Authors: Alexander Kent
Allday grunted. “Mebbe they've changed their minds, Cap'n.”
Bolitho nodded and tried to remember each detail of the chart and the notes he had studied on the passage from Kent.
A small country, and not many lonely places suitable enough for a secret landing. Here it was supposed to be a waterlogged stretch of low land, not unlike the marshes and fens of southeast England. Eventually the hard-working Dutch would reclaim the land from the sea and perhaps farm it. They rarely wasted any of their overcrowded resources. But if the French cameâ
Bolitho tensed as a light shuttered across the heaving water. In the blackness of night it seemed like a beacon.
Queely muttered, “Hell's teeth! Why not just fire a welcome salute!”
It was the first hint that he was more anxious than his manner had revealed.
“Bear up a point! Stand by, forrard! We don't want to run them down!” In a whisper he added, “Depress that swivel, Robbins! If it's a trick we'll leave a card to be remembered by!”
The other boat seemed to rise from the seabed itself, and several attempts to take heaving lines and stave off a collision made even more noise, although Bolitho doubted if it would carry more than a few yards.
He noticed muffled figures rising and falling in the swell, a stumpy mast with a loosely brailed-up sail. Above all, the stench of fish. Something was handed to one of the seamen and passed swiftly aft to Bolitho. It was part of an old bone coat-button. Bolitho withdrew his piece from his pocket and held them both together. They were parts of the same button. He wondered what might have happened if one of the sailors had dropped it in the darkness. Would trust have overcome suspicion? It was a crude but tested form of recognition, far less complicated or dangerous than a written message.
Bolitho said, “I am leaving now, Mr Queely.” He gripped his arm tightly. “You know what to do ifâ”
Queely stepped aside. “Aye, sir.
If.
”
Then they were scrambling down the cutter's side and into the small fishing boat. Rough hands reached out to guide them through the dangerous traps of nets and pots, stacked oars, and what felt like the entrails of gutted fish.
The sail banged out from its boom and the boat swayed steeply in a welter of fine spray.
When Bolitho looked again,
Wakeful
had disappeared, without even the disturbed white horses to betray her position.
Allday settled down on a thwart and muttered, “I'll never grumble at a King's ship again!”
Bolitho glanced at the purposeful figures around them. Nobody had said a word, or offered any sort of greeting.
Marcuard's words seemed to ring out in his ears.
Be doubly careful.
As he strained his eyes for a first glimpse of land Bolitho knew he would not need reminding again.
The journey to the rendezvous took longer than Bolitho had expected. He and Allday were transferred to a different craft, the final one being so cramped that it was necessary to remain almost bent double in the forepeak.
From the chart and what he had gathered from his sparse orders Bolitho knew they had passed Walcheren Island before the transfer, then after they had entered the Ooster Scheldt River they had touched sides with the second boat, barely pausing even to exchange a grunted greeting. The place seemed to be a mass of waterways and inlets although the crew were careful not to encourage Bolitho to look closely at their route.
A desolate, flat landscape, Bolitho thought, marked here and there by tall windmills, like giants against the sky. There were plenty of small craft on the move, but he had seen nothing of any uniforms which might indicate a naval or military presence.
When night closed in for the second time, the boat was pulled and manhandled into some long reeds, so that but for the gentle motion they could have been on a patch of dry land. It was too dark to see anything, with just a few tiny stars showing occasionally between the clouds. The wind had changed slightly, but not too much to concern
Wakeful,
he thought.
Allday craned his head over the side and listened to the regular creak of another great windmill. There was a strong smell too. “Pigs,” he said without enthusiasm. “Are we here, Cap'n?”
Bolitho heard voices, then two figures approached the boatâ so there must be a spit of land hereabouts, he thought.
One figure was the boat's skipper, a round-faced Dutchman with an eye-patch. The other was stepping delicately over the wet reeds, a handkerchief clasped to his nose.
He stared down at them and then said, “Er, Captain Bolitho? You are most prompt!” His English was almost flawless but Bolitho knew he was French.
Bolitho climbed from the boat and almost slipped into deeper water. As he eased his cramped muscles he asked, “And whom do I have the honourâ”
The man shook his head. “We have no names, Captain. It is safer that way.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “And now I am afraid I must blindfold you and yourâ” he glanced warily at Allday's powerful figure, “âcompanion.” He sensed their instant caution. “You might see something, no matter how unimportant it may be in your eyes, which could be dangerous for us all, yes?”
Bolitho said, “Very well.” The man was nervous. One of gentle breeding. Certainly no soldier. An experienced campaigner would have blindfolded them hours ago. He shivered. If he had to, he knew he could find his way back here without difficulty. Boyhood in the county of Cornwall, and years of service in small vessels had left him its own heritage.
They sloshed through the reeds and then on to rough ground, the windmill's regular groans then being joined by another. Bolitho knew that someone from the boat was walking in the rear. Apart from the wind it was very still, the air as keen as sleet.
The man held Bolitho's elbow, murmuring occasional warnings about their progress. Bolitho sensed they were close to a large building, but not one of the windmills.
His guide whispered, “You are meeting Vice-Admiral Louis Brennier.” He seemed to feel Bolitho's sudden attention. “You know him?”
He did not reply directly. “I thought there were to be no names, m'sieu?”
The man hesitated, then said, “It is what he wishes. His life has no value but to this great cause.”
He sounded as if he was repeating a lesson.
