If no one found them they could not survive. It was winter, and the sea too big for their small vessel. Only Allday knew that there was barely enough oil left in the lantern anyway. He sighed and moved closer to Bolitho’s familiar outline in the stern. It was not much of a way to end after what they had done together, he thought. But death could have come in a worse guise, and very nearly had on board Delaval’s Loyal Chieftain.
Bolitho moistened his lips. “One more signal, old friend.”
The lantern’s beam lit up the snow so that the boat appeared to be hemmed in and unmoving. Allday muttered hoarsely, “That’s the last of it, Cap’n.” It was then that Wakeful found them.
15. NO HIDING PLACE
QUEELY and his first lieutenant watched Bolitho with silent fascination as he swallowed his fourth mug of scalding coffee. He could feel it warming him like an inner fire and knew someone, probably Allday, had laced it heavily with rum.
They had been unable to do anything for the small fishing boat which had given them the chance to escape, and despite protests from the Dutch skipper it had been cast adrift; it seemed unlikely it would remain afloat for much longer.
Queely waited, choosing the moment. “What now, sir?” He watched Bolitho’s eyes regaining their brightness. It was like seeing someone come alive again. When Wakeful’s seamen had hauled them aboard they had been too numbed by cold and exhaustion even to speak.
As he had drunk his coffee, Bolitho had tried to outline all that had happened. He had ended by saying, “But for you and your Wakeful, we would all be dead.” He had placed the silver-mounted sword on the cabin table. “I suspect this poor man had already died when he heard that his King had been executed.”
Queely had shaken his head. “We knew nothing of that, sir.” His jaw had lifted and he had regarded Bolitho with his dark, hawklike face. “I would still have come looking for you no matter what the risk, even if I had.”
Bolitho leaned back against the side and felt the cutter rolling steeply in a cross-swell as she prepared to change tack. The motion seemed easier, but the wind sounded just as strong. Perhaps his mind was still too exhausted to notice the true difference.
He replied, “ Now? We shall lay a course for Flushing. It is our only chance to catch Tanner with the treasure.”
Lieutenant Kempthorne made his excuses and went on deck to take charge of the hands. Bolitho and Queely leaned on the table, the chart spread between them beneath the madly swinging lanterns. Bolitho glanced at the serious-faced lieutenant. Even in his seagoing uniform he managed to make Bolitho feel like a vagrant. His clothing stank of fish and bilge, and his hands were cut and bleeding from handling the icy sheets in the boat which they had abandoned astern.
Queely said, “If, as you say, Tanner has loaded the treasure into this vessel, La Revanche, would he not make haste to get under way immediately? If so, we can never catch him, despite this soldier’s wind.”
Bolitho peered at the chart, his grey eyes thoughtful. “I doubt that. It would all take time, which is why I believe he was the one to cause our delay at the rendezvous. Any suspicious act might arouse the Dutch authorities, and that is the last thing he would want.”
A voice seemed to cry out in his mind. Suppose Brennier’s aide had been mistaken? Or that he had heard them speaking of another vessel altogether?
Queely took his silence for doubt. “She’ll likely be armed, sir. If we had some support—”
Bolitho glanced at him and smiled sadly. “But we do not have any. Armed? I think that unlikely, except for a minimum protection. Which was why Delaval and his Loyal Chieftain laid offshore whenever he was making a run. The Dutch were searching vessels in the river. Any heavily armed ship would draw them like bees to honey.”
“Very well, sir.” He gave a rueful grin. “It is little enough, but I too am anxious to see what so much treasure looks like!” He pulled on his heavy coat and turned in the doorway to the companion ladder. “I thank God we found you, sir. I had all but given up hope.”
Bolitho sat down wearily and massaged his eyes. The cabin was tiny and, as usual, littered with the officers’ effects. But after the fishing boat’s squalor it seemed like a ship of the line.
Just hours later, Bolitho was roused from his sleep. Allday found him sprawled across the chart, his head resting on one arm.
“What is it?”
