With All Despatch (29 page)

Allday shouted, “Larboard bow, Cap'n! A bloody boatload!” Bolitho saw a long, double-banked cutter pulling out from behind some moored barges, the scarlet-painted oars rising and falling like powerful wings as it swept towards them.

There were uniforms aft in the sternsheets, naval, as well as the green coats of the Dutch customs. A voice boomed over the choppy wavelets, magnified by a speaking trumpet.

The aide whispered, “They call us to stop!” He sounded completely terrified.

Bolitho prodded the Dutch skipper and shouted, “That way!
Quickly!
”

There was no need to show their weapons. The Dutchmen were, if anything, more eager to escape authority than Bolitho.

They threw themselves to work on the two flapping sails, and Bolitho felt the hull tilt to the wind's wet thrust and saw sheets of spray burst over the pursuing cutter's stem, drenching the crew and throwing the scarlet oars into momentary confusion.

Allday yelled, “They've got a up forrard, Cap'n!”

Bolitho tried to swallow. He had already seen the bow-gun in the eyes of the cutter. Probably a swivel or a long musketoon. One blast from either could kill or wound every man in this boat.

But the range was holding; the small fishing boat was better handled and rigged for this kind of work, and the wilder the sea the harder it would be for the cutter's coxswain to maintain his speed through the water.

Allday clung to the gunwale and choked as water reared over the bows and soaked him from head to foot.

The voice pursued them, crackling and distorted through the speaking trumpet.

Allday shouted, “They're taking aim!”

“Down!”
Bolitho pulled the nearest crew member to the deck and saw Allday peering along the boat towards him, his body half-hidden by floats and nets.

The bang of the gun was muffled by the wind and sleet, so that the charge of canister hit the afterpart of the hull with unexpected violence. Bolitho heard metal fragments and splinters shriek overhead and saw several holes punched through the nearest sail. He held his breath, waiting for something to carry away, a spar to break in half, even for a sudden inrush of water.

The Dutch skipper clambered to his knees and nodded. There was something like pride in his face. Even in this sad old boat.

Allday gasped, “We've lost 'em, Cap'n!”

Bolitho peered astern. The sleet was so thick that even the mouth of the river had vanished. They had the water to themselves.

He was about to rise to his feet when he saw Brennier's aide staring at him, his eyes bulging with pain and fear.

Bolitho knelt beside him, then prized the man's hands away from his body. Allday joined him and gripped his wrists while Bolitho tore open his waistcoat and then his finely laced shirt, which was bright with blood. There were just two wounds. One below the right breast, the other in the stomach. Bolitho heard the Dutch skipper tearing up some rags which he handed over his shoulder. Their eyes met only briefly. Again, language was no barrier. For a fisherman as well as a sea-officer, death was commonplace.

Allday murmured, “Hold hard, matey.” He looked at Bolitho. “Shall I lay him down?”

Bolitho covered the dying man with some canvas, held a hat over his face to protect him from the sleet. “No.” He dropped his voice. “He's drowning in his own blood.” He looked at the bottom boards where the trapped sleet and seawater glittered red now. Another victim.

He could not wait here. But when he got to his feet he saw the man's eyes follow him, terrified and pleading.

Bolitho said quietly, “Never fear,
m'sieu.
You will be safe. We will not leave you.”

He turned away and stared down at the swaying compass card without seeing it. Stupid, empty words! What did they mean to a dying man? What had they ever done to help anyone?

Bolitho swallowed again, feeling the rawness of salt in his throat like bile.

“Nor' West!” He pointed at the sails. “Yes?”

The man nodded. Events had moved too swiftly for him. But he stood firmly at his tiller, his eyes reddened by sea and wind; it must have felt like sailing his boat into nowhere.

Each dragging minute Bolitho expected to see another vessel loom out of the sleet, no challenge this time, just a merciless hail of grape or canister. Tanner repeatedly came to his mind and he found himself cursing his name aloud until Allday said, “I think he's going, Cap'n.”

Bolitho got down on his knees again and held the man's groping fingers. So cold. As if they had already died.

“I am here,
m'sieu.
I shall tell your admiral of your courage.” Then he wiped the man's mouth as a telltale thread of blood ran unheeded down his chin.

Allday watched, his eyes heavy. He had seen it too often before. He saw Bolitho's hand moving to make the man comfortable. How did he do it? He had known him at the height of battle, and flung to the depths of despair. Few but himself had seen this Bolitho, and even now Allday felt guilty about it. Like stumbling on a special secret.

