Passage to Mutiny (16 page)

“Good.”

Maybe Borlase found them too much responsibility and worry. Or perhaps he thought they should be kept penned up as before. But once ashore in the Levu Islands they would need all their health and agility to stay alive. Deported convicts in the Americas, and now in New South Wales, had left plenty of bitter examples in their wake. They must survive, like those who guarded and directed them, upon their own resources.

They moved into the poop's shadow and made their way aft to the great cabin.

Raymond was waiting there, sitting at the desk, his body silhouetted against the reflected glare from the tall windows.

He said crisply, “You will remain here, Mr Borlase.”

Bolitho waited impassively. Raymond was keeping the lieutenant as a defence or a witness. Or both.

“And now, Captain.” Raymond leaned back, his fingertips pressed together. “Perhaps you will be so kind as to inform me of your discourse with the
Narval'
s captain.”

“I would have sent you a report.”

“Of that I am certain.” It sounded like sarcasm. “But give me the bones of the matter for now.”

Borlase made as if to get a chair for his captain, but after a glance at Raymond seemed to change his mind.

Curiously, Bolitho felt better because of Raymond's attitude. No pretence, no change between them. Nor would there be.

He listened to his own voice as he explained briefly what had passed between him and the Frenchman. Calm, unemotional. Like evidence at a court martial, he thought.

Raymond dismissed the keelhauling as “a matter for each country to decide.”

Bolitho said quietly, “France decided long ago. But out here, de Barras is their country.”

“It is not my concern.” Raymond's fingertips drummed rapidly together in a silent tattoo. “But the
Narval
most certainly is.”

“She will not dare to—” Bolitho got no further.

Raymond snapped, “
Really
, you sea officers are as one! We are not at war with the King of France now. You must adjust to your new role, or exchange it for another.” His voice was louder and crisper. It was as if he had been rehearsing for just such a moment.

“With French aid we can explore all possibilities of trade and the mutual defence of it.” The fingers tapped in and out to mark each item. “The crushing of piracy and plundering for instance. The covering of greater sea areas for our combined benefit. If one day we are forced to fight France again, and I think it unlikely, no matter what I have heard to the contrary, then we will be better placed because of this co-operation now.
Know your competitor,
every merchant will tell you so. A pity that those entrusted with our protection cannot bring themselves to do likewise.”

In the sudden quiet Bolitho could feel his own heart beating with anger and caution. He could tell from the manner in which Borlase's eyes were flickering back and forth between them that he was expecting him to lash out at Raymond's last remark. A calculated insult, doubly so as Bolitho's men had saved his life and restored his freedom with no little risk.

Raymond frowned. “Have you no comment?”

“I know little of merchants, sir. But I do know an enemy from a friend.”

Borlase shifted his feet noisily.

Raymond said, “Anyway, you sent the
Narval
on her way, no doubt with fresh fuel to burn at our expense.”

“I expect de Barras will be close to us for this passage, sir. He is determined to recapture his prisoner, and if we fall on the pirate Tuke his chances of doing so are good. From his point of view.”

“Quite. Tuke hanged and this renegade restored to his chains may in some way make up for what has happened already.” He paused, waiting to see if Bolitho would take up the bait. When he remained silent he snapped, “When do you expect a landfall?”

“If this wind holds it will be under three weeks. If not, it could take two months.”

It was pointless to compare the sailing ability of the unmatched vessels, just as it was dangerous to be too optimistic. Raymond was waiting for a weakness. A flaw.

Raymond pulled out his watch and said, “Tell my servant to bring some wine, Mr Borlase.” He looked at Bolitho coolly. “I am sure my wife would wish to join us here also.” He glanced around the cabin. “Yes, I am certain of it.”

Bolitho looked away. He should have expected it. Raymond's top card.

To Borlase it may have sounded a formal or expected invitation. Out of custom or courtesy. The senior official sharing his wine with the captain of a naval escort.

But the way his voice had lingered on the word
here.
Bolitho needed no other key to his reasoning. For
here
was the cabin where Bolitho had met with his wife. Had held her to drive away the terror and despair of the
Eurotas'
s capture. Had kissed the cruel burn on her shoulder. Where they had loved with all passion and simplicity.

The screen door opened and she stepped into the cabin. Despite her daily walks on deck she looked pale, and there were shadows under her eyes which filled Bolitho with pain.

“A visitor, my dear.” Raymond half rose and sat down again.

A red-coated captain of the militia sent as guards for the convicts had followed Borlase into the cabin too, and was beaming at Bolitho and the wine, totally ignorant of the real drama around him.
Another witness.

Bolitho crossed the cabin and took her hand. As he put it to his lips he lifted his gaze to her face.

