With All Despatch

9. EnemyTerritory

BOLITHO gripped the jolly-boat's gunwale and looked up at the endless canopy of small stars. Only an undulating black shadow which broke the foot of the pattern gave a true hint of land, and he could sense Chesshyre's concentration as he peered above the heads of the oarsmen, or directly abeam.

Once he said, "Tide's on the ebb, sir."

Bolitho could hear it rippling and surging around the boat's stem, the deep breathing of the oarsmen as they maintained a regular stroke without an order being passed.

The man in the bows called aft in a loud whisper, "Ready with the lead, sir!"

Chesshyre came out of his concentrated attention. "Is it armed, Gulliver?"

"Aye, sir."

"Start sounding."

Bolitho heard the splash of the boat's lead and line being dropped over the bows, then the man named Gulliver calling, "By th' mark three!"

Chesshyre ordered, "Pass it aft!" He waited for the leg-of-mutton-shaped lead to be handed from thwart to thwart, then he rubbed the tallow in its base between his fingers before holding it up to his nose. He passed the lead back again and muttered, "Shell and rough sand, sir. We're making headway. So long as we stand away from the sandbars at low water we shall-"

The bowman called, "By th' mark two!"

Chesshyre swore silently and eased over the tiller bar. "Like that, sir!"

Bolitho understood. It was common enough in his own West Country for sailors to be able to feel their way by using a lead and line, know the state of the seabed by what they found on the tallow which "armed" it. In another twenty years he guessed it would be a lost craft of seamanship.

"How far?"

Chesshyre raised himself slightly as something white broke the pitch-darkness. Then he sank down again. It was not a rock or sandbar but a leaping fish.

"'Nother half-hour, sir." He kept his voice low so that the oarsmen would not know the extent of their labour. They were used to it, but the boat was crowded with extra hands and weapons, including a heavy bell-mouthed musketoon already packed with canister and metal fragments, in case they were attacked.

Bolitho listened to the creak of oars-how loud they sounded despite being muffled with greased rags. But he knew from experience that it would be swallowed completely in the other noises of sea and wind.

Suppose it was a wasted journey? Perhaps the man would take fright and hide when he heard the sailors with their weapons?

Chesshyre hissed, "There, sir! See the old abbey?"

Bolitho strained his eyes and saw a sharper shadow rising amongst the stars.

Chesshyre breathed out. "Better'n I thought."

Bolitho thought how like Herrick he sounded. Another memory. A different ship.

"Less than a fathom, sir!"

"Haul in the lead, Gulliver. Stand by, boys!" Chesshyre crouched half-upright, his silhouette like a dark gargoyle. "Be ready to beach!"

The bowman was busy with his boathook and called, "Comin' in now, sir!"

"Oars! Lively there!" After that it all happened in seconds.

The extra hands leaping outboard and splashing in the shallows to guide the hull safely on to a small, unusually steep beach. Oars lowered with great care across the thwarts while Christie, one of Paice's boatswain's mates, growled, "Drop that bloody gun an' I'll see yer backbones!"

In spite of the tension Bolitho heard somebody chuckle at the threat. Then he was out of the boat, the receding water dragging at his shoes, clawing him back as if to claim him.

Chesshyre passed his instructions and two men hurried away in either direction, while others grouped around the beached boat to make certain it could be quickly launched, but was in no danger of drifting away.

Bolitho found a moment to recall the other times when he had seen it done. The sailor's way. Give him a boat or even a raft and he is in good heart. But with only the sea at his back it is a different story.

Chesshyre rejoined him and said, "There's a small track to the left, sir. That'll be the one."

Shadows moved in around them and Bolitho said, "Draw your blades, but do not cock your pistols. One shot by accident, and we'll awaken the dead."

Somebody murmured, "An' there are plenty o' them round 'ere, sir!"

Another jester.

Chesshyre waited as Bolitho drew his old sword and balanced it in his fist.

"You must be an old hand at this, sir?"

