FOR Bolitho, the weeks which followed the capture of the Loyal Chieftain and the decoy schooner were uneventful and frustrat-ing. Commodore Hoblyn was not replaced by a senior officer; instead, a studious official came from the Admiralty to supervise the purchase of suitable vessels, and to list possible applicants for letters of marque should war be declared in the near future.

The house where Hoblyn had killed himself remained empty and shuttered, a landmark of his disgrace and final grief.

Bolitho found himself with less and less to do, and had to be content with his three cutters acting without his personal super-vision, while they carried out their patrols or assisted the revenue vessels in the continuing fight against smugglers.

He found little comfort in the varying successes of his recruit-ing parties and the press gangs although there had been a surprising increase in volunteers for the fleet, especially from the more inland villages where news of Bolitho’s victory over Delaval’s ships and gangs had preceded his visits.

The news of the murdered girls had spread like wildfire, and fresh information had come from many different sources to prove that their wretched deaths had not been isolated incidents.

After the first bloodbath in the streets of Paris the mobs had turned their hatred towards the professional classes, then lower still to mere shopkeepers and artisans. Anyone who was branded as a traitor to the revolution, a lackey to the feared and loathed aristos, was dragged to prison for harsh interrogation and the inevitable journey through the streets to the waiting guillotine. Some parents had tried to assist their children to escape by sell-ing all they owned; others had attempted to bribe their way into small vessels in the hope of reaching safety in England. Some smugglers like Delaval had found the latter the most profitable of all. They would take everything from these poor, terrified refugees, then murder them in mid-Channel or in the North Sea. Dead men told no tales. If young girls were amongst their human cargo they could expect no mercy at all.

Once, when supping with Major Craven at his small barracks, Bolitho had said angrily, “We are dealing with the scum of the earth. Any enemy who sails under a known flag, no matter what cause he represents, has more respect and honour.”

And now there was not even the major to pass the time with. He and most of his regiment had been ordered to Ireland, in readiness for disturbances there after an overall famine had failed to produce food and warmth for the approaching winter.

And winter was coming early, Bolitho thought. You could see it in the tide-race, and in the tossing white horses of the Channel.

The new detachment of soldiers was composed mainly of recruits and some of the freshly-formed militia, more concerned with their drills and exercises than they were with Bolitho’s warn-ings about smugglers. But the Trade had slackened, if not died, since the Loyal Chieftain incident. It should have given him sat-isfaction, but when he walked the shoreline with Allday a constant companion, he found little consolation.

From the urbane Lord Marcuard he had heard nothing. That had been the biggest disappointment of all. Perhaps it had been another ruse to keep him quiet. Even Craven’s removal might be connected in some way, although it was impossible to prove it. Officers and officials whom he was forced to meet if only to maintain the co-operation he had painstakingly built up, treated him with a certain wariness—respect or awe, he did not know.

To some he seemed to represent the man of war, to others an interference with a life they knew would soon change but still refused to abandon.

Rear-Admiral Drew’s departure had been swift after the meet-ing at Dover. He had left with an air of profound relief and perhaps a new determination to remain uninvolved in anything beyond the walls of Admiralty.

There had been one hope when Drew had left written orders that he should not invade the property or privacy of Sir James Tanner without express instruction from higher authority. There was little point anyway, for it was said that Tanner was elsewhere, maybe out of the country altogether. But Bolitho had nursed the idea that the orders had come through Drew from Lord Marcuard. Even that was difficult to believe now.

Late one afternoon Bolitho stood on a bluff watching a frigate working her way downstream towards Sheerness. Her paintwork shone in the grey light; the gilt gingerbread around her stern win-dows and counter was proof that the lucky man who commanded her had money to spare to present such a fine display. Like Bolitho’s Undine and Tempest had been when he had assumed command first of one, then the other, after the American Revolution.

He watched her resetting her topsails, the men strung out like black dots on her braced yards. A ship to be proud of. The great-est honour of all. He thought of Viola’s animation and interest when she had made him speak freely of his ship, as he had done to no one before, or since.

He heard Allday murmur, “A good ’un, Cap’n.”

Bolitho smiled, moved by the supply of ruses which Allday used to prevent him brooding, or remembering too much.

Suppose Allday had been killed? He felt a pain in his chest like a stab. Now he would have been quite alone.

Bolitho turned and looked at him, his hat tugged down to cover his scar. She had touched and kissed that scar and had told him more than once that it was a mark of pride and honour, not something to shame him.

“I wonder if she carries any of the people we gained as vol-unteers after we had offered them a choice?”

Allday gave a lazy grin. “Just so long as their cap’n knows how to treat ’em!”

Bolitho turned up the collar of his boat-cloak and watched the frigate again as she changed tack towards more open water. It was tearing him apart. Where bound? Gibraltar and the Mediterranean? The West Indies and the dark green fronds which lined each perfect beach?

He sighed. Like the young lieutenant who had offered him-self for a ship, any ship, he felt cut off. Discarded, as Hoblyn had been. He ground his heel on the loose sand. No. Not like Hoblyn.

He asked, “And you never saw the man in the carriage that night, the one who ordered you to kill the sailor from the press?”

Allday watched the rebirth of something in those searching, grey eyes

“Not a peep, Cap’n. But his voice? I’d recognise that even in hell’s gateway, so to speak. Like silk it was, the hiss of a serpent.” He nodded fervently. “If I hears it again I’ll strike first, ask the wherefores afterwards—an’ that’s no error!”

Bolitho stared towards the frigate but her lee side was already clothed in deepening shadows. By tomorrow, with favouring winds, she would be abreast of Falmouth. He thought of the great house. Waiting. Waiting. How small the family had become. His sister Nancy, married to the “King of Cornwall,” lived nearby, but his other sister Felicity was still in India with her husband’s regiment of foot. What might become of her, he wondered?

There were too many little plaques and tablets on the walls of Falmouth Church which recorded the women and children who had died of fever and native uprisings, in places few had even heard of. Like the Bolitho tablets which filled one alcove in the fine old church, each one reading like part of the navy’s own history. From his great-great-great-grandfather, Captain Julius, who had died in 1646 during the Civil War which Lord Marcuard had touched upon, when he had been attempting to lift the Roundhead blockade on Pendennis Castle itself. And his great-grandfather, Captain David, who had fallen to pirates off the shores of Africa in 1724. Bolitho’s fingers reached under his cloak and touched the old hilt at his side. Captain David had had the sword made to his own specifications. Tarnished it might be, but it was still lighter and better-balanced than anything which today’s cutlers could forge.

Bolitho walked towards the sunset, his mind suddenly heavy. After his own name was added to the list, there would be no more Bolithos to return to the old house below the headland and its castle.

Allday’s eyes narrowed. “Rider in a hurry, Cap’n.” His fist dropped to the cutlass in his belt. The land had made him wary and suspicious. In a ship you knew who your friends were, whereas—he exclaimed, “By God, it’s Young Matthew!”

The boy reined his horse to a halt and dropped lightly to the ground.

Bolitho asked, “What is it, lad?”

Young Matthew fumbled inside his jerkin. “Letter, sir. Came by courier.” He was obviously impressed. “Said it must be handed to you, an’ you only, sir.”

Bolitho opened and tried to read it but the dusk had made it impossible. But he picked out the gold crest at the top, the scrawled signature, Marcuard, at the foot of the page and knew it had not all been a figment of imagination, or some plan to keep him in the background until he could be discreetly disposed of.

The others were staring at him, the horse looming over the boy’s shoulder as if it too wanted to be a part of it.

Bolitho had managed to read just three words. With all despatch.

Afterwards he remembered that he had felt neither anxiety nor surprise. Just a great sense of relief. He was needed again.

Wakeful’s gangling first lieutenant groped through the waiting fig-ures and eventually found Queely standing beside the compass.

He said quietly, “I have been right through the ship, sir, as ordered. All lights doused.” He peered blindly across the bulwark at the occasional fin of white spray and added, “I’ll not argue when we come about for open water!”

Queely ignored him and stared first at the reefed mainsail, then the tiny flickering glow of the compass light.

The air was cold like steel, and when spray and spindrift pat-tered over the deck he could feel winter in it.

He said, “My respects to Captain Bolitho. Please tell him we are in position.”

“No need. I am here.” Bolitho’s shadow detached itself from the nearest group and moved closer. He wore his boat cloak, and Queely saw that he was hatless, only his eyes visible in the gloom.

It was halfway through the middle watch, as near to two o’clock as their cautious approach to the Dutch coastline could make possible.

Queely turned away from the others and said abruptly, “I am not content with these arrangements, sir.”

Bolitho looked at him. From the moment he had stepped aboard Queely’s command and had ordered him to the secret ren-dezvous, this scholarly lieutenant had not once questioned his instructions. All the way across the bleak North Sea to a mark on the chart, and he had held his doubts and apprehensions to himself. For that Bolitho was grateful. He could only guess at the danger he was walking into, and was glad that whatever confi-dence he retained was not being honed away. Paice might have tried to dissuade him, but Telemachus was still in the dockyard completing the refitting of her rigging, and the replacement of her lost topmast. He saw Paice’s strong features in his thoughts in the moments which had followed Loyal Chieftain’s capture.

Paice had exclaimed, “We didn’t lose a man, sir! Neither did Wakeful!”

It was strange, but nobody else had even asked him about that, not even Drew. He smiled grimly as he recalled the rear-admiral’s agitation; especially him, might be more apt.

It was like the reports in the newssheets after a great battle or a storm’s tragedy at sea. A flag officer or individual captains might be mentioned. The people and their cost in the ocean’s haz-ards were rarely considered.

He replied, “It is all we have, Mr Queely.” He guessed what he was thinking. Lord Marcuard’s information had taken weeks to reach him, longer again to be studied and tested. In the mean-time anything might have happened. Holland was still standing alone, but it would not be difficult for French spies to infiltrate even the most dedicated circle of conspirators. “I shall remain ashore for four days. You will stand away from the land until the exact moment as we planned. That will prevent any vessel becom-ing suspicious of your presence and intentions.” He did not add that it would also stop anyone aboard Wakeful from spreading gossip, willingly or otherwise. Queely was a quickwitted officer. He would recognise the unspoken reason.

He persisted, “I think you should be accompanied to the shore at least, sir.”

“Impossible. It would double your time here. You must be well clear before dawn. If the wind should back or drop—” There was no point in further explanations.

Queely held his watch close to the feeble compass glow.

“We will soon know.” He peered around for his lieutenant. “Mr Kempthorne! Silence on deck.” He raised a speaking trum-pet and held it to his ear to try to shut out the restless sea.

Bolitho felt Allday beside him and was glad of his company, moved that he should be prepared to risk his life yet again.

Allday grunted. “Mebbe they’ve changed their minds, Cap’n.”

Bolitho nodded and tried to remember each detail of the chart and the notes he had studied on the passage from Kent.

A small country, and not many lonely places suitable enough for a secret landing. Here it was supposed to be a waterlogged stretch of low land, not unlike the marshes and fens of southeast England. Eventually the hard-working Dutch would reclaim the land from the sea and perhaps farm it. They rarely wasted any of their overcrowded resources. But if the French came—

Bolitho tensed as a light shuttered across the heaving water. In the blackness of night it seemed like a beacon.

Queely muttered, “Hell’s teeth! Why not just fire a welcome salute!”

It was the first hint that he was more anxious than his man-ner had revealed.

“Bear up a point! Stand by, forrard! We don’t want to run them down!” In a whisper he added, “Depress that swivel, Robbins! If it’s a trick we’ll leave a card to be remembered by!”

The other boat seemed to rise from the seabed itself, and sev-eral attempts to take heaving lines and stave off a collision made even more noise, although Bolitho doubted if it would carry more than a few yards.

He noticed muffled figures rising and falling in the swell, a stumpy mast with a loosely brailed-up sail. Above all, the stench of fish. Something was handed to one of the seamen and passed swiftly aft to Bolitho. It was part of an old bone coat-button. Bolitho withdrew his piece from his pocket and held them both together. They were parts of the same button. He wondered what might have happened if one of the sailors had dropped it in the darkness. Would trust have overcome suspicion? It was a crude but tested form of recognition, far less complicated or dangerous than a written message.

Bolitho said, “I am leaving now, Mr Queely.” He gripped his arm tightly. “You know what to do if—”

Queely stepped aside. “Aye, sir. If.”

Then they were scrambling down the cutter’s side and into the small fishing boat. Rough hands reached out to guide them through the dangerous traps of nets and pots, stacked oars, and what felt like the entrails of gutted fish.

The sail banged out from its boom and the boat swayed steeply in a welter of fine spray.

When Bolitho looked again, Wakeful had disappeared, with-out even the disturbed white horses to betray her position.

Allday settled down on a thwart and muttered, “I’ll never grumble at a King’s ship again!”

Bolitho glanced at the purposeful figures around them. Nobody had said a word, or offered any sort of greeting.

Marcuard’s words seemed to ring out in his ears. Be doubly careful.

As he strained his eyes for a first glimpse of land Bolitho knew he would not need reminding again.

The journey to the rendezvous took longer than Bolitho had expected. He and Allday were transferred to a different craft, the final one being so cramped that it was necessary to remain almost bent double in the forepeak.

From the chart and what he had gathered from his sparse orders Bolitho knew they had passed Walcheren Island before the transfer, then after they had entered the Ooster Scheldt River they had touched sides with the second boat, barely pausing even to exchange a grunted greeting. The place seemed to be a mass of waterways and inlets although the crew were careful not to encourage Bolitho to look closely at their route.

A desolate, flat landscape, Bolitho thought, marked here and there by tall windmills, like giants against the sky. There were plenty of small craft on the move, but he had seen nothing of any uniforms which might indicate a naval or military presence.

When night closed in for the second time, the boat was pulled and manhandled into some long reeds, so that but for the gentle motion they could have been on a patch of dry land. It was too dark to see anything, with just a few tiny stars showing occa-sionally between the clouds. The wind had changed slightly, but not too much to concern Wakeful, he thought.

Allday craned his head over the side and listened to the reg-ular creak of another great windmill. There was a strong smell too. “Pigs,” he said without enthusiasm. “Are we here, Cap’n?”

Bolitho heard voices, then two figures approached the boat— so there must be a spit of land hereabouts, he thought.

One figure was the boat’s skipper, a round-faced Dutchman with an eye-patch. The other was stepping delicately over the wet reeds, a handkerchief clasped to his nose.

He stared down at them and then said, “Er, Captain Bolitho? You are most prompt!” His English was almost flawless but Bolitho knew he was French.

Bolitho climbed from the boat and almost slipped into deeper water. As he eased his cramped muscles he asked, “And whom do I have the honour—”

The man shook his head. “We have no names, Captain. It is safer that way.” He gave an apologetic shrug. “And now I am afraid I must blindfold you and your—” he glanced warily at Allday’s powerful figure, “—companion.” He sensed their instant caution. “You might see something, no matter how unimportant it may be in your eyes, which could be dangerous for us all, yes?”

Bolitho said, “Very well.” The man was nervous. One of gen-tle breeding. Certainly no soldier. An experienced campaigner would have blindfolded them hours ago. He shivered. If he had to, he knew he could find his way back here without difficulty. Boyhood in the county of Cornwall, and years of service in small vessels had left him its own heritage.

They sloshed through the reeds and then on to rough ground, the windmill’s regular groans then being joined by another. Bolitho knew that someone from the boat was walking in the rear. Apart from the wind it was very still, the air as keen as sleet.

The man held Bolitho’s elbow, murmuring occasional warn-ings about their progress. Bolitho sensed they were close to a large building, but not one of the windmills.

His guide whispered, “You are meeting Vice-Admiral Louis Brennier.” He seemed to feel Bolitho’s sudden attention. “You know him?”

He did not reply directly. “I thought there were to be no names, m’sieu?”

The man hesitated, then said, “It is what he wishes. His life has no value but to this great cause.”

He sounded as if he was repeating a lesson.

Bolitho fell in step again. Vice-Admiral Louis Brennier, an officer of distinction during the American Revolution when he had directed the operations of French privateers and, later, men-of-war who were working alongside the rebels. He had been taking passage for Jamaica in de Grasse’s flagship Ville de Paris when he had met up with Admiral Rodney’s fleet off the little islands called the Saintes. The battle had been devastating and complete, with the French ships either destroyed or taken. It had seemed only right that the mighty Ville de Paris should have struck to the Formidable, Rodney’s own flagship.

Brennier had been a mere passenger at the time, a hard role for a man of action like him, Bolitho had thought. It had been the French intention to attack and seize Jamaica and for Brennier, a very senior officer, to be installed as governor. The Saintes had changed all that, as it had for so many on such a fine April day.

