Bolitho 19 - Beyond the Reef (20 page)

She said, “I would kill for you.” She stared across at the place where Lincoln had fallen, his face mercifully hidden as his blood continued to run down the deck and into the scuppers.

Bolitho peered up at the masthead lookout. “Fetch that man down!” There was so much he needed to know and do, and yet he could not leave her. He could feel the pretence through her arm, the taut muscles hardening as she fought to retain control. She said suddenly, “Do as you must. I will be all right … no matter what.”

Bolitho spoke to Keen. “Muster the hands. I want the vessel lightened as much as possible.” He pointed at the two boats on their small tier; each was filled to the thwarts with water to prevent their seams opening in the sun’s glare. “Empty them, and have them lowered immediately. They can be towed with the quarter-boat.” He saw Jenour wrapping a rag around one hand where he had torn it on the corroded metal of the chains in his frantic climb from the gunport. “Stephen! All guns over the side! Either way, we’ll not be needing them now.” He saw Jenour’s eyes move to the swivel, his swivel, and added, “That one too.”

A man slithered down a stay and stood awkwardly before him.

“I’m the lookout, sir.” He knuckled his forehead. “That brig ‘as put about—she’ll be waitin’ for us when we weather the reef.”

Bolitho said, “Owen, isn’t it?”

The seaman stared at him. “Well … aye, Sir Richard, that be m’name!”

“Go with the other loyal men. There is much to do, and few to do it.”

Allday called, “The master wants a word, Sir Richard!”

Bolitho stooped by the wounded man. “What went wrong?”

“I intended to cut it as fine as prudent, Sir Richard.” Bezant’s eyes rolled in pain as he stared at the swaying compass. “But the wind’s backed a piece … unusual hereabouts.”

He looked like death, Bolitho thought desperately. His normally reddened features were ashen, his breathing slow and uneven. And despite all that had happened in so short a time, he had managed to notice the shift of wind; it was rising too, flinging spray over the men who were already draining out the two boats.

Bezant was saying, “There be one way through the reef. I done it afore in the old Plover, a year or so back.” The memory gave him sudden strength and he shouted at the prisoners and mutineers alike who were standing under guard, as shocked, it seemed, as anyone by what had happened. “That was afore you murderin’ scum were aboard! By God, I’ll be there to watch you dance on air, you cowardly bastards!”

He saw Catherine and gasped, “Beggin’ yer pardon, m’lady!”

Catherine was looking at the dark blood on her gown and shuddered.

“Save your strength, Captain.” But her eyes told Bolitho how near she had been to collapse.

Bolitho saw Allday stand back from one of the hoisting tackles and gasp with pain while he massaged his chest. Not him too …

He called, “Take over the helm, Allday.” He saw the protest. “No arguments this time, old friend!”

Bezant dragged a telescope from the rack, and while two men held him steady he levelled it towards the distant cloud of drifting spray.

“Steer sou’-east-by-south. Close to the wind as she’ll hold.”

Bolitho said, “We must shorten sail.” He tried not to hurry the wounded man, but time was too valuable to waste. “What say you?”

Bezant gasped and nodded gratefully as Ozzard tilted a mug of brandy against his mouth.

Then he said thickly, “Jib an’ fore-tops’l, driver too. With this wind, I’m not sure of anythin’!”

Bolitho saw Keen watching him, his fair hair rippling in the freshening wind. “You heard that, Val?”

“Leave it to me.” He turned to seek out the boatswain. “The guns are gone—boats as well.” He glanced meaningly at the first crates of gold, which had been hoisted on deck by the jubilant mutineers.

Bolitho said, “That too.” He heard yells of protest from Tasker and shouted back at him, “It all goes, or we’ll end up on the reef!” He gestured with the pistol he had been holding since Jenour’s appearance by the swivel-gun. “One word out of you, and I’ll have you run up to the foreyard, here and now! “

He turned away, sickened by what had happened, by the knowledge that he would shoot the man down himself without waiting for any hangman’s halter.