The man was trying to speak, each word bringing more agony. It was just a matter of minutes.

Allday stared across Bolitho's bowed head.
Why doesn't the poor bastard die?

Bolitho held the man's wrist but it moved with sudden strength and determination. The fingers reached down and unclipped the beautiful sword from his belt.

In a mere whisper he said, “Give—give . . .”

The effort was too much for him. Bolitho stood up, the rapier in one hand. He thought of the sword which hung by his side, so familiar that it was a part of him.

He looked at Allday's stony features and said quietly, “Is this all that is left of a man? Nothing more?”

As the minutes passed into an hour, and then another, they all worked without respite to hold the boat on course, to bale out the steady intake of water and constantly retrim the two patched sails. In a way it saved them. They had neither food nor water, and each man ached with cold and backbreaking labour; but there was no time to despair or to give in.

In darkness, with the boat pitching about on a deep procession of rollers, they buried the unknown Frenchman, a rusting length of chain tied about his legs to take him down to the seabed. After that, they lost track of the hours and their direction, and despite the risk of discovery Bolitho ordered that the lantern should be lit and unshuttered, as arranged, into the sleet which was once again turning to snow.

If no one found them they could not survive. It was winter, and the sea too big for their small vessel. Only Allday knew that there was barely enough oil left in the lantern anyway. He sighed and moved closer to Bolitho's familiar outline in the stern. It was not much of a way to end after what they had done together, he thought. But death could have come in a worse guise, and very nearly had on board Delaval's
Loyal Chieftain.

Bolitho moistened his lips. “One more signal, old friend.”

The lantern's beam lit up the snow so that the boat appeared to be hemmed in and unmoving. Allday muttered hoarsely, “That's the last of it, Cap'n.” It was then that
Wakeful
found them.

15.
N
O HIDING PLACE

Q
UEELY
and his first lieutenant watched Bolitho with silent fascination as he swallowed his fourth mug of scalding coffee. He could feel it warming him like an inner fire and knew someone, probably Allday, had laced it heavily with rum.

They had been unable to do anything for the small fishing boat which had given them the chance to escape, and despite protests from the Dutch skipper it had been cast adrift; it seemed unlikely it would remain afloat for much longer.

Queely waited, choosing the moment. “What now, sir?” He watched Bolitho's eyes regaining their brightness. It was like seeing someone come alive again. When
Wakeful'
s seamen had hauled them aboard they had been too numbed by cold and exhaustion even to speak.

As he had drunk his coffee, Bolitho had tried to outline all that had happened. He had ended by saying, “But for you and your
Wakeful,
we would all be dead.” He had placed the silver-mounted sword on the cabin table. “I suspect this poor man had already died when he heard that his King had been executed.”

Queely had shaken his head. “We knew nothing of that, sir.” His jaw had lifted and he had regarded Bolitho with his dark, hawklike face. “I would still have come looking for you no matter what the risk, even if I had.”

Bolitho leaned back against the side and felt the cutter rolling steeply in a cross-swell as she prepared to change tack. The motion seemed easier, but the wind sounded just as strong. Perhaps his mind was still too exhausted to notice the true difference.

He replied, “
Now?
We shall lay a course for Flushing. It is our only chance to catch Tanner with the treasure.”

Lieutenant Kempthorne made his excuses and went on deck to take charge of the hands. Bolitho and Queely leaned on the table, the chart spread between them beneath the madly swinging lanterns. Bolitho glanced at the serious-faced lieutenant. Even in his seagoing uniform he managed to make Bolitho feel like a vagrant. His clothing stank of fish and bilge, and his hands were cut and bleeding from handling the icy sheets in the boat which they had abandoned astern.

Queely said, “If, as you say, Tanner has loaded the treasure into this vessel,
La Revanche,
would he not make haste to get under way immediately? If so, we can never catch him, despite this soldier's wind.”

Bolitho peered at the chart, his grey eyes thoughtful. “I doubt that. It would all take time, which is why I believe he was the one to cause our delay at the rendezvous. Any suspicious act might arouse the Dutch authorities, and that is the last thing he would want.”

A voice seemed to cry out in his mind. Suppose Brennier's aide had been mistaken? Or that he had heard them speaking of another vessel altogether?

