Passage to Mutiny

by Alexander Kent

  But it was Allday who replied, “It’s the one, Captain! I’m sure!” He looked around the boat. “All those bloody islands, but we found it!”

  Several of them tried to cheer, others wanted to weep, but were too parched even for that.

  Bolitho said quietly, “Wake, Viola. You were right. It must be Rutara, although it has to be some form of magic!”

  Allday heard him and gave a great sigh, rubbing his sore palms on his trousers. He wanted to say something special at this moment. To hold them all together long after the boat and the misery of their endurance would be faded in memory.

  He stared at Bolitho and then at Viola Raymond. He had been holding her against him, as he had for most of the night. But now as he tried to rouse her, her arm slipped from his grasp and hung down to sway with the boat’s unsteady motion.

  Then Allday was on his feet, his voice harsh as he called, “Mr Keen! See to the captain!” He scrambled aft, knocking men aside, ignoring all of them as he added, “Just do as I ask, sir!” Then he was by the tiller, his arms around both of them as he exclaimed, “Here, Captain! It’s no use! Let me take her, please!” And as Bolitho started to struggle he called, “Hold him!” He turned his head, his voice breaking, “For God’s sake, Mr Keen!”

  Only then did Keen understand. He gripped Bolitho around the shoulders while Jenner seized him from the opposite side. All he could say was, “I must do it, sir. I must. I can’t let you go.”

  Allday gathered her up in his arms, feeling her hair blowing across his face as he carried her to the middle of the boat. Her body was still warm, but against his neck her face felt like ice.

  He murmured to Miller, “The anchor, Jack.”

  Miller nodded, as if like the rest he was struck dumb by what was happening. Their suffering, the discovery of land, it all meant nothing.

  Bolitho shouted, “No!” And Allday heard his shoes slipping on the wet boards as the others held him there.

  Gently, Allday slipped Bolitho’s coat from her body and held her above the gunwale, while Miller passed a bowline around her and attached it to the cutter’s anchor. No shark or scavenger would disturb her now.

  She was so light she barely made a ripple as he slipped her into the water, and even as he watched he saw her pale shape fading into the depths, until it was gone altogether.

  Then Allday went aft and stood in front of Bolitho, powerful against the paling sky.

  He said wretchedly, “Use me as you will, Captain. But it was for the best.” He laid the coat beside him. “She’ll rest easy now.”

  Bolitho reached out and gripped his hand. “I know.” He could barely see. “I know.”

  Keen said heavily, “Man your oars.”

  The boat began to move again, and as the frail daylight felt its way across the water Bolitho looked astern and said, “But for me she would not have been here.”

  Keen replied quietly, “But for her, sir, none of us would have survived.”

  Half an hour later the light laid bare the island, and close inshore, her awnings and sails very clear against the land, they sighted the Tempest.

  But this time there was no cheering, and as they moved nearer, hearing the sudden excitement on board, the trill of calls and the sounds of a boat being lowered, they were cruelly aware of loss rather than survival.

  A boat from Tempest reached them in minutes and took them in tow, her crew suddenly aware of the silence.

  As Bolitho pulled himself up and through the entry port he was only dimly conscious of the pressing figures around and above him.

  Only one face stood out, and as he gripped Herrick’s hand he was unable to speak, or to let go.

  Herrick watched him anxiously. “You came all that way, sir? What . . .”

  He turned as Keen said, “The lady has just died, sir. Within sight of this damned island!” Then he hurried away.

  Herrick said, “We will speak later, sir.”

  He beckoned urgently to the boatswain, but the shocked and bewildered men were already being helped or hoisted inboard.

  Bolitho nodded to each man in turn as they were aided or shuffled past. Acting-Lieutenant Pyper, being carried by two seamen, Billy-boy hopping with an arm around someone’s neck. Jenner and Miller, Sergeant Quare and the unbreakable Blissett. The Frenchman Lenoir, and Big Tom Frazer.

  Allday touched his forehead. “All hoisted inboard, Captain.” He watched him, searching for some sign. Then he said, “You can be proud of what you did, Captain, an’ that’s no error.” Then he too walked slowly towards the companion.

