With All Despatch (7 page)

Bolitho waited, not knowing quite what he had expected.

“I have received information.” He must have seen doubt in Bolitho's grey eyes. “From a better mouth than some wretched turncoat's.” Hoblyn calmed himself with an effort. “There's a cargo being landed at Whitstable ten days from now.” He sat back to watch Bolitho's expression. “It will involve a lot of men.” His dark eyes seemed to dance in the candlelight as the youth placed a silver candelabrum on the desk. “Men for the fleet,
or
the gallows, we'll strike no bargains, and a cargo to make these bloody smugglers realise we're on the attack!”

Bolitho's mind was in a whirl. If it was true, Hoblyn was right. It would make all the difference to their presence here. He pictured Whitstable on the chart, a small fishing port which lay near the mouth of the Swale River. More proof if any were needed of the smugglers' audacity and arrogance. At a guess, Whitstable was no more than ten miles from this very room.

“I'll be ready, sir.”

“Thought so. Nothing like a bit of humiliation to put fire in your belly, eh?”

A clock chimed somewhere and Hoblyn said, “Time to sup. The rest can keep. I know you're not one to loosen your tongue. Something else we have in common, I suspect.” He chuckled and then struggled around the desk while the youth waited to lead the way to another room.

As he bent over Bolitho saw the livid scars lift above his collar. He must be like that over most of his body. Like a soul banished from hell. They moved out into the same hallway where a servant waited at another pair of doors. There was a rich smell of food, and Bolitho noticed the cut and material of Hoblyn's clothes. His fortunes had changed if nothing else.

He was about to ask that a meal be sent for Young Matthew when he saw Hoblyn's hand brush against that of the footman.

Bolitho did not know if he felt disgust or pity.

As Hoblyn had said,
the rest can keep.

Bolitho awoke shocked and dazed and for a few agonising seconds imagined that he was emerging from the fever again. His skull throbbed like hammers on an anvil, and when he tried to speak his tongue felt as if it was glued to the roof of his mouth. He saw Young Matthew's round face watching him in the gloom, only his eyes showing colour in a feeble glow from the cabin skylight.

“What is it?” Bolitho barely recognised his voice. “Time?” His senses were returning reluctantly and he realised with sudden self-abhorrence that he was still fully clothed in his best uniform, his hat and sword on the table where he had dropped them.

Matthew said in a hoarse whisper, “You bin sleeping, sir.”

Bolitho propped himself on his elbows. The hull was moving very sluggishly on the current, but there were only occasionally some footfalls on the deck above.
Telemachus
still slept although it must soon be dawn, he thought vaguely.

“Coffee, Matthew.” He lowered his feet to the deck and suppressed a groan. Blurred pictures formed in his mind and faded almost as quickly. The laden table, Hoblyn's face shining in the candlelight, the comings and goings of servants, one plate following the next, each seemingly richer than that which had preceded it. And the wine. This time a groan did escape from his lips. It had been a never-ending stream.

The boy crouched down beside him. “Mr Paice is on deck, sir.”

He remembered what Hoblyn had revealed, the information he had gained on a Whitstable landing. The need for secrecy. How had he got back to
Telemachus
? He could remember none of it.

His mind steadied and he looked at the boy. “You brought me here?”

“It were nothing, sir.” For once he showed no excitement or shy pride.

Bolitho seized his arm. “What is it? Tell me, Matthew.”

The boy looked down at the deck. “It's Allday, sir.”

Bolitho's brain was suddenly like clear ice. “What has happened?”

Pictures flashed through his thoughts. Allday standing over him, his bloodied cutlass cleaving aside all who tried to pass. Allday, cheerful, tolerant, always there when he was needed.

The boy whispered, “He's gone, sir.”

“Gone?”

The door opened a few inches and Paice lowered his shoulders to enter the cabin.

“Thought you should know, sir.” He added with something like the defiance he had shown at their first meeting, “He's not borne on the ship's books, sir. If he was . . .”

“He's my responsibility, is that what you mean?”

Paice must have seen the pain in his face even in the poor light.

“I did hear that your cox'n was once a pressed man, sir?”

Bolitho ran his fingers through his hair as he tried to assemble his wits. “True. That was a long while ago. He has served me, and served me faithfully, for ten years since. He'd not desert.” He shook his head, the realisation of what he had said thrusting through him like a hot blade. “Allday would not leave me.”

Paice watched, unable to help, to find the right words. “I could pass word to the shore, sir. He may meet with the press gangs. If I can rouse the senior lieutenant I might be able to stop anything going badly for him.” He hesitated, unused to speaking so openly. “And for you, if I may say so, sir.”

Bolitho touched the boy's shoulder and felt him shiver.

“Fetch me some water and fresh coffee, Matthew.” His voice was heavy, his mind still groping.

Suppose Allday
had
decided to leave? Bolitho recalled his own surprise when Allday had not insisted on accompanying him to the commodore's house. It was all coming back. Bolitho felt his inner pocket and touched the written orders which the commodore had given him. It was a wonder he had not lost them on the way back to the cutter, he thought wretchedly.

Allday might have felt the affair of the
Loyal Chieftain
badly. God knew he had put up with enough over the past months— and with what reward for his faith and his unshakeable loyalty?

Now he was gone. Back to the land from which Bolitho's own press gang had snatched him all those years back. Years of danger and pride, loss and sadness. Always there. The oak, the rock which Bolitho had all too often taken for granted.

Paice said, “He left no message, sir.”

