Command a King's Ship (32 page)

Whitmarsh moved vaguely towards the door and then said thickly, “And that man Potter you brought from the schooner, sir. You have put him to work already!”

Bolitho smiled. “Really, Mr. Whitmarsh, you do not give up easily. Potter is with the sailmaker as his assistant. He will not be worked to death, and I think that keeping busy will be a quicker cure than brooding over his recent sufferings.”

Whitmarsh stalked from the cabin, muttering under his breath.

Herrick exclaimed, “What impertinence! In your shoes I'd have laid about him with a belaying-pin!”

“I doubt that.” Bolitho shook the coffee pot, but it was empty. “But I feel that I'll never win his confidence, let alone his trust.”

Bolitho waited for Noddall to bring his dress coat and best cocked-hat, feeling rather ridiculous as the servant fussed and tugged at cuffs and lapels.

Herrick said bluntly, “I think it's a bad risk, sir.”

“One I'll have to take, Thomas.” He saw Noddall pull a long strand of hair from one of the buttons. Her hair. He wondered if Herrick had noticed. He continued, “We have to trust the French captain. All the rest is so much supposition.”

Noddall had taken the old sword from its rack on the bulk- head, but held it across his arm, knowing by now it was more than his life was worth to usurp Allday's ritual.

Bolitho thought of Whitmarsh's anger, and knew that much of it had good foundation. Had the prisoner been sent back in the schooner he would doubtlessly have been taken by Puigserver, if he was still at the settlement, or held in irons until he could be sent to the nearest Spanish authority. Then, if he was lucky, he would cer- tainly be hanged. If not, his fate hardly bore thinking about. Like father, like son.

As it was, the schooner's surviving crewmen, a savage-looking collection of half-castes, Javanese and Indians, would meet a swift fate before much longer.

How many lives had they taken, he wondered? How many ships plundered, crews murdered, or broken into husks like Potter, the Bristol sailmaker? The bargain was probably one-sided.

He walked from the cabin, still pondering the rights and wrongs of instant justice.

On deck it was remaining fresh, the day's heat yet to come, and he took a few paces along the weather side while there was still time. In the heavy dress coat he would be dripping unless he held to the sails' curved shadows.

Fowlar touched his forehead and said awkwardly, “May I thank you, sir?”

Bolitho smiled. “You have earned it, Mr. Fowlar, have no fear.”

He had made the master's mate an acting-lieutenant to fill the gap left by Davy. Had young Keen been aboard, it would have been his chance. Another would be put in Fowlar's place. And so it went on, as in all ships.

Herrick took Fowlar aside and waited until Bolitho was pacing again.

“A word of warning.
Never
interrupt the captain when he is taking his walks.” He smiled at Fowlar's uncertainty. “Unless in real emergency, of course, which does not include your promotion!” He touched his shirt. “But congratulations, all the same.”

Bolitho had already forgotten them. He had seen the dark smudge of land which just topped the glittering horizon, and was wondering what he might find there. It looked at this distance like one great spread of land, but he knew it consisted of a crowded collection of islets, some even smaller than the one where they had captured Davy's schooner. The Dutch had originally occupied them because of their shape and position. Ships anchored amidst the surrounding islets would have the advantage of using any wind to put to sea, the use of several channels to avoid delay. The fortress had been built to protect the place from marauders, such as the one who now commanded it and challenged all authority and every flag. The Dutch still listed the Benuas as one of their possessions. But it was in name only, and they were no doubt glad to be rid of it and its unhappy history.

He saw the sailmaker speaking with Potter below the fore- castle, and wondered if he would ever really recover from his suffering. It could not be easy for him to be drawing so near to Muljadi's stronghold again. But of all the people aboard, he was the only man, apart from the prisoner, who had seen what lay beyond the protective reefs and sandbars where he had endured so much.

He shivered slightly in spite of his heavy coat. Suppose he had misjudged his opponents? He, too, might become another Potter, a pitiful, broken thing which even his friends and his sisters in England might wish to think of as dead.

