Passage to Mutiny (11 page)

Bolitho said, “We'll take cover. As soon as it's dark we'll go to the beach.” He glanced at Keen. “When you boarded
Eurotas,
did you see many of her company?”

Keen looked surprised. “Well, no, sir. I suppose I assumed they were working below decks.”

With a King's ship entering the bay and a pack of yelling warriors nearby in canoes, Bolitho thought it was unlikely that any seaman would be so set on his work. It was strange he had not thought about it earlier. So there had to be a second, even a third ship.

He turned and scrambled back up the slope to the two boulders and crawled beside a watching marine. He studied the ship for several minutes. There was no doubt about it. The
Eurotas
was standing higher in the water. All those cannon, a valuable cargo and ship's stores. No wonder there were so few hands visible about her decks. Just enough to watch over the ship, the wretched convicts battened below. He tried not to think of the murdered girl.

He returned to the others. Keen watched him, his face tight with anxiety.

Bolitho said, “It will be a gamble.” He saw Allday's hand drop to his cutlass. “But I intend to board that ship as soon as it's dark. Once there, we can hold her until
Tempest
arrives.”

Ross said flatly, “The wind's no helping Mr Herrick, sir. It's veered quite a piece since we stepped ashore.” He looked at the clear sky. “Aye, we may have a long wait, I'm thinking!”

Keen said, “Why don't you take a rest, sir? I will stand the first watch.”

But Bolitho shook his head. “I must go and have another look at the ship.”

Keen watched him climbing towards the twin boulders. “He
should
rest, Mr Ross. We'll need all his edge tonight.”

Allday heard him and stared up at the boulders. Bolitho would not rest or close even one eye until it was done. Until he knew. He drew his cutlass and sliced its heavy blade through the sand.

Allday had grown to like Viola Raymond very much. She had been good for the captain when he had needed her most. But he had been secretly grateful when she had sailed for England. She represented trouble, a threat to his captain's future.

Fate, or Lady Luck, as Lieutenant Herrick would have it, had decided otherwise. No matter how it had all begun, it looked as if it might well have a bloody ending before another dawn.

Bolitho licked his lips and felt sand grate between his teeth. Waiting for darkness had been a test for everyone in his party. Scorched by the sun, stung and pestered by flies and crawling insects, it had been torture.

He saw the splash of oars in the gloom and knew a boat was heading for the beach. All through the afternoon and evening, while they had tried to find shelter amongst the scrub and eke out their rations of water and biscuit, Bolitho had watched the occasional comings and goings between ship and shore. The boat had made several trips, but never fully manned. It seemed likely there was a constant picket or lookout on the headland, and few hands could be spared for manning the boat. But the timing was haphazard, and it was impossible to gauge any sort of routine.

One thing was certain, once it had begun to grow dark the boat was always challenged.

Aboard the anchored ship there had been hardly any sign of movement. But what there had, had struck dismay and anger into the watching sailors.

A woman had been seen on deck in mid-afternoon, her dark hair hanging over bare shoulders, her screams shrill across the heaving water as she was chased and finally dragged to one of the hatchways.

Later, a body, that of a man, had been carried to the bulwark and hurled into the sea. It floated away from the hull and made no effort to swim, so it seemed there was another murder to their account.

The boat grounded violently in the surf and the men struggled with oars and then a small anchor to kedge it on to hard sand. From the din they were making, and the attendant clink of bottles, it was obvious they were all drunk, or nearly so. One slumped down on the beach, his shoulders against the dripping boat, while his companions trudged away towards the headland.

Bolitho touched Keen's arm. It was now or never. The men might be back for more drink, or to change places with their comrades aboard
Eurotas
within the hour.

He said, “Tell Sergeant Quare to begin.”

He looked at the sky. There was cloud about, but not enough to hide the moon. The wind was fresh, and with the hiss of surf and the distant boom of waves over the reef they might be able to get near the ship unheard.

Bolitho strained his eyes into the darkness, but the shadows played tricks with his vision. He heard the seamen breathing and shifting along the cleft in the hillside, and guessed they were imagining what was happening. Blissett creeping towards the boat, smothered in sand which they had plastered on his body with the aid of their precious water.

Only the unending line of writhing surf separated land from sea, against it the grounded longboat lay like a dead whale.

Bolitho stared towards the ship. There were no anchor lights, but he could see a faint glow through some of the open ports, and knew they were where the remaining guns were stationed. Loaded with grape, they would make short work of any clumsy attack. But there were no boarding nets. Once alongside, the odds might alter.

He stiffened as he heard something like a dry cough. Then Quare said hoarsely, “All done, sir.” He sounded pleased.

Bolitho drew his sword and rose to his feet. At two hundred yards, plus the distance down the final slope, they would be invisible. He started to walk towards the beach, his shoes scraping noisily on loose stones, while the seamen emerged in a ragged line behind him, most of them hunched forward as if expecting to meet a volley of shots.

This was the worst part so far. As he walked Bolitho tried not to think of the muskets and pistols, now all loaded and primed, the rasp of steel from axe to cutlass.

He turned with surprise as he heard a man humming quietly as he strode behind him. It was the American, Jenner, walking in his familiar loose gait, his hair flopping over his eyes. He saw Bolitho turn and nodded companionably. “Fine night for it, sir.”

Beyond him was the Negro, Orlando, a boarding axe over his powerful shoulder like a child's toy.

What they were doing here, the cause they represented were of no value now. They were going to fight, and if possible stay alive.

All at once Bolitho was standing beside the boat while the seamen gathered into tight groups as they had been ordered.

