The Complete Midshipman Bolitho

by Alexander Kent

  Pyke grunted, satisfied or contemptuous it was impossible to say.

  He said, “Two men stand by the boat. Load your weapons now.” He gestured upwards into the darkness. “Ashmore, you stand guard. Watch out for any nosey bugger hanging around.”

  The invisible Ashmore asked, “An’ if I does, sir?”

  “Crack ’is ’ead, for Gawd’s sake!”

  Pyke adjusted his belt. “The rest of you, come with us.” To Bolitho he added, “Night like this, should be all right.”

  The snow swirled around them as they fumbled their way up a winding, treacherous pathway. Once, Bolitho paused to give a seaman his hand on a slippery piece of the track and saw the sea reaching out far below him. Impenetrable black lined with broken crests of incoming rollers.

  He thought of his mother. It was unreal to know that she was only twelve miles or so away from where he was standing. But there was a world of difference between a straight bird’s flight and the Avenger’s meandering track to this particular point.

  Pyke was tireless, and his long, thin legs were taking him up the path as if they did it every single day.

  Bolitho tried to ignore the cold and the blinding sleet. It was like walking into oblivion.

  He collided with Pyke’s back as the boatswain hissed, “ Still! Th’ cottage is up ’ere, somewhere.”

  Bolitho fingered his sheathed hanger and strained his ears, expecting to hear something.

  Pyke nodded. “This way.” He hurried on again, the track levelling off as the little group of men left the sea behind them.

  The cottage loomed out of the sleet like a pale rock. It was little more than the size of a large room, Bolitho thought, with very low walls, some kind of thatched roof and small, sightless windows.

  Who would want to live here? he wondered. It must be quite a walk to the nearest hamlet or village.

  Pyke was peering at the little cottage with professional interest. To Bolitho he said, “Man’s name is Portlock. Bit of everything ’e is. Poacher, crimp for the press gangs, ’e can turn ’is ’and to most trades.” He laughed shortly. “ ’Ow ’e’s escaped the noose all these years I’ll not know.” He sighed. “Robins, go ’alf a cable along the track and watch out. Coote, round the back. There’s no door, but you never knows.” He looked at Bolitho. “Better if you knocks the door.”

  “But I thought we were supposed to be quiet about it?”

  “Up to a point. We’ve come this far safe an’ sound.” He approached the cottage calmly. “But if we are bein’ watched, Mr Bolitho, we got to make it look good, or Mister bloody Portlock will soon be gutted like a fish!”

  Bolitho nodded. He was learning.

  Then he drew his curved hanger and after a further hesitation he banged it sharply on the door.

  For a moment longer nothing happened. Just the patter of sleet across the thatch and their wet clothing, the irregular breathing of the seamen.

  Then a voice called, “W-who be it at this hour?”

  Bolitho swallowed hard. He had been expecting a gruff voice to match Pyke’s description. But it was a female. Young by the sound of her, and frightened too.

  He heard the rustle of expectancy from the sailors and said firmly, “Open the door, ma’am. In the King’s name!”

  Slowly and reluctantly the door was pulled back, a shuttered lantern barely making more than a soft orange glow across their feet.

  Pyke pushed past impatiently and said, “One of you stay outside.” He snatched the lantern and fiddled with it, adding, “Like a bloody tomb!”

  Bolitho held his breath as the light spread out from the lantern and laid the cottage bare.

  Even in the poor light he could see it was filthy. Old casks and boxes littered the floor, while pieces of flotsam and driftwood were piled against the walls and around the dying fire like a barricade.

  Bolitho looked at the girl who had opened the door. She was dressed in little more than rags, and her feet, despite the cold earth floor, were bare. He felt sick. She was about Nancy’s age, he thought.

  The man, whom he guessed was Portlock, was standing near the rear wall. He was exactly as Bolitho had imagined. Brutal, coarse-featured, a man who would do anything for money.

  He exclaimed thickly, “Oi done nothin’! What right be yours to come a-burstin’ in ’ere?”

  When nobody answered he became braver and seemingly larger.

  He shouted, “An’ what sort o’ officer are you? ”

  He glared at Bolitho, his eyes filled with such hatred and evil that he could almost feel the man’s strength.

