To Glory We Steer (33 page)

And disaster it would be, he told himself grimly. They never gave up a search for a mutineer. No matter how long it took. He remembered seeing some of them hanging in chains at Plymouth. Rotting, eyeless remnants left to the gulls as a warning to others.

Far out on the flat, glittering water something moved to break the calm emptiness of the horizon. Allday dropped on one knee and shaded his eyes with both hands. He blinked to clear the moisture and then looked again. Months at sea as a masthead lookout had given him the sailor's instinct to interpret more than was merely visible to the naked eye. He turned his head slightly. There was another one. Much smaller. Probably a mile beyond the first.

Ferguson seemed to realise something was happening. “What is it?”

Allday sat down on the rock at his side and stared at him thoughtfully. “There are two frigates out yonder, Bryan. Big ones, probably Frogs by the look of 'em.” He let the words sink in and then asked quietly, “Tell me about your wife back at Falmouth. Grace, isn't that her name?”

Ferguson nodded dumbly, still not understanding.

Allday reached out and took his hand firmly in his own. “She'll not want to remember you as a mutineer, Bryan?” He saw the quick shake of the head, the unheeded tears on his sunburned cheeks. Then he continued, “Nor will she want to remember you as the man who let his ship fall to the enemy without lifting a finger to help her.” He stood up slowly and pulled Ferguson to his feet. “Take a look at those ships, Bryan, and then tell me what to do. You saved my life. I owe you that at least!”

Ferguson stared at the dancing reflections, too blinded with tears to see beyond Allday's quiet words. “You want me to go back with you?” He spoke in a small voice, yet unable to stop himself.
“To go back?”

Allday nodded, still keeping his eyes on Ferguson's agonised face. “We have to, Bryan. You can see that, can't you?”

He touched Ferguson's arm, and after a momentary hesitation began to walk down the side of the hill. He did not have to look back to know that Ferguson was following him.

Bolitho felt the hair stirring against the nape of his neck, and stood up to face the small vent hole. After a moment he said, “Do you feel it? The wind is returning!”

Herrick replied uneasily, “Okes will never be back in time. And even if he is . . .”

Bolitho touched his lips. “Quiet! Someone's coming!” He bent down and with a quick jerk thrust Neale's clothes out through the vent hole.

The door grated back and Pook peered in at them. He gestured with a heavy pistol. “On deck! All of you!” His eyes were very bright, and his shirt was well stained with neat rum. Then he stared past Bolitho and shouted, “Where's that brat gone, for Christ's sake?”

Bolitho said calmly, “Out through the port. He swam ashore.”

Pook muttered, “It'll do 'im no good! 'E can stay with the others to starve!”

Cursing and muttering to himself he drove the three officers on deck, where Onslow and some of his trusted men were assembled beside the wheel.

Bolitho whispered to Herrick, “Don't provoke him. He looks too dangerous to trifle with!”

Onslow was certainly showing signs of strain, and as Bolitho and the others reached the quarterdeck rail he snapped, “Right then! You can get the ship under way!” He levelled his pistol at Herrick's stomach and added meaningly. “I shall shoot him if you try and trick me!”

Bolitho glanced along the main deck, feeling his spirits sinking. There were some twenty men staring up at him. All the ones who had been sent from the
Cassius
and some others he recognised as old and trusted men of the original
Phalarope
crew. As he had remarked to the unhappy Neale, it was just bad luck that all these men had stayed together aboard the frigate while other, more reliable elements had been sent ashore with the water casks. Normally it would not have mattered. He bit his lip and stared beyond the bowsprit where a small islet seemed to be swinging on its own momentum as the wind tugged at the anchored ship. Now it made the difference between life and death to all of them.

He nodded to Proby. “Tops'ls and jib, Mr Proby.” To Onslow he said, “We will need more men to break out the anchor.”

