With All Despatch (16 page)

The thought disturbed him more than he thought possible.

No more would the local people see a Bolitho returning from the ocean, or hear of another who had died in some faroff battle.

He glanced momentarily at Craven's instructions, then with a sad smile held the note up to a candle and watched it dissolve in flames.

He had recalled something which his father had made him and his brother Hugh learn by heart before they had left that same house for the navy.

“They have outlived this fear, and their brave ends

Will ever be an honour to their friends.”

It could have been written for them.

“Out yer get, matey!”

Allday groaned and rolled painfully on to his side, and felt somebody guiding his feet over the back of a cart.

If they trusted him, it was the wary trust of one wild animal for another. He had no idea how far he had been carried, and as the cart had bumped and staggered over rutted tracks, once through a field, he had felt as if every bone was broken.

He stood upright and felt his hands being untied, a rough bandage being removed from his eyes.

One of his escorts grinned and handed him the cutlass. “No 'ard feelin's, matey. Under this flag you takes no chances, see?”

Allday nodded and looked around him. It was dawn, another day, the air busy with birdsong and insects. His nostrils dilated. The strong smell of saltwater and tar, oakum and freshly hewn timber. A boatbuilder's yard.

He was pushed, rather than guided, into a long shed where a crude slipway ran the full length and vanished through some heavy canvas awnings at the lower end. Newly built or repaired boats could be launched straight into the water from here, he supposed.

He blinked his eyes as he saw some twenty or more men sitting at tables wolfing food and draining jugs of ale as if they had been here all night. They all looked up as the man who had accompanied Allday said harshly, “This 'ere's Spencer, sailmaker. It's all you need to know. Get 'im some grub.”

Allday crossed his leg over a bench and regarded his new companions thoughtfully. A mixed bunch, he decided. Some had been honest sailormen; others would have been rogues in any marketplace.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the windowless shed he realised that the man who had been with him in the cart had been the one who had hacked off the sailor's hand. Now he was laughing and sharing a joke with one of his companions as if he hadn't a care in the world.

Allday took a jug of ale and grunted his thanks. It would be wise to say as little as possible.

The ale was tasteless but strong on an empty stomach; it made him feel slightly better.

Another step.
He eyed his new companions warily. Deserters to a man. If what he had seen of his “rescuers” was anything to judge by, they had stepped from one captivity into another.

He leaned over and asked casually, “What now?”

The man at his side darted him a suspicious glance. “We waits, see? We'll be part of a crew.” He nodded, reassured by Allday's massive presence. “We'll all be stinkin' rich!”

Allday took another swallow of ale. Or bloody dead, he thought darkly. Then he looked around the boatshed, probably well guarded too. It was so simple. A boatyard, the last place you would expect to find seamen on the run. But where was it? He had to discover that or all the risks were pointless. The Captain must be told where—

He stiffened as a voice rapped, “I'll let you know when I'm ready. You just do as you're told, damn your eyes!”

Allday raised his head very slowly and stared between two men who were in deep conversation.

The sunlight was stronger now, and he could see a half-completed hull standing amidst a litter of planks and wood shavings, and beyond that a line of tall trees. He knew the incisive, irritable voice—but how could he?

He heard someone murmuring what sounded like an apology and then part of a canvas awning was pulled aside like a curtain.

Allday held his breath as the dark eyes moved over the listless figures around the tables.

The man said, “Well, they'd better show more steel than the last lot!”

When Allday dared to look again the awning had fallen back into place. He didn't see me. He almost gasped his relief out loud.

The face had been that of
Loyal Chieftain'
s master, Henry Delaval . . .

It was all that Bolitho needed to know. But the plan would not settle in his mind.

All he could hear was a scream. All he could see was the smoking pistol in a severed hand.

9. ENEMY
T
ERRITORY

B
OLITHO
gripped the jolly-boat's gunwale and looked up at the endless canopy of small stars. Only an undulating black shadow which broke the foot of the pattern gave a true hint of land, and he could sense Chesshyre's concentration as he peered above the heads of the oarsmen, or directly abeam.

Once he said, “Tide's on the ebb, sir.”

Bolitho could hear it rippling and surging around the boat's stem, the deep breathing of the oarsmen as they maintained a regular stroke without an order being passed.

The man in the bows called aft in a loud whisper, “Ready with the lead, sir!”

Chesshyre came out of his concentrated attention. “Is it armed, Gulliver?”

“Aye, sir.”

“Start sounding.”

Bolitho heard the splash of the boat's lead and line being dropped over the bows, then the man named Gulliver calling, “By th' mark three!”

Chesshyre ordered, “Pass it aft!” He waited for the leg-of-mutton-shaped lead to be handed from thwart to thwart, then he rubbed the tallow in its base between his fingers before holding it up to his nose. He passed the lead back again and muttered, “Shell and rough sand, sir. We're making headway. So long as we stand away from the sandbars at low water we shall—”

The bowman called, “By th' mark
two!
”

Chesshyre swore silently and eased over the tiller bar. “Like
that,
sir!”