Allday stood balancing a steaming basin. “The cook managed to boil some water.” He gave a broad grin. “I thought to meself a good shave an’ a rub-down’ll make the Cap’n feel his old self again.”
Bolitho slipped out of his coat and peeled off his shirt. As Allday shaved him with practised ease, legs braced, one ear attuned to every sound as the cutter rolled and plunged about them, he marvelled that the big man could always adjust, no matter what ship he was in.
Allday was saying, “Y’see, Cap’n, ’tis always the same with you at times like this. You feel better—that makes it better for the rest of us.”
Bolitho stared up at him, the realisation of Allday’s simple philosophy driving away the last cobwebs of sleep.
He said quietly, “Today, you mean?” He saw him nod: the old instinct he had always trusted. Why had he not known it himself? “We’ll fight?”
“Aye, Cap’n.” He sounded almost buoyant. “Had to come, as I sees it.”
Bolitho dried his face and was amazed that Allday could shave him so closely with the deck all alive beneath him. He had rarely even nicked him with his formidable razor.
Allday wiped down his shoulders and back with a hot cloth and then handed him a comb. “ That’s more like it, Cap’n.”
Bolitho saw the freshly laundered shirt on the bunk. “How did you—”
“Compliments of Mr Kempthorne, Cap’n. I—mentioned it, like.”
Bolitho dressed unhurriedly. A glance at his watch told him all he had to know for the present. Queely and his company were doing what they could and needed no encouragement or criticism. He wondered what had become of the four Dutchmen, and where they would end up. Probably on the next ship bound for Holland, even at the risk of being greeted by the Customs.
The shirt made him feel clean and refreshed, just as Allday had promised. He thought of all those other times, under the blazing sun, the decks strewn with dead and dying, the brain cringing to the crash and recoil of cannon fire. Like Stockdale before him, Allday had always been there. But with that something extra. He always seemed to understand, to know when the waiting was over, and smooth words were not enough.
Queely came down from the deck and peered in at him.
“Dawn coming up, sir. Wind’s holding steady, and the snow’s eased to almost nothing.” He noticed the clean shirt and smiled. ‘Oh, you honour us, sir!”
As his feet clattered up the ladder again Bolitho said, “There is still something missing, Allday. Fight we may, but—” He shrugged. “He might have outfoxed us again.”
Allday stared into the distance. “When I heard that silky voice of his—” He grinned, but no humour touched his eyes. “I wanted to cut him down there and then.”
Bolitho half-drew his sword then let it fall smoothly into its scabbard again. “We make a fine pair. I wanted that too.”
He picked up his boat-cloak. It was filthy also. But it would be like ice on deck. He must not fail, would not let the fever burst in and consume him like the last time.
Some of his old despair lingered on. He said, “Hear me, old friend. If I should fall today—”
Allday regarded him impassively. “I’ll not see it, Cap’n, ’cause I shall already have dropped!”
The understanding was there. As strong as ever.
Bolitho touched his arm. “So let’s be about it, eh?”
Bolitho felt his body angle to the tilting deck as the wind forced Wakeful on to her lee bulwark. It was colder than he had expected, and he regretted taking shelter in the cabin’s comparative warmth.
Queely touched his hat and shouted above the noise, “W
ind’s veered still further, sir! Nor’-West by North or the like, by my reckoning!”
Bolitho stared up at the masthead and thought he could see the long pendant streaming towards the larboard bow, curling, then cracking like a huge whip. He even imagined he could hear it above the wild chorus of creaking rigging, the slap and boom of canvas.
Wakeful was steering south-south-west, close-hauled on the starboard tack, her sails very pale against the dull sky. Dawn was here and yet reluctant to show itself.
Bolitho felt his eyes growing accustomed to the poor light and recognised several of the figures who were working close at hand. Even the “hard men” of Queely’s command looked chilled and pinched, but for the most part their feet were bare, although Bolitho could feel the bitter cold through his shoes. Like most sailors, they thought shoes too expensive to waste merely for their own comfort.
