Passage to Mutiny

15. A Power Of Strength

TWO NIGHTS after Bolitho had issued the last of the wine and water a storm broke over them with such ferocity he thought that everything was finished. It hit the cutter shortly after nightfall and transformed the sea into a crazy torment of bursting waves with crests large enough to swamp almost anything.

Hour after hour, stumbling and failing in swirling water, they fought to keep the boat from broaching to. Miller’s sail, complete with its spar, was torn away into the spray-filled darkness within minutes, while loose gear, clothing and one of the oars followed soon after.

It was a frantic, unyielding struggle for survival. No orders were given, and none expected. The weary, battered men bailed or stood to their oars, blinded by spray, almost deafened by the thunder of bursting crests and the jubilant wail of the wind.

And then, as Bolitho sensed a slight easing in the wind’s force, the rain came. Slowly at first, the heavy drops striking their heads and bodies like pellets, and then with a hissing roar, the very weight of which seemed to beat the waves into submission.

He yelled hoarsely, “Quick, lads! The rain!”

It was pitiful to watch as they floundered in the waterlogged boat, groping for canvas, pannikins, anything which would catch the precious rain. The sick and injured, and the handful of men on the oars, kept their faces turned into the downpour, eyes tightly shut, mouths wide to receive what must seem like a miracle.

Bolitho dashed water from his face and hair and said, “Viola! Your prayer was answered!”

They reached out blindly, their hands meeting and slipping in an onslaught of rain and sea.

If only it had come sooner and had spared them the last agonizing day. They had drained the last of the coconuts and then broken the shells to try and suck moisture from the fruit itself.

In the afternoon, while the boat had drifted beam-on to the sea, their torpor had been broken by an insane yell from Penneck.

He had cried, “Water! In the name of Jesus!”

And before anyone could move he had dragged himself up and over the gunwale, floundering wildly, yelling and weeping, while the boat had drifted away from him.

Where he had gathered the strength, Bolitho had been unable to imagine, but as he had swung the tiller and the blistered oarsmen had come back to life, Orlando had risen in the bows and had dived cleanly overboard.

Penneck had been hauled roughly over the stemhead with little pity for his injury. His thirst-maddened action had cost far more than a loss of strength and progress, for even as Orlando had paddled towards the boat, supporting the raving Penneck, the shark had struck with the speed of a battering-ram.

Helpless, the rest of them had watched the water frothing bright red, and had seen Orlando’s upturned features contorted in agony, his poor mouth open in a silent scream. Then mercifully he had been dragged down even as Blissett had fired a ball at the tell-tale dorsal fin.

Allday called, “Th’ wind’s dropping, Captain!” Like the rest, he was wringing wet, hair plastered across his forehead, his shirt moulded to him like another skin.

“Yes.”

Bolitho came out of his thoughts slowly. Penneck now lay in the bottom of the boat, his arms tied, but his legs jerking in irregular convulsions as he gaped at the clouds and giggled while he let the rain sluice over him.

Orlando was gone. Rather as he had first come amongst them. From the sea and back to it. Nobody knew any more about him than when he had been rescued, only that he was grateful to remain with them.

As his friend Jenner had said brokenly, “At least the poor devil was happy while he was with us, sir. When he was given the job of being your servant he was fair bustin’ with pride, bless him!”

Unconsciously, Bolitho spoke aloud, “Aye, bless him.”

Allday stared at him. “Captain?”

“I was thinking. Adding another name to my list.”

When dawn came up with its breathtaking haste it was as if little had changed during the night. The clouds were gone, and the sea’s face was as before in regular, undulating swells. As the sun rose and felt its way into the boat the woodwork and the dazed occupants steamed as if about to burst into flames. They peered around at their tiny world, examining each other, looking for signs of hope or the opposite.

They had collected over ten gallons of water, and there was still a little rum for those who needed it most. The food was gone, and unless Blissett was able to shoot another bird things would quickly deteriorate.

