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Chapter 1

April, 1812

She entered the inn's common room and was surprised to find him settled there, deep in his usual wing chair by the fire, a glass of brandy waiting untouched at his elbow. She hastened to his side, though he did not seem to notice as he stared fixedly into the leaping flames. She gently laid a hand on his shoulder, and only then did he slowly turn to look up at her. The expression on his face was one she had never seen there before: a curious and unsettling mixture of resolve, of hope -- and of fear.

Concerned, she drew up a chair to join him. "Did your friend not arrive?" she asked, softly.

He shook his head, and returned to his study of the fire. "Oh, no... he was here. He had to return to his ship." His voice was distant, preoccupied.

"I am indeed sorry." She smiled reassuringly at him and placed a comforting hand on his arm... perhaps he was simply disappointed. "I know you would have liked to have spent more time in his company."

He regarded her bleakly. "No. No... that is not it. He brought me... this."

He looked down; only then did she notice the objects in his lap. He handed her a heavy parchment envelope, inscribed

Capt. William Bush, Esq.
HMS Nonsuch

She held it in her hands, not daring to breathe.

"And... this."

She returned the envelope to him as he handed her a black japanned box. She opened it slowly, carefully. Inside, nestled amid cream colored silk, lay a single object glittering in the firelight. An epaulette.

She looked up at him, her eyes wide. "My God."

He smiled shakily at her. "Indeed. I am to be his flag captain. He said..." He shook his head in wonder; his eyes seemed unnaturally bright. "He said... he'd have none other."

June, 1811

The Witch of Endor rocked gently in the swells as if she were anxious to be gone, away from this enforced immobility. It would not be long, now... she awaited only the arrival of her captain. Then she would be released from her captivity, freed to fly back to England at last.

Her captain's boat was fully manned, and idling alongside the flagship. Her crew sat stolidly in the unseasonably warm sunshine, waiting patiently, trying not to appear to be watching the two officers above them at the entry port.

"Goodbye, Mr. Bush." Hornblower smiled, corrected himself. "Captain Bush. Godspeed."

Hornblower continued to smile, unwilling to allow the moment to end. Unwilling to release Bush's hard hands.

"Goodbye, sir." Bush grinned back at him, playing the game. "Horatio."

Bush managed to detach his hands from Hornblower's grasp and made his way to the entry port. Hornblower knew that he could hardly lean over the side to assure himself that Bush safely navigated the descent. The fire he had seen blazing in Bush's blue eyes at the flag captain's tactless offer of a bosun's chair had decided that for him. He did, however, allow himself a sigh of relief at the absence of either obvious confusion or resounding splash.

He watched as the boat pulled away, the oars rising and falling in perfect rhythm. Bush sat calmly in the sternsheets, as though he had done this a hundred times and was a captain of long standing. Hornblower knew, of course, what this moment must have meant to him.

Bush's impassive features were dignified, almost patrician in their stillness. Though one had only to look at his hands to know that it was an accident of birth, and not reflective of circumstance. Those hands Hornblower had clasped were craggy and battered. Scarred and misshapen knuckles, a legacy of God knew how many boarding actions; old, puckered burns forever tattooed with the blue-black stain of powder; callouses borne of his ungovernable tendency to throw himself into whatever task he had set his seamen to, a testament to his unswerving belief that one led men, and did not drive them.

And this was the first time he would lead a command of his own... and, no doubt, the last.

Hornblower watched with no small measure of guilt as Bush swung himself out of the boat and climbed the Witch's side with surprisingly little difficulty, his strong arms compensating easily for the added burden of the wooden leg.

It was a curious thing, he mused. Had he been asked to describe Bush, he would have painted a picture of a far larger, sturdier man. Bush was indeed physically powerful, but it was his inner steel and implacable temperament that gave him true stature. But that steel was to be tested, he knew... and soon.

Admiral Gambier had given Bush command of the Witch, charging him to return the lovely little cutter to England, carrying dispatches from the fleet. But, once there, he would find that there was precious little chance of a sea appointment for a one-legged and exceedingly junior captain. Gambier had made mention of a dockyard post available at Sheerness. Bush, typically, had attempted to muster an appropriate amount of enthusiasm so as not to distress his captain. Hornblower had seen easily through his forced cheer to find the veiled terror in his eyes. Putting Bush in a dockyard, behind a desk, would be akin to putting a lion in a cage.

But there was damn little he could do about it. Worse, he knew with brutal and inescapable clarity that it was he who had brought Bush to this. When Bush had fallen on the splintered deck of the Sutherland, blood pulsing from the remains of his shattered leg, he had stubbornly insisted upon being left there. Hornblower had coldly countermanded those orders, and Bush had been carried below. For Bush's sake, he had told himself then. He had eventually come to the uncomfortable realization that it had been for his own.

Despite his best intentions and protestations to the contrary, he had allowed Bush to occupy a place in his heart that he thought had been carefully guarded. He had not fully understood it himself until the seemingly endless overland journey that was to take them to Paris and certain death. For him, it had been misery; for the wounded Bush, it could only have been hellish. Bush had borne it as best he could: sometimes lucid, sometimes not, but in silence except when a particularly jolting lurch wrenched an outcry from him. But through the worst of it, Bush had clung to his hand like a drowning man; at times, so tightly that he could feel his bones grate. It had left his hand stiff and sore for days. But that was a small thing, and he had said nothing of it.

He had allowed himself to find satisfaction in his friend's recovery. Bush, for his part, had seemed accepting of his loss -- until he had begun the desperate attempt to learn to walk again. Hornblower had been aghast, then, to see the stark fear in Bush's eyes. This stolid man who had stood unmoved in the very teeth of a screaming gale, before violent broadside, or the mad crush of hand-to-hand combat was terrified by his own unaccustomed weakness, and by the uncertain existence that now lay before him. Once as he had been helping Bush stand after yet another painful fall, he had looked into those honest blue eyes -- and found only reproach. It was at that moment the sure knowledge of his own guilt had stabbed him in the heart.

He had pulled away then, unwilling to face the man whom he had condemned to life. But he had been incapable of maintaining that distance for long. Bush's equanimity had returned with his strength, and he never spoke of it. Even Hornblower's firmest resolve could not withstand the quiet onslaught of Bush's steadfast good will.

And now their roles were reversed. Bush wore a new uniform which had been hastily assembled from the sea-chests of several of the fleet's captains and fitted by the flagship's own tailor. And bearing a commander's epaulette on the left shoulder -- a thing undreamed of during those dark days. Hornblower still wore the old and crumpled uniform coat that had survived French captivity. He would purchase a new one in Portsmouth, though not with the anticipation of some new posting; instead, it would be selected with dread. For all that awaited him in Portsmouth would be court-martial. He had not only allowed the Sutherland to be destroyed... he had struck her colours.

Admiral Gambier had been encouraging; the mere fact of Bush's promotion was clear evidence of that. Gambier himself had survived court-martial following the miserable affair at Basque Roads. There Gambier, a deeply religious man -- one could almost label him a zealot -- had proved more inclined to distribute religious tracts amongst his men than round-shot amongst the French. But his subsequent court-martial had been a whitewash, a farce. Hornblower knew that he had insufficient patronage to expect the same -- nor would he want it.

Hornblower sighed and extracted a small telescope from his pocket. Even that was not his: everything he owned had been lost with the Sutherland or taken from him in captivity. He peered through it and located Bush, who was already deep in the throes of getting the little cutter underway. He smiled; he could almost hear Bush's familiar bellow. Men were scurrying, antlike, aloft. Almost as one, the great gaff-mainsail and jibs were hoisted and the topsail tumbled out of its lashings.

Once released they billowed and filled and the little cutter came to life, gliding smoothly out of the shadow of the fleet. It had been smartly done, particularly when one recalled that this was a newly assembled crew, under a new captain. He obviously need have no fears on Bush's account: whatever disabilities his injury may have caused, his seamanship was in no way affected. Hornblower found himself grinning hugely, deeply satisfied. Bush, at least, was back in his element: for now, that proved to be enough.

***

Chapter 2

Bush had been so focused on climbing the Witch's low side without evidence of effort that he was wholly unprepared for the reception that greeted him on deck. He had been piped aboard with as much ceremony as any captain of long tenure, and was astonished to find a proper ship's company awaiting him. He had expected a rag-tag assembly of the dregs of the fleet; certainly not these competent-looking seamen neatly attired in their duck trousers and identical checked shirts obviously fresh from the flagship's slop-chest.

The sight unnerved him. He had followed many a captain through innumerable entry ports, and supervised the assembly of countless side-parties, but never, not once, had those pipes been for him... and recent events had all but convinced him that any hope of it was lost. He swallowed hard, schooled his face to a mask of proper authoritative stillness, and began to read himself in. And discovered, with some distress, that the words that had been so sharp upon the page only moments before were now unaccountably blurred.

Something had tugged at the edge of his memory; after the proper introductions were completed and words had been spoken, he turned back toward the entry port. Standing beside it, bosn's pipe dangling on its lanyard round his neck, was a familiar stocky figure. He stared in disbelief. A little grey could be seen in the man's unruly curls -- rather like his own, in fact -- but there was no mistaking that cheeky grin. "My God. Styles."

"Aye, sir. 'S me, right enough." The man bobbed, and knuckled his forehead. "Bos'n now, sir, in Volcano."

Bush raised an eyebrow. "But... what are you doing here, then?"

Styles' grin widened. "The cap'n asked for volunteers to take the Witch t' Portsmouth, an' then come back on th' dispatch-packet. When I 'eard it was you who was t' take 'er... well..."

Bush inclined his head. "H'm. Even after all these years, you could not resist the opportunity to try my patience once more."

"Aye, sir. That's 'bout it."

Bush grunted, and turned away. Stopped, looked over his shoulder, smiled slightly... a smile, perhaps, that only Styles might see. "And Styles... thank you."

Styles nodded. "I'd not 'ave missed it, sir."

As he stood for a moment, watching Bush as he limped awkwardly aft to confer with the cutter's master, the Marine drummer beside him nudged him sharply in the ribs. "Thought fer a minute he weren't glad t' see yer."

Styles shrugged, unconcerned. "Nah. That's just 'is way."

The drummer grinned, displaying crooked, tobacco-stained teeth. "Bet 'cher glad he ain't dead after all, eh?"

Styles shook his head, his face suddenly solemn. "I was. But y'know, Jonesey, now... now, I ain't so sure."

For months he had thought both Bush and Hornblower were dead. Everyone had. He had been delighted to hear of their escape, and curiously proud of their audacious recapture of the Witch. But now as he watched Bush, he felt only regret. To him, Bush had always been immovable, a tower of strength upon which he could confidently rely. That tower had been battered, mercilessly shaken to its very foundation, and now, for the first time, he was unsure of its resilience.

His thoughts were abruptly interrupted by Bush's harsh blare. "Styles! If you intend to remain a bos'n, I suggest you stop mooning about like a love-sick girl and shift yourself aft!" Styles hurried to his side, grinning despite the rebuke. Perhaps all was right with the world after all, he thought contentedly.

Bush's hands were calmly clasped behind his back, his expression unruffled as ever; but as he caught Styles' eye, Styles could sense the excitement that was barely held in check. Bush nodded to the sailing-master. "Very well, Mr. Jameson, Mr. Styles... let us get her under way."

Styles, raising the silver call to his lips, studied his captain's profile. The same quiet confidence, the air of calm authority: all that had not changed. All was right with the world, indeed.

The Witch was soon well underway, and had set her course for Portsmouth. Bush had to admit to himself, grudgingly, that it had been nicely done. Appearances had not been deceiving; these seamen knew their business. As did Styles: Bush was gratified to observe that Styles had become an exceedingly competent bos'n, passing his orders quickly and efficiently, with a minimum of fuss. Matthews had been an excellent tutor, he concluded. It did not occur to him that perhaps he had taught Styles much as well.

But though his men were beyond reproach, the Witch most certainly was not. He looked about the little vessel's maindeck in dismay. Upon close inspection, it was obvious that she had been woefully neglected during her year in captivity, a condition which sufficed to further Bush's lack of regard for the quality of French seamanship.

Styles, beside him, followed his gaze and eyed the Witch's weather-beaten deck in disgust. "God, sir... she's a mess. Th' dockyard'll 'ave their 'ands full wi' 'er."

"No, Mr. Styles..." Bush turned to him, a wicked gleam in his eye. "You will."

"Sir?" Styles asked, his voice full of trepidation, as though hoping against hope that he did not already know what was in his captain's mind.

"You are my bos'n, are you not?" Bush raised a questioning eyebrow at the burly seaman. "With honour comes responsibility."

Styles groaned inwardly, but nodded respectfully nonetheless. "Aye, aye, sir." He hurried off, bellowing the names of those seamen unlucky enough to not be occupied elsewhere.

Bush calmly surveyed the maindeck from his position aft near the tiller. Styles obviously had matters well in hand. He was already busily setting parties to the work of replacing the tattered rigging, holystoning the shabby decks to their former pristine whiteness, restoring a bright sheen to tarnished brass. Bush smiled to himself. Damned if he would bring this ship -- his ship -- into Portsmouth in a disgraceful state.

