He stopped loading as the schooner shuddered against the Eurotas’s hull and hurled a fresh column of smoke and swirling sparks high over her mastheads.
Bolitho could hear the fires taking hold, could picture the tinder-dry wood, the tarred cordage all joining together in one terrible pyre. He thought he saw some men jump into the sea, and imagined the terror below decks as the off-duty watch awoke to their own awful execution.
He felt her quivering, sobbing quietly against his shoulder.
He said, “There is nothing we can do, Viola. Some will reach the beach, but I fear that most will die.”
So Eurotas had been cut out right under Raymond’s guns. His ship, his life-line if all else failed, was blazing and crackling, the smoke rolling downwind in a great choking bank. Masts and spars were consumed and fell into the sparks, internal explosions hurled fragments high into the air to pock-mark the surrounding water with feathers of spray. One great bang rocked the gutted hulk and rolled an echo around the bay like thunder. As it finally died away, Eurotas started to settle down, the steam spouting and hissing to cover her last agony before she went to the bottom, leaving her charred poop still visible above the surface.
Keen asked quietly, “Why, sir?”
“It was our message, Mr Keen.” Bolitho turned away from the water, his eyes smarting from smoke, or was it the added bitterness of his discovery? “Tuke has chosen his reward.” He looked at Hardacre and added, “It is this place. Without Eurotas’s protection we cannot hold it now. Once installed, it would take a regiment of marines to flush him out again.”
Keen said in a small voice, “And we have no way of getting help, sir.”
As if to emphasize his words the schooner’s bows broke surface and floated away from the great frothing whirlpool of flotsam and charred remains.
Bolitho said abruptly, “Follow me.”
He found Pyper and the rest of the men grouped near the hospital hut, the wounded beside them.
Bolitho looked at them as individuals and then said, “It is my belief that Mathias Tuke has seized the means to attack this island and those others which depend on it. Otherwise he would not waste a schooner by using her as a fireship, she is too valuable for his flotilla.” He saw his words hitting home. “He will kill any natives who oppose him, and you have already seen his methods, both aboard Eurotas and ashore.”
He knew she was watching him, remembering her own torment when the transport had been captured. She even touched her shoulder at the place where her gown hid the livid brand he had set on her.
He continued, “Not one of us has caught the fever, although many have died all around us. So perhaps we are safe. Maybe we are too evil to go just yet!”
Bolitho saw Miller and Quare grin, as he knew they would. On the other side of the clearing Allday was watching him calmly. He had heard this sort of thing before.
Bolitho said, “Only one ship can offer battle to Tuke, and no matter what forces he now has, I think Tempest is more than a match for them.”
Blissett nodded, and he noticed that Lenoir, the French seaman, was crossing himself. Orlando stood apart from the rest, arms folded, one foot on the last case of biscuit. He looked powerful, and somehow regal.
He added slowly, “There are five hundred miles between us and Tempest, lads.”
He could see their doubt. What did the distance mean? Five hundred. It might as well be five thousand miles.
Bolitho looked along their intent faces, wishing he could spare them.
“I intend to take a cutter and as many volunteers who are willing and find our Tempest.”
There was a long drawn-out, stunned silence. Then as Pyper stepped forward with a makeshift watch-bill, Allday said, “Wouldn’t it be better to take both cutters, Captain?” He smiled lazily. “More of a chance, I reckon.”
Pyper called, “All volunteers hold up your hands.”
The boatswain’s mate, Miller, replied, “No need. We’ll all go.” He bared his strong teeth like an animal. “Two cutters, eh, lads?”
They all crowded forward, slapping each other and grinning as if they had just been offered something precious.
Bolitho glanced at his hands, expecting to see them shaking.
He heard her say, “You cannot leave me, Richard.”
He looked at her, his protest dying as she took his hands. Then he nodded. “Better together, my love.”
Allday cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, ma’am, an open boat full of sailors is no place for a lady!” He sounded shocked. “I mean, Captain, it would not be right!”
