With All Despatch

by Alexander Kent

  He sounded as if he was repeating a lesson.

  Bolitho fell in step again. Vice-Admiral Louis Brennier, an officer of distinction during the American Revolution when he had directed the operations of French privateers and, later, menof-war who were working alongside the rebels. He had been taking passage for Jamaica in de Grasse’s flagship Ville de Paris when he had met up with Admiral Rodney’s fleet off the little islands called the Saintes. The battle had been devastating and complete, with the French ships either destroyed or taken. It had seemed only right that the mighty Ville de Paris should have struck to the Formidable, Rodney’s own flagship.

  Brennier had been a mere passenger at the time, a hard role for a man of action like him, Bolitho had thought. It had been the French intention to attack and seize Jamaica and for Brennier, a very senior officer, to be installed as governor. The Saintes had changed all that, as it had for so many on such a fine April day. Ordinary, decent men. Like Stockdale who had fallen without a word, Ferguson who had lost an arm; the list was endless. His own ship, Phalarope, had only stayed afloat by working the pumps all the way to the dockyard at Antigua.

  He heard a door being unbolted, felt sudden warmth in his face. The blindfold was removed and he found that he was in a broad stone-built room. It was a farm, although the true owners were nowhere to be seen.

  He faced the old man who sat across the scrubbed table from him and bowed his head.

  “Vice-Admiral Brennier?” He knew he must be old now, but it was still a shock. The admiral’s hair was white, his skin wrinkled, his eyes half-hidden by heavy lids.

  He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Bolitho’s.

  “And you are Capitaine Bolitho.” His English was not so good as his aide’s. “I knew your father.” His face crinkled into a tired smile. “That is, I knew of him. It was in India.”

  Bolitho was taken off balance. “I did not know, m’sieu .”

  “Age has its compensations, Capitaine, or so they tell me.”

  He raised his thin hands towards a roaring fire and said, “Our King lives, but matters worsen in our beloved Paris.”

  Bolitho waited. Surely the hope of the King’s reclaiming the French throne was not being entrusted to Brennier? He had been a gallant officer, and an honourable opponent, trusted by the King and all who had served him. But Brennier was an old man, his mind wandering now over the disaster which had overtaken his country.

  Bolitho asked, “What will you have me do, m’sieu? ”

  “Do?” Brennier seemed reluctant to rejoin him in the present. “It is our intention and sworn duty to obtain the King’s release, by any means, no matter the cost!” His voice grew stronger, and despite his doubts Bolitho could see the younger man emerging.

  “Here in the Low Countries we have amassed a fortune. Precious jewels, gold—” He lowered his forehead on to one hand. “A King’s ransom, the English might call it.” But there was no mirth in his tone. “It is close by. Soon it must be moved and put to work.”

  Bolitho asked gently, “Where did it come from, m’sieu?”

  “From the many whose families have suffered and died under the guillotine. From others who seek only a return to a cultured, inventive life.” He looked up, his eyes flashing. “It will be used to free the King, by bribery, by force if it must be so, and some to mount a counter-revolution. There are many loyal officers in the South of France, m’sieu, and the world shall witness such a reckoning! We will do to these vermin what they have done to us!” His outburst seemed to weaken him. “We shall speak further when some of my friends arrive.” He gestured towards another door. “Go there, Capitaine, and meet your fellow agent-provocateur. ”

  His aide entered again and waited to assist him to some stairs. At their foot he turned and said firmly, “France lives! Long live the King!”

  The aide gave what might have been a small shrug. To Allday he said curtly, “Wait here. I will send for some food and wine.”

  Allday muttered, “Little puppy! It’s them like him who lost France, if you ask me, Cap’n!”

  Bolitho touched his arm. “Be easy, old friend. There is much we have yet to understand. But do as he says, and keep your eyes open.” He did not have to say any more.

  Then he pressed on the other door and walked into a more comfortable room.

  As the door closed behind him, a figure who had been sitting in a high-backed chair facing another lively fire, rose and confronted him.

