All Things Remembered

 

It was almost noon, and the sun which blazed across Sydney harbour was pitiless in its intensity. The sky above the capital of the infant colony should have been bright blue, but it was blurred as if seen through a crudely made glass, and the air around the waterfront buildings and anchorage alike felt gritty and humid.

Isolated and apart from the varied collection of local shipping and heavier merchantmen, a man-of-war stood above her reflection as if she had been there forever, as if she would never move again. Her ensign flapped only occasionally above her high poop, and the commodore’s broad pendant which flew from her mainmast truck was only a little more enthusiastic.

But despite the heat and discomfort her decks were alive with watching figures, as they had been for some while, since another British man-of-war had been reported entering the anchorage.

The commodore leaned his palms on the sill of his cabin windows and withdrew them hurriedly. The dried wood felt like a heated cannon. But he watched nevertheless, conscious of the unusual silence throughout his command as the newcomer crawled closer and closer across the glittering water, her masts and yards and then her curved beakhead taking shape and clarity above the haze.

The commodore’s flagship was the old Hebrus, a small two-decker of sixty-four guns which had been ready for disposal after nearly thirty years of service. Then she and her commodore had been given just one more commission. Now, on this October day in 1789, anchored as senior British naval vessel in Sydney harbour, she was still expected to act if need be with her old efficiency and relish, although many of her officers secretly believed she would be hard put to reach England if her recall was ever offered.

The other ship was a frigate, common enough in times of war and at any other place where their agility and speed might be required at short notice. But out here, thousands of miles from home and familiar faces and customs, a King’s ship was rare, and all the more welcome.

Her presence accounted for the Hebrus’s silence. Every man watching her painstaking entrance in the merest breath of wind would be seeing her differently. A town in England perhaps. A voice. Children he could barely remember.

The commodore grunted and straightened his back, the effort bringing a prickle of sweat across his spine. It was absurd. The new arrival was the thirty-six-gun frigate Tempest, and she had never been to England at all.

He waited as his servant padded around him with dress coat and sword, the trappings of officialdom and ceremony, remembering what he had heard about Tempest . It as strange how circumstances could affect a ship’s purpose as well as the lives of the many who might serve her.

Six years earlier when war with the American colonies and the Franco-Spanish alliance had come to a close, ships which had been worth their weight in gold in battle were, like most of their companies, no longer wanted. A country soon forgot those who had fought and died for it, so a ship’s survival seemed of even less importance. But peace between the great powers had never been very secure, at least to those who had been involved in the price of each bloody victory.

And now there was renewed tension with Spain which could just as easily fan into something worse. It was over rival claims to various territories which each hoped to exploit for trading and colonial purposes. Once again the Admiralty had been directed to search around for more frigates, the lifeline of every fleet.

The Tempest had been built in the Honourable East India Company’s yard at Bombay just four years back. As with most of John Company’s ships, she was constructed of tEe finest . Malabar teak and to the best available design. Unlike the Navy,

the Company’s ships were always built with long usage in mind, and with some regard for those who had to work them.

The Admiralty’s agents in Bombay had purchased her for the King’s service without her ever sailing under a Company flag. She had cost them eighteen thousand pounds. The Admiralty must have been desperate to pay such a princely sum, the commodore thought privately, or else, as was equally likely, a little extra gold had changed hands in other directions.

He gestured for his silent servant to offer him his telescope. He waited for the Hebrus to swing very slightly to her cable and then trained the glass on the slow-moving ship. Like most sea officers he was always impressed by the sight of a frigate. This one was heavier than he was used to, but still retained the graceful proportions, the appearance of latent speed and manoeuvrability which made them every junior officer’s dream.

Despite the damned haze he could see a cluster of figures around her forecastle, one anchor catted and ready to let go as she glided purposefully above her twin on the blue water, her stem barely raising a ripple. Under topsails and jib only, her canvas filling and then flapping emptily while she changed tack to take advantage of the poor breeze, he could almost feel the excitement across the water. The sight of a port, any port, always dulled the memory of hardship and sometimes brutal conditions which had got them this far.

The commodore had been expecting the Tempest two weeks or more earlier than this. She had come from Madras, and despatches he had already received from a courier brig had left him in no doubt Tempest would arrive on time.

But he was not irritated as he might have been with other ships. Tempest was under the command of one Captain Richard Bolitho. Not a friend exactly, but a fellow Cornishman, and that, out here in this misery of convicts and foul conditions, fever and corruption, was worth almost as much.

