With All Despatch

14. Fair Wind… for France

H.M. CUTTER Wakeful rolled heavily in the offshore swell, the motion made worse by a swift current at odds with a failing tide. Hove-to and with her flapping canvas in wild disorder, it felt as if she might easily dismast herself.

Queely had to shout above the din of rigging and wind. Caution was pointless; the clatter of loose gear and the sluice of water alongside seemed loud enough to wake the dead.

He exclaimed, "It's no use, sir! They're not coming! I have to suggest that we turn back!" Bolitho held on to the shrouds and strained his eyes through

the wind-blown spray. Queely was in command; he had plenty of reasons to be alarmed, and had been right to speak his mind.

Bolitho cursed the unknown vessel which had made them take a more roundabout course towards the Dutch coast. But for that they would have reached the rendezvous in good time. He felt Queely peering at the sky, imagining it was already getting lighter.

Bolitho said tersely, "They have orders to return on the hour."

But they were fishermen, smugglers too, not disciplined sailors like those who stood or crouched around him.

Queely said nothing in reply. He was probably thinking much the same.

The wind had veered overnight, which made it even harder for Queely to maintain his position without the risk of being driven onto a lee-shore.

Bolitho tried to think what he must do. What is the point? There is no other way.

Allday stood close by, his arms folded as if to show his contempt for the sea's efforts to pitch him to the deck. Occasionally he glanced up at the furled mainsail, the huge mast which leaned right over him, then staggered away to the opposite beam as the cutter rolled her gunports under.

He could tell from Bolitho's stance, the way he barely spoke, that he was tackling each of his problems in turn. Earlier Allday might have been satisfied to know this might happen. But now, having come this far, he wanted to go ahead, get it over with, like Bolitho.

Men scampered down the larboard side as a line parted and the boatswain called for them to make it fast.

Bolitho wondered what Tanner was doing, how he would react when he discovered he had been delayed.

"Boat, sir! Lee bow!"

Bolitho tried to moisten his lips but they felt like leather. A few more minutes, and then-

Queely rasped, "The same one as before! By God I thought they'd cut and run!"

Bolitho wrapped his boat-cloak around him, able to ignore the busy seamen with their ropes and fenders, pointing arms and angry voices as the two hulls swayed together for the first impact.

He said, "You know what to do. I'd not ask you to risk your command, but-"

They clung together as the two hulls lifted and groaned in a trough, men falling, others heaving on ropes, their bare feet skidding on the wet deck.

Queely nodded. "I'll be here, sir. If the Devil himself should stand between us."

Then Bolitho followed Allday into the fishing boat. This time, her skipper gave him what might have been a grin. With the sea surging over the two vessels it could have been a grimace.

Bolitho sat inside a tiny hutchlike cabin and was thankful that the hold was empty of fish. Experienced though he was in the sea's moods, after the buffeting out there any stench might have made him vomit. Like when he had first gone to sea at the age of twelve.

The arrangements were exactly as before, although he sensed the Dutch crew's haste and nervous anxiety whenever they passed an anchored vessel, or riding lights betrayed the nearness of other craft. Merchantmen sheltering for the night, waiting for a favourable wind, men-of-war-they might have been anything. The final part of the journey was quieter, the sounds of sea and wind suddenly banished, lost beyond the endless barrier of waving rushes.

It was so quiet that Bolitho held his breath. Nobody bothered to conceal their approach and Allday whispered, "Even the mills are still, Cap'n."

Bolitho watched a tall windmill glide above the rushes, stiff, and unmoving. It was eerie, as if nothing lived here.

The crew exchanged comments and then one clambered over the gunwale, his sea-boots splashing through shallows before finding the spur of land. One man ran on ahead, but the skipper stayed with Bolitho and waited for Allday to join them.

Bolitho felt a chill run up his back. The skipper had drawn a pistol from his coat and was wiping it with his sleeve. Without looking he knew that Allday had seen it too and was ready to cut the man down if need be. Was the Dutchman frightened-did he sense danger? Or was he waiting for the chance to betray them, as Delaval had done to so many others?

