With All Despatch

by Alexander Kent

  He tried again. What was the word she had used? He nodded, satisfied at last. Charisma. Bolitho had it, and probably did not even guess.

  He thought of Bolitho’s mission and wondered why nobody had listened to him when he had spoken his mind on Sir James Tanner. Like a hopeless crusade. It had been the same between Delaval and Paice himself: not just a fight between the forces of law and corruption, but something personal. Nobody had listened to him, either. They had been sorry, of course—he felt the old flame of anger returning. How would they have felt if their wives had been murdered like . . . He stopped himself. He could not bear even to use her name in the same company.

  Now Delaval was dead. Paice had watched him on that clear day, every foot of the way to the scaffold. He had heard no voices, no abuse or ironic cheering from the crowd who had come to be entertained. God, he thought, if they held a mass torture session on the village green there would not be room to sit down.

  He had spoken to Delaval silently on that day. Had cursed his name, damned him in an afterlife where he hoped he would suffer, as he had forced so many others to do.

  Paice was not a cruel man, but he had felt cheated by the brevity of the execution. Long after the crowd had broken up he had stood in a doorway and watched Delaval’s corpse swinging in the breeze. If he had known where it was to be hung in chains as a gruesome warning to other felons, he knew he would have gone there too.

  He looked up, caught off balance as a dark shape fell past the mainsail, hit the bulwark and vanished over the side. Just those few seconds, but he had heard the awful scream, the crack as the living body had broken on the impact before disappearing out-board.

  Scrope the master-at-arms came running aft. “It was Morrison, sir!”

  The thing changed to a real person. A bright-eyed seaman from Gillingham, who had quit fishing and signed on with a recruiting party after his parents had died of fever.

  Nobody spoke, not even the youthful Triscott. Even he knew that it was impossible to turn the cutter or lie-to in this sea. Even if they succeeded they would never find the man named Morrison. It was a sailor’s lot. They sang of it in the dogwatches, below, in the ale shops and the dockside whorehouses. Rough and crude they might be, but to Paice they were the only real people.

  He said harshly, “Send another man aloft. I want that work finished, and lively with it!”

  Some would curse his name for his methods, but most of them would understand. A sailor’s lot.

  Paice stamped his feet on the deck to bring back some warmth and feeling. He wanted to think about Bolitho, what steps he should take next if they failed to find him when daylight came. But all he could think of was the man who had just been chosen to die. For that was what he and most sailors thought. When your name is called. He gripped a backstay and felt it jerking and shivering in his fingers. All he had to do was lose his handhold. How would he feel then, as his ship vanished into the night, and he was left to choke and drown?

  He came out of his brooding and snapped, “I’m going below. Call me if—”

  Triscott stared at his leaning shadow. “Aye, aye, sir.”

  Paice stumbled into the cabin, slamming the door shut behind him. He stared at the other bunk and remembered Allday’s model ship, the bond which seemed to shine between those two men.

  He spoke to the cabin at large. “I must find him!” He glanced at the battered Bible in its rack but dismissed the idea immediately. That could wait. Charisma was enough for one watch.

  On the deck above, Triscott watched the comings and goings of men up and down the treacherous ratlines. In a few weeks’ time he would be twenty years old. And now it was war. Only after he had seen and spoken with Bolitho had he grasped some inkling of what war, especially at sea, might mean. Paice had hinted that Their Lordships at the far-off Admiralty would be pruning out trained officers and men from every ship which had been fully employed. Why, he wondered, had they not kept a powerful fleet in commission if they knew war was coming?

  Hawkins strode aft and said gruffly, “All done, sir. The blacking-down will have to wait till this lot’s over.”

  Triscott had to shout over the hiss and patter of water. “Morrison never stood a chance, Mr Hawkins!”

  The boatswain wiped his thick fingers on some rags and eyed him grimly. “I ’ope that made ’im feel better, sir.”

  Triscott watched his burly shape melt into the gloom and sighed.

  Another Paice.

