26/07/2024
.... Bolitho opened his eyes, every sense suddenly alert.
So many times. Ready to go on watch, to run to quarters when the drums rattled and men were snatching up their weapons, each wondering if it would be his last day on earth. To face a sudden squall, the topmen clinging to the yards like monkeys, fighting the sails amidst the wild chorus of wind and sea. Or merely to lie in fear, dreading the next crisis, and the next after that.
He forced his muscles to relax, his mouth like a kiln as he realized it was neither storm nor memory which had awakened him. There was nothing. Neither sound nor movement. He climbed from the cot and waited for his body to adjust to the angle of the deck. Again, nothing, as if the ship were hard aground. He padded to the door and opened it a few inches. A solitary lantern hung motionless outside the wardroom, and he saw Ozzard curled on the deck near the pantry, his leather bag clutched against his face like a pillow. All he owned. So grateful for the security of being Bolitho's servant, no longer running from one ship to the next. A man bedevilled by such memories or secrets that he only seemed to sleep in brief snatches. Small and frail as he was, he must have had some difficulty in persuading the recruiting party to accept him. Not like now. After years of war, with thousands of men crippled or killed, and some driven mad by what they had endured, today they would accept any volunteer and be happy to press all the others.
Bolitho returned to the cabin and peered through the stern window. There had been a lively brazier on the jetty where the watchmen had kept warm and whiled away the night. There was only a twisting glow now, like ghostly phosphorescence. Fog, dense and unmoving: he could even smell it. He listened, but there was only silence. It might last for days; he had heard of such things in London. He would get little thanks from the Admiralty if he waited for it to clear.... At the same time, he knew the fog was not the reason for his impatience. He had to know why he had been recalled. Had he displeased some one? Nelson had been satisfied with the performance of his squadron, but then Nelson was not loved by every one, especially at the Admiralty.
He heard a click and turned to see Allday framed against the open door.
"Sorry, sir. I thought it might be some gallows' bait prowlin' about." He uncocked his pistol. "They don't seem to run to marines in this little pot o' paint. Anybody could slip aboard an' they'd be none the wiser!"
Bolitho found that he could laugh. "You couldn't sleep either, eh?"
Allday shrugged. "I was thinkin'. No matter what they wants us for, seems only right an' proper they should offer leave. Falmouth, sir?"
Bolitho sat on the bench seat. Most people would envy him: post-captain to acting commodore and squadron commander, and with luck promotion and recognition still to come. And yet it meant very little to him now. Us.... Allday, on the other hand, had nothing much to call his own. But his faith and unshakeable loyalty were beyond riches.
"Aye. Falmouth it is." He stared through the thick glass again. "Like a stone wall. I wonder, could we take a boat direct from here...." He could feel Allday's doubts as if he had voiced them aloud. "Well?"
Allday said, "I've spoken with some o' the lads, sir. 'Guillemot''s a deepwater vessel, an' most of her company are West Country, from Plymouth an' the like."
"You mean that until an es**rt is sent for me, I shall have to remain on board because none of the people can find their way on the Thames, or anywhere else in London?" He stood up, and banged his head again. "Damn! Just get me over there-- I'll find the way, fog or no fog."
The door opened further, and Ozzard edged around it like a shadow. There was a smell of coffee, and he was carrying a jug of shaving water although it seemed only a few minutes since Bolitho had seen him asleep.
Allday said, "You enjoy the coffee, sir, an' then I'll shave you. We found our bearings in the Great South Sea in an open boat. I reckon we can find our way across a river."
"I heard the officer of the guard speak of the Marine Police at Wapping. If we could reach them...."
Ozzard said in a small voice, "At Wapping, sir?"
Allday said kindly, "You know it, Tom?"
Ozzard fiddled with his coffee pot.
"Knew."
Allday fetched his shaving mug. "I expect somebody will know."
But when the hands were called, and greasy smoke from the galley funnel was drifting straight up into the fog, the commander came to make his report. Visibility was worse than ever. Even the jetty was now lost to view.
He said helpfully, "An es**rt will surely be sent, sir."
Bolitho was abrupt.
"When?"
Allday left them to discuss it and was putting his razor away when he noticed Ozzard in the little pantry, leaning against the bread rack as if afraid to let go of it.
"What is it, matey?" He saw the man's sudden fear. "Now see here, Tom. You knows me, and you're gettin' to know the Cap'n. In this fleet you asks no questions. A secret's a secret, an' any one who tells you different will have to settle with me. An' that's no error."
Bolitho was at the door looking in at them.