Allday said, "Someone's coming, Cap'n." How calm he sounded. As if he was describing a farm cart in a Cornish lane. Bolitho knew that he was at his most dangerous.

He heard feet slipping on the track and saw the shadowy figure of Brennier's aide stumble, gasp aloud as the other Dutchman pulled him to his feet again.

He stopped when he saw Bolitho and turned back towards the house. No blindfold. He seemed close to panic.

Bolitho and the Dutch skipper pushed open the door, and Bolitho stared at the disorder around him. Cupboards ransacked, contents spilled on the floor, even some of the charred logs raked from the fire. The search had been as thorough as it had been quick.

Bolitho looked at the Dutch skipper. They were totally separated by language.

Then he turned towards the aide and was shocked at his appearance as he revealed himself beside a lantern.

His clothes were filthy, and there were pale streaks down the grime on his cheeks, as if he had been weeping.

"What is it, man?" Bolitho unbuttoned his old coat to free the butt of his pistol. "Speak out!"

The man stared at him with disbelief. Then he said in a broken whisper, "Il est mort! Il est mort!"

Bolitho seized his arm; it felt lifeless in his grip. "The admiral?"

The aide gaped at him as if only now did he realise where he was, that Bolitho was the same man.

He shook his head and blurted out, "Non! It is the King!"

Allday rubbed his jaw with his fist. "God, they've done for him after all!"

The Dutchman thrust his pistol into his belt and spread his hands. It needed no language. The blade had fallen in Paris. The King of France was dead.

Bolitho wanted to find time to think. But there was none. He shook the man's arm and asked harshly, "Where is Vice-Admiral Brennier? What has become of him?" He hated to see the fear in the man's eyes. All hope gone. And now apparently left to fend for himself in a country which might be unwilling to offer him shelter.

He stammered, "To Flushing. We could wait no longer." He stared at the disordered room. "You were late, Capitaine!"

Bolitho released his hold and the aide almost collapsed on to a bench. He was wringing his hands, stunned by what had happened.

Allday asked, "What do we do, Cap'n?"

Bolitho looked at the broken man on the bench. Somehow he knew there was more. He asked quietly, "And the treasure, m'sieu, what of that?"

The aide stared up at him, surprised by the change in Bolitho's tone.

"It is in safe hands, Capitaine, but it was too late!"

Safe hands. There was only one other who knew about it. Now he was gone, taking the old admiral Brennier and the treasure with him. To Flushing. The name stood out in his mind like letters of fire. About twenty miles from here at a guess. It might as well have been a thousand.

He recalled Marcuard's remarks about the weather. News would travel slowly with the roads bogged-down or hidden in snow. Nobody here would know for certain when the King had been executed. He felt the sense of urgency running through him, chilling his body from head to toe. Anything might be happening. There was nobody here to ask. Even the farmer who owned this place had vanished-perhaps murdered.

The Dutch skipper said something to his companion, who was guarding the door, and Bolitho snapped, "Tell that man to remain with us!"

The aide murmured a few halting words in Dutch then added, "He wants paying, Capitaine."

Allday muttered harshly, "Don't we all, matey!"

"If you help me, m'sieu, I will take you to England. Maybe you will discover friends there-"

He looked at Allday's grim features as the man threw himself on his knees and seized his hand, kissing it fervently.

When he looked up, his eyes were streaming, but there was steel in his voice now as he exclaimed, "I know the ship, Capitaine! It is called La Revanche, but flies the English flag!" He cowered under Bolitho's cold gaze. "I heard him talk of it."

Bolitho spoke the name aloud. "Sir James Tanner." The aide's fear told him everything he had not already guessed.

How apt a name. The Revenge. Tanner had outwitted them all.

Allday asked, "What can we do, Cap'n? Without a ship of our own-" He sounded lost and bewildered.

