Ahead and on either bow the islands were breaking up and growing smaller. They would have to land again and find water, gather supplies. And all the time the sun pursued them, seared down on them, burning away their determination, their will to survive.
And when night eventually found them it was without comfort. For after the shock and fear of their experience on the island, and the heat of the long day, the air seemed like ice, so that those not employed on the oars clung together in shivering cold.
The next day, despite all their caution, the same danger showed itself. Behind the lush vegetation of one island watching eyes followed their weary approach. When they prepared to beach the boat they were attacked as before, beaten and almost knocked senseless by rocks and flying stones, until they were forced to pull into deeper water to find refuge.
Bolitho watched Keen and Pyper issuing the rations, and looked for resentment or mistrust in the faces of the others. The rations had to be exact. One sign of greed or favouritism and these same loyal and disciplined men might fall on each other like crazed wolves.
If only they had been able to get more food before leaving. But if Raymond had found out what they were intending, either from his guards or from the village, they would not even have reached the pier.
Blissett picked up his musket. “Permission to fire, sir!” He was watching a circling sea-bird, his eyes alive with sudden excitement.
Bolitho nodded. “Wait until it is closer. Otherwise our friend will have it.” He glanced astern at the tell-tale dorsal fin. He could accept it now without fear or curiosity. It was just part of the whole. One more hazard.
The bird fell neatly to the first ball. It was a booby, about the size of a duck.
They all stood or crouched staring at it until Bolitho said quietly, “We will divide it. But the blood must be given to the weakest.”
Revolted at first, the men took their little portions and then devoured them with sudden desperation. The blood, carried carefully through the swaying boat, was given to Evans, the wounded seaman called Colter and finally Penneck.
Just before sunset, and another bitter night, they sighted some fast-moving canoes to the north-east. Like harrying dogs, Bolitho thought. Running them down into weakness so they could be killed at leisure. Maybe they thought them to be some of Tuke’s men and were trying to wreak a terrible vengeance. Or they might even be acting for Tuke under threat or promise of reward.
Miller had constructed a sea-anchor with the last scrap of canvas, and Bolitho decided to give everyone a chance to have a brief rest, unbroken by the groan and clatter of oars.
As the boat lifted and rolled across a succession of troughs, Bolitho sat in the sternsheets, his coat around Viola’s shoulders, one arm encircling her and protecting her from the motion.
Once she said, “I am not asleep. I was looking at the stars.”
He held her firmly, needing her, fearing for her.
Then she said, “Stop discovering blame, Richard. I wanted to be here with you. Nothing is changed.”
When he made to answer he found she was asleep again.
As the dawn opened up the sky once more they saw even fewer islands, and the ocean seemed far greater and more invincible. They found too that Evans had died in the night.
Bolitho trained his small glass on the nearest land. It was very green, but without any sign of a beach. But it might be their last chance. He looked at Evans’ body, lying on the bottom boards as if asleep. They could bury him there. It would prevent the shark from snatching him away, and so save his men from seeing it happen to one of their own.
When they got ashore they were not attacked, and although Quare’s lookouts did find some old fire places, it looked as if they had lain unused for years. It was so difficult to get a boat inshore without pounding it against the rocks that perhaps native canoes stayed away, too frail to take the risk.
They found a tiny pool with some fresh water. It was from a rainfall, and barely enough to fill Frazer’s cooking pot. But with some of their dwindling supply of salt pork, a collection of small oysters which Pyper discovered amongst the rocks, and a few ship’s biscuits to give it body, Allday and Miller set about preparing their first hot meal. There was dried wood in plenty, and with Allday’s tinder-box and a small magnifying glass which they removed from Evans’ body they used the sun to get a good blaze going.
The little Welshman was buried on a slope under some trees, and the shallow grave covered with flat stones. It was a strange resting place for the Tempest’s painter, Bolitho thought. As he sat with his back against a palm and wrote carefully in a small notebook which was now becoming his log, he wondered how he would describe the place. Not that anyone would ever read about it.
Viola was lying in the shade beside him, the hat across her face.
“Call it Evans’s Isle, Richard.”
He smiled. “Yes. After all, he’s the only one who will be staying here.”
Keen’s voice came from the rocks where the boat was being watched and guarded. “Just sighted some more canoes, sir!”
Bolitho thrust the little book inside his shirt. “Very well. Douse the fire and collect the men. We’re safer in the boat than up here.”
In grim silence they pulled away from the only place which had made them welcome. Sustained for a while by their meal and a brief rest, they turned the stem towards the north once more, leaving Evans alone with his last and only possession.
Like a dying water-beetle the cutter, her oars partly withdrawn and unmoving, rolled across an unbroken swell which stretched as far as an eye could reach.
Bolitho sat with his arm on the tiller bar, breathing very slowly and trying not to look at the sky. The heat was so fierce that the sea had no colour, and merged into the sky like blinding silver.
He thought of writing something in his little book, and knew it was getting harder every time to concentrate on the useless, empty words.
The oarsmen lay across the looms, faces pressed on their arms, the others either crouched against the side of the hull to try and find some shade or slept where they sat, like dead men.
Viola Raymond was beside and a little below him. She was wearing his uniform coat, having removed her torn and stained gown to wash it in salt water. As he looked down at her, seeing the autumn-coloured hair tied back across the collar, he thought she could have been a captain.
She seemed to feel him looking at her and reached out to touch his hand. But she did not look up. Like her companions, she found the glare too painful, too demanding on whatever energy she still had.
“How much rest will you give them?” Her voice was low, but it no longer mattered. No eyes watched them together, and when they touched or held hands it was accepted. Part of their total strength, as it was part of his.
He slitted his eyes, measuring the sun’s angle. “Not much longer, Viola. We are making less headway every day.”
He wiped his forehead with his sleeve, the movement making the sweat pour down his chest and thighs. It had been four agonizing days since they had left the little island where they had buried Evans. Days and nights of unrelenting, sapping work. Pulling and bailing. Trying to snatch a few moments for sleep and then starting all over again. He considered their present circumstances. They had left the pier eight days ago. It was incredible even to think of the slow, wretched miles which marked their progress. The water was down to a gallon, if that. The salt pork was merely a fistful of rock-hard fragments. He had issued most of the wine in small cupfuls, and they had been lucky enough to hit and kill a noddy two days back. The bird had been divided as before and the blood given to the worst-off. The latter now included a seaman called Robinson who was suffering severely from both sun and thirst, and Penneck, whose spear wound showed signs of poisoning. The ship’s caulker was the only one who was rarely silent. Day or night he moaned and sobbed, feeling his dressing around his throat and occasionally falling into semiconsciousness, still groaning.
Bolitho tightened the grip on her fingers, his eyes smarting as he thought of her husband and his callous indifference, his refusal to think of anything but himself.
“How do you feel?” He waited, knowing she was preparing her reply, then added, “The truth now.”
She returned the pressure on his hand. “Well enough, Captain.” She looked up at him, shading her eyes. “Do not fret so. We will get there. You’ll see.”
