With All Despatch

10. The Spark of Courage

THE brig Loyal Chieftain, drifting and rolling under close-reefed topsails, was a death-trap for any landsman or the unwary. In pitch-darkness she lay between two sturdy luggers while men from all three crews hauled on tackles, levered, and stowed an endless collection of cargo. In the brig's forward hold, Allday marvelled at the speed of the transfer from the two luggers in spite of several stupid blunders. The brig carried twice her normal company, but most of them had never worked together before, and he had heard more kicks and obscenities than in any man-of-war.

Each time he went on deck he looked hopefully towards the land. But there was no sign of it, not even a light to reveal how near or far it lay. He knew they were lying-to off the Dutch coast, somewhere near Flushing, but it might easily have been on the other side of the world.

His prowess as a seaman had soon been noted, and Allday had found himself thanking his Maker more than once that Delaval was not aboard. The brig Loyal Chieftain was under the charge of his lieutenant and mate, a tight-lipped man called Isaac Newby who hailed from Dorset. He had been arrested twice for smuggling but each time he had been released for lack or loss of evidence.

He had remarked to Allday, "I've friends in high places." Otherwise he had said little, and after they had made contact with the two luggers there had been no time even to eat or drink.

Men fumbled over unfamiliar tackles, or were knocked senseless by a cargo net of brandy casks. In the holds, another team was busily lashing hemp halters and floats to ranks of casks almost before they had been stowed for the passage. A man Allday had befriended, once a foretopman named Tom Lucas, had explained that once off the English coast the casks would be dropped overboard in moored trots, like lobster pots, to be collected later by some of the long, oared smuggling galleys. After that, the cargo would be distributed in caves and small inlets, to be carried to the next "drops" by packhorse or donkey.

Lucas was a tall, grave-faced sailor, very much the landsman's idea of a typical Jack Tar of Old England. Once, on passage from Kent, he had been stitching a patch on his shirt. Allday, watching, was used to the navy's ways and harsh discipline, but Lucas's bare back was scarred and mangled beyond recognition. He had been serving in a seventy-four at the Nore, a ship plagued by a bad captain, undermanning and appalling food.

He had complained on behalf of his mess to the first lieutenant who to all accounts had been a fair man. He in turn had approached the captain. The result: three dozen lashes at the gangway for mutinous behavior. Lucas had made up his mind to desert but had been surprised by another lieutenant on the night he had chosen. He had struck the officer only with his fist, but he had fallen from the gangway to the gundeck below. Lucas did not know if the lieutenant was dead or alive, and had no intention of returning to find out.

He had stared at Allday grimly. "A flogging round th' fleet? Well, you knows what that means. I couldn't take it. An' if the lieutenant died, it'll be the yardarm dance anyway!"

But it was obvious to Allday that he had no heart for smuggling. It was an escape, without hope or future, until fate caught up with him. Allday had heard some of the others discussing it in the dogwatches. So far, there had been plenty of backbreaking work, and precious few rewards. It did not balance the scale, but it was some consolation, he thought.

Allday was with Lucas tonight, supervising the hold, and in some cases putting the right lines into unfamiliar hands while the hulls groaned and lurched together in a steep offshore swell.

Allday muttered, "Black as a boot on deck."

Lucas paused and sniffed the air, which was heavy with brandy. "I could use some o' that." He seemed to realise what Allday had said. "Yeah. Well, I've done a couple of runs in this brig. The captain always 'as a decoy. So if our-" He seemed to grin in the gloom. "I mean, if their patrols or revenue cutters appear, it gives 'im time to stand clean away."

Allday lowered his head to conceal his expression. So that was how it was done. Maybe the smuggling fraternity took turns to play decoy, then shared the spoils afterwards?

Isaac Newby, the mate, peered down past the shaded lanterns. "Ready below?" He sounded on edge, impatient.

Allday raised his fist. "Soon enough. One more net to be stowed."

Newby vanished, probably to examine the other hold.

Lucas said bitterly, "What next, I wonder? Gold for the captain, an' a gutful of rum for us, eh?"

Allday watched him thoughtfully. How many good seamen had gone rotten because of uncaring officers and ruthless captains? It was a pity there were not many more like Our Dick, he thought.

A voice yelled, "Stand by to cast off, starboard! Lively, you scum!"

Lucas swore. "Just like home."

First one lugger was cast off, then the other, with more curses and squealing blocks, the canvas unmanageable with the brig floundering downwind. Then just as suddenly she had set her topsails and jib and was leaning over to the larboard tack. Hatches were battened down, and the disorder removed.

Lucas stared out at the heaving, black water and gritted his teeth. "Christ, they've brought women aboard!" He seized the ratlines and hung on them despairingly. "God, listen to 'em. Don't the buggers know it's bad luck?"

Allday listened and heard someone cry out. It was little more than a sound, like a gull's mew, soon lost in the thunder of spray-soaked canvas.

