Even in this short interval, since Kempthorne had read her name, the distance between them had fallen away considerably. It was true what they said about topsail cutters. They could outrun almost anything.
“Run up the Colours, if you please.” Queely looked at Bolitho. “He may not have recognised us, sir.”
Bolitho nodded. “I agree. Let’s see what he does next. Have the four Dutchmen brought on deck.”
The Dutchmen stood swaying below the mast, staring from Bolitho to the brigantine, wondering what was about to happen to them.
Bolitho lowered the glass. If he could see the other vessel’s poop, then they, and most likely Tanner himself, would be able to recognise his erstwhile partners. He would know then that this was not some casual encounter, a time when he might risk turning towards the French coast to avoid capture. He would know it was Bolitho. It was personal. It was now.
“Fire a gun, Mr Queely!”
The six-pounder recoiled on its tackles, the thin whiff of smoke gone before the crew had time to check the motion with handspikes.
Queely watched the ball splash into the broken crests some half-a-cable from the brigantine’s quarter.
He said, “She does not seem to be pierced for any large artillery.” He glanced admiringly at Bolitho. “You reasoned to perfection, sir.”
A man yelled, “Somethin’s ’appenin’ on ’er deck, sir!”
Bolitho raised his glass in unison with Queely, and tensed as he saw the little scene right aft by her taffrail. He did not recognise the others, but in the centre of the small group he saw Brennier’s white hair blowing in the wind, his arms pinioned so that he was forced to face the cutter as she continued to overhaul La Revanche.
Queely said savagely, “What is his game? Why does he play for time? We’ll be up to him in a moment—if he kills that old man it will be the worse for him!”
Bolitho said, “Rig four halters to the mainyard.” He saw Queely look at him with surprise. “Tanner will understand. A life for a life. So too will his men.”
Queely yelled, “Come down, Mr Kempthorne! You are needed here! ” He beckoned to his boatswain and passed Bolitho’s instructions. Within minutes, or so it seemed, four ropes, each with a noose at one end, flew out from the mainyard like creeper, as if they were enjoying a macabre dance.
Bolitho said, “Keep him to lee’rd of you. Run down on his quarter.” He was thinking aloud. But all the time, Queely’s question intruded. Why does he play for time? The game must surely be played out.
The truth touched his heart like steel. He wants me dead. Even in the face of defeat he sees only that.
He raised the glass again. Brennier’s face loomed into the small silent picture, his eyes wide as if he was choking.
Bolitho said, “I intend to board. Prepare the jolly-boat.” He silenced Queely’s protest by adding, “If you try to drive alongside in this wind, you’ll likely dismast Wakeful. We’d lose Tanner, the treasure, everything.”
Queely shouted to the boat-handling party, then said stubbornly, “If they fire on you before you board, what then? We have no other boat. Why not risk the damage, I say, and damn the consequences!” He shrugged; he had seen the fight lost before it had begun. “Mr Kempthorne! Full boarding party!” He turned his back on the men by the tiller. “And if—”
Bolitho touched his elbow. “ If? Then you may act as you please. Disable her, but make certain they understand they will go down with the ship if they resist further!”
He watched the jolly-boat rising and dipping like a snared shark as the seamen warped it slowly aft to the quarter.
He took a last glance at the brigantine’s poop as Wakeful bore down on her. The figures had gone. The threat of instant retribution which they had seen in the four halters run up to the yard might have carried the moment. The sight of Wakeful’s carronades and run-out six-pounders would demonstrate that there was no quarter this time, no room to bargain.
Allday dropped into the boat and watched the oarsmen as they fended off the cutter’s hull, and prepared to fight their way over the water which surged between the two vessels.
Bolitho clambered down with Kempthorne and as the bowman shoved off, and the oars fell noisily into their rowlock, Allday shouted, “Give way all!”
Kempthorne stared at La Revanche, his eyes filled with wonder. “They’re shortening sail, sir!”
Bolitho replied grimly, “Don’t drop your guard, my lad, not for a second.”
Faces appeared along the brigantine’s bulwark, and Bolitho raised his borrowed speaking trumpet and shouted, “Do not resist! In the King’s name, I order you to surrender!”
