8. by Sea and by stealth

THE hoofbeats of the three horses became more muffled as they turned off the narrow road and on to rough moorland, the grass still glittering from overnight rain.

Bolitho kneed his horse forward and watched the sunlight uncovering the trees and some scattered farm buildings. Opening up the land, like the sunshine of that morning when they had sighted the pursued fishing boat.

Wakeful had anchored before dawn and within the hour Bolitho had been mounted, and with Young Matthew following close behind had set off to this place.

In the early sunlight he saw the trooper of dragoons pausing to peer back at them, his scarlet coat and white crossbelt very bright against the dripping trees.

The man had been waiting to escort him as soon as the cut-ter was anchored. The commodore’s aide had sent the message, although he had been unable to offer any more intelligence regard-ing the reason. Hoblyn it appeared was away again visiting some boatyard.

He heard the boy yawning hugely behind him. Half-asleep still, dazed by the events he had shared and witnessed, and obvi-ously grateful to feel the land under him again.

The trooper called, “Not much further, sir.” He eyed Bolitho curiously. “Am I ridin’ too fast for ’e, sir?”

“I’m a Cornishman.” Bolitho’s voice was unusually curt. “I am used to riding.”

The trooper hid a grin. “Oi be from Portsmouth, sir, but Oi knows nowt about ships!” He spurred his horse into a trot.

Bolitho noticed that the trooper had a short carbine, favoured by the dragoons, already drawn and resting across his saddle. Like a skirmisher in enemy territory. In such peaceful countryside it seemed unreal.

Again and again Bolitho’s mind returned to the dead girl. She was his only link, and yet he still did not know how to use it. Instead he saw her face, tight with shock when she must have realised she had only seconds to live. He imagined he could still feel the icy skin of her ankle in his grip. Viola.

Whom could he trust? Who would believe him, or even want to believe him?

“’Ere we be, sir.”

Bolitho gave a start and realised that they were cantering into a widespread copse of tall trees. There was a clearing now, almost circular, with a burned-out tree in the centre. The perfect place for a duel, he thought grimly.

Amongst the trees he saw several scarlet-clad figures, the occasional nervous swish of a horse’s tail. There was something sinister about the clearing. A place of danger.

An officer was sitting on a small stool, drinking from a silver tankard while his orderly stood attentively at his elbow. He saw Bolitho and handed his man the tankard before rising to his feet.

His uniform was beautifully cut, but could not disguise his slight belly. A man who lived well, despite his calling, Bolitho thought.

The officer raised his hat and smiled. “Major Philip Craven, 30th Regiment of Dragoons.” He gave a slight bow. “Would you care for a taste?”

He had an easy, pleasant manner, and was younger than Bolitho had first imagined.

Bolitho noticed that, despite his relaxed air, his eyes were rarely still. On his men, the horses, or the track which they had just left.

Bolitho replied, “I should enjoy that.” It surprised him, for he was usually ill-at-ease with the army, foot or cavalry.

As the orderly busied himself with a basket on the ground, Bolitho noticed a naval lieutenant and a tall, pale-faced midshipman for the first time.

The major gestured. “Two officers of the press.”

Bolitho took the proffered tankard and was glad he could keep it so steady.

More trouble. Was it Allday?

He asked, “Why was I informed?”The major shrugged. “I’ve heard of your—er, exploits of course.

When the commodore is away, I try to keep in contact with the navy and the civil authority.” He frowned suddenly. “God, you’d think we were an army of occupation!” He beckoned for the orderly to refill his tankard and added, “One of the sailors was murdered here, trying to retake a man who had escaped from their custody.”

Bolitho sipped the wine. It was, he suspected, very expensive claret.

The major explained, “The midshipman was here too, but they were rushed by some mob or other, and his sailor was cut down.” He walked slowly to a patch of trampled grass. “Found his severed hand just here, the pistol still in it. It had been fired, so he may have winged one of the scum. But luck in that direc-tion is thin on the ground. I’ve had my fellows search the area.” He added bitterly, “By God, they’re getting used to that, I can tell you, sir! But there was nothing. I did not expect there would be.” He looked around at the watching trees, the way that the sunlight seemed shut out, beyond reach.

Then he said, “I can see that you feel it too. This is a place of ill repute. Nobody comes here now.” His eyes sparked in a memory. “However there was a carriage here recently. But we lost the tracks as soon as it left the copse.”

“A local man of importance?”

The major observed him shrewdly. “I have my own ideas. But what can I do? To think that within a year perhaps, I shall be ordered to lead my dragoons—” he waved vaguely in the direc-tion of the sea, “against French invaders, to protect the same people who lie, cheat, and if necessary murder anyone who stands up to them!”

“Is it really as bad as that?”

The major smiled. “My colonel will tell you, given half a chance. He was in Thanet, about eight years ago when he was a captain. He was ordered to Deal, with a troop of fifty dragoons, to put down a smugglers’ gang and burn their boats.” His eyes hardened as he saw it in his mind, imagining himself and not his colonel. “They were set upon by an armed mob of well over a thousand, and were cut off. But for the timely arrival of the 38th Regiment of Foot, who, God bless ’em, had marched all the way from Canterbury to assist, my colonel’s troop would have been massacred. I am a soldier, and I have seen some terrible sights, just as you have. But this kind of work leaves me sick with disgust.”

Bolitho saw Young Matthew leading his horse towards the trees, then pausing as a dragoon held up his hand and shook his head.

“Why don’t people come here?”

The major shrugged. “You see that burned-out tree? A smug-gling gang caught a man from the nearby village. He had been spying on them, was well known for it apparently. Sometimes he was said to have sold information to the revenue officers, even to the army.”

“So they killed him here?” Bolitho looked hard at the clear-ing.

“No. They set fire to that tree, then burned out his eyes. A warning to others, if one such were needed!”

Bolitho felt his shirt clinging clammily to his body. “Thank you for telling me all this.” He beckoned to the two watching sea-officers. “I’ll be quick.”

The major smiled. “I’m willing to fight in the open. But here? I’d prefer to use infantry!”

The lieutenant touched his hat and explained that he had been in charge of a press gang, and had ordered his midshipman to march some prisoners to Sheerness.

Bolitho said sharply, “I will attend to that matter presently.” The lieutenant’s obvious eagerness to shift any blame to his sub-ordinate’s shoulders was sickening.

“Who are you?” Bolitho eyed the pale midshipman, and imme-diately sensed his fear. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

“Midshipman Fenwick, sir.” He looked anywhere but at Bolitho’s eyes. “I—I had halted my party at a small inn, as is cus-tomary, sir, and whilst doing rounds I discovered that one of my charges had escaped. There was no time to rouse the guard, so I decided to give chase along with—” His eyes moved nervously to the trampled grass. “We were outnumbered. They were every-where—”

The major interrupted gently, “It was at night, Captain Bolitho.”

“I see.” Bolitho watched the midshipman’s hands. Fingers opening and twitching. More like an old man than one at the start of his chosen calling. Passed over for promotion, failed his lieutenant’s examination, but opportunity was still with him, some-thing too often denied others altogether.

