For this was spring 1792, another year of uncertainty and threats of danger from across the Channel. But you would not think as much to watch the ladies in their frivolous gowns and bright colours, with their carefree, posturing escorts.
Two years back, when news of the bloody revolution in France had hit London like a broadside, many had feared that the butcher-ing, the murderous mobs and their guillotines would somehow spread their horror across the Straits of Dover. Others, naturally enough perhaps, had found comfort in their old enemy’s terrible change of circumstances.
It might have been better if England had put aside the rules of war for once and attacked the French when they were caught in their own turmoil. But that had not even been considered.
Drew turned away, his day, and the thought of dining later on in St James’s with some whist afterwards, turned sour.
Their Lordships of Admiralty expected miracles if they imag-ined that the fleet, left to rot in harbours and estuaries for most of the ten years since the American Revolution, could suddenly be rebuilt to anything approaching its old strength. Thousands of seamen and marines had been thrown on the beach, unwanted by a nation for which so many had died or been maimed in the King’s name. Officers, too, left on half-pay if they were lucky, begging for berths in the merchant service, trying to return to the sea which had been their chosen life.
Rear-Admiral Drew was nevertheless content with his own lot. There was even the promise of a mistress on a permanent basis now that he had managed to obtain an appointment for her husband, a young captain, in the East Indies.
He stared hard at a huge painting on the opposite wall. It depicted Admiral Vernon’s seventy-gun flagship Burford with all flags flying, her broadside battering a Spanish fortress, “The Iron Castle” at Porto Bello, at almost point-blank range. It was how the public, the romantics, liked to imagine a sea-fight, he thought. No blood, no terror of a surgeon’s blade, just the majesty of battle.
He permitted himself a small smile. Vernon’s fight had been some half-century ago, but the ships had changed hardly at all since then. No, he decided, his appointment here at the Admiralty was better than any quarterdeck. He would have his mistress, and his elegant London rooms; he would, of course, need to be seen on Sundays in the family pew on his Hampshire estate, with his wife and children.
He returned to the ornate table and sat down without enthu-siasm. His clerk had placed his papers in order. The clerk’s duty was to interrupt him after a pre-arranged time during each inter-view. It never stopped.
Soon the French would declare war. One could hardly describe this uneasy pause on the fringe of the Terror as little better any-way. As always England would be unprepared. Ships and men. Ships and men.
His gaze fell on the name on the uppermost sheet. Richard Bolitho Esquire. It looked much-handled, and Drew wished that someone else could take his place today. Richard Bolitho, who had distinguished himself in the American Revolution, and a man luckier than most, had held two highly successful commands since, the last being the frigate Tempest in the Great South Sea. His final battle with the frigate Narval and supporting schooners had been legendary. The French Narval had been seized by the notorious pirate Tuke after an uprising within her own company. The Bounty mutiny, then the horrendous news from Paris had given Tuke mastery of the barely defended islands. Only Bolitho’s command had stood between him and total control of the rich trade routes from the Indies.
And now Bolitho was here. He had, to all accounts, visited the Admiralty daily for several weeks. Like most professional sea-officers Drew knew a great deal about Bolitho. About his old Cornish background, and his fight against the shame which had cost his family dearly. His only brother Hugh had deserted from the navy after killing a fellow officer in a duel, and had then gone to seek his fortune in America; even worse, as a lieutenant, then the captain of a Revolutionary prize frigate.
No amount of courage and honour could completely wipe that stain away. And he had paid his debt in full, Drew thought as he turned over the papers. Wounded to the point of death; and then after the fight with Tuke’s Narval Bolitho had been struck down by fever. He had not been employed for two years and, if half of what Drew had heard in the elegant rooms around St James’s was true, he had nearly died many times during his fight to live.
Their Lordships must have a reason for their change of heart, the admiral decided—although on the face of it, it would seem better if Bolitho turned down this appointment, and be damned to the consequences.
Drew’s eyes sharpened as he recalled the rumour about Bolitho’s attachment for a government official’s lovely wife. She had died of fever and exposure after some desperate journey in an open boat. Drew covered the papers with a leather folder. An official’s lovely wife. That would make a change from some of the dull, earnest faces he had seen across this table, with their high-sounding requests in the name of duty or the King, as the fancy took them.
He picked up a small brass bell and shook it impatiently. Get it over with. In the event of another war against France, without the standards of monarchy to guide the old enemy, there might be no room for yesterday’s heroes. Admiralty agents in Paris had reported seeing whole families of alleged gentlefolk being dragged through the streets to lie beneath the blade of Madame Guillotine: even the children were not spared.