It was strange coming from him, Bolitho thought, as they were the same age.

"I admit it's more like landing on enemy soil than I expected in England."

He tested his bearings and then walked carefully towards the track. It was little more than a fox's path, but the sandy soil made it easy to follow.

He half-listened to the sea's lazy grumbling as it laid bare rocks in the falling tide, and pictured Paice somewhere out in the darkness, unable to help, unwilling to be left out.

The sea sounds suddenly faded and Bolitho felt the warm air of the countryside fanning his face. The smells of the land. The old abbey lay to the left although he could see less of it now than from the boat.

Chesshyre touched his arm and stopped in his tracks. "Still!"

Bolitho froze and heard someone gasp, feet kicking in the long grass. Then two figures loomed from the darkness, one with his hands above his head, the other, a small, darting man with a drawn cutlass, pushing him none too gently ahead of him.

Bolitho said, "I have good ears, but-"

Chesshyre showed his teeth. "Inskip was a poacher afore he saw the light, sir. Got ears in his arse, beggin' your pardon."

The man with raised hands saw Bolitho, and perhaps recognised some sort of authority when seconds earlier he had been expecting his life to be cut short.

He exclaimed, "I was sent to meet you, sir!"

Chesshyre rapped, "Keep your voice down for Christ's sake, man."

Bolitho gripped his arm; it was shaking so violently that he knew the man was terrified.

"Where is the blind man? Did he not come?"

"Yes, yes!" He was babbling. "He's here, right enough. I did just what the major told me-now I'm off afore someone sees me!"

A seaman strode along the path. "'Ere 'e is, sir." He directed his remarks to the master but they were intended for Bolitho.

"Don't go too close, sir. 'E stinks like a dead pig."

Bolitho walked away from the others, but heard Chesshyre following at a careful distance.

The blind man was squatting on the ground, his head thrown back, his eyes covered by a bandage.

Bolitho knelt beside him. "I am Captain Bolitho. Major Craven said you would help me."

The man moved his head from side to side, then reached out and held Bolitho's arm. Through the coat sleeve his fingers felt like steel talons.

"I need your aid." Bolitho's stomach rebelled, but he knew this contact was his only hope. The blind man stank of filth and dried sweat, and he was almost grateful for the darkness.

"Bolitho?" The man moved his head again as if trying to peer through the bandage. "Bolitho?" He had a high piping voice, and it was impossible to determine his age.

Chesshyre said thickly, "The poor bugger's off his head, sir."

Bolitho retorted, "Wouldn't you be?"

He tried again. "That night. When they did this to you." He felt the hand jerk free, as if it and not its owner was in terror. "What did you see? I wouldn't ask, but they took a friend of mine-you understand?"

"See?" The blind man felt vaguely in the grass. "They took a long while. All th' time they laughed at me." He shook his head despairingly. "When the fire was lit they branded my body, an'- an' then-"

Bolitho looked away, sickened. But he was so near to Allday now. This poor, demented creature was all he had. But he felt as if he were applying torture, as they had once done to him.

"I used to watch for 'em. Sometimes they come with pack-horses-bold as brass, they was. Other times they brought men, deserters. That night-"

Chesshyre said, "He knows nowt, sir." He peered around at the trees. "He should be put out of his misery."

The man turned as if to examine the Telemachus's master, then said in a flat, empty voice, "I bin there since, y'know." He wrapped his arms around his ragged body and cackled. "I was that well acquaint with the place!"

Bolitho kept his voice level. "What place? Please help me. I shall see you are rewarded."

The man turned on him with unexpected venom. "I don't want yer stinkin' gold! I just wants revenge for what they done to me!"

Chesshyre bent over him and said, "Captain Bolitho is a fine an' brave officer. Help him as you will, and I swear he'll take care of you."

The man cackled again. It was an eerie sound, and Bolitho could imagine the small party of seamen drawing together nearby.

Chesshyre added, "What's your name?"

