The sky overhead was streaked with tattered clouds, all hur-rying before a strong north-easterly breeze which felt more like autumn than spring.
It would soon be dusk. Paice shifted his position but barely staggered as his command heeled even further over, her huge mainsail, like the jib and foresail, set tightly almost fore-and-aft as she butted up to windward. How she could sail, he thought, and to confirm his appreciation the helmsman yelled, “Full an’ bye, sir! Nor’ by West!” But for once the pleasure of sailing so close to the wind failed to sustain him. This was the third day of it, beating back and forth in a great triangle above the approaches to the north-east foreland of Kent.
Perhaps he should have held his tongue and waited for Captain Bolitho to grow tired of hunting smugglers and turn to a easier life in some shore-based headquarters like the commodore. Paice had received news from an old and trusted informant that there was to be a “run,” somewhere along the shores of Deal, either last night or tonight. He had been surprised at Bolitho’s interest and immediate reaction. He had sent Telemachus to sea, while he him-self had sailed in Queely’s Wakeful. Then at a pre-arranged rendezvous Bolitho had changed back to Paice’s own command.
Bolitho was down below now studying the chart, comparing his notes with the ship’s log. Like a man being driven to the limit, Paice thought. He heard the acting-master, Erasmus Chesshyre, giving some instructions to the two helmsmen, then his slither-ing footsteps as he joined him at the bulwark.
Together they watched the grey-green sea lifting almost to the rail, spurts of spray coming through the sealed gunports as she heeled right over to the wind.
Chesshyre was a master’s mate, with one other to assist him. But his skill had distinguished him long ago, and with luck he would soon be promoted to sailing-master. And if there was to be war, he would be snatched away from Telemachus to watch over the sailing and pilotage of some lively frigate.
Paice frowned. If Bolitho failed to recover more deserters or find more men for the fleet, the cutters would be the first to lose their people. It was unfair, just as it was unavoidable. The cutters were like a navy within a navy. Their companies were mostly vol-unteers from inlets and villages where the fishing had died out, and skilled seamen had turned to the navy for work. Many of the men had known each other before signing on, so that discipline rarely needed harshness, and the qualities of leadership were respected far more than gold lace.
Chesshyre gauged his moment. “After tonight, sir—”
Paice turned towards him. “We shall continue until ordered otherwise.”
Chesshyre nodded glumly. “Aye, aye, sir.”
The deck fell beneath them and a deluge of spray from high over the side swamped the waterlogged jolly-boat which had been double-lashed at the beginning of the watch. Astern, far across the taffrail, was the Kentish coast, but it was completely shrouded in mist and spindrift and when night came it would be as black as a boot.
Paice urged, “Look at the weather, man. Do you not see it?”
Chesshyre shrugged, unconvinced. “I know, sir. A perfect night for a run. But out here we could ride past the buggers.”
“Aye.” Paice thought of Bolitho’s elaborate care to disguise their movements, even changing ships so that any observer on the shore might pass the word that Wakeful was the cutter to be watched. He thought of young Vatass in Snapdragon, snug in the dockyard by now. He was well out of it.
Paice glanced around at the stooping figures of his men. Every one a seasoned sailor who did not have to be told when to splice a piece of frayed cordage, or take another turn on a halliard. They were even trusted to go ashore on the rare occasions when Telemachus was resting in harbour. That was more than could be said for most of their grander consorts in peace or war.
He squinted up at the topsail yard where two lookouts clung like bedraggled monkeys, the spray running from their bodies like rain. With her topsail tightly furled while she surged and lifted into the teeth of the wind, Telemachus stood a fair chance of see-ing another vessel before she was sighted herself.
They had barely sighted anything since putting to sea. It was as if local traders and the merchantmen from the Channel were unwilling to move any distance without the visible presence of a man-of-war. Across the water France lay like a mad beast, rest-ing one moment, spitting blood the next. There were few honest seafarers prepared to run afoul of that.
Chesshyre persisted, “Everybody knows about the Trade in Kent, sir.” He faltered as Paice’s eyes fastened on him and he could have bitten out his tongue for speaking.
When he had first joined Telemachus he had wondered why the master of a collier-brig, to all intents a free agent, would choose to enlist in the navy as a lowly master’s mate. When Chesshyre had been accepted by Telemachus’s tight little company he had slowly learned the truth about this tall, powerful lieu-tenant.