He could ignore the sweating oarsmen, Allday crouching over his tiller bar, Kempthorne and the other boarders jammed like herrings into the sternsheets and amongst the boat’s crew.
At any second they might open fire. It only needed one. Bolitho wanted to look round for Wakeful and gauge her position, how long it might take Queely to attack if the worst happened.
Allday said between his teeth, “One of ’em’s got a musket, Cap’n.”
Bolitho shouted again, his heart pumping against his ribs as his whole body tensed for a shot.
“Stand by to receive boarders!”
Allday breathed out slowly as the raised musket disappeared. “Bowman! Grapnel! ”
They smashed hard into the brigantine’s side, lifted over her wale and almost capsized as another trough yawned beneath the keel.
Bolitho seized a handrope and hauled himself up to the entry port, with Kempthorne and some of the seamen scrabbling up beside him. Allday stared helplessly while the boat plunged down into another trough, leaving him and the rest of the crew momentarily cut off from the boarding party. Bolitho flung himself over the bulwark and in the next few seconds saw the scene like a badly executed painting. Men gaping at him when they should have been attacking or yelling defiance; Brennier beside the wheel, his hands apparently tied behind him, a sailor with a cutlass held close to his throat.
And in the centre stood Tanner, his handsome features very calm as he faced Bolitho across the open deck.
The jolly-boat ground alongside again and broken oars spilled out into the sea. But Allday was here, with three more armed men, their eyes wild, ready to fight—no, wanting to kill now that the moment had arrived.
Tanner said, “You are making another mistake, Bolitho!”
Bolitho glanced at Brennier and nodded. He was safe now. The man who was guarding him jammed his cutlass into the deck and stood away.
Bolitho said, “Well, Sir James, you once invited me to enter your world.” He gestured toward the horizon. “This is mine. On the high seas you will find no bribed judges or lying witnesses to save your skin. If you or one of your men raises his hand against us, I will see him dead—here, today—be certain of that.” He was astonished that he could speak so calmly. “Mr Kempthorne, attend the admiral.”
As the lieutenant made to cross the deck, Tanner moved. “I shall see you in hell, Bolitho!”
He must have had a pistol, a long-barrelled, duellist’s weapon, concealed beneath his coat. Too late Bolitho saw his arm swing up and take aim. He heard shouts, a grunt of fury from Allday, then even as a shadow passed across his vision came the sharp crack of the shot. Lieutenant Kempthorne swung round and stared at Bolitho, his eyes wide with disbelief. The ball had penetrated his throat directly below his chin, and as he fell forwards the blood welled from his mouth and he was dead.
In the immediate silence the sea’s sounds intruded like an audience, and only the man at the wheel seemed able to move, his eyes on the compass and the straining driver. What he was trained to do, no matter what.
He wants me dead.
There was a faint splash as Tanner flung the pistol over the side. He watched Bolitho’s expression and said softly, “Next time.”
Bolitho walked towards him, men falling back to let him through. It was then that he saw Wakeful, creeping along the side, near enough to fire
directly at individual targets, but still keeping her distance to avoid collision.
Somebody shouted, “Th’ chests is in the ’old, sir!”
But the others ignored him. It no longer seemed to matter.
Allday tightened his grip on the cutlass. Remembering the silky voice from the hidden carriage, when Tanner had ordered him to kill the sailor from the press gang. He could feel the flood in his veins like thunder, and knew that if any one so much as moved towards Bolitho he would hack him down.
Bolitho faced Tanner and said, “The next time is now, Jack — isn’t that what they call you?”
“You’d kill an unarmed man, Captain? I think not. Your sense of honour—”
“Has just died with young Kempthorne.” He had his sword in his hand faster than he had ever known before. He saw Tanner gasp as if he expected the point to tear into him instantly; when Bolitho hesitated, he recovered himself and jeered, “Like your brother after all!”
Bolitho stood back slightly, the point of his sword just inches above the deck.
“You did not disappoint me, Sir James.” He watched the arrogance give way to something else. “You insulted my family. Perhaps on land, in ‘your world,’ you might still go free despite your obscene crimes!”
