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English sailor from almost any century. He was twenty-five, and had served originally in a frigate until she was paid off.
    Bolitho said, “Please light up your pipes if you wish; I am sure that Telemachus has a good store of tobacco!” They smiled politely but nobody moved. It was too soon for confidences.
    Bolitho said, “ Snapdragon will be entering the dockyard in a few days.”
    He saw Vatass start with surprise. “Er—yes, sir.”
    â€œMake the most of it. It seems likely that overhauls will soon be a thing of the past, and I need—no, I want this flotilla to be ready for anything.”
    Vatass prompted carefully, “Will it be war, sir?”
    Before Bolitho could answer, Queely snapped disdainfully, “Never! The Frogs have their King and Queen in jail, but they’ll let them out soon enough when their bloody-minded National Convention realise they need them!”
    Bolitho said, “I disagree. I believe there will be war, and very soon. Ready or not, it is not unknown for a country to provoke a conflict if only to cover its own failings.” His tone hardened. “And England is even less prepared!”
    Paice folded his arms. “But where do we come into this, sir? We carry out patrols, stop and search some homebound vessels, and occasionally find deserters amongst their people. We also offer support to the revenue vessels when asked—”
    Queely showed his teeth in a grin. “Which ain’t too often!”
    Paice glanced at the sealed skylight. “It’s a mite hot, sir. Could I—”
    Bolitho smiled. “I think not. I need to speak without others lending their attention.”
    He saw Paice’s immediate, defensive frown and added bluntly, “We can trust nobody. Even the most loyal seaman would be hard put to resist a few pieces of gold for what he might see as harmless information.”
    Vatass said vaguely, “But what do we know, sir?”
    Bolitho looked at each face in turn. “Smuggling is rife here, and on the Isle of Thanet in particular. From the Nore to the Downs the trade is barely checked, and there are insufficient revenue vessels to hunt them down.” He placed his hand flat on the table and added, “From what I have seen and heard already, I am certain that smuggling is condoned, even aided, by some in authority. The lieutenant who was stripped and beaten when I found him on the London Road did not obey the letter of his orders. He should have applied for permission from the town before he raided houses and recaptured deserters, men who, bad or not, are desperately needed in the fleet.” He saw his words, sinking in. “Why did he not ask? Why instead did the young lieutenant choose to ignore his orders?” His hand rose and fell with a slap. “He knew that the very authority he looked to would probably warn or offer refuge to the deserters. I have no doubt that there are many such prime seamen earning their keep in the Trade as we sit right here.”
    Queely cleared his throat. “With respect, sir, we have tried in the past to seek out smugglers. Perhaps, and I mean no offence for I know you to be a gallant officer, being away for so long in the Indies and the Great South Sea, you have—” He hesitated as Bolitho’s eyes settled on his.
    Bolitho smiled grimly. “Lost touch? Is that what you meant?”
    Paice said in his gruff voice, “I hate the scum too, sir. But we are so few against so many, and now that you have spoken out, I’ll say my piece if I may.”
    Bolitho nodded. Their guard was down. He had spoken to them like companions, not as a senior officer to his subordinates. Low in rank maybe, but they were all captains, and had the right to be heard.
    Paice said bluntly, “It’s as Charles Queely says.” He gave what might have been a cautious smile. “You being a Cornishman, sir, will know a lot about the Trade and those who