Marcuard watched him, his eyes smoky in the reflected flames. “We cannot rely on Brennier and his associates. Until a counterrevolution can be launched, that vast fortune belongs in London, where it will be safe. I could tell you of lasting loyalties which would rise up against the National Convention once a properly managed invasion was mounted.”
“That would cause a war, m’lord.”
Marcuard nodded. “The war is almost upon us, I fear.”
“I believe that Admiral Brennier understands the danger he is in.” Bolitho pictured him, a frail old man by the fire, still dreaming and hoping when there was no room left for either.
The door opened and another footman entered with a tray and some fresh coffee.
“I know you have a great liking for coffee, Captain Bolitho.”
“My cox’n—”
Marcuard watched the servant preparing to pour.
“Your Mr Allday is being well taken care of. He seems a most adaptable fellow, to all accounts. Your right arm, wouldn’t you say?”
Bolitho shrugged. Was there nothing Marcuard did not know or discover from others? No hiding place, Tanner had said. That he could believe now.
He said, “He means all that and more to me.”
“And the young lad, Corker, wasn’t it? You packed him off to Falmouth, I believe.”
Bolitho smiled sadly. It had been a difficult moment for all of them. Young Matthew had been in tears when they had put him on the coach for the first leg of the long haul to Cornwall, the breadth of England away.
He said, “It seemed right, m’lord. To be home with his people in time for Christmas.”
“Quite so, although I doubt that was your prime concern.”
Bolitho recalled Allday at that moment, his face still cut and bruised from his beating aboard the Loyal Chieftain. He had said, “Your place is on the estate, my lad. With your horses, like Old Matthew. It’s not on the bloody deck of some man-o’-war. Anyway, I’m back now. You said you’d wait ’til then, didn’t you?”
They had watched the coach until it had vanished into heavy rain.
Bolitho said suddenly, “I fear he would have been killed if I had allowed him to stay.”
Marcuard did not ask or even hint at how the boy’s death might have come about. He probably knew that too.
Marcuard put down his cup and consulted his watch. “I have to go out. My valet will attend to your needs.” He was obviously deep in thought. “If I am not back before you retire do not concern yourself. It is the way of things here.” He crossed to a window and said, “The weather. It is a bad sign.”
Bolitho looked at him. He had not said as much, but somehow he knew Marcuard was going to have a late audience with the King.
Bolitho wondered what the prime minister and his advisers thought about it. It was rumoured more openly nowadays that His Majesty was prone to change his mind like the wind, and that on bad days he was totally incapable of making a decision about anything. He might easily be prepared to discuss his anxieties with Marcuard rather than Parliament. It would make Marcuard’s authority all the greater.
He was standing by the window now, looking down at the road, his eyes deep in thought.
“In Paris it will be a bad winter. They were near to starvation last year; this time it will be worse. Cold and hunger can fire men to savage deeds, if only to cover their own failings.”
He looked deliberately at Bolitho, like that time at The Golden Fleece in Dover.
“I must make arrangements for the treasure to be brought to England. I feel that the sand is running low.” The door opened silently and Marcuard said, “Have the unmarked phaeton brought round at once.” Then to Bolitho he said softly, “Leave Brennier to me.”
“What of me, m’lord?” Bolitho was also on his feet, as if he shared this new sense of urgency.
“As far as I am concerned, you are still my man in this.” He gave a bleak smile. “You will return to Holland only when I give the word.” He seemed to relax himself and prepare for his meeting. “Anyone who opposes you will have me to reckon with.” He let his gaze linger for a few more seconds. “But do not harm Tanner.” Again the bleak smile. “Not yet, in any case.” Then he was gone.
Bolitho sat down and stared at the wall of books, an army of knowledge. How did men like Marcuard see a war, he wondered? Flags on a map, land gained or lost, investment or waste? It was doubtful if they ever considered it as cannon fire and broken bodies.
