With All Despatch Read Free

Marcus?”
    Drew held out his hand. “I wish you well. My clerk will attend your orders. Be patient, Bolitho—England will need all her sailors soon.” He frowned. “Does that amuse you, sir?”
    Bolitho took his cocked hat from the hovering clerk.
    â€œI was thinking of my late father, Captain James as he was to all who knew him. He once said much the same words to me.”
    â€œOh, when was that?”
    Bolitho withdrew, his mind already grappling with the brief outline of his commission.
    â€œBefore we lost America, sir.”
    Drew stared at the closed door, first with fury and then unwillingly, with a slow grin.
    So it was true after all. The man and the legend were one.
    Captain Richard Bolitho opened his eyes with a start of alarm, surprise too, that he had fallen into a doze as the carriage rolled steadily along a deeply rutted track.
    He looked through a side window and saw the various shades of green, bushes and trees, all glistening and heavy from another rainfall. Springtime in Kent, the Garden of England as it was called, but there seemed precious little sign of it.
    He glanced at his companion, who was slumped awkwardly on the opposite seat. Bryan Ferguson, his steward, who did more than anyone to direct the affairs of the house and estate in Falmouth. He had lost an arm at the Battle of the Saintes. Like Allday, he had been a pressed man aboard Bolitho’s ship Phalarope, and yet the events then had joined them together. Something unbreakable. He gave a sad smile. Few would guess that Ferguson had only one arm as he usually concealed the fact with his loose-fitting green coat. From one outthrust boot Bolitho saw the gleam of brass and guessed that Ferguson was carrying his favourite carriage pistol. To be on the safe side, as he put it.
    God alone knew, the Kentish roads were deserted enough, perhaps too much so for highwaymen, footpads and the like.
    Bolitho stretched and felt the ache in his bones. It was his constant dread that the fever might somehow return despite all that the surgeons had told him. He thought of the two years it had taken him to fight his way back to health, and finding the strength to relive it once again. Faces swam in misty memory, his sister Nancy, even her pompous husband the squire, “The King of Cornwall” as he had been dubbed locally.
    And Ferguson’s wife who was the housekeeper in the great grey home below Pendennis Castle where so many Bolithos had begun life, and had left to follow the sea. Some had never returned. But above all Bolitho remembered his coxswain, Allday. He had never seemed to sleep, had been constantly close by, to help in the struggle against fever, to fetch and carry, and too often, Bolitho suspected, to accept his delirious bursts of anger.
    Allday. Like an oak, a rock. Over the ten years since he had been brought aboard by the press gang in Cornwall their relationship had strengthened. Allday’s deep understanding of the sea, his impudence when need be, had been like an anchor for Bolitho. A friend? That was too frail a description.
    He could hear him now, talking with Old Matthew Corker the coachman, while Young Matthew occasionally joined in with his piping tones from the rear box. The boy was only fourteen, and the old coachman’s grandson. He was the apple of his eye, and he had brought him up from a baby after his father had been lost at sea in one of the famous Falmouth packet-ships. Old Matthew had always hoped that the boy would eventually follow in his footsteps. He was getting on in years, and Bolitho knew he had missed the right road on several occasions on the long haul from Falmouth, where weeks ago this journey had had its beginning. The old man was more used to the local harbours and villages around Falmouth, and as he had followed the road to London, pausing at inn after inn to change horses and pick up fresh post-boys to ride them, he must have wondered when he would eventually step down