The man cowered away. "I'm not sayin'!" He peered towards Bolitho and then seized his arm again. "I don't 'ave to, do I?" He sounded frantic.

"No." Bolitho's heart sank. The link was too fragile to last. It was another hope gone wrong.

In a surprisingly clear voice the blind man said, "Then I'll take you."

Bolitho stared at him. "When?"

"Now, o' course!" His reply was almost scornful. "Don't want the 'ole o' Sheppey to know, does we?"

Chesshyre breathed out loudly. "Well, I'll be double-damned!"

That, too, was what Herrick said when he was taken aback.

Bolitho took the man's filthy hand. "Thank you."

The bandaged head moved warily from side to side. "Not with nobody else though!"

Christie the boatswain's mate murmured, "Not bloody askin' for much, is 'e?"

Bolitho looked at Chesshyre. "I must do as he asks. I must trust him. He is all I have."

Chesshyre turned away from his men. "But it's asking for trouble, sir. He may be raving mad, or someone might have put him up to it, like the fellow who brought him here, eh, sir?"

Bolitho walked to the men who were guarding the messenger. "Did you tell anybody about this?" To himself he thought, more to the point, will he tell someone after he has left us?

"I swear, sir, on my baby's life-I swear I've told nobody!"

Bolitho turned to Chesshyre. "All the same, take him aboard when you leave. I think he is too frightened to betray anyone at the moment, but should the worst happen and you discover it, see that he is handed to Major Craven's dragoons." His voice sharpened. "He can join the other felons at the crossroads if it comes to that."

Chesshyre asked desperately, "What shall I say to Mr Paice, sir?"

Bolitho looked at him in the darkness. Then he raised his voice and saw the bandaged head move towards him again. "Tell him I am with a friend, and that we are both in God's hands."

Chesshyre seemed unable to grasp it. "I just don't know, sir. In all my service-"

"There is always a first time, Mr Chesshyre. Now be off with you."

He watched as the sailors began to fade away into the shadows and noticed how they seemed to pass him as closely as they could before they groped their way to the fox's path. To see for themselves, as if for the last time.

Chesshyre held out his hand. It was hard, like leather. "May God indeed be at the helm this night, sir." Then he was gone.

Bolitho reached down and aided the man to his feet. "I am ready when you are."

He felt light-headed, even sick, and his mouth was suddenly quite dry. This man might only think he knew where he was going, his mind too broken to distinguish fact from fantasy.

The blind man picked up a heavy piece of wood, a branch found somewhere in the course of his despairing ramblings.

Then he said in his strange, piping voice, "This way." He hesitated. "Watch yer step. There's a stile up yonder."

Bolitho swallowed hard. Who was the blind one now?

An hour later they were still walking, pausing only for the bandaged head to turn this way and that. To gather his bearings, to listen for some sound, Bolitho did not know. Perhaps he was already lost.

He heard dogs barking far away, and once he almost fell with alarm as some birds burst from the grass almost under his feet.

The blind man waited for him to catch up, muttering, "Over yonder! Wot d'you see?"

Bolitho stared through the darkness and discovered a deeper blackness. His heart seemed to freeze. A different bearing, but there was no doubt about it. It was the same sinister copse, which they were passing on the opposite side.

The blind man could have been studying his expression. He broke into a fit of low, wheezing laughter. "Thought I'd lost me way, did ye, Captain?"

About the same time, Chesshyre was explaining to Paice and his first lieutenant what had happened, the jolly-boat's crew lolling on the deck like dead men after the hardest pull they had ever known.

Paice exploded, "You left him? You bloody well left the captain unsupported!"

Chesshyre protested, "It was an order, sir. Surely you know me better than-"

Paice gripped his shoulder so that the master winced. "My apologies, Mr Chesshyre. Of course I know you well enough for that. God damn it, he wouldn't even let me go!"

Triscott asked, "What shall we do, sir?"

