With All Despatch

by Alexander Kent

  The major followed him to the horses and said admiringly, “I liked that.”

  Bolitho glanced at him and smiled briefly. He might not like it so much if he knew the real reason.

  He raised his boot to the stirrup and saw Young Matthew watching him from the other horse.

  Allday was alive. Was risking his life once again, for him.

  It was all he could do to keep his voice normal.

  “I shall go to the commodore’s residence, Major. He may have returned.”

  “Then I shall escort you, sir.” The major was pleased to leave.

  As they moved out of the trees into the welcoming sunshine and the dragoons formed into pairs behind their officer, Bolitho turned in his saddle and looked back towards the sinister copse. He saw rooks circling above the trees, their raucous voices breaking the stillness like taunting cries.

  No wonder people avoided the place. He felt his jaw tighten as he saw the dead girl’s face in his mind again.

  She may have died alone when the fishing boat had blown up, but he doubted it. His heart rebelled against it as he recalled the small boat pulling frantically away before the explosion had blasted the fisherman apart. Whoever they had been must have locked the girl on board before lighting a fuse, something prepared long in advance should they be found by one of the French patrol vessels.

  There may have been only a few terrified people; there could have been hundreds who had fled the Terror, selling all their possessions, even themselves, for the chance to escape.

  Smugglers? Slavers would be a closer description, and that was too good for them.

  Wakeful had been the only witness, and now, because of it, Allday’s own life was doubly at risk.

  He waited until the major had cantered up beside him and then asked, “That man you mentioned to me.” He looked at him directly. “Is he still alive?”

  The dragoon nodded, his eyes on the surrounding hedges. “In his own crazed world. People give him food, though they are careful to keep secret their Christian generosity. My own men toss him some scraps, I suspect. He were better dead. Alive he is a living reminder of what will happen to those who inform on the Brotherhood.”

  Bolitho asked, “Could you find him for me?” He saw the dis-belief in his eyes. “It is just a straw. I can ignore nothing, no matter how futile it may appear.”

  The major nodded. “I shall try. ” He glanced at Bolitho’s profile. “I am with you in this affair, sir, for I too am heartily sick of waiting.”

  Bolitho reached out and impetuously took his gloved hand.

  “So be it!”

  He shivered despite the warm air. The time for caution was over.

  Apart from the usual marine sentries, the commodore’s residence appeared to be deserted, but after asking the corporal of the guard point-blank, Bolitho said, “He’s back.”

  Major Craven’s orderly stood with Young Matthew holding the horses’ heads, and Bolitho noticed that the rest of the small detachment of dragoons remained mounted in the road outside the gates.

  The door swung inwards noiselessly and Bolitho saw it was Hoblyn’s personal footman.

  “I must see the commodore.”

  The youth glanced beyond the two officers as if he was about to deny that Hoblyn had returned. Bolitho saw his hazel eyes widen with alarm at the sight of the mounted dragoons, then he said, “I shall take you to him.” He drew back from the steps, then led the way towards that same room.

  The major grimaced. “Like a tomb. Needs a woman’s touch.”

  The commodore was sitting behind his massive desk but made no attempt to rise as they were ushered in.

  Hoblyn said in his clipped fashion, “Why the urgency? I’ve much to accomplish. There are not enough hours in the day.”

  Bolitho began, “I sent a report—”

  “Did you indeed?” Hoblyn glanced coldly at the major. “Do you wish to see me too?”

  Craven stood firm. “Captain Bolitho thinks it might be better for all of us if I did, sir.”

  “I see.” Hoblyn waved towards two chairs and shuffled some papers on his desk. “Ah yes, the report. I did see it, I remember now. The fishing boat and the two French luggers.” He looked up suddenly, his eyes hard. “You moved too hastily, Bolitho. The French will swear you acted unlawfully in their waters. Right or wrong, they will certainly use the incident to endanger peace, something that His Majesty is trying to preserve. He does not wish to antagonise the French, no matter what state their country is in.”