Paice had been married a short time to a girl he had known for several years. On her way home from visiting her father and mother she had been horrified to see a dozen or more known smugglers attacking a solitary revenue officer. A crowd of people, too afraid or too indifferent to interfere, had watched them beat-ing the man to death. Paice’s wife had called the onlookers to assist, and when they had hung back she had tried to drag one of the smugglers off the revenue officer who was by then dead.
One smuggler had raised his pistol and shot her down. A sav-age warning to all those who watched, far more chilling than the death of a revenue man.
“I—I’m fair sorry, sir.” Chesshyre looked away. “I was forgetting—”
“Well, don’t! Not now—not ever, while you serve in my ship!”
There was a step on the companion ladder and Bolitho climbed up beside them. He was hatless, and his black hair rip-pled in the wind as he studied the hard press of canvas, the sea boiling along the lee-side. Like his brother’s cutter Avenger, so long, long ago.
The acting-master touched his forehead. “I’ll attend the helm, sir.”
He made to move aft but Bolitho asked, “You are from Kent?”
“Aye, sir.” Chesshyre watched him warily, Paice’s heated out-burst momentarily forgotten. “Maidstone, sir.”
Bolitho nodded. His voice, the easy Kentish accent, had so reminded him of Thomas Herrick, who had been his first lieu-tenant; his firm friend. Even Chesshyre’s eyes, clear blue, were much the same. So many times he had watched Herrick’s eyes change. Stubbornness, concern, hurt; and Bolitho had been the cause of most of it. They had parted when Tempest had set sail for England after that last savage battle with Tuke’s ships. Bolitho, half-dead from fever, had followed at a more leisurely pace in a big Indiaman. Where was Herrick now, he wondered? At sea somewhere. Remembering what they had done and suffered together.
He realised that he was staring at the acting-master. “You reminded me of a friend. Did you ever meet a Lieutenant Herrick?”
For a brief moment Bolitho saw the man’s caution change to warmth. Then he shook his head. “No, sir.” The contact was broken.
Paice said, “We can come about in two hours, sir.” He glanced at the sky. “After that, it will be too dark to see anything.”
Bolitho glanced at his strong profile. “You think me mis-taken?” He did not wait for a reply; it was wrong to make Paice commit himself. He smiled tightly. “Mad too, probably.”
Paice watched him although his mind was still grappling with his inner pain. Would he ever forget how she had died?
He said, “There are some who may ask why you care so much, sir.”
Bolitho wiped his face with the sleeve of his old coat. “I realise that smuggling is a great temptation and will remain so. You can hang for it, but in some parishes you can dangle from the gibbet for stealing a chicken, so where’s the comparison?” He shivered as spray pattered against his shoulders. “The navy must have men. Smugglers or not, a firm hand will soon break them to our ways!”
During his brief passage in Wakeful her commander with the falcon’s features had told him about Paice’s wife. Bolitho had heard Paice’s voice as he had left the cabin, but had only guessed the content.
He said, “Like me, you grieve. Some think it leaves you vul-nerable.” He gripped a swivel gun on the bulwark as the deck slanted down again and added sharply, “But I believe it makes you—care, as you put it.”
Paice swallowed hard. It was like being stripped and made defenceless. How did he know? What memory did he carry to distress him?
He said gruffly, “Never fear, sir, I’m with you—”
Bolitho touched his arm and turned away. He seemed to hear the admiral’s words in his brain. Use them as you will within the scope of your orders. Spoken words, not written ones. Valueless if things went wrong.
He said, “You may live to regret that, Mr Paice, but I thank you.
Allday appeared from the companionway, a tankard held care-fully in one fist while he waited for the deck to rear upright again.
He held it out to Bolitho, his eyes swiftly examining the men nearby, Chesshyre the master, with his mate Dench who was shortly taking over the watch. Luke Hawkins the boatswain, a great cask of a man. It was hard to see him at the tender age of seven when he had been packed off to sea as a ship’s boy. Telemachus carried no purser as she did not rate one. The clerk, Percivale Godsalve, a reedy little man whose pale features had defied all the months at sea, did duty as purser too. Evans, a tough gun-ner’s mate, had said to Allday, “No passengers in this ship, matey! We all does a bit of everythin’!”
Allday knew most of what was said about Bolitho being aboard. They saw him as a threat, something from the other navy that only a few of the petty officers knew anything about.