She said softly, “It is
good
to see you again, Captain.” She tossed her head. “It has been too long.” She looked at her husband as she spoke. “Under any circumstance!”

Borlase said, “A toast to the King!” He sounded as if his neck-cloth was strangling him. He at least guessed what was happening.

“Indeed.” Raymond sipped at his glass. “Perhaps after I have completed my affairs out here the Palace of St James will be ready to offer me an appointment which will keep me suitably employed in London.”

Bolitho watched him. Again the hint was there for Borlase and the militia captain to note. That Raymond was a man of influence, with more advancement on the way. Not one to cross or deny obedience.

Surprisingly, he thought at that moment of his dead brother Hugh. Always hasty to react, always the leader. In this instance he would most likely have searched out some “point of honour” on which to challenge Raymond to a duel. He would not have stopped to consider the consequences, the risk to all parties concerned. To him it would have been the simplest solution. Swords or pistols, he was more than a match with either.

He realized that Viola had crossed the cabin and had deliberately turned her back towards Raymond.

She asked, “Do you know of these islands, Captain?” But her eyes were exploring his face, his expression. Consuming him with their need.

“A little. My sailing master is better versed.” He dropped his voice. “Please take care, once ashore. It is a cruel climate, even for one as used to travel as yourself.”

“I am sorry, I did not hear that?” Raymond stood up and lurched against the desk as the ship wallowed steeply. Then he added, “I think the wind may be rising, Captain.”

Bolitho looked at him, his eyes hard. “Aye. Mr Borlase, would you signal for my gig.”

He hesitated by the door. Knowing he was beaten, and that the battle had not even been joined as yet.

Raymond nodded curtly. “I hope the wind does stay fair.” He smiled. “Why not see the gallant captain to his boat, m'dear?”

On deck the heat was oppressive, and the sea had risen slightly to a lively breeze.
Tempest
was standing to windward, her sails flapping in disorder as she lay hove to and awaited his return. The French ship was already well away, her courses and topsails hardening to the wind, and to all intents still set on her original destination.

Bolitho saw all and none of these things.

He stood by the bulwark, looking at her eyes, watching her hair breaking free and streaming into the wind like fluid bronze.

“I cannot stand it, Viola. I feel like a useless traitor. A buffoon.”

She reached out and laid a hand on his cuff. “He is baiting you. But you are so much stronger.” She made to touch his face and then lowered her arm. “My darling Richard. I cannot bear to see you so sad, so despairing. I am still full of happiness that we found each other again. Surely we could not be parted again.
Forever?
” She raised her chin. “I would rather die.”

“Boat's alongside, sir!”

Raymond's feet scraped across the deck, and Bolitho saw him watching from below the poop.

Just to snatch her in his arms and be damned to Raymond and all else. Even as he thought it, Bolitho dismissed the dream. Raymond would use all he had to keep her out here. Like a beautiful prisoner. A possession.

Bolitho raised his hat, his hair ruffling across his forehead. “Rest easy, my love. I do not intend to strike just yet!”

Then with a nod to Borlase he climbed down into the tossing boat.

8
S
HORT RESPITE

B
OLITHO
'
S
estimate for a landfall at the largest island of the Levu Group was closer than he had imagined, the total passage from Sydney having taken only twenty-six days. The first few hours at anchor in the mushroom-shaped bay were busy for everyone aboard the
Tempest,
for apart from the importance of selecting a safe anchorage with room to swing and little chance of dragging in a sudden gale, the company were further hindered by a growing collection of native craft from this and surrounding islands.

They were different from other islanders which
Tempest
had encountered. Their skins were paler, their noses less flat, and their bodies for the most part devoid of violent tattoos and tribal scars. The girls who crowded the canoes, or swam happily around the frigate's stem as she glided to her anchorage, caused plenty of comment amongst the seamen, and were obviously well aware of the interest they were arousing.

As Scollay, the master-at-arms, remarked sourly, “There'll be trouble with that lot, you see!” But he was quick to wave and grin with the best of them.

Herrick came aft as soon as the anchor was down and reported to Bolitho on the quarterdeck.

Bolitho moved his glass past the anchored
Eurotas
and trained it slowly along the shoreline and creamy-white beach. Low surf, lush green trees which held the shade to the water's edge, and bright blue water. Beyond, partly hidden by haze or low cloud, the island's tallest point shone like polished slate, towering above the other hills and forest like a perfect pyramid. It was like some part of paradise.

This, and probably nothing more, could have caused the
Bounty'
s company to mutiny. How different from the slums and seaports from which so many sailors were drawn. Warmth, friendly and hospitable natives, abundant food. It was a margin between hell and heaven.

He steadied the glass on the settlement. Here, the paradise was less evident.