The boatswain shouted, "You lot! Stand by to loose the fore-course! Hands aloft, and shift your bloody selves!" A rope's end found its target and a man yelped with painful resentment.

The boatswain joined Allday at the weather shrouds. "Fair wind." He squinted aloft but the men strung out on the fore-course yard were hidden in darkness. "Should be a good run this time."

Allday heard it again, and asked, "Women, eh?" For some reason it disturbed him.

The boatswain yawned. "The captain likes to have his way." He gave a hard laugh. "It's all money, I reckon, but-" He shrugged as a piercing scream broke from the after skylight.

Allday tried to moisten his lips. "Delaval, d'you mean?"

The boatswain glared impatiently as the big foresail flapped and writhed out of control. "Yeh, he came aboard from one of the Dutchie luggers." He cupped his hands. "Catch a turn there, you idle bugger! Now belay!"

But Allday scarcely heard him. Delaval was here. But he might not remember. He had had eyes only for Bolitho and Paice at their last meeting. Even as he grasped the hope, Allday knew it was a lie.

More bellowed orders, and one watch was dismissed below for another foully cooked meal.

Allday walked aft, his powerful frame angled to the slanting deck, his mind in great trouble. He saw the faces of the helmsmen glowing faintly in the binnacle light, but it was too weak to be seen more than yards beyond the hull.

What should he do now? If he stayed alive long enough he might-

A larger wave than the previous one swayed the deck hard over. He saw the spokes of the wheel spin, heard the two helmsmen cursing as they fought to bring the vessel back under command.

Allday gripped a rack of belaying pins, and found himself looking directly down through the cabin skylight. There was a girl there-she could not be more than sixteen. One man, Newby the mate, was pinioning her arms, another, hidden by the skylight's coaming, was tearing at her clothes, laying her breasts naked while she struggled and cried out in terror.

Too late did he feel the closeness of danger.

"So this is the sailmaker? I never forget a face, Mister Allday!"

The blow across the back of his head brought instant darkness. There was no time even for fear or pain. Oblivion.

Bolitho loosened his shirt and stared around at the intent faces. Telemachus's small cabin was packed to bursting-point with not only the lieutenants from all three cutters but their sailing-masters as well.

He spread his hands on the chart and listened to the wind sighing through the rigging, the regular creak of timbers as the hull tugged at her cable.

It was evening, but the air was humid rather than warm, and the sky broken by ridges of heavy-bellied clouds.

He found time to compare it with his first meeting with the cutters' commanders. In so short a while they had all changed. Now there was no doubt, no suspicion; events had somehow welded them together in a manner Bolitho had first believed impossible.

The others had also rid themselves of their coats and Bolitho wondered how they would appear to some landsman or outsiders. More like the men they were hunting than seaofficers, he thought.

"We will weigh at dusk, and have to risk arousing interest-" His glance fell on Chesshyre. "I see that you have already noted the change?"

Chesshyre nodded, startled to be picked out before all the others. "Aye, sir, wind's backed two points or more." He shivered slightly as if to test the weather. "I'd say fog afore dawn."

They looked at each other, the suggestion of fog moving amongst them like an evil spirit.

Bolitho said, "I know. When I consulted the glass-" He glanced up at the open skylight, plucking his shirt away from his body. It felt like a wet rag, like the moment he had kicked open the door and had faced the men around the table. It seemed like an age past instead of days. He hurried on, "The information is that two vessels are heading for the Isle of Thanet from the Dutch coast. One will be deep-laden, the other a decoy." He saw them exchange glances and added, "I have no doubt that this intelligence is true." He pictured the smuggler tied to a chair, his screams of terror as the blind man's hands had touched his eyes.

No, he had little doubt of this information.

Paice said, "May I speak, sir?" He looked at the other lieutenants and Queely responded with a curt nod, as if they had already been discussing it. Paice said, "If this fails, and we lose them, what will happen to you? "

Bolitho smiled; he had been half-expecting an objection to his plan. "I shall doubtless be ordered to a place where I can no longer disrupt matters." Even as he said it, he knew he had never uttered a truer word. Even with Midshipman Fenwick under close arrest, and the smuggler in the hands of Craven's dragoons, his evidence would leak like a sieve without Delaval and a cargo.

He pushed the thought from his mind and said flatly, "I believe that the information which led to the capture of the Four Brothers was deliberately offered to us to allay suspicion. Probably a competitor anyway, a most suitable sacrifice with the stakes so high."

He held his breath and watched their expressions. If they accepted this, they were implicating themselves. Only Commodore Hoblyn had known about the Four Brothers. By accepting Bolitho's word they too could be charged with conspiracy.

Paice said resolutely, "I agree. We've been held away from that piece of coastline for as long as I can recall. There are several small boatyards there, most of 'em on the land which belongs to-" He looked at Bolitho and said bluntly, "Sir James Tanner, a person of great power and authority." He gave a slow grin as if to show he was aware of his own disloyalty and added, "Some of us suspected. Most saw only the hopelessness of any protest with us against so many." His grin widened. "Until, with respect, sir, you came amongst us like a full gale of wind!"

