With All Despatch (3 page)

It was Young Matthew who unknowingly broke the spell. He ran from behind the carriage to help quieten the lead horses. It was as if the mob did not exist.

The mounted man with the beard spurred his horse through the watching figures.

“What have we here, sir? A King's officer, no less.” He made a mock bow in the saddle. “On his way to take charge of a fine ship at Chatham, no doubt! To protect us all from the Frenchies, eh, lads!”

There was some derisive laughter, but many of them were studying Bolitho more closely, as if they expected a trap of some kind.

Bolitho said shortly, “And what are
you
about, sir?” His hand dropped to his sword. “I'll not be asking twice!”

The bearded man stared past him. Looking for an escort? It was hard to tell.

But he grinned confidently as he replied, “I am the deputy sheriff of Rochester,
Captain
.”

“That is something. Now we know each other's rank.”

At that moment one of the captives threw himself to his knees and almost choked as someone dragged hard on the halter.

Bolitho recognised just one word.
Lieutenant.
It was enough.

“I would suggest you release these men at once. They are both sea-officers in the King's service.”

He saw the significance of his words sink in, the way that some of the mob were attempting to drift away and dissociate themselves from the incident.

But the bearded man yelled, “And be damned to them
and
their bloody press gang, I say!” He stared around and showed his teeth as a few men shouted in support.

Like baying hounds at the kill, Bolitho thought.

He repeated, “Remove their ropes.” He nodded to Young Matthew. “Do it, boy.” He turned towards the deputy sheriff. “And you, sir, will dismount.
Now.
”

The half-naked lieutenant, his face and body cut and bruised from several blows, staggered to his feet.

“They attacked us, sir.” He was almost incoherent. His companion was much younger, a midshipman probably. One sign of panic now, and the rioters might rush them. They would be swamped.

Bolitho watched the bearded man dismount. “Where are their uniforms?”

He stared at Bolitho, then burst out laughing. “You are a cool one, Captain—I'll give you that, for what it's worth!” His mood changed. “They came without asking consent from the mayor. We taught them a lesson.” He tried to meet Bolitho's gaze and added thickly, “They'll not forget it!”

Bolitho waited. “Their uniforms?”

The man looked up at his mounted companion. “Tell him, Jack.”

The other man shifted uneasily in his saddle. “We threw 'em into a pigpen.” Nobody was laughing or jeering now.

Bolitho removed his hat and tossed it into the carriage.

“They are
King's
officers, sir.”

“I know that, damn it. We were just doing it—”

“Then I suggest you insulted the King.”

“What?”
Beneath his hat, the deputy sheriff 's eyes bulged.

“You may take your choice. Draw that fine sword you wear so bravely.” He touched the old hilt at his side. “I think this may be a good place for it.” His voice hardened. “Nothing to say? No words for your courageous mob?”

A mist seemed to swirl across his eyes and for a moment he thought the fever had returned. Then he realised what it was. The same madness he had felt in the past when a battle had seemed hopeless and all but lost.

He had wanted to bluff this arrogant bully. Now he actually wanted him to take up the challenge, merely for the satisfaction of killing him. All the weeks of frustration, the anger and bitterness which had tested him throughout the months of despair, the waiting and pleading at the Admiralty, seemed to be joining in one terrible, vindictive force.

“I—I ask your pardon, Captain.” It was almost a whisper.

Bolitho eyed him with contempt. “I do not pardon cowards.” He glanced at the two shivering victims who had probably believed they were about to be hanged. “Get into the coach, gentlemen.”

He turned once more to the deputy sheriff. “Your sword.” He took it from him. The man seemed twice his size and yet his hand was shaking as if with a palsy.

Even now the crowd might regain its temper. But something had cooled them—the sight of his uniform, or the knowledge of their own guilt? He would never know. He drove the splendid blade beneath the rear box of the carriage, then leaned on it until it snapped like a carrot. Then he tossed it at the man's feet.

“Cowards have no use for fine steel, sir. Now be off with you.”

