With All Despatch (21 page)

The people in the cabin suddenly froze into silence, and above the creak of rudder lines Allday heard a voice yell, “Stand to! Man the braces there! A King's ship, by Jesus!” And then another, calmer, more controlled; Delaval's. “It's Paice's
Telemachus,
I'll swear. This time we'll do for him and his bloody crew, eh, lads?”

Allday did not know or care about any response. The words stood out before all else. Paice's
Telemachus.
Bolitho was here.

The deck was slanting down so that the corpse of Newby rolled on one side as if awakening to the din.

Allday heard the shouted orders, the slap of canvas, and then the too-familiar sound of the nine-pounder being hauled into position.

He peered through the little door and pleaded, “Keep at it, lass. I can hold 'em off until—”

He stared blindly at the pale figure sprawled across one of the timbers. Either the last shot had caught her, or someone had fired down through the slits which held the sheaves of the rudder lines.

He reached over the sill and dragged her up and through, held her naked body against his own, turning her face with sudden tenderness until the swaying lantern reflected from her eyes.

Brokenly he whispered, “Never mind, young missy, you bloody well tried!”

The deck bounded to a sudden recoil and he heard somebody yelling directions even as the discharged gun ran inboard on its tackles.

Allday crawled over the deck and dragged the coat from Newby's back. Then he covered her with it and with a last glance at her face lifted her to the open hatch and pushed her into the abandoned cabin.

Another minute or so and she might have cut the rudder lines, then Paice's cutter would have stood a good chance of out-sailing her, crossing her stern and raking her with those deadly carronades.

The deck heaved again and dust filtered down from the poop as the gun fired across the quarter.

Allday wrapped the girl's body in the coat and put her across his shoulder. For just those seconds he had seen her face in the pale light. No fear, all anguish gone. Probably the first peace she had known since the Terror had swept through her country.

Allday glanced round the cabin until his eyes fell on a bottle of rum which was about to slide from the table. With the girl's body carried easily over his shoulder he drank heavily from the bottle before picking up the reddened cutlass again and making for the companion ladder.

They could not hurt her or him any more. Out in the open he would die fighting. He shuddered as the gun crashed inboard again and the deck shook to the concussion.

There was a ragged cheer. “There goes 'er topmast, by God!”

Allday blinked the sweat from his eyes and left the cabin. At the foot of the ladder he saw the man whose leg he had nearly severed when he had climbed through the hatch. His bandage was sodden with blood, and he stank of vomit and rum. Despite his pain he managed to open his eyes, his mouth ready to scream as he saw Allday rising over him.

Allday said, “Not any more, matey!” He jammed the point of his cutlass between the man's teeth and drove it hard against the ladder. To the dead girl he muttered, “Keep with me, lass!”

As his eyes rose above the coaming he saw the backs of several men who were standing at the bulwarks to point at the other vessel. Between them Allday saw
Telemachus,
his heart sinking as he saw her despoiled outline, the topmast gone, like a great crippled seabird. The gun's crew were already ramming home another charge, and past them Allday saw Delaval watching his adversary through a brass telescope. All the fury and hatred seemed to erupt at once and Allday yelled,

“I'm here, you bloody bastard!”

For those few moments every face was turned towards him, the approaching cutter forgotten.

“Who's going to be brave enough, eh, you scum?”

Delaval shouted, “Cut him down! Bosun, take that man!”

But nobody moved as Allday bent down and laid the dead girl on the deck in the dawn's first sunlight.

“Is
this
what you want? All you have guts for?”

He saw the seaman Tom Lucas staring at the girl before he shouted, “We didn't bargain for this!”

They were his last words on earth. Delaval lowered his smoking pistol and drew another.

He snapped, “Put up the helm! We'll finish this now!”

Allday stood alone, his chest heaving, barely able to see out of his uninjured eye, or keep his grasp on the cutlass.

As if through a haze he watched the helm going over, saw sudden confusion as the spokes spun uselessly and a voice cried,
“Steerin's gone!”

Allday dropped beside the girl on the deck and grasped her hand, the cutlass held ready across her body.

“You done it, girl!”
His eyes smarted. “By Christ, we're in irons!”

The brig was already losing steerage way and heeling unsteadily downwind. Allday looked at the gun's crew, their expression dazed as the distant cutter seemed to slide away from their next fall of shot.

