With All Despatch

4. Divided Loyalties

THE HOUSE which Commodore Ralph Hoblyn occupied and used as his personal headquarters was an elegant, square building of red brick with a pale, stone portico.

Bolitho reined in his horse and looked at the house for a full minute. It was not an old building, he decided, and the cobbled driveway which led between some pillared gates was well kept, with no trace of weeds to spoil it. And yet it had an air of neglect, or a place which had too many occupiers to care. Behind him he heard the other horse stamping its hooves on the roadway and could almost feel Young Matthew's excitement as he shared the pride and privilege of accompanying Bolitho on this warm, airless evening.

Bolitho recalled the angry waves and the brig's sail being ripped apart by it. It could have been another ocean entirely. There was a smell of flowers in the air, mixed as ever with that of the sea which was never far away.

The house was less than a mile from the dockyard at Sheerness where the two cutters had returned that morning.

A lieutenant had brought the invitation to Bolitho. It had been more like a royal command, he thought grimly.

He saw the glint of steel and the scarlet coats of two marines as they stepped across the gateway, attracted possibly by the sound of horses.

He had seen several pickets on the way here. It was as if the navy and not the local felons and smugglers were under siege. His mouth tightened. He would try to change that-always provided Commodore Hoblyn did not order him to leave.

He tried to recall all he could about the man. A few years older than himself, Hoblyn had also been a frigate captain during the American Rebellion. He had fought his ship Leonidas at the decisive battle of the Chesapeake, where Admiral Graves had failed to bring de Grasse to a satisfactory embrace.

Hoblyn had engaged a French frigate and a privateer single-handed. He had forced the Frenchman to strike, but as he had closed with the privateer his own ship had exploded in flames. Hoblyn had continued to fight, and even boarded and seized the privateer before his ship had foundered.

It had been said that the sight of Hoblyn leading his boarders had been enough to strike terror into the enemy. His uniform had been ablaze, one arm burning like a tree in a forest fire.

Bolitho had met him only once since the war. He had been on his way to the Admiralty to seek employment. He had not even looked like the same man. His arm in a sling, his collar turned up to conceal some of the terrible burns on his neck, he had seemed a ghost from a battlefield. As far as Bolitho knew he had never obtained any employment. Until now.

Bolitho urged his mount forward. "Come, Matthew, take care of the horses. I shall have some food sent to you."

He did not see the awe on the boy's face. Bolitho was thinking of Allday. It was so out of character not to ask, to demand to accompany him. Allday mistrusted the ways of the land, and hated being parted from Bolitho at any time. Perhaps he was still brooding over their failure to catch the smugglers. It would all come out later on. Bolitho frowned. But it would have to wait.

He had spoken with Lieutenant Queely aboard Wakeful before leaving Sheerness. It was like a missing part of a puzzle. Wakeful had seen nothing, and the revenue men had had no reports of a run. Testing him out? Like Delaval's elaborate and calculated display of the dead man, Paice's informant. Cat and mouse.

He nodded to the corporal at the gate who slapped his musket in a smart salute, the pipeclay hovering around him in the still air. Bolitho was glad he had declined a carriage. Riding alone had given him time to think if not to plan. He smiled ruefully. It had also reminded him just how long it was since he had sat a horse.

Young Matthew took the horses and waited as a groom came forward to lead him to the stables at the rear of the house. Bolitho climbed the stone steps and saw the fouled anchor above the pillars, the stamp of Admiralty.

As if by magic the double doors swung inwards noiselessly and a dark-coated servant took Bolitho's hat and boat cloak, the latter covered with dust from the steady canter along an open road.

The man said, "The commodore will receive you shortly, sir." He backed away, the cloak and hat carried with great care as if they were heated shot from a furnace.

Bolitho walked around the entrance hall. More pillars, and a curved stairway which led up to a gallery. Unlike the houses he had seen in London, it was spartan. No pictures, and few pieces of furniture. Temporary, that described it well, he thought, and wondered if it also indicated Hoblyn's authority here. He looked through a window and caught the glint of late sunlight on the sea. Or mine. He tried not to think about Queely. He could be guilty, or one of his people might have found a way to pass word to the smugglers. News did not travel by itself.

It was like being in a dark room with a blind man. Uniform, authority, all meaningless. A fight which had neither beginning nor end. Whereas at sea you held the obedience and efficiency of your ship by leadership and example. But the enemy was always visible, ready to pit his wits against yours until the final broadside brought down one flag or the other.

Here it was stealth, deceit, and murder.

As a boy Bolitho had often listened to the old tales of the Cornish smugglers. Unlike the notorious wreckers along that cruel coastline, they were regarded as something vaguely heroic and daring. The rogues who robbed the rich to pay the poor. The navy had soon taught Bolitho a different story. Smugglers were not so different from those who lured ships on to the rocks where they robbed the cargoes and slit the throats of helpless survivors. He found that he was gripping his sword so tightly that the pain steadied his sudden anger.

He felt rather than heard a door opening and turned to see a slim figure framed against a window on the opposite side of the room.

At first he imagined it was a girl with a figure so slight. Even when he spoke his voice was soft and respectful, but with no trace of servility.

The youth was dressed in a very pale brown livery with darker frogging at the sleeves and down the front. White stockings and buckled shoes, a gentle miniature of most servants Bolitho had met.

"If you will follow me, Captain Bolitho."

He wore a white, curled wig which accentuated his face and his eyes, which were probably hazel, but which, in the filtered sun-light, seemed green, and gave him the quiet watchfulness of a cat.

