Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef (18 page)

Bolitho saw Jenour appear from the companion-way, his sketching book in his hand.

He crossed the slanting deck and joined them.

“What did you discover, Stephen?”

Jenour shaded his eyes as if to search for some new subject for his collection.

“This vessel was originally pierced for some four-pounders. There is a gunport directly beneath the mizzen chains. Allday found it. He says he can force it open if need be. It’s only sealed with tar.”

Keen frowned. “I do not see the point.”

Bolitho turned aside. They should separate soon. They must not appear to be forewarned conspirators.

“There is a swivel-gun mounted on the starboard bulwark, Val. It is always loaded. Not uncommon in small merchantmen sailing alone. It could be trained inboard as well as out.”

Jenour made a few scratches in his book. “Allday says it would need someone thinner than himself to get through.” He gave an uncertain smile. “It seems I am exactly the right size!”

More pictures flashed through Bolitho’s mind. In his frigate Phalarope, where there had once been a mutiny, he could recall a small midshipman named John Neale; Bolitho and some others had covered his naked body with grease to force him through a vent to raise the alarm. John Neale’s face changed in the next picture. A young frigate captain, as Adam was now, but dying of his wounds when he and Bolitho had been taken prisoner in France. We Happy Few. It seemed to strike back and mock him.

Bolitho said abruptly, “It may prove to be smoke without fire this time. By tomorrow …” With the others he peered up as the masthead lookout yelled, “Deck there! Sail to th’ north!”

Bezant strode over to join them. “That damned rascal is back with us again!”

“What are your usual duties, Captain?”

He saw Bezant’s mind grappling with this new complication. “Duties, Sir Richard?” He rubbed his chin noisily. “Gibraltar, then sometimes to Malta with stores and despatches for the fleet there. In better times we used to enter the Baltic, get work from Swedish ports—anything that paid.”

“Could it be that this strange ship waited off Gibraltar to make certain you were not continuing to Malta?”

Bezant stared at him without comprehension. “For what purpose? I can outsail that bugger once we’re clear of Cape Blanco. There’s the reef, y’see.”

Bolitho nodded, his eyes slitted against the glare, the injured one already sore and pricking, “Yes, Captain, the reef. It runs a hundred miles out from Cape Blanco and has torn the guts out of many a fine ship.”

Bezant answered stiffly, “I am well aware of it, Sir Richard. I intend to change tack and run for the shore once we have weathered the reef.”

Bolitho glanced past him at Keen’s intent features. As Bezant stamped resentfully away to examine his chart, he said gently, “I can tell him nothing.” He heard Catherine laugh, the sound churning through him like pain. “We must take no chances, Val. There would be none of us left to tell the tale.” He gazed at Catherine so that their eyes seemed to lock across the sun-bleached planking. “My guess is that Lincoln, and that new mate we took aboard at the Rock—what is his name?”

Keen smiled despite the tension. The admiral asking his flag captain for information again.

“Tasker, sir.”

“Well, I believe he was already known by Mister Lincoln.”

Keen ran his fingers through his fair hair. “They have probably never carried so much coin and gold before, and they may never be ordered to do so again.” He made up his mind. “It will be tomorrow then. For if Lincoln intends to turn thief and worse, he will need the support of that damned brig to wind’rd of us.”

Jenour wandered away with his book. Like the rest of them, he was unarmed, in his shirt and breeches alone. Any sign of a weapon would cause instant bloodshed.

“Perhaps the people will remain loyal to their master?”

Bolitho clapped his arm so that several faces turned to watch their outwardly casual exchange.

“With the promise of a share of the spoils, Val? Greed is the master here!”

As the sun began to dip over the western horizon the wind became stronger, and reefs were set in the forecourse and topsail. The sea’s face broke into long advancing ranks of white horses but as the sun continued to go down, they, too, were painted like molten metal, like the cargo Golden Plover carried in her hold.