He said harshly, “Put an armed man in the hold with them. Then start hoisting the gold on deck.” He touched Keen’s arm. “If we can ride this out, Val, we can still shake off that brig and run for the mainland.”

Carrying less canvas, the Golden Plover’s pace slowed considerably. But the motion was more violent, and men fell cursing as water boiled over the gunwale, or flooded amongst them to dislodge their hold.

He saw Catherine by the companion-way speaking urgently to her maid and Ozzard. He called, “Keep away from the bulkheads—there may be some men in hiding. No risks, Kate!”

Their eyes met again; for mere seconds it was as if nobody else were near. Then she was gone.

Keen came aft, pushing his fingers through his dripping hair. “All secured, sir. But she’ll not come closer to the wind. If it dropped—well, that might be different.”

There was a piercing scream, which stopped almost instantly as if shut off by an iron door.

Then there were more shouts from the hold and one of the mutineers appeared on the coaming, his eyes wild with fear as he clawed his way in to the sunlight.

He shouted, “I’m not waitin’ to go down with the ship! I’ll take me chances with …”

He got no further but fell back down the ladder, the sunlight glinting briefly on the knife that had been flung from below, and which protruded between his shoulders.

Bolitho walked to the hold and saw Britton, the boatswain, levelling a musket in case someone tried to rush the ladder.

Bolitho called, “Don’t be fools!” Even in the brisk wind he could smell the heady aroma of rum. They were mad with it. Men without hope who still saw the crated gold as a chance of heaven.

Tasker shouted, “Don’t try to bluff us! That bloody Bezant knows this reef well. He’d not run his precious ship aground to get revenge!”

Bolitho said nothing. It was becoming more futile by the minute, and when he glanced aft he saw Allday, who was clinging to the spokes with another man, give a quick shake of the head. Golden Plover was not responding; the pressure of wind in her scanty canvas and the fierce undertow near anything like the Hundred Mile Reef were too much for her.

The hatch across the hold was slammed shut, and he thought he heard wild laughter as they wedged it from below. It would be the richest coffin of all time, he thought. There was nothing else to jettison that would, or could, make a difference.

He said, “Put that man Owen in the chains and start sounding, Val.”

He covered his right eye with his hand and stared up at the whipping masthead pendant. He almost cried out aloud. His other eye had misted over completely, and felt raw and painful with salt.

In the pitching cabin Catherine stared round at the chaos of scattered chairs and fallen books. She recognised some of Bolitho’s Shakespeare and wanted to gather them up. Through the stern windows she saw the endless array of surging white horses, felt the rudder thudding violently as if to tear itself away. She clenched her fists and closed her eyes tightly against the fear. Now she was needed, needed more than ever before.

Then she looked at Sophie, who was cowering by the screen door, her naked terror barely under control.

She said, “Help Ozzard carry those bags to the companion-way.” She waited for her words to sink in. “No … wait a minute.” She groped in one of the bags and pulled out a clean pair of white breeches and one of Bolitho’s shirts, which Ozzard had been pressing yesterday. Was it only yesterday?

She said, “Go on deck now.”

Sophie gasped in a small voice, “Are we going to die, me lady?”

Catherine smiled, even though her mouth and lips were as dry as dust.

“We are going to be ready, my girl.”

She saw her nod as she replied with an attempt at courage, “I wish we was at ‘ome, me lady!”

Catherine took several deep breaths and turned away, so that Sophie should not see her despair.

Then, very deliberately she unfastened her gown and stepped out of it, letting it fall with her petticoats until she was quite naked, standing in the watery glare like some goddess in a pagan ceremony. She pulled on the white breeches and Bolitho’s shirt and tied her hair back from her face with a piece of dark red ribbon, and gathered up the petticoats, folding them under her arm; she knew enough about wounds to recognise that Bezant was in serious trouble and would need bandages. As she kicked off her thin shoes one fell on to the gown where Lincoln’s blood still shone as if it were alive. It was only then that she felt the knot of vomit in her throat and knew she could contain it no longer.

