With All Despatch

The man at his side darted him a suspicious glance. 'We waits, see? We'll be part of a crew.' He nodded, reassured by Allday's massive presence. 'We'll all be stinkin' rich!'

Allday took another swallow of ale. Or bloody dead, he thought darkly. Then he looked around the boatshed, probably well guarded too. It was so simple. A boatyard, the last place you would expect to find seamen on the run. But where was it? He had to discover that or all the risks were pointless. The Captain must be told where-

He stiffened as a voice rapped, 'I'll let you know when I'm ready. You just do as you're told, damn your eyes!'

Allday raised his head very slowly and stared between two men who were in deep conversation.

The sunlight was stronger now, and he could see a half-completed hull standing amidst a litter of planks and wood shavings, and beyond that a line of tall trees. He knew the incisive, irritable voice-but how could he?

He heard someone murmuring what sounded like an apology and then part of a canvas awning was pulled aside like a curtain.

Allday held his breath as the dark eyes moved over the listless figures around the tables.

The man said, 'Well, they'd better show more steel than the last lot!'

When Allday dared to look again the awning had fallen back into place. He didn't see me. He almost gasped his relief out loud.

The face had been that of Loyal Chieftain's master, Henry Delaval…

It was all that Bolitho needed to know. But the plan would not settle in his mind.

All he could hear was a scream. All he could see was the smoking pistol in a severed hand.

9. EnemyTerritory

BOLITHO gripped the jolly-boat's gunwale and looked up at the endless canopy of small stars. Only an undulating black shadow which broke the foot of the pattern gave a true hint of land, and he could sense Chesshyre's concentration as he peered above the heads of the oarsmen, or directly abeam.

Once he said, 'Tide's on the ebb, sir.'

Bolitho could hear it rippling and surging around the boat's stem, the deep breathing of the oarsmen as they maintained a regular stroke without an order being passed.

The man in the bows called aft in a loud whisper, 'Ready with the lead, sir!'

Chesshyre came out of his concentrated attention. 'Is it armed, Gulliver?'

'Aye, sir.'

'Start sounding.'

Bolitho heard the splash of the boat's lead and line being dropped over the bows, then the man named Gulliver calling, 'By th' mark three!'

Chesshyre ordered, 'Pass it aft!' He waited for the leg-of-mutton-shaped lead to be handed from thwart to thwart, then he rubbed the tallow in its base between his fingers before holding it up to his nose. He passed the lead back again and muttered, 'Shell and rough sand, sir. We're making headway. So long as we stand away from the sandbars at low water we shall-'

The bowman called, 'By th' mark two!'

Chesshyre swore silently and eased over the tiller bar. 'Like that, sir!'

Bolitho understood. It was common enough in his own West Country for sailors to be able to feel their way by using a lead and line, know the state of the seabed by what they found on the tallow which 'armed' it. In another twenty years he guessed it would be a lost craft of seamanship.

'How far?'

Chesshyre raised himself slightly as something white broke the pitch-darkness. Then he sank down again. It was not a rock or sandbar but a leaping fish.

''Nother half-hour, sir.' He kept his voice low so that the oarsmen would not know the extent of their labour. They were used to it, but the boat was crowded with extra hands and weapons, including a heavy bell-mouthed musketoon already packed with canister and metal fragments, in case they were attacked.

Bolitho listened to the creak of oars-how loud they sounded despite being muffled with greased rags. But he knew from experience that it would be swallowed completely in the other noises of sea and wind.

Suppose it was a wasted journey? Perhaps the man would take fright and hide when he heard the sailors with their weapons?

Chesshyre hissed, 'There, sir! See the old abbey?'

Bolitho strained his eyes and saw a sharper shadow rising amongst the stars.

Chesshyre breathed out. 'Better'n I thought.'

Bolitho thought how like Herrick he sounded. Another memory. A different ship.

'Less than a fathom, sir!'

'Haul in the lead, Gulliver. Stand by, boys!' Chesshyre crouched half-upright, his silhouette like a dark gargoyle. 'Be ready to beach!'

The bowman was busy with his boathook and called, 'Comin' in now, sir!'

'Oars! Lively there!' After that it all happened in seconds.

The extra hands leaping outboard and splashing in the shallows to guide the hull safely on to a small, unusually steep beach. Oars lowered with great care across the thwarts while Christie, one of Paice's boatswain's mates, growled, 'Drop that bloody gun an' I'll see yer backbones!'

In spite of the tension Bolitho heard somebody chuckle at the threat. Then he was out of the boat, the receding water dragging at his shoes, clawing him back as if to claim him.

Chesshyre passed his instructions and two men hurried away in either direction, while others grouped around the beached boat to make certain it could be quickly launched, but was in no danger of drifting away.

Bolitho found a moment to recall the other times when he had seen it done. The sailor's way. Give him a boat or even a raft and he is in good heart. But with only the sea at his back it is a different story.

Chesshyre rejoined him and said, 'There's a small track to the left, sir. That'll be the one.'

Shadows moved in around them and Bolitho said, 'Draw your blades, but do not cock your pistols. One shot by accident, and we'll awaken the dead.'

Somebody murmured, 'An' there are plenty o' them round 'ere, sir!'

Another jester.

Chesshyre waited as Bolitho drew his old sword and balanced it in his fist.

'You must be an old hand at this, sir?'

It was strange coming from him, Bolitho thought, as they were the same age.

'I admit it's more like landing on enemy soil than I expected in England.'

He tested his bearings and then walked carefully towards the track. It was little more than a fox's path, but the sandy soil made it easy to follow.

He half-listened to the sea's lazy grumbling as it laid bare rocks in the falling tide, and pictured Paice somewhere out in the darkness, unable to help, unwilling to be left out.

The sea sounds suddenly faded and Bolitho felt the warm air of the countryside fanning his face. The smells of the land. The old abbey lay to the left although he could see less of it now than from the boat.

Chesshyre touched his arm and stopped in his tracks. 'Still!'

Bolitho froze and heard someone gasp, feet kicking in the long grass. Then two figures loomed from the darkness, one with his hands above his head, the other, a small, darting man with a drawn cutlass, pushing him none too gently ahead of him.

Bolitho said, 'I have good ears, but-'

Chesshyre showed his teeth. 'Inskip was a poacher afore he saw the light, sir. Got ears in his arse, beggin' your pardon.'

The man with raised hands saw Bolitho, and perhaps recognised some sort of authority when seconds earlier he had been expecting his life to be cut short.

He exclaimed, 'I was sent to meet you, sir!'