With All Despatch (8 page)

The fools. What did they know? War was as necessary as it was rewarding.

There was a sudden crash, like a bottle smashing.

The lieutenant held up his hanger, and behind him he heard his men rouse themselves, like vixens on the scent of prey.

The midshipman faltered, “In that alley, sir!”

“I know that!” He waited until his senior hand, a hard-bitten gunner's mate, had joined him. “Did you hear that, Benzie?”

The gunner's mate grunted. “There be a tavern through there, sir. Should be closed now, o'course. This be th'only way out.”

The lieutenant scowled. The idiot had left the most important fact to the end. He swallowed his revulsion and said softly, “Fetch two men and—”

The gunner's mate thrust his face even closer and whispered thickly, “No need, sir, someone be comin'!”

The lieutenant thankfully withdrew his face. The gunner's mate's breath was as foul as any bilge. Chewing tobacco, rum and bad teeth made a vile mixture.

“Stand to!” The lieutenant faced the narrow alley and cursed Their Lordships for the absurdity of it. The hidden figure with the slow, shambling gait was probably a cripple or as old as Neptune. What use was one man anyway?

The shadow loomed from the shadows and the lieutenant called sharply, “In the King's name, I order you to stand and be examined!”

The gunner's mate sighed and tightened his hold on the heavy cudgel. How the navy had changed. In his day they had clubbed them senseless and asked questions later, usually when the poor wretch awoke with a split head to find himself in a man-of-war already standing out to sea. It might be months, years, and in many cases never, that the pressed man returned to England. Who would care anyway? There had even been a case of a bridegroom being snatched from the steps of a church on his wedding day.

But now, with regulations, and not enough ships ready for sea, it was unsafe to flout the Admiralty's rules.

He said, “
Easy,
matey!” His experienced eye had taken in the man's build and obvious strength. Even in this dawn light he could see the broad shoulders and, when he turned to stare at the press gang, the pigtail down his back.

The lieutenant snapped, “What ship?” His nervousness put an edge to his voice. “Answer, or you'll be the worse for it, man!”

The gunner's mate urged, “There be too many o'us, matey.” He half-raised his cudgel. “Tell the lieutenant, like wot 'e says!”

Allday looked at him grimly. He had been about to give up his hazy plan, when he had heard the press gang's cautious approach. Were it not so dangerous it might have made him smile, albeit secretly. Like all those other times when he had dodged the dreaded press in Cornwall, until the day when His Britannic Majesty's frigate
Phalarope
had hove into sight. Her captain had been a Cornishman, one who knew where landsmen ran to ground whenever a King's ship topped the horizon. It was strange when you thought of it. If a Frenchie ever drew close inshore every fit man would stand to arms to protect his home and country from an enemy. But they would run from one of their own.

Allday said huskily, “I don't have a ship, sir.” He had spilled rum over his clothing and hoped it was convincing. He had hated the waste of it.

The lieutenant said coldly, “Don't lie. I told you what would happen if—”

The gunner's mate gestured at him again. “Don't be a fool!”

Allday hung his head. “The
London,
sir.”

The lieutenant exclaimed. “A second-rate, so you are a prime seaman!
Yes?
” The last word was like a whip-crack.

“If you say so, sir.”

“Don't be bloody insolent. What's your name, damn you?”

Allday regarded him impassively. It might be worth it just to smash in the lieutenant's teeth. Bolitho would have a useless pip-squeak like him for breakfast.

“Spencer, sir.” He had neglected to invent a name, and the slight hesitation seemed to satisfy the officer that it was because of guilt.

“Then you are taken. Come with my men, or be dragged in irons—the choice is yours.”

The press gang parted as Allday moved amongst them. Their eagerness to be gone from this deserted street was almost matched by their relief.

One of the seamen muttered, “Never mind, mate, could be worse.”

