Passage to Mutiny

5. Now Or Never

“WE WILL rest here.” Bolitho lowered himself on one knee and unslung the telescope from his shoulder. “Sergeant Quare’s scouts will be back directly.”

The gasping, sweating file of seamen climbed over the lip of a small gully and found what shelter they could amongst thick, prickly bushes. The sun was higher, and the heat which was thrown back from the hillside and cracked boulders fiercer than ever.

Bolitho trained his telescope on the nearest of the island’s five hills. It was more rounded than the others, so that it looked hunched, leaning away from him towards the sea on the other side. He saw a brief glitter of reflection, probably on a weapon, as one of the scouts paused to examine one of the many small gullies.

But nothing else moved. It was like a dead place. Harder now to believe that the Eurotas was anchored beyond the big hill. That she had ever been there.

Midshipman Swift scrambled over loose stones, his tanned features shining with sweat.

He liked Swift. More so since his willingness to go aloft in the storm to rescue Romney. He had pleasant, regular features, and hair so bleached by sun and salt Bolitho doubted if his mother would recognize him. Swift had been barely fifteen when she had last seen him. When she saw him next, with any kind of luck, he would be a lieutenant.

Bolitho said, “Pass the word. Just take a sip of water. See that they don’t drink the whole lot at once.”

He felt the wind ruffling his hair, and shifted his glass towards the sea. It was rarely out of sight in this island. It was hard to believe they had come through a storm. How blue the sea looked with just the cruising movement of white horses to betray the wind which had carried Tempest away to the south under full canvas. Now, it was empty, reaching away towards the larger islands and sluicing over the long reef barriers to show the set of the tide and yet another change of wind.

Sergeant Quare strode through the dusty bushes, his boots covered in salt and sand. He was a tall, powerful man, with intense pride in his marines and what they could do.

Bolitho nodded to him. “Seems quiet enough.”

Quare lowered a musket to the ground and slitted his eyes in the glare.

“Two more hours and we should see something, sir.” He had a round, Devonian dialect which was like a touch of home. He hesitated. “ ’Course, the ship might have up-anchored already, sir.”

“Yes.”

Bolitho took a flask from Allday and let a little water trickle over his tongue. Brackish from the ship’s casks, yet it tasted like the best wine in St James’s.

Quare straightened his back, his eyes on the opposite slope.

“Here comes Blissett, sir.”

The scout in question loped down the slope towards them, seemingly without effort, his musket held high to avoid striking the ground.

Bolitho knew something of Blissett’s past, and why Quare had selected him as a scout. The marine had once worked on a vast estate in Norfolk. As one of the gamekeepers, and a fine shot to boot, he had enjoyed a good and fairly comfortable life. Until, that was, he had set his cap at the niece of his lord and master. Bolitho imagined that the matter was probably more complicated than Quare knew, but the end result was that Blissett had been thrown out of work and had gone into town to drown his sorrows. A recruiting party had been at the inn also, and the rest, marked down in a haze of despair and bravado, was now history.

The Island of Five Hills must seem very different from Norfolk.

Blissett arrived beside them. “It’s pretty fair going once you get up that slope, sir.” He pointed. “I reckon the sea is just yonder, with the bay below that shoulder of rock.” He took a flask gratefully.

Quare nodded. “Mr Keen’s party will be about an hour later than us. It’s a longer route round the other side of the hill.” He cocked his head. “Still, we should meet up mid-afternoon. What d’you say, Tom?”

Blissett shrugged. “Reckon so, Sarnt. I found a few fire places in the gullies, but not new ones.” The last piece he added hastily as some of the seamen in earshot moved with sudden apprehension. “No natives around here for some while.”

Bolitho reslung his telescope and gestured to Swift. “Get the men on the move again. Same distances as before. You take two hands to the rear and make sure we’re not being followed.” He looked up at the sunbaked slopes. There would be no cover here. A perfect place for an ambush.

He could sense the men as they followed at his back. Breathless and tired already, and totally unused to tramping over land, they would never respect him again if they found he had led them on a fool’s errand.

