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  He was an excellent seaman, with a master’s eye for wind and current. He seemed to feel the moods of his sturdy command even before the helmsmen who stood on either side of the long tiller bar. But he was slow to answer questions; not resentful, more defensive. As if he searched for any possible criticism, not of himself but of his Telemachus.

  It was a perfect evening after all. Pink clouds as dusk moved across the headland which sheltered the anchorage, with the first lamps already glittering like fireflies from the homes of Queenborough.

  The three cutters might look as alike as peas in a pod to any watching landsmen, but Bolitho had already marked their small differences, no more apparent than right here with their commanders. Lieutenant Charles Queely of the Wakeful was in his mid-twenties, a dark-haired man with a hooked nose and deepset eyes, ever-alert like a falcon. The face of a scholar, a clergyman perhaps; only his speech and dress marked him as a sea-officer. He hailed from the Isle of Man, and came of generations of deep-water sailormen. Lieutenant Hector Vatass of the Snapdragon was a direct contrast. Fair-haired, with a homely face and blue eyes which would deceive no one. An English sailor from almost any century. He was twenty-five, and had served originally in a frigate until she was paid off.

  Bolitho said, “Please light up your pipes if you wish; I am sure that Telemachus has a good store of tobacco!” They smiled politely but nobody moved. It was too soon for confidences.

  Bolitho said, “ Snapdragon will be entering the dockyard in a few days.”

  He saw Vatass start with surprise. “Er—yes, sir.”

  “Make the most of it. It seems likely that overhauls will soon be a thing of the past, and I need—no, I want this flotilla to be ready for anything.”

  Vatass prompted carefully, “Will it be war, sir?”

  Before Bolitho could answer, Queely snapped disdainfully, “Never! The Frogs have their King and Queen in jail, but they’ll let them out soon enough when their bloody-minded National Convention realise they need them!”

  Bolitho said, “I disagree. I believe there will be war, and very soon. Ready or not, it is not unknown for a country to provoke a conflict if only to cover its own failings.” His tone hardened. “And England is even less prepared!”

  Paice folded his arms. “But where do we come into this, sir? We carry out patrols, stop and search some homebound vessels, and occasionally find deserters amongst their people. We also offer support to the revenue vessels when asked—”

  Queely showed his teeth in a grin. “Which ain’t too often!”

  Paice glanced at the sealed skylight. “It’s a mite hot, sir. Could I—”

  Bolitho smiled. “I think not. I need to speak without others lending their attention.”

  He saw Paice’s immediate, defensive frown and added bluntly, “We can trust nobody. Even the most loyal seaman would be hard put to resist a few pieces of gold for what he might see as harmless information.”

  Vatass said vaguely, “But what do we know, sir?”

  Bolitho looked at each face in turn. “Smuggling is rife here, and on the Isle of Thanet in particular. From the Nore to the Downs the trade is barely checked, and there are insufficient revenue vessels to hunt them down.” He placed his hand flat on the table and added, “From what I have seen and heard already, I am certain that smuggling is condoned, even aided, by some in authority. The lieutenant who was stripped and beaten when I found him on the London Road did not obey the letter of his orders. He should have applied for permission from the town before he raided houses and recaptured deserters, men who, bad or not, are desperately needed in the fleet.” He saw his words, sinking in. “Why did he not ask? Why instead did the young lieutenant choose to ignore his orders?” His hand rose and fell with a slap. “He knew that the very authority he looked to would probably warn or offer refuge to the deserters. I have no doubt that there are many such prime seamen earning their keep in the Trade as we sit right here.”

  Queely cleared his throat. “With respect, sir, we have tried in the past to seek out smugglers. Perhaps, and I mean no offence for I know you to be a gallant officer, being away for so long in the Indies and the Great South Sea, you have—” He hesitated as Bolitho’s eyes settled on his.

  Bolitho smiled grimly. “Lost touch? Is that what you meant?”

  Paice said in his gruff voice, “I hate the scum too, sir. But we are so few against so many, and now that you have spoken out, I’ll say my piece if I may.”

  Bolitho nodded. Their guard was down. He had spoken to them like companions, not as a senior officer to his subordinates. Low in rank maybe, but they were all captains, and had the right to be heard.

  Paice said bluntly, “It’s as Charles Queely says.” He gave what might have been a cautious smile. “You being a Cornishman, sir, will know a lot about the Trade and those who live by it. But with respect, it’s nothing compared to this coast. And as you said, sir, it seems that there are more who commit these crimes outside the jails than in them!” The others nodded in agreement.

  Vatass said, “The revenue officers are often outnumbered, and outgunned by the smugglers. Many of their captains are loath to work close inshore for fear of being wrecked and overrun, and ashore their riding-officers risk their lives when there is a big haul being unloaded. They strike terror into anyone who raises a hand against them. Informers are butchered like pigs. Even revenue men are not safe any more.”

  Bolitho asked, “What information do we receive?”

  Paice said, “The coastguard help, so too the revenue officers if they get enough time.”

  Bolitho stood up and banged his head sharply on a beam. He looked at Paice and gave a rueful smile. “You are right. Quite different from a fifth-rate!” This time they all laughed.

  It was a small beginning. He said, “It takes too long. They hold all the advantages. Send for dragoons, and the beach will have been emptied by the time a courier is able to raise the alarm.

  Queely murmured angrily, “ If the poor devil gets through without having his throat slit!”

  Paice said, “And the buggers watch us at anchor, sir. Out there at this moment there’ll be one of them, a fast horse nearby. We’d need fifty cutters and even then—”

  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.

  3. DECOY

  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 acting-master, Erasmus Chesshyre, giving some instructions to the two helmsmen, then his slithering footsteps as he joined him at the bulwark.

  Together they watched the grey-green 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 lee-side. 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.”

  Bo
litho 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 content.

  He said, “Like me, you grieve. Some think it leaves you vulnerable.” He gripped a swivel gun on the bulwark as the deck slanted down again and added sharply, “But I believe it makes you—care, as you put it.”

  Paice swallowed hard. It was like being stripped and made defenceless. How did he know? What memory did he carry to distress him?

  He said gruffly, “Never fear, sir, I’m with you—”

  Bolitho touched his arm and turned away. He seemed to hear the admiral’s words in his brain. Use them as you will within the scope of your orders. Spoken words, not written ones. Valueless if things went wrong.

  He said, “You may live to regret that, Mr Paice, but I thank you.

  Allday appeared from the companionway, a tankard held carefully in one fist while he waited for the deck to rear upright again.

  He held it out to Bolitho, his eyes swiftly examining the men nearby, Chesshyre the master, with his mate Dench who was shortly taking over the watch. Luke Hawkins the boatswain, a great cask of a man. It was hard to see him at the tender age of seven when he had been packed off to sea as a ship’s boy. Telemachus carried no purser as she did not rate one. The clerk, Percivale Godsalve, a reedy little man whose pale features had defied all the months at sea, did duty as purser too. Evans, a tough gunner’s mate, had said to Allday, “No passengers in this ship, matey! We all does a bit of everythin’!”