Drew thought of his serene estate in Hampshire and sup-pressed a shudder. It could not, must not happen here.
The clerk opened the door, his eyes downcast like a well-rehearsed player.
“Captain Richard Bolitho, Sir Marcus!”
Drew gestured expressionlessly to a chair which faced the table. As a captain he had taught himself the art of inscrutabil-ity, just as he had learned the skill of missing nothing.
Richard Bolitho was thirty-five but looked younger. He was tall and of slim build, and Drew observed that his white-lapelled coat with the buttons and gold lace of a post-captain hung just a bit too loosely on his frame. As he sat in the chair, Drew could sense his tension in spite of his efforts to conceal it. A shaft of sunlight played across his face and hair, a loose lock above the right eye barely hiding the great scar received when he had been hacked down as a youthful lieutenant in charge of a watering party on some island or other. The hair was black, like a raven’s wing, and the eyes which watched him steadily were grey, and reminded Drew of the Western Ocean.
Drew came straight to the point. “I am pleased to see you, Bolitho. You are something of an enigma, as well as one of England’s heroes.” The grey eyes did not blink and Drew felt off-balance. Irritated, too, that he and not Bolitho had been suddenly put on the defensive. After all, Bolitho was the one who had been begging for a ship—any ship.
He began again. “Are you feeling returned to fair health?”
“Well enough, Sir Marcus.”
Drew relaxed again. He was in command. He had seen the sudden anxiety which even Bolitho’s impassive gravity could not contain.
Drew continued, “You will know this tale of old, Bolitho. Too many captains, and not yet enough vessels to receive them. There are fleet transports and supply vessels, of course, but—”
Bolitho’s eyes flashed. “I am a frigate captain, Sir Marcus—”
The admiral raised one hand so that the frilled lace spilled over his cuff.
He corrected, “Were a frigate captain, Bolitho.” He saw the pain cross his face, the deeper lines which seemed to sharpen his cheekbones. The fever might still lurk there. He said smoothly, “And a fine one to all accounts.”
Bolitho leaned forward, one hand grasping the hilt of his old sword so tightly that the knuckles were as white as bones.
“I am recovered, Sir Marcus. In God’s name, I thought when I was admitted—”
Drew stood up and crossed to the window again. He had no sense of command or victory now. If anything he felt ashamed.
He said, “We need men, Bolitho. Seamen, those who can reef and steer, fight if need be.”
He turned briefly and saw Bolitho staring down at the old sword. Another part of the story, he thought. It had been in the family for generations. Had been intended for Bolitho’s brother. His disgrace and treachery had killed their father as surely as any pistol ball.
“You are being appointed to the Nore. As captain-in-charge of some small craft.” He waved his hand vaguely. “We have had many deserters from the Nore—they see smuggling as a more prof-itable profession. Some have even decamped to the Honourable East India Company, although I—”
Bolitho remarked coldly, “John Company has a record of treat-ing its people like men, Sir Marcus, not as some will use them.”
Drew turned and said sharply, “It is all I can offer. Their Lordships believe you to be suitable for it. However—”
Bolitho stood up and held his sword tightly against his hip.
“I apologise, Sir Marcus. It is not of your doing.”
Drew swallowed hard. “I do understand.” He tried to change the subject. “You will have none of your past company with you from Tempest, of course. She came home well before you and is now in service with the Channel Fleet. Tempest, and before that the—Unicorn, I believe?”
Bolitho watched him in despair. Doing his best. He heard himself reply, “Undine, sir.”
“Well, in any case—” It was almost over.
Bolitho said quietly, “I shall have my coxswain. He is enough.”
Drew saw one of the gilt door-handles drop; the clerk was right on cue.
Bolitho added, “It is history now, maybe forgotten entirely. But one ship, my ship, was all His Britannic Majesty’s navy had in the whole ocean to meet with and destroy Tuke.” He turned and appeared to be studying the great painting, hearing perhaps the true sounds of war, feeling the pain of a ship under fire. He continued, “I fell that day. It was then that the fever rendered me helpless.” He faced Drew again and smiled. The smile did not touch his grey eyes. “My coxswain killed Tuke. So you could say that he saved the islands all on his own—eh, Sir Marcus?”
Drew held out his hand. “I wish you well. My clerk will attend your orders. Be patient, Bolitho—England will need all her sailors soon.” He frowned. “Does that amuse you, sir?”
