Passage to Mutiny

10. Too Much Courage

“FIX 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 waterspouts 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.

He said, “Time enough when they discover what’s happened to the rest of us.”

Herrick rolled on to his back and stared at the sky. He remembered with stark clarity when he had been a small boy and had been playing with his friend on the bank of the Medway. He had thrown a stone through the rushes. Meant as a joke, like those they always played on each other, it had hit his friend in the eye, nearly blinding him.

Herrick had screwed up his face, willing that it was a dream. That when he looked again it would all be clean and as before.

But then, as now, it was real. If he looked, the litter of corpses and torn limbs would still be there. And the schooner would be gone.

Prideaux was saying to his corporal, “Put all the muskets together and then inspect the powder and shot. The wounded can do the loading, right?”

“Sir.” Attentive, even now.

Pyper said quietly, “Will it be soon, sir?”

Herrick did not look at him, but watched a bird with scimitar-shaped wings circling far, far up against the washed-out blue sky.

“I expect so.” He added, “But no quarter. Nor do we surrender.”

“I see.”

Then Herrick did turn his head to look at the midshipman. Do you see? The boy who had started to become a man. Did he not ask why he was to die, here of all places?

Someone said, “The buggers are searchin’ about on t’other side of th’ hill, sir.”

Prideaux sounded irritable. “Yes. Well, it won’t take a foxhound to pick up our trail, will it?”

Herrick raised himself carefully amongst the prickly gorse and looked at the sea. The schooner was stern-on now, standing well out from the landing place.

We could light a fire, make an explosion, but it would only bring down the savages that bit sooner. Anyway, the schooner would not dare to come inshore.

He looked again at the schooner, his mind suddenly clear. The wind. It had shifted. Quite a lot. He stared at the hillside bushes and scrub and tried to fathom its direction.

Prideaux asked, “What is it?”

He was trying to sound disinterested as he always did, and the fact he was not succeeding gave Herrick sudden desperate hope.

He replied quietly, “The captain will come to look for us. The wind. It could make a world of difference. Give him a day’s start.” He looked at Pyper’s strained features. “A whole day. If we can just hang on here.”

The marine who had been speared in the leg said huskily, “That would be fine, sir.”

His friend grinned. “Wot did I tell ’ee, Billy-boy?”

Prideaux scowled. “Don’t raise their hopes. The wind, what is that? Time, how do we know anything?”

Herrick looked at him. “He’ll come. Mark me, Captain Prideaux.” He looked away. “He must.”

Bolitho sat in the cabin going over his written log while a lantern swung back and forth above his head.

All yesterday, and through the long night, they had sailed with as much canvas as they could carry. No one had spoken of risk or caution this time, and he had seen men look away when his gaze had passed over them.

He glanced at the stern windows, realizing with surprise they were already paling with the dawn. He felt suddenly empty and dispirited. Noddall would have reminded him. Hovered around the desk.

He thought of all the faceless bundles sewn in hammocks which he had watched dropped overboard. It could have been ten times worse, but it did not help at all to remind himself.

Wayth, captain of the maintop. Sloper of the carpenter’s crew, and who had done more than anyone to make the newly built jolly boat a success. Marine Kisbee, maintop. Old Fisher, able seaman. William Goalen, second quartermaster, Noddall, cabin servant, and too many others beside. In all fifteen had been killed, and as many more wounded. And for what?

Death for some, discharge for others, and advancement for the lucky ones who filled their shoes.

He rubbed his eyes again, trying to quell the ache in his mind.

There was a tap at the door and Midshipman Swift stepped into the cabin.

“Mr Keen’s respects, sir, and we have just sighted a light to the north’rd.”

“A ship?” He cursed himself for passing back the information as a question. He stood up and placed the thick book inside his desk. “I’ll come up.”

He had been wrong about Herrick too, it seemed. The light must be the schooner. Although even with the shift of wind it seemed strange she had reached this far. He thought about the wind and how they had cursed it so often in the past. When Lakey had told him of the sudden change he had found it hard to conceal his emotion from him.

