He would have to go down as soon as it was safe. How could he lie here all day? He cursed himself for not thinking of a flask when he had left the Telemachus. His mind shied away from water and he placed a pebble in his mouth to ease his parched throat.
He raised himself briefly on one elbow and glanced at his companion. The blind man was a pitiful sight, his clothing stained and in rags, the bandage covering his empty sockets foul with dirt.
The man remarked, “You gets used to waitin’.” He nodded firmly. “When it’s dark—” He shook with silent laughter. “Dark— that’s rich, ain’t it?”
Bolitho sighed. How did he know night from day? But he no longer doubted him after that demonstration of his uncanny abilities.
He stiffened and raised the small telescope again, but was careful to hold it in the shade of a clump of grass.
A few figures were moving through the boatyard. Two were armed, one carried a stone jar. Probably rum, he thought. Nobody was working there, and tools lay abandoned near an uncompleted hull, an adze still standing on a length of timber.
The men walked like sailors. They showed no sign of fear or wariness. There had to be a reason for such confidence.
Bolitho closed the little telescope, recalling how he had used it on the road from London when he had confronted the mob and the two frightened press gang officers. He watched some tiny insects busying themselves around his drawn sword. He must decide what to do next. If he left this place to fetch help, he might miss something vital. He glanced again at his ragged companion, and was moved by what he saw. He was rocking back and forth, his voice crooning what sounded like a hymn. Once a gentle man, perhaps. But when he had said he wanted his revenge for what they had done to him, he had been like a man from the fires of Hell.
When he looked again he realised that he was alone, but not for long. The blind man crawled through some bushes, a chipped mug in his clawlike hand. He held it out in Bolitho’s direction. “Wet your whistle, Captain?”
It must be from some stream, Bolitho thought. It tasted rancid, and was probably used by sheep or cows. Bolitho drank deeply. It could have been the finest Rhenish wine at that moment.
The blind man took the empty mug and it vanished inside one of his tattered coats.
He said, “They brings ’em ’ere sometimes, Captain. Men for the Trade. From ’ere they goes to smugglin’ vessels, see?” He cocked his head, like a schoolmaster with some backward pupil.
Bolitho considered it. If it was so easy, why did the authorities not come and search the place? Major Craven had hinted at powerful and influential people who were more interested in profit than the enforcement of a law they insisted could not be maintained.
“Whose land is this?”
The blind man lay down on his side. “I’ll rest now, Captain.”
For the first time since their strange rendezvous there was fear in his voice. The true, sick fear of one who has been on the brink of a terrible death.
He could almost envy the man’s ability to sleep—perhaps he only ventured out at night. For Bolitho it was the longest day. He busied his thoughts with the commodore and the three cutters, until he felt his mind would crack.
And then, quite suddenly, or so it seemed, the light began to fade, and where there had been green trees and the glittering sea beyond, there were shadows of purple and dark pewter.
A few lights appeared in the boatyard’s outbuildings, but only once or twice had he seen any movement, usually an armed man strolling down to the waterfront to relieve himself.
Bolitho examined every yard of the distance he would have to cover. He must avoid catching his foot or slipping in some cow dung. Surprise was his only protection.
He realised that the blind man was wide awake and crouching beside him. How could he live in such filth? Or perhaps he no longer noticed even that.
“What is it?”
The man pointed towards the sea. “A boat comin’.”
Bolitho seized his telescope and swore under his breath. It was already too dark, as if a great curtain had been lowered.
Then he heard the creak of oars, saw a shaded lantern reflecting on the water where a man stood to guide the boat in.
The blind man added, “A ship, Captain.”
Bolitho strained his eyes into the darkness. If ship there was, she showed no lights. Landing a cargo? He dismissed it instantly. The blind man knew better than anyone what they were doing— he had more than proved it. They were collecting sailors: men who had been marked run in their ships’ logs; others who had managed to escape the gibbet; soldiers of fortune. All dangerous.
