Passage to Mutiny (12 page)

A pistol exploded from the gangway and a ball sang past Bolitho's face as he hauled himself on to the deck. The two men on watch were caught in the pale light, one looking at Bolitho, the other still gaping towards the forecastle as if expecting to hear another scream.

Seamen surged on to the deck, knocking each other aside in their eagerness to reach the two men. Cutlasses swished in the air, and the men fell with barely a sound.

From the poop came more shouts, and it sounded as if others were clambering through the forward hatch towards the forecastle.

But Keen and his men were already dashing along the gang-ways, firing into the hatch and towards the starboard cathead where a man had been clinging to get a view of the shark, or to hide.

Bolitho ran wildly towards the poop, almost falling as a figure loomed from behind a companionway and barred his path. He ducked aside and cut out with his sword, feeling it jar against steel as the man met his attack. Hilts locked they lurched towards the wheel, while seamen charged past, and others paused, feverishly trying to reload their weapons.

In the far distance Bolitho heard the crackle of musket fire and knew Quare was dealing with the sentries from the headland. He could feel nothing but cold hatred for the unknown man who was pressed against him. It was like being somewhere else. An onlooker. The man's breath, strong with brandy, the heat of his body, were all part of the unreality.

Bolitho felt the heavy thrust of the man's forearm. He stepped back, catching him off balance and swinging him round against the bulwark. Something flashed past his eyes, and he heard the sickening crunch of steel in bone as Allday sent the man pitching down a ladder. Allday spun round again, reaching out with the cutlass, as a dark figure ran from the poop, saw him and hesitated just too long. Allday, his legs carrying him across the deck like a charging bull, hacked the man across one shoulder, and as he fell shrieking finished him with a heavy blow on the neck.

Another was on his knees, babbling and pleading in a language which might have been almost anything, although the meaning was clear enough.

Miller seized him by the hair and then drove one knee into his face before lifting him bodily and pitching him over the rail. The attendant thrashing and bursting spray alongside showed there were other sharks hurrying to an unexpected prize.

Light flowed from a door below the poop, and Bolitho saw a man framed in it, crouching as he peered blindly towards the din of steel and yelling seamen. Bolitho dragged out his pistol and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened, so he hurled it at the door and ran straight for it, the speed of his charge almost dragging the sword from his grip as he plunged it into the man's body.

He half turned, hearing cries and more shots, seemingly from the water itself. Someone was getting away in a boat.

But he could leave that to Keen. He kicked the door aside, thrusting the dying man off the coaming, and then leapt into
Eurotas'
s poop. It was like a scene from bedlam. Cabin doors hung open or were smashed down. Clothing, weapons and all manner of personal belongings were strewn everywhere.

On the deck above he heard a voice, shrill with terror, and then Miller's loud and menacing, “Stand still, you little bastard!” The sound ended with a body slithering across the poop deck and one final gasp.

Bolitho stepped slowly aft, his sword across his body, his feet stepping carefully so as not to trip in the scattered and looted confusion.

“
Easy,
Cap'n!” He recognized Jenner's drawl. “Next cabin.”

He ducked past Bolitho, his shadow swaying across the screen doors, with two more seamen close on his heels. His face lit up as a pistol exploded from the cabin, and the man nearest him fell clutching his stomach, blood already gushing from his mouth. Jenner drew back his arm and a small dirk flew through the door like a flash of lightning.

When Bolitho reached the door Jenner was tugging the blade from the victim's chest, wiping it carefully on the man's leg.

More feet clattered along the maindeck, and Keen burst into the poop, a curved hanger in one hand, an empty pistol like a club in the other.

“We've taken the forecastle and the rest of the upper deck, sir.” He was breathing very fast, and his eyes were shining in the lanternlight with the desperate wildness of battle. He added, “Some got away in a boat, but I think the sharpshooters are trying to mark them down.” He looked at the corpse. “We managed to seize two prisoners.”

Bolitho said tightly, “Open the after hatch, but be ready for tricks. Tell Mr Ross to take over the upper deck. Someone might try to cut the cable.”

He walked past the last of the cabins to the large one in the stern. Again the disorder of clothing and sea chests. A meal half-eaten on the master's table. A woman's dress too, with blood on it.

