Free With All Despatch by Alexander Kent

stairway which led up to a gallery. Unlike the houses he had seen in London, it was spartan. No pictures, and few pieces of furniture. Temporary, that described it well, he thought, and wondered if it also indicated Hoblyn’s authority here. He looked through a window and caught the glint of late sunlight on the sea. Or mine. He tried not to think about Queely. He could be guilty, or one of his people might have found a way to pass word to the smugglers. News did not travel by itself.
    It was like being in a dark room with a blind man. Uniform, authority, all meaningless. A fight which had neither beginning nor end. Whereas at sea you held the obedience and efficiency of your ship by leadership and example. But the enemy was always visible, ready to pit his wits against yours until the final broadside brought down one flag or the other.
    Here it was stealth, deceit, and murder.
    As a boy Bolitho had often listened to the old tales of the Cornish smugglers. Unlike the notorious wreckers along that cruel coastline, they were regarded as something vaguely heroic and daring. The rogues who robbed the rich to pay the poor. The navy had soon taught Bolitho a different story. Smugglers were not so different from those who lured ships on to the rocks where they robbed the cargoes and slit the throats of helpless survivors. He found that he was gripping his sword so tightly that the pain steadied his sudden anger.
    He felt rather than heard a door opening and turned to see a slim figure framed against a window on the opposite side of the room.
    At first he imagined it was a girl with a figure so slight. Even when he spoke his voice was soft and respectful, but with no trace of servility.
    The youth was dressed in a very pale brown livery with darker frogging at the sleeves and down the front. White stockings and buckled shoes, a gentle miniature of most servants Bolitho had met.
    â€œIf you will follow me, Captain Bolitho.”
    He wore a white, curled wig which accentuated his face and his eyes, which were probably hazel, but which, in the filtered sunlight, seemed green, and gave him the quiet watchfulness of a cat.
    Across the other room and then into a smaller one. It was lined from floor to ceiling with books, and despite the warmth of the evening a cheerful fire was burning beneath a huge painting of a sea-fight. There were chairs and tables and a great desk strategically placed across one corner of the room.
    Bolitho had the feeling that all the worthwhile contents of the house had been gathered in this one place.
    He heard the young footman, if that was his station here, moving to the fire to rearrange a smouldering log into a better position. There was no sign of the commodore.
    The youth turned and looked at him. “He will not be long, sir.” Then he stood motionless beside the flickering fire, his hands behind his back.
    Another, smaller door opened and the commodore walked quickly to the desk and slid behind it with barely a glance.
    He seemed to arrange himself, and Bolitho guessed it came of long practice.
    Just a few years older than himself, but they had been cruel ones. His square face was deeply lined, and he held his head slightly to one side as if he was still in pain. His left arm lay on the desk and Bolitho saw that he wore a white fingerless glove like a false hand, to disguise the terrible injuries he had endured for so long.
    â€œI am pleased to see you, Bolitho.” He had a curt, clipped manner of speech. “Be seated there if you will, I can see you the better.”
    Bolitho sat down and noticed that Hoblyn’s hair was completely grey, and worn unfashionably long, doubtless to hide the only burns which probed above his gold-laced collar.
    The youth moved softly around the desk and produced a finely cut wine jug and two goblets.
    â€œClaret.” Hoblyn’s eyes were brown, but without warmth. “Thought you’d like it.” He waved his right arm vaguely. “We