He tried to push the thought aside. It was a typical spring day; he had to keep remembering that. He was the one at fault with his memory forever rooted in another place, another time.

Allday, standing a little apart and a few paces behind him on the slope, remarked casually, “Well, Cap’n, there’s one of your brood right enough.” He waited, gauging the mood as he had since their arrival here.

Bolitho nodded and shaded his eyes to study the little ship which lay above her own reflection beyond an islet and two shin-ing sandbars. A topsail cutter, Telemachus, the one which had been undergoing a refit in the dockyard upriver from here.

Bolitho looked at her spartan outline, a vessel so different when under full sail. It was hard to realise that these cutters, so small after a frigate, had for their size a bigger sail area than any other craft afloat. They might not be able to outrun all the rest, but in any sort of wind they could outmanoeuvre anything.

One of his brood. Allday, in spite of his forced casualness, must know what he was thinking. Comparing her with Tempest, the Great South Sea, everything. Without effort he could picture the three tall pyramids of pale, fair-weather canvas, reaching up to the cloudless blue sky. The deck seams sticking to your shoes as you moved about in search of a shadow while the horizon lay sharp and empty in all directions. A real ship. A thoroughbred. Yes, Allday would know and feel it too.

Bolitho had reported his arrival to the admiral in command at the Royal Dockyard, a distant but affable man, who had seemed to regard the affair on the road with the two bound and humil-iated officers as little more than an irritation.

He had said, “The midshipman—well, he knew less than nothing, but the lieutenant in charge should have known better than to search premises and arrest suspected deserters without first informing the local authorities. I shall make my displeasure felt, of course, and I dare say that someone might be made to pay a fine, but—” He did not need to continue.

Bolitho had persisted, “I am told that the same thing hap-pened at Rochester last year, sir. Then it was no less than the mayor who led a mob to attack the guardhouse where some pressed men were awaiting an escort.”

The admiral had frowned. “That’s true. The devil even fined our officers heavily before he would release them.” He had become angry. “But they’ll sing a different tune when the Frogs are on the rampage again. It will be good old Jack Tar then, sure enough, when these self-righteous hypocrites think that their rotten skins are in danger once more and they whimper for sailors to defend them!”

Bolitho had not yet met Commodore Hoblyn. The admiral had explained that he was visiting some local shipyards with a view to the Admiralty’s purchasing small, handy craft, in the event of war. The admiral had commented wryly, “With letters of mar-que no doubt, to enlist a few more cutthroats for the King!”

Bolitho had left the admiral’s house, his final words still in his ears. “Don’t take it so to heart, Bolitho. You have three fine cut-ters at your command. Use them as you will, within the scope of your orders.”

It was strange, Bolitho thought, that in the two days since his arrival here he had sensed more than once that every move he made was being watched. More so perhaps because of the efforts some had made to look away when he had passed. Which was why he had sent his carriage with a protesting Ferguson back to Falmouth. He had even arranged for the local dragoons to pro-vide a small escort until they were out of Kent and on the road to London and beyond.

Bolitho looked down the slope again and saw the boy, Young Matthew, peering at the anchored cutter, barely able to stand still with his excitement.

That had been almost the hardest part, he thought. The boy had pleaded with his grandfather to be allowed to go with Bolitho as a servant, a groom, anything.

The old coachman had blown his nose and had said eventu-ally, “Well, sir, ’e’s more trouble underfoot than ’e knows. Mebbee a bit o’ time with some discipline will tame the little puppy!” But his eyes had told another story, and his voice had been as heavy as his heart.

Allday murmured, “I’ll go an’ hail the vessel, Cap’n.”

“Aye, do that.” He watched Allday stride down the slope to join the boy at the water’s edge. Probably thinks I’m imagining all of it. It was why Bolitho had asked for a carriage to bring him here, instead of joining the Telemachus in the dockyard. They knew too much already. He needed a few surprises of his own.

The other two cutters, named Wakeful and Snapdragon, were already lying downriver towards Sheerness, where the Medway surged out into the great estuary with the Thames.

Small ships perhaps, but each one a private world like every vessel in the fleet.

