With All Despatch

The shadow loomed from the shadows and the lieutenant called sharply, 'In the King's name, I order you to stand and be examined!'

The gunner's mate sighed and tightened his hold on the heavy cudgel. How the navy had changed. In his day they had clubbed them senseless and asked questions later, usually when the poor wretch awoke with a split head to find himself in a man-of-war already standing out to sea. It might be months, years, and in many cases never, that the pressed man returned to England. Who would care anyway? There had even been a case of a bridegroom being snatched from the steps of a church on his wedding day.

But now, with regulations, and not enough ships ready for sea, it was unsafe to flout the Admiralty's rules.

He said, 'Easy, matey!' His experienced eye had taken in the man's build and obvious strength. Even in this dawn light he could see the broad shoulders and, when he turned to stare at the press gang, the pigtail down his back.

The lieutenant snapped, 'What ship?' His nervousness put an edge to his voice. 'Answer, or you'll be the worse for it, man!'

The gunner's mate urged, 'There be too many o'us, matey.' He half-raised his cudgel. 'Tell the lieutenant, like wot 'e says!'

Allday looked at him grimly. He had been about to give up his hazy plan, when he had heard the press gang's cautious approach. Were it not so dangerous it might have made him smile, albeit secretly. Like all those other times when he had dodged the dreaded press in Cornwall, until the day when His Britannic Majesty's frigate Phalarope had hove into sight. Her captain had been a Cornishman, one who knew where landsmen ran to ground whenever a King's ship topped the horizon. It was strange when you thought of it. If a Frenchie ever drew close inshore every fit man would stand to arms to protect his home and country from an enemy. But they would run from one of their own.

Allday said huskily, 'I don't have a ship, sir.' He had spilled rum over his clothing and hoped it was convincing. He had hated the waste of it.

The lieutenant said coldly, 'Don't lie. I told you what would happen if-'

The gunner's mate gestured at him again. 'Don't be a fool!'

Allday hung his head. 'The London, sir.'

The lieutenant exclaimed. 'A second-rate, so you are a prime seaman! Yes? ' The last word was like a whip-crack.

'If you say so, sir.'

'Don't be bloody insolent. What's your name, damn you?'

Allday regarded him impassively. It might be worth it just to smash in the lieutenant's teeth. Bolitho would have a useless pip-squeak like him for breakfast.

'Spencer, sir.' He had neglected to invent a name, and the slight hesitation seemed to satisfy the officer that it was because of guilt.

'Then you are taken. Come with my men, or be dragged in irons-the choice is yours.'

The press gang parted as Allday moved amongst them. Their eagerness to be gone from this deserted street was almost matched by their relief.

One of the seamen muttered, 'Never mind, mate, could be worse.'

Somewhere, far away, a trumpet echoed on the morning air. Allday hesitated and did not even notice the sudden alarm in their eyes. He had done it. At this moment Bolitho might be looking at the little Tempest. But would he see a message there? Allday felt something like despair; he might see only desertion and treachery.

Then he squared his shoulders. 'I'm ready.'

The lieutenant quickened his pace as he heard someone drumming on a bucket with a piece of metal. The signal for a mob to come running to free their capture.

But this patrol at least had not been entirely wasted. Only one man, but obviously an experienced sailor. No excuses either, nor the last-moment, infuriating production of a Protection like those issued to apprentices, watermen, and the likes of the H.E.I.C.

The gunner's mate called, 'Wot's yer trade, Spencer?'

Allday was ready this time. 'Sailmaker.' Chosen carefully, not too lowly, so that they might have disbelieved him, nor too senior, so that they might have sent him back to the London, a ship he had never laid eyes on.

The man nodded, well satisfied. A sailmaker was a rare and valuable catch.

They topped a rise and Allday saw the masts and crossed yards of several men-of-war, their identities still hidden in deep shadow. Bolitho was there. Would they ever meet again?

If not it will be because I am no longer alive.

Strangely enough the realization brought him immediate comfort.

5. Out of the Mouths of Babes….

BOLITHO gripped the swivel-gun mounting on the weather bulwark, and used it to steady himself as Telemachus dipped and lifted to a steady north-easterly, her forward rigging running with spray. Eight bells had just chimed out from the forecastle and as in any man-of-war, large or small, the watches changed to a routine as old as the navy itself.

Lieutenant Triscott touched his hat to Paice. 'The watch is aft, sir.'

Bolitho sensed the stiffness in his manner, something unusual for one so young and usually so buoyant.

'Relieve the wheel, if you please.'

The helmsman chanted, 'West Nor'-West, sir! Full an' bye!'

The members of the last dogwatch hurried to the hatchway while the relief took over and began to check running rigging, and the lashings of countless pieces of equipment and the guns which lined either side.

It was not just the first lieutenant who was showing strain, Bolitho thought. It was never easy in a small overcrowded hull at the best of times, and he was well aware of their resentment as day followed day, beating up and down, holding on to visual contact with Wakeful running far down to leeward, and preparing for what most of them thought was another empty rumour.

Bolitho blamed himself for much of it. It was Paice's command, but he watched everything himself, and tried to plan for whatever lay ahead.

Paice had had little to do with Commodore Hoblyn and was unwilling to voice an opinion as to the value of his information.

Perhaps he was still brooding over the murder of his own informant and the calculated arrogance with which Delaval had displayed the man's corpse. Or he might place Hoblyn in the category of senior officers who had been too long ashore to understand the stealth and cunning of this kind of work.

Whenever he was alone in his cot Bolitho was unable to lose himself in his plans. Allday would return to his thoughts again and again, so that he lay tossing and turning until he fell into an exhausted sleep, his anxieties still unresolved.

He noticed that neither Paice nor Triscott ever mentioned Allday in his presence. Either they were afraid to arouse his displeasure, or, in the way of sailors, they were convinced that Allday was already dead.

Paice crossed the narrow poop and touched his hat, while his eyes watched the clear sky of evening.

'Might get some mist later, sir.' His gaze moved to Bolitho's profile, assessing the mood. 'But we can hold contact with Wakeful for a few more hours before we tell her to close with us for the night.'

Bolitho glanced up at the quivering mast where the lookouts squatted on the topsail yard. They had the other cutter in sight, but down here on deck the sea might have been empty.

They had twice met with a revenue lugger. Once she had carried a curt despatch from the commodore, a confirmation that his information was still valid.

The second time the lugger had carried news of a more disturbing nature. It seemed that there had been several daring runs made along the south coast, from as far afield as Penzance in Cornwall and Lyme Bay in Dorset. A revenue cutter had chased one schooner as far as the Isle of Wight before the smuggler had give her the slip in a sudden rain squall.