Passage to Mutiny (36 page)

A blurred shape hurried past, carrying a shot-cradle. It paused and then turned towards him. It was Jenner, the American.

“Couldn't help but hear what you said, Cap'n.”

He seemed to swim in Bolitho's vision as if under water.

“I heard tell of somethin' durin' th' war. Of an English captain who was so short-handed his sloop was almost run ashore and taken by the Frenchies. I also heard tell that the captain was you, sir.” He ignored Allday's threatening look and added, “You used wounded soldiers instead, right, sir?”

Bolitho tried to see him properly. “I remember. In the
Sparrow.
” He was going mad. It had to be that. Speaking like this about the past.

“Well, I got to thinkin', why not use them convicts?”

“What?”
Bolitho stepped forward and would have fallen but for Allday.

“I just thought . . .”

Bolitho seized his wrist.
“Fetch Mr Keen!”

Keen's voice came from his side. “I'm here, sir.” He sounded worried.

“Send the other boats ashore immediately and go with them. You worked at the settlement, they know you better than the rest of us.” He leaned closer and added fervently,
“I must have men, Val.”
He saw Keen's expression and knew he had used Viola's name for him without realizing it. “Do what you can.”

Keen said despairingly, “You're ill, sir!” He glanced at Allday's grim features. “You must have caught . . .”

“You're
delaying!
” He pushed him away. “Get them here. Tell them I'll try and obtain their passage back to England. But don't lie to them.”

The guns crashed out again, the trucks hurling themselves inboard on their tackles.

“Enough.” Bolitho tugged at his neckcloth. “Cease firing. Sponge out and reload.”

He saw the surgeon standing directly in his path, his face grave as he snapped, “You will go below, sir. As the surgeon it is my duty . . .”

“Your duty is on the orlop!” He dropped his voice. “Just fetch some drops, anything to keep my mind alive. A few more hours.”

“It will certainly kill you.” Gwyther shrugged. “You are a stubborn man.”

Bolitho walked unaided to the weather side and stared at the nearest land.

“I'm so cold, Allday. Some brandy. Then I will be myself again.”

“Aye, Captain.” Allday watched him helplessly. “At once.”

Lakey had been near the wheel with his quartermaster and had seen Keen's anxiety and the hasty arrival of the surgeon. As Allday hurried to the companion he opened his mouth to ask what was happening. Allday always knew. Instead, he turned away, unable to believe what he had seen.

Mackay, his quartermaster, spoke his own thoughts aloud. “In God's name, Mr Lakey, there were tears in his eyes!”

“Avast, Mr Herrick! I can hear the buggers!”

Herrick lifted his arm and the muffled oars rose dripping on either side of the launch. He hoped that Miller, following closely astern, would have his eyes open and not collide with them.

He heard the distant murmur of voices, then the clang of metal. He swallowed hard and made a circular motion above his head with his sword. They must be almost up to the schooner, but because of the smoke could see nothing. Earlier they had seen her masts poking through the drifting fog, and Herrick had been thankful that nobody had had the sense to send up a lookout.

The men in the boat shifted uneasily, watching his face. Their eyes were red-rimmed from the smoke, and their bodies stank from its filth and greasy persistence.

Herrick looked at those nearest him. Grant, a senior gunner's mate, who came from Canterbury, not that far from his own home. Nielsen, a fair-haired Dane, who shared an oar with Gwynne, the young recruit he had got from the
Eurotas.
He knew them all, as he did those in the other boat.

Something tall and dark loomed above them, and as they drifted beneath the schooner's long jib boom they almost became entangled in her anchor cable.

Not a second left for hesitation. Herrick snapped, “Grapnel!
Boarders away!
”

Then, pushed and jostled by his men, Herrick fought his way up and over the bulwark, seeing faces above him, and hearing the muffled voices change just as quickly into violent yells and oaths. Pistols banged, and a seaman fell back into the launch, knocking another down with him.

Herrick sat astride the bulwark, seeing it all through the drifting smoke. The massive gun, the additional tackle it had needed to restrain it on the narrow deck. A man ran at him with a cutlass, but Herrick twisted it with his hilt and flicked it clattering into the scuppers. Now he had both feet inboard, and slashed the man across the face and neck before he could pull out of his charge.

They were outnumbered, but with trained determination the
Tempest'
s men made a tight little wedge, backs to the bulwark, their feet already slipping in blood as they clashed together with their enemy.

The clang of steel, the fierce, wild cries of the men, were matched by the screams of the wounded and dying.

But from right aft came the thud of another grapnel, and Miller's men swarmed over the taffrail yelling and cursing like fiends. Steel on steel, the pent-up fear and hatred bursting in a tide of unrestrained killing. Men rolled upon one another, fighting with dirks, cutlasses, axes, or anything which would beat a man into submission.

