With All Despatch

13. Last Chance

THE footman took Bolitho's dripping cloak and hat and regarded them disdainfully.

"Lord Marcuard will receive you now, sir."

Bolitho stamped his shoes on the floor to restore the circulation, then followed the servant, a heavy-footed man with stooped shoulders, along an elegant corridor. He was a far cry from the wretched Jules, Bolitho thought.

It had been a long and uncomfortable journey from Sheerness to London. The roads were getting worse, deeply rutted from heavy rain, and now there was intermittent snow, touching the grand buildings of Whitehall like powder. He hated the thought of winter and what it might do to his health. If the fever returned- he closed his mind to the thought. There were too many important matters on his mind.

When Wakeful had moored at the dockyard, Bolitho had left immediately for London. There had been a brief message awaiting his return from Marcuard. He would meet him on his own ground this time.

He heard sounds from the hallway and said, "That will be my coxswain. Take good care of him." He spoke abruptly. Bolitho felt past even common courtesy. He was heartily sick of the pretence and false pride these people seemed to admire so much.

He thought of the old admiral in Holland, of the great fortune amassed and ready to be used for a counterrevolution. It had seemed like a dream when he had outlined it; back in England the plan seemed utterly hopeless.

Bolitho's silent guides had conveyed him to the rendezvous on time but only with minutes to spare. Even in the darkness there had been shipping on the move, and the fishermen had almost given up hope when Wakeful's wet canvas had loomed over them.

Lieutenant Queely's relief had been matched only by his eagerness to get under way and head for open waters. He had confirmed Bolitho's suspicions; there were men-of-war in the vicinity, Dutch or French he had not waited to discover.

Some of Bolitho's anger at Tanner's involvement had eased on the journey to London. Noisy inns, with more talk of Christmas than what might be happening across the Channel. As the coach rolled through towns and villages, Bolitho had seen the local volunteers drilling under the instruction of regular soldiers. Pikes and pitchforks because nobody in authority thought it was necessary to train them to handle muskets. What was the matter with people, he wondered? When he had commanded Phalarope the navy's strength had stood at over one hundred thousand men. Now it was reduced to less than a fifth of that number, and even for them there were barely enough ships in commission and ready for sea.

He realised that the footman was holding open a tall door, Bolitho's cloak held carefully at arm's length.

Marcuard was standing with his back to a cheerful fire, his coat-tails lifted to give him all the benefit of the heat. He was dressed this time in sombre grey, and without his ebony silver-topped stick looked somehow incomplete.

Bolitho examined the room. It was huge, and yet lined on three walls with books. From floor to ceiling, with ladders here and there for convenience, like the library of a rich scholar. Queely would think himself in heaven here.

Marcuard held out his hand. "You wasted no time." He observed him calmly. "I am needed here in London. Otherwise-" He did not explain. He waved Bolitho to a chair. "I will send for some coffee presently. I see from your face that you came ready for an argument. I was prepared for that."

Bolitho said, "With respect, m'lord, I think I should have been told that Sir James Tanner was involved. The man, as I have stated plainly, is a thief, a cheat and a liar. I have proof that he was engaged in smuggling on a grand scale, and conspired with others to commit murder, to encourage desertion from the fleet for his own ends."

Marcuard's eyebrows rose slightly. "Do you feel better for that?" He leaned back and pressed his fingertips together. "Had I told you beforehand you would have refused to participate. Not because of the danger, and I better than you know there is danger aplenty on either side of that unhappy border. No, it was because of your honour that you would have refused me, just as it was because of it that I chose you for the mission."

Bolitho persisted, "How can we trust that man?"

Marcuard did not seem to hear. "There is an hypocrisy in us all, Bolitho. You offered your trust to Vice-Admiral Brennier, because he too is a man of honour. But a few years ago, or perhaps even next week, you would kill him if the need arose because war has dictated how you shall think, and what you must do. In affairs like this I trust only those whom I need. Tanner's skills may not appeal to either of us but, believe me, he is the best man, if not the only man, who can do it. I sent you because Brennier would recognise you as a King's officer, someone who has already proved his courage and loyalty beyond question. But what do you imagine would occur if I had directed others to Holland? I can assure you that the Admiralty of Amsterdam would have been displeased, and would have closed every port against us. They have cause to fear the French and would likely confiscate the Royalist treasure to bargain with them."