“Well, lads!” Allday waited for the sudden, agonising impact. He knew Delaval was aiming his other pistol, just as he knew that men were moving away from the sides to stand between them.

He repeated, “Is this what you want?”

Delaval screamed, “Cut him down! I order it!”

Still no one moved, then some of the seamen Allday had seen at the boatyard tossed down their weapons, while others defiantly faced aft towards Delaval.

Allday watched
Telemachus'
s splintered topmast rise above the
Loyal Chieftain'
s weather bulwark, knew he would have seen Bolitho were his eyes not so blind.

It seemed like a year before a grapnel lodged in the bulwark and the deck was taken over by some of Paice's armed seamen.

There was no resistance, and Paice himself walked aft until he confronted Delaval by the abandoned wheel.

Delaval faced him coldly, but his features were like chalk.

“Well, Lieutenant, your greatest triumph, I dare say. Will you murder me now, unarmed as I am, in front of witnesses?”

Paice glanced across to Allday and gave a brief nod before removing the unfired pistol from the other's hand.

“The noose is for scum like you.” He turned aside as a voice yelled, “
Wakeful
in sight, sir!” Someone gave a cheer but fell silent as Bolitho climbed over the bulwark past the levelled muskets and swivels on
Telemachus'
s side.

He looked around at their tense faces. He had seen Paice's expression, his features torn with emotion when seconds earlier he might have hacked Delaval to the deck. Perhaps, like the blind man, he had discovered that revenge would solve nothing.

Then he walked to Allday, who was kneeling again beside the dead girl. Two unknown young women. A twist of fate.

He saw the cuts and cruel bruises on Allday's body and wanted to say so much. Maybe the right words would come later.

Instead he said quietly, “So you're safe, John?”

Allday peered up at him with his sound eye and felt his face trying to respond with a grin, but without success.

One truth stood out. Bolitho had called him by his first name. Something which had never happened before.

11.
F
ACES IN THE CROWD

T
HE
Golden Fleece Inn which stood on the outskirts of Dover was an imposing, weatherbeaten building, a place to change post horses, to rest a while after the rough roads around and out of the port.

Rear-Admiral Sir Marcus Drew waited for the inn servants to place his travelling chests in the adjoining room and walked to the thick leaded windows overlooking a cobbled square. He stared with distaste at groups of townsfolk who were chattering in the hot sunshine, some buying fruit or Geneva from women with trays around their necks.

It was just possible to see the harbour, or part of it, reassuring to know, as Drew did, that there were several small men-of-war at anchor there. On the way to the inn he had also found some comfort in the presence of scarlet-coated marines, or an occasional troop of stern-faced dragoons.

Nevertheless he felt uneasy here. But for a direct order he would still be in London, perhaps even with his young mistress. He turned away from the window as his secretary entered and paused to stare at him, wiping his small gold-rimmed spectacles with a handkerchief at the same time.

“Is it satisfactory, Sir Marcus?” He peered around the spacious room, and considered it a palace.

Drew snorted, “I dislike this place—the whole situation in fact.” Coming here had stripped him of confidence, his accustomed sense of being in control. Usually he spent his days choosing officers for certain appointments; at other times he bowed to Their Lordships' whims and fancies by providing favours for others he might inwardly have regarded as useless.

Now here, to Dover. He scowled. Not even Canterbury where there was at least some social life, or so he had heard. Dover seen from within and not through the eyes of some homeward-bound sailor was too rough and ready, with an air of instability to match it. But for the great castle casting its timeless gaze across the harbour and the approaches, he would have felt even more uncertain.

The secretary offered, “Captain Richard Bolitho has arrived, Sir Marcus.” He laid his head on one side. “Shall I—”

“
No!
Have him wait, dammit! Fetch me a glass of something.”

“Brandy, Sir Marcus?”

The rear-admiral glared at him. “Don't make mock of me, sir! The brandy is quite likely contraband—I want no part of it!”

He controlled his temper. It was not his secretary's fault. Another thought pressed through his mind. Besides, the man knew about his little affair. He said in a more reasonable tone, “Fetch me what you will. This place . . . it downs my heart.”

The elderly secretary moved to the windows and stared at the crowd, which within half-an-hour had doubled. There was music down there, some masked dancers bobbing through the crowd, probably picking pockets as they went, he thought.