He shaded his eyes again. Telemachus was just a few inches short of seventy feet but had the surprisingly ample beam of twenty-four feet. Sturdily built with a rounded bow, the after part narrowed down to a typical mackerel-tail shape. How she shone above her own image, the cat’s-paws rippling down her side, more like a toy than a ship-of-war. The sunlight played on her buff hull with its single, broad black wale below the gunports. But it was always the rig which took a sailor’s attention, he decided. A sin-gle, large mainmast mounted forward of midships, made even taller by a tapering fidded topmast. She had a long, horizontal bowsprit and a boom to carry the huge loosefooted mainsail which protruded well beyond her low counter. With all her canvas furled or brailed up to the topsail yard she looked unfinished. But once at sea . . .

Bolitho sighed. Enthusiasm, like warmth to his body, defied him.

Allday’s powerful voice echoed across the water, and after a few seconds some faces appeared at the Telemachus’s bulwark. Bolitho wondered what the cutter’s commander must think of this unorthodox arrival.

He saw a jolly-boat appear around the stern, the oars taking charge as a deceptively slow current carried them clear of the hull. There were already many more people on deck now. A visitor, a break in the monotony.

A fraction under seventy feet and yet she carried a comple-ment of sixty souls. It was hard to accept that they could cram themselves into that hull and share it with guns, powder, shot and stores enough to sustain them, and still find room to breathe.

He saw Allday watching the jolly-boat with a critical eye.

“Well?”

Allday shrugged one massive shoulder. “Looks smart enough. Still—”

Then he glanced at the boy beside him and grinned. “Like a dog with two tails, he is.”

“Can’t think why. A safe bed, with nothing fiercer than horses to meet each day. In exchange for this—” He gestured towards the river and the other anchored men-of-war. “It might help him to make up his mind, I suppose.” He sounded bitter.

Allday looked away. What was the point of piping up and offering an argument? Young Matthew worshipped Bolitho, just as his father had done after he had obtained a berth for him in the packet company. He shook his head. Later on perhaps. But right now the captain was all aback. Maybe they had only half-won the battle after all.

The boat lurched alongside a waterlogged piece of slipway and a young lieutenant splashed up towards Bolitho, his face astonished and full of apology.

He doffed his hat and stammered, “Lieutenant Triscott, sir. I am the senior in Telemachus.” He stared round in disbelief, “I—I had no idea that you were expected, sir, otherwise—”

Bolitho touched his arm. “Otherwise, Mr Triscott, you would have borrowed the admiral’s barge and been planning a guard-of-honour for the occasion, am I right?” He looked again at the river. “This way is better.” He gestured to the road. “There is a chest yonder. Be so good as to have it brought over.”

The lieutenant stared at him blankly. “You are staying aboard, sir?”

“It was my intention.” Bolitho’s grey eyes settled on him and he added gently, “If you have no objection, that is?”

Allday hid a grin. Mr Triscott was the senior. He had refrained from mentioning that apart from the commander he was the only commissioned lieutenant in the ship.

Bolitho watched the oars rising and falling, the way some of the seamen glanced quickly at him, then looked away when he saw them. Experienced, strong hands, every one.

He asked quietly, “You have a good company, Mr Triscott?”

“Aye, sir. Most were volunteers. Fishermen and the like—” His voice trailed away.

Bolitho rested his chin on his sword hilt. Triscott was about nineteen at a guess. Another young hopeful, glad to serve in a lowly cutter rather than spend his most precious years on the beach.

He watched the tall, solitary mast rising to meet them. Well built, with her name in scrollwork across her counter. He noticed that a carved dolphin appeared to be supporting the name; a fine piece of craftsmanship, he thought.

Then he remembered. Telemachus, in legend, the son of Ulysses and Penelope, had been rescued from drowning by a dolphin.

The cutter might not be grand enough to warrant a proud figurehead in her bows, but the unknown carver had made cer-tain she would be honoured all the same.

As they made for the chains Bolitho glanced at the closed ports. The sides were pierced for fourteen guns, originally only six-pounders, with a pair of swivels mounted aft by the tiller. But there were now two powerful carronades up forward, “smashers” as the Jacks called them, a match for any vessel which drifted under their lee in a fight.

There was a bark of commands as the boat hooked on to the chains and Bolitho stood up to seize a small ladder. At any other time he would have smiled. Standing in the boat he was almost level with the entry port itself, where a tall lieutenant with a press of figures behind him waited to receive the post-captain.

