In Gallant Company

'I was going to send him. I need him here, now more than ever, but he deserves an appointment, even as a prize-master.'

Ile eyed him steadily. 'As you did to Rear-Admiral Coutts, so did he refuse my suggestion.'

He smiled gravely. 'So there we are.'

Bolitho saw his glass being refilled and said dazedly, 'Thank you very much, sir.'

Pears, grimaced. 'So get the claret down you, and say your farewells. You can bother the life out of someone else after this!'

Bolitho found himself outside beside the motionless sentry again, as if it had all been a dream.

He found Cairns still on deck, leaning against the weather nettings and staring across at the brig's lights.

Before Bolitho could speak Cairns said firmly, 'You are going as prize-master tomorrow. It is settled, if I have to send you across in irons.'

Bolitho stood beside him, conscious of the movements behind him, the creak of the wheel, the slap of rigging against spars and canvas.

I expect this will be a long night for you. 'What has happened, Neil?'

He felt very close to this quiet, soft-spoken Scot.

'The captain also received a letter. I don't know who from. It is not his style to whimper. It was a friendly piece of information, if you can call it that. To tell Captain Pears he has been passed over for promotion to flag rank. A captain he will remain.' He looked up at the stars beyond the black rigging and yards. 'And when Trojan eventually pays-off, that will be the end for him. Coutts has been ordered to England under a cloud.' He could not hide his anger, his hurt. 'But he has wealth, and position.' He turned and gestured towards the poop. 'He only has his ship!'

'Thank you for telling me.'

Cairns' teeth were very white in the gloom. 'Away with you, man. Go and pack your chest.'

As Bolitho was about to leave him he added softly, 'But you do understand, my friend? I couldn't desert him now, could I?

 

The next morning, bright and early, with both vessels hove to, Trojan's boats started to ferry the wounded seamen across to the brig. On their return trips they carried the White Hills' crew into captivity. It must have been one of the shortest commissions in sea history, Bolitho thought.

Nothing seemed exactly real to him, and he found himself forgetting certain tasks, and checking to discover if he had completed others more than once.

Each time he went on deck he had to look across at the brig, rolling uncomfortably in steep troughs. But once under sail

again she could fly if need be. It was too close a memory to forget how she had been handled.

Cairns had already told him that Pears was allowing him to select his own prize-crew. Just enough to work the brig in safety, or run before a storm or powerful enemy.

He did not have to ask Stockdale. He was there, a small bag already packed. His worldly possessions. Pears had also instructed him to take the badly wounded Captain Jonas Tracy to Antigua. He was too severely injured to be moved with the other prisoners, and should be little trouble.

As the time drew near for him to leave, Bolitho was very aware of his own tore emotions. Small incidents from the past stood out to remind him of his two and a half years in the Trojan. It seemed quite unbelievable that he was leaving her, to place himself at the disposal of the admiral commanding in Antigua. it was like starting life all over again. New faces, fresh surroundings.

He had been surprised and not a little moved by some of the men who had actually volunteered to go with him.

Carlsson, the Swede who had been flogged. Dunwoody, the miller's son, Moffitt, the American, Rabbett, the ex-thief, and old Buller, the topman, the man who had recognized the brig from the start. He had been promoted to petty officer and had shaken his head in astonishment at the news.

There were others too, as much a part of the big two-decker as her figurehead or her captain.

He watched Frowd being swayed down to the cutter in a bosun's chair, his bandaged and splinted leg sticking out like a tusk, and hating it all, the indignity of leaving his ship in this fashion.

Quinn had already gone across. It would be difficult to stand between those two, Bolitho thought. Bolitho had already seen Frowd looking bitterly at Quinn. He was probably questioning the fairness of it. 'W'hy should Quinn, who was being rejected by the Navy, be spared, while he was a cripple?

Most of the goodbyes had been said already. Last night, and through the morning. Rough handshakes from gunner and boatswain, grins from others he had watched change from boys to men. Like himself.

 

D'Esterre had sent some of his own stock of wine across to the brig, and Sergeant Shears had given him a tiny cannon which he had fashioned from odd fragments of silver.

Cairns found him checking over his list of things which he was required to do and said, The Sage says that we're in for a blow, Dick. You'd better be going now.' He thrust out his hand. 'I'll say my farewells here.' He glanced around the deserted wardroom where they had shared so much. 'It will seem emptier with you gone.'

'I'll not forget you.' Bolitho gripped his hand hard. 'Ever!'

They walked forward to the companion ladder, and Cairns said suddenly, 'One thing. Captain Pears thinks you should take another officer to stand watches with you. We cannot spare a master's mate, and lieutenants are as rare as charity until our replacements arrive. So it will have to be a midshipman.'