He looked up into the rigging; the sails were drawing well, and the Witch was holding her course without effort. It would be some time before he would find it necessary to change tack, and thus could take full advantage of this opportunity to study his charts. Bush nodded to the master. "I shall be below in my cabin, should I be needed," he said, and headed for the companion hatch.

The companion ladder was short but steeper than that on the flagship: he stumbled on it and nearly fell, barely catching himself in time. He hoped that his misstep had gone unnoticed, as it would hardly do for the captain to be seen nearly landing in an undignified heap. Odd, that he had not been troubled by it when they were bringing the Witch in to rejoin the fleet. No, he thought, smiling a bit at the memory of it... it was not odd at all. He had only once left the maindeck; in fact he had scarcely left the tiller during those few long days.

Bush was not overly tall; still, as he entered the tiny, airless cabin, he had to stoop and bend his head to avoid knocking himself senseless on the deck beams. Fortunately, some prior captain had wisely situated the chart-table directly under the skylight; he could avail himself of both the light and the additional headroom it afforded. He leaned on the table, spreading out the charts before him, and was soon preoccupied with pen and brass dividers.

An hour, then two, passed unnoticed. His concentration was broken at last by some unfamiliar sound; he raised his head and was surprised to find that the late-afternoon sun had faded, and the cabin had grown surprisingly dim. The noise repeated itself, more urgently. Someone was tapping at the cabin door... and had been for some time, it seemed.

"Come," he called.

The cabin door opened to reveal the stocky figure of Styles, carrying a tray in one massive -- and none too clean -- paw.

Bush shook his head helplessly at the sight. "God spare me, Styles... please tell me that you are not the cook as well."

Styles grinned. "No, sir, just 'elpin' out, like."

Styles bustled about the minute cabin, laying out the meagre silver, and filling a wine goblet with what appeared to be a decent claret. "Th' flag cap'n sent 'couple bottles over for ye'." He pulled out a chair, and gestured to it. "'ere, sir, 'afore it gets cold."

Bush sighed, returned his pen to its stand, and stumped over to the table.

Styles watched him expressionlessly. "I'll 'elp ye, sir, wi' yer chair. An' beggin' yer pardon sir... I set some of th' men 't riggin' a handrope fr' th' ladder."

Bush stopped in the act of lowering himself into the chair, and lurched upright. "Damn your eyes, Styles!" he flared. "I am not some helpless goddamned cripple!"

Styles stood stock-still, staring openmouthed at Bush and the raw fury blazing violently in his blue eyes. Bush glared back at him until Styles dropped his gaze to the floor, and mumbled "No, sir. Sorry, sir."

"Leave me, damn you," Bush growled savagely.

Styles obediently fled, the door slamming shut behind him. He was not so completely taken aback that he failed to notice the sound of a wine goblet smashing against the bulkhead, as though it had been hurled there with considerable force.

Bush flung himself into the chair, still furious... but, more than that, deeply ashamed. He watched the rivulets of claret drip down the bulkhead like blood to join the puddle already staining the floorcloth. Styles was right, of course.

He had been blinded by the joy of it, by the fulfillment of every sea-officer's life-long dream. He had allowed himself to believe that this was the beginning, and not the end. But this was not a command. This was a brief pleasure cruise, a sham. It was suddenly painfully clear that to have been given command of the Witch was no honour. Someone had to bring her in to Portsmouth for refit and to deliver the fleet's dispatches; a senior midshipman could do it. But he was the officer least-needed by the fleet, the one who would not be missed. To think otherwise was folly. Bush could think of several one-armed captains still on active service. There had been Nelson, too, though Bush could hardly utter his own name in the same breath with that of the fierce little admiral. But a sea appointment, for a one-legged captain with no interest or influence? Impossible, unheard of... he knew it. And his promotion? It was a gift, a recompense for damages. Unearned.

He thrust the untouched plate aside. Sham or no, he was not going to waste what little was left to him by sulking belowdecks. He left the cabin, brushing roughly past a small knot of seamen without so much as a glance of acknowledgement. Fortunate, perhaps, as he might have noticed their faces, some furrowed with honest concern, others openly curious. The Witch was a small vessel, and his voice had lost none of its power during his time ashore.

Bush carefully climbed the companion-ladder- -- disdaining the damned hand-rope -- -and walked to the rail. He leaned on it, staring out into the gathering darkness. He could hear the wind thrumming in the shrouds and stays, a strange sort of music that only one born to it could hear. He took a deep lungful of the crisp air, enjoying the salt tang of it untainted by the more mundane odours of civilization, touched only by the muted scents of tar and hemp.

He felt a constriction in his throat, a heaviness in his chest -- matched only by the emptiness of his heart. He would have been hard-pressed to fully articulate the thoughts causing this profound yet indefinable sadness. Had he been able, he might have realized that despite his inability to put it into words, he knew that this was the last time he would feel truly alive. Men went to sea for a number of reasons, and many loved the life, but for him it was at the very core of his being. Time spent ashore was meaningless; it was only at sea that life had purpose. And strangely, he had felt most alive when his life was most in peril: from wind and waves, or enemy shot. That was life itself, and it was over.

He ran his eyes slowly over the deck, taking in the graceful beauty of the little cutter. With all plain sail set, the Witch was scudding along like a wraith about to take flight. He sighed thoughtfully. The Witch of Endor... Saul's witch. The Biblical Saul had lost everything; even God had turned his hand against him. Saul, in his desperation, had gone to her. She conjured the shade of the dead Samuel for him, foretelling his destiny; and then... when he was faint from weakness, she offered him sustenance, strengthening him to meet that fate.

This Witch had shown him his own fate all too clearly. Sustenance, though, was another matter entirely. He ran his hand gently along the polished oak of the rail, much as a man might caress a lover. 'So, Witch...' he mused '...do you have that for me?'

He shook his head at his own absurd foolishness, and began to slowly pace the deck. No comfort there, he found; the rhythmic thud of the wooden leg as it struck the deck planking echoed hollowly in his ears. It was inescapable: he would never be free of it, and he hated the very thought. He turned away in disgust, and headed for the companion way.

Someone was there before him; in the dimness, he could barely make out a shadowy figure kneeling at the base of the ladder. The man unshuttered his lantern and reached up to begin the task of disassembling the hand-rope; the lamplight illuminated them both.

Styles looked up at him; Bush was ashamed to see a trace of fear in the big man's eyes. Humiliation, rage, loss... all overwhelmed him, defeating any chance of apology or kind word. In its place he snapped, coldly, "Leave it."

***

The passage to Portsmouth was fast and uneventful, much to Bush's deep regret; there were no gales or adverse winds to delay them. He slept as little as was humanly possible; the crew became accustomed to the sight of his vague outline haunting the darkened deck like some lost soul, and to the irregular sound of his step above their heads throughout the night.

All too soon, the Witch's anchor splashed into the light chop of Portsmouth harbour. Bush stared past the tossing whitehorses, past the other vessels anchored there, to gaze at the city beyond the cobbled quay. Every other time his ship had dropped anchor here, he had felt brim-full with anticipation. His arrival had meant new orders, a new posting, or perhaps simply a run ashore, with all the pleasures Portsmouth might offer. No run ashore, this, he thought grimly. Run aground, more like: stuck, hard and fast.

He heard footfalls tentatively approach, then stop; he turned to find Styles a few paces distant, waiting patiently to be noticed. It was time: Styles had assembled the side-party at the entry port. The man had performed his duties well, but had kept his distance these last few days, treading warily about him as one might around an unpredictable cur.

Styles had deserved better, he thought with regret. And it was too late now to make amends. "Mr. Styles..." he tried to keep the harshness from his voice "...have my dunnage -- there is not much -- transferred to The George."

Styles eyed him curiously. "Yer not goin' 'ome, sir?"

Bush's detached expression did not falter. "No... not as yet. I will take a room there, as I am called to testify on Captain Hornblower's behalf at his court-martial. After that... after that, I suppose I shall."

Styles shook his head. "'Tain't fair, sir."

"No, Mr. Styles... it rarely is."

They walked together to the entry port; no words were necessary. Bush looked over the assembled crew, nodded to them, and touched his hat. "Thank you, men... you have done well."

Styles' pipe sang out, and Bush was gone, a waterman's boat carrying him the short distance to the quay. Styles watched him as he stepped awkwardly onto the jetty and carefully climbed the stone steps, the fleet's dispatches tucked under one arm. He sighed heavily. "So 'ave you, Cap'n. So 'ave you."

It was not lost on him that Bush had never looked back.

***

Chapter 3

For a few brief moments, Captain Horatio Hornblower stood dazed and alone, blinking in the bright sunlight. The court-martial was over, finally behind him. The Court's deliberations had ended, and he had reentered the cabin to find the hilt of his sword toward him, waiting for him to take it up again. 'Most honorably acquitted.' The words still rang in his ears, though he did not yet fully permit himself to believe them. The doubts and recriminations that had so occupied his mind were apparently not shared by the Court; their decision had been swift and unanimous. They had pored over numerous reports and depositions, including his own, and heard his first lieutenant's direct testimony; a testimony that had been delivered in a strangely flat and dispassionate tone. Strange, perhaps, to one who had known Bush so well... but it had proved entirely effective.

The doors to the great cabin opened abruptly, disgorging an ebullient group of uniformed officers, each intent upon wringing his hand, or clapping him heartily upon the back. And there at last was Bush, his hand outstretched. Hornblower accepted it and clasped it warmly; Bush's familiar firm grip was an anchor in the storms that raged within and threatened to take him flat aback.

Bush smiled, and added his own congratulations to the multitude. But the smile seemed somehow forced and did not reach his eyes. Odd, Hornblower thought, so different from the exhilarated captain he had bidden farewell on this very deck only short weeks past. Perhaps Bush was merely tired, or, conceivably, in pain. He had come to know the man well enough during their years of service together to know with complete certainty that Bush would never admit to either, even if pressed. Thus he returned the smile as if nothing were amiss and moved on to the other well-wishers who crowded around him.

Bush stood apart and watched the noisy and jubilant assemblage for a moment, then turned his back on them and stumped away; he knew Hornblower would not notice. Simply being aboard the Victory -- even at anchor -- was torture, and he wanted rid of it. All of it -- the creak of her timbers, the measured slap of the waves against her hull, the mingled odors of tar, salt air, and massed humanity. The past few weeks had been an endless stream of farewells, and he had had enough.

A hastily-mustered side party piped him off; the flag-captain's own cox'n rowed him ashore in the captain's gig, though Bush paid it little attention. He was instead lost in thought, and remained so throughout the short carriage ride to The George. He entered the small room that had served as his temporary lodging, stripped off his uniform jacket, and clawed violently at the neckcloth that seemed suddenly to strangle him. He sagged miserably into the room's single chair. For the first time in his life -- or at least, in his Naval life -- he had no idea of what it was that lay before him.

Immediately after his arrival in Portsmouth he had been summoned to Whitehall to deliver his sworn testimony and reports to the Admiralty; however, to his consternation, he had been given no orders. He had attempted to convince himself that perhaps they had been awaiting the outcome of Hornblower's trial before he could be safely given an appropriate appointment ashore: an attempt which, thus far, had proved less than wholly successful.

He considered the notion of taking a short leave at home prior to receiving an assignment -- if one was indeed forthcoming -- but rejected it immediately. His mother and sisters had come to Portsmouth from Chichester promptly upon hearing the news of his Lazarus-like resurrection; to his relief, they had not stayed long. They had clucked and fluttered about him much like a brood of overwrought hens; the prospect of enduring their ministrations for days on end loomed before him like an eternity spent in hell.

He was still seated uncomfortably on the room's hard chair, staring blankly at the wall, when he was abruptly summoned back to the present by a brisk knock at the door. He rose, opening it to find a uniformed midshipman saluting him crisply with one white-gloved hand while proffering a letter with the other. "Commander Bush, sir? The Admiralty's compliments."

The midshipman stood waiting patiently as Bush accepted the letter, broke the heavy Admiralty seal, and rapidly scanned its contents. As Bush looked up, the young man added, "A carriage will call for you within the quarter hour, sir." The midshipman saluted him once more, and left him standing there in the doorway, his thoughts in a turmoil of questions and uncertainty.

A summons to Whitehall, again, with no further explanation. He sighed and began to pack. If nothing else, a lifetime at sea had left him fully resigned to patiently endure whatever vagaries the Admiralty might display.

***

Bush examined himself critically in the long mirror the Admiralty had thoughtfully provided on the parlour wall, knowing that legions of nervous captains before him had doubtless done the same. He straightened his neck-stock and twitched down his waistcoat for what seemed the thousandth time. Fair enough, he decided. He even smiled slightly despite himself at the sight of the still-unfamiliar commander's epaulette, though the smile faded as his gaze traveled downward. One polished silver-buckled shoe, not two. He squared his shoulders and glared back at his reflection in defiance. That had been gained honourably, and could not be helped.

