Lieutenant Triscott touched his hat to Paice. “The watch is aft, sir.”
Bolitho sensed the stiffness in his manner, something unusual for one so young and usually so buoyant.
“Relieve the wheel, if you please.”
The helmsman chanted, “West Nor’-West, sir! Full an’ bye!”
The members of the last dogwatch hurried to the hatchway while the relief took over and began to check running rigging, and the lashings of countless pieces of equipment and the guns which lined either side.
It was not just the first lieutenant who was showing strain, Bolitho thought. It was never easy in a small overcrowded hull at the best of times, and he was well aware of their resentment as day followed day, beating up and down, holding on to visual con-tact with Wakeful running far down to leeward, and preparing for what most of them thought was another empty rumour.
Bolitho blamed himself for much of it. It was Paice’s com-mand, but he watched everything himself, and tried to plan for whatever lay ahead.
Paice had had little to do with Commodore Hoblyn and was unwilling to voice an opinion as to the value of his information.
Perhaps he was still brooding over the murder of his own infor-mant and the calculated arrogance with which Delaval had displayed the man’s corpse. Or he might place Hoblyn in the cat-egory of senior officers who had been too long ashore to understand the stealth and cunning of this kind of work.
Whenever he was alone in his cot Bolitho was unable to lose himself in his plans. Allday would return to his thoughts again and again, so that he lay tossing and turning until he fell into an exhausted sleep, his anxieties still unresolved.
He noticed that neither Paice nor Triscott ever mentioned Allday in his presence. Either they were afraid to arouse his dis-pleasure, or, in the way of sailors, they were convinced that Allday was already dead.
Paice crossed the narrow poop and touched his hat, while his eyes watched the clear sky of evening.
“Might get some mist later, sir.” His gaze moved to Bolitho’s profile, assessing the mood. “But we can hold contact with Wakeful for a few more hours before we tell her to close with us for the night.”
Bolitho glanced up at the quivering mast where the lookouts squatted on the topsail yard. They had the other cutter in sight, but down here on deck the sea might have been empty.
They had twice met with a revenue lugger. Once she had car-ried a curt despatch from the commodore, a confirmation that his information was still valid.
The second time the lugger had carried news of a more dis-turbing nature. It seemed that there had been several daring runs made along the south coast, from as far afield as Penzance in Cornwall and Lyme Bay in Dorset. A revenue cutter had chased one schooner as far as the Isle of Wight before the smuggler had give her the slip in a sudden rain squall.
Paice had commented, “Seems that all the excitement is else-where, sir.”
A criticism of Bolitho’s strategy, perhaps, and the fact that their two cutters were placed as far as possible from any of the landings. The Customs Board had taken them very seriously, and had diverted every available vessel to seize or destroy any boats suspected of dropping smuggled cargoes. The navy had even loaned a thirty-two-gun frigate from Plymouth to offer support if the revenue vessels were outgunned or fought on to a lee shore.
Paice remarked, “First of May tomorrow, sir.”
Bolitho turned and said shortly, “I am aware of it. You may assure your people it is also the last day they will be required on this patrol.”
Paice held his gaze and replied stubbornly, “I implied no lack of faith, sir. But it could mean that the commodore’s intelligence, with all respect to him for I believe him to be a brave officer, was falsely offered. Any failure might be seen as something personal.”
Bolitho watched some fish leaping across the crisp wave which surged back from Telemachus’s plunging stem.
“You think the commodore would be ordered to withdraw our cutters?”
“It crossed my mind, sir. Otherwise why are we out here, and not even in the Strait of Dover? If it was a ruse, we are too far away to be of any use.”
“Is that the opinion of your whole command?” There was steel in his voice.
Paice shrugged heavily. “It is my opinion, sir. I do not ask oth-ers while I command here.”
“I am glad to know it, Mr Paice.”
It was reaching him now, like the rest of the vessel. No room to escape, no place to hide from others at any time of the day or night. Only the masthead lookouts had any sort of privacy.