  Figures groped through the forward hatch and others slithered thankfully into the damp darkness of the messdeck as the watches changed. Dench, the master’s mate, was taking over the morning watch and was muttering to Chesshyre, probably discussing the failings of their lieutenants.

  Triscott went below and lay fully clothed on the bunk, the one which Bolitho had used.

  From the darkness Paice asked, “All right up top?”

  Triscott smiled to himself. Worrying about his Telemachus. He never stopped.

  “Dench is doing well with the watch, sir.”

  Paice said fiercely, “If I could just make one sighting at first light.” But he heard a gentle snore from the opposite side.

  Paice closed his eyes and thought about his wife. He had the word charisma on his lips when he, too, fell into an uneasy sleep.

  The morning, when it came, was brighter than even Chesshyre had prophesied. A bitter wind which made the sails glisten with ice-rime, and goaded every man’s resistance to the limit.

  Paice came on deck and consulted the chart and Chesshyre’s slate beside the compass box. They did not always agree, but Paice knew Chesshyre was good at his work. It was enough.

  He looked up at the curving topmast, the streaming white spear of the long masthead pendant. Wind on the quarter. So they had to be doubly careful. If they covered too many miles they would be hard-put to beat back again for another attempt to seek out the missing cutter.

  Paice thought about Queely and wondered if in fact he had found Bolitho for the second part of their hazy plan. Wakeful might be in enemy hands. His mind hung on the word. Enemy. It somehow changed everything. Perhaps Bolitho was taken too, or worse.

  He pounded his hands together. Bolitho should never have been sent to Kent, for recruiting, if that was truly the reason, and certainly not for a wild scheme like this one.

  He should be in command of a real man-of-war. A captain others would follow; whose subordinates would learn more than the rudiments of battle but also the need for humility.

  Triscott came aft from inspecting the overnight repairs and splicing, a boatswain’s mate close at his heels. He looked even younger in this grey light, Paice thought. His face all fresh and burned with cold.

  Triscott touched his hat, testing his commander’s mood. “All secure, sir.” He waited, noting the strain and deep lines on Paice’s features. “I’ve had the gunner put men to work on the six-pounder tackles. The ice and snow have jammed every block.”

  Paice nodded absently. “As well you noticed.” The usual hesitation. Then, “Good.”

  Paice turned to the master’s muffled figure beside the tiller. “What do you make of the weather, Mr Chesshyre?”

  Triscott saw them face one another, more like adversaries than men who served together in this tiny, cramped community.

  Chesshyre accepted the flag of truce.

  “It should be clear and fine, sir.” He pointed across the bulwark, below which some men were manhandling one of the stocky six-pounders behind its sealed port.

  “See yonder, sir? Patch o’ blue!”

  Paice sighed. Nobody had mentioned it, but there was no sign of Snapdragon.

  Triscott saw him glance at the masthead and said, “I’ve put a good man up there, sir.”

  Paice exclaimed, “Did I ask you?” He shrugged heavily. “Forgive me. It is wrong to use authority on those who cannot strike back.”

  Triscott kept his face immobile. Bolitho’s words. He was still fretting about it. He offered, “There is a lot of m
ist, sir. In this wind—”

  Paice stared at him. “Did you hear?”

  Chesshyre dragged the hood from over his salt-matted hair.

  “I did!”

  Men stood motionless at their many and varied tasks, as if frozen so. The cook halfway through the hatch on his way to prepare something hot, or at least warm, for the watchkeepers. Big Luke Hawkins, a marlinspike gripped in one iron-hard hand, his eyes alert, remembering perhaps. Maddock the carpenter, clutching his old hat to his wispy hair as he paused in measuring some timber he had brought from the hold for some particular task. Chesshyre and Triscott, even Godsalve the clerk, acting purser and, when required, a fair hand as a tailor, all waited and listened in the chilling air.

  Paice said abruptly, “Six-pounders, eh, Mr Hawkins?”

  His voice seemed to break the spell, so that men began to move again, staring about them as if they could not recall what they had been doing.