Small fragments stood out like pieces of a partly cleaned painting. The lieutenant’s grim expression, Allday rising from a thwart in case Bolitho should slip or feel suddenly faint. And the boy, Young Matthew Corker, with his round, open face shining with sheer pleasure at this moment when his fourteen years had suddenly changed.

Calls shrilled and then Bolitho found himself on deck. As he raised his hat towards the narrow poop where the White Ensign streamed out to a lively breeze, he said shortly, “I am sorry for this lack of warning.”

Lieutenant Jonas Paice bit back a retort and said gruffly, “I thought, sir, that is—”

He was a powerful man in every way. Bolitho knew the essen-tials about him. Paice was old for his rank, perhaps two years younger than himself, but had once commanded a collier-brig out of Sunderland before entering the King’s service as a master’s mate. It would be sufficient to begin with. Later, Bolitho intended to know the man behind every face in his small flotilla of three cutters.

“You imagined I might be spying on you.”

Paice stared at him as if he could scarcely believe it. “I did think that you intended to take us unawares, sir.”

“I am glad to hear it.” Bolitho glanced over and beyond the silent figures. “The flag stands out well from Beacon Hill, Captain. May I suggest you up-anchor and get under way without fuss.” He gave a slight smile. “I can assure you I will attempt not to get under your feet.”

Paice tried again. “You’ll find this somewhat different from a fifth-rate, sir. A wild animal if she’s not handled to her liking.”

Bolitho eyed him calmly. “I served in a cutter years ago. The Avenger. She was commanded by my brother.”

A few seconds and he saw it all. The sudden prick of mem-ory, the mention of his brother. Something like relief too. As if Paice was glad to know, or think he knew, why Bolitho had been given this humble appointment. Perhaps it was even true. Dead or not, Hugh had made too many enemies to be forgotten, or his family forgiven.

He looked forward along the deck again. It was full of peo-ple. They probably resented his arrival. He said, “We will join Wakeful and Snapdragon without delay.”

Paice stared at Allday and then at the boy as if he could still not accept what was happening.

“But, sir, don’t you need any others to assist you?”

Bolitho watched some gulls rising to circle lazily around the mainmast truck, their wings straight and motionless.

“I have all I need, thank you.” He grimaced at Allday. “I fear the first lesson has begun.”

They all stared at Young Matthew. In those few minutes his face had changed to a startling green.

Paice cupped his hands. “Man the capstan! Prepare to break out the anchor! Mr Hawkins, hands aloft, loose tops’l!”

Bolitho walked aft as the crowded figures surged into a new and ordered pattern. He half-listened to the squeal of blocks as men hauled on halliards and braces, while from the capstan the stamp of bare feet, accompanied by the groan of incoming cable, seemed to rouse him from a deep sleep.

Like hearing the sea calling to him without pain or mockery. He removed his hat and felt his hair ruffle in the damp air.

He recalled Rear-Admiral Drew’s dry comment: “Were a frigate captain.”

A last show of pride would have cost him even this. He would still be haunting the corridors of the Admiralty, or returning beaten and sick to the grey house at Falmouth.

Allday said, “I’ll show you to the cabin, Cap’n.” He chuck-led. “Falmouth rabbits have more room!”

He watched as Bolitho groped his way to the small compan-ion ladder near the tiller, beside which a master’s mate and two helmsmen were already pointedly at their stations.

Once at sea things might seem better, he thought.

Allday heard the boy’s desperate retching and hurried to find him. Once he paused, his chin just level with the deck coaming, and watched the land sway over as the anchor tore free from the ground.

Sails banged and thundered in confusion and he saw the great shadow of the boomed mainsail slice overhead like a banner.

They had done with the land. This was their place. It was enough.

Allday tapped on the cabin door and had to bend almost double to peer inside. He saw Bolitho with his back to the bulkhead, the three commanding officers of the anchored cutters packed in around the table as best they could.

“All secure, Cap’n.” Just a brief exchange of glances, but Bolitho understood that he would be outside the door and make sure that nobody should hear what he was not intended to. Allday knew from experience. Little ships had the biggest ears, and Bolitho needed his first meeting to be undisturbed.

Before he withdrew, Allday also noticed that Bolitho was wearing his old seagoing coat, with its tarnished buttons, dis-playing no epaulettes on the shoulders. A coat stitched and repaired so many times that, when his sister Nancy had held it up with dismay and tried to persuade him to get rid of it, Allday had realised just how close he had become to the family.

