With All Despatch

by Alexander Kent

  He had complained on behalf of his mess to the first lieutenant who to all accounts had been a fair man. He in turn had approached the captain. The result: three dozen lashes at the gangway for mutinous behavior. Lucas had made up his mind to desert but had been surprised by another lieutenant on the night he had chosen. He had struck the officer only with his fist, but he had fallen from the gangway to the gundeck below. Lucas did not know if the lieutenant was dead or alive, and had no intention of returning to find out.

  He had stared at Allday grimly. “A flogging round th’ fleet? Well, you knows what that means. I couldn’t take it. An’ if the lieutenant died, it’ll be the yardarm dance anyway!”

  But it was obvious to Allday that he had no heart for smuggling. It was an escape, without hope or future, until fate caught up with him. Allday had heard some of the others discussing it in the dogwatches. So far, there had been plenty of backbreaking work, and precious few rewards. It did not balance the scale, but it was some consolation, he thought.

  Allday was with Lucas tonight, supervising the hold, and in some cases putting the right lines into unfamiliar hands while the hulls groaned and lurched together in a steep offshore swell.

  Allday muttered, “Black as a boot on deck.”

  Lucas paused and sniffed the air, which was heavy with brandy. “I could use some o’ that.” He seemed to realise what Allday had said. “Yeah. Well, I’ve done a couple of runs in this brig. The captain always ’as a decoy. So if our—” He seemed to grin in the gloom. “I mean, if their patrols or revenue cutters appear, it gives ’im time to stand clean away.”

  Allday lowered his head to conceal his expression. So that was how it was done. Maybe the smuggling fraternity took turns to play decoy, then shared the spoils afterwards?

  Isaac Newby, the mate, peered down past the shaded lanterns. “Ready below?” He sounded on edge, impatient.

  Allday raised his fist. “Soon enough. One more net to be stowed.”

  Newby vanished, probably to examine the other hold.

  Lucas said bitterly, “What next, I wonder? Gold for the captain, an’ a gutful of rum for us, eh?”

  Allday watched him thoughtfully. How many good seamen had gone rotten because of uncaring officers and ruthless captains? It was a pity there were not many more like Our Dick, he thought.

  A voice yelled, “Stand by to cast off, starboard! Lively, you scum!”

  Lucas swore. “Just like home.”

  First one lugger was cast off, then the other, with more curses and squealing blocks, the canvas unmanageable with the brig floundering downwind. Then just as suddenly she had set her top-sails and jib and was leaning over to the larboard tack. Hatches were battened down, and the disorder removed.

  Lucas stared out at the heaving, black water and gritted his teeth. “Christ, they’ve brought women aboard!” He seized the rat-lines and hung on them despairingly. “God, listen to ’em. Don’t the buggers know it’s bad luck?”

  Allday listened and heard someone cry out. It was little more than a sound, like a gull’s mew, soon lost in the thunder of spray-soaked canvas.

  The boatswain shouted, “You lot! Stand by to loose the fore-course! Hands aloft, and shift your bloody selves!” A rope’s end found its target and a man yelped with painful resentment.

  The boatswain joined Allday at the weather shrouds. “Fair wind.” He squinted aloft but the men strung out on the fore-course yard were hidden in darkness. “Should be a good run this time.”

  Allday heard it again, and asked, “Women, eh?” For some reason it disturbed him.

  The boatswain yawned. “The captain likes to have his way.” He gave a hard laugh. “It’s all money, I reckon, but—” He shrugged as a piercing scream broke from the after skylight.

  Allday tried to moisten his lips. “Delaval, d’you mean?”

  The boatswain glared impatiently as the big foresail flapped and writhed out of control. “Yeh, he came aboard from one of the Dutchie luggers.” He cupped his hands. “Catch a turn there, you idle bugger! Now belay! ”

  But Allday scarcely heard him. Delaval was here. But he might not remember. He had had eyes only for Bolitho and Paice at their last meeting. Even as he grasped the hope, Allday knew it was a lie.

  More bellowed orders, and one watch was dismissed below for another foully cooked meal.