The only noticeable change from yesterday was that the shark no longer followed them. That too was strange, and to some, chilling. It was as if it had been waiting. To collect Orlando for the ocean he had cheated for just a short while.

Keen joined him during one of the short rests. He looked fitter than most of them, although his arms were burned by the sun and blotchy from salt sores.

He said, “We saved the compass, sir.”

Bolitho kept his voice down. “Have you noticed the driftwood?”

He watched Keen as he shaded his eyes towards the glittering horizon. Little pieces of flotsam floated towards the boat, black in the harsh light. There were birds too, but too far off for even a lucky shot.

Keen looked at him, his face incredulous. “Land, sir?”

Bolitho wanted to contain it, in case he was wrong. But he looked along the boat and knew they could not last another day. With good news they might be able to hang on.

He nodded. “Close. Yes, I believe so.”

Viola stood up and laid her hand on his shoulder, the other on Keen. She did not speak, but looked steadily towards the horizon, her hair lifting and falling over the coat.

Bolitho watched her, loving her, fascinated by her inner strength. Despite the sun, and what she must have endured, she looked pale compared with Keen and the others. He had only seen her break down once since leaving the islands, and that had been when Orlando had been killed.

She had said, “He could not speak. He could not even cry out. And yet I seem to remember his voice.”

She said nothing more until the storm had burst over them.

They were all looking at him now, and even Penneck had fallen silent. He saw that the marine called Billy-boy was sharing an oar with Pyper, his injured leg propped on a musket. The other wounded seaman, Colter, had drawn enough strength from his ration of water to help look after Penneck and the one named Robinson who was in a very low state. But they were not so ill they could not sense something was happening.

Bolitho said, “I believe we are near land. Whether we are close to Rutara Island, I am uncertain, for with storm and drift, and denied even a sextant, it is like groping in the dark. But whatever island we sight, we will land and secure food. After what we have seen and suffered together, I think it will take more than hostility to prevent us.”

Big Tom Frazer, his eyes red with strain, stood up and bellowed, “A cheer for the cap’n, lads! Huzza!”

Bolitho could only stare at them. It was terrible to witness. These gaunt, blistered, unshaven men trying to stand at their oars and cheer.

He raised his voice. “Enough! Save your strength!” He had to turn away. “But I thank you.”

Keen cleared his throat and said, “Out oars!” He met Viola’s gaze and smiled like a conspirator. “Give way all!”

By late afternoon Blissett and then Sergeant Quare were luckier with their marksmanship. One noddy and then a booby fell to their muskets, and although it took longer this time to reach them, they were retrieved and eaten with a full ration of water.

Then, as the sun touched the horizon, Miller shouted, “Land, sir! Fine on th’ starboard bow!”

All thought of order and discipline broke down as they stood in the swaying boat, as if by so doing they might see it more clearly.

Bolitho held her arm and watched with the others. Land it was.

“We will reach it tomorrow.” He nodded firmly. “Then we shall see.”

She answered simply, “I never doubted you could do it.”

While Keen restored the stroke to the oars and the cutter started to move ahead again, Bolitho sat beside her in the sternsheets, as they had done every day since their journey had begun.

She leaned against him, Bolitho’s coat tightly drawn around her. Her own clothing, like most of the articles in the boat, had gone outboard in the storm.

“Hold me. I feel cold, Richard.”

He put his arm round her. It would get even colder during the night, and protest or not, he would force her to take some rum. But when he cradled her against him he could feel the heat from her body like fire.

He said, “Soon now. We’ll build a fire. Then we will find the ship.”

“I know.” She moved closer and rested her head on his chest. “A big fire.”

The boat settled down for another night. Quare and Blissett examined the muskets and powder. Keen made certain Penneck was still secured, in case he should throw himself overboard again.

But there was a different air in the boat. Not the fear and dread of another dawn, but a strange confidence in what it would bring for them.

