Yovell asked politely, “This place cannot help us then?”
He sounded so lost that Bolitho answered, “There may be rock pools with rainwater. Shellfish.” He saw the strength draining out of them like sand from a glass. He insisted, “What say, all of you? One more try? We can gather shellfish and mix them with the last of the biscuits.”
Yovell seemed satisfied. “We’ve nothing else to do, have we, sir? Not for the present, in any case.”
Owen grinned and wiped his cracked lips. “Well said, sir! Twenty miles after what we’ve been through? I could swim there, but for the sharks, that is!”
Catherine watched them returning to life, instead of the spectres they had almost become. But how long could he persuade them?
By noon the boat had entered a small cove, where the rocks slid beneath the keel in water so clear it could barely be seen.
Bolitho stood and shaded his eyes as they glided above their own shadow.
“Ready with the grapnel! Stephen, Owen, over the side now! Back water, the rest of you!”
With the flag lieutenant and the keen-eyed lookout floundering and slipping on the bottom while they guided the stem clear of any jagged rocks, the jolly-boat finally came to rest.
Bolitho watched them lurching and falling on the shelving beach as they left the boat and tried to run up the slope. A ship was one thing, but having been penned up in a small open boat made them stagger like drunken men.
Catherine stared with surprise as Allday handed her a pair of leather sandals he had cut and fashioned from Ozzard’s satchel.
She said huskily, “You are a dear man, John.”
Allday was embarrassed, the danger this place might hold momentarily forgotten.
“Well, m’lady, as Mr Yovell rightly said, I had nothing else to do.”
Bolitho walked with her through the shallows and waited while she tied on her sandals. It was just as well. The beach was as hot as a stove.
“See to it, Val. Take your cox’n and climb that hill. Might even be able to see the other island in this light . . . it would give them heart.”
Keen said gravely, “I believe you have done that, sir, to all of us.”
Allday was about to leave the beached boat when Ozzard tugged at his sleeve. “Look, John!”
It was a small pouch, hidden carefully behind the empty barricoe. It was tightly tied and very heavy.
Allday felt it. “It’s gold, matey.”
“But whose?”
“Whoever put it there is one of the mutineers, an’ that’s no error.”
They stuffed the pouch back into its hiding place. Allday said, “Leave it to me.”
Ozzard said, “I’ll keep watch over the last of our supplies.” He added meaningly, “Especially the rum. ”
Keen started up the hillside, the highest point on this barren place, but in truth little more than a sun-scorched hump.
As they passed some scattered rocks Tojohns grunted, “Jesus, look at that!”
It was a skeleton, lying where the man had fallen, shipwrecked, marooned or murdered. They would never know.
They were almost at the top, and Keen tried not to think of water, even the sound of it in a glass.
They reached the summit, and Keen dropped to his knees and said sharply, “ Down, man!”
The other island was visible as Bolitho had prophesied, like a pale green mist below the horizon.
But all Keen could see was the anchored vessel directly below him, the brig he had observed from Golden Plover’s masthead. The slaver which had come to collect the gold now scattered across the Hundred Mile Reef.
“I’ll go and warn our people. You stay here, Tojohns. If you see a boat heading ashore, come at once.”
He scrabbled down the dry hill, his mind stunned by this new discovery. Even this lifeless place had been a symbol of their success. Now it was only a trap.
Bolitho listened to him without comment, his eyes on Sophie and Ozzard as they collected some of the shellfish Jenour’s party had discovered in a rock pool.
They all stood round, waiting for Ozzard’s judgement as he dipped his cup into the bucket Owen had filled with water from a small hillside gully. Then he said solemnly, “Rainwater. I’ll put it in the cask.”
Yovell flung his arms around the young maid and beamed. “Like wine, eh, my dear!”
Bolitho called, “Listen to me, all of you. The slaver that was after us is anchored yonder.” He saw them coming to terms with it. “And we cannot survive here.” He thought of the skeleton Keen had described. There were probably others. “So at dusk we will leave.” He let each word sink in. “We must reach that island. There’s a fair breeze . . . we might not even need the oars.”