Bolitho took his cocked hat from the hovering clerk.
“I was thinking of my late father, Captain James as he was to all who knew him. He once said much the same words to me.”
“Oh, when was that?”
Bolitho withdrew, his mind already grappling with the brief outline of his commission.
“Before we lost America, sir.”
Drew stared at the closed door, first with fury and then unwill-ingly, with a slow grin.
So it was true after all. The man and the legend were one.
Captain Richard Bolitho opened his eyes with a start of alarm, surprise too, that he had fallen into a doze as the carriage rolled steadily along a deeply rutted track.
He looked through a side window and saw the various shades of green, bushes and trees, all glistening and heavy from another rainfall. Springtime in Kent, the Garden of England as it was called, but there seemed precious little sign of it.
He glanced at his companion, who was slumped awkwardly on the opposite seat. Bryan Ferguson, his steward, who did more than anyone to direct the affairs of the house and estate in Falmouth. He had lost an arm at the Battle of the Saintes. Like Allday, he had been a pressed man aboard Bolitho’s ship Phalarope, and yet the events then had joined them together. Something unbreakable. He gave a sad smile. Few would guess that Ferguson had only one arm as he usually concealed the fact with his loose-fitting green coat. From one outthrust boot Bolitho saw the gleam of brass and guessed that Ferguson was carrying his favourite car-riage pistol. To be on the safe side, as he put it.
God alone knew, the Kentish roads were deserted enough, perhaps too much so for highwaymen, footpads and the like.
Bolitho stretched and felt the ache in his bones. It was his constant dread that the fever might somehow return despite all that the surgeons had told him. He thought of the two years it had taken him to fight his way back to health, and finding the strength to relive it once again. Faces swam in misty memory, his sister Nancy, even her pompous husband the squire, “The King of Cornwall” as he had been dubbed locally.
And Ferguson’s wife who was the housekeeper in the great grey home below Pendennis Castle where so many Bolithos had begun life, and had left to follow the sea. Some had never returned. But above all Bolitho remembered his coxswain, Allday. He had never seemed to sleep, had been constantly close by, to help in the struggle against fever, to fetch and carry, and too often, Bolitho suspected, to accept his delirious bursts of anger.
Allday. Like an oak, a rock. Over the ten years since he had been brought aboard by the press gang in Cornwall their rela-tionship had strengthened. Allday’s deep understanding of the sea, his impudence when need be, had been like an anchor for Bolitho. A friend? That was too frail a description.
He could hear him now, talking with Old Matthew Corker the coachman, while Young Matthew occasionally joined in with his piping tones from the rear box. The boy was only fourteen, and the old coachman’s grandson. He was the apple of his eye, and he had brought him up from a baby after his father had been lost at sea in one of the famous Falmouth packet-ships. Old Matthew had always hoped that the boy would eventually follow in his footsteps. He was getting on in years, and Bolitho knew he had missed the right road on several occasions on the long haul from Falmouth, where weeks ago this journey had had its beginning. The old man was more used to the local harbours and villages around Falmouth, and as he had followed the road to London, pausing at inn after inn to change horses and pick up fresh post-boys to ride them, he must have wondered when he would eventually step down from his box.
The coach had been Bolitho’s idea. The thought of being taken ill on some part of the journey, perhaps on a crowded mail coach, had haunted him. This carriage was old, and had been built for his father. Well sprung, with the motion more like a boat on these roads than a vehicle, it was painted dark green, with the Bolitho crest on either door. The motto too, For My Country’s Freedom, picked out in gold scrollwork beneath.
He thought of that motion now as the carriage rolled past the endless bank of shining trees and fields. In his pocket were his written orders, the wording so familiar to him, and yet, in these circumstances, so barren.
To proceed to the Nore. The great River Medway, the towns which marked the miles to the Royal Dockyard at Chatham, and then on to the open sea.
To command what? As far as he could discover he was under the local control of a Commodore Ralph Hoblyn. His name at least was familiar, and he had served with distinction in the Americas before being badly wounded at the decisive battle of the Chesapeake in ’81. Another misfit perhaps?
Ferguson yawned and then collected his wits.
“Must be close to Rochester, sir?”