Lieutenant Vatass of Snapdragon pulled at his crumpled shirt and said, "I think that speaks for us all, sir. If we are to stand alone?" He gave an elegant shrug. "Then let us get on with it."

There was a muttered assent around the airless cabin.

Bolitho said, "We will leave as arranged. I have left word with Major Craven, and sent a despatch to our admiral at the Nore." He would have smiled but for Allday. Even the admiral would have to climb down from his eyrie when this news was exploded before him. If Bolitho failed he would face a court martial. That he could accept. But these men, who had accepted his arrival only under pressure, he must shield at all costs.

The three sailing-masters were comparing notes and making last adjustments to their chart. Their navigation would have to be better than ever before. There was not even room for luck this time. Just three small cutters in search of a will-o'-the-wisp. Bolitho had sent word to Chatham in the hopes of calling a frigate to intervene should Delaval slip through their tightly stretched net. Even if the admiral agreed to his wishes, it was quite likely that no frigate was available.

Bolitho recalled his meeting with Sir Marcus Drew at the Admiralty. He had left him in no doubt where responsibility would lie if Bolitho misused his commission.

If Hoblyn was guilty of conspiracy with the smugglers, no matter for what reason, he could expect no mercy either from the navy or from the men he had served for his own profit.

Bolitho's mouth hardened. Allday's life was at stake because of all this. If anything happened to him he would deal with Hoblyn and the unknown Sir James Tanner in his own fashion.

As evening closed in across the anchorage Bolitho went on deck and watched the unhurried preparations to get under way.

He could sense the difference here too. The unspoken acceptance by men he had come to know in so brief a time. George Davy the gunner, even now crouching and ducking around his small artillery. Scrope, master-at-arms, with Christie the boatswain's mate, checking the heavy chest of axes and cutlasses below the tapering mast. Big Luke Hawkins, the boatswain, was hanging over the bulwark gesturing to some men in the jolly-boat to warp it closer to the tackles for hoisting inboard.

Slow, careful preparations-for what? To risk death at the hands of smugglers whom most people condoned, if not admired? Or was it out of loyalty? To Bolitho, or to one another, as was the navy's way with pressed man and volunteer alike.

Bolitho glanced at the waterfront and wondered if there was already a fine mist spreading towards the many anchored vessels. And although the wind still buffeted the furled sails, the sea seemed flatter, milkier out towards the Isle of Grain and Garrison Point. He shivered and wished he had brought his coat on deck.

He heard dragging footsteps and saw Young Matthew Corker resting by a six-pounder, his eyes on the land.

Bolitho said quietly, "We owe you a great deal, Matthew. One day you will realise it. What do you wish for yourself after this?"

The boy turned and faced him, his expression unusually sad and grave. "Please, Captain, I'd like to go home." He was near to tears but added with sudden determination, "But only when Mr Allday is back."

Bolitho watched him walk forward, soon hidden by the busy seamen. It was the right decision, he thought. One he had to make for himself.

Paice joined him by the bulwark and said, "Good lad, that one, sir."

Bolitho watched him, and guessed the reason for Paice's hurt.

"Aye, Mr Paice. But for him-" He did not need to continue.

With the wind filling and puffing at the great mainsails the three cutters weighed and headed out to open water. Many eyes watched them leave, but with the mist moving slowly out to embrace the three hulls, there was little to reveal their intentions.

Major Philip Craven of the 30th Dragoons was enjoying a glass of claret when the news of their departure was brought by a hard-riding trooper.

Craven folded the message and finished the claret before calling his orderly to fetch his horse.

Commodore Ralph Hoblyn paced his great bedroom alone, his eyes everywhere whenever he reached a window. And as darkness fell, he was still striding back and forth, his stooped shoulder even more pronounced in shadows against the walls.

A messenger brought word to the gates about the cutters' leaving without fresh orders, but the corporal of the guard retorted sharply, "The commodore's made it plain in the past! 'E's not to be disturbed, no matter wot!"

And away in Chatham itself, the one person who had been the hinge of all these events, Midshipman Fenwick of the local impressment service, made the only firm decision of his miserable nineteen years. While the guards were changing their duties, he took his belt and hanged himself in his cell.

Down in Telemachus's cabin once more, Bolitho changed into a fresh shirt and placed his watch carefully in his pocket. Around and above him the hull muttered and groaned, and he felt the wash alongside losing its power with each dragging minute.

He stared at the chart until his head throbbed.

It was now or never. He glanced at the parcel with the ship model inside. For both of them.

It seemed like an eternity before understanding returned. Even then it was a battle, against pain, and a sick unwillingness to believe what had happened.

Allday tried to open his eyes but with shocked horror realized that only the right one would obey. His whole body ached from bruises, and when he tried again to use his other eye he thought for an instant it had been put out.