Bolitho understood. It was common enough in his own West Country for sailors to be able to feel their way by using a lead and line, know the state of the seabed by what they found on the tallow which “armed” it. In another twenty years he guessed it would be a lost craft of seamanship.

“How far?”

Chesshyre raised himself slightly as something white broke the pitch-darkness. Then he sank down again. It was not a rock or sandbar but a leaping fish.

“'Nother half-hour, sir.” He kept his voice low so that the oarsmen would not know the extent of their labour. They were used to it, but the boat was crowded with extra hands and weapons, including a heavy bell-mouthed musketoon already packed with canister and metal fragments, in case they were attacked.

Bolitho listened to the creak of oars—how loud they sounded despite being muffled with greased rags. But he knew from experience that it would be swallowed completely in the other noises of sea and wind.

Suppose it was a wasted journey? Perhaps the man would take fright and hide when he heard the sailors with their weapons?

Chesshyre hissed, “There, sir! See the old abbey?”

Bolitho strained his eyes and saw a sharper shadow rising amongst the stars.

Chesshyre breathed out. “Better'n I thought.”

Bolitho thought how like Herrick he sounded. Another memory. A different ship.

“Less than a fathom, sir!”

“Haul in the lead, Gulliver. Stand by, boys!” Chesshyre crouched half-upright, his silhouette like a dark gargoyle. “Be ready to beach!”

The bowman was busy with his boathook and called, “Comin' in now, sir!”

“
Oars!
Lively there!” After that it all happened in seconds.

The extra hands leaping outboard and splashing in the shallows to guide the hull safely on to a small, unusually steep beach. Oars lowered with great care across the thwarts while Christie, one of Paice's boatswain's mates, growled, “Drop that bloody gun an' I'll see yer backbones!”

In spite of the tension Bolitho heard somebody chuckle at the threat. Then he was out of the boat, the receding water dragging at his shoes, clawing him back as if to claim him.

Chesshyre passed his instructions and two men hurried away in either direction, while others grouped around the beached boat to make certain it could be quickly launched, but was in no danger of drifting away.

Bolitho found a moment to recall the other times when he had seen it done.
The sailor's way.
Give him a boat or even a raft and he is in good heart. But with only the sea at his back it is a different story.

Chesshyre rejoined him and said, “There's a small track to the left, sir. That'll be the one.”

Shadows moved in around them and Bolitho said, “Draw your blades, but do not cock your pistols. One shot by accident, and we'll awaken the dead.”

Somebody murmured, “An' there are plenty o' them round 'ere, sir!”

Another jester.

Chesshyre waited as Bolitho drew his old sword and balanced it in his fist.

“You must be an old hand at this, sir?”

It was strange coming from him, Bolitho thought, as they were the same age.

“I admit it's more like landing on enemy soil than I expected in England.”

He tested his bearings and then walked carefully towards the track. It was little more than a fox's path, but the sandy soil made it easy to follow.

He half-listened to the sea's lazy grumbling as it laid bare rocks in the falling tide, and pictured Paice somewhere out in the darkness, unable to help, unwilling to be left out.

The sea sounds suddenly faded and Bolitho felt the warm air of the countryside fanning his face. The smells of the land. The old abbey lay to the left although he could see less of it now than from the boat.

Chesshyre touched his arm and stopped in his tracks.
“Still!”

Bolitho froze and heard someone gasp, feet kicking in the long grass. Then two figures loomed from the darkness, one with his hands above his head, the other, a small, darting man with a drawn cutlass, pushing him none too gently ahead of him.

Bolitho said, “I have good ears, but—”

Chesshyre showed his teeth. “Inskip was a poacher afore he saw the light, sir. Got ears in his arse, beggin' your pardon.”

The man with raised hands saw Bolitho, and perhaps recognised some sort of authority when seconds earlier he had been expecting his life to be cut short.

He exclaimed, “I was sent to meet you, sir!”

Chesshyre rapped, “Keep your voice
down
for Christ's sake, man.”

Bolitho gripped his arm; it was shaking so violently that he knew the man was terrified.

“Where is the blind man? Did he not come?”

“Yes, yes!” He was babbling. “He's here, right enough. I did just what the major told me—now I'm off afore someone sees me!”

A seaman strode along the path. “'Ere 'e is, sir.” He directed his remarks to the master but they were intended for Bolitho.

“Don't go too close, sir. 'E stinks like a dead pig.”

Bolitho walked away from the others, but heard Chesshyre following at a careful distance.

The blind man was squatting on the ground, his head thrown back, his eyes covered by a bandage.

Bolitho knelt beside him. “I am Captain Bolitho. Major Craven said you would help me.”

The man moved his head from side to side, then reached out and held Bolitho's arm. Through the coat sleeve his fingers felt like steel talons.