He heard the creak of oars again. Whatever it was, it had been quickly done, he thought.
He stood up, the cooler air off the sea making him shiver. “Wait here. Don’t move until I return for you.”
The blind man leaned on his crude stick. “They’ll gut you, sure as Jesus, if they sees you!”
“I have to know.” Bolitho thought he heard a door slam. “If I don’t return, go to Major Craven.”
“I ain’t goin’ to no bloody redcoats! Not no more!”
Bolitho could hear him muttering querulously as he took the first steps down the grassy slope towards a solitary lighted window. He heard laughter, the sound of a bottle being smashed, then more laughter. So they had not all gone. Perhaps Allday . . . He reached the wall of the building and leaned with his back against it, waiting for his breathing to steady.
Then, very slowly he peered around the edge of the window. The glass was stained and covered with cobwebs, but he saw all he needed. It was a shipwright’s shed, with benches and fresh planks piled on racks. Around a table he saw about six figures. They were drinking rum, passing the jar round, while another was cutting hunks of bread from a basket. Only one man was armed and stood apart from the rest. He wore a blue coat with a red neckerchief and an old cocked hat tilted rakishly on thick, greasy hair.
Bolitho glanced behind him. There was no other sound. So these men were also deserters, awaiting the next boat which could use them? There was an air of finality about the place, as if once they had gone, it would be abandoned, or returned to its proper use. Then there would be no evidence. Nothing. And Allday would be just as lost as ever.
Bolitho licked his lips. Six to one, but only the armed man, who was obviously one of the smugglers, presented real danger. He found that his heart was beating wildly, and he had to lick his lips repeatedly to stop them being glued with dryness.
They were all together, but any second one might leave the building and raise the alarm. They would soon arm themselves then.
Bolitho moved carefully along the wall until he reached the door. He could see from the lantern’s flickering light that there were no bolts or chains.
It seemed to taunt him. Have you been stripped of your courage too? He was committed, and knew that he had had no choice from the beginning.
Bolitho eased the pistol from his belt and tried to remember if he had kept it clear of the water when he had waded ashore. He winced as he cocked it. Then he stood clear of the door, held his sword angled across his body, and kicked it with all his strength.
“In the King’s name!” He was shocked at the loudness of his voice in the confined space. “You are all under arrest!”
Someone yelled, “God damn, it’s the press!”
Another gasped, “They told us we was safe! ”
The armed man dropped his hand to the hanger at his belt and rasped, “He’s not the press! I knows who he is, damn his eyes!”
Bolitho raised his pistol. “Don’t move!” The man’s face was twisted with anger and hatred and seemed to swim over the end of the muzzle like a mask.
Then he seized his hanger and pulled it from its scabbard.
Bolitho squeezed the trigger and heard the impotent click of a misfire. The man crouched towards him, his hanger making small circles in the lanternlight, while the others stared in disbelief, probably too drunk to register what had happened.
The man snarled, “Get out! Fetch weapons! He’s alone—can’t you see that, you gutless swabs?”
He lunged forward but held his legs as before. Sparks spat from the two blades, and Bolitho watched the man’s eyes, knowing that whatever happened now, he could not win. They would set upon him like a pack, more afraid of the gallows than of killing a King’s officer.
He could hear the rest of them clambering through a window, one already running through the darkness yelling like a madman. They would soon return.
He said, “You have no chance!”
The man spat at his feet. “We’ll see!” Then he laughed. “Blade to blade, Captain bloody Bolitho!”
He slashed forward, and Bolitho parried it aside, locking hilts for a second so that he could thrust the man away, and hold him silhouetted against the lantern.
The man yelled, “Kill him, you bilge-rats!” He had sensed that despite his strength he was no match for Bolitho’s swords-manship. He vaulted over a bench, then faced Bolitho across it, his hanger held out like a rapier.
Not long now. Bolitho heard running feet, a man falling over some obstruction in the darkness, the rum making him laugh insanely. Then there was a single shot, and for an instant Bolitho thought one of them had fired at him through the window. He heard somebody sobbing, the sudden trampling thud of horses, and Major Craven’s voice rising above all of it.
