Ross, master’s mate-of-the-watch, said scornfully, “My empty stomach more like!”
Then they all heard it, a solid, re-echoing bang, like a drum in a cave.
Lakey nodded firmly. “From that anchorage. Must be. The sound would be bounded seaward.”
Bolitho saw the faces along the gundeck upturned towards him. Seeing what he would do. How he would begin.
He said, “Signal Mr Starling to maintain his distance, and then recall Mr Borlase.”
Romney exclaimed wretchedly, “I c—can’t see the other boat, sir!”
They all stared at him.
Herrick said harshly, “You what?”
Romney had been distracted by the distant gunfire and the sudden excitement on the quarterdeck. Like everyone else who was not below, he had been looking ahead and not where he had been ordered to watch.
Bolitho gripped his hands behind him. The gunfire was very irregular and obviously from only one cannon at a time. Whatever the reason, it was not the action of someone trying to hide.
He looked past the midshipman and watched an out-thrust shoulder of land. Borlase must have gone right into the beach to pursue his search. It was unfortunate that Romney had looked away at that moment, but it could not be helped now. Borlase would know how to take care of himself. He had already shown he was more than capable of that.
Bolitho said sharply, “Set the fores’l, Mr Herrick. Alter course two points to starboard.”
Herrick snatched up his speaking trumpet. “Pipe the hands to the braces! Lively there!”
As Tempest swung heavily on her new course and the hurrying seamen freed and set the big foresail, Bolitho felt the slight increase in speed. With the wind now almost astern, and the additional span of canvas to contain it, she gathered way and began to overhaul the cutter.
Bolitho raised a glass again, seeing the first hill sloping down towards the weather bow, so that through the lens it appeared to be touching the figurehead’s left shoulder.
“Deck thar!” All eyes were turned up towards the foremast lookout. “Ship at anchor round th’ point!”
Another crash echoed and grumbled across the blue water, and Bolitho saw hundreds of sea-birds circling above the nearest hill like tiny white feathers.
He waited until the seamen had finished belaying the weather forebrace and then turned and walked aft to the wheel. He could feel the helmsmen watching him, and knew Keen and Lakey were also following his movements.
The senior helmsman said hoarsely, “Nor’ by west, sir. Steady she be.”
Bolitho consulted the compass and examined the trim of the yards and loosely flapping sails. Then he looked at Herrick, recalling in fleeting seconds all those other times.
“Very well. You may beat to quarters now, and clear for action.”
Herrick nodded, his features impassive.
The two marine fifers came pounding aft, dragging out their sticks and adjusting their drums before starting a staccato tattoo, while the bosun’s mates ran from hatchway to hatchway bellowing, “All hands! All hands! Beat to quarters and clear for action!”
Bolitho realized that Midshipman Romney was still standing by the rigid helmsmen and asked, “What is keeping you?”
The boy, a small, unmoving figure in a helter-skelter of outward confusion as Tempest’s seamen and marines ran to quarters, stammered huskily, “I—I am sorry, sir, I thought . . .” He trailed into silence.
Herrick said sharply, “Starboard side forrard. Report to Mr Jury. He is already shorthanded.” He raised his voice. “Move yourself, Mr Romney!” He watched the midshipman hurry away and murmured, “God help that one.”
The leadsman, forgotten by almost everybody, called, “By the mark ten, zur!”
Bolitho watched the cutter passing abeam, Starling standing in the sternsheets to wave as they ploughed past.
He took out his watch. It was all taking too long. But he dare not set any more sails. If Tempest had to come about to avoid grounding, the extra canvas would make it almost impossible.
Herrick called, “Cleared for action, sir!” His eyes were on Bolitho’s watch and he added, “I regret that it took all of fifteen minutes, sir.”
Bolitho returned the watch to his pocket. For once he had not been thinking about his standard requirement of ten minutes or less for clearing for action.
“Yes. We must try to lop five minutes off it.”
It would do Herrick more good to worry about that than to know his captain was feeling new anxiety.
