Passage to Mutiny (2 page)

He heard Herrick call, “Stand by to let go, Mr Jury!”

Jury, the barrel-chested boatswain, needed no advice about watching the anchor party, so Herrick must have sensed Bolitho's mood and was trying to jerk him from it.

Bolitho smiled wearily. He had known Herrick since taking command of
Phalarope,
and they had rarely been apart since. He had not changed much. Stockier perhaps, but the same round, open face with those bright blue eyes which had shared so much with him. If, as Bolitho now suspected, his brief affair with Viola Raymond had made its mark in high places, then Herrick was being punished too, and without cause. The thought angered and saddened him. Maybe the commodore would shed some light on things. But this time he would not hope. He did not dare.

He thought of his despatches, of the extra news he would give Commodore James Sayer. He remembered Sayer quite well, and had met him in Cornwall once or twice. They had served in the same squadron on the American station before that. Both lieutenants.

With the echoes of the final shot hanging in the air
Tempest
glided the last half cable to her prescribed anchorage.

Bolitho said curtly, “When you are prepared, Mr Herrick.”

Herrick raised his speaking trumpet, his reply equally formal.

“Aye, aye, sir.” Then he shouted, “Man the lee braces there! Hands wear ship!”

The motionless seamen sprang into life.

“Tops'l sheets!”

Bolitho saw Thomas Gwyther, the surgeon, hovering by the larboard gangway, trying to avoid the hurrying seamen. How unlike the last surgeon Bolitho had had. He had been a violent, towering drunkard of a man. One who had let his passion for drink and the memories he had tried to contain with it destroy him entirely. Gwyther was a stooped, dried-up little man with wispy grey hair, whose frail looks were at odds with his apparent toughness and durability. He attended to his duties readily enough, but showed far more interest in plants and vegetation in whatever place the ship touched land than he ever did in humanity.

“Tops'l clew lines!”

The master said in his flat, unemotional voice, “Put the helm a'lee.”

Tempest,
obedient to rudder and to the dying breeze, turned slowly above her own image, losing way, her decks even hotter as the last canvas was manhandled and fisted to the yards.

“Let go!”

Bolitho heard the familiar splash beneath the bows, and pictured the massive anchor shattering the stillness of that inviting water. He repressed a shudder. He recalled the two large sharks which had patiently followed the ship for several days almost into the harbour itself.

“Signal from Flag, sir. Captain repair on board.”

Bolitho looked at Midshipman Swift. He was in charge of the signals party, and at seventeen was no doubt full of hopes and impatience for a chance of promotion. He shifted his gaze to Keen, the third lieutenant, wondering briefly if he was remembering when he had been in Swift's shoes aboard the
Undine.
It all seemed so long back. Now Keen was twenty-two. As brown as a berry, with the clean good looks which would conquer any girl's heart, Bolitho thought. Keen, who had joined his first ship because his father wanted him to learn to “find himself ” before entering the family's city business, and who had stayed on because he actually liked it. Keen, who had taken a wood splinter the size of a marlin spike which had been blasted from the deck into his body within inches of his groin. Even now he grimaced whenever it was mentioned. Allday, mistrusting any ship's surgeon, and
Undine'
s in particular, had taken the splinter from the boy's body himself. The burly coxswain had surprised Bolitho yet again with one more unsuspected talent.

“Away gig!” Herrick cupped his hands. “Mr Jury, put some more hands to the tackles, and lively so!”

Allday was watching the hurried preparations, his eyes critical as the boat was swayed up and over the nettings. In his blue jacket and flapping white trousers, his hair tied to the nape of his powerful neck, he looked as solid and as dependable as ever.

He said quietly, “Another place, Captain. Another task no doubt.” Then he yelled, “Watch that paintwork, you clumsy bugger! This is for the captain not the bloody cook!”

Some of the old hands grinned, others, newer or with less knowledge of the language about them, cringed at the outburst.

Allday muttered, “By God, if we don't get back to proper work, I can't picture what sort of hands we'll be using!” He shook his head. “Seamen indeed!”

Bolitho did not know what Allday meant by “proper work.” They performed regular patrols amongst the growing spread of trading stations which were scattered across the seas from Sumatra to New Guinea. They had made long passages many hundreds of miles to the west to search for and act as escort to some valuable merchantmen on passage from Europe.
Tempest
was always kept busy. For with the spread of trade, and with it the exploitation and expansion into settlement and colony, so too came those who preyed on it. Pirates, self-styled princes, old enemies sailing under letters of marque, it was dangerous enough without the additional hazards of hostile natives and tropical storms.

Perhaps he meant, like Herrick, getting away from heat and thirst, the daily risk of an uncharted reef, or attack by warring savages.

The explorers and the great navigators had done much to disperse the mystery and the dangers of these waters. But those who had followed in their wake had less noble motives. For a handful of nails, some axes and a few strings of beads a captain could buy almost anything and anyone.

For the sake of their trade and possessions Britain, France and Holland carried the main share of protecting the vast sea areas so that vulnerable merchant vessels could go about their affairs. Unfortunately, the oceans were too large, the forces employed too small to be much more than a gesture. Also, the countries who had the most invested in the Indies and the islands of the Great South Sea did not trust each other, nor had they forgotten old wars and debts still left unpaid.

Bolitho heard the gig's crew clattering into the boat, and saw that the side party of marines and boatswain's mates were waiting to see him safely away.

He looked up at the drooping masthead pendant and then across the shimmering water to two large transports which were anchored well clear of the shore.

And now there was this additional responsibility. The growing colony of New South Wales. He studied the big transports for some sign of life. Convict ships. How many poor wretches had been transported out here to provide labour and the power for clearing land and founding a nation. He tried to imagine what it would be like in such a ship battling round the Cape of Good Hope or, worse, around the dreaded Horn. Men, women and children. The law was as impartial as it was tragic.