He stared at the hazy picture which reached only to the perimeter of light cast by a gently spiralling lantern. It was barely a few feet away, and he thought he was going mad because of the confined space. He emitted a groan of agony as he tried to move. For the first time he realized that his legs were braced apart by irons bolted to the deck, his wrists dragged above his head by manacles so tight that he could no longer feel them.

He made himself wait, counting the seconds, while he attempted to muster his thoughts. He could remember nothing. But when he moved his head again he felt the force of the blow and guessed how he had come here. They must have beaten him almost to a point of death after that, although he had felt nothing. Not then.

He eased his legs and felt the irons dragging at them. He was naked to the waist, and when he peered down he saw blood, dried and stark on his body, like black tar in the lantern light.

A tiny pinprick flickered in his damaged eye and he felt more pain when he tried to open it. It must be clotted with his own blood, he thought despairingly, but what was the difference now? They would kill him. He tensed his legs in the irons. But not before they had made him suffer more.

Voices came faintly through the hull and he realised suddenly that the motion had eased; for another few dazed seconds he believed the brig was in harbour.

But as his mind tried to grasp what was happening he heard the irregular groan of the tiller, the clatter of tackle on deck. He peered round the tiny space again, each movement bringing a fresh stab of pain. No wonder it was small and low. It must be the lazaret, somewhere below the after cabin where the master's stores were usually held. Here there was nothing but a few dusty crates. Delaval-Allday sobbed at the sudden discovery of his name. It was surging back in broken pieces. The girl, half-naked in the cabin, screaming and pleading, and then…

That was why the tiller movements were so loud and near. His sailor's instinct forced through the despair and the pain. The brig was barely making headway. Not becalmed, so that-it came to him then. It must be a fog. God, it was common enough in these waters, especially after wind across a warm sea.

He craned his neck again. There was a small hatch from the cabin above, and another even smaller door in the bulkhead. Probably for a carpenter to inspect the lower hull if the vessel was damaged.

Allday sat bolt upright. She was the Loyal Chieftain, and was loaded with contraband to the deck beams. He felt close to shouting out aloud, all his distress and anguish pinned into this one small prison. It was for nothing. Nothing.

He dragged himself out of the sudden self-pity and resignation, and listened to a new movement on deck. A brief rumbling that he had heard a thousand times, in a thousand places-the sound of gun trucks as a carriage was manhandled across deck planking. It was the long nine-pounder he had seen when he had helped to load the ship.

Suppose Bolitho was nearby? He fought against the sudden hope, because there was none. He tried to think only of dying without pleading, of escaping it all like the Captain's lady had done in the Great South Sea.

But the thought persisted, shining through the mists of pain like St Anthony's Light at Falmouth.

Just suppose Bolitho was searching this area…

More thuds echoed through the decks as if to prod his thoughts into order.

Allday had never trusted a topsail cutter, or any other vessel which relied on a single mast, no matter how much sail she carried. He peered with his sound eye at the deckhead as if to see the gun crew who were manoeuvring the nine-pounder, probably towards the quarter in readiness for a stern-chase. One good shot, and a cutter would be rendered useless. She would be left to fend for herself. Allday gritted his teeth. Or more likely, Delaval would round-up on her and loose every gun he had into the wreckage until not a soul was left alive.

He moved his arms and legs but was helpless. He must be content, accept that death was close by.

To fall in battle as old Stockdale had done was one thing- to die screaming under torture was another. Allday did not know if he could face it.

He closed his eyes tightly as the hatch in the deckhead was flung open. He heard angry voices, and then a coarse laugh as someone was pushed down into the lazaret. The hatch banged shut and Allday opened his eye once again.

The girl was crouching on her knees, whimpering and gasping like a savaged animal. There was blood on her face, and even in the poor light Allday saw the scratches on her bare shoulders as if talons had torn at her body. It was the same girl he had seen in the cabin. Close to, she was even younger than he had first thought. Fifteen or less. He watched despairingly as her hands fluttered about her torn clothing as she tried to cover her breasts.

As the lantern swung suddenly she stared up and saw him for the first time. It was all there in her face. Revulsion, terror, disgust at what had been done to her.

Allday swallowed hard and tried to think of words to calm her. God alone knew what they had done. From all the blood he guessed she had been raped several times. And now, like him, she was waiting to be disposed of.

He began carefully, "'Ere, miss, be brave now, eh?" His voice was little more than a croak. He added, "I know what you've been through-" He groaned and felt the manacles tearing at his wrists. What was the use? She didn't understand what he was saying, not a bloody word; and what if she did?

The girl crouched in the same position, her eyes still and unblinking.

Allday murmured, "I hope it's quick for you." He groaned again. "If I could only move!" His words seemed to bounce from the curved sides to mock him.

More voices echoed through the decks, and feet padded overhead as men ran to trim the sails yet again.

Allday's head drooped. Fog, that was it. Must be.