And Viola Raymond? How long would she take to forget him?

He shook himself out of his mood and said, “Mr. Soames! You may beat to quarters and clear for action now!” He saw the ripple of excitement run through the men on the gun deck. “Exercise the larboard battery first.”

Allday walked up the slanting deck and turned the sword over in his hands before buckling it to Bolitho's belt.

“You'll be taking me, of course, Captain.”

He spoke calmly, but Bolitho saw the anxiety in his eyes.

“Not this time.”

Calls shrilled along the berth deck, and the marine drummer boys ran breathlessly to the quarterdeck rail, pulling their sticks from their white crossbelts to begin their urgent tattoo.

Allday said stubbornly, “But you'll be
needing
me, Captain!”

“Yes.” Bolitho looked at him gravely. “I will always do that . . .”

The rest of his words were lost in the rattle of drums, the stam- pede of feet as the
Undine
's people ran to quarters once again.

15
F
ACE
TO
FACE

B
OLITHO
levelled his telescope across the hammock nettings and studied the overlapping islets in silence. All morning and into the forenoon watch, while
Undine
had cruised steadily towards them, he had noted each unusual feature, and had compared his findings with what he already knew. The main channel through the islets opened to the south, and almost in the centre of the ap- proach was one stark hump of rock upon which stood the old stone fortress. Even now, with the nearest spurs of land less than two miles distant, it was impossible to see where the fortress began or the craggy hilltop ended.

“We will alter course again, Mr. Herrick.” He lowered the glass and dabbed his eye with his wrist. “Steer east nor'-east.”

He saw the men by the larboard twelve-pounders peering through their open ports, the guns already shimmering in the sun- light as if they had just been fired.

Herrick shouted, “Hands to the braces! Alter course two points to larboard, Mr. Mudge!”

Bolitho sought out the frail figure of Potter amongst the un- employed hands below the forecastle, and when he glanced up beckoned him aft.

He slipped out of his heavy coat and handed it with his hat to Allday, saying as calmly as he could, “I will go aloft myself.”

Allday said nothing. He knew Bolitho well enough to under- stand what it was costing him.

Potter hurried on to the quarterdeck and knuckled his fore- head.

“Sir?”

“D'you think you could climb to the maintop with me?”

Potter stared at him dully. “If you says so, sir.”

Herrick called, “East nor'-east, sir!”

He looked from Bolitho to the mainyard stretching athwartships and vibrating to the great press of canvas below it.

Bolitho unbuckled his sword and gave it to Allday. “I may need your eyes today, Potter.”

Feeling every man watching him, he swung out on to the weather shrouds and begin to climb, his fingers locking so tightly around each ratline that the pain helped to steady him. Up and up, with his gaze fixed on the futtock shrouds which leaned out and around the sturdy maintop where two marines were studying his progress with unblinking curiosity.

Bolitho gritted his teeth and fought the urge to look down. It was infuriating. Unfair. He had first gone to sea at the age of twelve. Year by year he had studied and matured, had replaced his child's infatuation for the Navy with a genuine understanding which had amounted almost to love. He had overcome seasickness, and had learned to hide his loneliness and grief from his compan- ions when his mother had died while he had been at sea. So, too, his father was buried while Bolitho had been fighting Frenchman and American in and around the Caribbean. He had watched men suffer horribly in battle, and his body bore enough scars to show the narrow margin between his own survival and death. Why then, should he be cursed with this hatred of heights?

He felt his shoes scrabbling on the ratlines as he hauled him- self out and around the futtock shrouds, his body hanging in space and supported only by fingers and toes.

A marine said admiringly, “By God, sir, that was a fair climb!”

Bolitho arrived beside him, his chest heaving painfully. He watched the marine to see if he was disguising his sarcasm, but saw it was the same sharpshooter who had discovered the anchored schooner just two days back.

He nodded and allowed himself a glance at the ship far below.

Foreshortened bodies moved about the quarterdeck, and when he looked forward he saw the leadsman in the chains, the blur of his arm as he hurled the heavy weight deftly beyond the bows.