Across the other room and then into a smaller one. It was lined from floor to ceiling with books, and despite the warmth of the evening a cheerful fire was burning beneath a huge painting of a sea-fight. There were chairs and tables and a great desk strategically placed across one corner of the room.

Bolitho had the feeling that all the worthwhile contents of the house had been gathered in this one place.

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.

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.

"What 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 occasionally some footfalls on the deck above. Telemachus still slept although it must soon be dawn, he thought vaguely.

"Coffee, Matthew." He lowered his feet to the deck and suppressed a groan. Blurred pictures formed in his mind and faded almost as quickly. The laden table, Hoblyn's face shining in the candlelight, the comings and goings of servants, one plate following the next, each seemingly richer than that which had preceded it. And the wine. This time a groan did escape from his lips. It had been a never-ending stream.

The boy crouched down beside him. "Mr Paice is on deck, sir."

He remembered what Hoblyn had revealed, the information he had gained on a Whitstable landing. The need for secrecy. How had he got back to Telemachus? He could remember none of it.

His mind steadied and he looked at the boy. "You brought me here?"

"It were nothing, sir." For once he showed no excitement or shy pride.

Bolitho seized his arm. "What is it? Tell me, Matthew."

The boy looked down at the deck. "It's Allday, sir."

Bolitho's brain was suddenly like clear ice. "What has happened?"

Pictures flashed through his thoughts. Allday standing over him, his bloodied cutlass cleaving aside all who tried to pass.

Allday, cheerful, tolerant, always there when he was needed. The boy whispered, "He's gone, sir."

"Gone?"

The door opened a few inches and Paice lowered his shoulders to enter the cabin.

"Thought you should know, sir." He added with something like the defiance he had shown at their first meeting, "He's not borne on the ship's books, sir. If he was…"

"He's my responsibility, is that what you mean?"

Paice must have seen the pain in his face even in the poor light.

"I did hear that your cox'n was once a pressed man, sir?"

Bolitho ran his fingers through his hair as he tried to assemble his wits. "True. That was a long while ago. He has served me, and served me faithfully, for ten years since. He'd not desert." He shook his head, the realisation of what he had said thrusting through him like a hot blade. "Allday would not leave me."

Paice watched, unable to help, to find the right words. "I could pass word to the shore, sir. He may meet with the press gangs. If I can rouse the senior lieutenant I might be able to stop anything going badly for him." He hesitated, unused to speaking so openly. "And for you, if I may say so, sir."

Bolitho touched the boy's shoulder and felt him shiver.

"Fetch me some water and fresh coffee, Matthew." His voice was heavy, his mind still groping.

Suppose Allday had decided to leave? Bolitho recalled his own surprise when Allday had not insisted on accompanying him to the commodore's house. It was all coming back. Bolitho felt his inner pocket and touched the written orders which the commodore had given him. It was a wonder he had not lost them on the way back to the cutter, he thought wretchedly.

Allday might have felt the affair of the Loyal Chieftain badly. God knew he had put up with enough over the past months- and with what reward for his faith and his unshakeable loyalty?

Now he was gone. Back to the land from which Bolitho's own press gang had snatched him all those years back. Years of danger and pride, loss and sadness. Always there. The oak, the rock which Bolitho had all too often taken for granted.

Paice said, "He left no message, sir."

Bolitho looked up at him. "He cannot write." He remembered what he had thought when he had first met Allday in Phalarope. If only he had had some education Allday might have been anything. Now that same thought seemed to mock him.

Somewhere a boatswain's call twittered like a rudely awakened blackbird.

Paice said heavily, "Orders, sir?"

Bolitho nodded and winced as the hammers began again. Eating and drinking to excess, something he rarely did, and all the while Allday had been here, planning what he would do, awaiting the right moment.

"We shall weigh at noon. See that word is passed to Wakeful." He tried to keep his tone level. "Do it yourself, if you please. I want nothing in writing." Their eyes met. "Not yet."

"All hands! All hands! Lash up an' stow!" The hull seemed to shake as feet thudded to the deck, and another day was begun.

"May I ask, sir?"

Bolitho heard the boy returning and realised that he would have to shave himself.

"There is to be a run." He did not know if Paice believed him, nor did he care now. "The commodore has a plan. I shall explain when we are at sea and in company. There will be no revenue cutters involved. They are to be elsewhere." How simple it must have sounded across that overloaded table. And all the while the handsome youth in the white wig had watched and listened.

Paice said haltingly, "I sent the first lieutenant ashore to collect two of the hands, sir. They were found drunk at a local inn."

He forced a grin. "Thought it best if he was out of the way 'til

I'd spoken with you."

The boy put down a pot of coffee and groped about for a mug.

Bolitho replied, "That was thoughtful of you, Mr Paice."

Paice shrugged. "I believe we may be of one mind, sir."

Bolitho stood up carefully and thrust open the skylight. The air was still cool and sweet from the land. Maybe he no longer belonged at sea. Was that what Allday had been feeling too?

He glanced down and saw Matthew moving a small roll of canvas away from the cot.

Paice backed from the cabin. "I shall muster the hands, sir. No matter what men may believe, a ship has no patience and must be served fairly at all times."

Bolitho did not hear the door close. "What is that parcel, Matthew?"

The boy picked it up and shrugged unhappily. "I think it belonged to Allday, sir." He sounded afraid, as if he in some way shared the guilt.