The marine, Blissett, took his musket from Quare and looked at Bolitho.

“I left him, sir.” He touched the spreadeagled corpse with his foot. “He's not carrying anything but his weapons. He could be anyone.”

Bolitho looked at the dead man. Around his head and shoulders the sand looked black where his blood had soaked away. He forced himself to kneel beside him, to examine him for some sort of clue. The moon swept momentarily between the clouds, so that the man's eyes came alight in the glow as if to rebuke him. His clothes were poor and ragged, but his belt, pistol and cutlass were in perfect condition.

Bolitho touched his wrist and arm. The skin was warm, but quite still. There was no wasting, no loose flesh. This man was a sailor. He stood up slowly.
Had
been a sailor.

Keen whispered, “I've got my party around the boat.” He sounded out of breath. Excited or frightened, it was hard to tell.

“Ease her into the water.”

Bolitho stood back to look at the ship while two groups of men began to slide the boat through the lively surf. There had been five in the boat before, and never more than six. He watched as the selected seamen clambered into the hull, thrusting out the oars and muffling them in the rowlocks with food sacks and pieces of clothing. He saw Miller rip off the dead man's shirt and pass it into the boat, one foot planted on the corpse to steady himself as he did so.

Miller, probably more than any other here, was in his element. He had come through the war and had survived cutting-out expeditions, cannon fire and every other sort of risk without a scratch. As a boatswain's mate he was above average. But in a hand to hand fight he was something else again. A killer.

Allday said, “I'll take the helm.” He looked at Bolitho. “Ready, Captain?” He spoke so casually he might have been suggesting a stroll.

Bolitho knew him so well that he could see past the calm voice. Like himself, Allday was stretched like a halter. Only when they were finally committed would he show his true self.

The boat lifted and splashed in the shallows, the men on either side easing it into deeper water as more of the boarding party clambered into her and flattened themselves on the bottom boards like corpses.

“Enough.” Bolitho looked for Quare and Midshipman Swift. “Keep the rest of the men out of sight if you can. If any more ‘pirates' come from the headland, you know what to do.”

He nodded to the sergeant. The work of the marines was over, and if things went wrong Quare and his little group would have to hide and wait for Herrick to come for them.

He climbed into the boat very carefully, his sword bared against his chest.

“Shove off!” Allday crouched forward. “
Easy,
you noisy bugger!”

The clouds had thickened even in the time taken to get this far. It might mean a tropical downpour, but not for some while. Bolitho drove the doubts aside. If he waited for rain to deaden his approach, he might wait forever. He looked at the panting oarsmen. They had pulled only a few yards and were already finding it hard work with so many inert passengers. If he stopped the attack now he doubted if he could rouse them to fight again.

Keen whispered, “Shall I tell the swimmers to leave now, sir?”

Bolitho nodded, and saw two figures, their naked bodies shining in the filtered moonlight, rise up and then slide over the gunwale with barely a ripple.

It had all sounded so dangerous and difficult when they had discussed it on the island. Now it seemed impossible.

He tore his eyes from the two swimmers and concentrated on the ship. How large and near she looked now. Surely somebody would challenge them soon? Maybe they had already been seen for what they were, and the loaded guns were being quietly depressed towards them.

Bolitho heard one of the oarsmen curse and then gasp as something rolled between the boat and the dipping blades. It was a corpse, turning over loosely as a man will do in bed. The one they had seen cast overboard, caught and carried by the current, unable to free itself from the bay.

“Easy on the stroke, Allday.”

Bolitho felt the pistol in his belt. They must give the swimmers time to reach the anchor cable and haul themselves aboard without discovery. It was all too easy, but then, why not? The pirates, or whoever they were, had bluffed their way past a British man-of-war and had sent away a boarding officer convinced of their identity. At anchor in a safe bay, with sentries posted ashore, why should they not feel secure?

The challenge when it came was loud and startling.

“Boat ahoy?” An English voice.

Allday dragged two empty bottles from between his feet and hurled them into the bottom of the boat, throwing back his head and roaring with laughter as he did so.

Bolitho heard other voices from the ship, but no further challenge. The empty bottles were more convincing than any password.

“I saw one of the men on the beakhead, sir!” It was Miller straining his head above the gunwale. “They're aboard, by God!”

The boat was very near the side now, and Bolitho saw the entry port, two dark figures watching their slow approach. He could even smell the ship, the familiar tang of tar and hemp. One of the men by the port swung towards the forecastle as a figure appeared in a shaft of moonlight swaying from side to side and snatching at rigging for support.

Allday hissed, “That's Haggard, Captain! A better actor than topman by the looks of him!”

But the seaman called Haggard had the full attention of the watch on deck, as with sudden dignity he reeled and fell over the side with a violent splash.

Two things happened almost at once. The watch left the entry port and disappeared towards the bows, imagining that one of their own had fallen over the side. And then out of the darkness came a terrible thrashing sound, like something being hauled through water at a great speed.

They all heard Haggard yell,
“My leg!”
Then he screamed, the sound cut short as he was dragged bodily under the surface.

Bolitho's mind accepted all these things even as he dashed towards the bows of the boat, and a grapnel soared up and over the
Eurotas'
s bulwark. He had not thought about sharks, had never imagined they would enter the bay. The drifting corpse must have attracted one, and Haggard had been seized and crushed to bloody pulp in those great jaws.

He heard himself yell, “Up, lads! Let's be at them!”

The spell snapped, and the horrified seamen were all at once on their feet, fighting like wild things to reach the steps to the entry port.