'Pass word for the captain.' He kept the relief from his voice.

The seas diminished a mile and a half offshore and almost immediately they could see the dark line of the land. Going forward again and peering through the Dollond glass he saw what he hardly dared hope. The cliffs on the left fell away to a narrow river valley, then rose steeply to the west to a height named Mont Jolibois. The faint scent of woodsmoke came to him from the village of Criel that sheltered behind the hill, astride the river crossing of the road from Treport and Eu to Dieppe.

'Da iawn, Mr Drinkwater, well done.' Griffiths's voice was warm and congratulatory. Drinkwater relaxed with relief: it seemed he had passed a test. Griffiths quietly gave orders. The mainsail was scandalised and the staysail backed. The boat towing astern was hauled alongside and two men tumbled in to bale it out. Beside Drinkwater the cloaked figure of the British agent stood staring ashore.

'Your glass, sir, lend me your glass.' The tone was peremptory, commanding, all trace of jollity absent.

'Yes, yes, of course, sir.' He fished it out of his coat pocket and handed it to the man. After scrutinising the beach it was silently returned. Griffiths came up.

'Take the boat in, Mr Drinkwater, and land our guest.'

It took a second to realise his labours were not yet over. Men were piling into the gig alongside. There was the dull gleam of metal where Jessup issued sidearms. 'Pistol and cutlass, sir.' There was an encouraging warmth in Jessup's voice now. Drinkwater took the pistol and stuck it into his waistband. He refused the cutlass. Slipping below, screwing his eyes up against the lamplight from the cabin, he pushed into his own hutch. Behind the door he felt for the French épée. Buckling it on he hurried back on deck.