Alexander Kent - Midshipman Bolitho and the Avenger

Then they saw him reeling back and forth across the road, almost falling in his pitiful efforts to hurry. No wonder Robins had thought him drunk.

Robins exclaimed, `Oh God, sir! It's one of our lads! It's Billy Snow!'

Before Bolitho could stop him he ran towards the lurching figure and caught him in his arms.

`What is it, Billy?'

The man swayed and gasped, `Where was you, Tom? Where was you?'

Bolitho and some of the others helped Robins to lay the man down. How he had got this far was a miracle. He was cut and bleeding from several wounds and his clothing was sodden with blood.

As they tried to cover his injuries, Snow said in a small voice, `We was doin' very well, sir, an' then we sees the soldiers, comin' down the road like a cavalry charge!'

He whimpered, and someone said harshly, `Easy with that wound, Tom V

Snow muttered vaguely, `Some of the lads gave a huzza, just for a joke, like, an' young Mr Dancer went on ahead to greet them.'

Bolitho stooped lower, feeling the man's despair, the nearness of death.

`Then, an' then…'

Bolitho touched his shoulder. `Easy now. Take your time.'

`Aye, sir.' In the strange star-glow his face looked like wax, and his eyes were tightly shut. He tried again. `They rode straight amongst us, hackin' an' slashin', not givin' us a chance. It was all done in a minute.'

He coughed, and Robins whispered huskily, ''E's goin', sir.'

Bolitho asked, `What about the others?'

The head jerked painfully. Like a puppet's. `Back there. Up th' road. All dead, I think, though some ran towards the sea.'

Bolitho turned away, his eyes smarting. Sailors would run towards the sea. Feeling betrayed and lost, it was all they knew.

"E's dead, sir.'

They all stood round looking at the dead man. Where had he been going? What had he hoped to do in his last moments?

`The cap'n's comin', sir.'

Hugh Bolitho, with his men at his back, came out of the darkness, so that the road seemed suddenly crowded. They all looked at the corpse.

`So we were too late.' Hugh Bolitho bent over the dead man. `Snow. A good hand.' He straightened up and added abruptly, `Better get it over with.' He walked down the middle of the road, straightbacked. Completely alone.

It did not take long to find the others. They were scattered over the road, the rocky slope beyond, or apparently hurled bodily over the edge on to the hillside.

There was blood everywhere, and as the seamen

lit their lanterns the dead eyes lit up in the gloom as if to follow their efforts, to curse them for their betrayal.

The waggons and the escort's own weapons had all gone. Not ail the men were there who should have been, and Bolitho guessed they had either fled into the darkness or been taken prisoners for some terrible reason. And this was Cornwall. His own home. No more than fifteen miles from Falmouth. On this wild coastline it could just as easily have been a hundred.

A man Bolitho recognized as Mumford, a boatswain's mate came from the roadside. He held out a cocked hat and said awkwardly, `I think this is Mr Dancer's, sir.'

Bolitho took it and felt it. It was cold and wet.

A cry brought more men running as a wounded seaman was found hiding in a fold of rocks above the road.

Bolitho went to see if he could help and then stopped, frozen in his tracks. As Robins held up his lantern to assist the others with the wounded and barely conscious man, he saw something pale through the wet grass.

Robins said fiercely, "Ere, sir, I'll look.'

They clambered up the slippery grass together, the lantern's beam shining feebly on a sprawled body.

It was the fair hair Bolitho had seen, but now that he was nearer he could see the blood mingling with it as well.

`Stay here.'

He took the lantern and ran the rest of the way.

Gripping the blue coat he turned the body over, so that the dead eyes seemed to stare at him with sudden anger.

He released his grip, ashamed of his relief. It was not Dancer, but a dead revenue man, cut down as he had tried to escape the slaughter.

He heard Robins ask, `All right, sir?'

He controlled the nausea and nodded. `Give me a hand -with this poor fellow.'

Hours later, dispirited and worn out, they reassembled on the beach in the first grey light of dawn.

Seven more survivors had been found, or had emerged from various hiding places at the sound of their voices. Martyn Dancer was not one of them.

As he climbed aboard the cutter Gloag said gruffly, 'If 'e's alive, then there's 'ope, Mr Bolitho.'

Bolitho watched the jolly boat pulling ashore again, Peploe, the sailmaker, and his mate sitting grimly in the sternsheets, going to sew up the corpses for burial.

There would be hell to pay for this night's work, Bolitho thought wretchedly. He thought of the fairheaded corpse, the sick despair giving way to hope as he realized it was not his friend.

But now as he watched the bleak shoreline, the small figures on the beach, he felt there was not much hope either.

Harriet Bolitho entered the room, her velvet gown noiseless against the door. For a few seconds she stood watching her son silhouetted against the fire, his hands outstretched towards the flames. Nearby, her youngest daughter Nancy sat on a rug, her knees drawn up to her chin as she watched him, as if willing him to speak.

Through another set of double doors she could hear the rumble of voices, blurred and indistinct. They had been in the old library for over an hour. Sir Henry Vyvyan, Colonel de Crespigny of the dragoons, and of course. Hugh.

As was often the case, the news of the ambush and the capture of a suspected smuggler had reached Falmouth overland long before the Avenger and her prize had anchored in the Roads.