Queely took his silence for doubt. “She'll likely be armed, sir. If we had some support—”

Bolitho glanced at him and smiled sadly. “But we do not have any. Armed? I think that unlikely, except for a minimum protection. Which was why Delaval and his
Loyal Chieftain
laid offshore whenever he was making a run. The Dutch were searching vessels in the river. Any heavily armed ship would draw them like bees to honey.”

“Very well, sir.” He gave a rueful grin. “It is little enough, but I too am anxious to see what so much treasure looks like!” He pulled on his heavy coat and turned in the doorway to the companion ladder. “I thank God we found you, sir. I had all but given up hope.”

Bolitho sat down wearily and massaged his eyes. The cabin was tiny and, as usual, littered with the officers' effects. But after the fishing boat's squalor it seemed like a ship of the line.

Just hours later, Bolitho was roused from his sleep. Allday found him sprawled across the chart, his head resting on one arm.

“What is it?”

Allday stood balancing a steaming basin. “The cook managed to boil some water.” He gave a broad grin. “I thought to meself a good shave an' a rub-down'll make the Cap'n feel his old self again.”

Bolitho slipped out of his coat and peeled off his shirt. As Allday shaved him with practised ease, legs braced, one ear attuned to every sound as the cutter rolled and plunged about them, he marvelled that the big man could always adjust, no matter what ship he was in.

Allday was saying, “Y'see, Cap'n, 'tis always the same with you at times like this. You feel better—that makes it better for the rest of us.”

Bolitho stared up at him, the realisation of Allday's simple philosophy driving away the last cobwebs of sleep.

He said quietly, “Today, you mean?” He saw him nod: the old instinct he had always trusted. Why had he not known it himself? “We'll fight?”

“Aye, Cap'n.” He sounded almost buoyant. “Had to come, as I sees it.”

Bolitho dried his face and was amazed that Allday could shave him so closely with the deck all alive beneath him. He had rarely even nicked him with his formidable razor.

Allday wiped down his shoulders and back with a hot cloth and then handed him a comb. “
That's
more like it, Cap'n.”

Bolitho saw the freshly laundered shirt on the bunk. “How did you—”

“Compliments of Mr Kempthorne, Cap'n. I—mentioned it, like.”

Bolitho dressed unhurriedly. A glance at his watch told him all he had to know for the present. Queely and his company were doing what they could and needed no encouragement or criticism. He wondered what had become of the four Dutchmen, and where they would end up. Probably on the next ship bound for Holland, even at the risk of being greeted by the Customs.

The shirt made him feel clean and refreshed, just as Allday had promised. He thought of all those other times, under the blazing sun, the decks strewn with dead and dying, the brain cringing to the crash and recoil of cannon fire. Like Stockdale before him, Allday had always been there. But with that something extra. He always seemed to understand, to know when the waiting was over, and smooth words were not enough.

Queely came down from the deck and peered in at him.

“Dawn coming up, sir. Wind's holding steady, and the snow's eased to almost nothing.” He noticed the clean shirt and smiled. ‘Oh, you honour us, sir!”

As his feet clattered up the ladder again Bolitho said, “There is still something missing, Allday. Fight we may, but—” He shrugged. “He might have outfoxed us again.”

Allday stared into the distance. “When I heard that silky voice of his—” He grinned, but no humour touched his eyes. “I wanted to cut him down there and then.”

Bolitho half-drew his sword then let it fall smoothly into its scabbard again. “We make a fine pair. I wanted that too.”

He picked up his boat-cloak. It was filthy also. But it would be like ice on deck. He must not fail, would not let the fever burst in and consume him like the last time.

Some of his old despair lingered on. He said, “Hear me, old friend. If I should fall today—”

Allday regarded him impassively. “I'll not see it, Cap'n, 'cause I shall already have dropped!”

The understanding was there. As strong as ever.

Bolitho touched his arm. “So let's be about it, eh?”

Bolitho felt his body angle to the tilting deck as the wind forced
Wakeful
on to her lee bulwark. It was colder than he had expected, and he regretted taking shelter in the cabin's comparative warmth.

Queely touched his hat and shouted above the noise, “Wind's veered still further, sir! Nor'-West by North or the like, by my reckoning!”

Bolitho stared up at the masthead and thought he could see the long pendant streaming towards the larboard bow, curling, then cracking like a huge whip. He even imagined he could hear it above the wild chorus of creaking rigging, the slap and boom of canvas.

