With All Despatch

Bolitho opened the door, his throat retching.

Then he heard the man shriek, 'I'll tell you! I'll tell you! Call him off, for Christ's sake!'

Bolitho crossed the room in two strides. 'I want names. I need to know things which only you will be a part of.'

The man's chest was heaving as if he was drowning. 'I felt his claws in my eyes!'

'I am waiting.' He rested one hand on the blind man's scrawny shoulder and saw him turn his bandaged eyes towards him. In his own way he was telling Bolitho he had already had his revenge. Perhaps he had found no reprieve in it.

Together they listened to the man's desperate flood of information. The hangman's halter, or death in a sea- fight were commonplace. But against the prospect of torture at the hands of someone he had blinded and broken he had had no defences.

Bolitho said, 'You will be kept in the barracks, alone and under guard at all times. If one word you have told me is false, you will have this man as your sole companion.'

He reached out and slammed the smuggler's head back against the chair. 'Look at me, damn you! Do you see any bluff in my eyes?'

There was naked terror in the man's face now and Bolitho could smell the stench of it. Then he said quietly, 'So be warned.'

He walked out of the building and leaned against the wall, staring at the tiny stars.

Craven said, 'Thank God I was in time.'

'Aye.' He watched the blind man touching the muzzle of one of the horses. 'There's much we have to thank him for tonight.' He knew that in a few more minutes he would have vomited. 'Now where is that boy?'

But Young Matthew had fallen asleep across the dragoon's saddle.

Craven said, 'Time to leave. I sent word for assistance before I came. I felt this would be the place. My men have never been allowed to come here.' He glanced at the sky. 'There's a troop of fifty horses or more on the road from Chatham by now, but we'll take no chances.'

He watched his dead dragoon being tied across an empty saddle. 'Is it worth the cost this time?' He removed his hat as the horse was led past.

Bolitho nodded. 'I believe so.' He waited for the major to order a spare mount for him. 'You have done so much.' His tone hardened. 'Now it is up to me.'

The blind man waited beside the horses as Bolitho leaned down and touched his arm. 'Will you come with us?'

The man shook his head. 'I'll be close by if you needs me, Captain.'

As the troop, with the prisoners running beside the horses, moved away from the buildings, the blind man looked into his perpetual darkness and murmured, ''E called me 'is friend.'

Then, like a ragged shadow, he too was swallowed up.

10. The Spark of Courage

THE brig Loyal Chieftain, drifting and rolling under close-reefed topsails, was a death-trap for any landsman or the unwary. In pitch-darkness she lay between two sturdy luggers while men from all three crews hauled on tackles, levered, and stowed an endless collection of cargo. In the brig's forward hold, Allday marvelled at the speed of the transfer from the two luggers in spite of several stupid blunders. The brig carried twice her normal company, but most of them had never worked together before, and he had heard more kicks and obscenities than in any man-of-war.

Each time he went on deck he looked hopefully towards the land. But there was no sign of it, not even a light to reveal how near or far it lay. He knew they were lying-to off the Dutch coast, somewhere near Flushing, but it might easily have been on the other side of the world.

His prowess as a seaman had soon been noted, and Allday had found himself thanking his Maker more than once that Delaval was not aboard. The brig Loyal Chieftain was under the charge of his lieutenant and mate, a tight-lipped man called Isaac Newby who hailed from Dorset. He had been arrested twice for smuggling but each time he had been released for lack or loss of evidence.

He had remarked to Allday, 'I've friends in high places.' Otherwise he had said little, and after they had made contact with the two luggers there had been no time even to eat or drink.

Men fumbled over unfamiliar tackles, or were knocked senseless by a cargo net of brandy casks. In the holds, another team was busily lashing hemp halters and floats to ranks of casks almost before they had been stowed for the passage. A man Allday had befriended, once a foretopman named Tom Lucas, had explained that once off the English coast the casks would be dropped overboard in moored trots, like lobster pots, to be collected later by some of the long, oared smuggling galleys. After that, the cargo would be distributed in caves and small inlets, to be carried to the next 'drops' by packhorse or donkey.

Lucas was a tall, grave-faced sailor, very much the landsman's idea of a typical Jack Tar of Old England. Once, on passage from Kent, he had been stitching a patch on his shirt. Allday, watching, was used to the navy's ways and harsh discipline, but Lucas's bare back was scarred and mangled beyond recognition. He had been serving in a seventy-four at the Nore, a ship plagued by a bad captain, undermanning and appalling food.

He had complained on behalf of his mess to the first lieutenant who to all accounts had been a fair man. He in turn had approached the captain. The result: three dozen lashes at the gangway for mutinous behavior. Lucas had made up his mind to desert but had been surprised by another lieutenant on the night he had chosen. He had struck the officer only with his fist, but he had fallen from the gangway to the gundeck below. Lucas did not know if the lieutenant was dead or alive, and had no intention of returning to find out.

He had stared at Allday grimly. 'A flogging round th' fleet? Well, you knows what that means. I couldn't take it. An' if the lieutenant died, it'll be the yardarm dance anyway!'

But it was obvious to Allday that he had no heart for smuggling. It was an escape, without hope or future, until fate caught up with him. Allday had heard some of the others discussing it in the dogwatches. So far, there had been plenty of backbreaking work, and precious few rewards. It did not balance the scale, but it was some consolation, he thought.

Allday was with Lucas tonight, supervising the hold, and in some cases putting the right lines into unfamiliar hands while the hulls groaned and lurched together in a steep offshore swell.

Allday muttered, 'Black as a boot on deck.'

Lucas paused and sniffed the air, which was heavy with brandy. 'I could use some o' that.' He seemed to realise what Allday had said. 'Yeah. Well, I've done a couple of runs in this brig. The captain always 'as a decoy. So if our-' He seemed to grin in the gloom. 'I mean, if their patrols or revenue cutters appear, it gives 'im time to stand clean away.'

Allday lowered his head to conceal his expression. So that was how it was done. Maybe the smuggling fraternity took turns to play decoy, then shared the spoils afterwards?

Isaac Newby, the mate, peered down past the shaded lanterns. 'Ready below?' He sounded on edge, impatient.

Allday raised his fist. 'Soon enough. One more net to be stowed.'

Newby vanished, probably to examine the other hold.

Lucas said bitterly, 'What next, I wonder? Gold for the captain, an' a gutful of rum for us, eh?'

Allday watched him thoughtfully. How many good seamen had gone rotten because of uncaring officers and ruthless captains? It was a pity there were not many more like Our Dick, he thought.

A voice yelled, 'Stand by to cast off, starboard! Lively, you scum!'

Lucas swore. 'Just like home.'

First one lugger was cast off, then the other, with more curses and squealing blocks, the canvas unmanageable with the brig floundering downwind. Then just as suddenly she had set her topsails and jib and was leaning over to the larboard tack. Hatches were battened down, and the disorder removed.

Lucas stared out at the heaving, black water and gritted his teeth. 'Christ, they've brought women aboard!' He seized the ratlines and hung on them despairingly. 'God, listen to 'em. Don't the buggers