He tightened his belt. But better him than Herrick. Herrick had taken enough knocks on his behalf.

Bolitho concentrated on the land ahead, keeping his pace slow but regular as he tried to picture the other side of the hill.

Tomorrow, if the wind was favourable, Tempest would tack around the southernmost headland once again. And if there were lookouts on the shore they should sight her immediately. More to the point, Bolitho’s scouts should see them.

It should appear quite natural. Deception was a game any number could play.

After a fierce storm it might even be expected for a King’s ship to return to the bay, if only to ascertain that Eurotas was still intact.

Allday broke into his thoughts. “A scout’s signalling, Captain. I think he’s sighted the other party.” He grinned unfeelingly. “God, Mr Keen’s people will curse when they see the hill they’ve still got to climb!”

Sergeant Quare hurried across the lip of another gully and dropped out of sight. He appeared eventually on a fallen landslide of loose stones, while slightly above him another marine gestured and pointed like a deaf mute.

Quare came back, breathing fast. “He says to stand fast, sir. A runner is coming from Mr Keen.” He mopped his face and neck. “He’ll not run for long in this lot.”

Bolitho’s party sank gratefully into the bushes again and waited for the messenger to arrive. It took a full hour, and when he was finally dragged out of a gully, the man looked almost spent with exhaustion.

It was Miller, boatswain’s mate, nimble enough when dashing about the deck in a full gale, or urging the hands out on the swaying yards, but no match for this island.

“Take your time.” Bolitho concealed his impatience, wondering why Keen should send him and delay the worst part of the journey.

Miller gulped noisily. “Mr Keen’s respects, sir, an’ ’e-” He gulped down air again like a landed fish. “We found some corpses.” He pointed vaguely. “In a little cove. Their throats was cut, sir.” He looked suddenly sick as the memory came back to him. “I- I think they was officers.”

Bolitho watched him, not wanting to break his train of thought.

But Quare asked bluntly, “You think?”

Miller looked past him. “Aye, George. You just know them things.” He gave a violent shudder. “Mr Ross reckons they’ve bin dead for days. Covered with flies, they was. Still are.”

Bolitho nodded. Despite the horror of the story he realized that either Keen or Ross had managed to keep his head and not do what every decent man would wish and bury the unknown bodies. But they were not unknown. The Eurotas’s senior officers in all probability. Murdered after being taken to the little cove. He wondered if Keen had thought the same. As he had shaken hands with the man he had thought to be the ship’s captain he had been facing a murderer in his victim’s coat.

The realization moved through him like sickness. Viola had tried to warn him. She might have died just as horribly because of it.

He snapped, “Get back to Mr Keen. Fast as you can manage. Tell him we will meet as arranged, but with double the caution.” He watched his words sinking in. “Nobody must see our approach. If we are sighted before we can act, Miller, the ship may weigh, and Mr Herrick will have no chance of catching her.” He did not add that it might as easily mean the landing party would be murdered beforehand. The expression on Miller’s stubbled face told him he had already considered it.

Bolitho looked at Quare and the others. “Come along.” He strode up the slope again, the heat and discomfort suddenly forgotten.

“You’ll need to stay down, sir.” Quare spoke with a whisper as Bolitho crawled beside him between two great boulders. The stones were like heated metal, and Bolitho was conscious of the cuts and bruises he had gathered on his limbs and body in the final part of the journey.

The big hill was quite different on the other side, and different again from the way it had looked from seaward. There was a broad cleft halfway down, and then another slope which continued down to the beach and the bay.

And there, hazy in the sunlight, lay the Eurotas. Still at her anchor, and with several boats alongside and two drawn up on the sand clear of the surf.

There were a few figures visible on her poop and maindeck, but no sign of work being carried out on the hull, or anything else.

Bolitho wished he could use his telescope and study the ship more closely. But with the sun blazing down at an angle he dared not risk a sudden reflection warning of their arrival above the bay.

Quare had already sent Blissett and another scout to see what they could discover, but Bolitho had to guess what was happening aboard the ship if he was to be of any use.

Quare hissed, “There, sir!”

