With All Despatch (25 page)

Tanner was saying, “
My
father lost nearly everything. His debtors were measured in leagues, believe me. But I got all of it back on my own.”

“By organising a smuggling trade that was unrivalled anywhere.”

“
Hearsay,
Bolitho. And even if it were so, nobody will stand up and swear it.” He leaned over the chair and tapped the leather with his hand. “D'you imagine I want to be here, involved in a wild scheme which has about as much chance of succeeding as a snowman in a furnace!”

“Then why are you?”

“Because I am the only one Lord Marcuard trusts to execute the plan. How do you imagine you reached here unscathed? You do not know the country or its language, and yet here you are. The fishermen are in my employ. Oh yes, they may be smugglers, who can say? But you came here in safety because
I
arranged it, even to suggesting the exact point at which to bring you ashore.”

“And what of Delaval?”

Tanner became thoughtful. “He worked for me, too. But he had grand ideas, became less and less prepared to take orders. So you see—”

“He thought you were going to gain his discharge.”

“Yes, he did. He was a boaster and a liar, a dangerous combination.”

Bolitho said, “Is that all there is to it?”

“Not completely. Lord Marcuard will have his way. You still do not understand this real world, do you? If he chose, Marcuard could use his power against me, and all my land and property would be forfeit. And if you are thinking I could still live at ease elsewhere, then I beg you to dismiss the idea. From Marcuard there is no hiding place. Not on this earth anyway.”

They faced each other, Tanner breathing hard, his eyes watchful, a man too clever to reveal the triumph he now felt.

Bolitho was still numbed by the fact that he was here. Had even planned his arrival.

Tanner said easily, “We have to work together. There was never any choice for either of us. I wanted to meet you before that old man did, but he suggested it might be
difficult.
”

Bolitho nodded, in agreement for the first time. “I'd have killed you.”

“You would have tried to do so, I dare say. It seems to run in your family.” He spread his arms. “What can you hope for? If you go to the Dutch Customs House they will laugh at you. If French spies discover what you are about here, many will die, and the treasure will go to the revolutionary government.” He tapped the chair with his hand again. “To use for supplying ships and weapons which
your
sailors will have to face before much longer!”

He seemed to tire of it. “Now I shall take my leave. M'sieu will wish to speak at length about this matter, and of course on the
glory which was France.
” His voice was still smooth as he added, “Do not delay too long.
My
men will not wait forever.”

He used a small side-door, and Bolitho heard horses stamping on some sort of track.

Bolitho left the room and saw Allday staring at him. Despite his bronzed features his face looked ashen.

“What is it? Speak, man!”

Allday watched the closed door.

“That man you just met.
His voice.
It was him. I'd not forget that one in a lifetime!”

Bolitho saw his eyes spark with memory. It was as he had suspected. The man in the carriage who had ordered Allday to kill the sailor from the press gang, and Sir James Tanner, were one and the same.

Bolitho touched his arm and said, “It is well he did not know it. At least we are forewarned.” He stared into the shadows. “Otherwise he would see us both dead before this is over and done with.”

“But what happened, Cap'n?”

Bolitho looked up as voices floated from the stairway.
The glory which was France.

He said quietly, “I was outmanoeuvred.” He clapped
him
on the arm. Allday needed him now. “This time.”

13.
L
AST CHANCE

T
HE
footman took Bolitho's dripping cloak and hat and regarded them disdainfully.

“Lord Marcuard will receive you now, sir.”

Bolitho stamped his shoes on the floor to restore the circulation, then followed the servant, a heavy-footed man with stooped shoulders, along an elegant corridor. He was a far cry from the wretched Jules, Bolitho thought.

It had been a long and uncomfortable journey from Sheerness to London. The roads were getting worse, deeply rutted from heavy rain, and now there was intermittent snow, touching the grand buildings of Whitehall like powder. He hated the thought of winter and what it might do to his health. If the fever returned— he closed his mind to the thought. There were too many important matters on his mind.

When
Wakeful
had moored at the dockyard, Bolitho had left immediately for London. There had been a brief message awaiting his return from Marcuard. He would meet him on his own ground this time.

He heard sounds from the hallway and said, “That will be my coxswain. Take good care of him.” He spoke abruptly. Bolitho felt past even common courtesy. He was heartily sick of the pretence and false pride these people seemed to admire so much.

He thought of the old admiral in Holland, of the great fortune amassed and ready to be used for a counter-revolution. It had seemed like a dream when he had outlined it; back in England the plan seemed utterly hopeless.

Bolitho's silent guides had conveyed him to the rendezvous on time but only with minutes to spare. Even in the darkness there had been shipping on the move, and the fishermen had almost given up hope when
Wakeful'
s wet canvas had loomed over them.

Lieutenant Queely's relief had been matched only by his eagerness to get under way and head for open waters. He had confirmed Bolitho's suspicions; there were men-of-war in the vicinity, Dutch or French he had not waited to discover.