Bolitho pulled his watch from his breeches and felt his jaw stiffen as he flicked open the guard. She had given him the watch to replace one lost in battle. Viola Raymond. He had tried to recapture her in his thoughts a million times. To hear her laugh, see the light dance in her eyes because of something he had said. Dear, lovely Viola. Sometimes in the night he would awake, sweat-ing, calling her name, feeling her slip from his arms as she had on that terrible day in the open boat. She above all, who had shared the misery of what had appeared a hopeless passage under relentless sunlight, deprived of food and water with some of the men half-mad in their suffering. She had somehow sustained all of them, wearing his coat, bringing grins to their scorched faces and cracked lips. The Captain’s Lady, they called her.
Then, on that final day, when Bolitho knew they had found Tempest again, she died without even a murmur. In the night-mares which had followed, one scene always stood out stark and terrible above all else. Allday, holding her slim body, and with a boat’s anchor tied about her waist, lowering her into the sea. Her figure, white in the dark water, fading and fading, then nothing. But for Allday, he would have gone mad. He was still unable to think of her without pain.
He stared at the watch in his palm, the engraved inscription which he knew by heart.
“Conquered, on a couch alone I lie
Once in dream’s conceit you came to me
All dreams outstripped, if only thou wert nigh—”
Bolitho said, “We shall see the Medway directly.”
Something in the dullness of his voice made Ferguson watch him uneasily. The same dark, intelligent features, the eyes which could laugh or show compassion; and yet something was lost. Perhaps forever.
Old Matthew called out to the leading post-boy and the car-riage came slowly to a halt where the road met with the gradient of a shallow hill.
Old Matthew disliked using post-boys when he had handled four horses, even six at a time, from the age of eighteen in the Bolitho service. But it was a long journey back to Falmouth, to the last inn where he would recover his own two pairs of chest-nut horses, which he was said to love more than his wife.
Bolitho heard Allday mutter, “Not here, matey. I can manage without his blessing!”
The carriage moved forward again, the horses scraping their shoes on the damp ground and shaking their harness like sleigh bells.
Bolitho lowered a window and saw the reason for his cox-swain’s agitation.
They were at a dreary crossroads; a stone which read, To London, thirty miles shared the deserted place with a gibbet which swung slightly in the wet breeze.
A tattered, eyeless thing hung in irons. It was hard to believe it might have once lived and loved like other men. A felon, a common thief, now denied even the dignity of burial.
Bolitho climbed down from the carriage and stamped his feet to restore the circulation. He could smell salt from here, and beyond a ragged procession of trees he saw the great curving out-line of the river. It looked flat and unmoving, more like pewter than water hurrying to join the sea.
Through the haze of distant rain he saw the old town of Rochester, the ruins of some ancient fortification near the water’s edge. A town which, like many others around this part of Kent, lived off the navy and its great dockyard and victualling jetties. In times of war the townspeople listened at their locked doors when darkness fell, for fear of the hated press gangs which roamed the streets in search of men for the fleet. To begin with they combed the inns and lodging houses for prime seamen, but as the toll of war mounted, and every King’s ship cried out for still more hands, the press gangs had to be content with anyone they could find. Ploughmen and boys, tailors and saddle-makers, none was spared.
Many a ship would be forced to put to sea with only a third of her company trained seamen. The remainder, punched, threat-ened, and chased by boatswain’s mates with their “starters,” learned the hard way. Many were killed or injured in the process long before their captain had to face an enemy. Falls from aloft in a screaming gale, bones broken by waves surging inboard to sweep a man against a tethered cannon, and those who merely vanished, lost overboard with nobody able to help, or even to hear them go.
And now, with the clouds of war rising above the Channel, the press gangs were out again. This time they were seeking deserters and unemployed seamen. The press would never be pop-ular, but as yet there was no other way. England needed ships; the ships needed men. The equation had not altered in a hun-dred years.
Bolitho looked up and felt a shaft of watery sunlight touch his cheek. A captain of his own ship. Once an impossible dream, the greatest step anyone could make from wardroom to the pri-vacy of the great cabin. But to gain it and then have it taken away was even harder to accept.
His new command consisted of three topsail cutters, fast, highly manoeuvrable craft similar to those used by the Revenue Service. One was completing a refit in the dockyard, and the oth-ers doubtless awaited his arrival with curiosity or displeasure, and probably wondered why their world was to be invaded by a post-captain.
Bolitho had studied all the available reports with care, hop-ing to discover some glimmer of purpose which might make this appointment bearable. But it seemed as if in south-east England, and the Isle of Thanet in particular, the cat and the dog lived side by side. The revenue cutters hunted for smugglers, and the press gangs searched for unwilling recruits and deserters. The law-breakers, the smugglers who in many cases seemed better equipped and armed than their opposite numbers, seemed to do much as they pleased.