Deep in his heart Allday thought Bolitho, a man he had nearly died for and would do so again without a second’s thought, was wrong to press on with this task. He should take things qui-etly—hell’s teeth, he had earned it ten times over. Let others take the risks and the blame, which, unlike prize money, were equally shared out.
Allday would never have returned to the sea but for Bolitho. But Bolitho loved the navy; it was his whole life. Only once had Allday seen that love waver, but now the Captain’s lady was gone. Only the sea was left.
He watched Bolitho swallow the steaming coffee gratefully. They had seen so much. Allday stared out at the frothing yellow wave crests. They’d get another ship together. If only . . .
“Deck there! Sail ho!”
Paice stared up at the two waving lookouts, his face creased with disbelief.
The voice pealed down again. “Fine on the lee quarter, sir!”
Bolitho saw the instant change in the tall lieutenant as he snatched a telescope from its rack and swung himself on to the weather ratlines with the agility of a cat.
Bolitho tried to contain the shiver of excitement as it coursed through him like icy water.
It was probably nothing, or a ship, alone and running for shelter before darkness closed in. The Channel was a treacherous place on any night, but in these times it was a blessing to hear the anchor safely down.
Bolitho recalled his own desperate efforts to go aloft without the awful fear of it. Many were the times he had had to force himself up the madly shaking ratlines, clinging to stay and try-ing not to peer down at the deck and the creaming water far below.
Paice had no such qualms. But he was soon clambering on to the deck again, and his face, masklike in the dying sunlight, was composed by the time he had strode aft.
He said, “She’s the Loyal Chieftain, sir. A Deal vessel. Know her well.” He spat out the words. “Loyal—the last word I’d use for that pig!”
There was no time for further discussion. At any moment the other vessel would see Telemachus’s sails.
Bolitho said, “Bring her about, Mr Paice. As fast as you will.”
“Hands aloft and loose tops’l!”
“Stand by to come about!”
Feet padded over the streaming planks, and more figures crowded up from between decks as the calls shrilled through the hull,
“Let go an’ haul!” Hawkins’s thick voice made the men lie back on the braces and halliards to bring the boom over.
“Helm a-lee!”
Bolitho gripped a stanchion and watched the sails flapping like insane banners as the rudder was heaved over, the helmsmen backed up by two more hands as the ship fought against sea and wind. Then all at once they were round, and running with the breakers, the spray bursting beneath the stem so that they seemed to be flying.
Paice mopped his face and shouted above the thunder of more canvas as the topsail filled and hardened from its yard like a breastplate. “’Nother minute and the bugger would have slipped across our stern!” He saw Bolitho’s expression and said, “Her mas-ter is Henry Delaval, a known smuggler, but he’s never been taken with any evidence, God rot him! His vessel’s a brig, well found and armed,” Here was the bitterness again. “That’s no crime either, they say!”
“There she is, sir, larboard bow!” It was Lieutenant Triscott, who had been preparing to take over the watch, and had run on deck with some butter and crumbs sticking to his lapel.
Paice thrust his big hands behind him. His eyes spoke vol-umes, but all he said was, “Got you!”
Bolitho wedged his hip against the companion hatch in an attempt to keep steady enough to train a telescope on the other vessel.
Above the leaping wave crests, broken here and there into ragged spectres by stronger gusts of wind, he saw the brig’s top-sails, now copper-coloured against the evening sky. Her hull was still hidden and he guessed that Paice had recognised her only after climbing aloft. Never before had he seen Paice show so much emotion, hatred even, and he guessed that the memory of his young wife was linked in some way with the man Delaval.
Hawkins bellowed, “She’s settin’ ’er forecourse, sir!”
Bolitho nodded, oblivious to the spray which was soaking him from head to toe. The brig was using the wind to full advantage and was already standing away, her two masts seeming to draw closer together above the tumbling water.
Paice glanced at him, his eyes in shadow. “Sir?” He could barely conceal his eagerness.
Bolitho lowered the glass. “Aye, give chase.” He was about to add that the brig’s master might have taken Telemachus for a French privateer, and was heading away to safety. But seeing Paice’s intent expression killed the thought instantly. Paice knew this man, so Delaval would know him and his cutter equally well.
“Alter course, Mr Chesshyre! Let her bear up two points and steer South-West by West!”