Several men had walked into view from the bottom of the hill. They were moving slowly. Untroubled. But all were armed to the teeth. One was drinking from a bottle, and had to be aided over the gunwale of a small boat before they pushed it into deep water and started towards the ship.

That left one boat ashore. Bolitho blinked the sweat from his eyes. But how many men?

Swift crept up behind him. “Mr Keen’s party is coming, sir.”

Bolitho looked at him. “Keep them away from here. And no talking. You make sure the weapons are unloaded. I don’t want a musket going off in error.”

He looked at the anchored ship and tried to think what to do. She lay a cable’s length from the beach, and the boat which had left the island was barely halfway to her. Exposed. Helpless against even the smallest weapons.

But where were the guns which Keen had been told were unloaded to lighten the ship? They were certainly not in the empty ports along the nearest side. Nor were they on the beach. Surely they had not been jettisoned. It would take a long time, and there seemed no point in it.

Unless… He stared towards the southern headland, almost black against the glittering sea. Another ship perhaps. The Eurotas’s guns may have been off-loaded into her. He closed his eyes tightly. He could form no pattern at all.

Blissett came round the side of the great rocks soundlessly.

Quare asked, “What is it, Tom?”

The marine wiped his mouth and stared at the ship. “We found a dead girl down the bottom there. She must have put up quite a fight, poor lass. But they done for her all the same when they’d had their way.”

Bolitho looked at him, his mind reeling. He barely recognized his own voice. “What sort of girl?”

Blissett frowned. “Young ’un. English, I’d say. Probably bein’ deported to Botany Bay or th’ like, sir.” He said nothing more, but his eyes proclaimed bitterness. His anger at those who had sent the unknown girl to this.

“Easy, Tom.” Quare turned to Bolitho. “You were right, sir.”

“I wish to God I’d been wrong. The ship has been taken. Not by the convicts.” He saw the question on Quare’s face. “They’d not waste time and labour hoisting big guns over the side. They’d be weak and frightened after what they’ve been through. I believe our enemy is something far more dangerous and without mercy.”

He rolled on his back and dragged out his watch, despising himself for his relief. He had feared it was Viola lying down there.

It would not be dark for several hours. He said, “Post a good watch, Sergeant. Then join me.”

He hurried down the slope and into a tangle of dried-up bushes. The whole place seemed scorched by the sun and covered by the droppings of countless sea-birds.

Keen and the others crowded round him.

He said, “I believe there’s a boatload of men ashore somewhere. They’re probably out on the headland. It’s too dangerous to run a boat through those rocks, which is why they were taken by surprise by the canoes. It’s my guess they’ve mounted a guard there. To watch for ships and to drive off any native canoes before they can pass through the rocks.”

Keen nodded. “And their boat is unguarded!”

Ross ran his thick fingers through his red hair. “Now it is, Mr Keen. After night it’ll be another story entirely.”

Bolitho said, “We’ll take cover. As soon as it’s dark we’ll go to the beach.” He glanced at Keen. “When you boarded Eurotas, did you see many of her company?”

Keen looked surprised. “Well, no, sir. I suppose I assumed they were working below decks.”

With a King’s ship entering the bay and a pack of yelling warriors nearby in canoes, Bolitho thought it was unlikely that any seaman would be so set on his work. It was strange he had not thought about it earlier. So there had to be a second, even a third ship.

He turned and scrambled back up the slope to the two boulders and crawled beside a watching marine. He studied the ship for several minutes. There was no doubt about it. The Eurotas was standing higher in the water. All those cannon, a valuable cargo and ship’s stores. No wonder there were so few hands visible about her decks. Just enough to watch over the ship, the wretched convicts battened below. He tried not to think of the murdered girl.

He returned to the others. Keen watched him, his face tight with anxiety.

Bolitho said, “It will be a gamble.” He saw Allday’s hand drop to his cutlass. “But I intend to board that ship as soon as it’s dark. Once there, we can hold her until Tempest arrives.”

Ross said flatly, “The wind’s no helping Mr Herrick, sir. It’s veered quite a piece since we stepped ashore.” He looked at the clear sky. “Aye, we may have a long wait, I’m thinking!”