Bolitho asked, “Who was the man who escaped?”

“He—he was a sailmaker, sir, we’d kept him apart from the rest because—” His voice trailed away, then he exclaimed, “I did my best, sir!”

The lieutenant stared at Fenwick angrily. “He should have known better, sir. The one good man we’d been able to catch, a deserter from the London, and this fool let him run!”

Bolitho snapped, “Pray be silent.” Then to the midshipman he said, “Can you recall the sailmaker’s name?” He did not really care, but there was more to this than was out in the open. The midshipman was hiding something. Perhaps he had run away and left the seaman to die alone, a memory which would haunt him for the rest of his life.

The midshipman screwed up his eyes. “I—I—” Then he nod-ded. “Yes, sir. It was Spencer. I recall it now!”

The major remarked, “Probably already at sea in some smuggling vessel.”

Bolitho turned away to conceal his expression from them. He walked a few paces, feeling their eyes following him. Perhaps Allday could not read or write, but he knew and loved animals. Especially the old sheepdog at the great grey house in Falmouth, whom Bolitho had named Spencer.

He turned abruptly and said to the lieutenant, “You will place this midshipman under open arrest, and you will remain with him at the dockyard, until a proper enquiry has been carried out.”

He ignored the lieutenant’s dismay and Fenwick’s shocked gasp. If they were involved it would be better if they were safely under supervision. Either way they would lose if implicated. A court martial, and death at a yardarm, or—he looked at the burned-out tree—much worse if others discovered they had been unmasked.

The major followed him to the horses and said admiringly, “I liked that.”

Bolitho glanced at him and smiled briefly. He might not like it so much if he knew the real reason.

He raised his boot to the stirrup and saw Young Matthew watching him from the other horse.

Allday was alive. Was risking his life once again, for him.

It was all he could do to keep his voice normal.

“I shall go to the commodore’s residence, Major. He may have returned.”

“Then I shall escort you, sir.” The major was pleased to leave.

As they moved out of the trees into the welcoming sunshine and the dragoons formed into pairs behind their officer, Bolitho turned in his saddle and looked back towards the sinister copse. He saw rooks circling above the trees, their raucous voices break-ing the stillness like taunting cries.

No wonder people avoided the place. He felt his jaw tighten as he saw the dead girl’s face in his mind again.

She may have died alone when the fishing boat had blown up, but he doubted it. His heart rebelled against it as he recalled the small boat pulling frantically away before the explosion had blasted the fisherman apart. Whoever they had been must have locked the girl on board before lighting a fuse, something pre-pared long in advance should they be found by one of the French patrol vessels.

There may have been only a few terrified people; there could have been hundreds who had fled the Terror, selling all their pos-sessions, even themselves, for the chance to escape.

Smugglers? Slavers would be a closer description, and that was too good for them.

Wakeful had been the only witness, and now, because of it, Allday’s own life was doubly at risk.

He waited until the major had cantered up beside him and then asked, “That man you mentioned to me.” He looked at him directly. “Is he still alive?”

The dragoon nodded, his eyes on the surrounding hedges. “In his own crazed world. People give him food, though they are care-ful to keep secret their Christian generosity. My own men toss him some scraps, I suspect. He were better dead. Alive he is a living reminder of what will happen to those who inform on the Brotherhood.”

Bolitho asked, “Could you find him for me?” He saw the dis-belief in his eyes. “It is just a straw. I can ignore nothing, no matter how futile it may appear.”

The major nodded. “I shall try.” He glanced at Bolitho’s pro-file. “I am with you in this affair, sir, for I too am heartily sick of waiting.”

Bolitho reached out and impetuously took his gloved hand.

“So be it!”

He shivered despite the warm air. The time for caution was over.

Apart from the usual marine sentries, the commodore’s residence appeared to be deserted, but after asking the corporal of the guard point-blank, Bolitho said, “He’s back.”

Major Craven’s orderly stood with Young Matthew holding the horses’ heads, and Bolitho noticed that the rest of the small detachment of dragoons remained mounted in the road outside the gates.

The door swung inwards noiselessly and Bolitho saw it was Hoblyn’s personal footman.

“I must see the commodore.”

The youth glanced beyond the two officers as if he was about to deny that Hoblyn had returned. Bolitho saw his hazel eyes widen with alarm at the sight of the mounted dragoons, then he said, “I shall take you to him.” He drew back from the steps, then led the way towards that same room.

The major grimaced. “Like a tomb. Needs a woman’s touch.”

The commodore was sitting behind his massive desk but made no attempt to rise as they were ushered in.

Hoblyn said in his clipped fashion, “Why the urgency? I’ve much to accomplish. There are not enough hours in the day.”

Bolitho began, “I sent a report—”

“Did you indeed?” Hoblyn glanced coldly at the major. “Do you wish to see me too?”

Craven stood firm. “Captain Bolitho thinks it might be bet-ter for all of us if I did, sir.”

“I see.” Hoblyn waved towards two chairs and shuffled some papers on his desk. “Ah yes, the report. I did see it, I remember now. The fishing boat and the two French luggers.” He looked up suddenly, his eyes hard. “You moved too hastily, Bolitho. The French will swear you acted unlawfully in their waters. Right or wrong, they will certainly use the incident to endanger peace, something that His Majesty is trying to preserve. He does not wish to antagonise the French, no matter what state their coun-try is in.”

Bolitho retorted, “I would have thought that His Majesty might have an even greater desire to retain his head on his shoulders!”

Hoblyn snapped, “That is impertinent! In any case, why should it matter about one fishing boat? Surely you can use your talents to better advantage?” He was becoming angrier by the minute, his maimed hand tapping the desk to emphasise each point.

Bolitho said, “I believe they were smuggling émigrés across the Channel, sir. Human cargo, with no thought for the conse-quences.” Even as he told Hoblyn about the dead girl he saw the commodore’s eyes give just the briefest hint of anxiety.

Then Hoblyn snapped, “Who will say, one way or the other? It is just your word, Bolitho, which I am afraid will carry little weight in Admiralty.” He leaned forward and stared at him, the major ignored or forgotten. “They will break you if you persist with this obsession. You know from your own experience in London that there are a hundred captains who would grasp your appoint-ment and be grateful!”

Bolitho replied stubbornly, “I cannot believe that you think that the tolerance of a crime should be in the same boat as the fear of annoying the French government. If so, then I want no part of it. I will return to London and resign.” He heard the major’s boots squeak as he shifted his position in the chair. It was surprising he could hear anything above the pounding of his own heart.

Hoblyn dabbed his brow with his handkerchief. “Let us not be hasty, Bolitho.”

Bolitho said simply, “I am asking you, sir, pleading if you will, that you will forget the security of this appointment and use your influence to intervene. It seems that every man’s hand is against us here, and the smugglers laugh at our attempts to run them to earth.”

Hoblyn stared at his desk. “You have so much passion, Bolitho, yet so little trust in authority.”

“I have no cause to be trusting, sir.”