  Herrick followed Bolitho aft, past the silent, watching faces. He noticed the way he was carrying his coat, as if it was the most precious thing he possessed.

  He asked hesitantly, “Do you have any orders, sir?” He fell back as Bolitho looked at him. “It can wait of course, but . . .”

  “It cannot, Mr Herrick.” Again the impetuous grip on his arm. “Thomas. We have work to do. Get the ship under way, if you please. We are returning to the Levu Islands.”

  As Bolitho lowered himself through the companion, Lakey said in a fierce whisper, “Five hundred miles, Mr Herrick. In that boat, and with nothing much to sustain them either.” He shook his head. “They must have found a power of strength from somewhere.”

  Herrick nodded sadly. “Aye, they did. And now she’s dead. I could shoot myself for some of the thoughts I’ve had, some of the things I’ve said.”

  He saw the boatswain watching him from the gangway.

  “Mr Jury, be so good as to sink that cutter before we weigh.”

  “But, sir, a boat, any boat, is valuable out here.” He sounded shocked.

  “In this case I think it best to destroy it.” Herrick glanced at the cabin skylight. “I would to God I could destroy its memory also!”

  16 NO RETREAT

  ON THE morning of the first full day at sea the wind backed considerably, and with the sudden change came a heavy downpour of rain.

  Bolitho leaned over the stern bench and stared emptily through the thick windows, his vision twisting and swirling as the rain swept across the water and pounded over the deck above. He heard feet hurrying to various parts of his ship, men watching over sun-dried cordage to ensure it did not swell enough to foul the blocks. Others would be collecting the rain-water to supplement their stocks.

  He sat down wearily, letting the vessel move his body without resistance. In his screened sleeping compartment he could hear Hugoe, the wardroom servant, completing his tidying, collecting clothing to be washed.

  Herrick had suggested several men who would be willing or suitable to replace Orlando. But Bolitho could not bear the thought of beginning again. Not yet. Hugoe was always in demand in the wardroom, and was grateful to be freed from the cabin, and its brooding captain, he suspected.

  Rain gurgled down the scuppers or pattered happily across the sealed skylight. Water. You were less than nothing without it. He pictured the thirst-crazed man leaping overboard to fill his stomach from the sea. Orlando’s terrible agony as the shark had crushed him into a bloody pulp.

  He forced himself to take out his watch, and hesitated further before he could open the guard. Even the engraving seemed to stand out sharper.

  Hugoe stood in the screen door. “I’ve done, sir. ’Less there’s owt in ’ere?”

  “No. You can carry on.” He saw the curiosity in his eyes. “Thank you.”

  The marine sentry at the outer door shouted, “Midshipman o’ th’ watch, sir!”

  “Enter.”

  It was young Romney, very nervous as he presented a list of the day’s work from his first lieutenant. The visitors would soon be arriving. Questions. Needs.

  He scanned through Herrick’s round handwriting. “Very well.”

  Romney hesitated, one foot scraping over the other. “May I speak, sir?”

  “Yes.” Bolitho turned his back as if to watch the water streaming down the tall windows.

  “I—I, that is, we, sir, want you to kno
w how sorry . . .”

  Bolitho gripped his hands tightly to his sides until he could face him again.

  “Thank you, Mr Romney.” He barely recognized his own voice. “It was most thoughtful.”

  Romney watched him, his eyes full of warmth. Like a dog’s, Bolitho thought despairingly.

  The surgeon peered through the door, and Bolitho snapped, “Come in.”

  He would immerse himself in his duties and what he must plan ahead. But the small touches of kindness which came without warning shattered his guard like a cutlass on a badly cast rapier.

  Bolitho listened to Gwyther’s sick report.

  “The marine is doing well, sir.” Gwyther’s Welsh accent was very pronounced. It always was when he intended to act out of character. “But you seem not to have slept, sir? There’s bad, it is, if I may presume to say so.”

  “You may not!” He hurried through the list of names. “And Penneck?”