  Triscott suggested, “Maybe it’s Wakeful, sir.”

  Chesshyre rubbed his unshaven chin. “Or Snapdragon? ”

  The air seemed to quiver, so that some of the men working below deck felt the distant explosion beat into the lower hull as if Telemachus had been fired on.

  Paice wanted to lick his lips but knew some of the seamen were watching him. Gun by gun, booming across the water.

  He clenched his fingers into fists. He wanted to yell up to the masthead lookout, but knew the man needed no persuading. Triscott had chosen him specially. He would be the first to hail the deck when he could see something.

  Paice heard the boatswain’s mate murmur, “Could be either, I suppose.”

  He thrust his hands beneath his coat-tails to hide them from view.

  The regular explosions boomed across the sea’s face once again, and he said, “Whoever it is, they’re facing the enemy’s iron this day!”

  Spray burst over Wakeful’s weather side and flooded down the steeply sloping deck. Even the most experienced hands aboard had to cling to something as the hull laid hard over until to any novice it would seem she must turn turtle.

  Queely yelled, “She’s close as she’ll answer, sir!” His salt-reddened eyes peered at the huge mainsail, then at the foresail and jib. Each one was sheeted hard-in until they were laid almost fore-and-aft down the cutter’s centre line, forcing her into the wind, every other piece of canvas lashed into submission.

  Bolitho did not have time to consult the compass but guessed that Queely had swung Wakeful some five points into the wind; the lee gunports were awash, and the water seemed to boil as she plunged across the lively crests. When he looked for the brigantine she already seemed a long way astern, her sails retrimmed while she bore away on the opposite tack.

  As he had been hauled aboard Bolitho had said, “We must stand between La Revanche and the Frenchman. The brigantine is fast enough, and given time she might reach safety, or at least lie beneath a coastal battery until help can be sent.”

  He had seen Queely’s quick understanding. No talk of victory, no empty promise of survival. They were to save the brigantine, and they would pay the price.

  Bolitho stared up at the masthead as the lookout yelled, “Corvette, sir!”

  Queely grimaced. “Twenty guns at least.” He looked away.

  “I keep seeing Kempthorne. I used him badly. That is hard to forgive.”

  Bolitho saw Allday moving carefully aft from the forehatch, his cutlass thrust through his belt. The words seemed to repeat themselves. Of one company.

  Queely watched the sails shaking and banging, taking the full thrust of the wind.

  He said, “Must have veered some more. From the north, I’d say.” He puffed out his cheeks. “It feels like it too!”

  They all heard the sudden crack of cannon fire, and then the lookout shouted, “Sail closin’ the corvette, sir!”

  There were more shots, the sounds spiteful over the lively wave crests.

  Queely said guardedly, “Small guns, sir.” He glanced at his men along either side, drenched with spray and flying spindrift, trying to protect their powder and flintlocks. “Like ours.”

  Bolitho frowned. It would be just like Paice. Coming to look for them. He tensed as a measured broadside thundered across the water. He saw the sea-mist waver and twist high above the surface, and for those few moments the other vessel was laid bare. Even without a telescope he saw the lithe silhouette of a square-rigged man-of-war, gunsmoke fanning downwind from her larboard battery. The other vessel was beyond her, but there was no mistaking the great mainsail, its boom sweeping across the waves as she bore down on the French corvette.

  Bolitho gritted his teeth. The corvette was like a small frigate, and probably mounted only nine-pounders. But against a cutter she was a leviathan.

  Queely yelled, “Another point!”

  The helmsman shouted, “West-Nor’-West, sir!” He did not have to add that she was as close to the wind as she had ever sailed; there was hardly a man who could stand upright.

  Bolitho said, “Bring her about.” He saw Queely’s indecision. “If we turn back, we may stand across his course, and still have time to turn again.”

  Bangs echoed against the hull as Queely yelled, “Stand by to come about! Let go and haul! ”

  As the helm went over, the cutter seemed to rise towards the sky, her bowsprit and flapping jib lifting and lifting until the sea boiled over the side and swept aft like breakers. Men fell cursing and gasping, others seized their friends and dragged them to their feet as the receding water tried to sweep them over the bulwarks.