Herrick parried a sword aside and realized it was the bearded man who had met Bolitho under a flag of truce. He was even bigger near to, but Herrick had endured enough.

He had never had much time for the fancy swordsmanship of men like Prideaux, or from what he had heard, Bolitho's dead brother, Hugh. He was a fighter, and relied on his strength and staying-power to carry him through.

He took the man's heavy sword just six inches above his hilt, forcing him round, but keeping both blades crossed.

The bearded giant shouted, “You bloody bastard! This time you die!”

Herrick's eye flickered to a patch of blood on the deck, and thrust his hilt away from him with all his strength. He saw the cruel grin of triumph on the man's face as he was allowed to draw back the full length of his blade. Then it altered to sudden alarm as his heel slipped on the fresh blood, and for a mere second he was off balance.

Herrick thought suddenly of the tiny scene he had watched through his telescope. The terrified French officer, his throat cut in the twinkling of an eye. Like a slaughtered pig.

“No, you die!”

His short fighting-sword seared diagonally across the man's stomach, just above the belt, and as he dropped his weapon and clutched the torn wound with both hands, Herrick hacked him once and hard on the neck.

There was a wild cheer, and Miller, his axe red in his filthy fist, yelled, “
She's ours,
lads!” It was done.

The cheers altered to cries of alarm as the deck gave a violent shiver and threw several men kicking amongst the dead and wounded.

Herrick yelled, “The reef! They cut the cable!”

There was another great lurch, and part of the mainmast thundered across the deck and crushed Gwynne dead, his mouth still open from calling.

Herrick waved his sword. “Fall back! Man the boats!”

He heard the water swilling through a nearby hold, the sounds of loose cargo and stores being hurled against the bulkhead. The reef would make short work of her, and anyone stupid enough to remain aboard.

Carrying the wounded, and kicking the pirates' weapons into the water, the seamen retreated to their boats.

Half-mad at the swift change of events, some of the pirates, and several whom Herrick guessed to be Frenchmen from the
Narval,
turned on each other, while with each violent lurch the schooner lifted and ground still further on to the reef.

Miller's cutter discharged its swivel gun for good measure as they pulled away.

Herrick shouted, “To the ship! Give way all!”

He held his breath as a great shoulder of shell-encrusted reef rose out of the sea almost under the bows. He waited for the crash, the inrush of water, and then as the boat pulled clear he turned his thoughts to his men. Poor Gwynne. A volunteer for so short a time. He looked at Nielsen, the young Dane, rocking from side to side, his face ashen with agony. He had dropped his cutlass, and one of the pirates had lunged at him with a sword. Nielsen had seized the swinging blade with both hands, and had hung on even as his attacker had pulled the razor-edged weapon through his palms and fingers.

Grant, the old gunner's mate, showed his tobacco-stained teeth in a tired grin. “We done it, sir. One down.” He turned as the schooner rolled over in a welter of spray. “'Nother to go.”

“Aye.” Herrick looked along the boat, sharing their pain and their pride. “Well done.” He thought of Bolitho and what he would say.

It was only a beginning, but they had shown what they could achieve.

18 ON
T
HIS DAY

B
OLITHO
made himself stand very still as Herrick hurried aft towards him. The nausea came and went, and several times he thought he was going to fall to the deck. And yet he was acutely aware of what was happening around him, as if he could see without being seen. As if he were already dead.

Even his voice seemed to come from far away. “Thank God you are safe, Thomas!” He looked towards the gangway where the boatswain's party were helping some of the scarred and battered seamen up from the boats.

Herrick said, “They did well. When that smoke clears you'll see naught but a few spars across the reef. I lost three good hands though . . .” He stopped short and saw Lakey trying to signal him.

Then, as the exhaustion and fury of the fight left him, he looked closer at Bolitho.

He said, “I—I'm sorry, sir. I was thinking of myself.” He did not know how to continue. “You must go below.
At once.
” He studied the firm line of Bolitho's jaw. Like that of a man preparing for the first touch of a surgeon's blade. “How could this have happened?”

Voices called from forward, and he turned, off guard and confused, as he saw the remainder of the ship's boats moving slowly from the shore. They were packed beyond capacity, bodies lumped over the oars and gunwales like sacks of grain, with only inches of freeboard above the water.

Borlase said hoarsely, “Convicts.
He
sent for them.”

“Yes.” Bolitho walked slowly to the side to watch the first boat hook on.

The drops which the surgeon had allowed him had given him a small relief, and Allday's brandy lingered on his throat like fire. He had to blink to clear his vision as the convicts scrambled awkwardly on to the gangway and through the boarding nets. Against his own men he could see little difference. He felt a sudden sense of urgency. He must talk with them. Tell them. He saw Keen coming towards him and waited for him to speak first. He felt he had to save every breath. Each small effort brought the sweat across his body in a flood.