Hoblyn appeared to be wrestling with his innermost thoughts. “You are quite determined to continue in this fashion, regardless of the hornets’ nest you will most surely rouse?”

“I have no choice, sir, but I must have support.”

“Yes.” Hoblyn moved his shoulder as if it was hurting him. “You may be correct to assume that there is a direct link between the smugglers and the oppression in France. It is certainly true that our prime minister has been urging stronger action against these gangs.” He added bitterly, “I fear that William Pitt has done precious little to supply the money to enforce the necessary prevention!”

Major Craven murmured, “Everyone sends for the dragoons, sir.”

Hoblyn gave a deep sigh. “I will send a despatch to the Admiralty, Bolitho. It will be up to Their Lordships, of course, but I shall explain that I am in favour of a more aggressive policy.”

Bolitho said, “Thank you, sir.” He hoped that his surprise did not show in his voice. From anger to agreement; it was too sud-den, too easy. Not like the captain who had once stormed an enemy privateer with his body ablaze.

Hoblyn pressed his fingertips together and stared at him impassively.

“Draw your three cutters to Sheerness.”

“They are here, sir. Snapdragon left Chatham dockyard in my absence.”

Hoblyn gave a thin smile. “I hope you can continue to stay ahead of events, Bolitho. There are some who will wish you dead.

I suggest you move ashore as soon as is prudent. I will arrange quarters inside the dockyard here at Sheerness. It will be safer for you.”

The door opened silently and the slim footman stood watch-ing from the hallway. It was as if he could read his master’s thoughts.

“Jules will show you out, gentlemen.”

Bolitho and the major got to their feet. Apparently there was to be no wine this time.

Hoblyn said, “Inform me of your every intention.” He eyed both of them for several seconds. “My head will not rest on any block because of your personal ambitions!”

The interview was over.

Outside on the cobbles Bolitho said grimly, “A victory or a reverse, I am uncertain which.”

The soldier frowned. “Far better than sitting still. It is high time that the authorities understand what we are facing. You need men for the fleet—”

Bolitho saw Young Matthew leading the horse towards him. “If and when a fleet is refitted in time!”

“Either way, you’ll not get the men until you scatter the Brotherhood and lessen their power over ordinary people.”

The major climbed into his saddle and looked down at him.

“I am with you.”

Bolitho smiled. “Do not forget what I asked of you.”

The soldier grinned. “I said, I shall try!” Then he cantered from the yard, touching his hat to the sentries as he rejoined his troop on the road.

A good officer, Bolitho thought, and for some reason one he knew he could trust.

At the dockyard they left the horses with a marine, and walked to the jetty where some boats were loitering.

For a moment longer Bolitho stared at the three anchored cutters, riding above their reflections like graceful seabirds. His little brood. Even that reminded him of Allday.

He said to a waterman, “Take me to Telemachus.”

As the boat moved slowly amongst the anchored vessels Bolitho saw the glint of sunlight on a raised telescope from Wakeful’s taffrail. He looked away. It was most likely to be Queely, watching his progress, glad to be rid of him—or was he?

Paice greeted him at the entry port and touched his hat. Bolitho was surprised to see his apparent pleasure.

“I was not certain you would return to us, sir.” He grinned. “Welcome.”

He waved one big hand around the busy figures on deck. “You were right, sir. They’ve all worked so hard together that most of the pain is behind them.”

Bolitho nodded approvingly. Apart from the strong smells of tar and paint, there was virtually nothing to show of the damage.

As he caught the glances of some of the seamen he saw them nod self-consciously, before turning back to their tasks. Like a homecoming.

Paice became serious again. “No news of your cox’n, sir.”

“What do you know?” Bolitho met his gaze.

“Only that he is on a mission for you, officially that is.” He glanced at his men. “But news has wings. The longer it takes . . .” He did not finish.

Bolitho touched his arm. “I know. Please let it lie, for his sake if not for mine.”

He glanced at the waterfront, the bright sunshine, the sense of peace.

“I shall write some fresh orders for you.” He turned and looked at him steadily. “You will command here if anything happens to me.”

Paice’s strong features were a mixture of pleasure and anxiety.

“They’d not dare, sir!”

Bolitho’s gaze seemed to embrace all three cutters. “I might lose this appointment at the whim of some quill-pusher in Admiralty. I might even fall in a fight. It is our way, Mr Paice, so be ready for anything.”

Paice walked with him to the companionway. “Hell’s teeth, sir, you’ve changed the people here and in the other cutters. You’ll not find us wanting next time.”

Bolitho closed the door of the cabin behind him and stared up at the open skylight.

Was Hoblyn guilty of some conspiracy, or did he really not care for involvement of any kind? Bolitho thought of the grace-ful footman, and grimaced. Jules. It suited him well.

He did not remember falling asleep, but awoke with his fore-head resting on his arm, the pen still in his fingers from the moment he had signed Paice’s new orders.

Paice was sitting opposite him on a sea chest, his eyes doubtful.

“You’ve not slept for two days, I’ll wager, sir.” It sounded like an accusation. “I was most unwilling to rouse you, but—”

Bolitho saw the wax-sealed envelope in his fist and was instantly alert. Since the tender age of twelve his mind and body had been hardened to it. Years of watchkeeping in all weathers, moments of anxiety to banish any craving for sleep when the watch below was turned up to reef sails in a screaming gale, or to repel enemy boarders. It was the only life he had ever known.

“What is it?”

He slit open the envelope and first read the signature at the bottom. It was from Major Craven, the hand neat and elegant, like the man. He read it through twice very carefully. He was aware that the cutter was moving more than she had been when his head had dropped in sleep, just as he was conscious of Paice’s measured breathing.

He looked up and saw the gleam in the lieutenant’s eyes.

“Where is ‘the old abbey’?”

Paice withdrew a chart from a locker without questioning him. He jabbed the coastline with one big finger. “Here, sir. ’Bout three miles to the east’rd. A quiet, dismal spot, if you ask me.”

Bolitho peered at it and nodded. The ideal place for a meet-ing. To move by road, as Craven had pointed out, would soon draw somebody’s notice, and the words would go out like light-ning. The troublesome Cornish captain was on the move again.

By sea then, and by stealth.

He said, “We will weigh before dusk and steer for the Great Nore.” He moved some brass dividers to the north-east from Sheerness. “Once in the dark we will come about and make a landfall here—” the dividers rested on the point marked as an ancient abbey. “Nobody must see us, so you will anchor offshore.”

Paice’s hand rasped over his chin. “Beg pardon, sir, but I am in the dark right now. Are you intending to send a press gang ashore? Because if so—”

Bolitho stared at the much-used chart. “No, I am meeting someone. So I shall need a good boat’s crew and someone who knows these waters like his own right arm.”

Paice replied without a second’s hesitation, “The master, Erasmus Chesshyre, sir. Feel his way inshore like a blind man.”

Bolitho glanced sharply at him, but Paice’s remark was an innocent one.

Paice added, “I’d like to go with you, sir.”

“No.” It was final. “Remember what I told you. If anything should happen—”

Paice sighed. “Aye. I know, sir.”