Keen said, “Why don’t you take a rest, sir? I will stand the first watch.”

But Bolitho shook his head. “I must go and have another look at the ship.”

Keen watched him climbing towards the twin boulders. “He should rest, Mr Ross. We’ll need all his edge tonight.”

Allday heard him and stared up at the boulders. Bolitho would not rest or close even one eye until it was done. Until he knew. He drew his cutlass and sliced its heavy blade through the sand.

Allday had grown to like Viola Raymond very much. She had been good for the captain when he had needed her most. But he had been secretly grateful when she had sailed for England. She represented trouble, a threat to his captain’s future.

Fate, or Lady Luck, as Lieutenant Herrick would have it, had decided otherwise. No matter how it had all begun, it looked as if it might well have a bloody ending before another dawn.

Bolitho licked his lips and felt sand grate between his teeth. Waiting for darkness had been a test for everyone in his party. Scorched by the sun, stung and pestered by flies and crawling insects, it had been torture.

He saw the splash of oars in the gloom and knew a boat was heading for the beach. All through the afternoon and evening, while they had tried to find shelter amongst the scrub and eke out their rations of water and biscuit, Bolitho had watched the occasional comings and goings between ship and shore. The boat had made several trips, but never fully manned. It seemed likely there was a constant picket or lookout on the headland, and few hands could be spared for manning the boat. But the timing was haphazard, and it was impossible to gauge any sort of routine.

One thing was certain, once it had begun to grow dark the boat was always challenged.

Aboard the anchored ship there had been hardly any sign of movement. But what there had, had struck dismay and anger into the watching sailors.

A woman had been seen on deck in mid-afternoon, her dark hair hanging over bare shoulders, her screams shrill across the heaving water as she was chased and finally dragged to one of the hatchways.

Later, a body, that of a man, had been carried to the bulwark and hurled into the sea. It floated away from the hull and made no effort to swim, so it seemed there was another murder to their account.

The boat grounded violently in the surf and the men struggled with oars and then a small anchor to kedge it on to hard sand. From the din they were making, and the attendant clink of bottles, it was obvious they were all drunk, or nearly so. One slumped down on the beach, his shoulders against the dripping boat, while his companions trudged away towards the headland.

Bolitho touched Keen’s arm. It was now or never. The men might be back for more drink, or to change places with their comrades aboard Eurotas within the hour.

He said, “Tell Sergeant Quare to begin.”

He looked at the sky. There was cloud about, but not enough to hide the moon. The wind was fresh, and with the hiss of surf and the distant boom of waves over the reef they might be able to get near the ship unheard.

Bolitho strained his eyes into the darkness, but the shadows played tricks with his vision. He heard the seamen breathing and shifting along the cleft in the hillside, and guessed they were imagining what was happening. Blissett creeping towards the boat, smothered in sand which they had plastered on his body with the aid of their precious water.

Only the unending line of writhing surf separated land from sea, against it the grounded longboat lay like a dead whale.

Bolitho stared towards the ship. There were no anchor lights, but he could see a faint glow through some of the open ports, and knew they were where the remaining guns were stationed. Loaded with grape, they would make short work of any clumsy attack. But there were no boarding nets. Once alongside, the odds might alter.

He stiffened as he heard something like a dry cough. Then Quare said hoarsely, “All done, sir.” He sounded pleased.

Bolitho drew his sword and rose to his feet. At two hundred yards, plus the distance down the final slope, they would be invisible. He started to walk towards the beach, his shoes scraping noisily on loose stones, while the seamen emerged in a ragged line behind him, most of them hunched forward as if expecting to meet a volley of shots.

This was the worst part so far. As he walked Bolitho tried not to think of the muskets and pistols, now all loaded and primed, the rasp of steel from axe to cutlass.

He turned with surprise as he heard a man humming quietly as he strode behind him. It was the American, Jenner, walking in his familiar loose gait, his hair flopping over his eyes. He saw Bolitho turn and nodded companionably. “Fine night for it, sir.”

