The Complete Midshipman Bolitho

by Alexander Kent

  Bolitho turned and studied her gravely. He had been thinking only of himself. Of his homecoming, his own pride at what he had done. And she had been made to face everything alone, as was too often the case with the women who married into the Bolitho family.

  His sister, Felicity, who was now nineteen, had been very happy to receive one of the young officers from the local garrison. While he was away she had married him, and had gone.

  Bolitho had guessed that his only brother, Hugh, would be away. He was four years his senior, the apple of his father’s eye, and at present a lieutenant aboard a frigate.

  He asked awkwardly, “And Nancy? Is she well, Mother?”

  Her face lit up, making her appear her old self again.

  “Indeed she is, Dick, although she is out visiting, despite the weather.”

  Dancer felt strangely relieved. He had heard a good deal about Nancy, the youngest of the family. She would be about sixteen, and something of a beauty, if her mother was anything to judge by.

  Bolitho saw his friend’s expression and said, “That is good news.”

  She looked from one to the other and laughed. “I see your point.”

  “I’ll take Martyn to his room, Mother.”

  She nodded, watching them as they climbed the stairway, past the watching portraits of long-dead Bolithos.

  “When the post-boy told us that the Gorgon was in Plymouth, I knew you would come home, Dick. I’d never forgive your Captain Conway if he’d denied me that pleasure!”

  Bolitho thought of the captain, aloof, impressively calm no matter what the hazards. He had never really pictured him as a ladies’ man.

  Dancer was studying one portrait at the turn of the stairway.

  Bolitho said quietly, “My grandfather Denziel. He was with Wolfe at Quebec. Grand old man, I think. Sometimes I can’t remember if I really knew him, or if it was what my father told me about him which remains.”

  Dancer grinned. “He looks a lively sort. And rear-admiral, no less!”

  He followed Bolitho along the landing, hearing the wind and sleet against the windows. It felt strange after a ship’s constant movement, the sounds and smells of a crowded man-of-war.

  It was always the same with midshipmen. They were constantly hungry, and being chased and harried in every direction. Now, if only for a few days, he would find peace, and if Mrs Tremayne had anything to do with it, a full stomach too.

  Bolitho opened a door for him. “One of the maids will bring your things, Martyn.” He faltered, his eyes like the sea beyond the headland. “I’m glad you came. Once or twice,” he hesitated, “. . . back over the months, I thought I would never be coming here again. Having you with me makes it feel complete.”

  He swung away, and Dancer closed the door quietly behind him.

  Dancer knew exactly what he had meant, and was moved to have shared the moment with him.

  He crossed to a window and peered through the streaming glass. Almost lost in the winter’s gloom the sea was lively and criss-crossed with angry crests.

  It was out there waiting for them to return.

  He smiled and started to undress.

  Well, it could damned well wait a bit longer!

  . . .

  “So, Martyn, what did you think of your first free evening?”

  The two midshipmen sat on either side of a roaring log fire, legs outstretched, eyes drooping from the heat and the biggest meal Mrs Tremayne had prepared for some time.

  Dancer raised his goblet and watched the flames change colour through the ruby port and smiled contentedly.

  “Something akin to a miracle.”

  It had been a lengthy meal, with Bolitho’s mother and his young sister Nancy both eager and willing just to let them talk. Bolitho had found himself wondering how many tales had been passed across that same table, some embroidered no doubt, but all true.

  Nancy had worn a new gown for the occasion, which she apparently had made in Truro. “The latest thing in France.” It had been low-cut, and although her mother had frowned once or twice, it made her look younger rather than wanton.

  She was much more like her mother than her sister, who took after the Bolitho side of the family, with the same ready smile which had charmed Captain James Bolitho when he had taken a Scottish girl for his wife.

  Nancy had made a great impression on Dancer, and Bolitho guessed it was probably mutual.

  Outside the curtained windows it was quieter, the sleet having given way to snow, which had already covered the outbuildings and stables in a thick, glistening blanket. No one would be moving very far tonight, Bolitho thought, and he pitied the coach on its way to Penzance.

