Paice watched his emotions. Vatass had still not learned how to conceal them.
He said, “Captain Bolitho is across the water in Holland, or he could be anywhere by now.” He looked at his log, and the chart which was beneath it. “ Wakeful is with him.” He downed the brandy in one swallow and refilled his glass immediately. “At least I trust to God she is.”
Vatass allowed his mind to settle. Which had touched him more? Paice’s news of Bolitho, or the fact he had never seen the tall lieutenant drink in this fashion before. He had heard that, after his wife had been killed, Paice had rarely been without the bottle. But that was past. Another memory.
Vatass began, “I do not understand, Jonas. What can we hope to do?”
Paice glared at him, his eyes red with anxiety and anger. “Don’t you see it yet, man? What the hell have you been doing?”
Vatass replied stiffly, “Chasing a suspected smuggler.”
Paice said in a more level voice, “The King of France has been executed. Yesterday we were told that their National Convention has declared war on England and Holland.” He nodded very slowly. “Captain Bolitho is in the midst of it. And I doubt if he knows a whisper of what has happened!”
Vatass said unhelpfully, “He left you in command of the flotilla, Jonas.”
Paice gave what could have been a bleak smile. “I intend to use it.” He stood upright with his head inside the skylight and unclipped one of the covers.
Vatass saw tiny flakes of snow settle on his face and hair before he lowered the cover and sat down again.
“We’re putting to sea as soon as makes no difference.” He held up one hand. “Save the protests. I know you’ve only just come to rest. But at any moment I may receive a direct order from the admiral, one I cannot ignore, which will prevent our going.” He lowered his voice as if to conceal an inner anguish “I’ll not leave him unsupported and without help.” He kept his eyes on the young lieutenant’s face as he poured him another glass, some of the brandy slopping unheeded across the neatly written orders. “Well, Hector, are you with me?”
“Suppose we cannot find Wakeful? ”
“Damn me, we’ll have tried! And I shall be able to hear that man’s name without the shame of knowing I failed him, after the pride he returned to me by his own example.” He waved vaguely over the chart. “The frontiers will be closed, and any alien ship will be treated as hostile. Wakeful is a sound vessel, and her commander a match for anything. But she’s no fifth-rate.” He glanced around the cabin. His command and his home; as if he could already see Telemachus facing up to a full broadside, with only her carronades and six-pounders to protect herself.
Vatass knew all this, and guessed that, whatever happened, his chances of an immediate promotion were in serious jeopardy. But he had always looked up to Paice’s old style of leadership, even more, his qualities as a true sailor. Rough and outspoken, it was easy to picture him in his original role as master of a collier-brig.
“I’m with you.” He considered his words, his young face suddenly serious. “What about the admiral?”
Paice swept the papers from his chart and picked up some dividers.
“I have the feeling that there is someone more powerful than that fine gentleman behind our captain!” He looked across at Vatass and studied him for several seconds.
Vatass tried to laugh it off. It was war anyway. Nothing else would count now. But Paice’s stare made him feel uneasy. As if he did not expect they would ever meet again.
“More vessels lying ahead, Cap’n!” Allday ducked beneath the boat’s taut canvas and peered aft through the snow. It was more like sleet now, wet and clinging, so that the interior of the small boat was slippery and treacherous.
Bolitho crouched beside the Dutch skipper at the tiller and narrowed his eyes to judge the boat’s progress under her two lug-sails. One side of the river was lost in sleet and mist, but here and there he could see the lower portions of hulls and taut cables, probably the same ships he had passed in the night after leaving Wakeful. Even in the poor light the small fishing boat was a pitiful sight. Scarred and patched, with unmatched equipment which had been salvaged or stolen from other boats. He guessed that it had been used more as a link between the larger vessels for carrying contraband than for genuine fishing. The four Dutchmen who made up the crew seemed anxious to please him despite the stilted translations which passed through Brennier’s aide. Perhaps they imagined that, with Tanner gone, their chance of any reward was remote, and Bolitho’s promise of payment was better than nothing at all.