Ordinary, decent men. Like Stockdale who had fallen without a word, Ferguson who had lost an arm; the list was endless. His own ship, Phalarope, had only stayed afloat by working the pumps all the way to the dockyard at Antigua.

He heard a door being unbolted, felt sudden warmth in his face. The blindfold was removed and he found that he was in a broad stone-built room. It was a farm, although the true owners were nowhere to be seen.

He faced the old man who sat across the scrubbed table from him and bowed his head.

“Vice-Admiral Brennier?” He knew he must be old now, but it was still a shock. The admiral’s hair was white, his skin wrin-kled, his eyes half-hidden by heavy lids.

He nodded slowly, his eyes never leaving Bolitho’s.

“And you are Capitaine Bolitho.” His English was not so good as his aide’s. “I knew your father.” His face crinkled into a tired smile. “That is, I knew of him. It was in India.”

Bolitho was taken off balance. “I did not know, m’sieu.”

“Age has its compensations, Capitaine, or so they tell me.”

He raised his thin hands towards a roaring fire and said, “Our King lives, but matters worsen in our beloved Paris.”

Bolitho waited. Surely the hope of the King’s reclaiming the French throne was not being entrusted to Brennier? He had been a gallant officer, and an honourable opponent, trusted by the King and all who had served him. But Brennier was an old man, his mind wandering now over the disaster which had overtaken his country.

Bolitho asked, “What will you have me do, m’sieu?”

“Do?” Brennier seemed reluctant to rejoin him in the present. “It is our intention and sworn duty to obtain the King’s release, by any means, no matter the cost!” His voice grew stronger, and despite his doubts Bolitho could see the younger man emerging.

“Here in the Low Countries we have amassed a fortune.

Precious jewels, gold—” He lowered his forehead on to one hand. “A King’s ransom, the English might call it.” But there was no mirth in his tone. “It is close by. Soon it must be moved and put to work.”

Bolitho asked gently, “Where did it come from, m’sieu?”

“From the many whose families have suffered and died under the guillotine. From others who seek only a return to a cultured, inventive life.” He looked up, his eyes flashing. “It will be used to free the King, by bribery, by force if it must be so, and some to mount a counter-revolution. There are many loyal officers in the South of France, m’sieu, and the world shall witness such a reck-oning! We will do to these vermin what they have done to us!” His outburst seemed to weaken him. “We shall speak further when some of my friends arrive.” He gestured towards another door. “Go there, Capitaine, and meet your fellow agent-provocateur.”

His aide entered again and waited to assist him to some stairs. At their foot he turned and said firmly, “France lives! Long live the King!”

The aide gave what might have been a small shrug. To Allday he said curtly, “Wait here. I will send for some food and wine.”

Allday muttered, “Little puppy! It’s them like him who lost France, if you ask me, Cap’n!”

Bolitho touched his arm. “Be easy, old friend. There is much we have yet to understand. But do as he says, and keep your eyes open.” He did not have to say any more.

Then he pressed on the other door and walked into a more comfortable room.

As the door closed behind him, a figure who had been sit-ting in a high-backed chair facing another lively fire, rose and confronted him.

“Bolitho? I trust the journey was none too arduous?”

Bolitho had only seen the man twice before and each time at a distance. But there was no mistaking him. About his own age, with the arrogant good looks and cruel mouth he remembered from the Rochester Road, and that brief moment in the coach window at Dover.

He felt his hand fall to his sword. “Sir James Tanner.” He was calmed by the flatness in his voice. “I never thought I’d meet a cur like you here!”

Tanner’s face tightened but he seemed to control his imme-diate reaction with a practised effort.

“I have no choice. It is Lord Marcuard’s wish. Otherwise—”

Bolitho said, “When this is over I intend to see you brought to justice.”

Tanner turned his back. “Let me tell you things, Bolitho, before your damned impertinence puts us both in jeopardy. Be assured, I would like nothing better than to call you out here and now.”

Bolitho watched his squared shoulders. “You will find me ready enough, sir! ”

Tanner turned and faced him again. “Your life is so clean and well charted, Bolitho. It lies ’twixt forecastle and poop with no bridge in between, where a captain’s word is law, when no one shall defy it!” He was speaking faster now. “Why not try stepping outside and into the real world, eh? You will soon discover that the politics of survival tend to create strange bedfellows!” He seemed to relax slightly as he gestured casually between them. “Like us, for instance.”

“It sickens me even to share the same room.”

Tanner eyed him thoughtfully. “You would never prove it, you know. Never in ten thousand years. Others have tried before you.” He became suddenly reasonable. “Take yourself, Bolitho. When you returned from the American War you discovered your fam-ily estate pared away, sold to pay for your brother’s debts, is that not correct?” His voice was smooth and insistent. “You fought bravely, and that was your reward.”

Bolitho held his expression as before but only with difficulty. At every corner, in every turn, there was always Hugh’s disgrace, the memory used to shame or belittle the family as it had killed their father.

Tanner was saying, “My father lost nearly everything. His debtors were measured in leagues, believe me. But I got all of it back on my own.”

“By organising a smuggling trade that was unrivalled any-where.”

“Hearsay, Bolitho. And even if it were so, nobody will stand up and swear it.” He leaned over the chair and tapped the leather with his hand. “D’you imagine I want to be here, involved in a wild scheme which has about as much chance of succeeding as a snowman in a furnace!”

“Then why are you?”

“Because I am the only one Lord Marcuard trusts to execute the plan. How do you imagine you reached here unscathed? You do not know the country or its language, and yet here you are. The fishermen are in my employ. Oh yes, they may be smug-glers, who can say? But you came here in safety because I arranged it, even to suggesting the exact point at which to bring you ashore.”

“And what of Delaval?”

Tanner became thoughtful. “He worked for me, too. But he had grand ideas, became less and less prepared to take orders. So you see—”

“He thought you were going to gain his discharge.”

“Yes, he did. He was a boaster and a liar, a dangerous combination.”

Bolitho said, “Is that all there is to it?”

“Not completely. Lord Marcuard will have his way. You still do not understand this real world, do you? If he chose, Marcuard could use his power against me, and all my land and property would be forfeit. And if you are thinking I could still live at ease elsewhere, then I beg you to dismiss the idea. From Marcuard there is no hiding place. Not on this earth anyway.”

They faced each other, Tanner breathing hard, his eyes watch-ful, a man too clever to reveal the triumph he now felt.

Bolitho was still numbed by the fact that he was here. Had even planned his arrival.

Tanner said easily, “We have to work together. There was never any choice for either of us. I wanted to meet you before that old man did, but he suggested it might be difficult.”

Bolitho nodded, in agreement for the first time. “I’d have killed you.”

“You would have tried to do so, I dare say. It seems to run in your family.” He spread his arms. “What can you hope for? If you go to the Dutch Customs House they will laugh at you. If French spies discover what you are about here, many will die, and the treasure will go to the revolutionary government.” He tapped the chair with his hand again. “To use for supplying ships and weapons which your sailors will have to face before much longer!”

He seemed to tire of it. “Now I shall take my leave. M’sieu will wish to speak at length about this matter, and of course on the glory which was France.” His voice was still smooth as he added, “Do not delay too long. My men will not wait forever.”

He used a small side-door, and Bolitho heard horses stamp-ing on some sort of track.

Bolitho left the room and saw Allday staring at him. Despite his bronzed features his face looked ashen.

“What is it? Speak, man!”

Allday watched the closed door.

“That man you just met. His voice. It was him. I’d not forget that one in a lifetime!”

Bolitho saw his eyes spark with memory. It was as he had sus-pected. The man in the carriage who had ordered Allday to kill the sailor from the press gang, and Sir James Tanner, were one and the same.

Bolitho touched his arm and said, “It is well he did not know it. At least we are forewarned.” He stared into the shadows. “Otherwise he would see us both dead before this is over and done with.”

“But what happened, Cap’n?”

Bolitho looked up as voices floated from the stairway. The glory which was France.

He said quietly, “I was outmanoeuvred.” He clapped him on the arm. Allday needed him now. “This time.”

THE footman took Bolitho’s dripping cloak and hat and regarded

them disdainfully.

“Lord Marcuard will receive you now, sir.”

Bolitho stamped his shoes on the floor to restore the circu-lation, then followed the servant, a heavy-footed man with stooped shoulders, along an elegant corridor. He was a far cry from the wretched Jules, Bolitho thought.

It had been a long and uncomfortable journey from Sheerness to London. The roads were getting worse, deeply rutted from heavy rain, and now there was intermittent snow, touching the grand buildings of Whitehall like powder. He hated the thought of winter and what it might do to his health. If the fever returned— he closed his mind to the thought. There were too many important matters on his mind.

When Wakeful had moored at the dockyard, Bolitho had left immediately for London. There had been a brief message await-ing his return from Marcuard. He would meet him on his own ground this time.

He heard sounds from the hallway and said, “That will be my coxswain. Take good care of him.” He spoke abruptly. Bolitho felt past even common courtesy. He was heartily sick of the pretence and false pride these people seemed to admire so much.

He thought of the old admiral in Holland, of the great for-tune amassed and ready to be used for a counter-revolution. It had seemed like a dream when he had outlined it; back in England the plan seemed utterly hopeless.

Bolitho’s silent guides had conveyed him to the rendezvous on time but only with minutes to spare. Even in the darkness there had been shipping on the move, and the fishermen had almost given up hope when Wakeful’s wet canvas had loomed over them.

Lieutenant Queely’s relief had been matched only by his eagerness to get under way and head for open waters. He had confirmed Bolitho’s suspicions; there were men-of-war in the vicinity, Dutch or French he had not waited to discover.

Some of Bolitho’s anger at Tanner’s involvement had eased on the journey to London. Noisy inns, with more talk of Christmas than what might be happening across the Channel. As the coach rolled through towns and villages, Bolitho had seen the local vol-unteers drilling under the instruction of regular soldiers. Pikes and pitchforks because nobody in authority thought it was necessary to train them to handle muskets. What was the matter with peo-ple, he wondered? When he had commanded Phalarope the navy’s strength had stood at over one hundred thousand men. Now it was reduced to less than a fifth of that number, and even for them there were barely enough ships in commission and ready for sea.

He realised that the footman was holding open a tall door, Bolitho’s cloak held carefully at arm’s length.

Marcuard was standing with his back to a cheerful fire, his coat-tails lifted to give him all the benefit of the heat. He was dressed this time in sombre grey, and without his ebony silver-topped stick looked somehow incomplete.

Bolitho examined the room. It was huge, and yet lined on three walls with books. From floor to ceiling, with ladders here and there for convenience, like the library of a rich scholar. Queely would think himself in heaven here.

Marcuard held out his hand. “You wasted no time.” He ob-served him calmly. “I am needed here in London. Otherwise—” He did not explain. He waved Bolitho to a chair. “I will send for some coffee presently. I see from your face that you came ready for an argument. I was prepared for that.”

Bolitho said, “With respect, m’lord, I think I should have been told that Sir James Tanner was involved. The man, as I have stated plainly, is a thief, a cheat and a liar. I have proof that he was engaged in smuggling on a grand scale, and conspired with others to commit murder, to encourage desertion from the fleet for his own ends.”

Marcuard’s eyebrows rose slightly. “Do you feel better for that?” He leaned back and pressed his fingertips together. “Had I told you beforehand you would have refused to participate. Not because of the danger, and I better than you know there is dan-ger aplenty on either side of that unhappy border. No, it was because of your honour that you would have refused me, just as it was because of it that I chose you for the mission.”

Bolitho persisted, “How can we trust that man?”

Marcuard did not seem to hear. “There is an hypocrisy in us all, Bolitho. You offered your trust to Vice-Admiral Brennier, because he too is a man of honour. But a few years ago, or per-haps even next week, you would kill him if the need arose because war has dictated how you shall think, and what you must do. In affairs like this I trust only those whom I need. Tanner’s skills may not appeal to either of us but, believe me, he is the best man, if not the only man, who can do it. I sent you because Brennier would recognise you as a King’s officer, someone who has already proved his courage and loyalty beyond question. But what do you imagine would occur if I had directed others to Holland? I can assure you that the Admiralty of Amsterdam would have been displeased, and would have closed every port against us. They have cause to fear the French and would likely confiscate the Royalist treasure to bargain with them.”

Despite his hatred of the man, Bolitho thought of Tanner’s words about the possibility of the vast hoard of jewels and gold being used to strengthen French power to be thrown eventually against England.

Marcuard said, “You look troubled, Bolitho. What do you feel about this affair, and of Brennier’s part in it?” He nodded very slowly. “Another reason why I selected you. I wanted a thinking officer, not merely a courageous one.”

Bolitho stared through one of the tall windows. The sky was growing darker, but he could see the roof of the Admiralty build-ing where all this, and so many other ventures in his life, had begun. Full circle. The roof was already dusted with snow. He grip-ped his hands together to try and stop himself from shivering.

“I believe that the prospect of an uprising is hopeless, m’lord.” Just saying it aloud made him feel as if he had broken a trust, that he was being disloyal to that old man in Holland who had been captured by Rodney at the Saintes. He continued, “He showed me one of the chests. I have never seen the like. So much wealth, when the people of France had so little.” He glanced around at the fine room. An equation which should be learned here, he thought bitterly.

“Are you not well, Bolitho?”

“Tired, m’lord. My cox’n is with me. He is finding quarters for us.”

It was to sidestep Marcuard’s question.

Marcuard shook his head. “I will not hear of it. You shall visit here, while you are in London. There are some who might wish to know your movements. And besides, I doubt that there are many—quarters—as you quaintly describe them, freely available this near to Christmas.”

He regarded Bolitho thoughtfully. “While you were in Holland, I too was forming opinions.”

Bolitho felt his limbs relaxing again. Perhaps it was the fire.

“About the treasure, m’lord?”

“Concerning it.” Marcuard stood up and tugged gently at a silk bell rope. There was no sound but Bolitho guessed it would reach one of the many servants who were needed for such an extensive residence.

Bolitho did not trust the so-called “real-world” as described by Sir James Tanner, but he had learned a lot about people, no matter what their rank or station might be. From a tough fore-topman to a pink-faced midshipman, and Bolitho knew that the bell rope was to give him time, to test his own judgement before he shared any more secrets.

Marcuard said bluntly, “There is no hope for the King of France.”

Bolitho stared at him, and was struck by the solemnity of his voice. While the King was alive there had always been hope that somehow things might return, halfway at least, to normal. In time, the murder of aristocrats and innocent citizens in the name of the Revolution might fade into history. The death of a King would have the brutal finality of the guillotine itself.

Marcuard watched him, his eyes smoky in the reflected flames. “We cannot rely on Brennier and his associates. Until a counter-revolution can be launched, that vast fortune belongs in London, where it will be safe. I could tell you of lasting loyalties which would rise up against the National Convention once a properly

managed invasion was mounted.”

“That would cause a war, m’lord.”

Marcuard nodded. “The war is almost upon us, I fear.”

“I believe that Admiral Brennier understands the danger he is in.” Bolitho pictured him, a frail old man by the fire, still dream-ing and hoping when there was no room left for either.

The door opened and another footman entered with a tray and some fresh coffee.

“I know you have a great liking for coffee, Captain Bolitho.”

“My cox’n—”

Marcuard watched the servant preparing to pour.

“Your Mr Allday is being well taken care of. He seems a most adaptable fellow, to all accounts. Your right arm, wouldn’t you say?”

Bolitho shrugged. Was there nothing Marcuard did not know or discover from others? No hiding place, Tanner had said. That he could believe now.

He said, “He means all that and more to me.”

“And the young lad, Corker, wasn’t it? You packed him off to Falmouth, I believe.”

Bolitho smiled sadly. It had been a difficult moment for all of them. Young Matthew had been in tears when they had put him on the coach for the first leg of the long haul to Cornwall, the breadth of England away.

He said, “It seemed right, m’lord. To be home with his peo-ple in time for Christmas.”

“Quite so, although I doubt that was your prime concern.”

Bolitho recalled Allday at that moment, his face still cut and bruised from his beating aboard the Loyal Chieftain. He had said, “Your place is on the estate, my lad. With your horses, like Old Matthew. It’s not on the bloody deck of some man-o’-war. Anyway, I’m back now. You said you’d wait ’til then, didn’t you?”

They had watched the coach until it had vanished into heavy rain.

Bolitho said suddenly, “I fear he would have been killed if I had allowed him to stay.”

Marcuard did not ask or even hint at how the boy’s death might have come about. He probably knew that too.

