Passage to Mutiny (20 page)

“Let go and haul!”

Bolitho watched, hardly daring to breathe, as the land began to move very slowly to larboard as his ship responded to rudder and canvas.

A grating crash brought more startled shouts, and he saw a ball upend another gun, slewing it right round amidst its severed tackles and gasping men as if to turn upon its own ship in revenge.

Rigging fell from the maintopmast in black, glittering coils, and heavy blocks bounced and trailed over the nets like live things.

Through it all, urging and threatening, sliding in blood or colliding with men employed at trimming the yards, Keen and his subordinates sent more hands across to the still unfired starboard battery.

All these things were recorded in Bolitho's brain like writing on parchment. Keen was keeping his head, knew that once around they might have a faint chance of finding and hitting their attackers before they reached open water again.

Crash!
Lakey yelled, “Main t'gallant, sir!
Watch out on deck!
”

Like a giant, murderous tree, the whole topgallant mast and yard, all its canvas, blocks and shrouds swept down and through the flimsy protection with the sound of an avalanche. It fell across the larboard side, breaking down nettings, whipping men from their feet and flinging them aside like dolls.

Bolitho felt the ship stagger under the onslaught, sensed the change in motion as the tangle dragged at the hull like a great sea-anchor.

Jury was booming, “Axes there! Clear it away! Get those wounded below!”

His great voice seemed to rally the dazed gun crews along the side where the topgallant mast had fallen. More trailing halliards and ratlines, followed by the masthead pendant, splashed over the side, surging around some corpses and a few frantic swimmers as if to suck them under.

Somewhere through the din and smoke Bolitho heard the fore-topsail filling to the change of tack, and saw the land loom dangerously close while
Tempest
continued to turn.

The planks bucked beneath him, throwing up splinters like jagged darts as a ball smashed through the poop and explored the semi-darkness between decks in a trail of destruction and terror.

In disbelief Bolitho saw the sun glinting on clear water, a distant island very green in the untroubled light. In the opposite direction the trailing smoke from his ship mingled with that of the inlet and glowed above the burning village.

One more ball struck the hull right aft, a great hammer-blow, as if to mark the final seal of defeat.

Bolitho listened to voices resuming command and order, the cries of the wounded becoming fainter as men died or were carried below to the orlop for Gwyther and his mates to tend as best they could.

The broken mast and spars were drifting clear of the stern, and he saw one man sitting astride the crosstrees, staring after his ship, too stunned to know what was happening.

Borlase lurched towards him. “We are out of range, sir.” It seemed as if he had to speak, although his voice was thick and unsteady.

Midshipman Swift was on his knees beside one of his men.

“Hold on, Fisher!”

He peered round desperately for aid, his powder-grimed face streaked with sweat, or perhaps they were tears, Bolitho thought.

The wounded seaman was one of the older hands, and had been put in the signals party because of his inability to swarm aloft as he had once done. Two bad falls had rendered him almost a cripple, and by rights he should have been ashore with his family, if he had one.

Now he lay staring up at the trailing rigging, his face ashen as he gripped Swift's hand between his as if in prayer.

He asked in a strong voice, “Be Oi goin', zur?”

Swift stared blindly at Bolitho. Then he seemed to draw on an inner reserve and pulled a flag up and over the man's waist. A ball, split in half by striking an upended gun, had almost severed one of his legs, and had laid open his groin like a cleaver.

Swift said haltingly, “You'll be all right, Fisher, you'll see.”

Fisher tried to grin. “Oi don't feel all right, zur.” Then he died.

Swift stood up violently and vomited on the deck.

Bolitho glanced at Allday. “See to him. He was worth six men today!”

“Aye.” Allday sheathed his cutlass and walked to the midshipman's side.

Swift did not look at him. “All these men. We never stood a chance.”

“Look at Fisher, Mr Swift.” Allday's voice was calm but firm. “He could have been any of us.” He waited for the youth to face him. “Or all of us. He did his best. Now there are other poor fellows who need help.” He turned as the midshipman hurried to the quarterdeck rail. Then he said, “He'll do, Captain. Just give him something to bite on.”

He watched Bolitho's face, seeing the strain clouding over it like pain. He'd not heard a word of it.

Lakey asked. “What orders, sir?”

Bolitho looked past Allday towards the island and its pall of smoke.

He said, “We could enter and re-enter that place with little change in result. Until—” he thrust his hands behind him, gripping his fingers until the pain steadied him “—until our damage became fatal. Then, we would lie aground or sinking until we agreed to terms, or until we were all killed.”

