With All Despatch

Ferguson said, 'One of the mounted men, sir. He looks well dressed.'

Bolitho had already noted that. A heavy, bearded man with a fine hat and a cloak lined with scarlet. If anything he was inciting the mob, his words lost in distance.

Allday said, 'Maybe they've caught a pair of thieves, Cap'n.' He glanced back up the hill as if still expecting to see the gibbet with its ragged skeleton.

Bolitho snapped, 'Drive on!' He looked at Allday and saw his anxiety. 'Those two thieves are wearing sea- officers' breeches.'

Ferguson protested, 'But, sir! That may be nothing to do with it!'

Bolitho looked steadily at Old Matthew. 'When you are ready.'

The carriage rolled on to the road again. Even above the rattle of wheels and hooves Bolitho could hear the rising din of angry voices as they bore down on the procession.

'Whoa, there!' Old Matthew's voice was harsh with anger. 'Yew stand away from those horses, yew buggers!' Then the carriage halted.

Bolitho stepped down on to the road, aware of the sudden silence, the staring faces, many flushed with drink, others gaping as if he had just appeared from hell.

He could feel Ferguson watching from the carriage window, his pistol just out of sight. Allday too, measuring the distance to jump to the ground. By then it might be too late.

It was Young Matthew who unknowingly broke the spell. He ran from behind the carriage to help quieten the lead horses. It was as if the mob did not exist.

The mounted man with the beard spurred his horse through the watching figures.

'What have we here, sir? A King's officer, no less.' He made a mock bow in the saddle. 'On his way to take charge of a fine ship at Chatham, no doubt! To protect us all from the Frenchies, eh, lads!'

There was some derisive laughter, but many of them were studying Bolitho more closely, as if they expected a trap of some kind.

Bolitho said shortly, 'And what are you about, sir?' His hand dropped to his sword. 'I'll not be asking twice!'

The bearded man stared past him. Looking for an escort? It was hard to tell.

But he grinned confidently as he replied, 'I am the deputy sheriff of Rochester, Captain.'

'That is something. Now we know each other's rank.'

At that moment one of the captives threw himself to his knees and almost choked as someone dragged hard on the halter.

Bolitho recognised just one word. Lieutenant. It was enough.

'I would suggest you release these men at once. They are both sea-officers in the King's service.'

He saw the significance of his words sink in, the way that some of the mob were attempting to drift away and dissociate themselves from the incident.

But the bearded man yelled, 'And be damned to them and their bloody press gang, I say!' He stared around and showed his teeth as a few men shouted in support.

Like baying hounds at the kill, Bolitho thought.

He repeated, 'Remove their ropes.' He nodded to Young Matthew. 'Do it, boy.' He turned towards the deputy sheriff. 'And you, sir, will dismount. Now.'

The half-naked lieutenant, his face and body cut and bruised from several blows, staggered to his feet.

'They attacked us, sir.' He was almost incoherent. His companion was much younger, a midshipman probably. One sign of panic now, and the rioters might rush them. They would be swamped.

Bolitho watched the bearded man dismount. 'Where are their uniforms?'

He stared at Bolitho, then burst out laughing. 'You are a cool one, Captain-I'll give you that, for what it's worth!' His mood changed. 'They came without asking consent from the mayor. We taught them a lesson.' He tried to meet Bolitho's gaze and added thickly, 'They'll not forget it!'

Bolitho waited. 'Their uniforms?'

The man looked up at his mounted companion. 'Tell him, Jack.'

The other man shifted uneasily in his saddle. 'We threw 'em into a pigpen.' Nobody was laughing or jeering now.

Bolitho removed his hat and tossed it into the carriage.

'They are King's officers, sir.'

'I know that, damn it. We were just doing it-'

'Then I suggest you insulted the King.'

'What?' Beneath his hat, the deputy sheriff 's eyes bulged.

'You may take your choice. Draw that fine sword you wear so bravely.' He touched the old hilt at his side. 'I think this may be a good place for it.' His voice hardened. 'Nothing to say? No words for your courageous mob?'

A mist seemed to swirl across his eyes and for a moment he thought the fever had returned. Then he realised what it was. The same madness he had felt in the past when a battle had seemed hopeless and all but lost.

He had wanted to bluff this arrogant bully. Now he actually wanted him to take up the challenge, merely for the satisfaction of killing him. All the weeks of frustration, the anger and bitterness which had tested him throughout the months of despair, the waiting and pleading at the Admiralty, seemed to be joining in one terrible, vindictive force.

'I-I ask your pardon, Captain.' It was almost a whisper.

Bolitho eyed him with contempt. 'I do not pardon cowards.' He glanced at the two shivering victims who had probably believed they were about to be hanged. 'Get into the coach, gentlemen.'

He turned once more to the deputy sheriff. 'Your sword.' He took it from him. The man seemed twice his size and yet his hand was shaking as if with a palsy.

Even now the crowd might regain its temper. But something had cooled them-the sight of his uniform, or the knowledge of their own guilt? He would never know. He drove the splendid blade beneath the rear box of the carriage, then leaned on it until it snapped like a carrot. Then he tossed it at the man's feet.

'Cowards have no use for fine steel, sir. Now be off with you.'

The crowd parted and seemed to fade into the fields on either side of the road.

Bolitho climbed on to the step and looked up at his coachman. 'A brave lad you have there, Matthew!'

Corker wiped his brow with a red handkerchief.

'By God, Cap'n, yew 'ad me fair scared just then!'

Allday gently eased the hammer of his blunderbuss.

'You've made a bad enemy, Cap'n, an' that's no error.'

Bolitho closed the door and said, 'And so, by God, has he!'

Then, as the carriage gathered speed, he folded his arms and asked the rescued men gently, 'Now tell me in your own time what happened.'

As they spoke he had to clutch his arms tightly to his body to prevent them from shaking. It had been a near thing, although right from the beginning he had known instinctively that on such a deserted road the incident had been carefully planned for his benefit.

He smiled at his reflection in the rain-streaked glass. They had not been prepared for his reaction. And neither was I.

Ferguson saw the brief smile. For a few moments he had imagined everything was about to end. Now he saw that it was, for Bolitho, a beginning.

2. Trust

CAPTAIN Richard Bolitho stood with his shoes sinking into the wet sand of a sloping foreshore and stared across the widening stretch of the River Medway. The sun was hard and bright, so that the trees on the opposite bank were almost lost in steaming haze. But it was without warmth, although to look at it was like being reminded