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conversation; but he longed for their final arrival in France, as much for Walsh as for himself.
     
    They had already sighted several British line-of-battle ships, the main bulk of Admiral Bridport’s blockading force, and the lugger’s captain turned to join the coast further to the north in order to avoid them. Now as the light fell they altered course once more and were creeping towards their goal, with Ushant just visible to starboard, and the grey smudge that was the French mainland tantalisingly close off their larboard beam.
     
    “That would be part of the inshore squadron,” Doyle spoke from the bow, where he was perched alongside Collins, the short-haired man from the Rondy who had turned out to be the boat’s captain. He was more than competent, having guided them this far without incident, and was still calmly controlling their destinies. Crowley has assumed they would be dropped somewhere a good distance from Brest and the attending British fleet. A ten or even twenty mile trek would have been well worth taking to avoid the danger they were now about to run. But the captain was experienced and had clearly made this trip many times before. Besides, after two days in an open boat, he was probably just as keen as any of them to find warmth and shelter.
     
    Crowley peered forward; he could just make out a frigate and what looked like a brig cruising silently in the half light.  
     
    “There’s shoal water hereabouts,” Collins spoke softly, without turning back. “Take her closer to the coast, Jackie; we’ll give King George a wide berth.”
     
    Douglas, who had been solidly steering since morning, pressed the tiller across and reached for the nearest sheet to adjust the mizzen lug. The boat tilted as she changed course, but the on-shore breeze was dying and the sail would not draw.
     
    “We’re losing the wind,” Collins muttered, as he was similarly unsuccessful further forward. He looked about, gauging what was left of the breeze. Ahead and beyond the British, the dark outline of rocks marked the seaward limit of the channel they were aiming for. The brig was the closest to them; she stood less than half a mile off their starboard bow and still held the wind as she crept forward, presumably at the very edge of the shallows. “The current will carry us in,” he continued, meditatively. “Though I’d be happier not to dawdle so.”
     
    The lugger slowed further and began to wallow. The falling of the breeze could not have come at a worse time, and was still not effecting either of the British warships; Crowley could see the nearest more clearly now as she continued to bear down on them.
     
    “Will they give us any trouble?” MacArthur asked from amidships. Collins shook his head.
     
    “Probably not. They’ll take us for fishermen and leave be, unless the cook fancies serving lobster for supper.”
     
    But the brig was clearly determined, and even shook out a reef in a topsail as her wind finally began to fail.
     
    Crowley noticed the manoeuvre with unease. The very nature of a blockading squadron was to keep watch over the enemy. For that patience was the key, speed and any risky manoeuvring usually being unnecessary. Yet this brig was placing herself in danger in order to draw close to them: not even a strong tide, impending nightfall and the lack of wind was enough to keep her off.
     
    “She seems set on speaking with us,” he said, then instantly regretted the statement as Walsh raised himself from his stupor and looked about.
     
    “Is that the British?” he asked.  
     
    “Aye,” Crowley murmured, “and a little nearer than we would like.”
     
    They watched in silence as the brig crept further forward, her sails now flapping impotently. Then, with the very last of her way, she swung round and presented her larboard beam.
     
    Crowley braced himself, and sure enough a pinprick of fire shot out from her hull, followed by a slight splash half a cable ahead of the lugger.