“One last thing, Mr Paice. If the worst should happen, send Young Matthew back to Falmouth, with an escort if need be.”

“Aye, sir.” He stood up carefully, bowed beneath the deckhead beams. “I’ll tell Mr Triscott to prepare the hands.” He hesitated in the low doorway. “An’ I’m right proud to serve alongside you, sir.”

The sentiment seemed to embarrass him and he hurried to the companion ladder, calling names as he went.

Bolitho drew a fresh sheet of paper towards him and decided he would write a letter to his sister Nancy. If he did fall, her hus-band the squire, known around Falmouth as the King of Cornwall, would soon get his hands on the big grey house below Pendennis Castle, the home for generations of Bolithos.

The thought disturbed him more than he thought possible.

No more would the local people see a Bolitho returning from the ocean, or hear of another who had died in some far-off battle.

He glanced momentarily at Craven’s instructions, then with a sad smile held the note up to a candle and watched it dissolve in flames.

He had recalled something which his father had made him and his brother Hugh learn by heart before they had left that same house for the navy.

“They have outlived this fear, and their brave ends

Will ever be an honour to their friends.”

It could have been written for them.

“Out yer get, matey!”

Allday groaned and rolled painfully on to his side, and felt somebody guiding his feet over the back of a cart.

If they trusted him, it was the wary trust of one wild animal for another. He had no idea how far he had been carried, and as the cart had bumped and staggered over rutted tracks, once through a field, he had felt as if every bone was broken.

He stood upright and felt his hands being untied, a rough bandage being removed from his eyes.

One of his escorts grinned and handed him the cutlass. “No ’ard feelin’s, matey. Under this flag you takes no chances, see?”

Allday nodded and looked around him. It was dawn, another day, the air busy with birdsong and insects. His nostrils dilated. The strong smell of saltwater and tar, oakum and freshly hewn timber. A boatbuilder’s yard.

He was pushed, rather than guided, into a long shed where a crude slipway ran the full length and vanished through some heavy canvas awnings at the lower end. Newly built or repaired boats could be launched straight into the water from here, he supposed.

He blinked his eyes as he saw some twenty or more men sit-ting at tables wolfing food and draining jugs of ale as if they had been here all night. They all looked up as the man who had accompanied Allday said harshly, “This ’ere’s Spencer, sailmaker. It’s all you need to know. Get ’im some grub.”

Allday crossed his leg over a bench and regarded his new companions thoughtfully. A mixed bunch, he decided. Some had been honest sailormen; others would have been rogues in any marketplace.

As his eyes grew accustomed to the windowless shed he realised that the man who had been with him in the cart had been the one who had hacked off the sailor’s hand. Now he was laughing and sharing a joke with one of his companions as if he hadn’t a care in the world.

Allday took a jug of ale and grunted his thanks. It would be wise to say as little as possible.

The ale was tasteless but strong on an empty stomach; it made him feel slightly better.

Another step. He eyed his new companions warily. Deserters to a man. If what he had seen of his “rescuers” was anything to judge by, they had stepped from one captivity into another.

He leaned over and asked casually, “What now?”

The man at his side darted him a suspicious glance. “We waits, see? We’ll be part of a crew.” He nodded, reassured by Allday’s massive presence. “We’ll all be stinkin’ rich!”

Allday took another swallow of ale. Or bloody dead, he thought darkly. Then he looked around the boatshed, probably well guarded too. It was so simple. A boatyard, the last place you would expect to find seamen on the run. But where was it? He had to discover that or all the risks were pointless. The Captain must be told where—

He stiffened as a voice rapped, “I’ll let you know when I’m ready. You just do as you’re told, damn your eyes!”

Allday raised his head very slowly and stared between two men who were in deep conversation.

The sunlight was stronger now, and he could see a half-completed hull standing amidst a litter of planks and wood shav-ings, and beyond that a line of tall trees. He knew the incisive, irritable voice—but how could he?

He heard someone murmuring what sounded like an apology and then part of a canvas awning was pulled aside like a curtain.

Allday held his breath as the dark eyes moved over the list-less figures around the tables.

The man said, “Well, they’d better show more steel than the last lot!”

When Allday dared to look again the awning had fallen back into place. He didn’t see me. He almost gasped his relief out loud.

The face had been that of Loyal Chieftain’s master, Henry Delaval . . .

It was all that Bolitho needed to know. But the plan would not settle in his mind.

All he could hear was a scream. All he could see was the smoking pistol in a severed hand.

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

Once he said, “Tide’s on the ebb, sir.”

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

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

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

“Aye, sir.”

“Start sounding.”

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

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

The bowman called, “By th’ mark two!”

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

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

“How far?”

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

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

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

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

Chesshyre hissed, “There, sir! See the old abbey?”

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

Chesshyre breathed out. “Better’n I thought.”

Bolitho thought how like Herrick he sounded. Another mem-ory. A different ship.

“Less than a fathom, sir!”

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

The bowman was busy with his boathook and called, “Comin’ in now, sir!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Somebody murmured, “An’ there are plenty o’ them round ’ere, sir!”

Another jester.

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

“You must be an old hand at this, sir?”

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

“I admit it’s more like landing on enemy soil than I expected in England.”

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

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

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

Chesshyre touched his arm and stopped in his tracks. “Still!”

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

Bolitho said, “I have good ears, but—”

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

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

He exclaimed, “I was sent to meet you, sir!”

Chesshyre rapped, “Keep your voice down for Christ’s sake, man.”

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

“Where is the blind man? Did he not come?”

“Yes, yes!” He was babbling. “He’s here, right enough. I did just what the major told me—now I’m off afore someone sees me!”

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

“Don’t go too close, sir. ’E stinks like a dead pig.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chesshyre said thickly, “The poor bugger’s off his head, sir.”

Bolitho retorted, “Wouldn’t you be?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Chesshyre added, “What’s your name?”

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

“No.” Bolitho’s heart sank. The link was too fragile to last. It was another hope gone wrong.

In a surprisingly clear voice the blind man said, “Then I’ll take you.”

Bolitho stared at him. “When?”

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

Chesshyre breathed out loudly. “Well, I’ll be double-damned!”

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

Bolitho took the man’s filthy hand. “Thank you.”

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

Christie the boatswain’s mate murmured, “Not bloody askin’ for much, is ’e?”

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

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

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

“I swear, sir, on my baby’s life—I swear I’ve told nobody!”

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

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

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

Chesshyre seemed unable to grasp it. “I just don’t know, sir. In all my service—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bolitho swallowed hard. Who was the blind one now?

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

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

The blind man waited for him to catch up, muttering, “Over yonder! Wot d’you see?”

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

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

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

Paice exploded, “You left him? You bloody well left the cap-tain unsupported!”

Chesshyre protested, “It was an order, sir. Surely you know me better than—”

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

Triscott asked, “What shall we do, sir?”

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

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

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

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

Triscott said, “Even the jolly-boat couldn’t catch him now, sir.”

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

He said, “Good swimmer.”

Chesshyre asked, “What can he do, sir?”

