Command a King's Ship (15 page)

He tried not to think about the brigantine. But for his action she would be in ignorance of
Undine
's presence. It was obvious they had not seen her, nor had they understood who had attacked and tried to capture their ship. After all, it was not unknown for one slaver to prey upon another for extra profit.

But now, because of his persistence, her master would recognise
Undine
as soon as he stood out to sea.
Undine
would be unable to venture too close inshore, and a long chase would prove just as fruitless. So, if he had been involved in delaying Puigserver's mission, he would now know that
Undine
at least was on her way.

He clenched his fingers around his sword until the pain stead- ied him. But for Rojart they would have succeeded. How many battles had been lost by a single, stupid oversight? Poor Rojart. The ship which had destroyed his
Nervion
was the last thing he had seen on earth. Then she had murdered him just as brutally.

The bowman called, “I can see a beach to larboard, Cap'n! Looks safe enough!”

Allday glanced at Bolitho's shoulders, feeling his despair as if it were his own.

Bolitho said, “Take her there, Allday.” He pushed his other thoughts aside with something like physical force. “We will work in three watches. Two hours at a time.” He tried again. “Post sen- tries, and keep a good lookout.”

The bowman leapt over the stem and waded into the shallows, a line across his ragged shoulder like a halter. The boat nudged on to hard sand, tilting drunkenly to the current and the sudden shift of men as they staggered ashore.

Bolitho listened to Soames as he picked out his sentries for the first watch. Had he been in charge of the boarding party, would he have hesitated? He doubted it. Soames would have done what he saw as his duty, helpless slaves or not, and put a ball through the brigantine's bottom or touched off her magazine. In this climate she would have been gutted in minutes, leaving the slavers isolated and easy to capture at leisure.

Because he had not been able to destroy the slaves, Bolitho had gained nothing. And he had lost nearly a third of his original party as well.

Allday slumped down beside him and handed him a water flask.

“I've secured the boat, Captain.” He yawned hugely. “I just hope we don't have to pull too far in it, that's all.” Then he said, “Don't you fret, things aren't that bad.” When Bolitho remained silent he added, “We've seen an' done much worse in our time. I know some of our people took to their heels instead of rallying when they were most needed, but times are different, or seem so to many of 'em.”

Bolitho looked at him dully, but could not see his expression.

“How so?”

Allday shrugged. “They don't see the sense in getting killed for a few slaves, or a ship they know nothing about. In the old
Phalarope
it was different, y'see. A flag to follow, an enemy you could recognise.”

Bolitho laid back against a tree and closed his eyes, hearing the jungle coming alive for the night. Squeaks and roars, groans and rustlings.

He said, “You mean that they do not care?”

Allday grinned. “If it was a
proper
war, Captain, a real one like the last, we'd soon make 'em into fighters.”

“So, unless they are threatened personally they will not fight for those less fortunate?” Bolitho opened his eyes and studied the stars overhead, “Before this voyage is done, I fear that some of them may come to understand otherwise.”

But Allday had fallen asleep, his cutlass across his chest like a dead knight.

Bolitho stood up quietly and walked to the boat to see how the wounded man had settled down for the night. He saw the stars reflected on the sluggish water, and was surprised to discover he was feeling less despairing.

He looked back at the trees, but Allday's shape was lost in darkness. By accident or design he did not know, but it had often happened with Allday. He seemed to hit upon the very thing which was troubling him in his simple, open manner. Not dispel it completely, but stand back from it and keep it in its proper per- spective.

When he reached the boat he found the seaman sleeping heavily, his rough bandage very white against the planking.

Keen looked up, startled. “Sorry, I did not see you, sir.”

Bolitho replied, “Rest, easy, Mr. Keen. We are snug here for the night.”

As he walked away, Fowlar, who had been washing his face and hands in the water, moved to the boat and said admiringly, “What a man, eh? Never a one to weep an' wail when things go hard.”

Keen nodded. “I know. I hope I'm like him one day.”

Fowlar laughed, the sound bringing more cries from the forest. “Bless you, Mr. Keen, I'm sure he'd be flattered to know that!”

Keen turned back to watch the wounded seaman. Under his breath he said fervently, “Well, I
do,
and that's an end to it!”

In the pale glow of morning both sea and sky were joined by a filtered, milky haze. As the overcrowded longboat moved ponder- ously away from the trees and tiny beaches which lined both sides of the inlet, Bolitho watched for some sign of life or movement which might betray an ambush. A few birds floated overhead, and far beyond the last jutting spit of land he saw open water, colourless in the strange light.

He turned his attention to the men in the boat. Their brief rest seemed to have had little effect. They looked tired and anxious, their clothes filthy with dirt and dried blood, faces dark with stubble. There was little to associate them with a King's ship.

Soames was standing upright beside Allday, peering ahead, watching the men who baled away the seeping water, keeping an eye on the remaining wounded sailor. His eyes were never still.

Keen was right forward, squatting on the stemhead, his bare legs and feet dangling in the water while he watched the nearest bank, his body sagging as if from a great weight.

The hull lifted and dipped as the first inshore swell rolled into the inlet. Some of the men croaked with alarm, but most merely stared listlessly in front of them, beyond caring.

Bolitho said, “We will turn to larboard when we get into open water. It will make our meeting with
Undine
's boats all the quicker.”

Soames glanced at him. “Could be hours before they come. It'll be like a damned oven today, I'm thinking.”

Bolitho groped for his watch and winced as his fingers touched the bruise. When he lifted the watch from his pocket he stared at it for several seconds, seeing where the ball had lanced from it, smashing both shield and mechanism to fragments, but saving him from injury. But for it, he would probably be dying now, or at best a prisoner aboard the brigantine.