He was suddenly sick of it. The sword moved like lightning, and when it returned to the deck there was blood running from Tanner’s cheek. The blade had cut it almost to the bone.
Quietly Bolitho said, “Defend yourself, man. Or die .”
Gasping with pain Tanner dragged out his sword, his face screwed up with shock and fear.
They circled one another, figures hurrying away, Wakeful’s men standing to their weapons, one near the wheel with a swivel gun trained on the brigantine’s crew.
Allday watched, shocked by Bolitho’s consuming anger, the glint in his eyes which even he had never seen before.
Clash-clash-clash. The blades touched and feinted apart, then Bolitho’s cut across Tanner’s shirt, so that he screamed as blood ran down his breeches.
“For pity’s sake!” Tanner was peering at him like a wounded beast. “I surrender! I’ll tell everything!”
“You lie, damn you!” The blade hissed out once more, and a cut opened on Tanner’s neck like something alive.
Vaguely Bolitho heard Queely’s voice, echoing across the water through his trumpet.
“Sail to the Nor’-West, sir!”
Bolitho lowered his sword. “At last.”
Allday said, “They might be Frogs!” Bolitho wiped his forehead with his arm. It was like the blind man. Exactly the same.
He had wanted to kill Tanner. But now he was nothing. Whatever happened he could not survive.
He said wearily, “They’ll not interfere with two English ships.”
Again, it was like a stark picture. Brennier’s faded eyes, his hoarse voice as he called with astonishment, “But, Capitaine, our countries are at war!”
It was the missing part of the pattern which fate, or his own instinct, had tried to warn him about. At war, and they had not known. No wonder Tanner had been prepared to wait, to play for time. He had known the French ship was on her way. She was probably the same vessel which had stood between Wakeful and Holland such a short while ago.
But he did not see the sudden triumph and hatred in Tanner’s eyes as he came out of his trance of fear and lunged forward with his sword. Bolitho ducked and made to parry it aside, but his foot went from under him and he knew he had slipped in poor Kempthorne’s blood.
He heard Tanner scream, “Die then!” He sounded crazed with pain and the lust to kill.
Bolitho rolled over, and kicked out at Tanner’s leg, taking him off balance so that he reeled back against the bulwark.
Bolitho was on his feet again, and heard Allday roar, “Let me, Cap’n.”
The blades parried almost gently, and then Tanner lunged forward once again. Bolitho took the weight on his hilt, swung Tanner round, using the force of his attack to propel him towards the side, just as his father had taught him and his brother so long ago in Falmouth.
Bolitho flicked the guard aside and thrust. When he withdrew the blade, Tanner was still on his feet, shaking his head dazedly from side to side as if he could not understand how it could happen.
His knees hit the deck, and he slumped and lay staring blindly at the sails.
Allday gathered him up and rolled him over the bulwark.
Bolitho joined him at the side and watched the body drifting slowly towards the bows. He leaned against Allday’s massive shoulder and gasped. “So it’s not over.”
Then he looked up, his eyes clearing like clouds from the sea. “Was he dead?”
Allday shrugged and gave a slow grin of relief and pride. For both of them.
“Didn’t ask, Cap’n.”
Bolitho turned towards the white-haired admiral. “I must leave you, m’sieu. My prize crew will take care of you.” He looked away towards Kempthorne’s sprawled body. He had intended to make him prize master of La Revanche, give him a small authority which might drive away all his uncertainties. He almost smiled. Prize master, as he had once been. The first step to command.
Brennier was unable to grasp it. “But how will you fight?” He peered at Wakeful’s tall mainsail. “Tanner was expecting something bigger to come after us!”
Bolitho walked to the entry port and looked down at the pitching jolly-boat. To the master’s mate who had accompanied the boarding party he said, “Put the men you can trust to work and make sail at once. Those you can’t put in irons.”
The master’s mate watched him curiously. “Beg pardon, sir, but after wot you just done I don’t reckon we’ll get much bother.” Then he stared across at his own ship. He knew he would probably not see her again. “I’ll bury Mr Kempthorne proper, sir. Never you fear.”