"Do?" Paice gave a heavy sigh. "He told me what I must do if he sent back the boat without him." He glanced at Chesshyre sadly. "That was an order too." Then he gazed up at the stars. "We shall haul anchor. If we remain here, dawn will explain our reasons to anyone who cares to seek them." He looked at the messenger who was sitting wretchedly on a hatch coaming under guard. "By the living Jesus, if there is a betrayal, I'll run him up to the tops'l yard myself!"

Then in a calmer voice he said, "Hoist the boat inboard, Mr Triscott. We will get under way."

A few moments later there was a splash, and a voice yelled with surprise, "Man overboard, sir!"

But Paice said quietly, "No. I was a fool to speak my mind. That was the lad-Matthew Corker. He must have heard me."

Triscott said, "Even the jolly-boat couldn't catch him now, sir."

Paice watched the regular splashes until they were lost in shadow.

He said, "Good swimmer."

Chesshyre asked, "What can he do, sir?"

Paice made himself turn away from the sea, and from the boy who was going to try and help the man he worshipped above all others.

He was like the son Paice had always wanted, what they had prayed for, before she had been brutally shot down.

He said harshly, "Get the ship under way! If anything happens to that lad, I'll-" He could not go on.

Thirty minutes later as the glass was turned, Telemachus spread her great mainsail and slipped out into the North Sea, before changing tack and steering westward for Sheerness.

Paice handed over to his second-in-command and went aft to the cabin. He opened the shutter of a lantern and sat down to complete his log when his eye caught a reflection from the opposite cot.

He leaned over and picked it up. It was a fine gold watch with an engraved guard. He had seen Bolitho look at it several times, and not, he guessed, merely to discover the hour. The parcel containing the uncompleted ship-model was nearby.

With great care he opened the guard. Somehow he knew that Bolitho would not mind. Afterwards he replaced it beside Allday's parcel.

In the navy everyone thought a post-captain was junior only to God. A man who did as he pleased, who wanted for nothing.

Paice thought of him now, out there in the darkness with a blind man. Apart from this watch he had nothing left at all.

Bolitho lay prone beside a thick clump of gorse and levelled his small telescope on a boatyard which lay some fifty yards below him. He winced as a loose pebble ground into his elbow, and wondered if this really was the place which the blind man had described.

He laid the glass down and lowered his face on to his arm. The noon sun was high overhead, and he dared not use the glass too much for fear of a bright reflection which might betray their position.

He would have to go down as soon as it was safe. How could he lie here all day? He cursed himself for not thinking of a flask when he had left the Telemachus. His mind shied away from water and he placed a pebble in his mouth to ease his parched throat.

He raised himself briefly on one elbow and glanced at his companion. The blind man was a pitiful sight, his clothing stained and in rags, the bandage covering his empty sockets foul with dirt.

The man remarked, "You gets used to waitin'." He nodded firmly. "When it's dark-" He shook with silent laughter. "Dark- that's rich, ain't it?"

Bolitho sighed. How did he know night from day? But he no longer doubted him after that demonstration of his uncanny abilities.

He stiffened and raised the small telescope again, but was careful to hold it in the shade of a clump of grass.

A few figures were moving through the boatyard. Two were armed, one carried a stone jar. Probably rum, he thought. Nobody was working there, and tools lay abandoned near an uncompleted hull, an adze still standing on a length of timber.

The men walked like sailors. They showed no sign of fear or wariness. There had to be a reason for such confidence.

Bolitho closed the little telescope, recalling how he had used it on the road from London when he had confronted the mob and the two frightened press gang officers. He watched some tiny insects busying themselves around his drawn sword. He must decide what to do next. If he left this place to fetch help, he might miss something vital. He glanced again at his ragged companion, and was moved by what he saw. He was rocking back and forth, his voice crooning what sounded like a hymn. Once a gentle man, perhaps. But when he had said he wanted his revenge for what they had done to him, he had been like a man from the fires of Hell.

When he looked again he realised that he was alone, but not for long. The blind man crawled through some bushes, a chipped mug in his clawlike hand. He held it out in Bolitho's direction. "Wet your whistle, Captain?"

