To Glory We Steer (32 page)

Onslow shouted, “Shut your mouth! And think yourself lucky I've not had you strung up at the main-yard! I'm going to barter the ship for our freedom! No bloody navy'll catch us after that!”

Bolitho hardened his tone to hide his rising despair. “You are a fool if you believe that!”

His head jerked back as Onslow struck him across the face with the back of his hand.
“Silence!”
Onslow's shout brought more men pressing around. Herrick was dragged to his feet and his hands were pinioned behind him. He was still dazed, and his face was streaming with blood.

Bolitho said, “You can send the officers ashore. They are nothing to you, Onslow.”

“Ah now, Captain, you're wrong there!” Onslow's good humour was returning. “Hostages. You may fetch a good price, too!” He laughed. “But then you must be getting used to that!”

Pook yelled, “Why not kill 'em now?” He waved a cutlass. “Let me have 'em!”

Onslow looked at Bolitho. “You see? Only I can save you.”

“What have you done with the first lieutenant?” Bolitho saw Pook nudge another seaman. “Have you killed him, too?”

Pook sniggered. “Not likely! We're savin' 'im for a bit o' sport later on!”

Onslow flexed his arms. “He's flogged enough of us, Captain. I'll see how he likes the cat across
his
fat hide!”

Herrick muttered between his clenched teeth, “Think of what you're doing! You are selling this ship to the enemy!”

“You're my enemy!” Onslow's nostrils flared as if he had been touched with a hot iron. “I'll do what I like with her, and with you, too!”

Bolitho said quietly, “Easy, Mr Herrick. There is nothing you can do.”

“Spoken like a true gentleman!” Onslow gave a slow grin. “It's best to know when you're beaten!” Then sharply he called, “Lock them below, lads! And kill the first bugger who tries anything!”

Some of the men growled with obvious disapproval. Their lust was high. They were all committed. Bolitho knew that Onslow's careful plan was only half clear in their rum-sodden minds.

Onslow added, “As soon as the wind gets up, we're off, lads! You can leave the rest to Harry Onslow!”

Herrick and Bolitho were pushed along the deck and down into the dark confines of a small storeroom. A moment later Midshipman Neale and Proby, the master, were thrust in with them and the door slammed shut.

High up the side of the cabin was a small circular port, used to ventilate the compartment and the stores it normally contained. Bolitho guessed that the mutineers had already dragged the contents elsewhere for their own uses.

In the darkness Neale sobbed, “I—I'm sorry, sir! I let you down! I was on watch when it all happened!”

Bolitho said quietly, “It was not your fault, boy. The odds were against you this time. It was just ironic that Onslow stayed aboard because he could not be trusted
off
the ship!”

Neale said brokenly, “Mr Vibart was in his cabin. They seized him and nearly killed him! Onslow stopped them just in time!”

Herrick said bleakly, “Not for long!” Then with sudden fury, “The fools! The French or the Spanish will never bargain with Onslow! They won't have to. They'll seize the
Phalarope
and take the whole lot prisoners!”

Bolitho said, “I know that, Herrick. But if the mutineers began to think as you do, they'd have no reason for sparing our lives!”

“I see, sir.” Herrick was peering at him in the gloom. “And I thought . . .”

“You imagined that I had given up hope?” Bolitho breathed out slowly. “Not yet. Not without a fight!”

He stood up on an empty box and peered through the small vent hole. The ship had swung slightly at her cable and he could see the far end of the little beach and a low hill beyond. There was no sign of life. Nor had he expected any.

Proby muttered, “Two of the mutineers I know well. Good men, with no cause to follow scum like Onslow and Pook!” He added thickly, “It'll do 'em no good. They'll be caught and hanged with the rest!”

Herrick slipped and cursed in the darkness. “Damn!” He groped with his fingers. “Some old butter! Rancid as bilge water!”