  How still the house seemed, the servants having gone to bed long since, leaving the two friends to drowse or yarn as so inclined.

  “Tomorrow we’ll go to the harbour, Martyn, although Mr Tremayne tells me there’s little anchored in the Roads at present worth looking at.”

  The male half of the Tremayne family was the household steward and general handyman. Like the other retainers he was old. Although the Seven Years War had ended ten years back, it had left a lot of unfilled gaps in the villages and hamlets. Some young men had fallen in battle, others had liked the outside world better than their own rural communities and had stayed away. In Falmouth you were usually a sailor or a farm worker, and that was how it had always been.

  “Maybe it will be clear enough for us to ride, eh?”

  Bolitho smiled. “Ride?”

  “We don’t go everywhere in London by coach, you know!”

  Their laughter stopped in mid-air as two loud bangs echoed from the front doorway.

  “Who is abroad at this hour?” Dancer was already on his feet.

  Bolitho held up his hand. “Wait.” He strode to a cupboard and took out a pistol. “It is well to be careful, even here.”

  Together they opened the big double doors, feeling the cold wind wrap around their overheated bodies like a shroud.

  Bolitho saw it was his father’s gamekeeper, John Pendrith, who had a cottage close to the house. He was a powerfully built, morose sort of man, who was much feared by the local poachers. And there were quite a few of them.

  “Oi be sorry to disturb you, zur.” He gestured vaguely with his long-barrelled musket. “But one o’ the lads come up from the town. Old Reverend Walmsley said it were the best thing to do.”

  “Come in, John.”

  Bolitho closed the doors after them. The big gamekeeper’s presence, let alone his air of mystery, had made him uneasy in some way.

  Pendrith took a glass of brandy and warmed himself by the fire, the steam rising from his thick coat like a cart-horse.

  Whatever it was, it must be important for old Walmsley, the rector, to send a messenger here.

  “This lad found a corpse, zur. Down on the foreshore. Bin in the water for some while, ’e reckons.” He looked up, his eyes bleak. “It were Tom Morgan, zur.”

  Bolitho bit his lip. “The revenue officer?”

  “Aye. ’E’d bin done in afore ’e went into the water, so the lad says.”

  There were sounds on the stairway, and then Bolitho’s mother, wrapped in a green velvet cloak, hurried down towards them, her eyes questioning.

  Bolitho said, “I can deal with it, Mother. They’ve found Tom Morgan on the foreshore.”

  “Dead?”

  Pendrith said bluntly, “Murdered, ma’am.” To Bolitho he explained, “Y’see, zur, with the soldiers away, an’ the squire in Bath, the old Reverend turned to you like.” He grimaced. “You bein’ a King’s officer, so to speak.”

  Dancer exclaimed, “Surely there’s somebody else?”

  Bolitho’s mother was already pulling at the bell-rope, her face pale but determined.

  “No. They always come to the house. I’ll tell Corker to saddle two horses. You go with them, John.”

  Bolitho said quietly, “I’d rather he was here, with you.” He squeezed her arm. “It’s all right. Really. I’m not th
e boy who went off to sea with an apple in his pocket. Not any more.”

  It was strange how easily it came to him. One minute he had been ready for bed. Now he was alert, every nerve keen to sudden danger. From the look on Dancer’s face, he knew he was equally affected.

  Pendrith said, “I sent the lad back to watch over the body. You’ll remember the place, zur. The cove where you an’ your brother overturned that dory an’ took a good beatin’ for it!” He gave a slow grin.

  One of the maids appeared, and listened to her instructions before hurrying away to tell Corker, the coachman, what to do.

  Bolitho said, “No time to change into uniform, Martyn. We’ll go as we are.”

  Both he and his friend were dressed in mixed clothing which they had borrowed from chests and cupboards throughout the house. In a house which was, and had always been, a home for sea officers, there was naturally a plentiful supply of spare coats and breeches.

  They were ready to leave in fifteen minutes. From drowsy relaxation to crisp preparedness. If the Navy had given them nothing else, it had taught them that. The only way to stay alive in a ship-of-war was to stay vigilant.