He relaxed, and waited for Potter to scramble up beside him.

For a moment longer he toyed with the idea of forcing himself up the next length of quivering shrouds to the maintopsail yard, but rejected it. Apart from proving something to himself, or show- ing his capability to those who might be watching from below, it would serve for little. Potter was exhausted by the climb, and if Herrick needed him urgently on deck he would look even more foolish if he fell headlong from his perch.

He unslung the telescope from his shoulder and trained it on the channel between the islets. In the time it had taken him to climb from the deck and regain his wind
Undine
had cruised over a cable, and it was possible to see the next overlapping islet behind the central hill with its forbidding fortress and steep, sunbaked cliff.

Potter said, “I never bin to the east'rd side, sir. There's a good channel there, too, I'm told.” He shuddered. “They used to bury the corpses in the sandbars at low water. What there was left of 'em.”

Bolitho stiffened and momentarily forgot the deck far beneath him. He saw the blacker silhouette of a ship's masts and yards al- most hidden around the curve of the inner channel. A frigate.

Potter saw his interest and added dolefully, “Best place to an- chor, sir. The battery on the fortress can protect two channels at once, an' any craft wot chooses to lay there.”

Something pale flapped and broadened against the furthest islet. A small boat hoisting its sail.

Bolitho glanced quickly at the foretopmast where Herrick had run up a big white flag. One way or another they would soon know.

There was a hollow boom, and after what seemed like an age, a tall waterspout shot skywards about a cable off the larboard beam. He trained the glass quickly towards the fortress, but the smoke had already fanned away so it was impossible to gauge the angle of the shot.

He shifted the glass again and saw the boat moving more quickly around a litter of broken rocks, the sail braced back like the fin of a great shark.

He let out a long breath as he saw a white flag flapping from her masthead. His request to parley was accepted. The single shot from the battery was a warning.

Bolitho slung the telescope across his shoulder. “You stay here, Potter. Keep an eye on everything, and try to remember any item which might be of use. It could well save lives one day.” He nodded casually to the two marine marksmen. “I hope you'll not be needed!” He slung a leg over the low barricade and tried not to lower his eyes. “
Argus
intends us to do all the sweating!”

The men grinned and nudged each other, as if he had just given them access to some priceless and vital information.

Bolitho swallowed hard and began to make the journey to the deck. When he reached the point where he could see the nettings on the opposite side again he allowed himself to look at the group which awaited him by the bulwark. Herrick was smiling, although whether from relief or amusement it was hard to tell. Bolitho jumped down to the deck and glanced ruefully at his fresh shirt. It was dripping with sweat, and bore a black streak of tar across one shoulder.

He said, “Never mind. The coat will hide that.” In a brisker tone he added, “A boat is coming out, Mr. Herrick. Heave-to, if you please, and prepare to anchor.”

He glanced up at the great yards again. It had not been quite so bad as he had imagined that time. Then he thought of the ideal conditions as compared with a screaming gale, or making the same climb in pitch darkness, and changed his mind.

Bolitho allowed Herrick to shout his orders before asking Mudge, “What did you make of that shot?”

The master regarded him dubiously. “Old gun, I'd say, sir. From where I was standin' it sounded like a bronze piece.”

Bolitho nodded. “As I thought, too. It would be likely that they'd still have the original cannon.” He rubbed his chin, thinking aloud. “So they'd be loath to use heated shot for fear of splitting them.” He grinned at Mudge's mournful expression. “Not that it matters much, I daresay. If they fired solid rock, they could scarcely fail to hit a ship trying to force the channel!”

Fowlar shouted, “The boat has an officer aboard, sir.” He grinned. “Most o' the hands are the colour of coffee, but he's a Frog if ever I saw one.”

Bolitho took a glass and watched the oncoming boat. Locally built, with the familiar high prow and lateen sail, it was moving fast and well on a converging tack. He saw the officer in question, standing easily below the mist, his cocked hat pulled down over his forehead to shade his eyes from the fierce glare. Fowlar was right. There was no mistaking this one.

