With All Despatch (19 page)

Bolitho's mouth hardened. Allday's life was at stake because of all this. If anything happened to him he would deal with Hoblyn and the unknown Sir James Tanner in his own fashion.

As evening closed in across the anchorage Bolitho went on deck and watched the unhurried preparations to get under way.

He could sense the difference here too. The unspoken acceptance by men he had come to know in so brief a time. George Davy the gunner, even now crouching and ducking around his small artillery. Scrope, master-at-arms, with Christie the boatswain's mate, checking the heavy chest of axes and cutlasses below the tapering mast. Big Luke Hawkins, the boatswain, was hanging over the bulwark gesturing to some men in the jolly-boat to warp it closer to the tackles for hoisting inboard.

Slow, careful preparations—for what? To risk death at the hands of smugglers whom most people condoned, if not admired? Or was it out of
loyalty?
To Bolitho, or to one another, as was the navy's way with pressed man and volunteer alike.

Bolitho glanced at the waterfront and wondered if there was already a fine mist spreading towards the many anchored vessels. And although the wind still buffeted the furled sails, the sea seemed flatter, milkier out towards the Isle of Grain and Garrison Point. He shivered and wished he had brought his coat on deck.

He heard dragging footsteps and saw Young Matthew Corker resting by a six-pounder, his eyes on the land.

Bolitho said quietly, “We owe you a great deal, Matthew. One day you will realise it. What do you wish for yourself after this?”

The boy turned and faced him, his expression unusually sad and grave. “Please, Captain, I'd like to go
home.
” He was near to tears but added with sudden determination, “But only when Mr Allday is back.”

Bolitho watched him walk forward, soon hidden by the busy seamen. It was the right decision, he thought. One he had to make for himself.

Paice joined him by the bulwark and said, “Good lad, that one, sir.”

Bolitho watched him, and guessed the reason for Paice's hurt.

“Aye, Mr Paice. But for him—” He did not need to continue.

With the wind filling and puffing at the great mainsails the three cutters weighed and headed out to open water. Many eyes watched them leave, but with the mist moving slowly out to embrace the three hulls, there was little to reveal their intentions.

Major Philip Craven of the 30th Dragoons was enjoying a glass of claret when the news of their departure was brought by a hard-riding trooper.

Craven folded the message and finished the claret before calling his orderly to fetch his horse.

Commodore Ralph Hoblyn paced his great bedroom alone, his eyes everywhere whenever he reached a window. And as darkness fell, he was still striding back and forth, his stooped shoulder even more pronounced in shadows against the walls.

A messenger brought word to the gates about the cutters' leaving without fresh orders, but the corporal of the guard retorted sharply, “The commodore's made it plain in the past! 'E's not to be disturbed,
no matter wot!
”

And away in Chatham itself, the one person who had been the hinge of all these events, Midshipman Fenwick of the local impressment service, made the only firm decision of his miserable nineteen years. While the guards were changing their duties, he took his belt and hanged himself in his cell.

Down in
Telemachus'
s cabin once more, Bolitho changed into a fresh shirt and placed his watch carefully in his pocket. Around and above him the hull muttered and groaned, and he felt the wash alongside losing its power with each dragging minute.

He stared at the chart until his head throbbed.

It was now or never. He glanced at the parcel with the ship model inside. For both of them.

It seemed like an eternity before understanding returned. Even then it was a battle, against pain, and a sick unwillingness to believe what had happened.

Allday tried to open his eyes but with shocked horror realized that only the right one would obey. His whole body ached from bruises, and when he tried again to use his other eye he thought for an instant it had been put out.

He stared at the hazy picture which reached only to the perimeter of light cast by a gently spiralling lantern. It was barely a few feet away, and he thought he was going mad because of the confined space. He emitted a groan of agony as he tried to move. For the first time he realized that his legs were braced apart by irons bolted to the deck, his wrists dragged above his head by manacles so tight that he could no longer feel them.

He made himself wait, counting the seconds, while he attempted to muster his thoughts. He could remember nothing. But when he moved his head again he felt the force of the blow and guessed how he had come here. They must have beaten him almost to a point of death after that, although he had felt nothing. Not then.

He eased his legs and felt the irons dragging at them. He was naked to the waist, and when he peered down he saw blood, dried and stark on his body, like black tar in the lantern light.

A tiny pinprick flickered in his damaged eye and he felt more pain when he tried to open it. It must be clotted with his own blood, he thought despairingly, but what was the difference now? They would kill him. He tensed his legs in the irons. But not before they had made him suffer more.

Voices came faintly through the hull and he realised suddenly that the motion had eased; for another few dazed seconds he believed the brig was in harbour.

But as his mind tried to grasp what was happening he heard the irregular groan of the tiller, the clatter of tackle on deck. He peered round the tiny space again, each movement bringing a fresh stab of pain. No wonder it was small and low. It must be the lazaret, somewhere below the after cabin where the master's stores were usually held. Here there was nothing but a few dusty crates. Delaval—Allday sobbed at the sudden discovery of his name. It was surging back in broken pieces. The girl, half-naked in the cabin, screaming and pleading, and then . . .

That was why the tiller movements were so loud and near. His sailor's instinct forced through the despair and the pain. The brig was barely making headway. Not becalmed, so that—it came to him then. It must be a fog. God, it was common enough in these waters, especially after wind across a warm sea.

He craned his neck again. There was a small hatch from the cabin above, and another even smaller door in the bulkhead. Probably for a carpenter to inspect the lower hull if the vessel was damaged.