He levelled the glass again. He could now make out the frigate’s figurehead, a wild-eyed girl with streaming hair, her breasts out-thrust as she held a horn fashioned like a great shell to her lips. Her hair and torso were painted in bright gilt. Only her eyes were blue and intense while they stared far ahead as if to follow the makings of her tempest. The gilt on her and the

gingerbread around the part of the poop yet visible must have cost Bolitho a small fortune, he decided. But in these waters there was little else to spend your money on. He winced as he heard his marines stamping along to the entry port. Even their boots seemed loud and heavy enough to shake the poor old Hebrus apart.

A lieutenant peered respectfully through the screen door. The commodore nodded curtly, not wishing his subordinate to see that he was so interested in the other ship. ‘Yes, yes, I know. I’ll come up.’

Even as he reached for his hat the first bang of the salute echoed across the harbour, making the dozing birds lift from the water, flapping and squawking to reprimand the newcomer for disturbing them.

On the quarterdeck, and despite the spread of an awning, it was like a kiln,

The flag captain touched his hat and studied his superior’s mood.

‘Tempest, thirty-six, sir. Captain Richard Bolitho.’

Gun for gun the salute continued, the dark smoke pressed down on the water as if by something solid.

The commodore thrust his hands behind him.

‘Make a signal as soon as she is anchored. Captain repair on board.’

The captain hid a smile. The mood was good. He had known times when he had made a dozen signals right in the middle of another ship’s last-minute manoeuvring. As if he had enjoyed the apparent confusion caused. There must be something special about this one, he thought.

 

With her topsails shivering to the regular crash of her eleven-gun salute to the commodore, His Britannic Majesty’s frigate Tempest continued slowly across the harbour. The glare on the surface was so fierce that it was painful to look much beyond the figging or gangways.

Richard Bolitho stood aft at the quarterdeck rail, his hands locked loosely behind his back, trying to appear relaxed despite; all the usual tensions of entering an unfamiliar anchorage.

How still it was. He glanced along his ship, wondering how she would appear to the commodore. He had taken command of Tempest in Bombay when she had been commissioned for the Navy, just two years ago.

The thought of the actual date made him smile, changing his grave expression to one of youthfulness. For it had been his birthday, as it was today. On this, the 7th of October, 1789, after making one more in a countless line of forgotten landfalls, Richard Bolitho of Falmouth in the County of Cornwall was thirty-three years old.

He glanced quickly to the other side of the deck where Thomas Herrick, the first lieutenant, and his best friend, was peering beneath the shade of one hand while he studied the set of the braced yards and the shortened shapes of the bare-backed topmen. He wondered if Herrick had remembered. Bolitho hoped not. In these waters, with week following week of disagreeable climate and persistent calms, you were all too conscious of the passing of time.

‘ ‘Bout five minutes now, sir.’

‘Very well, Mr Lakey.’

Bolitho did not have to look round. In the two years of his command in Tempest he knew the voice and temperament of all those who had served with him for most of the period. Tobias Lakey was the lean, taciturn sailing master. Bom and raised in the spartan reality of the Scilly Isles off the tip of Bolitho’s own Cornwall, he had gone to sea at the age of eight. He was about forty now. In all those years, in every sort of vessel from fishing boat to a ship of the line, there was little of the sea’s ways he had still to learn.

Bolitho glanced slowly along the deck, trying to recall all the other faces which had vanished in the two years. Death and injury, disease and desertion, the faces had come and gone like the tides.

Now Tempest’s company was much like any other in a vessel which had never touched a British port, and as mixed as the waterfronts she had seen in her voyages. Some were men who really wished to make the Navy their career. Usually they had signed on other ships in England and had transferred to any available when their own had paid off. They better than most

would know that conditions in England, six years after the war, were in many circumstances far worse than life aboard a man-of-war. Here at least they had security of sorts. With a fair commander and a large portion of luck they could make their way. In their own country, for which many of them had fought long and hard, there was little work, and the seaports were too often full of the war’s cripples and those rejected by the sea.

But the remainder of Tempest’s people were a real melting-pot. French and Danes, several Negroes, an American, and many more besides.

As he looked at the men at the braces and halliards, the boat handlers waiting to lower his gig outboard, the swaying line of sweating marines on the poop, he tried to tell himself he should be content. He knew that if he were in England he would be fretting and worrying about getting back to sea; Trying to obtain a new ship, any ship. That was how it had been after the war. Then he had already held two commands, a sloop and his beloved frigate Phalarope.

When he had been given the Undine, another fifth-rate, and despatched to Madras on the other side of the world, he had felt only gratitude that he had been spared the fate of the many who daily thronged the Admiralty corridors or waited in the coffee houses, hoping and praying for just such a chance as his.

That had been five years in the past. And apart from a short visit to England he had been away from home waters ever since. When he had taken command of Tempest he expected to be recalled to England for new orders. To be sent to the West Indies perhaps, to the Channel Fleet, or to the territory which was in dispute with Spain.