Allday watched their reactions, especially those of the two remaining hands from the Golden Plover. Not Owen, surely. He had proved his loyalty more than once. What about the tough Tynesider, Cuppage? But his expression had not changed at the mention of the slaver. It might have been the salt-water-crazed Tucker, who had taken his secret with him. Or even the old master, Bezant: some pitiful compensation for losing his ship to men he had once trusted.
Allday fingered the old dirk in his belt. Whoever it is, I’ll see him to hell!
Where trees had once stood and now lay like whitened bones in the sand, Catherine took Bolitho in her arms and held him, free only for a moment from curious eyes.
They stood looking at one another in complete silence. Then she said quietly, “Once I doubted. Now I know we shall reach safety.”
On the hillside the sandblown skeleton could have been listening, sharing the hope to which he had, once, also clung.
11 A DAY TO REMEMBER
“EASY ALL!” Bolitho peered up at the stars and saw Allday’s shadow move while he pushed the tiller-bar to windward. The oars rose dripping from the water and stayed motionless above it. It was strange to feel the boat still moving ahead, the tilt of the hull as the wind filled the sail, dark against the great panorama of stars.
It had gone better than Bolitho had dared to hope. They had refloated the boat before dusk and had pulled steadily, close inshore almost within an oar’s length of some of the rocks, until they had headed out to sea. The anchored brig had been hidden out of sight on the other side of the island, and even when the jolly-boat had spread her sail in the darkening shadows, they had seen no lights, no movement at all.
Perhaps the brig’s master had given up hope of discovering if anyone had survived the wreck, and was now intent only on gathering another human cargo, transferred perhaps from another slaver.
Ozzard whispered, “Last of the water, sir.”
Bolitho thought of the rainwater Jenour’s party had discovered. They had all but filled one barricoe, and after consuming a foul-tasting meal of shellfish and a mash of ship’s biscuits they had each taken a mug of water. In ordinary times nobody would have touched it, but as Yovell had remarked, it seemed like wine.
Keen climbed up beside him and said, “We shall see the island clearly at first light. Two more miles, maybe less with this wind.” He was calculating aloud. “At least we can survive there until we find help.”
On the bottom boards Catherine stirred and took the cup from Ozzard, while in the bows they could hear Sophie retching. She was their only casualty from eating the raw shellfish. A fire had been out of the question with the brig so near.
Tojohns wiped his mouth with his hand. “I can hear surf, sir!”
Bolitho breathed out slowly and felt Catherine reach for him in the darkness.
He said, “That’s it, Val. The outer spur. Once daylight comes we can follow it until we find a passage. All we have to do after that is make for the beach. There might even be a merchantman there, with a watering party ashore. It is a favourite place, and the streams are somewhat better than Stephen’s gully!”
Surprisingly, someone laughed this time, and Sophie managed to control her retching to listen.
Bolitho gripped Catherine’s hand. “Try to re
st, Kate. You’ve done enough for ten able-bodied seamen.”
She said quietly, “It’s hard to accept that there is land out there.”
Bolitho smiled. “Old hands will be able to smell it soon.”
He made her comfortable and then climbed over to the nearest thwart to relieve Tojohns at his oar.
Allday said harshly, “Stand by! Give way all!”
He thought he already had the scent of the island, and marvelled at the way Bolitho and Keen had managed to get them this far. But they were not safe yet. He grimaced in the darkness. After coming all this way it would be the devil’s work if they hit one of the smaller outflung reefs.
But once on the island he knew they could manage to keep going. After that other fearful place, the others all knew they could survive until Lady Luck took over. Lady Luck . . . He thought of Herrick, and wondered if he would ever make it up with Bolitho. After what Lady Catherine had done for Herrick’s wife, and what she had given to all of them in this damned boat, he didn’t much care either way. A sailor’s woman; and even in her soiled breeches and shirt, her hair brailed up and clinging with salt, she was still a sight to make any man stare.