Somewhere, far away, a trumpet echoed on the morning air. Allday hesitated and did not even notice the sudden alarm in their eyes. He had done it. At this moment Bolitho might be looking at the little
Tempest.
But would he see a message there? Allday felt something like despair; he might see only desertion and treachery.

Then he squared his shoulders. “I'm ready.”

The lieutenant quickened his pace as he heard someone drumming on a bucket with a piece of metal. The signal for a mob to come running to free their capture.

But this patrol at least had not been entirely wasted. Only one man, but obviously an experienced sailor. No excuses either, nor the last-moment, infuriating production of a Protection like those issued to apprentices, watermen, and the likes of the H.E.I.C.

The gunner's mate called, “Wot's yer trade, Spencer?”

Allday was ready this time. “Sailmaker.” Chosen carefully, not too lowly, so that they might have disbelieved him, nor too senior, so that they might have sent him back to the
London,
a ship he had never laid eyes on.

The man nodded, well satisfied. A sailmaker was a rare and valuable catch.

They topped a rise and Allday saw the masts and crossed yards of several men-of-war, their identities still hidden in deep shadow. Bolitho was there. Would they ever meet again?

If not it will be because I am no longer alive.

Strangely enough the realization brought him immediate comfort.

5. OUT OF THE
M
OUTHS OF BABES . . .

B
OLITHO
gripped the swivel-gun mounting on the weather bulwark, and used it to steady himself as
Telemachus
dipped and lifted to a steady north-easterly, her forward rigging running with spray. Eight bells had just chimed out from the forecastle and as in any man-of-war, large or small, the watches changed to a routine as old as the navy itself.

Lieutenant Triscott touched his hat to Paice. “The watch is aft, sir.”

Bolitho sensed the stiffness in his manner, something unusual for one so young and usually so buoyant.

“Relieve the wheel, if you please.”

The helmsman chanted, “West Nor'-West, sir! Full an' bye!”

The members of the last dogwatch hurried to the hatchway while the relief took over and began to check running rigging, and the lashings of countless pieces of equipment and the guns which lined either side.

It was not just the first lieutenant who was showing strain, Bolitho thought. It was never easy in a small overcrowded hull at the best of times, and he was well aware of their resentment as day followed day, beating up and down, holding on to visual contact with
Wakeful
running far down to leeward, and preparing for what most of them thought was another empty rumour.

Bolitho blamed himself for much of it. It was Paice's command, but he watched everything himself, and tried to plan for whatever lay ahead.

Paice had had little to do with Commodore Hoblyn and was unwilling to voice an opinion as to the value of his information. Perhaps he was still brooding over the murder of his own informant and the calculated arrogance with which Delaval had displayed the man's corpse. Or he might place Hoblyn in the category of senior officers who had been too long ashore to understand the stealth and cunning of this kind of work.

Whenever he was alone in his cot Bolitho was unable to lose himself in his plans. Allday would return to his thoughts again and again, so that he lay tossing and turning until he fell into an exhausted sleep, his anxieties still unresolved.

He noticed that neither Paice nor Triscott ever mentioned Allday in his presence. Either they were afraid to arouse his displeasure, or, in the way of sailors, they were convinced that Allday was already dead.

Paice crossed the narrow poop and touched his hat, while his eyes watched the clear sky of evening.

“Might get some mist later, sir.” His gaze moved to Bolitho's profile, assessing the mood. “But we can hold contact with
Wakeful
for a few more hours before we tell her to close with us for the night.”

Bolitho glanced up at the quivering mast where the lookouts squatted on the topsail yard. They had the other cutter in sight, but down here on deck the sea might have been empty.

They had twice met with a revenue lugger. Once she had carried a curt despatch from the commodore, a confirmation that his information was still valid.

The second time the lugger had carried news of a more disturbing nature. It seemed that there had been several daring runs made along the south coast, from as far afield as Penzance in Cornwall and Lyme Bay in Dorset. A revenue cutter had chased one schooner as far as the Isle of Wight before the smuggler had give her the slip in a sudden rain squall.

