He leaned over and asked casually, “What now?”
The man at his side darted him a suspicious glance. “We waits, see? We’ll be part of a crew.” He nodded, reassured by Allday’s massive presence. “We’ll all be stinkin’ rich!”
Allday took another swallow of ale. Or bloody dead, he thought darkly. Then he looked around the boatshed, probably well guarded too. It was so simple. A boatyard, the last place you would expect to find seamen on the run. But where was it? He had to discover that or all the risks were pointless. The Captain must be told where—
He stiffened as a voice rapped, “I’ll let you know when I’m ready. You just do as you’re told, damn your eyes!”
Allday raised his head very slowly and stared between two men who were in deep conversation.
The sunlight was stronger now, and he could see a half-completed hull standing amidst a litter of planks and wood shavings, and beyond that a line of tall trees. He knew the incisive, irritable voice—but how could he?
He heard someone murmuring what sounded like an apology and then part of a canvas awning was pulled aside like a curtain.
Allday held his breath as the dark eyes moved over the listless figures around the tables.
The man said, “Well, they’d better show more steel than the last lot!”
When Allday dared to look again the awning had fallen back into place. He didn’t see me. He almost gasped his relief out loud.
The face had been that of Loyal Chieftain’s master, Henry Delaval . . .
It was all that Bolitho needed to know. But the plan would not settle in his mind.
All he could hear was a scream. All he could see was the smoking pistol in a severed hand.
9. ENEMY TERRITORY
BOLITHO gripped the jolly-boat’s gunwale and looked up at the endless canopy of small stars. Only an undulating black shadow which broke the foot of the pattern gave a true hint of land, and he could sense Chesshyre’s concentration as he peered above the heads of the oarsmen, or directly abeam.
Once he said, “Tide’s on the ebb, sir.”
Bolitho could hear it rippling and surging around the boat’s stem, the deep breathing of the oarsmen as they maintained a regular stroke without an order being passed.
The man in the bows called aft in a loud whisper, “Ready with the lead, sir!”
Chesshyre came out of his concentrated attention. “Is it armed, Gulliver?”
“Aye, sir.”
“Start sounding.”
Bolitho heard the splash of the boat’s lead and line being dropped over the bows, then the man named Gulliver calling, “By th’ mark three!”
Chesshyre ordered, “Pass it aft!” He waited for the leg-of-mutton-shaped lead to be handed from thwart to thwart, then he rubbed the tallow in its base between his fingers before holding it up to his nose. He passed the lead back again and muttered, “Shell and rough sand, sir. We’re making headway. So long as we stand away from the sandbars at low water we shall—”
The bowman called, “By th’ mark two! ”
Chesshyre swore silently and eased over the tiller bar. “Like that, sir!”
Bolitho understood. It was common enough in his own West Country for sailors to be able to feel their way by using a lead and line, know the state of the seabed by what they found on the tallow which “armed” it. In another twenty years he guessed it would be a lost craft of seamanship.
“How far?”
Chesshyre raised himself slightly as something white broke the pitch-darkness. Then he sank down again. It was not a rock or sandbar but a leaping fish.
“’Nother half-hour, sir.” He kept his voice low so that the oarsmen would not know the extent of their labour. They were used to it, but the boat was crowded with extra hands and weapons, including a heavy bell-mouthed musketoon already packed with canister and metal fragments, in case they were attacked.
Bolitho listened to the creak of oars—how loud they sounded despite being muffled with greased rags. But he knew from experience that it would be swallowed completely in the other noises of sea and wind.
Suppose it was a wasted journey? Perhaps the man would take fright and hide when he heard the sailors with their weapons?
Chesshyre hissed, “There, sir! See the old abbey?”
Bolitho strained his eyes and saw a sharper shadow rising amongst the stars.
Chesshyre breathed out. “Better’n I thought.”
Bolitho thought how like Herrick he sounded. Another memory. A different ship.
“Less than a fathom, sir!”