Despite his hatred of the man, Bolitho thought of Tanner's words about the possibility of the vast hoard of jewels and gold being used to strengthen French power to be thrown eventually against England.

Marcuard said, "You look troubled, Bolitho. What do you feel about this affair, and of Brennier's part in it?" He nodded very slowly. "Another reason why I selected you. I wanted a thinking officer, not merely a courageous one."

Bolitho stared through one of the tall windows. The sky was growing darker, but he could see the roof of the Admiralty building where all this, and so many other ventures in his life, had begun. Full circle. The roof was already dusted with snow. He gripped his hands together to try and stop himself from shivering.

"I believe that the prospect of an uprising is hopeless, m'lord." Just saying it aloud made him feel as if he had broken a trust, that he was being disloyal to that old man in Holland who had been captured by Rodney at the Saintes. He continued, "He showed me one of the chests. I have never seen the like. So much wealth, when the people of France had so little." He glanced around at the fine room. An equation which should be learned here, he thought bitterly.

"Are you not well, Bolitho?"

"Tired, m'lord. My cox'n is with me. He is finding quarters for us."

It was to sidestep Marcuard's question.

Marcuard shook his head. "I will not hear of it. You shall visit here, while you are in London. There are some who might wish to know your movements. And besides, I doubt that there are many-quarters-as you quaintly describe them, freely available this near to Christmas."

He regarded Bolitho thoughtfully. "While you were in Holland, I too was forming opinions."

Bolitho felt his limbs relaxing again. Perhaps it was the fire.

"About the treasure, m'lord?"

"Concerning it." Marcuard stood up and tugged gently at a silk bell rope. There was no sound but Bolitho guessed it would reach one of the many servants who were needed for such an extensive residence.

Bolitho did not trust the so-called "real-world" as described by Sir James Tanner, but he had learned a lot about people, no matter what their rank or station might be. From a tough fore-topman to a pink-faced midshipman, and Bolitho knew that the bell rope was to give him time, to test his own judgement before he shared any more secrets.

Marcuard said bluntly, "There is no hope for the King of France."

Bolitho stared at him, and was struck by the solemnity of his voice. While the King was alive there had always been hope that somehow things might return, halfway at least, to normal. In time, the murder of aristocrats and innocent citizens in the name of the Revolution might fade into history. The death of a King would have the brutal finality of the guillotine itself.

Marcuard watched him, his eyes smoky in the reflected flames. "We cannot rely on Brennier and his associates. Until a counter-revolution can be launched, that vast fortune belongs in London, where it will be safe. I could tell you of lasting loyalties which would rise up against the National Convention once a properly

managed invasion was mounted."

"That would cause a war, m'lord."

Marcuard nodded. "The war is almost upon us, I fear."

"I believe that Admiral Brennier understands the danger he is in." Bolitho pictured him, a frail old man by the fire, still dreaming and hoping when there was no room left for either.

The door opened and another footman entered with a tray and some fresh coffee.

"I know you have a great liking for coffee, Captain Bolitho."

"My cox'n-"

Marcuard watched the servant preparing to pour.

"Your Mr Allday is being well taken care of. He seems a most adaptable fellow, to all accounts. Your right arm, wouldn't you say?"

Bolitho shrugged. Was there nothing Marcuard did not know or discover from others? No hiding place, Tanner had said. That he could believe now.

He said, "He means all that and more to me."

"And the young lad, Corker, wasn't it? You packed him off to Falmouth, I believe."

Bolitho smiled sadly. It had been a difficult moment for all of them. Young Matthew had been in tears when they had put him on the coach for the first leg of the long haul to Cornwall, the breadth of England away.

He said, "It seemed right, m'lord. To be home with his people in time for Christmas."

"Quite so, although I doubt that was your prime concern."

Bolitho recalled Allday at that moment, his face still cut and bruised from his beating aboard the Loyal Chieftain. He had said, "Your place is on the estate, my lad. With your horses, like Old Matthew. It's not on the bloody deck of some man-o'-war. Anyway, I'm back now. You said you'd wait 'til then, didn't you?"

They had watched the coach until it had vanished into heavy rain.

Bolitho said suddenly, "I fear he would have been killed if I had allowed him to stay."

Marcuard did not ask or even hint at how the boy's death might have come about. He probably knew that too.

