The Complete Midshipman Bolitho

by Alexander Kent

  Harriet Bolitho pushed through the watching figures and lifted the cloak from Dancer’s shoulders. Then she took him in her arms, pulling his head to her shoulder, tears running unheeded down her cheeks.

  “Oh, you poor boy!”

  Dancer’s captors had stripped him of all but his breeches. Blindfolded and stumbling barefoot along a road unknown to him, had he fallen, he would certainly have died of the bitter cold. Someone had beaten him too, and Bolitho saw weals on his back like rope burns.

  Mrs Bolitho said huskily, “Mrs Tremayne, take these good men to the kitchen. Give them anything they want, money too.”

  The soldiers beamed and shuffled their boots. “Thankee, ma’am. It was a real pleasure to be sure.”

  Dancer lowered himself in front of the fire and said quietly, “I was carried to a small village. I heard someone say it was supposed to be a witches’ place. That nobody would dare come looking for me there. They laughed about it. Told me how they were going to kill me if you didn’t release their man.”

  He looked up at Hugh Bolitho. “I am sorry I failed you, sir. But our attackers looked like real soldiers, and acted without mercy.” He shuddered and touched his arm as if to hide his nakedness.

  Hugh replied, “What’s done is done, Mr Dancer. But I’m glad you are safe. I mean it.”

  Mrs Bolitho brought a cup of hot soup. “Drink this, Martyn. Then bed.” She sounded composed again.

  Dancer looked at Bolitho. “I was blindfolded all the time. When I tried to get it off I felt them holding a hot iron close to my face. One of them said that if I did it again I would not need a blindfold. The iron would take care of my sight.”

  He shivered as Nancy covered his shoulders with a woollen shawl.

  Hugh Bolitho banged his fist against the wall. “They were clever. They knew you’d not recognize their faces, but thought you might recall where you were being held!”

  Dancer got painfully to his feet and grimaced. He had cut them badly along the way before the troopers had found him.

  “I know one of them.”

  They all stared at him, thinking he was about to break down.

  Dancer looked at Mrs Bolitho and held out his hands until she took them in hers.

  “It was the first day. I was lying in the darkness, waiting to die, when I heard him. I don’t think they’d told him I was there.” He tightened his grip on her hands. “It was the man I saw here, ma’am. The one called Vyvyan.”

  She nodded slowly, her face full of sympathy.

  “You’ve suffered enough, Martyn, and we have been very worried for you.” She kissed him gently on the lips. “Now to bed with you. You’ll find everything you need.”

  Hugh Bolitho was still staring at him as if he had misheard. “ Sir Henry? Are you certain?”

  She exclaimed, “Leave it, Hugh! There’s been harm enough done to this boy!”

  Bolitho watched his brother’s strength returning, like a sudden squall approaching a becalmed ship.

  “A boy to you, Mother. But he is still one of my officers.” Hugh could barely conceal his excitement. “Right here under our noses. No wonder Vyvyan’s men were always nearby and we never caught anyone. He had to rid himself of his so-called prisoner before an examining judge arrived. The man would have informed on him to save his own life.”

  Bolitho felt his mouth go dry. Vyvyan had even had some of his own men shot down to make it look perfect. He was a monster, not a man at all. And it had nearly worked, might still work if Dancer’s story was not believed.

  Wrecker, smuggler and an important part of some planned uprising in America, it was like a growing nightmare.

  Vyvyan had planned all of it, outwitted the authorities from the very beginning. He had even put the idea of exchanging hostages in their minds.

  To his brother Bolitho said, “What will you do?”

  He gave him a bitter smile. “I am inclined to send word to the admiral. But now we will try to determine where this village is. It cannot be far from the sea.” His eyes shone like fires. “Next time, Richard, next time he will be less fortunate!”

  Bolitho followed Dancer up the stairs, past the watching portraits and into his room.

  “In future, Martyn, I will never complain about serving in a ship of the line.”

  Dancer sat on the edge of the bed and cocked his head to listen to the wind against a window.

  “Nor I.” He rolled over, worn out with exhaustion.