Lieutenant Thomas Herrick moved restlessly about Tempest’s quarterdeck. At anchor, and despite the spread awnings and windsails, the ship was like a furnace, and only deep below on the orlop deck or in the holds could you find relief.

He had been in charge of the frigate for fifteen days, and should have been satisfied with the way he had handled her, and the fact that nothing untoward had occurred. But being Herrick, he felt like half a man, and even now, whenever he heard a footfall on the companionway, he almost expected to see Bolitho emerge on deck, his grey eyes moving automatically from one end of his ship to the other.

He walked to the nettings and looked at the island with something like hatred. To most people it would appear much as any other small point of land in the Great South Sea. To him it was a mocking challenge. A millstone which held him helpless.

He saw Tempest’s launch pulling lethargically between ship and shore, the sunlight glinting on weapons. For although they had found no sign of the French frigate or Tuke’s schooners, they had company just the same. Large war canoes, crammed with dark figures, had moved as near as they dared. Watching or waiting for Tempest’s men to break the sanctity of their island by stepping ashore.

His mind returned frequently to the settlement and he wondered what was happening. No sign of the fever had appeared on board, so it seemed likely it was of a local nature and could bring down only those closely exposed to it and who lacked the toughness of the average sailor.

He had discussed it with the surgeon several times, but he had been unhelpful. He had explained to an impatient Herrick that a “sniff of a cold” which would do no harm to a country parson in England could kill every man, woman and child on one of the islands if the conditions were right for it. On the other hand, no European could withstand the terrible torture of some initiation ceremonies which were performed and accepted without a murmur. Gwyther had said, “It is all a question of balance, you see.”

Herrick mopped his face. Question of balance indeed.

Borlase appeared on deck and watched him guardedly. “Have you made a decision, Mr Herrick?”

“Not yet.”

Herrick tried to turn it aside in his mind. It was fifteen days since he had left the Levu Islands and had watched Bolitho being pulled ashore. He ought to have heard something by now. He wondered what Bolitho would say when he discovered about the letter. In his own round handwriting Herrick had written a private report for Commodore Sayer at Sydney and had sent it across to the brig Pigeon before she had weighed anchor.

Herrick knew about courts martial and boards of enquiry. He understood that something in writing, put down at the time of the events under examination, carried far more weight than a carefully worded document written much later when the man concerned knew which way the cat would jump. Although what notice anyone would take of the view of a lowly lieutenant was harder to understand. But the thought of that pig Raymond using his influence and guile to destroy Bolitho was something he would not stand by and watch.

He looked at Borlase, waiting with his childlike smile.

“I have carried out the captain’s orders. But there has been not even a smell of Narval or the pirates. If there had been a sea fight, we’d have discovered something surely? Driftwood, corpses, something.”

Herrick forced himself to think back. He had found Hardacre’s small schooner off North Island, but her master had nothing to report. He had been very glad to see Herrick, happier still to be ordered to the settlement. There were too many war canoes in the vicinity for his liking. It was more than probable Bolitho would send the schooner back again, here to Rutara, with fresh instructions. He shook his head angrily. No, he was doing it again. Shutting his eyes. Turning from responsibility.

He considered it more calmly. It could happen at any time in a man-of-war. By accident, in battle, or from disease, a captain might die. Then his subordinate took charge, and so on. There was no other way. And here, thousands of miles from anywhere, it was his own burden now.

He said abruptly, “I will weigh tomorrow.” He saw Borlase’s eyes sharpen. “That schooner should have brought us news.”

Borlase let his lashes hide his eyes. “It is a heavy decision for you.”

“God damn it, d’you think I don’t know that, you fool!”

Borlase flushed. “I am sorry you take that attitude, sir!”

“Good!”

Herrick saw Acting-Lieutenant Swift walking wearily along the larboard gangway. He was on watch. It was like having a wardroom full of children and old men, Herrick thought angrily.

“Mr Swift!” He saw the youth jump. “Recall the boat and change crews. It is your job to remember these things!”

