Passage to Mutiny by Alexander Kent

demanding according to rank or station, carried out well or just well enough to suit a man’s individuality. But it all came from aft. From the one man who now stood with a dented goblet in one hand while he gripped the nettings with the other. Bolitho’s black hair was matted with salt and blown spume, and his shirt stained with tar and grease from a dozen encounters with guns and tackles during the night, yet he stood out as their captain as if he were in a dress uniform.
    Bolitho said abruptly, “That rogue of a cook will not be able to light his galley fire for hours yet, Mr Herrick.” He had to raise his voice, for the wind’s noise, like the light, was strengthening. “Pass the word to Mr Bynoe to broach some spirits for the people. They’ll not care what it is, I think. Rum or gin go down as well with salt spray as brandy!” He met Herrick’s glance, his grey eyes suddenly bright. “Then we will decide what to do.”
    The heat in the cabin was overwhelming, and Bolitho had to use something like physical strength to control his nausea.
    All day, while Tempest had fought sea and gale, and they had been buffeted slowly and inexorably around the islands and the protective barriers of reef and shoal, he had examined his ideas and plans from every angle.
    By noon he had known they were winning their battle with the weather, and from the faces and voices of many of his men he knew they were proud of what they had done together. It was strange how quickly men could change. Men penned together for months, sometimes years on end. Who saw and examined each others’ habits and flaws like misers counting their gains and losses. An argument could flare into blood and harsh punishment. Using their common understanding could bind them just as easily into a single body.
    And then, with the wind still ripping the crests from the long banks of waves, the sun had emerged again, pinning them down with its old familiar force. It had seemed as if the ship was afire, and to some of the less experienced men it must have looked as if Tempest was about to become their pyre. From every plank and timber, spar and piece of rigging, the sun had raised great clouds of steam, and even the seamen’s bare bodies had left tendrils of it behind them as they had worked to splice and make good the damage left by the storm.
    It was night now, but with a difference. Outside the great cabin windows the moon had laid a firm path on the sea, rippling in a light wind which mercifully brought them this far. Everything else shone darkly, like black liquid glass.
    But it was hot, and in the crowded cabin it was hard not to think of cool, transparent water. Jugs and jugs of it. Filling yourself until you felt like bursting.
    Bolitho watched the bottle of stale wine going round the table. Herrick, Keen, Lakey and Captain Prideaux of the marines were refilling their glasses, looking at the master’s chart, wondering, saying little.
    A storm at sea knocks the stuff out of a man, Bolitho thought. Like a physical fight, all bruises and anger. Then it was done, and all you wanted to do was creep away and be alone.
    He said, “We are now standing off the nor’-west shore of the island. I dared not beat in earlier for fear of lookouts on the hills. The island is only a mile wide at this point. Our approach would be easily recognized.” He paused, hearing Borlase’s feet moving about the deck above, as near to the cabin skylight as he could prudently get.
    He knew Herrick was watching him. He even knew what he was thinking, preparing to say.
    Bolitho continued evenly, “Mr Lakey is certain that we can reach a small cove without too much difficulty. The moon will assist, and once inshore the land will afford some shelter against the wind.” He looked round the table. “I intend to land a small but well-armed party. It is already being arranged,” he saw Herrick nod, “but the important