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

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

He said harshly, “Get the ship under way! If anything hap-pens to that lad, I’ll—” He could not go on.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man remarked, “You gets used to waitin’.” He nodded firmly. “When it’s dark—” He shook with silent laughter. “Dark— that’s rich, ain’t it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whose land is this?”

The blind man lay down on his side. “I’ll rest now, Captain.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What is it?”

The man pointed towards the sea. “A boat comin’.”

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

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

The blind man added, “A ship, Captain.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I ain’t goin’ to no bloody redcoats! Not no more!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Someone yelled, “God damn, it’s the press!”

Another gasped, “They told us we was safe!”

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

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

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

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

The man snarled, “Get out! Fetch weapons! He’s alone—can’t you see that, you gutless swabs?”

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

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

He said, “You have no chance!”

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

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

The man yelled, “Kill him, you bilge-rats!” He had sensed that despite his strength he was no match for Bolitho’s swords-manship. He vaulted over a bench, then faced Bolitho across it, his hanger held out like a rapier.

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

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

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

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

Bolitho took Craven’s arm. “How did you know?”

Craven walked to the door. “Look yonder, Captain.”

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

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

Craven said quietly, “Lift your foot, boy.”

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

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

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

“There’s no harm done, Matthew, thanks to you. That was a brave thing you did.”

Craven nodded. “Damned dangerous, too.”

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

The man threw back his head and roared with laughter. “D’you think I fear the hangman?”

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

He offered no resistance as the sergeant tied his hands behind him and sneered, “They’ll have you yet—Captain!”

A dragoon shouted, “’Ere—where d’you think you’re goin’, mate?”

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

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

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

The man shouted, “You bloody liar! Who’d take the word of a blind lunatic?”

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

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

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

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

Bolitho watched as the realisation crossed the man’s cruel fea-tures. Spittle ran from a corner of his mouth. “You lie! You wouldn’t dare!” When Bolitho walked towards the door he screamed, “Don’t leave me!”

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

The man screamed and struggled. “Christ, my eyes!”

Bolitho opened the door, his throat retching.

Then he heard the man shriek, “I’ll tell you! I’ll tell you! Call him off, for Christ’s sake!”

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

The man’s chest was heaving as if he was drowning. “I felt his claws in my eyes!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Craven said, “Thank God I was in time.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

The man shook his head. “I’ll be close by if you needs me, Captain.”

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

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

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 nor-mal 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 sense-less 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 fore-topman named Tom Lucas, had explained that once off the English coast the casks would be dropped over-board 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, watch-ing, 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 inten-tion 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 smug-gling. 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 cap-tain 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 cap-tain, 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 top-sails 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 rat-lines 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 rea-son 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 helms-men 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 helms-men 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 sky-light’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 dark-ness. 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 sea-officers, 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 informa-tion 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 lieu-tenants 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 accep-tance 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 boat-swain’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 call-ing his orderly to fetch his horse.

Commodore Ralph Hoblyn paced his great bedroom alone, his eyes everywhere whenever he reached a window. And as dark-ness 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 miser-able 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 real-ized 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 noth-ing. 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 shout-ing 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 resigna-tion, 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 car-ried. 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 gasp-ing 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 over-head 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 sud-den 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 gur-gling 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 prof-fered 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 cov-ering, 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 ap-peared 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 fath-oms 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 clam-bered 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 carry-ing 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 disap-pointment. 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 lieu-tenant’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 helms-men 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 com-pletely.

Paice exclaimed, “I’ll go myself, sir!” Then he was away, swarm-ing up the lee ratlines with the ease of a young topman.

Bolitho watched him until his outline merged into the remain-ing 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 lieu-tenant 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 see-ing 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 sud-den 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 sev-eral 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 crip-pled 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 smok-ing 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 expres-sion 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.

THE Golden Fleece Inn which stood on the outskirts of Dover was an imposing, weatherbeaten building, a place to change post horses, to rest a while after the rough roads around and out of the port.

Rear-Admiral Sir Marcus Drew waited for the inn servants to place his travelling chests in the adjoining room and walked to the thick leaded windows overlooking a cobbled square. He stared with distaste at groups of townsfolk who were chattering in the hot sunshine, some buying fruit or Geneva from women with trays around their necks.

It was just possible to see the harbour, or part of it, reassur-ing to know, as Drew did, that there were several small men-of-war at anchor there. On the way to the inn he had also found some comfort in the presence of scarlet-coated marines, or an occa-sional troop of stern-faced dragoons.

Nevertheless he felt uneasy here. But for a direct order he would still be in London, perhaps even with his young mistress. He turned away from the window as his secretary entered and paused to stare at him, wiping his small gold-rimmed spectacles with a handkerchief at the same time.

“Is it satisfactory, Sir Marcus?” He peered around the spa-cious room, and considered it a palace.

Drew snorted, “I dislike this place—the whole situation in fact.” Coming here had stripped him of confidence, his accus-tomed sense of being in control. Usually he spent his days choosing officers for certain appointments; at other times he bowed to Their Lordships’ whims and fancies by providing favours for oth-ers he might inwardly have regarded as useless.

Now here, to Dover. He scowled. Not even Canterbury where there was at least some social life, or so he had heard. Dover seen from within and not through the eyes of some homeward-bound sailor was too rough and ready, with an air of instability to match it. But for the great castle casting its timeless gaze across the har-bour and the approaches, he would have felt even more uncertain.

The secretary offered, “Captain Richard Bolitho has arrived, Sir Marcus.” He laid his head on one side. “Shall I—”

“No! Have him wait, dammit! Fetch me a glass of something.”

“Brandy, Sir Marcus?”

The rear-admiral glared at him. “Don’t make mock of me, sir! The brandy is quite likely contraband—I want no part of it!”

He controlled his temper. It was not his secretary’s fault. Another thought pressed through his mind. Besides, the man knew about his little affair. He said in a more reasonable tone, “Fetch me what you will. This place . . . it downs my heart.”

The elderly secretary moved to the windows and stared at the crowd, which within half-an-hour had doubled. There was music down there, some masked dancers bobbing through the crowd, probably picking pockets as they went, he thought.

At the far side of the square was a great cluster of horses, each held by a red-coated soldier. They looked wary, while their two officers paced back and forth in deep conversation.

He shifted his gaze to the crude scaffold, a man who was obviously a carpenter putting finishing touches to it. The secre-tary noticed that, as he worked, his foot was tapping in time to the cheerful music. No wonder the rear-admiral was uneasy. In London you were spared this sort of thing unless you counted the ragged scarecrows which dangled in chains on the outskirts, along the King’s highway.

Sir Marcus joined him and muttered, “By God, you’d think they’d have heard enough about France to—” He said no more. He was always a careful man.

Two floors below, Bolitho walked into a small parlour and rested his back in a cool corner.

The inn seemed to be full of naval people, none of whom he knew. But he had been away from England a long while. A young lieutenant had jumped to his feet and stammered, “I beg your atten-tion, Captain Bolitho! Should you require a junior lieutenant—”

Bolitho had shaken his head. “I cannot say. But do not lose heart.” How many times had he himself been made to beg for an appointment?