On the quarterdeck the air was almost chill after the heat of the days and the stuffy restriction below. A quick glance at the compass bowl and another at the flapping mainsail and driver told him the wind was holding as before, and the ship was steering to the north with the island hidden somewhere on the larboard beam. But for the wind, they would have taken perhaps two days, even more, to beat back and forth, to fight round the southern end of the island before returning to search for the schooner’s landing place.

He took a glass from Swift, knowing there were more than the duty watch on deck, watching and waiting.

He saw the vessel straight away, and even in the few moments since Swift had reported it to him the light had strengthened, so that he could make out a darker smudge which would be the schooner’s big driver.

“How roundly the dawn comes up.” That was Mackay, the first quartermaster. He sounded calm enough. Glad perhaps that his mate, Goalen, and not himself had gone several hundred fathoms down in a hammock, with a round-shot at his feet to speed the journey.

“Aye.” Lakey’s coat rustled against the compass as he moved about in the gloom like a restless dog. “ ’Nother ten minutes it’ll be blinding your eyeballs out!”

True to the sailing master’s prediction the daylight swept across the islands like the opening of a vivid curtain.

Bolitho watched the schooner, sensed the uncertainty as she tacked, hesitated, as if to turn away.

From the masthead, where Keen had sent him, Midshipman Swift shouted, “No sign of red coats aboard, sir!”

“Blazes!” Borlase had appeared now. “They must have left them there. Or…” He did not finish.

“Signal her to heave to.” Bolitho’s voice cut through the speculation like a rapier. “Stand by the quarter boat, Mr Borlase.”

Bolitho watched the wave troughs changing from black to deep blue. From dark menace to friendly deception.

He felt his anxiety giving way to unreasoning impatience. “And pass the word for Mr Brass. Tell him to prepare a bowchaser directly. If the schooner does not respond, I want a ball as near to her bilge as makes no difference!”

By the companionway, his thick arms folded, Allday listened and watched Bolitho’s words having effect. He saw Jack Brass, the Tempest’s gunner, bustling forward with his mates, and knew he too was well aware of Bolitho’s mood.

“She’s heavin’ to, sir.”

“Very well.” Bolitho let his thoughts carry him along. “We will fall down on her to within hail. It will save time.” He looked at Allday. “We will probably need the launch. Select the best hands you can.”

He slitted his eyes to watch the rolling schooner as the frigate ran down on her. Empty, or all but. Perhaps there was no more time. That would make the defeat even more complete, an acceptance of it impossible. He looked at the quarterdeck rail, remembering Herrick.

He said harshly, “See that the people are well armed. Tell Sergeant Quare to lower two swivels into the launch, and provide some good marksmen for the quarter boat as well.”

Like extensions they were moving from him, acting on his wishes. His ideas.

The schooner was much nearer now. He lowered his telescope and said, “Give them a hail, Mr Keen.” He had seen the schooner’s master, a great hulk of a man, probably born of mixed blood right here in the islands.

Keen’s voice re-echoed across the water, distorted by his speaking trumpet.

Bolitho listened to the hesitant replies, some barely understandable. But the main message was clear enough. The schooner had left without Herrick’s party. They might be dead, as were all the militia. Butchered.

Bolitho glanced at the men around him. With the company already depleted by death and wounds, by Herrick’s landing party and marines, Tempest was getting more and more shorthanded.

He made up his mind. It could not be helped.

He said, “Tell the schooner to stand by to receive a boarding party.” He looked at Borlase. “You will take command here until our return.” He snapped, “Well, come along, let us be about it!”

Midshipman Pyper said huskily, “I think we may be safe, sir.”

The sun was beating down on the saucer-shaped depression where Herrick had gathered his party of seamen and marines. He felt as dry as the sand and rock which burned through his clothing like hot metal, and he had to force himself almost physically not to think of water. There was precious little left, and what there was was needed by the wounded. Especially Watt, one of the marines. He had been hit in the shoulder, either by a dart or spear, nobody was sure, or could remember.

He was lying with his head on the marine corporal’s knees, gasping, and drawing his legs up in deep convulsions of pain.

Herrick said, “Too soon to know yet.”

