Midshipman Swift blurted out, “I’ll go, sir.” He faltered as both Bolitho and Herrick turned towards him. “He’ll trust me. And besides . . .” He hesitated. “I promised I would watch out for him.”
They all looked forward as someone yelled, “He’s gone!”
Something pale fell through the rigging and struck the lee side of the forecastle near one of the carronades. It made a sickening sound, and then Bolitho saw the body bounce over into the creaming water which surged back from the stem.
Nobody said anything for several seconds, so that the roaring noises of the storm swept in on them like a fanfare of brutish triumph.
Midshipman Swift said thickly, “I—I’m sorry, sir. I should have— ” Then he pointed along the gundeck. Swaying like a puppet, and suspended on a bowline being lowered rapidly from the foretop, was Midshipman Romney.
Several seamen ran to catch him and lay him on the deck, while Schultz, the bosun’s mate who had been sent aloft to assist him on the yard, hurried aft and stood below the quarterdeck, his face upturned as he said in his thick, guttural voice, “Mr Romney is safe, zur.” He showed his teeth as if in pain as more water surged over the nettings and doused him from head to foot. “He vas trying to save a man from falling.” He shook his big head sadly. “It vas too much, by God. Zey both nearly die!”
“Dawn coming up, sir!” Lakey slapped water from his watch-coat. “Young Mr Romney is lucky to see it.”
Bolitho nodded. “Who was the seaman?”
The bosun’s mate replied, “Tait, zur.” He shrugged. “Good man, I tink.”
By the time the topmen had finally mastered the rebellious sail and returned to the deck the sea had opened up on either beam in a violent, rearing panorama of broken crests and dark troughs.
Herrick said, “And you always hope you’re going to get by without losing a man.” He sighed.
Bolitho saw Allday climbing through the cabin companion-way and replied, “That is true.”
He turned with surprise as Allday said, “I’ve brought you something to cheer, sir.”
It was brandy, and Bolitho felt it going through him like fire.
A seaman observed, “That bloody shark’s still arter us, th’ bugger.”
Another answered, “Reckon old Jim Tait made a good meal, eh?”
Bolitho looked at Herrick. No words were needed. Life at sea was hard. Too hard perhaps to reveal weakness, even when a friend had died.
Lakey closed his telescope with a snap.
“I think I know where we are, sir.” He sounded satisfied, separated from the drama which had just left them. “I’ll be able to fix our position very shortly.” He tugged out his watch, which if set beside Bolitho’s would have looked like a chronometer. “Aye, I’ll be able to do that.”
Bolitho looked away, searching for the tiny islet which Lakey had marked as one which he would be able to identify if the wind dropped. He sighed. Not if. Lakey meant when, and that was enough.
If only he was as confident and as spared of doubts in his own ability, of what he would do when they returned to the island.
He saw Romney walking aft, pale and dazed, and seemingly unable to understand why the sodden, unshaven seamen nodded and grinned to him as he passed.
Bolitho looked down at him. “That was well done, Mr Romney.”
The midshipman would have fallen, but Orlando’s towering shape, shining in spray like wet coal, caught him and carried him beneath the quarterdeck.
When he recovered, Bolitho thought, he might be able to use that one wild gesture as a prop or a lifeline. It could make all the difference.
Herrick watched him narrowly, seeing the signs of uncertainty and searching enquiry which made Bolitho so dear to him.
Each one aboard had a job of work to do, hard or less demanding according to rank or station, carried out well or just well enough to suit a man’s individuality. But it all came from aft. From the one man who now stood with a dented goblet in one hand while he gripped the nettings with the other. Bolitho’s black hair was matted with salt and blown spume, and his shirt stained with tar and grease from a dozen encounters with guns and tackles during the night, yet he stood out as their captain as if he were in a dress uniform.