“I need your aid.” Bolitho's stomach rebelled, but he knew this contact was his only hope. The blind man stank of filth and dried sweat, and he was almost grateful for the darkness.

“Bolitho?”
The man moved his head again as if trying to peer through the bandage. “Bolitho?” He had a high piping voice, and it was impossible to determine his age.

Chesshyre said thickly, “The poor bugger's off his head, sir.”

Bolitho retorted, “Wouldn't
you
be?”

He tried again. “That night. When they did this to you.” He felt the hand jerk free, as if it and not its owner was in terror. “What did you see? I wouldn't ask, but they took a friend of mine—you understand?”

“See?” The blind man felt vaguely in the grass. “They took a long while. All th' time they laughed at me.” He shook his head despairingly. “When the fire was lit they branded my body, an'— an' then—”

Bolitho looked away, sickened. But he was so near to Allday now. This poor, demented creature was all he had. But he felt as if he were applying torture, as they had once done to him.

“I used to watch for 'em. Sometimes they come with pack-horses—bold as brass, they was. Other times they brought men, deserters. That night—”

Chesshyre said, “He knows nowt, sir.” He peered around at the trees. “He should be put out of his misery.”

The man turned as if to examine the
Telemachus'
s master, then said in a flat, empty voice, “I bin there since, y'know.” He wrapped his arms around his ragged body and cackled. “I was that well acquaint with the place!”

Bolitho kept his voice level. “What place? Please help me. I shall see you are rewarded.”

The man turned on him with unexpected venom. “I don't want yer stinkin' gold! I just wants revenge for what they done to me!”

Chesshyre bent over him and said, “Captain Bolitho is a fine an' brave officer. Help him as you will, and I swear he'll take care of you.”

The man cackled again. It was an eerie sound, and Bolitho could imagine the small party of seamen drawing together nearby.

Chesshyre added, “What's your name?”

The man cowered away. “I'm not sayin'!” He peered towards Bolitho and then seized his arm again. “I don't
'ave
to, do I?” He sounded frantic.

“No.” Bolitho's heart sank. The link was too fragile to last. It was another hope gone wrong.

In a surprisingly clear voice the blind man said, “Then I'll take you.”

Bolitho stared at him. “When?”

“Now, o' course!” His reply was almost scornful. “Don't want the 'ole o' Sheppey to know, does we?”

Chesshyre breathed out loudly. “Well, I'll be double-damned!”

That, too, was what Herrick said when he was taken aback.

Bolitho took the man's filthy hand. “
Thank
you.”

The bandaged head moved warily from side to side. “Not with nobody else though!”

Christie the boatswain's mate murmured, “Not bloody askin' for much, is 'e?”

Bolitho looked at Chesshyre. “I must do as he asks. I must trust him. He is all I have.”

Chesshyre turned away from his men. “But it's
asking
for trouble, sir. He may be raving mad, or someone might have put him up to it, like the fellow who brought him here, eh, sir?”

Bolitho walked to the men who were guarding the messenger. “Did you tell anybody about this?” To himself he thought,
more to the point, will he tell someone after he has left us?

“I swear, sir, on my baby's life—I swear I've told nobody!”

Bolitho turned to Chesshyre. “All the same, take him aboard when you leave. I think he is too frightened to betray anyone at the moment, but should the worst happen and you discover it, see that he is handed to Major Craven's dragoons.” His voice sharpened. “He can join the other felons at the crossroads if it comes to that.”

Chesshyre asked desperately, “What shall I say to Mr Paice, sir?”

Bolitho looked at him in the darkness. Then he raised his voice and saw the bandaged head move towards him again. “Tell him I am with a friend, and that we are both in God's hands.”

Chesshyre seemed unable to grasp it. “I just don't know, sir. In all my service—”

“There is always a first time, Mr Chesshyre. Now be off with you.”

He watched as the sailors began to fade away into the shadows and noticed how they seemed to pass him as closely as they could before they groped their way to the fox's path. To see for themselves, as if for the last time.

Chesshyre held out his hand. It was hard, like leather. “May God indeed be at the helm this night, sir.” Then he was gone.

Bolitho reached down and aided the man to his feet. “I am ready when you are.”

He felt light-headed, even sick, and his mouth was suddenly quite dry. This man might only think he knew where he was going, his mind too broken to distinguish fact from fantasy.

The blind man picked up a heavy piece of wood, a branch found somewhere in the course of his despairing ramblings.

Then he said in his strange, piping voice, “This way.” He hesitated. “Watch yer step. There's a stile up yonder.”

Bolitho swallowed hard. Who was the blind one now?

An hour later they were still walking, pausing only for the bandaged head to turn this way and that. To gather his bearings, to listen for some sound, Bolitho did not know. Perhaps he was already lost.

He heard dogs barking far away, and once he almost fell with alarm as some birds burst from the grass almost under his feet.