After this Bolitho knew he would have to go ashore and set up his own headquarters like Hoblyn. And without even Allday to make the sea’s rejection bearable. He pounded his hand against the swivel gun’s wet muzzle. Where was he now? How was he faring? Perhaps some press gang had already taken him to a ship at Chatham where his explanation had fallen on deaf ears. What could he have hoped to achieve anyway? The endless, unanswered questions seemed to roar through his head like surf in a cave.
He turned his thoughts to Hoblyn, and Paice moved away to consult with Scrope, the master-at-arms, who had been hovering near the tiller for some time, trying to catch his commander’s eye. Paice had probably taken Bolitho’s silence as another buff, the slamming of a door which both had imagined was open between them.
What then of Hoblyn? He did not come from a successful family or even from a long line of sea-officers. He was, as far as Bolitho knew, the first to enter the navy which he had served without sparing himself until the terrible day he had been changed into a broken and disfigured relic, as he had described himself. Officially he was under the orders of the flag officer in command at the Nore, but like Bolitho was expected to act almost inde-pendently. Part of his work was making a list of vessels which in time of war could be purchased from their merchant service and used for the navy. Vessels under construction in the many yards around Suffolk and Kent would also have to be listed.
There were certainly openings for bribery. Money could soon change hands if a shipowner or builder could persuade a senior officer to pay a high price which could then be shared to mutual profit. Some vessels had changed hands several times in peace and war, and like the ill-fated Bounty had made good profits with each transaction.
If Hoblyn depended solely on a commodore’s pay, he was cer-tainly living far above it. The house was spartan Admiralty property, but the food and wine Bolitho had seen would have found favour on the table of the Lord High Admiral himself.
The yards Hoblyn visited would also be well known to the smuggling fraternity. Bolitho turned, and allowed the cold spray to dash across his face to clear his mind, like that first morning after Allday disappeared. His imagination was running wild, with a suspected felon in every shadow.
Hoblyn had tried to tell him in his own way; so had the admiral at Chatham. Let others fret over it, and content yourself with your daily lot until something better offers itself.
He was trying too hard. At the Admiralty he had been told in a roundabout way that he had been chosen because of his gal-lant record, something which might inspire young men to sign on, to wear the King’s coat because of his own service. It was a bitter reward.
The Nore and Medway towns were known for their distrust in the stirring words of a recruiting poster. In other wars the harbours and villages had been stripped of their young men, some who had gone proudly to volunteer, others who had been dragged away from their families by the desperate press gangs. The after-math had seen too many cripples and too few young men to encourage others to follow their example.
Relic. The word seemed to haunt him.
He watched some seamen clambering up the weather ratlines to whip some loose cordage which had been spotted by the boatswain’s eagle eye.
This was their ship, their home. They wanted to be rid of the officer who had once been a frigate captain.
There was a slithering footfall on deck and Matthew Corker moved carefully towards him, his young face screwed up with concentration. He held out a steaming mug. “Coffee, Cap’n.” He smiled nervously. “’Tis half-empty, I’m afraid, sir.”
Bolitho tried to return the smile. He was doing everything he could to please him, do the things which he had seen Allday do. He had even called him Cap’n, as Allday did and would allow no other. He had overcome his seasickness for most of the time.
“D’you still want to go to sea, Matthew?” The coffee was good, and seemed to give him strength.
“Aye, sir. More’n ever.”
What would his grandfather, Old Matthew, think of that?
A shaft of red sunlight ran down the mainmast, and Bolitho stared at it as the great mainsail rattled and boomed in the wind. A few more hours and all pretence would be over.
He would not be remembered as the frigate captain, but as the man who tried to use a cutter like one. Relic.
“I forgot to tell you something, sir.” The boy watched him anxiously. “Us being so busy an’ worried like.”
Bolitho smiled down at him. Us, he had said. It had not been easy for him either. The crowded hull, and doubtless some lan-guage and tales which he would barely understand after his sheltered existence at Falmouth.
“What is that?”
“When I took the horses to the stables at the commodore’s house, sir, I had a walk round, looked at the other horses an’ that.” Bolitho saw him screwing up his face again, trying to picture it, to forget nothing.
“There was a fine carriage there. My grandfather showed me one once, when I was very young, sir.”