Ross, the big master’s mate who was also appointed actinglieutenant by Bolitho’s order, strolled across to him.

Herrick glowered. “And don’tyou start asking what I am going to do!”

Ross kept his face stiff. “Och, sir, I had no such intention.”

There was a scuffle of feet by the entry port and then Swift ran aft, his sun-reddened face alive with excitement.

“Sir! The sentry saw two men on the island! As I hailed the guard boat they seemed to appear out of nowhere!”

Herrick snatched the glass and trained it on the shore. For a moment he could not find anything because of a dancing haze which made the low hills quiver like jelly. Then he saw them, two staggering, bewildered figures, lurching against one another, sometimes falling, only to rise up and continue towards the sea. Like two drunken scarecrows, he thought.

Ross said sharply, “Those canoes have sighted ’em, sir!”

Herrick swung his telescope round like a swivel gun, masts, rigging and then open water sweeping through the powerful lens and then settling on the nearest canoes. A mile distant, but there was no doubting their purpose. They must have seen the men on the island, too. The closest canoe was a grand affair, with a great castle-like structure in its stern, decorated with man-o’-war birds’ feathers, and richly carved. Must be all of forty feet long, he thought, with professional interest.

He barked, “Rouse the hands, but don’t send them to quarters. Tell Mr Brass to clear away whatever twelve-pounder he thinks fit to bear on those fellows. I’ll have no nonsense from them!”

Calls trilled below his feet, and seamen and marines appeared from all directions.

Borlase remarked, “They’re both white men anyway.”

The guard boat, still unaware of the two men ashore, pulled gratefully into Tempest’s shadow. Herrick ran to the gangway, and as he leaned out under an awning felt the sun on his neck like a branding iron. Schultz, the German boatswain’s mate, was peering up at him.

Herrick yelled, “Go back and lie offshore. Tell those two men to swim out to you. Put one of yours overboard if need be, but keep the boat away from the beach!”

The heads in the launch swivelled from the island to the canoes and back again.

Herrick added, “And, Schultz, let somebody else do the hailing.”

“Ja, zur, I understand!” He grinned.

“God.” Herrick went into the shade again. “This damned heat!”

He looked up at the loosely brailed sails. Ready to release and set in minutes. Tempest was desperately shorthanded, but as prepared to give fight as any ship could be.

A gunport opened, and one of the twelve-pounders trundled squeakily into the sunlight. Mr Brass, the gunner, stood hands on hips, watching the selected crew loading and ramming home a black, shining ball. Beside the gunner, Midshipman Romney, small and delicate against the muscular seamen, was trying not to get in anybody’s way.

“Ready, sir!”

Herrick nodded. The canoes were much closer, the paddles rising and dipping in perfect unison. He shivered despite the heat. He remembered other times when he had watched them, without the stout timbers of a ship to protect him.

“May I speak, sir?” It was a young seaman called Gwynne, one of the volunteers Herrick had signed on from the Eurotas. He had settled in well and seemed quite happy with his somewhat harsher surroundings.

“Yes, Gwynne.”

The seaman shifted awkwardly on his bare feet as the officers clustered around him. Even Prideaux was here now, his foxy face set in disapproval.

“Them two fellows, sir. I knows ’em. They’m off Eurotas, same as me.”

Herrick stared at him. “Take the glass, man. Have another look!”

Prideaux said softly, “If it is true, they must have changed sides when Tuke captured the ship in the first place.”

“I know that!” Herrick controlled his frayed temper. “Bring them aft when they get on board.”

Gwynne nodded firmly. “Aye, sir. ’Tis them right ’nough. Tall one’s Latimer, ’e was a foretopman, a simple sort. T’other is Mossel, able-bodied seaman.” He grimaced. “A proper gallowsbird, that one.”

Borlase puffed out his cheeks. “And that is precisely where he will end.”

Herrick nodded to Gwynne. “Thank you. That is most helpful.”

