There was a far-off, muffled bang, and it seemed an eternity before a great fin of spray cascaded across the sea near the cap-sizing hull. Fired at maximum range from some shore battery which was watching the drama through powerful telescopes. Probably a thirty-two-pounder, a “Long Nine” as the English nicknamed them, an extremely accurate gun, and the largest carried by any man-of-war. For that purpose it was also used on both sides of the Channel to determine the extents of their territorial waters.
Wakeful was out of range for any accurate shooting. But it would only need one of those massive iron balls, even with the range all but spent, to dismast her, or shatter her bilges like a battering ram.
It was why the luggers were keeping well clear, and not just because they were unwilling to match the cutter’s carronades.
Bolitho said, “No time to put down the boat. I want grapnels.” He looked at the men not employed at the guns. “ Volunteers to board that wreck!”
Nobody moved, and then one of the half-naked seamen swaggered forward. “Right ye be, sir.”
Another moved out. “Me too, sir.”
A dozen hands shot up, some of the gun crews too.
Bolitho cleared his throat. Allday might have got volunteers; he had not expected to do it himself with total strangers.
“Take in the mains’l!” Queely had his hands on his hips, pressing against his waist to control his agitation.
“Tops’l and jib, Mr Kempthorne, they will suffice!”
Bolitho walked amongst the volunteers as they prepared their heaving lines and grapnels.
The first volunteer peered at him and asked, “Wot we lookin’ fer, sir?” He had the battered face of a prize-fighter, and Bolitho’s mind clung to yet another memory, that of Stockdale, his first coxswain, who had died protecting his back at the Saintes.
“I don’t know, and that’s the God’s truth.” He craned over the bulwark and watched the sinking hull moving dangerously near. The surrounding sea was covered with dead fish and shattered casks, flotsam, charred remains, but little else.
There was another distant bang and eventually the ball slammed down just a few yards from the wreck. The fishing boat was an aiming mark for the invisible shore battery, Bolitho thought. Like a lone tree in the middle of a battlefield.
The shock of the heavy ball made the wreck lurch over and Bolitho heard the sudden inrush of water as the seams opened up to speed its end.
“Grapnels!”
Four of them jagged into the wreck and within seconds the seamen were clawing their way across, urged on by their mess-mates, the luggers all but forgotten except by Teach and his handpicked gun crews.
The shore battery fired again, and spray fell across the sinking vessel and made the seamen there peer round with alarm.
Queely said hoarsely, “They’ll catch us at any moment, sir!”
A grapnel line parted like a pistol shot; the wreck was starting to settle down. There was no point in any further risk.
“Cast off! Recall those men!”
Bolitho turned as the man with the battered face yelled, “’Ere, sir!”
He floundered through a hatchway where the trapped water already shone in the sunlight like black glass. If the hull dived nothing could prevent it, and he would certainly go with her.
“Call him back!”
Bolitho watched, holding his breath as the man reappeared. He carried a body over his bare shoulders as effortlessly as a sack.
Queely muttered, “God’s teeth, it’s a woman!”
Willing hands reached out to haul them on board, then as the wreck began to dip, and another line snapped under the strain, Bolitho said, “Carry on, Mr Queely, you may stand your ship out of danger.”
A ball smashed across the water and hit the wreck beneath the surface.
“Loose the mains’l! More hands aloft there!”
Wakeful gathered way, flotsam and dead fish parting beneath her long bowsprit.
When Bolitho looked again, the fishing boat had vanished. He walked slowly through the silent seamen then felt his head swim as he saw the woman lying on the deck. She was just a girl, wearing rough, badly made clothing, a coarse shawl tied under her long hair. One foot was bare, the other still encased in a crude wooden sabot.
They stood around staring until Queely pushed between them, and, after glancing questioningly at Bolitho, knelt beside her.
The man who had carried her aboard said, “She be dead, sir.” He sounded stricken, cheated.
Bolitho looked at her face. The eyes tightly shut, with salt-water running from them like tears, as if she was asleep, trapped in some terrible dream.
