Pendrith’s untidy shape came bounding amongst them, and Bolitho imagined he was being chased, or that some of the legends were true after all.
But the gamekeeper said urgently, “There’s a fire of sorts, sir! T’other side of the place!”
He turned, his face glowing red as a great tongue of flame soared skyward, the sparks whirling and carrying on the wind like a million spiteful fire-flies.
Several of the men cried out with fear, and even Bolitho who was used to tales of local witches and their covens, felt ice running up his spine.
Hugh Bolitho charged through the bushes, all caution thrown aside as he yelled, “They’ve fired a cottage! Lively, lads!”
When they reached the tiny cottage it was already blazing like an inferno. Great plumes of sparks swirled down amongst the smoke-blinded seamen, stinging them, trying to hold them at bay.
“Mr Dancer! Take two men and get around to the far side!”
In the fast spreading flames, the crouching seamen and farm hands stood out clearly against the backcloth of trees and rain. Bolitho wrapped his neckcloth around his mouth and nose and kicked at the sagging door with all his strength. More flames and sparks seared his legs, as with a rumbling crash the remains of the thatched roof and timbers collapsed within the cottage.
Pendrith was bawling, “Come back, d’you hear, Master Richard! Ain’t no use!”
Bolitho turned away and then saw his brother’s face. He was staring at the flames, oblivious to the heat and the hissing sparks. In those few seconds it was all laid bare. His brother saw his own hopes and future burning with the cottage. Somebody had set it alight, no ordinary fire could burst out like this in the middle of a downpour. Equally quickly, he made up his mind.
He threw himself against the door again, shutting his mind to everything but the need to get inside.
It toppled before him like a charred draw-bridge, and as the smoke billowed aside he saw a man’s body twisting and kicking amongst burning furniture and black fragments of fallen thatch.
It all swept through his mind as he ran forward, stooping to grip the man’s shoulders and drag him back towards the door. The man was kicking like a madman, and above a gag his eyes rolled with agony and terror. He was trussed hand and foot, and
Bolitho was as sickened by the stench as by the act of leaving a man to burn alive.
Voices came and went through the roar of flames like the souls of dead witches returning for a final curse.
Then others were seizing his arms, taking the load and pulling them both out into the torrential, beautiful rain.
Dancer came running through the glare and shouted, “It’s the same place, Dick! I’m certain of it. The shape of the rear wall . . .” He stopped to stare at the struggling, seared man on the ground.
Pendrith knelt down on the mud and embers and asked hoarsely, “ ’Oo done this thing to you?”
The man, whom Pendrith had already recognized as the missing Blount, gasped, “They left me ’ere to burn!” He was writhing, his teeth bared in agony. “They wouldn’t listen to me!” He seemed to realize that there were sailors present and added brokenly, “After all I done for ’im.”
Hugh bent over him, his face like stone as he asked, “Who, man? Who did it? We must know! ” He stiffened as one of the man’s blackened hands reached out to seize his lapel. “You are dying. Do this thing before it is too late.”
The man’s head lolled, and Bolitho could almost feel the release from pain as death crept over him.
“Vyvyan.” For a brief instant some strength rebelled, and with it came another agony. Blount screamed the name, “Vyvyan!”
Hugh Bolitho stood up and removed his hat. As if to allow the rain to wash away what he had seen.
Robins whispered, “That last shout done for him, sir.”
Hugh Bolitho heard him and turned away from the corpse. “For more than one man.”
As he brushed past, Bolitho saw the claw-like stain on his white lapel, left there by the dying man. In the flickering light it looked like the mark of Satan.
10 “On the UPROLL”
BOLITHO AND DANCER trained their telescopes on the jetty and watched the sudden activity amongst the jolly boat’s crew which had been waiting there for over an hour.
“We shall soon know, Dick.” Dancer sounded anxious.
Bolitho lowered the telescope and wiped his face free of rain. He was soaking wet, but like Dancer and most of the Avenger’s company had been unable to relax, to be patient while he awaited his brother’s return.