The crowd parted and seemed to fade into the fields on either side of the road.

Bolitho climbed on to the step and looked up at his coachman. “A brave lad you have there, Matthew!”

Corker wiped his brow with a red handkerchief.

“By God, Cap'n, yew 'ad me fair scared just then!”

Allday gently eased the hammer of his blunderbuss.

“You've made a bad enemy, Cap'n, an' that's no error.”

Bolitho closed the door and said, “And so, by God, has he!”

Then, as the carriage gathered speed, he folded his arms and asked the rescued men gently, “Now tell me in your own time what happened.”

As they spoke he had to clutch his arms tightly to his body to prevent them from shaking. It had been a near thing, although right from the beginning he had known instinctively that on such a deserted road the incident had been carefully planned for his benefit.

He smiled at his reflection in the rain-streaked glass. They had not been prepared for his reaction.
And neither was I.

Ferguson saw the brief smile. For a few moments he had imagined everything was about to end. Now he saw that it was, for Bolitho, a beginning.

2.
T
RUST

C
APTAIN
Richard Bolitho stood with his shoes sinking into the wet sand of a sloping foreshore and stared across the widening stretch of the River Medway. The sun was hard and bright, so that the trees on the opposite bank were almost lost in steaming haze. But it was without warmth, although to look at it was like being reminded of a tropical shore elsewhere. He moved his shoulders inside his coat and wondered if he would ever feel warm again. Even the breeze from the river was cool and damp.

He tried to push the thought aside. It was a typical spring day; he had to keep remembering that. He was the one at fault with his memory forever rooted in another place, another time.

Allday, standing a little apart and a few paces behind him on the slope, remarked casually, “Well, Cap'n, there's one of your brood right enough.” He waited, gauging the mood as he had since their arrival here.

Bolitho nodded and shaded his eyes to study the little ship which lay above her own reflection beyond an islet and two shining sandbars. A topsail cutter,
Telemachus,
the one which had been undergoing a refit in the dockyard upriver from here.

Bolitho looked at her spartan outline, a vessel so different when under full sail. It was hard to realise that these cutters, so small after a frigate, had for their size a bigger sail area than any other craft afloat. They might not be able to outrun all the rest, but in any sort of wind they could outmanoeuvre anything.

One of his brood.
Allday, in spite of his forced casualness, must know what he was thinking. Comparing her with
Tempest,
the Great South Sea, everything. Without effort he could picture the three tall pyramids of pale, fair-weather canvas, reaching up to the cloudless blue sky. The deck seams sticking to your shoes as you moved about in search of a shadow while the horizon lay sharp and empty in all directions. A real ship. A thoroughbred. Yes, Allday would know and feel it too.

Bolitho had reported his arrival to the admiral in command at the Royal Dockyard, a distant but affable man, who had seemed to regard the affair on the road with the two bound and humiliated officers as little more than an irritation.

He had said, “The midshipman—well, he knew less than nothing, but the lieutenant in charge should have known better than to search premises and arrest suspected deserters without first informing the local authorities. I shall make my displeasure felt, of course, and I dare say that someone might be made to pay a fine, but—” He did not need to continue.

Bolitho had persisted, “I am told that the same thing happened at Rochester last year, sir. Then it was no less than the mayor who led a mob to attack the guardhouse where some pressed men were awaiting an escort.”

The admiral had frowned. “That's true. The devil even fined our officers heavily before he would release them.” He had become angry. “But they'll sing a different tune when the Frogs are on the rampage again. It will be
good old Jack Tar
then, sure enough, when these self-righteous hypocrites think that their rotten skins are in danger once more and they whimper for sailors to defend them!”

Bolitho had not yet met Commodore Hoblyn. The admiral had explained that he was visiting some local shipyards with a view to the Admiralty's purchasing small, handy craft, in the event of war. The admiral had commented wryly, “With letters of marque no doubt, to enlist a few more cutthroats for the King!”

Bolitho had left the admiral's house, his final words still in his ears.
“Don't take it so to heart, Bolitho. You have three fine cutters at your command. Use them as you will, within the scope of your orders.”