Queely said, “According to the master, we should be well past Walcheren Island and Flushing by now. If the weather clears we will soon sight the coast of France.”
Bolitho nodded but said nothing. France. Once there, Tanner would make his trade. A share of the treasure and probably a sure protection from the French Convention to enable him to continue his smuggling on a grand scale. He tried not to think of the old admiral, Brennier. Tanner’s mark of trust, then humiliation before the mob, and the last steps up to the guillotine. Any other leading patriot would think again before he considered lending support to a counter-revolution with Brennier dead.
Bolitho watched the sky giving itself colour. The driving wind had swept the snow away; he could see no clouds, just a hostile grey emptiness, with the faintest hint of misty blue towards the horizon.
Queely was speaking to his first lieutenant. Bolitho saw Kempthorne bobbing his head to his commander’s instructions. Despite his uniform and his surroundings he still managed to look out of place.
Queely walked up the slanting deck and said, “He’s going aloft with the big signals glass in a moment, sir.” He saw Bolitho’s expression and gave a quick smile. “I know, sir. He’d be happier as a horse-coper than a sea-officer, but he tries!”
He forgot Kempthorne and added, “We shall draw near to the French coast again, sir. If Tanner intends to change allegiance and steal the King’s ransom, he may stand inshore as soon as it’s light enough.” He was thinking about that last time, the French luggers, the boat blowing up, and the dead girl they had returned to the sea.
Bolitho said, “We shall take him anyway. I’ll brook no interference from French patrol vessels!”
Queely studied him curiously. “Strange how a man of influence like Tanner could change loyalties.”
“I have always seen him as an enemy.” Bolitho glanced away. “This time he’ll have no hope of escaping justice because of his damned toadies in high places!”
Kempthorne was hauling his lanky frame up the weather shrouds, his coat flapping in the wind as it pressed his body against the ratlines. Bolitho watched, conscious that he could now see the masthead sharply etched against the sky, the vibrating shrouds, even a solitary lookout who was shifting his perch as the lieutenant clawed his way up beside him.
Queely remarked unfeelingly, “Just the thing to clear your head on a day like this!”
He looked at Bolitho’s profile and asked abruptly, “Do you regard this as a day of reckoning, sir?” He sounded surprised, but without the doubt he had once shown.
Bolitho replied, “I believe so.” He shivered and pulled his boat-cloak more tightly about his body. Suppose he was mistaken, and Tanner’s ship still lay at Flushing, or had never been there at all?
He added in a hard tone, “It is a premonition one has from time to time.” He saw Allday lounging beside the companionway, his arms folded. There was nothing careless or disinterested in his eyes, Bolitho thought.
“As I see it, Tanner has nowhere else to run. Greed and deceit have made escape impossible.”
He thought again of Tanner’s own words. No hiding place. Even then he had lied, must have laughed as Brennier and his companions played directly into his hands.
“Deck there!”
Queely peered up. “Where away?”
Kempthorne called lamely, “Nothing yet, sir!”
Several of the seamen nearby nudged one another as Queely snorted, “Damned nincompoop!”
Bolitho took a telescope from the rack and wiped the lens carefully with his handkerchief. As he lifted it and waited for the deck to rear upright again, he saw the sea tumbling away across the larboard bow, reaching further and still further, individual banks of crested rollers and darker troughs forming into patterns in the growing daylight. A grey, blustery morning. He thought of Falmouth and wondered how young Matthew had enjoyed his Christmas. Probably had had the household enthralled with his tales of smuggling and sudden death. Bolitho was glad he was back where he belonged. The land needed boys who would grow into men like his father had been. He glanced at Allday. Let others do the fighting so that they could build, raise animals, and make England safe again.
“Deck there!”
Queely scowled.
Kempthorne’s voice cracked with excitement. “Sail on the lee bow, sir!”
Queely’s dark eyes flashed in the poor light. “By God, I’d never have believed it!”