He looked over the rail and along the gundeck, at the bare-backed seamen by each twelve-pounder, and on to the forecastle where the long bow-chasers and stubby carronades were also ready and waiting.
Gun captains and marines, seamen and warrant officers. As mixed a company as he had ever encountered.
But whatever lay around the point, or beyond the next horizon they were all he had.
He said slowly, “Well then, Mr Herrick. Run up the colours.”
With her canvas filling and emptying as if drawing breath, Tempest steered unwaveringly towards the Island of Five Hills. Bolitho could not recall such a frustrating and slow approach, and he was conscious of the tension all around him.
He raised a glass to his eye again, trying not to count the number of times he had done so since sighting the little island. The rocks at the foot of the first headland were like broken teeth, and he could see the trapped water lifting and surging amongst them, and further still to a tiny crescent of beach. Too steep to climb from that place, he decided, even if he could get a boat through the rocks without stoving in her planks.
Bang! The sound of a solitary cannon echoed around the next headland, above which a lopsided hill seemed about to slide straight into the sea.
He steadied the glass and examined the black topgallant masts and yards of the anchored vessel, the careless flapping of her brailed-up sails. She was so close inshore that she must have been beached at some time. Possibly to repair damage, as Lakey had suggested.
He said, “Alter course to weather those rocks, Mr Lakey. We will cross the bay and show ourselves, though I cannot imagine what they are firing at.”
Bolitho had voiced what Herrick and some of the others had been thinking since the first sound of a shot. Eurotas, and there seemed no doubt it was she, was well armed, as a merchantman had to be in these waters, but as there was no obvious sign of another ship she was either being harassed by natives or from the shore itself. Her cannon should be well able to drive off any such threat, and as they had heard no heavy weapons fired in reply the mystery was all the greater.
“Hands to the braces!”
Men moved slowly in the blazing glare, and then with haste as their petty officers bustled amongst them.
“Put up th’ helm!”
Bolitho watched the masts’ gaunt shadows swaying across the dried planking as Tempest responded to helm and wind. Round and further so, with the humped island swinging away to lar-board, revealing the bay around the second hill, and the one beyond it.
“Steady as you go!”
“Nor’-east by north, sir!”
Tempest seemed to take it upon herself to increase speed, as with the wind following almost in her wake she threw droplets of spray over the beakhead and the men crouching at the carronades.
Herrick exclaimed, “I can see ’em, sir! A dozen or more canoes! Big ones with outriggers!”
A gun fired from the other ship’s concealed side, and a fin of spray ripped past one of the nearest canoes.
Bolitho studied the low, darting hulls, the gesticulating figures who were controlling the men at the thrusting paddles.
“Clear away a bow-chaser, Mr Herrick. I want a ball amongst those canoes. The range is too much for grape.”
Herrick looked at him, his eyes as blue as the sea. “Will I pass the order to the gundeck to load and run out, sir?”
“No. It would be taking an axe to kill an ant.” He smiled, the effort making his parched lips crack.
/>
He realized he must have been moving about this pitiless deck for hours. A few feet either way, oblivious to the heat and the discomfort as he had fretted over what he would discover.
“She’s making a signal, sir!”
Bolitho halted in his restless pacing and waited for Midshipman Swift to add, “What ship?”
Bolitho shaded his eyes as some of the canoes back-paddled vigorously and turned end-on towards him. They had at last realized that Tempest was in the bay.
He ignored the bright hoist of flags as Swift’s signal party sent them dashing up to the yards. He could leave all these things to others. He had to think. To hold his mind absolutely clear. Something was wrong. Like a picture where the artist had forgotten to include a face or a shadow.
From right forward he heard the cry, “Larboard bow-chaser ready, sir!”
“Very well.” He raised his hand. “Fire!”
The bang from the long nine-pounder was expected, but made most of the watchers start with alarm nonetheless. It was always like that.
Bolitho watched the ball’s progress as it touched the crests of two steep breakers which were receding from the rocks and then slammed down amidst the untidy clutter of canoes. Paddles thrashed wildly, and acting on some signal of their own the slender hulls began to move away towards the headland which Tempest had just cleared.
