In Gallant Company

The president added, 'Then you were taken below. Correct?'

He looked at Bolitho's terse features and asked, 'How old are you?'

'Twenty-one, sir. This month.' He thought he heard someone snigger behind him.

'And you entered the Navy at the age of twelve, I understand. As did most of us. In addition, you come from a distinguished seafaring family.' His voice hardened suddenly. 'In your experience as a Kings officer, Mr Bolitho, did you at any time during this series of unfortunate events consider that Y.:

Quinn's behaviour was lacking in skill or courage?'

Bolitho replied quietly, 'In my opinion, sir -- ' He got no further.

The president persisted, 'In your experience.'

Bolitho felt desperate, trapped. 'I do not know how to answer, sir.'

He expected to be rebuked, even dismissed from the court, but the president merely asked, 'He was your friend, is that it?'

Bolitho looked across at Quinn, suddenly hating the three captains, the gaping spectators, everything.

He said firmly, 'He is my friend, sir.' He heard the murmur of surprise and expectancy but added, 'Maybe he was afraid, but so was I, as were many more. To deny it would be foolish.'

Before he turned back to the table he saw Quinn lift his chin with pathetic defiance.

Bolitho said, 'His record has been a good one. And I have had him with me on several difficult missions. He has been badly wounded and -'

The thin-lipped captain leaned over to look at his corn. panions. 'I think we have heard enough. This witness has little to add.' He glanced at Bolitho. 'I understand that you declined a new appointment which Rear-Admiral Coutts was prepared to offer? Tell me, was that lack of ambition on your part?'

The president frowned, and then turned as feet moved heavily on the deck.

Without looking, Bolitho knew it was Pears.

The president asked, 'You wished to say something, Captain Pears?'

The familiar harsh voice was remarkably calm. The last question. I feel I should answer. It was not lack of ambition, sir. In my family we call it loyalty, dammit i'

The president held up his hand to still the sudden excitement, 'Quite so.' He looked sadly at Bolitho. 'However, I am afraid that in the case of Lieutenant Quinn loyalty is not enough.' He stood up, and throughout the cabin the spectators and witnesses lurched to their feet. 'The inquiry is adjourned.'

Outside, on the sunlit quarterdeck, Bolitho waited for the visitors to leave.

Dalyell and the new lieutenant, Pointer, were with him when Quinn appeared on deck.

He crossed over to him and murmured, 'Thank you for what you said, Dick.'

Bolitho shrugged. 'It didn't seem to help much.'

Dalyell said quietly, 'You have more courage than I, Dick. That cold-eyed captain scared hell out of me, just looking at him!'

Quinn said, 'Anyway, the president was right. I could not move. It was like being dead, unable to help.'

He saw Cairns approaching and added quickly, 'I shall go to my cabin.'

The first lieutenant leaned over the rail and watched the boats alongside.

Then he said, 'I hope we can get back to sea soon.'

The others moved away and Bolitho asked, 'Did the captain kill Quinn's chances, Neil?'

Cairns eyed him thoughtfully. 'No. I did. I witnessed it, but was less involved than you. Suppose you had been marked down by one of the Frenchman's sharpshooters, or broken by chainshot. Do you think Quinn could have held the fo'c'sle and driven off the boarders?' He smiled gravely and gripped Bolitho's arm. 'I'll not ask you to betray a friendship. But you know, as well as I, that we would have been made to strike to the Argonaute if Quinn had been left in charge forrard.' He looked along the deck, probably remembering it, as Bolitho was. He said, 'There are more lives at stake than the honour of one man.'

Bolitho felt sick. Knowing Cairns was right, but feeling only pity for Quinn.

'What will they decide?'

Cairns replied, 'The admiral who commands here will be aware of this. It has taken long enough to come to light. He will also know of Quinn's father, his power in the City.'

Bolitho could feel the man's bitterness as he added, 'He'll not hang.'

After lunch the court was recalled, and Cairns was proved' correct.

The court of inquiry had decided that Lieutenant James Quinn had been rendered unfit by cause of injury in the King's service to continue with active duty. Upon confirmation from the commander-in-chief, he would be sent ashore to await passage home to England. After that he would be discharged from the Navy.

Nobody outside would know of his disgrace. Except the one man who really cared, and Bolitho doubted very much if Quinn could carry that final burden for long.

Two days later, with Quinn's fate still unconfirmed, Trojan weighed and put to sea.

It would, it appeared, take a little longer.

 

Two and a half days after leaving English Harbour Trojan was steering due west, under reefed topsails and forecourse in a stiff following wind. It was a good opportunity to exercise the old and new hands together in sail drill, as with spray bursting over the poop and quarterdeck the two-decker pointed her jib at the misty horizon.

Apart from a few tiny islands far away on the starboard bow, the sea was empty. An endless deep blue desert, with long cruising rollers and white crests to display the power of the wind.

Bolitho waited on the larboard gangway, the taste of strong coffee warming his stomach, while he prepared to take over the afternoon watch in fifteen minutes' time. With so many new faces and names to grapple with, the constant efforts to discover the skilled hands from the clumsy ones, all of whom seemed to have five thumbs on each fist, Bolitho had been kept very busy. But he could sense the atmosphere in the ship all the same. Confused acceptance by the lower deck and an air of bitterness from aft.

