With All Despatch

Paice had commented, 'Seems that all the excitement is elsewhere, sir.'

A criticism of Bolitho's strategy, perhaps, and the fact that their two cutters were placed as far as possible from any of the landings. The Customs Board had taken them very seriously, and had diverted every available vessel to seize or destroy any boats suspected of dropping smuggled cargoes. The navy had even loaned a thirty-two-gun frigate from Plymouth to offer support if the revenue vessels were outgunned or fought on to a lee shore.

Paice remarked, 'First of May tomorrow, sir.'

Bolitho turned and said shortly, 'I am aware of it. You may assure your people it is also the last day they will be required on this patrol.'

Paice held his gaze and replied stubbornly, 'I implied no lack of faith, sir. But it could mean that the commodore's intelligence, with all respect to him for I believe him to be a brave officer, was falsely offered. Any failure might be seen as something personal.'

Bolitho watched some fish leaping across the crisp wave which surged back from Telemachus's plunging stem.

'You think the commodore would be ordered to withdraw our cutters?'

'It crossed my mind, sir. Otherwise why are we out here, and not even in the Strait of Dover? If it was a ruse, we are too far away to be of any use.'

'Is that the opinion of your whole command?' There was steel in his voice.

Paice shrugged heavily. 'It is my opinion, sir. I do not ask others while I command here.'

'I am glad to know it, Mr Paice.'

It was reaching him now, like the rest of the vessel. No room to escape, no place to hide from others at any time of the day or night. Only the masthead lookouts had any sort of privacy.

After this Bolitho knew he would have to go ashore and set up his own headquarters like Hoblyn. And without even Allday to make the sea's rejection bearable. He pounded his hand against the swivel gun's wet muzzle. Where was he now? How was he faring? Perhaps some press gang had already taken him to a ship at Chatham where his explanation had fallen on deaf ears. What could he have hoped to achieve anyway? The endless, unanswered questions seemed to roar through his head like surf in a cave.

He turned his thoughts to Hoblyn, and Paice moved away to consult with Scrope, the master-at-arms, who had been hovering near the tiller for some time, trying to catch his commander's eye. Paice had probably taken Bolitho's silence as another buff, the slamming of a door which both had imagined was open between them.

What then of Hoblyn? He did not come from a successful family or even from a long line of sea-officers. He was, as far as Bolitho knew, the first to enter the navy which he had served without sparing himself until the terrible day he had been changed into a broken and disfigured relic, as he had described himself. Officially he was under the orders of the flag officer in command at the Nore, but like Bolitho was expected to act almost independently. Part of his work was making a list of vessels which in time of war could be purchased from their merchant service and used for the navy. Vessels under construction in the many yards around Suffolk and Kent would also have to be listed.

There were certainly openings for bribery. Money could soon change hands if a shipowner or builder could persuade a senior officer to pay a high price which could then be shared to mutual profit. Some vessels had changed hands several times in peace and war, and like the ill-fated Bounty had made good profits with each transaction.

If Hoblyn depended solely on a commodore's pay, he was certainly living far above it. The house was spartan Admiralty property, but the food and wine Bolitho had seen would have found favour on the table of the Lord High Admiral himself.

The yards Hoblyn visited would also be well known to the smuggling fraternity. Bolitho turned, and allowed the cold spray to dash across his face to clear his mind, like that first morning after Allday disappeared. His imagination was running wild, with a suspected felon in every shadow.

Hoblyn had tried to tell him in his own way; so had the admiral at Chatham. Let others fret over it, and content yourself with your daily lot until something better offers itself.

He was trying too hard. At the Admiralty he had been told in a roundabout way that he had been chosen because of his gallant record, something which might inspire young men to sign on, to wear the King's coat because of his own service. It was a bitter reward.

The Nore and Medway towns were known for their distrust in the stirring words of a recruiting poster. In other wars the harbours and villages had been stripped of their young men, some who had gone proudly to volunteer, others who had been dragged away from their families by the desperate press gangs. The aftermath had seen too many cripples and too few young men to encourage others to follow their example.

Relic. The word seemed to haunt him.

He watched some seamen clambering up the weather ratlines to whip some loose cordage which had been spotted by the boatswain's eagle eye.

This was their ship, their home. They wanted to be rid of the officer who had once been a frigate captain.

There was a slithering footfall on deck and Matthew Corker moved carefully towards him, his young face screwed up with concentration. He held out a steaming mug. 'Coffee, Cap'n.' He smiled nervously. ''Tis half-empty, I'm afraid, sir.'

Bolitho tried to return the smile. He was doing everything he could to please him, do the things which he had seen Allday do. He had even called him Cap'n, as Allday did and would allow no other. He had overcome his seasickness for most of the time.

'D'you still want to go to sea, Matthew?' The coffee was good, and seemed to give him strength.

'Aye, sir. More'n ever.'

What would his grandfather, Old Matthew, think of that?

A shaft of red sunlight ran down the mainmast, and Bolitho stared at it as the great mainsail rattled and boomed in the wind. A few more hours and all pretence would be over.

He would not be remembered as the frigate captain, but as the man who tried to use a cutter like one. Relic.

'I forgot to tell you something, sir.' The boy watched him anxiously. 'Us being so busy an' worried like.'

Bolitho smiled down at him. Us, he had said. It had not been easy for him either. The crowded hull, and doubtless some language and tales which he would barely understand after his sheltered existence at Falmouth.

'What is that?'

'When I took the horses to the stables at the commodore's house, sir, I had a walk round, looked at the other horses an' that.' Bolitho saw him screwing up his face again, trying to picture it, to forget nothing.

'There was a fine carriage there. My grandfather showed me one once, when I was very young, sir.'

Bolitho warmed to him. 'That must have been a long time ago.'

It was lost on him. 'It's got a special kind of springing, y'see, sir-I've never seen another, until that night.'

Bolitho waited. 'What about it?'

'It's French, sir. A berlin, just like the one which came to Falmouth that time with some nobleman an' his lady.'

Bolitho took his arm and guided him to the bulwark so that their backs were turned to the helmsmen and other watchkeepers.

'Are you quite sure?'

'Oh yes, sir.' He nodded emphatically. 'Somebody had been varnishing the doors like, but I could still see it when I held up the lantern.'

Bolitho tried to remain patient. 'See what?'I forget what they calls them, sir.' He pouted. 'A sort of

flower with a crest.' Bolitho stared at the tilting horizon for several seconds. Then he said quietly, 'Fleur-de- lys?' The boy's apple cheeks split into a grin. 'Aye, that's what my granddad called it!' Bolitho looked at him steadily. Out of the mouths of babes… 'Have you told anyone else?' He smiled gently. 'Or is it just

between us?' 'I said nuthin', sir. Just thought it a bit strange.' The moment, the boy's expression, the description of the fine

carriage seemed to become fixed and motionless as the lookout's