With All Despatch (20 page)

He jerked the cutlass from the deck and gasped, “That feels better!” Then he hobbled over to the corpse and plucked the knife from it. It did not come out easily, and he muttered, “You did for that pig well enough!”

He stared up as shouts filtered down to them from that other world of sea and canvas. He heard the clatter of handspikes and tackles. They were moving the nine-pounder again. There could only be one reason. He gripped the girl's shoulder and wondered why she did not pull away. Maybe she was beyond that, beyond everything real and decent.

Allday gestured towards the little door in the bulkhead and made a sawing motion with the knife. He noticed there was still blood on it, but she watched his gestures without fear or revulsion.

He explained carefully, “You get through there an' cut the lines to the rudder, see?” He groaned as her eyes remained empty and without understanding. They would soon come looking for Newby, especially if they intended to close with another vessel. Allday levered open the little door with his cutlass and held the lantern closer so that she could see into the darkness of the after-part. Controlled by unseen hands, the rudder's yoke lines squeaked and rubbed through their blocks, the sea beyond the transom gurgling so loudly it seemed just feet away. Allday started as he felt her fingers on his wrist. She looked at him just once, her glance searching as if to share their resources, then she took the proffered knife and slithered through the small doorway. Once inside that confined space Allday saw her body suddenly pale in the darkness, and knew that she had tossed aside the last of her covering, as if that too was part of a nightmare.

He loosened his arms and winced as the pain probed through them. Then he peered up at the hatchway. It was the only way anyone could approach. He listened to the girl's sharp breathing as she sawed up and down on one of the stout hemp lines. It might take her a long while, a strand at a time. He spat on his palm and gripped the cutlass all the tighter. Now she had the strength of hatred and fear to help her. A few moments ago he had been expecting death, but only after the brutal severing of his arm.

Now, if only for a short while, they were both free, and even if he had to kill her himself, she would suffer that and nothing more.

A voice bellowed, “Where the
hell
is he?”

Allday bared his teeth. “Here we go then!” A shaft of light came down from the cabin and a voice called angrily, “Come on deck, you mad bugger! The cap'n's waitin'!”

A leg appeared over the coaming and Allday could feel the wildness surging through his mind and body like a raging fire.

He snarled, “Won't I do, matey?” The cutlass blade took the man's leg just above the knee with all his power behind it, so that Allday had to lurch away to avoid the blood and the terrible scream before the hatch was dropped into place.

As his breathing steadied he heard the regular scrape of the knife and murmured, “You keep at it, my lass. We'll show these bastards a thing or two!” He licked his dried lips. After that . . . But afterwards no longer mattered.

Bolitho walked aft to the compass box, aware of the loudness of his shoes on the damp planking. The
Telemachus'
s deck was filled with silent figures, but in the drifting mist he could have been with a mere handful of companions.

Chesshyre straightened up as he recognized him and said, “Barely holding steerage way, sir.” Even he spoke in a hushed whisper. Like all sailors he hated sea-mist and fog. Bolitho watched the tilting compass card. North-North-East. He watched it move again very slightly under the tiny lamp-glow. Chesshyre was right. They were holding on course, but making barely two knots, if that. It couldn't have been at a worse time.

Someone up forward began to cough, and Hawkins the boatswain rasped, “Stick a wad down yer gullet, Fisher! Not a squeak out of you, my son!”

Paice's tall shadow moved through the mist. Perhaps more than anyone he understood Bolitho's predicament, the agony of seeing his last chance slip away. To the smugglers it meant very little. Any landfall would do. They could rid themselves of their cargoes with ease once they were within sight of home waters.

Bolitho watched the winding tendrils of mist creeping through rigging and shrouds, while even in the darkness the big mainsail seemed to shine like metal from the moisture. It appeared as if the cutter was stationary, and only the mist was moving ahead.

It would be first light soon. Bolitho clamped his jaws together to contain his despair. It might just as well be midnight.

It was impossible to guess where the other two cutters lay. They would be lucky to regain contact when the mist cleared, let alone run down the decoy or Delaval.

Allday was out there somewhere. Unless he already lay fathoms deep, betrayed by his own loyalty and courage.

Paice remarked, “We
could
change tack again, sir.”

Bolitho could not see his face but could feel his compassion. He had wanted Delaval more than anyone. Was there nothing they could do?

He replied, “I think not. Attend the chart yourself and try to estimate our position and drift.” He spoke his anxiety aloud. “I know it's unlikely but there may be a ship just out there. Otherwise I would suggest more soundings. Anything is better than not knowing.”

Paice thrust his big hands into his pockets. “I shall put a good man aloft as soon as there is some daylight, sir.” He turned away, the mist swirling between them, the compass light vanishing. “I will check the chart.”

Lieutenant Triscott shifted uneasily, unwilling to break into Bolitho's thoughts.

Bolitho said, “What is it, Mr Triscott?” He had not meant to sound so sharp. “You are all on edge today!”

Triscott said lamely, “I was wondering, sir. Should we meet with the smuggler, I—I mean—”

“You are asking if we can overpower him without the other cutters?”

The youthful lieutenant hung his head. “Well, yes, sir.”

Bolitho leaned on the bulwark, the woodwork like ice under his fingers even though his body felt hot and feverish.

“Let us
find
him, Mr Triscott. Then you may ask me again.”

Chesshyre cupped his hands behind his ears. “What was that?”

Bolitho stared aloft but soon lost the shrouds and running-rigging in the mist, as if they led up to nowhere.

The boatswain called hoarsely, “Not
riggin',
sir!”