  Bolitho retorted, “I would have thought that His Majesty might have an even greater desire to retain his head on his shoulders!”

  Hoblyn snapped, “That is impertinent! In any case, why should it matter about one fishing boat? Surely you can use your talents to better advantage?” He was becoming angrier by the minute, his maimed hand tapping the desk to emphasise each point.

  Bolitho said, “I believe they were smuggling émigrés across the Channel, sir. Human cargo, with no thought for the consequences.” Even as he told Hoblyn about the dead girl he saw the commodore’s eyes give just the briefest hint of anxiety.

  Then Hoblyn snapped, “Who will say, one way or the other? It is just your word, Bolitho, which I am afraid will carry little weight in Admiralty.” He leaned forward and stared at him, the major ignored or forgotten. “They will break you if you persist with this obsession. You know from your own experience in London that there are a hundred captains who would grasp your appointment and be grateful!”

  Bolitho replied stubbornly, “I cannot believe that you think that the tolerance of a crime should be in the same boat as the fear of annoying the French government. If so, then I want no part of it. I will return to London and resign.” He heard the major’s boots squeak as he shifted his position in the chair. It was surprising he could hear anything above the pounding of his own heart.

  Hoblyn dabbed his brow with his handkerchief. “Let us not be hasty, Bolitho.”

  Bolitho said simply, “I am asking you, sir, pleading if you will, that you will forget the security of this appointment and use your influence to intervene. It seems that every man’s hand is against us here, and the smugglers laugh at our attempts to run them to earth.”

  Hoblyn stared at his desk. “You have so much passion, Bolitho, yet so little trust in authority.”

  “I have no cause to be trusting, sir.”

  Hoblyn appeared to be wrestling with his innermost thoughts. “You are quite determined to continue in this fashion, regardless of the hornets’ nest you will most surely rouse?”

  “I have no choice, sir, but I must have support.”

  “Yes.” Hoblyn moved his shoulder as if it was hurting him. “You may be correct to assume that there is a direct link between the smugglers and the oppression in France. It is certainly true that our prime minister has been urging stronger action against these gangs.” He added bitterly, “I fear that William Pitt has done precious little to supply the money to enforce the necessary prevention!”

  Major Craven murmured, “Everyone sends for the dragoons, sir.”

  Hoblyn gave a deep sigh. “I will send a despatch to the Admiralty, Bolitho. It will be up to Their Lordships, of course, but I shall explain that I am in favour of a more aggressive policy.”

  Bolitho said, “Thank you, sir.” He hoped that his surprise did not show in his voice. From anger to agreement; it was too sudden, too easy. Not like the captain who had once stormed an enemy privateer with his body ablaze.

  Hoblyn pressed his fingertips together and stared at him impassively.

  “Draw your three cutters to Sheerness.”

  “They are here, sir. Snapdragon left Chatham dockyard in my absence.”

  Hoblyn gave a thin smile. “I hope you can continue to stay ahead of events, Bolitho. There are some who will wish you dead. I suggest you move ashore as soon as is prudent. I will arrange quarters inside the dockyard here at Sheerness. It will be safer for you.”

  The door opened si
lently and the slim footman stood watching from the hallway. It was as if he could read his master’s thoughts.

  “Jules will show you out, gentlemen.”

  Bolitho and the major got to their feet. Apparently there was to be no wine this time.

  Hoblyn said, “Inform me of your every intention.” He eyed both of them for several seconds. “My head will not rest on any block because of your personal ambitions!”

  The interview was over.

  Outside on the cobbles Bolitho said grimly, “A victory or a reverse, I am uncertain which.”

  The soldier frowned. “Far better than sitting still. It is high time that the authorities understand what we are facing. You need men for the fleet—”

  Bolitho saw Young Matthew leading the horse towards him. “If and when a fleet is refitted in time!”

  “Either way, you’ll not get the men until you scatter the Brotherhood and lessen their power over ordinary people.”

  The major climbed into his saddle and looked down at him.

  “I am with you.”

  Bolitho smiled. “Do not forget what I asked of you.”