As the men ran to braces to haul the long boom further out above the water, Dench the master’s mate was already crouching by the compass box, his hair plastered to his forehead while the rudder went over.
One helmsman lost his footing on the tilting deck, but another took his place at the long tiller bar, his bare toes digging for a grip.
“Steady she goes, sir! Sou’-West by West!”
“Damn his eyes, he’s making a run for it, Cap’n.” Allday seemed the calmest one on the deck as he watched the other ves-sel’s blurred topsails with apparently little more than professional interest.
Bolitho knew him too well to be deceived. Like me, perhaps? Holding it all inside, showing just a mask to others who looked to you for hope or fear.
Paice heard Allday’s comment and snapped, “God, I’ll not lose the bastard now.”
Bolitho said, “Put a ball across her, Mr Paice.”
Paice looked at him, unused to anyone’s methods but his own.
“We’re supposed to fire well clear, sir, as a signal.”
Bolitho smiled briefly. “As close as your gunner can arrange it. In a long chase we might lose her when the night finds us, eh?” From the corner of his eye he saw one of the seamen grinning and nudging his companion. Was it because they thought him mad, or because they were beginning to discover their true role as a man-of-war, albeit a small one?
George Davy the gunner supervised the foremost six-pounder personally, one horny hand on the gun-captain’s shoulder while the crew worked with their handspikes and tackles until he seemed satisfied.
Paice cupped his hands. “Load the larboard smasher as well, Mr Davy.”
Bolitho balled his hands into fists to discipline his shivering limbs. Paice was thinking for himself. If the brig was prepared to fight, even if she tried merely to cripple Telemachus’s rigging and sails, it was sensible to have the deadly carronade loaded and ready to rake her poop.
“Fire!”
Bolitho had been too long away from the sea, longer still from the harsh roar of a frigate’s broadside; the crack of a six-pounder was sharp enough to bring pain to his ears.
Allday muttered, “Bloody little popgun!”
Bolitho saw the boy Matthew Corker kneeling near the after-most gun, his hands gripping a bucket of sand as he stared at the scene on deck where the six-pounder’s crew were already tamp-ing home another ball, each man very aware of the post-captain beside Paice.
Bolitho snapped, “Keep down, boy!”
The youth peered up at him. No trace of fear. But it was because he knew nothing. Nor would he, Bolitho decided grimly.
There was far too much spray to see the fall of shot, but the angle of the Loyal Chieftain’s masts and topsails was unchanged, and she was moving fast with the soldier’s wind right under her coat-tails.
Paice looked at Bolitho. “Into her this time, if you please.”
The six-pounder hurled itself inboard on its tackles and as Bolitho lifted his glass he was in time to see the brig’s main top-sail jerk, then split from head to foot. The wind greedily explored the ball’s puncture and reduced the whole sail to wildly flapping ribbons.
Someone gave a derisive cheer then Hawkins shouted, “She’s puttin’ about, sir!”
Paice retorted, “Even if she is heaving-to, Mr Triscott, I want her under our lee, do you understand?” Urgency had set an edge to his voice.
Bolitho stood aside as Paice strode this way and that, his tall frame moving with remarkable ease amongst his men and the lit-ter of cordage and tackles.
“Load the larboard battery, Mr Triscott, but do not run out!” He pivoted round. “Shorten sail, Mr Hawkins! Take in the fores’l!” His eyes moved across Bolitho and he exclaimed, “If that suits, sir?”
The brig had taken in her forecourse, and under topsail and jib only was floundering round into the wind. She was much closer now, less than a cable away, her masts and rigging glowing warmly in the copper light.
There were not many hands on her yards, or indeed working about the deck. But she was under control, and as Telemachus’s gun-captains faced aft and held up their fists, Bolitho knew that the brig could be swept with grape and canister before she could hit back.
Paice loosened the hanger at his side and said, “Lower the jolly-boat. Your best oarsmen, Mr Hawkins. It’ll be a hard pull in this sea!”
Bolitho said, “I would like to come with you.” Their eyes met and held. “You are going yourself, I take it?”
Paice nodded. “The first lieutenant can manage, sir.”
“It is not what I asked.”
Paice shrugged. “It is my right, sir.”
“Very well.” He could feel the lieutenant’s strength like some-thing physical, barely controlled. He added, “It were better I am present. For both our sakes, eh?”
