He thought of Paice’s unspoken protest at being ordered immediately to sea after Telemachus’s first battle. Was it really the true reason he had sent him, the same explanation he had made to Queely? Or was it to protect Allday from sailors’ casual gossip once they were able to get ashore?
If Allday was still alive . . . He ran his fingers through his hair with quiet desperation. He was alive. He must believe it.
The door opened and Young Matthew entered with a pot of coffee. His round face had lost its colour again, and his skin looked damp and pallid. He had been fighting his own battle with the motion. That was another difference between the two cutters. Paice sailed his Telemachus, Queely seemed to drive his command with the same lack of patience he exhibited in his daily routine.
Bolitho thought of Queely’s second-in-command, a reedy lieutenant named Kempthorne. He came of a long line of sea-officers, and his own father had been a rear-admiral. Bolitho suspected that it was tradition rather than choice which had brought Kempthorne into the King’s navy. Chalk and cheese, he thought. It was hard to see him having much in common with Queely. Bolitho had never seen so many well-used books outside of a library. From them he had gathered that Queely was interested in many subjects, as widely ranged as tropical medicine and astronomy, Eastern religions and medieval poetry. A withdrawn, self-contained man. It would be useful to know more about him.
Bolitho looked at the boy over the top of his tankard. “Feeling a mite better, Matthew?”
The boy gulped and gripped the table as the sea surged along the hull and brought an angry exchange between the watchkeepers around the tiller.
“ Easier, sir.” He watched Bolitho drinking the coffee with despair. “I—I’m trying—” He turned and fled from the cabin.
Bolitho sighed and then slipped into his old, seagoing coat. For a few moments he fingered a faded sleeve and its tarnished buttons. Remembering it around her sun-blistered shoulders, her beautiful body lolling against him in the sternsheets. And then . . .
He almost fell as the hull rolled again and did not even notice the pain as his head jarred against the deckhead. He stared round wildly, the anguish sweeping over and through him like a terrible wave.
Will it never leave me?
He saw Queely angled in the doorframe, his eyes watching warily.
Bolitho looked away. “Yes?” He may have called out aloud. But Viola would never hear him. The picture haunted him, of Allday lowering her over the boat’s gunwale while the others stared, unbelieving, their burned faces stricken as if each and every man had found and then lost something in her. And now Allday was gone.
Queely said, “Land in sight, sir.”
They clambered up the ladder, the steps running with the spray which cascaded through the companionway each time Wakeful dipped her bowsprit.
Bolitho gripped a stanchion and waited for his eyes to accept the grey half-light. The sky was almost clear. It held the promise of another fine day.
The watch on deck moved about with practised familiarity, their bodies leaning over to the cutter’s swooping rolls and plunges, some wearing rough tarpaulin coats, others stripped to the waist, their bare backs shining like statuary in the flying spray. The “hard men” of Wakeful’s company. Every ship had them.
Bolitho wondered briefly what they thought about the Four Brothers. They had had no contact with Telemachus until yesterday, but he knew from experience that the navy created its own means of transmitting information: fact and rumour alike seemed to travel faster than a hoist from any flagship.
“Do you have a good lookout aloft?”
Queely watched his back, his hooked nose jutting forward like a bird of prey.
“Aye, sir.” It sounded like of course.
“Have a glass sent aloft, if you please.” Bolitho ignored Queely’s angry glance at his first lieutenant and lifted a telescope from its rack beside the compass box.
As he wiped the lens with a handkerchief already damp in the spray, he said, “I want to know if anything unusual is abroad this morning.”
He did not need to explain, but it gave him time to think.
He waited for a line of broken waves to sweep past the lar-board beam, then braced his legs and levelled the glass beyond the shrouds. A shadow at first, then rising with the hull, hardening into an undulating wedge of land. He wiped his mouth and handed the telescope to Kempthorne.
France.
So near. The old enemy. Unchanged in the poor light and yet being torn apart by the Terror’s bloody aftermath.
