With All Despatch (12 page)

The figure by the corpse bent down and picked up the fallen cutlass, but left the pistol still gripped by its severed hand.

He stared at Allday, his expression invisible. “Your turn'll come.” To Fenwick he added, “Here, take this purse for your gaming table.” There was utter contempt in his voice. “You can raise the alarm in an hour, though, God knows, some picket might have heard the fool shoot!”

Fenwick was vomiting against a tree, and the man said softly, “I'd finish him too, but—” He did not go on. Instead he watched as Fenwick picked up his weapons and the small bag of coins before adding, “We had best be moving.” He could have been grinning.

“You can keep the cutlass. You'll need it.”

Allday looked back at the untidy corpse and wondered if Fenwick would be the next victim.

He followed the other man through the trees, the shadowy figures of his companions already on the move.

Allday had had cause to kill several men in his life. In anger, and in the fury of battle, sometimes in the defence of others. So why was this any different? Would he have killed the seaman to give his story more value, if the other man had not struck first?

Allday did not know, and decided it was better to keep it that way until the danger was past.

How quickly fate could move. Soon the midshipman would raise the alarm, and later they would find the corpse. A common seaman who had been murdered by an escaping prisoner named Spencer.

Allday thought of the unseen man in the carriage. If he could only manage to learn his name—he shook himself like a dog. One thing at a time. At present he was still alive, but the knowledge he had gained so far was enough to change that just as quickly.

7. IN
G
OOD COMPANY

L
IEUTENANT
Charles Queely clattered down
Wakeful'
s companion ladder and after a small hesitation thrust open the cabin door. Bolitho was sitting at the table, chin in hand while he finished reading the log.

He glanced up. “Good morning, Mr Queely.”

Queely contained his surprise. He had expected to find Bolitho asleep, not still going through his records and examining the chart.

He said, “I—I beg your pardon, sir. I was about to inform you that dawn is almost upon us.” He glanced quickly around the cabin as if expecting to see something different.

Bolitho stretched. “I would relish some coffee if you could provide it.” He knew what Queely was thinking, and found himself wondering why he did not feel tired. He had allowed himself no rest, and when
Telemachus
had sighted the other cutter he had arranged to be pulled across to Queely's command without delay or explanation.

Queely was usually well able to conceal his innermost feelings, and, despite his youth, had already slipped easily into a commander's role. But Bolitho's arrival, and the sight of
Telemachus
hove-to, displaying her powderstains, and areas of pale new timber where her carpenter and his crew had begun their repairs, had taken him all aback.

Queely had asked, “Will they return to the yard, sir?”

“I think not. I have told Lieutenant Paice that working together at sea to complete their overhaul, even though they are short-handed because of those killed and wounded, will do far more good. It will draw them into a team again, keep them too busy to grieve or to fall into bad ways.”

Queely had been shocked to see the damage and had said immediately, “I knew nothing about it, sir. I carried out my patrol as you ordered, and after losing signalling contact with you I decided to remain on station.”

That had been yesterday. Now, after a full night's sailing, they had continued to the south-east in spite of tacking again and again into the wind.

It was possible that Queely had been totally ignorant of the fierce close-action with the
Four Brothers.
With his studious features, hooked nose and deepset eyes he seemed to be a man who was well able to make up his own mind and act upon it.
I decided to remain on station.
What Bolitho might have said under the same circumstances.

As Queely pushed through the door to send for some coffee Bolitho looked around the cabin once more.
Telemachus
and this vessel had been built in the same yard with just a couple of years between them. How could they be so different? Even the cabin gave an air of intentional disorder, or temporary occupancy. As if Queely used it just for the purpose
Wakeful
was designed for, not as something to be coddled. Uniforms swayed from various hooks, while sidearms and swords were all bundled together in a half-open chest. Only Queely's sextant lay in pride of place, carefully wedged in a corner of his cot where it would be safe even in the wildest weather.

