With All Despatch

Occasionally he glanced up at the furled mainsail, the huge mast which leaned right over him, then staggered away to the opposite beam as the cutter rolled her gunports under.

He could tell from Bolitho's stance, the way he barely spoke, that he was tackling each of his problems in turn. Earlier Allday might have been satisfied to know this might happen. But now, having come this far, he wanted to go ahead, get it over with, like Bolitho.

Men scampered down the larboard side as a line parted and the boatswain called for them to make it fast.

Bolitho wondered what Tanner was doing, how he would react when he discovered he had been delayed.

'Boat, sir! Lee bow!'

Bolitho tried to moisten his lips but they felt like leather. A few more minutes, and then-

Queely rasped, 'The same one as before! By God I thought they'd cut and run!'

Bolitho wrapped his boat-cloak around him, able to ignore the busy seamen with their ropes and fenders, pointing arms and angry voices as the two hulls swayed together for the first impact.

He said, 'You know what to do. I'd not ask you to risk your command, but-'

They clung together as the two hulls lifted and groaned in a trough, men falling, others heaving on ropes, their bare feet skidding on the wet deck.

Queely nodded. 'I'll be here, sir. If the Devil himself should stand between us.'

Then Bolitho followed Allday into the fishing boat. This time, her skipper gave him what might have been a grin. With the sea surging over the two vessels it could have been a grimace.

Bolitho sat inside a tiny hutchlike cabin and was thankful that the hold was empty of fish. Experienced though he was in the sea's moods, after the buffeting out there any stench might have made him vomit. Like when he had first gone to sea at the age of twelve.

The arrangements were exactly as before, although he sensed the Dutch crew's haste and nervous anxiety whenever they passed an anchored vessel, or riding lights betrayed the nearness of other craft. Merchantmen sheltering for the night, waiting for a favourable wind, men-of-war-they might have been anything. The final part of the journey was quieter, the sounds of sea and wind suddenly banished, lost beyond the endless barrier of waving rushes.

It was so quiet that Bolitho held his breath. Nobody bothered to conceal their approach and Allday whispered, 'Even the mills are still, Cap'n.'

Bolitho watched a tall windmill glide above the rushes, stiff, and unmoving. It was eerie, as if nothing lived here.

The crew exchanged comments and then one clambered over the gunwale, his sea-boots splashing through shallows before finding the spur of land. One man ran on ahead, but the skipper stayed with Bolitho and waited for Allday to join them.

Bolitho felt a chill run up his back. The skipper had drawn a pistol from his coat and was wiping it with his sleeve. Without looking he knew that Allday had seen it too and was ready to cut the man down if need be. Was the Dutchman frightened-did he sense danger? Or was he waiting for the chance to betray them, as Delaval had done to so many others?

Allday said, 'Someone's coming, Cap'n.' How calm he sounded. As if he was describing a farm cart in a Cornish lane. Bolitho knew that he was at his most dangerous.

He heard feet slipping on the track and saw the shadowy figure of Brennier's aide stumble, gasp aloud as the other Dutchman pulled him to his feet again.

He stopped when he saw Bolitho and turned back towards the house. No blindfold. He seemed close to panic.

Bolitho and the Dutch skipper pushed open the door, and Bolitho stared at the disorder around him. Cupboards ransacked, contents spilled on the floor, even some of the charred logs raked from the fire. The search had been as thorough as it had been quick.

Bolitho looked at the Dutch skipper. They were totally separated by language.

Then he turned towards the aide and was shocked at his appearance as he revealed himself beside a lantern.

His clothes were filthy, and there were pale streaks down the grime on his cheeks, as if he had been weeping.

'What is it, man?' Bolitho unbuttoned his old coat to free the butt of his pistol. 'Speak out!'

The man stared at him with disbelief. Then he said in a broken whisper, 'Il est mort! Il est mort!'

Bolitho seized his arm; it felt lifeless in his grip. 'The admiral?'

The aide gaped at him as if only now did he realise where he was, that Bolitho was the same man.

He shook his head and blurted out, 'Non! It is the King!'

Allday rubbed his jaw with his fist. 'God, they've done for him after all!'

The Dutchman thrust his pistol into his belt and spread his hands. It needed no language. The blade had fallen in Paris. The King of France was dead.

Bolitho wanted to find time to think. But there was none. He shook the man's arm and asked harshly, 'Where is Vice-Admiral Brennier? What has become of him?' He hated to see the fear in the man's eyes. All hope gone. And now apparently left to fend for himself in a country which might be unwilling to offer him shelter.

He stammered, 'To Flushing. We could wait no longer.' He stared at the disordered room. 'You were late, Capitaine!'

Bolitho released his hold and the aide almost collapsed on to a bench. He was wringing his hands, stunned by what had happened.

Allday asked, 'What do we do, Cap'n?'

Bolitho looked at the broken man on the bench. Somehow he knew there was more. He asked quietly, 'And the treasure, m'sieu, what of that?'

The aide stared up at him, surprised by the change in Bolitho's tone.

'It is in safe hands, Capitaine, but it was too late!'

Safe hands. There was only one other who knew about it. Now he was gone, taking the old admiral Brennier and the treasure with him. To Flushing. The name stood out in his mind like letters of fire. About twenty miles from here at a guess. It might as well have been a thousand.

He recalled Marcuard's remarks about the weather. News would travel slowly with the roads bogged-down or hidden in snow. Nobody here would know for certain when the King had been executed. He felt the sense of urgency running through him, chilling his body from head to toe. Anything might be happening. There was nobody here to ask. Even the farmer who owned this place had vanished-perhaps murdered.

The Dutch skipper said something to his companion, who was guarding the door, and Bolitho snapped, 'Tell that man to remain with us!'

The aide murmured a few halting words in Dutch then added, 'He wants paying, Capitaine.'

Allday muttered harshly, 'Don't we all, matey!'

'If you help me, m'sieu, I will take you to England. Maybe you will discover friends there-'

He looked at Allday's grim features as the man threw himself on his knees and seized his hand, kissing it fervently.

When he looked up, his eyes were streaming, but there was steel in his voice now as he exclaimed, 'I know the ship, Capitaine! It is called La Revanche, but flies the English flag!' He cowered under Bolitho's cold gaze. 'I heard him talk of it.'

Bolitho spoke the name aloud. 'Sir James Tanner.' The aide's fear told him everything he had not already guessed.

How apt a name. The Revenge. Tanner had outwitted them all.

Allday asked, 'What can we do, Cap'n? Without a ship of our own-' He sounded lost and bewildered.

Bolitho said, 'We had better be gone from here.' He strode to a window and threw back the shutter. The sky seemed paler. He must think of the present, not anguish over what had happened. Wakeful's near encounter with the stranger had been deliberate, a delay engineered by Tanner. It had given him time to execute the rest of his plan. 'We must try to explain to the Dutchman that we need to be taken