Some poor fishergirl probably, caught up in a conflict in which she had no part.
But looking at her pale features reminded Bolitho of only one thing, that moment when Viola had been given to the sea.
Queely opened the front of the girl’s clothing and thrust his hand underneath and around her breast.
Apart from the wind in the sails there was no other sound.
Queely withdrew his hand and tidied her wet garments with unexpected care.
“Dead, sir.” He looked up at him dully. “Shall I put her over?”
Bolitho made himself move closer, his hands bunched so tightly that he could feel the bones cracking.
“ No. Not yet.” He looked at the watching faces. “Have her sewn up.” He lowered himself to the deck and touched her hair. It was like sodden weed.
Then he looked at her bare, outthrust foot. “What are those marks?”
Queely glanced at him. He had been looking at the sails, and the men at the tiller, to make certain there was no chase, no further threat from the battery.
“Sir?”
Bolitho made himself hold her ankle. It was like ice. There were scars on the skin, raw, like the marks of irons.
Queely explained. “The wooden sabots, sir. They did it. Look at the other one.”
“Yes. I see.” Bolitho wanted to cover her. To hide her pain from their eyes.
Then he stared at the lieutenant across her body. “I should have seen it.” He ignored Queely’s surprise and took her bare foot in his fingers. It was all he could do not to cry out as the memory probed through him.
Her foot was soft, and not from the sea. Too soft for a rough wooden shoe, and one more used to happier times, to dancing and laughter. He lowered his face until it was almost touching hers. “Come here.” He felt Queely kneel beside him. “Can you smell it?”
Queely hesitated. “Aye, sir. Very faint.” He pushed the wet hair from the girl’s stricken face so that it still seemed it might awaken her, open her eyes to his touch. He said, “Perfume, sir.”
Bolitho examined her small hands, stiffening now in spite of the warm sunlight. Dirty, but smooth and well kept.
Queely said quietly, “No fishergirl, this one, sir.”
Bolitho stood up and held on to a backstay for support. He looked abeam but the luggers were partly hidden in low haze, the land already meaningless.
He knew Queely was searching her body but could not watch.
Queely stood up and held out a lace-edged handkerchief. It had the initial H in one corner. Soaked in seawater but quite clean. A last link perhaps with a life which had rejected her.
Queely said heavily, “That’s all, sir.”
Bolitho took it. “One day perhaps—” He could not go on.
Later at the lee bulwark the small, canvas-sewn body was raised on a grating.
Lieutenant Kempthorne had asked if a flag was required but Bolitho had replied, “She has been destroyed by her own, and ours cannot help her now.”
With heads uncovered the seamen stood about and watched in silence.
Bolitho steeled himself, then turned as Queely, his hat crushed beneath one arm, said something aloud in French.
Then he repeated to his men around him, “We cannot kneel beside her grave, but we commend her to the sea from which she came.”
There was a brief slitheri
ng sound, a splash alongside, and in twos and threes the men broke up and returned to their duties.
Queely replaced his hat and said, “Well, sir?”
“How strange it should be a young, unknown French girl who has become our first ally in this wretched business.”
Watched by Queely he took out the handkerchief and shook it in the warm breeze.
“She will be remembered.” He stared astern at Wakeful’s frothing progress. “She is safe now, and in good company.”
8. BY SEA AND BY STEALTH
THE hoofbeats of the three horses became more muffled as they turned off the narrow road and on to rough moorland, the grass still glittering from overnight rain.
Bolitho kneed his horse forward and watched the sunlight uncovering the trees and some scattered farm buildings. Opening up the land, like the sunshine of that morning when they had sighted the pursued fishing boat.
Wakeful had anchored before dawn and within the hour Bolitho had been mounted, and with Young Matthew following close behind had set off to this place.
In the early sunlight he saw the trooper of dragoons pausing to peer back at them, his scarlet coat and white crossbelt very bright against the dripping trees.