Marcuard put down his cup and consulted his watch. “I have to go out. My valet will attend to your needs.” He was obviously deep in thought. “If I am not back before you retire do not con-cern yourself. It is the way of things here.” He crossed to a window and said, “The weather. It is a bad sign.”

Bolitho looked at him. He had not said as much, but some-how he knew Marcuard was going to have a late audience with the King.

Bolitho wondered what the prime minister and his advisers thought about it. It was rumoured more openly nowadays that His Majesty was prone to change his mind like the wind, and that on bad days he was totally incapable of making a decision about anything. He might easily be prepared to discuss his anxi-eties with Marcuard rather than Parliament. It would make Marcuard’s authority all the greater.

He was standing by the window now, looking down at the road, his eyes deep in thought.

“In Paris it will be a bad winter. They were near to starva-tion last year; this time it will be worse. Cold and hunger can fire men to savage deeds, if only to cover their own failings.”

He looked deliberately at Bolitho, like that time at The Golden Fleece in Dover.

“I must make arrangements for the treasure to be brought to England. I feel that the sand is running low.” The door opened silently and Marcuard said, “Have the unmarked phaeton brought round at once.” Then to Bolitho he said softly, “Leave Brennier to me.”

“What of me, m’lord?” Bolitho was also on his feet, as if he shared this new sense of urgency.

“As far as I am concerned, you are still my man in this.” He gave a bleak smile. “You will return to Holland only when I give the word.” He seemed to relax himself and prepare for his meet-ing. “Anyone who opposes you will have me to reckon with.” He let his gaze linger for a few more seconds. “But do not harm Tanner.” Again the bleak smile. “Not yet, in any case.” Then he was gone.

Bolitho sat down and stared at the wall of books, an army of knowledge. How did men like Marcuard see a war, he wondered? Flags on a map, land gained or lost, investment or waste? It was doubtful if they ever considered it as cannon fire and broken bodies.

Below his feet, in the long kitchen Allday sat contentedly, sipping a tankard of ale while he enjoyed the pipe of fresh tobacco one of the footmen had offered him.

In any strange house the kitchen was usually Allday’s first port of call. To investigate food, and also the possibilities of female companionship which most kitchens had to offer.

He watched the cook’s assistant, a girl of ample bosom and laughing eyes, her arms covered in flour to her elbows. Allday had gathered that her name was Maggie.

He took another swallow of ale. A proper sailor’s lass she would make. He thought of Bolitho somewhere overhead, alone with his thoughts. He had heard his lordship leave in a carriage only moments ago, and wondered if he should go up and disturb him.

He thought of the dead girl in his arms, the touch of her body against his. Poor Tom Lucas had sworn it would bring bad luck to take a woman aboard against her will. That had been true enough for both of them. Allday tried to see into the future. Better back in Falmouth than this shifty game, he thought. You never knew friend from foe. Just so long as they didn’t go back to Holland. Allday usually clung to his same old rule. Never go back. The odds always got worse.

The cook was saying, “’Course, our Lady Marcuard’s down at the estate. ’Is lordship’ll not be ’ome for Christmas this year, I reckon!” She looked meaningly at Allday and added, “Young Maggie’s ’usband is there too, as second coachman, see?”

Allday glanced at the girl and saw her blush faintly before she returned her attention to her work.

The cook watched them both and added encouragingly, “Pity to waste it, I always says!”

His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Ithuriel, a seventy-four-gun two-decker, made a handsome picture above her reflection on the flat water of the Royal Dockyard. Her black and buff hull and check-ered gunports, her neatly furled sails and crossed yards shone with newness, as did the uniforms of her lieutenant and midshipman, facing inboard from their divisions of silent seamen. Across her poop the marines stood in scarlet lines, and above their heads a matching ensign curled listless against a washed-out sky in the hard sunlight.

There was pride and sadness here in Chatham today. Ithuriel was the first new man-of-war of any size to be commissioned since the American Revolution, and now, stored and fully manned, she was ready to take her place with the Channel Fleet.

Below her poop Bolitho watched the official handing-over of the new ship, her captain reading himself in to the assembled offi-cers and men he would lead and inspire for as long as Their Lordships dictated, or as long as he remained in command.

Nearby, the officers’ ladies stood close together, sharing this alien world of which they could never truly become a part. Some would be grateful that their husbands had been given appointments after all the waiting and disappointment. Others would be cherishing each passing minute, not knowing when, or if, they would see their loved ones again.

Bolitho looked at the sky, his heart suddenly heavy. He was only an onlooker. All the excitement and demands of a newly commissioned ship were cradled here, and would soon show their true value and flaws once the ship began to move under canvas for the first time.

He saw the admiral with his flag lieutenant standing a little apart from the rest, dockyard officials watching their efforts become reality as the company was urged to cry their Huzzas and wave their hats to honour the moment.

If only the command were his. Not a frigate, but a newly born ship nonetheless. The most beautiful creation of man yet devised; hard and demanding by any standards. He dropped his eyes as the captain finished speaking, his voice carrying easily in the still January air.

That too was hard to accept, Bolitho thought. Danger there had certainly been, but the promise of action had sustained him. Until now. In his heart he believed he had ruined his chances by his dogged and stubborn attack on Sir James Tanner. Marcuard must have found him wanting.

He looked up as he heard the new captain speak his name.

He was saying, “A fine ship which I am proud to command. But for the inspiration and leadership given by Captain Richard Bolitho over the past months I doubt if we would have enough hands to work downstream, let alone put to sea and face what-ever duty demands of us!” He gave a slight bow in Bolitho’s direction. “Ithuriel shall be worthy of your trust, sir.”

Bolitho flinched as all the faces turned towards him. Pressed and volunteers, men who had accepted his offer to quit the smug-gling gangs and return to their calling, but now they were of one company. It was only their captain’s qualities which could carry them further. And Bolitho would be left far behind and soon forgotten.

Perhaps there would be no war after all? He should have felt relief, but instead was ashamed to discover he had only a sense of loss and rejection.

The ship’s company was dismissed and the boatswain’s mates refrained from their usual coarse language with so many ladies gathered on the quarterdeck and poop. Extra rum for all hands, and then, when the honoured guests had departed, the hovering bumboats and watermen would come alongside and unload their passengers under the watchful eyes of the first lieutenant and afterguard. Trollops and doxies from the town, the sailor’s last freedom for a long while. For some, it would be forever.

The admiral was making a great fuss over the captain, which was not surprising as he was his favourite nephew. The groups were breaking up and making for the entry port below which the many boats thronged like water beetles. There were desperate embraces and tears, brave laughter, and, from the older ones, res-ignation, a lesson learned from many repetitions.

Allday emerged from the shadows beneath the poop and said, “I’ve signalled for the boat, Cap’n.” He studied him with concern, recognising all the signs. “It’ll come, Cap’n, just you see—”

Bolitho turned on him, and relented immediately. “It was only that I had hoped—”

The senior officers had gone now; calls trilled and barges glided away to other ships and to the dockyard stairs.

Bolitho said wearily, “I would that they were my men and our ship—eh, old friend?”

Allday made a passage to the entry port. In many ways he felt vaguely guilty. He should have done more. But in London while they had been staying in that great house, he had soon found his time fully occupied with the amorous Maggie. It was just as well Bolitho had been ordered back to Kent, he thought. It had been a close-run thing.

“Captain Bolitho?” It was the flag lieutenant, poised and eager, like a ferret. “If you would come aft for a moment, sir?”

Bolitho followed him and saw the curious stares, heads drawn together in quick speculation. Rumour was firmer than fact. They would be speaking of Hoblyn and Delaval, even Hugh, and the strange fact that men who had managed to evade the dreaded press gangs had openly volunteered for service whenever Bolitho had been seen in their locality. Myth and mystery. It never failed.

In the great cabin, still smelling of paint and tar, new timber and cordage, Bolitho found another unknown captain waiting for him. He introduced himself as Captain Wordley; the papers he produced proved that he had been sent by Lord Marcuard.

Wordley watched him impassively as he examined his bulky envelope and said, “You may read them at leisure, Bolitho. I am required to return to London forthwith.” He gave a wry smile. “You will know his lordship’s insistence on haste.”

Bolitho asked, “Can you tell me?” He could still scarcely believe it.

“You are to return to Holland. All details are listed in your orders. There is some urgency in this matter. Information is hard to come by, but Lord Marcuard is convinced that time is short. Very short. You are to supervise the removal of the . . . stores . . . from Holland, and see them safely to these shores.” He spread his hands unhappily. “It is all I can tell you, Bolitho. In God’s name it is all I know!”

Bolitho left the cabin and made his way to the entry port where Allday was waiting by the side-party and marine guard.

Like walking in the dark. A messenger-boy who was told only the briefest facts. But excitement replaced the bitterness almost immediately. He said, “We are returning to Holland, Allday.” He eyed him keenly. “If you wish to stand fast I shall fully under-stand, especially so because of your—recent attachment.”

Allday stared at him, then gave a self-conscious grin. “Was it that plain, Cap’n? An’ I thought I was keeping hull-down, so to speak!” His grin vanished. “Like I said afore. We stay together this time.” His eyes were almost desperate. “Right?”

Bolitho gripped his thick forearm, watched with astonish-ment by the marine officer of the guard.

“So be it.”

He doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and lowered himself to the waiting boat.

Only once did Bolitho glance astern at the shining new seventy-four, but already she seemed like a diversion, part of that other dream.

Now only Holland lay ahead. And reality.

Lieutenant Jonas Paice placed his hands firmly on his hips and stared resentfully at the anchored Wakeful. In the harsh January sunlight she was a hive of activity, her sails already loosened, the forecastle party working the long bars of the windlass, their bod-ies moving in unison as if performing some strange rite.

“I’ll not be in agreement, sir. Not now, not ever.”

Bolitho glanced at his grimly determined features. Time was all-important, but it was just as vital he should make Paice understand.

“I explained why I had to go before. It was a secret then. I could not share it at the time, you must realise that.”

“This is different, sir.” Paice turned and stared at him, using his superior height to impress each word. “Half the fleet will know what you’re about.” He waved his hand towards Wakeful. “You should let me take you if go you must.”

Bolitho smiled. So that was it. He said, “Lieutenant Queely knows that coast well. Otherwise—” He saw Wakeful’s jolly-boat cast off and pull towards Telemachus. He said, “Try to pass word to Snapdragon. She is working her station off the North Foreland. Either the revenue people or the coastguard might be able to signal her. I want her back here.” He studied his stubborn features. It was Herrick all over again. “We are in this together.”

Paice replied heavily. “I know, sir. I have read your instructions.”

He tried again. “In any case, apart from the risks, there is the weather. Last time you had mist and fog. A hazard maybe, but also a protection.” He added scornfully, “Look at this! As bright and clear as the Arctic! Even a blind man could see you coming!”

Bolitho looked away. He had been thinking as much himself. Bright and clear, the waves outside the anchorage pockmarked with choppy white horses from the cold south-westerly. “I must go now.” He held out his hand. “We shall meet again soon.” Then he was climbing down to the boat where Lieutenant Kempthorne removed his hat as a mark of respect.

“Cast off! Give way all!” Allday sat by the tiller, his hat pulled down to shade his eyes from the reflected glare. He had seen the light in Bolitho’s eyes, the way that the call to action had some-how strengthened him. Allday had watched him aboard the new two-decker. The longing and the loss, side by side.

He gave a long sigh. Allday had no liking for what they were doing and it had cost him dearly not to speak his mind, that priv-ilege he valued above all else. Bolitho could strike back with equal conviction and his anger had been known to hurt as well as sting. But he had never once used his rank and authority when others would have thought of nothing else. Now, as he watched the set of Bolitho’s shoulders, the black hair gathered above the fall-down collar of that old, faded coat, he was glad he had kept his peace, no matter what.

They climbed aboard the cutter, and the boat was hoisted up and inboard almost before Bolitho had reached the narrow poop where Queely was in deep conversation with his sailing-master.

Queely touched his hat and nodded. “Ready when you are, sir.” He looked at the green elbow of land, the rime of frost or recent snow dusting some of the port buildings. The air was like a honed knife, but it roused a man from the boredom of routine, put an edge on his reactions. Queely said, “Doesn’t much matter who sees us leave this time, eh?”

Bolitho ignored it. Like Paice, he was trying to dissuade him. It moved him to realise it was not for their own sakes, but for his.

Allday strode aft, then drew his cutlass and aimed its blade at the sun. “I’ll give this a sharpen, Cap’n.” He held out his hand. “I’ll take the sword, if I may?”

Bolitho handed it to him. Others might see and think they understood. But how could they? This was a ritual shared with nobody else, as much a part of each man as the moment before a battle when the ship was cleared for action, screens down, the people standing to their guns. Allday would be there. Always. After clipping the old sword to his belt. As his father’s coxswain must have done for him and those who had gone before.

“Anchor’s hove short, sir!”

“Loose mains’l! Stand by heads’l sheets!” Feet padded on the damp planking, bare despite the bitter air.

Bolitho saw it all. If only more of the people at home could have seen them, he thought. Men who had so little, but gave their all when it was demanded of them. He thought of the faces he had seen aboard the new Ithuriel. It might be months before her company worked even half as well as the men of his three cutters.

“Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”

Wakeful came round into the breeze, her huge mainsail scoop-ing all of it without effort and filling out with a crack of taut canvas.

“Hold her steady!” Queely was everywhere. “Let go and haul. Mr Kempthorne, they are like old women today!”

Bolitho heard the helmsman chuckle. “Wish they was, matey!”

He turned and looked for Telemachus. How tiny she looked when set against the tall buff-and-black hull of the new two-decker.

Allday saw the look and gave a rueful grin.

There would be no stopping him now.

By evening the wind still held steady enough from the south-west, and the sea showed no sign of lessening. Spray swept regularly over the duty watch, reaching for the hands working aloft on the yards. When it caught you unawares it was cold enough to punch the breath out of your body.

Bolitho was in the cabin, going over Queely’s calculations, the notes which he had made from their last rendezvous. Nothing must go wrong. He thought of Tanner and tried not to let his anger break out again. Tanner was under Lord Marcuard’s orders, and on the face of it had far more to lose than Bolitho if things went badly wrong. Unless you counted life itself, Bolitho thought. He was surprised he could face it with neither qualms nor sur-prise. It might mean that he was truly restored, that the fever which had all but killed him had finally released him, as a reced-ing wave will toss a drowning sailor to safety, as if for a last chance.

He heard shouts on deck and Queely clattered down the companionway, his body shining in a long tarpaulin coat.

“Sail to the nor’-east, sir.”

More yells came from above. Queely remarked, “I’m chang-ing tack. No sense in displaying our intentions.” He smiled faintly. “Yet, anyway.”

The hull staggered and then reared upright again, and Bolitho heard the sea rushing along the lee scuppers like a bursting stream.

“What is she?”

“I’ve got Nielsen aloft, a good lookout.” Again the ghostly smile. “For a Swede, that is. He reckons she’s a brig. Square-rigged in any case.”

They looked at each other. Bolitho did not have to consult the chart to know that this stranger stood directly between them and the land.

“Man-of-war?” It seemed unlikely to be anything else out here and at this time of the year.

Queely shrugged. “Could be.”

The helmsman yelled, “Steady she goes, sir! Nor’ by East!”

Queely frowned, seeing the complications in his thoughts. “Don’t want to bring her up too much, sir. I know the nights are long, but we’ve precious little room for mistakes.”

Bolitho followed him on deck. The sea was covered with leaping white clusters of spray, but beneath them the water looked black, a vivid contrast to the sky which despite some early stars was still clear and pale.

The hull plunged her long bowsprit down like a hunting mar-lin and the water surged over the forecastle and hissed aft between the gleaming guns.

Queely cupped his reddened hands. “Where away, Nielsen?”

“Same bearing, sir! She changed tack when we did!”

Even from the deck amidst the din of spray and wind Bolitho could hear the man’s Swedish accent. What was his story, he wondered?

Queely swore. “In God’s name, sir! That bugger is on to us!”

Bolitho gripped a stay and felt it quivering in his hand as if it were part of an instrument.

“I suggest you steer more to the east’rd as soon as it’s dark. We should cross his stern and lose him.”

Queely eyed him doubtfully. “So long as we can beat clear if the wind gets up, sir.”

Bolitho gave a dry smile. “There is always that provision, of course.”

Queely beckoned to his first lieutenant. “We shall hold this tack until—” The rest was lost in the boom of canvas and the creak of steering tackles as the helmsmen forced over the tiller bar.

Allday stood by the companionway and listened to the rud-der. It was all to easy too picture the girl’s pale shape as she had sawed frantically at the lines. If only she had been spared.