He knew full well that he had been summoned here to be awarded command of nothing more than a desk in some godforsaken dockyard. It was simply the way of things, and had to be accepted as such. Though he would be damned before he would forsake his pride and humbly grovel for it.

He began to pace the thickly carpeted floor, and felt some small satisfaction in the observation that it had gotten considerably easier to do so. After leaving the Witch in Portsmouth, he had immediately had located a tradesman all too familiar with the flood of men missing limbs and had been fitted with a proper leg to replace the jury-rigged one Hornblower and Brown had built. Now fully healed, he was no longer forced to bear his weight on his bent knee: the leg could be fastened directly to what remained of his own. Though it was still somewhat painful, he felt far better about it. He retained a marked hitch in his gait -- always would, no doubt; even with practice there could be no concealing it -- but recovering the use of his knee had made a world of difference.

He looked up sharply as he heard the polished door creak open. The bored-looking young man framed in the doorway studied him disdainfully and snapped "Bush?"

Bush returned the contemptuous stare as though the elegantly uniformed man were nothing more than an uncommonly slack midshipman. Clearly he was some admiral's pampered aide who had never seen the sea but from some drawing-room window. "Yes," he responded coldly.

Surprisingly, the young man smiled slightly at that and ducked his head. "Please, sir, come with me." It seemed to Bush that the man was somehow oddly gratified that he had been immediately recognized for precisely what he was. He led Bush down a seemingly endless corridor, finally halting before a gleaming mahogany door. He raised his hand to knock; hesitated, and turned back. "Good luck, sir. I have heard of your escape, and the recapture of the cutter. I wish..." he hesitated, shamefaced. "I wish you the best." He swung back and knocked at the door, then opened it to announce "Commander Bush, sir," and motioned for Bush to enter. "Admiral Chadwick, sir," he whispered as Bush passed.

Bush entered the richly appointed room and snapped to attention in front of a huge and ornately carved desk that dwarfed the grey and wizened man seated behind it. He recalled that in his prime Chadwick had been something of a fire-eater, bold and innovative. It was startling to realize that this must be the same man; yet as Chadwick looked up, Bush could see that the fire had not yet left his eyes.

"Ah, Commander Bush." Chadwick motioned to a chair. "Please, sit. There is no point in aggravating your injury further."

Bush lifted his chin. "There is no need for that, sir; I am quite recovered."

The admiral studied him with a calculating eye. Bush looked fit enough and there had been a hint of challenge in his response, however respectfully it had been delivered.

"Nonetheless, Commander... sit. I dislike peering up at you."

Bush obeyed, and lowered himself smoothly into the indicated chair, hoping that his face did not betray him.

Chadwick folded his arms and settled back into his chair, fixing him with a steely and uncomfortably penetrating stare. "As you must be aware, Commander Bush, due to your unfortunate injury your prospects for reassignment are now most limited. Admiral Gambier did, I believe, inform you of the availability of a post as commissioner of the dockyard at Sheerness?"

Bush nodded. "Yes, sir, he did."

The little admiral grunted. "Aye, a nice safe posting, with no further threat of losing life or limb to enemy shot. I have no doubt that an efficient officer such as you were would brook no nonsense from those dockyard thieves or tolerate incompetence and slackness from the labourers."

"No, sir, I most certainly would not." Bush's words were emphatic, yet a hint of resignation -- one might almost call it hopelessness -- was visible in his eyes. Try as he might, he could not entirely conceal his lack of enthusiasm for the prospect of spending the remainder of his career badgering unwilling and often corrupt minor dockyard officials. Yet... he could hardly afford to do otherwise. The salary was generous, he knew, and would be much appreciated by the sisters who depended on him. And the notion of idly living out his life on half-pay did not even bear thinking about.

"So." The grey head nodded firmly. "It is settled, then. If Bonaparte continues his quest for power -- as I am certain he shall -- I predict that you will be an exceedingly busy man before long."

Bush attempted to muster an eager response and failed miserably. "Yes, sir."

Chadwick eyed him speculatively. "Did you know," he began, "that some of Britain's enemies can be found within her very shores? No, I do not speak of foreign spies, Commander: I speak of our own countrymen. Our country is desperate for revenue, especially now as we prepare for an escalation of this war which we know to be inevitable. Yet the smugglers -- British smugglers -- continue to bleed us dry. Smuggling is rife along our coasts, and accepted by much of the citizenry as an honourable profession. The Revenue Service is incapable of controlling it; and, at times, seems most unwilling to do so as well."

Bush was entirely perplexed at this new tack their discussion had taken, yet he could not fully contain his curiosity. "Unwilling, sir?"

"Aye, Commander: unwilling." The admiral watched Bush narrowly, gauging the man's reactions. "Not long ago the captain of the revenue-cutter Swallow confronted the schooner Kent -- a well-known smuggling vessel -- and, in the words of his own report, "was warned their guns were in readiness to fire" and "by reason of their superior force, was obliged to sheer off". The same stalwart captain was patrolling Saltburn Bay when the Kent boldly sailed in and ordered Swallow away. That brave man promptly left with his tail between his legs, allowing the Kent to deliver her contraband cargo unmolested."

"He hauled off, sir? Twice?" Bush's tone was a mixture of incredulity and indignation, the authenticity of which was undeniable.

"He did indeed, Commander, without a shot fired. Anathema to a man of action such as yourself, eh?"

Bush was uncertain of how best to answer; the admiral had made it abundantly clear to him that he was a man of action no longer. He had the uncomfortable sensation that he was being made sport of, and did not like it; and was thus provoked into growling an imprudent response which the admiral's ears could not quite catch, though it sounded suspiciously like "...goddamned coward..."

Chadwick concealed a smile. No, he had not misjudged the man. Not at all.

"The Navy has dispatched one vessel to... aid... the Revenue Service in the control of this foul traffic; although one is insufficient, it is all we had to spare. It seems you have provided us with another badly-needed cutter, Commander. Would you care to stay with her?" He now smiled freely, enjoying the faint play of expression on Bush's face despite the man's obvious efforts to remain outwardly unmoved. "Or is the lure of the dockyard too great?"

***

Chapter 4

Bush leaned back against the cracked and dusty leather of the coach seat, grimaced, and rubbed the back of his neck in a futile attempt to relieve the knot of tension that had stubbornly settled there. He had set out for Cornwall immediately upon receiving his orders: the same orders that were now spread open across his knees. He had been studying them, vague as they were, desperately trying to glean some further knowledge or insight from their pages. He closed his eyes as the coach jolted along the rutted track, allowing his thoughts to drift back to the events of the past few days.

He had been stunned by Chadwick's words; so much so that -- to his shame, now -- he had gasped audibly and had been merely able to stammer "Thank you... thank you, sir."

Chadwick had grinned indulgently; he knew full well the enormity of his offer, and the effect it must have had on the officer before him. "My aide will deliver the full orders to your lodging as soon as my clerk completes them, but I can tell you the bones of it." He leaned forward across the desk; his smile vanished and was immediately replaced by a grim intensity. "The Trade has been particularly brisk in Cornwall, and much of it appears to be centered around Mount's Bay. The transfer of goods and the subsequent loss of their revenue are harming us deeply. But of greater concern to me is the transfer of information. Napoleon himself claims that most of the information he receives from England comes to him via the smugglers.

The revenue service has been incapable of controlling this traffic; it is my belief that their efforts have been less than, shall we say... wholehearted? The whole miserable affair smacks of collusion, though as yet I have no evidence to prove it. Given my suspicions, you will have full authority, and will report to no one but me. You are to have as little contact with the local Revenue Service as possible..." Chadwick's eyes narrowed "...which ought not to be a difficult thing to achieve. Relations between the Service and the Navy have never been cordial; and I suspect that they will not be at all pleased to have your 'assistance'. Particularly as they are only noticeable by their absence."

"'Th' devil's awa wi' th' Exciseman,'" Bush muttered, under his breath.

Chadwick's eyebrows rose. "Burns? You surprise me, Commander." He smiled suddenly. "May you continue to do so.

You are to leave immediately for St. Michael's Mount, to direct the actions of the two cutters we can spare. Your lodgings in Cornwall have been prearranged for you; you will be taken to them. The cutter Greyhound has recently arrived on station, under the command of a Lieutenant James Dawes. He is young, but comes highly recommended; he has shown both intelligence and initiative. Your Witch of Endor will be refitted for revenue work: she and her officers and crew will join you as soon as that refit is complete."

Bush had smiled then at Chadwick's words -- 'your Witch of Endor'; they made him smile even now. She was still his, after all. Bush knew that he was no doubt expected to direct the cutters' movements from shore, but try as he might, he could find nothing in his orders that specifically commanded him to do so. He would maintain his official lodgings, but could not begin to imagine himself anywhere but on the deck of the Witch.

His excitement, though, was becoming tinged with more than a bit of trepidation which was increasing steadily as the miles fell away. This was the first time in his many years of service that he would truly hold a full command, one in which the planning and the responsibility for success or failure rested squarely on his own shoulders, and he could not help but wonder whether he was equal to the task. He had served many captains throughout his career and knew full well that rank was not necessarily reflective of ability. He had always been confident of his own proficiency for successfully implementing another's plans; he knew that Hornblower had implicitly trusted him to do so. And he had been content with that, as he had been more than aware of Hornblower's superior ability from the start.

But Bush was also more than aware of Hornblower's lack of faith in his capacity to act on his own initiative. He smiled ruefully to himself... he had been far more aware than Hornblower ever knew. Hornblower had been quite wrong about that; he had never truly comprehended that his faithful first lieutenant had understood him thoroughly.

So Hornblower had indeed been wrong. Could it be that he was equally mistaken here? Bush was unable to call to mind a single instance in which he had failed Hornblower; any actions under his command had always been successfully carried to completion. So was that mistrust truly based in fact or was it simply a reflection of the man's constitutional unwillingness to share the consequences of failure? That was an attitude rarely found amongst those in authority -- most were more than eager to cast blame on inferiors, whether deserving or not -- but he knew from bitter experience that Hornblower possessed it in abundance.

Time would tell, he supposed.

He looked up from his reverie and began to gather up the scattered papers. His instincts had told him some time ago that they were nearing the coast. The air was crisp and clear and sharply tinged with salt, awakening that primal fire that resided in every true sailor's heart -- that fire which still burned brightly in his own.

The coach slowed, and rocked to a halt in front of a small but tidy-looking inn. The Two Brothers: this was the lodging engaged for him by the admiralty. Bush stepped carefully down onto the worn cobbles and stretched to ease the stiffness of the journey from his body. He withdrew the admiralty's letter from his jacket, opened the door... and found himself face to face with a tall, aproned, and unsmiling woman whose very demeanour clearly indicated that it was she who presided there. A large, bulky man loomed over her shoulder, yet Bush found the woman to be the far more forbidding presence.

Bony and angular, she glowered fiercely at him, her eyes level with his, her hands planted firmly on her hips. Her jaw jutted and her lips compressed into a thin hard line as she studied him, her gaze traveling from head to foot and back again.

"You'd be Commander Bush, then," she demanded.

They were of an age, yet under that grim and relentless scrutiny he felt more like an errant schoolboy than a commander in the King's navy.

"Er... yes, ma'am."

She sniffed, and regarded him as one might consider a particularly poor specimen of horseflesh. "The admiralty graciously informs me that I am to provide you with room and board, and allow you to commandeer my parlour without so much as a 'by-your-leave' so you might confer with your officers whenever it suits you." Her caustic tone left no doubt of her lack of enthusiasm for the prospect.

"Indeed, madam." He held out the envelope bearing the Admiralty seal; she accepted it grudgingly, feeling the thick packet of notes it contained. He was beginning to recover his wits; he did not let go of it, and coolly raised an eyebrow. "Though perhaps you would prefer me to make other arrangements?"

She snatched the envelope from his grasp and hastily secreted it into a vast pocket of her smudged apron.

Bush smiled humourlessly. "I presume that means I am welcome."

She harrumphed, and glared coldly at his smile. "And you'll not be using my establishment for sailors' drunken revelry."

The gaze he returned was as frosty as her own. "Only that of their officers, madam."

His sarcasm fell on deaf ears. "Brendan will show you up. I have more pressing matters than yours to attend to." She spun on her heel and was gone, with a final disapproving twist of her sensible skirt.

Bush stared after her, bemused. She would make a better bos'n than most, he thought.

The big man grinned down at him, chuckling at Bush's nonplussed expression. "Mara." He shook his head. "My sister."

***

Bush restlessly paced back and forth across the scarred wooden floor of the small whitewashed sleeping-room. As he had expected, it was clean -- almost painfully so -- but spartan and cheerless. The establishment accurately reflected its owner, it seemed.

He dragged his watch from a pocket and glared at it angrily; to his disgust, the hands had scarcely moved from the last time he had done so. It was nearly time; but it would not do at all for him to be early. He had sent a messenger to Greyhound instructing her officers to join him here; the lieutenant who had been given command of the Witch was also due to arrive from London by coach, or so he had been told. He wanted the full assembly to be present when he joined them, as it would not be seemly for him to be found drumming his fingers anxiously upon the tabletop, impatiently awaiting their arrival. He smiled self-consciously to himself; he had learned more theatrics from Hornblower than anyone would have guessed.