“Another ball, sir?”
“No. If we hit one of the canoes it would tell us nothing. And the others will be through the rocks and away up the other coast before we had even found the wind to come about.” He shook his head. “Eurotas is in some sort of trouble.”
“Beg pardon, sir.” Lakey looked worried. “But I feel the wind rising a bit. Not much as yet.” He gestured with a hand tanned so dark it looked like carved mahogany. “Look astern. Tongatapu is all but hidden in mist. The glass won’t tell us much, but I’m for caution.”
Bolitho nodded. The main island which they had sighted first was no more than a green and purple blur. Yet the eastern coastline was all of ten miles long, according to the latest chart. To be hidden in thick mist, while out here, just a few miles away, the wind was freshening, warned of something fiercer to come.
“Yes. I’d not wish to be caught amongst these reefs in a real squall. We’d drag our anchor and be aground in no time.”
He looked towards the open water. Open but for occasional feathers of spray to mark the scattered humps of reef and coral.
He made up his mind. “Heave to, if you please, and call away the launch. I want a boarding party sent across immediately.” He saw Herrick patting his pockets and added, “Not you, Thomas.” He sought out Keen’s slim figure on the gundeck. “Send the third lieutenant.” He held Herrick’s attention by saying, “I want it to look very normal. If I sent my first lieutenant, or,” he hesitated, “did what my heart directs and went myself, I think it might appear unusual.” He nodded. “Carry on.”
While the frigate laboured round into the wind, and the business of swaying out the big launch got under way, Bolitho sent for Captain Prideaux. He made the same point to him as to Herrick, and knew he was equally mystified.
“Just send your sergeant and a squad of marines.” He tried to smile at Prideaux’s foxy face. “Their uniforms, no matter how uncomfortable in this heat, will reassure Eurotas’s master that we are not pirates.”
Prideaux touched his hat. “Yessir.” He hurried away, snapping for his burly sergeant.
Keen was on the quarterdeck, already staring across at the anchored ship, his face creased with responsibility.
“Pass my compliments to the Eurotas, Mr Keen.” He waited for the lieutenant to turn. “Ask if we can be of assistance, although from out here the ship seems in good condition.” He knew Herrick was listening at his elbow as he continued, “There are some passengers aboard. I would be obliged if you would enquire of them also.” He saw the sudden understanding on Keen’s face. “Now off with you.”
With Herrick he watched the launch shove off from the side, the oars rising and falling like wings as it ploughed into the first steep swell from the rocks. Even aboard Tempest Bolitho could feel the powerful undertow and current in the way his ship was swaying and rattling, her sails in disorder as she drifted heavily with the wind.
Bolitho braced his legs and followed the launch with his telescope. It was in calmer water already and making good speed towards the Eurotas. He could see activity at her entry port, a touch of blue and white to mark at least one officer awaiting Tempest’s boat.
No matter what reason Eurotas had for being here, and hull damage seemed the most likely, it must have cheered every heart aboard to see the unexpected arrival of a King’s ship.
Herrick said, “I’m not sure Mr Keen will know what to look for, sir.” He sounded anxious. Excluded from something he did not recognize.
Bolitho lowered the glass. “Look for, Thomas?”
Herrick grinned awkwardly. “I know you too well, sir. You head into the bay with gunports sealed and only a chaser to speak our authority. Then you send Mr Keen instead of me, or even Mr Borlase, when he eventually reaches us.”
Bolitho smiled. “The weather signs are not good. I want to speed things along. Also, I want to know why Eurotas did not fire all her guns at those canoes. One scattered broadside would have made kindling of them.” He turned to watch the boat hooking on to Eurotas’s chains. “And only her captain can tell us that!”
“Quarter boat’s in sight, sir!” A bosun’s mate was pointing over the nettings. “Mr Borlase is standing well out to clear the rocks.”
Bolitho nodded. “Hoist his recall at once.”
The man knuckled his forehead. “An’ the cutter is in sight too, sir.”
