, one-time master’s mate, now acting-lieutenant, called sharply from his high perch, “They’re lowering a boat, sir.”
More dragging minutes and then, “The boat’s standing in towards the reef!” His Scottish voice was indignant as he added, “A flag o’ truce, b’God!”
Bolitho looked at Herrick. The first move was about to begin.
The boat hoisted a small scrap of sail as soon as it was clear of the schooner’s side, and as it gathered way Bolitho recognized their intention to pass through the reef and enter the bay.
“Gig, Allday!” Bolitho looked at Herrick as the gig’s crew scampered from their various stations. “I don’t want them to see how thin we are on the ground. Signal the shore party. They must act quicke
r than I had planned.”
He knew Herrick was forming a protest, but brushed him aside and almost tumbled into the gig in his haste to get away.
“Quick as you can!” He gripped the gunwale as the oars dug into the water and sent the boat over a trough like an excited dolphin.
Allday said, “God, look at them!” He chuckled. “They’ve just seen Tempest!”
The boat had certainly slowed its approach, but after a momentary pause started to move again towards the surging water between the reefs.
As it drew closer Bolitho saw it was crewed by a motley collection of men, mostly bearded and as dirty as their boat. But they were well armed, and the tattered white flag which flew from the mast made the contrast more evident.
Bolitho snapped, “Tell them to heave to. They’re near enough.”
Allday’s hail, and the fact the gig’s crew were resting on their oars, made the other boat rock dangerously in the steep swell as she idled beam on to the nearest spur of reef.
A powerful, bearded figure with two crossbelts of pistols and pouches stood and cupped his hands. He sounded English, but was certainly not Tuke.
Bolitho wished he had brought a telescope, but knew it was doubtful if he would have been able to use it. The violent pitching of the gig and the rising nausea in his stomach would have seen to that.
The voice shouted harshly, “So you got here, Cap’n?”
Almost what Raymond had said. Bolitho raised one hand, his eyes watering in the pale sunlight.
The man continued, “The message stands as before. You carry your people away, an’ be damned to ye! We are taking the island, an’ you too, if you stay an’ fight!”
His words brought growls of anger from the gig’s crew.
Bolitho stood up carefully, his hand gripping Allday’s shoulder.
Then he shouted, “Under what flag? Will you hoist your own cowardly rag, or shall you hide under French colours?”
Despite the boom of surf on the reef he heard the confusion of voices from the other boat.
Then the man called, “We have the Narval! You’ll live to regret your bloody arrogance, Cap’n!” He waved his fist and another figure was hauled upright from the bottom of the boat.
For an instant Bolitho thought it might be de Barras, and then saw it was a young lieutenant, his arms pinioned, his face almost black with bruises.
Another visual proof of victory. Bolitho glanced at his oarsmen, seeing their mixed expressions of disbelief and horror.
Bolitho shouted, “Release him! None of this is his doing, and you know it!”
The man laughed, the sound distorted on the offshore wind. “D’you not know of the Revolution, Cap’n?” He waved his hand over the boat. “These lads do, an’ with bloody good cause, eh?”
So Tuke had put some of the French sailors in each of his vessels. It would be safer that way. With the French officers killed or in irons, Tuke would have had to take command of Narval himself. Not that he would need much encouragement, and his experience as master of a privateer would have provided him with as many skills as any sea-officer in the King’s service.
Allday said quietly, “They’re going to kill him, Captain.”
As he spoke one of the men in the other boat seized the lieutenant’s hair and pulled his head backwards, so that they could see his eyes glittering in the light, his face distorted with pain and terror. A knife rose and flitted across the Frenchman’s throat with such speed that there was neither a cry nor a struggle. Then the corpse was flung overboard, leaving a scarlet smear on the boat’s planking.
Bolitho snapped, “A pistol! That’s no damned truce flag!”
But the shot went wide, and by the time he had reloaded the schooner’s boat was already moving swiftly away from the reef.
From seaward came a sudden bang, and seconds later a tall waterspout lifted between reef and headland, the spray from the heavy ball spreading out in a great white circle.
“Return to the ship.”
Bolitho seized the gunwale and tried to control his sick hatred. That might be their intention. To lure him from the bay before he knew the enemy’s exact strength.
While the gig pulled swiftly towards the Tempest, Bolitho looked across at the settlement, picturing the defences which now seemed so puny when set against what he had just witnessed.
Fires had been lit to give an impression that the settlement was occupied by far more men than the small force there actually was. Some red tunics had been placed on the palisades, and from a distance would be seen as vigilant sentries at their posts.
A deception, and that was all it was.
He winced as another ball whimpered overhead and cracked into some rocks below the headland.
