With All Despatch (31 page)

Somebody shouted, “Th' chests is in the 'old, sir!”

But the others ignored him. It no longer seemed to matter.

Allday tightened his grip on the cutlass. Remembering the silky voice from the hidden carriage, when Tanner had ordered him to kill the sailor from the press gang. He could feel the flood in his veins like thunder, and knew that if any one so much as moved towards Bolitho he would hack him down.

Bolitho faced Tanner and said, “The next time is now,
Jack
— isn't that what they call you?”

“You'd kill an unarmed man, Captain? I think not. Your sense of honour—”

“Has just died with young Kempthorne.” He had his sword in his hand faster than he had ever known before. He saw Tanner gasp as if he expected the point to tear into him instantly; when Bolitho hesitated, he recovered himself and jeered, “Like your brother after all!”

Bolitho stood back slightly, the point of his sword just inches above the deck.

“You did not disappoint me, Sir James.” He watched the arrogance give way to something else. “You insulted my family. Perhaps on land, in ‘your world,' you might still go free despite your obscene crimes!”

He was suddenly sick of it. The sword moved like lightning, and when it returned to the deck there was blood running from Tanner's cheek. The blade had cut it almost to the bone.

Quietly Bolitho said, “Defend yourself, man. Or
die
.”

Gasping with pain Tanner dragged out his sword, his face screwed up with shock and fear.

They circled one another, figures hurrying away,
Wakeful'
s men standing to their weapons, one near the wheel with a swivel gun trained on the brigantine's crew.

Allday watched, shocked by Bolitho's consuming anger, the glint in his eyes which even he had never seen before.

Clash-clash-clash.
The blades touched and feinted apart, then Bolitho's cut across Tanner's shirt, so that he screamed as blood ran down his breeches.

“For pity's sake!”
Tanner was peering at him like a wounded beast. “I surrender! I'll tell everything!”

“You lie, damn you!” The blade hissed out once more, and a cut opened on Tanner's neck like something alive.

Vaguely Bolitho heard Queely's voice, echoing across the water through his trumpet.

“Sail to the Nor'-West, sir!”

Bolitho lowered his sword. “At last.”

Allday said, “They might be Frogs!” Bolitho wiped his forehead with his arm. It was like the blind man. Exactly the same.

He had wanted to kill Tanner. But now he was nothing. Whatever happened he could not survive.

He said wearily, “They'll not interfere with two English ships.”

Again, it was like a stark picture. Brennier's faded eyes, his hoarse voice as he called with astonishment, “But, Capitaine, our countries are at war!”

It was the missing part of the pattern which fate, or his own instinct, had tried to warn him about. At war, and they had not known. No wonder Tanner had been prepared to wait, to play for time. He had known the French ship was on her way. She was probably the same vessel which had stood between
Wakeful
and Holland such a short while ago.

But he did not see the sudden triumph and hatred in Tanner's eyes as he came out of his trance of fear and lunged forward with his sword. Bolitho ducked and made to parry it aside, but his foot went from under him and he knew he had slipped in poor Kempthorne's blood.

He heard Tanner scream,
“Die then!”
He sounded crazed with pain and the lust to kill.

Bolitho rolled over, and kicked out at Tanner's leg, taking him off balance so that he reeled back against the bulwark.

Bolitho was on his feet again, and heard Allday roar, “Let me, Cap'n.”

The blades parried almost gently, and then Tanner lunged forward once again. Bolitho took the weight on his hilt, swung Tanner round, using the force of his attack to propel him towards the side, just as his father had taught him and his brother so long ago in Falmouth.

Bolitho flicked the guard aside and thrust. When he withdrew the blade, Tanner was still on his feet, shaking his head dazedly from side to side as if he could not understand how it could happen.

His knees hit the deck, and he slumped and lay staring blindly at the sails.

Allday gathered him up and rolled him over the bulwark.

Bolitho joined him at the side and watched the body drifting slowly towards the bows. He leaned against Allday's massive shoulder and gasped. “So it's not over.”

Then he looked up, his eyes clearing like clouds from the sea. “Was he dead?”

Allday shrugged and gave a slow grin of relief and pride. For both of them.

“Didn't ask, Cap'n.”