Theatrics or no, he felt faintly foolish standing in this barren and miniscule room of a backwater Cornish inn turned out in full-dress uniform, complete with glittering epaulet and sword, and immaculate white breeches. The breeches were particularly hateful... he had always preferred trousers, and now had more than good reason to do so. There was no point in being more obvious than was absolutely necessary. He would dispense with this ridiculous pretense as soon as was practicable. But not yet.

It was time enough at last, he decided, and cautiously made his way down the inn's back stairs. He stood unobtrusively in the shadows just outside the parlour entry, taking a moment to quietly study the uniformed men who were to serve under his command. He watched them as they smiled, sharing ale and conversation like old friends. But my God, he thought helplessly, what an unholy collection of the Navy's flotsam. All of them. Men, not so grievously wounded as to be forcibly retired from the service, but badly used all the same. Here, an eyepatch; there a pinned-up sleeve; another's face was horribly scarred with a jaw knit awry.

These were men whose very appearance might inspire misgivings, not confidence. It was difficult enough, he knew, to inspire men to follow fearlessly into the madness of battle; near-impossible, perhaps, when their leader was a constant reminder of the perils that awaited them there. Here, though... here, they could yet serve: as he could. He sighed; at least he would not be a curiosity amongst them.

Bush considered these men, trying to envision them as they once must have been: bold, eager, full of ambition and enthusiasm. Did some of that still linger? These men were battered, indeed, but perhaps not yet beaten. As he watched, steady grey eyes met his own. A young lieutenant had noted his presence; he ambled over and saluted casually. So casually, by God, that he had even kept his left hand jammed in his pocket. "Captain Bush? I am Lt. James Dawes, sir."

He caught Bush staring pointedly at the offending arm, and grinned without a trace of awkwardness. "Happened in an engagement with a Frog privateer... we took her, but not without a bitter fight. My arm became entangled in the rigging as our mizzen was coming down. Damn near wrenched it off before one of the men could cut me free. It is of little use now, but at least the surgeon was not forced to remove it." He looked down at Bush's legs and reddened. "Sorry, sir... I meant no..."

Bush waved off the stammered apology. "Never mind." He looked about him; the other officers were now obviously aware of his arrival, and were watching attentively. He gestured to the long table in the center of the room. "Very well, men... shall we begin?"

He stood quietly at the head of the table, waiting, as the others took their seats. Hornblower, he knew, would have offered a speech, one of but few words yet still inspiring these men to lofty heights of loyalty and service. He held no delusions whatever regarding his own ability to do so; thus he dispensed with formality, pulled out his chair, and joined them.

He laid the packet containing his orders on the table. "As you must already know, we are commanded to control the illicit activity..." he smiled grimly "...the 'Free Trade', as the good people of Cornwall call it -- that runs rampant along this coast. I understand that during the past weeks Greyhound has been patrolling the area, making her presence known. That shall work to our advantage. The Witch of Endor, our second cutter, will be joining us shortly; in fact I had expected her commanding officer to have joined us by now. But until then..." He began to outline the plans that had begun to take shape in his mind and rapidly became immersed in discussion, completely forgetting his earlier anxieties.

The ideas flowed easily around the table; Bush had sought thoughts and opinions from each of the men seated there with him. After an initial tentative silence, they had begun to cautiously speak their minds, and were now freely engaged in intense exchange, sharing the benefits of the past weeks' experience. But the conversation faltered as each became aware of the sound of rapid hoofbeats; a rider was approaching at what seemed a most reckless pace. Bush broke off in mid-sentence and glanced out the window in time to see a heavily lathered grey slither to a stop in front of the inn. He watched as the uniformed rider slid off, tossed the reins to the waiting post-boy, and sprinted for the door... and burst breathlessly into the room.

Bush studied the young man framed in the doorway. The lieutenant's uniform was travel-stained and dusty, his breeches darkly marred by sweat from the mount that still stood blowing gustily outside -- but still, he was somehow familiar. Tall, but slight. Fair, and handsome, some might say, though unsettlingly feminine of feature. Pretty, more like.

The young man looked wildly about the parlour until his eyes met Bush's steady scrutiny. He snapped to attention. "Captain Bush, sir?"

Ah, thought Bush, the voice was also familiar, a fact which allowed him to properly place the young man at last. The Admiralty, of course: this was the aide, the useless puppy who had escorted him to Chadwick's office. Oh God, he wondered suddenly, his mind churning... had something happened to Chadwick? Was this entire operation to be called off before it began? Or had Chadwick himself had a change of heart and properly cast him back upon the beach? Bush schooled his face to a rigid mask, betraying none of it, and snapped curtly, "Yes. Report, Lieutenant."

"Lieutenant Fanshawe, sir." The young man fumbled in his jacket for a moment and withdrew a packet, proffering it to Bush. "My orders, sir."

Bush accepted them, breaking the seal. He read them, frowned, and read them again.

***

Whitehall

Admiral John Chadwick looked up from his papers as the sound of a tentative tapping reached his ears. He glared irritably at the door; this new aide would require some breaking in -- at the moment, the young man seemed utterly terrified even to be in his presence.

He sighed heavily; he never imagined that he would actually come to miss Fanshawe. "Yes, yes, Andrews... come."

The young man cautiously poked his head into the room. "Sir... Admiral Summerscales to see you, sir."

"Damn it, Andrews... do not leave him waiting in the hallway like some damned peddler," Chadwick snapped crossly. "Show him in."

The aide flushed a deep crimson, and opened the heavy door with a self-conscious flourish.

Chadwick immediately forgot his irritation and smiled warmly as the admiral entered. "Hello, old friend."

Summerscales returned the smile, a twinkle glimmering in the depths of his brown eyes. "So, where is our young Fanshawe today? Off settling last night's gambling debts, or is he instead attending some society drum?"

Chadwick ignored the question. "Come, Douglas... a drink, perhaps?"

Summerscales moved to the sideboard and busied himself with the decanter and a glass. "So..." he asked over his shoulder "...you sent Bush to Cornwall, eh? And whom did you put into the Witch?"

A vague smile played across Chadwick's worn features. "That is where you will find Lt. Fanshawe, Douglas."

Summerscales nearly choked on the first sip of his brandy. "Fanshawe?" he croaked, when he could finally speak at all.

"Yes... I believe that is what I said."

"But..." Summerscales frowned, perplexed. "You and I both know that Fanshawe could not effectively command so much as a jolly boat in a mill-pond. Bush will be forced to take command aboard the Witch, else the operation will fail before it has even begun."

"Hmm." Chadwick slowly and deliberately filled his pipe, then looked up, his expression one of bland innocence. "I suppose he shall."

Summerscales stared incredulously at his friend for a long moment, then erupted in a great peal of laughter. "Damn you, John. You had this planned all along."

The laughter was infectious; despite himself, Chadwick found himself joining in it.

Summerscales at last caught his breath and returned to his brandy, though an occasional chuckle still escaped him. "Fanshawe... good lord." He shook his head in only partly-feigned dismay. "He might be my sister's boy... but God help Captain Bush."

Chadwick smiled, but the smile held a touch of sadness. "May God help me. I failed my own son. Perhaps I can still do something for your nephew."

"Failed him?" Summerscales eyed his friend curiously. "Your son is a captain now; you ought to be rightly proud of him."

"No, I failed him. He holds a rank which he did not truly earn, and I fear he will come to grief because of it. I knew he was being promoted too far, too fast... and that it was due to my influence. But I was too consumed by my own career -- by my own success -- to act, and now it is far too late; he is beyond my reach. He has come to believe that he has earned the rank which my own has bought him."

Summerscales looked confused. "But Fanshawe? How does this concern him?"

Chadwick heaved a rueful sigh. "Fanshawe is much like my son. He has not earned his rank of lieutenant; he knows little of the ways of the sea... or of leadership. Nor has he aspired to learn. Here..." he waved his hand, indicating the well-appointed office "...here, it makes little difference. But if this war continues much longer -- as I fear it must -- he may be called upon: England will need every one of her officers. Every one. But it would be a great disservice to the Navy and to the men whose misfortune it is to serve under him. I had despaired for Fanshawe, but did not know what to do.

Then I was presented with the problem of the disposition of Commander Bush. Fanshawe learned of his story, and was captivated by it: the famous Hornblower's trusted right hand, badly wounded, captured, and presumed dead. Yet mounting not one but two daring escapes, aiding in the recapture of the long-lost Witch of Endor and bringing her in triumph home to the fleet. And, despite his hardships, unwilling to accept a well-earned comfortable -- and lucrative -- post ashore.

After having finally met the man -- who was singularly unimpressed by him, no doubt -- Fanshawe came to me, requesting to be reassigned to wherever Bush was sent. I warned him that Bush was most common, without influence, and socially far beneath him." Chadwick eyed Summerscales sadly. "And do you know what he said? He told me 'Perhaps, but he is nonetheless the better man.' Given that unaccustomed degree of insight, I could not in good conscience refuse him."

Summerscales shook his head skeptically. "I hope your good conscience can withstand the result."

***

Chapter 5

Bush looked up from the paper to stare at Fanshawe in disbelief. Fanshawe, for his part, seemed blithely oblivious of his captain's agitation.

"My baggage..."

"Dunnage..." growled Bush, in disgust.

"My 'dunnage', sir, is arriving with the coach, as is my manservant."

This was pushing things too far. "Manservant?" Bush demanded, his voice rising, reflecting both fury and utter astonishment.

"Er... yes, sir." Fanshawe blinked in surprise. "Is there some difficulty?"

"There are no servants aboard these vessels. Only seamen," snapped Bush.

"Oh, is that all." Fanshawe smiled disarmingly, rummaged in a pocket and withdrew a folded note, handing it to Bush. "My uncle -- Admiral Summerscales, by the way -- suggested as much, and assigned him to the revenue service. That way, he can serve with me without fear of being pressed -- as revenue crews all carry a protection."

"You, Mr. Fanshawe, still serve the Royal Navy, and as such remain bound by the Articles of War." He caught Fanshawe's long-lashed gaze, and held it. "All of them."

Fanshawe's eyes widened. "Sir, I must protest. Do you mean to suggest..."

"I mean to suggest nothing, Mr. Fanshawe," Bush interjected flatly. "I am merely... reminding you. I expect you will not forget it. Now... if you are to join us," he barely suppressed a sigh as he gestured to a vacant chair, "please do so."

He reclaimed his own, and studied the men surrounding the table. Merely faces, now... but they would not be so for long. "My orders tell me -- and you men of Greyhound have confirmed it -- that Harry Carson is the man at the root of the worst of the local smuggling activity. Everyone knows it, but no one has cared to prove it or dared attempt to stop it... until now. We will do so, though we shall find ourselves at a distinct disadvantage until we are joined by the Witch -- with Greyhound alone, we shall undoubtedly be outmanned and outgunned at every turn. Much as I hate to admit it, we cannot stand and challenge him gun for gun. At least..." he grinned wolfishly... "not yet. But... this is what I propose we do until then: our Greyhound can certainly snap at his heels..."

***

"Empty..."

Bush slammed his fist furiously -- and far too hard -- onto Greyhound's starb'd rail. The self-inflicted pain pushed his already frayed temper beyond the breaking point, and he gave vent to it with a stream of obscene invective that would have done credit to even the coarsest bos'n.

He angrily turned on Dawes and Fanshawe who were staring, seemingly transfixed by his wrath. "Put her about, damn you! There is nothing for us here. Or can you do no more than gawp at me like a pair of frightened rabbits?"

Chastened, the two officers promptly scuttled away; he vaguely heard Dawes as he issued the proper orders, and felt the cutter begin to respond.

Bush struggled to fight down his rage. Two weeks... two weeks, it had been, of sailing impotently up and down this coast. For nothing. It seemed that wherever they were, the smugglers were not, always one step ahead. Greyhound had nosed cautiously into this bay, fully expecting to find the tiny vessel that had tantalized them for the past day and night; appearing, and then vanishing as if it had never been. Instead, the bay was calm and peaceful, as if mocking them... mocking him.

He saw himself with frightful clarity, in that moment... stamping about -- or at least foolishly attempting to; it was surely a ludicrous sight -- and cursing violently, like some comedic madman. Had he been Hornblower, he would have merely cleared his throat.

No. Had he been Hornblower, the bay would not have been empty.

He turned tiredly to Greyhound's master, his anger gone... replaced now by disgust, and a sharp sense of uselessness. "Mr. Burton, take us home. We can revictual, take on water, and give the men a decent meal. We shall begin again tomorrow."

"Aye, sir." Burton nodded, and mopped his face with the huge red handkerchief which typically protruded from a pocket. An' begin chasin' shadows again, he groused silently. He watched his captain clump wearily up and down the tiny scrap of decking -- doubtless the only 'quarterdeck' he would ever walk -- his frustration evident in every line of his face, in the set of his shoulders, and was suddenly deeply ashamed of his own.