She had been expecting something to happen, to go wrong. Hugh had always been headstrong, unwilling to take advice. His command, no matter how junior, had been the worst thing which could have happened. He needed a firm hand, like Richard's captain.

She straightened her back and crossed the room, smiling for him. They needed their father here and now more than anyone.

Richard looked up at her, his face lined with strain. `How long will they be?'

She shrugged. `The colonel has tried to explain why his men were not on the road. They were ordered to Bodmin at the last moment. Something to do with bullion being moved across the country. De Crespigny is making a full inquiry, and our squire has been sent for too.'

Bolitho looked at his hands. He was only feet from the fire but was still cold. His brother's hornets' nest was here, amongst them.

Like the dazed and bewildered survivors of the ambush, he had found himself hating the dragoons for not riding to their aid. But he had had time to think about it, and could see the colonel's dilemma. An unlikely scheme to catch some smugglers set against his rigid orders for escorting a fortune in gold was barely worth considering. He would also have assumed that Hugh would call off the attempt once he had been told about the change of circumstances.

He blurted out, `But what will they do about Martyn?'

She stood behind him and touched his hair.

`All they can, Richard. Poor boy, I keep thinking of him too.'

The library doors opened and the three men entered the room.

What an ill-assorted trio, Bolitho thought. His brother, tight-lipped, and shabby in his sea-going uniform. Vyvyan, massive and grim, his terrible scar adding to his appearance of strength, and the dragoons' colonel, as neat and as elegant as a King's guard. It was hard to believe he had ridden many miles without dismounting.

Harriet Bolitho's chin lifted. `Well, Sir Henry? What do you think about it?'

Vyvyan rubbed his chin. `I believe, ma'am, that these devils have taken young Dancer as hostage, so to speak. What for, I can't guess, but it looks bad, and we must face up to it.'

De Crespigny said, `Had I more men, another two troops of horses at least, I might do more, but…' He did not finish.

Bolitho watched them wearily. Each was protecting himself. Getting ready to lay the blame elsewhere _ when the real authorities heard what had happened. He looked at his brother. There was no doubt whose head would be on the block this time.

Nancy whispered, `I shall pray for him, Dick.'

He looked at her and smiled. She was holding Martyn's hat, drying it by the fire. Keeping it like a talisman.

Vyvyan continued, `It's no use acceptin' defeat. We'll have to put our ideas together.'

Voices murmured in the hallway, and moments later Mrs Tremayne peered into the room. Behind her Bolitho could see Pendrith, the gamekeeper, hovering with obvious impatience.

His mother asked, `What is it, Pendrith?'

Pendrith came into the room, smelling of damp and earth. He knuckled his forehead to the standing figures and nodded to Nancy.

He said in his harsh voice, `One of the colonel's men is outside with a message, ma'am.' As the colonel made his excuses and bustled outside, Pendrith added quickly, `An' I've got this, sir.' He thrust out his fist with a small roll of paper for Vyvyan to read.

Vyvyan's solitary eye scanned the crude handwriting and he exclaimed, `To whom it may concern… what the hell?' The eye moved more quickly and he said suddenly, `It's a demand. As I thought. They've taken young Dancer as hostage.'

Bolitho asked, `For what?' His heart was beating painfully and he could barely breathe.

Vyvyan handed the letter to Mrs Bolitho and said heavily, `The one wrecker that my men were able to capture. They want to exchange Dancer for him. Otherwise…' He looked away.

Hugh Bolitho stared at him. `Even. if we were allowed to bargain…' He got no further.

Vyvyan swung round, his shadow filling the room. `Allowed? What are you sayin', man? This is a life at stake. If we hang that rascal in chains at some crossroads gibbet they will kill young Dancer, and we all know it. They may do so anyway, but I think they will keep their word. A revenue man is one thing, a King's officer another.'

Hugh Bolitho met his gaze, his face stiff with resentment.

`He was doing his duty.'

Vyvyan took a few paces from the fire. He sounded impatient, exasperated.

`See it this way. We know the wrecker's identity. We may well catch him again, when there'll be no escape from the hangman. But Dancer's life is valuable, to his family and to his country.' He hardened his tone. `Besides which, it will look better.'

`I don't see that, sir.'

Hugh Bolitho was pale with tiredness but showed no sign of weakening.

`You don't, eh? Then let me explain it for you. How will it sound at a court of enquiry later on? A midshipman's loss is bad enough, the deaths of all those sailors and revenue officers hard to explain, let alone those damned muskets which are now in the wrong hands. But who got clean away without hurt? The Avenger's two officers, both of this family!'

For the first time Hugh Bolitho looked shocked.

`That was not how it was, sir. But for the schooner, we would have been well placed to assist, dragoons or no dragoons.'

The colonel entered at that moment and said quietly, `I have just had word that the schooner's crew are ashore and under close guard. They will be taken to Truro.'

Vyvyan handed him the crumpled letter and watched his face.

The colonel said savagely, `I guessed it would not end there, damn them V

Hugh Bolitho persisted stubbornly, `That schooner was carrying gold coin by the box-load. The crew are all American Colonists. I have no doubt they intended to use the money to buy muskets, here in Cornwall. Then they would likely transfer them to a larger vessel at some safe rendezvous elsewhere.'