Herrick was also looking at the stout wooden palisades and blockhouses, the larger building beyond the outer perimeter with the flag above it. There were places like this all over the Pacific, the East and West Indies, and as far north as China, some said.

“Well sited.” It was all Herrick could find to describe his feelings. He was probably thinking, like Bolitho, of Viola left with her maid and no friends in this remote outpost of trade and empire.

There was a small schooner moored to a frail-looking pier and several longboats tied up nearby. She would be used for visiting the other islands, no doubt. Against her,
Eurotas
and
Tempest
would appear like giants.

Keen strode aft, looking worried. He touched his hat. “What do I do about the natives, sir? They want to come aboard. They'll overrun us!”

Herrick glanced at Bolitho for confirmation and said unfeelingly, “Let 'em come in manageable groups, Mr Keen. Keep them from sneaking below, and watch out for local drink being smuggled inboard.” He grinned then at Keen's confusion. “
And
a weather-eye for some of our own Jacks, too. Remember, they've not seen girls like these for a long time!”

The first natives came eagerly, and within minutes the deck was strewn with gaily coloured garments, piles of fruit and coconuts, and to Keen's astonishment, a young, squealing pig.

It was like watching children, Bolitho thought, as some of his seamen struggled to break the language barrier, and the giggling girls with their long black hair and barely concealed bodies pointed at their knives or their tattoos, touching each other and shrieking with uninhibited laughter.

Lakey said glumly, “How long before they ruin this place too, I wonder?” But nobody took any notice.

It was not so easy to get the visitors to leave and make way for the next group, and some of the seamen aided Keen in his efforts by picking up the girls and dropping them overboard, where they dived and surfaced like Neptune's handmaidens.

Bolitho said at length, “I will have to go ashore, Thomas. Set a good anchor watch and put out a guard boat. It all looks peaceful. But . . .”

Herrick nodded. “Aye, sir,
but
always seems to mar things.”

He followed him down the companion and aft to the cabin where Noddall and Allday were peering through the stern windows and waving to some hidden swimmers below the transom.

Bolitho added, “Mr Bynoe will be going ashore to obtain fruit and other fresh supplies, I have no doubt.”

Herrick understood. “I'll have the purser guarded too, don't you fret, sir.” Inwardly he was wondering how it was Bolitho never seemed to forget anything. Even when his heart was elsewhere.

“And Mr Toby. I'm fairly certain the carpenter will be off as soon as he can to seek useful timber for his store.”

Herrick said quietly, “I'll
remember,
sir.” He waited for Bolitho to look at him. “You go ashore and do what you must. I'll have a safe ship for your return.” He hesitated, hoping he had not used his friendship to go too far. “And I mean that both ways, sir.”

Bolitho picked up his hat and replied simply, “I never doubted it, Thomas.” Then more sharply, “Allday, if you can drag yourself away from the contemplation and selection of your lust, I'd be obliged to be taken ashore!”

Allday sprang towards the screen door, his face under control.

“Never faster, Captain!”

Left alone with Herrick, Bolitho added quietly, “The
Narval.
”

“Aye, sir.”

Herrick waited, knowing the Frenchman had been on Bolitho's mind. They had sighted her several times, just a tiny sliver below the horizon. Following. Waiting like the hunter.

Bolitho said, “He'll not anchor here. But as soon as I am sure what we are required to do I would like to discover his whereabouts.”

Herrick shrugged. “Some would say it was a sort of justice if this de Barras got his grappling irons into Tuke before we did, sir. I think we're too soft with bloody pirates of his kind.”

Bolitho looked at him gravely. Hanging would certainly be too soft in de Barras's book.

“Have you considered the reverse side of the coin, Thomas?” The grey eyes watched Herrick's uncertain frown. “That Tuke may have the same plan in mind for the
Narval?
” He walked towards the square of bright sunlight below the companion, adding, “He nearly took
Eurotas
into his brotherhood, and he certainly captured enough heavy guns to make him a power to reckon with.”

Herrick hurried after him, his mind hanging on to Bolitho's words. Mutiny in a King's ship was bad enough, but to contemplate that a mere pirate could attack and seize a man-of-war was impossible to accept.

He said grudgingly, “Of course,
Narval is
a Frenchie.”

Bolitho smiled at him. “And that makes a difference to your conscience?”

“Aye.” Herrick grinned awkwardly. “Some.”

There was even more fruit on the gundeck now, and the shrouds and gangways were festooned with plaited mats, strange-looking garments and long, delicate streamers daubed in bright colours.

Herrick said, “What would the admiral say to all this?”

Bolitho walked to the entry port, noticing the instant attention and interest his appearance was causing. Several girls crowded around him, trying to hang garlands over his neck, while others touched his gold-laced coat and beamed with pleasure.

