With All Despatch

Bolitho looked up at him. 'He cannot write.' He remembered what he had thought when he had first met Allday in Phalarope. If only he had had some education Allday might have been anything. Now that same thought seemed to mock him.

Somewhere a boatswain's call twittered like a rudely awakened blackbird.

Paice said heavily, 'Orders, sir?'

Bolitho nodded and winced as the hammers began again. Eating and drinking to excess, something he rarely did, and all the while Allday had been here, planning what he would do, awaiting the right moment.

'We shall weigh at noon. See that word is passed to Wakeful.' He tried to keep his tone level. 'Do it yourself, if you please. I want nothing in writing.' Their eyes met. 'Not yet.'

'All hands! All hands! Lash up an' stow!' The hull seemed to shake as feet thudded to the deck, and another day was begun.

'May I ask, sir?'

Bolitho heard the boy returning and realised that he would have to shave himself.

'There is to be a run.' He did not know if Paice believed him, nor did he care now. 'The commodore has a plan. I shall explain when we are at sea and in company. There will be no revenue cutters involved. They are to be elsewhere.' How simple it must have sounded across that overloaded table. And all the while the handsome youth in the white wig had watched and listened.

Paice said haltingly, 'I sent the first lieutenant ashore to collect two of the hands, sir. They were found drunk at a local inn.'

He forced a grin. 'Thought it best if he was out of the way 'til

I'd spoken with you.'

The boy put down a pot of coffee and groped about for a mug.

Bolitho replied, 'That was thoughtful of you, Mr Paice.'

Paice shrugged. 'I believe we may be of one mind, sir.'

Bolitho stood up carefully and thrust open the skylight. The air was still cool and sweet from the land. Maybe he no longer belonged at sea. Was that what Allday had been feeling too?

He glanced down and saw Matthew moving a small roll of canvas away from the cot.

Paice backed from the cabin. 'I shall muster the hands, sir. No matter what men may believe, a ship has no patience and must be served fairly at all times.'

Bolitho did not hear the door close. 'What is that parcel, Matthew?'

The boy picked it up and shrugged unhappily. 'I think it belonged to Allday, sir.' He sounded afraid, as if he in some way shared the guilt.

Bolitho took it from him and opened it carefully on the cot where he had lain like some drunken oaf.

The small knives, tools which Allday had mostly made with his own hands. Carefully collected oddments of brass and copper, sailmaker's twine, some newly fashioned spars and booms.

Bolitho was crouching now, his hands almost shaking as he untied the innermost packet and put it on the cot with great care.

Allday never carried much with him as he went from ship to ship. He had placed little importance on possessions. Only in his models, his ships which he had fashioned with all the skill and love he had gained over the years at sea.

He heard the boy's sharp intake of breath. 'It's lovely, sir!'

Bolitho touched the little model and felt his eyes prick with sudden emotion. Unpainted still, but there was no mistaking the shape and grace of a frigate, the gunports as yet unfilled with tiny cannon still to be made, the masts and rigging still carried only in Allday's mind. His fingers paused at the small, delicately carved figurehead, one which Bolitho remembered so clearly, as if it were life sized instead of a tiny copy. The wild eyed girl with streaming hair, and a horn fashioned like a great shell.

Young Matthew said questioningly, 'A frigate, sir?'

Bolitho stared at it until he could barely see. It was not just any ship. With Allday it rarely was.

He heard himself murmur, 'She is my last command, Matthew. My Tempest.'

The boy responded in a whisper, 'I wonder why he left it behind, sir?'

Bolitho turned him by the shoulder and gripped it until he winced. 'Don't you see, Matthew? He could tell no one what he was about, nor could he write a few words to rest my fears for him.' He looked again at the unfinished model. 'This was the best way he knew of telling me. That ship meant so much to both of us for a hundred different reasons. He'd never abandon it.'

The boy watched as Bolitho stood up to the skylight again, barely able to grasp it, and yet knowing he was the only one who was sharing the secret.

Bolitho said slowly, 'God damn him for his stubbornness!' He bunched his hand against the open skylight. 'And God protect you, old friend, until your return!'

Marching in pairs the press gang advanced along yet another narrow street, their shoes ringing on the cobbles, their eyes everywhere as they probed the shadows.

At the head a tight-lipped lieutenant strode with his hanger already drawn, a midshipman following a few paces behind him.

Here and there the ancient houses seemed to bow across the lanes until they appeared to touch one another. The lieutenant glanced at each dark or shuttered window, especially at those which hung directly above their wary progress. It was all too common for someone to hurl down a bucket of filth on to the hated press gangs as they carried out their thankless patrols.

The lieutenant, like most of them in the local impressment service, had heard all about the two officers being stripped, beaten and publicly humiliated on the open road, with no one raising a hand to aid them. Only the timely appearance of the post-captain and his apparent total disregard for his own safety had saved the officers from far worse.

The lieutenant had been careful to announce his intentions of seeking prime seamen for the fleet, as so ordered. He slashed out angrily at a shadow with his hanger and swore under his breath. You might just as well ring the church bells to reveal what you were about, he thought. The result was usually the same. Just a few luckless ones, and some of those had been lured into the hands of the press gangs, usually by their own employers who wanted to be rid of them. A groom who had perhaps become too free with a landowner's daughter, a footman who had served a mistress better than the man who paid for her luxuries. But trained hands? It would be a joke, if it were not so serious.

The lieutenant snapped, 'Close up in the rear!' It was unnecessary; they always kept together, their heavy cudgels and cutlasses ready for immediate use if attacked, and he knew they resented his words. But he hated the work, just as he longed for the chance of a ship. Some people foolishly wrung their hands, and clergymen prayed that war would never come.

The fools. What did they know? War was as necessary as it was rewarding.

There was a sudden crash, like a bottle smashing.

The lieutenant held up his hanger, and behind him he heard his men rouse themselves, like vixens on the scent of prey.

The midshipman faltered, 'In that alley, sir!'

'I know that!' He waited until his senior hand, a hard-bitten gunner's mate, had joined him. 'Did you hear that, Benzie?'

The gunner's mate grunted. 'There be a tavern through there, sir. Should be closed now, o'course. This be th'only way out.'

The lieutenant scowled. The idiot had left the most important fact to the end. He swallowed his revulsion and said softly, 'Fetch two men and-'

The gunner's mate thrust his face even closer and whispered thickly, 'No need, sir, someone be comin'!'

The lieutenant thankfully withdrew his face. The gunner's mate's breath was as foul as any bilge. Chewing tobacco, rum and bad teeth made a vile mixture.

'Stand to!' The lieutenant faced the narrow alley and cursed Their Lordships for the absurdity of it. The hidden figure with the slow, shambling gait was probably a cripple or as old as Neptune. What use was one man anyway?