Passage to Mutiny (21 page)

He said, “Time enough when they discover what's happened to the rest of us.”

Herrick rolled on to his back and stared at the sky. He remembered with stark clarity when he had been a small boy and had been playing with his friend on the bank of the Medway. He had thrown a stone through the rushes. Meant as a joke, like those they always played on each other, it had hit his friend in the eye, nearly blinding him.

Herrick had screwed up his face, willing that it was a dream. That when he looked again it would all be clean and as before.

But then, as now, it was real. If he looked, the litter of corpses and torn limbs would still be there. And the schooner would be gone.

Prideaux was saying to his corporal, “Put all the muskets together and then inspect the powder and shot. The wounded can do the loading, right?”

“Sir.” Attentive, even now.

Pyper said quietly, “Will it be soon, sir?”

Herrick did not look at him, but watched a bird with scimitar-shaped wings circling far, far up against the washed-out blue sky.

“I expect so.” He added, “But no quarter. Nor do we surrender.”

“I see.”

Then Herrick did turn his head to look at the midshipman.
Do you see?
The boy who had started to become a man. Did he not ask why he was to die, here of all places?

Someone said, “The buggers are searchin' about on t'other side of th' hill, sir.”

Prideaux sounded irritable. “Yes. Well, it won't take a fox-hound to pick up our trail, will it?”

Herrick raised himself carefully amongst the prickly gorse and looked at the sea. The schooner was stern-on now, standing well out from the landing place.

We could light a fire, make an explosion, but it would only bring down the savages that bit sooner. Anyway, the schooner would not dare to come inshore.

He looked again at the schooner, his mind suddenly clear. The wind. It had shifted. Quite a lot. He stared at the hillside bushes and scrub and tried to fathom its direction.

Prideaux asked, “What is it?”

He was trying to sound disinterested as he always did, and the fact he was not succeeding gave Herrick sudden desperate hope.

He replied quietly, “The captain will come to look for us. The wind. It could make a world of difference. Give him a day's start.” He looked at Pyper's strained features. “A whole day. If we can just hang on here.”

The marine who had been speared in the leg said huskily, “That would be fine, sir.”

His friend grinned. “Wot did I tell 'ee, Billy-boy?”

Prideaux scowled. “Don't raise their hopes. The wind, what is that? Time, how do we know anything?”

Herrick looked at him. “He'll come. Mark me, Captain Prideaux.” He looked away. “He must.”

Bolitho sat in the cabin going over his written log while a lantern swung back and forth above his head.

All yesterday, and through the long night, they had sailed with as much canvas as they could carry. No one had spoken of risk or caution this time, and he had seen men look away when his gaze had passed over them.

He glanced at the stern windows, realizing with surprise they were already paling with the dawn. He felt suddenly empty and dispirited. Noddall would have reminded him. Hovered around the desk.

He thought of all the faceless bundles sewn in hammocks which he had watched dropped overboard. It could have been ten times worse, but it did not help at all to remind himself.

Wayth, captain of the maintop. Sloper of the carpenter's crew, and who had done more than anyone to make the newly built jolly boat a success. Marine Kisbee, maintop. Old Fisher, able seaman. William Goalen, second quartermaster, Noddall, cabin servant, and too many others beside. In all fifteen had been killed, and as many more wounded. And for what?

Death for some, discharge for others, and advancement for the lucky ones who filled their shoes.

He rubbed his eyes again, trying to quell the ache in his mind.

There was a tap at the door and Midshipman Swift stepped into the cabin.

“Mr Keen's respects, sir, and we have just sighted a light to the north'rd.”

“A ship?” He cursed himself for passing back the information as a question. He stood up and placed the thick book inside his desk. “I'll come up.”

He had been wrong about Herrick too, it seemed. The light must be the schooner. Although even with the shift of wind it seemed strange she had reached this far. He thought about the wind and how they had cursed it so often in the past. When Lakey had told him of the sudden change he had found it hard to conceal his emotion from him.

On the quarterdeck the air was almost chill after the heat of the days and the stuffy restriction below. A quick glance at the compass bowl and another at the flapping mainsail and driver told him the wind was holding as before, and the ship was steering to the north with the island hidden somewhere on the larboard beam. But for the wind, they would have taken perhaps two days, even more, to beat back and forth, to fight round the southern end of the island before returning to search for the schooner's landing place.

He took a glass from Swift, knowing there were more than the duty watch on deck, watching and waiting.

He saw the vessel straight away, and even in the few moments since Swift had reported it to him the light had strengthened, so that he could make out a darker smudge which would be the schooner's big driver.

“How roundly the dawn comes up.” That was Mackay, the first quartermaster. He sounded calm enough. Glad perhaps that his mate, Goalen, and not himself had gone several hundred fathoms down in a hammock, with a round-shot at his feet to speed the journey.

“Aye.” Lakey's coat rustled against the compass as he moved about in the gloom like a restless dog. “ 'Nother ten minutes it'll be blinding your eyeballs out!”

True to the sailing master's prediction the daylight swept across the islands like the opening of a vivid curtain.

Bolitho watched the schooner, sensed the uncertainty as she tacked, hesitated, as if to turn away.