Soames said quietly, “Made short work of that, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. He could remember exactly when his mother had given it to him. He had just been commissioned lieutenant. The watch had meant a lot to him, partly because it reminded him of her, of her gentleness and forbearance over losing her family to the sea.

The boat tilted, and several voices shouted in protest, and he saw Keen struggling back into the hull, his face shocked as he yelled, “Ahead, sir! Larboard bow!”

Bolitho stood up, one hand on Allday's shoulder as he stared at the two low shapes which were emerging around the last spit of land. They were moving quite fast, the long paddles plunging and rising in perfect unison as they headed purposefully into the inlet.

Fowlar said harshly, “War canoes. I seen plenty of 'em in my time. There'll be more close by, if I'm not mistaken.” He dragged out his pistol and fumbled with a powder horn.

Soames slitted his eyes to watch the two low canoes, his face like a mask.

“God's teeth, there must be thirty men in each of 'em!”

One of the seamen shouted wildly, “It ain't fair! We got no reason to fear 'em, lads! We ain't no slavers!”

“Silence, that man!” Fowlar cocked the pistol and rested it on his forearm. “To them we're all the bloody same, so hold your noise!”

Bolitho said, “Speed the stroke. They may let us pass.”

Allday kept his eyes on the oars. “If you say so, Captain.”

Another man called, “Astern, sir! I can see the brigantine's tops'ls!”

Bolitho turned carefully to avoid unsettling the oarsmen. The man had not been mistaken. Far astern, and moving at a snail's pace above some low trees, was a limp square of sail. The slaver must have taken stock of his position and got under way before dawn. The lifeless canvas told Bolitho that the ship was being warped downstream with the aid of her boats. But once in open water she would be free and away. He glanced again at the advanc- ing canoes. Whereas he and his men would stay here and die. If they were lucky.

Soames asked, “What can we do, sir? We can't outpace those canoes, and they'll not let us get near enough to grapple.” He was fidgeting with his sword-hilt, showing anxiety for the first time.

Bolitho called, “Check the powder and shot.”

There would not be much left. What with the confused battle ashore and his own boarding party leaving their weapons behind, he could hope for very little.

Fowlar reported, “Bare enough for one shot per man, sir.”

“Very well. Send the two best marksmen aft. Give them all the powder you have.” To Soames he added softly, “We might hold them off until our own boats come for us.”

The canoes had stopped, their paddles glinting as they backed at the water, holding the slim hulls motionless like a pair of pike.

Bolitho wished he had a telescope, but that too lay some- where in the jungle. He could see the natives clearly enough, their skins very black, their bodies angled to the paddles in readiness to move at a second's notice. In the stern of each hull was a tall man wearing a bright head-dress, his body hidden by an oval shield. He thought of the slaves in the clearing. The girl who had been killed on the brigantine's deck. These silent watchers would show no mercy for anyone. He saw the spears glinting in the growing sun- light. Only blood would satisfy them.

Nearer and nearer, until less than half a cable separated them from the poised canoes. Bolitho looked at the two muskets in the sternsheets. Fowlar had one, and a scar-faced seaman held the other. Between them the pile of powder and shot seemed even smaller now.

“Bear to starboard, Allday.” He was surprised how unemo- tional he sounded. “They will have to move soon.”

As the longboat swung heavily towards the centre of the open- ing both canoes came alive, the paddles darting into the water at a great pace, the air suddenly filled with the beat of a drum and the animal cry of a single warrior in the prow of the leading craft.

Bolitho felt the boat thrusting ahead beneath his feet, saw the sweat on the oarsmen's faces, the eyes which turned to watch the oncoming canoes widening with fear.

He shouted, “Take care! Keep the stroke! Eyes in the boat!”

Something hit the water alongside and threw spray over his leg. It must have been a heavy stone, for immediately a whole vol- ley of them rained down on the heads and backs of the struggling seamen, knocking some of them unconscious. The stroke was fail- ing, and one oar had drifted away as still more jagged stones plunged amongst them.

Bolitho said, “Open fire!”

Fowlar squeezed his trigger, and cursed as the ball went astray. The other musket banged out, and one of the natives screamed and pitched from his canoe.

Soames yelled, “Keep baling!”

He fired his pistol abeam, and swore with satisfaction as an- other black figure plunged into the water.

Both canoes were swinging round in a wide arc to follow astern, one on either quarter. They were cut off now from each side of the inlet, and ahead the sea was opening up to greet them, mocking them with its emptiness.

Fowlar fired again, and had better luck, bringing down a plumed figure who was apparently beating out the time for the paddles.

The seamen were all so busy at the oars, or peering fearfully astern, that hardly any of them saw the real threat until it was al- most too late.

Bolitho yelled, “Get forrard, Mr. Fowlar! Fire when you can!”

He stared fixedly at the canoes which had suddenly swept around the green hump of land, spreading out like a fan as they surged towards him. A dozen at least, all filled with whooping, screaming savages. The first shot made them falter, but only for minutes. Then they came on again, the canoes cutting through the inshore swell like sword-blades.

Some of the seamen were whimpering and pulling haphaz- ardly at their oars, others tried to stand up, while a few began to gather fallen stones to defend themselves.

Fowlar yelled, “That is my last ball, sir!” He cursed as a heavy stone, hurled at extreme range by a sling, glanced off the gunwale and cut open the back of his hand.

The leading canoe was drawing very near, the din of chanting and the drum almost deafening.