  As his head lay in the glow of some candles, Bolitho thought of that other one, dead in the wet grass, and was suddenly grateful.

  9 The DEVIL’S hand

  COLONEL DE CRESPIGNY SAT STIFFLY in the Avenger’s stern cabin looking around with a mixture of curiosity and distaste.

  He said, “As I have just explained to your, er, captain, I cannot take a risk on such meagre evidence.”

  As both the midshipmen made to protest he added hastily, “I am not saying I disbelieve what you heard, or what you thought you heard. But in a court of law, and make no mistake, a man in Sir Henry’s position and authority would go to the highest advocates, it would sound less than convincing.”

  He leaned towards Dancer, his polished boots creaking on the deck.

  “Think of it yourself. A good advocate from London, an experienced assize judge and a biased jury, your word would be the only voice of protest. The schooner’s crew can be held upon suspicion, although there is nothing so far to connect them with Sir Henry or any evil purpose. I am certain that fresh evidence will come to hand, but against them, and not the man we are after.”

  Hugh Bolitho lay with his shoulders against the cutter’s side, his eyes half closed as he said, “It seems we are in irons.”

  The colonel picked up a goblet and filled it carefully before saying, “If you can discover the village, and some good, strong evidence, then you will have a case. Otherwise you may have to rely on Sir Henry’s support at any court of enquiry. Cruel and unjust it may be, but you must think of yourselves now.”

  Bolitho watched his brother, sharing his sense of defeat and injustice. If Vyvyan was to suspect what they were doing, he might already have put some further plan into motion to disgrace or implicate them.

  Gloag, who had been invited to the little meeting because of his experience if not for his authority, said gruffly, “There be a ’undred such villages an’ ’amlets within five miles of us, sir. It might take months.”

  Hugh Bolitho said harshly, “By which time the word will have penetrated the admiral’s ear and Avenger will have been sent elsewhere, no doubt with a new commander!”

  De Crespigny nodded. “Likely so. I have served in the Army for a long while and I am still surprised by the ways of my superiors.”

  Hugh Bolitho reached for a goblet and then changed his mind.

  “I have made my written report for the admiral, and to the senior officer of Customs and Excise at Penzance. Whiffin, my clerk-in-charge, is making the copies now. I have sent word to the relatives of the dead and arranged for the sale of their belongings within the vessel.” He spread his hands. “I feel at a loss as to what else to do.”

  Bolitho looked at him closely, seeing him as a far different person from the confident, sometimes arrogant brother he had come to expect.

  He said, “We must find the village. Before they move the muskets and any other booty they’ve seized by robbing or wrecking. There must be a clue. There has to be.”

  De Crespigny sighed. “I agree. But if I send every man and horse under my command, I’d discover nothing. The thieves would go to earth like foxes, and Sir Henry would guess we were on to him. But ‘capturing’ that wrecker and then exchanging him was a master-stroke. It would convince any jury, let alone a Cornish one.”

  Dancer exclaimed, “Sir Henry Vyvyan told you he knew the prisoner and would catch up with him one day.”

  De Crespigny shook his head. “If you are right about Sir Henry, he will have killed that man, or sent him far away where he can do no harm.�
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  But Hugh Bolitho snapped, “No, Mr Dancer has made the only sort of sense I have heard today.” He looked about the cabin as if to escape. “Vyvyan is too clever, too shrewd to falsify something which could be checked. If we can find out who the man was, and where he came from, we may be on our way to success!” He seemed to come alive again. “It is all we have, for God’s sake!”

  Gloag nodded with approval. “ ’E’ll be from one of Sir ’Enry’s farms, I’ll bet odds on it.”

  Bolitho could feel the flicker of hope moving around the cabin, frail, but better than a minute earlier.

  He said, “We’ll send to the house. Ask Hardy. He used to work for Vyvyan before he came to us.”

  De Crespigny stared. “Your head gardener? I’d need a higher trust than that if I had so much in the balance!”

  Hugh Bolitho smiled. “But with respect, sir, you do not. It is my career in the scales, and the good name of my family.”

  Avenger rolled lazily at her cable, as if she too was eager to be at sea again, to play her part.