He thought of Paice's unspoken protest at being ordered immediately to sea after
Telemachus'
s first battle. Was it really the true reason he had sent him, the same explanation he had made to Queely? Or was it to protect Allday from sailors' casual gossip once they were able to get ashore?

If Allday was still alive . . . He ran his fingers through his hair with quiet desperation.
He was alive.
He must believe it.

The door opened and Young Matthew entered with a pot of coffee. His round face had lost its colour again, and his skin looked damp and pallid. He had been fighting his own battle with the motion. That was another difference between the two cutters. Paice
sailed
his
Telemachus,
Queely seemed to drive his command with the same lack of patience he exhibited in his daily routine.

Bolitho thought of Queely's second-in-command, a reedy lieutenant named Kempthorne. He came of a long line of sea-officers, and his own father had been a rear-admiral. Bolitho suspected that it was tradition rather than choice which had brought Kempthorne into the King's navy. Chalk and cheese, he thought. It was hard to see him having much in common with Queely. Bolitho had never seen so many well-used books outside of a library. From them he had gathered that Queely was interested in many subjects, as widely ranged as tropical medicine and astronomy, Eastern religions and medieval poetry. A withdrawn, self-contained man. It would be useful to know more about him.

Bolitho looked at the boy over the top of his tankard. “Feeling a mite better, Matthew?”

The boy gulped and gripped the table as the sea surged along the hull and brought an angry exchange between the watchkeepers around the tiller.

“
Easier,
sir.” He watched Bolitho drinking the coffee with despair. “I—I'm trying—” He turned and fled from the cabin.

Bolitho sighed and then slipped into his old, seagoing coat. For a few moments he fingered a faded sleeve and its tarnished buttons. Remembering it around her sun-blistered shoulders, her beautiful body lolling against him in the sternsheets.
And then . . .

He almost fell as the hull rolled again and did not even notice the pain as his head jarred against the deckhead. He stared round wildly, the anguish sweeping over and through him like a terrible wave.

Will it never leave me?

He saw Queely angled in the doorframe, his eyes watching warily.

Bolitho looked away.
“Yes?”
He may have called out aloud. But Viola would never hear him. The picture haunted him, of Allday lowering her over the boat's gunwale while the others stared, unbelieving, their burned faces stricken as if each and every man had found and then lost something in her. And now Allday was gone.

Queely said, “Land in sight, sir.”

They clambered up the ladder, the steps running with the spray which cascaded through the companionway each time
Wakeful
dipped her bowsprit.

Bolitho gripped a stanchion and waited for his eyes to accept the grey half-light. The sky was almost clear. It held the promise of another fine day.

The watch on deck moved about with practised familiarity, their bodies leaning over to the cutter's swooping rolls and plunges, some wearing rough tarpaulin coats, others stripped to the waist, their bare backs shining like statuary in the flying spray. The “hard men” of
Wakeful'
s company. Every ship had them.

Bolitho wondered briefly what they thought about the
Four Brothers.
They had had no contact with
Telemachus
until yesterday, but he knew from experience that the navy created its own means of transmitting information: fact and rumour alike seemed to travel faster than a hoist from any flagship.

“Do you have a good lookout aloft?”

Queely watched his back, his hooked nose jutting forward like a bird of prey.

“Aye, sir.” It sounded like
of course.

“Have a glass sent aloft, if you please.” Bolitho ignored Queely's angry glance at his first lieutenant and lifted a telescope from its rack beside the compass box.

As he wiped the lens with a handkerchief already damp in the spray, he said, “I want to know if anything unusual is abroad this morning.”

He did not need to explain, but it gave him time to think.

He waited for a line of broken waves to sweep past the lar-board beam, then braced his legs and levelled the glass beyond the shrouds. A shadow at first, then rising with the hull, hardening into an undulating wedge of land. He wiped his mouth and handed the telescope to Kempthorne.

France.

So near. The old enemy. Unchanged in the poor light and yet being torn apart by the Terror's bloody aftermath.

He heard the master say in a loud whisper, “We'm gettin' a bit close.”

