Alexander Kent - Passage to Mutiny

The ship felt very quiet, with just the sluggish motion and the creak of timbers to break the stillness.

Light filtered through the windows and across the chequered canvas of the deck.

Bolitho slipped into his coat and grimaced at himself in the bulkhead mirror. In the weak light he looked pale, so that his coat and breeches and the gold lace stood out in sharp contrast.

Allday said quietly, “We’ve stood like this a few times,

Captain.” He glanced up at the skylight as feet moved restlessly overhead. “I never get used to it.”

Bolitho felt his coat, glad of it for once to hold the chill at bay until the sun rose above the islands once again.

“Nor I.”

The door opened slightly and Midshipman Fitzmaurice poked his pug-face around it.

“The first lieutenant’s respects, sir, and he wishes to clear for action if it is convenient?”

Bolitho nodded, conscious of the youth’s formality. “My compliments to Mr Herrick. Tell him I am ready.”

Moments later the stillness was broken by the twitter of calls, the stamp of running feet and all the preparation for battle which to a landsman would appear no better than chaos.

The staccato beat of the two drums on the quarterdeck echoed around the bay, reaching the settlement and further still to the village. To the tired sentries on the headland, and to the wounded marine called Billy-boy who had been given his own special task ashore.

And also to a wild-eyed girl who lay alone in her hut, her mind destroyed, but her memory hanging on to the one person who had helped and protected her.

As the sun found the Tempest’s main topgallant masthead, and made the whipping pendant change from white to copper, Herrick touched his hat and reported, “Cleared for action, sir.” He said it proudly, for despite his shortages, the operation had been completed in less than fifteen minutes.

Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and looked down at the silent figures. He recalled Allday’s remark. We’ve stood like this a few times. And his own response.

The shadowy figures below him, and crouched around the quarterdeck, would they understand when the call came? He wondered if de Barras was still alive, how it must have been for him when the latent hatred had exploded into mutiny.

“Deck there! Ship to the east’rd! At anchor, sir!”

Bolitho walked to the nettings, his hands behind his back. Still just the one. Bait perhaps to draw him into another trap. A watchdog, while others prepared a different form of attack. It was too early even to guess.

He saw Fitzmaurice speaking to the signals party, and considered the change which had affected all of them. Swift now walked the gundeck with Borlase, and Keen stood aft, watching over the quarterdeck six-pounders. He saw Pyper too, doubled up with pain from his burns and salt sores, standing with the carronade crews on the forecastle.

He heard the American, Jenner, say something to another seaman, and half expected to see Orlando with him. He shivered. Boys into men. Men into oblivion.

The masthead again. “’Tis a schooner, sir!” He would have a perfect view. The strengthening glow directly behind the other vessel, while Tempest still lay in deep shadow.

Bolitho said, “We will know soon what to expect.”

“Aye, sir.” Herrick was on the opposite side of the deck, and raised his voice so that it would carry more easily. “Not really worth our while, is she, sir?”

It brought a few laughs, as both of them knew it would.

Bolitho turned and saw Ross watching him closely. “Get aloft with a glass, Mr Ross. I want you to take your time. Examine the schooner as you have never done before.”

He watched him thrust through the boarding nets and climb nimbly up the main shrouds, the telescope bobbing on his shoulder like a poacher’s gun.

Then he looked at the masthead pendant. The wind had backed during the night, but was steady enough from the northwest. It was well sheltered in the bay, but the schooner would not venture inside the reef and risk being grounded, for she would be anchored right in the wind’s path.

Everything must happen here. Hardacre had added his knowledge to Lakey’s, and it was quite impossible for an attack to be launched overland from the other side of the island. There was no safe landing place, and the threat of attack from hostile natives, no matter what Tinah had promised, would need treble the force which Tuke and his men possessed.

Sunlight slipped gently across the upper yards and sails, and the hill above the settlement stood out from shadow as if detached from all else.

Ross, one-time master’s mate, now acting-lieutenant, called sharply from his high perch, “They’re lowering a boat, sir.”

More dragging minutes and then, “The boat’s standing in towards the reef!” His Scottish voice was indignant as he added, “A flag o’ truce, b’God!”

Bolitho looked at Herrick. The first move was about to begin.

The boat hoisted a small scrap of sail as soon as it was clear of the schooner’s side, and as it gathered way Bolitho recognized their intention to pass through the reef and enter the bay.

“Gig, Allday!” Bolitho looked at Herrick as the gig’s crew scampered from their various stations. “I don’t want them to see how thin we are on the ground. Signal the shore party. They must act quicker than I had planned.”

He knew Herrick was forming a protest, but brushed him aside and almost tumbled into the gig in his haste to get away.

“Quick as you can!” He gripped the gunwale as the oars dug into the water and sent the boat over a trough like an excited dolphin.

Allday said, “God, look at them!” He chuckled. “They’ve just seen Tempest!”

The boat had certainly slowed its approach, but after a momentary pause started to move again towards the surging water between the reefs.

As it drew closer Bolitho saw it was crewed by a motley collection of men, mostly bearded and as dirty as their boat. But they were well armed, and the tattered white flag which flew from the mast made the contrast more evident.

Bolitho snapped, “Tell them to heave to. They’re near enough.”

Allday’s hail, and the fact the gig’s crew were resting on their oars, made the other boat rock dangerously in the steep swell as she idled beam on to the nearest spur of reef.

A powerful, bearded figure with two crossbelts of pistols and pouches stood and cupped his hands. He sounded English, but was certainly not Tuke.

Bolitho wished he had brought a telescope, but knew it was doubtful if he would have been able to use it. The violent pitching of the gig and the rising nausea in his stomach would have seen to that.

The voice shouted harshly, “So you got here, Cap’n?”

Almost what Raymond had said. Bolitho raised one hand, his eyes watering in the pale sunlight.

The man continued, “The message stands as before. You carry your people away, an’ be damned to ye! We are taking the island, an’ you too, if you stay an’ fight!”

His words brought growls of anger from the gig’s crew.

Bolitho stood up carefully, his hand gripping Allday’s shoulder.

Then he shouted, “Under what flag? Will you hoist your own cowardly rag, or shall you hide under French colours?”

Despite the boom of surf on the reef he heard the confusion of voices from the other boat.

Then the man called, “We have the Narval! You’ll live to regret your bloody arrogance, Cap’n!” He waved his fist and another figure was hauled upright from the bottom of the boat.

For an instant Bolitho thought it might be de Barras, and then saw it was a young lieutenant, his arms pinioned, his face almost black with bruises.

Another visual proof of victory. Bolitho glanced at his oarsmen, seeing their mixed expressions of disbelief and horror.