"When you have a moment, Allday. I want to ask you something."
They stared at Ozzard as he straightened his back and said, "I used to know Wapping quite well, sir." Afterwards, Allday thought he had sounded like a man about to take the first step up to the gallows. "I could show you."
Bolitho looked at him gravely. "I was going to send you with my gear to Southwark."
He could see the doubts tearing at Ozzard like claws. There was something here which perhaps he would one day understand, or perhaps he would never know. But for the moment, it was enough.
He said, "Thank you," and pretended not to notice the relief in Ozzard's eyes that there were to be no questions. "So let's be about it, then."
'Guillemot''s young commander was barely able to contain his anxiety as the gig, which had been lowered earlier, was warped slowly to the entry port.
"I am most concerned, sir!"
Bolitho peered at the boat and then beyond it. The river looked almost black in the strange light, and then vanished within a few feet into the curtain of fog. The water was sluggish, but the current was enough to make the sloop of war drag noisily at her moorings.
"It is time." He saw the midshipman by the gig's tiller gazing up, his boat's crew obviously untroubled by this unexpected task. Bolitho could read their thoughts. It must be all right. No one would dare lose a commodore. The officers must know what they're about.
Allday reached out to help Ozzard, but Bolitho saw him shake off the hand with something like anger.
The commander was saying, "They all think this fog could lift quite suddenly, sir."
"Aye, it could. When we reach the other side, I shall tell your crew to stand fast until it does."
"I thought you might, sir. I appreciate it."
Bolitho smiled. It was the commander's real reason for sending a midshipman. If 'Guillemot' was ordered to get underway again, the midshipman would be the least missed.
He touched his hat to the murky figures around him and then lowered himself down the side. After a ship of the line, it seemed only two or three steps.
"Very well-- Mr. Pym, is it not?" He saw the youth staring at him, probably too shocked that a commodore should know his name to be frightened of his new responsibility.
Bolitho settled himself in the sternsheets and pulled out his pocket compass. "When we cast off, try to keep midstream and steer due north. That should take us up Limehouse Reach, where with luck," he touched the midshipman's arm and felt him start, "and your skill, of course, we should soon discover our bearings."
Several of the oarsmen chuckled. They were all tough and experienced, not the sort to desert once they trod on dry land. The midshipman cleared his throat. "Cast off!" He almost fell across the tiller bar as the boat veered away from 'Guillemot''s side like a leaf on a fast current. "Out oars! Give way all!"
Allday looked at the bottom boards rather than watch as a great iron-ringed mooring buoy slid past. It would have stove in the boat, had they collided.
Somebody cried, "The bugger's goin' to ram us!"
The ship came straight at them out of the fog, the bowsprit and tapering jib-boom rising above their heads like a giant lance.
Bolitho said tersely, "Tide's on the ebb, Mr. Pym. That ship is not moving. We are."
Allday slid across and rested his hand on the tiller. "I've got her, sir." He expected the midshipman to fly at him for assuming control. Instead, the boy turned and looked at him and said in a low voice, "Thank you, sir."
Allday squinted at the compass. "Back water larboard! Give way starboard!" He swung the bar hard over, feeling the river sluice against the hull, easing the tiller until he was satisfied. "Give way larboard-- together, damn your eyes!" Then he grinned as another dark shape seemed to steer right for them, moving fast even though her sails were furled, and her decks deserted. "I'll lay odds them buggers are still abed!"
Drifting timber and other flotsam thudded against the bows or pattered down the side like a blind man's stick. The smells were strong, a pungent combination of all the garbage that travelled back and forth on the tides until it eventually gave itself up to the estuary and the sea.
Once they heard some one shout from the fog. It was so muffled that it could have been anybody, or there could easily have been a ton of cargo being unloaded. No ship's master wanted to waste time alongside. For one thing, it was dangerous: crime, from robbery to murder, was rife on the London river. And, like an empty hold, there was no profit in idleness. Bolitho reached out and pressed Ozzard's shoulder as he leaned over the gunwale. Skin and bones: there was nothing of the man.
"Easy there. You're all we have today."
Ozzard was twisting his head, his fingers like claws on the painted gunwale.
"We've left the Isle of Dogs astern, sir." He did not even blink as a moored barge appeared to turn and ram them. He was remembering, trying to pierce the fog with his mind. "We shall have to turn left shortly...."
Allday muttered, "Left, he says!"
The stroke oarsman called hoarsely, "Can we rest, Mr. Pym?" He was careful not to ask the commodore.
The midshipman looked at Bolitho. "They are pulling against the tide, sir."