He looked at Herrick again and wondered. Herrick said nothing of his own views now, although he had once made, them plain enough. Apart from his coxswain, John Allday, Bolitho knew of no other who risked his anger by such plain speaking.

It had all come back to him when Tempest had anchored at Madras two months ago. Even as his boat’s crew had made their desperate efforts to pull him through the angry surf without getting their captain soaked to the skin he had remembered his first visit. When he had carried Viola Raymond, wife of the British Government’s adviser to the East India Company, as passenger. Herrick had spoken out then to warn him of the real dangers, of the risk to his name and advancement in the one life he loved.

Automatically he touched the shape of the watch in his breeches pocket. The watch she had given him to replace one broken in battle.

Where was she now?

During his brief return to England he had gone to London. He had told himself he would not really try to see her again. That he would just pass her house. See where she lived. At the same time he had known it was a lie. But he could as easily have stayed content with her memory. The house, apart from the servants, was empty. James Raymond and his wife were away on the government’s business. Raymond’s steward had been offhand to a point of rudeness. Aboard a King’s ship a captain was second only to God, and many said that was merely due to seniority. In the streets and terraces of St James’s he ranked not at all.

He heard Herrick call, ‘Stand by to let go, Mr Juryl’

Jury, the barrel-chested boatswain, needed no advice about watching the anchor party, so Herrick must have sensed Bolitho’s mood and was trying to jerk him from it.

Bolitho smiled wearily. He had known Herrick since taking command of Phalarope, and they had rarely been apart since. He had not changed much. Stockier perhaps, but the same round, open face with those bright blue eyes which had shared so much with him. If, as Bolitho now suspected, his brief affair with Viola Raymond had made its mark in high places, then Herrick was being punished too, and without cause. The thought angered and saddened him. Maybe the commodore would shed some light on things. But this time he would not hope. He did not dare.

He thought of his despatches, of the extra news he would give Commodore James Sayer. He remembered Sayer quite well, and had met him in Cornwall once or twice. They had served in the same squadron on the American station before that. Both lieutenants.

‘With the echoes of the final shot hanging in the ait Tempest glided the last half cable to her prescribed anchorage.

Bolitho said curtly, ‘When you are prepared, Mr Herrick.’

Herrick raised his speaking trumpet, his reply equally formal.

‘Aye, aye, sir’ Then he shouted, ‘Man the lee braces there! Hands wear ship P

The motionless seamen sprang into life.

‘Tops’l sheets’

Bolitho saw Thomas Gwyther, the surgeon, hovering by the

larboard gangway, trying to-avoid the hurrying seamen. How

unlike the last surgeon Bolitho had had. He had been a violent,

towering drunkard of a man. One who had let his passion for

drink and the memories he had tried to contain with it destroy

him entirely. Gwyther was a stooped, dried-up little man with

wispy grey hair, whose frail looks were at odds with his apparent toughness and durability. He attended to his duties readily

enough, but showed far more interest in plants and vegetation

in whatever place the ship touched land than he ever did in

humanity.

‘Tops’l clew lines ‘

The master said in his flat, unemotional voice, ‘Put the helm a’lee.’

Tempest, obedient to rudder and to the dying breeze, turned slowly above her own image, losing way, her decks even hotter as the last canvas was manhandled and fisted to the yards.

‘Let go!’

Bolitho heard the familiar splash beneath the bows, and pictured the massive anchor shattering the stillness of that inviting water. He repressed a shudder. He recalled the two large sharks which had patiently followed the ship for several days almost into the harbour itself. . ‘Signal from Flag, sir. Captain repair on board.’

Bolitho looked at Midshipman Swift. He was in charge of the signals party, and at seventeen was no doubt full of hopes and impatience for a chance of promotion. He shifted his gaze to Keen, the third lieutenant, wondering briefly if he was remembering when he had been in Swift’s shoes aboard the Undine. It all seemed so long back. Now Keen was twenty-two. As brown as a berry, with the clean good looks which would conquer any girl’s heart, Bolitho thought. Keen, who had joined his first ship because his father wanted him to learn to ‘find himself before entering the family’s city business, and who had stayed on because he actually liked it. Keen, who had taken a wood splinter the size of a marlin spike which had been blasted from the deck into his body within inches of his groin. Even now he grimaced whenever it was mentioned. Allday, mistrusting any ship’s surgeon, and Undine’s in particular, had taken the splinter from the boy’s body himself. The burly coxswain had surprised Bolitho yet again with one more unsuspected talent.

‘Away gigl’ Herrick cupped his hands. ‘Mr Jury, put some more hands to the tackles, and lively so!’