Bolitho took it from him and opened it carefully on the cot where he had lain like some drunken oaf.

The small knives, tools which Allday had mostly made with his own hands. Carefully collected oddments of brass and copper, sailmaker's twine, some newly fashioned spars and booms.

Bolitho was crouching now, his hands almost shaking as he untied the innermost packet and put it on the cot with great care.

Allday never carried much with him as he went from ship to ship. He had placed little importance on possessions. Only in his models, his ships which he had fashioned with all the skill and love he had gained over the years at sea.

He heard the boy's sharp intake of breath. "It's lovely, sir!"

Bolitho touched the little model and felt his eyes prick with sudden emotion. Unpainted still, but there was no mistaking the shape and grace of a frigate, the gunports as yet unfilled with tiny cannon still to be made, the masts and rigging still carried only in Allday's mind. His fingers paused at the small, delicately carved figurehead, one which Bolitho remembered so clearly, as if it were life sized instead of a tiny copy. The wild eyed girl with streaming hair, and a horn fashioned like a great shell.

Young Matthew said questioningly, "A frigate, sir?"

Bolitho stared at it until he could barely see. It was not just any ship. With Allday it rarely was.

He heard himself murmur, "She is my last command, Matthew. My Tempest."

The boy responded in a whisper, "I wonder why he left it behind, sir?"

Bolitho turned him by the shoulder and gripped it until he winced. "Don't you see, Matthew? He could tell no one what he was about, nor could he write a few words to rest my fears for him." He looked again at the unfinished model. "This was the best way he knew of telling me. That ship meant so much to both of us for a hundred different reasons. He'd never abandon it."

The boy watched as Bolitho stood up to the skylight again, barely able to grasp it, and yet knowing he was the only one who was sharing the secret.

Bolitho said slowly, "God damn him for his stubbornness!" He bunched his hand against the open skylight. "And God protect you, old friend, until your return!"

Marching in pairs the press gang advanced along yet another narrow street, their shoes ringing on the cobbles, their eyes everywhere as they probed the shadows.

At the head a tight-lipped lieutenant strode with his hanger already drawn, a midshipman following a few paces behind him.

Here and there the ancient houses seemed to bow across the lanes until they appeared to touch one another. The lieutenant glanced at each dark or shuttered window, especially at those which hung directly above their wary progress. It was all too common for someone to hurl down a bucket of filth on to the hated press gangs as they carried out their thankless patrols.

The lieutenant, like most of them in the local impressment service, had heard all about the two officers being stripped, beaten and publicly humiliated on the open road, with no one raising a hand to aid them. Only the timely appearance of the post-captain and his apparent total disregard for his own safety had saved the officers from far worse.

The lieutenant had been careful to announce his intentions of seeking prime seamen for the fleet, as so ordered. He slashed out angrily at a shadow with his hanger and swore under his breath. You might just as well ring the church bells to reveal what you were about, he thought. The result was usually the same. Just a few luckless ones, and some of those had been lured into the hands of the press gangs, usually by their own employers who wanted to be rid of them. A groom who had perhaps become too free with a landowner's daughter, a footman who had served a mistress better than the man who paid for her luxuries. But trained hands? It would be a joke, if it were not so serious.

The lieutenant snapped, "Close up in the rear!" It was unnecessary; they always kept together, their heavy cudgels and cutlasses ready for immediate use if attacked, and he knew they resented his words. But he hated the work, just as he longed for the chance of a ship. Some people foolishly wrung their hands, and clergymen prayed that war would never come.

The fools. What did they know? War was as necessary as it was rewarding.

There was a sudden crash, like a bottle smashing.

The lieutenant held up his hanger, and behind him he heard his men rouse themselves, like vixens on the scent of prey.

The midshipman faltered, "In that alley, sir!"

"I know that!" He waited until his senior hand, a hard-bitten gunner's mate, had joined him. "Did you hear that, Benzie?"

The gunner's mate grunted. "There be a tavern through there, sir. Should be closed now, o'course. This be th'only way out."

The lieutenant scowled. The idiot had left the most important fact to the end. He swallowed his revulsion and said softly, "Fetch two men and-"

The gunner's mate thrust his face even closer and whispered thickly, "No need, sir, someone be comin'!"

The lieutenant thankfully withdrew his face. The gunner's mate's breath was as foul as any bilge. Chewing tobacco, rum and bad teeth made a vile mixture.

"Stand to!" The lieutenant faced the narrow alley and cursed Their Lordships for the absurdity of it. The hidden figure with the slow, shambling gait was probably a cripple or as old as Neptune. What use was one man anyway?

The shadow loomed from the shadows and the lieutenant called sharply, "In the King's name, I order you to stand and be examined!"

The gunner's mate sighed and tightened his hold on the heavy cudgel. How the navy had changed. In his day they had clubbed them senseless and asked questions later, usually when the poor wretch awoke with a split head to find himself in a man-of-war already standing out to sea. It might be months, years, and in many cases never, that the pressed man returned to England. Who would care anyway? There had even been a case of a bridegroom being snatched from the steps of a church on his wedding day.

But now, with regulations, and not enough ships ready for sea, it was unsafe to flout the Admiralty's rules.

He said, "Easy, matey!" His experienced eye had taken in the man's build and obvious strength. Even in this dawn light he could see the broad shoulders and, when he turned to stare at the press gang, the pigtail down his back.

The lieutenant snapped, "What ship?" His nervousness put an edge to his voice. "Answer, or you'll be the worse for it, man!"

