Herrick saw it and heard it, even watched their faces as they came towards him.
He could not see the boat now, not that it mattered. Nobody would escape.
He moved his sword slowly, seeing the crouching figures fanning out on either side. He could sense the power of them, smell them.
The sun was almost in his eyes, so that there was no shadow for him or the solitary marine. It was as if they were already dead.
To one side of the slowly advancing crowd he saw a spear raise itself carefully and deliberately. Now.
The bang, when it came, was almost deafening in the terrible silence.
Herrick heard startled shouts from behind, and then as if torn from a man’s heart, a strangled cheer.
Herrick said harshly, “Stand still, man! Don’t look round!”
The marine, blinded by sweat, his musket and bayonet as rigid as before, said from one corner of his mouth, “I’m with yew, sir!”
Slowly, uncertainly at first, the front rank of natives began to move back. When another bang shook the air they retreated, bounding up the slope, seemingly without effort.
Then, and only then, did Herrick turn.
Just inside the rocks was Tempest’s launch, a smoking swivel mounted in the bows. Where the canister had struck, Herrick neither knew or cared. It must have gone into the sky, for had it been aimed at the slope it would have killed more of his men than their attackers. Perhaps the sound, and the sight of the long launch, with the frigate’s quarter boat coming up astern, had been enough.
Herrick crossed to the marine and clapped him on the shoulder.
“That was bravely done.”
Together they walked towards the surf, where men were leaping from the boats to help and support the others through the shallows.
Bolitho stood quite still on the sand, his hands at his sides, as he waited for his friend to reach him. But in his mind he could still see Herrick as moments earlier the launch had thrust through the rocks after being towed at full speed by the schooner. Herrick, sword in hand, his back to the sea, as he stood with one marine to face a mob, and certain death.
It was something he would never forget. Nor would he wish to.
He clasped Herrick’s arms and said simply, “You have too much courage, Thomas.”
Herrick tried to grin, but the strain prevented it. “You came, sir. Said you would.” His head dropped. “Told them.”
Bolitho watched, unable to help, shocked to see Herrick’s shoulders shaking. I did this to him. He looked round at the beach, now empty but for the dead. For nothing.
Pyper came up the beach and hesitated. “All inboard, sir.”
Bolitho said to Herrick, “Come, Thomas. There is nothing we can do now.”
They passed the abandoned longboat, and it was then that Herrick seemed to come out of his shock. The boat had begun to sink again, the primitive repairs already leaking to the surf ’s rough motion.
He said, “Damn thing would have sunk anyway.” He looked at Bolitho steadily. “It would have served bloody Prideaux right.”
Bolitho was the last to climb into the launch. He paused, the sea surging around his waist, slapping the old sword against his thigh. One day he would meet with Tuke. No ruse, no trick would save him then.
He allowed Allday to haul him over the gunwale.
But this time it had been a defeat.
11. “Make The Best Of It”
JAMES RAYMOND ignored the seamen who were spreading awnings above the quarterdeck, while others swayed out boats for lowering alongside. He had come out to Tempest within minutes of her dropping anchor in the mushroom-shaped bay, and was almost beside himself with anger.
Bolitho watched him grimly, seeing his efforts to build a picture for himself of what had happened. Not that it was difficult, especially for one who travelled so far and so often as Raymond.
“I just will not accept it! I cannot believe that a King’s ship, a thirty-six-gun frigate to boot, could be thwarted and almost sunk by a damned pirate!”
There was no point in arguing, Bolitho thought wearily. There was enough to do without trying to change Raymond’s opinion. One he had been holding and preparing for some while. Probably since his lookout had first sighted the returning vessels. The little schooner had hurried on ahead to prepare him. Then Tempest’s silhouette, her missing topgallant mast and yard which had left such an obvious gap to mar her beauty, would have added more fuel to the fire.
He saw Isaac Toby, the carpenter, his owl-like face almost as red as his familiar waistcoat, rolling amongst his depleted crew, pointing at damage, marking a splintered timber with his knife, or indicating something which needed immediate restoration. He would be missing his mate, Sloper, Bolitho thought.
Some of the more badly wounded had already been ferried ashore. The rest had to work all the harder. Especially now. He looked across the shining water, knowing Raymond had stopped his ranting to study his reactions. Poised above her reflection like one of a matched pair, the French frigate Narval swung easily at her cable. Her awnings were spread, and there were boats in the water, while a solitary cutter pulled around her on guard duty.
Raymond snapped, “You may well look yonder, Captain. You turn up your nose at a Frenchman because his ideas are different from your own. How d’you think I feel, eh? A representative of King George and a country which supposedly supports the world’s finest navy is made to ask for the service of aforeign man-of-war! God damn it, Bolitho, if the Emperor of China offered me a ship I’d take her, and double-quick, believe me!” He moved about the deck, his shoes catching on splinters. “Always the same. I am expected to perform miracles. Opposed by hidebound fools and pig-headed soldiers!” He glared at him, oblivious to the heat. “Sailors too, it seems!”
Herrick came aft and touched his hat. “All the wounded listed by the surgeon have gone ashore, sir. I’ve ordered the boatswain to begin work on the topgallant-”
Raymond interrupted sharply, “Quite right, too. Make her nice and pretty again, so that Mathias Tuke can have another game with her!”
Bolitho jerked his head and Herrick withdrew. He said, “Mr Herrick does not warrant that, sir. He is a brave man and an excellent officer. Some good men died, one just this morning.” It had been the wretched marine, Watt. Gwyther had said he was surprised he had survived that far with such a wound. “I command this ship, and I am responsible.” He looked at Raymond squarely. “Tuke is cleverer than I thought. Perhaps I only saw what I wanted to see. But either way, it was my decision.” He dropped his voice as Keen hurried past. “It will only make things worse if we allow personal feelings to become involved.”
Raymond replied, “I had not forgotten who commands the Tempest. And I shall make sure you get a full report when I send my despatches to London. And you do not have to tell me how to behave. I have made my feelings towards you quite clear, I think. So it is quite useless to start asking favours now that your stars are less agreeable, eh?”
“Is that all, sir?”
Bolitho clenched his fists behind him, realizing how neatly he had been goaded into the trap. Maybe he was just too tired, or, like Le Chaumareys, was losing his grip on reality.
“For the present.” Raymond mopped his face. “I will be calling a conference shortly to plan a campaign against Tuke and any of his associates. If in the process we can recapture the French prisoner for de Barras, then all well and good. Under the circumstances it is the very least we can do.” He sounded less sure as he added, “De Barras has the authority of his country, and the means to execute his orders. We are not at war, and he at least seems to know what he is about.”
Bolitho thought of the cabin, the rich carpets and the frightened boy with the wine. Above all, de Barras’s indifference to brutal and sadistic treatment of his own men.
He made himself ask, “How did Hardacre take the news?”