  “Oi’ll not take such from no boy! ”

  Pyke crossed the room like a shadow. The first blow brought Portlock gasping to his knees, the second knocked him on to his side, a thread of scarlet running from his chin.

  Pyke was not even out of breath. “There now. We understand each other, eh?” He stood back, balanced on his toes, as Portlock rose groaning from the floor. “In future you will treat a King’s officer with respect, no matter what age ’e’s at, see?”

  Bolitho felt that things were getting beyond him. “You know why we are here.” He saw the eyes watching him, changing from fury to servility in seconds.

  “Oi ’ad to be certain, young sir.”

  Bolitho turned away, angry and sickened. “Oh, ask him, for God’s sake.”

  He looked down as a hand touched his arm. It was the girl, feeling his sodden coat, crooning to herself like a mother to a child.

  A seaman said harshly, “Stand away, girl!” To Bolitho he added vehemently, “I seen that look afore, sir. When they strips the clothes off the poor devils on the gibbet!”

  Pyke said smoothly, “Or off those unlucky enough to be shipwrecked, eh?”

  Portlock said, “Oi don’t know nothin’ about that, sir!”

  “We shall see.” Pyke regarded the man coldly. “Tell me, is the cargo still there?”

  Portlock nodded, his gaze on the boatswain like a stricken rabbit. “Aye.”

  “Good. And when will they come for it?” His tone sharpened. “No lies now.”

  “Tomorrow mornin’. On th’ ebb.”

  Pyke looked at Bolitho. “I believe him. At low tide it’s easier to get the cargo ’ooked.” He grimaced. “Also, it keeps the revenue boats in deeper water.”

  Bolitho said, “We had better get the men together.”

  But Pyke was still watching the other man. Eventually he said, “You will stay ’ere.”

  Portlock protested, “But me money! I was promised . . .” “Damn your money!” Bolitho could not stop himself even though he knew Pyke was looking at him with something like amusement. “If you betray us your fate will be as certain as that meted out by those you are betraying now!”

  He looked at the girl, seeing the bruise on her cheek, the cold sores on her mouth. But when he reached out to comfort her she recoiled, and would have spat at him but for a burly seaman’s intervention.

  Pyke walked out of the cottage and mopped his face. “Save yer sympathy, Mr Bolitho. Scum breeds on scum.”

  Bolitho fell in step beside him. Broadsides and towering pyramids of canvas in a ship of the line seemed even further away now. This was squalor at its lowest, where even the smallest decency was regarded as weakness.

  He heard himself say, “Let us be about it then. I want no more of this place.”

  The sleety snow swirled down to greet them, and when he glanced back Bolitho saw that the cottage had disappeared.

  “This be as good a place to wait as any.” Pyke rubbed his hands together and then blew on them. It was the first time he had shown any discomfort.

  Bolitho felt his shoes sinking into slush and half-frozen grass, and tried not to think of Mrs Tremayne’s hot soup or one of her bedtime possets. Only this was real now. For over two hours they had wended their way along the cliffs, conscious of the wind as it tried to push them into some unknown darkness, of the wretched cold, of their complete dependence on Pyke.

  Pyke s
aid, “The cove is yonder. Not much to look at, but ’tis well sheltered, an’ some big rocks ’ide the entrance from all but the nosiest. At low water it’ll be firm an’ shelvin’.” He nodded, his mind made up. “That’s when it will be. Or another day.”

  One of the seamen groaned, and the boatswain snarled, “What d’you expect? A warm ’ammock and a gallon o’ beer?”

  Bolitho steeled himself and sat down on a hummock of earth. On either side his small party of seamen, seven in all, arranged themselves as best they could. Three more with the jolly boat somewhere behind them. It was not much of a force if things went wrong. On the other hand, these were all professional seamen. Hard, disciplined, ready for a fight.

  Pyke took out a bottle from his coat and passed it to Bolitho.

  “Brandy.” He shook with a silent laugh. “Yer brother took it off a smuggler a while back.”

  Bolitho swallowed and held his breath. It was like fire, but found just the right place.