“Haul in the lead, Gulliver. Stand by, boys!” Chesshyre crouched half-upright, his silhouette like a dark gargoyle. “Be ready to beach!”
The bowman was busy with his boathook and called, “Comin’ in now, sir!”
“ Oars! Lively there!” After that it all happened in seconds.
The extra hands leaping outboard and splashing in the shallows to guide the hull safely on to a small, unusually steep beach. Oars lowered with great care across the thwarts while Christie, one of Paice’s boatswain’s mates, growled, “Drop that bloody gun an’ I’ll see yer backbones!”
In spite of the tension Bolitho heard somebody chuckle at the threat. Then he was out of the boat, the receding water dragging at his shoes, clawing him back as if to claim him.
Chesshyre passed his instructions and two men hurried away in either direction, while others grouped around the beached boat to make certain it could be quickly launched, but was in no danger of drifting away.
Bolitho found a moment to recall the other times when he had seen it done. The sailor’s way. Give him a boat or even a raft and he is in good heart. But with only the sea at his back it is a different story.
Chesshyre rejoined him and said, “There’s a small track to the left, sir. That’ll be the one.”
Shadows moved in around them and Bolitho said, “Draw your blades, but do not cock your pistols. One shot by accident, and we’ll awaken the dead.”
Somebody murmured, “An’ there are plenty o’ them round ’ere, sir!”
Another jester.
Chesshyre waited as Bolitho drew his old sword and balanced it in his fist.
“You must be an old hand at this, sir?”
It was strange coming from him, Bolitho thought, as they were the same age.
“I admit it’s more like landing on enemy soil than I expected in England.”
He tested his bearings and then walked carefully towards the track. It was little more than a fox’s path, but the sandy soil made it easy to follow.
He half-listened to the sea’s lazy grumbling as it laid bare rocks in the falling tide, and pictured Paice somewhere out in the darkness, unable to help, unwilling to be left out.
The sea sounds suddenly faded and Bolitho felt the warm air of the countryside fanning his face. The smells of the land. The old abbey lay to the left although he could see less of it now than from the boat.
Chesshyre touched his arm and stopped in his tracks. “Still!”
Bolitho froze and heard someone gasp, feet kicking in the long grass. Then two figures loomed from the darkness, one with his hands above his head, the other, a small, darting man with a drawn cutlass, pushing him none too gently ahead of him.
Bolitho said, “I have good ears, but—”
Chesshyre showed his teeth. “Inskip was a poacher afore he saw the light, sir. Got ears in his arse, beggin’ your pardon.”
The man with raised hands saw Bolitho, and perhaps recognised some sort of authority when seconds earlier he had been expecting his life to be cut short.
He exclaimed, “I was sent to meet you, sir!”
Chesshyre rapped, “Keep your voice down for Christ’s sake, man.”
Bolitho gripped his arm; it was shaking so violently that he knew the man was terrified.
“Where is the blind man? Did he not come?”
“Yes, yes!” He was babbling. “He’s here, right enough. I did just what the maj
or told me—now I’m off afore someone sees me!”
A seaman strode along the path. “’Ere ’e is, sir.” He directed his remarks to the master but they were intended for Bolitho.
“Don’t go too close, sir. ’E stinks like a dead pig.”
Bolitho walked away from the others, but heard Chesshyre following at a careful distance.
The blind man was squatting on the ground, his head thrown back, his eyes covered by a bandage.
Bolitho knelt beside him. “I am Captain Bolitho. Major Craven said you would help me.”
The man moved his head from side to side, then reached out and held Bolitho’s arm. Through the coat sleeve his fingers felt like steel talons.
“I need your aid.” Bolitho’s stomach rebelled, but he knew this contact was his only hope. The blind man stank of filth and dried sweat, and he was almost grateful for the darkness.
“Bolitho?” The man moved his head again as if trying to peer through the bandage. “Bolitho?” He had a high piping voice, and it was impossible to determine his age.
Chesshyre said thickly, “The poor bugger’s off his head, sir.”