She found little Ozzard crouching on the companion ladder, with a satchel hung over his shoulder. He knew. He had been with the others in Hyperion when she had finally gone down … who would know better than he?

“Thank you for waiting for me.” She saw him glance at her bare legs and feet and somehow sensed that he had been watching her, had seen her naked against the stern windows. It did not seem to matter now.

She gripped the handrail and paused as someone called from the forechains, “No bottom, sir!” The leadsman’s voice, carried on the wind, made her skin chill. Like a spirit from hell.

“What does it mean?”

Ozzard came out of his thoughts. “Means we’re in plenty of water, m’lady.” He shook his head. “Early days yet.”

Bolitho turned as she climbed on to the wet planking. She waited for the deck to fall again and let it carry her to his side.

“I took these from your bag, Richard. This is no place for gowns and pretty tea-cups!”

Keen watched, and shook his head as Bolitho held her for a few moments. Then he heard her laugh and thought Bolitho used the word entrancing. He saw Jenour staring too, so absorbed that he was probably wishing he had his sketch book.

Bezant groaned, “Not long now. If only I had the feel of her!”

Allday put his weight on the spokes and felt the vessel fighting wind and sea and him all at the same time. He stared hard at the leaping line of breakers, the occasional gaps in between. He heard drunken laughter from the sealed hold and envied them the rum. Just one mug before she strikes. He gritted his teeth and thought of the woman he had rescued on the road. And strike she will.

He glanced at Bolitho and his lady and felt the old despair closing in. Always the pain. Ships gone, old faces wiped away. He had always trained himself to accept it when it eventually found him. But not like this. For nothing …

Keen walked past, his shoes skidding on the streaming deck.

Allday heard him say to Bolitho, “I’ve told the bosun what to expect, sir. He will take the cutter and follow us. We will have the smaller boat. Once clear of the reef, things might be easier.”

Bolitho kept his voice low. “So you think there’s no hope of finding this passage?”

Keen stared back at his level grey eyes, and did not even flinch as the lookout yelled, “By th’ mark seventeen!”

“Do you, sir? It’s shoaling already. Without the gold to weigh us down …” He shrugged. It did not need any words.

Bolitho jerked his head towards the hold. They were still shouting and laughing like lunatics. But surely Tasker or one of the ringleaders would know and understand?

“By th’ mark ten!” God, they were as close as that. He looked at the boatswain and his companions. Staring about, not knowing what to do. Their own master barely able to pass his instructions to Allday, another blinded and probably dead, while the third had locked himself below with the gold. At any second they might panic and rush to the boats.

He shouted, “Mr Britton! If we abandon you must stay near to the jolly-boat. Once away from the reef we can make sail and work clear.” He smiled across at Catherine in her breeches and frilled shirt. “Now that we have an extra sailor amongst us, we should be in safe hands!”

For a few seconds nobody moved or spoke, and Bolitho thought he had failed. Then Britton, his head wound seemingly cleansed by the drenching spray, yelled, “Our Dick’ll do it, lads! Huzza! “

The lookout William Owen, who was also an excellent leads-man, swung the line round and round, up and over his shoulder before allowing the heavy fourteen-pound lead to fly ahead of the bows.

Afterwards, he was certain that he had seen the reef rising to meet them even as the lead struck at just over keel-depth, and he yelled, “By th’ mark three!” But it was all in seconds. The towering wall of spray lifting and bursting over the bowsprit in the cruel sunshine, then the first awful shuddering crash as they struck. Owen fought his way out of his leadsman’s apron and flung himself down even as a great shadow plunged past and hurled splinters and flapping canvas in all directions: the Golden Plover’s fore-topmast, with clattering blocks and rigging, thundering over the side. Someone was crying out but Owen knew it was his own voice he heard, as he ducked and dodged another great mass of falling rigging.

He stared wildly aft and saw that they had managed to free the flapping driver, which had added to their thrust into the reef. But the great swell lifted the hull easily and allowed it to fall again with a second sickening crash.