  Pyke offered, “You can pass it along. We’ve quite a wait yet.”

  Bolitho heard the bottle going from hand to hand, the grunts of approval with each swallow.

  He forgot the discomfort instantly as he exclaimed, “I heard a shot!”

  Pyke snatched the bottle and thrusting it into his coat said uneasily, “Aye. A small piece.” He blinked into the darkness. “A vessel. Out there somewheres. Must be in distress.”

  Bolitho chilled even more. Wrecks dotted this shoreline in plenty. Ships from the Caribbean, from the Mediterranean, everywhere. All those leagues of ocean, and then on the last part of the voyage home, Cornwall.

  Rocks to rip out a keel, angry cliffs to deny safety to even the strongest swimmer.

  And now, after what he had heard, the additional horror of wreckers.

  Perhaps he had been mistaken, but even as he tried to draw comfort from the thought another bang echoed against the cliffs and around the hidden cove.

  A seaman whispered fiercely, “Lost ’er way most like. Mistook the Lizard for Land’s End. It’s ’appened afore, sir.”

  Pyke grunted, “Poor devils.”

  “What will we do?” Bolitho tried to see his face. “We can’t just leave them to die.”

  “We don’t know she’ll come aground. An’ if she does, we can’t be sure she’ll sink. She might beach ’erself up at Porthleven, or drift free of danger.”

  Bolitho turned away. God, Pyke does not care. All he is interested in is this job. A quick capture with the booty.

  He pictured the unknown vessel. Probably carrying passengers. He might even know some of them.

  He stood up. “We will go round the cove, Mr Pyke. We can stand by on the other headland. She’ll most likely be in sight very soon.”

  Pyke jumped to his feet. “It’s no use, I tell you!” He was almost beside himself with anger. “What’s done is done. The cap’n gave us orders. We must obey ’em.”

  Bolitho swallowed hard, feeling them all looking at him.

  “Robins, go and tell the men at the boat what we are doing. Can you find the way?”

  It only needed Robins to say no, to proclaim ignorance, and it was over before it had started. He could barely recall the other men’s names.

  But Robins said brightly, “Aye, sir. I knows it.” He hesitated. “What then, sir?”

  Bolitho said, “Remain with them. If you sight Avenger at daybreak you must make some effort to tell my, er, the captain what we are about.”

  It was done. He had disobeyed Hugh’s orders, overruled Pyke and taken it on himself to look for the drifting vessel. They had nothing but their weapons, not even one of Pyke’s centipedes to grapple the vessel into safer waters.

  Pyke said scornfully, “Follow me then. But I want it understood. I’m dead against it.”

  They started to scramble along another narrow path, each wrapped in his own thoughts.

  Bolitho thought of the brig Sandpiper where he and Dancer had faced a pirate ship twice her size. This was entirely different, and he wished yet again his friend was with him.

  As they rounded a great pile of broken rocks a seaman said hoarsely, “There, sir! Lights!”

  Bolitho looked, stunned even though he had been expecting it. Two lanterns, far apart and lower down the sloping side of the headland. They were moving, but only slowly, one hardly at all.

  Pyke said, “Got ’em tied to ponies, I expect. That ship’s master out there will think they’re ridin’ lights.” He spat out the words. “A safe anchorage.”

  Bolitho could see it. As if it had happened. As if he were there. The ship, which seconds before had been beset with doubts and near panic. Then the sight of the two riding lights. Other vessels safely at anchor.

  When in fact there was nothing but rocks, and the only hands waiting on the shore would be gripping knives and clubs.

  He said, “We must get to those lights. There may still be time.”

  Pyke retorted, “You must be mad! There’s no doubt a bloody army o’ the devils down there! What chance do we ’ave?”

  Bolitho faced him, surprised at his own voice. Calm, while his whole body was shaking. “Probably none, Mr Pyke. But we have no choice either.”

  As they started to descend towards the cove even the night seemed to become quieter. Holding its breath for all of them.

  “How long before dawn?”

  Pyke glanced at him briefly. “Too far off to ’elp us.”

  Bolitho felt for his pistol and wondered if it would fire. Pyke had read his thoughts. Hoping against hope that with daylight they might see the cutter standing inshore to help them.

