lick out like a long tongue. Few of the seamen and marines were speaking, or even showing much interest in the passing islands. The gurgle of water alongside, the creak of the wheel were the loudest sounds to be heard.
“Deep nineteen!” It was like a dirge as the leadsman hauled in his line yet again.
Lakey said suddenly, “There’s the island, sir! Fine on the starboard bow. The hills overlap from this bearing, but five there are, with the anchorage beneath the second and third, as I recall.”
Bolitho took a glass from Midshipman Romney who had been hovering nearby with his sextant in readiness for the noon ritual of shooting the sun under Lakey’s demanding eye. Poor Romney could not even do that properly. The other three midshipmen were now as proficient as any lieutenant. Better than some.
He saw the hills, stark and bald of vegetation nearer the top. But for Lakey’s hoard of sea knowledge he would never have guessed there were five hills in a row. What a terrible place to be shipwrecked or marooned. No vessel, unless driven off course by a storm or on some unlawful mission, would pass this way. A man could die of madness as easily as of thirst.
“By the mark fifteen!”
Bolitho touched Romney’s shoulder, feeling his skin jump beneath the grubby shirt.
“You keep an eye on Mr Borlase’s boat. If it becomes hidden around a point, or lost from view for any time, inform Mr Herrick at once.”
He saw the boy looking up at him. As ever, desperately eager, yet already fearful of making some new mistake.
Bolitho added quietly, “You are excused noon sights, Mr Romney. I know our position well enough. But I do not wish to lose a boat’s crew.”
Romney touched his forehead and hurried to the nettings, his telescope making him all the more pathetic.
Lakey said gruffly, “Never make a sea officer. Never in this life.”
“By the deep twelve!”
Bolitho looked away. He doubted if it would get much shallower just yet, but the leadsman’s regular reminder calls helped to steady his thoughts.
Without turning he knew Allday was behind him. Despite his solid build Allday could, when he desired, tread like a cat.
He said, “I could fetch you a drink, Captain?”
Bolitho shook his head. “Later. It’s not time.”
Allday strode forward to the rail, his head to one side.
“Cannon fire!”
If he had voiced some terrible obscenity against King and country his words could not have had a more startling effect.
Ross, master’s mate-of-the-watch, said scornfully, “My empty stomach more like!”
Then they all heard it, a solid, re-echoing bang, like a drum in a cave.
Lakey nodded firmly. “From that anchorage. Must be. The sound would be bounded seaward.”
Bolitho saw the faces along the gundeck upturned towards him. Seeing what he would do. How he would begin.
He said, “Signal Mr Starling to maintain his distance, and then recall Mr Borlase.”
Romney exclaimed wretchedly, “I c-can’t see the other boat, sir!”
They all stared at him.
Herrick said harshly, “You what?”
Romney had been distracted by the distant gunfire and the sudden excitement on the quarterdeck. Like everyone else who was not below, he had been looking ahead and not where he had been ordered to watch.
Bolitho gripped his hands behind him. The gunfire was very irregular and obviously from only one cannon at a time. Whatever the reason, it was not the action of someone trying to hide.
He looked past the midshipman and watched an out-thrust shoulder of land. Borlase must have gone right into the beach to pursue his search. It was unfortunate that Romney had looked away at that moment, but it could not be helped now. Borlase would know how to take care of himself. He had already shown he was more than capable of that.
Bolitho said sharply, “Set the fores’l, Mr Herrick. Alter course two points to starboard.”
Herrick snatched up his speaking trumpet. “Pipe the hands to the braces! Lively there!”
As Tempest swung heavily on her new course and the hurrying seamen freed and set the big foresail, Bolitho felt the slight increase in speed. With the wind now almost astern, and the additional span of canvas to contain it, she gathered way and began to overhaul the cutter.
Bolitho raised a glass again, seeing the first hill sloping down towards the weather bow, so that through the lens it appeared to be touching the figurehead’s left shoulder.
“Deck thar!” All eyes were turned up towards the foremast lookout. “Ship at anchor round th’ point!”
Another crash echoed and grumbled across the blue water, and Bolitho saw hundreds of sea-birds circling above the nearest hill like tiny white feathers.
He waited until the seamen had finished belaying the weather forebrace and then turned and walked aft to the wheel. He could feel the helmsmen watching him, and knew Keen and Lakey were also following his movements.
The senior helmsman said hoarsely, “Nor’ by west, sir. Steady she be.”
Bolitho consulted the compass and examined the trim of the yards and loosely flapping sails. Then he looked at Herrick, recalling in fleeting seconds all those other times.
“Very well. You may beat to quarters now, and clear for action.”
Herrick nodded, his features impassive.
The two marine fifers came pounding aft, dragging out their sticks and adjusting their drums before starting a staccato tattoo, while the bosun’s mates ran from hatchway to hatchway bellowing, “All hands! All hands! Beat to quarters and clear for action!”
Bolitho realized that Midshipman Romney was still standing by the rigid helmsmen and asked, “What is keeping you?”
The boy, a small, unmoving figure in a helter-skelter of outward confusion as Tempest’s seamen and marines ran to quarters, stammered huskily, “I-I am sorry, sir, I thought…” He trailed into silence.
Herrick said sharply, “Starboard side forrard. Report to Mr Jury. He is already shorthanded.” He raised his voice. “Move yourself, Mr Romney!” He watched the midshipman hurry away and murmured, “God help that one.”
The leadsman, forgotten by almost everybody, called, “By the mark ten, zur!”
Bolitho watched the cutter passing abeam, Starling standing in the sternsheets to wave as they ploughed past.
He took out his watch. It was all taking too long. But he dare not set any more sails. If Tempest had to come about to avoid grounding, the extra canvas would make it almost impossible.
Herrick called, “Cleared for action, sir!” His eyes were on Bolitho’s watch and he added, “I regret that it took all of fifteen minutes, sir.”
Bolitho returned the watch to his pocket. For once he had not been thinking about his standard requirement of ten minutes or less for clearing for action.
“Yes. We must try to lop five minutes off it.”
It would do Herrick more good to worry about that than to know his captain was feeling new anxiety.
He looked over the rail and along the gundeck, at the bare-backed seamen by each twelve-pounder, and on to the forecastle where the long bow-chasers and stubby carronades were also ready and waiting.
Gun captains and marines, seamen and warrant officers. As mixed a company as he had ever encountered.
But whatever lay around the point, or beyond the next horizon they were all he had.
He said slowly, “Well then, Mr Herrick. Run up the colours.”
With her canvas filling and emptying as if drawing breath, Tempest steered unwaveringly towards the Island of Five Hills. Bolitho could not recall such a frustrating and slow approach, and he was conscious of the tension all around him.
He raised a glass to his eye again, trying not to count the number of times he had done so since sighting the little island. The rocks at the foot of the first headland were like broken teeth, and he could see the trapped water