  The surgeon sighed. “I fear his mind has broken, sir. And Mr Pyper is very sick from his exposure and burns. But—” another sigh, “—he is young.”

  Herrick was the next visitor, his conversation full of technicalities and requirements for keeping a ship of war in proper order. Although he did not mention anything about Viola, his blue eyes were incapable of concealing his anxiety.

  Bolitho stood up and walked to the quarter windows. Birds dipped and wheeled beneath the ship’s counter, waiting for scraps, watching for incautious fish. He thought of Blissett. His perfect aim, despite his own suffering.

  He asked, “Did you tell Prideaux that I expect him to promote Blissett directly?”

  “Aye, sir.” Herrick shifted as Bolitho turned to look at him. “In case he was about to argue the toss, I told him it was neither a suggestion nor a request. But that it was a bloody order, sir! I hope that was all right.”

  “Yes.” He looked up as more feet pounded overhead. Herrick explained, “I told Mr Lakey that you want as much sail as we can spread. The hands are turning to in both watches.” He tried to smile, to break through Bolitho’s ache. “Being the master of course, he wasn’t too pleased to drive her in this rain.”

  He waited, wondering how to continue. “I can manage well enough, sir. No need to bother you until we sight the islands.”

  Bolitho sat down on the bench and stared at the canvas-covered deck.

  “We can exercise the twelve-pounders as soon as the sails are trimmed. As we are so shorthanded it will be necessary to shift the crews around again.” He pounded his hands together. “I want this ship ready to fight, d’you understand?”

  “Look, sir.” Herrick stood his ground. “I’ve little love for the Frogs, as you well know. But they’ve been in their King’s service too long to throw in their lot with a pirate, surely?”

  Bolitho eyed him gravely. “Suppose I were to go on deck, right now, Thomas, and have all the hands lay aft. And if I told them that we were already at war with France, that England was depending on their courage and tenacity, do you honestly believe there is one single man aboard, including yourself, who would dare to question it?” He shook his head. “Do not bother to deny it. It is on your face.”

  Herrick watched him and marvelled. How could he keep on worrying and altering the pattern of things uppermost in his thoughts?

  He said, “If the Frenchman, Genin, can rouse the company against that tyrant of a captain, there’s nothing to prevent him telling them the same about us?” He pouted his lower lip. “But I still don’t see why.”

  “It will be his bargain with Tuke. The ship’s authority and Genin’s safe passage set against Tuke’s own reward. Supply ships, gold, patronage, it matters little. What does and will count is his need of a safe and powerful base.”

  Herrick nodded glumly. “And there is nothing to prevent it. ’Cept us.”

  “Aye, Thomas. One frigate against a flotilla. Our depleted company against seasoned, maltreated veterans.”

  There was a cry from overhead, and feet shuffled impatiently. Herrick was needed, but he was unable to break the spell of Bolitho’s icy determination as he added, “But we will prevent it. We will use what we have to destroy the pirate and everyone who stands with him. In months, if not already, we may be at war with France again, and I have no intention of allowing Narval the pleasure of fighting us in the future.” He looked away. “I should have seen it before. Much earlier. But I was like Le Chaumareys, too sure of my own capacity.” He smiled, but the warmth avoided his eyes. “Go to your men, Thomas. I will be up when you begin the drills.”

  Herrick replied simply, “I have not spoken before, sir, but I owe it to you now, and to the lady more than ever. I was wrong to criticize, and had no place to act as I did. Your need of each other is made so plain to me now, for I see what her loss has meant. I am sorry, not just as a loyal subordinate, but still, I hope, as a firm friend.”

  Bolitho nodded, the lock of hair dropping over his eyes. “My wrong was the greater. I should have taken your advice those five years back, and again just months ago. Because of my want, I put her life in danger. Because she trusted me, she is now dead.” He turned his back. “Please leave me.”

  Herrick opened his mouth and closed it again. He had never seen him like this before. Pale, despite his tanned skin, his eyes ringed with shadows like a man possessed.

  On deck he could not even find reassurance in the way that the company was arranged to allow for the shortages.