Bolitho said abruptly, “That rogue of a cook will not be able to light his galley fire for hours yet, Mr Herrick.” He had to raise his voice, for the wind’s noise, like the light, was strengthening. “Pass the word to Mr Bynoe to broach some spirits for the people. They’ll not care what it is, I think. Rum or gin go down as well with salt spray as brandy!” He met Herrick’s glance, his grey eyes suddenly bright. “Then we will decide what to do.”
The heat in the cabin was overwhelming, and Bolitho had to use something like physical strength to control his nausea.
All day, while Tempest had fought sea and gale, and they had been buffeted slowly and inexorably around the islands and the protective barriers of reef and shoal, he had examined his ideas and plans from every angle.
By noon he had known they were winning their battle with the weather, and from the faces and voices of many of his men he knew they were proud of what they had done together. It was strange how quickly men could change. Men penned together for months, sometimes years on end. Who saw and examined each others’ habits and flaws like misers counting their gains and losses. An argument could flare into blood and harsh punishment. Using their common understanding could bind them just as easily into a single body.
And then, with the wind still ripping the crests from the long banks of waves, the sun had emerged again, pinning them down with its old familiar force. It had seemed as if the ship was afire, and to some of the less experienced men it must have looked as if Tempest was about to become their pyre. From every plank and timber, spar and piece of rigging, the sun had raised great clouds of steam, and even the seamen’s bare bodies had left tendrils of it behind them as they had worked to splice and make good the damage left by the storm.
It was night now, but with a difference. Outside the great cabin windows the moon had laid a firm path on the sea, rippling in a light wind which mercifully brought them this far. Everything else shone darkly, like black liquid glass.
But it was hot, and in the crowded cabin it was hard not to think of cool, transparent water. Jugs and jugs of it. Filling yourself until you felt like bursting.
Bolitho watched the bottle of stale wine going round the table. Herrick, Keen, Lakey and Captain Prideaux of the marines were refilling their glasses, looking at the master’s chart, wondering, saying little.
A storm at sea knocks the stuff out of a man, Bolitho thought. Like a physical fight, all bruises and anger. Then it was done, and all you wanted to do was creep away and be alone.
He said, “We are now standing off the nor’-west shore of the island. I dared not beat in earlier for fear of lookouts on the hills. The island is only a mile wide at this point. Our approach would be easily recognized.” He paused, hearing Borlase’s feet moving about the deck above, as near to the cabin skylight as he could prudently get.
He knew Herrick was watching him. He even knew what he was thinking, preparing to say.
Bolitho continued evenly, “Mr Lakey is certain that we can reach a small cove without too much difficulty. The moon will assist, and once inshore the land will afford some shelter against the wind.” He looked round the table. “I intend to land a small but well-armed party. It is already being arranged,” he saw Herrick nod, “but the important part is afterwards.”
Prideaux said tersely, “I think it would be better to land all the marines, sir. A show of force, no matter the reason for showing it, usually works wonders.”
Bolitho looked at him. Prideaux was very relaxed. He was enjoying it. He obviously thought discussion unnecessary and stupid. That his captain was totally out of depth with his plan, as well as with the execution of it.
Bolitho said to the cabin at large, “We will take thirty men, and the marines selected will be your best
sharpshooters, Captain Prideaux. The sergeant will be one, and he is picking six more. I do not want a show of anything. If my fears are justified, we will have to act with haste, and with stealth.”
There was a tap at the door and the midshipman-of-the-watch stepped into the lanternlight.
“Mr Borlase sends his respects, sir, and wishes you to know that the boats are ready for lowering.” His eyes moved round the cabin as he spoke. Midshipman Pyper was seventeen, and probably already saw himself as a captain in some fine ship.
“Very well.” Bolitho leaned over the chart, knowing they were watching his every move. “Once the landing party is ashore the boats will return to the ship. There are too many eyes about for my liking, and I want no evidence of our movements left in the open. Then Tempest will steer south and round the southern headland, much as we did originally. Mr Herrick knows what is expected once you arrive there, and will pass his instructions in his own time. The landing party will divide into halves. One under Mr Keen, and the other will go with me. We will cross the island to the bay.” He pulled out his watch and flicked it open. The hands showed two o’clock in the morning. Dawn came up fresh and quick in these waters. There was no room for doubts now. “After that, gentlemen, we will think again.”
