With All Despatch

Paice remarked, 'We could change tack again, sir.'

Bolitho could not see his face but could feel his compassion. He had wanted Delaval more than anyone. Was there nothing they could do?

He replied, 'I think not. Attend the chart yourself and try to estimate our position and drift.' He spoke his anxiety aloud. 'I know it's unlikely but there may be a ship just out there. Otherwise I would suggest more soundings. Anything is better than not knowing.'

Paice thrust his big hands into his pockets. 'I shall put a good man aloft as soon as there is some daylight, sir.' He turned away, the mist swirling between them, the compass light vanishing. 'I will check the chart.'

Lieutenant Triscott shifted uneasily, unwilling to break into Bolitho's thoughts.

Bolitho said, 'What is it, Mr Triscott?' He had not meant to sound so sharp. 'You are all on edge today!'

Triscott said lamely, 'I was wondering, sir. Should we meet with the smuggler, I-I mean-'

'You are asking if we can overpower him without the other cutters?'

The youthful lieutenant hung his head. 'Well, yes, sir.'

Bolitho leaned on the bulwark, the woodwork like ice under his fingers even though his body felt hot and feverish.

'Let us find him, Mr Triscott. Then you may ask me again.'

Chesshyre cupped his hands behind his ears. 'What was that?'

Bolitho stared aloft but soon lost the shrouds and running-rigging in the mist, as if they led up to nowhere.

The boatswain called hoarsely, 'Not riggin', sir!'

Bolitho held up his hand. 'Quiet!' Like Chesshyre he had thought for just a few seconds that the sound had come from above, like a line parting under stress, or being too swollen with damp and carrying away inside a block. But it was not. It had come from outside the hull.

Men stood and swayed between the six-pounders; others clambered into the shrouds as if to listen more easily, all weariness and disappointment forgotten. At least for the while.

Paice appeared on deck, hatless, his thick hair moving in the wet breeze like a hassock of grass.

He said thickly, 'I know Telemachus better'n I know myself, sir. Every sound carries down there to the cabin.' He peered angrily into the darkness. 'That was a musket shot, or I'm a bloody nigger!' He glanced awkwardly at Bolitho. 'Begging your pardon, sir!'

This time they all heard it. Muffled, the sound barely carrying above the shipboard noises within the confines of the deck.

Chesshyre nodded, satisfied. 'Close, sir. Downwind of us. No doubt about it. The wind's poor enough, but it'll deaden the sound.'

Bolitho frowned with concentration. Chesshyre's observations were good ones. Who would be firing into mist without some kind of retaliation?

'Let her fall off a point.' He gripped Paice's sleeve as he made to move aft. 'Pass the word to load both batteries. Gun by gun.'

He let each word hang in the air. 'I don't want anyone making a noise. We've not much time, but we've time enough for caution.'

Triscott and the gunner moved up either side, whispering instructions, gritting their teeth at the slightest creak or thud.

Bolitho walked forward between the busy, groping figures and stood in the eyes of the vessel, his fingers gripped around a stay with the tiny gurgling bow-wave directly beneath him. Once when he looked aft he thought the mist was thicker, for he could barely see the mast. It was like standing on a pinnacle, moving ahead, seeing nothing. One slip, and they would never find him.

There was another muffled shot and he felt a new disappointment. It seemed further away, on a different bearing. Mist distorted most things at sea, even a trained seaman's judgement. Suppose-he thrust it from his mind. There was a ship there.He could sense it. And if that someone kept firing, the sound would lead them to it. He tried to control his sudden anger. If only the mist would depart. He stared up at the sky. It was surely brighter now? It had to be.

Triscott called softly, 'All loaded, sir.'

Bolitho climbed down from the stemhead and used the lieutenant's shoulder to support himself as he groped his way over the inboard end of the bowsprit.

As they walked aft between the guns a voice whispered, 'We gonna fight, Cap'n?'

Another said, 'There'll be prize money if we takes this 'un, eh, Cap'n?'

Someone even reached out to touch his arm as he passed, as if to regain a lost courage, to find comfort there.

Not for the first time was Bolitho grateful they could not see his face. He reached the compass-box and saw one of the helmsmen leaning backwards, his whole weight on the tiller bar, his red-rimmed eyes watching steadily for the tell-tale peak of the mainsail.

Bolitho stared at him, realising that he could see the man's stubbled face when moments earlier he had been hidden completely.

Paice exclaimed, 'I'll go myself, sir!' Then he was away, swarming up the lee ratlines with the ease of a young topman.

Bolitho watched him until his outline merged into the remaining mist. His wife must have been proud of him, just as she had been ashamed of the people who had stood by and allowed a man to be murdered. She had probably been thinking of the tall lieutenant even as the pistol had cut short her life.

Paice slithered down a stay. 'She's a brig, sir!' He did not seem to feel the cuts on his hands from the hasty drop. 'I can just make out her tops'l yards.' He stared at Bolitho without seeing him. 'Must be her! That bastard Delaval!'

Bolitho could feel the power of the man, the reborn force of his hatred.

'Two good hands aloft!'

Then Paice said in a more controlled voice, 'No sign of any other sail, sir.' He clenched his hands and stared with disbelief at the blood on his wrists. 'But by God, I'd walk on water to take that swine!'

There were more shots now and Bolitho offered silent thanks. If Telemachus could close the range and use her smashers it might compensate for the smuggler's heavier armament. The musket fire must be keeping them busy. Too busy even to put a lookout at the masthead.

A mutiny? He saw Delaval's cruel features in his mind. It was unlikely. A cold hand seemed to close around his heart and squeeze the life out of it.

It was Allday.

He was stunned by the flat calmness in his voice. 'Alter course to engage, Mr Chesshyre. Pass out the weapons.'

He looked up at a small handkerchief of pale sky, and thought of the dead girl on Wakeful's deck.

A long, painful journey. When the mist eventually cleared, it would be settled. He loosened the old sword at his hip.

For some it would be over.

Allday flung himself against the curving side and ducked yet again as a musket ball slammed through the partly open hatch.

He heard them calling to one another, the scrape of ramrods as they reloaded. He was sweating despite the chill air of the lazaret, and his whole body was streaming as if he had just dragged himself from the sea.

He gripped the cutlass and squinted up through the trapped powder smoke. It was just a matter of time. He shouted over his shoulder towards the small door, 'Keep sawing, my lass! You'll get through!' Only once had he been able to watch the girl's progress. Even with a sharp blade it was hard work to cut through the stout rudder- lines. He had seen her pale outline rising and falling above the creaking lines, everything else forgotten, unimportant. She probably didn't even know why she was doing it, Allday thought despairingly, just as she understood not a word he said to her.

The hatch moved an inch, and the muzzle of a musket pointed blindly through the opening. Allday reached up and seized it, winced as he felt the heated metal, then tugged it hard, catching the man off balance so that he fell across the hatch, the musket exploding within a foot of Allday's head. Before the smuggler could release his grip