The door burst open and the place was filled suddenly with scarlet coats and gleaming sabres.
Craven turned as a sergeant shouted, “One o’ the buggers ’as done for Trooper Green, sir.” Craven looked at Bolitho and gave the merest nod, then faced the armed smuggler. “You heard that? My men will be happy to end your miserable life here and now, unless —”
The man tossed his hanger on the bench. “I know nothing.”
Bolitho took Craven’s arm. “How did you know?”
Craven walked to the door. “Look yonder, Captain.”
A dragoon was helping a small figure to climb down from his saddle. The boy walked slowly and hesitantly into the lantern-light, his eyes running with tears, Fear, relief, it was all there.
Craven said quietly, “Lift your foot, boy.”
Aided by the dragoon Young Matthew raised one bare foot. It was ripped and bloody, almost to the bone.
Craven explained, “One of my pickets found him running along the road.” He looked at his men outside as they rounded up the deserters and bound their wrists behind them. One trooper lay dead on the ground.
Bolitho seized the boy and held him against his coat, trying to ease away the shock and the pain.
“There’s no harm done, Matthew, thanks to you. That was a brave thing you did.”
Craven nodded. “Damned dangerous, too.”
Bolitho looked at the dragoon who had carried the boy from his horse. “Care for him. I have something to do.” He confronted the man who minutes earlier had been urging his companions to arm themselves and cut him down, and said, “If you tell me what I want to know, I might be prepared to put in a word. I can promise nothing.”
The man threw back his head and roared with laughter. “D’you think I fear the hangman?”
Craven murmured, “He is far more frightened of his masters, the Brotherhood.”
He offered no resistance as the sergeant tied his hands behind him and sneered, “They’ll have you yet— Captain! ”
A dragoon shouted, “’Ere—where d’you think you’re goin’, mate?”
Then, like the others, he fell silent as the ragged figure with the broken branch held out before him moved slowly into the circle of light.
Bolitho sensed it immediately, like a shaft of lightning between them.
The blind man whispered, “It’s ’im, Captain!” There was a sob in his voice now. “I ’ad to come, then I ’eard ’is laugh. ’E’s the one wot did this to me!”
The man shouted, “You bloody liar! Who’d take the word of a blind lunatic?”
Bolitho had an overwhelming desire to strike him. To kill him, tied and helpless though he was.
“ I would, whoever you are.” How calm his voice sounded it was like hearing a complete stranger. “When all this was begun, this man —who has become my friend, let it be known—asked no reward.”
There was absolute silence now and Bolitho saw the bound man staring at him uncertainly, the bluff gone out of him.
“He asked only for revenge, and I think I know what he meant.” Bolitho glanced at the others. “Major Craven, if you will take your men outside?” The dragoons filed out, some shocked at what they had witnessed, others with the light of cruel revenge in their faces. They had just lost one of their own. What did outsiders understand of loyalty, and their sacrifice?
Bolitho watched as the realisation crossed the man’s cruel features. Spittle ran from a corner of his mouth. “You lie! You wouldn’t dare!” When Bolitho walked towards the door he screamed, “Don’t leave me!”
The blind man felt his way around the seated prisoner, and then touched his eyes from behind. Very gently, as he crooned, “Like trapped butterflies.”
The man screamed and struggled. “Christ, my eyes!”
Bolitho opened the door, his throat retching.
Then he heard the man shriek, “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! Call him off, for Christ’s sake!”
Bolitho crossed the room in two strides. “I want names. I need to know things which only you will be a part of.”
The man’s chest was heaving as if he was drowning. “I felt his claws in my eyes!”
“I am waiting.” He rested one hand on the blind man’s scrawny shoulder and saw him turn his bandaged eyes towards him. In his own way he was telling Bolitho he had already had his revenge. Perhaps he had found no reprieve in it.