Trojan was ordered to Jamaica, her lower decks crammed with a contingent of marines which the admiral was sending to enforce law and order at the governor's urgent request. Bad weather had wrecked many of Jamaica's local trading vessels, and to make matters worse there had been news of another slave uprising on two of the larger plantations. Rebellion seemed to be in the air everywhere. If Britain was to hold on to her Caribbean possessions she must act now and not wait for the French and possibly the Spanish to blockade and occupy some of the many islands there.

But Bolitho guessed that Pears saw his role through different eyes. While the fleet was preparing for the inevitable spread of war, when every ship of the line would be desperately needed, he was being ordered to Jamaica. His Trojan had taken on the task of transport and little more.

Even the admiral's explanation, that Trojan needed no escort, and was therefore releasing other vessels for work elsewhere, had had no effect. Daily Pears walked his quarterdeck, still watchful for his ship and the routine which ran her, but alone and quite removed from everyone else.

It could rot be helping him now, Bolitho thought, to realize that hidden just below the horizon was the south-eastern shore of Puerto Rico, so near to where Coutts had committed all of them to a hopeless battle. In some ways it would have been better if the Argonaute had not broken off the fight. At least there would be a total victory to hold on to. Maybe the French had used their captain as a scapegoat, too?

But, as Cairns had said, it was better to be at sea and be kept busy than to swing at anchor, moping over what might have happened.

He looked down at the gundeck, at the milling scarlet uniforms and piled weapons as D'Esterre and the captain in charge of the marine contingent inspected and checked everything for the hundredth time.

'Deck there!'

Bolitho looked up, the sun searing his face like sand. 'Sail, sir! On the starboard bow!'

Dalyell had the watch, and it was at moments such as this that his inexperience showed through.

'What? Where?' He snatched a telescope from Midshipman Pullen and rushed to the starboard shrouds.

The look-out's voice was drifting with the wind. 'Small sail, sir! Fisherman, mebbee!'

Sambell, who was master's mate of the watch, remarked sourly, 'Lucky Admiral Coutts ain't here. He'd have us chasm' the bugger!'

Dalyell glared at him. 'Get aloft, Mr Sambell. Tell me what

you see.' He saw Bolitho and smiled awkwardly. 'So long with

out sighting anything, I was off guard.'

'So it would appear, sir.' Pears strode on to the quarterdeck, his shoes squeaking on the seams. He glanced at the set of the sails and then moved to the compass. 'Hmm.'

Dalyell peered up at the master's mate, who seemed to be taking an age to make the long climb.

Pears walked to the rail and watched the marines. 'Fisherman. Maybe so. There are plenty of small islets there. Good places for water and firewood. Not too dangerous if you keep one eye open.'

He frowned as Sambell yelled, 'She's sheered off ! Makin' for one of the islands!'

Dalyell licked his lips and watched the captain. 'Sighted us, d'you suppose, sir?'

Pears shrugged. 'Unlikely. Our masthead has a far greater vision than some low-lying hull.'

He rubbed his chin, and Bolitho thought he saw a sudden gleam in his eyes.

Then Pears said harshly, 'Hands to the braces, Mr Dalyell. We will alter course three points. Steer nor'-west by north.' He banged his big hands together. 'Well, jump to it, sir! 'Pon my soul, you'll have to do better than this!'

The shrill of calls and the immediate rush of seamen brought Cairns on deck, his eyes everywhere as he looked for a ship.

Pears said, 'Vessel on starboard bow, Mr Cairns. Could be a fisherman, but unlikely. They usually keep in company in these hard times.'

'Another privateer, sir?'

Cairns was speaking very carefully, and Bolitho guessed he had taken much from Pears' tongue in the past few weeks.

'Possibly.'

Pears beckoned to D'Esterre, who was being pushed and jostled by the extra marines as they sought to avoid the seamen at the braces and halliards.

'Captain D'Esterre!' Pears peered aloft as the yards squeaked round and the deck heeled over to the change of course. 'How d'you propose to land your men at Jamaica if there has been a further uprising?'

D'Esterre replied, 'In boats, sir. Land by sections above the port and take the high ground before seeking the local commander.'

Pears almost smiled. 'I agree.' He pointed at the boat tier. 'We will exercise landing the contingent at dusk.' He ignored D'Esterre's astonished stare. 'On one of those islands yonder.'

Bolitho heard him say to Cairns, 'If there is some damned pirate there, we will swamp him with marines. Anyway, it will be good practice for them. If Trojan is to act as a troop transport, then she will do it well. No, better than well.'

Cairns smiled, grateful to see a return of Pears' old enthusiasm. 'Aye, sir.'

The helmsman shouted, 'Nor'-west be north, zur!'

'Steady as you go, man.' Cairns waited impatiently for Bolitho's watch to relieve Dalyell and then said, 'I wish to God we could catch one of them again. Just to show Rear-Admiral bloody Coutts a thing or two!'

Pears heard him and murmured, 'Now, now, Mr Cairns. That will do.' But that was all he said.

Bolitho watched his men settling down to their duties while the rest went below to eat. He still believed that what Coutts had tried to do had been right. But his reasons were less certain.

Why was Pears taking the trouble to land marines for so trivial a sighting? Hurt pride, or did he expect to face an eventual court martial at Coutts' instigation over the Argonaute encounter?

He heard Pears say to Bunce, 'I intend to stand off as soon as we have landed the marines. I know these waters very well. I've an idea or two of my own.'

Bunce gave a rough chuckle. That you do know 'em, Cap'n. I think it may be God's will that we be here today.'

