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.
“I think not. Wakeful will stand a better chance downwind if this stranger decides to make a run for the Dover Strait.”
Paice gave a tight grin. “I’ll say this, sir, you never let up.”
Bolitho glanced away. “After this, I hope others may remember it.”
Paice beckoned to his first lieutenant. “Call all hands, Andrew—” He glanced anxiously at Bolitho. “That is, Mr Triscott. Clear for action, but do not load or run out.”
Bolitho watched them both and said, “This is where Telemachus’s ability to sail close to the wind will tell. It will also offer our small broadside a better chance should we have to match the enemy’s iron!”
He crossed to the lee side and looked down at the creaming wake. There was only this moment. He must think of nothing further. Not of Allday, nor that this newcomer might well be an honest trader. If that were true, his name would carry no weight at all.
He heard the boy ask, “What’ll I do, sir?”
Bolitho looked at him and saw him falter under his gaze. Then he said, “Fetch my sword.” He nearly added and pray. Instead he said, “Then stand by me.”
Calls trilled although they were hardly needed in Telemachus’s sixty-nine-foot hull.
“All hands! Clear for action!”
Tomorrow would bring the first day in May. What might it take away? Bolitho lowered the telescope and spoke over his shoulder. “What do you estimate our position, Mr Chesshyre?”
There was no hesitation. “’Bout ten miles north of Foreness Point, sir.”
Bolitho wiped the telescope with his sleeve to give himself time to digest the master’s words.
Foreness Point lay on the north-eastern corner of the Isle of Thanet, and the mainland of Kent. It reminded him briefly of Herrick, as had Chesshyre’s voice.
Paice said hoarsely, “If he is a smuggler he’ll be hard put to go about now, sir.”
Bolitho levelled the glass again and saw the big schooner’s dark sails standing above the sea like bat’s wings. Paice was right. The north-easterly would make it difficult, even hazardous to try and claw round to weather the headland. The lookouts would be able to see it from their perch, but from the deck it looked as if the two vessels had the sea to themselves.
Bolitho glanced at the sky, which was still cloudless and clear. Only the sea seemed darker, and he knew that sooner or later one of them would have to show his hand.
He pictured the coast in his mind. They were steering towards the old anchorage at Sheerness, but before that lay Whitstable, and as the two vessels maintained their same tack and speed they were slowly converging, drawing together like lines on the chart.
Paice said, “He’ll have to stand away soon, sir, or he’ll end up with Sheppey across his bows.”
Bolitho glanced along the deck, at the gun crews crouching or lounging by the sealed ports, each captain having already selected the best shot from the garlands for the first loading.
Bolitho had been in so many actions that he could recognise the casual attitudes of the seamen, the way they watched the schooner’s steady approach with little more than professional interest. With Allday it was different; but these men were not accustomed to real action. A few might have fought in other ships, but most of them, as Paice had explained, were fishermen and workers driven from the land because of falling trade.
Bolitho said, “You may load now, Mr Paice.” He waited for the lieutenant to face him. “He is not going to run, you know that, don’t you?”
Paice swallowed. “But I don’t see that—”
“ Do it, Mr Paice. Tell the gunner’s mates to supervise each piece personally. I want them double-shotted but with no risk of injury from an exploding cannon!”
Paice yelled, “All guns load! Double-shotted!”
Bolitho ignored the curious and doubtful stares as several of the seamen peered aft to where he stood by the taffrail. He raised the glass again and watched the big sails leap into view. People too, at the bulwarks, and moving around the tapering masts. How would Telemachus look to them, he wondered? Small and lively, her guns still behind their port lids. Just one little cutter which stood between them and the land.
“D’you know her?” Bolitho lowered the glass and saw young Matthew staring at him unblinkingly, as if fearful of missing something.
Paice shook his head. “Stranger, sir.” To the master he added, “What about you?”
Chesshyre shrugged. “Never laid eyes on her.”
Bolitho clenched his fists. It had to be the right one. A quick glance abeam; the light was slowly going, the sun suddenly misty above the hidden land.
He said, “Bring her up two points, Mr Paice.”
Men scampered to their stations, and soon the blocks squealed, and the great mainsail thundered from its long boom.
“Steady she goes, sir! Nor’-West!”
“Run up the Colours!”
Bolitho dragged his eyes from the schooner and watched the gun crews. Some of them were still standing upright, gaping at the other ship.
Bolitho snapped, “Tell those bumpkins to stand to, damn them!”
He heard the big ensign cracking in the wind above the deck, then shouted, “Fire one of the larboard guns, Mr Paice!”
Paice opened his mouth to dispute the order, then he nodded. By firing a gun from the opposite side they would keep the whole starboard broadside intact.
Moments later the foremost six-pounder banged out, the smoke dispersing downwind before the crew had begun to sponge its barrel.
Bolitho folded his arms and watched the schooner, like the boy at his side, not daring to blink.
Paice said, “He’s ignored the signal, sir.” He sounded dazed, as if he scarcely believed it was happening. “Maybe he’s—”
Bolitho did not know what Paice intended to say for at that second there was a great flash from the schooner’s forecastle, and as smoke belched over the wave crests a ball smashed through Telemachus’s bulwark and burst apart on a six-pounder. Splinters of wood and iron shrieked away in all directions, and as the gun’s echo faded the sound continued, but this time it was human.
One of the seamen was on his knees, his bloodied fingers clawing at his face and then his chest, his scream rising until it sounded like a woman in terrible agony. Then he pitched on his side, his life-blood pumping across the sloping deck and into the lee scuppers.
Several of the other sailors stared at the corpse with utter horror; and there were more yells and screams as another ball crashed into the bulwark and hurled a fan of splinters across the deck.
“Open the ports! Run out! ” Paice was standing silhouetted against the surging water alongside, his face like a mask as men whimpered and crawled across the shattered planking, marking the pain and progress with their blood.
Bolitho called, “On the uproll, Mr Paice! It’s our only hope at this distance!” So it had happened just as Hoblyn had predicted. His mind cringed as Triscott’s hanger sliced down and the six guns on the starboard side crashed out in unison. The carronade was useless at anything more than point-blank range, and undoubtedly the schooner’s master knew it.
He saw the sails dancing above the schooner’s deck and watched as some blocks and cordage plummeted over the side to trail like creeper in the water.
“Reload! Run out!” Triscott’s voice was shrill. “As you bear, lads!” He dropped his hanger again. “Fire!”
Bolitho saw several of the men peering round at their fallen comrades—how many had died or been cruelly wounded it was impossible to tell. At the same time Bolitho thought he saw their anxiety and sudden terror changing its face to anger, fury at what had been done to them.
Chesshyre yelled, “Down here—take over from Quin!” The helmsman in question had been hit in the head and had slumped unnoticed and unheard across the tiller bar, his eyes fixed and staring as they lowered him to the deck.
Chesshyre caught Bolitho’s glance and said, “They’ve a bit to learn, sir, but they’ll not let you down.” He spoke so calmly he could have been describing a contest between boats’ crews.
Bolitho nodded. “We must hit her masts and rigging.” He shouted in the sudden lull. “Gun-captains! Aim high! A guinea for the first sail!”
“Fire!”
Paice said harshly, “That bastard’s using nine-pounders if I’m any judge!” He gasped as a ball smashed hard down alongside and flung spray high over the bulwark.
Bolitho saw his expression as men ran to the pumps. Like pain. As if he and not the cutter had been hit.
With All Despatch Page 8