Bolitho glanced at the aide. He had still not revealed his name. In the gloom he looked pinched up with cold and fear, his sodden clothes clinging to his body like rags. He was gripping a sword between his grimy fingers, the contrast as stark as the man’s own circumstances, Bolitho thought. It was a beautiful, rapier-style weapon, the scabbard mounted in silver with a matching hilt and knuckle-bow. Like the dead French girl’s handkerchief, was it his last connection with the life he had once known?
He ducked beneath the sails and saw the anchored ships up ahead. Three or four, coastal traders at a guess, their red, white and blue flags making the only stabs of colour against the drifting sleet and mist: Dutchmen waiting for the weather to clear before they worked out of their anchorage. No wonder they called Holland the port of the world. Who held the Low Countries enjoyed the rich routes to the East Indies and beyond, to the Caribbean and the Americas. Like the English, they had always been ambitious seafarers, and greatly admired, even as enemies when they had sailed up the Medway, attacking Chatham and firing the dockyards there.
He saw the Dutch skipper murmur to one of his crew, then pull out a watch from his tarpaulin coat. It was the size of an apple.
Bolitho said, “Find out what they are saying.”
Brennier’s aide seemed to drag himself from his despair, and after a slight hesitation said, “Very soon now, Capitaine. The other vessel is around the next . . . how you say . . . bend? ”
Bolitho nodded. It had been quicker downstream, and using the sails, small though they were, to full effect. Once aboard the other boat they would rest, perhaps find something hot to eat and drink before putting to sea when darkness fell. They might be unable to make contact with Wakeful. But they would have tried. To wait and think over what had happened would have been unbearable. Anyway, where would they have gone when the waiting was over and still nothing had been solved?
He thought of Hoblyn, the terrified midshipman, the bearded braggart on the Rochester Road, and of Delaval’s anguish when he had seen Tanner even as the trap had fallen beneath his frantic legs.
Through and above it, Tanner had manipulated them all. Bolitho bit his lip until it hurt. Even me.
Allday said, “Over to larboard, matey!” The words meant nothing to the man at the tiller but Allday’s gesture was familiar to sailors the world over.
“What is it?” Bolitho wiped his face and eyes with an old piece of bunting for the hundredth time to clear his vision.
“Bit o’ bother, starboard bow, Cap’n.”
Bolitho wished he had brought his small telescope, and strained his eyes as he stood in the boat to follow Allday’s bearing.
There was a smart-looking brig anchored in the deepwater channel, and her lack of heavy tackles or lighters alongside meant she was most likely a small man-of-war, or perhaps a Dutch customs vessel.
He saw the skipper staring at her too, his face creased with sudden anxiety.
Bolitho kept his own counsel. There were no boats on the brig’s deck, and none in the water unless they were tied on the opposite side. So where were they?
He called quietly, “Any movement?”
“No, Cap’n.” Allday sounded on edge. “We only need half a mile and then—”
Bolitho watched as the weather decided to play a small part. A tiny shaft of watery sunlight came from somewhere to give even the drenching sleet a sort of beauty, and lay bare a part of the nearest land.
<
br /> The Dutch skipper gave a sigh and raised his arm. Bolitho saw the fishing boat anchored a little apart from the others, and, even though he had not seen her before in daylight, he knew it was the one. He touched the Dutchman’s arm and said, “That was well done!”
The man showed his teeth in a smile. From Bolitho’s tone he had guessed that it was some kind of compliment.
“Prepare to shorten sail.” He reached out with one foot and tapped the aide’s leg. “You can give the word.” The man jumped as if he had been stabbed.
Bolitho rubbed his hands together. They were raw with cold. Then he glanced at the dirty, patched sails and tried to gauge the final approach in this unfamiliar craft.
The sunlight was already fading, smothered by the approach of more sleet. But not before he had seen a sudden glint of metal from the fishing boat’s deck, and even as he watched a figure in with a white cross-belt rose into view, staring upstream a few seconds before vanishing again below the bulwark.
“Belay that!” Bolitho seized the Dutchman’s shoulder and gestured towards midstream. “Tell him the boat has been boarded— taken, you understand?”