Allday was watching the hurried preparations, his eyes critical as the boat was swayed up and over the nettings. In his blue jacket and flapping white trousers, his hair tied to the nape of his powerful neck, he looked as solid and as dependable as ever.

He said quietly, ‘Another place, Captain. Another task no doubt.’ Then he yelled, ‘Watch that paintwork, you clumsy bugger! This is for the captain not the bloody cook!’

Some of the old hands grinned, others, newer or with less knowledge of the language about them, cringed at the outburst.

Allday muttered, ‘By God, if we don’t get back to proper work, I can’t picture what sort of hands we’ll be using!’ He shook his head. ‘Seamen indeed!’

Bolitho did not know what Allday meant by ‘proper work’. They performed regular patrols amongst the growing spread of trading stations which were scattered across the seas from Sumatra to New Guinea. They had made long passages many hundreds of miles to the west to search for and act as escort to some valuable merchantmen on passage from Europe. Tempest was always kept busy. For with the spread of trade, and with it the exploitation and expansion into settlement and colony, so too came those who preyed on it. Pirates, self-styled princes, old enemies sailing under letters of marque, it was dangerous enough without the additional hazards of hostile natives and tropical storms.

Perhaps he meant, like Herrick, getting away from heat and thirst, the daily risk of an uncharted reef, or attack by warring savages.

The explorers and the great navigators had done much to disperse the mystery and the dangers of these waters. But those who had followed in their wake had less noble motives. For a handful of nails, some axes and a few strings of beads a captain could buy almost anything and anyone.

For the sake of their trade and possessions Britain, France and Holland carried the main share of protecting the vast sea areas so that vulnerable merchant vessels could go about their affairs. Unfortunately, the oceans were too large, the forces employed too small to be much more than a gesture. Also, the countries who had the most invested in the Indies and the islands of the Great South Sea did not trust each other, nor had they forgotten old wars and debts still left unpaid.

Bolitho heard the gig’s crew clattering into the boat, and saw that the side party of marines and boatswain’s mates were waiting to see him safely away.

He looked up at the drooping masthead pendant and then across the shimmering water to two large transports which were anchored well dear of the shore.

And now there was this additional responsibility. The growing colony of New South Wales. He studied the big transports for some sign of life. Convict ships. How many poor wretches had been transported out here to provide labour and the power for clearing land and founding a nation. He tried to imagine what it would be like in such a ship battling round the Cape of Good Hope or, worse, around the dreaded Horn. Men, women and children. The law was as impartial as it was tragic.

Herrick touched his hat. ‘Boat’s ready, sir.’

Bolitho nodded gravely and looked at the red-coated marines and their captain, Jasper Prideaux. It was rumoured that he was in the marines because he had been made to leave society for killing two men in duels. Bolitho, more than many, had cause to understand that.

For two years he had tried not to dislike Prideaux. Despite sun and salt air the marine captain remained pale and unhealthy looking. He had sharp, almost pointed features. Like a fox. A man who would enjoy duelling and winning. Bolitho had not succeeded in getting rid of his dislike.

‘Attention in the boat!’ . Allday stood by the tiller, one eye on Bolitho’s sword as he clambered down the side to the twitter of calls and the slap and thud of muskets on the deck.

‘Shove off! Give way all!’

Bolitho shaded his eyes as the boat pulled swiftly around and beneath the tapering jib boom and blue-eyed figurehead.

Tempest was a well-found ship, but as Lakey had said often enough, she was a Company vessel, no matter what flag flew above her taffrail. With thirty-six guns, which included twenty-eight twelve-pounders, she was more powerful than any ship he had yet commanded. But she was so heavily built of teak, and her timbers and spars matched accordingly, that she lacked the swift agility expected of a King’s ship in close combat. She had been built to protect heavy Indiamen from pirates and to strike fear into any such island or inlet which might be harbouring them.

Herrick had remarked from the start that if challenged by a real fighting ship they would have to close the range and hold on to it. Any sort of feinting and last-moment manoeuvres were not even to be considered.

On the other hand, even the most doubtful had to agree she was a fine sailer under good conditions. With just her plain sail set, and she carried over seventeen thousand square feet of it, she had been known to log fifteen knots. But Lakey, always down to earth, had said, ‘Trouble is, you don’t get good conditions when you needs ‘em!’

Bolitho made sure his despatches and his own report were safely stowed below the thwart and turned his attention to the Hebrus.

Another castaway. Perhaps events were moving so fast in Europe that they had already been forgotten. Around the world lonely, solitary ships like his and the commodore’s patrolled and tacked back and forth in complete ignorance of what was happening in the very countries whose decisions shaped their destinies.

‘Way ‘nough!’ Allday swung the tiller, his eyes slitted against

the sun until they were covered by the flagship’s great shadow. ‘Hook on, bowman!’