Beyond him was the Negro, Orlando, a boarding axe over his powerful shoulder like a child’s toy.

What they were doing here, the cause they represented were of no value now. They were going to fight, and if possible stay alive.

All at once Bolitho was standing beside the boat while the seamen gathered into tight groups as they had been ordered.

The marine, Blissett, took his musket from Quare and looked at Bolitho.

“I left him, sir.” He touched the spreadeagled corpse with his foot. “He’s not carrying anything but his weapons. He could be anyone.”

Bolitho looked at the dead man. Around his head and shoulders the sand looked black where his blood had soaked away. He forced himself to kneel beside him, to examine him for some sort of clue. The moon swept momentarily between the clouds, so that the man’s eyes came alight in the glow as if to rebuke him. His clothes were poor and ragged, but his belt, pistol and cutlass were in perfect condition.

Bolitho touched his wrist and arm. The skin was warm, but quite still. There was no wasting, no loose flesh. This man was a sailor. He stood up slowly. Had been a sailor.

Keen whispered, “I’ve got my party around the boat.” He sounded out of breath. Excited or frightened, it was hard to tell.

“Ease her into the water.”

Bolitho stood back to look at the ship while two groups of men began to slide the boat through the lively surf. There had been five in the boat before, and never more than six. He watched as the selected seamen clambered into the hull, thrusting out the oars and muffling them in the rowlocks with food sacks and pieces of clothing. He saw Miller rip off the dead man’s shirt and pass it into the boat, one foot planted on the corpse to steady himself as he did so.

Miller, probably more than any other here, was in his element. He had come through the war and had survived cutting-out expeditions, cannon fire and every other sort of risk without a scratch. As a boatswain’s mate he was above average. But in a hand to hand fight he was something else again. A killer.

Allday said, “I’ll take the helm.” He looked at Bolitho. “Ready, Captain?” He spoke so casually he might have been suggesting a stroll.

Bolitho knew him so well that he could see past the calm voice. Like himself, Allday was stretched like a halter. Only when they were finally committed would he show his true self.

The boat lifted and splashed in the shallows, the men on either side easing it into deeper water as more of the boarding party clambered into her and flattened themselves on the bottom boards like corpses.

“Enough.” Bolitho looked for Quare and Midshipman Swift. “Keep the rest of the men out of sight if you can. If any more ‘pirates’ come from the headland, you know what to do.”

He nodded to the sergeant. The work of the marines was over, and if things went wrong Quare and his little group would have to hide and wait for Herrick to come for them.

He climbed into the boat very carefully, his sword bared against his chest.

“Shove off!” Allday crouched forward. “Easy, you noisy bugger!”

The clouds had thickened even in the time taken to get this far. It might mean a tropical downpour, but not for some while. Bolitho drove the doubts aside. If he waited for rain to deaden his approach, he might wait forever. He looked at the panting oarsmen. They had pulled only a few yards and were already finding it hard work with so many inert passengers. If he stopped the attack now he doubted if he could rouse them to fight again.

Keen whispered, “Shall I tell the swimmers to leave now, sir?”

Bolitho nodded, and saw two figures, their naked bodies shining in the filtered moonlight, rise up and then slide over the gunwale with barely a ripple.

It had all sounded so dangerous and difficult when they had discussed it on the island. Now it seemed impossible.

He tore his eyes from the two swimmers and concentrated on the ship. How large and near she looked now. Surely somebody would challenge them soon? Maybe they had already been seen for what they were, and the loaded guns were being quietly depressed towards them.

Bolitho heard one of the oarsmen curse and then gasp as something rolled between the boat and the dipping blades. It was a corpse, turning over loosely as a man will do in bed. The one they had seen cast overboard, caught and carried by the current, unable to free itself from the bay.

“Easy on the stroke, Allday.”

Bolitho felt the pistol in his belt. They must give the swimmers time to reach the anchor cable and haul themselves aboard without discovery. It was all too easy, but then, why not? The pirates, or whoever they were, had bluffed their way past a British man-of-war and had sent away a boarding officer convinced of their identity. At anchor in a safe bay, with sentries posted ashore, why should they not feel secure?