He tossed the stupid thought from his mind and groped his way to the ladder. There was always tomorrow. But now a good “wet” of rum was all he needed.

When darkness closed in, and their world had shrunk to the leaping crests on either beam, Wakeful came about and under reefed topsail thrust her bowsprit towards the east. Immediately before that Queely joined Bolitho in the cabin and shook his hat on the littered deck.

“That bugger’s still there, sir.” He stared at his cot but shut the picture of sleep from his thoughts. “I shall call you when it’s time.” Then he was gone, his boots scraping up the ladder and on to the streaming deck above.

Bolitho lay down and faced the curved side. Just once he spoke her name aloud. “Viola.” And then, with his eyes tightly shut as if in pain, he fell asleep.

14. fair Wind . . . for france

H.M. CUTTER Wakeful rolled heavily in the offshore swell, the motion made worse by a swift current at odds with a failing tide. Hove-to and with her flapping canvas in wild disorder, it felt as if she might easily dismast herself.

Queely had to shout above the din of rigging and wind. Caution was pointless; the clatter of loose gear and the sluice of water alongside seemed loud enough to wake the dead.

He exclaimed, “It’s no use, sir! They’re not coming! I have to suggest that we turn back!” Bolitho held on to the shrouds and strained his eyes through

the wind-blown spray. Queely was in command; he had plenty of reasons to be alarmed, and had been right to speak his mind.

Bolitho cursed the unknown vessel which had made them take a more roundabout course towards the Dutch coast. But for that they would have reached the rendezvous in good time. He felt Queely peering at the sky, imagining it was already getting lighter.

Bolitho said tersely, “They have orders to return on the hour.”

But they were fishermen, smugglers too, not disciplined sailors like those who stood or crouched around him.

Queely said nothing in reply. He was probably thinking much the same.

The wind had veered overnight, which made it even harder for Queely to maintain his position without the risk of being dri-ven onto a lee-shore.

Bolitho tried to think what he must do. What is the point? There is no other way.

Allday stood close by, his arms folded as if to show his con-tempt for the sea’s efforts to pitch him to the deck. Occasionally he glanced up at the furled mainsail, the huge mast which leaned right over him, then staggered away to the opposite beam as the cutter rolled her gunports under.

He could tell from Bolitho’s stance, the way he barely spoke, that he was tackling each of his problems in turn. Earlier Allday might have been satisfied to know this might happen. But now, having come this far, he wanted to go ahead, get it over with, like Bolitho.

Men scampered down the larboard side as a line parted and the boatswain called for them to make it fast.

Bolitho wondered what Tanner was doing, how he would react when he discovered he had been delayed.

“Boat, sir! Lee bow!”

Bolitho tried to moisten his lips but they felt like leather. A few more minutes, and then—

Queely rasped, “The same one as before! By God I thought they’d cut and run!”

Bolitho wrapped his boat-cloak around him, able to ignore the busy seamen with their ropes and fenders, pointing arms and angry voices as the two hulls swayed together for the first impact.

He said, “You know what to do. I’d not ask you to risk your command, but—”

They clung together as the two hulls lifted and groaned in a trough, men falling, others heaving on ropes, their bare feet skid-ding on the wet deck.

Queely nodded. “I’ll be here, sir. If the Devil himself should stand between us.”

Then Bolitho followed Allday into the fishing boat. This time, her skipper gave him what might have been a grin. With the sea surging over the two vessels it could have been a grimace.

Bolitho sat inside a tiny hutchlike cabin and was thankful that the hold was empty of fish. Experienced though he was in the sea’s moods, after the buffeting out there any stench might have made him vomit. Like when he had first gone to sea at the age of twelve.

The arrangements were exactly as before, although he sensed the Dutch crew’s haste and nervous anxiety whenever they passed an anchored vessel, or riding lights betrayed the nearness of other craft. Merchantmen sheltering for the night, waiting for a favourable wind, men-of-war—they might have been anything. The final part of the journey was quieter, the sounds of sea and wind suddenly banished, lost beyond the endless barrier of wav-ing rushes.

It was so quiet that Bolitho held his breath. Nobody both-ered to conceal their approach and Allday whispered, “Even the mills are still, Cap’n.”

Bolitho watched a tall windmill glide above the rushes, stiff, and unmoving. It was eerie, as if nothing lived here.

The crew exchanged comments and then one clambered over the gunwale, his sea-boots splashing through shallows before find-ing the spur of land. One man ran on ahead, but the skipper stayed with Bolitho and waited for Allday to join them.

Bolitho felt a chill run up his back. The skipper had drawn a pistol from his coat and was wiping it with his sleeve. Without looking he knew that Allday had seen it too and was ready to cut the man down if need be. Was the Dutchman frightened—did he sense danger? Or was he waiting for the chance to betray them, as Delaval had done to so many others?

Allday said, “Someone’s coming, Cap’n.” How calm he sounded. As if he was describing a farm cart in a Cornish lane. Bolitho knew that he was at his most dangerous.

He heard feet slipping on the track and saw the shadowy fig-ure of Brennier’s aide stumble, gasp aloud as the other Dutchman pulled him to his feet again.

He stopped when he saw Bolitho and turned back towards the house. No blindfold. He seemed close to panic.

Bolitho and the Dutch skipper pushed open the door, and Bolitho stared at the disorder around him. Cupboards ransacked, contents spilled on the floor, even some of the charred logs raked from the fire. The search had been as thorough as it had been quick.

Bolitho looked at the Dutch skipper. They were totally sep-arated by language.

Then he turned towards the aide and was shocked at his appearance as he revealed himself beside a lantern.

His clothes were filthy, and there were pale streaks down the grime on his cheeks, as if he had been weeping.

“What is it, man?” Bolitho unbuttoned his old coat to free the butt of his pistol. “Speak out!”

The man stared at him with disbelief. Then he said in a bro-ken whisper, “Il est mort! Il est mort!”

Bolitho seized his arm; it felt lifeless in his grip. “The admiral?”

The aide gaped at him as if only now did he realise where he was, that Bolitho was the same man.

He shook his head and blurted out, “Non! It is the King!”

Allday rubbed his jaw with his fist. “God, they’ve done for him after all!”

The Dutchman thrust his pistol into his belt and spread his hands. It needed no language. The blade had fallen in Paris. The King of France was dead.

Bolitho wanted to find time to think. But there was none. He shook the man’s arm and asked harshly, “Where is Vice-Admiral Brennier? What has become of him?” He hated to see the fear in the man’s eyes. All hope gone. And now apparently left to fend for himself in a country which might be unwilling to offer him shelter.

He stammered, “To Flushing. We could wait no longer.” He stared at the disordered room. “You were late, Capitaine!”

Bolitho released his hold and the aide almost collapsed on to a bench. He was wringing his hands, stunned by what had happened.

Allday asked, “What do we do, Cap’n?”

Bolitho looked at the broken man on the bench. Somehow he knew there was more. He asked quietly, “And the treasure, m’sieu, what of that?”

The aide stared up at him, surprised by the change in Bolitho’s tone.

“It is in safe hands, Capitaine, but it was too late!”

Safe hands. There was only one other who knew about it. Now he was gone, taking the old admiral Brennier and the trea-sure with him. To Flushing. The name stood out in his mind like letters of fire. About twenty miles from here at a guess. It might as well have been a thousand.

He recalled Marcuard’s remarks about the weather. News would travel slowly with the roads bogged-down or hidden in snow. Nobody here would know for certain when the King had been executed. He felt the sense of urgency running through him, chilling his body from head to toe. Anything might be happen-ing. There was nobody here to ask. Even the farmer who owned this place had vanished—perhaps murdered.

The Dutch skipper said something to his companion, who was guarding the door, and Bolitho snapped, “Tell that man to remain with us!”

The aide murmured a few halting words in Dutch then added, “He wants paying, Capitaine.”

Allday muttered harshly, “Don’t we all, matey!”

“If you help me, m’sieu, I will take you to England. Maybe you will discover friends there—”

He looked at Allday’s grim features as the man threw him-self on his knees and seized his hand, kissing it fervently.

When he looked up, his eyes were streaming, but there was steel in his voice now as he exclaimed, “I know the ship, Capitaine! It is called La Revanche, but flies the English flag!” He cowered under Bolitho’s cold gaze. “I heard him talk of it.”

Bolitho spoke the name aloud. “Sir James Tanner.” The aide’s fear told him everything he had not already guessed.

How apt a name. The Revenge. Tanner had outwitted them all.

Allday asked, “What can we do, Cap’n? Without a ship of our own—” He sounded lost and bewildered.

Bolitho said, “We had better be gone from here.” He strode to a window and threw back the shutter. The sky seemed paler. He must think of the present, not anguish over what had hap-pened. Wakeful’s near encounter with the stranger had been deliberate, a delay engineered by Tanner. It had given him time to execute the rest of his plan. “We must try to explain to the Dutchman that we need to be taken downriver to his fishermen friends.” He stared at the aide again. “Tell him he will be well paid.” He jingled some coins in his pocket to give the words emphasis. “I’ll brook no argument!”

Allday tapped the floor with the point of his cutlass. “I reckon he understands, Cap’n.” Again he sounded very calm, almost casual. “Don’t you, matey?”

It would be a full day before Wakeful would dare to approach the rendezvous. Even then it might be too dangerous for Queely to draw near enough. Bolitho felt sick, and rubbed his eyes to rouse himself from despair.

Why should Tanner take the admiral, if his main intention concerned the treasure?

He walked out into the stinging air and looked up at some fast-moving cloud. It hit him like a clenched fist, as if the answer had been written in those same stars.

He heard himself say tightly, “The wind has veered yet again, Allday.” He glanced at the familiar, bulky shadow framed against the fading stars.

“It blows fair, old friend.” He added bitterly, “For France!”

Snapdragon’s jolly-boat snugged alongside her anchored consort, and with the briefest of ceremony her commander, Lieutenant Hector Vatass, climbed aboard.

For an instant he paused and peered towards the shore. The wind was fresh to strong, but here in the Sheerness anchorage its force was lessened by the land, so that the snow flumes swirled around in an aimless dance. For a moment Vatass could see the headland beyond the dockyard; in the next it was all blotted out, with only his own vessel still visible.

Telemachus’s first lieutenant guided him to the companionway and said, “Good to see you, sir.”

His formality was unexpected and unusual. But Vatass’s mind and body were too strained from the rigours of his entrance to the anchorage in the early morning to make much of it. He had received a message from the coastguard that he was required back at Sheerness. The order had come from Captain Bolitho. It was not one to question, even though Vatass had been fretting already over losing a speedy schooner which had evaded him in a heav-ier snowsquall off the Foreland.

He found Paice sitting in the cabin, his features grave as he finished writing laboriously in his log.

Vatass lowered himself on to a bench seat and said, “I wish the damned weather would make up its mind, Jonas. I am heartily sick of it.” He realised that Paice was still silent and asked, “What is wrong?”

Paice did not reply directly. “Did you not meet with the courier-brig?” He saw Vatass shake his head. “I thought as much.”

Paice reached down and produced a bottle of brandy, half-filling two glasses. He had been preparing for this moment as soon as Snapdragon had been reported tacking around the headland.

He held up his glass and regarded the other man thought-fully. “It’s war, Hector.”

Vatass swallowed the brandy and almost choked. “Jesus! Contraband, I’ll wager!”

Paice gave a wintry smile. Vatass was very young, lucky to command a topsail cutter, to command anything at all. That would soon change now. Commands would go to officers who were barely used to their present junior ranks. Good old Jack again. He knew that the enormity of his announcement had taken Vatass completely aback. The weak joke was all he had to give himself time to accept it.

Paice said, “I don’t care if it’s stolen from Westminster Abbey.” He clinked glasses solemnly. “War. I received a signal late last night.” He waved his large hand across a pile of loose papers on the table. “These are from the admiral at Chatham. It has them all jumping. They should have been damned well expecting it!” He stared around the cabin. “They’ll be asking us for men soon, you know that? We shall be using green replacements while our seasoned people are scattered through the fleet!”

Vatass was only half-listening. He did not share Paice’s anx-iety over the prospect of his Telemachus being pared away by the needs of war. All he could think was that he was young and once again full of hope. A new command—a brig perhaps, or even a rakish sloop-of-war. That would surely mean promotion.

Paice watched his emotions. Vatass had still not learned how to conceal them.

He said, “Captain Bolitho is across the water in Holland, or he could be anywhere by now.” He looked at his log, and the chart which was beneath it. “Wakeful is with him.” He downed the brandy in one swallow and refilled his glass immediately. “At least I trust to God she is.”

Vatass allowed his mind to settle. Which had touched him more? Paice’s news of Bolitho, or the fact he had never seen the tall lieutenant drink in this fashion before. He had heard that, after his wife had been killed, Paice had rarely been without the bottle. But that was past. Another memory.

Vatass began, “I do not understand, Jonas. What can we hope to do?” Paice glared at him, his eyes red with anxiety and anger. “Don’t you see it yet, man? What the hell have you been doing?”

Vatass replied stiffly, “Chasing a suspected smuggler.”

Paice said in a more level voice, “The King of France has been executed. Yesterday we were told that their National Convention has declared war on England and Holland.” He nodded very slowly. “Captain Bolitho is in the midst of it. And I doubt if he knows a whisper of what has happened!”

Vatass said unhelpfully, “He left you in command of the flotilla, Jonas.”

Paice gave what could have been a bleak smile. “I intend to use it.” He stood upright with his head inside the skylight and unclipped one of the covers.

Vatass saw tiny flakes of snow settle on his face and hair before he lowered the cover and sat down again.

“We’re putting to sea as soon as makes no difference.” He held up one hand. “Save the protests. I know you’ve only just come to rest. But at any moment I may receive a direct order from the admiral, one I cannot ignore, which will prevent our going.” He lowered his voice as if to conceal an inner anguish “I’ll not leave him unsupported and without help.” He kept his eyes on the young lieutenant’s face as he poured him another glass, some of the brandy slopping unheeded across the neatly written orders. “Well, Hector, are you with me?”

“Suppose we cannot find Wakeful?”

“Damn me, we’ll have tried! And I shall be able to hear that man’s name without the shame of knowing I failed him, after the pride he returned to me by his own example.” He waved vaguely over the chart. “The frontiers will be closed, and any alien ship will be treated as hostile. Wakeful is a sound vessel, and her com-mander a match for anything. But she’s no fifth-rate.” He glanced around the cabin. His command and his home; as if he could already see Telemachus facing up to a full broadside, with only her carronades and six-pounders to protect herself.

Vatass knew all this, and guessed that, whatever happened, his chances of an immediate promotion were in serious jeopardy. But he had always looked up to Paice’s old style of leadership, even more, his qualities as a true sailor. Rough and outspoken, it was easy to picture him in his original role as master of a collier-brig.

“I’m with you.” He considered his words, his young face sud-denly serious. “What about the admiral?”

Paice swept the papers from his chart and picked up some dividers.

“I have the feeling that there is someone more powerful than that fine gentleman behind our captain!” He looked across at Vatass and studied him for several seconds.

Vatass tried to laugh it off. It was war anyway. Nothing else would count now. But Paice’s stare made him feel uneasy. As if he did not expect they would ever meet again.

“More vessels lying ahead, Cap’n!” Allday ducked beneath the boat’s taut canvas and peered aft through the snow. It was more like sleet now, wet and clinging, so that the interior of the small boat was slippery and treacherous.

Bolitho crouched beside the Dutch skipper at the tiller and narrowed his eyes to judge the boat’s progress under her two lug-sails. One side of the river was lost in sleet and mist, but here and there he could see the lower portions of hulls and taut cables, probably the same ships he had passed in the night after leaving Wakeful. Even in the poor light the small fishing boat was a piti-ful sight. Scarred and patched, with unmatched equipment which had been salvaged or stolen from other boats. He guessed that it had been used more as a link between the larger vessels for car-rying contraband than for genuine fishing. The four Dutchmen who made up the crew seemed anxious to please him despite the stilted translations which passed through Brennier’s aide. Perhaps they imagined that, with Tanner gone, their chance of any reward was remote, and Bolitho’s promise of payment was better than nothing at all.

Bolitho glanced at the aide. He had still not revealed his name. In the gloom he looked pinched up with cold and fear, his sodden clothes clinging to his body like rags. He was gripping a sword between his grimy fingers, the contrast as stark as the man’s own circumstances, Bolitho thought. It was a beautiful, rapier-style weapon, the scabbard mounted in silver with a matching hilt and knuckle-bow. Like the dead French girl’s handkerchief, was it his last connection with the life he had once known?