It was strange, Bolitho thought, that in the two days since his arrival here he had sensed more than once that every move he made was being watched. More so perhaps because of the efforts some had made to look away when he had passed. Which was why he had sent his carriage with a protesting Ferguson back to Falmouth. He had even arranged for the local dragoons to provide a small escort until they were out of Kent and on the road to London and beyond.

Bolitho looked down the slope again and saw the boy, Young Matthew, peering at the anchored cutter, barely able to stand still with his excitement.

That had been almost the hardest part, he thought. The boy had pleaded with his grandfather to be allowed to go with Bolitho as a servant, a groom, anything.

The old coachman had blown his nose and had said eventually, “Well, sir, 'e's more trouble underfoot than 'e knows. Mebbee a bit o' time with some discipline will tame the little puppy!” But his eyes had told another story, and his voice had been as heavy as his heart.

Allday murmured, “I'll go an' hail the vessel, Cap'n.”

“Aye, do that.” He watched Allday stride down the slope to join the boy at the water's edge.
Probably thinks I'm imagining all of it.
It was why Bolitho had asked for a carriage to bring him here, instead of joining the
Telemachus
in the dockyard. They knew too much already. He needed a few surprises of his own.

The other two cutters, named
Wakeful
and
Snapdragon,
were already lying downriver towards Sheerness, where the Medway surged out into the great estuary with the Thames.

Small ships perhaps, but each one a private world like every vessel in the fleet.

He shaded his eyes again.
Telemachus
was just a few inches short of seventy feet but had the surprisingly ample beam of twenty-four feet. Sturdily built with a rounded bow, the after part narrowed down to a typical mackerel-tail shape. How she shone above her own image, the cat's-paws rippling down her side, more like a toy than a ship-of-war. The sunlight played on her buff hull with its single, broad black wale below the gunports. But it was always the rig which took a sailor's attention, he decided. A single, large mainmast mounted forward of midships, made even taller by a tapering fidded topmast. She had a long, horizontal bowsprit and a boom to carry the huge loosefooted mainsail which protruded well beyond her low counter. With all her canvas furled or brailed up to the topsail yard she looked unfinished. But once at sea . . .

Bolitho sighed. Enthusiasm, like warmth to his body, defied him.

Allday's powerful voice echoed across the water, and after a few seconds some faces appeared at the
Telemachus'
s bulwark. Bolitho wondered what the cutter's commander must think of this unorthodox arrival.

He saw a jolly-boat appear around the stern, the oars taking charge as a deceptively slow current carried them clear of the hull. There were already many more people on deck now.
A visitor, a break in the monotony.

A fraction under seventy feet and yet she carried a complement of sixty souls. It was hard to accept that they could cram themselves into that hull and share it with guns, powder, shot and stores enough to sustain them, and still find room to breathe.

He saw Allday watching the jolly-boat with a critical eye.

“Well?”

Allday shrugged one massive shoulder. “
Looks
smart enough. Still—”

Then he glanced at the boy beside him and grinned. “Like a dog with two tails, he is.”

“Can't think why. A safe bed, with nothing fiercer than horses to meet each day. In exchange for this—” He gestured towards the river and the other anchored men-of-war. “It might help him to make up his mind, I suppose.” He sounded bitter.

Allday looked away. What was the point of piping up and offering an argument? Young Matthew worshipped Bolitho, just as his father had done after he had obtained a berth for him in the packet company. He shook his head. Later on perhaps. But right now the captain was all aback. Maybe they had only half-won the battle after all.

The boat lurched alongside a waterlogged piece of slipway and a young lieutenant splashed up towards Bolitho, his face astonished and full of apology.

He doffed his hat and stammered, “Lieutenant Triscott, sir. I am the senior in
Telemachus.
” He stared round in disbelief, “I—I had no idea that you were expected, sir, otherwise—”

Bolitho touched his arm. “
Otherwise,
Mr Triscott, you would have borrowed the admiral's barge and been planning a guard-ofhonour for the occasion, am I right?” He looked again at the river. “This way is better.” He gestured to the road. “There is a chest yonder. Be so good as to have it brought over.”