Bolitho thought about it.

Cairns added, 'Weston will be acting-lieutenant as of now, and both Lunn and Burslem are better left here to finish their training. That leaves Forbes and Couzens who are young enough to begin again anywhere.'

Bolitho smiled. 'I will put it to them.'

Watched by the lieutenants and marine officers, Erasmus Bunce, the master, beckoned to the two thirteen-year-old midshipmen.

'A volunteer is needed, young gentlemen.' Bunce glared at them disdainfully. 'Though what use either o' you will be to Mr Bolitho, I can't say.'

They both stepped forward, Couzens with such a look of pleading on his round face that Bunce asked, 'Is your gear packed?'

Couzens nodded excitedly, and Forbes looked near to tears as he shook his head.

Bunce said, 'Mr Couzens, off you go, and lively. It must be the Lord's blessing to clear the ship of your high spirits and skylarking!' He looked at Bolitho and dropped one eyelid like a gunport. 'Satisfied?'

'Aye.'

Bolitho shook their hands, trying to hold back his emotion. D'Esterre was the last. 'Good luck, Dick. We'll meet again. I shall miss you.'

Bolitho looked across at the White Hills, seeing the wave crests rolling along her hull, making her sway more and more steeply.

His orders were in his pocket, in a heavily sealed envelope. He waited to go, but the ship held on to him. He walked towards the entry port, seeing the gig rising and

falling alongside. In for a blow, Bunce had said. Perhaps it was just as well. To hasten the break and keep him too busy for regrets.

Cairns said quietly, 'Here is the captain.'

Pears strolled across the quarterdeck, his coat-tails flapping out like studding sails, while he held on to his gold-laced hat with one hand.

'Prepare to get under way, Mr Cairns. I'll not lose this wind.'

He seemed to see Bolitho for the first time. 'Still here, sir?' His eyebrows went up. ' 'Pon my soul ...' For once he did not finish. Instead he walked across and held out his big hand.

'Be off with you now. My regards to your father when next you see hiss.' He turned away and moved aft towards the compass.

Bolitho touched his hat to the quarterdeck, and clutching his hanger to his hip hurried down into the boat.

The oars dipped into the water, and immediately Trojan fell away, the men on the gangways turning to continue with their work while others ran up the ratlines to loose the topsails again.

Couzens stared back at the ship, his eyes watering in the wind. It looked as if he was crying. Unknown to Bolitho, it was the happiest day in the midshipman's short life.

Bolitho raised his hand, and saw Cairns doing the same. Of Pears there was no sign. Like the Trojan, he was letting go.

Bolitho turned his back and studied the White Hills. His for

so short a time. But his.

 

As Bunce had predicted, the wind rose rapidly to gale force, and with it the sea changed its face from cruising white horses to long, violent troughs with ragged yellow crests.

The prize-crew got down to work in grim earnest, bringing the ship's head to the south as the wind backed and pushed them hard over, the yards braced round until they would not shift another inch.

Bolitho discarded his hat and coat and stood beside the unprotected wheel, his ears ringing to the roar of wind and sea, his whole body soaking with spray.

It was lucky the White Hills carried a spare main-topsail, he thought. The one which had been torn apart by Trojan's first shot had been saved for patching but was useless for anything more.

Under reefed topsails and jib, the White Hills ran closehauled to the south, away from the islands and danger.

Quinn, stiff-faced and barely speaking, worked with the hands on deck, and without him Bolitho wondered what he would have done. Couzens had the determination and loyalty of ten men, but experience in handling rigging and sails in a full gale he had not.

Stockdale came aft and joined the two hands at the wheel. Like Bolitho he was drenched to the skin, his clothing stained by tar and salt. He grinned through the drifting streamers of spindrift and bobbed his head at Bolitho.

'Real little lady, ain't she?'

For most of the day they ran with the wind, but towards sunset the strength fell away, and later still the bruised and breathless seamen managed to get aloft and set both mainsail and forecourse. The additional bulging area of canvas pushed the hull over further still, but held her steadier, and more firmly on course.

Bolitho shouted to Quinn, 'Take over! I'm going below!'

After the noise and confusion on deck it seemed almost quiet once he had lowered himself through the companionway.

How small she seemed after Trojan's great girth. He groped his way aft to the cabin, a miniature of Pears' quarters. It was barely large enough to contain Pears' table, he thought. But it looked inviting, and too new to show signs of a previous owner.