Bolitho looked up at him. “He cannot write.” He remembered what he had thought when he had first met Allday in
Phalarope.
If only he had had some education Allday might have been anything. Now that same thought seemed to mock him.

Somewhere a boatswain's call twittered like a rudely awakened blackbird.

Paice said heavily, “Orders, sir?”

Bolitho nodded and winced as the hammers began again. Eating and drinking to excess, something he rarely did, and all the while Allday had been here, planning what he would do, awaiting the right moment.

“We shall weigh at noon. See that word is passed to
Wakeful.
” He tried to keep his tone level. “Do it yourself, if you please. I want nothing in writing.” Their eyes met.
“Not yet.”

“All hands! All hands! Lash up an' stow!” The hull seemed to shake as feet thudded to the deck, and another day was begun.

“May I ask, sir?”

Bolitho heard the boy returning and realised that he would have to shave himself.

“There is to be a run.” He did not know if Paice believed him, nor did he care now. “The commodore has a plan. I shall explain when we are at sea and in company. There will be no revenue cutters involved. They are to be elsewhere.” How simple it must have sounded across that overloaded table. And all the while the handsome youth in the white wig had watched and listened.

Paice said haltingly, “I sent the first lieutenant ashore to collect two of the hands, sir. They were found drunk at a local inn.” He forced a grin. “Thought it best if he was out of the way 'til

I'd spoken with you.”

The boy put down a pot of coffee and groped about for a mug.

Bolitho replied, “That was thoughtful of you, Mr Paice.”

Paice shrugged. “I believe we may be of one mind, sir.”

Bolitho stood up carefully and thrust open the skylight. The air was still cool and sweet from the land. Maybe he no longer belonged at sea. Was that what Allday had been feeling too?

He glanced down and saw Matthew moving a small roll of canvas away from the cot.

Paice backed from the cabin. “I shall muster the hands, sir. No matter what men may believe, a ship has no patience and must be served fairly at all times.”

Bolitho did not hear the door close. “What is that parcel, Matthew?”

The boy picked it up and shrugged unhappily. “I think it belonged to Allday, sir.” He sounded afraid, as if he in some way shared the guilt.

Bolitho took it from him and opened it carefully on the cot where he had lain like some drunken oaf.

The small knives, tools which Allday had mostly made with his own hands. Carefully collected oddments of brass and copper, sailmaker's twine, some newly fashioned spars and booms.

Bolitho was crouching now, his hands almost shaking as he untied the innermost packet and put it on the cot with great care.

Allday never carried much with him as he went from ship to ship. He had placed little importance on possessions. Only in his models, his ships which he had fashioned with all the skill and love he had gained over the years at sea.

He heard the boy's sharp intake of breath. “It's lovely, sir!”

Bolitho touched the little model and felt his eyes prick with sudden emotion. Unpainted still, but there was no mistaking the shape and grace of a frigate, the gunports as yet unfilled with tiny cannon still to be made, the masts and rigging still carried only in Allday's mind. His fingers paused at the small, delicately carved figurehead, one which Bolitho remembered so clearly, as if it were life-sized instead of a tiny copy. The wild-eyed girl with streaming hair, and a horn fashioned like a great shell.

Young Matthew said questioningly, “A frigate, sir?”

Bolitho stared at it until he could barely see. It was not just any ship. With Allday it rarely was.

He heard himself murmur, “She is my last command, Matthew. My
Tempest.
”

The boy responded in a whisper, “I wonder why he left it behind, sir?”

Bolitho turned him by the shoulder and gripped it until he winced. “Don't you see, Matthew? He could tell no one what he was about, nor could he write a few words to rest my fears for him.” He looked again at the unfinished model. “This was the best way he knew of telling me. That ship meant so much to both of us for a hundred different reasons. He'd never abandon it.”

The boy watched as Bolitho stood up to the skylight again, barely able to grasp it, and yet knowing he was the only one who was sharing the secret.

Bolitho said slowly, “
God damn him
for his stubbornness!” He bunched his hand against the open skylight. “And God protect you, old friend, until your return!”

Marching in pairs the press gang advanced along yet another narrow street, their shoes ringing on the cobbles, their eyes everywhere as they probed the shadows.

At the head a tight-lipped lieutenant strode with his hanger already drawn, a midshipman following a few paces behind him.

Here and there the ancient houses seemed to bow across the lanes until they appeared to touch one another. The lieutenant glanced at each dark or shuttered window, especially at those which hung directly above their wary progress. It was all too common for someone to hurl down a bucket of filth on to the hated press gangs as they carried out their thankless patrols.

The lieutenant, like most of them in the local impressment service, had heard all about the two officers being stripped, beaten and publicly humiliated on the open road, with no one raising a hand to aid them. Only the timely appearance of the post-captain and his apparent total disregard for his own safety had saved the officers from far worse.

The lieutenant had been careful to announce his intentions of seeking prime seamen for the fleet, as so ordered. He slashed out angrily at a shadow with his hanger and swore under his breath. You might just as well ring the church bells to reveal what you were about, he thought. The result was usually the same. Just a few luckless ones, and some of those had been lured into the hands of the press gangs, usually by their own employers who wanted to be rid of them. A groom who had perhaps become too free with a landowner's daughter, a footman who had served a mistress better than the man who paid for her luxuries. But trained hands? It would be a joke, if it were not so serious.

The lieutenant snapped, “Close up in the rear!” It was unnecessary; they always kept together, their heavy cudgels and cutlasses ready for immediate use if attacked, and he knew they resented his words. But he hated the work, just as he longed for the chance of a ship. Some people foolishly wrung their hands, and clergymen prayed that war would never come.