He listened to the marine’s groans. He was in agony. Maybe his wound had been deliberately poisoned; he had heard of such things. Darts which left men or animals to die in dreadful suffering. Once, the corporal had tried to adjust the crude bandage, and Herrick had been forced to look away from the wound, in spite of all he had seen during his years at sea. Like a ripening, obscene fruit.

Prideaux sat with his boots out-thrust, dragging a stalk of sunbleached grass through his teeth. His eyes were distant as he said, “We’ve got to keep Watt quiet. Those devils are not far off. I know it in my bones. Watt’ll raise an attack if we’re not careful.”

Herrick looked away. Prideaux was doing it again. Passing an idea, like a hint. Leaving it for him to decide.

He said, “Corporal Morrison, give the man some water.”

The corporal shook his head. “Not much in the flasks, sir.” He shrugged and held one to the man’s lips. “Still, I suppose…”

A seaman on lookout called sharply, “Some of ’em comin’ now, sir!”

The dull acceptance and lethargy vanished as they struggled to their allotted places, seizing weapons, screwing up their faces.

Herrick watched as a file of natives came down a narrow gully on the opposite side of the hill and padded swiftly towards the sea. They did not hesitate even to glance at the carnage which lay rotting in the sun, but hurried on into the shallows by the rocks where Herrick and his men had come ashore.

Pyper said, “They’re looking at the longboat.”

Herrick nodded. Pyper was right. He remembered then seeing the village boats all ablaze. Their only way to reach other islands. To trade. To seek revenge. Or to escape.

“They must have been back to their village. That means the pirates have gone. Probably had a boat standing offshore all the while.”

Herrick could not disguise his bitterness. While Tempest had tacked round the point and into a trap, and he and his men had fought for their lives, the pirates had carried on with their welllaid plan. They might have failed to sink the frigate, but they had shown what they could do with a mere handful of men.

He saw the longboat lifting sluggishly in the surf, the water sliding across her bottom boards as the natives hauled and guided it into the shallows.

Herrick tried not to listen to another man being given water. He watched the natives, knowing he would have to do something and soon. The night had been friendly enough, apart from the insects. After the horror of the day, the systematic massacre of Finney’s men, and their own desperate plight, all they had wanted to do was fall into exhausted sleep.

But like the memory of his boyhood friend on the bank of the Medway, the menace and danger were still waiting with the dawn. There were no more rations, and certainly not enough water for another day. If they left the depression to search for a pool they would be seen or heard.

Prideaux had remarked during the night, “Tempest’ll not come. The captain’ll think we’re dead. We will be, too.”

Herrick had turned on him with such force he had said very little since. But when their eyes had met in the first light, after they had searched an empty sea, Herrick had seen the same rebuke, the same contempt.

He heard the corporal say, “It’s all gone, mate. See? Empty!”

“Mother of God! The pain! Help me!”

Herrick pushed them from his mind, watching the busy figures in and around the beached longboat. He thought he saw water through the starboard side between the planks. That was not too bad. Not like being stove in from the bottom.

He rolled over and propped himself on one elbow, ignoring the rawness of his throat, the cracks in his lips. He had started up from that beach yesterday morning with twenty-nine others, excluding Finney’s men. Five had been killed, and four were badly wounded. Hardly anyone had survived without a cut or bruise to remind him of their struggle.

He took each man in turn. Some were almost finished, barely able to hold a musket. Others lay hollow-eyed and desperate. Watching the sky over the rim of their heated prison. Pyper looked weary. But he was young, as strong as a lion. Prideaux; he of all of them seemed unchanged.

Herrick sighed, and shifted his attention to the boat. It was half a cable over open land. If they waited until night it was likely the boat would be gone, especially if the natives wanted it to raise an alarm in other islands.

He pictured them running down the slope, the satisfaction of being the ones with the upper hand, as they shot and cut their way to the boat. Then he thought of the others. Too sick or wounded to move on their own.

Prideaux said very quietly, “We could rush the boat and make certain that none of those savages is left alive. How many are there? Ten at most.” He did not drop his eyes as Herrick faced him. “The rest of the village would think we’d run for it. Once in safety we could send help for the wounded.”

Herrick studied him. Loathing him for reading his mind, for his casual dismissal of those who were dying behind him. For being able to think clearly and without sentiment.

