With All Despatch

THE Golden Fleece Inn which stood on the outskirts of Dover was an imposing, weatherbeaten building, a place to change post horses, to rest a while after the rough roads around and out of the port.

Rear-Admiral Sir Marcus Drew waited for the inn servants to place his travelling chests in the adjoining room and walked to the thick leaded windows overlooking a cobbled square. He stared with distaste at groups of townsfolk who were chattering in the hot sunshine, some buying fruit or Geneva from women with trays around their necks.

It was just possible to see the harbour, or part of it, reassuring to know, as Drew did, that there were several small men-of-war at anchor there. On the way to the inn he had also found some comfort in the presence of scarlet-coated marines, or an occasional troop of stern-faced dragoons.

Nevertheless he felt uneasy here. But for a direct order he would still be in London, perhaps even with his young mistress. He turned away from the window as his secretary entered and paused to stare at him, wiping his small gold-rimmed spectacles with a handkerchief at the same time.

'Is it satisfactory, Sir Marcus?' He peered around the spacious room, and considered it a palace.

Drew snorted, 'I dislike this place-the whole situation in fact.' Coming here had stripped him of confidence, his accustomed sense of being in control. Usually he spent his days choosing officers for certain appointments; at other times he bowed to Their Lordships' whims and fancies by providing favours for others he might inwardly have regarded as useless.

Now here, to Dover. He scowled. Not even Canterbury where there was at least some social life, or so he had heard. Dover seen from within and not through the eyes of some homeward-bound sailor was too rough and ready, with an air of instability to match it. But for the great castle casting its timeless gaze across the harbour and the approaches, he would have felt even more uncertain.

The secretary offered, 'Captain Richard Bolitho has arrived, Sir Marcus.' He laid his head on one side. 'Shall I-'

'No! Have him wait, dammit! Fetch me a glass of something.'

'Brandy, Sir Marcus?'

The rear-admiral glared at him. 'Don't make mock of me, sir! The brandy is quite likely contraband-I want no part of it!'

He controlled his temper. It was not his secretary's fault. Another thought pressed through his mind. Besides, the man knew about his little affair. He said in a more reasonable tone, 'Fetch me what you will. This place… it downs my heart.'

The elderly secretary moved to the windows and stared at the crowd, which within half-an-hour had doubled. There was music down there, some masked dancers bobbing through the crowd, probably picking pockets as they went, he thought.

At the far side of the square was a great cluster of horses, each held by a red-coated soldier. They looked wary, while their two officers paced back and forth in deep conversation.

He shifted his gaze to the crude scaffold, a man who was obviously a carpenter putting finishing touches to it. The secretary noticed that, as he worked, his foot was tapping in time to the cheerful music. No wonder the rear- admiral was uneasy. In London you were spared this sort of thing unless you counted the ragged scarecrows which dangled in chains on the outskirts, along the King's highway.

Sir Marcus joined him and muttered, 'By God, you'd think they'd have heard enough about France to-' He said no more. He was always a careful man.

Two floors below, Bolitho walked into a small parlour and rested his back in a cool corner.

The inn seemed to be full of naval people, none of whom he knew. But he had been away from England a long while. A young lieutenant had jumped to his feet and stammered, 'I beg your attention, Captain Bolitho! Should you require a junior lieutenant-'

Bolitho had shaken his head. 'I cannot say. But do not lose heart.' How many times had he himself been made to beg for an appointment?

The landlord served him personally, carrying a tall tankard of local ale to his table.

'We're not used to so many senior persons, sir, and that's no mistake! War must be comin' soon, it's a sure sign!' He went off chuckling to himself.

Bolitho stared at the blue sky through one of the tiny windows. It kept coming back. Memory upon memory, and most of all, Allday kneeling on deck, his poor bruised face turned to greet him. There had been no sort of disbelief or surprise. As if they had both known in their hearts they would be reunited.

That had been weeks ago. Now he was here, summoned to Dover by the same flag officer who had offered him this appointment.

He heard shouts of laughter from the square outside and considered his feelings. Was it coincidence or purpose which had brought them here today?

At least the rear-admiral had come to him. Had it been the other way round Bolitho would have known his attachment was over.

A servant hovered by the door. 'Sir Marcus will see you now, sir.' He gestured towards the stairway which wound upwards past some old and stained paintings of battles, ship disasters, and local scenes. A sailors' haunt- smugglers too, he thought grimly.

He was breathing hard by the time he had reached the top floor. A shortage of breath or patience? Perhaps both.

An elderly man in a bottle-green coat ushered him into the first room, and he saw Drew sitting listlessly by one of the open windows. He did not rise, but waved for Bolitho to take a chair.

Bolitho began, 'I was called here, Sir Marcus, because-'

The admiral retorted wearily, 'We were both called here, man. Have some claret, though after the journey it may taste like bilge!' He watched Bolitho as he poured a glass for himself. The same grave features, level eyes which looked like the North Sea in the reflected sunlight. Cold, and yet… Drew said, 'It was a lengthy report which you sent Their Lordships, Bolitho. You spared nothing, added no decoration.' He nodded slowly. 'Like your Cornish houses and their slate roofs-hard and functional.'

'It was all the truth, sir.'

'I have no doubt of it. In some ways I would have wished otherwise.' He dragged the report across his table and ruffled through it, words or sentences sparking off pictures and events, as if he had been listening to Bolitho's voice while he had read it.

Drew said, 'You had a free hand and you used it, as many knew you would. The result? Most of those deserters, and many others who were in hiding, volunteered to return to the navy.' He glanced at him severely. 'I am not so certain that I would have permitted them to return to different vessels from which they had originally run, or accepted them without an example of punishment to deter others.' He sighed and continued, 'But you gave them your word. That had to be sufficient. All told we gained two hundred men; perhaps others will take your word as a bond. It will encourage wider areas, I hope.'

He cleared his throat. 'I would like you to tell me about Commodore Hoblyn.'

Bolitho got to his feet and walked to a side window overlooking a narrow street, like the one which Allday had described, where he had been taken by the press gang.

He said bitterly, 'That too is in my report, Sir Marcus.'

He expected a rebuke but Drew said quietly, 'I know. I would like you to tell me, as man to man. You see, I served with Hoblyn in that other war. He was a different being then.'

Bolitho stared at the empty street and tried to shut out the mounting buzz of voices from the crowd which waited to observe the spectacle of a man being hanged.

'I did not know, Sir Marcus.' He knew the admiral was watching his back but did not turn. 'It was too much for him in the end.' How could he sound so calm and casual? Like all the events which had led up to taking the Loyal Chieftain, and which now lay safe in memory. Like being in a calm in the eye of a typhoon where everything was sharp and clear, desperately so, perhaps, while you waited to enter the second path of the storm. 'I suspected Hoblyn was involved with the smuggling gangs, although I wanted to disbelieve it. He was a poor man, rejected by the one life for which he cared, and then all at once he was rich. Gifts which he treasured as acts of friendship-perhaps he too refused to see them as bribes. A carriage from a French nobleman, a world in which he thought he held control. They needed him, and when they thought he had betrayed them they took their revenge.'