Onslow showed his teeth. “A good try, but not good enough. I will cut the cable!” He waved the pistol. “I have enough men here for the sails!” He hardened his jaw. “Try that sort of trick again and I will kill the lieutenant!” He cocked the pistol and pointed it again at Herrick. “Carry on,
sir!
”

Bolitho felt the sun beating down on his face and tried to shut out the overwhelming sensation of defeat. There was nothing he could do. He had even put young Neale's life in danger now.

Quietly he said, “Very well, Onslow. But I hope you live long enough to regret this.”

A man yelled from forward, “Look! There are some men on the beach!”

Onslow swung round, his eyes glinting. “By God, there's a boat shoving off!”

Bolitho turned to watch as the
Phalarope
's jolly-boat idled clear of the sand and began to move across the water. There were only two men in it, and he guessed that the landing party must have broken into panic at the sight of the frigate preparing to sail without them. Several mutineers were already aloft, and a jib sail flapped impatiently in the rising breeze. He could see many more men further along the green ridge and the glint of metal on a drawn sword.

Onslow said slowly, “Let the boat get near enough to rake with a nine-pounder!” He was grinning. “And fetch up Mr bloody Vibart! We'll give those bastards something to remember us by!” To Bolitho he said, “It will be a hanging after all, and who better?”

It took four men to drag the first lieutenant from the cabin hatch. His clothes were in ribbons, and his face was scarred and battered almost beyond recognition. For several seconds he stared up at the running noose which was already being passed down from the main-yard to eager hands on deck. Then he turned and looked up towards the quarterdeck, seeing Bolitho and the others for the first time. One of his eyes was closed, but the other stared straight at Onslow with neither fear nor hope.

Onslow called, “Now, Mr Vibart! Let us see you dance to our tune!” Some of the men laughed as he added, “You'll get a good view from up there.”

Bolitho said, “Leave him! You have
me,
Onslow, isn't that enough?”

But Vibart shouted, “Save your pleadings for yourself! I don't want your damn pity!”

Suddenly a voice shouted, “Look! In the jolly-boat! It's Allday and Ferguson!”

Several men ran to the side, and one even started to cheer.

Onslow rasped, “Stand by that gun! We don't need them here!”

Bolitho watched narrowly as another big seaman, the one called Pochin, pushed past the wheel and growled, “'Old on! It's Allday! 'E's a good mate, an' always 'as bin.” He looked down at the main deck. “What d'you say, lads?”

There was a rumble of agreement from some of the watching men, and Pochin added, “Call the boat alongside.”

Bolitho could feel his heart pounding against his ribs as the boat bumped against the hull, and in sudden silence Allday and Ferguson climbed up through the entry port.

Pochin leaned over the rail and shouted, “Welcome back, John! We'll sail together after all!”

But Allday stayed where he was below the starboard gangway, the sunlight bright across his upturned face. Then he said, “I'll not sail with him!” He pointed straight at Onslow. “He killed Evans and put the blame on me! I would have ended on a gallows but for Bryan here!”

Onslow replied calmly, “But now you're free. I never intended you to die.” There was sweat on his forehead, and the knuckles around the pistol were white. “You can stay with us, and welcome.”

Allday ignored him and turned to the men on deck. “There are two French frigates out yonder, lads! Will you let the
Phalarope
fall to them because of the word of that murdering swine?” His voice grew louder. “You, Pochin? Are you such a fool that you cannot see your own death?” He seized another seaman by the arm. “And you, Ted! Can you live with this for the rest of your life?”

A babble of voices broke out, and even the men from aloft swarmed down to join the others in noisy argument.

Bolitho shot a glance at Herrick. It was now or never. He had seen two armed seamen walk aft to see what was happening. They had to be the sentries guarding the rest of the prisoners.

But it was Vibart who acted first. Broken and bleeding, his head sunk dejectedly in his shoulders, he was momentarily forgotten by the men around him.

With a sudden roar he lashed out and knocked his guards sprawling.