He glanced at the girl. She sat quite still, one breast bared. As if hope and life had already left her.

Footsteps thudded above, suddenly close, and Allday gasped hoarsely, "Come here to me, Miss! Please!"

He saw her eyes widen as she stared up at the small hatch, then at him with the brightness of terror. Something in his tone, perhaps, made her crawl over the filthy deck and huddle against his body, her eyes tightly closed.

Legs appeared through the hatch, then Isaac Newby the mate dropped into full view. He drew a cutlass from his belt and stabbed it into the deck out of reach where it swayed from side to side like a gleaming snake.

He looked at the girl and said, "Soon be time to drop you outboard, Mister Allday. But the cap'n 'as 'is own ideas, y'see-" He was grinning, enjoying it. "We shall 'ave to leave a souvenir for your gallant captain to remember you by, to remind 'im of the time he tried to outrun the Brotherhood, right?" He tapped the knife at his belt. "Delaval thinks your fine tattoo would make the proper sort of gift!" He threw back his head and laughed. "So the arm will have to come off, like."

Allday tasted bile in his throat. "Let her go. What can she do?"

Newby rubbed his chin as if in thought. "Well, seein' as you're not long for this world-" His arm shot out and he dragged the girl from the side, one hand tearing off the last covering from her shoulders. "Feast yer eyes on this!" He gripped the girl's hair and pulled her face roughly to his own, his free hand ripping away the remainder of her clothing like some savage beast.

Allday had no way of knowing what happened next. He saw the girl slump back beside him, her breasts rising and falling in fear, while Newby propped himself on his hands and stared straight ahead. Allday watched as Newby's utter disbelief changed to sudden emptiness while he pitched forward and lay still. Only then did he see the knife protruding from his side. She must have seen it before he had tried to rape her again, had dragged it from its sheath, and then…

Allday bobbed his head towards the dead man's belt. He had seen the screw there beside the empty sheath.

"Get it for me!" He struggled to make himself understood by dragging at his leg irons. "Help me, for God's sake! "

She reached out and touched his bruised face, as if they were a million miles from this terrible place. Then she bowed over the man's body and unhooked the screw from his belt.

Allday watched with sick fascination as she unfastened first the leg irons then reached up to release the manacles, oblivious to her breasts brushing against him, to everything but the moment, the spark of courage which when offered she had used without hesitation.

Allday rolled over and gasped aloud in agony as the blood forced through his veins again. He felt light-headed, and knew that if he did not keep moving he might lose his wits completely.

He jerked the cutlass from the deck and gasped, "That feels better!" Then he hobbled over to the corpse and plucked the knife from it. It did not come out easily, and he muttered, "You did for that pig well enough!"

He stared up as shouts filtered down to them from that other world of sea and canvas. He heard the clatter of handspikes and tackles. They were moving the nine-pounder again. There could only be one reason. He gripped the girl's shoulder and wondered why she did not pull away. Maybe she was beyond that, beyond everything real and decent.

Allday gestured towards the little door in the bulkhead and made a sawing motion with the knife. He noticed there was still blood on it, but she watched his gestures without fear or revulsion.

He explained carefully, "You get through there an' cut the lines to the rudder, see?" He groaned as her eyes remained empty and without understanding. They would soon come looking for Newby, especially if they intended to close with another vessel. Allday levered open the little door with his cutlass and held the lantern closer so that she could see into the darkness of the after-part. Controlled by unseen hands, the rudder's yoke lines squeaked and rubbed through their blocks, the sea beyond the transom gurgling so loudly it seemed just feet away. Allday started as he felt her fingers on his wrist. She looked at him just once, her glance searching as if to share their resources, then she took the proffered knife and slithered through the small doorway. Once inside that confined space Allday saw her body suddenly pale in the darkness, and knew that she had tossed aside the last of her covering, as if that too was part of a nightmare.

He loosened his arms and winced as the pain probed through them. Then he peered up at the hatchway. It was the only way anyone could approach. He listened to the girl's sharp breathing as she sawed up and down on one of the stout hemp lines. It might take her a long while, a strand at a time. He spat on his palm and gripped the cutlass all the tighter. Now she had the strength of hatred and fear to help her. A few moments ago he had been expecting death, but only after the brutal severing of his arm.

Now, if only for a short while, they were both free, and even if he had to kill her himself, she would suffer that and nothing more.

A voice bellowed, "Where the hell is he?"

Allday bared his teeth. "Here we go then!" A shaft of light came down from the cabin and a voice called angrily, "Come on deck, you mad bugger! The cap'n's waitin'!"

A leg appeared over the coaming and Allday could feel the wildness surging through his mind and body like a raging fire.

He snarled, "Won't I do, matey?" The cutlass blade took the man's leg just above the knee with all his power behind it, so that Allday had to lurch away to avoid the blood and the terrible scream before the hatch was dropped into place.

As his breathing steadied he heard the regular scrape of the knife and murmured, "You keep at it, my lass. We'll show these bastards a thing or two!" He licked his dried lips. After that… But afterwards no longer mattered.