He ducked beneath the sails and saw the anchored ships up ahead. Three or four, coastal traders at a guess, their red, white and blue flags making the only stabs of colour against the drift-ing sleet and mist: Dutchmen waiting for the weather to clear before they worked out of their anchorage. No wonder they called Holland the port of the world. Who held the Low Countries enjoyed the rich routes to the East Indies and beyond, to the Caribbean and the Americas. Like the English, they had always been ambitious seafarers, and greatly admired, even as enemies when they had sailed up the Medway, attacking Chatham and fir-ing the dockyards there.

He saw the Dutch skipper murmur to one of his crew, then pull out a watch from his tarpaulin coat. It was the size of an apple.

Bolitho said, “Find out what they are saying.”

Brennier’s aide seemed to drag himself from his despair, and after a slight hesitation said, “Very soon now, Capitaine. The other vessel is around the next . . . how you say . . . bend?”

Bolitho nodded. It had been quicker downstream, and using the sails, small though they were, to full effect. Once aboard the other boat they would rest, perhaps find something hot to eat and drink before putting to sea when darkness fell. They might be unable to make contact with Wakeful. But they would have tried. To wait and think over what had happened would have been unbearable. Anyway, where would they have gone when the wait-ing was over and still nothing had been solved?

He thought of Hoblyn, the terrified midshipman, the bearded braggart on the Rochester Road, and of Delaval’s anguish when he had seen Tanner even as the trap had fallen beneath his frantic legs.

Through and above it, Tanner had manipulated them all. Bolitho bit his lip until it hurt. Even me.

Allday said, “Over to larboard, matey!” The words meant nothing to the man at the tiller but Allday’s gesture was familiar to sailors the world over.

“What is it?” Bolitho wiped his face and eyes with an old piece of bunting for the hundredth time to clear his vision.

“Bit o’ bother, starboard bow, Cap’n.”

Bolitho wished he had brought his small telescope, and strained his eyes as he stood in the boat to follow Allday’s bearing.

There was a smart-looking brig anchored in the deepwater channel, and her lack of heavy tackles or lighters alongside meant she was most likely a small man-of-war, or perhaps a Dutch customs vessel.

He saw the skipper staring at her too, his face creased with sudden anxiety.

Bolitho kept his own counsel. There were no boats on the brig’s deck, and none in the water unless they were tied on the opposite side. So where were they?

He called quietly, “Any movement?”

“No, Cap’n.” Allday sounded on edge. “We only need half a mile and then—”

Bolitho watched as the weather decided to play a small part. A tiny shaft of watery sunlight came from somewhere to give even the drenching sleet a sort of beauty, and lay bare a part of the nearest land.

The Dutch skipper gave a sigh and raised his arm. Bolitho saw the fishing boat anchored a little apart from the others, and, even though he had not seen her before in daylight, he knew it was the one. He touched the Dutchman’s arm and said, “That was well done!”

The man showed his teeth in a smile. From Bolitho’s tone he had guessed that it was some kind of compliment.

“Prepare to shorten sail.” He reached out with one foot and tapped the aide’s leg. “You can give the word.” The man jumped as if he had been stabbed.

Bolitho rubbed his hands together. They were raw with cold. Then he glanced at the dirty, patched sails and tried to gauge the final approach in this unfamiliar craft.

The sunlight was already fading, smothered by the approach of more sleet. But not before he had seen a sudden glint of metal from the fishing boat’s deck, and even as he watched a figure in with a white cross-belt rose into view, staring upstream a few sec-onds before vanishing again below the bulwark.

“Belay that!” Bolitho seized the Dutchman’s shoulder and ges-tured towards midstream. “Tell him the boat has been boarded— taken, you understand?”

The tiller was already going over, the skipper crouching down, his eyes fixed unblinkingly on the open channel beyond.

Allday exclaimed, “God Almighty, that was close!”

Bolitho kept his eyes level with the bulwark and watched for another sign from the anchored fisherman. Boarded, it did not really matter by whom. The Dutch navy, customs men searching for contraband; or perhaps it was merely an unhappy coincidence, a routine search.

Unhappy was hardly the right description, Bolitho thought. It had seemed almost hopeless before. Without some kind of ves-sel, it was impossible. He glanced along the boat, shielding his face with one arm as the sleet hissed and slapped across the sails and rigging. In open water it would be more lively, even rough, if the angle of the sleet was any measure of it. He thought of Wakeful plunging and rolling in the offshore swell while she waited to make the rendezvous.

This boat had nothing. Just a compass and a few pieces of old equipment. He could not even see a pump.

He looked hard at Allday’s crouching shoulders in the bow. Another risk. Was it still worth that?

Bolitho said suddenly, “A good day for a shoot, Allday.” He spoke quickly as if his common sense might change his mind for him.

Allday turned as if he had misheard. “Shoot, Cap’n?” Their gaze met and Allday nodded casually. “Oh, yes, I s’pose it is, Cap’n.”

When he had turned away he unbuttoned his coat and loos-ened the pistol in his belt where he had wedged it to keep it dry.

Bolitho glanced at his companions. The aide was staring emp-tily into nothing, and all the Dutchmen were watching the fishing boat which by now had drawn almost abeam.

Bolitho felt for his own pistol, then freed his sword. Two of the Dutchmen were visibly armed, the others might be too.

He waited for the aide to look up at him then said, “In a moment I am going to take this boat away from here, m’sieu. Do you understand me?” The man nodded dully.

Bolitho continued carefully, “If they refuse to obey, we must disarm them.” His voice hardened. “Or kill them.” He waited, trying to guess what the man’s broken mind was thinking. “It is your last chance as well as ours, m’sieu!”

“I understand, Capitaine.” He crawled aft towards the tiller, his beautiful sword held clear of the filth and swilling water below the bottom boards.

Bolitho watched the oncoming curtain of sleet. It had blot-ted out some anchored vessels which moments earlier had been close enough to see in every detail. Once past the last few craft there would be nothing between them and the open sea.

“Be prepared, m’sieu!” Bolitho’s fingers closed around the pis-tol. Against his chilled body it felt strangely warm, as if it had recently been fired.

Allday shouted, “Larboard bow, Cap’n! A bloody boatload!” Bolitho saw a long, double-banked cutter pulling out from behind some moored barges, the scarlet-painted oars rising and falling like powerful wings as it swept towards them.

There were uniforms aft in the sternsheets, naval, as well as the green coats of the Dutch customs. A voice boomed over the choppy wavelets, magnified by a speaking trumpet.

The aide whispered, “They call us to stop!” He sounded com-pletely terrified.

Bolitho prodded the Dutch skipper and shouted, “That way! Quickly!”

There was no need to show their weapons. The Dutchmen were, if anything, more eager to escape authority than Bolitho.

They threw themselves to work on the two flapping sails, and Bolitho felt the hull tilt to the wind’s wet thrust and saw sheets of spray burst over the pursuing cutter’s stem, drenching the crew and throwing the scarlet oars into momentary confusion.

Allday yelled, “They’ve got a up forrard, Cap’n!”

Bolitho tried to swallow. He had already seen the bow-gun in the eyes of the cutter. Probably a swivel or a long musketoon. One blast from either could kill or wound every man in this boat.

But the range was holding; the small fishing boat was better handled and rigged for this kind of work, and the wilder the sea the harder it would be for the cutter’s coxswain to maintain his speed through the water.

Allday clung to the gunwale and choked as water reared over the bows and soaked him from head to foot.

The voice pursued them, crackling and distorted through the speaking trumpet.

Allday shouted, “They’re taking aim!”

“Down!” Bolitho pulled the nearest crew member to the deck and saw Allday peering along the boat towards him, his body half-hidden by floats and nets.

The bang of the gun was muffled by the wind and sleet, so that the charge of canister hit the afterpart of the hull with unex-pected violence. Bolitho heard metal fragments and splinters shriek overhead and saw several holes punched through the nearest sail. He held his breath, waiting for something to carry away, a spar to break in half, even for a sudden inrush of water.

The Dutch skipper clambered to his knees and nodded. There was something like pride in his face. Even in this sad old boat.

Allday gasped, “We’ve lost ’em, Cap’n!”

Bolitho peered astern. The sleet was so thick that even the mouth of the river had vanished. They had the water to themselves.

He was about to rise to his feet when he saw Brennier’s aide staring at him, his eyes bulging with pain and fear.

Bolitho knelt beside him, then prized the man’s hands away from his body. Allday joined him and gripped his wrists while Bolitho tore open his waistcoat and then his finely laced shirt, which was bright with blood. There were just two wounds. One below the right breast, the other in the stomach. Bolitho heard the Dutch skipper tearing up some rags which he handed over his shoulder. Their eyes met only briefly. Again, language was no barrier. For a fisherman as well as a sea-officer, death was commonplace.

Allday murmured, “Hold hard, matey.” He looked at Bolitho. “Shall I lay him down?”

Bolitho covered the dying man with some canvas, held a hat over his face to protect him from the sleet. “No.” He dropped his voice. “He’s drowning in his own blood.” He looked at the bot-tom boards where the trapped sleet and seawater glittered red now. Another victim.

He could not wait here. But when he got to his feet he saw the man’s eyes follow him, terrified and pleading.

Bolitho said quietly, “Never fear, m’sieu. You will be safe. We will not leave you.”

He turned away and stared down at the swaying compass card without seeing it. Stupid, empty words! What did they mean to a dying man? What had they ever done to help anyone?

Bolitho swallowed again, feeling the rawness of salt in his throat like bile.

“Nor’ West!” He pointed at the sails. “Yes?”

The man nodded. Events had moved too swiftly for him. But he stood firmly at his tiller, his eyes reddened by sea and wind; it must have felt like sailing his boat into nowhere.

Each dragging minute Bolitho expected to see another vessel loom out of the sleet, no challenge this time, just a merciless hail of grape or canister. Tanner repeatedly came to his mind and he found himself cursing his name aloud until Allday said, “I think he’s going, Cap’n.”

Bolitho got down on his knees again and held the man’s grop-ing fingers. So cold. As if they had already died.

“I am here, m’sieu. I shall tell your admiral of your courage.” Then he wiped the man’s mouth as a telltale thread of blood ran unheeded down his chin.

Allday watched, his eyes heavy. He had seen it too often before. He saw Bolitho’s hand moving to make the man com-fortable. How did he do it? He had known him at the height of battle, and flung to the depths of despair. Few but himself had seen this Bolitho, and even now Allday felt guilty about it. Like stumbling on a special secret.

The man was trying to speak, each word bringing more agony. It was just a matter of minutes.

Allday stared across Bolitho’s bowed head. Why doesn’t the poor bastard die?

Bolitho held the man’s wrist but it moved with sudden strength and determination. The fingers reached down and unclipped the beautiful sword from his belt.

In a mere whisper he said, “Give—give . . .”

The effort was too much for him. Bolitho stood up, the rapier in one hand. He thought of the sword which hung by his side, so familiar that it was a part of him.

He looked at Allday’s stony features and said quietly, “Is this all that is left of a man? Nothing more?”

As the minutes passed into an hour, and then another, they all worked without respite to hold the boat on course, to bale out the steady intake of water and constantly retrim the two patched sails. In a way it saved them. They had neither food nor water, and each man ached with cold and backbreaking labour; but there was no time to despair or to give in.

In darkness, with the boat pitching about on a deep proces-sion of rollers, they buried the unknown Frenchman, a rusting length of chain tied about his legs to take him down to the seabed. After that, they lost track of the hours and their direction, and despite the risk of discovery Bolitho ordered that the lantern should be lit and unshuttered, as arranged, into the sleet which was once again turning to snow.

If no one found them they could not survive. It was winter, and the sea too big for their small vessel. Only Allday knew that there was barely enough oil left in the lantern anyway. He sighed and moved closer to Bolitho’s familiar outline in the stern. It was not much of a way to end after what they had done together, he thought. But death could have come in a worse guise, and very nearly had on board Delaval’s Loyal Chieftain.

Bolitho moistened his lips. “One more signal, old friend.”

The lantern’s beam lit up the snow so that the boat appeared to be hemmed in and unmoving. Allday muttered hoarsely, “That’s the last of it, Cap’n.” It was then that Wakeful found them.

QUEELY and his first lieutenant watched Bolitho with silent fas-cination as he swallowed his fourth mug of scalding coffee. He could feel it warming him like an inner fire and knew someone, probably Allday, had laced it heavily with rum.

They had been unable to do anything for the small fishing boat which had given them the chance to escape, and despite protests from the Dutch skipper it had been cast adrift; it seemed unlikely it would remain afloat for much longer.

Queely waited, choosing the moment. “What now, sir?” He watched Bolitho’s eyes regaining their brightness. It was like see-ing someone come alive again. When Wakeful’s seamen had hauled them aboard they had been too numbed by cold and exhaustion even to speak.

As he had drunk his coffee, Bolitho had tried to outline all that had happened. He had ended by saying, “But for you and your Wakeful, we would all be dead.” He had placed the silver-mounted sword on the cabin table. “I suspect this poor man had already died when he heard that his King had been executed.”

Queely had shaken his head. “We knew nothing of that, sir.” His jaw had lifted and he had regarded Bolitho with his dark, hawklike face. “I would still have come looking for you no mat-ter what the risk, even if I had.”

Bolitho leaned back against the side and felt the cutter rolling steeply in a cross-swell as she prepared to change tack. The motion seemed easier, but the wind sounded just as strong. Perhaps his mind was still too exhausted to notice the true difference.

He replied, “Now? We shall lay a course for Flushing. It is our only chance to catch Tanner with the treasure.”

Lieutenant Kempthorne made his excuses and went on deck to take charge of the hands. Bolitho and Queely leaned on the table, the chart spread between them beneath the madly swing-ing lanterns. Bolitho glanced at the serious-faced lieutenant. Even in his seagoing uniform he managed to make Bolitho feel like a vagrant. His clothing stank of fish and bilge, and his hands were cut and bleeding from handling the icy sheets in the boat which they had abandoned astern.

Queely said, “If, as you say, Tanner has loaded the treasure into this vessel, La Revanche, would he not make haste to get under way immediately? If so, we can never catch him, despite this soldier’s wind.”

Bolitho peered at the chart, his grey eyes thoughtful. “I doubt that. It would all take time, which is why I believe he was the one to cause our delay at the rendezvous. Any suspicious act might arouse the Dutch authorities, and that is the last thing he would want.”

A voice seemed to cry out in his mind. Suppose Brennier’s aide had been mistaken? Or that he had heard them speaking of another vessel altogether?

Queely took his silence for doubt. “She’ll likely be armed, sir. If we had some support—”

Bolitho glanced at him and smiled sadly. “But we do not have any. Armed? I think that unlikely, except for a minimum protec-tion. Which was why Delaval and his Loyal Chieftain laid offshore whenever he was making a run. The Dutch were searching ves-sels in the river. Any heavily armed ship would draw them like bees to honey.”

“Very well, sir.” He gave a rueful grin. “It is little enough, but I too am anxious to see what so much treasure looks like!” He pulled on his heavy coat and turned in the doorway to the com-panion ladder. “I thank God we found you, sir. I had all but given up hope.”

Bolitho sat down wearily and massaged his eyes. The cabin was tiny and, as usual, littered with the officers’ effects. But after the fishing boat’s squalor it seemed like a ship of the line.

Just hours later, Bolitho was roused from his sleep. Allday found him sprawled across the chart, his head resting on one arm.

“What is it?”

Allday stood balancing a steaming basin. “The cook managed to boil some water.” He gave a broad grin. “I thought to meself a good shave an’ a rub-down’ll make the Cap’n feel his old self again.”

Bolitho slipped out of his coat and peeled off his shirt. As Allday shaved him with practised ease, legs braced, one ear attuned to every sound as the cutter rolled and plunged about them, he marvelled that the big man could always adjust, no matter what ship he was in.

Allday was saying, “Y’see, Cap’n, ’tis always the same with you at times like this. You feel better—that makes it better for the rest of us.”

Bolitho stared up at him, the realisation of Allday’s simple philosophy driving away the last cobwebs of sleep.

He said quietly, “Today, you mean?” He saw him nod: the old instinct he had always trusted. Why had he not known it him-self? “We’ll fight?”

“Aye, Cap’n.” He sounded almost buoyant. “Had to come, as I sees it.”

Bolitho dried his face and was amazed that Allday could shave him so closely with the deck all alive beneath him. He had rarely even nicked him with his formidable razor.

Allday wiped down his shoulders and back with a hot cloth and then handed him a comb. “That’s more like it, Cap’n.”

Bolitho saw the freshly laundered shirt on the bunk. “How did you—”

“Compliments of Mr Kempthorne, Cap’n. I—mentioned it, like.”