He looked at the two figures who were wading and suddenly swimming towards the boat. The bottom shelved steeply and swiftly, as Herrick had discovered when he had anchored. But Schultz had reached the two struggling swimmers.

“Canoes sheering off, sir!”

Herrick peered towards the sleek canoes and their busy paddles. Maybe they had been waiting to capture these two scarecrows for themselves. Herrick thought of what Tinah had said about the militia lieutenant. Baked alive in clay. It was too horrible even to consider.

He called, “Secure the gun. No sense in wasting a good ball.”

Brass touched his forehead. He looked disappointed, Herrick thought.

He saw the surgeon and one of his loblolly boys waiting at the gangway.

“Bring them to me when you’re satisfied.”

Gwyther stared at him. “They may be very ill, sir. You said there was no water on the island surely?”

“I said satisfied, Mr Gwyther.” Herrick was not prepared for another “question of balance.” “I did not mean when they have had a month’s rest!”

In the cabin he sat at Bolitho’s desk, while Cheadle, the clerk, knelt by a small chest sorting through papers like a ghoul over a coffin.

Captain Prideaux rapped on the door. “Ready, Mr Herrick!”

The two men came into the cabin, blinking dully, and being half supported by Pearse, the ship’s corporal, and Scollay, the master-at-arms.

Gwyther hovered in the rear like an anxious bird. He said, “I suggest they be allowed to sit down, sir.”

Herrick regarded the two men coldly. “When I am ready.”

They were in a bad way. Gaunt and wild-eyed, their mouths and much of their skin were covered with sores, their lips cracked by thirst.

He remembered what Gwynne had said of Mossel, and could well believe it. Squat and beetle-browed, it could not have taken much to change him into a pirate.

Herrick said, “You are from the Eurotas.” He saw the dazed exchange of glances. “So you can spare me the story you were going to tell about being shipwrecked mariners and how you were the only survivors. It has been tried before by cleverer and more believable rascals!”

The tall, gangling seaman called Latimer tried to step towards the desk, but Scollay snarled, “Stand still, you bugger!”

Latimer said in a husky, terrified voice, “It wasn’t my fault, sir!”

Prideaux was watching him fixedly, his fingers stroking the hilt of his sword. “It never is.”

The man continued wretchedly, “They took over the ship afore we could do anythin’, I was plannin’ to ’elp rescue the cap’n, but…”

The one called Mossel grated, “Hold yer tongue, you fool!”

Herrick regarded him thoughtfully. They must have been hiding on the island for days. Fearful of the watchful canoes, and hoping against hope that a ship would pass close enough to rescue them. But not a King’s ship. Only thirst, and the grim realization they would not stay alive much longer, had forced them to reveal themselves.

He said quietly, “Send for the boatswain.” He saw Midshipman Fitzmaurice in the doorway. “My compliments to Mr Jury. Tell him I wish to have a halter run out to the mainyard immediately.”

The effect was immediate. Latimer fell on his knees, sobbing, “It’s not right, sir! Please don’t ’ang me! T’others forced me into it! We ’ad no choice!”

Herrick said, “There are plenty of men who did not join the pirates, and are alive to say so.”

Fitzmaurice asked politely, “Shall I tell the boatswain, sir.

“Let me consider.” Herrick watched Latimer being hauled to his feet.

Mossel said, “We’ll ’ang anyways, so what the ’ell.” He winced as the ship’s corporal drove his fist into his side.

Herrick stood up, sickened at Latimer’s grovelling, and his own part in bringing it about. But time was running out. There was more at stake than the neck of a bloody mutineer.

He snapped, “Take him outside.” To Latimer he added, “And you, sit on that chest. I’ll not have your filth on the captain’s furniture.”

As the door closed behind the other man, Latimer asked timidly, “You are not the cap’n then, sir?”

“No. So you see, what my captain knows nothing of will not disturb him. I can hang you here and now, and no one will care a jot. I can take you back to land and say that you, er, aided my enquiries, and they will believe it. The captain is bound by certain rules. I am not.” He watched the lie exploring the man’s mind, then he shouted, “So tell me, damn you, or you will dance on air before eight bells!”