The calmness of his tone seemed to stay Paice’s emotion, although Bolitho felt anything but calm. He knew that if this man Delaval was caught on board the brig with contraband Paice would likely kill him. Equally, as senior officer, he would be seen as having condoned a murder by a subordinate.
Bolitho watched the boat being swayed up and over the side. The brig’s people might attack the boarders as soon as they climbed aboard and still make off in escape.
Bolitho said, “Mr Triscott, if they attempt to make sail, fire into them.” His voice hardened. “No matter what you may see.”
Triscott stared from him to his commander. He looked sud-denly very young and vulnerable.
He stammered, “Aye, aye, sir, if you so order.”
Paice said sharply, “He does, and I am in agreement!”
The jolly-boat was manhandled alongside and once again Bolitho was impressed by the quality of the seamanship, the scarcity of spoken orders, let alone the use of a rope’s end. He found himself wondering if all cutters were like this one. He glanced quickly at Paice as he scrambled down beside him in the sternsheets. Or was it just because of this impassive, haunted lieutenant?
“Out oars! Give way all!”
The sound of Allday’s resonant voice brought a few stares from the boat’s crew. But Allday had no intention of being left behind as a helpless onlooker. He was doing what he knew best. Nor would Bolitho deny him after all he had gone through.
The boat lifted and plunged wildly until Allday had steered her clear of the choppy water around the cutter’s quarter. Bolitho saw the White Ensign streaming out from the gaff above his head and thought suddenly of Hugh, his dead brother. What a waste, and for no purpose. He turned to watch the brig’s tapering top-gallant masts spiralling against the sky and found that he was gripping the old sword closely against his thigh. Hugh had lost his chance to wear it, and now, perhaps within minutes, there would be no one left to carry it with pride. There were faces along the bulwark now, strangely silent, with no sign of defiance or fear.
Paice lifted a speaking trumpet. “We are boarding! Do not resist!”
Allday said beneath his breath, “It’ll be now or never. They could make a bloody gruel of us with one whiff of canister, an’ that’s no error!” He pushed it from his thoughts and shouted, “Bowman! Lively there! Stand by!” He eased the tiller bar and saw the bowman’s grapnel soar into the brig’s main chains, clat-ter down and hook on.
“Boat your oars!” Allday supported Bolitho’s arm as he crouched ready to leave the pitching boat. He hissed, “Right with you, Cap’n!” He gave a throaty chuckle. “Old times!”
Then they were taking their turn to leap from the boat and scramble their way through the small entry port.
Bolitho glanced quickly around. He saw the vessel’s master, a short, neat figure in a fine blue coat standing almost indifferently by the wheel. He knew it was Delaval even before Paice opened his mouth.
Paice had his hanger drawn and strode aft, his voice carrying easily above the slap of canvas and the sea’s protests beyond the bulwarks. “Stand where you are!”
Delaval retorted, “So it’s you. By what right—”
Paice gestured to a seaman by the wheel and the cutlass he had seen in his belt clattered to the deck.
“In the King’s name, so hold your noise.” He nodded his head to the petty officer who had accompanied the boat and the man hurried away, calling names, ignoring the brig’s sailors as if they were not there.
Paice said, “I intend to search this vessel. After that—”
“You are wasting your time. More important, you are wast-ing mine.” His dark eyes moved suddenly to Bolitho, taking in the plain blue coat, the outdated sword which was still sheathed at Bolitho’s side. Delaval said, “I will make the strongest protest. I was going about my lawful business.”
Bolitho asked, “What cargo?”
Delaval’s eyes flashed. There could have been triumph there. “None. I am in ballast, as your worthy boarding party will soon discover.” He did not attempt to hide the sneer in his voice. “I intended to sail for Amsterdam. You will see from the log that I have regular transactions with agents there.”
Bolitho could sense Paice’s anger and impatience. He asked quietly, “And you changed your mind?”
“The weather, news of more trouble in France, several things.”
The petty officer returned but stood so that Delaval could not see his face. He swallowed hard. “Nuthin’, sir. In full ballast.” He seemed almost afraid of his discovery.
Delaval said, “I told you.” He lifted his chin and stared it Paice. “You will pay for this.” His arm shot out and he pointed to an inert shape covered by a piece of canvas. He continued, his voice almost caressing, “You fired on my ship—”
Paice snapped, “You tried to run, you refused to heave-to! Don’t pretend with me, damn you!”