Marcuard put down his cup and consulted his watch. "I have to go out. My valet will attend to your needs." He was obviously deep in thought. "If I am not back before you retire do not concern yourself. It is the way of things here." He crossed to a window and said, "The weather. It is a bad sign."

Bolitho looked at him. He had not said as much, but somehow he knew Marcuard was going to have a late audience with the King.

Bolitho wondered what the prime minister and his advisers thought about it. It was rumoured more openly nowadays that His Majesty was prone to change his mind like the wind, and that on bad days he was totally incapable of making a decision about anything. He might easily be prepared to discuss his anxieties with Marcuard rather than Parliament. It would make Marcuard's authority all the greater.

He was standing by the window now, looking down at the road, his eyes deep in thought.

"In Paris it will be a bad winter. They were near to starvation last year; this time it will be worse. Cold and hunger can fire men to savage deeds, if only to cover their own failings."

He looked deliberately at Bolitho, like that time at The Golden Fleece in Dover.

"I must make arrangements for the treasure to be brought to England. I feel that the sand is running low." The door opened silently and Marcuard said, "Have the unmarked phaeton brought round at once." Then to Bolitho he said softly, "Leave Brennier to me."

"What of me, m'lord?" Bolitho was also on his feet, as if he shared this new sense of urgency.

"As far as I am concerned, you are still my man in this." He gave a bleak smile. "You will return to Holland only when I give the word." He seemed to relax himself and prepare for his meeting. "Anyone who opposes you will have me to reckon with." He let his gaze linger for a few more seconds. "But do not harm Tanner." Again the bleak smile. "Not yet, in any case." Then he was gone.

Bolitho sat down and stared at the wall of books, an army of knowledge. How did men like Marcuard see a war, he wondered? Flags on a map, land gained or lost, investment or waste? It was doubtful if they ever considered it as cannon fire and broken bodies.

Below his feet, in the long kitchen Allday sat contentedly, sipping a tankard of ale while he enjoyed the pipe of fresh tobacco one of the footmen had offered him.

In any strange house the kitchen was usually Allday's first port of call. To investigate food, and also the possibilities of female companionship which most kitchens had to offer.

He watched the cook's assistant, a girl of ample bosom and laughing eyes, her arms covered in flour to her elbows. Allday had gathered that her name was Maggie.

He took another swallow of ale. A proper sailor's lass she would make. He thought of Bolitho somewhere overhead, alone with his thoughts. He had heard his lordship leave in a carriage only moments ago, and wondered if he should go up and disturb him.

He thought of the dead girl in his arms, the touch of her body against his. Poor Tom Lucas had sworn it would bring bad luck to take a woman aboard against her will. That had been true enough for both of them. Allday tried to see into the future. Better back in Falmouth than this shifty game, he thought. You never knew friend from foe. Just so long as they didn't go back to Holland. Allday usually clung to his same old rule. Never go back. The odds always got worse.

The cook was saying, "'Course, our Lady Marcuard's down at the estate. 'Is lordship'll not be 'ome for Christmas this year, I reckon!" She looked meaningly at Allday and added, "Young Maggie's 'usband is there too, as second coachman, see?"

Allday glanced at the girl and saw her blush faintly before she returned her attention to her work.

The cook watched them both and added encouragingly, "Pity to waste it, I always says!"

His Britannic Majesty's Ship Ithuriel, a seventy-four-gun two-decker, made a handsome picture above her reflection on the flat water of the Royal Dockyard. Her black and buff hull and checkered gunports, her neatly furled sails and crossed yards shone with newness, as did the uniforms of her lieutenant and midshipman, facing inboard from their divisions of silent seamen. Across her poop the marines stood in scarlet lines, and above their heads a matching ensign curled listless against a washed-out sky in the hard sunlight.

There was pride and sadness here in Chatham today. Ithuriel was the first new man-of-war of any size to be commissioned since the American Revolution, and now, stored and fully manned, she was ready to take her place with the Channel Fleet.

Below her poop Bolitho watched the official handing-over of the new ship, her captain reading himself in to the assembled officers and men he would lead and inspire for as long as Their Lordships dictated, or as long as he remained in command.

Nearby, the officers' ladies stood close together, sharing this alien world of which they could never truly become a part. Some would be grateful that their husbands had been given appointments after all the waiting and disappointment. Others would be cherishing each passing minute, not knowing when, or if, they would see their loved ones again.