Bolitho said, "We had better be gone from here." He strode to a window and threw back the shutter. The sky seemed paler. He must think of the present, not anguish over what had happened. Wakeful's near encounter with the stranger had been deliberate, a delay engineered by Tanner. It had given him time to execute the rest of his plan. "We must try to explain to the Dutchman that we need to be taken downriver to his fishermen friends." He stared at the aide again. "Tell him he will be well paid." He jingled some coins in his pocket to give the words emphasis. "I'll brook no argument!"

Allday tapped the floor with the point of his cutlass. "I reckon he understands, Cap'n." Again he sounded very calm, almost casual. "Don't you, matey?"

It would be a full day before Wakeful would dare to approach the rendezvous. Even then it might be too dangerous for Queely to draw near enough. Bolitho felt sick, and rubbed his eyes to rouse himself from despair.

Why should Tanner take the admiral, if his main intention concerned the treasure?

He walked out into the stinging air and looked up at some fast-moving cloud. It hit him like a clenched fist, as if the answer had been written in those same stars.

He heard himself say tightly, "The wind has veered yet again, Allday." He glanced at the familiar, bulky shadow framed against the fading stars.

"It blows fair, old friend." He added bitterly, "For France!"

Snapdragon's jolly-boat snugged alongside her anchored consort, and with the briefest of ceremony her commander, Lieutenant Hector Vatass, climbed aboard.

For an instant he paused and peered towards the shore. The wind was fresh to strong, but here in the Sheerness anchorage its force was lessened by the land, so that the snow flumes swirled around in an aimless dance. For a moment Vatass could see the headland beyond the dockyard; in the next it was all blotted out, with only his own vessel still visible.

Telemachus's first lieutenant guided him to the companionway and said, "Good to see you, sir."

His formality was unexpected and unusual. But Vatass's mind and body were too strained from the rigours of his entrance to the anchorage in the early morning to make much of it. He had received a message from the coastguard that he was required back at Sheerness. The order had come from Captain Bolitho. It was not one to question, even though Vatass had been fretting already over losing a speedy schooner which had evaded him in a heavier snowsquall off the Foreland.

He found Paice sitting in the cabin, his features grave as he finished writing laboriously in his log.

Vatass lowered himself on to a bench seat and said, "I wish the damned weather would make up its mind, Jonas. I am heartily sick of it." He realised that Paice was still silent and asked, "What is wrong?"

Paice did not reply directly. "Did you not meet with the courier-brig?" He saw Vatass shake his head. "I thought as much."

Paice reached down and produced a bottle of brandy, half-filling two glasses. He had been preparing for this moment as soon as Snapdragon had been reported tacking around the headland.

He held up his glass and regarded the other man thoughtfully. "It's war, Hector."

Vatass swallowed the brandy and almost choked. "Jesus! Contraband, I'll wager!"

Paice gave a wintry smile. Vatass was very young, lucky to command a topsail cutter, to command anything at all. That would soon change now. Commands would go to officers who were barely used to their present junior ranks. Good old Jack again. He knew that the enormity of his announcement had taken Vatass completely aback. The weak joke was all he had to give himself time to accept it.

Paice said, "I don't care if it's stolen from Westminster Abbey." He clinked glasses solemnly. "War. I received a signal late last night." He waved his large hand across a pile of loose papers on the table. "These are from the admiral at Chatham. It has them all jumping. They should have been damned well expecting it!" He stared around the cabin. "They'll be asking us for men soon, you know that? We shall be using green replacements while our seasoned people are scattered through the fleet!"

Vatass was only half-listening. He did not share Paice's anxiety over the prospect of his Telemachus being pared away by the needs of war. All he could think was that he was young and once again full of hope. A new command-a brig perhaps, or even a rakish sloop-of-war. That would surely mean promotion.

Paice watched his emotions. Vatass had still not learned how to conceal them.

He said, "Captain Bolitho is across the water in Holland, or he could be anywhere by now." He looked at his log, and the chart which was beneath it. "Wakeful is with him." He downed the brandy in one swallow and refilled his glass immediately. "At least I trust to God she is."

Vatass allowed his mind to settle. Which had touched him more? Paice's news of Bolitho, or the fact he had never seen the tall lieutenant drink in this fashion before. He had heard that, after his wife had been killed, Paice had rarely been without the bottle. But that was past. Another memory.