He heard the master say in a loud whisper, “We’m gettin’ a bit close.”
Queely raised his speaking trumpet and peered up at the lookout. “D’you see anything? Wake up, man!”
He sounded impatient; he probably thought it a waste to send a good telescope aloft where it might be damaged.
“Nuthin’, sir!”
Queely looked at Bolitho. “I’d not expect much shipping here, sir. The Frogs maintain their inshore patrols all the way from the Dutch frontier, right down to Le Havre. Most ships’ masters think it prudent to avoid arousing their attention.”
Bolitho walked to the bulwark and thought of Delaval, and the Four Brothers’ dead captain. The smuggling gangs seemed to come and go no matter whose ships were on patrol.
Queely explained, “The Frenchies have a stop, search and detain policy, sir. Several ships have been reported missing, and you’ll get no information from Paris.” He shook his head. “I’d not live there for a King’s ransom.”
Bolitho eyed him calmly. “Then we must ensure it cannot happen here, eh, Mr Queely?”
“With respect, sir, unless we get more ships, the smugglers will ignore us too. The fleet is cut to virtually a handful of vessels, and now that they see a richer living in the Trade, able-bodied seamen are becoming a rare commodity.”
Bolitho walked past the vibrating tiller bar and saw there were three men clinging to it, a master’s mate nearby with his eyes moving from the mainsail’s quivering peak to the compass and back again.
“That is why our three cutters must work together.” Bolitho saw Young Matthew run to the lee bulwark and lean over it to vomit although his stomach had been emptied long ago. A passing seaman grinned, seized his belt and said, “Watch your step, nipper, it’s a long fathom down there!”
Bolitho looked past him but was thinking of Telemachus. “You are all unique, and because of the trust and loyalty shared by your people you are an example to others.”
Queely watched him then said, “You were examining the log, sir?”
“Is that a question?” Bolitho felt the spray soaking into his shirt, but kept his eyes on the far-off ridge of land. “Whenever I have been given the honour of command I have examined the punishment book first. It always gives me a fair idea of my predecessor’s behaviour, and that of his company. You should be grateful that your command is free of unrest and its inevitable repression.”
Queely nodded uncertainly. “Aye, sir, I suppose so.”
Bolitho did not look at him. He knew his comment was not quite what Queely had expected.
Some of the hands working at the halliards were chattering to each other when Queely shouted, “Belay that!” He held up his hand. “ Listen, damn you!”
Bolitho clenched his hands together behind his back. Sharp hammer-like explosions. Small artillery, but firing in earnest.
“Where away?”
The master called, “Astern, starboard quarter, sir.” The others stared at him but he faced them defiantly. “No doubt in my mind, sir.”
Bolitho nodded. “Nor mine.”
Queely hastened to the compass. “What must I do, sir?”
Bolitho turned his head to listen as another series of shots echoed across the water.
“Bring her about.” He joined Queely beside the compass. “In this wind you can run free to the south-west.” It was like thinking aloud. It was also like Telemachus all over again. The doubt, hesitation, opposition, even tho
ugh nobody had raised a single protest.
Queely glanced at him. “That will surely take us into French waters, sir.”
Bolitho looked at the straining mainsail, the way the long boom seemed to tear above the water with a mind of its own.
“Maybe. We shall see.” He met his eyes and added, “It would seem that someone is abroad this morning after all?”
Queely tightened his jaw then snapped, “All hands, Mr Kempthorne! Stand by to come about.” He glared at the master as if he had caused his displeasure. “We shall steer south-west.”
The master’s face was blank. “Aye, aye, sir.”
Bolitho suspected he was used to Queely’s moods.
“Ready ho!”
“Put the helm down!”
Bolitho gripped the companion head for support again as with her headsail sheets set free and the sails flapping in wild confusion, Wakeful butted around and across the wind’s eye.
