With All Despatch by Alexander Kent

after Allday disappeared. His imagination was running wild, with a suspected felon in every shadow.
    Hoblyn had tried to tell him in his own way; so had the admiral at Chatham. Let others fret over it, and content yourself with your daily lot until something better offers itself.
    He was trying too hard. At the Admiralty he had been told in a roundabout way that he had been chosen because of his gallant record, something which might inspire young men to sign on, to wear the King’s coat because of his own service. It was a bitter reward.
    The Nore and Medway towns were known for their distrust in the stirring words of a recruiting poster. In other wars the harbours and villages had been stripped of their young men, some who had gone proudly to volunteer, others who had been dragged away from their families by the desperate press gangs. The aftermath had seen too many cripples and too few young men to encourage others to follow their example.
    Relic. The word seemed to haunt him.
    He watched some seamen clambering up the weather ratlines to whip some loose cordage which had been spotted by the boatswain’s eagle eye.
    This was their ship, their home. They wanted to be rid of the officer who had once been a frigate captain.
    There was a slithering footfall on deck and Matthew Corker moved carefully towards him, his young face screwed up with concentration. He held out a steaming mug. “Coffee, Cap’n.” He smiled nervously. “’Tis half-empty, I’m afraid, sir.”
    Bolitho tried to return the smile. He was doing everything he could to please him, do the things which he had seen Allday do. He had even called him Cap’n, as Allday did and would allow no other. He had overcome his seasickness for most of the time.
    â€œD’you still want to go to sea, Matthew?” The coffee was good, and seemed to give him strength.
    â€œAye, sir. More’n ever.”
    What would his grandfather, Old Matthew, think of that?
    A shaft of red sunlight ran down the mainmast, and Bolitho stared at it as the great mainsail rattled and boomed in the wind. A few more hours and all pretence would be over.
    He would not be remembered as the frigate captain, but as the man who tried to use a cutter like one. Relic.
    â€œI forgot to tell you something, sir.” The boy watched him anxiously. “Us being so busy an’ worried like.”
    Bolitho smiled down at him. Us, he had said. It had not been easy for him either. The crowded hull, and doubtless some language and tales which he would barely understand after his sheltered existence at Falmouth.
    â€œWhat is that?”
    â€œWhen I took the horses to the stables at the commodore’s house, sir, I had a walk round, looked at the other horses an’ that.” Bolitho saw him screwing up his face again, trying to picture it, to forget nothing.
    â€œThere was a fine carriage there. My grandfather showed me one once, when I was very young, sir.”
    Bolitho warmed to him. “That must have been a long time ago.”
    It was lost on him. “It’s got a special kind of springing, y’see, sir—I’ve never seen another, until that night.”
    Bolitho waited. “What about it?”
    â€œIt’s French, sir. A berlin, just like the one which came to Falmouth that time with some nobleman an’ his lady.”
    Bolitho took his arm and guided him to the bulwark so that their backs were turned to the helmsmen and other watchkeepers.
    â€œAre you quite sure?”
    â€œOh yes, sir.” He nodded emphatically. “Somebody had been varnishing the doors like, but I could still see it when I held up the lantern.”
    Bolitho tried to remain patient. “See what?”
    â€œI forget what they calls them, sir.” He pouted. “A sort of flower with a crest.”
    Bolitho stared at the tilting horizon for several seconds.
    Then he said quietly, “Fleur-de-lys?”
    The boy’s apple