The landlord served him personally, carrying a tall tankard of local ale to his table.

“We’re not used to so many senior persons, sir, and that’s no mistake! War must be comin’ soon, it’s a sure sign!” He went off chuckling to himself.

Bolitho stared at the blue sky through one of the tiny win-dows. It kept coming back. Memory upon memory, and most of all, Allday kneeling on deck, his poor bruised face turned to greet him. There had been no sort of disbelief or surprise. As if they had both known in their hearts they would be reunited.

That had been weeks ago. Now he was here, summoned to Dover by the same flag officer who had offered him this appointment.

He heard shouts of laughter from the square outside and con-sidered his feelings. Was it coincidence or purpose which had brought them here today?

At least the rear-admiral had come to him. Had it been the other way round Bolitho would have known his attachment was over.

A servant hovered by the door. “Sir Marcus will see you now, sir.” He gestured towards the stairway which wound upwards past some old and stained paintings of battles, ship disasters, and local scenes. A sailors’ haunt—smugglers too, he thought grimly.

He was breathing hard by the time he had reached the top floor. A shortage of breath or patience? Perhaps both.

An elderly man in a bottle-green coat ushered him into the first room, and he saw Drew sitting listlessly by one of the open windows. He did not rise, but waved for Bolitho to take a chair.

Bolitho began, “I was called here, Sir Marcus, because—”

The admiral retorted wearily, “We were both called here, man. Have some claret, though after the journey it may taste like bilge!” He watched Bolitho as he poured a glass for himself. The same grave features, level eyes which looked like the North Sea in the reflected sunlight. Cold, and yet . . . Drew said, “It was a lengthy report which you sent Their Lordships, Bolitho. You spared noth-ing, added no decoration.” He nodded slowly. “Like your Cornish houses and their slate roofs—hard and functional.”

“It was all the truth, sir.”

“I have no doubt of it. In some ways I would have wished oth-erwise.” He dragged the report across his table and ruffled through it, words or sentences sparking off pictures and events, as if he had been listening to Bolitho’s voice while he had read it.

Drew said, “You had a free hand and you used it, as many knew you would. The result? Most of those deserters, and many others who were in hiding, volunteered to return to the navy.” He glanced at him severely. “I am not so certain that I would have permitted them to return to different vessels from which they had originally run, or accepted them without an example of punish-ment to deter others.” He sighed and continued, “But you gave them your word. That had to be sufficient. All told we gained two hundred men; perhaps others will take your word as a bond. It will encourage wider areas, I hope.”

He cleared his throat. “I would like you to tell me about Commodore Hoblyn.”

Bolitho got to his feet and walked to a side window over-looking a narrow street, like the one which Allday had described, where he had been taken by the press gang.

He said bitterly, “That too is in my report, Sir Marcus.”

He expected a rebuke but Drew said quietly, “I know. I would like you to tell me, as man to man. You see, I served with Hoblyn in that other war. He was a different being then.”

Bolitho stared at the empty street and tried to shut out the mounting buzz of voices from the crowd which waited to observe the spectacle of a man being hanged.

“I did not know, Sir Marcus.” He knew the admiral was watching his back but did not turn. “It was too much for him in the end.” How could he sound so calm and casual? Like all the events which had led up to taking the Loyal Chieftain, and which now lay safe in memory. Like being in a calm in the eye of a typhoon where everything was sharp and clear, desperately so, perhaps, while you waited to enter the second path of the storm. “I suspected Hoblyn was involved with the smuggling gangs, although I wanted to disbelieve it. He was a poor man, rejected by the one life for which he cared, and then all at once he was rich. Gifts which he treasured as acts of friendship—perhaps he too refused to see them as bribes. A carriage from a French noble-man, a world in which he thought he held control. They needed him, and when they thought he had betrayed them they took their revenge.”

Bolitho rested his hand on the sill, praying that the admiral had had enough, that he could let the pieces fall into distance like the moment you lower a telescope from another craft.

But the room was still, and even the distant voices in the square seemed afraid to intrude.

“I had told Major Craven what I intended before we weighed anchor.” He stared into the little street, his grey eyes very still. “When he saw us return with our prizes—” That too had been like a dream, Snapdragon following them to the anchorage, her jubilant prize-crew aboard the smuggling schooner intended as a decoy. That unknown seaman aboard Telemachus who had called to him through the fog would get his prize money after all. Bolitho continued, “Craven had two troops of his men and a magistrate to read the warrant.” He barely listened to his own voice as he relived that night, when he had reached Hoblyn’s house to join Craven’s dragoons and a magistrate who had been almost too terrified to speak.

The marine picket was outside the gates, and most of Hoblyn’s servants had been clustered in the gardens in their night attire. They had described how Hoblyn had ordered them from the house, and when one had requested a few moments to return to his room he had fired a pistol point-blank into a chandelier.

Craven had said, “The doors are locked and bolted. Can’t understand it, Bolitho. He must know why we’re here.” He added with sudden anger, “By God, some of my own men have died because of his treachery!”

Bolitho had been about to ring the bell himself when he had seen Allday walking carefully between the dragoons.

Bolitho had said, “You should be resting, old friend. After this—”

But Allday had replied stubbornly, “I’m not leaving you again, Cap’n.”

Craven had settled it by calling for his farrier sergeant. A tall, bearded dragoon who had marched up to the doors with his huge axe, the one he sometimes used for slaughtering animals to feed the soldiers, and in just two minutes he had laid both doors on the ground.

It had been a macabre scene which had greeted their eyes. In the light of guttering candles Bolitho had seen the shattered fragments of a chandelier, and then when he had approached the great staircase he had seen the blood, on the carpets, against the wall, even on a banister rail. They had halted halfway up the staircase, and Major Craven’s drawn sabre had glinted in the flick-ering candles as he had gripped Bolitho’s arm. “In God’s name what was that fearful sound?”

No wonder the servants had been terrified out of their wits, and the picket had stayed by the gates until Craven’s men had arrived in force. It was a terrible, inhuman cry, rising and falling like a wounded wolf. Even some of the older dragoons had glanced at one another and had clutched their weapons all the tighter.

Bolitho had hurried to the big door at the top of the stairs, Allday limping behind him, that same cutlass still in his hand.

Craven had shouted, “In the King’s name!” Then he had kicked the door inwards with his boot.

Bolitho knew he would never forget the sight which had waited in that room. Hoblyn crouching beside the huge bed, rocking from side to side, his hands and arms thick with dried blood. For a moment longer they had imagined that he was injured, or had attempted to kill himself without success. Until a sergeant had brought more candles, and together they had stared at the bed, at what was left of the naked body of Jules, the youthful footman and companion.

There was not a part of his body which had not been sav-agely mutilated or hacked away. Only the face was left unmarked, like the murdered informer aboard the Loyal Chieftain when Bolitho had first confronted Delaval. From the youth’s contorted features it was obvious that the horrific torture had been exer-cised while he had been alive. The bed, the floor, everything was soaked in blood, and Bolitho had realized that Hoblyn must have carried the corpse in his arms round and round the room until he had collapsed, broken and exhausted.