Bolitho stood up and took a deep breath. He always remembered a captain he had once served. He had caught his legs in his sword as he had come aboard for the first time and had sprawled headlong at the feet of his startled marines.

At the top of the steps and just inside the entry port he removed his hat and waited for the din of calls and muskets being snapped to the present to subside.

The commodore walked to greet him, one hand outstretched. For a split second longer Bolitho’s mind told him he was mistaken. This was not Lieutenant James Sayer of the American Station, or even of Cornwall. He had been another sort of man altogether.

The commodore said, ‘Good to see you again, Richard. Come aft and tell me your news.’

Bolitho returned the handclasp and swallowed hard. Sayer had been a well-built, lively man. Now he was round-shouldered, and his face was deeply lined. Worst of all, his skin was like old, unusable parchment. Yet he was only two or three years older than Bolitho.

In the comparative cool of the great cabin Sayer threw off his heavy dress coat and sank into a chair.

‘I’ve sent for some wine. My servant keeps it in a specially cool place in the bilges. Only Rhenish, but lucky to get that out here.’ He shut his eyes and groaned. ‘What a place. An island of felons surrounded by corruption!’

He brightened up as the servant entered with some bottles and glasses.

‘Now your despatches, Richard.’ He saw his face. ‘What is it?’ Bolitho waited for the servant to pour the wine and leave the cabin.

‘I was delayed on passage here, sir. We were struck by a squall three days out of Madras, and two of my people were badly injured by falling from aloft. Two others were lost overboard.’

He looked away, remembering the pity he had felt at the time. The squall which had come with the swiftness of sound in the middle of the night had departed just as quickly. Two dead and two permanently crippled for no reason.

‘I decided to put into Timor and land the men there. I have had business with the Dutch governor at Coupang and he has always been most helpful.’

The commodore watched him above the rim of his goblet. ‘Yes. You’ve had fine successes against pirates and privateers in that area.’

Bolitho faced him. ‘But for my unplanned visit I would not have heard the news. A ship, a King’s ship, had a mutiny aboard, some six months ago, according to the governor. She had been outward bound from Tahiti when it happened. I am not certain of the reasons for it, but one thing is clear, the mutineers cast their officers and loyal men adrift in a small boat. But for the commander, I am told his name is Bligh, they would have perished. As it was, he found his way to Timor, over three thousand, six hundred miles, before he could summon help. The ship was an armed transport, sir. The Bounty’

Sayer stared at him, his face grave. ‘I’ve not heard of her.’ He stood up and walked to the broad stern windows. ‘So the mutineers will probably use her for piracy. They have little choice, other than hanging.’

Bolitho nodded, feeling his own uncertainty. Mutiny.

Even the word was like the touch of some terrible disease. He had felt it aboard his first frigate, Phalarope. It had not been of his doing, but the memory was still sharp in his mind.

As the commodore remained silent and continued to stare through the windows Bolitho added, I up-anchored and headed south-west and then around the southern coast of this colony, sir. I put into Adventure Bay in Van Diemen’s Land. I thought the mutineers might have gone there before the news broke about their crime.’ He shrugged. ‘But they have vanished. It is now my belief they have no intention of returning to a civilized country where they might be seized. They’ll stay in the Great South Sea. Add to the list of renegades and murderers who are living off traders and natives alike. But a King’s ship. It does not bear thinking about.’

Sayer turned and smiled sadly. ‘You have cause to hate the word mutiny. I am glad you discovered what you did. But higher authority than ours will decide what to do next, have

no doubt.’ He sipped at his goblet. ‘Bligh, you say?’ He shook . his head. ‘Must be a determined man to survive such a journey.’

Bolitho felt himself relax in the chair. Ever since he had spoken with the Dutch governor he had held the story of the mutiny on his mind. Now, under Sayer’s influence, he could face it in its proper proportion. He had reacted like most captains, seeing himself in the same predicament. Without knowing the ship, the men or the exact circumstances it was like baying at the moon for more light.

He watched Sayer with sudden compassion. Tired out with this unenviable appointment, broken by some past fever, he was nevertheless the senior officer. Just as Bolitho had been the only representative of the world’s greatest navy as he had covered many hundreds of miles in search of pirates and the local rulers who gave them encouragement. Perhaps one day he might fly a broad pendant of his own, but he doubted if he would carry Sayer’s self-assurance to go with it.

The commodore said, 1 shall see the governor without delay. I suggest you return to your ship and take on water and whatever stores you need.’ He studied him calmly. ‘I am afraid I’ll be sending you to sea very quickly. I would have done so anyway. Your news hastens the event.’ As Bolitho rose he added, If you need extra hands, I daresay it can be arranged. After two years of Botany Bay it is hard to discover where a transported convict leaves off and an honest man begins!’ He winked. I’ll speak with the receiving officer ashore.’