Wakeful
was steering south-south-west, close-hauled on the starboard tack, her sails very pale against the dull sky. Dawn was here and yet reluctant to show itself.

Bolitho felt his eyes growing accustomed to the poor light and recognised several of the figures who were working close at hand. Even the “hard men” of Queely's command looked chilled and pinched, but for the most part their feet were bare, although Bolitho could feel the bitter cold through his shoes. Like most sailors, they thought shoes too expensive to waste merely for their own comfort.

Queely said, “According to the master, we should be well past Walcheren Island and Flushing by now. If the weather clears we will soon sight the coast of France.”

Bolitho nodded but said nothing.
France.
Once there, Tanner would make his trade. A share of the treasure and probably a sure protection from the French Convention to enable him to continue his smuggling on a grand scale. He tried not to think of the old admiral, Brennier. Tanner's mark of trust, then humiliation before the mob, and the last steps up to the guillotine. Any other leading patriot would think again before he considered lending support to a counter-revolution with Brennier dead.

Bolitho watched the sky giving itself colour. The driving wind had swept the snow away; he could see no clouds, just a hostile grey emptiness, with the faintest hint of misty blue towards the horizon.

Queely was speaking to his first lieutenant. Bolitho saw Kempthorne bobbing his head to his commander's instructions. Despite his uniform and his surroundings he still managed to look out of place.

Queely walked up the slanting deck and said, “He's going aloft with the big signals glass in a moment, sir.” He saw Bolitho's expression and gave a quick smile. “I know, sir. He'd be happier as a horse-coper than a sea-officer, but he tries!”

He forgot Kempthorne and added, “We shall draw near to the French coast again, sir. If Tanner intends to change allegiance and steal the King's ransom, he may stand inshore as soon as it's light enough.” He was thinking about that last time, the French luggers, the boat blowing up, and the dead girl they had returned to the sea.

Bolitho said, “We shall take him anyway. I'll brook no interference from French patrol vessels!”

Queely studied him curiously. “Strange how a man of influence like Tanner could change loyalties.”

“I have always seen him as an enemy.” Bolitho glanced away. “This time he'll have no hope of escaping justice because of his damned toadies in high places!”

Kempthorne was hauling his lanky frame up the weather shrouds, his coat flapping in the wind as it pressed his body against the ratlines. Bolitho watched, conscious that he could now see the masthead sharply etched against the sky, the vibrating shrouds, even a solitary lookout who was shifting his perch as the lieutenant clawed his way up beside him.

Queely remarked unfeelingly, “Just the thing to clear your head on a day like this!”

He looked at Bolitho's profile and asked abruptly, “Do you regard this as a day of reckoning, sir?” He sounded surprised, but without the doubt he had once shown.

Bolitho replied, “I believe so.” He shivered and pulled his boat-cloak more tightly about his body. Suppose he was mistaken, and Tanner's ship still lay at Flushing, or had never been there at all?

He added in a hard tone, “It is a premonition one has from time to time.” He saw Allday lounging beside the companionway, his arms folded. There was nothing careless or disinterested in his eyes, Bolitho thought.

“As I see it, Tanner has nowhere else to run. Greed and deceit have made escape impossible.”

He thought again of Tanner's own words.
No hiding place.
Even then he had lied, must have laughed as Brennier and his companions played directly into his hands.

“Deck there!”

Queely peered up. “Where away?”

Kempthorne called lamely, “Nothing yet, sir!”

Several of the seamen nearby nudged one another as Queely snorted, “Damned nincompoop!”

Bolitho took a telescope from the rack and wiped the lens carefully with his handkerchief. As he lifted it and waited for the deck to rear upright again, he saw the sea tumbling away across the larboard bow, reaching further and still further, individual banks of crested rollers and darker troughs forming into patterns in the growing daylight. A grey, blustery morning. He thought of Falmouth and wondered how young Matthew had enjoyed his Christmas. Probably had had the household enthralled with his tales of smuggling and sudden death. Bolitho was glad he was back where he belonged. The land needed boys who would grow into men like his father had been. He glanced at Allday. Let others do the fighting so that they could build, raise animals, and make England safe again.

“Deck there!”

Queely scowled.

Kempthorne's voice cracked with excitement. “Sail on the lee bow, sir!”

Queely's dark eyes flashed in the poor light. “By God, I'd never have believed it!”

“Easy now. Let us hold on to caution, eh?” But his face made a lie of his words. It was the ship.
It must be
. No other would risk running so close to the French coast.