It must be from some stream, Bolitho thought. It tasted rancid, and was probably used by sheep or cows. Bolitho drank deeply. It could have been the finest Rhenish wine at that moment.

The blind man took the empty mug and it vanished inside one of his tattered coats.

He said, "They brings 'em 'ere sometimes, Captain. Men for the Trade. From 'ere they goes to smugglin' vessels, see?" He cocked his head, like a schoolmaster with some backward pupil.

Bolitho considered it. If it was so easy, why did the authorities not come and search the place? Major Craven had hinted at powerful and influential people who were more interested in profit than the enforcement of a law they insisted could not be maintained.

"Whose land is this?"

The blind man lay down on his side. "I'll rest now, Captain."

For the first time since their strange rendezvous there was fear in his voice. The true, sick fear of one who has been on the brink of a terrible death.

He could almost envy the man's ability to sleep-perhaps he only ventured out at night. For Bolitho it was the longest day. He busied his thoughts with the commodore and the three cutters, until he felt his mind would crack.

And then, quite suddenly, or so it seemed, the light began to fade, and where there had been green trees and the glittering sea beyond, there were shadows of purple and dark pewter.

A few lights appeared in the boatyard's outbuildings, but only once or twice had he seen any movement, usually an armed man strolling down to the waterfront to relieve himself.

Bolitho examined every yard of the distance he would have to cover. He must avoid catching his foot or slipping in some cow dung. Surprise was his only protection.

He realised that the blind man was wide awake and crouching beside him. How could he live in such filth? Or perhaps he no longer noticed even that.

"What is it?"

The man pointed towards the sea. "A boat comin'."

Bolitho seized his telescope and swore under his breath. It was already too dark, as if a great curtain had been lowered.

Then he heard the creak of oars, saw a shaded lantern reflecting on the water where a man stood to guide the boat in.

The blind man added, "A ship, Captain."

Bolitho strained his eyes into the darkness. If ship there was, she showed no lights. Landing a cargo? He dismissed it instantly. The blind man knew better than anyone what they were doing- he had more than proved it. They were collecting sailors: men who had been marked run in their ships' logs; others who had managed to escape the gibbet; soldiers of fortune. All dangerous.

He heard the creak of oars again. Whatever it was, it had been quickly done, he thought.

He stood up, the cooler air off the sea making him shiver. "Wait here. Don't move until I return for you."

The blind man leaned on his crude stick. "They'll gut you, sure as Jesus, if they sees you!"

"I have to know." Bolitho thought he heard a door slam. "If I don't return, go to Major Craven."

"I ain't goin' to no bloody redcoats! Not no more!"

Bolitho could hear him muttering querulously as he took the first steps down the grassy slope towards a solitary lighted window. He heard laughter, the sound of a bottle being smashed, then more laughter. So they had not all gone. Perhaps Allday… He reached the wall of the building and leaned with his back against it, waiting for his breathing to steady.

Then, very slowly he peered around the edge of the window. The glass was stained and covered with cobwebs, but he saw all he needed. It was a shipwright's shed, with benches and fresh planks piled on racks. Around a table he saw about six figures. They were drinking rum, passing the jar round, while another was cutting hunks of bread from a basket. Only one man was armed and stood apart from the rest. He wore a blue coat with a red neckerchief and an old cocked hat tilted rakishly on thick, greasy hair.

Bolitho glanced behind him. There was no other sound. So these men were also deserters, awaiting the next boat which could use them? There was an air of finality about the place, as if once they had gone, it would be abandoned, or returned to its proper use. Then there would be no evidence. Nothing. And Allday would be just as lost as ever.

Bolitho licked his lips. Six to one, but only the armed man, who was obviously one of the smugglers, presented real danger.

He found that his heart was beating wildly, and he had to lick his lips repeatedly to stop them being glued with dryness.