It was suddenly very quiet, as if the whole ship was listening, stricken with terror.

“Come.” He strode out of the cabin, Allday behind him, his head turning from side to side as if to protect Bolitho from attack.

When the hatch was opened, and not without difficulty as it was wedged tight with bars and chains as if in a slave ship, Bolitho was sickened by the stench of bodies and fear which rose to meet him and his men.

Still no sound at all. Just the regular creak of spars and rigging. Perhaps they had killed everyone aboard?

Allday whispered, “If anyone's down there, Captain, they must think hell itself has boarded the ship.”

Bolitho stared at him. Why hadn't he thought of that? The horror they must have endured, the sheer terror of the past weeks, and then the deafening onslaught of
Tempest'
s seamen. No wonder there was no sound.

He stood on the edge of the hatch, ignoring Allday's sudden anxiety and the fact he was probably framed against the moonlight.

“Stand fast below!”
He waited, hearing his voice echo around the deck. “You are in the hands of His Britannic Majesty's Ship
Tempest!
”

For a moment longer he imagined his worst fears were realized, and then as if out of the bowels of the ship he heard a mounting, combined chorus of cries and sobs.

“Down quickly, lads!”

Bolitho waited as more seamen dashed to the hatch with lanterns and then stumbled with them to the deck below. Here there was another hatch, beside which stood a chair from the officers' quarters, a tankard near it to mark where a guard had been sitting at the moment of attack.

They withdrew more heavy bars and lifted the hatch. It was a small hold, one which had been used for cabin stores, without light or much ventilation. It was packed from side to side and bulkhead to bulkhead with people. It was like looking down at a solid carpet of upturned, terrified faces. Men and women, dirty, dishevelled, and at the last stage of survival.

Bolitho kept his tone as level as he could. “Have no fear. My people will take care of you.”

He thought about his small boarding party. He did not yet know how many of them had died or were wounded. If this crowd chose to attack them, they would stand little chance, weapons or no weapons. There must be close on two hundred souls down there.

Miller strode to the hatch. He seemed calm again, his voice crisp as he gestured for some hands to enter the hold. But from the side of his mouth he said quietly, “Mr Ross 'as three swivels loaded with canister and trained inboard, sir. If they start to show their metal he'll sweep the deck afore they knows what's 'it 'em.”

So he was not fully recovered from the killing.

It was terrible to watch as the people began to emerge from the packed hold. Some held on to each other from weakness and from fear. For whatever Bolitho's voice may have implied, he knew he and his men did not look like part of the King's Navy.

One man, cut above the eyes, and his face so bruised it was almost black, was wearing the jacket of a sailor.

Bolitho asked, “Who are you?”

The man stared at him blankly until Allday took his arm and guided him away from the slow-moving procession.

Then he said, “Archer, sir. Ship's cooper.”

Bolitho said quietly, “The passengers, where are they?”

“Passengers?” It was an effort even to think. “I—I think they'm still on the orlop deck, sir.” He gestured about him. “Most of these are being deported.” He almost fell. “We bin down there for days.” He stared around. “
Water
. I must have water.”

Bolitho snapped, “Broach every cask you can find, Miller. Sort them out. You know what to do. Tell Mr Ross to send a boat for Sergeant Quare's party at once.” He sheathed his sword, his mind rebelling against the necessary details. To Allday he added, “Orlop. Lively now.”

Another hatch, another ladder, and down below the water-line. Even in a ship of
Eurotas'
s tonnage and girth there was no room to stand upright between deck beams.

Lanterns swayed to greet them as more seamen entered the orlop deck by another hatch further forward.

Tiny cabins, like hutches, lined the sides of the hull. Much like those in a man-of-war where the ship's professionals lived and slept, always cut off from natural daylight. Sailmakers and coopers, like the man Archer. Carpenters and quartermasters.

“Open the doors!”

He heard a woman weeping hysterically, and a man further down the line of cabins pleading with her to be brave.

Allday snapped, “Here, Captain!”

Bolitho strode to the door while Allday held a lantern for him. She was sitting on an upturned chest, her arm around a girl with long black hair, probably the one they had seen chased around the upper deck.

The girl was moaning, her face hidden against Viola Raymond's shoulder, her fingers digging into the cream-coloured gown like small, frantic claws.