The gunner's mate urged, "There be too many o'us, matey." He half-raised his cudgel. "Tell the lieutenant, like wot 'e says!"

Allday looked at him grimly. He had been about to give up his hazy plan, when he had heard the press gang's cautious approach. Were it not so dangerous it might have made him smile, albeit secretly. Like all those other times when he had dodged the dreaded press in Cornwall, until the day when His Britannic Majesty's frigate Phalarope had hove into sight. Her captain had been a Cornishman, one who knew where landsmen ran to ground whenever a King's ship topped the horizon. It was strange when you thought of it. If a Frenchie ever drew close inshore every fit man would stand to arms to protect his home and country from an enemy. But they would run from one of their own.

Allday said huskily, "I don't have a ship, sir." He had spilled rum over his clothing and hoped it was convincing. He had hated the waste of it.

The lieutenant said coldly, "Don't lie. I told you what would happen if-"

The gunner's mate gestured at him again. "Don't be a fool!"

Allday hung his head. "The London, sir."

The lieutenant exclaimed. "A second-rate, so you are a prime seaman! Yes? " The last word was like a whip-crack.

"If you say so, sir."

"Don't be bloody insolent. What's your name, damn you?"

Allday regarded him impassively. It might be worth it just to smash in the lieutenant's teeth. Bolitho would have a useless pip-squeak like him for breakfast.

"Spencer, sir." He had neglected to invent a name, and the slight hesitation seemed to satisfy the officer that it was because of guilt.

"Then you are taken. Come with my men, or be dragged in irons-the choice is yours."

The press gang parted as Allday moved amongst them. Their eagerness to be gone from this deserted street was almost matched by their relief.

One of the seamen muttered, "Never mind, mate, could be worse."

Somewhere, far away, a trumpet echoed on the morning air. Allday hesitated and did not even notice the sudden alarm in their eyes. He had done it. At this moment Bolitho might be looking at the little Tempest. But would he see a message there? Allday felt something like despair; he might see only desertion and treachery.

Then he squared his shoulders. "I'm ready."

The lieutenant quickened his pace as he heard someone drumming on a bucket with a piece of metal. The signal for a mob to come running to free their capture.

But this patrol at least had not been entirely wasted. Only one man, but obviously an experienced sailor. No excuses either, nor the last-moment, infuriating production of a Protection like those issued to apprentices, watermen, and the likes of the H.E.I.C.

The gunner's mate called, "Wot's yer trade, Spencer?"

Allday was ready this time. "Sailmaker." Chosen carefully, not too lowly, so that they might have disbelieved him, nor too senior, so that they might have sent him back to the London, a ship he had never laid eyes on.

The man nodded, well satisfied. A sailmaker was a rare and valuable catch.

They topped a rise and Allday saw the masts and crossed yards of several men-of-war, their identities still hidden in deep shadow. Bolitho was there. Would they ever meet again?

If not it will be because I am no longer alive.

Strangely enough the realization brought him immediate comfort.

5. Out of the Mouths of Babes….

BOLITHO gripped the swivel-gun mounting on the weather bulwark, and used it to steady himself as Telemachus dipped and lifted to a steady north-easterly, her forward rigging running with spray. Eight bells had just chimed out from the forecastle and as in any man-of-war, large or small, the watches changed to a routine as old as the navy itself.

Lieutenant Triscott touched his hat to Paice. "The watch is aft, sir."

Bolitho sensed the stiffness in his manner, something unusual for one so young and usually so buoyant.

"Relieve the wheel, if you please."

The helmsman chanted, "West Nor'-West, sir! Full an' bye!"

The members of the last dogwatch hurried to the hatchway while the relief took over and began to check running rigging, and the lashings of countless pieces of equipment and the guns which lined either side.

It was not just the first lieutenant who was showing strain, Bolitho thought. It was never easy in a small overcrowded hull at the best of times, and he was well aware of their resentment as day followed day, beating up and down, holding on to visual contact with Wakeful running far down to leeward, and preparing for what most of them thought was another empty rumour.

Bolitho blamed himself for much of it. It was Paice's command, but he watched everything himself, and tried to plan for whatever lay ahead.

Paice had had little to do with Commodore Hoblyn and was unwilling to voice an opinion as to the value of his information.

Perhaps he was still brooding over the murder of his own informant and the calculated arrogance with which Delaval had displayed the man's corpse. Or he might place Hoblyn in the category of senior officers who had been too long ashore to understand the stealth and cunning of this kind of work.

Whenever he was alone in his cot Bolitho was unable to lose himself in his plans. Allday would return to his thoughts again and again, so that he lay tossing and turning until he fell into an exhausted sleep, his anxieties still unresolved.

He noticed that neither Paice nor Triscott ever mentioned Allday in his presence. Either they were afraid to arouse his displeasure, or, in the way of sailors, they were convinced that Allday was already dead.

Paice crossed the narrow poop and touched his hat, while his eyes watched the clear sky of evening.

"Might get some mist later, sir." His gaze moved to Bolitho's profile, assessing the mood. "But we can hold contact with Wakeful for a few more hours before we tell her to close with us for the night."

Bolitho glanced up at the quivering mast where the lookouts squatted on the topsail yard. They had the other cutter in sight, but down here on deck the sea might have been empty.

They had twice met with a revenue lugger. Once she had carried a curt despatch from the commodore, a confirmation that his information was still valid.