  He saw Blissett standing with the marines at the hammock nettings, his musket at his side. Apart from looking thinner, he showed little sign of his ordeal.

  He remarked, “I am glad to see you well, Corporal Blissett.”

  Blissett beamed. “Sir!” For him, life had suddenly expanded. Another step.

  Herrick walked to the quarterdeck rail, the last heavy drops of rain tapping down on men and sails alike. It would soon be as hot as hell. He glanced at the upturned faces on the gundeck, the bare-backed topmen who waited on either gangway ready to swarm aloft and loose the topgallants when ordered. A good company, he thought. As mixed as a crowd at a prize-fight, but none the worse for it. They had somehow come together. Learned to accept, if not agree with, the manner in which they served. He felt he should say something. Tell them just how much they would have to give and withstand if Bolitho was right.

  There was a step on the deck behind him and Bolitho said, “There seems to be a delay, Mr Herrick?”

  Herrick looked at his eyes, grey and steady, but something else as well. Challenging, or was it pleading?

  He touched his hat. “I thought you’d be staying below for a while, sir.”

  Bolitho looked slowly across the silent men and the ship herself as she laid over on the larboard tack.

  “My place is here.”

  He rested his hands on the rail, feeling the ship trembling through it, passing the unending messages to anyone who would listen. He recalled Viola’s expression when he had explained how a ship performed and responded. At first he had been almost shy, a boy again, as he had described what to him was his everyday life. And she had not been bored, nor had she been politely interested. In time they could have shared it. Planted something as firm and as lasting as the old house in Falmouth. But now . . .

  He said abruptly, “Carry on, Mr Herrick. Hands aloft and loose t’gallants, if you please.”

  The shrouds and ratlines became alive with scurrying figures, and the urgent shouts of petty officers shattered the calm and sent the sea-birds screaming across Tempest’s bubbling wake.

  Bolitho began to pace up and down the weather side, a vital presence, and to all but those who knew him intimately, as outwardly calm as ever.

  But each step was painful, and although his men bustled around him, or slithered down backstays to attend further tasks, and while canvas boomed and hardened to the wind, Captain Richard Bolitho walked entirely alone.

  Tempest made a fast run south to the Levu Islands, and although they sighted no craft larger than an occasional
canoe, Bolitho had the feeling that every mile of their progress had been watched.

  He knew that most of the ship’s company were trying to keep their distance and avoid his eye. In many ways the isolation amongst his closely packed world suited him, and yet he was equally conscious of his responsibility to them. Especially with what might be lying ahead. Tomorrow. Next week.

  To be feared by the men whose lives he held in his hands was totally repugnant to him. He saw the glances, searching for his daily reaction to their needs. Sail and gun drill. Working aloft or about the decks, he knew they watched after he had passed them by. Concerned, or merely curious. Envious, despite his grief, for all his privileges compared with their spartan existence.

  On the last day, as Tempest worked slowly towards the mushroom-shaped bay, her courses brailed up and two leadsmen in the chains, he watched the island taking shape in the early light, very aware of his own mixed feelings.

  The masthead had reported smoke soon after dawn, and as the light strengthened over the humped hills and brought reflections back to the water, he saw a drifting pall above the bay like a low cloud, deep-bellied with rain.

  Herrick said, “From the settlement by the look of it, sir.”

  Bolitho said, “It would seem so.”

  He examined his feelings again. Did he want to find Raymond already dead? Or was he merely seeing the smoke as proof that he was right? About Tuke and the Narval, above all about his own part yet to come.

  He said abruptly, “Give me a glass.” He took it from Midshipman Romney and trained it on the land.

  As the telescope’s eye passed over the bay he saw the remains of Eurotas glistening above the surface like decayed teeth. He had almost forgotten about it, and the sight cut into him like a dirk. It brought back too many memories. Of that night they had left the bay, more afraid of being fired on by Raymond’s orders than the ordeal which they were only just beginning.

  He moved the glass until he found the settlement. The smoke was from some outbuildings, probably the ones which had been built for the convicts. There were several holes in the palisades too, the work of heavy guns.