Below his feet, in the long kitchen Allday sat contentedly, sipping a tankard of ale while he enjoyed the pipe of fresh tobacco one of the footmen had offered him.
In any strange house the kitchen was usually Allday’s first port of call. To investigate food, and also the possibilities of female companionship which most kitchens had to offer.
He watched the cook’s assistant, a girl of ample bosom and laughing eyes, her arms covered in flour to her elbows. Allday had gathered that her name was Maggie.
He took another swallow of ale. A proper sailor’s lass she would make. He thought of Bolitho somewhere overhead, alone with his thoughts. He had heard his lordship leave in a carriage only moments ago, and wondered if he should go up and disturb him.
He thought of the dead girl in his arms, the touch of her body against his. Poor Tom Lucas had sworn it would bring bad luck to take a woman aboard against her will. That had been true enough for both of them. Allday tried to see into the future. Better back in Falmouth than this shifty game, he thought. You never knew friend from foe. Just so long as they didn’t go back to Holland. Allday usually clung to his same old rule. Never go back. The odds always got worse.
The cook was saying, “’Course, our Lady Marcuard’s down at the estate. ’Is lordship’ll not be ’ome for Christmas this year, I reckon!” She looked meaningly at Allday and added, “Young Maggie’s ’usband is there too, as second coachman, see?”
Allday glanced at the girl and saw her blush faintly before she returned her attention to her work.
The cook watched them both and added encouragingly, “Pity to waste it, I always says!”
His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Ithuriel, a seventy-four-gun two-decker, made a handsome picture above her reflection on the flat water of the Royal Dockyard. Her black and buff hull and checkered gunports, her neatly furled sails and crossed yards shone with newness, as did the uniforms of her lieutenant and midshipman, facing inboard from their divisions of silent seamen. Across her poop the marines stood in scarlet lines, and above their heads a matching ensign curled listless against a washed-out sky in the hard sunlight.
There was pride and sadness here in Chatham today. Ithuriel was the first new man-of-war of any size to be commissioned since the American Revolution, and now, stored and fully manned, she was ready to take her place with the Channel Fleet.
Below her poop Bolitho watched the official handing-over of the new ship, her captain reading himself in to the assembled officers and men he would lead and inspire for as long as Their Lordships dictated, or as long as he remained in command.
Nearby, the officers’ ladies stood close together, sharing this alien world of which they could never truly become a part. Some would be grateful that their husbands had been given appointments after all the waiting and disappointment. Others would be cherishing each passing minute, not knowing when, or if, they would see their loved ones again.
Bolitho looked at the sky, his heart suddenly heavy. He was only an onlooker. All the excitement and demands of a newly commissioned ship were cradled here, and would soon show their true value and flaws once the ship began to move under canvas for the first time.
He saw the admiral with his flag lieutenant standing a little apart from the rest, dockyard officials watching their efforts become reality as the company was urged to cry their Huzzas and wave their hats to honour the moment.
If only the command were his. Not a frigate, but a newly born ship nonetheless. The most beautiful creation of man yet devised; hard and demandin
g by any standards. He dropped his eyes as the captain finished speaking, his voice carrying easily in the still January air.
That too was hard to accept, Bolitho thought. Danger there had certainly been, but the promise of action had sustained him. Until now. In his heart he believed he had ruined his chances by his dogged and stubborn attack on Sir James Tanner. Marcuard must have found him wanting.
He looked up as he heard the new captain speak his name.
He was saying, “A fine ship which I am proud to command. But for the inspiration and leadership given by Captain Richard Bolitho over the past months I doubt if we would have enough hands to work downstream, let alone put to sea and face whatever duty demands of us!” He gave a slight bow in Bolitho’s direction. “ Ithuriel shall be worthy of your trust, sir.”
Bolitho flinched as all the faces turned towards him. Pressed and volunteers, men who had accepted his offer to quit the smuggling gangs and return to their calling, but now they were of one company. It was only their captain’s qualities which could carry them further. And Bolitho would be left far behind and soon forgotten.
