He found himself marvelling at the easy way his ideas translated themselves into actions. It was sheer madness. What could he and a handful of men do here? If the natives started to drop with fever the situation would get ugly and quickly. It would not be a siege for long. It would be a massacre.
He passed the long hut which Gwyther had used as his hospital and saw the wounded marine and his two companions sitting by the entrance. He could feel the uncertainty, the new fear.
Bolitho said, “Don’t worry. You’re not forgotten.”
The marine known as Billy-boy asked, “We’m in for troubles, sir?”
“Can you still hold a musket?”
He bobbed. “Can that, sir. I’m gettin’ better all the while. Just me leg.”
Bolitho smiled. “Good. You’ll be armed directly. I’m mounting you as picket on the weapons.”
He strode on with Allday beside him. Weapons. The compound had its swivels and a few six-pounders. Not exactly artillery, but they could sweep any attackers from the pier like gravel from a road.
He paused on a slope and looked towards the sea. Tempest lay as before, serene above her image, distance hiding the confusion which his message must have created. Poor Thomas. He would be here too but for his sense of duty.
Bolitho glanced at the Eurotas. It would be best to transfer the convicts into her rather than keep them ashore and add to any risk of infection. He tried to scrape his mind further, to discover some weakness or flaw in his hastily assembled plan. Just hours ago, that was when it had all started. Like a line in a ship’s log, a hint of some new disturbance on the sea’s face. Your life could change with the speed of light, the merest whim of an idea.
The pier was deserted, and below it Hardacre’s longboats swung gently to their lines, their gunwales so blistered they showed no trace of paint or colour.
They reached the big gates, and Bolitho saw two Corps soldiers watching him from one of the little blockhouses.
Allday shouted, “Open the gates! It’s Captain Bolitho!”
An officer appeared on the rampart, his coat like blood in the sunlight.
“I am sorry, Captain! But the governor has ordered me to keep them closed! For the safety of my men and all those on duty within, and for the security of the settlement, it is considered the best arrangement.”
Bolitho looked at him steadily, his mind like ice, despite the enormity of Raymond’s betrayal.
He called, “We have to stand together. The ships are one way of life, the islands another. If we are to meet any threat from attack or from sickness we must-” He stopped, sickened. His words had sounded like pleading.
Allday said thickly, “Let me get up at the bastard, Captain! I’ll gut him like a herring!”
“No.”
Bolitho turned away. Raymond could do as he pleased. There was an underground stream within the compound, endless drinking water. Hardacre had chosen the site wisely. They would have plenty of food, far more than they needed with the militia scattered and less mouths to feed. If every man outside the palisades died and the islanders were decimated, Raymond’s stand, his decision to save what he could, might be seen as brilliant planning. Especially across a fine desk on the other side of the world.
With Europe moving towards another conflict, even the smallest deed might be welcome.
“We will go back to the huts.”
He glanced quickly at Allday as they walked down the slope towards the trees. When did you begin to see signs of fever in a man? It was the dread of every sailor. He could understand the feelings of the Corps soldiers on the palisades. But it was a fool’s protection. Tropical fever could soon scale a wall.
He found Pyper making a list of supplies and said, “Put a man by the pier. To keep watch on the ship.” He said it briskly. Matter of fact. There was no point in putting thoughts in Pyper’s mind if they were not already there. The mention of the ship. Security. Amongst one’s own. While here…
Pyper nodded. “Aye, sir.”
Despite being made an acting-lieutenant he looked very young. Vulnerable. As Keen had once done when he had first joined Bolitho’s previous command.
It felt cool inside the hut, and Bolitho looked down at the girl, shocked to see that she had changed in so short a time. Her face was drawn, her mouth twitching, as if she were in a trance.
Hardacre was wiping her forehead with a cloth. He stood up and said, “I heard about Raymond. Might have guessed he’d be useless. Government spy. Lackey!”
Bolitho said, “Can you spare a few minutes?”
Outside again, Hardacre took a flask from his robe and offered it.
“Safer than water. Makes it easier to stay calm, too.”
Bolitho let it trickle across his tongue. It was fiery, and yet took away his thirst.
He said, “I remembered what you said about Rutara Island. About its being a good hiding place for Tuke.”
Hardacre smiled. “How can you still think of such things? They are beyond us now.”
“You described it as the Sacred Island.”
“True. It is a rough, rocky place. Not suitable for habitation. Superstition and fear grew out of it. The people will not land there. To do so is desecration. A sign of war. Tuke would know this.”
“And de Barras?”
“I think not.”
Bolitho remembered the false masts, the pain and the shock of the bombardment. He had known that Tuke would have a plan. Maybe all the rest had been a rehearsal just for this. De Barras would drive into the anchorage, guns firing, whether he knew about Genin and the revolution or not.
The wildness of battle would soon restore order in his ship, and Tuke’s destruction would keep de Barras’s security for a little longer.
But the islanders would see and care about none of these things. To them Tuke, de Barras and the English sailors were as one. Hostile, alien, feared. But as soon as they knew of their trespass on to their Sacred Island the last control would snap.
Tuke would stand off and await his chance as he had done before. Eurotas captured, villages burned and pillaged, people killed without mercy. And after challenging a King’s ship with no more than a simple ruse, de Barras would stand no chance at all.
He looked at the palm fronds moving gently in a soft breeze. Hardacre’s schooner was lively enough, but Tempest carried a tremendous spread of canvas. He made up his mind.
“Allday. Get a boat’s crew together. One of Mr Hardacre’s cutters. I am going out to the ship.” He saw Allday’s disbelief and added, “Well, almost.”
Later, as the boat rose and clipped in a slight swell, Bolitho knew what it was like to be parted from his command.
The boat kept station on Tempest’s stern, and he was aware of the many figures on the poop and in the mizzen shrouds silently watching as the oars held it in position.
In the cabin windows Herrick and Borlase were staring down at him, and it was all he could do to remain outwardly calm, even formal.
“Tell Mr Lakey to lay a course for Rutara Island. I want you to weigh immediately and go there with every stitch you can carry.”
He could see his clerk, Cheadle, deeper within the cabin. He would be writing it all down. Bolitho never transferred his authority without setting it in writing. And even though his signature would not appear this time, it would be enough to safeguard Herrick if things went wrong. And two-thirds of the ship’s company were listening. The best witnesses of all.
He added, “It is sacred to the other islanders. I need you to anchor in the lagoon there, but do not put a single man ashore! Do you understand?”
Herrick nodded firmly. “Aye, sir.”
“If Tuke’s schooners are there, destroy them, do what you can to drive them away. Your actions will be seen. It will be known that we are not here to smear their beliefs and bring a war amongst them.”
“And if I meet with Narval, sir?”
Bolitho looked up at him, trying to feel his way. “You read my instructions. If de Barras is still in command you must tell him about his country. If Narval is under new colours, you must stand off.”
“Not fight, sir?”