Bolitho looked at the sky, his heart suddenly heavy. He was only an onlooker. All the excitement and demands of a newly commissioned ship were cradled here, and would soon show their true value and flaws once the ship began to move under canvas for the first time.

He saw the admiral with his flag lieutenant standing a little apart from the rest, dockyard officials watching their efforts become reality as the company was urged to cry their Huzzas and wave their hats to honour the moment.

If only the command were his. Not a frigate, but a newly born ship nonetheless. The most beautiful creation of man yet devised; hard and demanding by any standards. He dropped his eyes as the captain finished speaking, his voice carrying easily in the still January air.

That too was hard to accept, Bolitho thought. Danger there had certainly been, but the promise of action had sustained him. Until now. In his heart he believed he had ruined his chances by his dogged and stubborn attack on Sir James Tanner. Marcuard must have found him wanting.

He looked up as he heard the new captain speak his name.

He was saying, "A fine ship which I am proud to command. But for the inspiration and leadership given by Captain Richard Bolitho over the past months I doubt if we would have enough hands to work downstream, let alone put to sea and face what-ever duty demands of us!" He gave a slight bow in Bolitho's direction. "Ithuriel shall be worthy of your trust, sir."

Bolitho flinched as all the faces turned towards him. Pressed and volunteers, men who had accepted his offer to quit the smuggling gangs and return to their calling, but now they were of one company. It was only their captain's qualities which could carry them further. And Bolitho would be left far behind and soon forgotten.

Perhaps there would be no war after all? He should have felt relief, but instead was ashamed to discover he had only a sense of loss and rejection.

The ship's company was dismissed and the boatswain's mates refrained from their usual coarse language with so many ladies gathered on the quarterdeck and poop. Extra rum for all hands, and then, when the honoured guests had departed, the hovering bumboats and watermen would come alongside and unload their passengers under the watchful eyes of the first lieutenant and afterguard. Trollops and doxies from the town, the sailor's last freedom for a long while. For some, it would be forever.

The admiral was making a great fuss over the captain, which was not surprising as he was his favourite nephew. The groups were breaking up and making for the entry port below which the many boats thronged like water beetles. There were desperate embraces and tears, brave laughter, and, from the older ones, resignation, a lesson learned from many repetitions.

Allday emerged from the shadows beneath the poop and said, "I've signalled for the boat, Cap'n." He studied him with concern, recognising all the signs. "It'll come, Cap'n, just you see-"

Bolitho turned on him, and relented immediately. "It was only that I had hoped-"

The senior officers had gone now; calls trilled and barges glided away to other ships and to the dockyard stairs.

Bolitho said wearily, "I would that they were my men and our ship-eh, old friend?"

Allday made a passage to the entry port. In many ways he felt vaguely guilty. He should have done more. But in London while they had been staying in that great house, he had soon found his time fully occupied with the amorous Maggie. It was just as well Bolitho had been ordered back to Kent, he thought. It had been a close-run thing.

"Captain Bolitho?" It was the flag lieutenant, poised and eager, like a ferret. "If you would come aft for a moment, sir?"

Bolitho followed him and saw the curious stares, heads drawn together in quick speculation. Rumour was firmer than fact. They would be speaking of Hoblyn and Delaval, even Hugh, and the strange fact that men who had managed to evade the dreaded press gangs had openly volunteered for service whenever Bolitho had been seen in their locality. Myth and mystery. It never failed.

In the great cabin, still smelling of paint and tar, new timber and cordage, Bolitho found another unknown captain waiting for him. He introduced himself as Captain Wordley; the papers he produced proved that he had been sent by Lord Marcuard.

Wordley watched him impassively as he examined his bulky envelope and said, "You may read them at leisure, Bolitho. I am required to return to London forthwith." He gave a wry smile. "You will know his lordship's insistence on haste."

Bolitho asked, "Can you tell me?" He could still scarcely believe it.

"You are to return to Holland. All details are listed in your orders. There is some urgency in this matter. Information is hard to come by, but Lord Marcuard is convinced that time is short. Very short. You are to supervise the removal of the… stores… from Holland, and see them safely to these shores." He spread his hands unhappily. "It is all I can tell you, Bolitho. In God's name it is all I know!"

Bolitho left the cabin and made his way to the entry port where Allday was waiting by the side-party and marine guard.