From the masthead, where Keen had sent him, Midshipman Swift shouted, “No sign of red coats aboard, sir!”

“Blazes!” Borlase had appeared now. “They must have left them there. Or . . .” He did not finish.

“Signal her to heave to.” Bolitho's voice cut through the speculation like a rapier. “Stand by the quarter boat, Mr Borlase.”

Bolitho watched the wave troughs changing from black to deep blue. From dark menace to friendly deception.

He felt his anxiety giving way to unreasoning impatience. “And pass the word for Mr Brass. Tell him to prepare a bow-chaser directly. If the schooner does not respond, I want a ball as near to her bilge as makes no difference!”

By the companionway, his thick arms folded, Allday listened and watched Bolitho's words having effect. He saw Jack Brass, the
Tempest'
s gunner, bustling forward with his mates, and knew he too was well aware of Bolitho's mood.

“She's heavin' to, sir.”

“Very well.” Bolitho let his thoughts carry him along. “We will fall down on her to within hail. It will save time.” He looked at Allday. “We will probably need the launch. Select the best hands you can.”

He slitted his eyes to watch the rolling schooner as the frigate ran down on her. Empty, or all but. Perhaps there
was
no more time. That would make the defeat even more complete, an acceptance of it impossible. He looked at the quarterdeck rail, remembering Herrick.

He said harshly, “See that the people are well armed. Tell Sergeant Quare to lower two swivels into the launch, and provide some good marksmen for the quarter boat as well.”

Like extensions they were moving from him, acting on his wishes. His ideas.

The schooner was much nearer now. He lowered his telescope and said, “Give them a hail, Mr Keen.” He had seen the schooner's master, a great hulk of a man, probably born of mixed blood right here in the islands.

Keen's voice re-echoed across the water, distorted by his speaking trumpet.

Bolitho listened to the hesitant replies, some barely understandable. But the main message was clear enough. The schooner had left without Herrick's party. They might be dead, as were all the militia. Butchered.

Bolitho glanced at the men around him. With the company already depleted by death and wounds, by Herrick's landing party and marines,
Tempest
was getting more and more shorthanded.

He made up his mind. It could not be helped.

He said, “Tell the schooner to stand by to receive a boarding party.” He looked at Borlase. “You will take command here until our return.” He snapped, “Well,
come along,
let us be about it!”

Midshipman Pyper said huskily, “I think we may be safe, sir.”

The sun was beating down on the saucer-shaped depression where Herrick had gathered his party of seamen and marines. He felt as dry as the sand and rock which burned through his clothing like hot metal, and he had to force himself almost physically not to think of water. There was precious little left, and what there was was needed by the wounded. Especially Watt, one of the marines. He had been hit in the shoulder, either by a dart or spear, nobody was sure, or could remember.

He was lying with his head on the marine corporal's knees, gasping, and drawing his legs up in deep convulsions of pain.

Herrick said, “Too soon to know yet.”

He listened to the marine's groans. He was in agony. Maybe his wound had been deliberately poisoned; he had heard of such things. Darts which left men or animals to die in dreadful suffering. Once, the corporal had tried to adjust the crude bandage, and Herrick had been forced to look away from the wound, in spite of all he had seen during his years at sea. Like a ripening, obscene fruit.

Prideaux sat with his boots out-thrust, dragging a stalk of sun-bleached grass through his teeth. His eyes were distant as he said, “We've got to keep Watt quiet. Those devils are not far off. I know it in my bones. Watt'll raise an attack if we're not careful.”

Herrick looked away. Prideaux was doing it again. Passing an idea, like a hint. Leaving it for him to decide.

He said, “Corporal Morrison, give the man some water.”

The corporal shook his head. “Not much in the flasks, sir.” He shrugged and held one to the man's lips. “Still, I suppose . . .”

A seaman on lookout called sharply, “Some of 'em comin' now, sir!”

The dull acceptance and lethargy vanished as they struggled to their allotted places, seizing weapons, screwing up their faces.

Herrick watched as a file of natives came down a narrow gully on the opposite side of the hill and padded swiftly towards the sea. They did not hesitate even to glance at the carnage which lay rotting in the sun, but hurried on into the shallows by the rocks where Herrick and his men had come ashore.

Pyper said, “They're looking at the longboat.”

Herrick nodded. Pyper was right. He remembered then seeing the village boats all ablaze. Their only way to reach other islands. To trade. To seek revenge.
Or to escape.

“They must have been back to their village. That means the pirates have gone. Probably had a boat standing offshore all the while.”

Herrick could not disguise his bitterness. While
Tempest
had tacked round the point and into a trap, and he and his men had fought for their lives, the pirates had carried on with their well-laid plan. They might have failed to sink the frigate, but they had shown what they could do with a mere handful of men.

He saw the longboat lifting sluggishly in the surf, the water sliding across her bottom boards as the natives hauled and guided it into the shallows.

Herrick tried not to listen to another man being given water. He watched the natives, knowing he would have to do something and soon. The night had been friendly enough, apart from the insects. After the horror of the day, the systematic massacre of Finney's men, and their own desperate plight, all they had wanted to do was fall into exhausted sleep.