She looked him up and down. “I have seen it all. And I believe you need me to sustain your impudence, Allday!” She smiled. “When do we start?”
Bolitho took out the watch, seeing her eyes on it as he opened the guard.
“Dusk. If we attempt to leave earlier the guards may panic and open fire to stop us.”
He led her away from the others and their strange, released excitement.
“I don’t know, Viola. I’m not sure I can do it. Five hundred miles. And even then . . .”
She took his elbow and turned him gently towards the huts.
“Look at the marine, Richard. The one called Billy-boy. He has been badly wounded, but now he is on his feet. And the other two are much better. With men like these, of course you can do it!” She made to leave him and then said quietly, “And do not ask Hardacre to look after me until you return. We go together.” She watched him steadily. “It is our promise.”
He nodded. “If you are determined.”
She tossed her head and he saw her as he had first done, five years back. All her strength and as he had thought then, her arrogance. Despite her torn gown and scarred shoes, that lady was still very much there.
“Never more so, my darling Richard. About anything!”
14 WHEN, NOT IF
BOLITHO eased the tiller bar slightly and said, “We will drift for a while, Mr Pyper. Hail the other boat.”
Gratefully they hauled the long oars across the gunwales of the cutter and drooped over them like men at prayer. Getting the boats away from the pier without being seen or challenged had been child’s play compared with making a safe passage through the reefs. The undertow had been very strong, and as if to taunt their puny efforts the wind had attacked them around the headland with unexpected vigour, and it had taken every man’s strength to reach open water.
Now, with the sun already high in an empty sky, it was difficult to imagine it.
Bolitho looked along the boat, watching each man’s reaction, his adjustment.
Close astern the other cutter was pulling towards them, and he saw Keen at the tiller, pointing to one of the oarsmen, or advising somebody on how to get better results from his stroke.
In his own boat Bolitho could readily understand Keen’s problems. The two crews were as evenly matched as possible, with the few seamen spread between the rest, the marines and the injured.
He looked down at Viola’s hand on the gunwale. She had hardly said a word during their violent, tossing progress through the broken water, but when he had reached out for her she had looked up at him and had smiled. Just that. And yet it had offered him more confidence, more peace at that moment than he could remember.
He made himself think about his task. Five hundred miles. At the very best, with all in their favour and no one falling sick, it would take over a week. The boats had no sails, but Miller had discovered some scraps of canvas and had promised to try and rig something which might help steady the boat and spare the oars-men some of the back-breaking strain.
What a mixed bunch, he thought, as he looked at each weary, stubbly face. Miller, and the marine, Blissett. Jenner, and Orlando, and two of the injured, the marine called Billy-boy and Evans, the ship’s painter.
He met Allday’s gaze from the stroke oar and nodded. If Allday showed resentment at crewing a boat instead of coxswaining it, he did not show it.
“At any other time it would make a fa
ir sight, Captain.”
Bolitho looked abeam. The islands all seemed the same, blue and hazy in the morning sunlight.
He wondered if Hardacre was even now shouting his message to Raymond from the gates, telling him what these men were trying to do to save him and his cowardly guards.
He thought too of the moment when the cutter had surged past the still-smouldering wreck of the Eurotas. Only her blackened poop and taffrail remained above the surface, but it had been enough to make Viola seize his hand and press it against her in the darkness. The sight of that stark outline, surrounded with breaking spray and trailing fragments of cordage, must have brought it all back in an instant. It had been in the poop where she had faced Tuke. Where he had taunted and humiliated her.
“Boat your oars!” Keen leaned over the gunwale of his boat as it nudged alongside the other one. He said, “Wind’s dropped, sir.” He smiled at Viola. “I hope you were able to sleep, ma’am.”
But the smile only made him look sadder, Bolitho thought.
“I hope it remains so.” Bolitho kept his voice level and relaxed.