At the entry port Sayer stood with Bolitho looking across at Tempest. In the bright glare her rigging and shrouds shone like black glass.

‘Fine ship.’ He sounded wistful.

Bolitho said, ‘I imagine you will soon be returning to England, sir.’

The commodore shrugged. I would wish to see Cornwall again.’ He reached out and touched the worn gangway rail. ‘But like my poor old Hebrus, I expect I will die out here.’ He said it without rancour or bitterness.

Bolitho stood back and removed his hat to the quarterdeck.

As the side party paid its respects to him once more and he climbed down to the waiting gig he found himself thinking of the fine houses in St James’s. Would anyone there care if they read Sayer was dead?

But he thought he already knew the answer, and he was frowning when he ordered Allday to cast off.

As he sat in silence and the boat left the flagship’s shadow and moved into the blazing heat he glanced at the races of the oarsmen. What did he really know of these men? It was different in war. The enemy was clear to see, the cause, though vague, was always a just one because it was your own. Holding together, cheering and hitting back were all part of that desperate world. But now, miles from real civilization, what would men like these think if pressed too far?

Allday glanced down at Bolitho’s squared shoulders., at the black hair which as always was tied neatly above his gold-laced collar. The captain was going over it all, as he usually did. Fretting and bothering himself for other people’s sakes. He could guess what was uppermost in his mind. Allday had been aboard Bolitho’s ship in the mutiny, a pressed man at that. He’d not forget it either. He looked at the oarsmen, each picked and trained by him. They knew about the Bounty mutiny, and by sundown every man-jack and convict in the colony would, too.

Allday had never known his parents, and could not properly remember at what age he had first set foot aboard ship. He had been at sea all his life but for a short while in Falmouth, where he had been pressed by men from Bolitho’s own ship. Over the years before that time he could recall several captains who would warrant a mutiny. Gruel, vindictive men who seemed to delight in making their people suffer. Men such as those could make even the tiniest act of kindness in the crowded world between decks seem like a kind of miracle. It was wrong that it should be so when there were others like Bolitho who cared for their responsibility.

Bolitho snapped, ‘If you do not watch your helm, Allday, we’ll be inboard by way of a gunport, I’m thinking 1’

Allday swung the tiller and grinned at Bolitho’s back.

That was more like it.

The dusk which quickly enclosed the harbour was like a seductive velvet curtain. It helped men to forget the heat of the day and the strain of re-provisioning the ship with anything which Benjamin Bynoe, the hard-eyed purser, could obtain at the lowest barter.

Bolitho leaned back on the bench beneath the open stern windows and watched the lights winking from every level of the town. It was to be their second night at anchor in Sydney, but his first on board. Commodore Sayer had kept him busily engaged, mostly ashore, meeting the assistant governor, his superior being elsewhere in the colony attending to some petition from those damned farmers, as he described them. The first settlers, even with the available if reluctant aid of the convict labour, were not finding their lives easy.

Bad crops, some floods and theft by natives and escaped prisoners had left them in no mood for tolerance.

Bolitho had also met the officers of the local military. He had got the distinct impression they were not eager to discuss their affairs with anyone from outside the colony. He had said as much to Sayer, who had smiled at his doubts.

‘You are quite right, Bolitho,’ the commodore had said. ‘At first the governor was content to use marines to keep order and contain the transported convicts. But they were required in England, and most have been shipped home. These “soldiers” you spoke with are some of the New South Wales Corps. They are specially recruited at high expense, and in many cases are more dishonest than those they are supposed to be guarding! I would not wear the governor’s coat for a sack of gold.’

Bolitho’s impressions of Sydney had been equally mixed. The dwellings were rough, but well sited for the most part, with ready access to the waterfront. Some, like the huge windmills behind the town, standing on the slopes like gaunt onlookers, showed signs of the Dutch influence. Practical and well designed.

Bolitho was well used to the crudity and drunkenness of seaports in many countries, but Sydney’s rash of grog shops and worse made some he had seen appear quite mild. Sayer had told him that many of the shanty-keepers were actually employed by the officers of the Corps, who openly encouraged immoral liaisons between their own men and the convict women who served in such places. He had scornfully described the men who enlisted in the Corps as either ‘blacklegs’ or ‘blackguards’, and none in it for anything but personal gain.

Aboard his own ship again he was able to find some satisfaction and escape from the busy life ashore. Sayer had discovered nothing more of Tempest’s new instructions, which would eventually come from the governor upon his return.