At the far side of the square was a great cluster of horses, each held by a red-coated soldier. They looked wary, while their two officers paced back and forth in deep conversation.

He shifted his gaze to the crude scaffold, a man who was obviously a carpenter putting finishing touches to it. The secretary noticed that, as he worked, his foot was tapping in time to the cheerful music. No wonder the rear-admiral was uneasy. In London you were spared this sort of thing unless you counted the ragged scarecrows which dangled in chains on the outskirts, along the King's highway.

Sir Marcus joined him and muttered, “By God, you'd think they'd have heard enough about France to—” He said no more. He was always a careful man.

Two floors below, Bolitho walked into a small parlour and rested his back in a cool corner.

The inn seemed to be full of naval people, none of whom he knew. But he had been away from England a long while. A young lieutenant had jumped to his feet and stammered, “I beg your attention, Captain Bolitho! Should you require a junior lieutenant—”

Bolitho had shaken his head. “I cannot say. But do not lose heart.” How many times had he himself been made to beg for an appointment?

The landlord served him personally, carrying a tall tankard of local ale to his table.

“We're not used to so many senior persons, sir, and that's no mistake! War must be comin' soon, it's a sure sign!” He went off chuckling to himself.

Bolitho stared at the blue sky through one of the tiny windows. It kept coming back. Memory upon memory, and most of all, Allday kneeling on deck, his poor bruised face turned to greet him. There had been no sort of disbelief or surprise. As if they had both known in their hearts they would be reunited.

That had been weeks ago. Now he was here, summoned to Dover by the same flag officer who had offered him this appointment.

He heard shouts of laughter from the square outside and considered his feelings. Was it coincidence or purpose which had brought them here today?

At least the rear-admiral had come to him. Had it been the other way round Bolitho would have known his attachment was over.

A servant hovered by the door. “Sir Marcus will see you now, sir.” He gestured towards the stairway which wound upwards past some old and stained paintings of battles, ship disasters, and local scenes. A sailors' haunt—smugglers too, he thought grimly.

He was breathing hard by the time he had reached the top floor. A shortage of breath or patience? Perhaps both.

An elderly man in a bottle-green coat ushered him into the first room, and he saw Drew sitting listlessly by one of the open windows. He did not rise, but waved for Bolitho to take a chair.

Bolitho began, “I was called here, Sir Marcus, because—”

The admiral retorted wearily, “We were
both
called here, man. Have some claret, though after the journey it may taste like bilge!” He watched Bolitho as he poured a glass for himself. The same grave features, level eyes which looked like the North Sea in the reflected sunlight. Cold, and yet . . . Drew said, “It was a lengthy report which you sent Their Lordships, Bolitho. You spared nothing, added no decoration.” He nodded slowly. “Like your Cornish houses and their slate roofs—hard and functional.”

“It was all the truth, sir.”

“I have no doubt of it. In some ways I would have wished otherwise.” He dragged the report across his table and ruffled through it, words or sentences sparking off pictures and events, as if he had been listening to Bolitho's voice while he had read it.

Drew said, “You had a free hand and you used it, as many knew you would. The result? Most of those deserters, and many others who were in hiding,
volunteered
to return to the navy.” He glanced at him severely. “I am not so certain that I would have permitted them to return to different vessels from which they had originally run, or accepted them without an example of punishment to deter others.” He sighed and continued, “But you gave them your word. That had to be sufficient. All told we gained two hundred men; perhaps others will take your word as a bond. It will encourage wider areas, I hope.”

He cleared his throat. “I would like you to tell me about Commodore Hoblyn.”

Bolitho got to his feet and walked to a side window overlooking a narrow street, like the one which Allday had described, where he had been taken by the press gang.

He said bitterly, “That too is in my report, Sir Marcus.”

He expected a rebuke but Drew said quietly, “I know. I would like you to tell me, as man to man. You see, I served with Hoblyn in that other war. He was a different being then.”

Bolitho stared at the empty street and tried to shut out the mounting buzz of voices from the crowd which waited to observe the spectacle of a man being hanged.