The man had been waiting to escort him as soon as the cutter was anchored. The commodore’s aide had sent the message, although he had been unable to offer any more intelligence regarding the reason. Hoblyn it appeared was away again visiting some boatyard.
He heard the boy yawning hugely behind him. Half-asleep still, dazed by the events he had shared and witnessed, and obviously grateful to feel the land under him again.
The trooper called, “Not much further, sir.” He eyed Bolitho curiously. “Am I ridin’ too fast for ’e, sir?”
“I’m a Cornishman.” Bolitho’s voice was unusually curt. “I am used to riding.”
The trooper hid a grin. “Oi be from Portsmouth, sir, but Oi knows nowt about ships!” He spurred his horse into a trot.
Bolitho noticed that the trooper had a short carbine, favoured by the dragoons, already drawn and resting across his saddle. Like a skirmisher in enemy territory. In such peaceful countryside it seemed unreal.
Again and again Bolitho’s mind returned to the dead girl. She was his only link, and yet he still did not know how to use it. Instead he saw her face, tight with shock when she must have realised she had only seconds to live. He imagined he could still feel the icy skin of her ankle in his grip. Viola.
Whom could he trust? Who would believe him, or even want to believe him?
“’Ere we be, sir.”
Bolitho gave a start and realised that they were cantering into a widespread copse of tall trees. There was a clearing now, almost circular, with a burned-out tree in the centre. The perfect place for a duel, he thought grimly.
Amongst the trees he saw several scarlet-clad figures, the occasional nervous swish of a horse’s tail. There was something sinister about the clearing. A place of danger.
An officer was sitting on a small stool, drinking from a silver tankard while his orderly stood attentively at his elbow. He saw Bolitho and handed his man the tankard before rising to his feet.
His uniform was beautifully cut, but could not disguise his slight belly. A man who lived well, despite his calling, Bolitho thought.
The officer raised his hat and smiled. “Major Philip Craven, 30 th Regiment of Dragoons.” He gave a slight bow. “Would you care for a taste?”
He had an easy, pleasant manner, and was younger than Bolitho had first imagined.
Bolitho noticed that, despite his relaxed air, his eyes were rarely still. On his men, the horses, or the track which they had just left.
Bolitho replied, “I should enjoy that.” It surprised him, for he was usually ill-at-ease with the army, foot or cavalry.
As the orderly busied himself with a basket on the ground, Bolitho noticed a naval lieutenant and a tall, pale-faced midshipman for the first time.
The major gestured. “Two officers of the press.”
Bolitho took the proffered tankard and was glad he could keep it so steady.
More trouble. Was it Allday?
He asked, “Why was I informed?”
The major shrugged. “I’ve heard of your—er, exploits of course. When the commodore is away, I try to keep in contact with the navy and the civil authority.” He frowned suddenly. “God, you’d think we were an army of occupation!” He beckoned for the orderly to refill his tankard and added, “One of the sailors was murdered here, trying to retake a man who had escaped from their custody.”
Bolitho sipped the wine. It was, he suspected, very expensive claret.
The major explained, “The midshipman was here too, but they were rushed by some mob or other, and his sailor was cut down.” He walked slowly to a patch of trampled grass. “Found his severed hand just here, the pistol still in it. It had been fired, so he may have winged one of the scum. But luck in that direction is thin on the ground. I’ve had my fellows search the area.” He added bitterly, “By God, they’re getting used to that, I can tell you, sir! But there was nothing. I did not expect there would be.” He looked around at the watching trees, the way that the sunlight seemed shut out, beyond reach.
Then he said, “I can see that you feel it too. This is a place of ill repute. Nobody comes here now.” His eyes sparked in a memory. “However there was a carriage here recently. But we lost the tracks as soon as it left the copse.”
“A local man of importance?”
The major observed him shrewdly. “I have my own ideas. But what can I do? To think that within a year perhaps, I shall be ordered to lead my dragoons—” he waved vaguely in the direction of the sea, “against French invaders, to protect the same people who lie, cheat, and if necessary murder anyone who stands up to them!”