Bolitho remounted the coach and saw Allday watching him, his pigtail poking over the collar of his coxswain’s blue jacket.
Their eyes met. “Back again, Cap’n. Frigate or no, ’tis still the sea. Where we belong.”
Bolitho smiled up at him. “I shall hold to that, old friend.”
Allday settled down again and watched the horses lean for-ward to take the strain.
He had seen the tightening of Bolitho’s jaw. Like those other times when the deck had been raked with the enemy’s iron, and men had fallen on every side. And when he had forced himself to accept that his lady had gone, fathoms deep, to a peace he had been too late to offer her. And like the times when they had ven-tured from the old grey house, for those first pitiful walks together after the fever had released its grip. A few yards at first, and the next day, then the next, until Bolitho had thrust him away, plead-ing with him to let him go the rest of the way unaided. Once he had fallen in sight of the headland where the sea surged endlessly amongst the rocks. He had cried out brokenly, “She would have liked it here, old friend!”
And together they had won the battle. The hardest one Allday had ever shared.
Now he was back, and God help anyone who tried to stand against him. Allday touched the heavy cutlass beneath his seat. They’ll have to take me first, and that’s no error.
But they had not even driven into the outskirts of Rochester before trouble showed itself.
Bolitho had his orders spread on his knees as the carriage gathered speed down another hill when he heard Allday exclaim, “On the road, by God—looks like a riot! Better turn back, Old Matthew!”
The coachman was yelling at the post-boys, and Bolitho thought he heard Allday groping for a loaded piece from the weapons box.
“Stay!” Bolitho swung out of the door and held on to the handrail. The carriage was almost broadside across the road, the horses steaming and agitated by the baying sound of voices.
Bolitho drew a small telescope from his coat and levelled it on the road. There was a surging crowd of people, some waving their arms and sticks, others laughing and drinking from flasks. Two of them were mounted. They were all men.
Allday laid a short, heavy-muzzled blunderbuss on the car-riage roof and covered it with a piece of canvas from his seat.
He said harshly, “I don’t like it, Cap’n. Looks like a hanging mob.”
Ferguson was examining his small pistol and said, “I agree, sir. We should pull back. There must be a hundred of them head-ing this way.” He did not sound frightened. The Saintes had taught him to overcome fear. It was more like concern.
Bolitho held the small telescope steady. It was much easier with the carriage halted.
In the centre of the yelling crowd two figures, each with a halter tied around his neck, were being dragged along, their hands pinioned, their feet bare and bloodied on the rough road. One was naked to the waist, the other had had his shirt almost ripped from his back.
Ferguson said, “One of the mounted men, sir. He looks well dressed.”
Bolitho had already noted that. A heavy, bearded man with a fine hat and a cloak lined with scarlet. If anything he was incit-ing the mob, his words lost in distance.
Allday said, “Maybe they’ve caught a pair of thieves, Cap’n.” He glanced back up the hill as if still expecting to see the gibbet with its ragged skeleton.
Bolitho snapped, “Drive on!” He looked at Allday and saw his anxiety. “Those two thieves are wearing sea-officers’ breeches.”
Ferguson protested, “But, sir! That may be nothing to do with it!”
Bolitho looked steadily at Old Matthew. “When you are ready.”
The carriage rolled on to the road again. Even above the rat-tle of wheels and hooves Bolitho could hear the rising din of angry voices as they bore down on the procession.
“Whoa, there!” Old Matthew’s voice was harsh with anger. “Yew stand away from those horses, yew buggers!” Then the car-riage halted.
Bolitho stepped down on to the road, aware of the sudden silence, the staring faces, many flushed with drink, others gaping as if he had just appeared from hell.
He could feel Ferguson watching from the carriage window, his pistol just out of sight. Allday too, measuring the distance to jump to the ground. By then it might be too late.
It was Young Matthew who unknowingly broke the spell. He ran from behind the carriage to help quieten the lead horses. It was as if the mob did not exist.
The mounted man with the beard spurred his horse through the watching figures.
“What have we here, sir? A King’s officer, no less.” He made a mock bow in the saddle. “On his way to take charge of a fine ship at Chatham, no doubt! To protect us all from the Frenchies, eh, lads!”
There was some derisive laughter, but many of them were studying Bolitho more closely, as if they expected a trap of some kind.