Queely raised his speaking trumpet and peered up at the lookout. “D'you see anything?
Wake up,
man!”

He sounded impatient; he probably thought it a waste to send a good telescope aloft where it might be damaged.

“Nuthin', sir!”

Queely looked at Bolitho. “I'd not expect much shipping here, sir. The Frogs maintain their inshore patrols all the way from the Dutch frontier, right down to Le Havre. Most ships' masters think it prudent to avoid arousing their attention.”

Bolitho walked to the bulwark and thought of Delaval, and the
Four Brothers'
dead captain. The smuggling gangs seemed to come and go no matter whose ships were on patrol.

Queely explained, “The Frenchies have a stop, search and detain policy, sir. Several ships have been reported missing, and you'll get no information from Paris.” He shook his head. “I'd not live there for a King's ransom.”

Bolitho eyed him calmly. “Then we must ensure it cannot happen
here,
eh, Mr Queely?”

“With respect, sir, unless we get more ships, the smugglers will ignore us too. The fleet is cut to virtually a handful of vessels, and now that they see a richer living in the Trade, able-bodied seamen are becoming a rare commodity.”

Bolitho walked past the vibrating tiller bar and saw there were three men clinging to it, a master's mate nearby with his eyes moving from the mainsail's quivering peak to the compass and back again.

“That is why our three cutters must work together.” Bolitho saw Young Matthew run to the lee bulwark and lean over it to vomit although his stomach had been emptied long ago. A passing seaman grinned, seized his belt and said, “Watch your step, nipper, it's a long fathom down there!”

Bolitho looked past him but was thinking of
Telemachus.
“You are all unique, and because of the trust and loyalty shared by your people you are an example to others.”

Queely watched him then said, “You were examining the log, sir?”

“Is that a question?” Bolitho felt the spray soaking into his shirt, but kept his eyes on the far-off ridge of land. “Whenever I have been given the honour of command I have examined the punishment book first. It always gives me a fair idea of my predecessor's behaviour, and that of his company. You should be grateful that your command is free of unrest and its inevitable repression.”

Queely nodded uncertainly. “Aye, sir, I suppose so.”

Bolitho did not look at him. He knew his comment was not quite what Queely had expected.

Some of the hands working at the halliards were chattering to each other when Queely shouted, “Belay that!” He held up his hand. “
Listen,
damn you!”

Bolitho clenched his hands together behind his back. Sharp hammer-like explosions. Small artillery, but firing in earnest.

“Where away?”

The master called, “Astern, starboard quarter, sir.” The others stared at him but he faced them defiantly. “No doubt in my mind, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. “Nor mine.”

Queely hastened to the compass. “What must I do, sir?”

Bolitho turned his head to listen as another series of shots echoed across the water.

“Bring her about.” He joined Queely beside the compass. “In this wind you can run free to the south-west.” It was like thinking aloud. It was also like
Telemachus
all over again. The doubt, hesitation, opposition, even though nobody had raised a single protest.

Queely glanced at him. “That will surely take us into French waters, sir.”

Bolitho looked at the straining mainsail, the way the long boom seemed to tear above the water with a mind of its own.

“Maybe. We shall see.” He met his eyes and added, “It would seem that
someone
is abroad this morning after all?”

Queely tightened his jaw then snapped, “All hands, Mr Kempthorne! Stand by to come about.” He glared at the master as if he had caused his displeasure. “We shall steer south-west.”

The master's face was blank. “Aye, aye, sir.”

Bolitho suspected he was used to Queely's moods.

“Ready ho!”

“Put the helm down!”

Bolitho gripped the companion head for support again as with her headsail sheets set free and the sails flapping in wild confusion,
Wakeful
butted around and across the wind's eye.

“Mains'l
haul!
”

Bolitho dashed the spray from his face and hair and could have sworn that the long fidded topmast was curving and bending like a coachman's whip.

Queely's impatience matched Paice's pride.

“Meet her! Steady as you go—
steady,
man!”