In the cabin they tried to do everything as usual. Any sign that something was wrong would be like a spark in a gunner’s store.

In a dark corner Catherine was pushing some things into two bags, watched with alarm by Sophie.

Catherine had told her quietly, “There may be trouble, Sophie, but you will be safe. So stay with me until it is over.”

Keen sat at the table playing cards with Yovell. It could not be an easy game. But anyone on watch could see them through the cabin skylight.

Bolitho found Allday breathing heavily in the spare cabin, which was being used for sea-chests and unwanted belongings.

“Here, Sir Richard!” He hauled on a line and Bolitho felt the salt air sweep into the musty space as the disused gunport opened a few inches. He could see moonlight on the tumbling water, hear the creak and clatter of rigging, an occasional call from the helmsman.

A ship already doomed. Bolitho felt a surge of sudden anger. Keen was right. It was tomorrow or not at all. Even Bezant would quickly recognise any further attempts to slow the Golden Plover’s progress, and after that it would be too late.

Allday’s breathing sounded very loud and unsteady. He said, “Old Tojohns is castin’ a weather eye on the companion ladder, Sir Richard.” He signed and added wistfully, “I wonder what Jonas Polin’s little widow is called? In the heat of things I clean forgot to ask.” He shook his head, “I am gettin’ old, an’ that’s no error!”

Bolitho reached out in the darkness and seized his massive arm. He could find no words, but each understood the other.

There had been no unusual sound, and he never knew what had roused him to a state of instant readiness. One second he had been dozing in a chair beside Catherine’s swinging cot and the next he was wide awake, his ears groping for some clue to the reason.

He moved softly to the door and stared aft through the open screen. The first light of dawn was showing through the stern windows, the bluffed horizon like an unending silk thread.

He saw Keen, who had been keeping watch with Tojohns, on his feet; and although his features were lost in shadow Bolitho could sense the presence of danger like some evil spirit right here amongst them.

A pale shape moved from a corner and almost collided with him. He seized her quickly, one hand across her mouth as he said in a sharp whisper, “Rouse your mistress, Sophie, but not a word!”

Keen took a few paces towards him, keeping well clear of the skylight’s pale rectangle. “What is it, sir?”

“Not sure.” It was hot and clammy in the cabin but the shirt against his spine felt as if it had been drawn across ice.

It was as if the ship had already been abandoned. At some time during the night watches that same evil presence had removed every other living soul, so that the vessel was sailing on with only a phantom to guide her.

The loose flap of canvas and the occasional crack of halliards certainly gave the impression that little heed was being paid to the trim and handling of Golden Plover’s progress.

Bolitho felt her come into the cabin, her perfume touching his face as she brushed against him.

She was fully dressed and had replaced the Spanish comb in her hair. He could see it glinting slightly as the light strengthened through the skylight overhead.

Bolitho took her arm as the deck rolled sluggishly in the swell. He had faced the risk of death and the dread of a surgeon’s knife too often not to recognise the lurking fear that attended it. Two men-of-war approaching one another on a converging tack, the sea otherwise empty. Or other vessels scattered in disarray like yeomen on the field of battle, who pause in the bloody business of war to watch their lords and masters kill each other in single combat.

The waiting: always the waiting. That was the worst part. Like now. The madness would follow, if only to keep that same mortal fear at bay.

He heard Allday’s breathing outside the screen door, where he and Keen’s coxswain Tojohns would be watching the companion ladder, waiting perhaps for the stab of a pistol shot, or the stealthy approach of men with blades.

When it came it was both startling and terrible. It was unreal, out of place in this morning watch off the coast of Africa.

There was a sudden crash of glass, and a great, unearthly yell which broke instantly into a torrent of wild and uncontrollable laughter.

Keen exclaimed, “They’ve broached the rum!”

A door flung open and they heard Bezant’s powerful voice raised in a furious bellow, so loud he could have been here in the cabin.

“You bloody scum! What in hell’s name are you doing?”