The tiller was already going over, the skipper crouching down, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the open channel beyond.
Allday exclaimed, “God Almighty, that was close!”
Bolitho kept his eyes level with the bulwark and watched for another sign from the anchored fisherman. Boarded, it did not really matter by whom. The Dutch navy, customs men searching for contraband; or perhaps it was merely an unhappy coincidence, a routine search.
Unhappy was hardly the right description, Bolitho thought. It had seemed almost hopeless before. Without some kind of vessel, it was impossible. He glanced along the boat, shielding his face with one arm as the sleet hissed and slapped across the sails and rigging. In open water it would be more lively, even rough, if the angle of the sleet was any measure of it. He thought of Wakeful plunging and rolling in the offshore swell while she waited to make the rendezvous.
This boat had nothing. Just a compass and a few pieces of old equipment. He could not even see a pump.
He looked hard at Allday’s crouching shoulders in the bow. Another risk. Was it still worth that?
Bolitho said suddenly, “A good day for a shoot, Allday.” He spoke quickly as if his common sense might change his mind for him.
Allday turned as if he had misheard. “ Shoot, Cap’n?” Their gaze met and Allday nodded casually. “Oh, yes, I s’pose it is, Cap’n.”
When he had turned away he unbuttoned his coat and loosened the pistol in his belt where he had wedged it to keep it dry.
Bolitho glanced at his companions. The aide was staring emptily into nothing, and all the Dutchmen were watching the fishing boat which by now had drawn almost abeam.
Bolitho felt for his own pistol, then freed his sword. Two of the Dutchmen were visibly armed, the others might be too.
He waited for the aide to look up at him then said, “In a moment I am going to take this boat away from here, m’sieu. Do you understand me?” The man nodded dully.
Bolitho continued carefully, “If they refuse to obey, we must disarm them.” His voice hardened. “Or kill them.” He waited, trying to guess what the man’s broken mind was thinking. “It is your last chance as well as ours, m’sieu!”
“I understand, Capitaine.” He crawled aft towards the tiller, his beautiful sword held clear of the filth and swilling water below the bottom boards.
Bolitho watched the oncoming curtain of sleet. It had blotted out some anchored vessels which moments earlier had been close enough to see in every detail. Once past the last few craft there would be nothing between them and the open sea.
“Be prepared, m’sieu!” Bolitho’s fingers closed around the pistol. Against his chilled body it felt strangely warm, as if it had recently been fired.
Allday shouted, “Larboard bow, Cap’n! A bloody boatload!” Bolitho saw a long, double-banked cutter pulling out from behind some moored barges, the scarlet-painted oars rising and falling like powerful wings as it swept towards them.
There were uniforms aft in the sternsheets, naval, as well as the green coats of the Dutch customs. A voice boomed over the choppy wavelets, magnified by a speaking trumpet.
The aide whispered, “They call us to stop!” He sounded completely terrified.
Bolitho prodded the Dutch skipper and shouted, “That way! Quickly! ”
There was no need to show their weapons. The Dutchmen were, if anything, more eager to escape authority than Bolitho.
They threw themselves to work on the two flapping sails, and Bolitho felt the hull tilt to the wind’s wet thrust and saw sheets of spray burst over the pursuing cutter’s stem, drenching the crew and throwing the scarlet oars into momentary confusion.
Allday yelled, “They’ve got a up forrard, Cap’n!”
Bolitho tried to swallow. He had already seen the bow-gun in the eyes of the cutter. Probably a swivel or a long musketoon. One blast from either could kill or wound every man in this boat.
But the range was holding; the small fishing boat was better handled and rigged for this kind of work, and the wilder the sea the harder it would be for the cutter’s coxswain to maintain his speed through the water.
Allday clung to the gunwale and choked as water reared over the bows and soaked him from head to foot.
The voice pursued them, crackling and distorted through the speaking trumpet.
Allday shouted, “They’re taking aim!”
“Down!” Bolitho pulled the nearest crew member to the deck and saw Allday peering along the boat towards him, his body half-hidden by floats and nets.