A seaman pulled the canvas aside and Bolitho saw it was a man in sailor’s clothing. Beside him lay a heavy block, its sheaves sticky with blood and hair. The man’s forehead and skull had been crushed. Only the features were unmarked.
“I did not try to run away. But as you see, my vessel is short-handed, some of my men are working another. It took twice as long to bring her round and heave-to.” He nodded several times. “I shall be certain to mention all this in my complaint to the proper authority!”
Bolitho gripped his sword to his leg again. It was bad luck. The ball must have severed some rigging and allowed the block to fall and kill the man. It happened often enough in any ship, but this could not have occurred at a worse time.
He said, “We shall return to Telemachus, Mr Paice.”
Even a bloody hand-to-hand fight would have been better than this, he thought. Lady Luck, as Thomas always called it, had been against them from the beginning. He glanced at Paice and was surprised to see his face was stiffly controlled, his anger appar-ently gone.
Even when they clambered down to the jolly-boat nobody aboard the brig called out or abused them in any way. Delaval was not going to spoil his victory by putting a foot out of place.
Bolitho did not wait for the boat to be hoisted inboard before going below to the cabin.
He half-listened to the usual bustle and noise of a vessel get-ting under way once more, the creak of the rudder below the transom, a goblet clattering from the table as the cutter heeled over to the wind. Allday was outside the door, having made cer-tain the boat was safely secured. Poor Allday; he would hate to see him disgraced. He bit his lip. There would be others who would be less displeased when he was sent back to Falmouth.
Paice ducked through the door, his coat still black with spray. It was his command but he waited for Bolitho to ask him to be seated. He looked tired and strained, a different person.
Bolitho did not waste time. “I am sorry. You were right, I was mistaken. I shall see that no blame is attached to you. I ordered the chase—” He lifted his hand heavily as if his sleeve was filled with lead shot. “No, hear me out. I told you to fire into her. It is enough. Perhaps I still thought—”
Paice waited and then said, “No, sir, you were not mistaken. If anyone is to blame it’s me for thinking, even for a moment, that Delaval would be stupid enough to be caught so easily.”
Bolitho looked across the small cabin with its leaping shad-ows made by the spiralling lanterns.
“Then tell me, what has changed your mind?”
Paice said calmly, “Delaval knew we were out there, sir. And he needed us to know that he had outwitted us.”
“You mean it was all a lie?”
“Not all of it.” Paice clenched his fists several times, as if they were detached from the apparent calm he was displaying. “That dead man was never killed by a falling block, sir. That’s why the bastard wanted me to see his face.”
“You knew him?”
“He was my informant. The one who told me about the run.”
“And there’s nothing we can do about it.”
Paice gave a deep sigh. “Delaval is a Channel Islander by birth. It’s rumoured he had to leave Jersey because of his cruelty when he commanded a privateer there.”
Bolitho tried to shut out the picture of the vicious mark Tuke had branded on Viola’s naked shoulder when he had held her cap-tive. But the picture would not fade, and he could still hear Tuke’s sneers as they had circled around each other on Narval’s blood-ied deck, their swords seeking an opening.
He heard himself say quietly, “I knew another like that.”
Paice watched him for several seconds. “Probably tortured him after they had discovered he was informing on the smugglers. Then murdered him. Or maybe he was trading information to others. Either way they’ve done for him, and we can’t prove a thing.” He took a long, deep breath which seemed to come from his shoes.
“So you see, sir, you were right. Loyal Chieftain acted as a decoy for something else, but Delaval couldn’t resist putting his own touch to it for my benefit. But one day—” He did not con-tinue. He had no need.
Paice groped his way bent double to the door. “Do you wish to rendezvous with Wakeful, sir?”
Paice rubbed his chin fiercely even though he was still bent over in the doorway.
“Surely you don’t think—”
Bolitho felt the shivers again up his spine.
“I don’t know Delaval, but I do understand men like him. He showed no interest in me, not even curiosity—it was you he wanted to humiliate and impress—do you not see that?”
Paice nodded grimly. “I’m afraid I do, sir.”
Bolitho said, “Let us take a glass together before you change tack.” He reached over and impetuously touched the big lieu-tenant’s arm.
“The battle’s not lost after all. But I fear for the casualties when the fight is over!”
Allday heard the change in Bolitho’s voice, could almost see his shoulders lifting again.
He gave a slow grin as Bolitho added, “So let’s be about it, eh?”