The light was fading as Greyhound's cable payed out, the anchor splashing loudly into the waters of Mount's Bay. The men cheered at the sound, knowing that it heralded spirits, fresh food from ashore, and a night of skylarking under the watchful eye -- he had but one, after all -- of the bosun.

To Bush, it was the sound of failure.

After a myriad of details were seen to -- to their captain's tight-lipped satisfaction -- and all was secure, Greyhound's officers were at last rowed ashore. Bush passed the brief journey in silence: he barely looked up as the boat bumped gently against the salt-crusted stones of the quay. Wordlessly, Bush hoisted himself out of the boat and began to trudge slowly up the path, as if reluctant to leave his ship behind, perhaps as an admission of defeat. Dawes delayed a moment to pass a few final words to his cox'n before clambering ashore and falling into step with Fanshawe. Through the growing twilight, the windows of the Two Brothers glowed cheerfully in the distance; from this aspect, it looked almost hospitable. The thought of good food and a glass caused Fanshawe to quicken his step. "Come on, Dawes..."

Dawes snagged his arm; at that pace they would have quickly overtaken their captain, and left him toiling slowly in their wake. He shook his head. "He may not cherish our company... but leaving him behind would do him no good."

Fanshawe stared at Dawes for a long moment, then shifted his gaze to watch his captain's back. "You are right... I did not consider that." Dawes had an open and pleasant face, and -- more than any other -- seemed to accept him as a fellow officer, and not an object of amusement. He was suddenly overcome by the need to speak his mind, and the words tumbled out before he could stop them. "Do you know, Dawes... he is not quite the man I thought he was."

Dawes frowned. "And what did you expect?"

"When I first heard of him, saw him... he seemed so... so..." Fanshawe faltered in embarrassment, "...heroic." He laughed self-consciously. "He seems somewhat less so upon closer inspection."

Dawes thoughtfully considered his words for a moment. "All heroes do, I should think. You ought not to judge too quickly, Fanshawe."

Fanshawe smiled. "Evelyn."

Dawes' friendly face returned the smile. "Evelyn, then. Give him a bit of time; he is well accustomed to battle, but this cat-and-mouse game of smuggling is another thing entirely. He needs to find his feet."

Fanshawe rolled his eyes. "Poor choice of words, that."

Chuckling companionably, the two men followed their captain's slowly retreating figure at a more leisurely pace, with the small knot of warrant officers trailing a respectful distance behind. The stately procession eventually reached the inn; Bush immediately left them, brushing brusquely through the swinging door that led to the inn's back rooms. He had obviously located Mara Bryce, the inn's unpleasant proprietress: a sharp exchange of voices issued from behind the closed door, and their captain's face was dark with anger when he ultimately emerged.

The parlour's few occupants were grudgingly evicted, allowing Greyhound's officers to gratefully take their place. Several bottles of an adequate claret made a timely appearance, thus cheering the assembled party still further and taking the edge from their recent disappointments. Save for Bush, who sat silently apart from the jovial assembly, wholly unaffected by their increasing good humour.

Mara staggered into the parlour, struggling under the weight of a steaming and heavily-laden tray, and placed it with an aggrieved thump on the center of the table. As her eyes ranged along the faces of the battered men gathering there, her lip curled with unconcealed scorn. "God, look at you. A right sad lot of seamen you are, the very flower of the Royal Navy. Small wonder you are here, instead of at sea where you belong. And you will be outmaneuvered once again tomorrow, just you wait and see."

Bush's face was rigid with anger as he stood to face her, eye to eye; but somewhere deep within him he believed there was truth in her words. When he spoke, his voice was icy. "Madam, I must warn you..."

"Oh yes, the able Commander Bush. You have been far too successful..." her voice dripped with contempt "...in blundering about on your own to seek anyone's advice. Why indeed should you heed mine?"

"Why indeed should you offer it?" he snapped.

"God help me, I do not know. Pity, perhaps. Or the sooner to be rid of your lot." She shrugged indifferently. "In any case, there will be a run tomorrow night, in Carson's Cove."

Bush eyed her angrily, with obvious mistrust. "And how, precisely, do you come to know this?"

Mara laughed scornfully. "Everyone in Mount's Bay knows this. Everyone 'cept you, that is. The signs have been under your very noses all along, but you -- you sorry fools -- haven't the wit to see them." She stepped to the window that overlooked the bay. "Look here, Commander."

Bush, his face like stone, reluctantly joined her. "Yes? And what is it that I have so stupidly overlooked?"

"Do you see the inn on the bluff across the bay? Mother Redcap's? The good Mother is a... a 'friend' of Carson himself." She plucked a substantial telescope from a high shelf which had until now escaped Bush's notice, and held it out. "Take a closer look."

Bush accepted it; to his surprise, he found it to be a beautifully balanced instrument, of exquisite quality -- It was far finer than his own. Bush wondered momentarily how she might have come by such a lovely thing; had she been anyone else, he might have asked.

He leaned on the window ledge and brought the inn into focus; even in the gathering dusk the fine glass allowed him to clearly pick out even the smallest details, from the yellow flowers in the boxes to the large sign depicting a red-hatted woman cheerfully stirring a large pot. "I see nothing amiss."

She shook her head in disgust. "You truly are a useless lubber. Look at the wind vane."

Bush was growing tired of the game, but complied nonetheless; he might as well play this out, he thought wearily, and not lose his temper once more for her amusement. "So?" he demanded, unable to completely conceal his irritation.

"God." She sighed resignedly, as a teacher might when faced with the dullest of pupils. "And which way is it pointing?"

His sigh matched hers. "West."

"And the wind is...?"

"Backing south'rdly." Understanding began to slowly replace the aggravation that had seemed indelibly etched on Bush's face. "But... is it not simply broken?"

"Oh, no; it's not broken. It shows the way the wind blows, it does." She laughed, though there was a bitter edge to the sound. "But it has naught to do with the weather."

Bush studied her as if to somehow discern her motives... or even, perhaps, her veracity. Failing miserably, he jerked his head sharply toward the door. "Leave us. And shut the door behind you."

He turned back to the men seated at the table; they were all staring, the food and drink long forgotten. Fanshawe was the first to break the stunned silence. "It could be a trap, sir."

Bush laughed; it had a sinister quality which Fanshawe found unsettling in the extreme. "Oh, I expect it is, Fanshawe. But it places us closer to our quarry than we have been thus far. We must see this thing through. Tomorrow."

***

Two bells of the first dog found Greyhound beating up the coast, keeping to her usual patrol. To any observer, it was just another day, apparently no different from the one before. But this day... this day, as she had approached the inlet known to the local citizenry as Carson's Cove -- after the smuggler who boldly used it to deliver and receive his contraband cargo -- she had hurriedly dropped one of her boats before continuing northward. She would, in time, return.

Dawes and Fanshawe covertly watched Bush's face as the men labored at the oars. Both young officers had earlier suggested that they take charge of the scouting party, to spare their captain the difficulty of going ashore in this rough country. Bush had declined the offer with sufficient vehemence to assure them that they pressed the issue further at their peril. The master was perfectly capable of taking command of Greyhound's feint northward, he had said. Her captain was needed here.

Her captain, however, was finding his earlier excitement waning, with a gnawing anxiety rapidly assuming its place. The prospect of action at last had been intoxicating: but... for what to prepare? Had Mara Bryce spoken the truth, or was she instead sending them into the jaws of a trap or on some fool's errand to divert them from a rich run elsewhere? She was an unlikely informant, as she obviously had no love for the Navy. Still, he could not ignore the possibility that her information was correct. He could not let them slip through his fingers again.

And if it were a trap? Well, he considered, that would have to take care of itself.

As the launch ground noisily onto the pebbled shore, Bush felt his heart sink still further. Carson had chosen his landing place wisely indeed: the beach was broad and open, with no cover at all. It was bounded at the rear by a seemingly impenetrable cliff, though he reasoned that there must be a narrow and winding track leading through it, doubtless wide enough for a string of pack ponies to be led carefully along it: there had to be a way to carry the goods inland. He struck off towards the cliff, his mind struggling to beat down the apprehension and doubt, and instead grapple with the problem at hand.

Once the track was discovered, he could post his men along it to lurk unnoticed in the shadows until after the goods were landed. Once laden and hampered by the darkness, the unforgiving terrain, and the pack animals, the local men could be easily taken and the goods seized. But that would allow the smugglers themselves to go free. And that would not do. Bush wanted them all; wanted them with a fiery passion kindled from the ashes of the past weeks' disappointment and failure, and from a future lost and never to be regained.

He would not... could not... fail this time.

Fanshawe watched with dismay as his captain struggled across the uneven ground. They had tramped all round the inlet, surveying the stony beach and the distant scrub trees that formed its border. The scouting party had returned with news that there was indeed a crevice that afforded a passage through the cliff face to the post road inland; it was narrow and treacherous, but obviously well-used. The footing here was bad, very bad, and Bush was clearly tiring, and having great difficulty keeping his balance. Fanshawe could stand the sight of it no longer -- too many years spent in the service of elderly admirals, perhaps -- and hurried to his side. He grasped Bush's elbow, saying, in a low voice "Here, Captain, allow me to assist you."

Bush roughly shook his arm free as he snarled, "Leave off, Fanshawe, you damned useless molly." He gathered up the shreds of his tattered dignity and stalked off across the shingle as best he could.

Dawes had seen the incident unfold, and fell into step beside Fanshawe, who still wore an expression of wounded surprise. "Never mind, Ev... it is not you. He still feels the loss of the man he was, and cannot accept the man he is. But he will, in time."

Fanshawe eyed him curiously. "As you have?"

"No. Not yet." Dawes chuckled, and reached out with his good arm to clap him solidly on the shoulder. "I deserved that, my friend."

Bush finally halted to catch his breath, leaning heavily on a boulder that had long ago fallen from the cliff's face above. His officers warily joined him as he surveyed the vast expanse of open beach that lay before them. Dawes looked around him, his trepidation plain. "Quiet as the grave, sir," he whispered. It was truth, indeed... the only sounds were those of the waves and the mournful cries of the curlews that wheeled overhead.

Fanshawe shuddered delicately. In the growing twilight, with sea-mist rolling off the water's surface and beginning to wisp inshore, the deserted beach was undeniably eerie. "If we were to be trapped here, with this cliff at our backs, we might well dig our own graves."

Bush silenced him with a fierce glare, and viciously hissed, "Hold your tongue, damn you!" Later he must speak to the man regarding one of the most basic tenets of command: One might be wrong, but one must never be unsure. Not publicly, at any rate. Privately, he too was at a loss. They could never conceal themselves close enough to shore to mount a surprise attack; even if they burst from the distant trees at a dead run, the smugglers would have more than sufficient time to put to sea in their boats. There was no closer cover to speak of; the beach was empty save for the myriad large mounds of seaweed washed up by the tides. It did indeed look for all the world like a graveyard.

Bush's blue eyes suddenly lit with excitement. He stepped away from the boulder, calling to the men of the scouting party who had dropped to rest on the shingle. He jabbed a finger at three of them. "You, Perkins... and Cooper, and Bates... get back to the launch. Row back to Greyhound -- she must be at the rendezvous point by now -- and get shovels, quickly." He hastily pencilled a note on a scrap of paper, and thrust it at the startled Perkins. "Give this to the master. And..." his mind was working furiously, the rapidity of his thoughts surprised him, "...and bring a small cask of pitch. Quickly, men! Run!" He turned back to his officers; they were regarding him as if he had gone mad.

"Shovels, sir?" Fanshawe's handsome face wrinkled in confusion. "Why ever for?"

"Why, Fanshawe?" Bush smiled thinly. "Why, so we might dig our own graves, of course."

***

Chapter 6

Six small boats knifed swiftly through the black water. Their oarlocks were muffled; the men lay on the oars, sending the boats silently into the pitch-darkness of the bay. Carson had chosen this night carefully, with a seaman's sure knowledge of the weather: a thick darkness, illuminated only by a pale sliver of moon, with even that often obscured by scudding clouds and the sea-mist that lay heavily on the water's unruffled surface. Before them, a single light glowed from a crevice in the face of the cliff that loomed blackly in the distance -- the signal that all was well, and that men waited to receive what the boats would bring them. The boats, filled to capacity with brandy, tea, tobacco, and lace had been dropped in response. Money would change hands, as would a single small package.

Men slid soundlessly into the chilly water as the keels touched bottom and drew the boats more firmly onto the shore, then settled to the task of offloading their cargo with a quiet efficiency borne of long experience. It would not take long, and they knew their shore-bound counterparts would soon emerge from the darkness. A shuttered lamp was lit, its feeble light a signal that all was nearly done.

An owl hooted softly from the distant trees; all else was quiet. Dead quiet.

One of the smugglers raised his head, suddenly startled. The barest suggestion of movement had caught his eye; it seemed, unbelievably, that the mounds of seaweed were... stirring. Surely a trick of the light, he thought, chiding himself for his superstitious foolishness. The man bent again to his task, though not without a vague sense of foreboding. As he worked, dark figures begin to slowly arise from the beach, long strands of weed still clinging to their shapeless forms; in the faint lamplight, they appeared as ghouls exhumed from the earth itself, their graveclothes mouldy and decayed from ages spent in dank and long-forgotten tombs.

