With All Despatch

Then he looked at her bare, outthrust foot. 'What are those marks?'

Queely glanced at him. He had been looking at the sails, and the men at the tiller, to make certain there was no chase, no further threat from the battery.

'Sir?'

Bolitho made himself hold her ankle. It was like ice. There were scars on the skin, raw, like the marks of irons.

Queely explained. 'The wooden sabots, sir. They did it. Look at the other one.'

'Yes. I see.' Bolitho wanted to cover her. To hide her pain from their eyes.

Then he stared at the lieutenant across her body. 'I should have seen it.' He ignored Queely's surprise and took her bare foot in his fingers. It was all he could do not to cry out as the memory probed through him.

Her foot was soft, and not from the sea. Too soft for a rough wooden shoe, and one more used to happier times, to dancing and laughter. He lowered his face until it was almost touching hers. 'Come here.' He felt Queely kneel beside him. 'Can you smell it?'

Queely hesitated. 'Aye, sir. Very faint.' He pushed the wet hair from the girl's stricken face so that it still seemed it might awaken her, open her eyes to his touch. He said, 'Perfume, sir.'

Bolitho examined her small hands, stiffening now in spite of the warm sunlight. Dirty, but smooth and well kept.

Queely said quietly, 'No fishergirl, this one, sir.'

Bolitho stood up and held on to a backstay for support. He looked abeam but the luggers were partly hidden in low haze, the land already meaningless.

He knew Queely was searching her body but could not watch.

Queely stood up and held out a lace-edged handkerchief. It had the initial H in one corner. Soaked in seawater but quite clean. A last link perhaps with a life which had rejected her.

Queely said heavily, 'That's all, sir.'

Bolitho took it. 'One day perhaps-' He could not go on.

Later at the lee bulwark the small, canvas-sewn body was raised on a grating.

Lieutenant Kempthorne had asked if a flag was required but Bolitho had replied, 'She has been destroyed by her own, and ours cannot help her now.'

With heads uncovered the seamen stood about and watched in silence.

Bolitho steeled himself, then turned as Queely, his hat crushed beneath one arm, said something aloud in French.

Then he repeated to his men around him, 'We cannot kneel beside her grave, but we commend her to the sea from which she came.'

There was a brief slithering sound, a splash alongside, and in twos and threes the men broke up and returned to their duties.

Queely replaced his hat and said, 'Well, sir?'

'How strange it should be a young, unknown French girl who has become our first ally in this wretched business.'

Watched by Queely he took out the handkerchief and shook it in the warm breeze.

'She will be remembered.' He stared astern at Wakeful's frothing progress. 'She is safe now, and in good company.'

8. By Sea And By Stealth

THE hoofbeats of the three horses became more muffled as they turned off the narrow road and on to rough moorland, the grass still glittering from overnight rain.

Bolitho kneed his horse forward and watched the sunlight uncovering the trees and some scattered farm buildings. Opening up the land, like the sunshine of that morning when they had sighted the pursued fishing boat.

Wakeful had anchored before dawn and within the hour Bolitho had been mounted, and with Young Matthew following close behind had set off to this place.

In the early sunlight he saw the trooper of dragoons pausing to peer back at them, his scarlet coat and white crossbelt very bright against the dripping trees.

The man had been waiting to escort him as soon as the cutter was anchored. The commodore's aide had sent the message, although he had been unable to offer any more intelligence regarding the reason. Hoblyn it appeared was away again visiting some boatyard.

He heard the boy yawning hugely behind him. Half-asleep still, dazed by the events he had shared and witnessed, and obviously grateful to feel the land under him again.

The trooper called, 'Not much further, sir.' He eyed Bolitho curiously. 'Am I ridin' too fast for 'e, sir?'

'I'm a Cornishman.' Bolitho's voice was unusually curt. 'I am used to riding.'

The trooper hid a grin. 'Oi be from Portsmouth, sir, but Oi knows nowt about ships!' He spurred his horse into a trot.

Bolitho noticed that the trooper had a short carbine, favoured by the dragoons, already drawn and resting across his saddle. Like a skirmisher in enemy territory. In such peaceful countryside it seemed unreal.

Again and again Bolitho's mind returned to the dead girl. She was his only link, and yet he still did not know how to use it. Instead he saw her face, tight with shock when she must have realised she had only seconds to live. He imagined he could still feel the icy skin of her ankle in his grip. Viola.

Whom could he trust? Who would believe him, or even want to believe him?

''Ere we be, sir.'

Bolitho gave a start and realised that they were cantering into a widespread copse of tall trees. There was a clearing now, almost circular, with a burned-out tree in the centre. The perfect place for a duel, he thought grimly.

Amongst the trees he saw several scarlet-clad figures, the occasional nervous swish of a horse's tail. There was something sinister about the clearing. A place of danger.

An officer was sitting on a small stool, drinking from a silver tankard while his orderly stood attentively at his elbow. He saw Bolitho and handed his man the tankard before rising to his feet.

His uniform was beautifully cut, but could not disguise his slight belly. A man who lived well, despite his calling, Bolitho thought.

The officer raised his hat and smiled. 'Major Philip Craven, 30th Regiment of Dragoons.' He gave a slight bow. 'Would you care for a taste?'

He had an easy, pleasant manner, and was younger than Bolitho had first imagined.

Bolitho noticed that, despite his relaxed air, his eyes were rarely still. On his men, the horses, or the track which they had just left.

Bolitho replied, 'I should enjoy that.' It surprised him, for he was usually ill-at-ease with the army, foot or cavalry.

As the orderly busied himself with a basket on the ground, Bolitho noticed a naval lieutenant and a tall, pale- faced midshipman for the first time.

The major gestured. 'Two officers of the press.'

Bolitho took the proffered tankard and was glad he could keep it so steady.

More trouble. Was it Allday?

He asked, 'Why was I informed?'The major shrugged. 'I've heard of your-er, exploits of course.

When the commodore is away, I try to keep in contact with the navy and the civil authority.' He frowned suddenly. 'God, you'd think we were an army of occupation!' He beckoned for the orderly to refill his tankard and added, 'One of the sailors was murdered here, trying to retake a man who had escaped from their custody.'

Bolitho sipped the wine. It was, he suspected, very expensive claret.

The major explained, 'The midshipman was here too, but they were rushed by some mob or other, and his sailor was cut down.' He walked slowly to a patch of trampled grass. 'Found his severed hand just here, the pistol