Somebody else laughed, high-pitched, the cry of one who had already gone beyond reason.

Something heavy, a belaying pin perhaps, clattered across the deck, and Bezant roared, “Get back, you whore’s bastard!” He must have fired a pistol, and as the echo of the shot rebounded from the bulkhead Bolitho heard the laughter change to a terrible scream.

Bezant again, as if with relief. “Ah, here you are, Jeff!” Then in astonishment, “In God’s name, think what you’re doing!” There was another shot, seemingly from high up, and a body crashed across the deck above like a heavy log.

“Ready?” Bolitho took her wrist. “Don’t provoke anyone.” His eyes flashed in the dimness. “One wrong move …” He did not finish it. Someone drove a musket-butt through the skylight and yelled down, “Come on deck! No trouble, y’hear, or we’ll cut you down!”

Bolitho saw Jenour slithering into the unused cabin where Ozzard was already waiting to cover the gunport with some of the stored cabin goods and chests.

Wild thoughts ran through his mind. Suppose Jenour could not get through it? And even if he did, what were his chances?

He saw Allday and Tojohns at the foot of the ladder, the shadows of other figures who were waiting on deck to confront them.

He took Catherine’s arm and turned her towards him. “Remember, Kate, I love thee.”

Keen passed them. “I shall go first, sir.” He sounded completely calm. Like a man facing a firing squad when all hope is gone, and even fear can find no cause to gloat. “Then we shall know. If I fall, I pray to God that He will protect you both.”

Then he walked to the foot of the ladder and took the handrails without hesitation. He paused just once by the small polished coaming, which was folded back when not in use, but which, in rough weather, was supposed to prevent incoming seas from cascading down the ladder to the deck below. Not even Bolitho saw the deft movement as he touched the butt of the pistol he had lodged there during the night.

On deck, even though it was only dawn, the sight that awaited Keen was as sickening as it was predictable. Bezant the master lying on his side gripping his thigh as blood poured on to the pale planking around him. A corpse sprawled wide-eyed in the starboard scuppers, with a gaping hole in his throat where Bezant’s pistol had found its mark. Small groups of men, some armed and threatening the others, the rest staring around as if still expecting to be rudely awakened from a nightmare.

Up in the weather shrouds a man was casually reloading his musket. He must have marked Bezant down the moment he had burst on deck. The mate, Jeff Lincoln, faced Keen, his beefy hands on his hips; there was blood on one sleeve but it was not his own.

“Well, Captain?” He watched him for any hint of danger. “Are you alone?”

Keen saw the wavering muskets, and more professional handling by men who were obviously the released soldiers. All except one. He sat against the mainmast trunk, crooning to himself and taking long swallows of rum from a stone jug.

Keen said, “My companions are coming up, Mister Lincoln. If you lay a finger …”

Lincoln shook his head. “You give no orders here, sir. I understand you have lately taken a young wife?” He saw Keen flinch. “So let us not make her a widow so soon, eh?”

There was a lot of laughter, a wild sound: men committed without realising yet what they had done.

Keen regarded them. “You could still relent. Any court would show mercy under the circumstances.” He did not look at the big, beetle-browed mate. He wanted to strike out at him. Kill him before he himself was hacked down. He continued, “You know the navy’s ways, Mr Lincoln.” He saw the new mate Tasker staring at him, his eyes shifting quickly between them, and continued relentlessly, “Mutiny is a bad thing, but to seize people as important as my vice-admiral and his lady …”

Tasker said hoarsely, “We didn’t know they were going to be aboard!”

Lincoln swung on him and snarled, “Shut your face, man! Can’t you see what this bloody aristocrat is trying to do?” To Keen he said, “I command here.” He glared at the wounded master. “If you want to save him, and yourself, lend that old bull a hand!”

Keen knelt down beside the groaning master and tied his neckcloth tightly above the wound. The ball was lodged there, small and deep, and from a musket, so that it had probably deflected against bone.