The smugglers froze as if suddenly rooted to the sand, transfixed by the horrors that surrounded them. The man nearest the lantern shrank back in fear as he found such a spectre arising from the weed-strewn shingle, very nearly at his feet. The lamplight illuminated the figure's face; it was misshapen, inhuman. It thrust its ruined face close; in the flickering light, it seemed the face of a demon cast forth from the bowels of hell to walk abroad amongst the living. "Put up your hands, or prepare to meet my maker," it hissed.

The man shrieked and dropped to his knees, gibbering in terror. The others followed his lead, though despite their submission the creatures were relentless, seizing each one without mercy. Demonic flames flared behind them; the odor of burning pitch, like the fires of hell, filled the air. Their boats... their only means of escape from this nightmare... were ablaze, the flames roaring, greedily consuming them.

A figure detached itself from the darkness and approached the ghastly tableau; the grim spectres had no need to see its face. One of the phantoms, incongruously, grinned hugely. "Damn fine owl, sir."

The figure entered the circle of light, the flames glinting off the brass and lace that marked him as an officer in the King's navy.

One of the captured smugglers stifled a sob of relief, and quavered, "We... we thought you was devils, zur."

"And I am the Earl of Hell, eh?" Bush's smile was a fearful thing, almost evil in its intensity. He turned to the sergeant of marines, who stood with his hands clamped firmly on the collars of two of the still-terrified smugglers. "Well, Stokes... your beauty has stood you in good stead tonight."

Stokes grinned back, though his scarred and misshapen face turned the gesture into a hideous grimace. "Thank'ee sir... at yer service."

Bush nodded. "I can indeed rely on that, Stokes. And on your marines, I see." He gestured toward the cliff face, from which Stokes' marines were leading a slow procession of pack ponies. Several were already laden with trussed -- and faintly protesting -- bundles slung carelessly across their backs. "They also did well tonight."

He turned his attention back to Dawes... and Fanshawe, who was fastidiously brushing sand and bits of seaweed from his uniform with obvious distaste. "Load the goods onto the ponies as they had planned... but that is where their plan ends, and ours begins."

"Sir?" One of the marines was striding toward him, a small canvas-wrapped package dwarfed by one rawboned hand. "Sir... I found this on one of 'em. Might be important."

Bush accepted it; the waxed canvas wrapping was unmarked, with no indication of the identity of the intended recipient. "Thank you, Hughes. Well done." He frowned as the contents tumbled out into his hands: a small book, leather bound. A dried and rusty stain on one edge suggested that its owner had not parted with it willingly. He opened it carefully and sucked in a breath. "Well done indeed, Hughes. Had this fallen into the hands of the French..."

The book was a work of art. A most dangerous work of art, for all of them.

The first several pages were a wonder of neat script and tiny watercolor images. Every signal flag used by the fleet in peacetime and in battle had been carefully reproduced and meticulously explained: including, to Bush's horror, the list of substitute signals to be used in the event of capture of the originals. The balance of the book contained hundreds of precise entries that documented the entire British fleet, listing each vessel's number and strength. Aboard ship, it would have been dropped over the side at the first hint of capture; obviously, its creator had had no such opportunity.

"Good God," muttered Bush, shaking his head. Important? Deadly, more like. The book had been a labour of love, the product of countless hours of painstaking effort by some unknown and conscientious officer... and might have doomed them all. Thank God, he corrected mentally. And, he realized with astonishment, he must also thank Mara Bryce.

He tucked the book safely into his jacket as marine Sergeant Stokes dragged one of the captured smugglers to stand cringing fearfully before him. "This 'un had it, sir."

"So." Bush eyed him coldly. "You would sell your countrymen."

The smuggler's frightened expression turned to a sullen mulishness. "Some toff give it t' me, t' give t' 'arry Carson... 'twas wrapped up, like." He shrugged. "Din't know wot was in't."

Bush could barely contain his rage, and turned away before the temptation to shoot the man where he stood became too powerful to ignore. These stupid, shortsighted men. They thought only of their own small profit, and gave no thought at all to the cost. Truly evil, traitorous men like Carson used them, and their mindlessness.

Carson was not even among them; he had stayed with his ship. The blazing boats were signal enough that the operation had gone awry; he had turned tail and left his men. Cold bloody bastard, thought Bush. It was a cold bloody business.

Carson's vessel had fled unchallenged, which told him that Burton, Greyhound's master, had properly obeyed his orders and remained hidden in a nearby inlet, though Bush could well imagine what it had cost him in pride to do so. But with the balance of Greyhound's crew ashore, there would have been no hope at all of a successful engagement. That would have to wait until next time.

And there would surely be a next time. Bush knew deep in his bones that he had made an enemy this night; an enemy who would not rest until one of them breathed his last. It was more than the loss of tonight's revenue; even more than the loss of vital information that would now never reach the hands of the French. It was the loss of Carson's sovereignty over this place. And that? That was personal, and would not be forgotten.

Though Carson was not the only one destined to be surprised tonight. He smiled slightly as he considered the likely reaction of the local authorities when he presented them with not only the captured contraband but with Carson's men and local accomplices as well. Perhaps no one had dared cross Carson before -- but things were different, now. Very different.

Bush turned to his lieutenants. "Ready?"

Dawes nodded. "Aye, sir." He indicated the string of scrubby ponies, dwarfed by their huge burdens. "It will be rough going up the cliff, laden as they are. Stokes, here, and his marines will shepherd our prisoners. He roped them together, and..." he grinned wickedly, "...cut their waistbands. They'll have a devil of a time climbing the track whilst holding up their trousers. No doubt they'll be too preoccupied to try to escape."

Bush chuckled in agreement. "No doubt. I will have to commend Stokes on his ingenuity."

"And you, sir?" Dawes looked suddenly ill at ease. "The cliff-track..." his voice trailed off uncertainly.

Oh God. The cliff track. Bush's heart sank as he looked up at the cliff; the path must be nearly vertical in spots. Flushed with success, he had not spared it a second thought... but there was no chance at all he could scale such a thing. And damned if he would have one of the ponies unloaded so he might sit astride it like some ridiculously overgrown child.

He was suddenly glad of the darkness, and turned toward it. "Mr. Dawes, you are in command of the balance of tonight's activities. I trust you will safely deliver this night's profit to the authorities. Take Fanshawe with you, and what men you need."

Dawes nodded firmly. "Yes, sir. You can depend on me, sir." He quickly turned away, calling, "Stokes... assemble your men."

"'Ere, you." Marines tugged roughly at the smugglers. "Git up... let's go." One by one, they resentfully got to their feet and moved a few grudging steps toward the path which led to the village and the authorities.

Halfway up the path, Dawes looked over his shoulder; down on the beach, flames still flickered at the shoreline from the dying embers of the smugglers' boats, casting faint fingers of light along the shingle. The small knot of Greyhound's men left behind were busily engaged in pulling the longboat from the scrub where it had been hidden. But Bush still stood immobile where they had left him; hands clasped behind his back, watching them go up the track... without him. Then the path turned sharply, and he was lost from sight.

***

Greyhound had barely dropped her anchor in Mount's Bay when Bush ordered his boat hoisted out; he seethed with impatience as the hastily-mustered crew rowed him ashore. He had spent the brief return passage in a tempest of anxiety and anticipation: eagerness to hear the account of the revenue service's reaction coupled with worry that Dawes and his men had successfully delivered both captives and goods without incident. The walk to the Two Brothers seemed interminable, though as he approached the inn, it was apparent from the quiet that his men had not yet arrived: while he waited for them, he had a duty to perform.

He entered the inn to find it nearly deserted; not surprising, given the lateness of the hour. Brendan, Mara's huge and silent brother, was bustling about, tidying the small parlour, readying it for the next day's business. He studied Bush for a moment, then wordlessly jabbed a thick thumb in the direction of the kitchen door. Bush nodded his thanks, and pushed through it into the still hot and smoky room.

Mara was seated at a well-worn table with a huge mountain of potatoes piled before her. A second, equally imposing mound resided in a cast-iron pot beside an ever-growing hillock of skins. She must have heard him enter; his step was loud and unmistakable on the scarred wooden floor. She ignored him completely, and continued to wield her paring knife with a single-minded determination.

Bush cleared his throat. "Madam... Miss Bryce. I... we... owe you our thanks."

She looked up at last, her face grim. "So I have heard."

"Miss Bryce... you have placed yourself at considerable risk by helping us. But..." Bush shook his head slowly, "I cannot understand why you would do so, as you obviously bear little love for the Navy."

She laid the knife aside and seemed to come to some sort of decision. She tiredly pushed a few damp strands of hair from her face with the back of one rough and bony hand, then sighed. "Did you never wonder about the name of this inn? I once had two brothers, not one. Our brother Francis was shot down in the street, and left there to die like a dog."

Bush studied her thoughtfully, considering for the first time that there might be good reason for her bitterness. He sat down beside her, and nodded. "Go on."

"There had been a run the night before -- one that the revenue officers conveniently ignored -- but they did not ignore information that Francis had smuggled goods in his possession. They were brave men indeed -- as long as their quarry was alone, and defenseless, in the light of day. They approached him from behind and ordered him to halt. When he did not, they shot him."

She challenged him, her eyes snapping with anger. "Francis was in the wrong, I know; I warned him, but Harry Carson can be most persuasive. Still... is a man's life worth no more than a pound of tea, and a bit of lace?"

"I am truly sorry for your loss, madam. But..." It seemed to Bush that the obvious question must be asked. "Why did he not heed their warning? He may not have been killed had he obeyed them."

"He never heard them," she retorted. "Your precious damned Navy saw to that. He was left nearly deaf after Trafalgar."

Bush raised an eyebrow. "Your brother was at Trafalgar?"

"Aye," she answered; her pride was evident. "He was indeed. His ship fought alongside Victory, beside Nelson himself; and when Victory could fight no longer, his ship took her place."

He frowned, eyeing her narrowly. "And what ship was that?"

"Temeraire." She smiled despite herself, despite the anger and the sorrow. "The news-sheets called her 'The Fighting Temeraire'."

The frown deepened. "Francis Bryce?"

"No... Harris. Bryce is..." she hesitated, "my husband's name."

Bush shook his head, smiling slightly at her, but his eyes were faraway: it was not her face he saw. "Harris... Francis Harris," he repeated softly. "Gun captain, number 8 larb'd. Good, steady man."

Mara was staring at him strangely. "Lieutenant Bush. My God. Francis often spoke of you. I... I would never have guessed that you were that same man."

Her artless words jerked Bush abruptly back to the present. His eyes blazed with fury, and he controlled his voice with an effort. "No madam, I am certain you would not," he snapped coldly. "I am merely... what remains of him."

The inn door slammed resoundingly behind him as he stormed through it. He took a deep breath of the clean air, and struggled to regain his composure. The damned woman was a witch, a viper, never missing an opportunity to remind him of his deficiencies... and, suddenly recalling her words... she had been married? The hapless soul must have been deaf and blind; or, at the very least, dead drunk. Though, he reflected, the man was obviously absent: he must have regained his senses and fled shrieking into the night.

The image, once conceived, cheered him considerably.

***

Chapter 7

A quarter-hour later Bush was still staring into the night sky, though his wrath was slowly fading to be uncomfortably replaced by more than a twinge of shame at his most ungentlemanly behaviour, though by rights the woman in question could scarcely be deemed a lady. He turned at the sound of a heavy tread behind him; Brendan nodded a greeting and fished in the pocket of the innkeeper's apron tied about his thick waist.

"This come for you this mornin', sir."

Bush accepted the packet and examined its contents closely in the light of the candle dwarfed by Brendan's massive fist. He smiled broadly, though the smile quickly gave way to the anger that lately seemed always to smolder just beneath the surface, threatening to ignite at the slightest provocation. "And she never mentioned it... that damned..." He bit off the expletive; the wretched creature was the man's sister, after all.

The big man considered him mildly. "You didn't give her much of a chance to tell you anythin', I'm thinkin'."

Bush stared at him for a long moment, then chuckled ruefully. "No... I suppose I did not."

Bush's quiet laughter died aborning as both men turned abruptly to stare down the narrow post-road where a few tiny spots of light bobbed, growing larger as they drew nearer to the inn. Torches, surely, but there was no way to tell as yet whether they belonged to friend or foe. An uneasy glance passed between the two men. Were they carried by Dawes, Fanshawe, and the loyal men of Greyhound? Or had the smugglers overpowered them, and -- supported by the local populace, no doubt -- now approached the Two Brothers to finish the job? Bush knew that in that event he would be taken, certain sure... and his death would not be an easy one. Brendan, and Mara too, if their role in this had been discovered: an informant's life was not worth a tallow dip as far as smugglers were concerned.

As the party drew nearer snatches of song carried by the night breeze reached Bush's ears. "'The Fireship', by God." He grinned at Brendan, visibly relieved. "Greyhounds."