They all stood up, and Bolitho added, “And remember to tell the people exactly what we are doing. Explain that protecting lives is as much part of the Navy’s work as taking them in battle!”
They moved to the door, already grappling with their own parts of the pattern he had thrust on them.
Herrick stood his ground, as Bolitho knew he would.
“I think I should take charge ashore, sir.” He sounded very calm but determined. “It is my right, and in any case—”
“In any case, Thomas, you think I am foolhardy to go myself, eh?” He smiled gravely as Allday came out of the shadows and took down the old sword from the bulkhead. “It is my decision. Many of you probably think it is a wrong one. I have doubts too over some things.” He waited for Allday to buckle the sword round his waist. “I’ll feel more at peace amongst chaos of my own making than fretting aboard this ship and worrying that you may have fallen because of me.” He held up his hand. “It is done, Thomas. I know you relish a good argument, but leave it until my return.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “Now see us away and do your part.”
On deck the air was a little cooler, but not much. Bolitho walked to the starboard gangway and looked down at the jostling figures who were being sorted out and having their weapons and meagre supplies checked by Jury, the boatswain.
He tried to appear relaxed, to recognize and acknowledge each of these silent men. Once the boats had gone from the beach they would be entirely self-dependent. There was no water on the island, as Lakey had long since discovered. Just a handful of men, their small resources, and an unknown enemy.
He heard someone whisper, “By God, the cap’n’s comin’ with us! Must be important!”
Another said hoarsely, “Wants to stretch ’is legs, more like!”
“Silence on deck!” That was Jury.
Borlase touched his hat. He looked enormous against the moon. “All mustered, sir.”
Bolitho looked at Herrick. “Heave to, if you please. Then we will lower the boats.” He touched the sword against his hip. “After that . . .” He shrugged.
With her canvas flapping noisily, Tempest’s shadow rode across the moon’s path, while the three boats were swayed out and the seamen and marines scrambled into them.
Two boats would have been sufficient under normal circumstances, but with the additional hands required to pull them back to the ship, overcrowding would have added a full hour to the operation.
Bolitho made a last check in his mind. Lieutenant Keen, aged twenty-two, was his second in command. James Ross, master’s mate, a thickset Scot with dark red hair, would add weight and experience to the party. Sergeant Quare and his six sharpshooters, all strangely unrecognizable without their usual scarlet coats, and hugging their long muskets like backwoodsmen. Midshipman Swift and Miller, a boatswain’s mate, completed the authority.
The bulk of the men had been chosen for their skills, their ability to obey under almost any conditions, and some because they would kill without hesitation if such was the need.
He took a long breath. “Carry on, Mr Ross.”
He saw the master’s mate raise his fist and then the cutter began to move away. From the deck it looked crammed with men, oars and weapons. Next Tempest’s launch, and her largest long-boat, idled clear of the side, oars in momentary confusion until the current swung them away from the ship’s undertow. Bolitho saw Keen, very upright in the sternsheets, his shirt holding the moonlight like a banner. Allday was already in the gig, as were Midshipman Swift and the rest of the last group.
Bolitho touched Herrick’s arm. “Perhaps when this is done you may have more respect for Captain Cook’s description of the islands.” He smiled grimly. “Take care, Thomas.” Then he lowered himself down the side and jumped out into the gig.
Allday said, “Shove off! Out oars! Give way all!”
The gig plunged and rose steeply in the swell, and now they were clear of the ship’s hull Bolitho could hear the hiss and boom of breakers.
He glanced along the boat at the regular rise and fall of the oars. It was not easy to pull smoothly with the boat filled with arms and legs. He noticed too that his gig’s crew had donned their chequered shirts which they always wore for taking their captain on his normal affairs of duty.