The lieutenant stared at him blankly. “You are staying aboard, sir?”

“It was my intention.” Bolitho's grey eyes settled on him and he added gently, “If you have no objection, that is?”

Allday hid a grin. Mr Triscott was the senior. He had refrained from mentioning that apart from the commander he was the
only
commissioned lieutenant in the ship.

Bolitho watched the oars rising and falling, the way some of the seamen glanced quickly at him, then looked away when he saw them. Experienced, strong hands, every one.

He asked quietly, “You have a good company, Mr Triscott?” “Aye, sir. Most were volunteers. Fishermen and the like—” His voice trailed away.

Bolitho rested his chin on his sword hilt. Triscott was about nineteen at a guess. Another young hopeful, glad to serve in a lowly cutter rather than spend his most precious years on the beach.

He watched the tall, solitary mast rising to meet them. Well built, with her name in scrollwork across her counter. He noticed that a carved dolphin appeared to be supporting the name; a fine piece of craftsmanship, he thought.

Then he remembered.
Telemachus,
in legend, the son of Ulysses and Penelope, had been rescued from drowning by a dolphin.

The cutter might not be grand enough to warrant a proud figurehead in her bows, but the unknown carver had made certain she would be honoured all the same.

As they made for the chains Bolitho glanced at the closed ports. The sides were pierced for fourteen guns, originally only six-pounders, with a pair of swivels mounted aft by the tiller. But there were now two powerful carronades up forward, “smashers” as the Jacks called them, a match for any vessel which drifted under their lee in a fight.

There was a bark of commands as the boat hooked on to the chains and Bolitho stood up to seize a small ladder. At any other time he would have smiled. Standing in the boat he was almost level with the entry port itself, where a tall lieutenant with a press of figures behind him waited to receive the post-captain.

Small fragments stood out like pieces of a partly cleaned painting. The lieutenant's grim expression, Allday rising from a thwart in case Bolitho should slip or feel suddenly faint. And the boy, Young Matthew Corker, with his round, open face shining with sheer pleasure at this moment when his fourteen years had suddenly changed.

Calls shrilled and then Bolitho found himself on deck. As he raised his hat towards the narrow poop where the White Ensign streamed out to a lively breeze, he said shortly, “I am sorry for this lack of warning.”

Lieutenant Jonas Paice bit back a retort and said gruffly, “I thought, sir, that is—”

He was a powerful man in every way. Bolitho knew the essentials about him. Paice was old for his rank, perhaps two years younger than himself, but had once commanded a collier-brig out of Sunderland before entering the King's service as a master's mate. It would be sufficient to begin with. Later, Bolitho intended to know the man behind every face in his small flotilla of three cutters.

“You imagined I might be spying on you.”

Paice stared at him as if he could scarcely believe it. “I did think that you intended to take us unawares, sir.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Bolitho glanced over and beyond the silent figures. “The flag stands out well from Beacon Hill, Captain. May I suggest you up-anchor and get under way without fuss.” He gave a slight smile. “I can assure you I will attempt not to get under your feet.”

Paice tried again. “You'll find this somewhat different from a fifth-rate, sir. A wild animal if she's not handled to her liking.”

Bolitho eyed him calmly. “I served in a cutter years ago. The
Avenger.
She was commanded by my brother.”

A few seconds and he saw it all. The sudden prick of memory, the mention of his brother. Something like relief too. As if Paice was glad to know, or think he knew, why Bolitho had been given this humble appointment. Perhaps it was even true. Dead or not, Hugh had made too many enemies to be forgotten, or his family forgiven.

He looked forward along the deck again. It was full of people. They probably resented his arrival. He said, “We will join
Wakeful
and
Snapdragon
without delay.”

Paice stared at Allday and then at the boy as if he could still not accept what was happening.

“But, sir, don't you need any others to assist you?”