Alexander Kent - Passage to Mutiny

Keen said, “The marine sentries think that the schooner may have landed spies in the night, sir.” He glanced helplessly at Herrick. “They’re not certain, but it’s possible.”

Bolitho waited for the next spasm of giddiness to pass. “I feared as much. They could lie hidden for hours, days.” The bitterness crowded into his tone. “They will soon see through our pathetic disguises.” He walked to the rail and looked at the gundeck, at the jostling figures below him.

Herrick said quickly, “Let me, sir. I’ll tell them what they must do.”

“No.” He did not see the despair on Herrick’s face. “I am asking too much of them already, without…” He swayed and added, “Thomas, old friend, if the enemy knows of our weakness, we are done for. They will pound us to pieces while we lie at anchor. We must meet them in open water. To do that we need men. Any men.”

He looked at the sky, the streaming pendant high above the deck.

“There is little time. When I have spoken to these people you will withdraw our remaining pickets from the island.” He spoke slowly and with great care. “Whichever of these people wishes to go ashore, have them taken there before we weigh. With this wind, the Narval will be around the headland before noon. By then I intend to be in the best position I can find.”

He swung away and raised his voice. “Listen to me, all of you! A French frigate is coming to engage this ship, and she will most likely have another vessel to support her. I am shorthanded, more so now because of losses against that pirate schooner. You have no cause to love the authority which brought you to this place, nor have you a firm promise that I can get you passage home to England, if that is what you want.”

He turned slightly towards the sun so that they would think he was shutting his eyes against the glare and not to control a bout of nausea. “But you have seen what Tuke and his men have done, and will do if they overwhelm this ship. Your support may do no more than delay a defeat. But without that aid we are already dead men.”

There was a pause and he could almost feel their torn emotions.

Then a voice called, “All I done was steal a pig, sir! They sent me to Botany Bay for that. Me family was starvin’, what else could a man do?”

Another said hotly, “My woman was slaughtered by that bastard Tuke after ’im an’ ’is devils ’ad done with ’er as they wanted!” His voice shook. “I got nothin’ to go back to Englandfor, Cap’n. But by the livin’ Jesus I’ll fight for you if you tells me what to do!”

Uproar broke out on the gundeck, and while the seamen and marines watched spellbound the jostling convicts faced each other in argument and anger.

Bolitho said heavily, “It did not work, Thomas. I cannot find it in my heart to blame them.”

Herrick snapped, “Have the boats ready, Mr Keen. Mr Fitzmaurice, make a last signal to the settlement.”

They turned as a man called, “We know what you done for us, Cap’n, an’ what you tried to do. When you’ve been used to little better’n kicks and curses you soon gets to know what you values. Aye, Cap’n, I’ll fight for you too, an’ be damned to tomorrow!”

A few voices still yelled out in protest, but they were drowned by a great wave of cheering, which even Jury’s resonant voice could do nothing to quell.

As it slowly died down Bolitho said quietly, “Put them on the gun tackles and braces. Their strength and our skills are all we have. We must use them well.” He turned away, retching violently. “Move yourself, Thomas!”

Herrick tore his eyes away. “Man the boats!” He watched as several of the convicts clambered down into them, pursued by ironic cheers from their companions. “Mr Keen! This will be the last time, so be as quick as you can.”

He saw the small red figures by the smashed pier, one hopping on a crutch. Sick and wounded, convicts, everyone who could draw breath was needed today. But all he could see in his mind was Bolitho, fighting his own war, hanging on as his life swayed between reality and total collapse.

Bolitho did not move or speak again until the last boat came alongside and off-loaded some marines. He had expected to see Raymond come aboard, although he could find no reason for it.

So he intended to remain behind his frail defences to the end. To take credit for the victory, or as was more likely, barter for his life yet again with the attackers.

He saw Herrick waiting by the quarterdeck rail, his face full of anxiety.

“Drop a buoy here and moor all but the quarter boat, if you please.”

Herrick understood. “Aye, sir.” This was one day when they would need no boats, and if all failed, they might help Hardacre and some of the others to escape.

“Very well.” Bolitho looked around the crowded quarterdeck. “We will weigh directly. Have the capstan manned.” He nodded to Lakey. “Lay a course to weather the headland and the reef as close as you can manage.”

He turned and saw Midshipman Romney waiting to assist Fitzmaurice.

“Run up the colours, and tell Sergeant Quare to have his fifers play us out.”

As Tempest weighed anchor once more and tilted reluctantly to the wind, figures moved slowly from the trees along the beach and ran to the water’s edge to watch. They saw the sails breaking out from the great yards, the minute figures scrambling above the deck like monkeys, the mounting foam beneath the gilded figurehead, and though most of them did not understand why it was so, many were deeply moved by what they saw.

Their young chief, Tinah, stood beside Hardacre’s massive figure and raised one hand to his ear, as faintly at first, then more strongly, he heard the strains of music.

He looked enquiringly at the big man by his side.

Hardacre said quietly, “‘Portsmouth Lass.’ I never thought to hear it in these islands.”

Hardacre, who hated the signs of authority and spreading power from a land he had almost forgotten, who had sought only security and peace amongst the people who had grown to trust him, was unable to control his voice as he added, “God bless them. We’ll not see their like again.”

Once free of the land’s protection the north-westerly wind laid into Tempest’s canvas and held her hard over on the larboard tack. “East nor’-east, sir! Full and bye!”

Bolitho nodded and walked up the tilting deck to the weather side. The rising din of shrouds and canvas, the clatter of blocks and the hiss of the sea were joined in his mind as one great tumult. He felt the deck quivering to the wind, and when he peered along the larboard twelve-pounders he saw them hanging on taut tackles as the ship heeled further and further to the thrust.

Spray spurted over the nettings and stung his cheeks, but he barely flinched. He saw faces he did not know being hustled to various parts of the ship, some gazing at him as they hurried past. He no longer thought of them as convicts, but found himself wondering what they had once been. Again, much like his own men. Driven from the land by necessity, or lured to the sea by impossible dreams. But for their circumstances they might have ended in a King’s ship anyway. The impartial callousness of a press-gang, a need to escape like Jenner or Starling, it might be fate after all which set the stage for man.

“More brandy, Captain?”

He turned, holding firmly to the hammock nettings, and saw Allday watching him.

“Later.” He forced a smile. “You’ll have me three sheets to the wind!”

Allday did not smile. “Help me, Captain. I don’t know what to do. I can’t stop you, an’ I can’t aid you either.”

Bolitho reached out and gripped his arm. “You are helping me. As you have always done.” He saw Allday’s face fade momentarily as if a mist had formed over it, and added tightly, “Just by being here.”