With All Despatch (27 page)

“Anchor's aweigh, sir!”

Wakeful
came round into the breeze, her huge mainsail scooping all of it without effort and filling out with a crack of taut canvas.

“Hold her steady!” Queely was everywhere. “Let go and haul. Mr Kempthorne, they are like
old women
today!”

Bolitho heard the helmsman chuckle. “Wish they was, matey!”

He turned and looked for
Telemachus.
How tiny she looked when set against the tall buff-and-black hull of the new two-decker.

Allday saw the look and gave a rueful grin.

There would be no stopping him now.

By evening the wind still held steady enough from the southwest, and the sea showed no sign of lessening. Spray swept regularly over the duty watch, reaching for the hands working aloft on the yards. When it caught you unawares it was cold enough to punch the breath out of your body.

Bolitho was in the cabin, going over Queely's calculations, the notes which he had made from their last rendezvous. Nothing must go wrong. He thought of Tanner and tried not to let his anger break out again. Tanner was under Lord Marcuard's orders, and on the face of it had far more to lose than Bolitho if things went badly wrong. Unless you counted life itself, Bolitho thought. He was surprised he could face it with neither qualms nor surprise. It might mean that he was truly restored, that the fever which had all but killed him had finally released him, as a receding wave will toss a drowning sailor to safety, as if for a last chance.

He heard shouts on deck and Queely clattered down the companionway, his body shining in a long tarpaulin coat.

“Sail to the nor'-east, sir.”

More yells came from above. Queely remarked, “I'm changing tack. No sense in displaying our intentions.” He smiled faintly. “Yet, anyway.”

The hull staggered and then reared upright again, and Bolitho heard the sea rushing along the lee scuppers like a bursting stream.

“What is she?”

“I've got Nielsen aloft, a good lookout.” Again the ghostly smile. “For a Swede, that is. He reckons she's a brig. Square-rigged in any case.”

They looked at each other. Bolitho did not have to consult the chart to know that this stranger stood directly between them and the land.

“Man-of-war?” It seemed unlikely to be anything else out here and at this time of the year.

Queely shrugged. “Could be.”

The helmsman yelled, “Steady she goes, sir! Nor' by East!”

Queely frowned, seeing the complications in his thoughts. “Don't want to bring her up too much, sir. I know the nights are long, but we've precious little room for mistakes.”

Bolitho followed him on deck. The sea was covered with leaping white clusters of spray, but beneath them the water looked black, a vivid contrast to the sky which despite some early stars was still clear and pale.

The hull plunged her long bowsprit down like a hunting marlin and the water surged over the forecastle and hissed aft between the gleaming guns.

Queely cupped his reddened hands. “Where away, Nielsen?”

“Same bearing, sir! She changed tack when we did!”

Even from the deck amidst the din of spray and wind Bolitho could hear the man's Swedish accent. What was
his
story, he wondered?

Queely swore. “In God's name, sir! That bugger is on to us!”

Bolitho gripped a stay and felt it quivering in his hand as if it were part of an instrument.

“I suggest you steer more to the east'rd as soon as it's dark. We should cross his stern and lose him.”

Queely eyed him doubtfully. “So long as we can beat clear if the wind gets up, sir.”

Bolitho gave a dry smile. “There is always
that
provision, of course.”

Queely beckoned to his first lieutenant. “We shall hold this tack until—” The rest was lost in the boom of canvas and the creak of steering tackles as the helmsmen forced over the tiller bar.

Allday stood by the companionway and listened to the rudder. It was all to easy too picture the girl's pale shape as she had sawed frantically at the lines.
If only she had been spared.

He tossed the stupid thought from his mind and groped his way to the ladder. There was always tomorrow. But now a good “wet” of rum was all he needed.

When darkness closed in, and their world had shrunk to the leaping crests on either beam,
Wakeful
came about and under reefed topsail thrust her bowsprit towards the east. Immediately before that Queely joined Bolitho in the cabin and shook his hat on the littered deck.

“That bugger's still there, sir.” He stared at his cot but shut the picture of sleep from his thoughts. “I shall call you when it's time.” Then he was gone, his boots scraping up the ladder and on to the streaming deck above.

Bolitho lay down and faced the curved side. Just once he spoke her name aloud.
“Viola.”
And then, with his eyes tightly shut as if in pain, he fell asleep.

14. FAIR
W
IND . . . FOR FRANCE

H.M. C
UTTER
Wakeful
rolled heavily in the offshore swell, the motion made worse by a swift current at odds with a failing tide. Hove-to and with her flapping canvas in wild disorder, it felt as if she might easily dismast herself.

Queely had to shout above the din of rigging and wind. Caution was pointless; the clatter of loose gear and the sluice of water alongside seemed loud enough to wake the dead.

He exclaimed, “It's no use, sir! They're not coming! I have to suggest that we turn back!”

Bolitho held on to the shrouds and strained his eyes through the wind-blown spray. Queely was in command; he had plenty of reasons to be alarmed, and had been right to speak his mind.

Bolitho cursed the unknown vessel which had made them take a more roundabout course towards the Dutch coast. But for that they would have reached the rendezvous in good time. He felt Queely peering at the sky, imagining it was already getting lighter.

