for their benefit. Hereabouts, the straggling islands and humps of the Levu Group were less well charted, some barely at all. Depths and distances were vague and probably pure guesswork.
But the schooner’s crew knew them well enough, and Herrick would be sure to impress upon them the need for absolute caution when comparing their own draught with that of the frigate. North Island was very small, high- crested, and with a deep inlet to the north-west like something carved by a great axe. The population lived in one village, and as Hardacre had said, drew a regular harvest from the sea. Maybe Tuke had gone there to set up a new base, or to gather stores and water for his ships. So he did have at least two schooners. Viola had been right about that also.
He found himself thinking about Raymond again, wondering what his hopes really were. He would probably stay in the islands until more help arrived. The usual caravan of secretariat and overseers which always followed. Most of his original staff had either been murdered by Tuke’s men or had stayed in Sydney to recover from wounds, and to put affairs in order for friends and relatives who had also been killed or captured.
Raymond had been lucky, or was it that Tuke was cleverer than everyone gave him credit for? To single out Raymond as a hostage, to know he was aboard even before the attack, showed a far superior mind to the usual kind of pirate.
Borlase crossed the deck. “Permission to shorten sail, sir? It is close on time to change the watch.” He waited, uncertain of Bolitho’s mood. “You did order it, sir.”
“Yes.” Bolitho nodded. “Call the hands.”
There was no sense in driving the ship through the islands in pitch darkness. He thought he heard Lakey breathe out with relief as the boatswain’s mates piped the watch on deck to reduce sail.
The attack would have to be quick and efficiently executed. He moved aft to avoid the hurrying marines and seamen. Tempest would cross and if need be enter the inlet while the schooner’s party landed and attacked the village from the rear. Tuke must feel safe enough. He would not expect one youth to have escaped, to have had the courage to take a canoe all on his own and carry the news to the main island.
High above the deck he heard the seamen calling to one another as they hung over the yards and fisted the canvas into submission.
Two of their number had not returned to the ship with the other shore parties. Bolitho had ordered Borlase not to mark them in the log as “Run,” for desertion carried only one penalty. He had heard that Hardacre’s village were planning to hold a heiva to welcome the ships and their companies amongst them, with feasting and dancing, and doubtless some of that drink which had cut his breath like fire.
Out of a whole company, two desertions were not so bad under the tempting circumstances. If the men returned freely, he would think again. If not, they would most likely end up as unwilling “volunteers” in Hardacre’s militia when the frigate had departed for good.
He thought about Hardacre, and could find nothing but a grudging admiration. His motives were obscured behind his power, but his feelings for the natives and the islands were sincere enough. But he would lose against Raymond. Idealists always did with men like him.
He moved to the wheel and examined the compass. North by west. He nodded to the helmsman.
“Steady as you go.”
“Aye, zur.” The man’s eyes glowed dully in the last of the sunset.
Bolitho heard Borlase rapping out orders in his shrill voice. As acting first lieutenant he would let nothing slip past him. After his last experience and the subsequent court martial, he dare not.
He would take a few hours’ sleep if he could. Another glance at his command, feeling the gentle thrust of wind and rudder, listening to the familiar sounds of rigging and canvas. They were so much a part of his everyday life that he had to listen to hear them.
Allday was in the cabin, watching Noddall filling a jug with fresh drinking water and placing it beside two biscuits.
Bolitho thanked him and allowed his coxswain to take away his coat and hat, the trappings of command. He looked at the offering on the table. Water and biscuits. Much what the prisoners eat in the Fleet Prison, he thought.
Allday asked, “Shall I get the cot ready, Captain?”
“No. I’ll rest here.”
Bolitho laid down on the stern bench and thrust his hands behind his head. Through the thick glass he could see the first stars, distorted in the stout windows, so that they looked like tiny spears.
He thought of Viola, pictured her lying in her strange bed, listening to the growls and squeaks from the forest. Her maid would be with her, protecting her new mistress in her quiet, stricken manner.
His head lolled and he was instantly asleep.
Allday pulled off his shoes and removed the deckhead lantern.
“Sleep well, Captain.” He shook his head sadly. “You worry enough for the lot of us!”
9. Decoy
“GOD’S TEETH, Mr Pyper, what is taking you so long?”
Herrick mopped his face with his sleeve and peered up at the brightening sky. Below him, some waist-deep in boiling surf, were the remainder of his landing party, while others, notably Finney’s militiamen, were already higher up the steep rocky slope which they had confronted when the schooner’s two boats had carried them here.
Herrick watched Midshipman Pyper staggering in the water while several brown-skinned islanders tried to keep a boat from smashing itself on the rocks. He hated it when things went wrong because of careless planning or, as in this case, no planning at all.
Finney and his other lieutenant, a dull-eyed man called Hogg, had been certain of the right place to land the party. Herrick glared at the pitching schooner which had anchored nearly a cable offshore. That showed just how much they knew of landing places!
The result had been several long trips back and forth with the two small boats, and by now it was well past the time when they should have been moving inland.
Pyper scrambled up the slope, water trickling from his shirt and breeches, his face beset with worry. Like Swift, he was seventeen, and looked forward to promotion if and when a chance came. He did not want to irritate his first lieutenant.
“All ready, sir.”
Captain Prideaux called from the top of the slope, “I should damn well think so!” Despite the discomfort he, of all present, looked impeccable as usual.
Herrick bit back an oath. “Send the marine skirmishers ahead, if you please.”
“Done.” Prideaux’s foxy face gave a sly smile. “I’ve got those bloody guides to hurry their carcasses, too!” He drew out his slim hanger and lopped the head off a plant. “So?”
Herrick gritted his teeth. “So be it.”
He waved his hand over his head, and with some further delay his mixed party started to move inland.
Finney observed cheerfully, “The village is right at the top of the inlet. Most of the huts are on stilts, their backs in the hillside. If Tuke’s men are in there, they’ll be like rats in a cask when your ship blocks the seaward end!” The prospect of a fight seemed to please him.
Down the straggling line of guides and marine skirmishers came the message. There was smoke in the air. Strong stench of burning.
Prideaux said, “They must be destroying the village.” He did not sound as if he cared.
Herrick slapped a stinging insect from his neck and tried to fathom it out. Tuke had attacked the island, and was creating his usual terror and murder. But why? If he needed supplies, which seemed unlikely after his rich haul from the Eurotas, why waste time in sacking the place? Likewise, if he was setting up a new hiding place, why burn it down first? Nothing made sense. He thought of discussing it with Prideaux but checked himself. The marine always seemed to be sneering at everyone he considered beneath his station in life. Too bloody clever by half.
He glanced at the two militia lieutenants as they strode easily amongst their ragged retainers. They would know nothing. It seemed likely they left all their thinking to Hardacre.