Like walking in the dark. A messenger-boy who was told only the briefest facts. But excitement replaced the bitterness almost immediately. He said, "We are returning to Holland, Allday." He eyed him keenly. "If you wish to stand fast I shall fully understand, especially so because of your-recent attachment."

Allday stared at him, then gave a self-conscious grin. "Was it that plain, Cap'n? An' I thought I was keeping hull-down, so to speak!" His grin vanished. "Like I said afore. We stay together this time." His eyes were almost desperate. "Right?"

Bolitho gripped his thick forearm, watched with astonishment by the marine officer of the guard.

"So be it."

He doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and lowered himself to the waiting boat.

Only once did Bolitho glance astern at the shining new seventy-four, but already she seemed like a diversion, part of that other dream.

Now only Holland lay ahead. And reality.

Lieutenant Jonas Paice placed his hands firmly on his hips and stared resentfully at the anchored Wakeful. In the harsh January sunlight she was a hive of activity, her sails already loosened, the forecastle party working the long bars of the windlass, their bodies moving in unison as if performing some strange rite.

"I'll not be in agreement, sir. Not now, not ever."

Bolitho glanced at his grimly determined features. Time was all-important, but it was just as vital he should make Paice understand.

"I explained why I had to go before. It was a secret then. I could not share it at the time, you must realise that."

"This is different, sir." Paice turned and stared at him, using his superior height to impress each word. "Half the fleet will know what you're about." He waved his hand towards Wakeful. "You should let me take you if go you must."

Bolitho smiled. So that was it. He said, "Lieutenant Queely knows that coast well. Otherwise-" He saw Wakeful's jolly-boat cast off and pull towards Telemachus. He said, "Try to pass word to Snapdragon. She is working her station off the North Foreland. Either the revenue people or the coastguard might be able to signal her. I want her back here." He studied his stubborn features. It was Herrick all over again. "We are in this together."

Paice replied heavily. "I know, sir. I have read your instructions."

He tried again. "In any case, apart from the risks, there is the weather. Last time you had mist and fog. A hazard maybe, but also a protection." He added scornfully, "Look at this! As bright and clear as the Arctic! Even a blind man could see you coming!"

Bolitho looked away. He had been thinking as much himself. Bright and clear, the waves outside the anchorage pockmarked with choppy white horses from the cold south-westerly. "I must go now." He held out his hand. "We shall meet again soon." Then he was climbing down to the boat where Lieutenant Kempthorne removed his hat as a mark of respect.

"Cast off! Give way all!" Allday sat by the tiller, his hat pulled down to shade his eyes from the reflected glare. He had seen the light in Bolitho's eyes, the way that the call to action had somehow strengthened him. Allday had watched him aboard the new two-decker. The longing and the loss, side by side.

He gave a long sigh. Allday had no liking for what they were doing and it had cost him dearly not to speak his mind, that privilege he valued above all else. Bolitho could strike back with equal conviction and his anger had been known to hurt as well as sting. But he had never once used his rank and authority when others would have thought of nothing else. Now, as he watched the set of Bolitho's shoulders, the black hair gathered above the fall-down collar of that old, faded coat, he was glad he had kept his peace, no matter what.

They climbed aboard the cutter, and the boat was hoisted up and inboard almost before Bolitho had reached the narrow poop where Queely was in deep conversation with his sailing-master.

Queely touched his hat and nodded. "Ready when you are, sir." He looked at the green elbow of land, the rime of frost or recent snow dusting some of the port buildings. The air was like a honed knife, but it roused a man from the boredom of routine, put an edge on his reactions. Queely said, "Doesn't much matter who sees us leave this time, eh?"

Bolitho ignored it. Like Paice, he was trying to dissuade him. It moved him to realise it was not for their own sakes, but for his.

Allday strode aft, then drew his cutlass and aimed its blade at the sun. "I'll give this a sharpen, Cap'n." He held out his hand. "I'll take the sword, if I may?"

Bolitho handed it to him. Others might see and think they understood. But how could they? This was a ritual shared with nobody else, as much a part of each man as the moment before a battle when the ship was cleared for action, screens down, the people standing to their guns. Allday would be there. Always. After clipping the old sword to his belt. As his father's coxswain must have done for him and those who had gone before.

"Anchor's hove short, sir!"

"Loose mains'l! Stand by heads'l sheets!" Feet padded on the damp planking, bare despite the bitter air.