Bolitho walked aft to the compass box, aware of the loudness of his shoes on the damp planking. The Telemachus's deck was filled with silent figures, but in the drifting mist he could have been with a mere handful of companions.

Chesshyre straightened up as he recognized him and said, "Barely holding steerage way, sir." Even he spoke in a hushed whisper. Like all sailors he hated sea-mist and fog. Bolitho watched the tilting compass card. North-North-East. He watched it move again very slightly under the tiny lamp-glow. Chesshyre was right. They were holding on course, but making barely two knots, if that. It couldn't have been at a worse time.

Someone up forward began to cough, and Hawkins the boatswain rasped, "Stick a wad down yer gullet, Fisher! Not a squeak out of you, my son!"

Paice's tall shadow moved through the mist. Perhaps more than anyone he understood Bolitho's predicament, the agony of seeing his last chance slip away. To the smugglers it meant very little. Any landfall would do. They could rid themselves of their cargoes with ease once they were within sight of home waters.

Bolitho watched the winding tendrils of mist creeping through rigging and shrouds, while even in the darkness the big mainsail seemed to shine like metal from the moisture. It appeared as if the cutter was stationary, and only the mist was moving ahead.

It would be first light soon. Bolitho clamped his jaws together to contain his despair. It might just as well be midnight.

It was impossible to guess where the other two cutters lay. They would be lucky to regain contact when the mist cleared, let alone run down the decoy or Delaval.

Allday was out there somewhere. Unless he already lay fathoms deep, betrayed by his own loyalty and courage.

Paice remarked, "We could change tack again, sir."

Bolitho could not see his face but could feel his compassion. He had wanted Delaval more than anyone. Was there nothing they could do?

He replied, "I think not. Attend the chart yourself and try to estimate our position and drift." He spoke his anxiety aloud. "I know it's unlikely but there may be a ship just out there. Otherwise I would suggest more soundings. Anything is better than not knowing."

Paice thrust his big hands into his pockets. "I shall put a good man aloft as soon as there is some daylight, sir." He turned away, the mist swirling between them, the compass light vanishing. "I will check the chart."

Lieutenant Triscott shifted uneasily, unwilling to break into Bolitho's thoughts.

Bolitho said, "What is it, Mr Triscott?" He had not meant to sound so sharp. "You are all on edge today!"

Triscott said lamely, "I was wondering, sir. Should we meet with the smuggler, I-I mean-"

"You are asking if we can overpower him without the other cutters?"

The youthful lieutenant hung his head. "Well, yes, sir."

Bolitho leaned on the bulwark, the woodwork like ice under his fingers even though his body felt hot and feverish.

"Let us find him, Mr Triscott. Then you may ask me again."

Chesshyre cupped his hands behind his ears. "What was that?"

Bolitho stared aloft but soon lost the shrouds and running-rigging in the mist, as if they led up to nowhere.

The boatswain called hoarsely, "Not riggin', sir!"

Bolitho held up his hand. "Quiet!" Like Chesshyre he had thought for just a few seconds that the sound had come from above, like a line parting under stress, or being too swollen with damp and carrying away inside a block. But it was not. It had come from outside the hull.

Men stood and swayed between the six-pounders; others clambered into the shrouds as if to listen more easily, all weariness and disappointment forgotten. At least for the while.

Paice appeared on deck, hatless, his thick hair moving in the wet breeze like a hassock of grass.

He said thickly, "I know Telemachus better'n I know myself, sir. Every sound carries down there to the cabin." He peered angrily into the darkness. "That was a musket shot, or I'm a bloody nigger!" He glanced awkwardly at Bolitho. "Begging your pardon, sir!"

This time they all heard it. Muffled, the sound barely carrying above the shipboard noises within the confines of the deck.

Chesshyre nodded, satisfied. "Close, sir. Downwind of us. No doubt about it. The wind's poor enough, but it'll deaden the sound."

Bolitho frowned with concentration. Chesshyre's observations were good ones. Who would be firing into mist without some kind of retaliation?

"Let her fall off a point." He gripped Paice's sleeve as he made to move aft. "Pass the word to load both batteries. Gun by gun."

He let each word hang in the air. "I don't want anyone making a noise. We've not much time, but we've time enough for caution."

Triscott and the gunner moved up either side, whispering instructions, gritting their teeth at the slightest creak or thud.

Bolitho walked forward between the busy, groping figures and stood in the eyes of the vessel, his fingers gripped around a stay with the tiny gurgling bow-wave directly beneath him. Once when he looked aft he thought the mist was thicker, for he could barely see the mast. It was like standing on a pinnacle, moving ahead, seeing nothing. One slip, and they would never find him.