Bolitho said shortly, “And what are you about, sir?” His hand dropped to his sword. “I’ll not be asking twice!”
The bearded man stared past him. Looking for an escort? It was hard to tell.
But he grinned confidently as he replied, “I am the deputy sheriff of Rochester, Captain.”
“That is something. Now we know each other’s rank.”
At that moment one of the captives threw himself to his knees and almost choked as someone dragged hard on the halter.
Bolitho recognised just one word. Lieutenant. It was enough.
“I would suggest you release these men at once. They are both sea-officers in the King’s service.”
He saw the significance of his words sink in, the way that some of the mob were attempting to drift away and dissociate themselves from the incident.
But the bearded man yelled, “And be damned to them and their bloody press gang, I say!” He stared around and showed his teeth as a few men shouted in support.
Like baying hounds at the kill, Bolitho thought.
He repeated, “Remove their ropes.” He nodded to Young Matthew. “Do it, boy.” He turned towards the deputy sheriff. “And you, sir, will dismount. Now.”
The half-naked lieutenant, his face and body cut and bruised from several blows, staggered to his feet.
“They attacked us, sir.” He was almost incoherent. His com-panion was much younger, a midshipman probably. One sign of panic now, and the rioters might rush them. They would be swamped.
Bolitho watched the bearded man dismount. “Where are their uniforms?”
He stared at Bolitho, then burst out laughing. “You are a cool one, Captain—I’ll give you that, for what it’s worth!” His mood changed. “They came without asking consent from the mayor. We taught them a lesson.” He tried to meet Bolitho’s gaze and added thickly, “They’ll not forget it!”
Bolitho waited. “Their uniforms?”
The man looked up at his mounted companion. “Tell him, Jack.”
The other man shifted uneasily in his saddle. “We threw ’em into a pigpen.” Nobody was laughing or jeering now.
Bolitho removed his hat and tossed it into the carriage.
“They are King’s officers, sir.”
“I know that, damn it. We were just doing it—”
“Then I suggest you insulted the King.”
“What?” Beneath his hat, the deputy sheriff ’s eyes bulged.
“You may take your choice. Draw that fine sword you wear so bravely.” He touched the old hilt at his side. “I think this may be a good place for it.” His voice hardened. “Nothing to say? No words for your courageous mob?”
A mist seemed to swirl across his eyes and for a moment he thought the fever had returned. Then he realised what it was. The same madness he had felt in the past when a battle had seemed hopeless and all but lost.
He had wanted to bluff this arrogant bully. Now he actually wanted him to take up the challenge, merely for the satisfaction of killing him. All the weeks of frustration, the anger and bitter-ness which had tested him throughout the months of despair, the waiting and pleading at the Admiralty, seemed to be joining in one terrible, vindictive force.
“I—I ask your pardon, Captain.” It was almost a whisper.
Bolitho eyed him with contempt. “I do not pardon cowards.” He glanced at the two shivering victims who had probably believed they were about to be hanged. “Get into the coach, gentlemen.”
He turned once more to the deputy sheriff. “Your sword.” He took it from him. The man seemed twice his size and yet his hand was shaking as if with a palsy.
Even now the crowd might regain its temper. But something had cooled them—the sight of his uniform, or the knowledge of their own guilt? He would never know. He drove the splendid blade beneath the rear box of the carriage, then leaned on it until it snapped like a carrot. Then he tossed it at the man’s feet.
“Cowards have no use for fine steel, sir. Now be off with you.”
The crowd parted and seemed to fade into the fields on either side of the road.
Bolitho climbed on to the step and looked up at his coach-man. “A brave lad you have there, Matthew!”
Corker wiped his brow with a red handkerchief.
“By God, Cap’n, yew ’ad me fair scared just then!”
Allday gently eased the hammer of his blunderbuss.
“You’ve made a bad enemy, Cap’n, an’ that’s no error.”
Bolitho closed the door and said, “And so, by God, has he!”
Then, as the carriage gathered speed, he folded his arms and asked the rescued men gently, “Now tell me in your own time what happened.”
As they spoke he had to clutch his arms tightly to his body to prevent them from shaking. It had been a near thing, although right from the beginning he had known instinctively that on such a deserted road the incident had been carefully planned for his benefit.
He smiled at his reflection in the rain-streaked glass. They had not been prepared for his reaction. And neither was I.
Ferguson saw the brief smile. For a few moments he had imagined everything was about to end. Now he saw that it was, for Bolitho, a beginning.