Keen said, “The marine sentries think that the schooner may have landed spies in the night, sir.” He glanced helplessly at Herrick. “They're not certain, but it's possible.”

Bolitho waited for the next spasm of giddiness to pass. “I feared as much. They could lie hidden for hours, days.” The bitterness crowded into his tone. “They will soon see through our pathetic disguises.” He walked to the rail and looked at the gun-deck, at the jostling figures below him.

Herrick said quickly, “Let me, sir. I'll tell them what they must do.”

“No.”
He did not see the despair on Herrick's face. “I am asking too much of them already, without . . .” He swayed and added, “Thomas, old friend, if the enemy knows of our weakness, we are done for. They will pound us to pieces while we lie at anchor. We
must
meet them in open water. To do that we need men.
Any
men.”

He looked at the sky, the streaming pendant high above the deck.

“There is little time. When I have spoken to these people you will withdraw our remaining pickets from the island.” He spoke slowly and with great care. “Whichever of these people wishes to go ashore, have them taken there before we weigh. With this wind, the
Narval
will be around the headland before noon. By then I intend to be in the best position I can find.”

He swung away and raised his voice. “Listen to me, all of you! A French frigate is coming to engage this ship, and she will most likely have another vessel to support her. I am shorthanded, more so now because of losses against that pirate schooner. You have no cause to love the authority which brought you to this place, nor have you a firm promise that I can get you passage home to England, if that is what you want.”

He turned slightly towards the sun so that they would think he was shutting his eyes against the glare and not to control a bout of nausea. “But you have seen what Tuke and his men have done, and will do if they overwhelm this ship. Your support may do no more than delay a defeat. But without that aid we are already dead men.”

There was a pause and he could almost feel their torn emotions.

Then a voice called, “All I done was steal a pig, sir! They sent me to Botany Bay for that. Me family was starvin', what else could a man do?”

Another said hotly, “My woman was slaughtered by that bastard Tuke after 'im an' 'is devils 'ad done with 'er as they wanted!” His voice shook. “I got nothin' to go back to England
for,
Cap'n. But by the livin' Jesus I'll fight for you if you tells me what to do!”

Uproar broke out on the gundeck, and while the seamen and marines watched spellbound the jostling convicts faced each other in argument and anger.

Bolitho said heavily, “It did not work, Thomas. I cannot find it in my heart to blame them.”

Herrick snapped, “Have the boats ready, Mr Keen. Mr Fitzmaurice, make a last signal to the settlement.”

They turned as a man called, “We know what you done for us, Cap'n, an' what you
tried
to do. When you've been used to little better'n kicks and curses you soon gets to know what you values. Aye, Cap'n, I'll fight for you too, an' be damned to tomorrow!”

A few voices still yelled out in protest, but they were drowned by a great wave of cheering, which even Jury's resonant voice could do nothing to quell.

As it slowly died down Bolitho said quietly, “Put them on the gun tackles and braces. Their strength and our skills are all we have. We must use them well.” He turned away, retching violently. “Move yourself, Thomas!”

Herrick tore his eyes away. “Man the boats!” He watched as several of the convicts clambered down into them, pursued by ironic cheers from their companions. “Mr Keen! This will be the last time, so be as quick as you can.”

He saw the small red figures by the smashed pier, one hopping on a crutch. Sick and wounded, convicts, everyone who could draw breath was needed today. But all he could see in his mind was Bolitho, fighting his own war, hanging on as his life swayed between reality and total collapse.

Bolitho did not move or speak again until the last boat came alongside and off-loaded some marines. He had expected to see Raymond come aboard, although he could find no reason for it. So he intended to remain behind his frail defences to the end. To take credit for the victory, or as was more likely, barter for his life yet again with the attackers.

He saw Herrick waiting by the quarterdeck rail, his face full of anxiety.

“Drop a buoy here and moor all but the quarter boat, if you please.”

Herrick understood. “Aye, sir.” This was one day when they would need no boats, and if all failed, they might help Hardacre and some of the others to escape.

“Very well.” Bolitho looked around the crowded quarterdeck. “We will weigh directly. Have the capstan manned.” He nodded to Lakey. “Lay a course to weather the headland and the reef as close as you can manage.”

He turned and saw Midshipman Romney waiting to assist Fitzmaurice.

“Run up the colours, and tell Sergeant Quare to have his fifers play us out.”

As
Tempest
weighed anchor once more and tilted reluctantly to the wind, figures moved slowly from the trees along the beach and ran to the water's edge to watch. They saw the sails breaking out from the great yards, the minute figures scrambling above the deck like monkeys, the mounting foam beneath the gilded figurehead, and though most of them did not understand why it was so, many were deeply moved by what they saw.