There was another muffled shot and he felt a new disappointment. It seemed further away, on a different bearing. Mist distorted most things at sea, even a trained seaman's judgement. Suppose-he thrust it from his mind. There was a ship there.He could sense it. And if that someone kept firing, the sound would lead them to it. He tried to control his sudden anger. If only the mist would depart. He stared up at the sky. It was surely brighter now? It had to be.

Triscott called softly, "All loaded, sir."

Bolitho climbed down from the stemhead and used the lieutenant's shoulder to support himself as he groped his way over the inboard end of the bowsprit.

As they walked aft between the guns a voice whispered, "We gonna fight, Cap'n?"

Another said, "There'll be prize money if we takes this 'un, eh, Cap'n?"

Someone even reached out to touch his arm as he passed, as if to regain a lost courage, to find comfort there.

Not for the first time was Bolitho grateful they could not see his face. He reached the compass-box and saw one of the helmsmen leaning backwards, his whole weight on the tiller bar, his red-rimmed eyes watching steadily for the tell-tale peak of the mainsail.

Bolitho stared at him, realising that he could see the man's stubbled face when moments earlier he had been hidden completely.

Paice exclaimed, "I'll go myself, sir!" Then he was away, swarming up the lee ratlines with the ease of a young topman.

Bolitho watched him until his outline merged into the remaining mist. His wife must have been proud of him, just as she had been ashamed of the people who had stood by and allowed a man to be murdered. She had probably been thinking of the tall lieutenant even as the pistol had cut short her life.

Paice slithered down a stay. "She's a brig, sir!" He did not seem to feel the cuts on his hands from the hasty drop. "I can just make out her tops'l yards." He stared at Bolitho without seeing him. "Must be her! That bastard Delaval!"

Bolitho could feel the power of the man, the reborn force of his hatred.

"Two good hands aloft!"

Then Paice said in a more controlled voice, "No sign of any other sail, sir." He clenched his hands and stared with disbelief at the blood on his wrists. "But by God, I'd walk on water to take that swine!"

There were more shots now and Bolitho offered silent thanks. If Telemachus could close the range and use her smashers it might compensate for the smuggler's heavier armament. The musket fire must be keeping them busy. Too busy even to put a lookout at the masthead.

A mutiny? He saw Delaval's cruel features in his mind. It was unlikely. A cold hand seemed to close around his heart and squeeze the life out of it.

It was Allday.

He was stunned by the flat calmness in his voice. "Alter course to engage, Mr Chesshyre. Pass out the weapons."

He looked up at a small handkerchief of pale sky, and thought of the dead girl on Wakeful's deck.

A long, painful journey. When the mist eventually cleared, it would be settled. He loosened the old sword at his hip.

For some it would be over.

Allday flung himself against the curving side and ducked yet again as a musket ball slammed through the partly open hatch.

He heard them calling to one another, the scrape of ramrods as they reloaded. He was sweating despite the chill air of the lazaret, and his whole body was streaming as if he had just dragged himself from the sea.

He gripped the cutlass and squinted up through the trapped powder smoke. It was just a matter of time. He shouted over his shoulder towards the small door, "Keep sawing, my lass! You'll get through!" Only once had he been able to watch the girl's progress. Even with a sharp blade it was hard work to cut through the stout rudder-lines. He had seen her pale outline rising and falling above the creaking lines, everything else forgotten, unimportant. She probably didn't even know why she was doing it, Allday thought despairingly, just as she understood not a word he said to her.

The hatch moved an inch, and the muzzle of a musket pointed blindly through the opening. Allday reached up and seized it, winced as he felt the heated metal, then tugged it hard, catching the man off balance so that he fell across the hatch, the musket exploding within a foot of Allday's head. Before the smuggler could release his grip Allday thrust upwards with his cutlass and yelled, "One for the pot, you bastards!"

He fell exhausted against the side, his eyes too raw from smoke to care about the blood which poured through the hatch like paint.

The people in the cabin suddenly froze into silence, and above the creak of rudder lines Allday heard a voice yell, "Stand to! Man the braces there! A King's ship, by Jesus!" And then another, calmer, more controlled; Delaval's. "It's Paice's Telemachus, I'll swear. This time we'll do for him and his bloody crew, eh, lads?"

Allday did not know or care about any response. The words stood out before all else. Paice's Telemachus. Bolitho was here.

The deck was slanting down so that the corpse of Newby rolled on one side as if awakening to the din.

Allday heard the shouted orders, the slap of canvas, and then the too-familiar sound of the nine-pounder being hauled into position.

He peered through the little door and pleaded, "Keep at it, lass. I can hold 'em off until-"

He stared blindly at the pale figure sprawled across one of the timbers. Either the last shot had caught her, or someone had fired down through the slits which held the sheaves of the rudder lines.

He reached over the sill and dragged her up and through, held her naked body against his own, turning her face with sudden tenderness until the swaying lantern reflected from her eyes.

Brokenly he whispered, "Never mind, young missy, you bloody well tried!"

The deck bounded to a sudden recoil and he heard somebody yelling directions even as the discharged gun ran inboard on its tackles.

