With All Despatch

than Bolitho.

They threw themselves to work on the two flapping sails, and Bolitho felt the hull tilt to the wind's wet thrust and saw sheets of spray burst over the pursuing cutter's stem, drenching the crew and throwing the scarlet oars into momentary confusion.

Allday yelled, 'They've got a up forrard, Cap'n!'

Bolitho tried to swallow. He had already seen the bow-gun in the eyes of the cutter. Probably a swivel or a long musketoon. One blast from either could kill or wound every man in this boat.

But the range was holding; the small fishing boat was better handled and rigged for this kind of work, and the wilder the sea the harder it would be for the cutter's coxswain to maintain his speed through the water.

Allday clung to the gunwale and choked as water reared over the bows and soaked him from head to foot.

The voice pursued them, crackling and distorted through the speaking trumpet.

Allday shouted, 'They're taking aim!'

'Down!' Bolitho pulled the nearest crew member to the deck and saw Allday peering along the boat towards him, his body half-hidden by floats and nets.

The bang of the gun was muffled by the wind and sleet, so that the charge of canister hit the afterpart of the hull with unexpected violence. Bolitho heard metal fragments and splinters shriek overhead and saw several holes punched through the nearest sail. He held his breath, waiting for something to carry away, a spar to break in half, even for a sudden inrush of water.

The Dutch skipper clambered to his knees and nodded. There was something like pride in his face. Even in this sad old boat.

Allday gasped, 'We've lost 'em, Cap'n!'

Bolitho peered astern. The sleet was so thick that even the mouth of the river had vanished. They had the water to themselves.

He was about to rise to his feet when he saw Brennier's aide staring at him, his eyes bulging with pain and fear.

Bolitho knelt beside him, then prized the man's hands away from his body. Allday joined him and gripped his wrists while Bolitho tore open his waistcoat and then his finely laced shirt, which was bright with blood. There were just two wounds. One below the right breast, the other in the stomach. Bolitho heard the Dutch skipper tearing up some rags which he handed over his shoulder. Their eyes met only briefly. Again, language was no barrier. For a fisherman as well as a sea-officer, death was commonplace.

Allday murmured, 'Hold hard, matey.' He looked at Bolitho. 'Shall I lay him down?'

Bolitho covered the dying man with some canvas, held a hat over his face to protect him from the sleet. 'No.' He dropped his voice. 'He's drowning in his own blood.' He looked at the bottom boards where the trapped sleet and seawater glittered red now. Another victim.

He could not wait here. But when he got to his feet he saw the man's eyes follow him, terrified and pleading.

Bolitho said quietly, 'Never fear, m'sieu. You will be safe. We will not leave you.'

He turned away and stared down at the swaying compass card without seeing it. Stupid, empty words! What did they mean to a dying man? What had they ever done to help anyone?

Bolitho swallowed again, feeling the rawness of salt in his throat like bile.

'Nor' West!' He pointed at the sails. 'Yes?'

The man nodded. Events had moved too swiftly for him. But he stood firmly at his tiller, his eyes reddened by sea and wind; it must have felt like sailing his boat into nowhere.

Each dragging minute Bolitho expected to see another vessel loom out of the sleet, no challenge this time, just a merciless hail of grape or canister. Tanner repeatedly came to his mind and he found himself cursing his name aloud until Allday said, 'I think he's going, Cap'n.'

Bolitho got down on his knees again and held the man's groping fingers. So cold. As if they had already died.

'I am here, m'sieu. I shall tell your admiral of your courage.' Then he wiped the man's mouth as a telltale thread of blood ran unheeded down his chin.

Allday watched, his eyes heavy. He had seen it too often before. He saw Bolitho's hand moving to make the man comfortable. How did he do it? He had known him at the height of battle, and flung to the depths of despair. Few but himself had seen this Bolitho, and even now Allday felt guilty about it. Like stumbling on a special secret.

The man was trying to speak, each word bringing more agony. It was just a matter of minutes.

Allday stared across Bolitho's bowed head. Why doesn't the poor bastard die?

Bolitho held the man's wrist but it moved with sudden strength and determination. The fingers reached down and unclipped the beautiful sword from his belt.

In a mere whisper he said, 'Give-give…'

The effort was too much for him. Bolitho stood up, the rapier in one hand. He thought of the sword which hung by his side, so familiar that it was a part of him.

He looked at Allday's stony features and said quietly, 'Is this all that is left of a man? Nothing more?'

As the minutes passed into an hour, and then another, they all worked without respite to hold the boat on course, to bale out the steady intake of water and constantly retrim the two patched sails. In a way it saved them. They had neither food nor water, and each man ached with cold and backbreaking labour; but there was no time to despair or to give in.

In darkness, with the boat pitching about on a deep procession of rollers, they buried the unknown Frenchman, a rusting length of chain tied about his legs to take him down to the seabed. After that, they lost track of the hours and their direction, and despite the risk of discovery Bolitho ordered that the lantern should be lit and unshuttered, as arranged, into the sleet which was once again turning to snow.

If no one found them they could not survive. It was winter, and the sea too big for their small vessel. Only Allday knew that there was barely enough oil left in the lantern anyway. He sighed and moved closer to Bolitho's familiar outline in the stern. It was not much of a way to end after what they had done together, he thought. But death could have come in a worse guise, and very nearly had on board Delaval's Loyal Chieftain.

Bolitho moistened his lips. 'One more signal, old friend.'

The lantern's beam lit up the snow so that the boat appeared to be hemmed in and unmoving. Allday muttered hoarsely, 'That's the last of it, Cap'n.' It was then that Wakeful found them.

15. No Hiding Place

QUEELY and his first lieutenant watched Bolitho with silent fascination as he swallowed his fourth mug of scalding coffee. He could feel it warming him like an inner fire and knew someone, probably Allday, had laced it heavily with rum.

They had been unable to do anything for the small fishing boat which had given them the chance to escape, and despite protests from the Dutch skipper it had been cast adrift; it seemed unlikely it would remain afloat for much longer.

Queely waited, choosing the moment. 'What now, sir?' He watched Bolitho's eyes regaining their brightness. It was like seeing someone come alive again. When Wakeful's seamen had hauled them aboard they had been too numbed by cold and exhaustion even to speak.

As he had drunk his coffee, Bolitho had tried to outline all that had happened. He had ended by saying, 'But for you and your Wakeful, we would all be dead.' He had placed the silver-mounted sword on the cabin table. 'I suspect this poor man had already died when he heard that his King had been executed.'

Queely had shaken his head. 'We knew nothing of that, sir.' His jaw had lifted and he had regarded Bolitho with his dark, hawklike face. 'I would still have come looking for you no matter what the risk, even if I had.'

Bolitho leaned back against the side and felt the cutter rolling steeply in a cross-swell as she prepared to