  Horses clattered on the stones outside the doors, and Bolitho asked, “Who is the lad who found the body, John?”

  Pendrith shrugged. “The smith’s son.” He made a motion with his finger to his forehead. “Not all there. Moonstruck.”

  Bolitho kissed his mother on the cheek. Her skin was like ice.

  “Go to bed. I’ll be back soon. Tomorrow we’ll send someone to the magistrate in Truro, or to the dragoons.”

  They were out and mounted before the swirling snow made their journey more difficult.

  There were few lights to be seen in the town, and Bolitho guessed that most sensible folk were in bed.

  Dancer called, “I suppose you know most people hereabouts, or they know you? That’s the difference ’twixt here and London!”

  Bolitho tucked his chin into his collar and urged the horse through the snow. Fancy Pendrith remembering about the dory. He and his brother had been competing with each other. Hugh had been a midshipman then, while he had been waiting the chance to join his first ship. Their father had been beside himself with anger, which was unusual. Not for what they had done, but because of the worry they had given their mother. It was true too that he had beaten them both to make them remember it.

  Soon they heard the sea, rumbling and hissing against the headland and the necklace of rocks below. It was eerie under this mantle of snow. Strange shapes loomed through the darkness, while trees shed great pieces of their white burden to make sounds like a footpad running through the night.

  It took all of an hour to discover the cove, which was little more than a cleft in the solid rock with a small, sloping beach. The smith’s son waited for them with a lantern, humming to himself and stamping his feet on the wet sand for comfort.

  Bolitho dismounted and said, “Hold my horse, Martyn.” The animal was nervous and restless, as horses often were in the presence of death.

  The corpse lay on its back, arms outflung, mouth open.

  Bolitho forced himself to kneel beside the dead revenue man.

  “Was he like this, Tim?”

  “Aye, zur.” The youth giggled. “I was a-lookin’ for . . .” He shrugged. “Anythin’.”

  Bolitho knew all about the local blacksmith. His wife had left him long ago, and he sent his weak-minded son out of his cottage whenever he was entertaining one of his many female visitors. It was said that he had caused the boy’s mind to go by hitting him as a baby in a fit of rage.

  The youth said as an afterthought, “ ’Is pockets is empty, zur. Nary a coin.”

  Dancer called, “Is it the man, Dick?”

  Bolitho stood up. “Aye. His throat’s been cut.”

  The Cornish coast was renowned for its smugglers. But the revenue men were seldom injured in their efforts to find and catch them. With the squire away, and without his additional support as local magistrate, it would mean sending for aid from Truro or elsewhere.

  He recalled the gamekeeper’s words and said to Dancer, “Well, my friend, it seems we are not free of our duty after all.”

  Dancer soothed the restless horses. “I thought it too good to last.”

  Bolitho said to the youth, “Go to the inn and tell the landlord to rouse some men. We’ll need a hand-cart.” He waited for his words to sink in. “Can you manage that?”

  He nodded jerkily. “Oi think so, zur.” He scratched his head. “Oi bin ’ere a long time.”

  Dancer reached down and handed him some money. “That’s for all your trouble, er, Tim.”

  As the youth stumbled away, chattering to himself, Bolitho shouted after him, “And don’t give it to your father!”

  Then he said, “Better tether the horses and give me a hand. The tide’s on the make and we’ll lose the body in a half-hour otherwise.”

  They pulled the sodden corpse up the shelving beach, and Bolitho thought of other men he had seen die, yelling and cursing in the heat and din of battle. That had been terrible. But to die like this man, alone and terrified, and then to be thrown in the sea like some discarded rubbish seemed far worse.

  By the time help arrived and the corpse was taken to the church, and then they had all gone to the inn to sustain themselves, it was almost dawn.

  The horses made little noise as they returned to the house, but Bolitho knew his mother would hear and be waiting.

  As she hurried to greet them he said firmly, “No, Mother. You must go back to bed.”

  She looked at him strangely and then smiled. “It is good to have a man in the house once again.”

  2 The AVENGER

  BOLITHO AND DANCER ENTERED the front door, stamping their boots free of mud and snow, their faces and limbs tingling from a brisk ride across the headland.

