Alexander Kent - Passage to Mutiny

Herrick sighed. How typical, he thought. He watched the boats pulling into line and turning towards the pier. And how much worse it will be for him.

Bolitho stood beside one of the long windows in Raymond’s room and listened to the insane screech of birds in the dense undergrowth.

He was surprised at his own calm, his inability to feel either disgust or hatred as he watched Raymond sitting at his carved table.

Below the window he heard some marines tramping across the compound, their voices and boots unnaturally loud. In the time while he had been away, as he and his boatload of men had fought out each painful day, the settlement itself had gathered a kind of decay.

Stores had been broached, and empty bottles and casks lay everywhere. Even Raymond had changed, hollow-eyed and dishevelled, his appearance made worse by his soiled shirt. Of all people he had altered the most.

Bolitho had almost expected the gates to be held shut in his face. Had that happened, he knew he would have been unable to restrain his feelings, or those of his men.

Raymond had been sitting at the table, as he was now, staring at the door. Perhaps he had never moved since the two boats had left under the cover of night.

He had said, “So you survived after all? What are you going to do now?”

Hardacre had met the Tempest’s boats at the pier, and as they had walked together towards the palisades he had described in grim detail what had happened. Over a third of the islanders had died from the fever, and while the guards had cowered behind their defences, and had gone through one drunken escapade after another, Hardacre had done his best to give the others the will to survive.

Raymond had even driven the convicts from the settlement, and had ordered them to remain in their huts and manage as best they could on their own. Hardacre had helped them also, and had been rewarded by their willingness to ignore Raymond’s unjust order and to assist him in the villages.

And then, just two dawns ago, the island had awakened to the violent crash of artillery, the splintering destruction of trees as the balls had smashed across the bay from the headland. A schooner had been anchored offshore, and during the night some of Tuke’s men had ferried two big guns on to the island, ready to open fire as soon as they could determine the range.

It seemed that Raymond had failed to see that sentries were posted, and as neither of his Corps officers had been sober enough to have taken much part in matters, the attack had been swift and completely unexpected.

Hardacre said bitterly, “It went on for two hours. Some of Tinah’s people were hurt and two killed. The settlement was also hit, but more as a threat than to do damage. Then they withdrew. It may be that they got warning that Tempest was returning. But they did leave a message for Raymond.”

The “message” had been pinned to the mutilated corpse of a French officer, the one named Vicariot, who had been de Barras’s senior lieutenant. It had stated that if Raymond and his defenders were to withdraw from the settlement they would be given safe conduct to another island to await rescue. If they did not, they would suffer Vicariot’s fate, as would all those who resisted them.

Bolitho stood silently by the window, thinking and remembering. If Tuke had known about Tempest’s return he would have attacked earlier without waiting for dramatic gestures. It seemed to be as much a part of the man as his cunning. The ability to use savage cruelty to break down resistance before it had begun.

One thing was no longer in doubt. Narval was taken, and the flag she would wear was immaterial. Her thirty-six guns, backed up by whatever other forces Tuke could offer, would more than swamp the defences.

He asked quietly, “Did you know about the village? The numbers who died?” It was incredible and unnerving, but not once had Raymond asked about Viola. Something seemed to snap and he said, “And your wife. She died at sea.” Just to say it aloud was like a betrayal. To share her memory with this selfish, vindictive man was more than he could bear. He added harshly. “She had great courage.”

Raymond turned slowly on his chair, his eyes in shadow as he answered, “I guessed as much. She would rather have died with you than live with me.”

He stood up violently, and an empty bottle rolled unheeded from beneath his pile of documents.

“You’ve heard about Vicariot? Of the attack?” Raymond spoke quickly, as if afraid of interruption. “They’ll come again. I saw the Frenchman. They had mutilated everything but his face. So I would know. Be in no doubt.” He swung round, his features working wildly. “I have written orders for Hardacre. He will take over the settlement until…” He scattered the documents, searching for the one which would give back Hardacre all that he had lost. Except that it would be for a very short time now. “My guards will take the convicts aboard your ship today. Now. In Sydney there may be fresh instructions.”

Hardacre had remained silent until that point. “You’d leave?

Quit the settlement and lay us open to massacre? No militia, not even a schooner, thanks to you!”

Bolitho looked at him, his mind suddenly clear, like brittle ice.

“We are not leaving. I too have a document.” He turned to

Raymond again. “Remember, sir? My orders from you as to my duties here?” He walked to the window again and watched the fronds moving in the breeze. “We are not running. I do not care what forces come against us. I have listened for too long about the stupidity of sea officers, the ignorance of common sailors. But when things get bad, they are the ones who seem so important all of a sudden. I have heard you talking of war as if it were a game. Of a just war, or a wasted one. It seems to me that a just war is when you in particular are in jeopardy, Mr Raymond, and I am heartily sick of it!”

Raymond stared at him, his eyes watering. “You’re mad! I knew it!” He waved an arm towards the wall. “You’d throw away your life, your ship, everything, for this dunghill of a place?”

Bolitho smiled briefly. “A moment ago you were its governor. Things were different then.” He hardened his voice. “Well, not to me!”

The door banged open and Captain Prideaux marched into the room, his boots clashing across the rush mats like several men at once.

“I have examined the perimeter, sir.” He ignored Raymond. “My men are setting the convicts to work. The breach in the northern palisade was the worst. Sergeant Quare is dealing with it.”

Hardacre said, “I will speak with Tinah. He may be able to help.”

“No.” Bolitho faced him, suddenly glad of Hardacre’s presence, his strength. “If we fail, as well we might, I want his people spared. If it is known they were aiding us, they would have less chance than they do now.”

Hardacre watched him gravely. “That was bravely said, Captain.”

“I told you, you are mad! ” Raymond was shaking his fists in the air, and spittle ran down his chin as he yelled, “When this is over, I will…”

Hardacre interrupted hotly, “You saw that French officer, you damned fool! There’ll be nothing left to hate or destroy if Captain Bolitho cannot defend us!” He strode to the door. “I will see what I can do to assist the marines.”

Swift coughed by the open door. “Beg pardon, sir, but I’d like some advice on the best siting of the swivels.”

“At once, Mr Swift.”

Bolitho turned on his heel, wondering if both Prideaux and Swift had lingered nearby by arrangement, fearing that he might fall upon Raymond and kill him. He found his hatred for the man had gone. Raymond seemed already to have lost substance and reality.

At the darkest bend in the stairway he saw a quick movement and felt a girl’s hands gripping his arm. As Prideaux pushed between them, cursing with surprise, the hands slipped, but still clung to Bolitho’s legs, then his shoes.