Bolitho cocked his head to listen to the sudden stamp of feet and a wave of laughter. “They've taken more than butter, Mr Herrick. They'll be too drunk to control soon!” He thought of the knife's glitter across Neale's throat. Soon the second phase would be enacted. The mutineers would get bored with merely drinking. They would have to prove themselves. To kill.

He said, “Can you come up here beside me, Neale?” he felt the midshipman struggling on to the box. “Now, do you think you could get through that vent?”

Neale's eyes flickered in the shaft of sunlight. He replied doubtfully, “It's very small, sir.” Then more firmly, “I'll try.”

Proby asked, “What do you have in mind, sir?”

Bolitho ran his hands around the circular hole. It was barely ten inches across. He controlled the rising excitement in his heart. It
had
to be tried.

He said, “If Neale could slip through . . .” He broke off. “The butter! Quick, Neale, strip off your clothes!” He reached out for Herrick. “We'll rub him with butter, Herrick, and ease him through, like a sponge in a gun barrel!”

Neale pulled off his clothes and stood uncertainly in the centre of the storeroom. In the faint glow from the vent hole his small body shone like some discarded statue. Bolitho took a double handful of stinking butter from the deck and ignoring Neale's cry of alarm slapped it across his shoulders. As Herrick followed suit Bolitho said quickly, “The loyal men, Neale, where are they?”

Neale's teeth were beginning to chatter uncontrollably but he replied, “In the cable tier, sir. The surgeon and some of the older hands as well.”

“Just as I thought.” Bolitho stood back and wiped his palms on his breeches. “Now listen. If we get you through this hole, could you climb along the forechains?”

Neale nodded. “I'll try, sir.”

“The others will be locked in the tier by staple. If I can distract the guards you open the door and release them.” He rested his hand on the boy's shoulder. “But if anyone sees you, forget what I said and jump for it. You could swim ashore before anyone could catch you.”

He turned to the others. “Right, lend a hand here!”

Neale felt like a greasy fish, and at the first attempt they nearly dropped him.

Herrick suggested, “One arm first, Neale, then your head.”

They tried again, with the room plunged into total darkness as the struggling, wriggling midshipman was forced into the vent hole.

The boy was gasping with pain, and Proby said, “Lucky he ain't no fatter.”

Then, with a sudden rush he was through, and after a few agonising seconds, while they all waited for a shouted challenge from the deck, his eyes appeared outside the vent hole. He was scarlet in the face and his shoulder was bleeding from the rough passage.

But he was strangely determined, and Bolitho said softly, “Take your time, boy. And no chances!”

Neale vanished, and Herrick said heavily, “Well, at least he's out of it if the worst happens.”

Bolitho looked at him sharply. It was almost as if Herrick had read his own thoughts. But he replied calmly, “I'll blow this ship to hell before I let it fall to the enemy, Mr Herrick! Make no mistake about it!”

Then, in silence, he settled down to wait.

John Allday leaned against a tall slab of rock, his chest heaving from exertion as he fought to regain his breath. A few paces away, lying like a corpse with his head and shoulders in a small pool, Bryan Ferguson drank deeply, pausing every so often to give a great gasp for air.

Allday turned to look back through the tangled mass of small trees through which they had just come. There was still no sign of pursuit, but he had no doubt that the alarm was now under way.

He said, “I've not had time to thank you, Bryan. That was a rash thing you did!”

Ferguson rolled on to his side and stared at him with glazed eyes. “Had to do it. Had to.”

“It's your neck as well as mine now, Bryan.” Allday studied him sadly. “But at least we're free. There's always hope when you have your freedom!”

He had been lying in his darkened cell listening to the familiar sounds of boats filling with men and pushing off from the frigate's hull. Then, as the emptied ship had fallen into silence, there had been a cry of alarm and the thud of a body falling against the door.

Ferguson had wrenched it open, his mouth slack with fear, his fingers trembling as he had unlocked the shackles and gabbled out some vague ideas of escape.

