Alexander Kent - With All Despatch

But this patrol at least had not been entirely wasted. Only one man, but obviously an experienced sailor. No excuses either, nor the last-moment, infuriating production of a Protection like those issued to apprentices, watermen, and the likes of the H.E.I.C.

The gunner's mate called, "Wot's yer trade, Spencer?"

Allday was ready this time. "Sailmaker." Chosen carefully, not too lowly, so that they might have disbelieved him, nor too senior, so that they might have sent him back to the London, a ship he had never laid eyes on.

The man nodded, well satisfied. A sailmaker was a rare and valuable catch.

They topped a rise and Allday saw the masts and crossed yards of several men-of-war, their identities still hidden in deep shadow. Bolitho was there. Would they ever meet again?

If not it will be because I am no longer alive.

Strangely enough the realization brought him immediate comfort.

5. Out of the Mouths of Babes… .

BOLITHO gripped the swivel-gun mounting on the weather bulwark, and used it to steady himself as Telemachus dipped and lifted to a steady north-easterly, her forward rigging running with spray. Eight bells had just chimed out from the forecastle and as in any man-of-war, large or small, the watches changed to a routine as old as the navy itself.

Lieutenant Triscott touched his hat to Paice. "The watch is aft, sir."

Bolitho sensed the stiffness in his manner, something unusual for one so young and usually so buoyant.

"Relieve the wheel, if you please."

The helmsman chanted, "West Nor'-West, sir! Full an' bye!"

The members of the last dogwatch hurried to the hatchway while the relief took over and began to check running rigging, and the lashings of countless pieces of equipment and the guns which lined either side.

It was not just the first lieutenant who was showing strain, Bolitho thought. It was never easy in a small overcrowded hull at the best of times, and he was well aware of their resentment as day followed day, beating up and down, holding on to visual contact with Wakeful running far down to leeward, and preparing for what most of them thought was another empty rumour.

Bolitho blamed himself for much of it. It was Paice's command, but he watched everything himself, and tried to plan for whatever lay ahead.

Paice had had little to do with Commodore Hoblyn and was unwilling to voice an opinion as to the value of his information.

Perhaps he was still brooding over the murder of his own informant and the calculated arrogance with which Delaval had displayed the man's corpse. Or he might place Hoblyn in the category of senior officers who had been too long ashore to understand the stealth and cunning of this kind of work.

Whenever he was alone in his cot Bolitho was unable to lose himself in his plans. Allday would return to his thoughts again and again, so that he lay tossing and turning until he fell into an exhausted sleep, his anxieties still unresolved.

He noticed that neither Paice nor Triscott ever mentioned Allday in his presence. Either they were afraid to arouse his displeasure, or, in the way of sailors, they were convinced that Allday was already dead.

Paice crossed the narrow poop and touched his hat, while his eyes watched the clear sky of evening.

"Might get some mist later, sir." His gaze moved to Bolitho's profile, assessing the mood. "But we can hold contact with Wakeful for a few more hours before we tell her to close with us for the night."

Bolitho glanced up at the quivering mast where the lookouts squatted on the topsail yard. They had the other cutter in sight, but down here on deck the sea might have been empty.

They had twice met with a revenue lugger. Once she had carried a curt despatch from the commodore, a confirmation that his information was still valid.

The second time the lugger had carried news of a more disturbing nature. It seemed that there had been several daring runs made along the south coast, from as far afield as Penzance in Cornwall and Lyme Bay in Dorset. A revenue cutter had chased one schooner as far as the Isle of Wight before the smuggler had give her the slip in a sudden rain squall.

Paice had commented, "Seems that all the excitement is elsewhere, sir."

A criticism of Bolitho's strategy, perhaps, and the fact that their two cutters were placed as far as possible from any of the landings. The Customs Board had taken them very seriously, and had diverted every available vessel to seize or destroy any boats suspected of dropping smuggled cargoes. The navy had even loaned a thirty-two-gun frigate from Plymouth to offer support if the revenue vessels were outgunned or fought on to a lee shore.

Paice remarked, "First of May tomorrow, sir."

Bolitho turned and said shortly, "I am aware of it. You may assure your people it is also the last day they will be required on this patrol."

Paice held his gaze and replied stubbornly, "I implied no lack of faith, sir. But it could mean that the commodore's intelligence, with all respect to him for I believe him to be a brave officer, was falsely offered. Any failure might be seen as something personal."

Bolitho watched some fish leaping across the crisp wave which surged back from Telemachus' s plunging stem.

"You think the commodore would be ordered to withdraw our cutters?"

"It crossed my mind, sir. Otherwise why are we out here, and not even in the Strait of Dover? If it was a ruse, we are too far away to be of any use."

"Is that the opinion of your whole command?" There was steel in his voice.

Paice shrugged heavily. "It is my opinion, sir. I do not ask others while I command here."

"I am glad to know it, Mr Paice."

It was reaching him now, like the rest of the vessel. No room to escape, no place to hide from others at any time of the day or night. Only the masthead lookouts had any sort of privacy.

After this Bolitho knew he would have to go ashore and set up his own headquarters like Hoblyn. And without even Allday to make the sea's rejection bearable. He pounded his hand against the swivel gun's wet muzzle. Where was he now? How was he faring? Perhaps some press gang had already taken him to a ship at Chatham where his explanation had fallen on deaf ears. What could he have hoped to achieve anyway? The endless, unanswered questions seemed to roar through his head like surf in a cave.

He turned his thoughts to Hoblyn, and Paice moved away to consult with Scrope, the master-at-arms, who had been hovering near the tiller for some time, trying to catch his commander's eye. Paice had probably taken Bolitho's silence as another buff, the slamming of a door which both had imagined was open between them.

What then of Hoblyn? He did not come from a successful family or even from a long line of sea-officers. He was, as far as Bolitho knew, the first to enter the navy which he had served without sparing himself until the terrible day he had been changed into a broken and disfigured relic, as he had described himself. Officially he was under the orders of the flag officer in command at the Nore, but like Bolitho was expected to act almost independently. Part of his work was making a list of vessels which in time of war could be purchased from their merchant service and used for the navy. Vessels under construction in the many yards around Suffolk and Kent would also have to be listed.

There were certainly openings for bribery. Money could soon change hands if a shipowner or builder could persuade a senior officer to pay a high price which could then be shared to mutual profit. Some vessels had changed hands several times in peace and war, and like the ill-fated Bounty had made good profits with each transaction.