  Allday walked aft, his powerful frame angled to the slanting deck, his mind in great trouble. He saw the faces of the helmsmen glowing faintly in the binnacle light, but it was too weak to be seen more than yards beyond the hull.

  What should he do now? If he stayed alive long enough he might—

  A larger wave than the previous one swayed the deck hard over. He saw the spokes of the wheel spin, heard the two helmsmen cursing as they fought to bring the vessel back under command.

  Allday gripped a rack of belaying pins, and found himself looking directly down through the cabin skylight. There was a girl there—she could not be more than sixteen. One man, Newby the mate, was pinioning her arms, another, hidden by the skylight’s coaming, was tearing at her clothes, laying her breasts naked while she struggled and cried out in terror.

  Too late did he feel the closeness of danger.

  “So this is the sailmaker? I never forget a face, Mister Allday!”

  The blow across the back of his head brought instant darkness. There was no time even for fear or pain. Oblivion.

  Bolitho loosened his shirt and stared around at the intent faces. Telemachus’s small cabin was packed to bursting-point with not only the lieutenants from all three cutters but their sailing-masters as well.

  He spread his hands on the chart and listened to the wind sighing through the rigging, the regular creak of timbers as the hull tugged at her cable.

  It was evening, but the air was humid rather than warm, and the sky broken by ridges of heavy-bellied clouds.

  He found time to compare it with his first meeting with the cutters’ commanders. In so short a while they had all changed. Now there was no doubt, no suspicion; events had somehow welded them together in a manner Bolitho had first believed impossible.

  The others had also rid themselves of their coats and Bolitho wondered how they would appear to some landsman or outsiders. More like the men they were hunting than sea-officers, he thought.

  “We will weigh at dusk, and have to risk arousing interest—” His glance fell on Chesshyre. “I see that you have already noted the change?”

  Chesshyre nodded, startled to be picked out before all the others. “Aye, sir, wind’s backed two points or more.” He shivered slightly as if to test the weather. “I’d say fog afore dawn.”

  They looked at each other, the suggestion of fog moving amongst them like an evil spirit.

  Bolitho said, “I know. When I consulted the glass—” He glanced up at the open skylight, plucking his shirt away from his body. It felt like a wet rag, like the moment he had kicked open the door and had faced the men around the table. It seemed like an age past instead of days. He hurried on, “The information is that two vessels are heading for the Isle of Thanet from the Dutch coast. One will be deep-laden, the other a decoy.” He saw them exchange glances and added, “I have no doubt that this intelligence is true.” He pictured the smuggler tied to a chair, his screams of terror as the blind man’s hands had touched his eyes. No, he had little doubt of this information.

  Paice said, “May I speak, sir?” He looked at the other lieutenants and Queely responded with a curt nod, as if they had already been discussing it. Paice said, “If this fails, and we lose them, what will happen to you? ”

  Bolitho smiled; he had been half-expecting an objection to his plan. “I shall doubtless be ordered to a place where I can no longer disrupt matters.” Even as he said it, he knew he had never uttered a truer word. Even with Midshipman Fenwick under close arrest, and the smuggler in the hands of Craven’s dragoons, his evidence would leak like a sieve without Delaval and a cargo.

  He pushed the t
hought from his mind and said flatly, “I believe that the information which led to the capture of the Four Brothers was deliberately offered to us to allay suspicion. Probably a competitor anyway, a most suitable sacrifice with the stakes so high.”

  He held his breath and watched their expressions. If they accepted this, they were implicating themselves. Only Commodore Hoblyn had known about the Four Brothers. By accepting Bolitho’s word they too could be charged with conspiracy.

  Paice said resolutely, “I agree. We’ve been held away from that piece of coastline for as long as I can recall. There are several small boatyards there, most of ’em on the land which belongs to—” He looked at Bolitho and said bluntly, “Sir James Tanner, a person of great power and authority.” He gave a slow grin as if to show he was aware of his own disloyalty and added, “Some of us suspected. Most saw only the hopelessness of any protest with us against so many.” His grin widened. “Until, with respect, sir, you came amongst us like a full gale of wind!”

