With All Despatch

'I believe that Admiral Brennier understands the danger he is in.' Bolitho pictured him, a frail old man by the fire, still dreaming and hoping when there was no room left for either.

The door opened and another footman entered with a tray and some fresh coffee.

'I know you have a great liking for coffee, Captain Bolitho.'

'My cox'n-'

Marcuard watched the servant preparing to pour.

'Your Mr Allday is being well taken care of. He seems a most adaptable fellow, to all accounts. Your right arm, wouldn't you say?'

Bolitho shrugged. Was there nothing Marcuard did not know or discover from others? No hiding place, Tanner had said. That he could believe now.

He said, 'He means all that and more to me.'

'And the young lad, Corker, wasn't it? You packed him off to Falmouth, I believe.'

Bolitho smiled sadly. It had been a difficult moment for all of them. Young Matthew had been in tears when they had put him on the coach for the first leg of the long haul to Cornwall, the breadth of England away.

He said, 'It seemed right, m'lord. To be home with his people in time for Christmas.'

'Quite so, although I doubt that was your prime concern.'

Bolitho recalled Allday at that moment, his face still cut and bruised from his beating aboard the Loyal Chieftain. He had said, 'Your place is on the estate, my lad. With your horses, like Old Matthew. It's not on the bloody deck of some man-o'-war. Anyway, I'm back now. You said you'd wait 'til then, didn't you?'

They had watched the coach until it had vanished into heavy rain.

Bolitho said suddenly, 'I fear he would have been killed if I had allowed him to stay.'

Marcuard did not ask or even hint at how the boy's death might have come about. He probably knew that too.

Marcuard put down his cup and consulted his watch. 'I have to go out. My valet will attend to your needs.' He was obviously deep in thought. 'If I am not back before you retire do not concern yourself. It is the way of things here.' He crossed to a window and said, 'The weather. It is a bad sign.'

Bolitho looked at him. He had not said as much, but somehow he knew Marcuard was going to have a late audience with the King.

Bolitho wondered what the prime minister and his advisers thought about it. It was rumoured more openly nowadays that His Majesty was prone to change his mind like the wind, and that on bad days he was totally incapable of making a decision about anything. He might easily be prepared to discuss his anxieties with Marcuard rather than Parliament. It would make Marcuard's authority all the greater.

He was standing by the window now, looking down at the road, his eyes deep in thought.

'In Paris it will be a bad winter. They were near to starvation last year; this time it will be worse. Cold and hunger can fire men to savage deeds, if only to cover their own failings.'

He looked deliberately at Bolitho, like that time at The Golden Fleece in Dover.

'I must make arrangements for the treasure to be brought to England. I feel that the sand is running low.' The door opened silently and Marcuard said, 'Have the unmarked phaeton brought round at once.' Then to Bolitho he said softly, 'Leave Brennier to me.'

'What of me, m'lord?' Bolitho was also on his feet, as if he shared this new sense of urgency.

'As far as I am concerned, you are still my man in this.' He gave a bleak smile. 'You will return to Holland only when I give the word.' He seemed to relax himself and prepare for his meeting. 'Anyone who opposes you will have me to reckon with.' He let his gaze linger for a few more seconds. 'But do not harm Tanner.' Again the bleak smile. 'Not yet, in any case.' Then he was gone.

Bolitho sat down and stared at the wall of books, an army of knowledge. How did men like Marcuard see a war, he wondered? Flags on a map, land gained or lost, investment or waste? It was doubtful if they ever considered it as cannon fire and broken bodies.

Below his feet, in the long kitchen Allday sat contentedly, sipping a tankard of ale while he enjoyed the pipe of fresh tobacco one of the footmen had offered him.

In any strange house the kitchen was usually Allday's first port of call. To investigate food, and also the possibilities of female companionship which most kitchens had to offer.

He watched the cook's assistant, a girl of ample bosom and laughing eyes, her arms covered in flour to her elbows. Allday had gathered that her name was Maggie.

He took another swallow of ale. A proper sailor's lass she would make. He thought of Bolitho somewhere overhead, alone with his thoughts. He had heard his lordship leave in a carriage only moments ago, and wondered if he should go up and disturb him.

He thought of the dead girl in his arms, the touch of her body against his. Poor Tom Lucas had sworn it would bring bad luck to take a woman aboard against her will. That had been true enough for both of them. Allday tried to see into the future. Better back in Falmouth than this shifty game, he thought. You never knew friend from foe. Just so long as they didn't go back to Holland. Allday usually clung to his same old rule. Never go back. The odds always got worse.

The cook was saying, ''Course, our Lady Marcuard's down at the estate. 'Is lordship'll not be 'ome for Christmas this year, I reckon!' She looked meaningly at Allday and added, 'Young Maggie's 'usband is there too, as second coachman, see?'

Allday glanced at the girl and saw her blush faintly before she returned her attention to her work.

The cook watched them both and added encouragingly, 'Pity to waste it, I always says!'

His Britannic Majesty's Ship Ithuriel, a seventy-four-gun two-decker, made a handsome picture above her reflection on the flat water of the Royal Dockyard. Her black and buff hull and checkered gunports, her neatly furled sails and crossed yards shone with newness, as did the uniforms of her lieutenant and midshipman, facing inboard from their divisions of silent seamen. Across her poop the marines stood in scarlet lines, and above their heads a matching ensign curled listless against a washed-out sky in the hard sunlight.

There was pride and sadness here in Chatham today. Ithuriel was the first new man-of-war of any size to be commissioned since the American Revolution, and now, stored and fully manned, she was ready to take her place with the Channel Fleet.

Below her poop Bolitho watched the official handing-over of the new ship, her captain reading himself in to the assembled officers and men he would lead and inspire for as long as Their Lordships dictated, or as long as he remained in command.

Nearby, the officers' ladies stood close together, sharing this alien world of which they could never truly become a part. Some would be grateful that their husbands had been given appointments after all the waiting and disappointment. Others would be cherishing each passing minute, not knowing when, or if, they would see their loved ones again.

Bolitho looked at the sky, his heart suddenly heavy. He was only an onlooker. All the excitement and demands of a newly commissioned ship were cradled here, and would soon show their true value and flaws once the ship began to move under canvas for the first time.

He saw the admiral with his flag lieutenant standing a little apart from the rest, dockyard officials watching their efforts become reality as the company was urged to cry their Huzzas and wave their hats to honour the moment.

If only the command were his. Not a frigate, but a newly born ship nonetheless. The most beautiful creation of man yet devised; hard and demanding by any standards. He dropped his eyes as the captain finished speaking, his voice carrying easily in the still January air.

That too was hard to accept, Bolitho thought. Danger there had certainly been, but the promise of action had sustained him. Until now. In his heart he believed he had ruined his chances by his dogged and stubborn attack on Sir James Tanner. Marcuard must have found him wanting.

He looked up as he heard the new captain speak his name.

He was saying, 'A fine ship which I am proud to command. But for the inspiration and leadership given by Captain Richard Bolitho over the past months I doubt if we would have enough hands to work downstream, let