With All Despatch (18 page)

The man yelled, “Kill him, you bilge-rats!” He had sensed that despite his strength he was no match for Bolitho's swords-manship. He vaulted over a bench, then faced Bolitho across it, his hanger held out like a rapier.

Not long now. Bolitho heard running feet, a man falling over some obstruction in the darkness, the rum making him laugh insanely. Then there was a single shot, and for an instant Bolitho thought one of them had fired at him through the window. He heard somebody sobbing, the sudden trampling thud of horses, and Major Craven's voice rising above all of it.

The door burst open and the place was filled suddenly with scarlet coats and gleaming sabres.

Craven turned as a sergeant shouted, “One o' the buggers 'as done for Trooper Green, sir.” Craven looked at Bolitho and gave the merest nod, then faced the armed smuggler. “You heard that? My men will be happy to end your miserable life here and now,
unless
—”

The man tossed his hanger on the bench. “I know nothing.”

Bolitho took Craven's arm. “How did you know?”

Craven walked to the door. “Look yonder, Captain.”

A dragoon was helping a small figure to climb down from his saddle. The boy walked slowly and hesitantly into the lantern-light, his eyes running with tears, Fear, relief, it was all there.

Craven said quietly, “Lift your foot, boy.”

Aided by the dragoon Young Matthew raised one bare foot. It was ripped and bloody, almost to the bone.

Craven explained, “One of my pickets found him running along the road.” He looked at his men outside as they rounded up the deserters and bound their wrists behind them. One trooper lay dead on the ground.

Bolitho seized the boy and held him against his coat, trying to ease away the shock and the pain.

“There's no harm done, Matthew, thanks to you. That was a brave thing you did.”

Craven nodded. “Damned dangerous, too.”

Bolitho looked at the dragoon who had carried the boy from his horse. “Care for him. I have something to do.” He confronted the man who minutes earlier had been urging his companions to arm themselves and cut him down, and said, “If you tell me what I want to know, I might be prepared to put in a word. I can promise nothing.”

The man threw back his head and roared with laughter. “D'you think I fear the hangman?”

Craven murmured, “He is far more frightened of his masters, the Brotherhood.”

He offered no resistance as the sergeant tied his hands behind him and sneered, “They'll have you yet—
Captain!
”

A dragoon shouted, “'Ere—where d'you think you're goin', mate?”

Then, like the others, he fell silent as the ragged figure with the broken branch held out before him moved slowly into the circle of light.

Bolitho sensed it immediately, like a shaft of lightning between them.

The blind man whispered, “It's 'im, Captain!” There was a sob in his voice now. “I 'ad to come, then I 'eard 'is laugh. 'E's the one wot did this to me!”

The man shouted, “You bloody liar! Who'd take the word of a blind lunatic?”

Bolitho had an overwhelming desire to strike him. To kill him, tied and helpless though he was.

“
I
would, whoever
you
are.” How calm his voice sounded it was like hearing a complete stranger. “When all this was begun,
this man
—who has become my friend, let it be known—asked no reward.”

There was absolute silence now and Bolitho saw the bound man staring at him uncertainly, the bluff gone out of him.

“He asked only for revenge, and I think I know what he meant.” Bolitho glanced at the others. “Major Craven, if you will take your men outside?” The dragoons filed out, some shocked at what they had witnessed, others with the light of cruel revenge in their faces. They had just lost one of their own. What did outsiders understand of loyalty, and their sacrifice?

Bolitho watched as the realisation crossed the man's cruel features. Spittle ran from a corner of his mouth.
“You lie! You wouldn't dare!”
When Bolitho walked towards the door he screamed,
“Don't leave me!”

The blind man felt his way around the seated prisoner, and then touched his eyes from behind. Very gently, as he crooned, “Like trapped butterflies.”

The man screamed and struggled.
“Christ, my eyes!”

Bolitho opened the door, his throat retching.

Then he heard the man shriek, “I'll tell you! I'll tell you! Call him off, for Christ's sake!”

Bolitho crossed the room in two strides. “I want names. I need to know things which only you will be a part of.”

The man's chest was heaving as if he was drowning. “I felt his claws in my eyes!”

“I am waiting.” He rested one hand on the blind man's scrawny shoulder and saw him turn his bandaged eyes towards him. In his own way he was telling Bolitho he had already had his revenge. Perhaps he had found no reprieve in it.