The challenge when it came was loud and startling.

“Boat ahoy?” An English voice.

Allday dragged two empty bottles from between his feet and hurled them into the bottom of the boat, throwing back his head and roaring with laughter as he did so.

Bolitho heard other voices from the ship, but no further challenge. The empty bottles were more convincing than any password.

“I saw one of the men on the beakhead, sir!” It was Miller straining his head above the gunwale. “They’re aboard, by God!”

The boat was very near the side now, and Bolitho saw the entry port, two dark figures watching their slow approach. He could even smell the ship, the familiar tang of tar and hemp. One of the men by the port swung towards the forecastle as a figure appeared in a shaft of moonlight swaying from side to side and snatching at rigging for support.

Allday hissed, “That’s Haggard, Captain! A better actor than topman by the looks of him!”

But the seaman called Haggard had the full attention of the watch on deck, as with sudden dignity he reeled and fell over the side with a violent splash.

Two things happened almost at once. The watch left the entry port and disappeared towards the bows, imagining that one of their own had fallen over the side. And then out of the darkness came a terrible thrashing sound, like something being hauled through water at a great speed.

They all heard Haggard yell, “My leg!”Then he screamed, the sound cut short as he was dragged bodily under the surface.

Bolitho’s mind accepted all these things even as he dashed towards the bows of the boat, and a grapnel soared up and over the Eurotas’s bulwark. He had not thought about sharks, had never imagined they would enter the bay. The drifting corpse must have attracted one, and Haggard had been seized and crushed to bloody pulp in those great jaws.

He heard himself yell, “Up, lads! Let’s be at them!”

The spell snapped, and the horrified seamen were all at once on their feet, fighting like wild things to reach the steps to the entry port.

A pistol exploded from the gangway and a ball sang past Bolitho’s face as he hauled himself on to the deck. The two men on watch were caught in the pale light, one looking at Bolitho, the other still gaping towards the forecastle as if expecting to hear another scream.

Seamen surged on to the deck, knocking each other aside in their eagerness to reach the two men. Cutlasses swished in the air, and the men fell with barely a sound.

From the poop came more shouts, and it sounded as if others were clambering through the forward hatch towards the forecastle.

But Keen and his men were already dashing along the gangways, firing into the hatch and towards the starboard cathead where a man had been clinging to get a view of the shark, or to hide.

Bolitho ran wildly towards the poop, almost falling as a figure loomed from behind a companionway and barred his path. He ducked aside and cut out with his sword, feeling it jar against steel as the man met his attack. Hilts locked they lurched towards the wheel, while seamen charged past, and others paused, feverishly trying to reload their weapons.

In the far distance Bolitho heard the crackle of musket fire and knew Quare was dealing with the sentries from the headland. He could feel nothing but cold hatred for the unknown man who was pressed against him. It was like being somewhere else. An onlooker. The man’s breath, strong with brandy, the heat of his body, were all part of the unreality.

Bolitho felt the heavy thrust of the man’s forearm. He stepped back, catching him off balance and swinging him round against the bulwark. Something flashed past his eyes, and he heard the sickening crunch of steel in bone as Allday sent the man pitching down a ladder. Allday spun round again, reaching out with the cutlass, as a dark figure ran from the poop, saw him and hesitated just too long. Allday, his legs carrying him across the deck like a charging bull, hacked the man across one shoulder, and as he fell shrieking finished him with a heavy blow on the neck.

Another was on his knees, babbling and pleading in a language which might have been almost anything, although the meaning was clear enough.

Miller seized him by the hair and then drove one knee into his face before lifting him bodily and pitching him over the rail. The attendant thrashing and bursting spray alongside showed there were other sharks hurrying to an unexpected prize.

Light flowed from a door below the poop, and Bolitho saw a man framed in it, crouching as he peered blindly towards the din of steel and yelling seamen. Bolitho dragged out his pistol and squeezed the trigger. Nothing happened, so he hurled it at the door and ran straight for it, the speed of his charge almost dragging the sword from his grip as he plunged it into the man’s body.