Opposite him, lounging contentedly in another chair, was Herrick. They had dined together on -an excellent mutton pie which Noddall, the cabin servant, had obtained specially from an unknown source ashore. They had consumed all of it, and Bolitho realised it was the first meat not taken from a salt cask he had eaten for months.

He said, ‘I think some claret, Thomas.’

Herrick grinned, his teeth white in the glow of a solitary lantern. They had soon found that to increase the light only encouraged a host of buzzing insects which immediately destroyed the blessing of the cool air.

He said, ‘No, sir. Not this time.’ He beckoned Noddall from the shadows. ‘I took the liberty of getting some good French wine from the barracks’ quartermaster.’ He chuckled. ‘They may not be much as soldiers, but they live well enough.’

Noddall busied himself at the table with his wine cooler.

Bolitho watched him, recognizing every movement. Noddall was small, like a little rodent. Even his hands, which when not in use he held in front of his body, were like paws. But he was a good and willing servant, and like some of the others had come to the ship from Bolitho’s Undine.

Herrick stood up, his head clear of the deck beams as evidence of Tempest’s generous proportions, and raised his goblet.

He said, ‘To you, sir, and your birthday.’ He grinned. 1 know it was yesterday in fact, but it took me a day to discover the wine.’

They continued almost in silence, their long pipes lit, their glasses readily refilled by the watchful Noddall.

Overhead, through the skylight, they could see the stars, very large and close, and hear the regular footsteps of a master’s mate as he paced back and forth on watch, the occasional shuffle of boots from the marine sentry beyond the bulkhead.

.Bolitho said, ‘It will be late autumn in Cornwall now.’ He did not know why he had said it. Maybe he had been thinking of Sayer. But he could see it all the same. Gold and brown leaves, a keener edge to each dawn. But still fresh and bright. It always held off the winter in Cornwall. He tried to recall the ordinary sounds. The ring of chipping hammers as the farm workers used their time building or repairing the characteristic stone and slate walls which separated their fields and houses. Cattle and sheep, the fishermen tramping up from Falmouth to one of a dozen tiny hamlets at the end of the day.

He thought of his own house below Pendennis Castle. Square and grey, the home of the Bolithos for generations. Now, apart from Ferguson, his steward, and the servants, there was nobody. All gone, either dead or, like his two sisters, married and. living their separate lives. He remembered his feelings when he had met the marine captain, Prideaux, for the first time, and his attendant rumours of duels fought and won. It had reminded him of his own brother, Hugh. He had. killed a brother officer over a gambling debt and had fled to America. To desert his ship had been a bad enough shock for their father, but when he had joined the Revolutionary Navy and had risen to command a privateer against his old friends and companions it had been more than enough to speed his death. And Hugh was gone, too. Killed, it seemed, by a runaway horse in Boston. Life was difficult to fathom out.

Herrick sensed his change of mood.

‘I think I should turn in, sir. I have a feeling we’ll all be up and about tomorrow. Two days in harbour? Tch, tch, someone high-up will say! It’ll never do for the Tempest, and that’s the truth!’ He grinned broadly. ‘I truly believe that if all our people were allowed ashore in this place, we’d never get ‘em back!’

Bolitho remained by the stem windows long after Herrick had gone to his cot, or more likely the wardroom for a last drink with the other officers.

Herrick always seemed to know when he needed to be alone. To think. Just as he understood that it only made the bond stronger between them.

He watched the smoke from his pipe curling slowly out and over the black water which surged around the rudder. It was bad to keep thinking of home. But he had been away so long now, and if he was to be banished he would have to do something to change his future.

He heard a violin, strangely sad, from below decks, and guessed it was Owston, the ropemaker, who played for the capstan crew, and entertained the hands during the dog watches.

Tempest would make a fine picture from the shore, if anyone was watching. Gunports open, lit from within like yellow eyes. Riding light and a lantern on the starboard gangway for the officer-of-the-guard to climb aboard without losing his footing in the darkness.

He thought of some of the convicts he had-seen. Surely none could be here for serious offences? They would have been hanged if they were hardened criminals. It made him ashamed to think how he had just been brooding on his own separation from home. What would these transported people be suffering if they could see his ship, know that she would eventually weigh anchor and perhaps sail for England? Whereas they …

He looked up, off guard, as there was a rap at the outer door. It was Borlase, the second lieutenant. As officer-of-the-watch he was no doubt the only officer aboard in full uniform. He was twenty-six years old, tall and powerfully built, and yet his features were rounded, even gentle, and his expression was usually one of mild surprise that he should be here. Bolitho guessed it had originally been a guard to hide his feelings, but had since become permanent.