Unlike a ship, there was nowhere he could hide from those who depended on him. Like this moment. The beginning. Five hundred miles with neither chart nor sextant. All he had was a small boat’s compass, and the barest amount of food and water. Hardacre had managed to smuggle some wine and a flask of rum to him, and this he would keep for anyone whose health wilted under the torment of heat and exposure. They had six muskets between the two boats, and apart from the officers’ pistols there were some cutlasses and a boarding axe which Miller always carried in his belt. It was not much, but if they could keep up a regular daily total they had a chance. Any tropical storm, or sudden fever amongst the boats, and they had no chance at all.
To remind everyone of the need for care and vigilance, a shark had joined them at dawn, and even now was cruising lazily a cable or so astern.
Bolitho fixed the islands in his mind like an unmarked chart. The Levu Group, and then north like the point of the compass to the Navigator Islands, directly adjacent to which lay Rutara, and with luck, the Tempest.
He said, “We will keep our water ration the same in each boat, Mr Keen. But tomorrow I intend to beach in the best-looking bay or cove and supplement our stores with coconuts. We might even find some shellfish in the rocks.”
He wanted to add that a hot meal, no matter how frugal or coarse, was better than anything to keep the men in good health and spirits. As soon as they got ashore on one of the islands he would tell Keen. To shout it now over the lolling heads of his men would sound like an early acceptance of failure.
Miller looked up from his efforts with needle and palm. “I’ve got some canvas left over, sir.” He held a ragged piece about the size of a hammock across his knees. “It’d make a fine shelter for you, ma’am.”
She smiled. “I’ll not refuse such kindness.” She ran one finger around the neck of her gown. “It is strange that it should be hotter on water than on land!”
Miller chuckled. “Lord love you, ma’am, we’ll make a seaman of you yet!”
Some of the men in the other boat nodded and grinned like unshaven galley slaves. Bolitho watched them, and then touched her shoulder.
He said quietly, “You are worth a lot more than muscle. You make them smile, when they must be thinking of nothing but escape and sleep.”
Bolitho looked at the sun. “Take the tiller, Mr Pyper. I will have a turn on the oars.” To the marine he said, “Go aft and attend to the injured.” He waited for the man to look at him. “Then examine the weapons, and make sure our powder is protected.”
The two boats drifted apart, suddenly very small and frail on the great expanse of blue water.
Across Allday’s broad shoulder he saw her watching him, her eyes shaded by her straw hat, speaking to him as if with her voice.
Pyper cleared his throat, nervous, even with so much before him, at the prospect of giving orders to his captain.
“Out oars!” He looked down at the little compass. “Give way all!”
With his shoulders propped against the side, the wounded marine squinted up at Viola Raymond. Like everyone else, he thought of her as “the Captain’s Lady”; it had a good ring to it. She was good to him. Had watched over his wounded leg better than any surgeon, and was as gentle as an angel. He could not distinguish her face because of the sun’s glare around the brim of her hat, but he could see the grime on her gown and shoes which she had gathered from the pier. A fresh pain lanced through his leg and he moved uneasily.
She asked, “How is it, Billy-boy?”
The marine grimaced. “Fair, ma’am. Just cramp.”
The other injured man, Evans the painter, said nothing. He was watching the woman’s ankle below her gown and imagined the smoothness of her leg beyond. Then he thought of his wife in Cardiff, and wondered how she was managing without him. She was a good girl, and had given him four fine daughters. He closed his eyes and let himself drift into sleep.
By Pyper’s feet, Blissett made sure the powder and shot were well stowed, and then looked up at the sleeping Evans. It was suddenly clear to him. As if a voice had shouted it in his ear. Evans had started to die. The realization frightened him, and he did not know why. Blissett had seen many men go. In battle, in brawls, or merely because they were taken by one bout of illness or another. But seeing Evans’s face, and knowing what he did, was like falling on another man’s secret, and it disturbed him deeply.
Behind Bolitho, the American called Jenner pulled and thrust easily with his oar, his mind lifting away on one of his many imaginary journeys. When he was paid off he would buy a farm in New England. Miles from anywhere. And settle down with a girl. He tried to picture her, and then started to create his perfect mate in his imagination.