Pears grimaced. 'Most probably, Mr Bunce. We shall have to see.' He turned away. 'And pray.'

Bolitho looked at Cairns. 'What does he mean?'

Cairns shrugged. 'He certainly knows this part of the world, as much as the Sage, I would think. I have studied the chart, but apart from reefs and currents, I see no cause for excitement.'

They both faced Pears as he strode across the quarterdeck.

He said, 'I am going aft to take lunch. This afternoon we will muster all hands and prepare the boats. Swivels in the bows of cutters and launches. Only hand-picked men will go.' He glanced at Bolitho. 'You can supervise the landing arrangements, and will take Mr Frowd as your second. Captain D'Esterre will command the land force.' He nodded and strode aft, hands behind his back.

Cairns said softly, 'I'm glad for him. But I'm not so sure he is acting wisely.'

Bunce muttered, 'My mother used to 'ave a saying, zur, about too wise'eads on too young shoulders. Not good for'em, she'd say.' He went to the chart room chuckling to himself.

Cairns shook his head. 'Didn't know the old bugger ever had a mother!'

Trojan closed to within a mile of the nearest island and then lay hove to while the business of lowering boats and filling them with marines was begun.

Most of the marines had been in Antigua for a long time and had only heard about the war in America from visiting ships. Although few of them knew why they were being sent across to the island, and those who did regarded it as something of a joke, they carried out their part willingly and in good humour.

The cheerful atmosphere made Seargeant Shears exclaim angrily, 'My Gawd, sir, you'd think it was a bloody 'oliday, an' no mistake!'

The sea was still very choppy and lively, and it took more time than calculated to get the boats fully loaded and headed for the shore. It was growing dark, and the sunset painted the wave crests amber and dull gold.

Bolitho stood in the sternsheets of the leading cutter, one hand on Stockdale's shoulder as he controlled the tiller-bar. It was difficult to see the cove where they were supposed to land, although it had looked clear enough on the chart. The grim truth was that nobody really knew the exact position of every

reef and sand-bar. Already they had seen several jagged rocks, shining in the strange light and bringing a few anxious remark.i from the crowded marines. In their heavy boots and hung about with weapons and pouches, they would go to the bottom before anything else if the boats were capsized.

D'Esterre was saying, 'Fact is, Dick, we may have been sighted already. They'll not stop to fight all hose marines, but we'll not find them either!'

Another seething rock passed down the starboard oar blades, and Bolitho signalled with a white flag to the boat astern, and so on down the line. Trojan was only a blurred shadow now, and she had been making more sail even as the boats had pulled clear. She would use the prevailing wind to ride in the island s lee for some sign of results.

'Land ahead, sir!'

That was Buller in the bows. A good hand, as he had shown, his wood splinters apparently forgotten. He was lucky to be able to forget so easily, Bolitho thought.

Like darkly hooded monks some tall rocks rose on either side of the boat, while directly across the bows and the loaded swivel gun lay a bright strip of sand.

'Easy all ! Boat yer oars!'

Seamen were already leaping and splashing into the surf on either beam to steady the boat as she drove ashore.

D'Esterre was out, waist-deep in water and calling his sergeant to lead the first pickets to the higher ground.

It was a tiny island, no more than a mile long. Most of the others were even smaller. But there were rock pools for gathering fresh water and shellfish, and wood to burn for any small and self-sufficient vessel.

Bolitho waded ashore, thinking suddenly of Quinn. Ile had heard him asking, pleading with Cairns to be allowed to come with the landing party.

Cairns had been coldly formal, almost brutal. 'We want experienced, picked men, Mr Quinn.' The last part had been like a slap in the face. 'Reliable, too.'

Midshipman Couzens was arriving with the next cutter, and the Trojan's red-painted barge was following her. Bolitho smiled tightly. Frowd and the other marine captain were in her. Being held back in case the first boats had fallen under a deluge of shot and fire.

'Take your positions ! Boat-handling parties stand fast!'

Stockdale strode from the shallows, his cutlass across one shoulder like a broadsword.

From tumbling confusion and whispered threats from the sergeants and corporals, the marines formed into neat little sections. At a further command the,

moved up the slope, boots

squelching on sand and then on rough, sun-hardened earth.

An hour later it was dark and the air was heavy with damp smells, of rotten vegetation and seabird droppings.

While the marine skirmishers hurried away on either side, Bolitho and D'Esterre stood on a narrow ridge-backed hill, the sea ahead and behind them, invisible but for an occasional gleam of surf.

It seemed deserted. Dead. The unknown vessel had gone to another island, or had sailed north-west towards the Bahamas. If Sambell had not seen her for himself, Bolitho might have thought the look-out mistaken by a trick of light and haze.

'This is no Fort Exeter, Dick.' D'Esterre was leaning on his sword, his head cocked to listen to the hiss of wind through fronds and bushes.

'I wish we had those Canadian scouts with us.' Bolitho saw some seamen lying on their backs, staring at the sky. They were quite content to leave it to others. They merely had to obey. To die if need be.

They heard a nervous challenge and then Shears strode up the hill towards them. He carried a clump of grass or creeper to cover his uniform, which was why the sentry had been so startled. It reminded Bolitho of Major Paget's little cape.

'Well?' D'Esterre leaned forward.

Shears sucked in gulps of air. 'She's there, right enough, sir. Anchored close in. Small vessel, yawl by the looks of 'er.'