Ozzard glanced at the midshipman as if he had never seen him before. "When we turn left, sir, there are some sheltered wharves. It would be safe enough, I believe."
"Very well." Bolitho looked along the boat. Even the bowman was melting into and emerging out of the fog. "Watch the stroke now, lads!" He studied Allday's intent features. "Be ready. Left, remember?"
They could hear water rushing through tall piles somewhere, as if the river had increased speed in the past minutes.
"Bowman!"
The man in question gratefully withdrew his oar and faced forward with his boathook.
"There it is! Fine to starboard!"
All at once they saw a high pier rising above them, and somebody cursed as his oar was torn from his hands to vanish from its rowlock. Allday called, "Ship your oars!" Then he swung the tiller bar hard over and waited, keeping his balance with difficulty as the boat surged beneath the stinking shelter of the pier.
Ozzard said breathlessly, "Limehouse, sir."
The oarsmen drooped on their thwarts, sucking in the damp, cold air, a solitary grapnel holding them in position.
Ozzard was murmuring as though to himself, "They used to have a few hulks hereabouts, sir. A receiving vessel, too, although she may have been shifted."
The seamen were chattering amongst themselves, but stared aft with resentment as Allday snapped, "Keep silence in the boat!"
Bolitho glanced up at him. It was not like Allday to exercise his authority over trusted seamen who were doing their best.
There was something about him. Alert, and suddenly very conscious of danger.
"What is it, old friend?"
Hearing him address his coxswain, a seaman like themselves, did much to quell the sudden anger in the boat.
Allday had one hand around his ear. "Shot, sir." He moved his head very slowly, his hand held out like a studding sail to catch the slightest sound.
They all heard the second shot, although it was hard to judge the distance and the exact bearing.
Minutes dragged past, and the silence but for the ripple of water through the piles was oppressive.
"Watch out!" The bowman snatched his boathook, but was not fast enough. Turning one shoulder like a man in his sleep, a sodden co**se drifted alongside just for a second as if he were going to pull himself aboard. They heard his shoes scrape along the bottom, saw the staring, dead eyes fixed on each one of them before he vanished astern with the other drifting rubbish.
Only Ozzard seemed unmoved. He said, "Watchman. I saw his coat and buttons."
Bolitho waited for the midshipman to tear his eyes from the river.
"Are your people armed, Mr. Pym?"
He spoke quietly, but the midshipman gazed at him as if unable to believe there was danger so near.
"I-- I have my dirk, sir."
Two of the oarsmen had their cutlasses. That was all. Bolitho looked at Allday. "I know that you are always ready." He touched the old sword at his hip. "Up to us, then."
Pym almost forgot himself as he gasped, "We might be outnumbered, sir!"
There were more shots, and the sound of screams. Then running feet, first on stone and then becoming muffled as they thudded along the pier.
Allday muttered, "Fog's on our side this time."
More shouts, much louder now. Ozzard whispered, "I think some prisoners may have broken out of the hulk, sir. They'll kill any one who tries to take them again."
Allday was feeling for his pistol, then he thrust it into his belt and loosened his heavy-bladed cutlass.
He lowered his voice as more cries and screams came out of the fog, like souls in hell.
"We can wait here. Nobody'll be lookin' down into this cesspit."
Bolitho removed his hat and touched his face as a breeze stroked his cheek, and moved on to stir the dark water beside the boat. "The fog is lifting, old friend." He drew his sword and tossed the scabbard onto the bottom boards. The men at the oars had to lean aft to hear him as he said, "A wind is rising. Up there are the King's enemies. So too are they ours."
He stood with care and grasped one of the rusty mooring rings. One slip here, and you would more likely die of poisoning than drowning. It was fortunate that these were seasoned sailors, not newly pressed and confused landsmen. They were used to danger, day in and day out: the sea, the weather, the enemy. It was what they were drilled to combat. The rights and wrongs were not their concern. They had to trust their officers and obey, no matter what.
Bolitho saw the bowman more clearly now, and made out the shape of the pier beyond the gig's bows.
Feet were pounding along the tarred planking, and he heard some one cry out for mercy before being hacked down.
He gripped Midshipman Pym's arm.
"Now hear me, Mr. Pym." He saw the terror in the boy's eyes recede very slowly, but he could feel him shuddering, smell the fear running through him. He would not be able to fight. "Give your dirk to one of the others." He saw the words sink in. "There is something I must ask you to do this day. Do you understand, Mr. Pym? Answer me."
Could this really be sunlight breaking through? It did not seem possible, or fair.
Pym nodded loosely, as if his neck were already broken.