Catherine lay with one arm covering her face as men moved about the boat, retrimming the sail so that the bottom boards tilted even further. She was not asleep although she knew they all believed so, and in these moments of privacy she allowed herself reflection and despair. And thoughts . . . whether any of them would ever be the same, how long it might be before she saw Falmouth again. The leaves would have gone from the trees, and the petals from the roses she found so beautiful. She had clung to the memory in the hours and days in this pitching boat to prevent herself from breaking down and allowing her hopelessness to infect the others. Just let us reach there, she whispered, I will do the rest. But when, when . . .
There was another pause for it was hard work, and the time spent at the oars became shorter for each man.
She looked over her arm and saw Allday at the tiller, one elbow propped on the gunwale as if he was part of the boat. Bronzed faces, some with badly sunburned skins: men usually so clean and disciplined were now bearded with stubble, their hair as matted as her own.
She turned her head so that she could see Bolitho, his injured eye closed as he lay back on his loom, taking the stroke from the seaman Owen.
“Here comes the dawn.”
“And there’s part of the reef!” That was Jenour, unable as usual to hide his emotion.
Some strange gulls flew low overhead, their wings very white while the boat still lay in shadow. Allday murmured approvingly to Ozzard, “One o’ those in th’ pot’ll do me!”
The seaman named Bill Cuppage plucked his filthy shirt from his body, and stared with astonishment as something caught the dawn’s first light and held it like a mirror. Jenour saw his expression and swung with a gasp. “Ship, sir!”
Bolitho squinted across the quarter and felt his jaw tighten with disbelief and disappointment.
He called sharply, “Easy, all! Take in the sail!”
With neither oars nor canvas to steady it, the jolly-boat slid down into the swell and broached-to in steep, sickening rolls.
Keen said hoarsely, “Brig, sir. All sails set.”
Catherine had one hand across her mouth as she watched the distant masts with their pale, bellying sails. As yet, no vessel showed herself above the receding shadows.
“Might it be another, Val?”
Keen tore his eyes from the pyramid of sails and looked at her. “I fear not.”
Allday muttered, “Might not see us. We’re low in the water.”
Ozzard climbed forward and handed a mug of brandy to Sophie.
“Here, drink this, miss. Give you strength.”
She stared at him over the rim, “What shall we do?”
Ozzard did not answer but turned aft to watch as the brig’s two masts began to turn, the sails in momentary confusion while she changed tack until she was bows-on towards them.
Bolitho said, “Make sail again! Man your oars! The brig won’t risk passing through the reef at this stage.”
There was a dull bang, and seconds later a ball splashed down astern of the slow-moving jolly-boat.
Tojohns lay back on his oar and said between his teeth, “That bugger don’t need to!”
Catherine climbed on to a thwart and added her own strength to Yovell’s oar, her bare feet pressing hard on a stretcher.
There was another bang, and this time the ball ricocheted across the water like an enraged dolphin before hurling up a tall, thin waterspout. Cuppage was a big man, but he moved like lightning. Tossing his oar away, he vaulted into the bows and gripped Sophie with his arm around her neck, his other hand producing a cocked pistol, which he pressed against her face.
“Let her go!” Bolitho saw the girl staring aft at him, her eyes wide with terror. “What use is this, man?”
“Use?” Cuppage flinched as another ball ripped across the water. “I’ll tell you what! Yon brig’s master will want a word with you, or he’ll kill us all! It’d only take one ball!” He began to work his way along the boat, dragging the half-strangled girl with him.
Owen called, “I thought you was one of them, you bastard! Never saw you with the bosun’s party!”
Cuppage ignored him, his teeth bared with exertion. “One move, an’ she gets ’er ’ead blown off!”
Bolitho looked at him without emotion. He was beaten. Whether the slaver’s master accepted Cuppage’s story no longer mattered.
Aboard the brig they must have realised what was happening. She was shortening sail, tacking once more to remain well clear of the reef.