“Easy now. Let us hold on to caution, eh?” But his face made a lie of his words. It was the ship. It must be . No other would risk running so close to the French coast.
Queely yelled impatiently, “What is she?” His foot tapped on the wet planking. “I’m waiting, man!”
Kempthorne called hoarsely, “A—a brigantine, I think, sir!”
Bolitho said, “It must be difficult to see, even from that height.”
Queely turned. “You think I’m too hard on him, sir?” He shrugged. “It may save his life and a few others before long!”
Bolitho moved to the narrow poop and clung to a dripping swivel gun. A brigantine. It seemed likely. They and schooners were most favoured in the Trade, and Tanner had probably selected this one as soon as Marcuard had taken him into his confidence. He thought of the grand house in Whitehall, the servants, the quiet luxury of day-to-day life in the capital. This was a far cry from Marcuard’s careful planning, but Bolitho had no doubts as to where the blame would be laid if Tanner and the treasure disappeared.
The master said to nobody in particular, “A spot o’ sunshine afore the glass is turned.”
Queely glared at him, but knew him well enough to say nothing.
Kempthorne, his voice almost gone from shouting above the wind and sea, called, “Brigantine she is, sir! Holding same tack!”
Bolitho grasped his sword beneath his cloak. It felt like a piece of ice.
“I suggest you prepare, Mr Queely.”
Queely watched him, his features more hawklike than ever. “The people know what to do, sir. If we are wrong, they might lose confidence.”
“Not in you. You can blame it all on the mad captain from Falmouth!”
Surprisingly they were both able to laugh.
Then Queely shouted, “Pipe all hands! Clear for action!”
It was still strange for Bolitho to see the preparations for battle completed without drums, the rising urgency of a ship beating to quarters. Here, it was almost by word of mouth, with only the watch below summoned by the squeal of calls.
“Cast off the breechings!”
The master let out a sigh. “Told you.”
A shaft of watery sunlight plunged down through the spray and sea-mist, giving the water depth and colour, personality to the faces and figures working around the guns.
From his dizzy perch Lieutenant Francis Kempthorne wrapped one arm around a stay until he felt it was being torn from his body. As the sturdy hull lifted and dipped beneath him, the mast itself reached out and across the surging crests far below, and he saw the mainsail’s shadow on the water, as if it were rising to snatch him down. The motion was sickening although the lookout at his side se
emed indifferent to it.
He gulped and tried again, counting the seconds while he levelled the heavy telescope, not even daring to think what Queely would say if he dropped it. The bows lifted streaming from a jagged breaker and Kempthorne held his breath. The brigantine must have risen at exactly the same moment. He saw her fore-course and topsail, the big driver braced hard round as she steered on the same tack as her pursuer.
Just for those few seconds he saw her name across the counter, the gilt paint suddenly sharp and bright in the feeble glare.
He shouted, “ La Revanche, sir!” He was almost sobbing with relief, as if it would have been his fault had she been another vessel entirely.
The lookout watched him and shook his head. Kempthorne was popular with most of the hands, and never took it out of offenders like some. The seaman had been in the navy for twelve years but could still not fathom the minds of officers.
Kempthorne was glad, pleased that he had sighted the other vessel. Yet within hours he might be dead.
Of course there might easily be prize money if things went well . . .
Down on the streaming deck Queely stared at Bolitho and exclaimed, “We’ve found her, sir!” His eyes flashed with excitement, Kempthorne’s part in it already forgotten.
Bolitho levelled his glass, but from the deck the sea still appeared empty.
“And now, we’ll take him!”
Kempthorne shouted, “She’s shaken out another reef, sir! Making more sail!”
Queely strode to the compass box and back to Bolitho’s side. “They’re wasting their time,” he said confidently. “We’ve got the bugger by the heels.” He cupped his hands. “Be ready to run out the stuns’ls if she opens the range!”
Bolitho trained his glass again. Now in the growing light he could see the brigantine’s forecourse and topsail, her driver filled to full capacity and making the vessel’s two masts lean over towards the cruising white horses.
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