With All Despatch (17 page)

The blind man waited for him to catch up, muttering, “Over yonder! Wot d'you see?”

Bolitho stared through the darkness and discovered a deeper blackness. His heart seemed to freeze. A different bearing, but there was no doubt about it. It was the same sinister copse, which they were passing on the opposite side.

The blind man could have been studying his expression. He broke into a fit of low, wheezing laughter. “Thought I'd lost me way, did ye, Captain?”

About the same time, Chesshyre was explaining to Paice and his first lieutenant what had happened, the jolly-boat's crew lolling on the deck like dead men after the hardest pull they had ever known.

Paice exploded, “You
left
him? You bloody well left the captain unsupported!”

Chesshyre protested, “It was an order, sir. Surely you know me better than—”

Paice gripped his shoulder so that the master winced. “My apologies, Mr Chesshyre. Of
course
I know you well enough for that. God damn it, he wouldn't even let me go!”

Triscott asked, “What shall we do, sir?”

“Do?” Paice gave a heavy sigh. “He told me what I must do if he sent back the boat without him.” He glanced at Chesshyre sadly. “That was an
order
too.” Then he gazed up at the stars. “We shall haul anchor. If we remain here, dawn will explain our reasons to anyone who cares to seek them.” He looked at the messenger who was sitting wretchedly on a hatch coaming under guard. “By the living Jesus, if there is a betrayal, I'll run him up to the tops'l yard myself!”

Then in a calmer voice he said, “Hoist the boat inboard, Mr Triscott. We will get under way.”

A few moments later there was a splash, and a voice yelled with surprise, “Man overboard, sir!”

But Paice said quietly, “No. I was a fool to speak my mind. That was the lad—Matthew Corker. He must have heard me.”

Triscott said, “Even the jolly-boat couldn't catch him now, sir.”

Paice watched the regular splashes until they were lost in shadow.

He said, “Good swimmer.”

Chesshyre asked, “What can he do, sir?”

Paice made himself turn away from the sea, and from the boy who was going to try and help the man he worshipped above all others.

He was like the son Paice had always wanted, what they had prayed for, before she had been brutally shot down.

He said harshly, “Get the ship under way! If anything happens to that lad, I'll—” He could not go on.

Thirty minutes later as the glass was turned,
Telemachus
spread her great mainsail and slipped out into the North Sea, before changing tack and steering westward for Sheerness.

Paice handed over to his second-in-command and went aft to the cabin. He opened the shutter of a lantern and sat down to complete his log when his eye caught a reflection from the opposite cot.

He leaned over and picked it up. It was a fine gold watch with an engraved guard. He had seen Bolitho look at it several times, and not, he guessed, merely to discover the hour. The parcel containing the uncompleted ship-model was nearby.

With great care he opened the guard. Somehow he knew that Bolitho would not mind. Afterwards he replaced it beside Allday's parcel.

In the navy everyone thought a post-captain was junior only to God. A man who did as he pleased, who wanted for nothing.

Paice thought of him now, out there in the darkness with a blind man. Apart from this watch he had nothing left at all.

Bolitho lay prone beside a thick clump of gorse and levelled his small telescope on a boatyard which lay some fifty yards below him. He winced as a loose pebble ground into his elbow, and wondered if this really was the place which the blind man had described.

He laid the glass down and lowered his face on to his arm. The noon sun was high overhead, and he dared not use the glass too much for fear of a bright reflection which might betray their position.

He would have to go down as soon as it was safe. How could he lie here all day? He cursed himself for not thinking of a flask when he had left the
Telemachus.
His mind shied away from water and he placed a pebble in his mouth to ease his parched throat.

He raised himself briefly on one elbow and glanced at his companion. The blind man was a pitiful sight, his clothing stained and in rags, the bandage covering his empty sockets foul with dirt.

The man remarked, “You gets used to waitin'.” He nodded firmly. “When it's dark—” He shook with silent laughter. “Dark— that's rich, ain't it?”

Bolitho sighed. How did he know night from day? But he no longer doubted him after that demonstration of his uncanny abilities.

He stiffened and raised the small telescope again, but was careful to hold it in the shade of a clump of grass.

A few figures were moving through the boatyard. Two were armed, one carried a stone jar. Probably rum, he thought. Nobody was working there, and tools lay abandoned near an uncompleted hull, an adze still standing on a length of timber.

The men walked like sailors. They showed no sign of fear or wariness. There had to be a reason for such confidence.

Bolitho closed the little telescope, recalling how he had used it on the road from
London
when he had confronted the mob and the two frightened press gang officers. He watched some tiny insects busying themselves around his drawn sword. He must decide what to do next. If he left this place to fetch help, he might miss something vital. He glanced again at his ragged companion, and was moved by what he saw. He was rocking back and forth, his voice crooning what sounded like a hymn. Once a gentle man, perhaps. But when he had said he wanted his revenge for what they had done to him, he had been like a man from the fires of Hell.

When he looked again he realised that he was alone, but not for long. The blind man crawled through some bushes, a chipped mug in his clawlike hand. He held it out in Bolitho's direction. “Wet your whistle, Captain?”

It must be from some stream, Bolitho thought. It tasted rancid, and was probably used by sheep or cows. Bolitho drank deeply. It could have been the finest Rhenish wine at that moment.

The blind man took the empty mug and it vanished inside one of his tattered coats.