Nancy had been helping to pack two chests for Bolitho’s jour-ney to London to plead for an appointment. During the long illness which they had shared in their various ways Allday had stood firm, knowing it was his strength which Bolitho depended on. But the mention of the coat, such a simple thing, had bro-ken his defences, taken him by surprise like boarders in the night.

“No, Miss Nancy! Leave it be!” Then in a defeated voice, his eyes downcast, he had explained, “It was what the Captain’s Lady wore in the boat, afore she—” He had been unable to go on.

Get rid of that coat? It would have to fall apart first.

The door closed and Bolitho glanced around at their various expressions.

On the short passage to this anchorage he had spoken to Paice as much as he could without interfering with his duties of shiphandling. A tall, powerful figure, but one who rarely raised his voice when passing commands. He did not seem to need it. The combined wardroom and cabin had no headroom at all, and only directly beneath the skylight was it possible to stand upright. But Paice had to stoop even there.

He was an excellent seaman, with a master’s eye for wind and current. He seemed to feel the moods of his sturdy command even before the helmsmen who stood on either side of the long tiller bar. But he was slow to answer questions; not resentful, more defensive. As if he searched for any possible criticism, not of him-self but of his Telemachus.

It was a perfect evening after all. Pink clouds as dusk moved across the headland which sheltered the anchorage, with the first lamps already glittering like fireflies from the homes of Queenborough.

The three cutters might look as alike as peas in a pod to any watching landsmen, but Bolitho had already marked their small differences, no more apparent than right here with their com-manders. Lieutenant Charles Queely of the Wakeful was in his mid-twenties, a dark-haired man with a hooked nose and deepset eyes, ever-alert like a falcon. The face of a scholar, a clergyman perhaps; only his speech and dress marked him as a sea-officer. He hailed from the Isle of Man, and came of generations of deep-water sailormen. Lieutenant Hector Vatass of the Snapdragon was a direct contrast. Fair-haired, with a homely face and blue eyes which would deceive no one. An English sailor from almost any century. He was twenty-five, and had served originally in a frigate until she was paid off.

Bolitho said, “Please light up your pipes if you wish; I am sure that Telemachus has a good store of tobacco!” They smiled politely but nobody moved. It was too soon for confidences.

Bolitho said, “Snapdragon will be entering the dockyard in a few days.”

He saw Vatass start with surprise. “Er—yes, sir.”

“Make the most of it. It seems likely that overhauls will soon be a thing of the past, and I need—no, I want this flotilla to be ready for anything.”

Vatass prompted carefully, “Will it be war, sir?”

Before Bolitho could answer, Queely snapped disdainfully, “Never! The Frogs have their King and Queen in jail, but they’ll let them out soon enough when their bloody-minded National Convention realise they need them!”

Bolitho said, “I disagree. I believe there will be war, and very soon. Ready or not, it is not unknown for a country to provoke a conflict if only to cover its own failings.” His tone hardened. “And England is even less prepared!”

Paice folded his arms. “But where do we come into this, sir? We carry out patrols, stop and search some homebound vessels, and occasionally find deserters amongst their people. We also offer support to the revenue vessels when asked—”

Queely showed his teeth in a grin. “Which ain’t too often!”

Paice glanced at the sealed skylight. “It’s a mite hot, sir. Could I—”

Bolitho smiled. “I think not. I need to speak without others lending their attention.”

He saw Paice’s immediate, defensive frown and added bluntly, “We can trust nobody. Even the most loyal seaman would be hard put to resist a few pieces of gold for what he might see as harm-less information.”

Vatass said vaguely, “But what do we know, sir?”

Bolitho looked at each face in turn. “Smuggling is rife here, and on the Isle of Thanet in particular. From the Nore to the Downs the trade is barely checked, and there are insufficient rev-enue vessels to hunt them down.” He placed his hand flat on the table and added, “From what I have seen and heard already, I am certain that smuggling is condoned, even aided, by some in authority. The lieutenant who was stripped and beaten when I found him on the London Road did not obey the letter of his orders. He should have applied for permission from the town before he raided houses and recaptured deserters, men who, bad or not, are desperately needed in the fleet.” He saw his words, sinking in. “Why did he not ask? Why instead did the young lieu-tenant choose to ignore his orders?” His hand rose and fell with a slap. “He knew that the very authority he looked to would prob-ably warn or offer refuge to the deserters. I have no doubt that there are many such prime seamen earning their keep in the Trade as we sit right here.”