“I did not know, Sir Marcus.” He knew the admiral was watching his back but did not turn. “It was too much for him in the end.” How could he sound so calm and casual? Like all the events which had led up to taking the
Loyal Chieftain,
and which now lay safe in memory. Like being in a calm in the eye of a typhoon where everything was sharp and clear, desperately so, perhaps, while you waited to enter the second path of the storm. “I suspected Hoblyn was involved with the smuggling gangs, although I wanted to disbelieve it. He was a poor man, rejected by the one life for which he cared, and then all at once he was rich. Gifts which he treasured as acts of friendship—perhaps he too refused to see them as bribes. A carriage from a French nobleman, a world in which he thought he held control. They needed him, and when they thought he had betrayed them they took their revenge.”

Bolitho rested his hand on the sill, praying that the admiral had had enough, that he could let the pieces fall into distance like the moment you lower a telescope from another craft.

But the room was still, and even the distant voices in the square seemed afraid to intrude.

“I had told Major Craven what I intended before we weighed anchor.” He stared into the little street, his grey eyes very still. “When he saw us return with our prizes—” That too had been like a dream,
Snapdragon
following them to the anchorage, her jubilant prize-crew aboard the smuggling schooner intended as a decoy. That unknown seaman aboard
Telemachus
who had called to him through the fog would get his prize money after all. Bolitho continued, “Craven had two troops of his men and a magistrate to read the warrant.” He barely listened to his own voice as he relived that night, when he had reached Hoblyn's house to join Craven's dragoons and a magistrate who had been almost too terrified to speak.

The marine picket was outside the gates, and most of Hoblyn's servants had been clustered in the gardens in their night attire. They had described how Hoblyn had ordered them from the house, and when one had requested a few moments to return to his room he had fired a pistol point-blank into a chandelier.

Craven had said, “The doors are locked and bolted. Can't understand it, Bolitho. He must know why we're here.” He added with sudden anger, “By God, some of my own men have died because of his treachery!”

Bolitho had been about to ring the bell himself when he had seen Allday walking carefully between the dragoons.

Bolitho had said, “You should be resting, old friend. After this—”

But Allday had replied stubbornly, “I'm not leaving you again, Cap'n.”

Craven had settled it by calling for his farrier sergeant. A tall, bearded dragoon who had marched up to the doors with his huge axe, the one he sometimes used for slaughtering animals to feed the soldiers, and in just two minutes he had laid both doors on the ground.

It had been a macabre scene which had greeted their eyes. In the light of guttering candles Bolitho had seen the shattered fragments of a chandelier, and then when he had approached the great staircase he had seen the blood, on the carpets, against the wall, even on a banister rail. They had halted halfway up the staircase, and Major Craven's drawn sabre had glinted in the flickering candles as he had gripped Bolitho's arm. “In God's name what was that fearful sound?”

No wonder the servants had been terrified out of their wits, and the picket had stayed by the gates until Craven's men had arrived in force. It was a terrible, inhuman cry, rising and falling like a wounded wolf. Even some of the older dragoons had glanced at one another and had clutched their weapons all the tighter.

Bolitho had hurried to the big door at the top of the stairs, Allday limping behind him, that same cutlass still in his hand.

Craven had shouted, “In the King's name!” Then he had kicked the door inwards with his boot.

Bolitho knew he would never forget the sight which had waited in that room. Hoblyn crouching beside the huge bed, rocking from side to side, his hands and arms thick with dried blood. For a moment longer they had imagined that he was injured, or had attempted to kill himself without success. Until a sergeant had brought more candles, and together they had stared at the bed, at what was left of the naked body of Jules, the youthful footman and companion.

There was not a part of his body which had not been savagely mutilated or hacked away. Only the face was left unmarked, like the murdered informer aboard the
Loyal Chieftain
when Bolitho had first confronted Delaval. From the youth's contorted features it was obvious that the horrific torture had been exercised while he had been alive. The bed, the floor, everything was soaked in blood, and Bolitho had realized that Hoblyn must have carried the corpse in his arms round and round the room until he had collapsed, broken and exhausted.

The Brotherhood had thought that he had betrayed them, not realising that Bolitho's search for Allday had provoked the attack on the boatyard.

From all the rewards Hoblyn had gained from them by his help and information, they had selected the possession he had prized the most, and had butchered the youth, then left him like a carcass at the gates.

Craven had said huskily, “In the King's name you are charged this day—” He had broken off and had choked, “Take him. I can stand no more of this charnel house!”

It had been then that Hoblyn had come out of his trance and stared at them without recognition. With a great effort he had got to his feet, and almost tenderly covered the mutilated corpse with a blanket.