Herrick touched his hat. “Boat's ready, sir.”

Bolitho nodded gravely and looked at the red-coated marines and their captain, Jasper Prideaux. It was rumoured that he was in the marines because he had been made to leave society for killing two men in duels. Bolitho, more than many, had cause to understand that.

For two years he had tried not to dislike Prideaux. Despite sun and salt air the marine captain remained pale and unhealthy looking. He had sharp, almost pointed features. Like a fox. A man who would enjoy duelling and winning. Bolitho had not succeeded in getting rid of his dislike.

“Attention in the boat!”

Allday stood by the tiller, one eye on Bolitho's sword as he clambered down the side to the twitter of calls and the slap and thud of muskets on the deck.

“Shove off! Give way all!”

Bolitho shaded his eyes as the boat pulled swiftly around and beneath the tapering jib boom and blue-eyed figurehead.

Tempest
was a well-found ship, but as Lakey had said often enough, she was a Company vessel, no matter what flag flew above her taffrail. With thirty-six guns, which included twenty-eight twelve-pounders, she was more powerful than any ship he had yet commanded. But she was so heavily built of teak, and her timbers and spars matched accordingly, that she lacked the swift agility expected of a King's ship in close combat. She had been built to protect heavy Indiamen from pirates and to strike fear into any such island or inlet which might be harbouring them.

Herrick had remarked from the start that if challenged by a real fighting ship they would have to close the range and hold on to it. Any sort of feinting and last-moment manoeuvres were not even to be considered.

On the other hand, even the most doubtful had to agree she was a fine sailer under good conditions. With just her plain sail set, and she carried over seventeen thousand square feet of it, she had been known to log fifteen knots. But Lakey, always down to earth, had said, “Trouble is, you don't get good conditions when you needs 'em!”

Bolitho made sure his despatches and his own report were safely stowed below the thwart and turned his attention to the
Hebrus.

Another castaway. Perhaps events were moving so fast in Europe that they had already been forgotten. Around the world lonely, solitary ships like his and the commodore's patrolled, and tacked back and forth in complete ignorance of what was happening in the very countries whose decisions shaped their destinies.

“Way 'nough!” Allday swung the tiller, his eyes slitted against the sun until they were covered by the flagship's great shadow. “Hook on, bowman!”

Bolitho stood up and took a deep breath. He always remembered a captain he had once served. He had caught his legs in his sword as he had come aboard for the first time and had sprawled headlong at the feet of his startled marines.

At the top of the steps and just inside the entry port he removed his hat and waited for the din of calls and muskets being snapped to the present to subside.

The commodore walked to greet him, one hand outstretched. For a split second longer Bolitho's mind told him he was mistaken. This was not Lieutenant James Sayer of the American Station, or even of Cornwall. He had been another sort of man altogether.

The commodore said, “Good to see you again, Richard. Come aft and tell me your news.”

Bolitho returned the handclasp and swallowed hard. Sayer had been a well-built, lively man. Now he was round-shouldered, and his face was deeply lined. Worst of all, his skin was like old, unusable parchment. Yet he was only two or three years older than Bolitho.

In the comparative cool of the great cabin Sayer threw off his heavy dress coat and sank into a chair.

“I've sent for some wine. My servant keeps it in a specially cool place in the bilges. Only Rhenish, but lucky to get
that
out here.” He shut his eyes and groaned. “What a place. An island of felons surrounded by corruption!”

He brightened up as the servant entered with some bottles and glasses.

“Now your despatches, Richard.” He saw his face. “What is it?”

Bolitho waited for the servant to pour the wine and leave the cabin.

“I was delayed on passage here, sir. We were struck by a squall three days out of Madras, and two of my people were badly injured by falling from aloft. Two others were lost overboard.”

He looked away, remembering the pity he had felt at the time. The squall which had come with the swiftness of sound in the middle of the night had departed just as quickly. Two dead and two permanently crippled for no reason.

“I decided to put into Timor and land the men there. I have had business with the Dutch governor at Coupang and he has always been most helpful.”

The commodore watched him above the rim of his goblet. “Yes. You've had fine successes against pirates and privateers in that area.”

Bolitho faced him. “But for my unplanned visit I would not have heard the news. A ship, a King's ship, had a mutiny aboard, some six months ago, according to the governor. She had been outward bound from Tahiti when it happened. I am not certain of the reasons for it, but one thing is clear, the mutineers cast their officers and loyal men adrift in a small boat. But for the commander, I am told his name is Bligh, they would have perished. As it was, he found his way to Timor, over three thousand, six hundred miles, before he could summon help. The ship was an armed transport, sir. The
Bounty
.”

Sayer stared at him, his face grave. “I've not heard of her.” He stood up and walked to the broad stern windows. “So the mutineers will probably use her for piracy. They have little choice, other than hanging.”

Bolitho nodded, feeling his own uncertainty.
Mutiny.

Even the word was like the touch of some terrible disease. He had felt it aboard his first frigate,
Phalarope.
It had not been of his doing, but the memory was still sharp in his mind.

As the commodore remained silent and continued to stare through the windows Bolitho added, “I up-anchored and headed south-west and then around the southern coast of this colony, sir. I put into Adventure Bay in Van Diemen's Land. I thought the mutineers might have gone there before the news broke about their crime.” He shrugged. “But they have vanished. It is now my belief they have no intention of returning to a civilized country where they might be seized. They'll stay in the Great South Sea. Add to the list of renegades and murderers who are living off traders and natives alike. But a
King's ship.
It does not bear thinking about.”