He forced himself to look up at the men who were already climbing up the shrouds towards the gap left by the lost topgallant mast. They were moving slowly. The confidence and the will gone out of them.

Almost to himself he said, “They have the upper hand.”

In his brain a voice insisted.
They beat you . . . you . . . you.
Until he thought his mind would burst.

“We will rejoin the schooner and anchor, Mr Lakey.” He turned to Borlase. “I want a list of dead and wounded. Soon as possible.”

They were all looking at him. Accusing, sympathizing, hating? He could not tell any more.

Lakey murmured, “Very well, sir.” Then in a louder voice, “Watch your helm, damn your eyes!”

Bolitho crossed to the weather gangway and took several deep breaths. In a moment more he would step inside his role again. Plan a suitable approach, lay his scarred ship on her rightful tack to rejoin Herrick with least delay. Bury the dead, attend the wounded. See to the repairs, discover the reason for failure no matter how painful it was to swallow.

But first . . . He let his gaze move over the quiet shore. The huts were hidden as were the dummy masts. It was a savage lesson. What he had seen as his last moments on earth might now be viewed as a last chance to redeem a terrible mistake. He made himself turn away from the land and examine his ship, as if to punish himself even further.

Borlase asked, “Secure guns, sir?”

He nodded. “Then have the galley fire lit and see that the people are fed directly.” He looked at the dangling rigging, the long smears of blood on the decks, already brown in the sunlight. “There is a lot to be done.”

Allday said awkwardly, “I'll fetch something to drink, Captain.”

Bolitho looked at him sharply, something in Allday's tone dragging him from his own despair.

The big coxswain added, “That last ball, Captain. It did for poor Noddall.” He looked away, unable to watch Bolitho's eyes. “I'll fetch it for you.”

Bolitho took a few paces, hesitantly and then with sudden urgency. Poor, defenceless Noddall. Loyal and uncomplaining, who despite his terror of the din of battle had always been ready to serve, to watch over him.

It seemed impossible he was not below now. Hands like paws. Shaking his head and fussing.

Lakey watched him grimly, while from nearby Jury, the boatswain, paused in his work with the scrambling, grimy seamen to study Bolitho. He had heard Allday's words, and marvelled that with all this hell the captain could find time to mourn just one man.

Bolitho's eyes lifted suddenly and settled on him. “Your men are doing well, Mr Jury. But not yet well enough to idle, I think.”

Jury sighed. It was a relief to see Bolitho returning from inner hurt, no matter how bad the consequences might be.

10 TOO
M
UCH COURAGE

“F
IX
your bayonets!”

Herrick gritted his teeth to contain his impatience as Prideaux brought the marines into a single line, while further along the uneven slope Finney's militia were following their example, faces tight with concentration.

The air shook to the sudden boom of cannon, and Herrick knew the hidden battery had opened fire. The gunners would be able to see
Tempest
beyond the point, even though it still hid all but her topmasts from Herrick.

Prideaux snapped,
“Advance!”
His slim hanger shone in the sunlight, moving from side to side like a steel tongue as he strode through the scrub and sun-dried stones.

More shots, and before he followed the main part of his men towards the burning huts Herrick turned and watched the water-spouts rising like spectres on the frigate's shadow as she continued to force the inlet.

His mind repeated warnings and dreads, so that for precious seconds he could only stand and punish himself with what he saw. The inlet was too narrow. The ship would strike. She might be pounded into submission without even sighting her executioners.

He swore savagely. He was here, not on the quarterdeck where he belonged.

He shouted, “Fast as you can!”

Then with the others he was running and stumbling down the slope, the marines starting to cheer like madmen as they charged into the drifting smoke and sparks.

If they could overwhelm just one of those guns they could train it towards the others. The shock of an attack from behind might cause enough confusion and give Bolitho the diversion he desperately needed.

A seaman fell kicking and clasping his head, blood soaking his hair and shoulders. Herrick stared at him as seamen and marines faltered or blundered against each other in the choking smoke.

Then, as if to a signal, the air was filled with flying rocks and sharper pieces of stone. Herrick heard them hitting flesh and bone, men cursing and staggering while they tried to see their attackers.

Prideaux shouted, “Look! Across that clearing!” He raised a pistol and fired. “Natives from the village!”

More stones hurtled through the smoke, and two men fell, knocked senseless.