Bolitho said tersely, “They have orders to return on the hour.”

But they were fishermen, smugglers too, not disciplined sailors like those who stood or crouched around him.

Queely said nothing in reply. He was probably thinking much the same.

The wind had veered overnight, which made it even harder for Queely to maintain his position without the risk of being driven onto a lee-shore.

Bolitho tried to think what he must do.
What is the point? There is no other way.

Allday stood close by, his arms folded as if to show his contempt for the sea's efforts to pitch him to the deck. Occasionally he glanced up at the furled mainsail, the huge mast which leaned right over him, then staggered away to the opposite beam as the cutter rolled her gunports under.

He could tell from Bolitho's stance, the way he barely spoke, that he was tackling each of his problems in turn. Earlier Allday might have been satisfied to know this might happen. But now, having come this far, he wanted to go ahead, get it over with, like Bolitho.

Men scampered down the larboard side as a line parted and the boatswain called for them to make it fast.

Bolitho wondered what Tanner was doing, how he would react when he discovered he had been delayed.

“Boat, sir!
Lee bow!
”

Bolitho tried to moisten his lips but they felt like leather. A few more minutes, and then—

Queely rasped, “The same one as before! By God I thought they'd cut and run!”

Bolitho wrapped his boat-cloak around him, able to ignore the busy seamen with their ropes and fenders, pointing arms and angry voices as the two hulls swayed together for the first impact.

He said, “You know what to do. I'd not ask you to risk your command, but—”

They clung together as the two hulls lifted and groaned in a trough, men falling, others heaving on ropes, their bare feet skidding on the wet deck.

Queely nodded. “I'll be here, sir. If the Devil himself should stand between us.”

Then Bolitho followed Allday into the fishing boat. This time, her skipper gave him what might have been a grin. With the sea surging over the two vessels it could have been a grimace.

Bolitho sat inside a tiny hutchlike cabin and was thankful that the hold was empty of fish. Experienced though he was in the sea's moods, after the buffeting out there any stench might have made him vomit. Like when he had first gone to sea at the age of twelve.

The arrangements were exactly as before, although he sensed the Dutch crew's haste and nervous anxiety whenever they passed an anchored vessel, or riding lights betrayed the nearness of other craft. Merchantmen sheltering for the night, waiting for a favourable wind, men-of-war—they might have been anything. The final part of the journey was quieter, the sounds of sea and wind suddenly banished, lost beyond the endless barrier of waving rushes.

It was so quiet that Bolitho held his breath. Nobody bothered to conceal their approach and Allday whispered, “Even the mills are still, Cap'n.”

Bolitho watched a tall windmill glide above the rushes, stiff, and unmoving. It was eerie, as if nothing lived here.

The crew exchanged comments and then one clambered over the gunwale, his sea-boots splashing through shallows before finding the spur of land. One man ran on ahead, but the skipper stayed with Bolitho and waited for Allday to join them.

Bolitho felt a chill run up his back. The skipper had drawn a pistol from his coat and was wiping it with his sleeve. Without looking he knew that Allday had seen it too and was ready to cut the man down if need be. Was the Dutchman frightened—did he sense danger? Or was he waiting for the chance to betray them, as Delaval had done to so many others?

Allday said, “Someone's coming, Cap'n.” How calm he sounded. As if he was describing a farm cart in a Cornish lane. Bolitho knew that he was at his most dangerous.

He heard feet slipping on the track and saw the shadowy figure of Brennier's aide stumble, gasp aloud as the other Dutchman pulled him to his feet again.

He stopped when he saw Bolitho and turned back towards the house.
No blindfold.
He seemed close to panic.

Bolitho and the Dutch skipper pushed open the door, and Bolitho stared at the disorder around him. Cupboards ransacked, contents spilled on the floor, even some of the charred logs raked from the fire. The search had been as thorough as it had been quick.

Bolitho looked at the Dutch skipper. They were totally separated by language.

Then he turned towards the aide and was shocked at his appearance as he revealed himself beside a lantern.

His clothes were filthy, and there were pale streaks down the grime on his cheeks, as if he had been weeping.

“What is it, man?” Bolitho unbuttoned his old coat to free the butt of his pistol.
“Speak out!”

The man stared at him with disbelief. Then he said in a broken whisper,
“Il est mort! Il est mort!”

Bolitho seized his arm; it felt lifeless in his grip. “The admiral?”

The aide gaped at him as if only now did he realise where he was, that Bolitho was the same man.

He shook his head and blurted out,
“Non! It is the King!”

Allday rubbed his jaw with his fist. “God, they've done for him after all!”

The Dutchman thrust his pistol into his belt and spread his hands. It needed no language. The blade had fallen in Paris. The King of France was dead.

Bolitho wanted to find time to think. But there was none. He shook the man's arm and asked harshly, “Where is Vice-Admiral Brennier? What has become of him?” He hated to see the fear in the man's eyes. All hope gone. And now apparently left to fend for himself in a country which might be unwilling to offer him shelter.

He stammered, “To Flushing. We could wait no longer.” He stared at the disordered room. “You were late, Capitaine!”