  “Bolitho? I trust the journey was none too arduous?”

  Bolitho had only seen the man twice before and each time at a distance. But there was no mistaking him. About his own age, with the arrogant good looks and cruel mouth he remembered from the Rochester Road, and that brief moment in the coach window at Dover.

  He felt his hand fall to his sword. “Sir James Tanner.” He was calmed by the flatness in his voice. “I never thought I’d meet a cur like you here!”

  Tanner’s face tightened but he seemed to control his immediate reaction with a practised effort.

  “I have no choice. It is Lord Marcuard’s wish. Otherwise—”

  Bolitho said, “When this is over I intend to see you brought to justice.”

  Tanner turned his back. “Let me tell you things, Bolitho, before your damned impertinence puts us both in jeopardy. Be assured, I would like nothing better than to call you out here and now. ”

  Bolitho watched his squared shoulders. “You will find me ready enough, sir! ”

  Tanner turned and faced him again. “Your life is so clean and well charted, Bolitho. It lies ’twixt forecastle and poop with no bridge in between, where a captain’s word is law, when no one shall defy it!” He was speaking faster now. “Why not try stepping outside and into the real world, eh? You will soon discover that the politics of survival tend to create strange bedfellows!” He seemed to relax slightly as he gestured casually between them. “Like us, for instance.”

  “It sickens me even to share the same room.”

  Tanner eyed him thoughtfully. “You would never prove it, you know. Never in ten thousand years. Others have tried before you.” He became suddenly reasonable. “Take yourself, Bolitho. When you returned from the American War you discovered your family estate pared away, sold to pay for your brother’s debts, is that not correct?” His voice was smooth and insistent. “You fought bravely, and that was your reward.”

  Bolitho held his expression as before but only with difficulty. At every corner, in every turn, there was always Hugh’s disgrace, the memory used to shame or belittle the family as it had killed their father.

  Tanner was saying, “ My father lost nearly everything. His debtors were measured in leagues, believe me. But I got all of it back on my own.”

  “By organising a smuggling trade that was unrivalled anywhere.”

  “ Hearsay, Bolitho. And even if it were so, nobody will stand up and swear it.” He leaned over the chair and tapped the leather with his hand. “D’you imagine I want to be here, involved in a wild scheme which has about as much chance of succeeding as a snowman in a furnace!”

  “Then why are you?”

  “Because I am the only one Lord Marcuard trusts to execute the plan. How do you imagine you reached here unscathed? You do not know the country or its language, and yet here you are. The fishermen are in my employ. Oh yes, they may be smugglers, who can say? But you came here in safety because I arranged it, even to suggesting the exact point at which to bring you ashore.”

  “And what of Delaval?”

  Tanner became thoughtful. “He worked for me, too. But he had grand ideas, became less and less prepared to take orders. So you see—”

  “He thought you were going to gain his discharge.”

  “Yes, he did. He was a boaster and a liar, a dangerous combination.”

  Bolitho said, “Is that all there is to it?”

  “Not completely. Lord Marcuard will have his way. You still do not understand this real world, do you? If he chose, Marcuard could us
e his power against me, and all my land and property would be forfeit. And if you are thinking I could still live at ease elsewhere, then I beg you to dismiss the idea. From Marcuard there is no hiding place. Not on this earth anyway.”

  They faced each other, Tanner breathing hard, his eyes watchful, a man too clever to reveal the triumph he now felt.

  Bolitho was still numbed by the fact that he was here. Had even planned his arrival.

  Tanner said easily, “We have to work together. There was never any choice for either of us. I wanted to meet you before that old man did, but he suggested it might be difficult. ”

  Bolitho nodded, in agreement for the first time. “I’d have killed you.”

  “You would have tried to do so, I dare say. It seems to run in your family.” He spread his arms. “What can you hope for? If you go to the Dutch Customs House they will laugh at you. If French spies discover what you are about here, many will die, and the treasure will go to the revolutionary government.” He tapped the chair with his hand again. “To use for supplying ships and weapons which your sailors will have to face before much longer!”