That first horror of finding the man who had been left to die, the excitement of knowing Dancer had been right about Vyvyan’s implications, had already gone sour. Colonel de Crespigny himself and a troop of dragoons had ridden hard to Vyvyan Manor, only to be told that Sir Henry had left on an important mission, and no, they did not know where, or when he might return. Sensing the colonel’s uncertainty, the steward had added coldly that Sir Henry was unused to having his movements queried by the military.
So there was no evidence after all. Apart from that last, desperate accusation of a dying man, they had nothing. No stolen cargo, no muskets, brandy or anything else. There were plenty of signs that people had been there. Hoof-marks, wheel-tracks and traces of casks and loads being hauled about in a great hurry. But what remained would soon be washed away in the continuous downpour. In any case it was not evidence.
Dancer said quietly, “It will be Christmas Day tomorrow, Dick. It may not be a happy one.”
Bolitho looked at him warmly. Dancer was the one who would be spared all enquiry but the briefest statement. His position, to say nothing of his father’s importance in the City of London, would see to that. And yet he felt just as vulnerable as the Bolitho family which had got him involved in the first place.
The boatswain’s mate of the watch called, “Cap’n’s boat ’as just shoved off, sir!”
“Very well. Call the side party. Stand by to receive him.”
It might well be the last time Hugh Bolitho was received aboard in command, here or anywhere else, he thought. Hugh Bolitho clambered over the side and touched his hat to the side party.
“Call the hands and hoist the boats inboard.” He squinted up at the flapping masthead pendant. “We will get under way within the hour.” He looked at the midshipmen for the first time and added bitterly, “I’ll be glad to be rid of this place, home or not!”
Bolitho tensed. So there was no last minute hope, no reprieve.
As Dancer and the boatswain’s mate hurried forward, Hugh Bolitho said in a calmer tone, “I am required to make passage to Plymouth forthwith. The members of my company I put aboard a prize are assembled there, so your appointment as my senior will no longer be needed.”
“Did you hear anything about Sir Henry Vyvyan?”
He saw his brother give a shrug as he answered, “De Crespigny was duped like the rest of us. You remember that bullion which the dragoons were suddenly and mysteriously required to escort at Bodmin? Well, we have now learned that it was Vyvyan’s property. So while the revenue men and our people were being set upon by his ruffians, and cut to pieces, Vyvyan’s booty was coolly being put aboard a vessel at Looe, after being escorted by the very soldiers who have since been searching for him!” He turned and looked at him, his face strained and seemingly older. “So as he slips away to France, probably to negotiate for more weapons for his private wars, I will have to face the consequences. I thought I could run before I could walk. But I was outwitted, and beaten without knowing it!”
“And Sir Henry is known to be aboard this vessel?” He could picture the man even as he spoke.
It would be a triumph for Vyvyan, who had led a dangerous but rewarding life before coming to Cornwall. And when it had all quietened down he would come back. It was unlikely he would be challenged by the authorities again.
Hugh Bolitho nodded. “Aye. The vessel is the Virago, a new and handy ketch-rigged sloop. Vyvyan has apparently owned her for a y
ear or so.” He swung away, the rain pouring unheeded down his features. “She might be anywhere by now. My orders from the port admiral suggest that a King’s ship may be required to investigate, but nothing more than that.” He slapped his hands together, despairing, final. “But Virago is fast, and will outsail anything in this weather.”
Gloag came clumping on deck, his jaw working on some salt beef.
“Sir?”
“We are getting under way, Mr Gloag. Plymouth.”
No wonder Hugh wished to be rid of the place. Danger from an enemy, or across the marks of a duelling pitch he could take with ease. Scorn and contempt he could not.
Bolitho watched the dripping boats being swayed inboard, the seamen’s bodies shining like metal in the heavy rain.
To Plymouth, and a court of enquiry. It was not much of a way to end a year.
He thought of the nearness of success, the callous way Vyvyan had directed the deaths and the plunder of wrecked ships. He thought too of Dancer’s face as the troopers had aided him into the house, the livid bruises on his shoulders. How his captors had threatened to put out his eyes. All the time they had been on the fringe of things. Now it was over, and they were as much in the dark as ever.