By the time the raucous company reached the steps of the Two Brothers, however, Bush's grin had been immovably replaced by a stern glower. "Silence, there", he snapped. "You sound like a lot of chattering jackdaws, not King's men." From the shadows Brendan watched him, incredulous. It was nearly beyond imagining that this same man had been weak with relief only moments before.

"Sgt. Stokes, take these men back to Greyhound." At those words, Bush could see more than one of the hands glance longingly through the smudged panes of the inn's windows, perhaps dreaming of the forbidden delights -- ale, and whisky -- that lay within. "Extra rum ration when they are aboard."

The men erupted in a delighted cheer, which Bush immediately quelled with a dangerous glare. He motioned to the inn door. "Dawes, Fanshawe: come... I would hear your reports."

Once seated at a small table in the parlour, Dawes promptly launched into an energetic account of the night's events. Bush was gratified to learn that the passage from the beach to the inn had been singularly uneventful; no locals had lurked in the shadows to attack the party and free their fellows. "But sir," Dawes grinned. "You should have seen the face of the revenue officer at the Customs House when he caught sight of all those loaded ponies. Stunned, he was."

"And when we informed him that it was all from Carson's Bay..." interjected Fanshaw, with an amused chuckle. "Well... then he went white as a sheet, sir. Told us we'd best be measured for our coffins come morning. And that's when Dawes here told him... told him..." His mirth became too much to contain, and bubbled over into outright laughter. "He said... 'never mind that, we've already dug our graves!'"

Dawes was now laughing too, and the sound of the two young officers' merriment warmed the small room. Bush could not help but join in it, though he was well aware that there was more truth in the warning than the others needed to know.

The captured smugglers -- after they had grudgingly unloaded their precious contraband into the hands of the revenue officer -- had been deposited in the local gaol; the press would collect them on the morrow. Small wonder the men of Greyhound were in high spirits -- each man pressed earned them a twenty pound bounty, a fraction of which would be shared equally amongst them. 'Blood money', the smugglers contemptuously called it; there would be many local families turned against them after this night.

"Well done, Mr. Dawes, Mr. Fanshawe. And there is more good news for you, Mr. Dawes... you shall be pleased to know that Greyhound is your domain once more. The Witch is due to arrive tomorrow forenoon, so we shall be doubled in strength, and you shall be rid of Mr. Fanshawe, and of me." He nodded to them, and pushed back his chair. "I shall bid you good night, gentlemen."

He left the two young men and began climbing the stairs; the sound of their companionable laughter followed behind him. He paused at the top and listened for a moment, and thought of those officers with whom he had shared laughter, or a pint, or a watch. Some were gone, now... and others had simply gone on.

***

Bush had lost track of how long he had been waiting; he had awakened at first light, and been awkwardly pacing the quay for longer than he could recall. But the first sight of the Witch as she tacked gracefully into the bay had wiped all the weariness of waiting from his mind. He knew it was foolishness -- but his heart had swelled with pride as he watched her, nonetheless.

She was his. And he had taken her. He, and Hornblower, and Brown. It had been Hornblower's idea -- it always was -- but could they have done it, without him?

"God, sir..." a hushed voice breathed, interrupting his thoughts. "She's beautiful."

He turned, startled, to find Fanshawe at his side... perhaps the lad was not hopeless, after all. "Aye. She is, at that."

She looked much the same; even the additional boats now hung about her could not conceal her beauty. Her new bowsprit was fully retracted, making it appear much like her original, though Bush's experienced eye could see that when run out to its full length it would be nearly as long as her hull, and capable of supporting a great spread of jibsails. Despite her grace, the Witch was stoutly constructed: clinker-built, with great depth of keel. Sturdy enough to grapple and board any smuggler's flimsy vessel -- providing she could catch it. The additional jibs, coupled with the great gaff-mainsail, would grant her the extra speed she needed.

As they watched, the sails vanished neatly from the yards, and her anchor cable roared out the hawse-hole. Bush smiled and breathed an unconscious sigh of contentment: she was here.

Someone scanning the quay with a glass must have caught sight of his uniform, as she immediately dropped a boat which was already being rowed -- smartly, too, he noted -- toward him. He raised an eyebrow at his lieutenant. "So, Mr. Fanshawe... see to the shifting of our dunnage. Or do you wish to stand admiring her till sundown?"

Fanshawe smiled and touched his hat. "Aye, sir. Consider it done."

Later Bush would recall that the smile had seemed tainted with fear.

***

Bush heaved himself through the Witch's entry port to the trilling of calls, unfolded his orders, and, with little ceremony, briskly read himself in.

He could not help but recall the first time he had been piped aboard this vessel -- not surprising, as it had been the first time he had been piped aboard any vessel. He looked back towards the entry port, at the bosun, half-expecting to find Styles there. Of course he was not; Bush had known it... yet somehow he still felt vaguely disappointed at his absence.

"Sir... there's a parcel come for you, just a'fore we left th' dockyard."

"A parcel? From the Admiralty?"

The master shook his shaggy head, and pursed his lips in disapproval. "Nossir. From a seaman. 'E were a rough lookin' cove, for all 'e were a bos'n."

Bush frowned slightly. Styles. It had to be.

He started down the companion ladder, noting that the hand-rope was still in place, a fact which prompted an odd twinge of both amusement and shame.

The cabin also looked much the same as it had, albeit considerably cleaner, and freshly painted. Bush smiled ruefully as he noted that the floorcloth was new, and no longer stained with the claret spilled from the goblet he had hurled with such violence. Ah yes... he thought. The parcel. There it was, on his desk. It was long and bulky, wrapped in oiled sailcloth and bound in twine, secured with a reef knot.

He sat down at the desk and carefully unwrapped it to reveal a blunderbuss. As he examined it, he came to realize that it was the blunderbuss. The one that had lain beside him on the deck as he had steered the Witch out of the hands of the French to freedom. He held the flared muzzle to the light and found the inscription that had so appealed to his cockeyed sense of humour. "Unlucky is he who stands before me."

Styles had no doubt nicked it before he left the Witch, knowing full well that it would have vanished into the hands of some dockyard worker had he not. His conscience must have got the better of him. Bush shook his head... he would never fully understand the man.

He heard another boat bump alongside, and cast an eye out the larb'd window; as he expected, it was Fanshawe with their dunnage, and Poole, the 'manservant' whom Fanshawe had brought with him from Plymouth. To his relief, he had apparently been quite wrong in his hasty suspicions about the relationship between the two men. Poole must have been sent by Fanshawe's uncle simply to keep the lad out of trouble. A fine choice, it seemed. Poole was small, and colourless... he actually had a sort of unsettling invisibility about him. One never noticed his presence, yet somehow, when Fanshawe needed him, he was there at his elbow. But Poole was a proper seaman, could hand, reef, and steer -- in fact, had proved a dab hand at the tiller -- so any disquieting feelings he might engender could be readily overlooked.

A glance astern revealed Greyhound, snubbing at her anchor cable like a restive colt. He smiled... he felt rather the same way himself. All was aboard, there was no need for delay; they could resume their coastal patrols immediately -- this time, in strength. "Unlucky is he who stands before me" indeed, he thought, and headed for the door... and the sea.

On deck, Bush turned to the master and called, "Take her out, Mr. Drummond. Signal Greyhound to weigh anchor and take station astern."

"Aye, aye, sir." The master nodded briskly, and turned, bellowing his orders. "Hands to the windless... lively there!"

The anchor began to rise from the depths as the dripping cable was hauled inward; Bush listened to the master's confident voice, and knew that the Witch was in good hands. He, however, had a significant problem in his own. The master was fully capable of handling the Witch under any circumstance, in any emergency. The first lieutenant, unfortunately, was not.

He forcibly pushed that predicament to the back of his mind; there would be time enough to deal with it later. At the moment, he had to concern himself with the behaviour of this cutter -- an infinitely more pleasurable occupation, if the truth be told.

She handled as sweetly as he had remembered; it was all he could do to not take the tiller himself.

***

Their patrol well underway, Bush had reluctantly quit the deck; a packet of letters and dispatches had arrived with the Witch, along with the usual bundle of muster-books and purser's logs. He could no longer avoid giving them his proper attention, and was thus awash in the paperwork he loathed.

A tap at the cabin door provided welcome diversion; he looked up gratefully. "Come."

Fanshawe bustled into the cabin: clearly, a man with a mission. "Sir... I wish to report a seaman for punishment."

Bush stared at him in disbelief... they had barely cleared land. "And what did this man do?"

Fanshawe's handsome face radiated righteous indignation. "He was insolent, sir; he did not respect me."

Bush eyed him coldly. "You have not yet given him reason to do so."

"But sir... I am a lieutenant in the King's Service." He drew himself up importantly. "He must respect the uniform."

Bush slowly pushed the chair backwards and rose to his full height, then braced his hands on the desk and leaned across it. They were nearly nose to nose; Fanshawe shrank back a pace under the force of Bush's obvious rage.

"Damn you, Fanshawe..." he roared. "'Respect the uniform'? Yours is not a 'uniform'... on you, it is a... a..." Bush spluttered with fury, groping for words. "It is a... a... a costume." He took a deep breath, tried to master his wrath, and failed. "For God's sake, Fanshawe... how did you contrive to pass your lieutenant's examination?"

Fanshawe winced in the face of his captain's wrath, assuming an expression surprisingly reminiscent of that of a rabbit caught in a snare. "Well, sir... my uncle, my godfather, and his flag captain..."

"Dear God." Bush shook his head helplessly. "Say no more." He sighed and began to noisily pace the cabin. "So... it falls to me."

Fanshawe trailed behind him anxiously. "But sir, my uncle..."

Bush turned abruptly and rounded on the young man, who had to stop short to avoid colliding with his captain.

"Damn you, Fanshawe... what have you been playing at?" Bush snapped, viciously. "This is no yachting holiday. You have been at Dawes' and my elbow for weeks, yet have learned nothing from it and apparently see no need to do so. But you will learn, Fanshawe." Bush's tone was chilling as he repeated the words as if they were a verdict of doom. "You. Will. Learn."

***

Chapter 8

By week's end, the pristine copy of Falconer's -- of which Fanshawe had been so proud -- was bent and crumpled, spotted with salt-stains and smudged with the occasional tarry thumbprint. In short, showing every sign of hard usage... a condition which was abundantly shared by its owner, who was currently seated at his miniscule desk, head pillowed uncomfortably on a grimy arm but snoring loudly nonetheless.

Bush, sleepless and pacing irritably in his own cabin, was scarcely less uncomfortable. He had known that Fanshawe was unprepared for his duties as first lieutenant from the moment he read the man's orders. He had hoped -- vainly, it seemed -- that Fanshawe would have been well aware of his deficiencies and would have sought to rectify them himself. Yet it appeared ludicrous now to have imagined that this pampered popinjay would have even considered such a thing. No, the failure had been his own. But what had he done to deserve such a useless first lieutenant?

Regardless, this paper-skulled first lieutenant presented a significant and delicate problem. Bush knew that he could put the young man ashore at the earliest opportunity and be done with it... yet his pride made him reject that possibility out of hand. A lieutenant's name was inextricably linked with that of his captains, and his abilities -- or deficiencies -- presumed to reflect the training he had received in their service. He himself was known as having served under Harvey, and Sawyer, and... he stopped his relentless traverse back and forth across the cabin to close his eyes for a moment... and Hornblower. He would be damned if his name would be permanently bound to Fanshawe's without making at least an attempt to fashion the man into some vague semblance of a proper officer.

But how? Bush grimaced at the very thought, tiredly running a hand across his brow. Fanshawe was as ignorant as the greenest midshipman; unfortunately, he could not be treated as one. Bumbling midshipmen were common enough; the men expected it, accepted it, and listened to their dressings-down or the swish and crack of the bos'n's rattan across juvenile haunches with indulgent smiles, and knowing looks... knowing all the while that it was part and parcel of the moulding of a boy into an officer worthy of obedience and respect. But those methods, while effective, could hardly be applied to a commission officer. He had to publicly treat Fanshawe with the formality and regard expected of a captain to his first lieutenant -- the latter's ignorance notwithstanding -- and had to demand the appropriate level of respect from his men.

It still rankled that he was forced to support him as he had done a week past, after Fanshawe reported a seaman for insolence... the report that had brought this whole miserable situation to the fore. Fortunately, the seaman had indeed been insolent, though mildly so; it had been the sort of thing that an experienced officer would have dealt with swiftly and immediately with no more than a look and a word. Instead, the man had been called to the captain's cabin -- doubtless a daunting experience for him, in and of itself -- and Fanshawe had spoken to him. Bush himself had remained silent, though in glowering over Fanshawe's shoulder had informed the man that such behaviour would not be tolerated. No comment had been necessary.

That message had been relayed efficiently throughout the lower deck: he was certain of it. The men now gave Fanshawe every appearance of respect, though Bush knew full well that it was of a hollow sort. He could only hope that some measure of it might be earned, one day.