“Mains’l haul! ”
Bolitho dashed the spray from his face and hair and could have sworn that the long fidded topmast was curving and bending like a coachman’s whip.
Queely’s impatience matched Paice’s pride.
“Meet her! Steady as you go— steady, man!”
Heeling over on the opposite tack Wakeful responded again to wind and rudder, but with the lively north-easterly hardening her sails like armour plating, she held firmly to her course, the motion less violent.
“Sou’-west, sir! Steady she goes!”
Bolitho walked stiffly to the larboard side and watched the first thin sunlight touch the land. It looked much nearer, but it was a trick of light and colour which often happened in coastal waters.
Bolitho snatched up a telescope as the lookout yelled, “Deck there! Ships on th’ larboard bow!” He sounded breathless, as if the violence of the manoeuvre had almost hurled him down.
It was still too far. Bolitho watched the waves looming and fading as he trained the glass carefully on the bearing.
Smaller vessels. Perhaps three of them. One of them firing, the sound reaching him now through the planks under his feet. Like driftwood striking into the hull.
“Deck there! ’Tis a chase, sir! Steering sou’-west!”
Bolitho tried to picture it. A chase, using the same wind which made Wakeful’s canvas boom like thunder. What ships must they be?
“Let her fall off two points, Mr Queely. Steer south-southwest.”
He forced himself to ignore Queely’s stifled resentment. “Make as much sail as you can safely carry. I want to catch them!”
Queely opened and closed his mouth. Then he beckoned to Kempthorne. “Loose the tops’l!”
Bolitho found time to think of his dead brother as under extra canvas the cutter seemed to throw herself across the short crests. No wonder he had loved his Avenger. The picture faded. If he ever really cared for anything.
He looked up and saw the sunshine touching each sail in turn, the canvas already steaming in the first hint of warmth.
The guns were still firing, but when he raised the glass again he saw that the angle of the sails had increased, as if the furthest craft was being headed off and driven towards the land when before she had been making for open water. Like a sheep being tired and then harried by the shepherd’s dog until all thought of escape was gone.
A voice said, “We’re overhaulin’ the buggers ’and over fist, Ted!”
Another exclaimed, “They ain’t even seen us yet!”
The coastline was taking on personality, while here and there Bolitho saw sunlight reflecting from windows, changing a headland from purple to lush green.
“Deck there!” Everyone had forgotten about the masthead. “Two French luggers, sir! Not certain about t’other, but she’s in bad trouble! Canvas shot through, a topmast gone!”
Bolitho walked this way and that. Two luggers, perhaps after a smuggler. “We shall discover nothing if the French take her.” He saw the others staring at him. “ More sail, Mr Queely. I wish to stand between them!”
Queely nodded to the master then said in a fierce whisper, “We shall be inside their waters in half-an-hour, sir! They’ll not take kindly to it.” He offered his last card. “Neither will the admiral, I’m thinking.”
Bolitho watched more men swarming aloft, their horny feet moving like paddles on the jerking ratlines.
“The admiral, fortunately, is in Chatham, Mr Queely.” He glanced round as more shot hammered over the crests. “Whereas we are here.”
“It is my right to lodge a protest, sir.”
“It is also your duty to fight your ship if need be, to the best of your ability.” He walked away, angry with Queely for making him use authority when he only wanted co-operation.
“One of ’em’s seen us, sir!”
The other lugger had luffed and was spilling canvas as she thrust over into the wind to meet Wakeful’s intrusion.
Queely watched the lugger, his eyes cold. “Clear for action.”
Kempthorne strode aft from the mainmast, his gaze questioning.
“Sir?”
“Then stand by to shorten sail!”
Bolitho looked across the deck, feeling his displeasure, his resistance.
“Have your gunner lay aft, Mr Queely. I wish to speak with him.”
Something touched his coat and he turned to see the boy staring up at him, the old sword clutched in both hands.
Bolitho gripped his shoulder. “That was well done, Matthew.”