His brother said, “I’m going below. Inform me when the anchor is hove short.”
His head was almost at deck level when Bolitho stopped him.
“What is it?”
Bolitho said quietly, “I was thinking of what we did achieve, what we do know.” He saw his brother’s features soften slightly and hurried on, “No, I’m not saying it to sugar the pill. Suppose the others are wrong, de Crespigny, the port admiral, all of them?”
Hugh Bolitho climbed up the companion ladder very slowly, his eyes fixed on him.
“Go on.”
“Perhaps we have over-estimated Sir Henry’s confidence. Or maybe he was intending to quit England anyway?” He saw the understanding on his brother’s face and added quickly, “He would certainly not be sailing to France!”
Hugh Bolitho stepped over the coaming and stared across the darkened harbour, at the choppy white crests, and the town’s glittering lights beyond.
“To America?” He gripped his brother’s shoulder until he winced. “By God, you may be right. The Virago could be standing down-channel at this very instant, with nothing between her and the Atlantic but—” he looked along his broad-beamed command, “—my Avenger. ”
Bolitho was almost sorry for what he had said and done. Another false hope perhaps? One more barb to anger the admiral and hasten a court-martial.
Gloag was watching him anxiously. “It will be rough outside, sir. Misty too, if th’ rain eases.”
“What are you saying, Mr Gloag? That I give in now? Admit to failure?”
Gloag beamed. He had made his point and was content.
“I says go after ’im, sir, take the devil back for the ’angman.”
As if to put doubt over the side the cry came from the bows, “Anchor’s hove short, sir!”
Hugh Bolitho bit his lip, measuring the chances as he looked from the tense helmsmen to the hands at the braces and halliards, from his grey-eyed brother to Gloag, Pyke and the rest.
Then he nodded. “Carry on, Mr Gloag. Get the vessel under way and lay a course to weather the headland as close as you dare.”
Dancer looked at Bolitho and gave a reckless grin. Christmas had become just part of a dream.
Bolitho waited for the Avenger to complete another staggering lunge and then crossed the deck to peer at the compass. The motion was sickening, with the sturdy hull lifting across each rearing wave crest before sliding heavily again into a waiting trough. And it had been going on for nearly twelve hours, although it felt much longer.
One of the helmsmen said wearily, “West by north, sir.” Like the rest of them he sounded tired and dispirited.
Seven bells chimed out from the forecastle, and Bolitho made his way to the weather rail, seeking a handhold before the cutter began another one of her dizzy plunges. In half an hour it would be noon, Christmas Day. But it meant a lot more than that to his brother, perhaps to them all. Maybe it had been a foolish gesture after all, a last desperate attempt to settle the score. They had sighted nothing, not even an over-zealous fisherman. Which was hardly surprising on this of all days, Bolitho thought bitterly.
He squinted through the rain, his stomach queasy as it rebelled against the liberal ration of rum which had been sent round the vessel. Trimming sails, reeling from one tack to another, left little chance for lighting the galley fire and getting something hot for all hands. Bolitho had decided he would never drink rum again if he could help it.
Gloag had been right about the weather too, as he always seemed to be. The rain was still falling steadily, cutting the face and hands like icy needles. But it had lessened in strength, and with the slight easing had come a strange mist which had joined sea to sky in one blurred grey curtain.
Bolitho thought of his mother, picturing the preparations for the Christmas fare. The usual visitors from surrounding farms and estates. Vyvyan’s absence would be noticed. They would all be watching Harriet Bolitho, wondering, questioning.
He stiffened as he heard his brother coming on deck again. He had barely been absent for more than one half-hour at a time since leaving Falmouth.
Bolitho touched his salt-stained hat. “Wind’s holding steady, sir. Still southerly.”
It had backed during the night and was pounding into the Avenger’s great mainsail from almost hard abeam, thrusting her over until the lee scuppers were awash.
Gloag’s untidy shape detached itself from the opposite side and muttered, “If it rises again or veers, sir, we’ll ’ave to be thinkin’ about changin’ tack.” He pouted doubtfully, unwilling to add to his commander’s worries, but knowing his responsibility was for them all.