Bolitho could barely speak. At his back he could hear the confused cries and sobs of people being reunited, and others looking for friends and relatives without success.

But it was all part of something else.

Viola stood up slowly, taking the girl with her. She said softly, “Go with him.” She tightened her grasp as the terror shook the girl's body. “He is a good man and will do you no harm.”

The girl moved from her, one hand still held out. As if she was being cut adrift, Bolitho thought.

Allday had left the lantern and closed the door behind them.

Bolitho reached out and held her shoulders, feeling her reserve crumbling as she threw her arms round his neck and buried her mouth against his cheek.

“You came!” She gripped him even tighter. “Oh, my darling Richard,
you came back for us!
”

He said, “I'll take you aft!”

“
No.
Not there.” She looked up at him, and he could sense her disbelief. “Take me on deck.”

They made their way through the jostling crowds of men and women, seamen and the newly arrived marines until they reached the high poop. Then she stood facing the wind, repeatedly pushing her fingers up and through her hair, and taking long breaths as if each was to be her last.

Bolitho could only watch her. Afraid for her. Wanting to help.

He made himself ask, “Your husband? Is he safe?”

She nodded slowly and then turned towards him. “But where is your ship?”

He replied, “It was too great a risk. They would have killed everyone by the time
Tempest
worked into the bay.”

She walked across the deck, her gown swishing on the worn planking. She did not speak, but kept her eyes on him until their bodies touched.

Then, and only then, did she break down, sobbing into his chest, oblivious to the ship and everyone around her.

Keen paused with one foot on top of the poop ladder, his mouth set to frame a dozen questions for his captain. Seeing them together he changed his mind and returned to the maindeck, his voice suddenly firm after the madness he had seen and shared.

“Lay aft, Mr Ross. Mr Swift, tend to the wounded, and then report to me!”

Allday watched him, remembering him as the young midshipman he had once saved from an agonizing death. Now he was a man. A King's officer.

Then he turned and glanced towards the poop. Well he should be a good one, he thought. He had the best there was as his example.

6
R
EVENGE

B
OLITHO
put down the pen and stretched his arms. It was early evening. Too soon for a lantern, but not bright enough for any more writing. He glanced around
Eurotas'
s big cabin, picturing it as it had been when he had burst through the door. Now, with the deck cleared of looted boxes and clothing, it looked almost normal.

He stood up and walked to the tall windows. Away on the starboard quarter, leaning to a fresh breeze, his own ship,
Tempest,
made a perfect sight, her topsails and topgallants pale pink in the sunlight, her stem throwing up spray as she ploughed indifferently across each rank of rollers.

Herrick was holding
Tempest
well up to windward, just in case there should be another attack. If anyone was foolhardy enough to make such an attempt, he would bring the frigate dashing down at full speed, presenting the other face Bolitho had seen just three days back.

As he had taken
Eurotas
carefully from her anchorage in the bay,
Tempest
had tacked around the headland, exactly as he and Herrick had originally planned. It was the first time Bolitho had seen his own ship cleared for action from outboard. She had looked more than hostile with her guns run out like black teeth, her big courses brailed up to the yards to reveal the crouching marines in the tops and against the hammock nettings, muskets already trained on the slow-moving merchantman.

As Herrick had explained later when he had come aboard, he was taking no chances. Even
Eurotas'
s flag hastily run up to the peak, and Swift's signals from the deck, had not convinced him. His best gun captains had dropped two twelve-pound balls almost alongside even as
Tempest
had made the signal to heave to and receive boarders.

While he had listened to Bolitho's story, and had seen the chaos and disorder for himself, Herrick had reacted much as Bolitho had expected. His relief at finding Bolitho alive, and the attack completed successfully, had given way to reproach.

“You should have waited for us, sir. Anything might have happened. You could have been killed or taken by those scum.”

Even when Bolitho had explained how the American, Jenner, had discovered one of the pirates hiding in a magazine with a lighted slow-match and had forced a confession from him that his orders were to blow up the ship and everyone aboard, Herrick remained stubbornly critical.

Bolitho smiled grimly, recalling Herrick's attempts to maintain his sternness. It never lasted for long.

In the three days it had taken to stand clear of the islands and head towards Sydney again he had done a great deal of thinking; also he had examined the evidence and made out a report for the governor, and for Commodore Sayer.

