Ferguson said, "One of the mounted men, sir. He looks well dressed."

Bolitho had already noted that. A heavy, bearded man with a fine hat and a cloak lined with scarlet. If anything he was inciting the mob, his words lost in distance.

Allday said, "Maybe they've caught a pair of thieves, Cap'n." He glanced back up the hill as if still expecting to see the gibbet with its ragged skeleton.

Bolitho snapped, "Drive on!" He looked at Allday and saw his anxiety. "Those two thieves are wearing sea-officers' breeches."

Ferguson protested, "But, sir! That may be nothing to do with it!"

Bolitho looked steadily at Old Matthew. "When you are ready."

The carriage rolled on to the road again. Even above the rattle of wheels and hooves Bolitho could hear the rising din of angry voices as they bore down on the procession.

"Whoa, there!" Old Matthew's voice was harsh with anger. "Yew stand away from those horses, yew buggers!" Then the carriage halted.

Bolitho stepped down on to the road, aware of the sudden silence, the staring faces, many flushed with drink, others gaping as if he had just appeared from hell.

He could feel Ferguson watching from the carriage window, his pistol just out of sight. Allday too, measuring the distance to jump to the ground. By then it might be too late.

It was Young Matthew who unknowingly broke the spell. He ran from behind the carriage to help quieten the lead horses. It was as if the mob did not exist.

The mounted man with the beard spurred his horse through the watching figures.

"What have we here, sir? A King's officer, no less." He made a mock bow in the saddle. "On his way to take charge of a fine ship at Chatham, no doubt! To protect us all from the Frenchies, eh, lads!"

There was some derisive laughter, but many of them were studying Bolitho more closely, as if they expected a trap of some kind.