Queely cleared his throat. “With respect, sir, we have tried in the past to seek out smugglers. Perhaps, and I mean no offence for I know you to be a gallant officer, being away for so long in the Indies and the Great South Sea, you have—” He hesitated as Bolitho’s eyes settled on his.

Bolitho smiled grimly. “Lost touch? Is that what you meant?”

Paice said in his gruff voice, “I hate the scum too, sir. But we are so few against so many, and now that you have spoken out, I’ll say my piece if I may.”

Bolitho nodded. Their guard was down. He had spoken to them like companions, not as a senior officer to his subordinates. Low in rank maybe, but they were all captains, and had the right to be heard.

Paice said bluntly, “It’s as Charles Queely says.” He gave what might have been a cautious smile. “You being a Cornishman, sir, will know a lot about the Trade and those who live by it. But with respect, it’s nothing compared to this coast. And as you said, sir, it seems that there are more who commit these crimes out-side the jails than in them!” The others nodded in agreement.

Vatass said, “The revenue officers are often outnumbered, and outgunned by the smugglers. Many of their captains are loath to work close inshore for fear of being wrecked and overrun, and ashore their riding-officers risk their lives when there is a big haul being unloaded. They strike terror into anyone who raises a hand against them. Informers are butchered like pigs. Even revenue men are not safe any more.”

Bolitho asked, “What information do we receive?”

Paice said, “The coastguard help, so too the revenue officers if they get enough time.”

Bolitho stood up and banged his head sharply on a beam. He looked at Paice and gave a rueful smile. “You are right. Quite dif-ferent from a fifth-rate!” This time they all laughed.

It was a small beginning. He said, “It takes too long. They hold all the advantages. Send for dragoons, and the beach will have been emptied by the time a courier is able to raise the alarm.

Queely murmured angrily, “If the poor devil gets through without having his throat slit!”

Paice said, “And the buggers watch us at anchor, sir. Out there at this moment there’ll be one of them, a fast horse nearby. We’d need fifty cutters and even then—”

Bolitho stood up again to lift one panel of the skylight and felt the salt air on his lips.

“Then we will mark them down at sea, gentlemen. It may stir up a hornet’s nest, but we shall have results. The more trouble we can make for them, the less interference we shall get with our work. We are ordered to obtain men for the fleet. That we shall do.” His eyes flashed in the reflected sunset. “The navy has never taken second place to pirates. I see these smugglers as no differ-ent. We will press or prosecute, but first we will try a little action of our own.”

He rapped on the door and eventually Young Matthew bowed into the cabin with a tray of goblets and wine.

Bolitho looked at Paice. “Some wine from my home in Falmouth, not smuggled, I trust!” Telemachus was after all Paice’s command; it would be seen as high-handed to offer drinks when he was only a guest here. He glanced at the boy and saw that his face was almost back to normal, his cheeks like Devon apples again. But his gaze was glassy, and he had not been seen at all on the passage downriver. One of Allday’s sworn-by remedies no doubt. A ship’s biscuit ground up to a powder and soaked under a powerful measure of rum. Kill or cure, Allday claimed. Young Matthew was learning more every hour of the day.

Bolitho said, “I can rely on all of you to share this discussion with no one. When the time is ripe, we will hit them.”

He lifted his goblet and thought he heard Allday leaning against the door.

“I give you a sentiment, gentlemen. To those across the Channel who are suffering terror which is not of their making, and to our three ships!” He saw Queely’s surprised glance.

But they drank deeply, the air touched with rum as the boy refilled the goblets.

The wine was hock, chilled like a Cornish stream in the bilges. Young Matthew had often helped at table under Mrs Ferguson’s watchful eye; he was proving that he had forgotten nothing.

Bolitho raised his goblet again and said simply, “To His Majesty. Damnation to all his enemies!”

That night, while Telemachus swung easily to her anchor cable, Bolitho, cramped though he was in a small cot like any junior lieutenant, slept for the first time without the dream’s torment. Near the cot, lying on a chest, was his old coat, the watch she had given him tucked carefully into a pocket.

A reminder, that with her memory he could never be alone.