  He seemed to tire of it. “Now I shall take my leave. M’sieu will wish to speak at length about this matter, and of course on the glory which was France. ” His voice was still smooth as he added, “Do not delay too long. My men will not wait forever.”

  He used a small side-door, and Bolitho heard horses stamping on some sort of track.

  Bolitho left the room and saw Allday staring at him. Despite his bronzed features his face looked ashen.

  “What is it? Speak, man!”

  Allday watched the closed door.

  “That man you just met. His voice. It was him. I’d not forget that one in a lifetime!”

  Bolitho saw his eyes spark with memory. It was as he had suspected. The man in the carriage who had ordered Allday to kill the sailor from the press gang, and Sir James Tanner, were one and the same.

  Bolitho touched his arm and said, “It is well he did not know it. At least we are forewarned.” He stared into the shadows. “Otherwise he would see us both dead before this is over and done with.”

  “But what happened, Cap’n?”

  Bolitho looked up as voices floated from the stairway. The glory which was France.

  He said quietly, “I was outmanoeuvred.” He clapped him on the arm. Allday needed him now. “This time.”

  13. LAST CHANCE

  THE footman took Bolitho’s dripping cloak and hat and regarded them disdainfully.

  “Lord Marcuard will receive you now, sir.”

  Bolitho stamped his shoes on the floor to restore the circulation, then followed the servant, a heavy-footed man with stooped shoulders, along an elegant corridor. He was a far cry from the wretched Jules, Bolitho thought.

  It had been a long and uncomfortable journey from Sheerness to London. The roads were getting worse, deeply rutted from heavy rain, and now there was intermittent snow, touching the grand buildings of Whitehall like powder. He hated the thought of winter and what it might do to his health. If the fever returned— he closed his mind to the thought. There were too many important matters on his mind.

  When Wakeful had moored at the dockyard, Bolitho had left immediately for London. There had been a brief message awaiting his return from Marcuard. He would meet him on his own ground this time.

  He heard sounds from the hallway and said, “That will be my coxswain. Take good care of him.” He spoke abruptly. Bolitho felt past even common courtesy. He was heartily sick of the pretence and false pride these people seemed to admire so much.

  He thought of the old admiral in Holland, of the great fortune amassed and ready to be used for a counter-revolution. It had seemed like a dream when he had outlined it; back in England the plan seemed utterly hopeless.

  Bolitho’s silent guides had conveyed him to the rendezvous on time but only with minutes to spare. Even in the darkness there had been shipping on the move, and the fishermen had almost given up hope when Wakeful’s wet canvas had loomed over them.

  Lieutenant Queely’s relief had been matched only by his eagerness to get under way and head for open waters. He had confirmed Bolitho’s suspicions; there were men-of-war in the vicinity, Dutch or French he had not waited to discover.

  Some of Bolitho’s anger at Tanner’s involvement had eased on the journey to London. Noisy inns, with more talk of Christmas than what might be happening across the Channel. As the coach rolled through towns and villages, Bolitho had seen the local volunteers drilling under the instruction of regular soldiers. Pikes and pitchforks because nobody in authority thought it was necessary to train them to handle muskets. What was the matter with people, he wondered? When he had commanded Phalarope the navy’s strength had stood at over one hundred thousand men. Now it was reduced to less than a fifth of that number, and even for them there were barely enough ships in commission and ready for sea.

  He realised that the footman was holding open a tall door, Bolitho’s cloak held carefully at arm’s length.

  Marcuard was standing with his back to a cheerful fire, his coat-tails lifted to give him all the benefit of the heat. He was dressed this time in sombre grey, and without his ebony silver-topped stick looked somehow incomplete.

  Bolitho examined the room. It was huge, and yet lined on three walls with books. From floor to ceiling, with ladders here and there for convenience, like the library of a rich scholar. Queely would think himself in heaven here.