Together they listened to the man's desperate flood of information. The hangman's halter, or death in a sea-fight were commonplace. But against the prospect of torture at the hands of someone he had blinded and broken he had had no defences.

Bolitho said, “You will be kept in the barracks, alone and under guard at all times. If one word you have told me is false, you will have this man as your sole companion.”

He reached out and slammed the smuggler's head back against the chair. “
Look at me, damn you!
Do you see any bluff in
my
eyes?”

There was naked terror in the man's face now and Bolitho could smell the stench of it. Then he said quietly, “So be warned.”

He walked out of the building and leaned against the wall, staring at the tiny stars.

Craven said, “Thank God I was in time.”

“Aye.” He watched the blind man touching the muzzle of one of the horses. “There's much we have to thank him for tonight.” He knew that in a few more minutes he would have vomited. “Now where is that boy?”

But Young Matthew had fallen asleep across the dragoon's saddle.

Craven said, “Time to leave. I sent word for assistance before I came. I felt this would be the place. My men have never been allowed to come here.” He glanced at the sky. “There's a troop of fifty horses or more on the road from Chatham by now, but we'll take no chances.”

He watched his dead dragoon being tied across an empty saddle. “Is it worth the cost this time?” He removed his hat as the horse was led past.

Bolitho nodded. “I believe so.” He waited for the major to order a spare mount for him. “You have done so much.” His tone hardened. “Now it is up to me.”

The blind man waited beside the horses as Bolitho leaned down and touched his arm. “Will you come with us?”

The man shook his head. “I'll be close by if you needs me, Captain.”

As the troop, with the prisoners running beside the horses, moved away from the buildings, the blind man looked into his perpetual darkness and murmured, “'E called me 'is
friend.
”

Then, like a ragged shadow, he too was swallowed up.

10. THE
S
PARK OF COURAGE

T
HE
brig
Loyal Chieftain,
drifting and rolling under close-reefed topsails, was a death-trap for any landsman or the unwary. In pitch-darkness she lay between two sturdy luggers while men from all three crews hauled on tackles, levered, and stowed an endless collection of cargo. In the brig's forward hold, Allday marvelled at the speed of the transfer from the two luggers in spite of several stupid blunders. The brig carried twice her normal company, but most of them had never worked together before, and he had heard more kicks and obscenities than in any manof-war.

Each time he went on deck he looked hopefully towards the land. But there was no sign of it, not even a light to reveal how near or far it lay. He knew they were lying-to off the Dutch coast, somewhere near Flushing, but it might easily have been on the other side of the world.

His prowess as a seaman had soon been noted, and Allday had found himself thanking his Maker more than once that Delaval was not aboard. The brig
Loyal Chieftain
was under the charge of his lieutenant and mate, a tight-lipped man called Isaac Newby who hailed from Dorset. He had been arrested twice for smuggling but each time he had been released for lack or loss of evidence.

He had remarked to Allday, “I've friends in high places.” Otherwise he had said little, and after they had made contact with the two luggers there had been no time even to eat or drink.

Men fumbled over unfamiliar tackles, or were knocked senseless by a cargo net of brandy casks. In the holds, another team was busily lashing hemp halters and floats to ranks of casks almost before they had been stowed for the passage. A man Allday had befriended, once a fore-topman named Tom Lucas, had explained that once off the English coast the casks would be dropped overboard in moored trots, like lobster pots, to be collected later by some of the long, oared smuggling galleys. After that, the cargo would be distributed in caves and small inlets, to be carried to the next “drops” by packhorse or donkey.

Lucas was a tall, grave-faced sailor, very much the landsman's idea of a typical Jack Tar of Old England. Once, on passage from Kent, he had been stitching a patch on his shirt. Allday, watching, was used to the navy's ways and harsh discipline, but Lucas's bare back was scarred and mangled beyond recognition. He had been serving in a seventy-four at the Nore, a ship plagued by a bad captain, undermanning and appalling food.

He had complained on behalf of his mess to the first lieutenant who to all accounts had been a fair man. He in turn had approached the captain. The result: three dozen lashes at the gangway for mutinous behavior. Lucas had made up his mind to desert but had been surprised by another lieutenant on the night he had chosen. He had struck the officer only with his fist, but he had fallen from the gangway to the gundeck below. Lucas did not know if the lieutenant was dead or alive, and had no intention of returning to find out.

