Bolitho lowered his legs to the deck, grappling with the news. Yesterday, his hilltop lookout had reported the sight of a sail to the south-east. Within hours it was recognized as the overdue brig Pigeon, and once more Bolitho had felt the excitement run through his ship like a fresh breeze. News from home. Keeping a memory alive. All things to all men.
Some of the interest had transmitted itself to the settlement and fires had been lit to bring the heavy scent of wood-smoke and cooked meat to the secluded bay.
And then the wind had dropped, and when darkness had swept over the islands the brig had anchored, to await the safety of the dawn and a secure passage through the reefs.
He heard feet on deck, the rattle of blocks as a boat was hoisted outboard. That would be Herrick’s doing. Making sure his captain had his proper gig and not one of Hardacre’s scarred longboats.
He asked, “What is the time?”
Allday said, “Morning watch has just been called, Captain.” He rubbed his chin. “The Pigeon’s master must have been brought in by boat.”
Bolitho stared at him. How easily Allday got to the bones of it. It had to be something very urgent to bring a brig’s captain ashore after such a long and wearying voyage from England. Was it war with Spain? Would Tempest be ordered home? He thought of it carefully, matching his need against that of his training. She would be safe in Cornwall, while he… He swore as Orlando jabbed his stomach accidentally with a massive elbow.
Allday lit one of the lanterns and grinned. “That’s the best of being mute, Captain. You never have to apologize!”
Bolitho peered at his reflection in a mirror. Naked and tousled, his hair black across his forehead, he looked more like a vagrant than a captain.
But Orlando bustled about him, fetching lukewarm water from the galley, and while Allday got busy with soap and razor, laid out Bolitho’s clothing as instructed. He did it far better than he should after so brief a training, and Bolitho suspected the Negro had once served in some great estate, or had been in a position to watch others attending their masters. Perhaps, like his ability to speak, his memory had been cut short with some terrible experience.
Herrick came aft and tapped the door. “Gig’s ready, sir.” He watched the little scene in the cabin. “I see that I need not have worried.”
Bolitho slipped into his clean shirt and allowed Allday to fasten the neckcloth. “No more new information?”
“No.” Herrick looked tired. “But the Pigeon has brought some bad news, I think. The good always seems to drag its feet.”
Bolitho snatched up his hat. “We will see.” He hesitated, allowing Allday to hurry on ahead to his gig. “Be ready, Thomas. We may have to weigh at dawn.”
“Aye.” He had obviously thought of little else. “There are only the shore parties unaccounted for. Young Valentine Keen will have to manage.”
Bolitho ran lightly up the companion ladder and felt the cooler air on his cheek. Just past four in the morning, and the decks moist under his shoes. He peered up at the crossed yards and thought the stars were already fading between the shrouds and neatly furled sails.
Men stood aside, and others doffed their hats as he lowered himself into the boat. Through open gunports he saw blurred faces, the watch below trying to guess what was happening. Where he was going in such haste.
As the gig rushed across the smooth water he sat in silence watching the trailing phosphorescence around the dipping blades, the surge of foam from the stem. He saw the Eurotas loom above the fast-moving boat and heard the harsh challenge, “Boat ahoy!” and Allday’s prompt reply, “Passing!”
With so many rumours of unrest and trouble amongst the islands, the ship’s sentries were more alert than usual. Failure to acknowledge a challenge might bring a blast of canister into the boat.
Bolitho saw the lights beyond the pier and knew the whole settlement must be awake.
“Oars!”
Bolitho watched the pier rising above him and heard the clink of metal as the bowman caught a ringbolt with his boat-hook.
Then he was up and striding along the pier, marvelling that the place had become so familiar to him after so short a stay.
He passed one of Prideaux’s pickets, the marine’s crossbelts gleaming white in the darkness. Through the wide gates and past the gibbet where he saw the overseer, Kimura, waiting for him.
“Well?” He could smell the man. Sweat and the pale drink which tasted like rum and which would kill if taken in quantity.
Kimura said in his strange voice, “They wait upstairs, sir. They not tell me nawthin’.”
After the gig and the rough track from the pier Raymond’s room seemed blinding with light.
Raymond was standing in an ankle-length satin coat, his hair ruffled as he glared at the open door. Hardacre was sitting in a chair, his fingers interlaced across his belly, face very grim.
And beside a screened window the Pigeon’s master made a shaggy contrast, bringing the ocean right into the room.
William Tremayne had changed little, Bolitho decided, as he strode towards him and gripped his hand. Broad and short, with spiky grey hair, and eyes so dark they glittered in the lanterns like black coals.
Tremayne grinned. “Dick Bolitho!” He wrung his hand, his palm as rough as timber. “How are ye, me ’andsome? Still a captain, eh?” He chuckled, the sound coming out of the depths to bring Bolitho instant memories. “I’d thought you master o’ the King’s Navy at least by now!”
Raymond said sharply, “Yes, yes! Please sit down, the pair of you. The fond greetings can wait.”
Tremayne peered round under his chair, his dark eyes innocent.
“Now what is it?” Raymond seemed to be verging on an explosion.
Tremayne looked at him sadly. “I am sorry, sir. I thought you were talking to a dog an’ was looking for him, like!”
Raymond cleared his throat, and Bolitho saw that his hands were shaking badly.
He said, “The news is serious, Bolitho.”
Tremayne interrupted cheerfully, “Aye, ’tis that, Dick. The whole of Europe is quaking fit to bust open!”
Bolitho watched Raymond’s hands. “Spain?”
“Worse.” Raymond seemed to have difficulty in forming his words. “There has been a bloody revolution in France. The mobs have taken the country, thrown the King and his Queen into prison, and they may already be dead, even as we sit here. According to these despatches, thousands are being hunted down and beheaded in the streets. Anyone of noble birth, or touching on the smallest authority, is being taken and butchered. Our channel ports are crammed with refugees.”
Bolitho felt his mouth go dry. Revolution in France. It did not seem possible. There had been food riots and disorders, but so had there been in England after the war. He could well imagine the effect of the news at home. Amongst the foolish and unthinking there would be short-lived enjoyment at seeing an old enemy brought down in confusion. And then would come the cold logic and understanding. The might of France separated only by the English Channel, and with the rule of Terror at its head.
While he had been worrying about Tempest’s role, or had taken the news from Timor to Sydney about the Bounty mutiny, the real world had been put to the torch.
Raymond said, “It will mean war.” He looked at the wall as if expecting to see an enemy. “But nothing like the last one. By comparison that will be remembered as a skirmish!”
Tremayne eyed him curiously and then said to Bolitho, “It all started last July. May have turned into something worse b’now. But still, I reckon it’ll seem like good news to the Frenchie, Genin, or however you pronounces it.”
Bolitho looked at Raymond. “Genin?”
“Yes. Yves Genin. One of the minds behind the revolution. Yesterday he had a price on his head as far as we were concerned. Now…”
Bolitho stared at him. “Is that the man de Barras wants to capture?” He saw the uncertainty change to guilt. “You knew! All this while and you knew Genin was no felon, but a man wanted for political reasons!”
“De Barras entrusted me with the news, certainly.” Raymond tried to recover his composure. “I do not have to tell my subordinates everything. Anyway, what is it to you? If de Barras succeeds in taking Genin alive it is his