He replied hotly, “Or we could kill them ourselves, eh? Make it easier all round!”

Prideaux said, “Oh, for God’s sake!”

Herrick felt suddenly light-headed. Wild. He turned towards the others and said, “Now, lads, this is what I intend.” When he began he found he could not stop. “We’ll wait a mite longer until they’ve done some repairs on our boat.” He felt a lump in his throat as the marine with the spear wound tried to grin at his feeble joke. “Then we’ll go. Together.” This last word seemed to hang above all of them.

Herrick continued, “Half of us will fight, the others will help the injured.”

He tried not to picture that long, naked slope. Half a cable. One hundred desperate yards.

“What then, sir?” It was the corporal.

“We’ll head for the nearest island where we can take stock. Get some-” he tried not to lick his parched lips, “-water.”

Pyper said, “They’re moving the boat again, sir.”

They peered over the rim, and Herrick saw the boat was riding up and down in the surf, while three of the natives worked inside and the rest steadied it as best they could while the search for leaks went on.

They must need the boat more urgently than I thought.

Now that he had made some sort of decision, Herrick felt better. He had no idea how many of them would be able to get away, but anything could be faced if the only alternative was being rounded up and slaughtered like beasts.

“Damn!” Prideaux scrambled up beside one of his men who was pointing inland. Another party was coming from the direction of the village, and there were many more this time.

Prideaux looked at Herrick. He said nothing, but it was as clear in his eyes as if he had. This is our only chance.

Herrick stood up. “Collect your weapons. Easy, lads.” He examined his own pistols and loosened his sword. Thinking of Bolitho. Of all those other times. “Corporal, select the best marksmen.” He looked at Pyper. “Stay with Corporal Morrison and make sure he leaves some fit men to carry the wounded.” He gripped his wrist. “We’ve not much time.”

Herrick’s mind was cringing from the swiftness of events. He tried to concentrate on the boat. The distance from it. If they held off the newcomers, the wounded and their helpers would be killed by the men on the beach. If they charged down and attacked them now, the wounded would be left behind.

He looked at Prideaux’s thin features. “Well? You’re the marine. What should I do?”

Prideaux eyed him with surprise. “Attack now. Leave two sharpshooters with the wounded. When we’ve taken the boat the rest of us can cover their retreat. The others from the village will make perfect targets as they come down the slope.” His lips twisted in a brief smile. “That is how a marine would do it.”

Herrick rubbed his chin. “Makes sense.”

He looked at Pyper. All of them.

“Ready, lads.”

He glanced at the glittering bayonets, the crossbelts of powder and shot. The extra muskets, loaded and slung on anyone with a shoulder to spare.

He drew his sword and saw there was a dried bloodstain on it.

“Follow me.”

It was at that moment, as two of the men hoisted the marine, Watt, that he gave a terrible scream of agony. It seemed to strike everyone motionless, even the natives in and around the boat stood stock-still, their eyes white as they stared up the hillside.

A man called, “God, the wound is broken, sir!”

Watt screamed again, kicking as the pain tore through him.

There was a crack, and Herrick saw Watt’s head jerk back from the corporal’s fist.

Morrison gasped, “Sorry, matey, but we’ve work to do!”

Prideaux shouted, “Charge!” And the handful of marines ran down the slope, yelling enough for a full platoon. Herrick, Pyper and two seamen went with them, eyes blind to everything but the boat and the startled, scattering figures.

Spears were seized and hurled blindly, and one of the seamen fell gasping on the sand, a broken shaft sticking from his chest.

Then they were up to them, and the frantic anger of their attack almost carried them straight into the surf. Pistols banged and bayonets lunged through the powder smoke in a confusion of killing and fury. Three of the natives ran along the beach, but one fell to a marine’s musket. The rest lay either dead or wounded around the boat.

Herrick yelled, “Here they come, lads!”

He waved his sword towards the lurching group of wounded and the two marines who had fallen back to give them some cover. He watched as Prideaux’s men began to fire over their heads towards the rushing tide of figures at the top of the slope. Again, the torrent of stones and spears, the air rent with voices.