The second time the lugger had carried news of a more disturbing nature. It seemed that there had been several daring runs made along the south coast, from as far afield as Penzance in Cornwall and Lyme Bay in Dorset. A revenue cutter had chased one schooner as far as the Isle of Wight before the smuggler had give her the slip in a sudden rain squall.

Paice had commented, "Seems that all the excitement is elsewhere, sir."

A criticism of Bolitho's strategy, perhaps, and the fact that their two cutters were placed as far as possible from any of the landings. The Customs Board had taken them very seriously, and had diverted every available vessel to seize or destroy any boats suspected of dropping smuggled cargoes. The navy had even loaned a thirty-two-gun frigate from Plymouth to offer support if the revenue vessels were outgunned or fought on to a lee shore.

Paice remarked, "First of May tomorrow, sir."

Bolitho turned and said shortly, "I am aware of it. You may assure your people it is also the last day they will be required on this patrol."

Paice held his gaze and replied stubbornly, "I implied no lack of faith, sir. But it could mean that the commodore's intelligence, with all respect to him for I believe him to be a brave officer, was falsely offered. Any failure might be seen as something personal."

Bolitho watched some fish leaping across the crisp wave which surged back from Telemachus's plunging stem.

"You think the commodore would be ordered to withdraw our cutters?"

"It crossed my mind, sir. Otherwise why are we out here, and not even in the Strait of Dover? If it was a ruse, we are too far away to be of any use."

"Is that the opinion of your whole command?" There was steel in his voice.

Paice shrugged heavily. "It is my opinion, sir. I do not ask others while I command here."

"I am glad to know it, Mr Paice."

It was reaching him now, like the rest of the vessel. No room to escape, no place to hide from others at any time of the day or night. Only the masthead lookouts had any sort of privacy.

After this Bolitho knew he would have to go ashore and set up his own headquarters like Hoblyn. And without even Allday to make the sea's rejection bearable. He pounded his hand against the swivel gun's wet muzzle. Where was he now? How was he faring? Perhaps some press gang had already taken him to a ship at Chatham where his explanation had fallen on deaf ears. What could he have hoped to achieve anyway? The endless, unanswered questions seemed to roar through his head like surf in a cave.

He turned his thoughts to Hoblyn, and Paice moved away to consult with Scrope, the master-at-arms, who had been hovering near the tiller for some time, trying to catch his commander's eye. Paice had probably taken Bolitho's silence as another buff, the slamming of a door which both had imagined was open between them.

What then of Hoblyn? He did not come from a successful family or even from a long line of sea-officers. He was, as far as Bolitho knew, the first to enter the navy which he had served without sparing himself until the terrible day he had been changed into a broken and disfigured relic, as he had described himself. Officially he was under the orders of the flag officer in command at the Nore, but like Bolitho was expected to act almost independently. Part of his work was making a list of vessels which in time of war could be purchased from their merchant service and used for the navy. Vessels under construction in the many yards around Suffolk and Kent would also have to be listed.

There were certainly openings for bribery. Money could soon change hands if a shipowner or builder could persuade a senior officer to pay a high price which could then be shared to mutual profit. Some vessels had changed hands several times in peace and war, and like the ill-fated Bounty had made good profits with each transaction.

If Hoblyn depended solely on a commodore's pay, he was certainly living far above it. The house was spartan Admiralty property, but the food and wine Bolitho had seen would have found favour on the table of the Lord High Admiral himself.

The yards Hoblyn visited would also be well known to the smuggling fraternity. Bolitho turned, and allowed the cold spray to dash across his face to clear his mind, like that first morning after Allday disappeared. His imagination was running wild, with a suspected felon in every shadow.

Hoblyn had tried to tell him in his own way; so had the admiral at Chatham. Let others fret over it, and content yourself with your daily lot until something better offers itself.

He was trying too hard. At the Admiralty he had been told in a roundabout way that he had been chosen because of his gallant record, something which might inspire young men to sign on, to wear the King's coat because of his own service. It was a bitter reward.

The Nore and Medway towns were known for their distrust in the stirring words of a recruiting poster. In other wars the harbours and villages had been stripped of their young men, some who had gone proudly to volunteer, others who had been dragged away from their families by the desperate press gangs. The aftermath had seen too many cripples and too few young men to encourage others to follow their example.

Relic. The word seemed to haunt him.

He watched some seamen clambering up the weather ratlines to whip some loose cordage which had been spotted by the boatswain's eagle eye.

This was their ship, their home. They wanted to be rid of the officer who had once been a frigate captain.

There was a slithering footfall on deck and Matthew Corker moved carefully towards him, his young face screwed up with concentration. He held out a steaming mug. "Coffee, Cap'n." He smiled nervously. "'Tis half-empty, I'm afraid, sir."

Bolitho tried to return the smile. He was doing everything he could to please him, do the things which he had seen Allday do. He had even called him Cap'n, as Allday did and would allow no other. He had overcome his seasickness for most of the time.

"D'you still want to go to sea, Matthew?" The coffee was good, and seemed to give him strength.

"Aye, sir. More'n ever."

What would his grandfather, Old Matthew, think of that?

A shaft of red sunlight ran down the mainmast, and Bolitho stared at it as the great mainsail rattled and boomed in the wind. A few more hours and all pretence would be over.

He would not be remembered as the frigate captain, but as the man who tried to use a cutter like one. Relic.

"I forgot to tell you something, sir." The boy watched him anxiously. "Us being so busy an' worried like."

