He continued, “Not one of us has caught the fever, although many have died all around us. So perhaps we are safe. Maybe we are too evil to go just yet!”
Bolitho saw Miller and Quare grin, as he knew they would. On the other side of the clearing Allday was watching him calmly. He had heard this sort of thing before.
Bolitho said, “Only one ship can offer battle to Tuke, and no matter what forces he now has, I think Tempest is more than a match for them.”
Blissett nodded, and he noticed that Lenoir, the French seaman, was crossing himself. Orlando stood apart from the rest, arms folded, one foot on the last case of biscuit. He looked powerful, and somehow regal.
He added slowly, “There are five hundred miles between us and Tempest, lads.”
He could see their doubt. What did the distance mean? Five hundred. It might as well be five thousand miles.
Bolitho looked along their intent faces, wishing he could spare them.
“I intend to take a cutter and as many volunteers who are willing and find our Tempest.”
There was a long drawn-out, stunned silence. Then as Pyper stepped forward with a makeshift watch-bill, Allday said, “Wouldn’t it be better to take both cutters, Captain?” He smiled lazily. “More of a chance, I reckon.”
Pyper called, “All volunteers hold up your hands.”
The boatswain’s mate, Miller, replied, “No need. We’ll all go.” He bared his strong teeth like an animal. “Two cutters, eh, lads?”
They all crowded forward, slapping each other and grinning as if they had just been offered something precious.
Bolitho glanced at his hands, expecting to see them shaking.
He heard her say, “You cannot leave me, Richard.”
He looked at her, his protest dying as she took his hands. Then he nodded. “Better together, my love.”
Allday cleared his throat. “Beg pardon, ma’am, an open boat full of sailors is no place for a lady!” He sounded shocked. “I mean, Captain, it would not be right!”
She looked him up and down. “I have seen it all. And I believe you need me to sustain your impudence, Allday!” She smiled. “When do we start?”
Bolitho took out the watch, seeing her eyes on it as he opened the guard.
“Dusk. If we attempt to leave earlier the guards may panic and open fire to stop us.”
He led her away from the others and their strange, released excitement.
“I don’t know, Viola. I’m not sure I can do it. Five hundred miles. And even then…”
She took his elbow and turned him gently towards the huts.
“Look at the marine, Richard. The one called Billy-boy. He has been badly wounded, but now he is on his feet. And the other two are much better. With men like these, of course you can do it!” She made to leave him and then said quietly, “And do not ask Hardacre to look after me until you return. We go together.” She watched him steadily. “It is our promise.”
He nodded. “If you are determined.”
She tossed her head and he saw her as he had first done, five years back. All her strength and as he had thought then, her arrogance. Despite her torn gown and scarred shoes, that lady was still very much there.
“Never more so, my darling Richard. About anything!”
14. When, Not If
BOLITHO eased the tiller bar slightly and said, “We will drift for a while, Mr Pyper. Hail the other boat.”
Gratefully they hauled the long oars across the gunwales of the cutter and drooped over them like men at prayer. Getting the boats away from the pier without being seen or challenged had been child’s play compared with making a safe passage through the reefs. The undertow had been very strong, and as if to taunt their puny efforts the wind had attacked them around the headland with unexpected vigour, and it had taken every man’s strength to reach open water.
Now, with the sun already high in an empty sky, it was difficult to imagine it.
Bolitho looked along the boat, watching each man’s reaction, his adjustment.
Close astern the other cutter was pulling towards them, and he saw Keen at the tiller, pointing to one of the oarsmen, or advising somebody on how to get better results from his stroke.
In his own boat Bolitho could readily understand Keen’s problems. The two crews were as evenly matched as possible, with the few seamen spread between the rest, the marines and the injured.
He looked down at Viola’s hand on the gunwale. She had hardly said a word during their violent, tossing progress through the broken water, but when he had reached out for her she had looked up at him and had smiled. Just that. And yet it had offered him more confidence, more peace at that moment than he could remember.
He made himself think about his task. Five hundred miles. At the very best, with all in their favour and no one falling sick, it would take over a week. The boats had no sails, but Miller had discovered some scraps of canvas and had promised to try and rig something which might help steady the boat and spare the oarsmen some of the back- breaking strain.
What a mixed bunch, he thought, as he looked at each weary, stubbly face. Miller, and the marine, Blissett. Jenner, and Orlando, and two of the injured, the marine called Billy-boy and Evans, the ship’s painter.
He met Allday’s gaze from the stroke oar and nodded. If Allday showed resentment at crewing a boat instead of coxswaining it, he did not show it.
“At any other time it would make a fair sight, Captain.”
Bolitho looked abeam. The islands all seemed the same, blue and hazy in the morning sunlight.
He wondered if Hardacre was even now shouting his message to Raymond from the gates, telling him what these men were trying to do to save him and his cowardly guards.
He thought too of the moment when the cutter had surged past the still-smouldering wreck of the Eurotas. Only her blackened poop and taffrail remained above the surface, but it had been enough to make Viola seize his hand and press it against her in the darkness. The sight of that stark outline, surrounded with breaking spray and trailing fragments of cordage, must have brought it all back in an instant. It had been in the poop where she had faced Tuke. Where he had taunted and humiliated her.
“Boat your oars!” Keen leaned over the gunwale of his boat as it nudged alongside the other one. He said, “Wind’s dropped, sir.” He smiled at Viola. “I hope you were able to sleep, ma’am.”
But the smile only made him look sadder, Bolitho thought.
“I hope it remains so.” Bolitho kept his voice level and relaxed.
Unlike a ship, there was nowhere he could hide from those who depended on him. Like this moment. The beginning. Five hundred miles with neither chart nor sextant. All he had was a small boat’s compass, and the barest amount of food and water. Hardacre had managed to smuggle some wine and a flask of rum to him, and this he would keep for anyone whose health wilted under the torment of heat and exposure. They had six muskets between the two boats, and apart from the officers’ pistols there were some cutlasses and a boarding axe which Miller always carried in his belt. It was not much, but if they could keep up a regular daily total they had a chance. Any tropical storm, or sudden fever amongst the boats, and they had no chance at all.
To remind everyone of the need for care and vigilance, a shark had joined them at dawn, and even now was cruising lazily a cable or so astern.
Bolitho fixed the islands in his mind like an unmarked chart. The Levu Group, and then north like the point of the compass to the Navigator Islands, directly adjacent to which lay Rutara, and with luck, the Tempest.
He said, “We will keep our water ration the same in each boat, Mr Keen. But tomorrow I intend to beach in the best-looking bay or cove and supplement our stores with coconuts. We might even find some shellfish in the rocks.”
He wanted to add that a hot meal, no matter how frugal or coarse, was better than anything to keep the men in good health and spirits. As soon as they got ashore on one of the islands he would tell Keen. To shout it now over the lolling heads of his men would sound like an early acceptance of failure.
