With All Despatch

Allday waited. There was defiance in the man's tone, anxiety too.

The voice asked, 'And Spencer, if that is your name, why are you here?'

'I'll repay my escape by working, sir.'

'Mr Fenwick, how have you left matters at the inn?'

Fenwick seemed completely stunned by the change of manner. The unseen questioner was smooth, even jocular again.

'I-I thought we could claim Spencer had escaped-'

The seaman sneered, 'See? Wot did I tell yer?'

'I have a better idea.' There was a creak, as if the man was leaning out of a window of his carriage. 'To have this sailmaker make good his escape, we need a victim, eh? A poor dead sailorman murdered as he tried to prevent it!'

The two shadows bounded forward and Allday heard the seaman gasp in pain as he was beaten to his knees.

'Here!' Allday felt the cold metal of a cutlass grip pushed into his fingers.

The voice said calmly, 'Prove your loyalty to the Brotherhood -Spencer. That will bind both you and our gallant midshipman closer than ever to our affairs.'

Allday stared at the kneeling figure while the others stood clear. The cutlass felt like lead, and his mouth was as dry as a kiln.

The voice persisted, 'Kill him!'

Allday stepped forward but at that moment the seaman threw himself on one side, scrambling for the pistol which he had dropped.

The explosion and the flash which lit up the motionless figures by the burned tree was like a nightmare. It all happened in seconds and Allday gritted his teeth as he saw the pistol fall once more, still gripped by the sailor's hand, which had been severed at the wrist by one blow from a cutlass. Even as the man rolled over and gave one last shrill scream the same attacker raised his blade and drove it down with such force Allday heard the point grate into the ground through the man's body.

The sudden silence was broken only by the sudden muffled stamp of nervous horses, the far-off barking of a farm dog, then the sound of wheels on some kind of cart-track.

The figure by the corpse bent down and picked up the fallen cutlass, but left the pistol still gripped by its severed hand.

He stared at Allday, his expression invisible. 'Your turn'll come.' To Fenwick he added, 'Here, take this purse for your gaming table.' There was utter contempt in his voice. 'You can raise the alarm in an hour, though, God knows, some picket might have heard the fool shoot!'

Fenwick was vomiting against a tree, and the man said softly, 'I'd finish him too, but-' He did not go on. Instead he watched as Fenwick picked up his weapons and the small bag of coins before adding, 'We had best be moving.' He could have been grinning.

'You can keep the cutlass. You'll need it.'

Allday looked back at the untidy corpse and wondered if Fenwick would be the next victim.

He followed the other man through the trees, the shadowy figures of his companions already on the move.

Allday had had cause to kill several men in his life. In anger, and in the fury of battle, sometimes in the defence of others. So why was this any different? Would he have killed the seaman to give his story more value, if the other man had not struck first?

Allday did not know, and decided it was better to keep it that way until the danger was past.

How quickly fate could move. Soon the midshipman would raise the alarm, and later they would find the corpse. A common seaman who had been murdered by an escaping prisoner named Spencer.

Allday thought of the unseen man in the carriage. If he could only manage to learn his name-he shook himself like a dog. One thing at a time. At present he was still alive, but the knowledge he had gained so far was enough to change that just as quickly.

7. In Good Company

LIEUTENANT Charles Queely clattered down Wakeful's companion ladder and after a small hesitation thrust open the cabin door. Bolitho was sitting at the table, chin in hand while he finished reading the log.

He glanced up. 'Good morning, Mr Queely.'

Queely contained his surprise. He had expected to find Bolitho asleep, not still going through his records and examining the chart.

He said, 'I-I beg your pardon, sir. I was about to inform you that dawn is almost upon us.' He glanced quickly around the cabin as if expecting to see something different.

Bolitho stretched. 'I would relish some coffee if you could provide it.' He knew what Queely was thinking, and found himself wondering why he did not feel tired. He had allowed himself no rest, and when Telemachus had sighted the other cutter he had arranged to be pulled across to Queely's command without delay or explanation.

Queely was usually well able to conceal his innermost feelings, and, despite his youth, had already slipped easily into a commander's role. But Bolitho's arrival, and the sight of Telemachus hove-to, displaying her powderstains, and areas of pale new timber where her carpenter and his crew had begun their repairs, had taken him all aback.

Queely had asked, 'Will they return to the yard, sir?'

'I think not. I have told Lieutenant Paice that working together at sea to complete their overhaul, even though they are short-handed because of those killed and wounded, will do far more good. It will draw them into a team again, keep them too busy to grieve or to fall into bad ways.'

Queely had been shocked to see the damage and had said immediately, 'I knew nothing about it, sir. I carried out my patrol as you ordered, and after losing signalling contact with you I decided to remain on station.'

That had been yesterday. Now, after a full night's sailing, they had continued to the south-east in spite of tacking again and again into the wind.

It was possible that Queely had been totally ignorant of the fierce close-action with the Four Brothers. With his studious features, hooked nose and deepset eyes he seemed to be a man who was well able to make up his own mind and act upon it. I decided to remain on station. What Bolitho might have said under the same circumstances.

As Queely pushed through the door to send for some coffee Bolitho looked around the cabin once more. Telemachus and this vessel had been built in the same yard with just a couple of years between them. How could they be so different? Even the cabin gave an air of intentional disorder, or temporary occupancy. As if Queely used it just for the purpose Wakeful was designed for, not as something to be coddled. Uniforms swayed from various hooks, while sidearms and swords were all bundled together in a half-open chest. Only Queely's sextant lay in pride of place, carefully wedged in a corner of his cot where it would be safe even in the wildest weather.

He thought of Paice's unspoken protest at being ordered immediately to sea after Telemachus's first battle. Was it really the true reason he had sent him, the same explanation he had made to Queely? Or was it to protect Allday from sailors' casual gossip once they were able to get ashore?

If Allday was still alive… He ran his fingers through his hair with quiet desperation. He was alive. He must believe it.

The door opened and Young Matthew entered with a pot of coffee. His round face had lost its colour again, and his skin looked damp and pallid. He had been fighting his own battle with the motion. That was another difference between the two cutters. Paice sailed his Telemachus, Queely seemed to drive his command with the same lack of patience he exhibited in his daily routine.

Bolitho thought of Queely's second-in-command, a reedy lieutenant named Kempthorne. He came of a long line of sea-officers, and his own father had been a rear-admiral. Bolitho suspected that it was tradition rather than