Then he and Pyper and the remaining seaman clambered around the boat’s stern and thrust at it with all their strength, feeling it fighting back, thrusting at them with each lift of breakers around the rocks.

“It’s no use.” Pyper was almost sobbing. “Can’t do it.Too heavy.”

Herrick snarled, “Push! Harder, damn your eyes!” He shouted at Prideaux, “Two more men!”

As he twisted round, the water swirling and clinging to his clothing, he saw the little procession staggering past the body of the speared seaman. They were too slow, and the nearest natives were less than fifty yards behind them.

Prideaux called, “Man the boat! It’s our only chance! We’ll all die if we wait here!”

Herrick waded ashore, his sword above his head. He felt half mad with anger and disappointment, but he would not leave those men behind.

“Go to the devil!”

He ran towards the corporal who was carrying Watt bodily over his shoulders like a sack. The others, including the one with the wounded leg, hobbled and hopped after them. Herrick saw that two men had fallen together further away, and before they could get up again were pounced upon and brutally hacked to pieces, despite the sporadic musket-fire from the beach.

Herrick ran through the reeling men, not knowing what he hoped to do.

The two marines at the rear saw him and yelled, “No good! Done for!”

One of them threw away his empty pouches and raised his bayoneted musket.

“Come on then, yew bastards! Let’s be ’avin yew!”

The other fell choking on blood as a spear hissed out of the sun.

Herrick saw it and heard it, even watched their faces as they came towards him.

He could not see the boat now, not that it mattered. Nobody would escape.

He moved his sword slowly, seeing the crouching figures fanning out on either side. He could sense the power of them, smell them.

The sun was almost in his eyes, so that there was no shadow for him or the solitary marine. It was as if they were already dead.

To one side of the slowly advancing crowd he saw a spear raise itself carefully and deliberately. Now.

The bang, when it came, was almost deafening in the terrible silence.

Herrick heard startled shouts from behind, and then as if torn from a man’s heart, a strangled cheer.

Herrick said harshly, “Stand still, man! Don’t look round!”

The marine, blinded by sweat, his musket and bayonet as rigid as before, said from one corner of his mouth, “I’m with yew, sir!”

Slowly, uncertainly at first, the front rank of natives began to move back. When another bang shook the air they retreated, bounding up the slope, seemingly without effort.

Then, and only then, did Herrick turn.

Just inside the rocks was Tempest’s launch, a smoking swivel mounted in the bows. Where the canister had struck, Herrick neither knew or cared. It must have gone into the sky, for had it been aimed at the slope it would have killed more of his men than their attackers. Perhaps the sound, and the sight of the long launch, with the frigate’s quarter boat coming up astern, had been enough.

Herrick crossed to the marine and clapped him on the shoulder.

“That was bravely done.”

Together they walked towards the surf, where men were leaping from the boats to help and support the others through the shallows.

Bolitho stood quite still on the sand, his hands at his sides, as he waited for his friend to reach him. But in his mind he could still see Herrick as moments earlier the launch had thrust through the rocks after being towed at full speed by the schooner. Herrick, sword in hand, his back to the sea, as he stood with one marine to face a mob, and certain death.

It was something he would never forget. Nor would he wish to.

He clasped Herrick’s arms and said simply, “You have too much courage, Thomas.”

Herrick tried to grin, but the strain prevented it. “You came, sir. Said you would.” His head dropped. “Told them.”

Bolitho watched, unable to help, shocked to see Herrick’s shoulders shaking. I did this to him. He looked round at the beach, now empty but for the dead. For nothing.

Pyper came up the beach and hesitated. “All inboard, sir.”

Bolitho said to Herrick, “Come, Thomas. There is nothing we can do now.”

They passed the abandoned longboat, and it was then that Herrick seemed to come out of his shock. The boat had begun to sink again, the primitive repairs already leaking to the surf ’s rough motion.

He said, “Damn thing would have sunk anyway.” He looked at Bolitho steadily. “It would have served bloody Prideaux right.”

Bolitho was the last to climb into the launch. He paused, the sea surging around his waist, slapping the old sword against his thigh. One day he would meet with Tuke. No ruse, no trick would save him then.

He allowed Allday to haul him over the gunwale.

But this time it had been a defeat.