Paice had commented, “Seems that all the excitement is elsewhere, sir.”

A criticism of Bolitho's strategy, perhaps, and the fact that their two cutters were placed as far as possible from any of the landings. The Customs Board had taken them very seriously, and had diverted every available vessel to seize or destroy any boats suspected of dropping smuggled cargoes. The navy had even loaned a thirty-two-gun frigate from Plymouth to offer support if the revenue vessels were outgunned or fought on to a lee shore.

Paice remarked, “First of May tomorrow, sir.”

Bolitho turned and said shortly, “I am aware of it. You may assure your people it is also the last day they will be required on this patrol.”

Paice held his gaze and replied stubbornly, “I implied no lack of faith, sir. But it could mean that the commodore's intelligence, with all respect to him for I believe him to be a brave officer, was falsely offered. Any failure might be seen as something personal.”

Bolitho watched some fish leaping across the crisp wave which surged back from
Telemachus'
s plunging stem.

“You think the commodore would be ordered to withdraw our cutters?”

“It crossed my mind, sir. Otherwise why are we out here, and not even in the Strait of Dover? If it was a ruse, we are too far away to be of any use.”

“Is that the opinion of your whole command?” There was steel in his voice.

Paice shrugged heavily. “It is
my
opinion, sir. I do not ask others while I command here.”

“I am glad to know it, Mr Paice.”

It was reaching him now, like the rest of the vessel. No room to escape, no place to hide from others at any time of the day or night. Only the masthead lookouts had any sort of privacy.

After this Bolitho knew he would have to go ashore and set up his own headquarters like Hoblyn. And without even Allday to make the sea's rejection bearable. He pounded his hand against the swivel gun's wet muzzle. Where was he now? How was he faring? Perhaps some press gang had already taken him to a ship at Chatham where his explanation had fallen on deaf ears. What could he have hoped to achieve anyway? The endless, unanswered questions seemed to roar through his head like surf in a cave.

He turned his thoughts to Hoblyn, and Paice moved away to consult with Scrope, the master-at-arms, who had been hovering near the tiller for some time, trying to catch his commander's eye. Paice had probably taken Bolitho's silence as another buff, the slamming of a door which both had imagined was open between them.

What then of Hoblyn? He did not come from a successful family or even from a long line of sea-officers. He was, as far as Bolitho knew, the first to enter the navy which he had served without sparing himself until the terrible day he had been changed into a broken and disfigured
relic,
as he had described himself. Officially he was under the orders of the flag officer in command at the Nore, but like Bolitho was expected to act almost independently. Part of his work was making a list of vessels which in time of war could be purchased from their merchant service and used for the navy. Vessels under construction in the many yards around Suffolk and Kent would also have to be listed.

There were certainly openings for bribery. Money could soon change hands if a shipowner or builder could persuade a senior officer to pay a high price which could then be shared to mutual profit. Some vessels had changed hands several times in peace and war, and like the ill-fated
Bounty
had made good profits with each transaction.

If Hoblyn depended solely on a commodore's pay, he was certainly living far above it. The house was spartan Admiralty property, but the food and wine Bolitho had seen would have found favour on the table of the Lord High Admiral himself.

The yards Hoblyn visited would also be well known to the smuggling fraternity. Bolitho turned, and allowed the cold spray to dash across his face to clear his mind, like that first morning after Allday disappeared. His imagination was running wild, with a suspected felon in every shadow.

Hoblyn had tried to tell him in his own way; so had the admiral at Chatham. Let others fret over it, and content yourself with your daily lot until something better offers itself.

He was trying too hard. At the Admiralty he had been told in a roundabout way that he had been chosen because of his gallant record, something which might inspire young men to sign on, to wear the King's coat because of his own service. It was a bitter reward.

The Nore and Medway towns were known for their distrust in the stirring words of a recruiting poster. In other wars the harbours and villages had been stripped of their young men, some who had gone proudly to volunteer, others who had been dragged away from their families by the desperate press gangs. The aftermath had seen too many cripples and too few young men to encourage others to follow their example.