Next was Orlando, using his oar with clumsy precision, taking his stroke from the others. He ducked as Miller stepped over his oar to take his place in the bow, his sailmaking put aside until the next rest. For with only five oars in use it needed all their strength. Miller laid back on his loom and grinned at the sky. It was like a fight. And to Jack Miller that was meat and drink in one.
And so it went on, under a pitiless glare, or partly masked in low haze, the two boats crawled like ungainly beetles. Men changed round at the oars, rations of biscuit and a cube of salt meat were issued and washed down with a pannikin of water from the barrico.
Release from heat and torment came with the night, but their efforts to make steady progress continued as before.
His back aching from the unfamiliar oar, his palms blistered, Bolitho sat at the tiller, Viola’s head cushioned across his knees. Once she gripped him with her fingers and moaned softly in her sleep as Bolitho brushed the hair from her mouth.
Pyper had taken one of the oars, and Miller was bailing water from the bottom of the boat. They sounded worn out, half beaten already. He tightened his jaw. And this was the first full day.
After the cutter’s pitching motion the firm sand at the top of the beach felt as if it too was moving.
Bolitho watched Keen and Miller making sure both boats were properly secured, and heard Sergeant Quare ordering lookouts to either side of the small cove. Again, it looked and felt idyllic. Lush greenery with the regular swish and gurgle of breakers along the pale sand. But he knew how deceptive it could be, just as he knew of the vital need for watchfulness.
Pyper came to him, his face seared by the sun. “Shall we unload the boats, sir?”
“Not yet.” Bolitho trained his small telescope on the far side of the cove, suddenly tense. But what he had thought to be a plume of smoke proved to be nothing more dangerous than a swaying cloud of insects. “We will wait a while and see if we are discovered here.”
He wanted to unload the boats, if only to lighten them and stop their unnecessary pounding in the surf. But he felt uneasy. Apprehensive. He tried to tell himself he was being over-cautious, that the need for rest before the challenge of the final h
aul to Rutara was more important.
He saw Evans and a seaman called Colter lying beneath some shady palms. The other injured man, the marine, was propped against a tree, helping Viola to unpack some dressings. The rest of the small party moved about restlessly, feeling their way, recovering their wits after the hard work at the oars. He watched her smiling at Evans, wiping his forehead and trying to make him comfortable. Looking back over their day and two nights in an open boat, he was deeply moved. She had not once complained, nor had she asked for the slightest privilege. Before a boat half full of strained and anxious men she had performed her own needs with only Miller’s crude screen to offer a pretence of privacy. Now she was on the beach with the wounded men. If she knew Evans was dying she was hiding her dismay very well.
Quare strode across the sand. “All clear, sir.” He gestured, along the curving wall of trees. “I’ll put the hands to work getting nuts.” He forced a wry smile. “I could manage a gallon of Devon ale right now, sir.”
Keen joined them. “Shall we start a fire, sir?” He rubbed his hands and gave a great yawn. “Maybe we could kill a bird or two. Frazer had the fine sense to bring a cooking pot with him from the village.”
Bolitho nodded. “Directly. Shellfish, and some cubes of salt pork, any sort of fowl, too. It would not go down well at an admiral’s table, but something hot, no matter how doubtful, will do our people a power of good.”
He sat down and rested his head in his hands, grappling with the problems of his journey, the mounting strain it would make on all of them. He looked at her again. Especially on a woman. Yet in some ways she had more inner reserves and courage than any of them.
He heard a man laugh, and another respond with a stream of obscenity as a coconut was dropped on to his head. The luckless man on the ground swung round and gasped, “I begs yer pardon, ma’am!”
She laughed at his confusion. “My father was a soldier. I’ve heard worse from him!”
Her words struck another note for Bolitho. How little he really knew about her. She had gained more knowledge of him by reading the Gazette and speaking with his superiors, and yet in five years of separation his love had gained rather than faded.
Passage to Mutiny Page 25
