Alexander Kent - With All Despatch

Young Matthew said questioningly, "A frigate, sir?"

Bolitho stared at it until he could barely see. It was not just any ship. With Allday it rarely was.

He heard himself murmur, "She is my last command, Matthew. My Tempest. "

The boy responded in a whisper, "I wonder why he left it behind, sir?"

Bolitho turned him by the shoulder and gripped it until he winced. "Don't you see, Matthew? He could tell no one what he was about, nor could he write a few words to rest my fears for him." He looked again at the unfinished model. "This was the best way he knew of telling me. That ship meant so much to both of us for a hundred different reasons. He'd never abandon it."

The boy watched as Bolitho stood up to the skylight again, barely able to grasp it, and yet knowing he was the only one who was sharing the secret.

Bolitho said slowly, " God damn him for his stubbornness!" He bunched his hand against the open skylight. "And God protect you, old friend, until your return!"

Marching in pairs the press gang advanced along yet another narrow street, their shoes ringing on the cobbles, their eyes everywhere as they probed the shadows.

At the head a tight-lipped lieutenant strode with his hanger already drawn, a midshipman following a few paces behind him.

Here and there the ancient houses seemed to bow across the lanes until they appeared to touch one another. The lieutenant glanced at each dark or shuttered window, especially at those which hung directly above their wary progress. It was all too common for someone to hurl down a bucket of filth on to the hated press gangs as they carried out their thankless patrols.

The lieutenant, like most of them in the local impressment service, had heard all about the two officers being stripped, beaten and publicly humiliated on the open road, with no one raising a hand to aid them. Only the timely appearance of the post-captain and his apparent total disregard for his own safety had saved the officers from far worse.

The lieutenant had been careful to announce his intentions of seeking prime seamen for the fleet, as so ordered. He slashed out angrily at a shadow with his hanger and swore under his breath. You might just as well ring the church bells to reveal what you were about, he thought. The result was usually the same. Just a few luckless ones, and some of those had been lured into the hands of the press gangs, usually by their own employers who wanted to be rid of them. A groom who had perhaps become too free with a landowner's daughter, a footman who had served a mistress better than the man who paid for her luxuries. But trained hands? It would be a joke, if it were not so serious.

The lieutenant snapped, "Close up in the rear!" It was unnecessary; they always kept together, their heavy cudgels and cutlasses ready for immediate use if attacked, and he knew they resented his words. But he hated the work, just as he longed for the chance of a ship. Some people foolishly wrung their hands, and clergymen prayed that war would never come.

The fools. What did they know? War was as necessary as it was rewarding.

There was a sudden crash, like a bottle smashing.

The lieutenant held up his hanger, and behind him he heard his men rouse themselves, like vixens on the scent of prey.

The midshipman faltered, "In that alley, sir!"

"I know that!" He waited until his senior hand, a hard-bitten gunner's mate, had joined him. "Did you hear that, Benzie?"

The gunner's mate grunted. "There be a tavern through there, sir. Should be closed now, o'course. This be th'only way out."

The lieutenant scowled. The idiot had left the most important fact to the end. He swallowed his revulsion and said softly, "Fetch two men and-"

The gunner's mate thrust his face even closer and whispered thickly, "No need, sir, someone be comin'!"

The lieutenant thankfully withdrew his face. The gunner's mate's breath was as foul as any bilge. Chewing tobacco, rum and bad teeth made a vile mixture.

"Stand to!" The lieutenant faced the narrow alley and cursed Their Lordships for the absurdity of it. The hidden figure with the slow, shambling gait was probably a cripple or as old as Neptune. What use was one man anyway?

The shadow loomed from the shadows and the lieutenant called sharply, "In the King's name, I order you to stand and be examined!"

The gunner's mate sighed and tightened his hold on the heavy cudgel. How the navy had changed. In his day they had clubbed them senseless and asked questions later, usually when the poor wretch awoke with a split head to find himself in a man-of-war already standing out to sea. It might be months, years, and in many cases never, that the pressed man returned to England. Who would care anyway? There had even been a case of a bridegroom being snatched from the steps of a church on his wedding day.

But now, with regulations, and not enough ships ready for sea, it was unsafe to flout the Admiralty's rules.

He said, " Easy, matey!" His experienced eye had taken in the man's build and obvious strength. Even in this dawn light he could see the broad shoulders and, when he turned to stare at the press gang, the pigtail down his back.

The lieutenant snapped, "What ship?" His nervousness put an edge to his voice. "Answer, or you'll be the worse for it, man!"

The gunner's mate urged, "There be too many o'us, matey." He half-raised his cudgel. "Tell the lieutenant, like wot 'e says!"

Allday looked at him grimly. He had been about to give up his hazy plan, when he had heard the press gang's cautious approach. Were it not so dangerous it might have made him smile, albeit secretly. Like all those other times when he had dodged the dreaded press in Cornwall, until the day when His Britannic Majesty's frigate Phalarope had hove into sight. Her captain had been a Cornishman, one who knew where landsmen ran to ground whenever a King's ship topped the horizon. It was strange when you thought of it. If a Frenchie ever drew close inshore every fit man would stand to arms to protect his home and country from an enemy. But they would run from one of their own.

Allday said huskily, "I don't have a ship, sir." He had spilled rum over his clothing and hoped it was convincing. He had hated the waste of it.

The lieutenant said coldly, "Don't lie. I told you what would happen if-"

The gunner's mate gestured at him again. "Don't be a fool!"

Allday hung his head. "The London, sir."

The lieutenant exclaimed. "A second-rate, so you are a prime seaman! Yes? " The last word was like a whip-crack.

"If you say so, sir."

"Don't be bloody insolent. What's your name, damn you?"

Allday regarded him impassively. It might be worth it just to smash in the lieutenant's teeth. Bolitho would have a useless pip-squeak like him for breakfast.

"Spencer, sir." He had neglected to invent a name, and the slight hesitation seemed to satisfy the officer that it was because of guilt.

"Then you are taken. Come with my men, or be dragged in irons-the choice is yours."

The press gang parted as Allday moved amongst them. Their eagerness to be gone from this deserted street was almost matched by their relief.

One of the seamen muttered, "Never mind, mate, could be worse."

Somewhere, far away, a trumpet echoed on the morning air. Allday hesitated and did not even notice the sudden alarm in their eyes. He had done it. At this moment Bolitho might be looking at the little Tempest. But would he see a message there? Allday felt something like despair; he might see only desertion and treachery.

Then he squared his shoulders. "I'm ready."

The lieutenant quickened his pace as he heard someone drumming on a bucket with a piece of metal. The signal for a mob to come running to free their capture.