hill he had seen just hours ago. And he had acted on his own initiative. The thought troubled him as he walked, and he searched his mind for satisfaction or justification.
Tempest had got away, although she must have suffered under those powerful pieces. His action to attack and divert the gunners may have made little difference, although the pirates must have heard the din they were making.
But Bolitho would not know. That they had tried to help, to prevent the ship’s destruction with the only means they had. Their lives.
A marine turned and looked back at a companion who had been hit in the leg by a spear. He was leaning on Pyper’s shoulder, his eyes bright and feverish as he stared after the rest of the men.
The marine called, “Come on, Billy, not long now! You’ll get a double tot o’ rum for this, I shouldn’t wonder!”
Herrick swallowed hard. They were not done for yet. Not with men like these.
When eventually Prideaux’s scouts signalled that the landing place was in sight, Herrick knew even his moment of frail hope was extinguished.
As they crawled into whatever shelter they could find and shaded their eyes against the fierce glare from the sea, Herrick saw Finney’s men surrounded by even more natives than had originally attacked them near the village. It was made worse by the silence, the pathetic attitudes of the militiamen as they stared out at the hostile faces.
Finney had thrown down his sword, probably because he had been here before, or had met some of these same natives during his service with Hardacre. The other lieutenant, Hogg, was standing well back with his men, his terror evident even at this distance.
And beyond the little scene of fierce tension the schooner idled clear of the rocks, her mainsail already set and drawing as she moved further from the shore. Her small native crew would imagine the raid had been a complete failure, and why not? They would try to save themselves. Get home.
A seaman muttered, “There’s one o’ the boats still here, sir.”
Herrick did not answer. He had already seen it, known that it had been stove in. By the rocks or the natives no longer made any difference.
It was then the silent figures exploded into the militiamen in a solid naked wall. The light glinted on stabbing and plunging weapons, on limbs waving above the swaying crowd like scarlet roots, while through the heated air Herrick and his men listened to the rising roar of jubilant voices.
There was nothing they could do. It was still too far, and they would probably refuse to move even if he ordered it. They would wish to stay together at the end. It was not because they were frightened, they were beyond that. Nor was it caused by any sort of revenge for being left abandoned by those same men who were being mercilessly hacked to death.
It was the way of sailors, and on land or sea it was the only one they knew.
The crowd began to break away from the trampled sand and scrub. It was like some great obscene flower. Scarlet in the heart, with trailing ends, and parts which still moved until pounced on and clubbed or cut to death.
Only Finney was left, and he was being stripped naked and bound, trussed to a pole. Being saved for something even more horrific.
A marine said hoarsely, “I might hit him with a long shot, sir.”
“No.”
Herrick turned away. All these men to save one. He would not expect it even of himself. But it was hard to form the word.
He said, “Time enough when they discover what’s happened to the rest of us.”
Herrick rolled on to his back and stared at the sky. He remembered with stark clarity when he had been a small boy and had been playing with his friend on the bank of the Medway. He had thrown a stone through the rushes. Meant as a joke, like those they always played on each other, it had hit his friend in the eye, nearly blinding him.
Herrick had screwed up his face, willing that it was a dream. That when he looked again it would all be clean and as before.
But then, as now, it was real. If he looked, the litter of corpses and torn limbs would still be there. And the schooner would be gone.
Prideaux was saying to his corporal, “Put all the muskets together and then inspect the powder and shot. The wounded can do the loading, right?”
“Sir.” Attentive, even now.
Pyper said quietly, “Will it be soon, sir?”
Herrick did not look at him, but watched a bird with scimitar-shaped wings circling far, far up against the washed-out blue sky.
“I expect so.” He added, “But no quarter. Nor do we surrender.”
“I see.”
Then Herrick did turn his head to look at the midshipman. Do you see? The boy who had started to become a man. Did he not ask why he was to die, here of all places?
Someone said, “The buggers are searchin’ about on t’other side of th’ hill, sir.”
Prideaux sounded irritable. “Yes. Well, it won’t take a foxhound to pick up our trail, will it?”
Herrick raised himself carefully amongst the prickly gorse and looked at the sea. The schooner was stern-on now, standing well out from the landing place.
We could light a fire, make an explosion, but it would only bring down the savages that bit sooner. Anyway, the schooner would not dare to come inshore.
He looked again at the schooner, his mind suddenly clear. The wind. It had shifted. Quite a lot. He stared at the hillside bushes and scrub and tried to fathom its direction.
Prideaux asked, “What is it?”
He was trying to sound disinterested as he always did, and the fact he was not succeeding gave Herrick sudden desperate hope.
He replied quietly, “The captain will come to look for us. The wind. It could make a world of difference. Give him a day’s start.” He looked at Pyper’s strained features. “A whole day. If we can just hang on here.”
The marine who had been speared in the leg said huskily, “That would be fine, sir.”
His friend grinned. “Wot did I tell ’ee, Billy-boy?”
Prideaux scowled. “Don’t raise their hopes. The wind, what is that? Time, how do we know anything?”
Herrick looked at him. “He’ll come. Mark me, Captain Prideaux.” He looked away. “He must.”
Bolitho sat in the cabin going over his written log while a lantern swung back and forth above his head.
All yesterday, and through the long night, they had sailed with as much canvas as they could carry. No one had spoken of risk or caution this time, and he had seen men look away when his gaze had passed over them.
He glanced at the stern windows, realizing with surprise they were already paling with the dawn. He felt suddenly empty and dispirited. Noddall would have reminded him. Hovered around the desk.
He thought of all the faceless bundles sewn in hammocks which he had watched dropped overboard. It could have been ten times worse, but it did not help at all to remind himself.
Wayth, captain of the maintop. Sloper of the carpenter’s crew, and who had done more than anyone to make the newly built jolly boat a success. Marine Kisbee, maintop. Old Fisher, able seaman. William Goalen, second quartermaster, Noddall, cabin servant, and too many others beside. In all fifteen had been killed, and as many more wounded. And for what?
Death for some, discharge for others, and advancement for the lucky ones who filled their shoes.
He rubbed his eyes again, trying to quell the ache in his mind.
There was a tap at the door and Midshipman Swift stepped into the cabin.
“Mr Keen’s respects, sir, and we have just sighted a light to the north’rd.”
“A ship?” He cursed himself for passing back the information as a question. He stood up and placed the thick book inside his desk. “I’ll come up.”
He had been wrong about Herrick too, it seemed. The light must be the schooner. Although even with the shift of wind it seemed strange she had reached this far. He thought about the wind and how they had cursed it so often