Midshipman Pyper crouched beside Herrick, his teeth bared. “What are they attacking
us
for? We're here to help!” He sounded more angry than frightened.

Herrick raised his pistol and fired, feeling nothing as a dark figure cartwheeled down the slope and through the charred wall of the hut.

“They think we're all the same!”

He swore obscenely as a stone hit his shoulder, numbing the whole of his arm so that he lost his grip on the pistol.

“Come on, Prideaux!”

The marine captain was peering through the swirling smoke, his eyes smarting as he watched the naked figures becoming real and menacing as they started to pound up the hillside.

“Ready!” His hanger did not falter as a marine fell sobbing beside him, his jaw broken by a rock. “Aim!”

Herrick dashed sweat from his eyes, gripping his sword with his left hand. He could hear them now. Like baying hounds, rising to a crescendo of hate and despair. It would be better to die than to linger on at their hands, he thought.

“Fire!”

The muskets cracked together, the stabbing flames making the smoke lift above the grim-faced marines.

“Reload! Keep your timing!”

Slightly above them, Finney's men began to fire, with neither timing nor preparation. Herrick could hear the balls cracking into trees and rocks, the sharp screams which told their own story.

But they were still coming.

Herrick cleared his throat. It felt raw.

“Up, lads!” A spear passed over his head. He saw it, but through his racing mind it meant nothing. He balanced himself carefully on the treacherous stones. “Keep together!”

His eye took in the fact that the marines were moving with practised, jerky motions, like red puppets, arms rising and falling as one while the ramrods tamped home another volley.

“Take aim!”

A marine shrieked and dropped down the slope, his bloodied hands trying to drag a spear from his stomach.

“Fire!”

Again the musket balls swept across the crouching men in a lethal tide. Controlled, but with less authority as two more men fell under the ceaseless bombardment of rocks and spears.

A great chorus of shouts from the militia made Prideaux lose his outward calm. He looked at Herrick. “Finney is being attacked from the other side.” His hanger fell to his side, and he added with bitter disbelief, “God, the buggers are running for it!”

Herrick snatched up a musket from a fallen marine and cocked it, ignoring the agony in his shoulder as he made sure it would fire.

Through his teeth he said, “Send someone to the top again. See if the ship is safe. Quick as you can.”

Prideaux nodded. “Mr Pyper. You go.” He ducked as a spear hissed between them. “
Tempest
will be dismasted, I shouldn't wonder.” He took a reloaded pistol from his orderly. “Here they come again.” He smiled tightly. “Put a ball in me rather than leave me, eh?” He walked back to his men. “I'll do the same for you.”

Herrick watched him. For those few seconds he almost liked the man.

Then they were firing again, reloading and fumbling, firing and crouching together like the last men on earth. Herrick heard ragged shooting from some way off, and guessed that Finney's men were retreating back to the schooner, all thought of defiance gone out of them.

He pulled the trigger.
A misfire.
He stood with his legs astride and used the musket like a club, feeling the pain run up his wrists as he smashed down a screaming savage and struck out at two more. All round him the sounds were of people now, the muskets used only for their bayonets, or as crutches for the wounded.

Herrick hurled the musket into a man's face, noting briefly that his eyes were almost red with fury and the lust to kill. Then he drew his sword again, parrying aside a spear and hacking open a brown shoulder with the same movement.

Above and through it all he heard Pyper calling his name, then, “The ship's gone about! She's clearing the entrance!” Then he fell silent, terrified, even dead, Herrick did not know.

He yelled,
“Fall back! Carry the wounded!”

He slashed at a figure which had somehow got past the gasping, thrusting marines. Herrick slipped and almost fell, searching wildly for his sword, knowing that his loss had halted the man, that he was turning towards him, his voice lifted in one terrifying shriek.

Another figure ran through the smoke, holding a pistol outstretched in both hands, as if it took all his strength to use it.

The heavy ball took away the native's forehead and hurled him across Herrick in a welter of blood and convulsing limbs. He had been carrying a long, wavy knife, which fell across Herrick's shoe and slit it open, merely with its own weight.

Herrick picked it up and recovered his sword. “Thanks, Mr Pyper.”

He waved his arms in the air, realizing that the attackers had melted into the smoke, leaving dead and wounded entwined amongst their discarded weapons.

Prideaux said tersely, “They'll try to cut us off, damn them!” He watched his marines reloading their muskets and those of their dead or wounded comrades.

Herrick nodded. “It gives us a little time.”