"Yes, sir."
"Good. This is what I want...."
Bolitho balanced himself on a filthy crossbeam, gauging the moment, not even sure how long it had been since the first shot. He looked down at the gig's crew, men he barely knew. Would they cast off and leave him to his own resources? It sounded as if there were a lot of people on the pier: anything might happen. Whoever they were, they were not having it all their own way. He heard the clash of steel, and a hoarse voice trying to exert some last authority as they retreated along the pier.
He said sharply, "Remember, lads. Those of you in the boat, make as much noise as you can. I want them to think a whole squadron is come upon them!" Nobody laughed, or even spoke.
Bolitho glanced at Allday. "Take care, John." Then he was scrambling up, his fingers slipping on w**d, the old sword dangling from its lanyard around his wrist. It was like a curtain rising, the sudden shafts of pale sun making it all the more unreal, and half blinding him as he threw his leg over the massive timber.
He had boarded enough ships in all circumstances to recognize instantly what was happening, the first time when he had been younger than the terrified Pym.
It was more of a mob than a controlled attack. Some were obviously seamen who had been caught by the press earlier and had been released by the others, common felons awaiting sentence or punishment. One, at the rear, was hopping in leg irons, trying to keep up with his fellow prisoners.
A few uniformed figures were retreating from the yelling, oncoming mob, and Bolitho guessed they were some of the local Marine Police. He took a deep breath and heaved himself upright on the pier, his small party of seamen clambering after him, their cutlasses very bright in the watery sunlight.
"Stand fast there!" Bolitho saw the few Marine Police falter as he shouted, "In the King's name, I order you to surrender!"
From the gig below he heard the stroke oarsman bellow, "Huzzah! Huzzah, lads! Let's be at the buggers!"
The effect was instantaneous as men skidded to a halt, and one even threw his weapon, a boarding axe, into the river.
Without turning his head, Bolitho knew it was Midshipman Pym who had just climbed onto the pier behind him.
Some one yelled, "There's but a few o' them, you bloody hounds! Cut 'em down!" And, like a tide, the mob surged forward again.
Bolitho parried a boarding pike and hacked down another man who had been caught momentarily offguard, staring incredulously at his splendid uniform. He saw others moving out on either side. It could not last much longer.
Only Pym could save them now.
There was a sharp pistol shot and Pym staggered, his hands to his chest, before falling face down on the worn planks.
Bolitho saw men staring and pointing, the madness suddenly leaving them. Allday roared, "By God, they've killed a King's officer! They're done for now!"
One of the Marine Police, his forehead bleeding from a deep cut, gasped with disbelief as more weapons splashed into the river or clattered onto the pier. "There really are only a few of you, sir!"
He gestured wildly as the breeze rolled the fog away to reveal his world of wharves, moored vessels and warehouses. Men were lining many of the ships' sides, astonished by the spectacle as several boats pulled briskly out of the retreating mist, spilling armed police onto the shingle, while from the inner end of the pier others had already blocked retreat for those caught in a trap of their own making.
Some of the escaped prisoners were distancing themselves from the main mob. Protesting, pleading, insisting they had had no part in this murder.
One of the older Marine Police offers said, "That was bravely done, Captain! I am sorry for the loss of so young an officer.... But for you, I fear all my patrol would have perished."
Allday corrected politely, "Commodore Bolitho, if you please."
There were uniforms all around now, and the prisoners were being handled roughly as they were hustled back toward the nearest buildings. Bolitho allowed himself to be assisted down into the gig, where he turned and called, "You may get up now, Mr. Pym. That was an excellent performance!"
There was a chorus of shouts and laughs, and a spatter of applause as the embarrassed midshipman got to his feet.
Bolitho recovered his scabbard and climbed over to one of the police boats, Allday and Ozzard, very cautiously, following him.
They were landed at the Wapping Marine Police station, and met by the two senior officers, Mr. John Harriott and the Chief Surveyor, Mr. Armstrong.
The latter was heard to say, "We were of course anticipating your arrival, Commodore Bolitho, although we imagined it would be in a less spectacular fashion! I will arrange for a fast carriage to the Admiralty immediately." His mouth twitched as he regarded Bolitho's filthy breeches and mud-spattered coat, from which one gilded epaulette was missing. "Perhaps we can put you to rights before you leave."
But Bolitho was gazing at the soil and shingle that covered his shoes. It was not much, but it was England. He was home.
Allday watched his face, and grinned suddenly. He had never thought he would ever be grateful to the forces of law and order. But this time was different.
An' that's no error.