Bolitho retorted, “Wouldn’t you be?”
He tried again. “That night. When they did this to you.” He felt the hand jerk free, as if it and not its owner was in terror. “What did you see? I wouldn’t ask, but they took a friend of mine—you understand?”
“See?” The blind man felt vaguely in the grass. “They took a long while. All th’ time they laughed at me.” He shook his head despairingly. “When the fire was lit they branded my body, an’— an’ then—”
Bolitho looked away, sickened. But he was so near to Allday now. This poor, demented creature was all he had. But he felt as if he were applying torture, as they had once done to him.
“I used to watch for ’em. Sometimes they come with pack-horses—bold as brass, they was. Other times they brought men, deserters. That night—”
Chesshyre said, “He knows nowt, sir.” He peered around at the trees. “He should be put out of his misery.”
The man turned as if to examine the Telemachus’s master, then said in a flat, empty voice, “I bin there since, y’know.” He wrapped his arms around his ragged body and cackled. “I was that well acquaint with the place!”
Bolitho kept his voice level. “What place? Please help me. I shall see you are rewarded.”
The man turned on him with unexpected venom. “I don’t want yer stinkin’ gold! I just wants revenge for what they done to me!”
Chesshyre bent over him and said, “Captain Bolitho is a fine an’ brave officer. Help him as you will, and I swear he’ll take care of you.”
The man cackled again. It was an eerie sound, and Bolitho could imagine the small party of seamen drawing together nearby.
Chesshyre added, “What’s your name?”
The man cowered away. “I’m not sayin’!” He peered towards Bolitho and then seized his arm again. “I don’t ’ave to, do I?” He sounded frantic.
“No.” Bolitho’s heart sank. The link was too fragile to last. It was another hope gone wrong.
In a surprisingly clear voice the blind man said, “Then I’ll take you.”
Bolitho stared at him. “When?”
“Now, o’ course!” His reply was almost scornful. “Don’t want the ’ole o’ Sheppey to know, does we?”
Chesshyre breathed out loudly. “Well, I’ll be double-damned!”
That, too, was what Herrick said when he was taken aback.
Bolitho took the man’s filthy hand. “ Thank you.”
The bandaged head moved warily from side to side. “Not with nobody else though!”
Christie the boatswain’s mate murmured, “Not bloody askin’ for much, is ’e?”
Bolitho looked at Chesshyre. “I must do as he asks. I must trust him. He is all I have.”
Chesshyre turned away from his men. “But it’s asking for trouble, sir. He may be raving mad, or someone might have put him up to it, like the fellow who brought him here, eh, sir?”
Bolitho walked to the men who were guarding the messenger. “Did you tell anybody about this?” To himself he thought, more to the point, will he tell someone after he has left us?
“I swear, sir, on my baby’s life—I swear I’ve told nobody!”
Bolitho turned to Chesshyre. “All the same, take him aboard when you leave. I think he is too frightened to betray anyone at the moment, but should the worst happen and you discover it, see that he is handed to Major Craven’s dragoons.” His voice sharpened. “He can join the other felons at the crossroads if it comes to that.”
Chesshyre asked desperately, “What shall I say to Mr Paice, sir?”
Bolitho looked at him in the darkness. Then he raised his voice and saw the bandaged head move towards him again. “Tell him I am with a friend, and that we are both in God’s hands.”
Chesshyre seemed unable to grasp it. “I just don’t know, sir. In all my service—”
“There is always a first time, Mr Chesshyre. Now be off with you.”
He watched as the sailors began to fade away into the shadows and noticed how they seemed to pass him as closely as they could before they groped their way to the fox’s path. To see for themselves, as if for the last time.
Chesshyre held out his hand. It was hard, like leather. “May God indeed be at the helm this night, sir.” Then he was gone.
Bolitho reached down and aided the man to his feet. “I am ready when you are.”
He felt light-headed, even sick, and his mouth was suddenly quite dry. This man might only think he knew where he was going, his mind too broken to distinguish fact from fantasy.