The story which Latimer blurted out was as fantastic as it was frightening.

In his cracked, husky voice the man who had been a foretopman under the murdered Captain Lloyd told of his service aboard one of the pirate schooners, the one which was commanded by Mathias Tuke. Feared, and with good reason, Tuke nevertheless built a sort of respect amongst his men. Latimer told of his attack on an island, how he had landed guns, and set fire to a village. He described acts of murder and bestial cruelty, which by his example had spread to his crew, so that death became almost too commonplace to mention.

He explained that the Frenchman, Yves Genin, had also been aboard, but had taken no part in the killing and plunder. He seemed to have some sort of understanding with his brutal companion.

Latimer heard them having an argument one night, after a whole day of drinking. Tuke had raved that he did not need Genin at all, that just the rumour of his being aboard was enough to entice that madman de Barras into a trap.

Genin had replied just as hotly that his own men aboard the Narval would not act without his word.

Herrick listened, spellbound. So that was it, almost as Bolitho had described it would be. Genin was bait, but he had some of his followers already hiding amongst the French frigate’s company. They probably signed on when de Barras was chasing after his escaped prisoner.

Latimer left the worst part until the end.

He said in his failing voice, “Just afore Tuke put us ashore ’e fell on the schooner from the settlement. ’E tortured ’er master and threw ’im to the sharks. But not afore ’e’d discovered all about your ship and where you was. ’E laughed like a madman, and all the while ’e was burnin’ the schooner’s master with a red ’ot blade.”

Herrick stared at him. So the schooner had never even reached the settlement. Tempest was up here, and known to be here.

He asked, “Anything more?”

Latimer looked at his tarry hands. “We took a small trader, Dutch, I think she was. She ’ad letters aboard. News about the trouble in France.”

“God Almighty.” The fat was in the fire now. “And then?”

“Me and Mossel was caught stealin’ from the booty, sir. Cap’n Tuke marooned us ’ere. Knowin’ there was no water an’ that them black devils would kill us if we tried to leave.”

Herrick nodded. “Your Captain Tuke is a clever man. He knew that we would come. That we would think those canoes were watching for us, and remain at anchor.” He looked at Prideaux. “So when he passes the word to Genin’s people aboard Narval there will be a mutiny, and in many ways I can understand that. But a pirate he will remain.”

Prideaux shook his head. “I think not. If he can make use of Narval, effect one great capture with her assistance, he might well seek respectability and recognition, and Genin could give it to him.”

Herrick bit his lip. “Mebbe, but we’re not in Henry Morgan’s times now.”

Latimer was looking at them anxiously. “I did ’ear tell of some supply ships, sir. The Dutch trader told Tuke. They’re comin’ round the ’Orn on passage for New South Wales.”

Herrick turned to Prideaux again. “So there you have it. He’ll find a new base for himself. Mount his captured guns and prepare to make the biggest capture of his life.” He glanced at the stern windows, seeing the purple shadows feeling out from the land. He made up his mind. “Damn it, Captain Prideaux, we’ll weigh tomorrow and return to the settlement. I daren’t up-anchor now and work through these reefs in the dark. It was bad enough getting into the place.”

“An’ us, sir?”

Herrick studied Latimer for several seconds. “Your companion will hang, though not at my hands. I’ll see what I can do for you. You may have saved many lives. It could help.”

He turned away as the man was bustled weeping from the cabin.

Prideaux said bitterly, “Save lives, by God! We’re incapable of being anywhere in time now! I think we should return to Sydney. Let the commodore take the responsibility.”

Herrick felt better now he had made a decision. Without the schooner Bolitho could not get word to him. It was up to Tempest to rejoin her proper commander, no matter at what risk from fever.

He said, “Pass the word for Mr Lakey. I wish to discuss tomorrow’s sailing plans. After that we will hold a conference in here.”

