Alexander Kent - With All Despatch

He heard the young footman, if that was his station here, moving to the fire to rearrange a smouldering log into a better position. There was no sign of the commodore.

The youth turned and looked at him. "He will not be long, sir." Then he stood motionless beside the flickering fire, his hands behind his back.

Another, smaller door opened and the commodore walked quickly to the desk and slid behind it with barely a glance.

He seemed to arrange himself, and Bolitho guessed it came of long practice.

Just a few years older than himself, but they had been cruel ones. His square face was deeply lined, and he held his head slightly to one side as if he was still in pain. His left arm lay on the desk and Bolitho saw that he wore a white fingerless glove like a false hand, to disguise the terrible injuries he had endured for so long.

"I am pleased to see you, Bolitho." He had a curt, clipped manner of speech. "Be seated there if you will, I can see you the better."

Bolitho sat down and noticed that Hoblyn's hair was completely grey, and worn unfashionably long, doubtless to hide the only burns which probed above his gold-laced collar.

The youth moved softly around the desk and produced a finely cut wine jug and two goblets.

"Claret." Hoblyn's eyes were brown, but without warmth. "Thought you'd like it." He waved his right arm vaguely. "We shall sup later." It was an order.

They drank in silence and Bolitho saw the windows changing to dusky pink as the evening closed in.

Hoblyn watched the youth refilling the goblets.

"You've been luckier than most, Bolitho. Two ships since that bloody war, whereas-" He did not finish it but stared instead at the large painting.

Bolitho knew then it was his last battle. When he had lost his Leonidas and had been so cruelly disfigured.

Hoblyn added, "I heard about your, er-misfortunes in the Great South Sea." His eyes did not even blink. "I'm told she was an admirable woman. I am sorry."

Bolitho tried to remain calm. "About this appointment-"

Hoblyn's disfigured hand rose and fell very lightly. "In good time."

He said abruptly, "So this is how they use us, eh? Are we relics now, the pair of us?" He did not expect or wait for an answer. "I am bitter sometimes, and then I think of those who have nothing after giving their all."

Bolitho waited. Hoblyn needed to talk.

"It's a hopeless task if you let it be so, Bolitho. Our betters bleat and protest about the Trade, while they filch all they can get from it. Their Lordships demand more men for a fleet they themselves allowed to rot while they flung those same sailors on the beach to starve! Damn them, I say! And you can be sure that when war comes, as come it must, I shall be cast aside to provide a nice posting for some admiral's cousin!" He waited until his goblet was refilled. "But I love this country which treats her sons so badly.

You know the French as well as I-do you see them stopping now?" He gave a harsh laugh. "And when they come we shall have to pray that those murderous scum have lopped off the heads of all their best sea-officers. I see no chance for us otherwise."

Bolitho tried to remember how many times the youth had refilled his goblet. The claret and the heat from the fire were making his mind blur.

He said, "I have to speak about the Loyal Chieftain, sir."

Hoblyn held his head to a painful angle. "Delaval? I know what happened, and about the man who was killed too." He leaned forward so that his fine shirt frothed around the lapels of his coat. A far cry from the tattered veteran Bolitho had seen years ago on his way to the Admiralty.

Hoblyn dropped his voice to a husky growl. "Someone burned down the man's cottage while you were at sea-I'll lay odds you didn't know that! And his wife and children have vanished into thin air!" He slumped back again, and Bolitho saw sweat on his face.

"Murdered?" One word, and it seemed to bring a chill to the overheated room.

"We shall probably never know." He reached out to grasp his goblet but accidentally knocked it over so that the claret ran across the desk like blood.

Hoblyn sighed. "Damn them all." He watched his footman as he deftly mopped up the wine and replaced the goblet with a clean one.

"But life can have its compensations-"

Just for a brief instant it was there. The merest flicker of an exchange between them. The youth did not smile and yet there was an understanding strong enough to feel.

Hoblyn said offhandedly, "You have Snapdragon in Chatham dockyard?"

Bolitho shook himself. Maybe he was mistaken. He glanced quickly at the footman's pale eyes. They were quite empty.

"Yes, sir. I thought it best-"

"Good thinking. There'll not be much time later on. Our lords and masters want results. We shall give them a few." He smiled for the first time. "Thought I was going to bite your head off, did ye? God damn it, Bolitho, you're what I need, not some knothead who's never heard a shot fired in bloody earnest!"

Bolitho pressed his shoulders against the chairback. There was something unnerving about Hoblyn. But under the bluster and the bitterness his mind was as sharp and as shrewd as it had ever been. If he was like this with everyone the slender footman must have heard every secret possible. Was he to be trusted?

Hoblyn added, "The big East Indiamen are among the worst culprits, y'know. They come up-Channel after months at sea and they meet with smugglers while they're under way, did you know that?"

Bolitho shook his head. "What is the purpose, sir?"

"John Company's captains like to make a little extra profit of their own, as if they don't get enough. They sell tea and silks directly to the Trade and so avoid paying duty themselves. The Customs Board don't like it, but with so few cutters to patrol the whole Channel and beyond, what can they expect?" He watched Bolitho calmly. "Wine and brandy is different. Smaller runs, less chance of the buggers getting caught. But tea, for instance, is light but very bulky." He tapped the side of his nose with the little white bag. "Not so easy, eh?"

Bolitho waited, not knowing quite what he had expected.

"I have received information." He must have seen doubt in Bolitho's grey eyes. "From a better mouth than some wretched turncoat's." Hoblyn calmed himself with an effort. "There's a cargo being landed at Whitstable ten days from now." He sat back to watch Bolitho's expression. "It will involve a lot of men." His dark eyes seemed to dance in the candlelight as the youth placed a silver candelabrum on the desk. "Men for the fleet, or the gallows, we'll strike no bargains, and a cargo to make these bloody smugglers realise we're on the attack!"

Bolitho's mind was in a whirl. If it was true, Hoblyn was right. It would make all the difference to their presence here. He pictured Whitstable on the chart, a small fishing port which lay near the mouth of the Swale River. More proof if any were needed of the smugglers' audacity and arrogance. At a guess, Whitstable was no more than ten miles from this very room.

"I'll be ready, sir."

"Thought so. Nothing like a bit of humiliation to put fire in your belly, eh?"

A clock chimed somewhere and Hoblyn said, "Time to sup. The rest can keep. I know you're not one to loosen your tongue. Something else we have in common, I suspect." He chuckled and then struggled around the desk while the youth waited to lead the way to another room.

As he bent over Bolitho saw the livid scars lift above his collar. He must be like that over most of his body. Like a soul banished from hell. They moved out into the same hallway where a servant waited at another pair of doors. There was a rich smell of food, and Bolitho noticed the cut and material of Hoblyn's clothes. His fortunes had changed if nothing else.