  But she was answering, and as she swayed over on the opposite tack Bolitho felt like cheering, even though each minute was one gone from his life.

  Queely shouted, “Hold her! Steady as you go!” He beckoned frantically— “Two more hands on the tiller!”

  The master glared at him, then called, “Steady she is, sir! East by North!”

  Bolitho snatched up a glass and sought out the corvette.

  There she was, now on the larboard quarter, as if their whole world had pivoted round. La Revanche was almost lost in mist and spray, standing away as fast as she could. Queely’s master’s mate had even managed to set her topsail and royal.

  He waited for the deck to steady again and tried to ignore the bustle of figures around and past him as the mainsail was sheeted home on the opposite tack.

  He trained the glass with care and saw the corvette fire again, the smoke momentarily blotting her out but not before he had found the other cutter, and had seen the sea around her bursting with waterspouts and failing spray. The cutter was still pressing closer, and he saw her side flash with bright orange tongues as she fired her small broadside.

  Queely said savagely, “Vatass has no chance at that range, damn it!” He saw the question in Bolitho’s eyes and explained, “It’s him. Snapdragon has a darker jib than the rest of us.” He winced as another fall of shot appeared to bracket the cutter. But Snapdragon pushed through the falling curtain of spray, her guns still firing, although, as Queely suspected, it was doubtful if a single ball would reach the French corvette.

  Bolitho tried to ignore the twisting shape of the cutter and concentrated on the enemy. She was maintaining the same tack as before and steering almost south-east. Her captain had seen La Revanche and would let nothing stand in his way.

  Queely exclaimed, “ Snapdragon must have sighted us, sir!” He sounded incredulous as he raised his glass again, his lips moving as he identified the pinpricks of colour which had broken from Snapdragon’s topsail yard.

  He said hoarsely, “Signal reads, Enemy in sight, sir!”

  Bolitho looked at him, sharing his sudden emotion. It was Vatass’s way of telling them that they were at war. Trying to warn him before it was too late.

  Bolitho said, “Run up another flag.” He looked along the crowded deck, at the men who waited for the inevitable. “It will give him heart!”

  With two White Ensigns streaming from gaff and masthead, Wakeful pre
pared to come about yet again. The manoeuvre would stand her across the enemy’s path and make it impossible for the corvette to avoid an embrace. Once in close action, Snapdragon might be able to attack her stern, with luck even rake her with a carronade as she crossed her wake. He held his breath as a hole punched through Snapdragon’s topsail and the wind tore it to ribbons before it could be reefed.

  The corvette fired again, each broadside perfectly timed. No wonder this captain had been selected for the task, Bolitho thought. He raised the glass, but mist and gunsmoke made it impossible to see the horizon.

  He looked at Allday by the compass box. Where is Paice?

  Allday saw his expression and tried to smile. But all he could think of was the man-of-war which was closing on them with every sail set and filled to the wind. He looked at the men on Wakeful’s deck. Popguns against nine-pounders, an open deck with no gangways or packed hammock nettings to protect them from the splinters. How would they face up to it? Would they see there was nothing but death at the end of it?

  He thought of Lieutenant Kempthorne and all the others he had seen drop in a sea-fight. Proud, brave men for the most part, who had whimpered and screamed when they were cut down. The lucky ones died then and there, and were spared the agony of a surgeon’s knife.

  Here there was not even a sawbones. Maybe that was all to the good. Allday watched Bolitho’s fingers close around the sword at his side. It had to end somewhere, so why not here?

  He winced as the guns thundered yet again, closer still, the shots churning the sea into jagged crests, or whipping off the white horses like invisible dolphins at play.

  He tried to think of his time in London, the nights in Maggie’s tiny room, with her buxom body pressed against his in the darkness. Perhaps one day—the guns roared out across the shortening range and he heard several of the watching seamen give groans of dismay.