Passage to Mutiny (3 page)

Sayer turned and smiled sadly. “You have cause to hate the word mutiny. I am glad you discovered what you did. But higher authority than ours will decide what to do next, have no doubt.” He sipped at his goblet. “Bligh, you say?” He shook his head. “Must be a determined man to survive such a journey.”

Bolitho felt himself relax in the chair. Ever since he had spoken with the Dutch governor he had held the story of the mutiny on his mind. Now, under Sayer's influence, he could face it in its proper proportion. He had reacted like most captains, seeing himself in the same predicament. Without knowing the ship, the men or the exact circumstances it was like baying at the moon for more light.

He watched Sayer with sudden compassion. Tired out with this unenviable appointment, broken by some past fever, he was nevertheless the senior officer. Just as Bolitho had been the only representative of the world's greatest navy as he had covered many hundreds of miles in search of pirates and the local rulers who gave them encouragement. Perhaps one day he might fly a broad pendant of his own, but he doubted if he would carry Sayer's self-assurance to go with it.

The commodore said, “I shall see the governor without delay. I suggest you return to your ship and take on water and whatever stores you need.” He studied him calmly. “I am afraid I'll be sending you to sea very quickly. I would have done so anyway. Your news hastens the event.” As Bolitho rose he added, “If you need extra hands I daresay it can be arranged. After two years of Botany Bay it is hard to discover where a transported convict leaves off and an honest man begins!” He winked. “I'll speak with the receiving officer ashore.”

At the entry port Sayer stood with Bolitho looking across at
Tempest.
In the bright glare her rigging and shrouds shone like black glass.

“Fine ship.” He sounded wistful.

Bolitho said, “I imagine you will soon return to England, sir.”

The commodore shrugged. “I would wish to see Cornwall again.” He reached out and touched the worn gangway rail. “But like my poor old
Hebrus,
I expect I will die out here.” He said it without rancour or bitterness.

Bolitho stood back and removed his hat to the quarterdeck.

As the side party paid its respects to him once more and he climbed down to the waiting gig he found himself thinking of the fine houses in St James's. Would anyone there care if they read Sayer was dead?

But he thought he already knew the answer, and he was frowning when he ordered Allday to cast off.

As he sat in silence and the boat left the flagship's shadow and moved into the blazing heat he glanced at the faces of the oarsmen. What did he really know of these men? It was different in war. The enemy was clear to see, the cause, though vague, was always a just one because it was your own. Holding together, cheering and hitting back were all part of that desperate world. But now, miles from real civilization, what would men like these think if pressed too far?

Allday glanced down at Bolitho's squared shoulders, at the black hair which as always was tied neatly above his gold-laced collar. The captain was going over it all, as he usually did. Fretting and bothering himself for other people's sakes. He could guess what was uppermost in his mind. Allday had been aboard Bolitho's ship in the mutiny, a pressed man at that. He'd not forget it either. He looked at the oarsmen, each picked and trained by him. They knew about the
Bounty
mutiny, and by sundown every man-jack and convict in the colony would, too.

Allday had never known his parents, and could not properly remember at what age he had first set foot aboard ship. He had been at sea all his life but for a short while in Falmouth, where he had been pressed by men from Bolitho's own ship. Over the years before that time he could recall several captains who would warrant a mutiny. Cruel, vindictive men who seemed to delight in making their people suffer. Men such as those could make even the tiniest act of kindness in the crowded world between decks seem like a kind of miracle. It was wrong that it should be so when there were others like Bolitho who cared for their responsibility.

Bolitho snapped, “If you do not watch your helm, Allday, we'll be inboard by way of a gunport, I'm thinking!”

Allday swung the tiller and grinned at Bolitho's back.

That was more like it.

The dusk which quickly enclosed the harbour was like a seductive velvet curtain. It helped men to forget the heat of the day and the strain of re-provisioning the ship with anything which Benjamin Bynoe, the hard-eyed purser, could obtain at the lowest barter.

Bolitho leaned back on the bench beneath the open stern windows and watched the lights winking from every level of the town. It was to be their second night at anchor in Sydney, but his first on board. Commodore Sayer had kept him busily engaged, mostly ashore, meeting the assistant governor, his superior being elsewhere in the colony attending to some petition from
those damned farmers,
as he described them. The first settlers, even with the available if reluctant aid of the convict labour, were not finding their lives easy.

Bad crops, some floods and theft by natives and escaped prisoners had left them in no mood for tolerance.

Bolitho had also met the officers of the local military. He had got the distinct impression they were not eager to discuss their affairs with anyone from outside the colony. He had said as much to Sayer, who had smiled at his doubts.

“You are quite right, Bolitho,” the commodore had said. “At first the governor was content to use marines to keep order and contain the transported convicts. But they were required in England, and most have been shipped home. These ‘soldiers' you spoke with are some of the New South Wales Corps. They are specially recruited at high expense, and in many cases are more dishonest than those they are supposed to be guarding! I would not wear the governor's coat for a sack of gold.”

Bolitho's impressions of Sydney had been equally mixed. The dwellings were rough, but well sited for the most part, with ready access to the waterfront. Some, like the huge windmills behind the town, standing on the slopes like gaunt onlookers, showed signs of the Dutch influence. Practical and well designed.

Bolitho was well used to the crudity and drunkenness of seaports in many countries, but Sydney's rash of grog shops and worse made some he had seen appear quite mild. Sayer had told him that many of the shanty-keepers were actually employed by the officers of the Corps, who openly encouraged immoral liaisons between their own men and the convict women who served in such places. He had scornfully described the men who enlisted in the Corps as either “blacklegs” or “blackguards,” and none in it for anything but personal gain.