Allday said, “Changing sides again, matey?” He sounded very calm. “Well, don’t forget your little bag.”
Cuppage swung round and saw Ozzard holding the bag over the side.
Allday continued, “No gold, no hope—not for you, matey. They won’t believe your yarn and they’ll kill you with the rest of us!”
Cuppage yelled, “Give me that, you little scum!”
“Catch, then!” Ozzard flung it towards him and Cuppage gave a scream of fury as the bag flew past his outstretched hand and splashed into the sea.
Allday stopped in front of Catherine and spat out, “Don’t look.”
The knife flashed in the sunlight and Cuppage lolled against the gunwale, while Tojohns and Owen pulled the girl to safety.
Allday moved with surprising speed and reached Cuppage even as he fell gasping across the gunwale, and as he tugged his old knife from his back he exclaimed savagely, “Go and look for it, you bastard!”
Cuppage drifted away, his arms moving feebly until he vanished.
Keen said dully, “That was well done, Allday.” He stared at the brig, which was shortening sail yet again as she ran down on the drifting jolly-boat.
Allday looked at Bolitho and the woman beside him. “Too late. God damn that bloody mutineer. But for him . . .”
Bolitho glanced towards the lush, green island. So near, yet a million miles away.
But all he could hear was her voice. Don’t leave me.
He had failed.
Rarely had the Falmouth parish church of King Charles the Martyr seen so mixed and solemn a gathering. While the great organ played in the background the pews soon filled with people from all walks of life, from the governor of Pendennis Castle to lowly farm workers, their boots grubby and scraped from the fields on this early harvest. Many stood on the cobbles outside the church, watching out of curiosity, or to capture some private memory of the man whose life and service were to be honoured here today. Not some stranger, or mysterious hero of whom they had read or been told about, but one of their own sons.
The rector was very aware of the importance of the occasion. There would of course be a grander memorial service in London with all the pomp of traditional ceremony. But this was Sir Richard’s home, where his ancestors had come and gone, leaving only their historic records in stone along these
same walls.
The whole county had been shocked by the news of Sir Richard Bolitho’s death and of the manner in which he had died. But there had always been hope, and the speculation which this man’s charisma had long encouraged. To fall in battle was one thing; to be lost at sea in some kind of accident was difficult for most of these people to accept.
The rector glanced at the fine marble bust of old Captain Julius Bolitho, who had fallen in 1664. The engraving seemed to fit the whole of this remarkable family, he thought.
The spirits of your fathers
Shall start from every wave;
For the deck it was their field of fame,
And ocean was their grave.
Today’s service seemed to have killed the last of their simple faith, and many of the ships in Carrick Road had half-masted their ensigns.
He saw Squire Lewis Roxby guiding his wife Nancy to the family pew. Roxby looked grim, watching over her with a tenderness he rarely showed either as a magistrate or as one of the wealthiest men in the county. This was another side to the King of Cornwall.
Captain Keen’s lovely young widow was seated between her husband’s sisters, who had come all the way from Hampshire. One of them would be thinking of her own husband, who had been killed at sea a year or so earlier.
There was a very distraught couple who had taken the coach from Southampton to be here. They were Lieutenant Stephen Jenour’s parents.
In another pew with members of the household and farm staff, Bryan Ferguson gripped his wife’s hand and stared fixedly at the high altar. He discovered that his wife had the true strength today, and was determined to get him through it as the faces crowded into his mind.
All the memories, the comings and goings from the old grey house. He had been a major part of it, and as steward of the estate he was very conscious of Bolitho’s trust in him. He wiped his eyes as he freed his only hand from her grip. Poor old John Allday. No more yarns, no more wets when he was home from sea.
He glanced across the aisle and recognised Lady Belinda with another woman, her oval face and autumn hair making the only colour against her sombre black. A few people bobbed to her— sympathy or respect, who could tell? Squire Roxby was receiving all of them in his great house afterwards. Afterwards. Even that made Ferguson bite his lip to steady himself.
Beyond the Reef Page 18