The Brotherhood had thought that he had betrayed them, not realising that Bolitho’s search for Allday had provoked the attack on the boatyard.

From all the rewards Hoblyn had gained from them by his help and information, they had selected the possession he had prized the most, and had butchered the youth, then left him like a carcass at the gates.

Craven had said huskily, “In the King’s name you are charged this day—” He had broken off and had choked, “Take him. I can stand no more of this charnel house!”

It had been then that Hoblyn had come out of his trance and stared at them without recognition. With a great effort he had got to his feet, and almost tenderly covered the mutilated corpse with a blanket.

In a steady voice he had said, “I am ready, gentlemen.” He had turned only briefly to Bolitho. “You would not heed me.” Then he had tried to shrug his shoulders, but even that had failed him.

At the door he had said, “My sword. I am entitled.”

Bolitho and Craven had looked at one another. Maybe each had known in his own way.

They had waited outside the door, while the dragoons lined the halfway below, where some dazed servants were peering in at the bloodstains and the plaster which had fallen to Hoblyn’s pistol.

The bang of the shot brought more cries and shouts from the waiting servants. They had found Hoblyn lying on the bed, one arm over the blanketed shape, the other crooking the pistol which had blown away the back of his skull.

Bolitho realized he had stopped speaking, that the din out-side the inn was louder now.

Sir Marcus Drew said quietly, “I am distressed to learn it, Bolitho, and I grieve that you should have been forced to witness it. In the long run, it will have been the best way out. Perhaps the only way for him.”

Bolitho moved to the large window and watched the scene below. The pattern had changed, and the dragoons were mounted now, lined, saddle to saddle, across the square, each sabre drawn and shouldered, the horses restless, uneasy in the presence of death. A mounted major was patting his own horse’s neck, but his eyes were on the swaying crowd. It could have been Craven, but it was not.

Drew stood beside him and sipped at his claret, his mind still with the image of Hoblyn’s death.

“He was a fool, not the man I once admired. How did he come to—” He could not continue.

Bolitho eyed him coldly. “Come to love that youth? It was all he had. The woman who had waited for him during the war would not even look at him when she was told of his terrible scars. So he searched elsewhere, and found that boy.” Bolitho was again surprised at the emptiness of his voice. “He learned too late that there are no pockets in a shroud, no money box in a coffin.”

Drew licked his lips. “You are a strange fellow, Bolitho.”

“Strange, sir? Because the truly guilty go free, or hide in safety behind rank or privilege?” His eyes flashed. “One day—”

He stiffened as he saw Delaval’s slight figure mounting the scaffold, a trooper on either side. Dressed in a fine velvet coat, his dark hair uncovered, his appearance brought a chorus of cheers and jeers from the expectant crowd.

Bolitho looked down and saw Allday directly below him, leaning against one of the inn’s pillars, a long clay pipe held unlit to his mouth. In the ensuing weeks he had lost the scars and his eye was as clear as before. But he had changed nonetheless; he seemed quieter, less ready to make a joke of everything. In one way he had not changed. Like dog and master, Bolitho had often thought, each fearful that the other might die first. Loyalty? That was no description of it. Probably Paice was there too, watching, remembering.

The horses were more restless, and the major raised his arm to steady the line.

Drew said softly, “A rogue, but you can pity him this moment.”

Bolitho retorted equally quietly, “I pray he rots in hell.”

It was nearly done. An official from the sheriff ’s office, a qua-vering clergyman whose words, if there were any, were quite lost in the hubbub of shouts and jeers.

Bolitho had seen hangings before—too many, and mostly those of sailors, men found guilty of mutiny or worse, run up to the mainyard by their own messmates.

But this display was little better than Madame Guillotine across the Channel, he thought.

The noose was placed around Delaval’s neck but he shook his head when one of the executioners made to blindfold him.

He looked composed, even indifferent as he called something to those nearest the scaffold.

At that last moment an elegant, dark red phaeton with a frag-ile gold crest painted on the door, cantered around the fringe of the crowd until the coachman reined it to a halt.

Delaval must have seen it too, for he stared until his eyes almost bulged from his head. He tried to scream something, but at that instant the trap was sprung and his legs thrashed wildly in space, the air choked from his lungs while excreta ran down his fine nankeen breeches.

Bolitho saw the phaeton move away, but noticed a man’s face watching from the open window. The face was smiling until it withdrew out of sight, and the fine carriage gathered speed away from the square.

The crowd was silent now in a mixture of disgust and disap-pointment that the spectacle was almost over. The puppetlike figure still twisted and flinched on the rope, and it would take another few minutes for the man who had been murderer, rapist, and smuggler to snuff out his life completely.

Delaval’s last bravado might have carried him across the threshold of darkness but for that face in the carriage window.

Bolitho turned away from the window, his limbs shaking uncontrollably. He had seen it before, on the road to Rochester when it had been in company with the deputy sheriff and his mob. The missing piece of the pattern.

He faced the rear-admiral and asked calmly, “So, may I ask why I am here, Sir Marcus?”

Bolitho watched the purple shadows standing out across the square and felt the cooler air of evening against his face. It had been a long day spent with Rear-Admiral Drew, a man so obviously wor-ried by the prospect of implicating himself in anything which might damage his secure position in Admiralty that conversation had been stilted and fruitless.

All he had discovered of any value was that they were here to meet a man of great importance. His name was Lord Marcuard.

Bolitho had heard Marcuard discussed in the past, and seen brief mentions of him in the Gazette. A man of supreme influence, above the rules of Parliament, who was called frequently to offer his advice on matters of policy to no less than the King himself.

Drew had said at one point, “Do not provoke or irritate His Lordship, Bolitho. It can do nothing but harm and you will be the poorer.”

Bolitho saw some men working on the empty scaffold. Two highwaymen who had prowled together on the Dover Road would share Delaval’s fate tomorrow. They might attract an even larger crowd. Yet another myth, that highwaymen were somehow dif-ferent from murderers and thieves.

Drew was so typical, he thought bitterly. When war came, young captains would be expected to obey the commands and instructions of men like him. Admirals who had gained their advancement in times of peace, who had become soft in the search for their own advantages.

The old secretary opened the door and darted a quick glance between them.

“Lord Marcuard’s carriage approaches, Sir Marcus.”

Drew twitched his neckcloth and glanced at himself in a mirror.

“We are to wait here, Bolitho.” He sounded incredibly nervous.

Bolitho turned away from the window. The carriage had not arrived by the square. The meeting was to be a secret affair. He felt his heart beat faster. He had imagined it might be one of rou-tine, a few words of encouragement perhaps for future aggressive tactics against the smugglers. Lord Marcuard was rarely known to leave his grand house in Whitehall. Even when he did he usu-ally remained secure in his great estate in Gloucestershire.

He heard boots on the stairs and saw two grooms, each armed with a pistol and sidearm, take up a position on the landing beyond the open door. Despite their livery they looked more like seasoned soldiers than servants.

He murmured, “It seems we are to be protected, Sir Marcus.”