When he reached the Tempest’s quarterdeck he found Herrick, armed with a telescope, watching the other vessel. Out of range of Tempest’s twelve-pounders, yet she was slamming shots into the land without effort. When the shadows eventually departed from the beach and settlement they would start to shoot in earnest.
Herrick observed, “Twenty-four pounder, sir. At least. Must have got it off the Eurotas, I reckon.” He looked at Bolitho worriedly. “I was bothered by those devils in the boat. They might have opened fire on you!”
Crash! Bolitho heard the ball ploughing through the trees on the far side of the bay, and saw enraged birds spreading out above them like splinters.
Herrick persisted, “We will have to up-anchor. If they shift their aim to us they could dismast the ship and leave us crippled, no more’n a floating battery!”
Bolitho removed his hat and wiped his forehead. It was what the enemy intended. Draw him out, leave the bay undefended. The schooner might not be able to outsail Tempest, but she could lose her amongst the litter of islets and reefs without difficulty.
He looked up at the masthead pendant. Steady as before from the north-west. He took a telescope and walked to the nettings, his mind grappling with the danger, with what he was asking of his men.
He said over his shoulder, “Send word ashore. When we make the signal, they must start the fire.” He heard Herrick sigh. “I know. It was for a last hope. We just have to reverse things.”
Bolitho steadied his glass against the hammock nettings and trained it on the anchored schooner. He was in time to see a puff of smoke from her forecastle as she loosed off another ball.
The schooner was in direct line with the headland. And the wind.
He heard a boat pulling towards the shore and then a violent splintering noise as another ball landed on the little pier and brought down the outer end in a welter of broken woodwork and lashings. It was luck, for no gun captain could see through shadows. But it told very clearly of what would happen soon if they did nothing to stop it.
He said, “Boarding party, Mr Herrick. Launch and cutter. If the wind holds we will fire the headland as planned. The smoke will drift down on the schooner. That is when the attack must begin.”
Bolitho thought of the long pull, and pictured the wounded marine on the hillside with his collected heaps of dried grass and underbrush, liberally dosed with coconut husks and grease. With luck the enemy gunner would think that one of his shots has started a fire ashore. If it failed, both boats’ crews would be slaughtered before they could lay a finger on the schooner’s hull.
A moment later Fitzmaurice called, “Quarter boat’s reached the shore, sir!”
Bolitho nodded. “Man your boats, Mr Herrick. Keep them on the concealed side until the fire begins.”
He made himself take a few paces back and forth, his feet stepping over gun tackles and rammers without conscious effort. It would take ten minutes for the word to be passed to the makeshift beacon.
He heard men clattering into the boats, the clink of weapons.
“Bend on the signal, Mr Fitzmaurice.”
Bolitho wiped his face. He was sweating badly, but without warmth.
“Quarter boat’s shoved off again, sir.”
The message had been passed.
Bolitho snapped, “Hoist the signal now.”
The flag broke from the mainyard, its appearance timed by coincidence with the next bang from the schooner’s heavy cannon.
Bolitho trained a glass on the headland and the hillside beyond. Faintly at first, rising from some lingering shadows like dirty stains against the sky, the smoke began to roll downwind. The filthy concoction of grease, oakum and waste which they had mixed with the tinder-dry grass and rushes held the smoke down towards the water in a thickening, evil-looking pall.
The marine called Billy-boy was exceeding even the bravest hope, and a short explosion echoed from the hillside to add to the deception. They would hear it in the schooner, and might think it was a magazine exploding.
Herrick asked quietly, “Permission to leave, sir?”
Bolitho looked past him at the two boats alongside, their crews peering up at the ship like strangers. Hand-picked every one, and some of the best men in the ship. If the worst happened it would strip Tempest of hands so sorely that her defences would be halved.
He held Herrick’s gaze. And he was the best of all. But he could not let anyone else command the attack. Now they needed every ounce of confidence, every bit of experience, and to the ship’s company Herrick had all of it and more to spare.
Was this the time which he had dreaded for so long? It must come one day. But surely not here, in this godforsaken corner of the world where so much pain had already been suffered.
Even as he thought about it he knew it could happen anywhere.
He said, “Take care, Thomas. Have the swivels ready to shoot. Retire if you are sighted before you can grapple.”
Herrick took off his coat and hat and handed them to a marine. In the boats there was no mark of rank or station either. They had planned it this way in the short reprieve they had been given by Bolitho’s five hundred mile passage in the boat.
Herrick turned to watch the spreading fog of smoke. It had already reached the reef, and the schooner’s outline faded suddenly in the man-made haze.
Maybe he was thinking the same. What they had done in so short a time. Like the fire. Oakum and tar from the ship, pig’s fat and grease from the village, coconut husks and fibres, even molasses which the purser had been hoarding for an emergency. Plus all the other combustible material, it was making an impressive screen.
Passage to Mutiny Page 31