Relic.
The word seemed to haunt him.

He watched some seamen clambering up the weather ratlines to whip some loose cordage which had been spotted by the boatswain's eagle eye.

This was their ship, their home. They wanted to be rid of the officer who had once been a frigate captain.

There was a slithering footfall on deck and Matthew Corker moved carefully towards him, his young face screwed up with concentration. He held out a steaming mug. “Coffee, Cap'n.” He smiled nervously. “'Tis half-empty, I'm afraid, sir.”

Bolitho tried to return the smile. He was doing everything he could to please him, do the things which he had seen Allday do. He had even called him Cap'n, as Allday did and would allow no other. He had overcome his seasickness for most of the time.

“D'you still want to go to sea, Matthew?” The coffee was good, and seemed to give him strength.

“Aye, sir. More'n ever.”

What would his grandfather, Old Matthew, think of that?

A shaft of red sunlight ran down the mainmast, and Bolitho stared at it as the great mainsail rattled and boomed in the wind. A few more hours and all pretence would be over.

He would not be remembered as the frigate captain, but as the man who tried to use a cutter like one.
Relic.

“I forgot to tell you something, sir.” The boy watched him anxiously. “Us being so busy an' worried like.”

Bolitho smiled down at him.
Us,
he had said. It had not been easy for him either. The crowded hull, and doubtless some language and tales which he would barely understand after his sheltered existence at Falmouth.

“What is that?”

“When I took the horses to the stables at the commodore's house, sir, I had a walk round, looked at the other horses an' that.” Bolitho saw him screwing up his face again, trying to picture it, to forget nothing.

“There was a fine carriage there. My grandfather showed me one once, when I was very young, sir.”

Bolitho warmed to him. “That must have been a
long
time ago.”

It was lost on him. “It's got a special kind of springing, y'see, sir—I've never seen another, until that night.”

Bolitho waited. “What about it?”

“It's French, sir. A berlin, just like the one which came to Falmouth that time with some nobleman an' his lady.”

Bolitho took his arm and guided him to the bulwark so that their backs were turned to the helmsmen and other watchkeepers.

“Are you quite sure?”

“Oh yes, sir.” He nodded emphatically. “Somebody had been varnishing the doors like, but I could still see it when I held up the lantern.”

Bolitho tried to remain patient. “See what?”

“I forget what they calls them, sir.” He pouted. “A sort of flower with a crest.”

Bolitho stared at the tilting horizon for several seconds.

Then he said quietly, “Fleur-de-lys?”

The boy's apple cheeks split into a grin. “Aye, that's what my granddad called it!”

Bolitho looked at him steadily.
Out of the mouths of babes . . .

“Have you told anyone else?” He smiled gently. “Or is it just between
us?
”

“I said nuthin', sir. Just thought it a bit strange.”

The moment, the boy's expression, the description of the fine carriage seemed to become fixed and motionless as the lookout's voice pealed down to the deck.

“Sail on th' weather quarter, sir!”

Paice stared across at him questioningly.

Bolitho called, “Well, we know she's not the
Loyal Chieftain
this time, Mr Paice.”

Paice nodded very slowly. “And we know there's naught 'twixt her and the land but—”

Bolitho looked at the boy. “
Us,
Mr Paice?”

“Aye, sir.” Then he raised his speaking trumpet. “Masthead! Can you make out her rig?”

“Schooner, sir! A big 'un she is, too!”

Paice moved nearer and rubbed his chin with agitation.

“She'll take the wind-gage off us. It would be two hours or more before we could beat up to wind'rd, even in
Telemachus.
”

He glanced meaningly at the sky. “Time's against that.”

Bolitho saw some of the idlers on deck pausing to try and catch their words.

He said, “I agree. Besides, when she sights
Telemachus
she might turn and run if she thinks we are about to offer a chase.”

“Shall I signal
Wakeful,
sir?” Once again that same hesitation.