With All Despatch

master as if he had caused his displeasure. 'We shall steer south-west.'

The master's face was blank. 'Aye, aye, sir.'

Bolitho suspected he was used to Queely's moods.

'Ready ho!'

'Put the helm down!'

Bolitho gripped the companion head for support again as with her headsail sheets set free and the sails flapping in wild confusion, Wakeful butted around and across the wind's eye.

'Mains'l haul!'

Bolitho dashed the spray from his face and hair and could have sworn that the long fidded topmast was curving and bending like a coachman's whip.

Queely's impatience matched Paice's pride.

'Meet her! Steady as you go-steady, man!'

Heeling over on the opposite tack Wakeful responded again to wind and rudder, but with the lively north-easterly hardening her sails like armour plating, she held firmly to her course, the

motion less violent.

'Sou'-west, sir! Steady she goes!'

Bolitho walked stiffly to the larboard side and watched the first thin sunlight touch the land. It looked much nearer, but it was a trick of light and colour which often happened in coastal waters.

Bolitho snatched up a telescope as the lookout yelled, 'Deck there! Ships on th' larboard bow!' He sounded breathless, as if the violence of the manoeuvre had almost hurled him down.

It was still too far. Bolitho watched the waves looming and fading as he trained the glass carefully on the bearing.

Smaller vessels. Perhaps three of them. One of them firing, the sound reaching him now through the planks under his feet. Like driftwood striking into the hull.

'Deck there! 'Tis a chase, sir! Steering sou'-west!'

Bolitho tried to picture it. A chase, using the same wind which made Wakeful's canvas boom like thunder. What ships must they be?

'Let her fall off two points, Mr Queely. Steer south-southwest.'

He forced himself to ignore Queely's stifled resentment. 'Make as much sail as you can safely carry. I want to catch them!'

Queely opened and closed his mouth. Then he beckoned to Kempthorne. 'Loose the tops'l!'

Bolitho found time to think of his dead brother as under extra canvas the cutter seemed to throw herself across the short crests. No wonder he had loved his Avenger. The picture faded. If he ever really cared for anything.

He looked up and saw the sunshine touching each sail in turn, the canvas already steaming in the first hint of warmth.

The guns were still firing, but when he raised the glass again he saw that the angle of the sails had increased, as if the furthest craft was being headed off and driven towards the land when before she had been making for open water. Like a sheep being tired and then harried by the shepherd's dog until all thought of escape was gone.

A voice said, 'We're overhaulin' the buggers 'and over fist, Ted!'

Another exclaimed, 'They ain't even seen us yet!'

The coastline was taking on personality, while here and there Bolitho saw sunlight reflecting from windows, changing a head-land from purple to lush green.

'Deck there!' Everyone had forgotten about the masthead. 'Two French luggers, sir! Not certain about t'other, but she's in bad trouble! Canvas shot through, a topmast gone!'

Bolitho walked this way and that. Two luggers, perhaps after a smuggler. 'We shall discover nothing if the French take her.' He saw the others staring at him. 'More sail, Mr Queely. I wish to stand between them!'

Queely nodded to the master then said in a fierce whisper, 'We shall be inside their waters in half-an-hour, sir! They'll not take kindly to it.' He offered his last card. 'Neither will the admiral, I'm thinking.'

Bolitho watched more men swarming aloft, their horny feet moving like paddles on the jerking ratlines.

'The admiral, fortunately, is in Chatham, Mr Queely.' He glanced round as more shot hammered over the crests. 'Whereas we are here.'

'It is my right to lodge a protest, sir.'

'It is also your duty to fight your ship if need be, to the best of your ability.' He walked away, angry with Queely for making him use authority when he only wanted co-operation.

'One of 'em's seen us, sir!'

The other lugger had luffed and was spilling canvas as she thrust over into the wind to meet Wakeful's intrusion.

Queely watched the lugger, his eyes cold. 'Clear for action.'

Kempthorne strode aft from the mainmast, his gaze questioning.

'Sir?'

'Then stand by to shorten sail!'

Bolitho looked across the deck, feeling his displeasure, his resistance.

'Have your gunner lay aft, Mr Queely. I wish to speak with him.'

Something touched his coat and he turned to see the boy staring up at him, the old sword clutched in both hands.

Bolitho gripped his shoulder. 'That was well done, Matthew.'

The boy blinked and stared at the frantic preparations to cast off the gun's breechings without hampering the men at halliards and braces. There was no longer awe there, nor excitement. His lips quivered, and Bolitho knew that fear, and the reason for it, had replaced them. But his voice was steady enough, and only Bolitho knew what the effort was costing him. As he helped Bolitho clip the sword into place he said, 'It's what he would have done, sir, what he would have expected of me.'

Once again, Allday's shadow was nearby.

Luke Teach, Wakeful's gunner, waited patiently while Bolitho described what he wanted. He was a thickset, fierce-looking man who hailed from the port of Bristol, and was said to boast that he was a true descendant of Edward Teach, or Blackbeard as he was known. He had also come from Bristol, a privateer who soon found piracy on the high seas was far more rewarding.

Bolitho could well believe it, for the gunner had a jowl so dark that had the King's Regulations allowed otherwise he might have grown a beard to rival that of his murderous ancestor.

Bolitho said, 'I intend to drive between the luggers and the other vessel. The French may not contest it, but if they do-'

Teach touched his tarred hat. 'Leave 'un to me, zur.' He bustled away, calling names, picking men from various stations because he knew their ability better than anyone.

Queely said, 'That ship is in a poor way, sir.' But his eyes were on the preparations around the carronades. 'I fear we may be too late.'

Bolitho took the telescope and examined the other vessels.

The luggers would be wary of the English cutter, for although they served their navy and were well-handled, probably by local men, like Wakeful's, they would be unused to open combat.

He watched the nearest one tacking steeply under a full press of tan-colored sails and saw the new French ensign flapping from her gaff, the little-known Tricolour set in one corner of the original white flag.

He glanced up and saw that Queely had already made his own gesture, although he doubted if the French would need to see an English flag to know her nationality and purpose.

The craft being chased had lost several spars and was barely making headway, some rigging and an upended boat trailing alongside to further pull her round. A fishing vessel of some kind, Bolitho thought, their own or English did not matter. It seemed very likely she might be employed in the Trade-few revenue officers dared to venture into the fishermen's tight community.

'God, she's taking it cruelly.' Kempthorne was standing on the mainhatch to get a better look as more shots pursued the stricken vessel, some striking the hull, others tearing through rigging and puncturing her sails.