They were all together, but any second one might leave the building and raise the alarm. They would soon arm themselves then.

Bolitho moved carefully along the wall until he reached the door. He could see from the lantern's flickering light that there were no bolts or chains.

It seemed to taunt him. Have you been stripped of your courage too? He was committed, and knew that he had had no choice from the beginning.

Bolitho eased the pistol from his belt and tried to remember if he had kept it clear of the water when he had waded ashore. He winced as he cocked it. Then he stood clear of the door, held his sword angled across his body, and kicked it with all his strength.

"In the King's name!" He was shocked at the loudness of his voice in the confined space. "You are all under arrest!"

Someone yelled, "God damn, it's the press!"

Another gasped, "They told us we was safe!"

The armed man dropped his hand to the hanger at his belt and rasped, "He's not the press! I knows who he is, damn his eyes!"

Bolitho raised his pistol. "Don't move!" The man's face was twisted with anger and hatred and seemed to swim over the end of the muzzle like a mask.

Then he seized his hanger and pulled it from its scabbard.

Bolitho squeezed the trigger and heard the impotent click of a misfire. The man crouched towards him, his hanger making small circles in the lanternlight, while the others stared in disbelief, probably too drunk to register what had happened.

The man snarled, "Get out! Fetch weapons! He's alone-can't you see that, you gutless swabs?"

He lunged forward but held his legs as before. Sparks spat from the two blades, and Bolitho watched the man's eyes, knowing that whatever happened now, he could not win. They would set upon him like a pack, more afraid of the gallows than of killing a King's officer.

He could hear the rest of them clambering through a window, one already running through the darkness yelling like a madman. They would soon return.

He said, "You have no chance!"

The man spat at his feet. "We'll see!" Then he laughed. "Blade to blade, Captain bloody Bolitho!"

He slashed forward, and Bolitho parried it aside, locking hilts for a second so that he could thrust the man away, and hold him silhouetted against the lantern.

The man yelled, "Kill him, you bilgerats!" He had sensed that despite his strength he was no match for Bolitho's swordsmanship. He vaulted over a bench, then faced Bolitho across it, his hanger held out like a rapier.

Not long now. Bolitho heard running feet, a man falling over some obstruction in the darkness, the rum making him laugh insanely. Then there was a single shot, and for an instant Bolitho thought one of them had fired at him through the window. He heard somebody sobbing, the sudden trampling thud of horses, and Major Craven's voice rising above all of it.

The door burst open and the place was filled suddenly with scarlet coats and gleaming sabres.

Craven turned as a sergeant shouted, "One o' the buggers 'as done for Trooper Green, sir." Craven looked at Bolitho and gave the merest nod, then faced the armed smuggler. "You heard that? My men will be happy to end your miserable life here and now, unless-"

The man tossed his hanger on the bench. "I know nothing."

Bolitho took Craven's arm. "How did you know?"

Craven walked to the door. "Look yonder, Captain."

A dragoon was helping a small figure to climb down from his saddle. The boy walked slowly and hesitantly into the lantern

light, his eyes running with tears, Fear, relief, it was all there.

Craven said quietly, "Lift your foot, boy."

Aided by the dragoon Young Matthew raised one bare foot. It was ripped and bloody, almost to the bone.

Craven explained, "One of my pickets found him running along the road." He looked at his men outside as they rounded up the deserters and bound their wrists behind them. One trooper lay dead on the ground.

Bolitho seized the boy and held him against his coat, trying to ease away the shock and the pain.

"There's no harm done, Matthew, thanks to you. That was a brave thing you did."

Craven nodded. "Damned dangerous, too."

Bolitho looked at the dragoon who had carried the boy from his horse. "Care for him. I have something to do." He confronted the man who minutes earlier had been urging his companions to arm themselves and cut him down, and said, "If you tell me what I want to know, I might be prepared to put in a word. I can promise nothing."

The man threw back his head and roared with laughter. "D'you think I fear the hangman?"