Bolitho watched the uncertainty and the stubbornness fighting one another on his brother’s wind-reddened face. The cutter was about ten miles due south of the feared Lizard, and as Gloag had said, with a rising gale they could find themselves on a lee shore when they eventually went about, if they did not take care.
Hugh Bolitho crossed to the weather side and stared fixedly into the stinging rain.
Partly to himself he said, “Damn them. They’ve done for me this time.”
The deck lifted and slithered away again, men falling in sodden bundles, cursing despite fierce looks from their petty officers. Soon now. They were late already in responding to the admiral’s summons. If Hugh Bolitho delayed much longer the wind might decide to play a last cruel trick on him and shift direction altogether.
He looked at his younger brother and gave a bleak smile. “You are thinking too hard again, Richard. It shows.”
Bolitho tried to shrug it off. “It was my suggestion to make this search. I merely thought . . .”
“Don’t blame yourself. It is almost over. On the noon bell we’ll bring her about. And it was a good idea of yours. Any other day the channel would be dense with shipping and it would have been like a needle in a haystack. But Christmas Day?” He sighed. “If the fates had been kinder, and we could see, who knows?”
He added, “We had better see to our extra canvas, in case the weather worsens presently.” It was his duty to attend to the vessel’s needs, but his voice showed that his thoughts were elsewhere, still seeking his enemy. “Get aloft to the yard and check the stuns’l booms, and tell Mr Pyke we’ll need to take in a reef shortly.” He peered up at the wind-hardened topsail, the angry jerking of shrouds and braces as his command met the challenge of sea and tiller.
Dancer had also come on deck, looking pale and dishevelled.
“I’ll go, sir.”
Hugh Bolitho gave a tired smile. “Still no head for heights, Richard?”
The brothers looked at each other, and Dancer, who knew only one of them, could sense they were closer than they had been for a long time.
As Dancer clambered into the weather shrouds,
Bolitho said, “I’m glad you asked me to join Avenger. ” He looked away, embarrassed that it was so hard to speak like this.
Hugh Bolitho nodded slowly. “Aboard the old Gorgon I expect they’re envying you at ease beside a full table. If they only knew . . .”
He looked up, showing his anxiety, as Dancer yelled, “Deck there! Sail on the weather bow.”
Even as his cry faded, eight bells chimed out from the forecastle. They had been following the other vessel all this time without being able to see her. She could only be the Virago. Had to be. Another few minutes and Avenger would have come about, allowing her prey to slip away once and for all.
Pyke and Truscott, the gunner, came hurrying aft, their hair ragged with spray, their bodies so steeply angled to the deck they looked like drunken sailors with three sheets to the wind.
Pyke shouted, “I’ll go aloft to be sure, sir!” His teeth were bared, as if this was too personal to be shared.
Hugh Bolitho handed his hat to a seaman and snapped, “No.
I will go myself.”
They all watched in silence. If Dancer had not gone aloft they would have sailed to Plymouth in ignorance. Hugh Bolitho, his coat-tails flapping around his white breeches like twin pendants, paused merely briefly beside the midshipman before continuing up and further still until his shape was blurred in mist and rain. When he reached the topsail yard he stopped, and with his arms wrapped around the madly vibrating mast peered ahead.
In two minutes he returned to the deck, his face expressionless as he said, “She’s Virago. No doubt about it. Two masts, ketch-rigged, carrying a lot of canvas.” Only his eyes were alive, bright like little fires as he thought it out. “She has the wind-gage of course, but no matter.” He took a few paces to the compass and then eyed each sail in turn. “Set the jib, Mr Pyke, and then send the hands aloft and run out the booms from the yard. With stuns’ls she’ll even outpace that sloop.” His eyes flashed as he added sharply, “Or someone will answer to me!”
Dancer was called down to the deck, and an experienced seaman sent aloft to take his place. As he arrived, breathless and soaked in rain and spray, he exclaimed, “A change of luck, sir!”
The Complete Midshipman Bolitho Page 21