One old man kept bobbing his head and repeating “Cap-itain Cook” like a sailor's parrot.

It was probable that Cook had once visited the islands, or maybe the old man had carried the story of his ships and his sailors with their pigtails and oaths, rough humour and rum, from another part of this great ocean entirely.

Bolitho heard Allday call to his gig's crew, “There'll be a few little maids here who'd suit me, lads, an' that's no error!”

Bolitho lowered himself into the boat, while the calls shrilled and brought more cheers and laughter from the onlookers.

It was like that all the way to the little pier, with girls and young men swimming on either beam, touching the oars, and turning Allday's stroke into confusion. Even his threats made no difference and Bolitho was glad for his sake when they were safely ashore.

He paused with the sun beating down on him, tasting the different aromas, of thick undergrowth and palms, of wood-smoke and drying fish.

Allday said, “It looks a bit rough, Captain.” He was looking at the wooden wall around the main settlement.

“Yes.”

Bolitho straightened his sword and started to walk along the pier towards a group of uniformed militia who were obviously waiting to escort him. Close to, their red uniforms with yellow facings were shabby and badly patched. The men were well browned by the sun and, he thought, as hard as nails. Like the Corps in New South Wales, they were adventurers. Of a sort. Unwilling to risk the discipline and regulated life in the army or aboard ship, but without the training or intelligence to stand completely on their own.

One, with shaggy hair protruding beneath his battered shako, brought up his sabre in a salute which would have made Sergeant Quare faint.

“Welcome, Captain.” He showed his teeth, which only made him appear more wild. “I'm to take you to see the resident, Mr Hardacre. We've been watching your ships coming in all day. A fair sight they made too, I can tell you, sir.” He fell in step beside Bolitho, while the rest of his party slouched along behind.

On the short walk to the settlement Bolitho discovered that Hardacre had built the place with very little help from anyone, and had somehow managed to win the respect of most of the islanders for several miles around. It was unlikely he would take very kindly to Raymond, Bolitho thought.

The militia had been collected mostly in Sydney, and their numbers had dwindled over the past two years to a mere thirty men and two officers. The rest had either deserted, leaving the islands by native craft or the occasional trading schooner, or had gone to make their lives with one of the local tribes, enjoying an existence of women, plentiful food and no work at all. And a few had disappeared without any trace.

The talkative lieutenant, whose name was Finney, confided, “I came to make my fortune.” He grinned. “But no sign of it yet, I'm thinking.”

Below the gates of the settlement, protected by little blockhouses above and on either side of them, Bolitho paused and looked back at his ship. Herrick had been right about it. It was well sited, and a handful of men with muskets, even these ruffians, could hold off twenty times their number. He frowned. Provided they were armed with nothing heavier.

Inside the gates Bolitho stopped and stared up at a crude gibbet. The halter was still attached but had been cleanly cut with a knife.

Finney sucked his teeth and said, “T'was a mite awkward, Captain. We'd no idea that a real lady'd be coming to a place like this. We had no warning, y'see.” He sounded genuinely apologetic. “We cut him down sharply, but she saw the poor devil all the same.”

Bolitho quickened his pace, filled with hatred for Raymond.

“What had he done?”

“Mr Hardacre said he'd been after the daughter of a chief on t'other side of the island. He forbids any of the men from going there, an' says the chief is the most important friend we have among the tribes.”

They reached the deep shade of the main door.

“And he had the man hanged for it?”

Finney sounded subdued. “You don't understand, Captain. Mr Hardacre is like a king out here.”

Bolitho nodded. “I see.” It was getting worse instead of better. “Then I am looking forward to meeting him!”

John Hardacre made an impressive sight. Well above average height, he was built like a human fortress, broad and deep-chested, with a resonant voice to match. But if that was not enough to awe his visitors, his general appearance was of a self-made king, as his lieutenant had described. He had bushy hair and a great, spade-shaped beard, both once dark, but now the colour of wood ash. Somewhere in between, his eyes stared out beneath jet-black brows like two bright lamps.

He wore a white, loosely folded robe which left his powerful legs bare, and his large feet were covered only in sandals, and held well apart as if to sustain the weight and strength of the man above.

He nodded to Bolitho and studied him thoughtfully. “Frigate captain, eh? Well, well. So His Majesty's Government appears to think we may need protection at last.” He chuckled, the sound rising like an underground stream. “You will take refreshment with us here.” It was not a suggestion but an order.

Raymond, who was standing beside an open window and mopping his face with a sodden handkerchief, complained, “It's hotter than I thought possible.”

Hardacre grinned, displaying, disappointingly, Bolitho thought, a set of broken and stained teeth.