“Is it really as bad as that?”
The major smiled. “My colonel will tell you, given half a chance. He was in Thanet, about eight years ago when he was a captain. He was ordered to Deal, with a troop of fifty dragoons, to put down a smugglers’ gang and burn their boats.” His eyes hardened as he saw it in his mind, imagining himself and not his colonel. “They were set upon by an armed mob of well over a thousand, and were cut off. But for the timely arrival of the 38 th Regiment of Foot, who, God bless ’em, had marched all the way from Canterbury to assist, my colonel’s troop would have been massacred. I am a soldier, and I have seen some terrible sights, just as you have. But this kind of work leaves me sick with disgust.”
Bolitho saw Young Matthew leading his horse towards the trees, then pausing as a dragoon held up his hand and shook his head.
“Why don’t people come here?”
The major shrugged. “You see that burned-out tree? A smuggling gang caught a man from the nearby village. He had been spying on them, was well known for it apparently. Sometimes he was said to have sold information to the revenue officers, even to the army.”
“So they killed him here?” Bolitho looked hard at the clearing.
“No. They set fire to that tree, then burned out his eyes. A warning to others, if one such were needed!”
Bolitho felt his shirt clinging clammily to his body. “Thank you for telling me all this.” He beckoned to the two watching sea-officers. “I’ll be quick.”
The major smiled. “I’m willing to fight in the open. But here? I’d prefer to use infantry!”
The lieutenant touched his hat and explained that he had been in charge of a press gang, and had ordered his midshipman to march some prisoners to Sheerness.
Bolitho said sharply, “I will attend to that matter presently.” The lieutenant’s obvious eagerness to shift any blame to his subordinate’s shoulders was sickening.
“Who are you?” Bolitho eyed the pale midshipman, and immediately sensed his fear. “Tell me exactly what happened.”
“Midshipman Fenwick, sir.” He looked anywhere but at Bolitho’s eyes. “I—I had halted my party at a small inn, as is customary, sir, and
whilst doing rounds I discovered that one of my charges had escaped. There was no time to rouse the guard, so I decided to give chase along with—” His eyes moved nervously to the trampled grass. “We were outnumbered. They were everywhere—”
The major interrupted gently, “It was at night, Captain Bolitho.”
“I see.” Bolitho watched the midshipman’s hands. Fingers opening and twitching. More like an old man than one at the start of his chosen calling. Passed over for promotion, failed his lieutenant’s examination, but opportunity was still with him, something too often denied others altogether.
Bolitho asked, “Who was the man who escaped?”
“He—he was a sailmaker, sir, we’d kept him apart from the rest because—” His voice trailed away, then he exclaimed, “I did my best, sir!”
The lieutenant stared at Fenwick angrily. “He should have known better, sir. The one good man we’d been able to catch, a deserter from the London, and this fool let him run!”
Bolitho snapped, “Pray be silent.” Then to the midshipman he said, “Can you recall the sailmaker’s name?” He did not really care, but there was more to this than was out in the open. The midshipman was hiding something. Perhaps he had run away and left the seaman to die alone, a memory which would haunt him for the rest of his life.
The midshipman screwed up his eyes. “I—I—” Then he nodded. “Yes, sir. It was Spencer. I recall it now!”
The major remarked, “Probably already at sea in some smuggling vessel.”
Bolitho turned away to conceal his expression from them. He walked a few paces, feeling their eyes following him. Perhaps Allday could not read or write, but he knew and loved animals. Especially the old sheepdog at the great grey house in Falmouth, whom Bolitho had named Spencer.
He turned abruptly and said to the lieutenant, “You will place this midshipman under open arrest, and you will remain with him at the dockyard, until a proper enquiry has been carried out.”
He ignored the lieutenant’s dismay and Fenwick’s shocked gasp. If they were involved it would be better if they were safely under supervision. Either way they would lose if implicated. A court martial, and death at a yardarm, or—he looked at the burned-out tree—much worse if others discovered they had been unmasked.
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