D'Esterre asked, 'Any signs of life?'

'There's a watch on deck, an' no lights, sir. Up to no good, if you ask me.' He saw D'Esterre's smile and added firmly, 'One of the marines from Antigua says they'd have lights lit and lines down right now, sir. There's a special sort of fish they goes after. No real fisherman would lie an' sleep!'

D'Esterre nodded. 'That was well said, Sergeant Shears. I'll see that the man has a guinea when we get back aboard. And you, too. You must have something about you to inspire an unknown marine to offer his confidences!' He became crisp and formal. 'Fetch Mr Frowd. We will decide what to do. Pass the word to watch out for anyone coming ashore from the yawl.'

Shears said cheerfully, 'They got no boats in the water, sir,

'Well, watch anyway.'

As the sergeant hurried away D'Esterre said, 'Well, Dick, are you thinking as I am? A surprise attack on them?'

'Aye.' He tried to picture the anchored vessel. 'The sight of all your marines should do it. But two armed cutters would be safer. In case they are unimpressed by your little army.'

'I agree. You and Mr Frowd take the cutters. I'll keep the midshipman with me and send him with a message if things go wrong. So work your way round. No risks, mind. Not for a damned yawl!'

Bolitho waited for Frowd to join him, thinking back to Pears' casual reference to these small islands. It had all been clear to him. If the vessel was an enemy, or up to no good, she would run at the first hint of trouble. Towards the land and the marines, or more likely use the prevailing wind and put to sea again or hide amongst the islands. Either way she would find Trojan lying there, using the offshore current and wind. Waiting like a great beast to overwhelm her in a matter of minutes.

At sea, in open waters, there was hardly a vessel afloat which could not outsail the slow-moving Trojan. But in confined space, where one false turn of the helm could mean a grounding at best, Trojan's massive artillery would make escape impossible.

Frowd remarked dourly, 'Boat action then.'

Bolitho watched him curiously. Frowd could probably think of nothing but his next appointment, getting away from the ship where so many had been his equals and were now expected to knuckle their foreheads to him.

'Yes. Pick your men, and let's be about it.'

He noticed the sharpness in his own voice, too. Why was that? Did he see Frowd's attitude as a challenge, as I owhurst had once vied with Quinn?

With muffled oars the two cutters pulled away from the other moored boats and turned east towards the far end of the island, the wind making each stroke of the oars harder and more tiring.

But Bolitho knew his men by now. They would rally when the time came. They had done it before. It was strange to be pushing through the choppy water without doubts of these silent, straining men. He hoped they held some trust in him also.

It would be funny, if after all this stealth, they found only terrified traders or fishermen rising to the marines' rough awakening. It would not seem so amusing when they had to tell the captain about it.

 

'Somebody must be comin', sir!'

Bolitho scrambled through the cutter to join the look-out in the bows. He could see the two seamen he had put ashore, framed against the sky, one moving his arm above his head very slowly.

I-low loud everything sounded. The water sluicing around the two moored boats, the distant boom of surf and the hissing roar as it receded from some hidden beach.

They had reached this tiny inlet several hours ago and had made fast to get as much rest as possible. Most of the seamen appeared to have no trouble. They could sleep anywhere, indifferent to the rocking boats, the spray which occasionally spattered across their already damp clothing.

Frowd, in the boat alongside, said, 'It's gone wrong, I expect.'

Bolitho waited, realizing that the men on the shore were easier to see, more sharply defined against the dull sky. It would be dawn soon.

Stockdale said feelingly, 'It's Mr Couzens, not the enemy!'

Couzens came slithering down the slope and then waded and floundered towards the cutters.

He saw Bolitho and gasped, 'Captain D'Esterre says to start the attack in half an hour.'

He sounded so relieved that Bolitho guessed he had got lost on his way here.

'Very well.' Attack. That sounded definite enough. `What is the signal?'

Stockdale hoisted the midshipman unceremoniously over the gunwale.

'One pistol shot, sir,' Couzens sank down on a thwart, his legs dripping on the bottom board

'Good. Recall those men.' Bolitho rriade his way aft again acid held his v, atch against a shaded horn lantern. There was not much time. 'RRouse the hands. Make ready to cast off,'

Men stirred and coughed, groping around to get their bearings.

From the s=et of the current Bolitdio could picture how the yawl would be swinging to her cable. He thought suddenly of Sparke, deciding on his attack. Pushing sentiment aside after he bloody fighting was over.

'Load your pistols. Take your tune.'

If he hurried them, or shared his own anxiety over the brightening sky, somebody was bound to get muddled and loose off a ball. It only took one.

Stockdale swayed through t_: e boat and then returned. 'All done, sir.'

'Mr Frowd?'

The lieutenant waved to him. 'Ready, sir!'

In spite of his tense nerves Bolitho felt he wanted to smile. Sir. Frowd would never call him by his frst name in a hundred years.

'Out oars,' He raised his arm. 'Ersy, lads. Like f eld mice!' Stockdale sounded approving. 'S,hove o f forrard! Give way larboard!'

Very slowly, with one set of oars pulling the boat round like a crab, they moved away from their tiny haven.

Frowd was following, and Lolitho saw the bowman training the swivel from side to side as if to sniff the way.

Couzens whispered, 'There's the corner, sir!'

Bolitho watched the jutting sour of rock, Couzens' 'corner'. Once round it, they would be en exposed water and visible to my vigilant sentry.

