Free With All Despatch by Alexander Kent Page B

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?”
    â€œJohn 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.
    â€œI 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.
    â€œI’ll be ready, sir.”
    â€œThought 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.
    He was about to ask that a meal be sent for Young Matthew when he saw Hoblyn’s hand brush against that of the footman.
    Bolitho did not know if he felt disgust or pity.
    As Hoblyn had said, the rest can keep.
    Bolitho awoke shocked and dazed and for a few agonising seconds imagined that he was emerging from the fever again. His skull throbbed like hammers on an anvil, and when he tried to speak his tongue felt as if it was glued to the roof of his mouth. He saw Young Matthew’s round face watching him in the gloom, only his eyes showing colour in a feeble glow from the cabin skylight.
    â€œWhat is it?” Bolitho barely recognised his voice. “Time?” His senses were returning reluctantly and he realised with sudden self-abhorrence that he was still fully clothed in his best uniform, his hat and sword on the table where he had dropped them.
    Matthew said in a hoarse whisper, “You bin sleeping, sir.”
    Bolitho propped himself on his elbows. The hull was moving very sluggishly on the current, but there were only