Perhaps there would be no war after all? He should have felt relief, but instead was ashamed to discover he had only a sense of loss and rejection.
The ship’s company was dismissed and the boatswain’s mates refrained from their usual coarse language with so many ladies gathered on the quarterdeck and poop. Extra rum for all hands, and then, when the honoured guests had departed, the hovering bumboats and watermen would come alongside and unload their passengers under the watchful eyes of the first lieutenant and afterguard. Trollops and doxies from the town, the sailor’s last freedom for a long while. For some, it would be forever.
The admiral was making a great fuss over the captain, which was not surprising as he was his favourite nephew. The groups were breaking up and making for the entry port below which the many boats thronged like water beetles. There were desperate embraces and tears, brave laughter, and, from the older ones, resignation, a lesson learned from many repetitions.
Allday emerged from the shadows beneath the poop and said, “I’ve signalled for the boat, Cap’n.” He studied him with concern, recognising all the signs. “It’ll come, Cap’n, just you see—”
Bolitho turned on him, and relented immediately. “It was only that I had hoped—”
The senior officers had gone now; calls trilled and barges glided away to other ships and to the dockyard stairs.
Bolitho said wearily, “I would that they were my men and our ship—eh, old friend?”
Allday made a passage to the entry port. In many ways he felt vaguely guilty. He should have done more. But in London while they had been staying in that great house, he had soon found his time fully occupied with the amorous Maggie. It was just as well Bolitho had been ordered back to Kent, he thought. It had been a close-run thing.
“Captain Bolitho?” It was the flag lieutenant, poised and eager, like a ferret. “If you would come aft for a moment, sir?”
Bolitho followed him and saw the curious stares, heads drawn together in quick speculation. Rumour was firmer than fact. They would be speaking of Hoblyn and Delaval, even Hugh, and the strange fact that men who had managed to evade the dreaded press gangs had openly volunteered for service whenever Bolitho had been seen in their locality. Myth and mystery. It never failed.
In the great cabin, still smelling of paint and tar, new timber and cordage, Bolitho found another unknown captain waiting for him. He introduced himself as Captain Wordley; the papers he produced proved that he had been sent by Lord Marcuard.
Wordley watched him impassively as he examined his bulky envelope and said, “You may read them at leisure, Bolitho. I am required to return to London forthwith.” He gave a wry smile. “You will know his lordship’s insistence on haste.”
Bolitho asked, “Can you tell me?” He could still scarcely believe it.
“You are to return to Holland. All details are listed in your orders. There is some urgency in this matter. Information is hard to come by, but Lord Marcuard is convinced that time is short. Very short. You are to supervise the removal of the . . . stores . . . from Holland, and see them safely to these shores.” He spread his hands unhappily. “It is all I can tell you, Bolitho. In God’s name it is all I know!”
Bolitho left the cabin and made his way to the entry port where Allday was waiting by the side-party and marine guard.
Like walking in the dark. A messenger-boy who was told only the briefest facts. But excitement replaced the bitterness almost immediately. He said, “We are returning to Holland, Allday.” He eyed him keenly. “If you wish to stand fast I shall fully understand, especially so because of your—recent attachment.”
Allday stared at him, then gave a self-conscious grin. “Was it that plain, Cap’n? An’ I thought I was keeping hull-down, so to speak!” His grin vanished. “Like I said afore. We stay together this time.” His eyes were almost desperate. “Right?”
Bolitho gripped his thick forearm, watched with astonishment by the marine officer of the guard.
“So be it.”
He doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and lowered himself to the waiting boat.
Only once did Bolitho glance astern at the shining new seventy-four, but already she seemed like a diversion, part of that other dream.
Now only Holland lay ahead. And reality.