The boy blinked and stared at the frantic preparations to cast off the gun’s breechings without hampering the men at halliards and braces. There was no longer awe there, nor excitement. His lips quivered, and Bolitho knew that fear, and the reason for it, had replaced them. But his voice was steady enough, and only Bolitho knew what the effort was costing him. As he helped Bolitho clip the sword into place he said, “It’s what he would have done, sir, what he would have expected of me.”
Once again, Allday’s shadow was nearby.
Luke Teach, Wakeful’s gunner, waited patiently while Bolitho described what he wanted. He was a thickset, fierce-looking man who hailed from the port of Bristol, and was said to boast that he was a true descendant of Edward Teach, or Blackbeard as he was known. He had also come from Bristol, a privateer who soon found piracy on the high seas was far more rewarding.
Bolitho could well believe it, for the gunner had a jowl so dark that had the King’s Regulations allowed otherwise he might have grown a beard to rival that of his murderous ancestor.
Bolitho said, “I intend to drive between the luggers and the other vessel. The French may not contest it, but if they do—”
Teach touched his tarred hat. “Leave ’un to me, zur.” He bustled away, calling names, picking men from various stations because he knew their ability better than anyone.
Queely said, “That ship is in a poor way, sir.” But his eyes were on the preparations around the carronades. “I fear we may be too late.”
Bolitho took the telescope and examined the other vessels.
The luggers would be wary of the English cutter, for although they served their navy and were well-handled, probably by local men, like Wakeful’s, they would be unused to open combat.
He watched the nearest one tacking steeply under a full press of tan-colored sails and saw the new French ensign flapping from her gaff, the little-known Tricolour set in one corner of the original white flag.
He glanced up and saw that Queely had already made his own gesture, although he doubted if the French would need to see an English flag to know her nationality and purpose.
The craft being chased had lost several spars and was barely making headway, some rigging and an upended boat trailing alongside to further pull her round. A fishing vessel of some kind, Bolitho thought, their own or English did not matter. It seemed very likely she might be employed in the Trade—few revenue officers dared to venture into the fishermen’s tight community.
“God, she’s taking it cruelly.�
�� Kempthorne was standing on the mainhatch to get a better look as more shots pursued the stricken vessel, some striking the hull, others tearing through rigging and puncturing her sails.
“Run out, Mr Queely.” Bolitho rested his hand on his sword hilt and watched as the Wakeful’s men hauled and guided their guns up to their open ports.
The French lugger would know what that meant. Baring her teeth . Making it clear what she intended.
The lugger changed tack and began to fall downwind to draw nearer to her consort.
Teach the gunner was creeping along the bulwark like a crab, pausing to peer through every port, to instruct each man, a hand-spike here, a pull on a tackle there. Wakeful was no fifth-rate but at least she was prepared.
Queely exclaimed, “The Frogs are hauling off!”
Bolitho thought he knew why but said nothing. The explosion when it came was violent and unexpected. A tongue of flame shot from the fishing boat’s deck and in seconds her canvas was in charred flakes, the rigging and upperworks savagely ablaze.
A boat was pulling away, and must have been in the water, hidden by the shattered hull before the explosion was sparked off. One of the luggers fired, and a ball passed above the little boat to hurl a waterspout high into the air.
Queely stared at Bolitho, his eyes wild. “ Engage, sir?”
Bolitho pointed to the fishing boat. “As close as you dare. I don’t think—” The rest was lost in a second explosion as a ball crashed directly into the oared boat, and when the fragments had finally ceased splashing down—there was nothing to be seen.
Queely banged one hand into his palm. “Bastards!”
“Shorten sail, if you please.” Bolitho trained his glass on the sinking fishing boat. By rights she should have gone by now, but some trick of buoyancy defied both the fire and the gashes in her hull.
Kempthorne whispered to his commander, “If there is another explosion we shall be in mortal danger, sir!”
Queely retorted, “I think we are aware of it.” He looked hotly at Bolitho. “ I certainly am.”
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