  The soldier grinned. “I said, I shall try! ” Then he cantered from the yard, touching his hat to the sentries as he rejoined his troop on the road.

  A good officer, Bolitho thought, and for some reason one he knew he could trust.

  At the dockyard they left the horses with a marine, and walked to the jetty where some boats were loitering.

  For a moment longer Bolitho stared at the three anchored cutters, riding above their reflections like graceful seabirds. His little brood. Even that reminded him of Allday.

  He said to a waterman, “Take me to Telemachus. ”

  As the boat moved slowly amongst the anchored vessels Bolitho saw the glint of sunlight on a raised telescope from Wakeful’s taffrail. He looked away. It was most likely to be Queely, watching his progress, glad to be rid of him—or was he?

  Paice greeted him at the entry port and touched his hat. Bolitho was surprised to see his apparent pleasure.

  “I was not certain you would return to us, sir.” He grinned. “Welcome.”

  He waved one big hand around the busy figures on deck. “You were right, sir. They’ve all worked so hard together that most of the pain is behind them.”

  Bolitho nodded approvingly. Apart from the strong smells of tar and paint, there was virtually nothing to show of the damage.

  As he caught the glances of some of the seamen he saw them nod self-consciously, before turning back to their tasks. Like a homecoming.

  Paice became serious again. “No news of your cox’n, sir.”

  “What do you know?” Bolitho met his gaze.

  “Only that he is on a mission for you, officially that is.” He glanced at his men. “But news has wings. The longer it takes . . .” He did not finish.

  Bolitho touched his arm. “I know. Please let it lie, for his sake if not for mine.”

  He glanced at the waterfront, the bright sunshine, the sense of peace.

  “I shall write some fresh orders for you.” He turned and looked at him steadily. “You will command here if anything happens to me.”

  Paice’s strong features were a mixture of pleasure and anxiety.

  “They’d not dare, sir!”

  Bolitho’s gaze seemed to embrace all three cutters. “I might lose this appointment at the whim of some quill-pusher in Admiralty. I might even fall in a fight. It is our way, Mr Paice, so be ready for anything.”

  Paice walked with him to the companionway. “Hell’s teeth, sir, you’ve changed the people here and in the other cutters. You’ll not find us wanting next time.”

  Bolitho closed the door of the cabin behind him and stared up at the open skylight.

  Was Hoblyn guilty of some conspiracy, or did he really not care for involvement of any kind? Bolitho thought of the graceful footman, and grimaced. Jules. It suited him well.

  He did not remember falling asleep, but awoke with his forehead resting on his arm, the pen still in his fingers from the moment he had signed Paice’s new orders.

  Paice was sitting opposite him on a sea chest, his eyes doubtful.

  “You’ve not slept for two days, I’ll wager, sir.” It sounded like an accusation. “I was most unwilling to rouse you, but—”

  Bolitho saw the wax-sealed envelope in his fist and was instantly alert. Since the tender age of twelve his mind and body had been hardened to it. Years of watchkeeping in all weathers, moments of anxiety to banish any craving for sleep when the watch below was turned up to reef sails in a screaming gale, or to repel enemy boarders. It was the only life he had ever known.

  “What is it?”

  He slit open the envelope and first read the signature at the bottom. It was from Major Craven, the hand neat and elegant, like the man. He read it through twice very carefully. He was aware that the cutter was moving more than she had been when his head had dropped in sleep, just as he was conscious of Paice’s measured breathing.

  He looked up and saw the gleam in the lieutenant’s eyes.

  “Where is ‘the old abbey’?”

  Paice withdrew a chart from a locker without questioning him. He jabbed the coastline with one big finger. “Here, sir. ’Bout three miles to the east’rd. A quiet, dismal spot, if you ask me.”

  Bolitho peered at it and nodded. The ideal place for a meeting. To move by road, as Craven had pointed out, would soon draw somebody’s notice, and the words would go out like lightning. The troublesome Cornish captain was on the move again.

  By sea then, and by stealth.