Allday sat bolt upright. She was the
Loyal Chieftain,
and was loaded with contraband to the deck beams. He felt close to shouting out aloud, all his distress and anguish pinned into this one small prison. It was for nothing.
Nothing.

He dragged himself out of the sudden self-pity and resignation, and listened to a new movement on deck. A brief rumbling that he had heard a thousand times, in a thousand places—the sound of gun trucks as a carriage was manhandled across deck planking. It was the long nine-pounder he had seen when he had helped to load the ship.

Suppose Bolitho was nearby? He fought against the sudden hope, because there was none. He tried to think only of dying without pleading, of escaping it all like the Captain's lady had done in the Great South Sea.

But the thought persisted, shining through the mists of pain like St Anthony's Light at Falmouth.

Just suppose Bolitho was searching this area . . .

More thuds echoed through the decks as if to prod his thoughts into order.

Allday had never trusted a topsail cutter, or any other vessel which relied on a single mast, no matter how much sail she carried. He peered with his sound eye at the deckhead as if to see the gun crew who were manoeuvring the nine-pounder, probably towards the quarter in readiness for a stern-chase. One good shot, and a cutter would be rendered useless. She would be left to fend for herself. Allday gritted his teeth. Or more likely, Delaval would round-up on her and loose every gun he had into the wreckage until not a soul was left alive.

He moved his arms and legs but was helpless. He must be content, accept that death was close by.

To fall in battle as old Stockdale had done was one thing— to die screaming under torture was another. Allday did not know if he could face it.

He closed his eyes tightly as the hatch in the deckhead was flung open. He heard angry voices, and then a coarse laugh as someone was pushed down into the lazaret. The hatch banged shut and Allday opened his eye once again.

The girl was crouching on her knees, whimpering and gasping like a savaged animal. There was blood on her face, and even in the poor light Allday saw the scratches on her bare shoulders as if talons had torn at her body. It was the same girl he had seen in the cabin. Close to, she was even younger than he had first thought. Fifteen or less. He watched despairingly as her hands fluttered about her torn clothing as she tried to cover her breasts.

As the lantern swung suddenly she stared up and saw him for the first time. It was all there in her face. Revulsion, terror, disgust at what had been done to her.

Allday swallowed hard and tried to think of words to calm her. God alone knew what they had done. From all the blood he guessed she had been raped several times. And now, like him, she was waiting to be disposed of.

He began carefully, “'Ere, miss, be brave now, eh?” His voice was little more than a croak. He added, “I
know
what you've been through—” He groaned and felt the manacles tearing at his wrists. What was the use? She didn't understand what he was saying, not a bloody word; and what if she did?

The girl crouched in the same position, her eyes still and unblinking.

Allday murmured, “I hope it's quick for you.” He groaned again. “If I could only
move!
” His words seemed to bounce from the curved sides to mock him.

More voices echoed through the decks, and feet padded overhead as men ran to trim the sails yet again.

Allday's head drooped. Fog, that was it. Must be.

He glanced at the girl. She sat quite still, one breast bared. As if hope and life had already left her.

Footsteps thudded above, suddenly close, and Allday gasped hoarsely, “Come here to me, Miss!
Please!
”

He saw her eyes widen as she stared up at the small hatch, then at him with the brightness of terror. Something in his tone, perhaps, made her crawl over the filthy deck and huddle against his body, her eyes tightly closed.

Legs appeared through the hatch, then Isaac Newby the mate dropped into full view. He drew a cutlass from his belt and stabbed it into the deck out of reach where it swayed from side to side like a gleaming snake.

He looked at the girl and said, “Soon be time to drop you outboard,
Mister
Allday. But the cap'n 'as 'is own ideas, y'see—” He was grinning, enjoying it. “We shall 'ave to leave a souvenir for your gallant captain to remember you by, to remind 'im of the time he tried to outrun the Brotherhood,
right?
” He tapped the knife at his belt. “Delaval thinks your fine tattoo would make the proper sort of gift!” He threw back his head and laughed. “So the arm will have to come off, like.”

Allday tasted bile in his throat. “Let
her
go. What can she do?”

Newby rubbed his chin as if in thought. “Well, seein' as you're not long for this world—” His arm shot out and he dragged the girl from the side, one hand tearing off the last covering from her shoulders. “Feast yer eyes on this!” He gripped the girl's hair and pulled her face roughly to his own, his free hand ripping away the remainder of her clothing like some savage beast.

Allday had no way of knowing what happened next. He saw the girl slump back beside him, her breasts rising and falling in fear, while Newby propped himself on his hands and stared straight ahead. Allday watched as Newby's utter disbelief changed to sudden emptiness while he pitched forward and lay still. Only then did he see the knife protruding from his side. She must have seen it before he had tried to rape her again, had dragged it from its sheath, and then . . .

Allday bobbed his head towards the dead man's belt. He had seen the screw there beside the empty sheath.

“Get it for me!”
He struggled to make himself understood by dragging at his leg irons. “Help me,
for God's sake!
”

She reached out and touched his bruised face, as if they were a million miles from this terrible place. Then she bowed over the man's body and unhooked the screw from his belt.

Allday watched with sick fascination as she unfastened first the leg irons then reached up to release the manacles, oblivious to her breasts brushing against him, to everything but the moment, the spark of courage which when offered she had used without hesitation.

Allday rolled over and gasped aloud in agony as the blood forced through his veins again. He felt light-headed, and knew that if he did not keep moving he might lose his wits completely.