The bang of the gun was muffled by the wind and sleet, so that the charge of canister hit the afterpart of the hull with unexpected violence. Bolitho heard metal fragments and splinters shriek overhead and saw several holes punched through the nearest sail. He held his breath, waiting for something to carry away, a spar to break in half, even for a sudden inrush of water.
The Dutch skipper clambered to his knees and nodded. There was something like pride in his face. Even in this sad old boat.
Allday gasped, “We’ve lost ’em, Cap’n!”
Bolitho peered astern. The sleet was so thick that even the mouth of the river had vanished. They had the water to themselves.
He was about to rise to his feet when he saw Brennier’s aide staring at him, his eyes bulging with pain and fear.
Bolitho knelt beside him, then prized the man’s hands away from his body. Allday joined him and gripped his wrists while Bolitho tore open his waistcoat and then his finely laced shirt, which was bright with blood. There were just two wounds. One below the right breast, the other in the stomach. Bolitho heard the Dutch skipper tearing up some rags which he handed over his shoulder. Their eyes met only briefly. Again, language was no barrier. For a fisherman as well as a sea-officer, death was commonplace.
Allday murmured, “Hold hard, matey.” He looked at Bolitho. “Shall I lay him down?”
Bolitho covered the dying man with some canvas, held a hat over his face to protect him from the sleet. “No.” He dropped his voice. “He’s drowning in his own blood.” He looked at the bottom boards where the trapped sleet and seawater glittered red now. Another victim.
He could not wait here. But when he got to his feet he saw the man’s eyes follow him, terrified and pleading.
Bolitho said quietly, “Never fear, m’sieu. You will be safe. We will not leave you.”
He turned away and stared down at the swaying compass card without seeing it. Stupid, empty words! What did they mean to a dying man? What had they ever done to help anyone?
Bolitho swallowed again, feeling the rawness of salt in his throat like bile.
“Nor’ West!” He pointed at the sails. “Yes?”
The man nodded. Events had moved too swiftly for him. But he stood firmly at his tiller, his eyes reddened by sea and wind; it must have felt like sailing his boat in
to nowhere.
Each dragging minute Bolitho expected to see another vessel loom out of the sleet, no challenge this time, just a merciless hail of grape or canister. Tanner repeatedly came to his mind and he found himself cursing his name aloud until Allday said, “I think he’s going, Cap’n.”
Bolitho got down on his knees again and held the man’s groping fingers. So cold. As if they had already died.
“I am here, m’sieu. I shall tell your admiral of your courage.” Then he wiped the man’s mouth as a telltale thread of blood ran unheeded down his chin.
Allday watched, his eyes heavy. He had seen it too often before. He saw Bolitho’s hand moving to make the man comfortable. How did he do it? He had known him at the height of battle, and flung to the depths of despair. Few but himself had seen this Bolitho, and even now Allday felt guilty about it. Like stumbling on a special secret.
The man was trying to speak, each word bringing more agony. It was just a matter of minutes.
Allday stared across Bolitho’s bowed head. Why doesn’t the poor bastard die?
Bolitho held the man’s wrist but it moved with sudden strength and determination. The fingers reached down and unclipped the beautiful sword from his belt.
In a mere whisper he said, “Give—give . . .”
The effort was too much for him. Bolitho stood up, the rapier in one hand. He thought of the sword which hung by his side, so familiar that it was a part of him.
He looked at Allday’s stony features and said quietly, “Is this all that is left of a man? Nothing more?”
As the minutes passed into an hour, and then another, they all worked without respite to hold the boat on course, to bale out the steady intake of water and constantly retrim the two patched sails. In a way it saved them. They had neither food nor water, and each man ached with cold and backbreaking labour; but there was no time to despair or to give in.
In darkness, with the boat pitching about on a deep procession of rollers, they buried the unknown Frenchman, a rusting length of chain tied about his legs to take him down to the seabed. After that, they lost track of the hours and their direction, and despite the risk of discovery Bolitho ordered that the lantern should be lit and unshuttered, as arranged, into the sleet which was once again turning to snow.
With All Despatch Page 24