The blind man picked up a heavy piece of wood, a branch found somewhere in the course of his despairing ramblings.
Then he said in his strange, piping voice, “This way.” He hesitated. “Watch yer step. There’s a stile up yonder.”
Bolitho swallowed hard. Who was the blind one now?
An hour later they were still walking, pausing only for the bandaged head to turn this way and that. To gather his bearings, to listen for some sound, Bolitho did not know. Perhaps he was already lost.
He heard dogs barking far away, and once he almost fell with alarm as some birds burst from the grass almost under his feet.
The blind man waited for him to catch up, muttering, “Over yonder! Wot d’you see?”
Bolitho stared through the darkness and discovered a deeper blackness. His heart seemed to freeze. A different bearing, but there was no doubt about it. It was the same sinister copse, which they were passing on the opposite side.
The blind man could have been studying his expression. He broke into a fit of low, wheezing laughter. “Thought I’d lost me way, did ye, Captain?”
About the same time, Chesshyre was explaining to Paice and his first lieutenant what had happened, the jolly-boat’s crew lolling on the deck like dead men after the hardest pull they had ever known.
Paice exploded, “You left him? You bloody well left the captain unsupported!”
Chesshyre protested, “It was an order, sir. Surely you know me better than—”
Paice gripped his shoulder so that the master winced. “My apologies, Mr Chesshyre. Of course I know you well enough for that. God damn it, he wouldn’t even let me go!”
Triscott asked, “What shall we do, sir?”
“Do?” Paice gave a heavy sigh. “He told me what I must do if he sent back the boat without him.” He glanced at Chesshyre sadly. “That was an order too.” Then he gazed up at the stars. “We shall haul anchor. If we remain here, dawn will explain our reasons to anyone who cares to seek them.” He looked at the messenger who was sitting wretchedly on a hatch coaming under guard. “By the living Jesus, if there is a betrayal, I’ll run him up to the tops’l yard myself!”
Then in a calmer voice he said, “Hoist the boat inboard, Mr Triscott. We will get under way.”
A few moments later there was a splash, an
d a voice yelled with surprise, “Man overboard, sir!”
But Paice said quietly, “No. I was a fool to speak my mind. That was the lad—Matthew Corker. He must have heard me.”
Triscott said, “Even the jolly-boat couldn’t catch him now, sir.”
Paice watched the regular splashes until they were lost in shadow.
He said, “Good swimmer.”
Chesshyre asked, “What can he do, sir?”
Paice made himself turn away from the sea, and from the boy who was going to try and help the man he worshipped above all others.
He was like the son Paice had always wanted, what they had prayed for, before she had been brutally shot down.
He said harshly, “Get the ship under way! If anything happens to that lad, I’ll—” He could not go on.
Thirty minutes later as the glass was turned, Telemachus spread her great mainsail and slipped out into the North Sea, before changing tack and steering westward for Sheerness.
Paice handed over to his second-in-command and went aft to the cabin. He opened the shutter of a lantern and sat down to complete his log when his eye caught a reflection from the opposite cot.
He leaned over and picked it up. It was a fine gold watch with an engraved guard. He had seen Bolitho look at it several times, and not, he guessed, merely to discover the hour. The parcel containing the uncompleted ship-model was nearby.
With great care he opened the guard. Somehow he knew that Bolitho would not mind. Afterwards he replaced it beside Allday’s parcel.
In the navy everyone thought a post-captain was junior only to God. A man who did as he pleased, who wanted for nothing.
Paice thought of him now, out there in the darkness with a blind man. Apart from this watch he had nothing left at all.
Bolitho lay prone beside a thick clump of gorse and levelled his small telescope on a boatyard which lay some fifty yards below him. He winced as a loose pebble ground into his elbow, and wondered if this really was the place which the blind man had described.
He laid the glass down and lowered his face on to his arm. The noon sun was high overhead, and he dared not use the glass too much for fear of a bright reflection which might betray their position.
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