Allday crawled over the deck and dragged the coat from Newby's back. Then he covered her with it and with a last glance at her face lifted her to the open hatch and pushed her into the abandoned cabin.

Another minute or so and she might have cut the rudder lines, then Paice's cutter would have stood a good chance of out-sailing her, crossing her stern and raking her with those deadly carronades.

The deck heaved again and dust filtered down from the poop as the gun fired across the quarter.

Allday wrapped the girl's body in the coat and put her across his shoulder. For just those seconds he had seen her face in the pale light. No fear, all anguish gone. Probably the first peace she had known since the Terror had swept through her country.

Allday glanced round the cabin until his eyes fell on a bottle of rum which was about to slide from the table. With the girl's body carried easily over his shoulder he drank heavily from the bottle before picking up the reddened cutlass again and making for the companion ladder.

They could not hurt her or him any more. Out in the open he would die fighting. He shuddered as the gun crashed inboard again and the deck shook to the concussion.

There was a ragged cheer. "There goes 'er topmast, by God!"

Allday blinked the sweat from his eyes and left the cabin. At the foot of the ladder he saw the man whose leg he had nearly severed when he had climbed through the hatch. His bandage was sodden with blood, and he stank of vomit and rum. Despite his pain he managed to open his eyes, his mouth ready to scream as he saw Allday rising over him.

Allday said, "Not any more, matey!" He jammed the point of his cutlass between the man's teeth and drove it hard against the ladder. To the dead girl he muttered, "Keep with me, lass!"

As his eyes rose above the coaming he saw the backs of several men who were standing at the bulwarks to point at the other vessel. Between them Allday saw Telemachus, his heart sinking as he saw her despoiled outline, the topmast gone, like a great crippled seabird. The gun's crew were already ramming home another charge, and past them Allday saw Delaval watching his adversary through a brass telescope. All the fury and hatred seemed to erupt at once and Allday yelled,

"I'm here, you bloody bastard!"

For those few moments every face was turned towards him, the approaching cutter forgotten.

"Who's going to be brave enough, eh, you scum?"

Delaval shouted, "Cut him down! Bosun, take that man!"

But nobody moved as Allday bent down and laid the dead girl on the deck in the dawn's first sunlight.

"Is this what you want? All you have guts for?"

He saw the seaman Tom Lucas staring at the girl before he shouted, "We didn't bargain for this!"

They were his last words on earth. Delaval lowered his smoking pistol and drew another.

He snapped, "Put up the helm! We'll finish this now!"

Allday stood alone, his chest heaving, barely able to see out of his uninjured eye, or keep his grasp on the cutlass.

As if through a haze he watched the helm going over, saw sudden confusion as the spokes spun uselessly and a voice cried, "Steerin's gone!"

Allday dropped beside the girl on the deck and grasped her hand, the cutlass held ready across her body.

"You done it, girl!" His eyes smarted. "By Christ, we're in irons!"

The brig was already losing steerage way and heeling unsteadily downwind. Allday looked at the gun's crew, their expression dazed as the distant cutter seemed to slide away from their next fall of shot.

"Well, lads!" Allday waited for the sudden, agonising impact. He knew Delaval was aiming his other pistol, just as he knew that men were moving away from the sides to stand between them.

He repeated, "Is this what you want?"

Delaval screamed, "Cut him down! I order it!"

Still no one moved, then some of the seamen Allday had seen at the boatyard tossed down their weapons, while others defiantly faced aft towards Delaval.

Allday watched Telemachus's splintered topmast rise above the Loyal Chieftain's weather bulwark, knew he would have seen Bolitho were his eyes not so blind.

It seemed like a year before a grapnel lodged in the bulwark and the deck was taken over by some of Paice's armed seamen.

There was no resistance, and Paice himself walked aft until he confronted Delaval by the abandoned wheel.

Delaval faced him coldly, but his features were like chalk.

"Well, Lieutenant, your greatest triumph, I dare say. Will you murder me now, unarmed as I am, in front of witnesses?"

Paice glanced across to Allday and gave a brief nod before removing the unfired pistol from the other's hand.

"The noose is for scum like you." He turned aside as a voice yelled, "Wakeful in sight, sir!" Someone gave a cheer but fell silent as Bolitho climbed over the bulwark past the levelled muskets and swivels on Telemachus's side.

He looked around at their tense faces. He had seen Paice's expression, his features torn with emotion when seconds earlier he might have hacked Delaval to the deck. Perhaps, like the blind man, he had discovered that revenge would solve nothing.

Then he walked to Allday, who was kneeling again beside the dead girl. Two unknown young women. A twist of fate.

He saw the cuts and cruel bruises on Allday's body and wanted to say so much. Maybe the right words would come later.

Instead he said quietly, "So you're safe, John?"

Allday peered up at him with his sound eye and felt his face trying to respond with a grin, but without success.

One truth stood out. Bolitho had called him by his first name. Something which had never happened before.