Borlase had been first lieutenant in a small frigate. The ship had run hard aground near the Philippines and had been a total loss. Fortunately, there had been an East Indiaman nearby, and all but three hands had been rescued. At the hastily convened court martial the frigate’s captain had been dismissed from the Navy for negligence. Borlase had been offlcer-of-the-watch at the time, and his evidence had helped to send his captain into oblivion.

Bolitho asked, ‘Well, Mr Borlase?’

The lieutenant stepped into the lantern light.

The guard boat has sent this despatch for you, sir.’ He licked bis lips, another childlike habit. ‘From the governor.’

Bolitho saw Noddall hurrying from the dining compartment carrying another lantern, his little .shadow looming giant-like against the white-painted screen.

As he slit open the canvas envelope he found time to wonder if Borlase’s part at the court martial had been as much to clear himself as to bring down his captain.

He read swiftly along the neatly written paper. All at once the stresses and anxieties of the past weeks faded, and even Borlase, who was watching him with a gentle smile on his lips, seemed to have vanished.

He said sharply, ‘My compliments to the first lieutenant, Mr Borlase. I’d like to see him directly.’

The lieutenant opened his mouth as if to put a question, and shut it again.

Bolitho walked to the stern windows and leaned as far. out as he could, letting the sea air explore his throat and chest. He wished he had not drunk so much or dined so well on the mutton pie.

He tried to clear his mind, to concentrate on the despatch. Tempest was to weigh and put to sea as soon as it was prudent to work clear of the harbour limits. He felt the air cooling his hair and cheek. It felt stronger, but would it last? He checked his racing thoughts and heard Herrick coming into the cabin.

‘Sir?’

‘We are ordered to sea, Thomas. A transport ship is overdue, although she was reported safely on passage three weeks ago by the mail packet. The packet’s master made signal contact with her south-east of Tongatapu.’

Herrick was tucking his shirt into his breeches, his face frowning.

‘But that’s over a couple of thousand miles from here, sir.’

Bolitho nodded. ‘But the ship, she’s the Eurotas, is a regular visitor. She supplies the colony and some other islands as required. Her master is well versed with these waters. It is no use deluding ourselves. She should have been here, at anchor’ days ago.’ He recalled the grog shops and the brazen-eyed girls at the windows. ‘The governor knew she was expected. He kept it a secret, even from his subordinate. The Eurotas is filled with guns, powder and supplies. And money to pay the military and civil authorities.’

‘And you think the Bounty mutineers may be in that area, sir?’

Bolitho did not reply immediately. He was thinking of the governor’s instructions, feeling their anger and urgency. Most of all he was remembering the last paragraphs. The Eurotas, apart from her valuable cargo, was also carrying more convicts, and he could almost see the rest in his mind. The newly appointed adviser and acting governor for yet another colonial project, James Raymond, and his wife were passengers.

He turned from the glittering lights and reflected stars. They had gone cold.

‘Rouse the master, Thomas. Find out the first possible moment we can proceed. I’ll warp her clear with boats if need be. It may be a false alarm. Eurotas might have put into an island for water or wood. Or she could have been becalmed as we have often enough.’

Herrick was studying him, his eyes very still.

He said, ‘Doubtful.’

Bolitho walked past him, touching the chairs without feeling them, and the old sword which hung on the bulkhead, where Allday watched over it like a keeper.

He continued, ‘Sayer will be sending the courier brig when she returns, and the governor will despatch two small schooners to the north and east.’

like a needle in a haystack, sir.’

Bolitho swung on his heels. I know that, damn it! But we must do something !’

He saw the instant look of surprise and hurt on Herrick’s homely features and added, ‘I’m sorry. Too much wine.’ Herrick would have to know sooner or later. Bolitho thrust the papers across the table. ‘Read them for yourself.’ He walked to the door and said to the sentry, ‘Call the midshipman-of-the-watch. I want all officers in the cabin without delay.’ He turned aft again and saw Herrick watching him.

Bolitho said simply, ‘I know, Thomas. I even know what you have been thinking. But it was five years ago. A long while to remember.’

Herrick eyed him grimly. ‘Aye, sir. If you say so. Fll go and assemble the officers outside and bring them in together.’ He left the cabin.

Bolitho sat down on the bench seat and after a slight hesitation drew the watch from his pocket. It was a very good timepiece, made by Mudge and Dutton, and it had a neat cylinder escapement and a firm, air-tight guard.

He saw none of these things, but clicked open the guard to read the engraved inscription on the inside.

 

Conquered, on a couch alone I lie,

Once in dream’s deceit you came to me,

All dreams outstripped, if only thou were nigh!

 

He closed the guard and thrust it into his pocket. His head and mind were quite clear, and when his officers filed into the cabin they saw nothing to make them believe he was in any way different. Except for Herrick, and he could do nothing about it.