Alexander Kent - Passage to Mutiny

Bolitho shouted, “Release him! None of this is his doing, and you know it!”

The man laughed, the sound distorted on the offshore wind. “D’you not know of the Revolution, Cap’n?” He waved his hand over the boat. “These lads do, an’ with bloody good cause, eh?”

So Tuke had put some of the French sailors in each of his vessels. It would be safer that way. With the French officers killed or in irons, Tuke would have had to take command of Narval himself. Not that he would need much encouragement, and his experience as master of a privateer would have provided him with as many skills as any sea-officer in the King’s service.

Allday said quietly, “They’re going to kill him, Captain.”

As he spoke one of the men in the other boat seized the lieutenant’s hair and pulled his head backwards, so that they could see his eyes glittering in the light, his face distorted with pain and terror. A knife rose and flitted across the Frenchman’s throat with such speed that there was neither a cry nor a struggle. Then the corpse was flung overboard, leaving a scarlet smear on the boat’s planking.

Bolitho snapped, “A pistol! That’s no damned truce flag!”

But the shot went wide, and by the time he had reloaded the schooner’s boat was already moving swiftly away from the reef.

From seaward came a sudden bang, and seconds later a tall waterspout lifted between reef and headland, the spray from the heavy ball spreading out in a great white circle.

“Return to the ship.”

Bolitho seized the gunwale and tried to control his sick hatred. That might be their intention. To lure him from the bay before he knew the enemy’s exact strength.

While the gig pulled swiftly towards the Tempest, Bolitho looked across at the settlement, picturing the defences which now seemed so puny when set against what he had just witnessed.

Fires had been lit to give an impression that the settlement was occupied by far more men than the small force there actually was. Some red tunics had been placed on the palisades, and from a distance would be seen as vigilant sentries at their posts.

A deception, and that was all it was.

He winced as another ball whimpered overhead and cracked into some rocks below the headland.

When he reached the Tempest’s quarterdeck he found Herrick, armed with a telescope, watching the other vessel. Out of range of Tempest’s twelve-pounders, yet she was slamming shots into the land without effort. When the shadows eventually departed from the beach and settlement they would start to shoot in earnest.

Herrick observed, “Twenty-four pounder, sir. At least. Must have got it off the Eurotas, I reckon.” He looked at Bolitho worriedly. “I was bothered by those devils in the boat. They might have opened fire on you! ”

Crash! Bolitho heard the ball ploughing through the trees on the far side of the bay, and saw enraged birds spreading out above them like splinters.

Herrick persisted, “We will have to up-anchor. If they shift their aim to us they could dismast the ship and leave us crippled, no more’n a floating battery!”

Bolitho removed his hat and wiped his forehead. It was what the enemy intended. Draw him out, leave the bay undefended. The schooner might not be able to outsail Tempest, but she could lose her amongst the litter of islets and reefs without difficulty.

He looked up at the masthead pendant. Steady as before from the north-west. He took a telescope and walked to the nettings, his mind grappling with the danger, with what he was asking of his men.

He said over his shoulder, “Send word ashore. When we make the signal, they must start the fire.” He heard Herrick sigh. “I know. It was for a last hope. We just have to reverse things.”

Bolitho steadied his glass against the hammock nettings and trained it on the anchored schooner. He was in time to see a puff of smoke from her forecastle as she loosed off another ball.

The schooner was in direct line with the headland. And the wind.

He heard a boat pulling towards the shore and then a violent splintering noise as another ball landed on the little pier and brought down the outer end in a welter of broken woodwork and lashings. It was luck, for no gun captain could see through shadows. But it told very clearly of what would happen soon if they did nothing to stop it.

He said, “Boarding party, Mr Herrick. Launch and cutter. If the wind holds we will fire the headland as planned. The smoke will drift down on the schooner. That is when the attack must begin.”

Bolitho thought of the long pull, and pictured the wounded marine on the hillside with his collected heaps of dried grass and underbrush, liberally dosed with coconut husks and grease. With luck the enemy gunner would think that one of his shots has started a fire ashore. If it failed, both boats’ crews would be slaughtered before they could lay a finger on the schooner’s hull.

A moment later Fitzmaurice called, “Quarter boat’s reached the shore, sir!”

Bolitho nodded. “Man your boats, Mr Herrick. Keep them on the concealed side until the fire begins.”

He made himself take a few paces back and forth, his feet stepping over gun tackles and rammers without conscious effort. It would take ten minutes for the word to be passed to the makeshift beacon.

He heard men clattering into the boats, the clink of weapons.

“Bend on the signal, Mr Fitzmaurice.”

Bolitho wiped his face. He was sweating badly, but without warmth.

“Quarter boat’s shoved off again, sir.”

The message had been passed.

Bolitho snapped, “Hoist the signal now.”

The flag broke from the mainyard, its appearance timed by coincidence with the next bang from the schooner’s heavy cannon.

Bolitho trained a glass on the headland and the hillside beyond. Faintly at first, rising from some lingering shadows like dirty stains against the sky, the smoke began to roll downwind. The filthy concoction of grease, oakum and waste which they had mixed with the tinder-dry grass and rushes held the smoke down towards the water in a thickening, evil-looking pall.

The marine called Billy-boy was exceeding even the bravest hope, and a short explosion echoed from the hillside to add to the deception. They would hear it in the schooner, and might think it was a magazine exploding.

Herrick asked quietly, “Permission to leave, sir?”

Bolitho looked past him at the two boats alongside, their crews peering up at the ship like strangers. Hand-picked every one, and some of the best men in the ship. If the worst happened it would strip Tempest of hands so sorely that her defences would be halved.

He held Herrick’s gaze.And he was the best of all. But he could not let anyone else command the attack. Now they needed every ounce of confidence, every bit of experience, and to the ship’s company Herrick had all of it and more to spare.

Was this the time which he had dreaded for so long? It must come one day. But surely not here, in this godforsaken corner of the world where so much pain had already been suffered.

Even as he thought about it he knew it could happen anywhere.

He said, “Take care, Thomas. Have the swivels ready to shoot.

Retire if you are sighted before you can grapple.”

Herrick took off his coat and hat and handed them to a marine. In the boats there was no mark of rank or station either. They had planned it this way in the short reprieve they had been given by Bolitho’s five hundred mile passage in the boat.

Herrick turned to watch the spreading fog of smoke. It had already reached the reef, and the schooner’s outline faded suddenly in the man-made haze.

Maybe he was thinking the same. What they had done in so short a time. Like the fire. Oakum and tar from the ship, pig’s fat and grease from the village, coconut husks and fibres, even molasses which the purser had been hoarding for an emergency. Plus all the other combustible material, it was making an impressive screen.