The dawn was still a dull smudge in the sky as they had slipped quietly over the side into the cool water. Like many sailors Allday could hardly swim a stroke, but Ferguson, driven by the desperation of fear, had helped him, until choking and gasping they had both staggered on to the safety of the beach.

Hardly speaking they had run or crawled through dense brush, had climbed over fallen rocks, never pausing to either look back or listen. Now they were between two low hills, and exhaustion had pulled them both to a halt.

Allday said, “Come on, we'd better get ourselves moving again. Up this hill. We'll be safe there. You should be able to see miles from the top.”

Ferguson was still staring at him. “You were right about Onslow. He is a bad man!” He shuddered. “I thought he was just trying to be friendly to me. I told him things about the captain's log. About what the ship was doing!” He staggered to his feet and followed Allday slowly up the side of the hill. “No one will believe me now. I'm as guilty as he is!”

“At least you know I didn't kill the purser!” Allday squinted up at the sun. It would soon be time to stop and hide.

“Onslow boasted about it!” Ferguson gave another shudder. “After you had been taken to the cells I overheard him talking with some of the others, Pook and Pochin. He boasted how he had killed Evans!”

Allday pulled him into a bush. “Look!” He pointed across to a distant hillside at a slow-moving line of red dots. “The bullocks are out looking for us already.”

Ferguson gave a low cry. “I'll never get back home! I'll never see Grace again!”

Allday looked at him gravely. “Hold on, Bryan! We're not finished yet. Maybe another ship will call here one day, and we'll pretend we're shipwrecked.”

He turned to watch the distant marines as they moved away to the right. Marines in their heavy boots and equipment were no match for this sort of game, he thought. Even on a bare Cornish hillside he could have evaded them. Here it was easier, because of the heavy tangle of scrub all around them.

He said, “It's all right. They're over the other side now. Come on, Bryan!”

They continued up the hillside until Allday found a sheltered clump of bushes which jutted from a great fallen slide of rock. He threw himself down and stared out at the great empty waste of water.

“We'll be safe here, Bryan. When the ship puts to sea we'll build a shelter like I had outside Falmouth. Don't worry about it.”

Ferguson was still standing, his eyes wide as he peered down at his friend. “Onslow intends to take the ship!” His mouth quivered. “He told me. He knew I couldn't do anything. He said that I was as guilty as the rest of them!”

Allday tried to grin. “You're tired!” He tried again. “Look, how can Onslow seize a frigate?” His grin faded into a look of shocked horror as the true implication dawned on him. He jumped to his feet and seized Ferguson's arm. “Do you mean Onslow planned all of this? The fresh water, the murder, and my escape?” He did not wait for a reply. The expression on the other man's face was enough.

He gave a hollow groan. “My God, Bryan! What are we going to do?”

Ferguson said weakly, “I wanted to tell you. But there was no time! They'd have killed you anyway.”

Allday nodded heavily. “I know, Bryan. I know.” He stared at the ground. “I warned them about this.” He ran his fingers through his hair. “Mutiny! I'll have no part of it!” He looked at Ferguson with sudden determination. “We must go back and warn them.”

“It'll be too late!” Ferguson clasped his hands together. “Anyway, I couldn't go! Don't you see? I'm one of them now!” Tears began to pour down his face. “I couldn't take the lash, John! Please, I
couldn't!
”

Allday turned his back to hide his face from the other man. He stared out to sea, at the hard horizon line which seemed to represent the impossibility of distance. You poor little bugger, he thought. It must have cost a lot of pluck to knock down the sentry and open the cell. Over his shoulder he said calmly, “I know, Bryan. But give me time to think things out.”

So it was all wasted after all. The determination to take life as it came, to accept danger and hardship in order that he should one day return home, had all come to nothing. It was curious that Ferguson, the one man aboard who had the most to lose, had been the one to spring off the disaster of mutiny.