Prideaux regarded him coolly. “For what? Praying?” He swung round angrily. “Be careful, you dolt! You nearly dropped it!” His orderly had been reloading a pistol, and was shaking so badly he seemed barely able to stand. “Go and help the wounded, man. You're more menace than aid in your state!”

Herrick wiped his face and blinked at the sky. So clear above the smoke. Mocking all of them for their ant-like confusion.

A seaman said, “Four wounded or stunned by them rocks, sir. Five killed. I dunno 'ow many of the militia's still with us, but I can see several corpses on th' 'illside.”

Prideaux said angrily, “To
hell
with them, I say. If I meet
Mr
Finney again I'll give him cause to regret he survived!”

Herrick said, “Ready to move.”

He had seen it before. The wildness of a battle going with the suddenness of a squall, leaving men like fallen trees. Useless. Broken.

“Yes.” Prideaux waved his hanger. “Two scouts up ahead!” He glanced at Pyper. “You take charge of the wounded.” His head darted forward.
“Is that clear?”

Pyper nodded, his eyes glassy. He was probably remembering how he had nearly been cut off. How he had held the heavy pistol, feeling it gaining weight with each second as he had tried to clear his vision of sweat and fear as the naked, yelling savage had lunged towards the first lieutenant.

“Aye, sir.”

“That is a relief.”

Prideaux strode off again, his heels striking up dust as he hurried after his marines.

Herrick watched the clearing. It was wrong to leave the dead marines, but what could he do? He must lead and rally the survivors. The pirates might be after them as well, although it was unlikely they would wish to cross swords in wild country with natives whose village they had just burned.

He waited for Pyper and his stumbling group of wounded to pass and then walked towards the same rounded hill he had seen just hours ago. And he had acted on his own initiative. The thought troubled him as he walked, and he searched his mind for satisfaction or justification.

Tempest
had got away, although she must have suffered under those powerful pieces. His action to attack and divert the gunners may have made little difference, although the pirates must have heard the din they were making.

But Bolitho would
not
know. That they had tried to help, to prevent the ship's destruction with the only means they had. Their lives.

A marine turned and looked back at a companion who had been hit in the leg by a spear. He was leaning on Pyper's shoulder, his eyes bright and feverish as he stared after the rest of the men.

The marine called, “Come on, Billy, not long now! You'll get a double tot o' rum for this, I shouldn't wonder!”

Herrick swallowed hard. They were
not
done for yet. Not with men like these.

When eventually Prideaux's scouts signalled that the landing place was in sight, Herrick knew even his moment of frail hope was extinguished.

As they crawled into whatever shelter they could find and shaded their eyes against the fierce glare from the sea, Herrick saw Finney's men surrounded by even more natives than had originally attacked them near the village. It was made worse by the silence, the pathetic attitudes of the militiamen as they stared out at the hostile faces.

Finney had thrown down his sword, probably because he had been here before, or had met some of these same natives during his service with Hardacre. The other lieutenant, Hogg, was standing well back with his men, his terror evident even at this distance.

And beyond the little scene of fierce tension the schooner idled clear of the rocks, her mainsail already set and drawing as she moved further from the shore. Her small native crew would imagine the raid had been a complete failure, and why not? They would try to save themselves. Get home.

A seaman muttered, “There's one o' the boats still here, sir.”

Herrick did not answer. He had already seen it, known that it had been stove in. By the rocks or the natives no longer made any difference.

It was then the silent figures exploded into the militiamen in a solid naked wall. The light glinted on stabbing and plunging weapons, on limbs waving above the swaying crowd like scarlet roots, while through the heated air Herrick and his men listened to the rising roar of jubilant voices.

There was nothing they could do. It was still too far, and they would probably refuse to move even if he ordered it. They would wish to stay together at the end. It was not because they were frightened, they were beyond that. Nor was it caused by any sort of revenge for being left abandoned by those same men who were being mercilessly hacked to death.

It was the way of sailors, and on land or sea it was the only one they knew.

The crowd began to break away from the trampled sand and scrub. It was like some great obscene flower. Scarlet in the heart, with trailing ends, and parts which still moved until pounced on and clubbed or cut to death.

Only Finney was left, and he was being stripped naked and bound, trussed to a pole. Being saved for something even more horrific.

A marine said hoarsely, “I might hit him with a long shot, sir.”

“No.”

Herrick turned away. All these men to save one. He would not expect it even of himself. But it was hard to form the word.