Bolitho warmed to him. “That must have been a long time ago.”
It was lost on him. “It’s got a special kind of springing, y’see, sir—I’ve never seen another, until that night.”
Bolitho waited. “What about it?”
“It’s French, sir. A berlin, just like the one which came to Falmouth that time with some nobleman an’ his lady.”
Bolitho took his arm and guided him to the bulwark so that their backs were turned to the helmsmen and other watchkeepers.
“Are you quite sure?”
“Oh yes, sir.” He nodded emphatically. “Somebody had been varnishing the doors like, but I could still see it when I held up the lantern.”
Bolitho tried to remain patient. “See what?”“I forget what they calls them, sir.” He pouted. “A sort of
flower with a crest.” Bolitho stared at the tilting horizon for several seconds. Then he said quietly, “Fleur-de-lys?” The boy’s apple cheeks split into a grin. “Aye, that’s what my
granddad called it!” Bolitho looked at him steadily. Out of the mouths of babes . . . “Have you told anyone else?” He smiled gently. “Or is it just
between us?” “I said nuthin’, sir. Just thought it a bit strange.” The moment, the boy’s expression, the description of the fine
carriage seemed to become fixed and motionless as the lookout’s
voice pealed down to the deck. “Sail on th’ weather quarter, sir!” Paice stared across at him questioningly. Bolitho called, “Well, we know she’s not the Loyal Chieftain
this time, Mr Paice.” Paice nodded very slowly. “And we know there’s naught ’twixt
her and the land but—” Bolitho looked at the boy. “Us, Mr Paice?” “Aye, sir.” Then he raised his speaking trumpet. “Masthead!
Can you make out her rig?” “Schooner, sir! A big ’un she is, too!” Paice moved nearer and rubbed his chin with agitation. “She’ll take the wind-gage off us. It would be two hours or
more before we could beat up to wind’rd, even in Telemachus.” He glanced meaningly at the sky. “Time’s against that.” Bolitho saw some of the idlers on deck pausing to try and
catch their words.
He said, “I agree. Besides, when she sights Telemachus she might turn and run if she thinks we are about to offer a chase.”
“Shall I signal Wakeful, sir?” Once again that same hesitation.
“I think not. Wakeful will stand a better chance downwind if this stranger decides to make a run for the Dover Strait.”
Paice gave a tight grin. “I’ll say this, sir, you never let up.”
Bolitho glanced away. “After this, I hope others may remember it.”
Paice beckoned to his first lieutenant. “Call all hands, Andrew—” He glanced anxiously at Bolitho. “That is, Mr Triscott. Clear for action, but do not load or run out.”
Bolitho watched them both and said, “This is where Telemachus’s ability to sail close to the wind will tell. It will also offer our small broadside a better chance should we have to match the enemy’s iron!”
He crossed to the lee side and looked down at the creaming wake. There was only this moment. He must think of nothing further. Not of Allday, nor that this newcomer might well be an honest trader. If that were true, his name would carry no weight at all.
He heard the boy ask, “What’ll I do, sir?”
Bolitho looked at him and saw him falter under his gaze. Then he said, “Fetch my sword.” He nearly added and pray. Instead he said, “Then stand by me.”
Calls trilled although they were hardly needed in Telemachus’s sixty-nine-foot hull.
“All hands! Clear for action!”
Tomorrow would bring the first day in May. What might it take away? Bolitho lowered the telescope and spoke over his shoul-der. “What do you estimate our position, Mr Chesshyre?”
There was no hesitation. “’Bout ten miles north of Foreness Point, sir.”
Bolitho wiped the telescope with his sleeve to give himself time to digest the master’s words.
Foreness Point lay on the north-eastern corner of the Isle of Thanet, and the mainland of Kent. It reminded him briefly of Herrick, as had Chesshyre’s voice.
Paice said hoarsely, “If he is a smuggler he’ll be hard put to go about now, sir.”
Bolitho levelled the glass again and saw the big schooner’s dark sails standing above the sea like bat’s wings. Paice was right. The north-easterly would make it difficult, even hazardous to try and claw round to weather the headland. The lookouts would be able to see it from their perch, but from the deck it looked as if the two vessels had the sea to themselves.
