With All Despatch (28 page)

Paice said, “I don't care if it's stolen from Westminster Abbey.” He clinked glasses solemnly. “War. I received a signal late last night.” He waved his large hand across a pile of loose papers on the table. “These are from the admiral at Chatham. It has them all jumping. They should have been damned well expecting it!” He stared around the cabin. “They'll be asking
us
for men soon, you know that?
We
shall be using green replacements while our seasoned people are scattered through the fleet!”

Vatass was only half-listening. He did not share Paice's anxiety over the prospect of his
Telemachus
being pared away by the needs of war. All he could think was that he was young and once again full of hope. A new command—a brig perhaps, or even a rakish sloop-of-war. That would surely mean promotion.

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.

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.