The attack had broken out within the ship after fire had been reported in a forward hold. In the ensuing confusion, which had been hardly surprising in a vessel filled with civilians and deported prisoners, the poop had been rushed and seized by some of the “passengers” who had boarded
Eurotas
at Santa Cruz where she had put in for fruit and wine for the long voyage around the Horn.
Eurotas'
s comings and goings must have been watched and checked for many months.

By the time the crew had discovered the fire to be nothing more than oiled rags in a large iron pot, the ship was in new hands. Some of the prisoners had been brought on deck and had immediately gone over to the attackers. Some had tried to protect their wives and had been instantly killed. Captain Lloyd had been ordered at pistol-point to change tack and head towards the islands. That had apparently been a bad moment for the pirates as they had been sighted and had received recognition signals from a mail packet en route to Sydney.

Once within sight of the islands all hopes of retaking the vessel or putting up any sort of resistance were dashed. A large, heavily armed schooner had escorted them to the bay, and had sent aboard two boatloads of men.

As one of the loyal seamen had exclaimed, “The most terrible villains you ever seed, sir!”

It had been then that the real horror had begun. Looting and drunkenness had been the order of the day. While some of the pirates had directed the unloading of cargo and weapons, money and stores, using the dazed and frightened prisoners like slaves, others had gone on a wild rampage through the ship. Several people had been beaten or hacked to death, women and young girls raped time and time again in a frenzy of brutal cruelty.

Captain Lloyd, no doubt dismayed that his own lack of vigilance had allowed it all to come about, had made a final attempt to overcome his guards and rally the loyal men to his aid.

It had been in vain, and the next day there had been no sign of Lloyd or his mates, or indeed most of his senior men.

Bolitho found himself moving round the cabin, recalling Viola's eyes as she had described the nightmare. Every hour was filled with despair and terror. The pirates came and went, abusing men and women like beasts, sometimes fighting with each other in a daze of brandy and rum.

Although battened down on the orlop, she was convinced there was also another ship in the bay for part of the time. She had heard the guns being moved from the
Eurotas
and into a ship alongside. It sounded as if the vessel was lower than
Eurotas,
perhaps the same size as the schooner.

She had been imprisoned in the little cabin on the orlop for much of the time, sharing it with a young girl who had been deported for theft.

Every day the girl had been dragged screaming from the cabin, while the pirates had left Viola in no doubt that the fate reserved for her was to be the worst.

Only once had she broken down as she had described the sacking of the
Eurotas.
It had been when she had recalled her feelings as
Tempest
appeared in the bay.

Eurotas
had been harried and attacked by hostile natives, and she had heard it was because the schooner had raided one of the islands and had left more carnage behind them there.

Viola had said quietly, “I knew you had come, Richard. I have been following your career, watching for fresh appointments in the
Gazette.
When I saw young Valentine Keen appear over the side I
knew
it was your ship.”

She also described how the leader of the pirates left to guard the
Eurotas
had threatened them all with instant death by firing the magazine if one made the slightest attempt to warn the boarding party.

“I could not just stand there, Richard. That brute had paraded a handful of passengers to make it appear normal. He and some of the others had donned company uniforms. There had been so much killing. So many terrible things.” She had raised her chin, the brightness in her eyes making her sudden defiance fragile. “Had it been any other ship but yours, Richard, I could have done nothing. But the watch. I
knew
you would remember.”

“It was a terrible risk.”

She had smiled then. “Well worth it.”

Bolitho looked around the cabin. She had been brought here to meet the real leader of the pirates. Her description had been a good one. A giant of a man, with a beard halfway down his chest. His name was Tuke, and he was English, or so it seemed.

Viola had said, “A man with neither mercy nor any sort of scruple. His language was as foul as himself. He goaded me. Raped me with his words. He was enjoying my helplessness, my complete dependence on him whether I lived or died. But for my husband's importance, and his usefulness as hostage, I think I would have quickly followed the fate of the others.”

Bolitho found he was pacing more urgently, his stomach muscles contracting as if he were already in close-combat with the pirate called Tuke.