Bolitho yelled, “Neale!
Now,
for God's sake!”

As he shouted he threw himself bodily sideways into Onslow, and together they rolled kicking and fighting across the deck.

Pook screamed with fury and had his feet kicked from under him by Herrick, who scooped up his pistol, cocked it and fired in a matter of seconds. The force of the shot lifted Pook from his knees and smashed him back against a carronade, his jaw and half his face blown to bloody fragments.

Somehow Onslow managed to fight himself free, and with one great bound cleared the rail to land amidst the other seamen. The sudden pistol shot had left the men standing like statues, but as Onslow hit the deck he snatched up a cutlass and yelled, “To me, lads! Kill the bastards!”

Bolitho seized Onslow's pistol and fired point-blank at a man by the wheel, and then gasped, “Go aft, Mr Proby! Get weapons!”

There was a ragged volley from the forecastle, and the stunned mutineers reeled back across the main deck as another handful of seamen surged up from below led by Belsey, the master's mate, his injured arm strapped across his body, but wielding a boarding axe with his good hand.

Herrick shouted, “The boats are coming, sir!” He hurled his empty pistol at another shadowy figure and grabbed a cutlass from Proby. “My God, the boats are coming at last!”

Bolitho snapped, “Follow me!” Swinging the unfamiliar cutlass like a scythe he dashed down the ladder, hitting out with all his strength as a man charged across the deck with a long pike. He felt the hot blood spurt across his face as the massive blade sliced through the man's bulging neck artery as if it had been thread.

Faces loomed up, ugly and distorted, but faded into screams as he slashed his way across the deck to where Vibart was fighting with his bare hands against three mutineers. As he drove his cutlass into the nearest man's shoulder he saw the sun gleam on a knife, and heard Vibart's great bellow of agony. Then he was down, and as the released men from the cable tier charged into the fray, some of the remaining mutineers dropped their weapons and held up their hands. Bolitho slipped in some blood and felt someone lifting him to his feet. It was Allday.

He managed to gasp, “Thank you, Allday!”

But Allday was staring past him, to the far side, where encircled by levelled weapons and abandoned by his fellow conspirators, Onslow stood with his back against a gun, his cutlass still held in front of him.

Allday said, “He is
mine,
sir!”

Bolitho was about to answer when he heard Vibart calling his name. In three strides he reached the man's side and knelt on the stained planking where Ellice and Belsey were holding Vibart's shoulders clear of the deck. There was a thin ribbon of blood running from the corner of Vibart's mouth, and as he lay staring up at Bolitho's grave features he looked suddenly old and frail.

Bolitho said quietly, “Rest easy, Mr Vibart. We'll soon have you comfortable.”

Vibart coughed, and the blood dribbled down his chin in a growing flood. “Not this time. They've done for me this time!” He made as if to move his hand, but the effort was too much. From behind his shoulders the surgeon gave a quick shake of his head.

Bolitho said, “It was a brave thing you did.”

There was a clash of steel across the deck, and Bolitho turned to see Allday and Onslow encircling each other with bared cutlasses. The other men stood watching in silence. This was no court martial. This was the justice of the lower deck. Bolitho looked again at Vibart. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

The dying man grimaced as a fresh agony ran through his body. “Nothing. Not from you. Not from anybody!” He coughed again, but this time the torrent did not stop.

As the returning boats ground alongside and the gangways became alive with breathless men, Vibart died. Bolitho stood up slowly and stared at the dead man. It was somehow typical and right that Vibart had remained unflinching and unshaken to the end.

He saw Captain Rennie and Midshipman Farquhar stepping over some wounded seamen, their faces drawn and ashen by what they saw. He clasped his hands behind him to hide his emotion from them.

“Put these men under guard, Mr Farquhar. Then carry on at once with loading the fresh water. We sail as soon as it is completed.” He walked slowly across to the opposite side, and as the men parted to let him through he saw Onslow staring up at him, his eyes already glazed in death.