He made himself walk a few paces away from the side, as with her courses brailed up and her topsails in booming confusion
Un- dine
turned noisily into the wind to await her visitors.

Bolitho gripped the rail and watched in silence as the boat surged round and under the main chains, where some of
Undine
's seamen and Mr. Shellabeer waited to secure her lines and, if nec- essary, fend off any risk of collision.

He said, “And now, Mr. Herrick, we shall see.”

He walked along the swaying gangway to the entry port and waited for the officer to scramble aboard. He stood quite alone framed against the cruising ranks of small whitecaps, his eyes ex- ploring
Undine
's gun deck, the watching seamen and marines above and below him. Seeing Bolitho, he removed his hat with a flourish and gave a small bow.

“Lieutenant Maurin,
m'sieu.
At your service.”

He bore no marks of rank, and his blue coat showed plenty of evidence of patching and repairs. He was tanned to the shade of old leather, and his eyes were those of a man who had been at sea for most of his life. Tough, self-assured, competent, it was all there on his face, Bolitho decided.

Bolitho nodded. “And I am Captain Bolitho, of His Majesty's ship
Undine
.”

The lieutenant gave a wry smile. “My
capitaine
'as been expect- ing you.”

Bolitho glanced briefly at the cockade on Maurin's hat. It bore the small red beast instead of a French insignia.

He asked, “And what is your nationality, Lieutenant?”

The man shrugged. “I am employed in the service of Prince Muljadi.” He shrugged again. “Naturally.”

Bolitho gave a wry smile.
“Naturally.”

He added sharply, “I wish to meet your captain, and without delay. I have certain matters to discuss.”

“But of course,
m'sieu
.” The lieutenant was looking at the men on deck. His eyes were always moving. Calculating. He continued, “Capitaine Le Chaumareys is prepared for me to remain aboard as 'ostage to ensure your, er, good 'ealth!”

Bolitho hid his relief. Had Le Chaumareys been killed or re- placed he might have had to alter his tactics.

He said calmly, “It will not be necessary. I have every faith in your captain's honour.”

Herrick exclaimed, “But, sir, you cannot mean it! Keep him, I say! Your life is too valuable to risk on a Frenchman's word!”

Bolitho looked at him and smiled. “If Le Chaumareys is the callous brute you describe, do you imagine he would care about losing a lieutenant if it were to gain him a better bargaining point?” He touched his arm. “I have made some notes in my cabin. They may help you to pass the time in my absence.” He touched his hat to the quarterdeck and said to Maurin, “I am ready.”

For a moment longer he stood in the port, looking down into the boat alongside. There were about a dozen men aboard, naked but for a few scraps of rags, but armed to the teeth, and with the looks of men prepared to kill without question.

Maurin said quietly, “You will be safe with me,
m'sieu.
” He low- ered himself swiftly on to the boat's gunwale, adding, “For the moment.”

Bolitho jumped the last few feet and steadied himself against a crude backstay, very conscious of the acrid stench of sweat and filth which floated unheeded in the bilges.

“You choose strange allies, Lieutenant.”

Maurin signalled for the boat to be cast off, one hand resting casually on his pistol.

“Lie with a dog and you arise with fleas,
m'sieu.
It is quite common.”

Bolitho glanced at his profile. Another Herrick perhaps?

Then as the sail billowed and cracked to the wind, and the slim hull began to gather way, he forgot Maurin, even the anxious faces on
Undine
's quarterdeck, as he considered what he was about to do.

Bolitho clung to the backstay as the boat scudded dangerously close to a line of black-toothed rocks and then went about to enter the main channel. He noticed that the current was strong and at odds with the incoming sea, and felt the hull leap and stagger as it straightened up for the final leg of the journey. When he looked astern he could see nothing of his own ship. She was already hid- den by a wedge of land, the side of which lay deep in shadow.

Maurin asked suddenly, “Why d'you take such risks,
m'sieu
?”

Bolitho looked at him impassively. “Why do you?”