  Bolitho asked, “Well? Shall we try?”

  Bill Hardy was an old man whose touch with his plants and flowers was better than his fading eyesight. But he had lived all his life within ten square miles and knew a great deal about everyone. He kept to himself, and Bolitho suspected that his father had taken him on because he was sorry for him, or because Vyvyan had never tried to hide his admiration for and interest in Mrs Bolitho.

  Hugh Bolitho said, “As soon as we can. Carefully though. An alarm now would be a disaster.”

  Surprisingly, he allowed his brother and Dancer to return to the house with the mission. To keep it as simple as possible, or to avoid the risk of losing his temper, Bolitho was unsure.

  As they hurried across the cobbled square Dancer said breathlessly, “I am beginning to feel free again! Whatever happens next, I think I am ready for it!”

  Bolitho looked at him and smiled. They had been looking forward to Christmas together and facing one of Mrs Tremayne’s fantastic dinners. But the immediate future, like the grey weather and hint of rain, was less encouraging than it had seemed in Avenger’s cabin. It seemed likely they would be facing the table of a court of enquiry rather than Mrs Tremayne’s.

  Bolitho found his mother in the library writing a letter. One of the many to her husband. There must be a dozen or more at sea at any one time, he thought. Or lying under the seal of some port admiral awaiting his ship’s arrival.

  She listened to their idea and offered without hesitation. “I will speak with him.”

  “Hugh said no.” Bolitho protested, “None of us want you implicated.”

  She smiled. “I became implicated when I met your father.” She threw a shawl over her head and added quietly, “Old Hardy was to be transported to the colonies for stealing fish and food for his family. It had been a bad year, a poor harvest and much illness. In Falmouth alone we had some fifty people die of fever. Old Hardy lost his wife and child. His sacrifice, for he was a proud man, was for nothing.”

  Bolitho nodded. Sir Henry Vyvyan could have saved him. But Hardy had made the additional mistake of stealing from him. It was another glimpse of his own father too. The stern, disciplined sea captain, who to please his wife had taken pity on the poor-sighted gardener and brought him here to Falmouth.

  Dancer sat down and looked at the fire-place. “She never fails to amaze me, Dick. I feel I know her better than my own mother!”

  She returned within a quarter-hour and sat down at the desk again as if nothing had happened.

  “The man’s name is Blount, Arthur Blount. He has been in trouble before with the revenue men, but this is the first time he has been taken. He’s never in honest work for long, and when he is it is of little value. In and around farms, repairing walls, digging ditches. Nothing for any length of time.”

  Bolitho thought of the dead informant, Portlock. Like the man Blount, a scavenger, getting what he could, where he could.

  She added, “My advice is to return to your ship. I’ll send word when I hear something.” She reached out and rested her hand on her son’s shoulder, searching his face with her eyes as she said, “But take care. Vyvyan is a very powerful man. Had it been anyone but Martyn here, I might have disbelieved he could do all these terrible things.” She smiled sadly at the fair-haired midshipman and said, “But now that I know you, I am surprised I did not realize it for myself far earlier! He has links with the Americas and may well have further ambitions there. Force of arms? It is the way he has always lived, so why should he have changed now? It has taken a newcomer like Martyn to reveal him, that is all.”

  The midshipmen made their way back to the anchored cutter, feeling the freshening edge to the wind, and noting that several of the smaller fishing boats had already returned to the shelter of Carrick Roads.

  Hugh Bolitho listened to their story, then said, “I have had a bellyful of waiting, but I can see no choice this time.”

  Later, when it was dark, and the anchorage alive with tossing white crests, Bolitho heard the watch on deck challenge an approaching boat.

  Dancer, who had been in charge of the anchor-watch, clattered down the ladder and struck his head against a deckhead beam without apparently noticing.

  He said excitedly, “It’s your mother, Dick!” To the cutter’s commander he added in a more sober tone, “Mrs Bolitho, sir.”

  She entered the cabin, her cloak and hair glistening with blown spray. If anything it made her look younger than ever.