Bolitho released his hold and the aide almost collapsed on to a bench. He was wringing his hands, stunned by what had happened.

Allday asked, “What do we do, Cap'n?”

Bolitho looked at the broken man on the bench. Somehow he knew there was more. He asked quietly, “And the treasure, m'sieu, what of that?”

The aide stared up at him, surprised by the change in Bolitho's tone.

“It is in safe hands, Capitaine, but it was
too late!
”

Safe hands.
There was only one other who knew about it. Now he was gone, taking the old admiral Brennier and the treasure with him. To Flushing. The name stood out in his mind like letters of fire. About twenty miles from here at a guess. It might as well have been a thousand.

He recalled Marcuard's remarks about the weather. News would travel slowly with the roads bogged-down or hidden in snow. Nobody here would know for certain when the King had been executed. He felt the sense of urgency running through him, chilling his body from head to toe. Anything might be happening. There was nobody here to ask. Even the farmer who owned this place had vanished—perhaps murdered.

The Dutch skipper said something to his companion, who was guarding the door, and Bolitho snapped, “Tell that man to remain with us!”

The aide murmured a few halting words in Dutch then added, “He wants paying, Capitaine.”

Allday muttered harshly, “Don't we all, matey!”

“If you help me, m'sieu, I will take you to England. Maybe you will discover friends there—”

He looked at Allday's grim features as the man threw himself on his knees and seized his hand, kissing it fervently.

When he looked up, his eyes were streaming, but there was steel in his voice now as he exclaimed, “I know the ship, Capitaine! It is called
La Revanche,
but flies the English flag!” He cowered under Bolitho's cold gaze. “I heard him talk of it.”

Bolitho spoke the name aloud. “Sir James Tanner.” The aide's fear told him everything he had not already guessed.

How apt a name. The
Revenge.
Tanner had outwitted them all.

Allday asked, “What can
we
do, Cap'n? Without a ship of our own—” He sounded lost and bewildered.

Bolitho said, “We had better be gone from here.” He strode to a window and threw back the shutter. The sky seemed paler. He must think of the present, not anguish over what had happened.
Wakeful'
s near encounter with the stranger had been deliberate, a delay engineered by Tanner. It had given him time to execute the rest of his plan. “We must try to explain to the Dutchman that we need to be taken downriver to his fishermen friends.” He stared at the aide again. “Tell him he will be well paid.” He jingled some coins in his pocket to give the words emphasis. “I'll brook no argument!”

Allday tapped the floor with the point of his cutlass. “I reckon he understands, Cap'n.” Again he sounded very calm, almost casual. “Don't you, matey?”

It would be a full day before
Wakeful
would dare to approach the rendezvous. Even then it might be too dangerous for Queely to draw near enough. Bolitho felt sick, and rubbed his eyes to rouse himself from despair.

Why should Tanner take the admiral, if his main intention concerned the treasure?

He walked out into the stinging air and looked up at some fast-moving cloud. It hit him like a clenched fist, as if the answer had been written in those same stars.

He heard himself say tightly, “The wind has veered yet again, Allday.” He glanced at the familiar, bulky shadow framed against the fading stars.

“It blows fair, old friend.” He added bitterly, “For France!”

Snapdragon'
s jolly-boat snugged alongside her anchored consort, and with the briefest of ceremony her commander, Lieutenant Hector Vatass, climbed aboard.

For an instant he paused and peered towards the shore. The wind was fresh to strong, but here in the Sheerness anchorage its force was lessened by the land, so that the snow flumes swirled around in an aimless dance. For a moment Vatass could see the headland beyond the dockyard; in the next it was all blotted out, with only his own vessel still visible.

Telemachus'
s first lieutenant guided him to the companionway and said, “Good to see you, sir.”

His formality was unexpected and unusual. But Vatass's mind and body were too strained from the rigours of his entrance to the anchorage in the early morning to make much of it. He had received a message from the coastguard that he was required back at Sheerness. The order had come from Captain Bolitho. It was not one to question, even though Vatass had been fretting already over losing a speedy schooner which had evaded him in a heavier snowsquall off the Foreland.

He found Paice sitting in the cabin, his features grave as he finished writing laboriously in his log.

Vatass lowered himself on to a bench seat and said, “I wish the damned weather would make up its mind, Jonas. I am heartily sick of it.” He realised that Paice was still silent and asked, “What is wrong?”

Paice did not reply directly. “Did you not meet with the courier-brig?” He saw Vatass shake his head. “I thought as much.”

Paice reached down and produced a bottle of brandy, half-filling two glasses. He had been preparing for this moment as soon as
Snapdragon
had been reported tacking around the headland.

He held up his glass and regarded the other man thoughtfully. “It's war, Hector.”

Vatass swallowed the brandy and almost choked. “Jesus! Contraband, I'll wager!”

Paice gave a wintry smile. Vatass was very young, lucky to command a topsail cutter, to command anything at all. That would soon change now. Commands would go to officers who were barely used to their present junior ranks.
Good old Jack again.
He knew that the enormity of his announcement had taken Vatass completely aback. The weak joke was all he had to give himself time to accept it.