With All Despatch

Bolitho handed it to him. Others might see and think they understood. But how could they? This was a ritual shared with nobody else, as much a part of each man as the moment before a battle when the ship was cleared for action, screens down, the people standing to their guns. Allday would be there. Always. After clipping the old sword to his belt. As his father's coxswain must have done for him and those who had gone before.

'Anchor's hove short, sir!'

'Loose mains'l! Stand by heads'l sheets!' Feet padded on the damp planking, bare despite the bitter air.

Bolitho saw it all. If only more of the people at home could have seen them, he thought. Men who had so little, but gave their all when it was demanded of them. He thought of the faces he had seen aboard the new Ithuriel. It might be months before her company worked even half as well as the men of his three cutters.

'Anchor's aweigh, sir!'

Wakeful came round into the breeze, her huge mainsail scooping all of it without effort and filling out with a crack of taut canvas.

'Hold her steady!' Queely was everywhere. 'Let go and haul. Mr Kempthorne, they are like old women today!'

Bolitho heard the helmsman chuckle. 'Wish they was, matey!'

He turned and looked for Telemachus. How tiny she looked when set against the tall buff-and-black hull of the new two-decker.

Allday saw the look and gave a rueful grin.

There would be no stopping him now.

By evening the wind still held steady enough from the south-west, and the sea showed no sign of lessening. Spray swept regularly over the duty watch, reaching for the hands working aloft on the yards. When it caught you unawares it was cold enough to punch the breath out of your body.

Bolitho was in the cabin, going over Queely's calculations, the notes which he had made from their last rendezvous. Nothing must go wrong. He thought of Tanner and tried not to let his anger break out again. Tanner was under Lord Marcuard's orders, and on the face of it had far more to lose than Bolitho if things went badly wrong. Unless you counted life itself, Bolitho thought. He was surprised he could face it with neither qualms nor surprise. It might mean that he was truly restored, that the fever which had all but killed him had finally released him, as a receding wave will toss a drowning sailor to safety, as if for a last chance.

He heard shouts on deck and Queely clattered down the companionway, his body shining in a long tarpaulin coat.

'Sail to the nor'-east, sir.'

More yells came from above. Queely remarked, 'I'm changing tack. No sense in displaying our intentions.' He smiled faintly. 'Yet, anyway.'

The hull staggered and then reared upright again, and Bolitho heard the sea rushing along the lee scuppers like a bursting stream.

'What is she?'

'I've got Nielsen aloft, a good lookout.' Again the ghostly smile. 'For a Swede, that is. He reckons she's a brig. Square-rigged in any case.'

They looked at each other. Bolitho did not have to consult the chart to know that this stranger stood directly between them and the land.

'Man-of-war?' It seemed unlikely to be anything else out here and at this time of the year.

Queely shrugged. 'Could be.'

The helmsman yelled, 'Steady she goes, sir! Nor' by East!'

Queely frowned, seeing the complications in his thoughts. 'Don't want to bring her up too much, sir. I know the nights are long, but we've precious little room for mistakes.'

Bolitho followed him on deck. The sea was covered with leaping white clusters of spray, but beneath them the water looked black, a vivid contrast to the sky which despite some early stars was still clear and pale.

The hull plunged her long bowsprit down like a hunting marlin and the water surged over the forecastle and hissed aft between the gleaming guns.

Queely cupped his reddened hands. 'Where away, Nielsen?'

'Same bearing, sir! She changed tack when we did!'

Even from the deck amidst the din of spray and wind Bolitho could hear the man's Swedish accent. What was his story, he wondered?

Queely swore. 'In God's name, sir! That bugger is on to us!'

Bolitho gripped a stay and felt it quivering in his hand as if it were part of an instrument.

'I suggest you steer more to the east'rd as soon as it's dark. We should cross his stern and lose him.'

Queely eyed him doubtfully. 'So long as we can beat clear if the wind gets up, sir.'

Bolitho gave a dry smile. 'There is always that provision, of course.'

Queely beckoned to his first lieutenant. 'We shall hold this tack until-' The rest was lost in the boom of canvas and the creak of steering tackles as the helmsmen forced over the tiller bar.

Allday stood by the companionway and listened to the rudder. It was all to easy too picture the girl's pale shape as she had sawed frantically at the lines. If only she had been spared.

He tossed the stupid thought from his mind and groped his way to the ladder. There was always tomorrow. But now a good 'wet' of rum was all he needed.

When darkness closed in, and their world had shrunk to the leaping crests on either beam, Wakeful came about and under reefed topsail thrust her bowsprit towards the east. Immediately before that Queely joined Bolitho in the cabin and shook his hat on the littered deck.

'That bugger's still there, sir.' He stared at his cot but shut the picture of sleep from his thoughts. 'I shall call you when it's time.' Then he was gone, his boots scraping up the ladder and on to the streaming deck above.

Bolitho lay down and faced the curved side. Just once he spoke her name aloud. 'Viola.' And then, with his eyes tightly shut as if in pain, he fell asleep.

14. Fair Wind… for France

H.M. CUTTER Wakeful rolled heavily in the offshore swell, the motion made worse by a swift current at odds with a failing tide. Hove-to and with her flapping canvas in wild disorder, it felt as if she might easily dismast herself.

Queely had to shout above the din of rigging and wind. Caution was pointless; the clatter of loose gear and the sluice of water alongside seemed loud enough to wake the dead.

He exclaimed, 'It's no use, sir! They're not coming! I have to suggest that we turn back!' Bolitho held on to the shrouds and strained his eyes through

the wind-blown spray. Queely was in command; he had plenty of reasons to be alarmed, and had been right to speak his mind.

Bolitho cursed the unknown vessel which had made them take a more roundabout course towards the Dutch coast. But for that they would have reached the rendezvous in good time. He felt Queely peering at the sky, imagining it was already getting lighter.

Bolitho said tersely, 'They have orders to return on the hour.'

But they were fishermen, smugglers too, not disciplined sailors like those who stood or crouched around him.

Queely said nothing in reply. He was probably thinking much the same.

The wind had veered overnight, which made it even harder for Queely to maintain his position without the risk of being driven onto a lee-shore.

Bolitho tried to think what he must do. What is the point? There is no other way.

Allday stood close by, his arms folded as if to show his contempt for the sea's efforts to pitch him to the deck.