  Lieutenant Vatass of Snapdragon pulled at his crumpled shirt and said, “I think that speaks for us all, sir. If we are to stand alone?” He gave an elegant shrug. “Then let us get on with it.”

  There was a muttered assent around the airless cabin.

  Bolitho said, “We will leave as arranged. I have left word with Major Craven, and sent a despatch to our admiral at the Nore.” He would have smiled but for Allday. Even the admiral would have to climb down from his eyrie when this news was exploded before him. If Bolitho failed he would face a court martial. That he could accept. But these men, who had accepted his arrival only under pressure, he must shield at all costs.

  The three sailing-masters were comparing notes and making last adjustments to their chart. Their navigation would have to be better than ever before. There was not even room for luck this time. Just three small cutters in search of a will-o’-the-wisp. Bolitho had sent word to Chatham in the hopes of calling a frigate to intervene should Delaval slip through their tightly stretched net. Even if the admiral agreed to his wishes, it was quite likely that no frigate was available.

  Bolitho recalled his meeting with Sir Marcus Drew at the Admiralty. He had left him in no doubt where responsibility would lie if Bolitho misused his commission.

  If Hoblyn was guilty of conspiracy with the smugglers, no matter for what reason, he could expect no mercy either from the navy or from the men he had served for his own profit.

  Bolitho’s mouth hardened. Allday’s life was at stake because of all this. If anything happened to him he would deal with Hoblyn and the unknown Sir James Tanner in his own fashion.

  As evening closed in across the anchorage Bolitho went on deck and watched the unhurried preparations to get under way.

  He could sense the difference here too. The unspoken acceptance by men he had come to know in so brief a time. George Davy the gunner, even now crouching and ducking around his small artillery. Scrope, master-at-arms, with Christie the boatswain’s mate, checking the heavy chest of axes and cutlasses below the tapering mast. Big Luke Hawkins, the boatswain, was hanging over the bulwark gesturing to some men in the jolly-boat to warp it closer to the tackles for hoisting inboard.

  Slow, careful preparations—for what? To risk death at the hands of smugglers whom most people condoned, if not admired? Or was it out of loyalty? To Bolitho, or to one another, as was the navy’s way with pressed man and volunteer alike.

  Bolitho glanced at the waterfront and wondered if there was already a fine mist spreading towards the many anchored vessels. And although the wind still buffeted the furled sails, the sea seemed flatter, milkier out towards the Isle of Grain and Garrison Point. He shivered and wished he had brought his coat on deck.

  He heard dragging footsteps and saw Young Matthew Corker resting by a six-pounder, his eyes on the land.

  Bolitho said quietly, “We owe you a great deal, Matthew. One day you will realise it. What do you wish for yourself after this?”

  The boy turned and faced him, his expression unusually sad and grave. “Please, Captain, I’d like to go home. ” He was near to tears but added with sudden determination, “But only when Mr Allday is back.”

  Bolitho watched him walk forward, soon hidden by the busy seamen. It was the right decision, he thought. One he had to make for himself.

  Paice joined him by the bulwark and said, “Good lad, that one, sir.”

  Bolitho watched him, and guessed the reason for Paice’s hurt.

  “Aye, Mr Paice. But for him—” He did not need to continue.

  With the wind filling and puffing at the great mainsails the three cutters weighed and headed out to open water. Many eyes watched them leave, but with the mist moving slowly out to embrace the three hulls, there was little to reveal their intentions.

  Major Philip Craven of the 30th Dragoons was enjoying a glass of claret when the news of their departure was brought by a hard-riding trooper.

  Craven folded the message and finished the claret before calling his orderly to fetch his horse.

  Commodore Ralph Hoblyn paced his great bedroom alone, his eyes everywhere whenever he reached a window. And as darkness fell, he was still striding back and forth, his stooped shoulder even more pronounced in shadows against the walls.

  A messenger brought word to the gates about the cutters’ leaving without fresh orders, but the corporal of the guard retorted sharply, “The commodore’s made it plain in the past! ’E’s not to be disturbed, no matter wot! ”

  And away in Chatham itself, the one person who had been the hinge of all these events, Midshipman Fenwick of the local impressment service, made the only firm decision of his miserable nineteen years. While the guards were changing their duties, he took his belt and hanged himself in his cell.