Some of Bolitho's anger at Tanner's involvement had eased on the journey to London. Noisy inns, with more talk of Christmas than what might be happening across the Channel. As the coach rolled through towns and villages, Bolitho had seen the local volunteers drilling under the instruction of regular soldiers. Pikes and pitchforks because nobody in authority thought it was necessary to train them to handle muskets. What was the matter with people, he wondered? When he had commanded
Phalarope
the navy's strength had stood at over one hundred thousand men. Now it was reduced to less than a fifth of that number, and even for them there were barely enough ships in commission and ready for sea.

He realised that the footman was holding open a tall door, Bolitho's cloak held carefully at arm's length.

Marcuard was standing with his back to a cheerful fire, his coat-tails lifted to give him all the benefit of the heat. He was dressed this time in sombre grey, and without his ebony silver-topped stick looked somehow incomplete.

Bolitho examined the room. It was huge, and yet lined on three walls with books. From floor to ceiling, with ladders here and there for convenience, like the library of a rich scholar. Queely would think himself in heaven here.

Marcuard held out his hand. “You wasted no time.” He observed him calmly. “I am needed here in London. Otherwise—” He did not explain. He waved Bolitho to a chair. “I will send for some coffee presently. I see from your face that you came ready for an argument. I was prepared for that.”

Bolitho said, “With respect, m'lord, I think I should have been told that Sir James Tanner was involved. The man, as I have stated plainly, is a thief, a cheat and a liar. I have proof that he was engaged in smuggling on a grand scale, and conspired with others to commit murder, to encourage desertion from the fleet for his own ends.”

Marcuard's eyebrows rose slightly. “Do you feel better for that?” He leaned back and pressed his fingertips together. “Had I told you beforehand you would have refused to participate. Not because of the danger, and I better than you know there is danger aplenty on either side of that unhappy border. No, it was because of your honour that you would have refused me, just as it was because of it that I chose you for the mission.”

Bolitho persisted, “How can we trust that man?”

Marcuard did not seem to hear. “There is an hypocrisy in us all, Bolitho. You offered your trust to Vice-Admiral Brennier, because he too is a man of honour. But a few years ago, or perhaps even next week, you would kill him if the need arose because war has dictated how you shall think, and what you must do. In affairs like this I trust only those whom I need. Tanner's skills may not appeal to either of us but, believe me, he is the best man, if not the only man, who can do it. I sent you because Brennier would recognise you as a King's officer, someone who has already proved his courage and loyalty beyond question. But what do you imagine would occur if I had directed others to Holland? I can assure you that the Admiralty of Amsterdam would have been displeased, and would have closed every port against us. They have cause to fear the French and would likely confiscate the Royalist treasure to bargain with them.”

Despite his hatred of the man, Bolitho thought of Tanner's words about the possibility of the vast hoard of jewels and gold being used to strengthen French power to be thrown eventually against England.

Marcuard said, “You look troubled, Bolitho. What do you feel about this affair, and of Brennier's part in it?” He nodded very slowly. “Another reason why I selected you. I wanted a thinking officer, not merely a courageous one.”

Bolitho stared through one of the tall windows. The sky was growing darker, but he could see the roof of the Admiralty building where all this, and so many other ventures in his life, had begun. Full circle. The roof was already dusted with snow. He gripped his hands together to try and stop himself from shivering.

“I believe that the prospect of an uprising is hopeless, m'lord.” Just saying it aloud made him feel as if he had broken a trust, that he was being disloyal to that old man in Holland who had been captured by Rodney at the Saintes. He continued, “He showed me one of the chests. I have never seen the like. So much wealth, when the people of France had so little.” He glanced around at the fine room. An equation which should be learned here, he thought bitterly.

“Are you not well, Bolitho?”

“Tired, m'lord. My cox'n is with me. He is finding quarters for us.”

It was to sidestep Marcuard's question.

Marcuard shook his head. “I will not hear of it. You shall visit here, while you are in London. There are some who might wish to know your movements. And besides, I doubt that there are many—
quarters
—as you quaintly describe them, freely available this near to Christmas.”

He regarded Bolitho thoughtfully. “While you were in Holland, I too was forming opinions.”

Bolitho felt his limbs relaxing again. Perhaps it was the fire.

“About the treasure, m'lord?”

“Concerning it.” Marcuard stood up and tugged gently at a silk bell rope. There was no sound but Bolitho guessed it would reach one of the many servants who were needed for such an extensive residence.

Bolitho did not trust the so-called “real-world” as described by Sir James Tanner, but he had learned a lot about people, no matter what their rank or station might be. From a tough fore-topman to a pink-faced midshipman, and Bolitho knew that the bell rope was to give him time, to test his own judgement before he shared any more secrets.

