Alexander Kent: Passage to Mutiny

Then Borlase, curt and impatient. “As usual, nothing to report. I have logged Peterson for insolence. The first lieutenant can deal with him later.” He wiped his streaming face and neck. “Relieve the wheel, if you please.” Then with a nod he vanished through the companionway.

The hands went about their allotted duties and the watch began another long four hours.

Bolitho had seen Herrick right forward with the boatswain and some working parties. The tasks were unending. The ship, like any other, was like a finely tuned instrument, with every inch of rigging and canvas designed and arrayed to play its part. Splicing and stitching, painting and blacking-down rigging, Tempest took a lot of sweat and backbreaking effort.

Herrick saw him and strode aft along the weather gangway, his stocky frame barely angled to the sun-dried planking. It was hardly surprising, for even with courses and topsails set to the wind the hull was hardly heeling to its thrust.

Herrick observed, “Another hard one, sir.” He looked at each mast in turn. “I’ve had the hands turned-to early. It’ll save them from the worst of it. Mr Jury has some heavier tasks on the orlop for this afternoon.”

Bolitho nodded, watching Keen as he moved restlessly around the wheel and compass. Like the other officers he was dressed only in shirt and breeches, and his fair hair was plastered across his forehead with sweat.

He said, “Good, Thomas. I know they’ll curse us for the heavy work, but it will save them from other troubles.”

Herrick knew as well as any officer that too much leisure under these conditions could lead to arguments and worse. In cabin and wardroom it was bad enough. For the company crammed together in their screened quarters or messdecks it would be like part of hell.

Herrick watched him, judging the right moment.

“How much longer, sir?” He stood his ground as Bolitho turned towards him. “I mean, we have covered the full distance. That mail packet reported Eurotas in these waters, safe and on passage. She must have run into trouble. We could barely miss her at this snail’s pace.”

Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and gripped it with both hands. The heated woodwork helped to steady his mind, hold back his uncertainty.

He saw Jacob Twig, the cook, walking purposefully beneath the shadow of a gangway, on his way to see the purser, no doubt. The fresh food and extra stores they had obtained from Sydney had to be eked out within the usual issue of meat from the cask. Salt beef, salt pork, some so hard it was like the ship’s teak. Twig was very dark and extremely tall. When he was in his evil-smelling galley he loomed over the pots and platters like some kind of sorcerer brewing potions.

Bolitho said slowly, “I agree that we have run the full course.”

He tried to picture the missing ship, guess what could or might have befallen her.

In the whole three weeks they had spoken with only two other vessels, small Dutch trading schooners. They had been a week apart, but neither of the masters had reported sighting anything except the usual clusters of native craft amongst the many islands. And it was always prudent to give them a wide berth.

He added, “According to the chart, we are once again due south of Tongatapu. If we come about and steer to take advantage of this wind, I think we could sight land early tomorrow.”

Herrick waited. Reading his mind.

Bolitho said, “I’ll not hazard the ship amidst the reefs, but we can put boats ashore. The local chief is alleged to be friendly. Our ships are not unknown to him, according to Mr Lakey.”

Herrick grimaced. “I’ll take a loaded brace of pistols with me nevertheless, sir! There have been too many good sailors cut down without warning.”

Bolitho turned to watch a sudden flurry in the sea alongside. A shark falling upon a smaller fish, the incident over in a second. Then the surface was smooth again, with just the occasional pointer of the shark’s fin to reveal their patient escort.

He replied, “Some of these islands have had good reason to hate us.” He unconsciously touched the lock of hair which hung above his right eye.

Herrick saw the movement. It was as familiar as Bolitho’s level grey eyes. Beneath the lock of hair was a deep, savage scar which ran right up his forehead. As a junior lieutenant Bolitho had been struck down and all but killed by a native when he had been on an island with his ship’s watering party.

Herrick persisted, “I’ll shoot first, all the same, sir. I’ve come too far to have my brains spilled with a war club!”

Bolitho was suddenly impatient. The thought that the Eurotas might have been overrun by warring islanders appalled him.

“Call the master, Thomas. We’ll lay off a new course and decide what we must do.”

Herrick watched him stride towards the poop, his face completely absorbed.

He said to Keen, “Keep an eye on your watch. We will be needing all hands within the hour.”

Keen did not answer. He remembered Viola Raymond. She had nursed him when he had been put ashore after being wounded. Like some of the others he knew about the captain’s involvement and what Herrick thought about it all. Keen was fond of them both, but especially so of Bolitho. If he was going to search for Viola Raymond, and more risk was to come from their reunion, then it was their business. He watched Herrick’s troubled face. Or was it?

In the small chart room beneath the poop and adjoining the master’s cabin Bolitho leaned over the table watching Lakey’s fingers busy with brass dividers and rule.

“If the wind holds. Noon tomorrow.” Lakey looked up from the table, his lean face silhouetted against an open port.

Beyond it the sea was glittering and painful to look at. How much worse in a big transport loaded with convicts. If the Eurotas was aground somewhere, then the first fear would soon change to something more dangerous. The desire to escape, to be free with even the tiniest chance of survival, could make men do the impossible.

If the wind holds. It must be engraved on every sea officer’s heart, Bolitho thought.

He eyed Lakey thoughtfully. “So be it. One hundred and forty miles to Tongatapu. If we can log five knots and no more once we have changed course, I think your estimate a fair one.”

Lakey shrugged. He rarely rose to either praise or doubt. “I’ll feel happier when I’ve examined our noon sights, sir.”

Bolitho smiled. “Very well.”

He turned on his heel and hurried to the quarterdeck, knowing Lakey would be there when he was needed.

“Ah, Thomas, we will bring her about on the half-hour and steer nor’-west. That will allow us sea room when we are closer to the reefs. Also, if the wind veers we will be better placed to select one of the other islands in the group.”

When a ship’s boy turned the half-hour glass beside the binnacle the hands manned the braces and hauled breathlessly at the frigate’s great yards.

As Tempest wallowed round and allowed herself to be laid on the opposite tack Bolitho was very aware of the time it took to perform the change. Even allowing for the poor wind, he had every available man employed on deck and aloft. He knew the folly of allowing slackness and taking short-cuts even on routine work. In battle, with the biggest proportion of seamen required at the guns and repairing damage, the ship would have to be handled by far fewer. And yet Tempest had answered helm and canvas more with the slow dignity of a ship of the line than a frigate.

It was so easy to get complacent, to put off the back-breaking and thankless work of gun and sail drill with a battle in mind.

Out here, with sometimes months on end and no sight of any other man-of-war, it was hard to build up enthusiasm for such drills, especially when it was only too easy to turn your own back upon it.