Bolitho dressed unhurriedly. A glance at his watch told him all he had to know for the present. Queely and his company were doing what they could and needed no encouragement or criti-cism. He wondered what had become of the four Dutchmen, and where they would end up. Probably on the next ship bound for Holland, even at the risk of being greeted by the Customs.

The shirt made him feel clean and refreshed, just as Allday had promised. He thought of all those other times, under the blazing sun, the decks strewn with dead and dying, the brain cringing to the crash and recoil of cannon fire. Like Stockdale before him, Allday had always been there. But with that some-thing extra. He always seemed to understand, to know when the waiting was over, and smooth words were not enough.

Queely came down from the deck and peered in at him.

“Dawn coming up, sir. Wind’s holding steady, and the snow’s eased to almost nothing.” He noticed the clean shirt and smiled. ‘Oh, you honour us, sir!”

As his feet clattered up the ladder again Bolitho said, “There is still something missing, Allday. Fight we may, but—” He shrugged. “He might have outfoxed us again.”

Allday stared into the distance. “When I heard that silky voice of his—” He grinned, but no humour touched his eyes. “I wanted to cut him down there and then.”

Bolitho half-drew his sword then let it fall smoothly into its scabbard again. “We make a fine pair. I wanted that too.”

He picked up his boat-cloak. It was filthy also. But it would be like ice on deck. He must not fail, would not let the fever burst in and consume him like the last time.

Some of his old despair lingered on. He said, “Hear me, old friend. If I should fall today—”

Allday regarded him impassively. “I’ll not see it, Cap’n, ’cause I shall already have dropped!”

The understanding was there. As strong as ever.

Bolitho touched his arm. “So let’s be about it, eh?”

Bolitho felt his body angle to the tilting deck as the wind forced Wakeful on to her lee bulwark. It was colder than he had expected, and he regretted taking shelter in the cabin’s comparative warmth.

Queely touched his hat and shouted above the noise, “Wind’s veered still further, sir! Nor’-West by North or the like, by my reckoning!”

Bolitho stared up at the masthead and thought he could see the long pendant streaming towards the larboard bow, curling, then cracking like a huge whip. He even imagined he could hear it above the wild chorus of creaking rigging, the slap and boom of canvas.

Wakeful was steering south-south-west, close-hauled on the starboard tack, her sails very pale against the dull sky. Dawn was here and yet reluctant to show itself.

Bolitho felt his eyes growing accustomed to the poor light and recognised several of the figures who were working close at hand. Even the “hard men” of Queely’s command looked chilled and pinched, but for the most part their feet were bare, although Bolitho could feel the bitter cold through his shoes. Like most sailors, they thought shoes too expensive to waste merely for their own comfort.

Queely said, “According to the master, we should be well past Walcheren Island and Flushing by now. If the weather clears we will soon sight the coast of France.”

Bolitho nodded but said nothing. France. Once there, Tanner would make his trade. A share of the treasure and probably a sure protection from the French Convention to enable him to con-tinue his smuggling on a grand scale. He tried not to think of the old admiral, Brennier. Tanner’s mark of trust, then humilia-tion before the mob, and the last steps up to the guillotine. Any other leading patriot would think again before he considered lend-ing support to a counter-revolution with Brennier dead.

Bolitho watched the sky giving itself colour. The driving wind had swept the snow away; he could see no clouds, just a hostile grey emptiness, with the faintest hint of misty blue towards the horizon.

Queely was speaking to his first lieutenant. Bolitho saw Kempthorne bobbing his head to his commander’s instructions. Despite his uniform and his surroundings he still managed to look out of place.

Queely walked up the slanting deck and said, “He’s going aloft with the big signals glass in a moment, sir.” He saw Bolitho’s expression and gave a quick smile. “I know, sir. He’d be happier as a horse-coper than a sea-officer, but he tries!”

He forgot Kempthorne and added, “We shall draw near to the French coast again, sir. If Tanner intends to change allegiance and steal the King’s ransom, he may stand inshore as soon as it’s light enough.” He was thinking about that last time, the French luggers, the boat blowing up, and the dead girl they had returned to the sea.

Bolitho said, “We shall take him anyway. I’ll brook no inter-ference from French patrol vessels!”

Queely studied him curiously. “Strange how a man of influ-ence like Tanner could change loyalties.”

“I have always seen him as an enemy.” Bolitho glanced away. “This time he’ll have no hope of escaping justice because of his damned toadies in high places!”

Kempthorne was hauling his lanky frame up the weather shrouds, his coat flapping in the wind as it pressed his body against the ratlines. Bolitho watched, conscious that he could now see the masthead sharply etched against the sky, the vibrating shrouds, even a solitary lookout who was shifting his perch as the lieutenant clawed his way up beside him.

Queely remarked unfeelingly, “Just the thing to clear your head on a day like this!”

He looked at Bolitho’s profile and asked abruptly, “Do you regard this as a day of reckoning, sir?” He sounded surprised, but without the doubt he had once shown.

Bolitho replied, “I believe so.” He shivered and pulled his boat-cloak more tightly about his body. Suppose he was mistaken, and Tanner’s ship still lay at Flushing, or had never been there at all?

He added in a hard tone, “It is a premonition one has from time to time.” He saw Allday lounging beside the companionway, his arms folded. There was nothing careless or disinterested in his eyes, Bolitho thought.

“As I see it, Tanner has nowhere else to run. Greed and deceit have made escape impossible.”

He thought again of Tanner’s own words. No hiding place. Even then he had lied, must have laughed as Brennier and his companions played directly into his hands.

“Deck there!”

Queely peered up. “Where away?”

Kempthorne called lamely, “Nothing yet, sir!”

Several of the seamen nearby nudged one another as Queely snorted, “Damned nincompoop!”

Bolitho took a telescope from the rack and wiped the lens carefully with his handkerchief. As he lifted it and waited for the deck to rear upright again, he saw the sea tumbling away across the larboard bow, reaching further and still further, individual banks of crested rollers and darker troughs forming into patterns in the growing daylight. A grey, blustery morning. He thought of Falmouth and wondered how young Matthew had enjoyed his Christmas. Probably had had the household enthralled with his tales of smuggling and sudden death. Bolitho was glad he was back where he belonged. The land needed boys who would grow into men like his father had been. He glanced at Allday. Let oth-ers do the fighting so that they could build, raise animals, and make England safe again.

“Deck there!”

Queely scowled.

Kempthorne’s voice cracked with excitement. “Sail on the lee bow, sir!”

Queely’s dark eyes flashed in the poor light. “By God, I’d never have believed it!”

“Easy now. Let us hold on to caution, eh?” But his face made a lie of his words. It was the ship. It must be. No other would risk running so close to the French coast.

Queely yelled impatiently, “What is she?” His foot tapped on the wet planking. “I’m waiting, man!”

Kempthorne called hoarsely, “A—a brigantine, I think, sir!”

Bolitho said, “It must be difficult to see, even from that height.”

Queely turned. “You think I’m too hard on him, sir?” He shrugged. “It may save his life and a few others before long!”

Bolitho moved to the narrow poop and clung to a dripping swivel gun. A brigantine. It seemed likely. They and schooners were most favoured in the Trade, and Tanner had probably selected this one as soon as Marcuard had taken him into his confidence. He thought of the grand house in Whitehall, the servants, the quiet luxury of day-to-day life in the capital. This was a far cry from Marcuard’s careful planning, but Bolitho had no doubts as to where the blame would be laid if Tanner and the treasure dis-appeared.

The master said to nobody in particular, “A spot o’ sunshine afore the glass is turned.”

Queely glared at him, but knew him well enough to say noth-ing.

Kempthorne, his voice almost gone from shouting above the wind and sea, called, “Brigantine she is, sir! Holding same tack!”

Bolitho grasped his sword beneath his cloak. It felt like a piece of ice.

“I suggest you prepare, Mr Queely.”

Queely watched him, his features more hawklike than ever. “The people know what to do, sir. If we are wrong, they might lose confidence.”

“Not in you. You can blame it all on the mad captain from Falmouth!”

Surprisingly they were both able to laugh.

Then Queely shouted, “Pipe all hands! Clear for action!”

It was still strange for Bolitho to see the preparations for bat-tle completed without drums, the rising urgency of a ship beating to quarters. Here, it was almost by word of mouth, with only the watch below summoned by the squeal of calls.

“Cast off the breechings!”

The master let out a sigh. “Told you.”

A shaft of watery sunlight plunged down through the spray and sea-mist, giving the water depth and colour, personality to the faces and figures working around the guns.

From his dizzy perch Lieutenant Francis Kempthorne wrapped one arm around a stay until he felt it was being torn from his body. As the sturdy hull lifted and dipped beneath him, the mast itself reached out and across the surging crests far below, and he saw the mainsail’s shadow on the water, as if it were ris-ing to snatch him down. The motion was sickening although the lookout at his side seemed indifferent to it.

He gulped and tried again, counting the seconds while he lev-elled the heavy telescope, not even daring to think what Queely would say if he dropped it. The bows lifted streaming from a jagged breaker and Kempthorne held his breath. The brigantine must have risen at exactly the same moment. He saw her fore-course and topsail, the big driver braced hard round as she steered on the same tack as her pursuer.

Just for those few seconds he saw her name across the counter, the gilt paint suddenly sharp and bright in the feeble glare.

He shouted, “La Revanche, sir!” He was almost sobbing with relief, as if it would have been his fault had she been another ves-sel entirely.

The lookout watched him and shook his head. Kempthorne was popular with most of the hands, and never took it out of offenders like some. The seaman had been in the navy for twelve years but could still not fathom the minds of officers.

Kempthorne was glad, pleased that he had sighted the other vessel. Yet within hours he might be dead.

Of course there might easily be prize money if things went well . . .

Down on the streaming deck Queely stared at Bolitho and exclaimed, “We’ve found her, sir!” His eyes flashed with excite-ment, Kempthorne’s part in it already forgotten.

Bolitho levelled his glass, but from the deck the sea still appeared empty.

“And now, we’ll take him!”

Kempthorne shouted, “She’s shaken out another reef, sir! Making more sail!”

Queely strode to the compass box and back to Bolitho’s side. “They’re wasting their time,” he said confidently. “We’ve got the bugger by the heels.” He cupped his hands. “Be ready to run out the stuns’ls if she opens the range!”

Bolitho trained his glass again. Now in the growing light he could see the brigantine’s forecourse and topsail, her driver filled to full capacity and making the vessel’s two masts lean over towards the cruising white horses.

Even in this short interval, since Kempthorne had read her name, the distance between them had fallen away considerably. It was true what they said about topsail cutters. They could outrun almost anything.

“Run up the Colours, if you please.” Queely looked at Bolitho. “He may not have recognised us, sir.”

Bolitho nodded. “I agree. Let’s see what he does next. Have the four Dutchmen brought on deck.”

The Dutchmen stood swaying below the mast, staring from Bolitho to the brigantine, wondering what was about to happen to them.

Bolitho lowered the glass. If he could see the other vessel’s poop, then they, and most likely Tanner himself, would be able to recognise his erstwhile partners. He would know then that this was not some casual encounter, a time when he might risk turn-ing towards the French coast to avoid capture. He would know it was Bolitho. It was personal. It was now.

“Fire a gun, Mr Queely!”

The six-pounder recoiled on its tackles, the thin whiff of smoke gone before the crew had time to check the motion with handspikes.

Queely watched the ball splash into the broken crests some half-a-cable from the brigantine’s quarter.

He said, “She does not seem to be pierced for any large artillery.” He glanced admiringly at Bolitho. “You reasoned to per-fection, sir.”

A man yelled, “Somethin’s ’appenin’ on ’er deck, sir!”

Bolitho raised his glass in unison with Queely, and tensed as he saw the little scene right aft by her taffrail. He did not recog-nise the others, but in the centre of the small group he saw Brennier’s white hair blowing in the wind, his arms pinioned so that he was forced to face the cutter as she continued to overhaul La Revanche.

Queely said savagely, “What is his game? Why does he play for time? We’ll be up to him in a moment—if he kills that old man it will be the worse for him!”

Bolitho said, “Rig four halters to the mainyard.” He saw Queely look at him with surprise. “Tanner will understand. A life for a life. So too will his men.”

Queely yelled, “Come down, Mr Kempthorne! You are needed here!” He beckoned to his boatswain and passed Bolitho’s instruc-tions. Within minutes, or so it seemed, four ropes, each with a noose at one end, flew out from the mainyard like creeper, as if they were enjoying a macabre dance.

Bolitho said, “Keep him to lee’rd of you. Run down on his quarter.” He was thinking aloud. But all the time, Queely’s ques-tion intruded. Why does he play for time? The game must surely be played out.

The truth touched his heart like steel. He wants me dead. Even in the face of defeat he sees only that.

He raised the glass again. Brennier’s face loomed into the small silent picture, his eyes wide as if he was choking.

Bolitho said, “I intend to board. Prepare the jolly-boat.” He silenced Queely’s protest by adding, “If you try to drive alongside in this wind, you’ll likely dismast Wakeful. We’d lose Tanner, the treasure, everything.”

Queely shouted to the boat-handling party, then said stub-bornly, “If they fire on you before you board, what then? We have no other boat. Why not risk the damage, I say, and damn the consequences!” He shrugged; he had seen the fight lost before it had begun. “Mr Kempthorne! Full boarding party!” He turned his back on the men by the tiller. “And if—”

Bolitho touched his elbow. “If? Then you may act as you please. Disable her, but make certain they understand they will go down with the ship if they resist further!”

He watched the jolly-boat rising and dipping like a snared shark as the seamen warped it slowly aft to the quarter.

He took a last glance at the brigantine’s poop as Wakeful bore down on her. The figures had gone. The threat of instant retri-bution which they had seen in the four halters run up to the yard might have carried the moment. The sight of Wakeful’s carronades and run-out six-pounders would demonstrate that there was no quarter this time, no room to bargain.

Allday dropped into the boat and watched the oarsmen as they fended off the cutter’s hull, and prepared to fight their way over the water which surged between the two vessels.

Bolitho clambered down with Kempthorne and as the bow-man shoved off, and the oars fell noisily into their rowlock, Allday shouted, “Give way all!”

Kempthorne stared at La Revanche, his eyes filled with won-der. “They’re shortening sail, sir!”

Bolitho replied grimly, “Don’t drop your guard, my lad, not for a second.”

Faces appeared along the brigantine’s bulwark, and Bolitho raised his borrowed speaking trumpet and shouted, “Do not resist! In the King’s name, I order you to surrender!”

He could ignore the sweating oarsmen, Allday crouching over his tiller bar, Kempthorne and the other boarders jammed like herrings into the sternsheets and amongst the boat’s crew.

At any second they might open fire. It only needed one. Bolitho wanted to look round for Wakeful and gauge her posi-tion, how long it might take Queely to attack if the worst happened.

Allday said between his teeth, “One of ’em’s got a musket, Cap’n.”

Bolitho shouted again, his heart pumping against his ribs as his whole body tensed for a shot.

“Stand by to receive boarders!”

Allday breathed out slowly as the raised musket disappeared. “Bowman! Grapnel!”

They smashed hard into the brigantine’s side, lifted over her wale and almost capsized as another trough yawned beneath the keel.

Bolitho seized a handrope and hauled himself up to the entry port, with Kempthorne and some of the seamen scrabbling up beside him. Allday stared helplessly while the boat plunged down into another trough, leaving him and the rest of the crew momen-tarily cut off from the boarding party. Bolitho flung himself over the bulwark and in the next few seconds saw the scene like a badly executed painting. Men gaping at him when they should have been attacking or yelling defiance; Brennier beside the wheel, his hands apparently tied behind him, a sailor with a cutlass held close to his throat.

And in the centre stood Tanner, his handsome features very calm as he faced Bolitho across the open deck.

The jolly-boat ground alongside again and broken oars spilled out into the sea. But Allday was here, with three more armed men, their eyes wild, ready to fight—no, wanting to kill now that the moment had arrived.

Tanner said, “You are making another mistake, Bolitho!”

Bolitho glanced at Brennier and nodded. He was safe now. The man who was guarding him jammed his cutlass into the deck and stood away.

Bolitho said, “Well, Sir James, you once invited me to enter your world.” He gestured toward the horizon. “This is mine. On the high seas you will find no bribed judges or lying witnesses to save your skin. If you or one of your men raises his hand against us, I will see him dead—here, today—be certain of that.” He was astonished that he could speak so calmly. “Mr Kempthorne, attend the admiral.”