Their young chief, Tinah, stood beside Hardacre's massive figure and raised one hand to his ear, as faintly at first, then more strongly, he heard the strains of music.

He looked enquiringly at the big man by his side.

Hardacre said quietly, “‘Portsmouth Lass.' I never thought to hear it in these islands.”

Hardacre, who hated the signs of authority and spreading power from a land he had almost forgotten, who had sought only security and peace amongst the people who had grown to trust him, was unable to control his voice as he added, “God bless them. We'll not see their like again.”

Once free of the land's protection the north-westerly wind laid into
Tempest'
s canvas and held her hard over on the larboard tack. “East nor'-east, sir! Full and bye!”

Bolitho nodded and walked up the tilting deck to the weather side. The rising din of shrouds and canvas, the clatter of blocks and the hiss of the sea were joined in his mind as one great tumult. He felt the deck quivering to the wind, and when he peered along the larboard twelve-pounders he saw them hanging on taut tackles as the ship heeled further and further to the thrust.

Spray spurted over the nettings and stung his cheeks, but he barely flinched. He saw faces he did not know being hustled to various parts of the ship, some gazing at him as they hurried past. He no longer thought of them as convicts, but found himself wondering what they had once been. Again, much like his own men. Driven from the land by necessity, or lured to the sea by impossible dreams. But for their circumstances they might have ended in a King's ship anyway. The impartial callousness of a press-gang, a need to escape like Jenner or Starling, it might be fate after all which set the stage for man.

“More brandy, Captain?”

He turned, holding firmly to the hammock nettings, and saw Allday watching him.

“Later.” He forced a smile. “You'll have me three sheets to the wind!”

Allday did not smile. “Help me, Captain. I don't know what to do. I can't stop you, an' I can't aid you either.”

Bolitho reached out and gripped his arm. “You
are
helping me. As you have always done.” He saw Allday's face fade momentarily as if a mist had formed over it, and added tightly, “Just by being here.”

“Deck there! Sail on th' larboard quarter!”

Herrick swore, “Damn! They will hold the weather-gage.”

Bolitho beckoned to Romney and seized the telescope from him. His heart was going like a smith's hammer, and it took time and effort to steady the glass. He saw the blurred outline of the headland falling rapidly away on the quarter, its silhouette made more confused by the spray which was bursting across the reef in wild abandon.

There she was, just as he remembered, thrusting towards him with all but her royals set to the following wind. Her beakhead vanished repeatedly in great swooping plunges, and he could imagine the sea sluicing over her guns as she was driven to her capacity.

He heard Lakey say, “Pity the wind don't shift and dismast the bastard!”

Bolitho forgot the voices around him as he concentrated on a sliver of sail which had appeared almost astern of the other frigate. The second schooner. He lowered the glass, biting his lip to control his reeling thoughts. Viola had told him about the other schooner. When she had been Tuke's captive. There would probably be another heavy cannon aboard her, too. Some may have been transferred to
Narval
also.

He pulled himself along the spray-soaked planking until he had reached the tail above the nearest twelve-pounders.

He saw Borlase and Swift pause in their walking between the guns and called to them, “I want you to double-shot the guns.” He held up his hand to silence Borlase's protest. “After the first broadside there'll be no time. It'll be gun for gun.” He felt the grin prising his lips apart. “What say, lads! Give him a headache from the start!”

Somebody gave a cheer, and he saw Blissett, his corporal's chevron very bright against his scarlet tunic, waving his hat in the air.

Sprawled in the maintop, the marine called Billy-boy examined his long musket and eased the stiffness in his leg.

Behind him the captain of the maintop asked uneasily, “What d'you reckon?”

The marine shrugged. “Two to one. I seen worse. Anyroad, I'd rather be here than on some poxy island.”

The other man looked at the mast, trembling to the great weight of spars and rigging. He was thinking of the man he had replaced. Blasted to bloody pulp by one of those iron balls.

Bolitho said, “Prepare to shorten sail, Mr Herrick. We'll have the t'gallants off her directly.”

He pictured the other ship in his mind, flying downwind towards their quarter. Tuke would be expecting a fight, and would need to get to grips while he held the wind. Against that,
Tempest'
s heavier build would slow her when she came about on the opposite tack. It would be a temporary advantage, but it was all they had. They would never match the French ship for agility. He knew Herrick was thinking the same.

Herrick raised his speaking trumpet. “Hands aloft! Take in the t'gans'ls!”

Romney peered up at the tightly braced yards. It would be no easy work up there today, with the wind buffeting the bulging canvas and trying to dislodge the topmen one by one.