  He thought of Hugh. What he would have done. He would certainly have had a plan.

  He said quietly, “I’ll need two men. We’ll go for the lights, while you, Mr Pyke, can take the remaining hands to the hill and cause a diversion.”

  Just like that.

  Pyke stared at him. “You don’t even know this beach! There’s not an inch o’ cover. They’ll cut you down afore you’ve gone a pace or two!”

  Bolitho waited, feeling his skin sticking to his wet shirt. He would be still colder very shortly. And quite dead.

  Pyke had sensed his despair, his determination to do the impossible.

  He said abruptly, “Babbage an’ Trillo will be best. They knows these parts. They got no cause to die though.”

  The one called Babbage drew his heavy cutlass and ran his thumb along the edge. The second seaman, Trillo, was small and wiry, and favoured a wicked-looking boarding axe.

  They both moved away from their companions and stood beside the midshipman. They were used to obeying orders. It was senseless to protest.

  Bolitho looked at Pyke and said simply, “Thank you.”

  “Huh!” Pyke beckoned to the others. “Follow me, men.” To Bolitho he added, “I’ll do what I can.”

  Bolitho set his hat firmly on his head, and with his hanger in one hand and the heavy pistol in the other he walked clear of the fallen rocks and on to the wet, firm sand.

  He could hear the two seamen squelching along at his heels, but the sounds were almost drowned by his own heartbeats against his ribs.

  Then he saw the nearest light, the shadowy outline of a tethered horse, and further along the beach another animal with a lantern tied across its back on a long spar.

  It seemed impossible that such a crude ruse would deceive anybody, but from experience Bolitho knew a ship’s lookouts often only saw what they wanted to see.

  He could see several moving figures, briefly silhouetted against the hissing spray around the nearest rocks. His heart sank, there must be twenty or thirty of them.

  The puny crackle of pistol shots echoed down into the cove, and Bolitho guessed that Pyke and his men were doing their part. He heard startled cries from the beach, the clatter of steel as someone dropped a weapon amidst the rocks.

  Bolitho said, “Now, fast as we can!”

  He dashed towards the horse, hacking the lantern from its spar so that it fell bu
rning on the wet sand. The horse reared away, kicking with terror, as more shots whined overhead.

  Bolitho heard his companions yelling like madmen, saw the seaman, Babbage, hack down a charging figure with his cutlass before running on to cut away the next lantern.

  A voice yelled, “Shoot those buggers down!” Someone else screamed in pain as a stray ball found a mark.

  Figures fanned out on every side, advancing slowly, hampered and probably confused by Pyke’s pistol fire from the hillside.

  One dashed forward, and Bolitho fired, seeing the man’s contorted face as the ball flung him backwards on to the beach.

  Others pressed in, more daring now that they realized there were only three facing them.

  Bolitho locked blades with one, while Babbage, slashing and hacking with his heavy cutlass, fought two men single-handed.

  Bolitho could feel his adversary’s fury, but found time to hear Trillo give just one frantic cry as he was struck down by a whole group of slashing weapons.

  “Damn your eyes!” The man was gasping between his teeth. “Now you die, you bloody rummager!”

  Dazed, his mind and body cringing to the inevitability of death, Bolitho was shocked at his own anger. To die was one thing, but to be mistaken for a revenue man was like the final insult.

  He remembered with stark clarity how his father had taught him to defend himself. Twisting his wrist with all his strength he plucked the other man’s sword from his hand. As he blundered past him he pointed his hanger and then laid it across his neck and shoulder.

  Then something struck the side of his head and he was on his knees, dimly aware that Babbage was trying to stand guard above him, his cutlass hissing through the air like an arrow.

  But darkness was closing across his mind, and he felt his cheek grind into the wet sand as he pitched headlong, his body exposed to the nearest thrusting blades.

  Soon now. He could hear horses and more shouts through the painful blur in his brain.

  His last conscious thought was that he hoped his mother would not see him like this.

  5 BAIT

  BOLITHO OPENED HIS EYES very slowly. As he did so he groaned, the sound thrusting straight through his aching body, as if from the soles of his feet.