He said, “They brings 'em 'ere sometimes, Captain. Men for the Trade. From 'ere they goes to smugglin' vessels, see?” He cocked his head, like a schoolmaster with some backward pupil.

Bolitho considered it. If it was so easy, why did the authorities not come and search the place? Major Craven had hinted at powerful and influential people who were more interested in profit than the enforcement of a law they insisted could not be maintained.

“Whose land is this?”

The blind man lay down on his side. “I'll rest now, Captain.”

For the first time since their strange rendezvous there was fear in his voice. The true, sick fear of one who has been on the brink of a terrible death.

He could almost envy the man's ability to sleep—perhaps he only ventured out at night. For Bolitho it was the longest day. He busied his thoughts with the commodore and the three cutters, until he felt his mind would crack.

And then, quite suddenly, or so it seemed, the light began to fade, and where there had been green trees and the glittering sea beyond, there were shadows of purple and dark pewter.

A few lights appeared in the boatyard's outbuildings, but only once or twice had he seen any movement, usually an armed man strolling down to the waterfront to relieve himself.

Bolitho examined every yard of the distance he would have to cover. He must avoid catching his foot or slipping in some cow dung. Surprise was his only protection.

He realised that the blind man was wide awake and crouching beside him. How could he live in such filth? Or perhaps he no longer noticed even that.

“What is it?”

The man pointed towards the sea. “A boat comin'.”

Bolitho seized his telescope and swore under his breath. It was already too dark, as if a great curtain had been lowered.

Then he heard the creak of oars, saw a shaded lantern reflecting on the water where a man stood to guide the boat in.

The blind man added, “A
ship,
Captain.”

Bolitho strained his eyes into the darkness. If ship there was, she showed no lights. Landing a cargo? He dismissed it instantly. The blind man knew better than anyone what they were doing— he had more than proved it. They were collecting sailors: men who had been marked
run
in their ships' logs; others who had managed to escape the gibbet; soldiers of fortune. All dangerous.

He heard the creak of oars again. Whatever it was, it had been quickly done, he thought.

He stood up, the cooler air off the sea making him shiver. “Wait here. Don't move until I return for you.”

The blind man leaned on his crude stick. “They'll gut you, sure as Jesus, if they sees you!”

“I have to know.” Bolitho thought he heard a door slam. “If I don't return, go to Major Craven.”

“I ain't goin' to no bloody redcoats! Not no more!”

Bolitho could hear him muttering querulously as he took the first steps down the grassy slope towards a solitary lighted window. He heard laughter, the sound of a bottle being smashed, then more laughter. So they had not all gone. Perhaps Allday . . . He reached the wall of the building and leaned with his back against it, waiting for his breathing to steady.

Then, very slowly he peered around the edge of the window. The glass was stained and covered with cobwebs, but he saw all he needed. It was a shipwright's shed, with benches and fresh planks piled on racks. Around a table he saw about six figures. They were drinking rum, passing the jar round, while another was cutting hunks of bread from a basket. Only one man was armed and stood apart from the rest. He wore a blue coat with a red neckerchief and an old cocked hat tilted rakishly on thick, greasy hair.

Bolitho glanced behind him. There was no other sound. So these men were also deserters, awaiting the next boat which could use them? There was an air of finality about the place, as if once they had gone, it would be abandoned, or returned to its proper use. Then there would be no evidence.
Nothing.
And Allday would be just as lost as ever.

Bolitho licked his lips. Six to one, but only the armed man, who was obviously one of the smugglers, presented real danger. He found that his heart was beating wildly, and he had to lick his lips repeatedly to stop them being glued with dryness.

They were all together, but any second one might leave the building and raise the alarm. They would soon arm themselves then.

Bolitho moved carefully along the wall until he reached the door. He could see from the lantern's flickering light that there were no bolts or chains.

It seemed to taunt him.
Have you been stripped of your courage too?
He was committed, and knew that he had had no choice from the beginning.

Bolitho eased the pistol from his belt and tried to remember if he had kept it clear of the water when he had waded ashore. He winced as he cocked it. Then he stood clear of the door, held his sword angled across his body, and kicked it with all his strength.

“In the King's name!”
He was shocked at the loudness of his voice in the confined space. “You are all under arrest!”

Someone yelled, “God damn, it's the press!”

Another gasped, “They told us we was
safe!
”

The armed man dropped his hand to the hanger at his belt and rasped, “He's not the press! I knows who he is, damn his eyes!”

Bolitho raised his pistol. “Don't move!” The man's face was twisted with anger and hatred and seemed to swim over the end of the muzzle like a mask.

Then he seized his hanger and pulled it from its scabbard.

Bolitho squeezed the trigger and heard the impotent click of a misfire. The man crouched towards him, his hanger making small circles in the lanternlight, while the others stared in disbelief, probably too drunk to register what had happened.

The man snarled,
“Get out! Fetch weapons!
He's alone—can't you see that, you gutless swabs?”

He lunged forward but held his legs as before. Sparks spat from the two blades, and Bolitho watched the man's eyes, knowing that whatever happened now, he could not win. They would set upon him like a pack, more afraid of the gallows than of killing a King's officer.

He could hear the rest of them clambering through a window, one already running through the darkness yelling like a madman. They would soon return.

He said, “You have no chance!”

The man spat at his feet. “We'll see!” Then he laughed. “Blade to blade, Captain bloody Bolitho!”

He slashed forward, and Bolitho parried it aside, locking hilts for a second so that he could thrust the man away, and hold him silhouetted against the lantern.