Allday called, “Boat’s ready, Cap’n!”
Bolitho turned and looked at their watching faces. Would he have killed Tanner but for that last attack? Now he would never know.
To the admiral he said, “Our countries are at war, m’sieu, but I hope we shall always be friends.”
The old man who had tried to save his King bowed his head. He had lost everything but the ransom in the hold, his King and now his country. And yet Bolitho thought afterwards that he had never seen such dignity and pride in any man.
“Give way all!”
Allday swung the tiller bar and peered at the men along Wakeful’s side ready to take the bowline.
Then he looked at the set of Bolitho’s shoulders. So it’s not over, he had said back there. He sighed. Nor would it be, until—
Allday saw the stroke oarsman watching him anxiously and shook himself from his black mood. Poor bugger’d never been in a sea-fight before. Was likely wondering if he would ever see home again.
He glanced at Bolitho and grinned despite his apprehensions
Our Dick. Hatless, bloody, the old coat looking as if he had borrowed it from a beggar.
His grin broadened, so that the stroke oarsman felt the touch of confidence again.
But you’d know Bolitho was a captain anywhere. And that was all that counted now.
16. A SAILOR’S LOT
LUKE HAWKINS, Telemachus’s boatswain, shook himself like a dog and waited for Paice to loom out of the wet darkness.
“I’ve sent four ’ands aloft, sir!” They both squinted towards the masthead but the upper yards were hidden by swirling snow. “Some o’ that cordage ’as carried away!”
Paice swore. “God damn all dockyards! For what they care we could lose the bloody topmast!” It was pointless to worry about the half-frozen men working up there, their fingers like claws, their eyes blinded by snow.
Hawkins suggested, “We could reef, sir.”
Paice exclaimed, “ Shorten sail? Damn it to hell, man! We’ve lost enough knots already!” He swung away. “Do what you must. I shall let her fall off a point—it might help to ease the strain.”
Paice found Tri
scott peering at the compass, his hat and shoulders starkly white in the shadows.
The first lieutenant knew it was pointless to argue with Paice about the way he was driving his command. It was so unlike him, as if the flames of hell were at his heels.
Paice took a deep breath as water lifted over the bulwark and sluiced away into the scuppers.
When daylight came there would probably be no sign of Snapdragon. In these conditions station-keeping was almost a joke. Perhaps Vatass would use the situation to go about and beat back to harbour. Paice toyed with the thought, which he knew was unfair and uncharitable.
The helmsman yelled, “Steady as she goes, sir! Sou’ by East!”
Chesshyre said, “We’ll be a right laughing stock if we have the sticks torn out of us.” He had not realised that Paice was still in the huddled group around the compass.
He winced as Paice’s great hand fell on his arm like a grapnel.
“You are the acting-master, Mr Chesshyre! If you can’t think of anything more useful to offer, then acting you will remain!”
Triscott interrupted, “We shall sight land when the snow clears. Mr Chesshyre assured me that it will by dawn.”
Paice said hotly, “In which case it will probably turn into a bloody typhoon!”
Triscott hid a smile. He had always liked Paice and had learned all he knew from him. Nevertheless he could be quite frightening sometimes. Like now.
Paice strode to the side and stared at the surging wake as it lifted and curled over the lee bulwark.
Was he any better than Vatass, and was this only a gesture? He raised his face into the swirling flakes and stinging wind. He knew that was not so. Without Bolitho the ship even felt different. Just months ago Paice would never have believed that he would have stood his ship into jeopardy in this fashion. And all because of a man. An ordinary man.
He heard muffled cries from above the deck, and guessed that some new cordage and whipping were being run up to the mast-head for their numbed hands to work on.
He shook his head as if he was in pain. No, he was never an ordinary man.
Paice’s wife had been a schoolmaster’s daughter and had taught her bluff sea-officer a great deal. She had introduced him to words he had never known. His life until she entered it had been rough, tough ships and men to match them. He smiled sadly, reminiscently, into the snow. No wonder her family had raised their hands in horror when she had told them of her intention to marry him.
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