Bolitho glanced at the sky, which was still cloudless and clear. Only the sea seemed darker, and he knew that sooner or later one of them would have to show his hand.
He pictured the coast in his mind. They were steering towards the old anchorage at Sheerness, but before that lay Whitstable, and as the two vessels maintained their same tack and speed they were slowly converging, drawing together like lines on the chart.
Paice said, “He’ll have to stand away soon, sir, or he’ll end up with Sheppey across his bows.”
Bolitho glanced along the deck, at the gun crews crouching or lounging by the sealed ports, each captain having already selected the best shot from the garlands for the first loading.
Bolitho had been in so many actions that he could recognise the casual attitudes of the seamen, the way they watched the schooner’s steady approach with little more than professional interest. With Allday it was different; but these men were not accustomed to real action. A few might have fought in other ships, but most of them, as Paice had explained, were fishermen and workers driven from the land because of falling trade.
Bolitho said, “You may load now, Mr Paice.” He waited for the lieutenant to face him. “He is not going to run, you know that, don’t you?”
Paice swallowed. “But I don’t see that—”
“Do it, Mr Paice. Tell the gunner’s mates to supervise each piece personally. I want them double-shotted but with no risk of injury from an exploding cannon!”
Paice yelled, “All guns load! Double-shotted!”
Bolitho ignored the curious and doubtful stares as several of the seamen peered aft to where he stood by the taffrail. He raised the glass again and watched the big sails leap into view. People too, at the bulwarks, and moving around the tapering masts. How would Telemachus look to them, he wondered? Small and lively, her guns still behind their port lids. Just one little cutter which stood between them and the land.
“D’you know her?” Bolitho lowered the glass and saw young Matthew staring at him unblinkingly, as if fearful of missing something.
Paice shook his head. “Stranger, sir.” To the master he added, “What about you?”
Chesshyre shrugged. “Never laid eyes on her.”
Bolitho clenched his fists. It had to be the right one. A quick glance abeam; the light was slowly going, the sun suddenly misty above the hidden land.
He said, “Bring her up two points, Mr Paice.”
Men scampered to their stations, and soon the blocks squealed, and the great mainsail thundered from its long boom.
“Steady she goes, sir! Nor’-West!”
“Run up the Colours!”
Bolitho dragged his eyes from the schooner and watched the gun crews. Some of them were still standing upright, gaping at the other ship.
Bolitho snapped, “Tell those bumpkins to stand to, damn them!”
He heard the big ensign cracking in the wind above the deck, then shouted, “Fire one of the larboard guns, Mr Paice!”
Paice opened his mouth to dispute the order, then he nod-ded. By firing a gun from the opposite side they would keep the whole starboard broadside intact.
Moments later the foremost six-pounder banged out, the smoke dispersing downwind before the crew had begun to sponge its barrel.
Bolitho folded his arms and watched the schooner, like the boy at his side, not daring to blink.
Paice said, “He’s ignored the signal, sir.” He sounded dazed, as if he scarcely believed it was happening. “Maybe he’s—”
Bolitho did not know what Paice intended to say for at that second there was a great flash from the schooner’s forecastle, and as smoke belched over the wave crests a ball smashed through Telemachus’s bulwark and burst apart on a six-pounder. Splinters of wood and iron shrieked away in all directions, and as the gun’s echo faded the sound continued, but this time it was human.
One of the seamen was on his knees, his bloodied fingers clawing at his face and then his chest, his scream rising until it sounded like a woman in terrible agony. Then he pitched on his side, his life-blood pumping across the sloping deck and into the lee scuppers. Several of the other sailors stared at the corpse with utter horror; and there were more yells and screams as another ball crashed into the bulwark and hurled a fan of splinters across the deck.
“Open the ports! Run out!” Paice was standing silhouetted against the surging water alongside, his face like a mask as men whimpered and crawled across the shattered planking, marking the pain and progress with their blood.
