With All Despatch

authority, was marched past by two seamen. 'That is good. Hold them apart. There is much we don't yet know.'

Paice said simply, 'My bosun spoke for us all, sir. We fought badly because we had no heart for it. But you are a man of war. We shall know better in future.'

Bolitho walked to the side, his whole being revolted against the sights and stench of death.

Hoblyn should be pleased; Their Lordships of Admiralty also. A fine schooner which after repair could either go to the prize court or more likely be taken into the navy. An illegal cargo, and desperate men who would soon hang in chains as a warning to others.

His glance moved over some of the huddled prisoners. A few of them might be pressed into service like their ship, provided they were found guiltless of murder.

It should have been enough. He felt a seaman offer his hard hand to assist him over the bulwark to Telemachus's deck.

But if victory there was, it seemed an empty one.

6. The Brotherhood

JOHN ALLDAY sat on a stone bench with his back resting against the wall. There was only one window, small, and too high to see out of this damp, cell-like room, but he had kept his eyes open since he had surrendered to the press gang and knew that the lockup house was somewhere on the road to Sheerness. They had passed a small cavalry barracks, no more than an outpost for a handful of dragoons, but enough, it seemed, to allow the press gangs to come and go without fear of being attacked by those who might try to release their captives.

Allday guessed it was about noon and tried to disperse his own sense of uneasiness, the conviction that he had acted rashly and might find himself in worse trouble.

His companions, just five of them, were a poor collection, he thought. Deserters probably, but no loss to any ship of war.

Feet clattered on cobbles and somewhere a man laughed. There was an inn just a few yards from the lockup house, and he had seen two fine-looking girls watching from its porch as they had hurried past. He had thought of the inn he visited in Falmouth. He felt suddenly alone, and lonely.

He recalled too the time he had been taken by Bolitho's press gang in Cornwall. He had tried to lie his way out of it, but a gunner had seen the tattoo on his arm, the crossed cannon and flags which he had gathered along the way when he had served in the old seventy-four, Resolution. If what he had suspected was a fact, this same tattoo would help rather than hinder his hazy plan. If not, he might find himself aboard a seagoing ship, outward bound to some hell on the other side of the world before he could make himself believed. Even then, a captain short of trained men would scarcely be willing to listen.

What would Bolitho do without him? He screwed up his brows in a deep frown. He had watched Bolitho's despair as he had met one barrier after another, and then the affair with the Loyal Chieftain had been more than enough.

He glanced at the door as a key grated in it and the same gunner's mate with the foul breath peered in at them.

He gestured with his key. 'Outside and get cleaned up. Then there's some bread and cheese, ale too if you behaves yerselves!' He looked directly at Allday. 'You stay 'ere. We need some more words about you.'

Allday said nothing as the others hurried away, already lost. Was the gunner's mate merely dragging it out for no purpose, or was there something behind his remarks?

But it was another who finally entered the dank room. Allday recognised him as a member of the press gang, the one who had spoken to him on the way here.

'Well, Spencer?' The man leaned against the wall and regarded him bleakly. 'Got yerself in a right pot o' stew, eh?'

Allday shrugged. 'I ran once. I'll do it again.'

'Mebbe, mebbe.' He cocked his head to listen to some horses cantering along the roadway.

'With them bloody dragoons on yer tail you'd not get far, matey.

'Then there's no way.' Allday lowered his head, to think, to hide his eyes. It was something like a wild animal's sixth sense, an instinct which he had always possessed, and which had saved his skin too many times to remember. Something Bolitho admired and respected, and had told him as much.

The man said, 'Sailmaker, y'say?'

Allday nodded. He had no fears there. He had learned to stitch and use a sailmaker's palm before he was eighteen. There were not many tasks aboard ship he could not manage.

'Does it matter now?'

'Look, matey, don't take that tone with me-'

Allday sighed. 'You know how it is.'

The other hid his relief. For a moment he had felt something akin to fear when the big man had stirred from smouldering anger.

'Right then. There are ways. An' there's those who needs the likes o' you.' He gestured contemptuously at the closed door. 'Not like them bilge rats. They'd rob an' cheat anyone, gallows meat th' lot of 'em!'

He moved closer to Allday and added quietly, 'We're movin' tonight. So wot's it to be? Another poxy ship o' th' line, or a berth in somethin' a bit more-' he rubbed a finger and thumb together '- rewardin', like?'

Allday felt cold sweat on his chest. 'Can it be done?'

'No questions. But yes, it can, an' it is!' He grinned. 'You be ready, see?'

Allday leaned over to pick up his old jacket and was careful that the other man saw his tattoo. 'I can't stomach being locked up.'

'Right you are. But make no mistake. If you betray those who might be willin' to 'elp you, you'll pray for death on a halter. I've seen things-' He straightened up. 'Just believe me, see?'

Allday thought of the corpse on the Loyal Chieftain's deck, the rumours he had heard from some of the Telemachus's hands that the murdered man's family had vanished too. It did not need a magician to discover why.

The door opened and the gunner's mate came in. 'You can get yer grub now, er-Spencer.'

Allday watched for a hint of understanding between them, but there was none. In this game nobody trusted anyone. Perhaps the gunner's mate was controlling this strange business?

Any deserter would probably take an offer of help, even if it landed him in the midst of a gang of smugglers. Being retaken by a press gang at best meant the same life from which he had tried to escape. At worst it could mean real hardship, plus a savage flogging as a warning to others.

The gunner's mate walked beside him to a long, scrubbed table where the others were already eating bread and cheese as if it was their last meal on earth.

He said, 'Stick to the sea, Spencer. Don't get like them scum.'

Allday asked casually, 'What did you want to talk about?'

The gunner's mate picked up a tankard and waited for a seaman to fill it with ale for him.

'Don't matter now. Your ship, the London, 'as sailed for the Caribbean. You'll just 'ave to take what you're given.'

When Allday had been pressed and taken to Bolitho's frigate Phalarope he had seen nothing like this. From a quiet Cornish road to the messdeck of a man-of-war. He smiled grimly. Him and Ferguson who had later lost an arm at the Saintes. Now they would serve no other. It was more like love than duty.

He glanced around the yard. Small groups of men were being mustered and checked by the lieutenant and some other members of a press gang.

His heart sank. Not a good seaman amongst them… he almost laughed. How could he care about the needs of the fleet when at any moment his own life might be in danger?

But there had to be a way of doing it. If not the gunner's mate, then who? No ordinary seaman, press gang or not, could manage it alone. It would be more than his life was worth. A brief court