Bolitho held up his hand. “Quiet!” Like Chesshyre he had thought for just a few seconds that the sound had come from above, like a line parting under stress, or being too swollen with damp and carrying away inside a block. But it was not. It had come from outside the hull.

Men stood and swayed between the six-pounders; others clambered into the shrouds as if to listen more easily, all weariness and disappointment forgotten. At least for the while.

Paice appeared on deck, hatless, his thick hair moving in the wet breeze like a hassock of grass.

He said thickly, “I know
Telemachus
better'n I know myself, sir. Every sound carries down there to the cabin.” He peered angrily into the darkness. “That was a musket shot, or I'm a bloody nigger!” He glanced awkwardly at Bolitho. “Begging your pardon, sir!”

This time they all heard it. Muffled, the sound barely carrying above the shipboard noises within the confines of the deck.

Chesshyre nodded, satisfied. “Close, sir. Downwind of us. No doubt about it. The wind's poor enough, but it'll deaden the sound.”

Bolitho frowned with concentration. Chesshyre's observations were good ones. Who would be firing into mist without some kind of retaliation?

“Let her fall off a point.” He gripped Paice's sleeve as he made to move aft. “Pass the word to load both batteries. Gun by gun.” He let each word hang in the air. “I don't want anyone making a noise. We've not much time, but we've time enough for caution.”

Triscott and the gunner moved up either side, whispering instructions, gritting their teeth at the slightest creak or thud.

Bolitho walked forward between the busy, groping figures and stood in the eyes of the vessel, his fingers gripped around a stay with the tiny gurgling bow-wave directly beneath him. Once when he looked aft he thought the mist was thicker, for he could barely see the mast. It was like standing on a pinnacle, moving ahead, seeing nothing. One slip, and they would never find him.

There was another muffled shot and he felt a new disappointment. It seemed further away, on a different bearing. Mist distorted most things at sea, even a trained seaman's judgement. Suppose—he thrust it from his mind.
There was a ship there
. He could sense it. And if that someone kept firing, the sound would lead them to it. He tried to control his sudden anger. If only the mist would depart. He stared up at the sky. It was surely brighter now? It had to be.

Triscott called softly, “All loaded, sir.”

Bolitho climbed down from the stemhead and used the lieutenant's shoulder to support himself as he groped his way over the inboard end of the bowsprit.

As they walked aft between the guns a voice whispered, “We gonna fight, Cap'n?”

Another said, “There'll be prize money if we takes this 'un, eh, Cap'n?”

Someone even reached out to touch his arm as he passed, as if to regain a lost courage, to find comfort there.

Not for the first time was Bolitho grateful they could not see his face. He reached the compass-box and saw one of the helmsmen leaning backwards, his whole weight on the tiller bar, his red-rimmed eyes watching steadily for the tell-tale peak of the mainsail.

Bolitho stared at him, realising that he could see the man's stubbled face when moments earlier he had been hidden completely.

Paice exclaimed, “I'll go myself, sir!” Then he was away, swarming up the lee ratlines with the ease of a young topman.

Bolitho watched him until his outline merged into the remaining mist. His wife must have been proud of him, just as she had been ashamed of the people who had stood by and allowed a man to be murdered. She had probably been thinking of the tall lieutenant even as the pistol had cut short her life.

Paice slithered down a stay. “She's a brig, sir!” He did not seem to feel the cuts on his hands from the hasty drop. “I can just make out her tops'l yards.” He stared at Bolitho without seeing him. “Must be her! That bastard Delaval!”

Bolitho could feel the power of the man, the reborn force of his hatred.

“Two good hands aloft!”

Then Paice said in a more controlled voice, “No sign of any other sail, sir.” He clenched his hands and stared with disbelief at the blood on his wrists. “But by God, I'd walk on water to take that swine!”

There were more shots now and Bolitho offered silent thanks. If
Telemachus
could close the range and use her smashers it might compensate for the smuggler's heavier armament. The musket fire must be keeping them busy. Too busy even to put a lookout at the masthead.

A mutiny? He saw Delaval's cruel features in his mind. It was unlikely. A cold hand seemed to close around his heart and squeeze the life out of it.

It was Allday.

He was stunned by the flat calmness in his voice. “Alter course to engage, Mr Chesshyre. Pass out the weapons.”

He looked up at a small handkerchief of pale sky, and thought of the dead girl on
Wakeful'
s deck.

A long, painful journey. When the mist eventually cleared, it would be settled. He loosened the old sword at his hip.

For some it would be over.

Allday flung himself against the curving side and ducked yet again as a musket ball slammed through the partly open hatch.

He heard them calling to one another, the scrape of ramrods as they reloaded. He was sweating despite the chill air of the lazaret, and his whole body was streaming as if he had just dragged himself from the sea.

He gripped the cutlass and squinted up through the trapped powder smoke. It was just a matter of time. He shouted over his shoulder towards the small door, “Keep sawing, my lass! You'll get through!” Only once had he been able to watch the girl's progress. Even with a sharp blade it was hard work to cut through the stout rudder-lines. He had seen her pale outline rising and falling above the creaking lines, everything else forgotten, unimportant. She probably didn't even know why she was doing it, Allday thought despairingly, just as she understood not a word he said to her.

The hatch moved an inch, and the muzzle of a musket pointed blindly through the opening. Allday reached up and seized it, winced as he felt the heated metal, then tugged it hard, catching the man off balance so that he fell across the hatch, the musket exploding within a foot of Allday's head. Before the smuggler could release his grip Allday thrust upwards with his cutlass and yelled, “One for the pot, you bastards!”

He fell exhausted against the side, his eyes too raw from smoke to care about the blood which poured through the hatch like paint.