Bolitho called, “On the uproll, Mr Paice! It’s our only hope at this distance!” So it had happened just as Hoblyn had pre-dicted. His mind cringed as Triscott’s hanger sliced down and the six guns on the starboard side crashed out in unison. The car-ronade was useless at anything more than point-blank range, and undoubtedly the schooner’s master knew it.
He saw the sails dancing above the schooner’s deck and watched as some blocks and cordage plummeted over the side to trail like creeper in the water.
“Reload! Run out!” Triscott’s voice was shrill. “As you bear, lads!” He dropped his hanger again. “Fire!”
Bolitho saw several of the men peering round at their fallen comrades—how many had died or been cruelly wounded it was impossible to tell. At the same time Bolitho thought he saw their anxiety and sudden terror changing its face to anger, fury at what had been done to them.
Chesshyre yelled, “Down here—take over from Quin!” The helmsman in question had been hit in the head and had slumped unnoticed and unheard across the tiller bar, his eyes fixed and staring as they lowered him to the deck.
Chesshyre caught Bolitho’s glance and said, “They’ve a bit to learn, sir, but they’ll not let you down.” He spoke so calmly he could have been describing a contest between boats’ crews.
Bolitho nodded. “We must hit her masts and rigging.” He shouted in the sudden lull. “Gun-captains! Aim high! A guinea for the first sail!”
“Fire!”
Paice said harshly, “That bastard’s using nine-pounders if I’m any judge!” He gasped as a ball smashed hard down alongside and flung spray high over the bulwark.
Bolitho saw his expression as men ran to the pumps. Like pain. As if he and not the cutter had been hit.
There was a wild cheer and Bolitho swung round to see the schooner’s foresail tearing itself apart, the wind bringing her down as she fought against the confusion of sea and helm.
Bolitho bit his lip as another ball screamed overhead and a length of halliard whirled across the deck like a wounded snake. It could not last. One ball into Telemachus’s only mast would finish it.
Paice said wildly, “He can’t depress his nine-pounders, sir!”
Bolitho stared. Paice was more used to this kind of vessel and would know the difficulty of mounting a long nine-pounder on the deck of a merchantman.
“He’s trying to put about!” Triscott waved at his gun crews. “Into him, lads!” He watched as their grimy hands shot up. “Fire!”
Paice whispered, “Holy Jesus!”
Luck, the skill of an older gun-captain, who could say? Bolitho saw the schooner’s bowsprit shiver to fragments, the forecastle suddenly enveloped in torn shrouds and writhing canvas.
Paice searched through the drifting smoke for his boatswain.
“Mr Hawkins! Stand by the arms chest!” He tugged out his own hanger, his eyes back on the schooner. “By God, they’ll pay for this!”
Bolitho saw the distance dropping away as the crippled schooner continued to pay off downwind. His eyes narrowed and he heard the vague bang of muskets, the balls slamming against the cutter’s hull. How long? He gestured urgently. “Can you man-handle the other carronade to the starboard side?”
Paice nodded, his eyes blazing. “Clear the larboard battery, Mr Triscott! Lay the smasher to starboard and prepare to fire!” He glanced at Bolitho and added, “They may outnumber us, but not for long!”
Bolitho watched the punctured sails rising above the cutter as if to swoop down and enfold her, smother her into the sea. Fifty yards. Twenty yards. Here a man fell coughing blood, there another clapped one hand to his chest and dropped to his knees as if in prayer.
Bolitho pushed the boy down beside the companionway.
“Stay there!” He drew the old sword and pictured Allday right here beside him, his cutlass always ready.
“Stand by to board!” He saw their faces, some eager, others fearful now that the enemy was alongside. They could hear them yelling and firing, cursing while they waited for the impact.
Bolitho walked behind the crouching seamen, his sword hang-ing loosely from his hand.
Some glanced at him as his shadow fell over them, stunned, wild, filled with disbelief as he showed himself to the schooner’s marksmen.
“Ready!” Bolitho winced as a ball cut through the tail of his coat. Like a gentle hand plucking at it. “Now!”