Bolitho saw it all. If only more of the people at home could have seen them, he thought. Men who had so little, but gave their all when it was demanded of them. He thought of the faces he had seen aboard the new Ithuriel. It might be months before her company worked even half as well as the men of his three cutters.

"Anchor's aweigh, sir!"

Wakeful came round into the breeze, her huge mainsail scooping all of it without effort and filling out with a crack of taut canvas.

"Hold her steady!" Queely was everywhere. "Let go and haul. Mr Kempthorne, they are like old women today!"

Bolitho heard the helmsman chuckle. "Wish they was, matey!"

He turned and looked for Telemachus. How tiny she looked when set against the tall buff-and-black hull of the new two-decker.

Allday saw the look and gave a rueful grin.

There would be no stopping him now.

By evening the wind still held steady enough from the south-west, and the sea showed no sign of lessening. Spray swept regularly over the duty watch, reaching for the hands working aloft on the yards. When it caught you unawares it was cold enough to punch the breath out of your body.

Bolitho was in the cabin, going over Queely's calculations, the notes which he had made from their last rendezvous. Nothing must go wrong. He thought of Tanner and tried not to let his anger break out again. Tanner was under Lord Marcuard's orders, and on the face of it had far more to lose than Bolitho if things went badly wrong. Unless you counted life itself, Bolitho thought. He was surprised he could face it with neither qualms nor surprise. It might mean that he was truly restored, that the fever which had all but killed him had finally released him, as a receding wave will toss a drowning sailor to safety, as if for a last chance.

He heard shouts on deck and Queely clattered down the companionway, his body shining in a long tarpaulin coat.

"Sail to the nor'-east, sir."

More yells came from above. Queely remarked, "I'm changing tack. No sense in displaying our intentions." He smiled faintly. "Yet, anyway."

The hull staggered and then reared upright again, and Bolitho heard the sea rushing along the lee scuppers like a bursting stream.

"What is she?"

"I've got Nielsen aloft, a good lookout." Again the ghostly smile. "For a Swede, that is. He reckons she's a brig. Square-rigged in any case."

They looked at each other. Bolitho did not have to consult the chart to know that this stranger stood directly between them and the land.

"Man-of-war?" It seemed unlikely to be anything else out here and at this time of the year.

Queely shrugged. "Could be."

The helmsman yelled, "Steady she goes, sir! Nor' by East!"

Queely frowned, seeing the complications in his thoughts. "Don't want to bring her up too much, sir. I know the nights are long, but we've precious little room for mistakes."

Bolitho followed him on deck. The sea was covered with leaping white clusters of spray, but beneath them the water looked black, a vivid contrast to the sky which despite some early stars was still clear and pale.

The hull plunged her long bowsprit down like a hunting marlin and the water surged over the forecastle and hissed aft between the gleaming guns.

Queely cupped his reddened hands. "Where away, Nielsen?"

"Same bearing, sir! She changed tack when we did!"

Even from the deck amidst the din of spray and wind Bolitho could hear the man's Swedish accent. What was his story, he wondered?

Queely swore. "In God's name, sir! That bugger is on to us!"

Bolitho gripped a stay and felt it quivering in his hand as if it were part of an instrument.

"I suggest you steer more to the east'rd as soon as it's dark. We should cross his stern and lose him."

Queely eyed him doubtfully. "So long as we can beat clear if the wind gets up, sir."

Bolitho gave a dry smile. "There is always that provision, of course."

Queely beckoned to his first lieutenant. "We shall hold this tack until-" The rest was lost in the boom of canvas and the creak of steering tackles as the helmsmen forced over the tiller bar.

Allday stood by the companionway and listened to the rudder. It was all to easy too picture the girl's pale shape as she had sawed frantically at the lines. If only she had been spared.

He tossed the stupid thought from his mind and groped his way to the ladder. There was always tomorrow. But now a good "wet" of rum was all he needed.

When darkness closed in, and their world had shrunk to the leaping crests on either beam, Wakeful came about and under reefed topsail thrust her bowsprit towards the east. Immediately before that Queely joined Bolitho in the cabin and shook his hat on the littered deck.

"That bugger's still there, sir." He stared at his cot but shut the picture of sleep from his thoughts. "I shall call you when it's time." Then he was gone, his boots scraping up the ladder and on to the streaming deck above.

Bolitho lay down and faced the curved side. Just once he spoke her name aloud. "Viola." And then, with his eyes tightly shut as if in pain, he fell asleep.