Fighting men rarely saw much further than the strategy and tactics of the moment. And one made bitter and desperate by past mistakes would be less inclined to compromise.
'People leaving the palisade, sir!'
Bolitho raised the glass again. Twos and threes, some carrying muskets, others limping down the sand towards the water's edge and a long, partly-constructed pier of rough timber and piles. Most of them were so dark-skinned they could be natives, but the uniforms were Spanish well enough.
Not one of them waved. They merely stood or sat dejectedly watching the frigate's careful approach.
Herrick said under his breath, 'God, they look like scarecrows!'
'What did you expect, Mr. Herrick, sir?' Unseen and unheard, the surgeon had appeared on the quarterdeck, his face and neck like raw meat.
Bolitho watched him impassively. 'You are recovered, it seems, Mr. Whitmarsh?'
The surgeon turned his gaze on him. His eyes were redrimmed with strain, so that they looked too hot for their sockets.
He muttered vaguely, 'We have arrived, I see, sir.' He reached out for support and, finding none, almost fell headlong. He mumbled, 'Pattern never changes. First they hand over their power of protection to us. With ships and men if needed to give power to that protection. When all is safe the traders will come, and the Company's flag will be supreme.'
Bolitho asked coldly, 'And then what?'
Whitmarsh regarded him emptily. 'The place will become a colony, a possession. Or if we have cleaned it out like an empty shell, we will simply…' he retched, '… discard it. Cast it away!'
Conway seemed to hear him for the first time. 'Get off this deck, you drink-sodden creature!' His face was working with despair, a need to release his anger. 'Or by heaven you will be sorry!'
The surgeon gave an awkward bow. 'But I am sorry, believe me! Sorry for you, sir, at being given this wretched task.' He swayed towards Bolitho. 'For the good captain, who will eventually be made to stand between justice and tyranny. And more sorry perhaps…' He pitched forward in an untidy heap and lay completely still.
'By the mark eight!'
The leadsman's call brought Bolitho back to reality.
He snapped, 'Have him taken to his quarters.'
As some seamen seized the inert surgeon and carried him to the ladder, he caught the sour odour of vomit and spilled wine. The stench of a man's decay.
Conway was still staring at the deck. 'Another second and I'd have had him in irons!' He glared at Bolitho. 'Well?'
'There was something in what he said, sir. What is on a sober man's mind is often on a drunkard's tongue.'
Herrick called, 'Close enough, I think, sir.'
Bolitho hurried to the quarterdeck rail, glad to be free of Conway's mood. He studied the lie of the smaller headland to larboard, the great eastern one on the opposite beam, thrusting out to sea, and already a delicate green in the early sunlight.
'Signal our intention to Rosalind, and then wear ship, if you please.' He waited until the anchor party had assembled above the cathead. Then he added, 'Tell Davy to keep our people together once we are ashore. I want no plague raging through Undine.'
'D'you think there is fever here, sir?'
For just a moment there was fear in Herrick's eyes. Like most seamen he could accept blood and broadside, as well as the harsh discipline which guided his daily life. But the unknown, the terror of plague which could render a whole ship useless, turn her into a floating tomb, was entirely different.
'That we will discover directly.'
'Rosalind's acknowledged, sir!'
Keen seemed his usual carefree self. Even Armitage was watching the land with something like expectancy.
'Wear shipV
'Man the lee braces!'
Bolitho saw the helm going over, and moved to Conway'ss side to avoid the rush of seamen across the quarterdeck as the frigate turned slowly into the wind.
'Will you wait for Don Puigserver, sir?'
Conway looked at him, a nerve jumping in his throat, as the anchor plunged into the clear water in a mighty cascade of spray.
'I suppose so.' He peered towards the brig which was already swinging easily to her cable. 'I wish you to accompany me.'
'An honour, sir.'
'You think so?' Conway removed the gold-laced hat and ran his palm over his grey hair. He smiled bitterly. 'We shall see.'
Noddall came on deck with Bolitho's sword, but quailed as Aliday rasped, 'Here, give me that!'
He hurried to Bolitho's side and carefully buckled the scabbard into place, muttering, 'The very idea!'
Then he straightened his back and stared at the boats which were being swayed up and over the nettings.
'A long way we've come together, Captain.' He turned to watch the brig's boats being lowered into the water. 'It's not a happy place, I'm thinking.'
Bolitho did not hear him. He watched the marines clambering out and down into the swaying boats, their coats very red, their boots slipping and clattering as they always did. Captain Bellairs was studying each and every one of them, especially the young corporal who carried the sheathed Union Flag which would soon be planted on foreign soil.
Like many sea officers, Bolitho had often thought about such moments, but the mental picture had always been grander and vaster. Endless lines of men, bands playing, cheering people, and the anchored ships looking splendid and secure at the sea's edge.
Now he understood differently. It was only a beginning. Small, but no less impressive because of that.
Conway said, 'Well, we had best begin. I see the Don is already on his way.'
The brig's boats were indeed moving inshore, one bearing the Spanish flag, the others that of the Company.
Bolitho was thankful Viola Raymond was remaining aboard the Rosalind.
Conway followed him into the gig, and with the armed and crowded boats fanning out on either beam they started towards the nearest beach.
Bolitho could smell the jungle long before they were within hail of the people by the frothing surf, like incense, heady and overpowering. He gripped his sword-hilt tighter and tried to compose himself. It was a moment he must always try to remember.
He glanced quickly at Conway for some sign or reaction.
He looked remote and sadly stern.
The new governor of Teluk Pendang had arrived.
Lieutenant Thomas Herrick walked a few paces across the quarterdeck, his movements restless as he watched Bellairs' marines and some seamen below the nearest palisade. It was ast noon, with the sun blazing down on the anchored ships with savage intensity. Most of the unemployed hands were sheltering by the guns beneath the gangways, but Herrick felt unable to leave the deck, even though his head was swimming, his shirt plastered against his body like a wet rag.
Tugging at her cable, the Undine had swung her stern towards the long, pale beach, and with the visibility sharp and clear, it was easier to see the extent of Conway's new command. Larger than he had first imagined, it had obviously been planned and constructed by a military engineer. Even the unfinished timber pier looked neat and strong, but like the rest of the place, was in a state of bad neglect.
As he had paced the quarterdeck, or peered across the taffrail, Herrick had seen Bolitho and some of the landing party moving along the wooden ramparts, or exploring the ground between the two separate palisades which guarded the approaches to the fort and its surrounding buildings. The boats lay like dead fish on the beach, exactly where they had ground ashore some four hours earlier. He had watched some marines hauling the swivel guns towards the fort, others, harried by the massive Sergeant Coaker, had manned the ramparts, or could now be seen patrolling near the pier. The handful of Spanish soldiers had withdrawn into the fort, and of the enemy, or whatever the garrison had been firing at, there was not a sign.
He turned as a heavy step fell on the tinder-dry planking and saw Soames shading his eyes with one hand, and munching a biscuit with the other.