It was brigltei° ng so rapidly that he could see a touch of green on the land, the L ter of spray over some fallen stones.

Weapons too, and in the bows, leaning forward like a figurehead, the topman, Buller.

`Christ, there she be, sir!'

Bolitho saw the swaying mainmast and the smaller one right aft on the anchored yawl, stark against the sky, even though the hull was still in shadow.

A yawl, or dandy, as they were usually termed, would be just the thing for using amongst the islands.

He heard the gurgle of water around the stem, and from astern the regular, muffled beat of Frowd's oars.

Stockdale eased the tiller over, allowing the cutter to move away from the island to lay the yawl between him and D'Esterre's marines.

Soon now. It had to be. Bolitho held his breath, drawing his hanger carefully, although he knew from past experience that a tired look-out would hear little but his own shipboard noises. An anchored vessel was always alive with sound and movement.

But there was a long way to go yet. He said, 'Roundly, lads ! Put your backs into it!'

The cutter was moving swiftly and firmly towards the yawl's larboard bow. Bolitho saw the anchor cable beneath the polelike bowsprit, the casual way the sails were furled and brailed up.

The crack of a pistol shot was like a twelve-pounder on the morning air, and as somebody gave a startled cry aboard the yawl, an undulating line of heads, closely linked with muskets and fixed bayonets, appeared along the top of the island, then touches of scarlet as the marines continued to march in a long, single rank up and then down towards the water.

'Pull! All you've got!' Bolitho leaned forward as if to add weight to the fast-moving cutter.

Figures had appeared on the yawl's deck, and a solitary shot lit up the mainmast like a flare.

Across the water they all heard D'Esterre shouting for the yawl to surrender, and more confused cries, followed by the sound of cordage being hauled madly through blocks.

Bolitho momentarily forgot his own part in it, as with unhurried precision the line of shadowy marines halted and then fired a volley across the vessel's deck.

There was no movement aboard after that, and Bolitho  shouted,   'Stand by to board ! Grapnel ready there? From a corner of his eye he saw Frowd's boat surging past, a grapnel already streaking towards the yawl's bulwark, while the selected men charged up with drawn cutlasses.

Yelling and cheering, the seamen clambered on either side of the bowsprit, seeing the crew crowding together near the mainmast, too shocked by what had happened to move, let alone resist. A few muskets had been thrown down on the deck, and Bolitho ran aft with Stockdale to ensure that no more men were hiding below and even now attempting to scuttle their vessel.

Not a plan lost, and across the water he saw the marines waving their hats and cheering.

I Frowd snapped, 'Privateers, right enough!' He dragged a man from the crowd. He had thrown his weapons away, but was so loaded with pouches of shot and cartridges that he looked like a pirate.

Bolitho sheathed his hanger. 'Well done, lads. I'll send word across to the marines and -'

It was Couzens who had shouted with alarm. He was pointing across the bows, his voice breaking, 'Ship, sir! Coming round the pointV

He heard D'Esterre calling through his speaking trumpet, his voice urgent and desperate. 'Abandon her! Man your boats!'

Frowd was still staring at the neat array of braced yards and sails as the approaching vessel tilted suddenly to a change of tack.

He asked, 'What the hell, is she?'

Bolitho felt fingers tugging his sleeve, and he saw Buller, his eyes on the newcomer.

'It's 'er! Th' one I saw, zur! Th' brig which went about when Spite were dismasted!'

It was all tumbling through Bolitho's mind like a tide in a

mill-race. The brig, the yawl waiting to load or unload more weapons and powder, D'Esterre's last order, his own decision which lay frozen in his reeling thoughts.

There was a flash, followed by a dull bang, and a ball whipped overhead and smashed down hard on the island. The marines were falling back in good order, and Bolitho could sense the change in the yawl's crew. Fear to hope, and then to jubilation at their unexpected rescue.

'What'll we do?' Frowd was standing by the capstan, his sword still in his hand. 'She'll rake her as she passes with every gun she's got!'

Bolitho thought of Pears, of Coutts' disappointment, of Quinn's face at the court of inquiry.

He yelled, 'Cut the cable! Stand by to break out the mains'i! Mr Frowd, take charge there! Stockdale, man the helm!'

Another ball came out of the misty light and smashed into one of the cutters which was bobbing beneath the stem. Before it heeled over and sank, its loaded swivel gun exploded, and a blast of canister cut down a seaman even as he ran to sever the cable.

With only one boat there was no chance to obey D'Esterre's order. Bolitho stared at the brig, his heart chilling with anger and unexpected hatred.

And he knew, deep down, that he had had no intention of obeying.

The great mainsail swung outboard on its boom, thundering wildly as the anchor cable was hacked away to allow the yawl to fall downwind, out of command.

'Put up your helm!'

Men were slipping and stumbling at the halliards, ignoring the dumbfounded crew as they fought to bring the yawl under control.

Bolitho heard a ragged crash of gun-fire, and turned in time to see the small after mast pitch over the rail, missing Stockdale by a few feet.

'Hack that adrift!'

Another crash shook the hull, and Bolitho heard the ball slamming through the deck below. She could not, take much of this.

'Put those men on the pumps!' He thrust his pistol into Couzens' hand. 'Shoot if they try to rush you!'

'I've got 'er, sir!' Stockdale stood, legs wide apart, peering at the sails and the freshly set jib as the land swam round beneath the bowsprit. He looked like an oak.

But the brig was gaining, her deck tilting as she tacked round to hold the wind and overreach her adversary.