Bolitho turned towards the white-haired admiral. “I must leave you, m'sieu. My prize crew will take care of you.” He looked away towards Kempthorne's sprawled body. He had intended to make him prize master of
La Revanche,
give him a small authority which might drive away all his uncertainties. He almost smiled. Prize master, as he had once been. The first step to command.

Brennier was unable to grasp it. “But how will you fight?” He peered at
Wakeful'
s tall mainsail. “Tanner was expecting something bigger to come after us!”

Bolitho walked to the entry port and looked down at the pitching jolly-boat. To the master's mate who had accompanied the boarding party he said, “Put the men you can trust to work and make sail at once. Those you can't put in irons.”

The master's mate watched him curiously. “Beg pardon, sir, but after wot you just done I don't reckon we'll get much bother.” Then he stared across at his own ship. He knew he would probably not see her again. “I'll bury Mr Kempthorne proper, sir. Never you fear.”

Allday called, “Boat's ready, Cap'n!”

Bolitho turned and looked at their watching faces. Would he have killed Tanner but for that last attack? Now he would never know.

To the admiral he said, “Our countries are at war, m'sieu, but I hope we shall always be friends.”

The old man who had tried to save his King bowed his head. He had lost everything but the ransom in the hold, his King and now his country. And yet Bolitho thought afterwards that he had never seen such dignity and pride in any man.

“Give way all!”

Allday swung the tiller bar and peered at the men along
Wakeful'
s side ready to take the bowline.

Then he looked at the set of Bolitho's shoulders. So it's not over, he had said back there. He sighed. Nor would it be, until—

Allday saw the stroke oarsman watching him anxiously and shook himself from his black mood. Poor bugger'd never been in a sea-fight before. Was likely wondering if he would ever see home again.

He glanced at Bolitho and grinned despite his apprehensions

Our Dick.
Hatless, bloody, the old coat looking as if he had borrowed it from a beggar.

His grin broadened, so that the stroke oarsman felt the touch of confidence again.

But you'd know Bolitho was a captain anywhere. And that was all that counted now.

16. A
S
AILOR
'
S LOT

L
UKE
H
AWKINS
,
Telemachus'
s boatswain, shook himself like a dog and waited for Paice to loom out of the wet darkness.

“I've sent four 'ands aloft, sir!” They both squinted towards the masthead but the upper yards were hidden by swirling snow. “Some o' that cordage 'as carried away!”

Paice swore. “God damn all dockyards! For what they care we could lose the bloody topmast!” It was pointless to worry about the half-frozen men working up there, their fingers like claws, their eyes blinded by snow.

Hawkins suggested, “We could reef, sir.”

Paice exclaimed, “
Shorten sail?
Damn it to hell, man! We've lost enough knots already!” He swung away. “Do what you must. I shall let her fall off a point—it might help to ease the strain.”

Paice found Triscott peering at the compass, his hat and shoulders starkly white in the shadows.

The first lieutenant knew it was pointless to argue with Paice about the way he was driving his command. It was so unlike him, as if the flames of hell were at his heels.

Paice took a deep breath as water lifted over the bulwark and sluiced away into the scuppers.

When daylight came there would probably be no sign of
Snapdragon.
In these conditions station-keeping was almost a joke. Perhaps Vatass would use the situation to go about and beat back to harbour. Paice toyed with the thought, which he knew was unfair and uncharitable.

The helmsman yelled, “Steady as she goes, sir! Sou' by East!”

Chesshyre said, “We'll be a right laughing stock if we have the sticks torn out of us.” He had not realised that Paice was still in the huddled group around the compass.

He winced as Paice's great hand fell on his arm like a grapnel.

“You are the acting-master, Mr Chesshyre! If you can't think of anything more useful to offer, then
acting
you will remain!”

Triscott interrupted, “We shall sight land when the snow clears. Mr Chesshyre assured me that it will by dawn.”

Paice said hotly, “In which case it will probably turn into a bloody typhoon!”

Triscott hid a smile. He had always liked Paice and had learned all he knew from him. Nevertheless he could be quite frightening sometimes. Like now.

Paice strode to the side and stared at the surging wake as it lifted and curled over the lee bulwark.

Was he any better than Vatass, and was this only a gesture? He raised his face into the swirling flakes and stinging wind. He knew that was not so. Without Bolitho the ship even felt different. Just months ago Paice would never have believed that he would have stood his ship into jeopardy in this fashion. And all because of a man. An ordinary man.