He had stared at Allday grimly. “A flogging round th' fleet? Well, you knows what that means. I couldn't take it. An' if the lieutenant died, it'll be the yardarm dance anyway!”

But it was obvious to Allday that he had no heart for smuggling. It was an escape, without hope or future, until fate caught up with him. Allday had heard some of the others discussing it in the dogwatches. So far, there had been plenty of backbreaking work, and precious few rewards. It did not balance the scale, but it was some consolation, he thought.

Allday was with Lucas tonight, supervising the hold, and in some cases putting the right lines into unfamiliar hands while the hulls groaned and lurched together in a steep offshore swell.

Allday muttered, “Black as a boot on deck.”

Lucas paused and sniffed the air, which was heavy with brandy. “I could use some o' that.” He seemed to realise what Allday had said. “Yeah. Well, I've done a couple of runs in this brig. The captain always 'as a decoy. So if our—” He seemed to grin in the gloom. “I mean, if their patrols or revenue cutters appear, it gives 'im time to stand clean away.”

Allday lowered his head to conceal his expression. So that was how it was done. Maybe the smuggling fraternity took turns to play decoy, then shared the spoils afterwards?

Isaac Newby, the mate, peered down past the shaded lanterns. “Ready below?” He sounded on edge, impatient.

Allday raised his fist. “Soon enough. One more net to be stowed.”

Newby vanished, probably to examine the other hold.

Lucas said bitterly, “What next, I wonder? Gold for the captain, an' a gutful of rum for us, eh?”

Allday watched him thoughtfully. How many good seamen had gone rotten because of uncaring officers and ruthless captains? It was a pity there were not many more like Our Dick, he thought.

A voice yelled, “Stand by to cast off, starboard! Lively, you scum!”

Lucas swore. “Just like home.”

First one lugger was cast off, then the other, with more curses and squealing blocks, the canvas unmanageable with the brig floundering downwind. Then just as suddenly she had set her top-sails and jib and was leaning over to the larboard tack. Hatches were battened down, and the disorder removed.

Lucas stared out at the heaving, black water and gritted his teeth. “Christ, they've brought women aboard!” He seized the rat-lines and hung on them despairingly. “God,
listen
to 'em. Don't the buggers know it's bad luck?”

Allday listened and heard someone cry out. It was little more than a sound, like a gull's mew, soon lost in the thunder of spray-soaked canvas.

The boatswain shouted, “You lot! Stand by to loose the fore-course! Hands aloft, and shift your bloody selves!” A rope's end found its target and a man yelped with painful resentment.

The boatswain joined Allday at the weather shrouds. “Fair wind.” He squinted aloft but the men strung out on the fore-course yard were hidden in darkness. “Should be a good run this time.”

Allday heard it again, and asked, “Women, eh?” For some reason it disturbed him.

The boatswain yawned. “The captain likes to have his way.” He gave a hard laugh. “It's all money, I reckon, but—” He shrugged as a piercing scream broke from the after skylight.

Allday tried to moisten his lips. “Delaval, d'you mean?”

The boatswain glared impatiently as the big foresail flapped and writhed out of control. “Yeh, he came aboard from one of the Dutchie luggers.” He cupped his hands. “Catch a turn there, you idle bugger! Now
belay!
”

But Allday scarcely heard him. Delaval was here. But he might not remember. He had had eyes only for Bolitho and Paice at their last meeting. Even as he grasped the hope, Allday knew it was a lie.

More bellowed orders, and one watch was dismissed below for another foully cooked meal.

Allday walked aft, his powerful frame angled to the slanting deck, his mind in great trouble. He saw the faces of the helmsmen glowing faintly in the binnacle light, but it was too weak to be seen more than yards beyond the hull.

What should he do now? If he stayed alive long enough he might—

A larger wave than the previous one swayed the deck hard over. He saw the spokes of the wheel spin, heard the two helmsmen cursing as they fought to bring the vessel back under command.

Allday gripped a rack of belaying pins, and found himself looking directly down through the cabin skylight. There was a girl there—she could not be more than sixteen. One man, Newby the mate, was pinioning her arms, another, hidden by the skylight's coaming, was tearing at her clothes, laying her breasts naked while she struggled and cried out in terror.

Too late did he feel the closeness of danger.

“So this is the sailmaker? I never forget a face,
Mister
Allday!”

The blow across the back of his head brought instant darkness. There was no time even for fear or pain.
Oblivion.