The yawl had two swivels, but they were useless. Like a pike against a charge of cavalry. And all the hands were better employed at sheets and braces than wasting their strength on empty gestures.

A bright ripple of flashes again, and this tine the balls battered into the lower hull like a fall of rock.

Bolitho saw the flag at the brig's gaff, the one he had been hearing about. Red and white stripes, with a circle of stars on a blue ground. She looked very new, and was being handled by a real professional.

'We'm makin' water fast, sir!

Bolitho wiped his face and listened to the creak of the pumps. It was no use. They could never outreach her.

Small, vicious sounds sang past be helm, and he knew they were in musket range.

Somebody screamed, and then he saw Frowd stagger and

fall against the bulwark, both hands clutching a shattered knee. Couzens appeared at the hatch, his back towards the deck as

he trained the pistol down tile companion ladder.

'We're sinking, sir! There's water bursting into the hold!'

A ball burst through the mainsail and parted shrouds and

stays like an invisible sabre.

Frowd was gasping, `Run her ashore! It's our only chance!'

Bolitho shook his head. Once on firm sand, the yawl's cargo, and he had no doubt now that she was loaded with arms for the brig, would still be intact.

With sudden fury he climbed on to the shrouds and shook his fist at the other vessel.

His voice was lost on the wind and the answering crash of cannon-fire, but he found some satisfaction as he yelled, 'I'll sink her first, damn you!'

Stockdale watched him, while beyond the bows and the sea which was being churned by falling shot he saw the headland sliding away.

Please God she'll be there, he thought despairingly. Too late for us, but they'll not live neither.

 

16

 

Orders

 

As she floundered further from the island's shelter and into open water, the yawl rapidly became unmanageable. With so much damage below, and the dead-weight of weapons and iron shot, she was destroying herself on every wave.

The brig had changed tack again, sweeping away sharply to run almost parallel, while her gun crews settled down to pound the smaller craft into submission. There was no thought left of saving anything or anybody, and even the terrified prisoners were falling under the murderous cannon-fire.

Bolitho found time to notice that the brig, obviously new from some master-builder's yard, was not fully armed. Otherwise the fight would have been over long since. Only half her ports were firing, and he guessed the remainder were supposed to have been filled fromm the yawl's cargo. And this was her master's second attempt. The first had cost many lives, and the loss of the Spite. It seemed as if the brig had a charmed life and would escape yet again.

The deck gave a tremendous lurch and the topmast and upper yard fell in a mess of rigging and flapping canvas. Immediately the deck began to lean over, throwing men from their feet and bringing down more severed rigging.

From the open hatch Bolitho heard the violent inrush of water, the cries of the prisoners as the sea pushed through the frail timbers into the hold.

Bolitho clung to the bulwark and shouted, 'Release those men, Mr Couzens! The rest of you help the wounded!' He stared at Stockdale as he released the useless tiller, 'Lend a hand.' He winced as more shots whistled low overhead. 'We must abandon!'

Stockdale threw an unconscious seaman over his shoulder and strode to the side, peering down to make sure the remaining cutter was still afloat.

'Into the boat! Pass the wounded down.'

Bolitho felt the deck tilt and begin to settle more steeply. She was going by the stern, and the taffrail, with the stump of the after mast, was already awash.

If only the brig would cease firing. It needed just one ball to fall amongst the wounded and they would sink with the cutter. He looked at the swirling water and lively white crests. They would have a poor chance of survival in any case. On the island, which seemed to have moved a mile astern, he could see a few red coats, and guessed that the majority of the marines were running back to man the other bogs. But marines were not seamen. By the time they managed to draw near, it would be over.

fCouzens staggered towards him and gasped, 'The bows are   out of the water, sir!' He ducked as another shot ripped through the mainsail and tore it away to rags. Stockdale was trying to climb back on deck, but Bolitho shouted, 'Stand away! She's going down fast!'

With his face like a mask, Stockdale cast off the painter and allowed the current to carry him clear. Bolitho saw Frowd struggling aft to watch the sinking yawl, his fingers bloody as he waved his sword above his head.

The brig was shortening sail, the forecourse vanishing to reveal the rest of her neat hull

Will they try to save us or kill us?

Bolitho said, 'We will swim for it, Mr Couzens.'

The boy nodded jerkily, unable to speak, as he kicked off his shoes and tore frantically at , his shirt.

A shadow moved below the open hatch, and for a moment Bolitho imagined a wounded or trapped man was still down there. But it was a corpse, drifting forward as the water pounded between the decks. It was as high as that.

Couzens stared at the water and murmured, 'I'm not much of a swimmer, s-sir!' His teeth were chattering in spite of the sunlight.

Bolitho looked at him. 'Why in hell's name didn't you leave with the cutter then?' He realized the answer just as quickly and said quietly, 'We will keep together. I see a likely spar yonder . .

The brig fired again, the ball skipping over the wave crests, past the swaying cutter and between some floundering swimmers like an attacking swordfish.

So that was why they had shortened sail. To make sure the British force was totally destroyed. So that every officer would think again if in the future he saw a chance of seizing much needed supplies.

The yawl lurched over, tipping loose gear and corpses into the scuppers.

Bolitho watched the brig. But for Couzens he would have stayed and died here, he knew it. If he had to die anyway, it were better to let them see his face. But Couzens did not deserve such a death. For him there must always seem a chance.