He heard muffled cries from above the deck, and guessed that some new cordage and whipping were being run up to the mast-head for their numbed hands to work on.

He shook his head as if he was in pain. No, he was never an ordinary man.

Paice's wife had been a schoolmaster's daughter and had taught her bluff sea-officer a great deal. She had introduced him to words he had never known. His life until she entered it had been rough, tough ships and men to match them. He smiled sadly, reminiscently, into the snow. No wonder her family had raised their hands in horror when she had told them of her intention to marry him.

He tried again. What was the word she had used? He nodded, satisfied at last.
Charisma.
Bolitho had it, and probably did not even guess.

He thought of Bolitho's mission and wondered why nobody had listened to him when he had spoken his mind on Sir James Tanner. Like a hopeless crusade. It had been the same between Delaval and Paice himself: not just a fight between the forces of law and corruption, but something personal. Nobody had listened to him, either. They had been
sorry,
of course—he felt the old flame of anger returning. How would they have felt if their wives had been murdered like . . . He stopped himself. He could not bear even to use her name in the same company.

Now Delaval was dead. Paice had watched him on that clear day, every foot of the way to the scaffold. He had heard no voices, no abuse or ironic cheering from the crowd who had come to be entertained. God, he thought, if they held a mass torture session on the village green there would not be room to sit down.

He had spoken to Delaval silently on that day. Had cursed his name, damned him in an afterlife where he hoped he would suffer, as he had forced so many others to do.

Paice was not a cruel man, but he had felt cheated by the brevity of the execution. Long after the crowd had broken up he had stood in a doorway and watched Delaval's corpse swinging in the breeze. If he had known where it was to be hung in chains as a gruesome warning to other felons, he knew he would have gone there too.

He looked up, caught off balance as a dark shape fell past the mainsail, hit the bulwark and vanished over the side. Just those few seconds, but he had heard the awful scream, the crack as the living body had broken on the impact before disappearing out-board.

Scrope the master-at-arms came running aft. “It was Morrison, sir!”

The thing changed to a real person. A bright-eyed seaman from Gillingham, who had quit fishing and signed on with a recruiting party after his parents had died of fever.

Nobody spoke, not even the youthful Triscott. Even he knew that it was impossible to turn the cutter or lie-to in this sea. Even if they succeeded they would never find the man named Morrison. It was a sailor's lot. They sang of it in the dogwatches, below, in the ale shops and the dockside whorehouses. Rough and crude they might be, but to Paice they were the only real people.

He said harshly, “Send another man aloft. I want that work finished, and lively with it!”

Some would curse his name for his methods, but most of them would understand.
A sailor's lot.

Paice stamped his feet on the deck to bring back some warmth and feeling. He wanted to think about Bolitho, what steps he should take next if they failed to find him when daylight came. But all he could think of was the man who had just been chosen to die. For that was what he and most sailors thought.
When your name is called.
He gripped a backstay and felt it jerking and shivering in his fingers. All he had to do was lose his handhold. How would he feel then, as his ship vanished into the night, and he was left to choke and drown?

He came out of his brooding and snapped, “I'm going below. Call me if—”

Triscott stared at his leaning shadow. “Aye, aye, sir.”

Paice stumbled into the cabin, slamming the door shut behind him. He stared at the other bunk and remembered Allday's model ship, the bond which seemed to shine between those two men.

He spoke to the cabin at large. “I must find him!” He glanced at the battered Bible in its rack but dismissed the idea immediately. That could wait. Charisma was enough for one watch.

On the deck above, Triscott watched the comings and goings of men up and down the treacherous ratlines. In a few weeks' time he would be twenty years old. And now it was war. Only after he had seen and spoken with Bolitho had he grasped some inkling of what war, especially at sea, might mean. Paice had hinted that Their Lordships at the far-off Admiralty would be pruning out trained officers and men from every ship which had been fully employed. Why, he wondered, had they not kept a powerful fleet in commission if they knew war was coming?

Hawkins strode aft and said gruffly, “All done, sir. The blacking-down will have to wait till this lot's over.”

Triscott had to shout over the hiss and patter of water. “Morrison never stood a chance, Mr Hawkins!”

The boatswain wiped his thick fingers on some rags and eyed him grimly. “I 'ope that made 'im feel better, sir.”