Bolitho tried to keep his face impassive as he examined his actions, seeing his men in their various roles at this moment.
“Mr Starling had best remain where he is. We may need more soundings directly.” He looked at Swift. “Signal the cutter to that effect.”
Prideaux’s marines were on the Eurotas’s upper deck now, their coats like droplets of blood on the gangway. Bolitho trained the glass and tried to keep the scene steady as his ship wallowed heavily in the swell. Then he forgot Herrick and everyone else as he saw some women right aft by the poop. One in particular, with long, autumn hair, holding a broad-brimmed straw hat with her hand as it caught the wind. Viola. He almost spoke her name aloud. She was there, across the strip of restless water, her dress the colour of fresh cream, as she stood watching the captain speaking with Keen, while Midshipman Fitzmaurice, arrogant even at that distance, waited a little behind him.
He heard Herrick remark, “I can feel the difference now.”
Then Lakey said, “Aye. We’re in for a blow before another dawn. Sharp and savage it’ll be.”
Herrick must have turned to Allday as he said, “Like some of the girls you’ve known, eh?”
Allday replied, “They were the days, sir.”
Bolitho saw a marine returning to the launch. They were coming back.
He raised the glass again, climbing on to a quarterdeck six-pounder to get a better view as Tempest swung crablike away from the land. He was in time to see Keen shake hands with the ship’s master, and then saw Viola Raymond move a few paces from the other passengers. It was like a silent play. The youthful lieutenant pausing with one foot on the entry port grating, the figure with the broad-brimmed straw hat and cream gown raising one hand to delay his leaving. Between them, like the jilted lover of any melodrama, Eurotas’s captain was looking from one to the other. Then the contact was broken, and Keen climbed down after the rest of his men and the cutter shoved off for the long pull back to their own ship.
Lakey swore as Ross, one of his mates, called, “Wind’s backed, sir! Almost due south, I’d say. If it keeps a’backing we’ll be—”
Lakey snapped, “I know. We’ll be hard-pressed to avoid a lee shore.”
Bolitho knew that all these remarks were for his benefit if not directl
y put. He was as worried as Lakey about the wind and the dangerous proximity of reefs. But he was also troubled about the Eurotas. Viola’s husband was supposed to be going to some new appointment. Their paths might never cross again. He felt something like panic. He should have gone in the boat himself and ignored his stupid caution. Everything was exactly as Lakey had suggested it would be, and had there been no search ordered by the governor in Sydney, Eurotas would have arrived safe and sound in the end.
It was common enough for ships to be delayed after the wearisome and often hazardous passage around the Horn, and Bolitho suspected that but for her rich cargo no such efforts would have been called for.
Borlase and his boat were tossing and pitching around the stern as Keen’s launch hooked on to the chains, the oarsmen gasping and sweating from a hard pull.
Keen came inboard and hurried aft.
“Well?”
Bolitho watched him, partly wondering what Keen thought of his captain’s strange whims.
Keen took a breath. “As we thought, sir. She was damaged and holed some while back, and put into this bay to complete repairs. I spoke with Captain Lloyd, and he assured me that all is now satisfactory. He thanks you warmly for your support, especially as he was being attacked by some savage natives.” He answered Bolitho’s unasked question. “He had landed most of his artillery to lighten ship while the hull repairs were carried out.”
Herrick nodded. “Makes good sense.”
Keen frowned, trying to miss out nothing. “He did say that if you are returning to Sydney he would be obliged if you would reassure the governor that cargo and convicts are safely on passage.”
Convicts. Bolitho had almost forgotten about them. Again he was reminded of their plight below decks. Transported perhaps forever from their own country, and then, after weeks at sea, to be under siege in an island they did not even know.
He said slowly, “Thank you. Have the launch hoisted inboard and prepare to get under way, if you please.” He looked at the master without seeing him. “Lay a course to take us clear of the north’rd headland. Then which ever way the wind chooses to turn we will have the sea room to use it.”
Passage to Mutiny Page 6