He half turned, hearing cries and more shots, seemingly from the water itself. Someone was getting away in a boat.

But he could leave that to Keen. He kicked the door aside, thrusting the dying man off the coaming, and then leapt into Eurotas’s poop. It was like a scene from bedlam. Cabin doors hung open or were smashed down. Clothing, weapons and all manner of personal belongings were strewn everywhere.

On the deck above he heard a voice, shrill with terror, and then Miller’s loud and menacing, “Stand still, you little bastard!” The sound ended with a body slithering across the poop deck and one final gasp.

Bolitho stepped slowly aft, his sword across his body, his feet stepping carefully so as not to trip in the scattered and looted confusion.

“Easy, Cap’n!” He recognized Jenner’s drawl. “Next cabin.”

He ducked past Bolitho, his shadow swaying across the screen doors, with two more seamen close on his heels. His face lit up as a pistol exploded from the cabin, and the man nearest him fell clutching his stomach, blood already gushing from his mouth. Jenner drew back his arm and a small dirk flew through the door like a flash of lightning.

When Bolitho reached the door Jenner was tugging the blade from the victim’s chest, wiping it carefully on the man’s leg.

More feet clattered along the maindeck, and Keen burst into the poop, a curved hanger in one hand, an empty pistol like a club in the other.

“We’ve taken the forecastle and the rest of the upper deck, sir.” He was breathing very fast, and his eyes were shining in the lanternlight with the desperate wildness of battle. He added, “Some got away in a boat, but I think the sharpshooters are trying to mark them down.” He looked at the corpse. “We managed to seize two prisoners.”

Bolitho said tightly, “Open the after hatch, but be ready for tricks. Tell Mr Ross to take over the upper deck. Someone might try to cut the cable.”

He walked past the last of the cabins to the large one in the stern. Again the disorder of clothing and sea chests. A meal halfeaten on the master’s table. A woman’s dress too, with blood on it.

It was suddenly very quiet, as if the whole ship was listening, stricken with terror.

“Come.” He strode out of the cabin, Allday behind him, his head turning from side to side as if to protect Bolitho from attack.

When the hatch was opened, and not without difficulty as it was wedged tight with bars and chains as if in a slave ship, Bolitho was sickened by the stench of bodies and fear which rose to meet him and his men.

Still no sound at all. Just the regular creak of spars and rigging. Perhaps they had killed everyone aboard?

Allday whispered, “If anyone’s down there, Captain, they must think hell itself has boarded the ship.”

Bolitho stared at him. Why hadn’t he thought of that? The horror they must have endured, the sheer terror of the past weeks, and then the deafening onslaught of Tempest’s seamen. No wonder there was no sound.

He stood on the edge of the hatch, ignoring Allday’s sudden anxiety and the fact he was probably framed against the moonlight.

“Stand fast below!” He waited, hearing his voice echo around the deck. “You are in the hands of His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Tempest!”

For a moment longer he imagined his worst fears were realized, and then as if out of the bowels of the ship he heard a mounting, combined chorus of cries and sobs.

“Down quickly, lads!”

Bolitho waited as more seamen dashed to the hatch with lanterns and then stumbled with them to the deck below. Here there was another hatch, beside which stood a chair from the officers’ quarters, a tankard near it to mark where a guard had been sitting at the moment of attack.

They withdrew more heavy bars and lifted the hatch. It was a small hold, one which had been used for cabin stores, without light or much ventilation. It was packed from side to side and bulkhead to bulkhead with people. It was like looking down at a solid carpet of upturned, terrified faces. Men and women, dirty, dishevelled, and at the last stage of survival.

Bolitho kept his tone as level as he could. “Have no fear. My people will take care of you.”

He thought about his small boarding party. He did not yet know how many of them had died or were wounded. If this crowd chose to attack them, they would stand little chance, weapons or no weapons. There must be close on two hundred souls down there.

Miller strode to the hatch. He seemed calm again, his voice crisp as he gestured for some hands to enter the hold. But from the side of his mouth he said quietly, “Mr Ross ’as three swivels loaded with canister and trained inboard, sir. If they start to show their metal he’ll sweep the deck afore they knows what’s ’it ’em.”