Bolitho smiled down at him. Us, he had said. It had not been easy for him either. The crowded hull, and doubtless some language and tales which he would barely understand after his sheltered existence at Falmouth.

"What is that?"

"When I took the horses to the stables at the commodore's house, sir, I had a walk round, looked at the other horses an' that." Bolitho saw him screwing up his face again, trying to picture it, to forget nothing.

"There was a fine carriage there. My grandfather showed me one once, when I was very young, sir."

Bolitho warmed to him. "That must have been a long time ago."

It was lost on him. "It's got a special kind of springing, y'see, sir-I've never seen another, until that night."

Bolitho waited. "What about it?"

"It's French, sir. A berlin, just like the one which came to Falmouth that time with some nobleman an' his lady."

Bolitho took his arm and guided him to the bulwark so that their backs were turned to the helmsmen and other watchkeepers.

"Are you quite sure?"

"Oh yes, sir." He nodded emphatically. "Somebody had been varnishing the doors like, but I could still see it when I held up the lantern."

Bolitho tried to remain patient. "See what?"I forget what they calls them, sir." He pouted. "A sort of

flower with a crest." Bolitho stared at the tilting horizon for several seconds. Then he said quietly, "Fleur-de-lys?" The boy's apple cheeks split into a grin. "Aye, that's what my granddad called it!" Bolitho looked at him steadily. Out of the mouths of babes… "Have you told anyone else?" He smiled gently. "Or is it just

between us?" "I said nuthin', sir. Just thought it a bit strange." The moment, the boy's expression, the description of the fine

carriage seemed to become fixed and motionless as the lookout's

voice pealed down to the deck. "Sail on th' weather quarter, sir!" Paice stared across at him questioningly. Bolitho called, "Well, we know she's not the Loyal Chieftain

this time, Mr Paice." Paice nodded very slowly. "And we know there's naught 'twixt

her and the land but-" Bolitho looked at the boy. "Us, Mr Paice?" "Aye, sir." Then he raised his speaking trumpet. "Masthead!

Can you make out her rig?" "Schooner, sir! A big 'un she is, too!" Paice moved nearer and rubbed his chin with agitation. "She'll take the windgage off us. It would be two hours or

more before we could beat up to wind'rd, even in Telemachus." He glanced meaningly at the sky. "Time's against that." Bolitho saw some of the idlers on deck pausing to try and

catch their words.

He said, "I agree. Besides, when she sights Telemachus she might turn and run if she thinks we are about to offer a chase."

"Shall I signal Wakeful, sir?" Once again that same hesitation.

"I think not. Wakeful will stand a better chance downwind if this stranger decides to make a run for the Dover Strait."

Paice gave a tight grin. "I'll say this, sir, you never let up."

Bolitho glanced away. "After this, I hope others may remember it."

Paice beckoned to his first lieutenant. "Call all hands, Andrew-" He glanced anxiously at Bolitho. "That is, Mr Triscott. Clear for action, but do not load or run out."

Bolitho watched them both and said, "This is where Telemachus's ability to sail close to the wind will tell. It will also offer our small broadside a better chance should we have to match the enemy's iron!"

He crossed to the lee side and looked down at the creaming wake. There was only this moment. He must think of nothing further. Not of Allday, nor that this newcomer might well be an honest trader. If that were true, his name would carry no weight at all.

He heard the boy ask, "What'll I do, sir?"

Bolitho looked at him and saw him falter under his gaze. Then he said, "Fetch my sword." He nearly added and pray. Instead he said, "Then stand by me."

Calls trilled although they were hardly needed in Telemachus's sixty-nine-foot hull.

"All hands! Clear for action!"

Tomorrow would bring the first day in May. What might it take away? Bolitho lowered the telescope and spoke over his shoulder. "What do you estimate our position, Mr Chesshyre?"

There was no hesitation. "'Bout ten miles north of Foreness Point, sir."

Bolitho wiped the telescope with his sleeve to give himself time to digest the master's words.

Foreness Point lay on the north-eastern corner of the Isle of Thanet, and the mainland of Kent. It reminded him briefly of Herrick, as had Chesshyre's voice.

Paice said hoarsely, "If he is a smuggler he'll be hard put to go about now, sir."

Bolitho levelled the glass again and saw the big schooner's dark sails standing above the sea like bat's wings. Paice was right. The north-easterly would make it difficult, even hazardous to try and claw round to weather the headland. The lookouts would be able to see it from their perch, but from the deck it looked as if the two vessels had the sea to themselves.

Bolitho glanced at the sky, which was still cloudless and clear. Only the sea seemed darker, and he knew that sooner or later one of them would have to show his hand.

He pictured the coast in his mind. They were steering towards the old anchorage at Sheerness, but before that lay Whitstable, and as the two vessels maintained their same tack and speed they were slowly converging, drawing together like lines on the chart.

Paice said, "He'll have to stand away soon, sir, or he'll end up with Sheppey across his bows."

Bolitho glanced along the deck, at the gun crews crouching or lounging by the sealed ports, each captain having already selected the best shot from the garlands for the first loading.

Bolitho had been in so many actions that he could recognise the casual attitudes of the seamen, the way they watched the schooner's steady approach with little more than professional interest. With Allday it was different; but these men were not accustomed to real action. A few might have fought in other ships, but most of them, as Paice had explained, were fishermen and workers driven from the land because of falling trade.

Bolitho said, "You may load now, Mr Paice." He waited for the lieutenant to face him. "He is not going to run, you know that, don't you?"