The admiral turned on him. “Don’t be so damned flippant!”

A shadow crossed the doorway and Bolitho bowed his head. Marcuard was not what he had expected. He was tall and slen-der, of middle age, with a finely chiselled nose and chin, and eyes which turned down in a fixed expression of melancholy disdain. He was dressed in a finely cut coat and breeches of pale green which Bolitho guessed to be pure silk, and carried an ebony stick. His hair, which was gathered to the back of his collar in an un-English fashion was, Bolitho noticed, heavily powdered. It was a small enough vanity, but Bolitho had always disdained men with powdered hair. This was most certainly a man of the Court, and not of any field of battle.

Drew stammered, “I am honoured, m’lord.” Lord Marcuard seated himself carefully on a chair and arranged the tails of his elegant coat. “I would take some chocolate. The journey—most tiresome. And now this place.” His eyes turned to Bolitho for the first time.

He sounded bored, but his glance was as sharp as any rapier.

“So you are the man of whom I have heard so much. Splendid exploit. Tuke was a dangerous threat to trade.”

Bolitho tried not to show his surprise. He had imagined that Marcuard was referring to the seizure of the Loyal Chieftain. At the same time he guessed that he had been intended so to think. Like being tested.

Drew was flushing badly, taken aback by the switch from hot chocolate to Bolitho’s last command in the Great South Sea.

Bolitho was glad that unlike the rear-admiral he had taken hardly any wine during the day. Marcuard might dress and act like a fop, but he was nobody’s fool.

He said, “I had a good company, m’lord.”

Marcuard gave a cool smile. “Perhaps in their turn they were fortunate in having an excellent captain?” He touched his chin with the knob of his stick. “But I doubt that would occur to you.” He did not wait for a reply.

“His Majesty is concerned about France. William Pitt is attempting to take precautionary steps, of course, but—”

Bolitho watched the stick’s silver knob. Fashioned like an eagle, its claws around a globe—the world perhaps? Marcuard had not said so, but Bolitho felt he did not like Pitt very much.

Marcuard added in the same bored tones, “His Majesty’s per-spective does tend to alter from day to day.” Again the faint smile. “Like the winds to France.” He gave a small frown. “Do see if you can distract someone long enough to procure the chocolate.”

Bolitho made to move for the door but he snapped, “No. I must hear your voice in this.”

Bolitho felt almost sorry for Drew. Was the snub real, or only another demonstration of this man’s immense authority?

As Drew hurried away Marcuard said, “I was too late to see Delaval swing. The roads. I’d have laid a wager otherwise.” Then he said sharply, “Your taking of the brig and the decoy schooner was brilliant. A frigate captain you once were, and no matter what fate awaits you, I suggest that in your soul you will remain one until you are in your grave!”

Bolitho knew his remarks were not casual. He had not come to Dover for idle conversation.

He replied, “I was determined, m’lord. Much was at stake.”

“Yes.” The eyes passed over him again without curiosity. “So I have heard. The matter of Commodore Hoblyn, well—” He gave a slight grimace. “Once a brave man. A knave nonetheless. You are still troubled, Bolitho, that I can see without difficulty. Speak out, man.”

Bolitho glanced at the door. Drew would have a seizure if he knew he was being asked to reveal his thoughts like this.

He said, “I was convinced that Delaval expected to be saved from the gallows, m’lord. Despite all the evidence and the dis-covery of his foul murders of young Frenchwomen, he was confident to the end.” He paused, expecting Marcuard to silence him, pour scorn on his ideas as Drew had tried to do. But Marcuard said nothing.

Bolitho continued, “Sir James Tanner owns much of the land where deserters and smugglers were given shelter between their runs across the Channel. I obtained evidence that he, and only he could have controlled the organisation which such movements required. He bought people, anyone who could offer duplicity, from that wretched midshipman to the commodore, and many others respected in high places.”

“I can see why you are oft unwelcome here, Bolitho. What are you telling me now?”

“This man Tanner has been able to ignore every suggestion of involvement. There is not a judge or magistrate who will lis-ten to any criticism. How can the government expect, no, demand common seamen to risk their lives, when they see the guilty flout-ing the same laws which have impressed them?”

Marcuard nodded, apparently satisfied. “I was influenced by your last action. In a fog too. Your three cutters must think most highly of you now.”

Bolitho stared at him as if he had misheard. Had all the rest fallen on deaf ears?

Marcuard said, “If, nay, when war comes, we cannot depend upon the French remaining a leaderless rabble. Many of their best officers have been beheaded because of the lust and madness of this present revolution. But there will always be other leaders, as there were in England when Charles lost his head on the block.” He reached out with the long ebony stick and tapped the floor to emphasise every word. “Perhaps there will be a counter-revolution; only time will allow this. But France must have her King on his rightful throne.” He saw Bolitho’s astonishment and smiled openly for the first time. “I see I have confused you, my gallant captain! That is good, for if others penetrate my mind, our hopes will be dashed before we are begun!”

Marcuard stood up lightly and crossed to a window. “We need an officer we can trust. No civilian will do, especially a man of Parliament who sees only his own advancement no matter what his tongue might proclaim!” He turned on his toes, like a dancer, Bolitho thought dazedly. “I have chosen you.”

“To go where, m’lord? To do what?”

Marcuard ignored it. “Tell me this, Bolitho. Do you love your King and country above all else?”

“I love England, m’lord.”

Marcuard nodded slowly. “That at least is honest. There are people in France who are working to release their monarch. They need to be assured they are not alone. They will trust no spy or informer. The slightest flaw, and their lives end under the blade. I have seen it. I know.” He eyed him steadily. “I am partly French, and your report of the two girls who died at sea interested me very much. My own niece was guillotined in the first month of the Terror. She was just nineteen. So you see—” He turned irri-tably as voices came from the landing. “Damn their eyes, they make chocolate too fast in Kent!”

Then he said evenly, “You will be advised, but will tell nobody until a plan is made. I am sending you to Holland.” He let his words sink in. “When war comes, Holland will fall to the French. There is no doubt of that, so you must be doubly careful. Spain will throw in her lot with France for her own good.”

Bolitho stared at him. “But I thought the King of Spain—”

“Was against the Revolution?” He smiled faintly. “The Dons never change, and I thank God for it. They value their Church and gold above all else. His most Catholic Majesty will soon con-vince himself where his loyalty lies.”

The door opened and Drew followed by two inn servants bowed his way forward.

“I regret the delay, m’lord!” Drew’s eyes moved like darts between them.

“It will be worth it, Sir Marcus.”

As Lord Marcuard leaned forward to examine the tray his eyes met Bolitho’s and he added softly, “It has to be worth it.”

Then he looked away as if it was a dismissal.

“You may leave us, Bolitho. Your admiral and I have weighty matters to discuss.”

Bolitho walked to the door and turned to give a brief bow. In those seconds he saw Drew’s relief, shining from his face like a beam of light, in the knowledge that Marcuard, the King’s man, was not displeased, that life might continue as before.

He also saw Marcuard’s final gaze. It was that of a conspir-ator.