Together they listened to the man’s desperate flood of information. The hangman’s halter, or death in a sea-fight were commonplace. But against the prospect of torture at the hands of someone he had blinded and broken he had had no defences.
Bolitho said, “You will be kept in the barracks, alone and under guard at all times. If one word you have told me is false, you will have this man as your sole companion.”
He reached out and slammed the smuggler’s head back against the chair. “ Look at me, damn you! Do you see any bluff in my eyes?”
There was naked terror in the man’s face now and Bolitho could smell the stench of it. Then he said quietly, “So be warned.”
He walked out of the building and leaned against the wall, staring at the tiny stars.
Craven said, “Thank God I was in time.”
“Aye.” He watched the blind man touching the muzzle of one of the horses. “There’s much we have to thank him for tonight.” He knew that in a few more minutes he would have vomited. “Now where is that boy?”
But Young Matthew had fallen asleep across the dragoon’s saddle.
Craven said, “Time to leave. I sent word for assistance before I came. I felt this would be the place. My men have never been allowed to come here.” He glanced at the sky. “There’s a troop of fifty horses or more on the road from Chatham by now, but we’ll take no chances.”
He watched his dead dragoon being tied across an empty saddle. “Is it worth the cost this time?” He removed his hat as the horse was led past.
Bolitho nodded. “I believe so.” He waited for the major to order a spare mount for him. “You have done so much.” His tone hardened. “Now it is up to me.”
The blind man waited beside the horses as Bolitho leaned down and touched his arm. “Will you come with us?”
The man shook his head. “I’ll be close by if you needs me, Captain.”
As the troop, with the prisoners running beside the horses, moved away from the buildings, the blind man looked into his perpetual darkness and murmured, “’E called me ’is friend. ”
Then, like a ragged shadow, he too was swallowed up.
10. THE SPARK OF COURAGE
THE brig Loyal Chi
eftain, drifting and rolling under close-reefed topsails, was a death-trap for any landsman or the unwary. In pitch-darkness she lay between two sturdy luggers while men from all three crews hauled on tackles, levered, and stowed an endless collection of cargo. In the brig’s forward hold, Allday marvelled at the speed of the transfer from the two luggers in spite of several stupid blunders. The brig carried twice her normal company, but most of them had never worked together before, and he had heard more kicks and obscenities than in any manof-war.
Each time he went on deck he looked hopefully towards the land. But there was no sign of it, not even a light to reveal how near or far it lay. He knew they were lying-to off the Dutch coast, somewhere near Flushing, but it might easily have been on the other side of the world.
His prowess as a seaman had soon been noted, and Allday had found himself thanking his Maker more than once that Delaval was not aboard. The brig Loyal Chieftain was under the charge of his lieutenant and mate, a tight-lipped man called Isaac Newby who hailed from Dorset. He had been arrested twice for smuggling but each time he had been released for lack or loss of evidence.
He had remarked to Allday, “I’ve friends in high places.” Otherwise he had said little, and after they had made contact with the two luggers there had been no time even to eat or drink.
Men fumbled over unfamiliar tackles, or were knocked senseless by a cargo net of brandy casks. In the holds, another team was busily lashing hemp halters and floats to ranks of casks almost before they had been stowed for the passage. A man Allday had befriended, once a fore-topman named Tom Lucas, had explained that once off the English coast the casks would be dropped overboard in moored trots, like lobster pots, to be collected later by some of the long, oared smuggling galleys. After that, the cargo would be distributed in caves and small inlets, to be carried to the next “drops” by packhorse or donkey.
Lucas was a tall, grave-faced sailor, very much the landsman’s idea of a typical Jack Tar of Old England. Once, on passage from Kent, he had been stitching a patch on his shirt. Allday, watching, was used to the navy’s ways and harsh discipline, but Lucas’s bare back was scarred and mangled beyond recognition. He had been serving in a seventy-four at the Nore, a ship plagued by a bad captain, undermanning and appalling food.
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