Paice swallowed. "But I don't see that-"

"Do it, Mr Paice. Tell the gunner's mates to supervise each piece personally. I want them double-shotted but with no risk of injury from an exploding cannon!"

Paice yelled, "All guns load! Double-shotted!"

Bolitho ignored the curious and doubtful stares as several of the seamen peered aft to where he stood by the taffrail. He raised the glass again and watched the big sails leap into view. People too, at the bulwarks, and moving around the tapering masts. How would Telemachus look to them, he wondered? Small and lively, her guns still behind their port lids. Just one little cutter which stood between them and the land.

"D'you know her?" Bolitho lowered the glass and saw young Matthew staring at him unblinkingly, as if fearful of missing something.

Paice shook his head. "Stranger, sir." To the master he added, "What about you?"

Chesshyre shrugged. "Never laid eyes on her."

Bolitho clenched his fists. It had to be the right one. A quick glance abeam; the light was slowly going, the sun suddenly misty above the hidden land.

He said, "Bring her up two points, Mr Paice."

Men scampered to their stations, and soon the blocks squealed, and the great mainsail thundered from its long boom.

"Steady she goes, sir! Nor'-West!"

"Run up the Colours!"

Bolitho dragged his eyes from the schooner and watched the gun crews. Some of them were still standing upright, gaping at the other ship.

Bolitho snapped, "Tell those bumpkins to stand to, damn them!"

He heard the big ensign cracking in the wind above the deck, then shouted, "Fire one of the larboard guns, Mr Paice!"

Paice opened his mouth to dispute the order, then he nodded. By firing a gun from the opposite side they would keep the whole starboard broadside intact.

Moments later the foremost six-pounder banged out, the smoke dispersing downwind before the crew had begun to sponge its barrel.

Bolitho folded his arms and watched the schooner, like the boy at his side, not daring to blink.

Paice said, "He's ignored the signal, sir." He sounded dazed, as if he scarcely believed it was happening. "Maybe he's-"

Bolitho did not know what Paice intended to say for at that second there was a great flash from the schooner's forecastle, and as smoke belched over the wave crests a ball smashed through Telemachus's bulwark and burst apart on a six-pounder. Splinters of wood and iron shrieked away in all directions, and as the gun's echo faded the sound continued, but this time it was human.

One of the seamen was on his knees, his bloodied fingers clawing at his face and then his chest, his scream rising until it sounded like a woman in terrible agony. Then he pitched on his side, his life-blood pumping across the sloping deck and into the lee scuppers. Several of the other sailors stared at the corpse with utter horror; and there were more yells and screams as another ball crashed into the bulwark and hurled a fan of splinters across the deck.

"Open the ports! Run out!" Paice was standing silhouetted against the surging water alongside, his face like a mask as men whimpered and crawled across the shattered planking, marking the pain and progress with their blood.

Bolitho called, "On the uproll, Mr Paice! It's our only hope at this distance!" So it had happened just as Hoblyn had predicted. His mind cringed as Triscott's hanger sliced down and the six guns on the starboard side crashed out in unison. The carronade was useless at anything more than point-blank range, and undoubtedly the schooner's master knew it.

He saw the sails dancing above the schooner's deck and watched as some blocks and cordage plummeted over the side to trail like creeper in the water.

"Reload! Run out!" Triscott's voice was shrill. "As you bear, lads!" He dropped his hanger again. "Fire!"

Bolitho saw several of the men peering round at their fallen comrades-how many had died or been cruelly wounded it was impossible to tell. At the same time Bolitho thought he saw their anxiety and sudden terror changing its face to anger, fury at what had been done to them.

Chesshyre yelled, "Down here-take over from Quin!" The helmsman in question had been hit in the head and had slumped unnoticed and unheard across the tiller bar, his eyes fixed and staring as they lowered him to the deck.

Chesshyre caught Bolitho's glance and said, "They've a bit to learn, sir, but they'll not let you down." He spoke so calmly he could have been describing a contest between boats' crews.

Bolitho nodded. "We must hit her masts and rigging." He shouted in the sudden lull. "Gun-captains! Aim high! A guinea for the first sail!"

"Fire!"

Paice said harshly, "That bastard's using nine-pounders if I'm any judge!" He gasped as a ball smashed hard down alongside and flung spray high over the bulwark.

Bolitho saw his expression as men ran to the pumps. Like pain. As if he and not the cutter had been hit.

There was a wild cheer and Bolitho swung round to see the schooner's foresail tearing itself apart, the wind bringing her down as she fought against the confusion of sea and helm.

Bolitho bit his lip as another ball screamed overhead and a length of halliard whirled across the deck like a wounded snake. It could not last. One ball into Telemachus's only mast would finish it.

Paice said wildly, "He can't depress his nine-pounders, sir!"

Bolitho stared. Paice was more used to this kind of vessel and would know the difficulty of mounting a long nine-pounder on the deck of a merchantman.

"He's trying to put about!" Triscott waved at his gun crews. "Into him, lads!" He watched as their grimy hands shot up. "Fire!"

Paice whispered, "Holy Jesus!"

Luck, the skill of an older gun-captain, who could say? Bolitho saw the schooner's bowsprit shiver to fragments, the forecastle suddenly enveloped in torn shrouds and writhing canvas.

Paice searched through the drifting smoke for his boatswain.

"Mr Hawkins! Stand by the arms chest!" He tugged out his own hanger, his eyes back on the schooner. "By God, they'll pay for this!"