  Down in Telemachus’s cabin once more, Bolitho changed into a fresh shirt and placed his watch carefully in his pocket. Around and above him the hull muttered and groaned, and he felt the wash alongside losing its power with each dragging minute.

  He stared at the chart until his head throbbed.

  It was now or never. He glanced at the parcel with the ship model inside. For both of them.

  It seemed like an eternity before understanding returned. Even then it was a battle, against pain, and a sick unwillingness to believe what had happened.

  Allday tried to open his eyes but with shocked horror realized that only the right one would obey. His whole body ached from bruises, and when he tried again to use his other eye he thought for an instant it had been put out.

  He stared at the hazy picture which reached only to the perimeter of light cast by a gently spiralling lantern. It was barely a few feet away, and he thought he was going mad because of the confined space. He emitted a groan of agony as he tried to move. For the first time he realized that his legs were braced apart by irons bolted to the deck, his wrists dragged above his head by manacles so tight that he could no longer feel them.

  He made himself wait, counting the seconds, while he attempted to muster his thoughts. He could remember nothing. But when he moved his head again he felt the force of the blow and guessed how he had come here. They must have beaten him almost to a point of death after that, although he had felt nothing. Not then.

  He eased his legs and felt the irons dragging at them. He was naked to the waist, and when he peered down he saw blood, dried and stark on his body, like black tar in the lantern light.

  A tiny pinprick flickered in his damaged eye and he felt more pain when he tried to open it. It must be clotted with his own blood, he thought despairingly, but what was the difference now? They would kill him. He tensed his legs in the irons. But not before they had made him suffer more.

  Voices came faintly through the hull and he realised suddenly that the motion had eased; for another few dazed seconds he believed the brig was in harbour.

  But as his mind tried to grasp what was happening he heard the irregular groan of the tiller, the clatter of tackle on deck. He peered round the tiny space again, eac
h movement bringing a fresh stab of pain. No wonder it was small and low. It must be the lazaret, somewhere below the after cabin where the master’s stores were usually held. Here there was nothing but a few dusty crates. Delaval—Allday sobbed at the sudden discovery of his name. It was surging back in broken pieces. The girl, half-naked in the cabin, screaming and pleading, and then . . .

  That was why the tiller movements were so loud and near. His sailor’s instinct forced through the despair and the pain. The brig was barely making headway. Not becalmed, so that—it came to him then. It must be a fog. God, it was common enough in these waters, especially after wind across a warm sea.

  He craned his neck again. There was a small hatch from the cabin above, and another even smaller door in the bulkhead. Probably for a carpenter to inspect the lower hull if the vessel was damaged.

  Allday sat bolt upright. She was the Loyal Chieftain, and was loaded with contraband to the deck beams. He felt close to shouting out aloud, all his distress and anguish pinned into this one small prison. It was for nothing. Nothing.

  He dragged himself out of the sudden self-pity and resignation, and listened to a new movement on deck. A brief rumbling that he had heard a thousand times, in a thousand places—the sound of gun trucks as a carriage was manhandled across deck planking. It was the long nine-pounder he had seen when he had helped to load the ship.

  Suppose Bolitho was nearby? He fought against the sudden hope, because there was none. He tried to think only of dying without pleading, of escaping it all like the Captain’s lady had done in the Great South Sea.

  But the thought persisted, shining through the mists of pain like St Anthony’s Light at Falmouth.

  Just suppose Bolitho was searching this area . . .

  More thuds echoed through the decks as if to prod his thoughts into order.

  Allday had never trusted a topsail cutter, or any other vessel which relied on a single mast, no matter how much sail she carried. He peered with his sound eye at the deckhead as if to see the gun crew who were manoeuvring the nine-pounder, probably towards the quarter in readiness for a stern-chase. One good shot, and a cutter would be rendered useless. She would be left to fend for herself. Allday gritted his teeth. Or more likely, Delaval would round-up on her and loose every gun he had into the wreckage until not a soul was left alive.