Alone in the cabin Herrick walked to the windows and stared out at the restless water. A light wind, but there had been quite a storm the previous night, a long way off, but the sea had been choppy even here. You could never be certain of weather.

Lakey stepped into the cabin.

Herrick said, “We’re going for the captain, Mr Lakey.”

The sailing master regarded him and answered dryly, “About time.”

Blissett half-stood and half-crouched right in the cutter’s bows, gripping the stemhead with his hands to retain his balance. He was desperately tired, and his stomach ached so much from hunger he felt sick and lightheaded. At his back the oars rose and fell, very slowly, the stroke ragged and uncertain.

He gritted his teeth against the bitter cold. In a matter of an hour of so it would be sun-up, and after that… he tried not to think of it, to concentrate on anything to stop his head from lolling. He heard the occasional squeak of the tiller and pictured Lieutenant Keen sitting there, using the stars to hold the boat roughly on course. The violent storm had swept away the lamp for the compass, and it took every ounce of skill to keep the boat from veering away, the oarsmen too fatigued to notice.

Which was why Blissett was posted in the bows. Apart from being one of the strongest men in the boat, his past life as a gamekeeper, used to peering over long distances of his master’s estate, had blessed him with excellent eyesight. He had no idea if the island they had sighted before nightfall was the one they wanted, nor did he much care. But it was more than possible, worn out as they were, that they might pull right past it in the darkness. He yawned and tried to stop his shivering.

He could feel Penneck watching him from the bottom of the boat. Wild, crazy eyes. You start your raving again and I’ll drive my musket into your mouth. He stiffened as something white moved in the darkness. But it was not a bird. Just a dart of spindrift whipped from the crest of a wave.

The sea already seemed brighter, he thought anxiously. The sun would come soon. The suffering.

Someone climbed over the thwart behind him and asked huskily, “Nothing?” It was the sergeant. Getting ready to do his stint on an oar.

Blissett shook his head. “Dawn coming up.”

“Aye.” Quare sounded very low.

“Never mind, Sergeant.” Blissett suddenly needed Quare to be the same as he always was. Confident. Hard. “We’ll manage.”

Quare smiled wearily, grimacing at the pain in his sore lips. “If you say so.”

Blissett turned from him. If Quare really thought… He froze, blinking rapidly as something upset the sea’s regular pattern.

In a small voice he said, “Sergeant, up ahead! It’s land!” He gripped Quare’s arm. “Please God, tell me I’m right!”

Quare swallowed hard and nodded. “You’re right, lad. I see it.” He swivelled round towards the stern. “Land ho!”

Oars went momentarily out of control as men struggled to their feet or fumbled blindly across the thwarts.

Bolitho could not move, as he had been drowsing, one arm around Viola’s shoulders.

He said, “Mr Keen! What d’you see?”

But it was Allday who replied, “It’s the one, Captain! I’m sure!” He looked around the boat. “All those bloody islands, but we found it!”

Several of them tried to cheer, others wanted to weep, but were too parched even for that.

Bolitho said quietly, “Wake, Viola. You were right. It must be Rutara, although it has to be some form of magic!”

Allday heard him and gave a great sigh, rubbing his sore palms on his trousers. He wanted to say something special at this moment. To hold them all together long after the boat and the misery of their endurance would be faded in memory.

He stared at Bolitho and then at Viola Raymond. He had been holding her against him, as he had for most of the night. But now as he tried to rouse her, her arm slipped from his grasp and hung down to sway with the boat’s unsteady motion.

Then Allday was on his feet, his voice harsh as he called, “Mr Keen! See to the captain!” He scrambled aft, knocking men aside, ignoring all of them as he added, “Just do as I ask, sir!” Then he was by the tiller, his arms around both of them as he exclaimed, “Here, Captain! It’s no use! Let me take her,please! ” And as Bolitho started to struggle he called, “Hold him!” He turned his head, his voice breaking, “For God’s sake, Mr Keen!”