As the lieutenant made to cross the deck, Tanner moved. “I shall see you in hell, Bolitho!”

He must have had a pistol, a long-barrelled, duellist’s weapon, concealed beneath his coat. Too late Bolitho saw his arm swing up and take aim. He heard shouts, a grunt of fury from Allday, then even as a shadow passed across his vision came the sharp crack of the shot. Lieutenant Kempthorne swung round and stared at Bolitho, his eyes wide with disbelief. The ball had penetrated his throat directly below his chin, and as he fell forwards the blood welled from his mouth and he was dead.

In the immediate silence the sea’s sounds intruded like an audience, and only the man at the wheel seemed able to move, his eyes on the compass and the straining driver. What he was trained to do, no matter what.

He wants me dead.

There was a faint splash as Tanner flung the pistol over the side. He watched Bolitho’s expression and said softly, “Next time.”

Bolitho walked towards him, men falling back to let him through. It was then that he saw Wakeful, creeping along the side, near enough to fire directly at individual targets, but still keeping her distance to avoid collision.

Somebody shouted, “Th’ chests is in the ’old, sir!”

But the others ignored him. It no longer seemed to matter.

Allday tightened his grip on the cutlass. Remembering the silky voice from the hidden carriage, when Tanner had ordered him to kill the sailor from the press gang. He could feel the flood in his veins like thunder, and knew that if any one so much as moved towards Bolitho he would hack him down.

Bolitho faced Tanner and said, “The next time is now, Jack— isn’t that what they call you?”

“You’d kill an unarmed man, Captain? I think not. Your sense of honour—”

“Has just died with young Kempthorne.” He had his sword in his hand faster than he had ever known before. He saw Tanner gasp as if he expected the point to tear into him instantly; when Bolitho hesitated, he recovered himself and jeered, “Like your brother after all!”

Bolitho stood back slightly, the point of his sword just inches above the deck.

“You did not disappoint me, Sir James.” He watched the arro-gance give way to something else. “You insulted my family. Perhaps on land, in ‘your world,’ you might still go free despite your obscene crimes!”

He was suddenly sick of it. The sword moved like lightning, and when it returned to the deck there was blood running from

Tanner’s cheek. The blade had cut it almost to the bone.

Quietly Bolitho said, “Defend yourself, man. Or die.”

Gasping with pain Tanner dragged out his sword, his face screwed up with shock and fear.

They circled one another, figures hurrying away, Wakeful’s men standing to their weapons, one near the wheel with a swivel gun trained on the brigantine’s crew.

Allday watched, shocked by Bolitho’s consuming anger, the glint in his eyes which even he had never seen before.

Clash-clash-clash. The blades touched and feinted apart, then Bolitho’s cut across Tanner’s shirt, so that he screamed as blood ran down his breeches.

“For pity’s sake!” Tanner was peering at him like a wounded beast. “I surrender! I’ll tell everything!”

“You lie, damn you!” The blade hissed out once more, and a cut opened on Tanner’s neck like something alive.

Vaguely Bolitho heard Queely’s voice, echoing across the water through his trumpet.

“Sail to the Nor’-West, sir!”

Bolitho lowered his sword. “At last.”

Allday said, “They might be Frogs!” Bolitho wiped his fore-head with his arm. It was like the blind man. Exactly the same.

He had wanted to kill Tanner. But now he was nothing. Whatever happened he could not survive.

He said wearily, “They’ll not interfere with two English ships.”

Again, it was like a stark picture. Brennier’s faded eyes, his hoarse voice as he called with astonishment, “But, Capitaine, our countries are at war!”

It was the missing part of the pattern which fate, or his own instinct, had tried to warn him about. At war, and they had not known. No wonder Tanner had been prepared to wait, to play for time. He had known the French ship was on her way. She was probably the same vessel which had stood between Wakeful and Holland such a short while ago.

But he did not see the sudden triumph and hatred in Tanner’s eyes as he came out of his trance of fear and lunged forward with his sword. Bolitho ducked and made to parry it aside, but his foot went from under him and he knew he had slipped in poor Kempthorne’s blood.

He heard Tanner scream, “Die then!” He sounded crazed with pain and the lust to kill.

Bolitho rolled over, and kicked out at Tanner’s leg, taking him off balance so that he reeled back against the bulwark.

Bolitho was on his feet again, and heard Allday roar, “Let me, Cap’n.”

The blades parried almost gently, and then Tanner lunged forward once again. Bolitho took the weight on his hilt, swung Tanner round, using the force of his attack to propel him towards the side, just as his father had taught him and his brother so long ago in Falmouth.

Bolitho flicked the guard aside and thrust. When he with-drew the blade, Tanner was still on his feet, shaking his head dazedly from side to side as if he could not understand how it could happen.

His knees hit the deck, and he slumped and lay staring blindly at the sails.

Allday gathered him up and rolled him over the bulwark.

Bolitho joined him at the side and watched the body drift-ing slowly towards the bows. He leaned against Allday’s massive shoulder and gasped. “So it’s not over.”

Then he looked up, his eyes clearing like clouds from the sea. “Was he dead?”

Allday shrugged and gave a slow grin of relief and pride. For both of them.

“Didn’t ask, Cap’n.”

Bolitho turned towards the white-haired admiral. “I must leave you, m’sieu. My prize crew will take care of you.” He looked away towards Kempthorne’s sprawled body. He had intended to make him prize master of La Revanche, give him a small author-ity which might drive away all his uncertainties. He almost smiled. Prize master, as he had once been. The first step to command.

Brennier was unable to grasp it. “But how will you fight?” He peered at Wakeful’s tall mainsail. “Tanner was expecting some-thing bigger to come after us!”

Bolitho walked to the entry port and looked down at the pitching jolly-boat. To the master’s mate who had accompanied the boarding party he said, “Put the men you can trust to work and make sail at once. Those you can’t put in irons.”

The master’s mate watched him curiously. “Beg pardon, sir, but after wot you just done I don’t reckon we’ll get much bother.” Then he stared across at his own ship. He knew he would prob-ably not see her again. “I’ll bury Mr Kempthorne proper, sir. Never you fear.”

Allday called, “Boat’s ready, Cap’n!”

Bolitho turned and looked at their watching faces. Would he have killed Tanner but for that last attack? Now he would never know.

To the admiral he said, “Our countries are at war, m’sieu, but I hope we shall always be friends.”

The old man who had tried to save his King bowed his head. He had lost everything but the ransom in the hold, his King and now his country. And yet Bolitho thought afterwards that he had never seen such dignity and pride in any man.

“Give way all!”

Allday swung the tiller bar and peered at the men along Wakeful’s side ready to take the bowline.

Then he looked at the set of Bolitho’s shoulders. So it’s not over, he had said back there. He sighed. Nor would it be, until—

Allday saw the stroke oarsman watching him anxiously and shook himself from his black mood. Poor bugger’d never been in a sea-fight before. Was likely wondering if he would ever see home again.

He glanced at Bolitho and grinned despite his apprehensions.

Our Dick. Hatless, bloody, the old coat looking as if he had borrowed it from a beggar.

His grin broadened, so that the stroke oarsman felt the touch of confidence again.

But you’d know Bolitho was a captain anywhere. And that was all that counted now.

LUKE HAWKINS, Telemachus’s boatswain, shook himself like a dog and waited for Paice to loom out of the wet darkness.

“I’ve sent four ’ands aloft, sir!” They both squinted towards the masthead but the upper yards were hidden by swirling snow. “Some o’ that cordage ’as carried away!”

Paice swore. “God damn all dockyards! For what they care we could lose the bloody topmast!” It was pointless to worry about the half-frozen men working up there, their fingers like claws, their eyes blinded by snow.

Hawkins suggested, “We could reef, sir.”

Paice exclaimed, “Shorten sail? Damn it to hell, man! We’ve lost enough knots already!” He swung away. “Do what you must.

I shall let her fall off a point—it might help to ease the strain.”

Paice found Triscott peering at the compass, his hat and shoulders starkly white in the shadows.

The first lieutenant knew it was pointless to argue with Paice about the way he was driving his command. It was so unlike him, as if the flames of hell were at his heels.

Paice took a deep breath as water lifted over the bulwark and sluiced away into the scuppers.

When daylight came there would probably be no sign of Snapdragon. In these conditions station-keeping was almost a joke. Perhaps Vatass would use the situation to go about and beat back to harbour. Paice toyed with the thought, which he knew was unfair and uncharitable.

The helmsman yelled, “Steady as she goes, sir! Sou’ by East!”

Chesshyre said, “We’ll be a right laughing stock if we have the sticks torn out of us.” He had not realised that Paice was still in the huddled group around the compass.

He winced as Paice’s great hand fell on his arm like a grapnel.

“You are the acting-master, Mr Chesshyre! If you can’t think of anything more useful to offer, then acting you will remain!”

Triscott interrupted, “We shall sight land when the snow clears. Mr Chesshyre assured me that it will by dawn.”

Paice said hotly, “In which case it will probably turn into a bloody typhoon!”

Triscott hid a smile. He had always liked Paice and had learned all he knew from him. Nevertheless he could be quite frightening sometimes. Like now.

Paice strode to the side and stared at the surging wake as it lifted and curled over the lee bulwark.

Was he any better than Vatass, and was this only a gesture? He raised his face into the swirling flakes and stinging wind. He knew that was not so. Without Bolitho the ship even felt different. Just months ago Paice would never have believed that he would have stood his ship into jeopardy in this fashion. And all because of a man. An ordinary man.

He heard muffled cries from above the deck, and guessed that some new cordage and whipping were being run up to the mast-head for their numbed hands to work on.

He shook his head as if he was in pain. No, he was never an ordinary man.

Paice’s wife had been a schoolmaster’s daughter and had taught her bluff sea-officer a great deal. She had introduced him to words he had never known. His life until she entered it had been rough, tough ships and men to match them. He smiled sadly, reminis-cently, into the snow. No wonder her family had raised their hands in horror when she had told them of her intention to marry him.

He tried again. What was the word she had used? He nod-ded, satisfied at last. Charisma. Bolitho had it, and probably did not even guess.

He thought of Bolitho’s mission and wondered why nobody had listened to him when he had spoken his mind on Sir James Tanner. Like a hopeless crusade. It had been the same between Delaval and Paice himself: not just a fight between the forces of law and corruption, but something personal. Nobody had listened to him, either. They had been sorry, of course—he felt the old flame of anger returning. How would they have felt if their wives had been murdered like . . . He stopped himself. He could not bear even to use her name in the same company.

Now Delaval was dead. Paice had watched him on that clear day, every foot of the way to the scaffold. He had heard no voices, no abuse or ironic cheering from the crowd who had come to be entertained. God, he thought, if they held a mass torture session on the village green there would not be room to sit down.

He had spoken to Delaval silently on that day. Had cursed his name, damned him in an afterlife where he hoped he would suffer, as he had forced so many others to do.

Paice was not a cruel man, but he had felt cheated by the brevity of the execution. Long after the crowd had broken up he had stood in a doorway and watched Delaval’s corpse swinging in the breeze. If he had known where it was to be hung in chains as a gruesome warning to other felons, he knew he would have gone there too.

He looked up, caught off balance as a dark shape fell past the mainsail, hit the bulwark and vanished over the side. Just those few seconds, but he had heard the awful scream, the crack as the living body had broken on the impact before disappearing outboard.

Scrope the master-at-arms came running aft. “It was Morrison, sir!”

The thing changed to a real person. A bright-eyed seaman from Gillingham, who had quit fishing and signed on with a recruiting party after his parents had died of fever.

Nobody spoke, not even the youthful Triscott. Even he knew that it was impossible to turn the cutter or lie-to in this sea. Even if they succeeded they would never find the man named Morrison. It was a sailor’s lot. They sang of it in the dogwatches, below, in the ale shops and the dockside whorehouses. Rough and crude they might be, but to Paice they were the only real people.

He said harshly, “Send another man aloft. I want that work finished, and lively with it!”

Some would curse his name for his methods, but most of them would understand. A sailor’s lot.

Paice stamped his feet on the deck to bring back some warmth and feeling. He wanted to think about Bolitho, what steps he should take next if they failed to find him when daylight came. But all he could think of was the man who had just been chosen to die. For that was what he and most sailors thought. When your name is called. He gripped a backstay and felt it jerking and shiv-ering in his fingers. All he had to do was lose his handhold. How would he feel then, as his ship vanished into the night, and he was left to choke and drown?

He came out of his brooding and snapped, “I’m going below. Call me if—”

Triscott stared at his leaning shadow. “Aye, aye, sir.”

Paice stumbled into the cabin, slamming the door shut behind him. He stared at the other bunk and remembered Allday’s model ship, the bond which seemed to shine between those two men.

He spoke to the cabin at large. “I must find him!” He glanced at the battered Bible in its rack but dismissed the idea immedi-ately. That could wait. Charisma was enough for one watch.

On the deck above, Triscott watched the comings and goings of men up and down the treacherous ratlines. In a few weeks’ time he would be twenty years old. And now it was war. Only after he had seen and spoken with Bolitho had he grasped some inkling of what war, especially at sea, might mean. Paice had hinted that Their Lordships at the far-off Admiralty would be pruning out trained officers and men from every ship which had been fully employed. Why, he wondered, had they not kept a powerful fleet in commission if they knew war was coming?

Hawkins strode aft and said gruffly, “All done, sir. The blacking-down will have to wait till this lot’s over.”

Triscott had to shout over the hiss and patter of water. “Morrison never stood a chance, Mr Hawkins!”

The boatswain wiped his thick fingers on some rags and eyed him grimly. “I ’ope that made ’im feel better, sir.”

Triscott watched his burly shape melt into the gloom and sighed.

Another Paice.

Figures groped through the forward hatch and others slithered thankfully into the damp darkness of the messdeck as the watches changed. Dench, the master’s mate, was taking over the morning watch and was muttering to Chesshyre, probably discussing the failings of their lieutenants.

Triscott went below and lay fully clothed on the bunk, the one which Bolitho had used.

From the darkness Paice asked, “All right up top?”

Triscott smiled to himself. Worrying about his Telemachus. He never stopped.

“Dench is doing well with the watch, sir.”

Paice said fiercely, “If I could just make one sighting at first light.” But he heard a gentle snore from the opposite side.

Paice closed his eyes and thought about his wife. He had the word charisma on his lips when he, too, fell into an uneasy sleep.

The morning, when it came, was brighter than even Chesshyre had prophesied. A bitter wind which made the sails glisten with ice-rime, and goaded every man’s resistance to the limit.

Paice came on deck and consulted the chart and Chesshyre’s slate beside the compass box. They did not always agree, but Paice knew Chesshyre was good at his work. It was enough.

He looked up at the curving topmast, the streaming white spear of the long masthead pendant. Wind on the quarter. So they had to be doubly careful. If they covered too many miles they would be hard-put to beat back again for another attempt to seek out the missing cutter.

Paice thought about Queely and wondered if in fact he had found Bolitho for the second part of their hazy plan. Wakeful might be in enemy hands. His mind hung on the word. Enemy. It somehow changed everything. Perhaps Bolitho was taken too, or worse.

He pounded his hands together. Bolitho should never have been sent to Kent, for recruiting, if that was truly the reason, and certainly not for a wild scheme like this one.

He should be in command of a real man-of-war. A captain others would follow; whose subordinates would learn more than the rudiments of battle but also the need for humility.

Triscott came aft from inspecting the overnight repairs and splicing, a boatswain’s mate close at his heels. He looked even younger in this grey light, Paice thought. His face all fresh and burned with cold.

Triscott touched his hat, testing his commander’s mood. “All secure, sir.” He waited, noting the strain and deep lines on Paice’s features. “I’ve had the gunner put men to work on the six-pounder tackles. The ice and snow have jammed every block.”

Paice nodded absently. “As well you noticed.” The usual hes-itation. Then, “Good.”

Paice turned to the master’s muffled figure beside the tiller. “What do you make of the weather, Mr Chesshyre?”

Triscott saw them face one another, more like adversaries than men who served together in this tiny, cramped community.

Chesshyre accepted the flag of truce.

“It should be clear and fine, sir.” He pointed across the bul-wark, below which some men were manhandling one of the stocky six-pounders behind its sealed port.

“See yonder, sir? Patch o’ blue!”

Paice sighed. Nobody had mentioned it, but there was no sign of Snapdragon.

Triscott saw him glance at the masthead and said, “I’ve put a good man up there, sir.”

Paice exclaimed, “Did I ask you?” He shrugged heavily. “Forgive me. It is wrong to use authority on those who cannot strike back.”