The two carronades exploded in adjoining ports with a com-bined roar which shook the cutter from truck to keel. As the smoke fanned inboard and men fell about coughing and retching in the stench, Bolitho saw that most of the schooner’s forecastle had been ripped aside, and the mass of men who had been wait-ing to attack or repel boarders were entwined in a bloody tangle, which turned and moved as if one hideous giant had been cut down. The weight of grape with canister from the poop swivel had turned the deck into a slaughterhouse.
Bolitho gripped the shrouds and shouted, “To me, lads! Grapnels there!” He heard them thudding on the schooner’s bul-wark, saw a crouching figure beside an upended gun, as if watching the attack. But it was headless.
The two hulls ground into each other, lurched apart, and then responding to the hands at the grapnels came together in a deadly embrace. “Boarders away!” Bolitho found himself carried across to the other vessel’s deck, men thrusting past and around him in their need to get at their adversary.
Figures fell screaming and dying, and Bolitho saw Telemachus’s anger and jubilation change yet again to an insane sickness. With cutlass and pike, bayonets, even their bare hands they fell on the schooner’s crew with a ferocity which none of them would have believed just an hour earlier.
Bolitho shouted, “That’s enough!” He struck down a man’s cut-lass with his own blade as he was about to impale a wounded youth on the reddened planks.
Paice too was yelling at his men to desist, while Hawkins the boatswain and a picked party of seamen were already taking charge of halliards and braces, to prevent the two hulls from destroying each other in the swell.
Cutlasses were being collected by the victors, and the schooner’s company herded together, their wounded left to fend for themselves.
Bolitho said breathlessly, “Send men below, Mr Paice—some brave fool might try to fire the magazine.” More orders and some cracked cheers rose around him, and he saw Triscott waving his hat from Telemachus’s poop. The boy was standing near him, try-ing to cheer but almost choked by tears as he saw the devastation and the hideous remains left by the carronades.
Hawkins squeaked through blood and pieces of flesh, his boots like a butcher’s as he reported to his commander.
“All secured, sir.” He turned to Bolitho and added awkwardly, “Some of us was no ’elp to you, sir.” He gestured with a tarred thumb. “But you was right. The ’olds is full to the deckbeams with contraband. Tea, spices, silk, Dutch by the looks o’ it.” He lowered his voice and watched without curiosity as a badly wounded smuggler crawled past his boots. “I’ve set some armed hands on the after ’old, sir. Spirits by the cask, Hollands Geneva I’ll wager, and there may be more.”
Paice wiped his face with his sleeve. “Then she is a Dutchie.”
Hawkins shook his head. “Only the cargo, sir. The master is, or was, from Norfolk. Most of the others is English.” His lip curled. “I’d swing the lot of ’em!”
Bolitho sheathed his old sword. Hoblyn had been right about that too. The cargo intended for Whitstable had probably begun its journey in the holds of some Dutch East Indiaman. A quick profit.
He looked at the dead and dying, then across at Telemachus, her own pain marked in blood. There had been little profit this time.
Paice asked anxiously, “Are you well, sir?” He was peering at him. “You’re not hurt?”
Bolitho shook his head. He had been thinking of Allday, always close at times like these, and they had seen more than enough between them.
“I feel as if I have lost my right arm.” He shook himself. “Have the vessel searched before nightfall. Then we shall anchor until we can attend to our repairs.” He watched as one of the smugglers, obviously someone of authority, was marched past by two seamen. “That is good. Hold them apart. There is much we don’t yet know.”
Paice said simply, “My bosun spoke for us all, sir. We fought badly because we had no heart for it. But you are a man of war. We shall know better in future.”
Bolitho walked to the side, his whole being revolted against the sights and stench of death.
Hoblyn should be pleased; Their Lordships of Admiralty also. A fine schooner which after repair could either go to the prize court or more likely be taken into the navy. An illegal cargo, and desperate men who would soon hang in chains as a warning to others.
His glance moved over some of the huddled prisoners. A few of them might be pressed into service like their ship, provided they were found guiltless of murder.
It should have been enough. He felt a seaman offer his hard hand to assist him over the bulwark to Telemachus’s deck.
But if victory there was, it seemed an empty one.