Now the schooner and her consort, if there was one, were somewhere in hiding. Gloating over their loot and the women they had taken with the first load. An island, or islands, not too far from here, he thought. The chart told him nothing, and the two pirates taken alive, little more. They were typical of their calling. Brutalized by murder and hard living. Their leaders might grow rich on their spoils, but men such as these lived hand to mouth like the savages they were.

Even threats had left them untouched. They would die on a gibbet anyway. There would be no torture, and their fear of Tuke was greater, even in the hangman's shadow, than of anything their captors could offer.

Including the luckless swimmer, Haggard, who had been killed by a shark, Bolitho had lost three men. Considering the darkness, the unfamiliarity of the ship, it was a miracle. Even the wounded looked as if they would recover within a few weeks. The risk had been justified.
Vital.

The outer door of the cabin opened and James Raymond walked aft through the screen. He was freshly changed into a clean shirt and neat green coat, and displayed little sign of his ordeal. For several seconds he stood looking at Bolitho, his features giving nothing away.

He was about the same age as Bolitho, but his face, once handsome, had become marred with a permanent frown. Petulance, disapproval, it was all there.

He acted as if he owned the ship. Had been behaving like the one dependable man aboard since Bolitho had seen him released from another tiny cabin. He had not met him for five long years. All the while he had imagined that Raymond's path to better things had been furthered by his work in the Indies, by his treachery to the governor he had been sent to advise.

Now it seemed different. While Bolitho had fretted at being kept at sea, far from the scenes of greater happenings, Raymond had been sliding towards ignominy. This appointment he had been sent to occupy sounded even lower than the one held five years ago. It was impossible to read his reactions on the matter from what he said.

Raymond remarked coolly, “Still writing your reports, eh, Captain?”

“Aye, sir.” Bolitho regarded him evenly, trying to conceal the anger he felt for him. “There's more to this than I first imagined.”

“Really?”

Raymond walked to the windows and stared towards the frigate.

“This man Tuke.” Bolitho checked himself. Once before he had shared too much of his confidence with Raymond. He said, “From this ship alone he has equipped himself royally.”

“Hmm.” Raymond turned, his face in shadow. “It is a pity you could not have taken him and his damned hirelings!”

“It is.”

Bolitho watched him, the way his hands opened and closed at his sides. He was less calm than he pretended. He wondered what would happen when they reached port, what story Raymond would tell. From what he had already gathered, Raymond had been pleading for his life when Tuke's men had seized the
Eurotas.

It was to be hoped Raymond had not bartered secrets for personal safety. The Great South Sea was attracting the flags of a dozen countries. Always the search for more trade, further influence and territory.

Perhaps the authorities in Sydney knew more than they said. Bolitho hoped so, for with only
Tempest
and the elderly
Hebrus
to represent the King's authority, any additional threat in these vast waters did not bear consideration.

Raymond complained, “I have lost a great deal of money. Those damned rogues—” He faltered, caught off guard by his own disclosure. “I'll see them all hanged!”

The door opened and Viola Raymond stood with one hand steadying herself against the screen as the deck tilted heavily.

Bolitho watched her, the stiff way she held her shoulder. Again he felt the rage churning inside him. Tuke had pressed the heated tip of a knife against her bare skin.
His mark.
It must have been agony.

She said, “Who will you see hanged, James?” She did not hide her contempt. “I do not see you as a man of action.”

Raymond replied harshly, “That is enough. Your stupidity might have cost us our lives. But for you—”

“But for her quick thinking most of the prisoners and loyal men would have been burned alive in this ship.” Bolitho faced him. “Maybe you would have been spared. I cannot tell. But the deaths of so many set against money and personal trappings seems too great for my reasoning.”

He looked away, feeling Raymond's hatred and Viola's compassion.

“I lost some good men, too. Did you think to ask about them? To know if a young seaman called Haggard, who was seized by a shark, has a family or a widow in England?” He shrugged. “I suppose I should be used to such indifference, but it still snares my throat.”

Raymond said hoarsely, “
One day,
Captain Bolitho, I'll make you regret your insolence. I am not blind, nor am I a fool.”

She asked, “Are you going on deck, Captain?” She glanced at her husband. “I have endured enough for one day.”

They walked between the other cabins, and Bolitho heard Raymond slam a door with such force it sounded as if it would tear from its hinges. He paused in the shadow, one hand on her wrist.