Bolitho loosened his shirt and stared around at the intent faces.
Telemachus'
s small cabin was packed to bursting-point with not only the lieutenants from all three cutters but their sailing-masters as well.

He spread his hands on the chart and listened to the wind sighing through the rigging, the regular creak of timbers as the hull tugged at her cable.

It was evening, but the air was humid rather than warm, and the sky broken by ridges of heavy-bellied clouds.

He found time to compare it with his first meeting with the cutters' commanders. In so short a while they had all changed. Now there was no doubt, no suspicion; events had somehow welded them together in a manner Bolitho had first believed impossible.

The others had also rid themselves of their coats and Bolitho wondered how they would appear to some landsman or outsiders. More like the men they were hunting than sea-officers, he thought.

“We will weigh at dusk, and have to risk arousing interest—” His glance fell on Chesshyre. “I see that you have already noted the change?”

Chesshyre nodded, startled to be picked out before all the others. “Aye, sir, wind's backed two points or more.” He shivered slightly as if to test the weather. “I'd say fog afore dawn.”

They looked at each other, the suggestion of fog moving amongst them like an evil spirit.

Bolitho said, “I know. When I consulted the glass—” He glanced up at the open skylight, plucking his shirt away from his body. It felt like a wet rag, like the moment he had kicked open the door and had faced the men around the table. It seemed like an age past instead of days. He hurried on, “The information is that two vessels are heading for the Isle of Thanet from the Dutch coast. One will be deep-laden, the other a decoy.” He saw them exchange glances and added, “I have no doubt that this intelligence is true.” He pictured the smuggler tied to a chair, his screams of terror as the blind man's hands had touched his eyes. No, he had little doubt of this information.

Paice said, “May I speak, sir?” He looked at the other lieutenants and Queely responded with a curt nod, as if they had already been discussing it. Paice said, “If this fails, and we lose them, what will happen to
you?
”

Bolitho smiled; he had been half-expecting an objection to his plan. “I shall doubtless be ordered to a place where I can no longer disrupt matters.” Even as he said it, he knew he had never uttered a truer word. Even with Midshipman Fenwick under close arrest, and the smuggler in the hands of Craven's dragoons, his evidence would leak like a sieve without Delaval and a cargo.

He pushed the thought from his mind and said flatly, “I believe that the information which led to the capture of the
Four Brothers
was deliberately offered to us to allay suspicion. Probably a competitor anyway, a most suitable sacrifice with the stakes so high.”

He held his breath and watched their expressions. If they accepted this, they were implicating themselves. Only Commodore Hoblyn had known about the
Four Brothers.
By accepting Bolitho's word they too could be charged with conspiracy.

Paice said resolutely, “I agree. We've been held away from that piece of coastline for as long as I can recall. There are several small boatyards there, most of 'em on the land which belongs to—” He looked at Bolitho and said bluntly, “Sir James Tanner, a person of great power and authority.” He gave a slow grin as if to show he was aware of his own disloyalty and added, “Some of us
suspected.
Most saw only the hopelessness of any protest with us against so many.” His grin widened. “Until, with respect, sir, you came amongst us like a full gale of wind!”

Lieutenant Vatass of
Snapdragon
pulled at his crumpled shirt and said, “I think that speaks for us all, sir. If we
are
to stand alone?” He gave an elegant shrug. “Then let us get on with it.”

There was a muttered assent around the airless cabin.

Bolitho said, “We will leave as arranged. I have left word with Major Craven, and sent a despatch to our admiral at the Nore.” He would have smiled but for Allday. Even the admiral would have to climb down from his eyrie when this news was exploded before him. If Bolitho failed he would face a court martial. That he could accept. But these men, who had accepted his arrival only under pressure, he must shield at all costs.

The three sailing-masters were comparing notes and making last adjustments to their chart. Their navigation would have to be better than ever before. There was not even room for luck this time. Just three small cutters in search of a will-o'-the-wisp. Bolitho had sent word to Chatham in the hopes of calling a frigate to intervene should Delaval slip through their tightly stretched net. Even if the admiral agreed to his wishes, it was quite likely that no frigate was available.

Bolitho recalled his meeting with Sir Marcus Drew at the Admiralty. He had left him in no doubt where responsibility would lie if Bolitho misused his commission.

If Hoblyn was guilty of conspiracy with the smugglers, no matter for what reason, he could expect no mercy either from the navy or from the men he had served for his own profit.