Vatass began, "I do not understand, Jonas. What can we hope to do?" Paice glared at him, his eyes red with anxiety and anger. "Don't you see it yet, man? What the hell have you been doing?"

Vatass replied stiffly, "Chasing a suspected smuggler."

Paice said in a more level voice, "The King of France has been executed. Yesterday we were told that their National Convention has declared war on England and Holland." He nodded very slowly. "Captain Bolitho is in the midst of it. And I doubt if he knows a whisper of what has happened!"

Vatass said unhelpfully, "He left you in command of the flotilla, Jonas."

Paice gave what could have been a bleak smile. "I intend to use it." He stood upright with his head inside the skylight and unclipped one of the covers.

Vatass saw tiny flakes of snow settle on his face and hair before he lowered the cover and sat down again.

"We're putting to sea as soon as makes no difference." He held up one hand. "Save the protests. I know you've only just come to rest. But at any moment I may receive a direct order from the admiral, one I cannot ignore, which will prevent our going." He lowered his voice as if to conceal an inner anguish "I'll not leave him unsupported and without help." He kept his eyes on the young lieutenant's face as he poured him another glass, some of the brandy slopping unheeded across the neatly written orders. "Well, Hector, are you with me?"

"Suppose we cannot find Wakeful?"

"Damn me, we'll have tried! And I shall be able to hear that man's name without the shame of knowing I failed him, after the pride he returned to me by his own example." He waved vaguely over the chart. "The frontiers will be closed, and any alien ship will be treated as hostile. Wakeful is a sound vessel, and her commander a match for anything. But she's no fifth-rate." He glanced around the cabin. His command and his home; as if he could already see Telemachus facing up to a full broadside, with only her carronades and six-pounders to protect herself.

Vatass knew all this, and guessed that, whatever happened, his chances of an immediate promotion were in serious jeopardy. But he had always looked up to Paice's old style of leadership, even more, his qualities as a true sailor. Rough and outspoken, it was easy to picture him in his original role as master of a collier-brig.

"I'm with you." He considered his words, his young face suddenly serious. "What about the admiral?"

Paice swept the papers from his chart and picked up some dividers.

"I have the feeling that there is someone more powerful than that fine gentleman behind our captain!" He looked across at Vatass and studied him for several seconds.

Vatass tried to laugh it off. It was war anyway. Nothing else would count now. But Paice's stare made him feel uneasy. As if he did not expect they would ever meet again.

"More vessels lying ahead, Cap'n!" Allday ducked beneath the boat's taut canvas and peered aft through the snow. It was more like sleet now, wet and clinging, so that the interior of the small boat was slippery and treacherous.

Bolitho crouched beside the Dutch skipper at the tiller and narrowed his eyes to judge the boat's progress under her two lug-sails. One side of the river was lost in sleet and mist, but here and there he could see the lower portions of hulls and taut cables, probably the same ships he had passed in the night after leaving Wakeful. Even in the poor light the small fishing boat was a pitiful sight. Scarred and patched, with unmatched equipment which had been salvaged or stolen from other boats. He guessed that it had been used more as a link between the larger vessels for carrying contraband than for genuine fishing. The four Dutchmen who made up the crew seemed anxious to please him despite the stilted translations which passed through Brennier's aide. Perhaps they imagined that, with Tanner gone, their chance of any reward was remote, and Bolitho's promise of payment was better than nothing at all.

Bolitho glanced at the aide. He had still not revealed his name. In the gloom he looked pinched up with cold and fear, his sodden clothes clinging to his body like rags. He was gripping a sword between his grimy fingers, the contrast as stark as the man's own circumstances, Bolitho thought. It was a beautiful, rapier-style weapon, the scabbard mounted in silver with a matching hilt and knuckle-bow. Like the dead French girl's handkerchief, was it his last connection with the life he had once known?

