With All Despatch

LIEUTENANT Jonas Paice stood with his legs spread while he watched Telemachus's long running bowsprit as it lifted, then lunged forward again like a lance. It was as if the cutter was taking on the endless ranks of short, steep waves in personal combat.

The sky overhead was streaked with tattered clouds, all hurrying before a strong north-easterly breeze which felt more like autumn than spring.

It would soon be dusk. Paice shifted his position but barely staggered as his command heeled even further over, her huge mainsail, like the jib and foresail, set tightly almost fore-and-aft as she butted up to windward. How she could sail, he thought, and to confirm his appreciation the helmsman yelled, 'Full an' bye, sir! Nor' by West!' But for once the pleasure of sailing so close to the wind failed to sustain him. This was the third day of it, beating back and forth in a great triangle above the approaches to the north-east foreland of Kent.

Perhaps he should have held his tongue and waited for Captain Bolitho to grow tired of hunting smugglers and turn to a easier life in some shore-based headquarters like the commodore. Paice had received news from an old and trusted informant that there was to be a 'run,' somewhere along the shores of Deal, either last night or tonight. He had been surprised at Bolitho's interest and immediate reaction. He had sent Telemachus to sea, while he himself had sailed in Queely's Wakeful. Then at a pre-arranged rendezvous Bolitho had changed back to Paice's own command.

Bolitho was down below now studying the chart, comparing his notes with the ship's log. Like a man being driven to the limit, Paice thought. He heard the actingmaster, Erasmus Chesshyre, giving some instructions to the two helmsmen, then his slithering footsteps as he joined him at the bulwark.

Together they watched the greygreen sea lifting almost to the rail, spurts of spray coming through the sealed gunports as she heeled right over to the wind.

Chesshyre was a master's mate, with one other to assist him. But his skill had distinguished him long ago, and with luck he would soon be promoted to sailing-master. And if there was to be war, he would be snatched away from Telemachus to watch over the sailing and pilotage of some lively frigate.

Paice frowned. If Bolitho failed to recover more deserters or find more men for the fleet, the cutters would be the first to lose their people. It was unfair, just as it was unavoidable. The cutters were like a navy within a navy. Their companies were mostly volunteers from inlets and villages where the fishing had died out, and skilled seamen had turned to the navy for work. Many of the men had known each other before signing on, so that discipline rarely needed harshness, and the qualities of leadership were respected far more than gold lace.

Chesshyre gauged his moment. 'After tonight, sir-'

Paice turned towards him. 'We shall continue until ordered otherwise.'

Chesshyre nodded glumly. 'Aye, aye, sir.'

The deck fell beneath them and a deluge of spray from high over the side swamped the waterlogged jolly-boat which had been double-lashed at the beginning of the watch. Astern, far across the taffrail, was the Kentish coast, but it was completely shrouded in mist and spindrift and when night came it would be as black as a boot.

Paice urged, 'Look at the weather, man. Do you not see it?'

Chesshyre shrugged, unconvinced. 'I know, sir. A perfect night for a run. But out here we could ride past the buggers.'

'Aye.' Paice thought of Bolitho's elaborate care to disguise their movements, even changing ships so that any observer on the shore might pass the word that Wakeful was the cutter to be watched. He thought of young Vatass in Snapdragon, snug in the dockyard by now. He was well out of it.

Paice glanced around at the stooping figures of his men. Every one a seasoned sailor who did not have to be told when to splice a piece of frayed cordage, or take another turn on a halliard. They were even trusted to go ashore on the rare occasions when Telemachus was resting in harbour. That was more than could be said for most of their grander consorts in peace or war.

He squinted up at the topsail yard where two lookouts clung like bedraggled monkeys, the spray running from their bodies like rain. With her topsail tightly furled while she surged and lifted into the teeth of the wind, Telemachus stood a fair chance of seeing another vessel before she was sighted herself.

They had barely sighted anything since putting to sea. It was as if local traders and the merchantmen from the Channel were unwilling to move any distance without the visible presence of a man-of-war. Across the water France lay like a mad beast, resting one moment, spitting blood the next. There were few honest seafarers prepared to run afoul of that.

Chesshyre persisted, 'Everybody knows about the Trade in Kent, sir.' He faltered as Paice's eyes fastened on him and he could have bitten out his tongue for speaking.

When he had first joined Telemachus he had wondered why the master of a collier- brig, to all intents a free agent, would choose to enlist in the navy as a lowly master's mate. When Chesshyre had been accepted by Telemachus's tight little company he had slowly learned the truth about this tall, powerful lieutenant.

Paice had been married a short time to a girl he had known for several years. On her way home from visiting her father and mother she had been horrified to see a dozen or more known smugglers attacking a solitary revenue officer. A crowd of people, too afraid or too indifferent to interfere, had watched them beating the man to death. Paice's wife had called the onlookers to assist, and when they had hung back she had tried to drag one of the smugglers off the revenue officer who was by then dead.

One smuggler had raised his pistol and shot her down. A savage warning to all those who watched, far more chilling than the death of a revenue man.

'I-I'm fair sorry, sir.' Chesshyre looked away. 'I was forgetting-'

'Well, don't! Not now-not ever, while you serve in my ship!'

There was a step on the companion ladder and Bolitho climbed up beside them. He was hatless, and his black hair rippled in the wind as he studied the hard press of canvas, the sea boiling along the leeside. Like his brother's cutter Avenger, so long, long ago.

The acting-master touched his forehead. 'I'll attend the helm, sir.'

He made to move aft but Bolitho asked, 'You are from Kent?'

'Aye, sir.' Chesshyre watched him warily, Paice's heated outburst momentarily forgotten. ' Maidstone, sir.'

Bolitho nodded. His voice, the easy Kentish accent, had so reminded him of Thomas Herrick, who had been his first lieutenant; his firm friend. Even Chesshyre's eyes, clear blue, were much the same. So many times he had watched Herrick's eyes change. Stubbornness, concern, hurt; and Bolitho had been the cause of most of it. They had parted when Tempest had set sail for England after that last savage battle with Tuke's ships. Bolitho, half-dead from fever, had followed at a more leisurely pace in a big Indiaman. Where was Herrick now, he wondered? At sea somewhere. Remembering what they had done and suffered together.

He realised that he was staring at the acting-master. 'You reminded me of a friend. Did you ever meet a Lieutenant Herrick?'

For a brief moment Bolitho saw the man's caution change to warmth. Then he shook his head. 'No, sir.' The contact was broken.

Paice said, 'We can come about in two hours, sir.' He glanced at the sky. 'After that, it will be too dark to see anything.'

Bolitho glanced at his strong profile. 'You think me mistaken?' He did not wait for a reply; it was wrong to make Paice commit himself. He smiled tightly. 'Mad too, probably.'

Paice watched him although his mind was still grappling with his inner pain. Would he ever forget how she had died?

He said, 'There are some who may ask why you care so much, sir.'

Bolitho wiped his face with the sleeve of his old coat. 'I realise that smuggling is a great temptation and will remain so. You can hang for it, but in some parishes you can dangle from the gibbet for stealing a chicken, so where's the comparison?' He shivered as spray pattered against his shoulders. 'The navy must have men. Smugglers or not, a firm hand will soon break them to our ways!'

During his brief passage in Wakeful her commander with the falcon's features had told him about Paice's wife. Bolitho had heard Paice's voice as he had left the cabin, but had only guessed the