Lieutenant Jonas Paice placed his hands firmly on his hips and stared resentfully at the anchored Wakeful. In the harsh January sunlight she was a hive of activity, her sails already loosened, the forecastle party working the long bars of the windlass, their bodies moving in unison as if performing some strange rite.
“I’ll not be in agreement, sir. Not now, not ever.”
Bolitho glanced at his grimly determined features. Time was all-important, but it was just as vital he should make Paice understand.
“I explained why I had to go before. It was a secret then. I could not share it at the time, you must realise that.”
“This is different, sir.” Paice turned and stared at him, using his superior height to impress each word. “Half the fleet will know what you’re about.” He waved his hand towards Wakeful. “You should let me take you if go you must.”
Bolitho smiled. So that was it. He said, “Lieutenant Queely knows that coast well. Otherwise—” He saw Wakeful’s jolly-boat cast off and pull towards Telemachus. He said, “Try to pass word to Snapdragon. She is working her station off the North Foreland. Either the revenue people or the coastguard might be able to signal her. I want her back here.” He studied his stubborn features. It was Herrick all over again. “We are in this together.”
Paice replied heavily. “I know, sir. I have read your instructions.”
He tried again. “In any case, apart from the risks, there is the weather. Last time you had mist and fog. A hazard maybe, but also a protection.” He added scornfully, “Look at this! As bright and clear as the Arctic! Even a blind man could see you coming!”
Bolitho looked away. He had been thinking as much himself. Bright and clear, the waves outside the anchorage pockmarked with choppy white horses from the cold south-westerly. “I must go now.” He held out his hand. “We shall meet again soon.” Then he was climbing down to the boat where Lieutenant Kempthorne removed his hat as a mark of respect.
“Cast off! Give way all!” Allday sat by the tiller, his hat pulled down to shade his eyes from the reflected glare. He had seen the light in Bolitho’s eyes, the way that the call to action had somehow strengthened him. Allday had watched him aboard the new two-decker. The longing and the loss, side by side.
He gave a long sigh. Allday had no liking for what they were doing and it had cost him dearly not to speak his mind, that privilege he valued above all else. Bolitho could strike back with equal conviction and his anger had been known to hurt as well as sting. But he had never once used his rank and authority when others would have thought of nothing else. Now, as he watched the set of Bol
itho’s shoulders, the black hair gathered above the fall-down collar of that old, faded coat, he was glad he had kept his peace, no matter what.
They climbed aboard the cutter, and the boat was hoisted up and inboard almost before Bolitho had reached the narrow poop where Queely was in deep conversation with his sailing-master.
Queely touched his hat and nodded. “Ready when you are, sir.” He looked at the green elbow of land, the rime of frost or recent snow dusting some of the port buildings. The air was like a honed knife, but it roused a man from the boredom of routine, put an edge on his reactions. Queely said, “Doesn’t much matter who sees us leave this time, eh?”
Bolitho ignored it. Like Paice, he was trying to dissuade him. It moved him to realise it was not for their own sakes, but for his.
Allday strode aft, then drew his cutlass and aimed its blade at the sun. “I’ll give this a sharpen, Cap’n.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take the sword, if I may?”
Bolitho handed it to him. Others might see and think they understood. But how could they? This was a ritual shared with nobody else, as much a part of each man as the moment before a battle when the ship was cleared for action, screens down, the people standing to their guns. Allday would be there. Always. After clipping the old sword to his belt. As his father’s coxswain must have done for him and those who had gone before.
“Anchor’s hove short, sir!”
“Loose mains’l! Stand by heads’l sheets!” Feet padded on the damp planking, bare despite the bitter air.
Bolitho saw it all. If only more of the people at home could have seen them, he thought. Men who had so little, but gave their all when it was demanded of them. He thought of the faces he had seen aboard the new Ithuriel. It might be months before her company worked even half as well as the men of his three cutters.
“Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”
Wakeful came round into the breeze, her huge mainsail scooping all of it without effort and filling out with a crack of taut canvas.
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