Bolitho saw the distance dropping away as the crippled schooner continued to pay off downwind. His eyes narrowed and he heard the vague bang of muskets, the balls slamming against the cutter's hull. How long? He gestured urgently. "Can you man-handle the other carronade to the starboard side?"

Paice nodded, his eyes blazing. "Clear the larboard battery, Mr Triscott! Lay the smasher to starboard and prepare to fire!" He glanced at Bolitho and added, "They may outnumber us, but not for long!"

Bolitho watched the punctured sails rising above the cutter as if to swoop down and enfold her, smother her into the sea. Fifty yards. Twenty yards. Here a man fell coughing blood, there another clapped one hand to his chest and dropped to his knees as if in prayer.

Bolitho pushed the boy down beside the companionway.

"Stay there!" He drew the old sword and pictured Allday right here beside him, his cutlass always ready.

"Stand by to board!" He saw their faces, some eager, others fearful now that the enemy was alongside. They could hear them yelling and firing, cursing while they waited for the impact.

Bolitho walked behind the crouching seamen, his sword hanging loosely from his hand.

Some glanced at him as his shadow fell over them, stunned, wild, filled with disbelief as he showed himself to the schooner's marksmen.

"Ready!" Bolitho winced as a ball cut through the tail of his coat. Like a gentle hand plucking at it. "Now!"

The two carronades exploded in adjoining ports with a combined roar which shook the cutter from truck to keel. As the smoke fanned inboard and men fell about coughing and retching in the stench, Bolitho saw that most of the schooner's forecastle had been ripped aside, and the mass of men who had been waiting to attack or repel boarders were entwined in a bloody tangle, which turned and moved as if one hideous giant had been cut down. The weight of grape with canister from the poop swivel had turned the deck into a slaughterhouse.

Bolitho gripped the shrouds and shouted, "To me, lads! Grapnels there!" He heard them thudding on the schooner's bulwark, saw a crouching figure beside an upended gun, as if watching the attack. But it was headless.

The two hulls ground into each other, lurched apart, and then responding to the hands at the grapnels came together in a deadly embrace. "Boarders away!" Bolitho found himself carried across to the other vessel's deck, men thrusting past and around him in their need to get at their adversary.

Figures fell screaming and dying, and Bolitho saw Telemachus's anger and jubilation change yet again to an insane sickness. With cutlass and pike, bayonets, even their bare hands they fell on the schooner's crew with a ferocity which none of them would have believed just an hour earlier.

Bolitho shouted, "That's enough!" He struck down a man's cutlass with his own blade as he was about to impale a wounded youth on the reddened planks.

Paice too was yelling at his men to desist, while Hawkins the boatswain and a picked party of seamen were already taking charge of halliards and braces, to prevent the two hulls from destroying each other in the swell.

Cutlasses were being collected by the victors, and the schooner's company herded together, their wounded left to fend for themselves.

Bolitho said breathlessly, "Send men below, Mr Paice-some brave fool might try to fire the magazine." More orders and some cracked cheers rose around him, and he saw Triscott waving his hat from Telemachus's poop. The boy was standing near him, trying to cheer but almost choked by tears as he saw the devastation and the hideous remains left by the carronades.

Hawkins squeaked through blood and pieces of flesh, his boots like a butcher's as he reported to his commander.

"All secured, sir." He turned to Bolitho and added awkwardly, "Some of us was no 'elp to you, sir." He gestured with a tarred thumb. "But you was right. The 'olds is full to the deckbeams with contraband. Tea, spices, silk, Dutch by the looks o' it." He lowered his voice and watched without curiosity as a badly wounded smuggler crawled past his boots. "I've set some armed hands on the after 'old, sir. Spirits by the cask, Hollands Geneva I'll wager, and there may be more."

Paice wiped his face with his sleeve. "Then she is a Dutchie."

Hawkins shook his head. "Only the cargo, sir. The master is, or was, from Norfolk. Most of the others is English." His lip curled. "I'd swing the lot of 'em!"

Bolitho sheathed his old sword. Hoblyn had been right about that too. The cargo intended for Whitstable had probably begun its journey in the holds of some Dutch East Indiaman. A quick profit.

He looked at the dead and dying, then across at Telemachus, her own pain marked in blood. There had been little profit this time.

Paice asked anxiously, "Are you well, sir?" He was peering at him. "You're not hurt?"

Bolitho shook his head. He had been thinking of Allday, always close at times like these, and they had seen more than enough between them.

"I feel as if I have lost my right arm." He shook himself. "Have the vessel searched before nightfall. Then we shall anchor until we can attend to our repairs." He watched as one of the smugglers, obviously someone of authority, was marched past by two seamen. "That is good. Hold them apart. There is much we don't yet know."

Paice said simply, "My bosun spoke for us all, sir. We fought badly because we had no heart for it. But you are a man of war. We shall know better in future."

Bolitho walked to the side, his whole being revolted against the sights and stench of death.

Hoblyn should be pleased; Their Lordships of Admiralty also. A fine schooner which after repair could either go to the prize court or more likely be taken into the navy. An illegal cargo, and desperate men who would soon hang in chains as a warning to others.

His glance moved over some of the huddled prisoners. A few of them might be pressed into service like their ship, provided they were found guiltless of murder.

It should have been enough. He felt a seaman offer his hard hand to assist him over the bulwark to Telemachus's deck.

But if victory there was, it seemed an empty one.