The brig was putting her helm over, her yards in confusion as she swung away from the drifting wreck. He could even see her name on the broad counter, White Hills, and a startled face peering at him from the stern windows.

'He's going about!' Bolitho spoke aloud without knowing it. 'What is he thinking of? He'll be in irons in a minute!'

The wind was too strong and the brig's sails too few. In no time she was rendered helpless, her sails all aback in flapping, disordered revolt.

There was a muffled bang, and for an instant Bolitho thought she had sprung a mast or large yard. With disbelief he saw a great gaping hole torn in the brig's main-topsail, the wind slashing it to ribbons against the mast even as he watched.

He felt Couzens clutching his arm and shouting 'It's Trojan?, sir! She is here V

Bolitho turned and saw the two-decker, standing as if motionless in the haze, like an extension to the next pair of islets.

Pears must have judged it to the second, biding his time while the same wind which was hampering the brig carried him slowly across the one safe channel of escape.

Two bright tongues stabbed from the forecastle, and Bolitho could see the gun captains as if he were there with them. Probably Bill Chimmo, Trojan's gunner, would personally be supervising each careful shot.

He heard the splintering crash as an eighteen-pound ball blasted its way into the brig.

Then, below his feet the deck started to slide away, and with Couzens clinging to him like a limpet he plunged over the bulwark. But not before he had heard a wild cheer, or before he had seen the bright new flag being hauled down from the brig's gaff.

Even at that range Trojan's starboard broadside could have smashed the brig to pieces in minutes, and her master knew it. A bitter moment for him, but many would thank him all the same.

Gasping and spluttering they reached the drifting spar and clung on to it.

Bolitho managed to say, 'I think you saved me.' For, unlike Couzens, he had forgotten to remove his clothes or even his hanger, and he was grateful for the spar's support.

As he tried to hold his head above the choppy wave crests he saw the cutter turning towards him, the oarsmen leaning outboard to pull some of the swimmers to safety, or allow them to hang along either side of the hull. Further beyond them the

other boats 'were coming too,. the marines and the small party of seamen left to guard them doing better than Bolitho had expected.

He called, `How is the brig?'

Couzens stared across the spar and answered, 'She's hove to, sir! They're not going to make a run for it!'

Bolitho nodded, unable to say anything more. The White Hills had no choice, especially as D'Esterre's boats were being careful not to lay themselves between him and Trojan's formidable artillery.

The brig's capture might not make up for all those who had died, but it would show Trojan's company what they could do, and give them back some pride.

Trojan's remaining boats had been lowered and were coming to join in the rescue. Bolitho could see the two jolly boats and even the gig bouncing over the water. It took a full hour before he and Midshipman Couzens were hauled aboard the gig by a grinning Midshipman Pullen.

Bolitho could well imagine what the delay had done to Stockdale, But Stockdale knew him well enough to stand off with his overloaded boat of wounded and half-drowned men, rather than to show preference for a lieutenant who was to all intents safe and unhurt.

The eventual return aboard the Trojan was one of mixed feelings. Sadness that some of the older and more experienced hands had died or suffered wounds, but riding with it a kind of wild jubilation that they had acted alone, and had won.

When the smartly painted brig was put under the command of a boarding party, and the seamen lining the Trojan's gangway cheered the returning victors, it felt like the greatest triumph of all time.

Small moments stood out, as they always did.

A seaman shaking his friend to tell him they were alongside their ship again, the stunned disbelief when he discovered he had died.

The cheers giving way to laughter as Couzens, as naked as the day he was born, climbed through the entry port with all the dignity he could manage, while two grinning marines presented arms for his benefit,

And Stockdale striding to meet Bolitho, his slow, lopsided smile of welcome better than any words.

Yet somehow it was Pears who held the day. tall, massive like his beloved Trojan, he stood watching in silence.

As Couzens tried to hide himself Pears called harshly, 'That is no way for a King's officer to disport himself, sir! 'Pon my soul, Mr Couzens, I don't know what you are thinking about, and that's the truth! ' Then as the boy ran, flushing, for the nearest companionway, he added, `Proud of you, all the same.'

Bolitho crossed the quarterdeck, his feet squelching noisily.

Pears eyed him grimly. 'Lost the yawl, I see? Loaded, was she?'

'Aye, sir., I believe she was to arm the brig.' He saw his men limping past, tarred hands reaching out to slap their shoulders. He said softly, 'Our people did well, sir.'

He watched the brig spreading her sails again, the torn one little more than rags. He guessed that Pears had sent a master's mate across, while the marines searched and sorted out the captured crew. Frowd might be made prize-master, it might make up for his badly shattered knee. Whatever Thorndike did for him now, or some hospital later on, he would have a bad limp for the rest of his life. He had reached the rank of lieutenant. Frowd would know better than anyone that his wound would prevent his getting any further.

It was late afternoon by the time both vessels had cleared the islands and had sea-room again. It was no small relief to see the reefs and swirling currents left far astern.

When D'Esterre returned to the Trojan he had another interesting find to report.

The White Hills' captain was none other than Jonas Tracy, the brother of the man killed when they had seized the schooner Faithful. He had had every intention of fighting his way from under Trojan's guns, hopeless or not. But the odds had been against him. His company were for the most part new to the trade of a fighting ship, which was the reason for a seasoned privateersman like Tracy being given command in the first place. His reputation, and list of successes against the British, made him an obvious choice. Tracy had ordered his men to put the White Hills about, to try and discover another, narrow passage through the islands. His men, already cowed by the Trojan's unexpected challenge, were completely beaten when that second, carefully aimed ball had smashed into the brig's side. It had shattered to fragments on the breech of a gun on the opposite bulwark, and one splinter, the size of a block, had taken Tracy's arm off at the shoulder. The sight of their tough, hard-swearing captain oat down before their eyes had been more than enough, and they had hauled down their flag.

