With All Despatch

Paice closed his eyes and thought about his wife. He had the word charisma on his lips when he, too, fell into an uneasy sleep.

The morning, when it came, was brighter than even Chesshyre had prophesied. A bitter wind which made the sails glisten with ice-rime, and goaded every man's resistance to the limit.

Paice came on deck and consulted the chart and Chesshyre's slate beside the compass box. They did not always agree, but Paice knew Chesshyre was good at his work. It was enough.

He looked up at the curving topmast, the streaming white spear of the long masthead pendant. Wind on the quarter. So they had to be doubly careful. If they covered too many miles they would be hard-put to beat back again for another attempt to seek out the missing cutter.

Paice thought about Queely and wondered if in fact he had found Bolitho for the second part of their hazy plan. Wakeful might be in enemy hands. His mind hung on the word. Enemy. It somehow changed everything. Perhaps Bolitho was taken too, or worse.

He pounded his hands together. Bolitho should never have been sent to Kent, for recruiting, if that was truly the reason, and certainly not for a wild scheme like this one.

He should be in command of a real man-of-war. A captain others would follow; whose subordinates would learn more than the rudiments of battle but also the need for humility.

Triscott came aft from inspecting the overnight repairs and splicing, a boatswain's mate close at his heels. He looked even younger in this grey light, Paice thought. His face all fresh and burned with cold.

Triscott touched his hat, testing his commander's mood. 'All secure, sir.' He waited, noting the strain and deep lines on Paice's features. 'I've had the gunner put men to work on the six-pounder tackles. The ice and snow have jammed every block.'

Paice nodded absently. 'As well you noticed.' The usual hesitation. Then, 'Good.'

Paice turned to the master's muffled figure beside the tiller. 'What do you make of the weather, Mr Chesshyre?'

Triscott saw them face one another, more like adversaries than men who served together in this tiny, cramped community.

Chesshyre accepted the flag of truce.

'It should be clear and fine, sir.' He pointed across the bulwark, below which some men were manhandling one of the stocky six-pounders behind its sealed port.

'See yonder, sir? Patch o' blue!'

Paice sighed. Nobody had mentioned it, but there was no sign of Snapdragon.

Triscott saw him glance at the masthead and said, 'I've put a good man up there, sir.'

Paice exclaimed, 'Did I ask you?' He shrugged heavily. 'Forgive me. It is wrong to use authority on those who cannot strike back.'

Triscott kept his face immobile. Bolitho's words. He was still fretting about it. He offered, 'There is a lot of mist, sir. In this wind-'

Paice stared at him. 'Did you hear?'

Chesshyre dragged the hood from over his salt-matted hair.

'I did!'

Men stood motionless at their many and varied tasks, as if frozen so. The cook halfway through the hatch on his way to prepare something hot, or at least warm, for the watchkeepers. Big Luke Hawkins, a marlinspike gripped in one iron-hard hand, his eyes alert, remembering perhaps. Maddock the carpenter, clutching his old hat to his wispy hair as he paused in measuring some timber he had brought from the hold for some particular task. Chesshyre and Triscott, even Godsalve the clerk, acting purser and, when required, a fair hand as a tailor, all waited and listened in the chilling air.

Paice said abruptly, 'Six-pounders, eh, Mr Hawkins?'

His voice seemed to break the spell, so that men began to move again, staring about them as if they could not recall what they had been doing.

Triscott suggested, 'Maybe it's Wakeful, sir.'

Chesshyre rubbed his unshaven chin. 'Or Snapdragon? '

The air seemed to quiver, so that some of the men working below deck felt the distant explosion beat into the lower hull as if Telemachus had been fired on.

Paice wanted to lick his lips but knew some of the seamen were watching him. Gun by gun, booming across the water.

He clenched his fingers into fists. He wanted to yell up to the masthead lookout, but knew the man needed no persuading. Triscott had chosen him specially. He would be the first to hail the deck when he could see something.

Paice heard the boatswain's mate murmur, 'Could be either, I suppose.'

He thrust his hands beneath his coat-tails to hide them from view.

The regular explosions boomed across the sea's face once again, and he said, 'Whoever it is, they're facing the enemy's iron this day!'

Spray burst over Wakeful's weather side and flooded down the steeply sloping deck. Even the most experienced hands aboard had to cling to something as the hull laid hard over until to any novice it would seem she must turn turtle.

Queely yelled, 'She's close as she'll answer, sir!' His salt-reddened eyes peered at the huge mainsail, then at the foresail and jib. Each one was sheeted hard-in until they were laid almost fore-and-aft down the cutter's centre line, forcing her into the wind, every other piece of canvas lashed into submission.

Bolitho did not have time to consult the compass but guessed that Queely had swung Wakeful some five points into the wind; the lee gunports were awash, and the water seemed to boil as she plunged across the lively crests. When he looked for the brigantine she already seemed a long way astern, her sails retrimmed while she bore away on the opposite tack.

As he had been hauled aboard Bolitho had said, 'We must stand between La Revanche and the Frenchman. The brigantine is fast enough, and given time she might reach safety, or at least lie beneath a coastal battery until help can be sent.'

He had seen Queely's quick understanding. No talk of victory, no empty promise of survival. They were to save the brigantine, and they would pay the price.

Bolitho stared up at the masthead as the lookout yelled, 'Corvette, sir!'

Queely grimaced. 'Twenty guns at least.' He looked away.

'I keep seeing Kempthorne. I used him badly. That is hard to forgive.'

Bolitho saw Allday moving carefully aft from the forehatch, his cutlass thrust through his belt. The words seemed to repeat themselves. Of one company.

Queely watched the sails shaking and banging, taking the full thrust of the wind.

He said, 'Must have veered some more. From the north, I'd say.' He puffed out his cheeks. 'It feels like it too!'

They all heard the sudden crack of cannon fire, and then the lookout shouted, 'Sail closin' the corvette, sir!'

There were more shots, the sounds spiteful over the lively wave crests.

Queely said guardedly, 'Small guns, sir.' He glanced at his men along either side, drenched with spray and flying spindrift, trying to protect their powder and flintlocks. 'Like ours.'

Bolitho frowned. It would be just like Paice. Coming to look for them. He tensed as a measured broadside thundered across the water. He saw the sea-mist waver and twist high above the surface, and for those few moments the other vessel was laid bare. Even without a telescope he saw the lithe silhouette of a square-rigged man-of-war, gunsmoke fanning downwind from her larboard battery. The other vessel was beyond her, but there was no mistaking the great mainsail, its boom sweeping across the waves as she bore down on the French corvette.

Bolitho gritted his teeth. The corvette was like a small frigate, and probably mounted only nine-pounders. But against a cutter she was a leviathan.

Queely yelled, 'Another point!'

The helmsman shouted, 'West-Nor'-West, sir!' He did not have to add that she was as close to the wind as