He ducked beneath the sails and saw the anchored ships up ahead. Three or four, coastal traders at a guess, their red, white and blue flags making the only stabs of colour against the drifting sleet and mist: Dutchmen waiting for the weather to clear before they worked out of their anchorage. No wonder they called Holland the port of the world. Who held the Low Countries enjoyed the rich routes to the East Indies and beyond, to the Caribbean and the Americas. Like the English, they had always been ambitious seafarers, and greatly admired, even as enemies when they had sailed up the Medway, attacking Chatham and firing the dockyards there.

He saw the Dutch skipper murmur to one of his crew, then pull out a watch from his tarpaulin coat. It was the size of an apple.

Bolitho said, "Find out what they are saying."

Brennier's aide seemed to drag himself from his despair, and after a slight hesitation said, "Very soon now, Capitaine. The other vessel is around the next… how you say… bend?"

Bolitho nodded. It had been quicker downstream, and using the sails, small though they were, to full effect. Once aboard the other boat they would rest, perhaps find something hot to eat and drink before putting to sea when darkness fell. They might be unable to make contact with Wakeful. But they would have tried. To wait and think over what had happened would have been unbearable. Anyway, where would they have gone when the waiting was over and still nothing had been solved?

He thought of Hoblyn, the terrified midshipman, the bearded braggart on the Rochester Road, and of Delaval's anguish when he had seen Tanner even as the trap had fallen beneath his frantic legs.

Through and above it, Tanner had manipulated them all. Bolitho bit his lip until it hurt. Even me.

Allday said, "Over to larboard, matey!" The words meant nothing to the man at the tiller but Allday's gesture was familiar to sailors the world over.

"What is it?" Bolitho wiped his face and eyes with an old piece of bunting for the hundredth time to clear his vision.

"Bit o' bother, starboard bow, Cap'n."

Bolitho wished he had brought his small telescope, and strained his eyes as he stood in the boat to follow Allday's bearing.

There was a smart-looking brig anchored in the deepwater channel, and her lack of heavy tackles or lighters alongside meant she was most likely a small man-of-war, or perhaps a Dutch customs vessel.

He saw the skipper staring at her too, his face creased with sudden anxiety.

Bolitho kept his own counsel. There were no boats on the brig's deck, and none in the water unless they were tied on the opposite side. So where were they?

He called quietly, "Any movement?"

"No, Cap'n." Allday sounded on edge. "We only need half a mile and then-"

Bolitho watched as the weather decided to play a small part. A tiny shaft of watery sunlight came from somewhere to give even the drenching sleet a sort of beauty, and lay bare a part of the nearest land.

The Dutch skipper gave a sigh and raised his arm. Bolitho saw the fishing boat anchored a little apart from the others, and, even though he had not seen her before in daylight, he knew it was the one. He touched the Dutchman's arm and said, "That was well done!"

The man showed his teeth in a smile. From Bolitho's tone he had guessed that it was some kind of compliment.

"Prepare to shorten sail." He reached out with one foot and tapped the aide's leg. "You can give the word." The man jumped as if he had been stabbed.

Bolitho rubbed his hands together. They were raw with cold. Then he glanced at the dirty, patched sails and tried to gauge the final approach in this unfamiliar craft.

The sunlight was already fading, smothered by the approach of more sleet. But not before he had seen a sudden glint of metal from the fishing boat's deck, and even as he watched a figure in with a white cross-belt rose into view, staring upstream a few seconds before vanishing again below the bulwark.

"Belay that!" Bolitho seized the Dutchman's shoulder and gestured towards midstream. "Tell him the boat has been boarded- taken, you understand?"

The tiller was already going over, the skipper crouching down, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the open channel beyond.

Allday exclaimed, "God Almighty, that was close!"

Bolitho kept his eyes level with the bulwark and watched for another sign from the anchored fisherman. Boarded, it did not really matter by whom. The Dutch navy, customs men searching for contraband; or perhaps it was merely an unhappy coincidence, a routine search.