This was hardly normal, and he was moved to say, “Thank you, lads.” But nobody spoke, and the only sound to match the sea was the steady creak of oars.
When he looked astern again Tempest was only a tall shadow with the moon’s silver across her flapping topsails.
As soon as the boats were safely hoisted inboard again she would set every stitch of canvas she could carry to stand clear of the land as fast as possible.
A shuttered lantern blinked from the leading boat. Ross had sighted the first elbow of rocks. They must follow through one gap and then a second. After that it was no more than a cable to the beach. If it was there.
“Watch your helm, Allday. This is the worst part.”
He saw the quick exchanges throughout the boat. It was best for everyone to know all the risks and not just some of them, he thought.
The sea noises changed again, the great surge of water against the outer reef muffled slightly as the three boats forged steadily around the glistening crags of rock. Little waterfalls changed to surging torrents as the tide cascaded over and around the rock barrier, making pools and lakes and just as quickly draining them again.
The bowman called, “Beach dead ahead, sir!” A pause. “Cutter’s already there!”
By the time Allday had steered the gig through the last scattering of rocks and lined up the stem with the tiny patch of beach, the cutter was already passing on the return trip.
The bowman leapt down and almost fell as he guided the boat into the shallows, and more men waded out to stop her from broaching to.
Men, weapons, discipline. Bolitho watched his gig backing water with the oars, the crew’s check shirts already more distinct in the first hint of dawn.
He felt Allday’s grip steadying him as he climbed up the wet sand and on to some fallen boulders. They were all cut off. And he had brought them here.
He said, “I will lead with my party, Mr Keen. You will bear south and then east as soon as we get off the beach. Good luck.”
With Allday and Midshipman Swift at his heels he turned and looked up the steep, sun-cracked slope. If ever he had needed his confidence, it was now, he decided.
5 NOW OR NEVER
“WE WILL rest here.” Bolitho lowered himself on one knee and unslung the telescope from his shoulder. “Sergeant Quare’s scouts will be back directly.”
The gasping, sweating file of seamen climbed over the lip of a small gully and found what shelter they could amongst thic
k, prickly bushes. The sun was higher, and the heat which was thrown back from the hillside and cracked boulders fiercer than ever.
Bolitho trained his telescope on the nearest of the island’s five hills. It was more rounded than the others, so that it looked hunched, leaning away from him towards the sea on the other side. He saw a brief glitter of reflection, probably on a weapon, as one of the scouts paused to examine one of the many small gullies.
But nothing else moved. It was like a dead place. Harder now to believe that the Eurotas was anchored beyond the big hill. That she had ever been there.
Midshipman Swift scrambled over loose stones, his tanned features shining with sweat.
He liked Swift. More so since his willingness to go aloft in the storm to rescue Romney. He had pleasant, regular features, and hair so bleached by sun and salt Bolitho doubted if his mother would recognize him. Swift had been barely fifteen when she had last seen him. When she saw him next, with any kind of luck, he would be a lieutenant.
Bolitho said, “Pass the word. Just take a sip of water. See that they don’t drink the whole lot at once.”
He felt the wind ruffling his hair, and shifted his glass towards the sea. It was rarely out of sight in this island. It was hard to believe they had come through a storm. How blue the sea looked with just the cruising movement of white horses to betray the wind which had carried Tempest away to the south under full canvas. Now, it was empty, reaching away towards the larger islands and sluicing over the long reef barriers to show the set of the tide and yet another change of wind.
Sergeant Quare strode through the dusty bushes, his boots covered in salt and sand. He was a tall, powerful man, with intense pride in his marines and what they could do.
Bolitho nodded to him. “Seems quiet enough.”
Quare lowered a musket to the ground and slitted his eyes in the glare.
“Two more hours and we should see something, sir.” He had a round, Devonian dialect which was like a touch of home. He hesitated. “ ’Course, the ship might have up-anchored already, sir.”
Passage to Mutiny Page 8