But today? Today, it simply made him angry. Angry, that such a useless coxcomb disgraced a lieutenant's uniform. He had earned his own through sweat and blood, back-breaking labour, and humiliation. It had been a long hard climb without interest or influence. He knew, of course, the considerable power of both, and had learnt to be tolerant. One had to be. What he found unendurable was Fanshawe's indifference; his unwillingness to earn the gift he had been given. And such a gift: he was young, and whole, with an ocean of opportunity laid before him.

But dammit, thought Bush grimly, he would learn.

***

And thus Fanshawe's education began. Fueled both by Bush's indignation and acute sense of duty it proved neither easy nor pleasant. Bush kept him on the hop, engaged in every aspect of seamanship, from the intricacies of navigation to the handling of sail to the handling of men -- all to be accomplished to his own exacting standards. And this? This was but the beginning.

Fortunately, there was much to do: a crop of a dozen brandy tubs, lashed together and weighted with stones, had been found washed up on the shore of Mount's Bay. A common enough practice, crop-sowing was -- particularly when local preventive men were especially vigilant. Given their bulk, casks of spirits were among the most difficult -- though lucrative -- goods to smuggle. Typically, casks had to be unloaded onto shore and promptly collected by local men, or transferred offshore to waiting tub-boats. Both methods took far too much time and exact coordination and ran too great a risk of discovery when watchful patrols were about. When patrols were frequent, and revenue officers sufficiently determined, crop-sowing became the transfer method of choice.

Bush -- being more than sufficiently determined -- had set both Greyhound and the Witch to putting a rapid halt to it, particularly as Mara Bryce had offhandedly commented to Dawes that Harry Carson had recently 'taken an interest in farming'. They committed themselves to the interception and inspection of all local vessels, as smuggling craft engaged in this practice were fitted with a tell-tale wooden rail running inboard along the length of the hull, commonly known as a tub-rail. The tubs, lashed together and weighted with stones, were hung outside the hull below the waterline with the sinking-rope secured to the rail by small lashings. When the delivery vessel innocently sailed close inshore, the lashings were cut, the tubs promptly sinking to be discreetly recovered by local men at a later, more opportune time.

Thus Fanshawe's days were filled with patrols, endless tacking and wearing, heaving-to and cutting-out -- all of which were done under Bush's critical and unforgiving eye, and unfailingly sharp tongue. And when not so occupied, he was given charge of one of the boats that rowed ceaselessly off-shore, towing a grapnel or 'creeping-iron' along the sea bed in hopes of snagging a sinking-rope. This fishing for half-ankers had proved surprisingly successful, so much so that both Greyhound and the Witch were now preparing to drop anchor in Mount's Bay to deposit their rapidly burgeoning cargo ashore at the Custom House.

Most of Bush's men grinned at the thought of the Custom Officer's horror and the smugglers' frustration when the size of their 'catch' became widely known. But to the Witch's harassed first lieutenant, the splash of the anchor meant a hoped-for moment of peace, and some rest -- though he was fairly certain that Bush would bedevil him with some new and unpleasant task in short order.

"Mr. Fanshawe." Bush's sharp summons abruptly broke into his thoughts, confirming his fears. "Signal to Greyhound 'Captain repair on board'. I shall be in my cabin; inform me when Lieutenant Dawes arrives."

"Aye, sir," acknowledged Fanshawe, relieved that it had been no worse. He turned to the signalman. "Hoist the signal, if you please." He squinted up at the flags as they soared smoothly aloft; all was in order. He nodded to the seaman. "Well done."

Greyhound's boat was immediately dropped in response and rapidly traversed the short distance to the Witch of Endor's side; Dawes scrambled through the entry port, glancing about for his commander. Bush was not to be found, though there was Fanshawe -- Dawes had not recognized him at first glance. Browned by the sun, and sporting a uniform in dire need of cleansing, he bore little resemblance to the immaculate model naval officer he had been when last seen.

Dawes brightened, pleased to see his friend; though, admittedly, his friend appeared somewhat the worse for wear. "So, Ev... how do you find the Witch?"

Fanshawe groaned. "A trial, indeed. And there is no cause to call me 'Ev'..." he sighed. "I do believe my given name is now 'damn you'." He wisely bit off his next comment, as a tell-tale regular thud betrayed his captain's approach.

Bush welcomed Dawes with a smile and nod, then turned a searching glare on his First. "Have you nothing to do, Mr. Fanshawe?"

Fanshawe took a deep breath and visibly braced himself. "No sir, not at present."

"Well, then," snapped Bush brusquely. "I shall remedy that directly. The casks must be unloaded and transferred ashore; rig a parbuckle..." Bush broke off as Fanshawe began to gnaw his lower lip in apparent consternation. He studied the young man's bewildered features for a moment. "You do not know how, I assume?"

Fanshawe barely suppressed a grimace. "No, sir... unfortunately I do not."

Bush heaved an exasperated sigh. "Very well. Take a seaman with you." He gestured to a small knot of offwatch seamen cheerfully engaged in mending whilst one of their number regaled them with tales of the delights of some foreign port. "Any one of those men can assist you."

Fanshawe studied the group, and pointed. "You there... that man..."

"'That man' has a name," Bush snapped, sotto voce. "I'll trouble you to learn it, and use it."

Thus chastened, Fanshawe hurried off, the nameless seaman in tow. Bush shook his head in disgust, but refrained from comment. He turned to Dawes, a proper lieutenant if ever there was, and mustered a half-smile. "Walk with me, Mr. Dawes..." They slowly paced the weather side, Bush peppering him all the while with questions. "Tell me... how does Greyhound serve? Does she still gripe a bit in stays? Perhaps if you were to shift..."

Bush had nearly forgotten how pleasant it was to discuss the finer points of seamanship with a like-minded colleague; Fanshawe would have goggled at him like a witless child had he so much as attempted to do so. The clang of the Witch's bell eventually recalled to Bush the passage of time -- he would have been quite unaware of it otherwise -- prompting him to extract his watch from a pocket. He scowled darkly at it. Fanshawe ought to have finished and reported back long ago.

"A moment, please, Mr. Dawes..." Impatience overcame him; he headed below to observe Fanshawe's progress, knowing full well that what he would find would not please him in the least. He ducked into the darkened hold; as his eyes adjusted to the reduced illumination he found Fanshawe, a smear of tar across one cheek, torn lace trailing from a cuff, his stockings laddered and sadly drooping. The young lieutenant never noticed his captain's arrival. His face was a study in concentration as he sawed busily at a rope with a ridiculously small -- though highly ornamental -- knife. Bush watched him, not knowing whether to burst into laughter or curses. The seaman, clearly, was enduring no such internal struggle: his mirth was evident, a thing which infuriated Bush beyond reason. His officers -- deserving or not -- were not to be laughed at.

He dismissed the seaman with a dangerous growl and turned on Fanshawe.

"Damn you, Fanshawe..." he snarled.

The deeply wounded expression on Fanshawe's face as he looked up at his captain left Bush entirely -- and uncharacteristically -- speechless. In an instant's unaccustomed clairvoyance, he realized that he knew that face. Not the expression, precisely -- he had always managed to conceal that -- but he knew the emotions that fostered it all too well. He had suffered under the stinging lash of Hornblower's casual and thoughtless derision for so many years: he had grown accustomed to it, and had accepted it as no less than he deserved. But... it had done him no good, after all.

He eyed Fanshawe sternly, but softened his tone. "For God's sake, Fanshawe... use a proper knife, and not that damned plaything." He withdrew an enormous, battered seaman's clasp-knife from a pocket and handed it to the astonished Fanshawe. "Keep this until you go ashore and find yourself a real knife." Bush glowered at him fiercely. "Lose it and I will have your liver, I swear it. Do you understand me?"

"Aye, sir," ventured Fanshawe, who had no doubt at all of his captain's sincerity. He braced himself for the dressing-down he had come to expect... to be delivered, no doubt, with Bush's full volume and seaman's vocabulary.

Bush nodded. "Very well. Carry on, then, Mr. Fanshawe."

Fanshawe gaped after Bush's retreating figure. He could think of no rational explanation for his captain's response, but he was grateful for it, all the same. Though the returning seaman... Parker, as he had discovered... looked somehow disappointed at the loss of his afternoon's entertainment, as his ear had been recently pressed to a seam in the bulkhead.

Bush emerged on deck to rejoin the waiting Dawes. "Mr. Fanshawe needed some..." he grimaced, "direction." A sigh escaped him; he knew it was improper, but try as he might, he could not stifle it. "What did I do to deserve this useless lubber?" He shook his head. "Perhaps a better question might be 'What did he do?'"

Dawes stared at him incredulously. "You do not know, sir?"

"Know what?" Bush's eyebrows knit together darkly; it must have been a serious offense indeed. "What is it that he did?"

"He asked, sir." Dawes said, simply.

"What??" Bush squawked in disbelief. "He asked... for..." he spread his hands helplessly, "...for this?"

Dawes nodded firmly. "For this. And... for you, sir."

The colour drained from Bush's face; he gripped the rail as if its support was the only thing keeping him upright. Perhaps it was.

He felt shaken, and sick. Heartsick at the extent of young Fanshawe's folly... and heartily sickened at his own.

***

Chapter 9

"...sir? Sir?" A voice dimly penetrated the mists that had closed in upon him; he felt a hand cautiously touch his arm. "Are you unwell, sir?"

Bush blinked; Dawes was staring at him, his face screwed up in anxious concern. 'Yes...' he thought, vaguely. "No." He shook his head as if to clear it. "No, Dawes... I am quite well. It was nothing." He managed a thin smile. "Nothing at all."

He lifted his chin and his face settled into its usual stern expression; it was as if the incident had never transpired. "Mr. Dawes, see to the landing of your seized goods, and arrange for transport inland to the Customs House. Mr. Fanshawe will be supervising the landing of our own."

"Aye, aye, sir." Dawes nodded, and touched his hat. As Bush made his way to the companion hatch, Dawes took a moment to glance about him; Fanshawe was nowhere in sight. Still belowdecks, no doubt tremulously awaiting a further visitation from his captain... and the wrath that invariably trailed him like some truculent shadow. 'Poor Ev...' he thought, sadly. He had come aboard with such romantic notions about the sea and the Service, only to have them so thoroughly dashed to flinders and replaced by a harsh and most unforgiving reality. But, Dawes reflected, that was the way of the Service -- and more common than not. He grinned, and headed for the entry port.

This time, Fanshawe heard the distinctive sound of his captain's approach and stood aside, ready and waiting -- and full of apprehension.

Bush barely spared a glance at Fanshawe or at the parbuckle he had rigged; it was a simple thing, really, once one understood the principle. The casks stood ready to be hauled up the inclined rails, the lines were decently in place. All that he had ordered had been done, no doubt under able seaman Parker's watchful eye. But, unaccountably, a tackle hung directly over him; it had been rigged from the masthead, apparently while he had been deep in discussion with Dawes. He turned his full attention to it, carefully examining the butt-slings, his callused, competent hands testing each knot.

"You did this, Fanshawe?" he demanded harshly.

Fanshawe barely checked a sigh before it escaped. "Yes, sir." He stood at rigid attention, prepared for the worst. He had followed his orders... but he had gone beyond them. "I feared the largest casks were too heavy, and rigged the tackle and slings as a precaution. Parker instructed me, sir."

Bush harrumphed, and studied him for a long moment. "Well done. Though you might use a cat's-paw in place of a buntline next time. Begin transferring the casks topside; a boat is alongside to receive them." He turned away, leaving Fanshawe to the task.

Fanshawe was, of course, left entirely speechless.

***

Two loaded carter's wagons rattled to a stop in front of the low stone building that served as the Customs House. As Bush and his lieutenants disembarked, the half-dozen seamen perched on the casks grinned to each other, thinking of the small share of the reward that would eventually make its way into their pockets.

Bush stepped through the door to find himself standing before a round-faced man seated at a substantial desk. He was dressed in a dark blue and vaguely naval uniform, though to Bush's eye he was clearly no seaman.

The man regarded them imperiously, as though much impressed with his own importance. "You again... Fanshawe and Dawes, was it not? And this must be Commander Bush." He rose, and thrust out his hand; it was pale and soft, instantly confirming Bush's initial impression of a man who loved the trappings of service but not the doing of it. "Captain Richard Turpin, Board of Customs. Pleased to meet you at last, sir."

"Thank you, Captain," replied Bush evenly, though somehow managing to subtly convey his opinion of the man's title. "I have some seized goods that require storage."

Turpin peered out the window at the heavily laden wagons. When he turned back to Bush his face was pale. "Good God, sir."

Bush raised an eyebrow. "I am but performing my duty."

"No, Commander Bush... you are playing a most dangerous game, interfering in the Trade."

"And you would not."

"No, sir. I would not." Turpin heaved a disconsolate sigh. "I do not. I deplore the Trade as much as you, but... I live here, amongst these people, with my wife and my family. If I lifted a hand against them, none of us would live out the week." The portly customs officer studied Bush for a long moment. "As I fear you will not, sir. Harry Carson is a treacherous man to cross."

"And that is my concern, not yours." Bush curtly responded. "Perhaps I have less to lose."

Turpin shook his head sorrowfully. "I would not be in your shoes, sir."

Bush replied with a scathin