  Marcuard held out his hand. “You wasted no time.” He observed him calmly. “I am needed here in London. Otherwise—” He did not explain. He waved Bolitho to a chair. “I will send for some coffee presently. I see from your face that you came ready for an argument. I was prepared for that.”

  Bolitho said, “With respect, m’lord, I think I should have been told that Sir James Tanner was involved. The man, as I have stated plainly, is a thief, a cheat and a liar. I have proof that he was engaged in smuggling on a grand scale, and conspired with others to commit murder, to encourage desertion from the fleet for his own ends.”

  Marcuard’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Do you feel better for that?” He leaned back and pressed his fingertips together. “Had I told you beforehand you would have refused to participate. Not because of the danger, and I better than you know there is danger aplenty on either side of that unhappy border. No, it was because of your honour that you would have refused me, just as it was because of it that I chose you for the mission.”

  Bolitho persisted, “How can we trust that man?”

  Marcuard did not seem to hear. “There is an hypocrisy in us all, Bolitho. You offered your trust to Vice-Admiral Brennier, because he too is a man of honour. But a few years ago, or perhaps even next week, you would kill him if the need arose because war has dictated how you shall think, and what you must do. In affairs like this I trust only those whom I need. Tanner’s skills may not appeal to either of us but, believe me, he is the best man, if not the only man, who can do it. I sent you because Brennier would recognise you as a King’s officer, someone who has already proved his courage and loyalty beyond question. But what do you imagine would occur if I had directed others to Holland? I can assure you that the Admiralty of Amsterdam would have been displeased, and would have closed every port against us. They have cause to fear the French and would likely confiscate the Royalist treasure to bargain with them.”

  Despite his hatred of the man, Bolitho thought of Tanner’s words about the possibility of the vast hoard of jewels and gold being used to strengthen French power to be thrown eventually against England.

  Marcuard said, “You look troubled, Bolitho. What do you feel about this affair, and of Brennier’s part in it?” He nodded very slowly. “Another reason why I selected you. I wanted a thinking officer, not merely a courageous one.”

  Bolitho stared through one of the tall windows. The sky was growing darker, but he could see the roof of the Admiralty building where all this, and so many other ventu
res in his life, had begun. Full circle. The roof was already dusted with snow. He gripped his hands together to try and stop himself from shivering.

  “I believe that the prospect of an uprising is hopeless, m’lord.” Just saying it aloud made him feel as if he had broken a trust, that he was being disloyal to that old man in Holland who had been captured by Rodney at the Saintes. He continued, “He showed me one of the chests. I have never seen the like. So much wealth, when the people of France had so little.” He glanced around at the fine room. An equation which should be learned here, he thought bitterly.

  “Are you not well, Bolitho?”

  “Tired, m’lord. My cox’n is with me. He is finding quarters for us.”

  It was to sidestep Marcuard’s question.

  Marcuard shook his head. “I will not hear of it. You shall visit here, while you are in London. There are some who might wish to know your movements. And besides, I doubt that there are many— quarters —as you quaintly describe them, freely available this near to Christmas.”

  He regarded Bolitho thoughtfully. “While you were in Holland, I too was forming opinions.”

  Bolitho felt his limbs relaxing again. Perhaps it was the fire.

  “About the treasure, m’lord?”

  “Concerning it.” Marcuard stood up and tugged gently at a silk bell rope. There was no sound but Bolitho guessed it would reach one of the many servants who were needed for such an extensive residence.

  Bolitho did not trust the so-called “real-world” as described by Sir James Tanner, but he had learned a lot about people, no matter what their rank or station might be. From a tough fore-topman to a pink-faced midshipman, and Bolitho knew that the bell rope was to give him time, to test his own judgement before he shared any more secrets.

  Marcuard said bluntly, “There is no hope for the King of France.”

  Bolitho stared at him, and was struck by the solemnity of his voice. While the King was alive there had always been hope that somehow things might return, halfway at least, to normal. In time, the murder of aristocrats and innocent citizens in the name of the Revolution might fade into history. The death of a King would have the brutal finality of the guillotine itself.