Bolitho fell in step again. Vice-Admiral Louis Brennier, an officer of distinction during the American Revolution when he had directed the operations of French privateers and, later, menof-war who were working alongside the rebels. He had been taking passage for Jamaica in de Grasse's flagship
Ville de Paris
when he had met up with Admiral Rodney's fleet off the little islands called the Saintes. The battle had been devastating and complete, with the French ships either destroyed or taken. It had seemed only right that the mighty
Ville de Paris
should have struck to the
Formidable,
Rodney's own flagship.
Brennier had been a mere passenger at the time, a hard role for a man of action like him, Bolitho had thought. It had been the French intention to attack and seize Jamaica and for Brennier, a very senior officer, to be installed as governor. The Saintes had changed all that, as it had for so many on such a fine April day. Ordinary, decent men. Like Stockdale who had fallen without a word, Ferguson who had lost an arm; the list was endless. His own ship,
Phalarope,
had only stayed afloat by working the pumps all the way to the dockyard at Antigua.
He heard a door being unbolted, felt sudden warmth in his face. The blindfold was removed and he found that he was in a broad stone-built room. It was a farm, although the true owners were nowhere to be seen.
He faced the old man who sat across the scrubbed table from him and bowed his head.
“Vice-Admiral Brennier?” He knew he must be old now, but it was still a shock. The admiral's hair was white, his skin wrinkled, his eyes half-hidden by heavy lids.
He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Bolitho's.
“And you are Capitaine Bolitho.” His English was not so good as his aide's. “I knew your father.” His face crinkled into a tired smile. “That is, I knew
of
him. It was in India.”
Bolitho was taken off balance. “I did not know,
m'sieu
.”
“Age has its compensations, Capitaine, or so they tell me.”
He raised his thin hands towards a roaring fire and said, “Our King lives, but matters worsen in our beloved Paris.”
Bolitho waited. Surely the hope of the King's reclaiming the French throne was not being entrusted to Brennier? He had been a gallant officer, and an honourable opponent, trusted by the King and all who had served him. But Brennier was an old man, his mind wandering now over the disaster which had overtaken his country.
Bolitho asked, “What will you have me do,
m'sieu?
”
“Do?”
Brennier seemed reluctant to rejoin him in the present. “It is our intention and sworn duty to obtain the King's release, by any means, no matter the cost!” His voice grew stronger, and despite his doubts Bolitho could see the younger man emerging.
“Here in the Low Countries we have amassed a fortune. Precious jewels, goldâ” He lowered his forehead on to one hand. “A King's ransom, the English might call it.” But there was no mirth in his tone. “It is close by. Soon it must be moved and put to work.”
Bolitho asked gently, “Where did it come from, m'sieu?”
“From the many whose families have suffered and died under the guillotine. From others who seek only a return to a cultured, inventive life.” He looked up, his eyes flashing. “It will be used to free the King, by bribery, by force if it must be so, and some to mount a counter-revolution. There are many loyal officers in the South of France, m'sieu, and the world shall witness such a reckoning! We will do to these vermin what they have done to us!” His outburst seemed to weaken him. “We shall speak further when some of my friends arrive.” He gestured towards another door. “Go there, Capitaine, and meet your fellow
agent-provocateur.
”
His aide entered again and waited to assist him to some stairs. At their foot he turned and said firmly, “France lives! Long live the King!”
The aide gave what might have been a small shrug. To Allday he said curtly, “Wait here. I will send for some food and wine.”
Allday muttered, “Little puppy! It's them like him who lost France, if you ask me, Cap'n!”
Bolitho touched his arm. “Be easy, old friend. There is much we have yet to understand. But do as he says, and keep your eyes open.” He did not have to say any more.
Then he pressed on the other door and walked into a more comfortable room.
As the door closed behind him, a figure who had been sitting in a high-backed chair facing another lively fire, rose and confronted him.
“Bolitho? I trust the journey was none too arduous?”
Bolitho had only seen the man twice before and each time at a distance. But there was no mistaking him. About his own age, with the arrogant good looks and cruel mouth he remembered from the Rochester Road, and that brief moment in the coach window at Dover.
He felt his hand fall to his sword. “Sir James Tanner.” He was calmed by the flatness in his voice. “I never thought I'd meet a cur like you here!”
Tanner's face tightened but he seemed to control his immediate reaction with a practised effort.
“I have no choice. It is Lord Marcuard's wish. Otherwiseâ”
Bolitho said, “When this is over I intend to see you brought to justice.”
Tanner turned his back. “Let me tell you things, Bolitho, before your damned impertinence puts us both in jeopardy. Be assured, I would like nothing better than to call you out
here and now.
”
Bolitho watched his squared shoulders. “You will find me ready enough,
sir!
”
Tanner turned and faced him again. “Your life is so clean and well charted, Bolitho. It lies 'twixt forecastle and poop with no bridge in between, where a captain's word is law, when no one shall defy it!” He was speaking faster now. “Why not try stepping outside and into the real world, eh? You will soon discover that the politics of survival tend to create strange bedfellows!” He seemed to relax slightly as he gestured casually between them. “Like us, for instance.”
“It sickens me even to share the same room.”
Tanner eyed him thoughtfully. “You would never prove it, you know. Never in ten thousand years. Others have tried before you.” He became suddenly reasonable. “Take yourself, Bolitho. When you returned from the American War you discovered your family estate pared away, sold to pay for your brother's debts, is that not correct?” His voice was smooth and insistent. “You fought bravely, and that was your reward.”
Bolitho held his expression as before but only with difficulty. At every corner, in every turn, there was always Hugh's disgrace, the memory used to shame or belittle the family as it had killed their father.