With All Despatch

breathing to steady.

Then, very slowly he peered around the edge of the window. The glass was stained and covered with cobwebs, but he saw all he needed. It was a shipwright's shed, with benches and fresh planks piled on racks. Around a table he saw about six figures. They were drinking rum, passing the jar round, while another was cutting hunks of bread from a basket. Only one man was armed and stood apart from the rest. He wore a blue coat with a red neckerchief and an old cocked hat tilted rakishly on thick, greasy hair.

Bolitho glanced behind him. There was no other sound. So these men were also deserters, awaiting the next boat which could use them? There was an air of finality about the place, as if once they had gone, it would be abandoned, or returned to its proper use. Then there would be no evidence. Nothing. And Allday would be just as lost as ever.

Bolitho licked his lips. Six to one, but only the armed man, who was obviously one of the smugglers, presented real danger.

He found that his heart was beating wildly, and he had to lick his lips repeatedly to stop them being glued with dryness.

They were all together, but any second one might leave the building and raise the alarm. They would soon arm themselves then.

Bolitho moved carefully along the wall until he reached the door. He could see from the lantern's flickering light that there were no bolts or chains.

It seemed to taunt him. Have you been stripped of your courage too? He was committed, and knew that he had had no choice from the beginning.

Bolitho eased the pistol from his belt and tried to remember if he had kept it clear of the water when he had waded ashore. He winced as he cocked it. Then he stood clear of the door, held his sword angled across his body, and kicked it with all his strength.

'In the King's name!' He was shocked at the loudness of his voice in the confined space. 'You are all under arrest!'

Someone yelled, 'God damn, it's the press!'

Another gasped, 'They told us we was safe!'

The armed man dropped his hand to the hanger at his belt and rasped, 'He's not the press! I knows who he is, damn his eyes!'

Bolitho raised his pistol. 'Don't move!' The man's face was twisted with anger and hatred and seemed to swim over the end of the muzzle like a mask.

Then he seized his hanger and pulled it from its scabbard.

Bolitho squeezed the trigger and heard the impotent click of a misfire. The man crouched towards him, his hanger making small circles in the lanternlight, while the others stared in disbelief, probably too drunk to register what had happened.

The man snarled, 'Get out! Fetch weapons! He's alone-can't you see that, you gutless swabs?'

He lunged forward but held his legs as before. Sparks spat from the two blades, and Bolitho watched the man's eyes, knowing that whatever happened now, he could not win. They would set upon him like a pack, more afraid of the gallows than of killing a King's officer.

He could hear the rest of them clambering through a window, one already running through the darkness yelling like a madman. They would soon return.

He said, 'You have no chance!'

The man spat at his feet. 'We'll see!' Then he laughed. 'Blade to blade, Captain bloody Bolitho!'

He slashed forward, and Bolitho parried it aside, locking hilts for a second so that he could thrust the man away, and hold him silhouetted against the lantern.

The man yelled, 'Kill him, you bilgerats!' He had sensed that despite his strength he was no match for Bolitho's swordsmanship. He vaulted over a bench, then faced Bolitho across it, his hanger held out like a rapier.

Not long now. Bolitho heard running feet, a man falling over some obstruction in the darkness, the rum making him laugh insanely. Then there was a single shot, and for an instant Bolitho thought one of them had fired at him through the window. He heard somebody sobbing, the sudden trampling thud of horses, and Major Craven's voice rising above all of it.

The door burst open and the place was filled suddenly with scarlet coats and gleaming sabres.

Craven turned as a sergeant shouted, 'One o' the buggers 'as done for Trooper Green, sir.' Craven looked at Bolitho and gave the merest nod, then faced the armed smuggler. 'You heard that? My men will be happy to end your miserable life here and now, unless-'

The man tossed his hanger on the bench. 'I know nothing.'

Bolitho took Craven's arm. 'How did you know?'

Craven walked to the door. 'Look yonder, Captain.'

A dragoon was helping a small figure to climb down from his saddle. The boy walked slowly and hesitantly into the lantern

light, his eyes running with tears, Fear, relief, it was all there.

Craven said quietly, 'Lift your foot, boy.'

Aided by the dragoon Young Matthew raised one bare foot. It was ripped and bloody, almost to the bone.

Craven explained, 'One of my pickets found him running along the road.' He looked at his men outside as they rounded up the deserters and bound their wrists behind them. One trooper lay dead on the ground.

Bolitho seized the boy and held him against his coat, trying to ease away the shock and the pain.

'There's no harm done, Matthew, thanks to you. That was a brave thing you did.'

Craven nodded. 'Damned dangerous, too.'

Bolitho looked at the dragoon who had carried the boy from his horse. 'Care for him. I have something to do.' He confronted the man who minutes earlier had been urging his companions to arm themselves and cut him down, and said, 'If you tell me what I want to know, I might be prepared to put in a word. I can promise nothing.'

The man threw back his head and roared with laughter. 'D'you think I fear the hangman?'

Craven murmured, 'He is far more frightened of his masters, the Brotherhood.'

He offered no resistance as the sergeant tied his hands behind him and sneered, 'They'll have you yet- Captain!'

A dragoon shouted, ''Ere-where d'you think you're goin', mate?'

Then, like the others, he fell silent as the ragged figure with the broken branch held out before him moved slowly into the circle of light.

Bolitho sensed it immediately, like a shaft of lightning between them.

The blind man whispered, 'It's 'im, Captain!' There was a sob in his voice now. 'I 'ad to come, then I 'eard 'is laugh. 'E's the one wot did this to me!'

The man shouted, 'You bloody liar! Who'd take the word of a blind lunatic?'

Bolitho had an overwhelming desire to strike him. To kill him, tied and helpless though he was.

'I would, whoever you are.' How calm his voice sounded it was like hearing a complete stranger. 'When all this was begun, this man-who has become my friend, let it be known-asked no reward.'

There was absolute silence now and Bolitho saw the bound man staring at him uncertainly, the bluff gone out of him.

'He asked only for revenge, and I think I know what he meant.' Bolitho glanced at the others. 'Major Craven, if you will take your men outside?' The dragoons filed out, some shocked at what they had witnessed, others with the light of cruel revenge in their faces. They had just lost one of their own. What did outsiders understand of loyalty, and their sacrifice?

Bolitho watched as the realisation crossed the man's cruel features. Spittle ran from a corner of his mouth. 'You lie! You wouldn't dare!' When Bolitho walked towards the door he screamed, 'Don't leave me!'

The blind man felt his way around the seated prisoner, and then touched his eyes from behind. Very gently, as he crooned, 'Like trapped butterflies.'

The man screamed and struggled. 'Christ, my eyes!'