Alexander Kent - With All Despatch

Bolitho stood up again to lift one panel of the skylight and felt the salt air on his lips.

"Then we will mark them down at sea, gentlemen. It may stir up a hornet's nest, but we shall have results. The more trouble we can make for them, the less interference we shall get with our work. We are ordered to obtain men for the fleet. That we shall do." His eyes flashed in the reflected sunset. "The navy has never taken second place to pirates. I see these smugglers as no different. We will press or prosecute, but first we will try a little action of our own."

He rapped on the door and eventually Young Matthew bowed into the cabin with a tray of goblets and wine.

Bolitho looked at Paice. "Some wine from my home in Falmouth, not smuggled, I trust!" Telemachus was after all Paice's command; it would be seen as high-handed to offer drinks when he was only a guest here. He glanced at the boy and saw that his face was almost back to normal, his cheeks like Devon apples again. But his gaze was glassy, and he had not been seen at all on the passage downriver. One of Allday's sworn-by remedies no doubt. A ship's biscuit ground up to a powder and soaked under a powerful measure of rum. Kill or cure, Allday claimed. Young Matthew was learning more every hour of the day.

Bolitho said, "I can rely on all of you to share this discussion with no one. When the time is ripe, we will hit them."

He lifted his goblet and thought he heard Allday leaning against the door.

"I give you a sentiment, gentlemen. To those across the Channel who are suffering terror which is not of their making, and to our three ships!" He saw Queely's surprised glance.

But they drank deeply, the air touched with rum as the boy refilled the goblets.

The wine was hock, chilled like a Cornish stream in the bilges. Young Matthew had often helped at table under Mrs Ferguson's watchful eye; he was proving that he had forgotten nothing.

Bolitho raised his goblet again and said simply, "To His Majesty. Damnation to all his enemies!"

That night, while Telemachus swung easily to her anchor cable, Bolitho, cramped though he was in a small cot like any junior lieutenant, slept for the first time without the dream's torment. Near the cot, lying on a chest, was his old coat, the watch she had given him tucked carefully into a pocket.

A reminder, that with her memory he could never be alone.

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.