Only then did Keen understand. He gripped Bolitho around the shoulders while Jenner seized him from the opposite side. All he could say was, “I must do it, sir. I must. I can’t let you go.”

Allday gathered her up in his arms, feeling her hair blowing across his face as he carried her to the middle of the boat. Her body was still warm, but against his neck her face felt like ice.

He murmured to Miller, “The anchor, Jack.”

Miller nodded, as if like the rest he was struck dumb by what was happening. Their suffering, the discovery of land, it all meant nothing.

Bolitho shouted, “No!” And Allday heard his shoes slipping on the wet boards as the others held him there.

Gently, Allday slipped Bolitho’s coat from her body and held her above the gunwale, while Miller passed a bowline around her and attached it to the cutter’s anchor. No shark or scavenger would disturb her now.

She was so light she barely made a ripple as he slipped her into the water, and even as he watched he saw her pale shape fading into the depths, until it was gone altogether.

Then Allday went aft and stood in front of Bolitho, powerful against the paling sky.

He said wretchedly, “Use me as you will, Captain. But it was for the best.” He laid the coat beside him. “She’ll rest easy now.”

Bolitho reached out and gripped his hand. “I know.” He could barely see. “I know.”

Keen said heavily, “Man your oars.”

The boat began to move again, and as the frail daylight felt its way across the water Bolitho looked astern and said, “But for me she would not have been here.”

Keen replied quietly, “But for her, sir, none of us would have survived.”

Half an hour later the light laid bare the island, and close inshore, her awnings and sails very clear against the land, they sighted the Tempest.

But this time there was no cheering, and as they moved nearer, hearing the sudden excitement on board, the trill of calls and the sounds of a boat being lowered, they were cruelly aware of loss rather than survival.

A boat from Tempest reached them in minutes and took them in tow, her crew suddenly aware of the silence.

As Bolitho pulled himself up and through the entry port he was only dimly conscious of the pressing figures around and above him.

Only one face stood out, and as he gripped Herrick’s hand he was unable to speak, or to let go.

Herrick watched him anxiously. “You came all that way, sir? What…”

He turned as Keen said, “The lady has just died, sir. Within sight of this damned island!” Then he hurried away.

Herrick said, “We will speak later, sir.”

He beckoned urgently to the boatswain, but the shocked and bewildered men were already being helped or hoisted inboard.

Bolitho nodded to each man in turn as they were aided or shuffled past. Acting-Lieutenant Pyper, being carried by two seamen, Billy-boy hopping with an arm around someone’s neck. Jenner and Miller, Sergeant Quare and the unbreakable Blissett. The Frenchman Lenoir, and Big Tom Frazer.

Allday touched his forehead. “All hoisted inboard, Captain.” He watched him, searching for some sign. Then he said, “You can be proud of what you did, Captain, an’ that’s no error.” Then he too walked slowly towards the companion.

Herrick followed Bolitho aft, past the silent, watching faces. He noticed the way he was carrying his coat, as if it was the most precious thing he possessed.

He asked hesitantly, “Do you have any orders, sir?” He fell back as Bolitho looked at him. “It can wait of course, but…”

“It cannot, Mr Herrick.” Again the impetuous grip on his arm. “Thomas. We have work to do. Get the ship under way, if you please. We are returning to the Levu Islands.”

As Bolitho lowered himself through the companion, Lakey said in a fierce whisper, “Five hundred miles, Mr Herrick. In that boat, and with nothing much to sustain them either.” He shook his head. “They must have found a power of strength from somewhere.”

Herrick nodded sadly. “Aye, they did. And now she’s dead. I could shoot myself for some of the thoughts I’ve had, some of the things I’ve said.”

He saw the boatswain watching him from the gangway.

“Mr Jury, be so good as to sink that cutter before we weigh.”

“But, sir, a boat, any boat, is valuable out here.” He sounded shocked.

“In this case I think it best to destroy it.” Herrick glanced at the cabin skylight. “I would to God I could destroy its memory also!”