Triscott watched his burly shape melt into the gloom and sighed.

Another Paice.

Figures groped through the forward hatch and others slithered thankfully into the damp darkness of the messdeck as the watches changed. Dench, the master's mate, was taking over the morning watch and was muttering to Chesshyre, probably discussing the failings of their lieutenants.

Triscott went below and lay fully clothed on the bunk, the one which Bolitho had used.

From the darkness Paice asked, “All right up top?”

Triscott smiled to himself. Worrying about his
Telemachus.
He never stopped.

“Dench is doing well with the watch, sir.”

Paice said fiercely, “If I could just make one sighting at first light.” But he heard a gentle snore from the opposite side.

Paice closed his eyes and thought about his wife. He had the word
charisma
on his lips when he, too, fell into an uneasy sleep.

The morning, when it came, was brighter than even Chesshyre had prophesied. A bitter wind which made the sails glisten with ice-rime, and goaded every man's resistance to the limit.

Paice came on deck and consulted the chart and Chesshyre's slate beside the compass box. They did not always agree, but Paice knew Chesshyre was good at his work. It was enough.

He looked up at the curving topmast, the streaming white spear of the long masthead pendant. Wind on the quarter. So they had to be doubly careful. If they covered too many miles they would be hard-put to beat back again for another attempt to seek out the missing cutter.

Paice thought about Queely and wondered if in fact he had found Bolitho for the second part of their hazy plan.
Wakeful
might be in enemy hands. His mind hung on the word.
Enemy.
It somehow changed everything. Perhaps Bolitho was taken too, or worse.

He pounded his hands together. Bolitho should never have been sent to Kent, for recruiting, if that was truly the reason, and certainly not for a wild scheme like this one.

He should be in command of a real man-of-war. A captain others would follow; whose subordinates would learn more than the rudiments of battle but also the need for humility.

Triscott came aft from inspecting the overnight repairs and splicing, a boatswain's mate close at his heels. He looked even younger in this grey light, Paice thought. His face all fresh and burned with cold.

Triscott touched his hat, testing his commander's mood. “All secure, sir.” He waited, noting the strain and deep lines on Paice's features. “I've had the gunner put men to work on the six-pounder tackles. The ice and snow have jammed every block.”

Paice nodded absently. “As well you noticed.” The usual hesitation. Then, “Good.”

Paice turned to the master's muffled figure beside the tiller. “What do you make of the weather, Mr Chesshyre?”

Triscott saw them face one another, more like adversaries than men who served together in this tiny, cramped community.

Chesshyre accepted the flag of truce.

“It should be clear and fine, sir.” He pointed across the bulwark, below which some men were manhandling one of the stocky six-pounders behind its sealed port.

“See yonder, sir? Patch o' blue!”

Paice sighed. Nobody had mentioned it, but there was no sign of
Snapdragon.

Triscott saw him glance at the masthead and said, “I've put a good man up there, sir.”

Paice exclaimed, “Did I ask you?” He shrugged heavily. “Forgive me. It is wrong to use authority on those who cannot strike back.”

Triscott kept his face immobile.
Bolitho's words.
He was still fretting about it. He offered, “There is a lot of mist, sir. In this wind—”

Paice stared at him. “Did you hear?”

Chesshyre dragged the hood from over his salt-matted hair.

“I did!”

Men stood motionless at their many and varied tasks, as if frozen so. The cook halfway through the hatch on his way to prepare something hot, or at least warm, for the watchkeepers. Big Luke Hawkins, a marlinspike gripped in one iron-hard hand, his eyes alert, remembering perhaps. Maddock the carpenter, clutching his old hat to his wispy hair as he paused in measuring some timber he had brought from the hold for some particular task. Chesshyre and Triscott, even Godsalve the clerk, acting purser and, when required, a fair hand as a tailor, all waited and listened in the chilling air.

Paice said abruptly, “Six-pounders, eh, Mr Hawkins?”

His voice seemed to break the spell, so that men began to move again, staring about them as if they could not recall what they had been doing.

Triscott suggested, “Maybe it's
Wakeful,
sir.”

Chesshyre rubbed his unshaven chin. “Or
Snapdragon?
”

The air seemed to quiver, so that some of the men working below deck felt the distant explosion beat into the lower hull as if
Telemachus
had been fired on.