Unhappy was hardly the right description, Bolitho thought. It had seemed almost hopeless before. Without some kind of vessel, it was impossible. He glanced along the boat, shielding his face with one arm as the sleet hissed and slapped across the sails and rigging. In open water it would be more lively, even rough, if the angle of the sleet was any measure of it. He thought of Wakeful plunging and rolling in the offshore swell while she waited to make the rendezvous.

This boat had nothing. Just a compass and a few pieces of old equipment. He could not even see a pump.

He looked hard at Allday's crouching shoulders in the bow. Another risk. Was it still worth that?

Bolitho said suddenly, "A good day for a shoot, Allday." He spoke quickly as if his common sense might change his mind for him.

Allday turned as if he had misheard. "Shoot, Cap'n?" Their gaze met and Allday nodded casually. "Oh, yes, I s'pose it is, Cap'n."

When he had turned away he unbuttoned his coat and loosened the pistol in his belt where he had wedged it to keep it dry.

Bolitho glanced at his companions. The aide was staring emptily into nothing, and all the Dutchmen were watching the fishing boat which by now had drawn almost abeam.

Bolitho felt for his own pistol, then freed his sword. Two of the Dutchmen were visibly armed, the others might be too.

He waited for the aide to look up at him then said, "In a moment I am going to take this boat away from here, m'sieu. Do you understand me?" The man nodded dully.

Bolitho continued carefully, "If they refuse to obey, we must disarm them." His voice hardened. "Or kill them." He waited, trying to guess what the man's broken mind was thinking. "It is your last chance as well as ours, m'sieu!"

"I understand, Capitaine." He crawled aft towards the tiller, his beautiful sword held clear of the filth and swilling water below the bottom boards.

Bolitho watched the oncoming curtain of sleet. It had blotted out some anchored vessels which moments earlier had been close enough to see in every detail. Once past the last few craft there would be nothing between them and the open sea.

"Be prepared, m'sieu!" Bolitho's fingers closed around the pistol. Against his chilled body it felt strangely warm, as if it had recently been fired.

Allday shouted, "Larboard bow, Cap'n! A bloody boatload!" Bolitho saw a long, double-banked cutter pulling out from behind some moored barges, the scarlet-painted oars rising and falling like powerful wings as it swept towards them.

There were uniforms aft in the sternsheets, naval, as well as the green coats of the Dutch customs. A voice boomed over the choppy wavelets, magnified by a speaking trumpet.

The aide whispered, "They call us to stop!" He sounded completely terrified.

Bolitho prodded the Dutch skipper and shouted, "That way! Quickly!"

There was no need to show their weapons. The Dutchmen were, if anything, more eager to escape authority than Bolitho.

They threw themselves to work on the two flapping sails, and Bolitho felt the hull tilt to the wind's wet thrust and saw sheets of spray burst over the pursuing cutter's stem, drenching the crew and throwing the scarlet oars into momentary confusion.

Allday yelled, "They've got a up forrard, Cap'n!"

Bolitho tried to swallow. He had already seen the bow-gun in the eyes of the cutter. Probably a swivel or a long musketoon. One blast from either could kill or wound every man in this boat.

But the range was holding; the small fishing boat was better handled and rigged for this kind of work, and the wilder the sea the harder it would be for the cutter's coxswain to maintain his speed through the water.

Allday clung to the gunwale and choked as water reared over the bows and soaked him from head to foot.

The voice pursued them, crackling and distorted through the speaking trumpet.

Allday shouted, "They're taking aim!"

"Down!" Bolitho pulled the nearest crew member to the deck and saw Allday peering along the boat towards him, his body half-hidden by floats and nets.

The bang of the gun was muffled by the wind and sleet, so that the charge of canister hit the afterpart of the hull with unexpected violence. Bolitho heard metal fragments and splinters shriek overhead and saw several holes punched through the nearest sail. He held his breath, waiting for something to carry away, a spar to break in half, even for a sudden inrush of water.

The Dutch skipper clambered to his knees and nodded. There was something like pride in his face. Even in this sad old boat.

Allday gasped, "We've lost 'em, Cap'n!"

Bolitho peered astern. The sleet was so thick that even the mouth of the river had vanished. They had the water to themselves.