Bolitho did not know if Tracy was still alive. It was an ironic twist that he had been firing on the man who was responsible for his brother's death without knowing it.

Bolitho was washing himself in his small cabin when he heard a commotion on deck, the distant cry that a sail was in sight.

The other vessel soon showed herself to be a frigate under full sail. She bore down on Trojan and with little fuss dropped a boat in the water to carry her captain across.

Bolitho threw on his shirt and breeches and ran on deck. The frigate was called Kittiwake, and Bolitho knew she was one of those he had seen at Antigua.

With as much ceremony as if they were safely anchored in Plymouth Sound, Trojan received her visitor, As the guard presented muskets, and calls shrilled, Pears stepped forward to greet him. Bolitho realized it was the post-captain who had been on Quinn's court of inquiry. Not the president, nor the one with the thin lips and vindictive manner, but the third officer who had, as far as Bolitho recalled, said nothing at all.

Sunset was closing in rapidly when the Kittizvake's lord and master took his leave, his step less firm than when he had come aboard.

Bolitho watched the frigate make sail again, her canvas like gold silk in the dying sunlight. She would soon be out of sight, her captain free of admirals and ponderous authority. He sighed.

Cairns joined him, his eyes on the duty watch who were preparing to get the ship under way again.

He said quietly, 'She was from Antigua with despatches. She has been realeased from her squadron to go ahead of us to Jamaica. We are not outcasts after all.'

He sounded different. Remote.

`Is something wrong?'

Cairns looked at him, his face glowing in the sunset.

`Captain Pears thinks that the sea war will end in the Caribbean.'

'Not America?' Bolitho did not understand this mood.

`Like me, I think he believes that the war is already finished. Victories we will have, must have if we are to meet the French when they come out. But to win a war takes more than that, Dick.' He touched his shoulder and smiled sadly. 'I am detaining you. The captain wants you aft.' He walked away, calling sharply, `Now then, Mr Dalyell, what is this shambles? Send the topmen aloft" and pipe the hands to the braces ! It is like a fish market here!'

Bolitho groped through the shadowed passageway to Pears' cabin.

Pears was sitting at his table, studying a bottle of wine with grim concentration.

He said, 'Sit down.'

Bolitho heard the pad of bare feet overhead, and wondered how they were managing with the captain away from his familiar place by the rail.

He sat.

The cabin looked comfortable and content. Bolitho felt suddenly tired, as if all the strength had drained out of him like sand from an hour-glass.

Pears announced slowly, 'We shall have some claret presently.' Bolitho licked his lips. 'Thank you, sir.' He waited, completely lost. First Cairns, now Pears.

'Captain Viney of the Kittiwake brought orders from the flagship at Antigua. Mr Frowd is appointed into the Maid o f Norfolk, armed transport. With all despatch.'

'But, sir, his leg?'

'I know. The surgeon has patched him as best he can.' His eyes came up and settled firmly on Bolitho's face. 'What does he want most in the world?'

'A ship, sir. Perhaps one day, a command of his own.'

He recalled Frowd's face aboard the yawl. Perhaps even

then he had been thinking of it. A ship, any ship, like the

armed transport written in his appointment, would have done. 'I agree. If he languishes here it will be too late. If he returns

to Antigua,' he shrugged, 'his luck may have changed by

then.'

Bolitho watched him, fascinated by Pears' authority. He had fought in battles, and was now taking his command to deal with God alone knew what in Jamaica, and yet he had time to think about Frowd.

'Then there is Mr Quinn.' Pears opened the bottle, his head to one side as the hull shivered and rolled before settling down on a new tack, 'He was not forgotten.'

Bolitho waited, trying to discover Pears' true feelings.

'He is to be returned to Antigua for passage to England. The rest we already know. I have written a letter for his father. It won't help much. But I want him to understand that his son only had so much courage. When it left him he was as helpless as Frowd with his leg.' Pears nudged a heavy envelope with the bottle. 'But he tried, and if more young men were doing that, instead of living in comfort at home, we might be better placed than we are.'

Bolitho looked at the bulky envelope. Quinn's life.

Pears became almost brisk. 'But enough of that. I have things to do, orders to dictate.'

He poured two large glasses of claret and held them on the table until Bolitho took one. The ship was leaning so steeply that both would have slithered to the deck otherwise.

It was strange that no one else was here. He had expected D'Esterre, or perhaps Cairns, once he had completed his duties with the watch on deck.

Pears raised his glass and said, 'I expect this will be a long night for you. But there will be longer ones, believe me.'

He raised his glass, like a thimble in his massive fist.

'I wish you luck, Mr Bolitho, and as our redoubtable sailing  master would say, God's speed.'

Bolitho stared at him, the claret untouched.

'I am putting you in command of the White Hills. We will part company tomorrow when it is light enough to ferry the wounded over to her.'

Bolitho tried to think, to clear the astonishment from his mind.

Then he said, 'The first lieutenant, sir, with all respect ... Pears held up his glass. it was empty. Like Probyri's had once been.