Aboard his own ship again he was able to find some satisfaction and escape from the busy life ashore. Sayer had discovered nothing more of
Tempest'
s new instructions, which would eventually come from the governor upon his return.

Opposite him, lounging contentedly in another chair, was Herrick. They had dined together on an excellent mutton pie which Noddall, the cabin servant, had obtained specially from an unknown source ashore. They had consumed all of it, and Bolitho realised it was the first meat not taken from a salt cask he had eaten for months.

He said, “I think some claret, Thomas.”

Herrick grinned, his teeth white in the glow of a solitary lantern. They had soon found that to increase the light only encouraged a host of buzzing insects which immediately destroyed the blessing of the cool air.

He said, “No, sir. Not this time.” He beckoned Noddall from the shadows. “I took the liberty of getting some good French wine from the barracks' quartermaster.” He chuckled. “They may not be much as soldiers, but they live well enough.”

Noddall busied himself at the table with his wine cooler.

Bolitho watched him, recognizing every movement. Noddall was small, like a little rodent. Even his hands, which when not in use he held in front of his body, were like paws. But he was a good and willing servant, and like some of the others had come to the ship from Bolitho's
Undine.

Herrick stood up, his head clear of the deck beams as evidence of
Tempest'
s generous proportions, and raised his goblet.

He said, “To you, sir, and your birthday.” He grinned. “I know it was yesterday in fact, but it took me a day to discover the wine.”

They continued almost in silence, their long pipes lit, their glasses readily refilled by the watchful Noddall.

Overhead, through the skylight, they could see the stars, very large and close, and hear the regular footsteps of a master's mate as he paced back and forth on watch, the occasional shuffle of boots from the marine sentry beyond the bulkhead. Bolitho said, “It will be late autumn in Cornwall now.” He did not know why he had said it. Maybe he had been thinking of Sayer. But he could see it all the same. Gold and brown leaves, a keener edge to each dawn. But still fresh and bright. It always held off the winter in Cornwall. He tried to recall the ordinary sounds. The ring of chipping hammers as the farm workers used their time building or repairing the characteristic stone and slate walls which separated their fields and houses. Cattle and sheep, the fishermen tramping up from Falmouth to one of a dozen tiny hamlets at the end of the day.

He thought of his own house below Pendennis Castle. Square and grey, the home of the Bolithos for generations. Now, apart from Ferguson, his steward, and the servants, there was nobody. All gone, either dead or, like his two sisters, married and living their separate lives. He remembered his feelings when he had met the marine captain, Prideaux, for the first time, and his attendant rumours of duels fought and won. It had reminded him of his own brother, Hugh. He had killed a brother officer over a gambling debt and had fled to America. To desert his ship had been a bad enough shock for their father, but when he had joined the Revolutionary Navy and had risen to command a privateer against his old friends and companions it had been more than enough to speed his death. And Hugh was gone, too. Killed, it seemed, by a runaway horse in Boston. Life was difficult to fathom out.

Herrick sensed his change of mood.

“I think I should turn in, sir. I have a feeling we'll all be up and about tomorrow. Two days in harbour? Tch, tch, someone high-up will say! It'll never do for the
Tempest,
and that's the truth!” He grinned broadly. “I truly believe that if all our people were allowed ashore in
this
place, we'd
never
get 'em back!”

Bolitho remained by the stern windows long after Herrick had gone to his cot, or more likely the wardroom for a last drink with the other officers.

Herrick always seemed to know when he needed to be alone. To think. Just as he understood that it only made the bond stronger between them.

He watched the smoke from his pipe curling slowly out and over the black water which surged around the rudder. It was bad to keep thinking of home. But he had been away so long now, and if he was to be banished he would have to do something to change his future.

He heard a violin, strangely sad, from below decks, and guessed it was Owston, the ropemaker, who played for the capstan crew, and entertained the hands during the dog watches.

Tempest
would make a fine picture from the shore, if anyone was watching. Gunports open, lit from within like yellow eyes. Riding light and a lantern on the starboard gangway for the officer-of-the-guard to climb aboard without losing his footing in the darkness.

He thought of some of the convicts he had seen. Surely none could be here for serious offences? They would have been hanged if they were hardened criminals. It made him ashamed to think how he had just been brooding on his own separation from home. What would these transported people be suffering if they could see his ship, know that she would eventually weigh anchor and perhaps sail for England? Whereas they . . .

He looked up, off guard, as there was a rap at the outer door. It was Borlase, the second lieutenant. As officer-of-the-watch he was no doubt the only officer aboard in full uniform. He was twenty-six years old, tall and powerfully built, and yet his features were rounded, even gentle, and his expression was usually one of mild surprise that he should be here. Bolitho guessed it had originally been a guard to hide his feelings, but had since become permanent.

Borlase had been first lieutenant in a small frigate. The ship had run hard aground near the Philippines and had been a total loss. Fortunately, there had been an East Indiaman nearby, and all but three hands had been rescued. At the hastily convened court martial the frigate's captain had been dismissed from the Navy for negligence. Borlase had been officer-of-the-watch at the time, and his evidence had helped to send his captain into oblivion.

Bolitho asked, “
Well,
Mr Borlase?”

The lieutenant stepped into the lantern light.

“The guard boat has sent this despatch for you, sir.” He licked his lips, another childlike habit. “From the governor.”

Bolitho saw Noddall hurrying from the dining compartment carrying another lantern, his little shadow looming giantlike against the white-painted screen.