Marcuard said bluntly, “There is no hope for the King of France.”

Bolitho stared at him, and was struck by the solemnity of his voice. While the King was alive there had always been hope that somehow things might return, halfway at least, to normal. In time, the murder of aristocrats and innocent citizens in the name of the Revolution might fade into history. The death of a King would have the brutal finality of the guillotine itself.

Marcuard watched him, his eyes smoky in the reflected flames. “We cannot rely on Brennier and his associates. Until a counterrevolution can be launched, that vast fortune belongs in London, where it will be safe. I could tell you of lasting loyalties which would rise up against the National Convention once a properly managed invasion was mounted.”

“That would cause a war, m'lord.”

Marcuard nodded. “The war is almost upon us, I fear.”

“I believe that Admiral Brennier understands the danger he is in.” Bolitho pictured him, a frail old man by the fire, still dreaming and hoping when there was no room left for either.

The door opened and another footman entered with a tray and some fresh coffee.

“I know you have a great liking for coffee, Captain Bolitho.”

“My cox'n—”

Marcuard watched the servant preparing to pour.

“Your Mr Allday is being well taken care of. He seems a most adaptable fellow, to all accounts. Your right arm, wouldn't you say?”

Bolitho shrugged. Was there nothing Marcuard did not know or discover from others?
No hiding place,
Tanner had said. That he could believe now.

He said, “He means all that and more to me.”

“And the young lad, Corker, wasn't it? You packed him off to Falmouth, I believe.”

Bolitho smiled sadly. It had been a difficult moment for all of them. Young Matthew had been in tears when they had put him on the coach for the first leg of the long haul to Cornwall, the breadth of England away.

He said, “It seemed right, m'lord. To be home with his people in time for Christmas.”

“Quite so, although I doubt that was your prime concern.”

Bolitho recalled Allday at that moment, his face still cut and bruised from his beating aboard the
Loyal Chieftain.
He had said, “Your place is on the estate, my lad. With your horses, like Old Matthew. It's not on the bloody deck of some man-o'-war. Anyway, I'm back now. You said you'd wait 'til then, didn't you?”

They had watched the coach until it had vanished into heavy rain.

Bolitho said suddenly, “I fear he would have been killed if I had allowed him to stay.”

Marcuard did not ask or even hint at how the boy's death might have come about. He probably knew that too.

Marcuard put down his cup and consulted his watch. “I have to go out. My valet will attend to your needs.” He was obviously deep in thought. “If I am not back before you retire do not concern yourself. It is the way of things here.” He crossed to a window and said, “The weather. It is a bad sign.”

Bolitho looked at him. He had not said as much, but somehow he knew Marcuard was going to have a late audience with the King.

Bolitho wondered what the prime minister and his advisers thought about it. It was rumoured more openly nowadays that His Majesty was prone to change his mind like the wind, and that on bad days he was totally incapable of making a decision about anything. He might easily be prepared to discuss his anxieties with Marcuard rather than Parliament. It would make Marcuard's authority all the greater.

He was standing by the window now, looking down at the road, his eyes deep in thought.

“In Paris it will be a bad winter. They were near to starvation last year; this time it will be worse. Cold and hunger can fire men to savage deeds, if only to cover their own failings.”

He looked deliberately at Bolitho, like that time at The Golden Fleece in Dover.

“I must make arrangements for the treasure to be brought to England. I feel that the sand is running low.” The door opened silently and Marcuard said, “Have the unmarked phaeton brought round at once.” Then to Bolitho he said softly, “Leave Brennier to me.”

“What of me, m'lord?” Bolitho was also on his feet, as if he shared this new sense of urgency.

“As far as I am concerned, you are still my man in this.” He gave a bleak smile. “You will return to Holland only when I give the word.” He seemed to relax himself and prepare for his meeting. “Anyone who opposes you will have me to reckon with.” He let his gaze linger for a few more seconds. “But do not harm Tanner.” Again the bleak smile. “Not yet, in any case.” Then he was gone.

Bolitho sat down and stared at the wall of books, an army of knowledge. How did men like Marcuard see a war, he wondered? Flags on a map, land gained or lost, investment or waste? It was doubtful if they ever considered it as cannon fire and broken bodies.

Below his feet, in the long kitchen Allday sat contentedly, sipping a tankard of ale while he enjoyed the pipe of fresh tobacco one of the footmen had offered him.

In any strange house the kitchen was usually Allday's first port of call. To investigate food, and also the possibilities of female companionship which most kitchens had to offer.

He watched the cook's assistant, a girl of ample bosom and laughing eyes, her arms covered in flour to her elbows. Allday had gathered that her name was Maggie.

He took another swallow of ale. A proper sailor's lass she would make. He thought of Bolitho somewhere overhead, alone with his thoughts. He had heard his lordship leave in a carriage only moments ago, and wondered if he should go up and disturb him.