So he was not fully recovered from the killing.

It was terrible to watch as the people began to emerge from the packed hold. Some held on to each other from weakness and from fear. For whatever Bolitho’s voice may have implied, he knew he and his men did not look like part of the King’s Navy.

One man, cut above the eyes, and his face so bruised it was almost black, was wearing the jacket of a sailor.

Bolitho asked, “Who are you?”

The man stared at him blankly until Allday took his arm and guided him away from the slow-moving procession.

Then he said, “Archer, sir. Ship’s cooper.”

Bolitho said quietly, “The passengers, where are they?”

“Passengers?” It was an effort even to think. “I-I think they’m still on the orlop deck, sir.” He gestured about him. “Most of these are being deported.” He almost fell. “We bin down there for days.” He stared around. “Water. I must have water.”

Bolitho snapped, “Broach every cask you can find, Miller. Sort them out. You know what to do. Tell Mr Ross to send a boat for Sergeant Quare’s party at once.” He sheathed his sword, his mind rebelling against the necessary details. To Allday he added, “Orlop. Lively now.”

Another hatch, another ladder, and down below the waterline. Even in a ship of Eurotas’s tonnage and girth there was no room to stand upright between deck beams.

Lanterns swayed to greet them as more seamen entered the orlop deck by another hatch further forward.

Tiny cabins, like hutches, lined the sides of the hull. Much like those in a man-of-war where the ship’s professionals lived and slept, always cut off from natural daylight. Sailmakers and coopers, like the man Archer. Carpenters and quartermasters.

“Open the doors!”

He heard a woman weeping hysterically, and a man further down the line of cabins pleading with her to be brave.

Allday snapped, “Here, Captain!”

Bolitho strode to the door while Allday held a lantern for him. She was sitting on an upturned chest, her arm around a girl with long black hair, probably the one they had seen chased around the upper deck.

The girl was moaning, her face hidden against Viola Raymond’s shoulder, her fingers digging into the cream-coloured gown like small, frantic claws.

Bolitho could barely speak. At his back he could hear the confused cries and sobs of people being reunited, and others looking for friends and relatives without success.

But it was all part of something else.

Viola stood up slowly, taking the girl with her. She said softly, “Go with him.” She tightened her grasp as the terror shook the girl’s body. “He is a good man and will do you no harm.”

The girl moved from her, one hand still held out. As if she was being cut adrift, Bolitho thought.

Allday had left the lantern and closed the door behind them.

Bolitho reached out and held her shoulders, feeling her reserve crumbling as she threw her arms round his neck and buried her mouth against his cheek.

“You came!” She gripped him even tighter. “Oh, my darling Richard, you came back for us! ”

He said, “I’ll take you aft!”

“No. Not there.” She looked up at him, and he could sense her disbelief. “Take me on deck.”

They made their way through the jostling crowds of men and women, seamen and the newly arrived marines until they reached the high poop. Then she stood facing the wind, repeatedly pushing her fingers up and through her hair, and taking long breaths as if each was to be her last.

Bolitho could only watch her. Afraid for her. Wanting to help.

He made himself ask, “Your husband? Is he safe?”

She nodded slowly and then turned towards him. “But where is your ship?”

He replied, “It was too great a risk. They would have killed everyone by the time Tempest worked into the bay.”

She walked across the deck, her gown swishing on the worn planking. She did not speak, but kept her eyes on him until their bodies touched.

Then, and only then, did she break down, sobbing into his chest, oblivious to the ship and everyone around her.

Keen paused with one foot on top of the poop ladder, his mouth set to frame a dozen questions for his captain. Seeing them together he changed his mind and returned to the maindeck, his voice suddenly firm after the madness he had seen and shared.

“Lay aft, Mr Ross. Mr Swift, tend to the wounded, and then report to me!”

Allday watched him, remembering him as the young midshipman he had once saved from an agonizing death. Now he was a man. A King’s officer.

Then he turned and glanced towards the poop. Well he should be a good one, he thought. He had the best there was as his example.