  It had all but stopped snowing, and here and there gorse or shrub were poking through, like stuffing from a torn mattress.

  Bolitho said quietly, “We have company, Martyn.”

  He had already seen the coach in the yard where Corker and his assistant were tending to a fine pair of horses. He had recognized the crest on the coach door, that of Sir Henry Vyvyan, whose sprawling estates lay some ten miles to the west of Falmouth. A rich and powerful man, and one of the country’s most respected magistrates as well.

  He was standing by the crackling fire, watching Mrs Tremayne as she put the finishing touches to a tankard of mulled wine. She had her own receipt for it, with carefully measured ingredients of sugar, spice and beaten egg yolk.

  Vyvyan was an impressive figure, and when Bolitho had been much younger he had been more than a little frightened of the man. Tall, broad-shouldered, with a large hooked nose, his countenance was dominated by a black patch over his left eye. From above his nose, diagonally across the eye socket and deep into the cheek bone was a terrible scar. Whatever had done it must have clawed out the eye like a hook.

  The remaining eye fixed on the two midshipmen, and Vyvyan said loudly, “Glad to see you, young Richard, an’ your friend.” He glanced at Bolitho’s mother who was sitting by the far window. “You must be right proud, ma’am.”

  Bolitho knew that Vyvyan rarely spent his time on useless visits. He was something of a mystery, although his swift justice against footpads and highwaymen on and around his estates was well known and generally respected. He was said to have made his fortune privateering against the French and along the Spanish Main. Others hinted at slavery and the rum trade. They were all probably wrong, Bolitho thought.

  It was strange how unreal the revenue man’s death had seemed as they had ridden hard along the rutted coast road. It had been two nights since they had stood by the corpse with the smith’s moonstruck son, and now with a bright sky to drive the shadows away from the snow and the hillsides, it had all become like part of a bad dream.

  Vyvyan was saying in his deep voice, “So I says to meself, ma’am, with Squire Roxby an’ his family e
njoyin’ themselves in Bath, an’ the military away disportin’ themselves like dandies at our purses’ expense, who better than meself to get over to Falmouth an’ take the strain? I see it as me duty, especially as poor Tom Morgan was a tenant of mine. He lived just outside Helston, a stout, reliable yeoman. He’ll be sorely missed, not least by his family, I’m thinkin’.”

  Bolitho watched his mother, seeing her hands gripping the arms of her chair, the relief on her even features. She was glad Sir Henry had come. To restore security and kill the dangers of rumour. Bolitho had heard plenty of that on their two days of leave. Tales of smugglers, and spine-chilling talk of witchcraft near some of the smaller fishing villages. She was also relieved that Vyvyan and not her youngest son was to carry the responsibility.

  Vyvyan took the steaming tankard from Mrs Tremayne and said approvingly, “God swamp me, ma’am, if I didn’t hold Mrs

  Bolitho as a dear friend I’d lure you to Vyvyan Manor all for meself ! There’s none in the whole county who can mull wine like you.”

  Dancer cleared his throat. “What do you intend, sir?”

  The solitary eye swivelled towards him and held steady.

  “All done, me boy.” He spoke cheerfully and offhandedly, like one who is used to making and following through decisions. “Soon as I heard the news I sent word to Plymouth. The port admiral is a friend.” The eyelid dropped in a wink. “And I’d heard that your people have been active of late against the smugglin’ gentry. ”

  Bolitho pictured the big two-decker, Gorgon, laid up for repairs, her decks probably covered in snow. It would take longer than anticipated. Captain Conway might well see fit to grant extended leave to his junior officers. After all, when she put to sea again it could be several years before the Gorgon touched England once more.

  Vyvyan added, “The admiral will send a ship to deal with this matter. I’ll have no murderin’ scum working my coast!”

  Bolitho remembered that some of Vyvyan’s land ran down to the sea itself, from the dreaded Lizard to somewhere near the Manacles. A dangerous and cruel coastline. It would take a brave smuggler to try and land a catch there and face Vyvyan’s rough justice at the end of it.