He was about to rise to his feet when he saw Brennier's aide staring at him, his eyes bulging with pain and fear.

Bolitho knelt beside him, then prized the man's hands away from his body. Allday joined him and gripped his wrists while Bolitho tore open his waistcoat and then his finely laced shirt, which was bright with blood. There were just two wounds. One below the right breast, the other in the stomach. Bolitho heard the Dutch skipper tearing up some rags which he handed over his shoulder. Their eyes met only briefly. Again, language was no barrier. For a fisherman as well as a sea-officer, death was commonplace.

Allday murmured, "Hold hard, matey." He looked at Bolitho. "Shall I lay him down?"

Bolitho covered the dying man with some canvas, held a hat over his face to protect him from the sleet. "No." He dropped his voice. "He's drowning in his own blood." He looked at the bottom boards where the trapped sleet and seawater glittered red now. Another victim.

He could not wait here. But when he got to his feet he saw the man's eyes follow him, terrified and pleading.

Bolitho said quietly, "Never fear, m'sieu. You will be safe. We will not leave you."

He turned away and stared down at the swaying compass card without seeing it. Stupid, empty words! What did they mean to a dying man? What had they ever done to help anyone?

Bolitho swallowed again, feeling the rawness of salt in his throat like bile.

"Nor' West!" He pointed at the sails. "Yes?"

The man nodded. Events had moved too swiftly for him. But he stood firmly at his tiller, his eyes reddened by sea and wind; it must have felt like sailing his boat into nowhere.

Each dragging minute Bolitho expected to see another vessel loom out of the sleet, no challenge this time, just a merciless hail of grape or canister. Tanner repeatedly came to his mind and he found himself cursing his name aloud until Allday said, "I think he's going, Cap'n."

Bolitho got down on his knees again and held the man's groping fingers. So cold. As if they had already died.

"I am here, m'sieu. I shall tell your admiral of your courage." Then he wiped the man's mouth as a telltale thread of blood ran unheeded down his chin.

Allday watched, his eyes heavy. He had seen it too often before. He saw Bolitho's hand moving to make the man comfortable. How did he do it? He had known him at the height of battle, and flung to the depths of despair. Few but himself had seen this Bolitho, and even now Allday felt guilty about it. Like stumbling on a special secret.

The man was trying to speak, each word bringing more agony. It was just a matter of minutes.

Allday stared across Bolitho's bowed head. Why doesn't the poor bastard die?

Bolitho held the man's wrist but it moved with sudden strength and determination. The fingers reached down and unclipped the beautiful sword from his belt.

In a mere whisper he said, "Give-give…"

The effort was too much for him. Bolitho stood up, the rapier in one hand. He thought of the sword which hung by his side, so familiar that it was a part of him.

He looked at Allday's stony features and said quietly, "Is this all that is left of a man? Nothing more?"

As the minutes passed into an hour, and then another, they all worked without respite to hold the boat on course, to bale out the steady intake of water and constantly retrim the two patched sails. In a way it saved them. They had neither food nor water, and each man ached with cold and backbreaking labour; but there was no time to despair or to give in.

In darkness, with the boat pitching about on a deep procession of rollers, they buried the unknown Frenchman, a rusting length of chain tied about his legs to take him down to the seabed. After that, they lost track of the hours and their direction, and despite the risk of discovery Bolitho ordered that the lantern should be lit and unshuttered, as arranged, into the sleet which was once again turning to snow.

If no one found them they could not survive. It was winter, and the sea too big for their small vessel. Only Allday knew that there was barely enough oil left in the lantern anyway. He sighed and moved closer to Bolitho's familiar outline in the stern. It was not much of a way to end after what they had done together, he thought. But death could have come in a worse guise, and very nearly had on board Delaval's Loyal Chieftain.

Bolitho moistened his lips. "One more signal, old friend."

The lantern's beam lit up the snow so that the boat appeared to be hemmed in and unmoving. Allday muttered hoarsely, "That's the last of it, Cap'n." It was then that Wakeful found them.