  He said, “We will weigh before dusk and steer for the Great Nore.” He moved some brass dividers to the north-east from Sheerness. “Once in the dark we will come about and make a landfall here—” the dividers rested on the point marked as an ancient abbey. “Nobody must see us, so you will anchor offshore.”

  Paice’s hand rasped over his chin. “Beg pardon, sir, but I am in the dark right now. Are you intending to send a press gang ashore? Because if so—”

  Bolitho stared at the much-used chart. “No, I am meeting someone. So I shall need a good boat’s crew and someone who knows these waters like his own right arm.”

  Paice replied without a second’s hesitation, “The master, Erasmus Chesshyre, sir. Feel his way inshore like a blind man.”

  Bolitho glanced sharply at him, but Paice’s remark was an innocent one.

  Paice added, “I’d like to go with you, sir.”

  “No.” It was final. “Remember what I told you. If anything should happen—”

  Paice sighed. “Aye. I know, sir.”

  “One last thing, Mr Paice. If the worst should happen, send Young Matthew back to Falmouth, with an escort if need be.”

  “Aye, sir.” He stood up carefully, bowed beneath the deckhead beams. “I’ll tell Mr Triscott to prepare the hands.” He hesitated in the low doorway. “An’ I’m right proud to serve alongside you, sir.”

  The sentiment seemed to embarrass him and he hurried to the companion ladder, calling names as he went.

  Bolitho drew a fresh sheet of paper towards him and decided he would write a letter to his sister Nancy. If he did fall, her husband the squire, known around Falmouth as the King of Cornwall, would soon get his hands on the big grey house below Pendennis Castle, the home for generations of Bolithos.

  The thought disturbed him more than he thought possible.

  No more would the local people see a Bolitho returning from the ocean, or hear of another who had died in some faroff battle.

  He glanced momentarily at Craven’s instructions, then with a sad smile held the note up to a candle and watched it dissolve in flames.

  He had recalled something which his father had made him and his brother Hugh learn by heart before they had left that same house for the navy.

  “They have outlived this fear, and their brave ends

  Will ever be an honour to their friends.”

  It could have
been written for them.

  “Out yer get, matey!”

  Allday groaned and rolled painfully on to his side, and felt somebody guiding his feet over the back of a cart.

  If they trusted him, it was the wary trust of one wild animal for another. He had no idea how far he had been carried, and as the cart had bumped and staggered over rutted tracks, once through a field, he had felt as if every bone was broken.

  He stood upright and felt his hands being untied, a rough bandage being removed from his eyes.

  One of his escorts grinned and handed him the cutlass. “No ’ard feelin’s, matey. Under this flag you takes no chances, see?”

  Allday nodded and looked around him. It was dawn, another day, the air busy with birdsong and insects. His nostrils dilated. The strong smell of saltwater and tar, oakum and freshly hewn timber. A boatbuilder’s yard.

  He was pushed, rather than guided, into a long shed where a crude slipway ran the full length and vanished through some heavy canvas awnings at the lower end. Newly built or repaired boats could be launched straight into the water from here, he supposed.

  He blinked his eyes as he saw some twenty or more men sitting at tables wolfing food and draining jugs of ale as if they had been here all night. They all looked up as the man who had accompanied Allday said harshly, “This ’ere’s Spencer, sailmaker. It’s all you need to know. Get ’im some grub.”

  Allday crossed his leg over a bench and regarded his new companions thoughtfully. A mixed bunch, he decided. Some had been honest sailormen; others would have been rogues in any marketplace.

  As his eyes grew accustomed to the windowless shed he realised that the man who had been with him in the cart had been the one who had hacked off the sailor’s hand. Now he was laughing and sharing a joke with one of his companions as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

  Allday took a jug of ale and grunted his thanks. It would be wise to say as little as possible.

  The ale was tasteless but strong on an empty stomach; it made him feel slightly better.

  Another step. He eyed his new companions warily. Deserters to a man. If what he had seen of his “rescuers” was anything to judge by, they had stepped from one captivity into another.