Craven murmured, "He is far more frightened of his masters, the Brotherhood."

He offered no resistance as the sergeant tied his hands behind him and sneered, "They'll have you yet-Captain!"

A dragoon shouted, "'Ere-where d'you think you're goin', mate?"

Then, like the others, he fell silent as the ragged figure with the broken branch held out before him moved slowly into the circle of light.

Bolitho sensed it immediately, like a shaft of lightning between them.

The blind man whispered, "It's 'im, Captain!" There was a sob in his voice now. "I 'ad to come, then I 'eard 'is laugh. 'E's the one wot did this to me!"

The man shouted, "You bloody liar! Who'd take the word of a blind lunatic?"

Bolitho had an overwhelming desire to strike him. To kill him, tied and helpless though he was.

"I would, whoever you are." How calm his voice sounded it was like hearing a complete stranger. "When all this was begun, this man-who has become my friend, let it be known-asked no reward."

There was absolute silence now and Bolitho saw the bound man staring at him uncertainly, the bluff gone out of him.

"He asked only for revenge, and I think I know what he meant." Bolitho glanced at the others. "Major Craven, if you will take your men outside?" The dragoons filed out, some shocked at what they had witnessed, others with the light of cruel revenge in their faces. They had just lost one of their own. What did outsiders understand of loyalty, and their sacrifice?

Bolitho watched as the realisation crossed the man's cruel features. Spittle ran from a corner of his mouth. "You lie! You wouldn't dare!" When Bolitho walked towards the door he screamed, "Don't leave me!"

The blind man felt his way around the seated prisoner, and then touched his eyes from behind. Very gently, as he crooned, "Like trapped butterflies."

The man screamed and struggled. "Christ, my eyes!"

Bolitho opened the door, his throat retching.

Then he heard the man shriek, "I'll tell you! I'll tell you! Call him off, for Christ's sake!"

Bolitho crossed the room in two strides. "I want names. I need to know things which only you will be a part of."

The man's chest was heaving as if he was drowning. "I felt his claws in my eyes!"

"I am waiting." He rested one hand on the blind man's scrawny shoulder and saw him turn his bandaged eyes towards him. In his own way he was telling Bolitho he had already had his revenge. Perhaps he had found no reprieve in it.

Together they listened to the man's desperate flood of information. The hangman's halter, or death in a sea-fight were commonplace. But against the prospect of torture at the hands of someone he had blinded and broken he had had no defences.

Bolitho said, "You will be kept in the barracks, alone and under guard at all times. If one word you have told me is false, you will have this man as your sole companion."

He reached out and slammed the smuggler's head back against the chair. "Look at me, damn you! Do you see any bluff in my eyes?"

There was naked terror in the man's face now and Bolitho could smell the stench of it. Then he said quietly, "So be warned."

He walked out of the building and leaned against the wall, staring at the tiny stars.

Craven said, "Thank God I was in time."

"Aye." He watched the blind man touching the muzzle of one of the horses. "There's much we have to thank him for tonight." He knew that in a few more minutes he would have vomited. "Now where is that boy?"

But Young Matthew had fallen asleep across the dragoon's saddle.

Craven said, "Time to leave. I sent word for assistance before I came. I felt this would be the place. My men have never been allowed to come here." He glanced at the sky. "There's a troop of fifty horses or more on the road from Chatham by now, but we'll take no chances."

He watched his dead dragoon being tied across an empty saddle. "Is it worth the cost this time?" He removed his hat as the horse was led past.

Bolitho nodded. "I believe so." He waited for the major to order a spare mount for him. "You have done so much." His tone hardened. "Now it is up to me."

The blind man waited beside the horses as Bolitho leaned down and touched his arm. "Will you come with us?"

The man shook his head. "I'll be close by if you needs me, Captain."

As the troop, with the prisoners running beside the horses, moved away from the buildings, the blind man looked into his perpetual darkness and murmured, "'E called me 'is friend."

Then, like a ragged shadow, he too was swallowed up.