Triscott kept his face immobile. Bolitho’s words. He was still fretting about it. He offered, “There is a lot of mist, sir. In this wind—”

Paice stared at him. “Did you hear?”

Chesshyre dragged the hood from over his salt-matted hair.

“I did!”

Men stood motionless at their many and varied tasks, as if frozen so. The cook halfway through the hatch on his way to pre-pare something hot, or at least warm, for the watchkeepers. Big Luke Hawkins, a marlinspike gripped in one iron-hard hand, his eyes alert, remembering perhaps. Maddock the carpenter, clutch-ing his old hat to his wispy hair as he paused in measuring some timber he had brought from the hold for some particular task. Chesshyre and Triscott, even Godsalve the clerk, acting purser and, when required, a fair hand as a tailor, all waited and listened in the chilling air.

Paice said abruptly, “Six-pounders, eh, Mr Hawkins?”

His voice seemed to break the spell, so that men began to move again, staring about them as if they could not recall what they had been doing.

Triscott suggested, “Maybe it’s Wakeful, sir.”

Chesshyre rubbed his unshaven chin. “Or Snapdragon? ”

The air seemed to quiver, so that some of the men working below deck felt the distant explosion beat into the lower hull as if Telemachus had been fired on.

Paice wanted to lick his lips but knew some of the seamen were watching him. Gun by gun, booming across the water.

He clenched his fingers into fists. He wanted to yell up to the masthead lookout, but knew the man needed no persuading. Triscott had chosen him specially. He would be the first to hail the deck when he could see something.

Paice heard the boatswain’s mate murmur, “Could be either, I suppose.”

He thrust his hands beneath his coat-tails to hide them from view.

The regular explosions boomed across the sea’s face once again, and he said, “Whoever it is, they’re facing the enemy’s iron this day!”

Spray burst over Wakeful’s weather side and flooded down the steeply sloping deck. Even the most experienced hands aboard had to cling to something as the hull laid hard over until to any novice it would seem she must turn turtle.

Queely yelled, “She’s close as she’ll answer, sir!” His salt-reddened eyes peered at the huge mainsail, then at the foresail and jib. Each one was sheeted hard-in until they were laid almost fore-and-aft down the cutter’s centre line, forcing her into the wind, every other piece of canvas lashed into submission.

Bolitho did not have time to consult the compass but guessed that Queely had swung Wakeful some five points into the wind; the lee gunports were awash, and the water seemed to boil as she plunged across the lively crests. When he looked for the brigan-tine she already seemed a long way astern, her sails retrimmed while she bore away on the opposite tack.

As he had been hauled aboard Bolitho had said, “We must stand between La Revanche and the Frenchman. The brigantine is fast enough, and given time she might reach safety, or at least lie beneath a coastal battery until help can be sent.”

He had seen Queely’s quick understanding. No talk of vic-tory, no empty promise of survival. They were to save the brigantine, and they would pay the price.

Bolitho stared up at the masthead as the lookout yelled, “Corvette, sir!”

Queely grimaced. “Twenty guns at least.” He looked away.

“I keep seeing Kempthorne. I used him badly. That is hard to forgive.”

Bolitho saw Allday moving carefully aft from the forehatch, his cutlass thrust through his belt. The words seemed to repeat themselves. Of one company.

Queely watched the sails shaking and banging, taking the full thrust of the wind.

He said, “Must have veered some more. From the north, I’d say.” He puffed out his cheeks. “It feels like it too!”

They all heard the sudden crack of cannon fire, and then the lookout shouted, “Sail closin’ the corvette, sir!”

There were more shots, the sounds spiteful over the lively wave crests.

Queely said guardedly, “Small guns, sir.” He glanced at his men along either side, drenched with spray and flying spindrift, trying to protect their powder and flintlocks. “Like ours.”

Bolitho frowned. It would be just like Paice. Coming to look for them. He tensed as a measured broadside thundered across the water. He saw the sea-mist waver and twist high above the surface, and for those few moments the other vessel was laid bare. Even without a telescope he saw the lithe silhouette of a square-rigged man-of-war, gunsmoke fanning downwind from her larboard battery. The other vessel was beyond her, but there was no mistaking the great mainsail, its boom sweeping across the waves as she bore down on the French corvette.

Bolitho gritted his teeth. The corvette was like a small frigate, and probably mounted only nine-pounders. But against a cutter she was a leviathan.

Queely yelled, “Another point!”

The helmsman shouted, “West-Nor’-West, sir!” He did not have to add that she was as close to the wind as she had ever sailed; there was hardly a man who could stand upright.

Bolitho said, “Bring her about.” He saw Queely’s indecision. “If we turn back, we may stand across his course, and still have time to turn again.”

Bangs echoed against the hull as Queely yelled, “Stand by to come about! Let go and haul!”

As the helm went over, the cutter seemed to rise towards the sky, her bowsprit and flapping jib lifting and lifting until the sea boiled over the side and swept aft like breakers. Men fell cursing and gasping, others seized their friends and dragged them to their feet as the receding water tried to sweep them over the bulwarks.

But she was answering, and as she swayed over on the oppo-site tack Bolitho felt like cheering, even though each minute was one gone from his life.

Queely shouted, “Hold her! Steady as you go!” He beckoned frantically— “Two more hands on the tiller!”

The master glared at him, then called, “Steady she is, sir! East by North!”

Bolitho snatched up a glass and sought out the corvette.

There she was, now on the larboard quarter, as if their whole world had pivoted round. La Revanche was almost lost in mist and spray, standing away as fast as she could. Queely’s master’s mate had even managed to set her topsail and royal.

He waited for the deck to steady again and tried to ignore the bustle of figures around and past him as the mainsail was sheeted home on the opposite tack.

He trained the glass with care and saw the corvette fire again, the smoke momentarily blotting her out but not before he had found the other cutter, and had seen the sea around her bursting with waterspouts and failing spray. The cutter was still pressing closer, and he saw her side flash with bright orange tongues as she fired her small broadside.

Queely said savagely, “Vatass has no chance at that range, damn it!” He saw the question in Bolitho’s eyes and explained, “It’s him. Snapdragon has a darker jib than the rest of us.” He winced as another fall of shot appeared to bracket the cutter. But Snapdragon pushed through the falling curtain of spray, her guns still firing, although, as Queely suspected, it was doubtful if a sin-gle ball would reach the French corvette.

Bolitho tried to ignore the twisting shape of the cutter and concentrated on the enemy. She was maintaining the same tack as before and steering almost south-east. Her captain had seen La Revanche and would let nothing stand in his way.

Queely exclaimed, “Snapdragon must have sighted us, sir!” He sounded incredulous as he raised his glass again, his lips moving as he identified the pinpricks of colour which had broken from Snapdragon’s topsail yard.

He said hoarsely, “Signal reads, Enemy in sight, sir!”

Bolitho looked at him, sharing his sudden emotion. It was Vatass’s way of telling them that they were at war. Trying to warn him before it was too late.

Bolitho said, “Run up another flag.” He looked along the crowded deck, at the men who waited for the inevitable. “It will give him heart!”

With two White Ensigns streaming from gaff and masthead, Wakeful prepared to come about yet again. The manoeuvre would stand her across the enemy’s path and make it impossible for the corvette to avoid an embrace. Once in close action, Snapdragon might be able to attack her stern, with luck even rake her with a carronade as she crossed her wake. He held his breath as a hole punched through Snapdragon’s topsail and the wind tore it to rib-bons before it could be reefed.

The corvette fired again, each broadside perfectly timed. No wonder this captain had been selected for the task, Bolitho thought. He raised the glass, but mist and gunsmoke made it impossible to see the horizon.

He looked at Allday by the compass box. Where is Paice?

Allday saw his expression and tried to smile. But all he could think of was the man-of-war which was closing on them with every sail set and filled to the wind. He looked at the men on Wakeful’s deck. Popguns against nine-pounders, an open deck with no gangways or packed hammock nettings to protect them from the splinters. How would they face up to it? Would they see there was nothing but death at the end of it?

He thought of Lieutenant Kempthorne and all the others he had seen drop in a sea-fight. Proud, brave men for the most part, who had whimpered and screamed when they were cut down. The lucky ones died then and there, and were spared the agony of a surgeon’s knife.

Here there was not even a sawbones. Maybe that was all to the good. Allday watched Bolitho’s fingers close around the sword at his side. It had to end somewhere, so why not here?

He winced as the guns thundered yet again, closer still, the shots churning the sea into jagged crests, or whipping off the white horses like invisible dolphins at play.

He tried to think of his time in London, the nights in Maggie’s tiny room, with her buxom body pressed against his in the dark-ness. Perhaps one day—the guns roared out across the shortening range and he heard several of the watching seamen give groans of dismay.

Queely shouted harshly, “Stand to, damn you! Prepare to come about! Topmen aloft, lively now!”

Bolitho heard the edge in his voice. Its finality. It was not even going to be a battle this time.

Lieutenant Paice yelled at the masthead, “Repeat that!” The last roll of cannon fire had drowned the man’s voice.

The lookout shouted, “Snapdragon’s signallin’, sir! Enemy in sight! ”

Paice released his breath very slowly. Thank God for a good lookout. It was what they had planned should they find Wakeful. Where she was, so would be Bolitho.

Paice lifted his glass and saw the mist moving aside, even the smoke thinning to its persistent thrust. He saw the French ves-sel some two miles directly ahead, framed in Telemachus’s shrouds as if in a net. She was running with the wind directly under her coat-tails, her sails iron-hard. Paice saw Snapdragon for the first time, her frail outline just overlapping the enemy’s quarter and surrounded by bursting spray from that last fall of shot. Her top-sail had been shredded, and there were several holes in her mainsail; otherwise she appeared to be untouched, and as he peered through the glass until his eyes watered he saw Vatass’s guns returning fire, their progress marked by thin tendrils of foam, well short of a target.

There was another vessel moving away from the embattled ships. Paice guessed it was either an unwilling spectator, or the one Bolitho was expected to escort back to England. Then he saw Wakeful, sweeping out of the mist, her sails flapping then filling as she completed her tack and swung once more towards the enemy.

Triscott broke into his thoughts. “Why does the Frog stay on that tack, sir? I’d go for Snapdragon, if I were her commander, and lessen the odds. He must surely see us by now?”

Somebody dropped a handspike and Paice was about to shout a reprimand when he remembered what Triscott had told him about the six-pounders.

“The Frenchman has been under way all night, up and down, searching for Captain Bolitho, I suspect. My guess is that her run-ning rigging is so swollen she can barely change tack—her blocks are probably frozen solid!” He gestured towards Telemachus’s spread of canvas. “Here the wind does the work for us.” There was con-tempt in his tone. “Over yonder even muscle-power won’t shift those yards until the day warms up!” He sounded excited. “So they’ll have to reef, or stand and fight!”

There was a great sigh from some of the hands and Paice saw Snapdragon stagger as some of the enemy’s balls slammed home.

But she came upright again and pressed on with her attack.

Paice swore angrily. “Fall back, you young fool!” He swung on Triscott. “Set the stuns’ls and shake out every reef! I want this cutter to fly!”

As the studding-sail booms were run out from the yard, the mast bent forward under the additional strain. The sea seemed to rush down either beam, so that some of the gun crews stood up and cheered without knowing why.

Paice folded his arms and studied the other vessels. Hounds around a stag. He swallowed hard as the tall waterspouts shot sky-ward along Snapdragon’s engaged side. The damage was hidden from view, but Paice saw rigging curling and parting, then, slowly at first, the tall mainmast began to reel down into the smoke. In the sudden lull of firing he heard the thundering crash of the mast and spars sweeping over the forecastle, tearing men and guns in its wake of trailing shrouds and rigging until with a great splash it swayed over the bows like a fallen tree. Tiny figures appeared through the wreckage where nobody should have been left alive, and in the weak sunlight Paice saw the gleam of axes as Vatass’s men hacked at the broken rigging, or fought their way to mess-mates trapped underneath.

Some of the corvette’s larboard battery must have been trained as far round in their ports as they could bear. Paice watched through his glass and saw the shadows of the enemy’s guns lengthen against the hull as they were levered towards the quar-ter. He shifted his horrified stare to Snapdragon. It was impossible to see her as another graceful cutter. She was a listing, mastless wreck already down by the bows, her shattered jolly-boat drift-ing away from the side amidst the flotsam of planking and torn canvas.

Triscott exclaimed in a strangled voice, “They’d not fire on her now!”

The after divisions of guns belched out flame and smoke together. It was like a single, heart-stopping explosion. Paice could even feel the weight of the iron’s strength as Snapdragon was swept from bow to stern, timber, decking, men and pieces of men flung into the air like grisly rubbish. When it finally fell it pock-marked the sea with white feathers, strangely gentle in the pale sunlight.

Snapdragon began to capsize, her broken hull surrounded by huge, obscene bubbles.

Paice watched with his glass. He did not want to forget it, and knew he never would.

He saw the deck tilting towards him, a corpse in a lieutenant’s coat sliding through blood and splinters, then rising up against the bulwark as if to offer a last command. Then Snapdragon gave a groan, as if she was the one who was dying, and disappeared beneath the whirlpool of pathetic fragments.

Paice found that he was sucking in the bitter air as if he had just been running. His head swam, and he wanted to roar and bel-low like a bull. But nothing came. It was too terrible even for that.

When he spoke again his voice was almost calm.

He said, “All guns load, double-shotted!” He sought out Triscott by the mast; his face was as white as a sheet. “Did you see that? The Frenchie made no attempt to bear up on—” he hes-itated, unable to say the name of the ship he had just seen destroyed. Vatass, so keen and unworldly, hoping for promotion, wiped away like the master’s calculations on his slate. Because of me. I forced him to put to sea. He faced Triscott again. “She’d have been in irons if she had. I reckon her running rigging is frozen as solid as a rock!”

Triscott wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “But how long—”

He was close to vomiting.

“It don’t matter, and it don’t signify, Mr Triscott! We’ll rake that bugger an’ maybe Captain Bolitho can put a ball or two through him!”

Triscott nodded. “Prepare to shorten sail!” He was glad of something to do. Anything which might hold back the picture of Snapdragon’s terrible death. It was like watching his own fate in a nightmare.

Paice moved aft and joined Chesshyre beside the helmsmen. From here he could see the full length and breadth of his small command. Within the hour she might share Snapdragon’s grave. He was surprised that he could face the prospect without pain. His fate, his lot would be decided for him. There was no choice open to any one of them.

He saw the master-at-arms and Glynn, a boatswain’s mate, passing out cutlasses and axes from the chest, and below the raked mast another handful of men were loading muskets under the watchful eye of a gunner’s mate. It kept them busy as the enemy vessel grew in size, lying in their path like a glistening barricade. He saw the gunner’s mate gesturing towards the mast, doubtless explaining that a good marksman could play havoc with men crowded together on a ship’s deck. He had picked the men him-self, each one an excellent shot.

Paice nodded as if in agreement; a seaman called Inskip had held up his fist and then hurried to the weather shrouds. A good choice. Inskip had been a poacher in Norfolk before he had found his way into the navy by way of the local assizes.

Chesshyre said dryly, “Better him than me, sir.”

Paice knew that Inskip would be more than mindful of Snapdragon’s mast plunging down into the sea. Nobody working aloft or around it would have survived. The corvette’s captain had made certain of those who had.

Chesshyre muttered, “My God!”

Paice walked to the side as Telemachus’s stem smashed through some drifting wreckage. A torn jacket, what looked like a chart, splinters as thick as fingers, and the inevitable corpses, bobbing and reeling aside as Telemachus surged through them.

He said roughly, “I’ll lay odds you wish you was in the East India Company!”

A puff of smoke drifted from the corvette’s side, and seconds later a ball sliced across the sea before hurling up a waterspout half-a-cable beyond the bows.

Paice growled, “Close enough, Mr Chesshyre.” He crossed to the compass box and peered at the card. “Bring her up two points.” He eyed him impassively. “We’ll go for his flanks, eh?”

Chesshyre nodded, angry with himself because his teeth were chattering uncontrollably.

He said, “Ready aft! Put the helm down! Steer South by West!” Then he watched as the corvette showed herself beyond the shrouds as if she had only now begun to move.

Paice watched the enemy loose off another shot, but it was well clear.

Shorten sail or stand and fight.

He saw Wakeful’s jib and foresail hardening on the new tack, the canvas clean and pale in the early sunshine.

Chesshyre called, “We don’t even know why we’re here!”

Paice did not turn on him. He knew Chesshyre was afraid, and he needed him now as never before.

“D’you need a reason, then?”

Chesshyre thought of Snapdragon, the corpses bobbing around her like gutted fish.

Paice was right. In the end it would make no difference.