  She said, “Old Hardy knows the place, and so should I! You remember the terrible fever I was telling you about? There was some wild talk that it was a punishment for some witchcraft which was being performed in a tiny hamlet to the south of here. A mob dragged two poor women from their homes and burned them at the stake as witches. The wind, drunkenness, or just a mob getting out of hand, nobody really knew what happened, but the flames from the two pyres spread to the cottages, and soon the whole place was a furnace. When the military arrived, it was all over. But most of the people who lived in and around the hamlet believed it was powerful witchcraft which had destroyed their homes as punishment for what they had done to two of their own.” She shivered. “It is foolish of course, but simple folk live by simple laws.”

  Hugh Bolitho let out a long breath. “And Blount defied the beliefs and made his home there.” He looked at Dancer. “And certain others shared his sanctuary, it seems.”

  He stepped around his mother, shouting, “Pass the word for my clerk!” To the others he said, “I’ll send a despatch to de Crespigny. We may need to search a big area.”

  Dancer stared at him. “Are we going?”

  Hugh Bolitho smiled grimly. “Aye. If it’s another false lead, I need to know it before Vyvyan. And if it’s true, I want to be in at the kill!” He lowered his voice and said to his mother, “You should not have come yourself. You have done enough.”

  Whiffin bowed through the door, staring at the woman as if he could not believe his eyes.

  “A letter to the commandant at Truro, Whiffin. Then we will need horses and some good men who can ride as well as fight.”

  “I have partly dealt with that, Hugh.” His mother watched his surprise with amusement. “Horses, and three of our own men are on the jetty.”

  Gloag said anxiously, “Bless you, ma’am, I’ve not been in a saddle since I were a little lad.”

  Hugh Bolitho was already buckling on his sword.

  “You stay here. This is a young man’s game.”

  Within half an hour the party had assembled on the jetty. Three farm labourers, Hugh and his midshipmen, and six sailors who had sworn they could ride as well as any gentlemen. The latter included the resourceful Robins.

  Hugh Bolitho faced them through a growing downpour.

  “Keep together, men, and be ready.”

  He turned as another rider galloped away into the darkness with the letter for Colonel de Crespigny.

  “And if we meet
the devils, I want no revenge killings, no take this for cutting down our friends. It is justice we need now.” He wheeled his mount on the wet stones. “So be it!”

  Once clear of the town the horses had to slow their pace because of the rain and the treacherous, deeply rutted road. But before long they were met by a solitary horseman, a long musket resting across his saddle like an ancient warrior.

  “This way, Mr Hugh, sir.” It was Pendrith, the gamekeeper. “I got wind of what you was about, sir.” He sounded as if he was grinning. “Thought you might need a good forester.”

  They hurried on in silence. Just the wet drumming of hoofs, the deep panting of horses and riders alike, with an occasional jingle of stirrup or cutlass.

  Bolitho thought of his ride with Dancer, when they had joined the witless boy at the cove, with the corpse of Tom Morgan, the revenue man. Was it only weeks and days ago? It seemed like months.

  As they drew nearer the burned out village Bolitho remembered something about it. How his mother had scolded him when as a small child he had borrowed a pony and gone there alone but for a dog.

  This night she had described the superstition as foolish. Then, she had not sounded quite of the same mind.

  The horses milled together as Pendrith dismounted and said, “ ’Alf a mile, sir, an’ no more, at a guess. I think it best to go on foot.”

  Hugh Bolitho jumped down. “Tether the horses. Detail two men to stand guard.” He drew his pistol and wiped it free of rain with his sleeve. “Lead on, Pendrith, I’m more used to the quarter-deck than chasing poachers!”

  Bolitho noticed that some of the men chuckled at the remark. He was learning all the time.

  Pendrith and one of the farm hands moved on ahead. There was no moon, but a diamond-shaped gap in the racing clouds gave a brief and eerie outline to a small, pointed roof.

  Bolitho whispered to his friend, “They still build these little witch houses in some villages here. To guard the entrances from evil.”

  Dancer shifted uncomfortably in his borrowed clothing and hissed, “They didn’t have much success in this place, Dick!”