He reeled as the sea boiled and thundered along the quarter, and then managed to reach the stern windows. There was nowhere in the cabin, apart from a battened-down skylight, where he could stand upright. What it was like in the messes, he could well imagine. As a midshipman he had once served in a brig very similar to this one. Fast, lively, and never still.

He wondered what had happened to Tracy's other command, the captured brig which he had renamed Revenge. Still attacking British convoys and stalking rich cargoes for ready prizemoney.

The cabin door banged open and Moffitt lurched through it carrying a jug of rum.

He said, 'Mr Frowd thought you might like a drop, sir.'

Bolitho disliked rum, but he needed something. He swallowed it in a gulp, almost choking.

'Mr Frowd, is he all right?' He must visit him soon, but now he was needed and would have to return to the deck.

Moffitt took the empty goblet and grinned at it admiringly. 'Aye, sir. I've got him propped in a cot in his cabin. He'll be safe enough.'

'Good. Get Buller for me.'

Bolitho lay back, feeling the stern rising and then sliding down beneath him, the sea shaking the rudder like a piece of driftwood.

Buller came into the cabin, his head lowered to avoid the beams.

'Zur?'

'You take charge of the victuals. Find someone who can cook. If the wind drops some more we'll get the galley fire re-lit and put something hot into our bellies.'

Buller showed his strong teeth. 'Right away, zur.' Then he too was gone.

Bolitho sighed, the aroma of rum around him like a drug. Chain of command. And he must begin it. No one else was here to goad or encourage his efforts.

His head lolled and he jerked it up with sudden disgust. Like George Probyn. That was a fine beginning. He jumped up and gasped as his head crashed against a beam. But it sobered him even more quickly.

He made his way forward, swaying and feeling his balance with each jubilant lunge of the brig's bowsprit.

Tiny cabins on either side of a small, square space. The wardroom. Stores, and shot garlands, swaying ranks of pod-like hammocks. The ship smelt new, right down to her mess tables, her great coils of stout cable in the tier forward.

He found the wounded Tracy in a cot, swinging in a tiny cabin which was still unfinished. A red-eyed seaman sat in one corner, a pistol between his feet.

Politho peered at the figure in the cot. About thirty, a powerful, hard-faced man, who despite his terrible wound and loss of blood still looked very much alive. But with his arm torn off at the point of the shoulder he would not be much trouble.

He glanced at the sentry and said, 'Watch him, all the same.'

The other wounded men were quiet enough, bandaged, and cushioned from the fierce motion by spare hammocks, blankets and clothing from the brig's store.

Ire paused by a wildly swinging lantern, feeling their pain, their lack of understanding. Again, he was ashamed for thinking of his own reward. They on the other hand knew only that they were being carried away from their ship, which good or bad, had been their home. And to where? Some home-bound vessel, and then what? Put ashore, just another cluster of crippled sailors. Heroes to some, figures of fun to others.

'There'll be some hot food along soon, lads.'

A few heads turned to look at him. One man he recognized as Gallimore, a seaman employed as a painter aboard the Trojan. He had been badly injured by canister during the attack on the yawl. He had lost most of his right hand, and had been hit in the face by wood splinters.

He managed to whisper, 'Where we goin', sir?'

Bolitho knelt down on the deck beside him. The man was dying. He did not know how he knew, or why. Others nearby were more badly hurt, yet bore their pain with defiant, even surly resignation. They would survive.

He said, 'English Harbour. The surgeons there will help you. You'll see.'

The man reached out, seeking Bolitho's hand. 'Oi don't want to die, sir. Oi got a wife an' children in Plymouth.' He tried to shake his head. 'Oi mustn't die, sir.'

Bolitho felt a catch in his throat. Plymouth. It might just as well be Russia.

'Rest easy, Gallimore.' lire withdrew his hand carefully. 'You are with your friends.'

He walked aft again to the companionway, bent almost double in the space between decks.

The wind and spray were almost welcome. He found Couzens with Stockdale by the wheel, while Quinn was groping along the forecastle with two seamen.

Stockdale said gruffly, 'All 'oldin' firm, sir. Mr Quinn is lookin' at the weather braces.' He peered up at the dark sky. 'Wind's backed a piece more. Fallin' off, too.'

The bows lifted towards the sky, then came down in a trough with a shuddering lurch. It was enough to hurl a man from the yards, had there been one up there.

Stockdale muttered, 'Must be bad for the lads below, sir.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Gallimore's dying, I think.'

'I know, sir.'

Stockdale eased the spokes and studied the quivering maintopsail, the canvas ballooning out as if to tear itself from the yard.

Bolitho glanced at him. Of course, Stockdale would have known. He had lived with suffering for most of his life. Death would seem familiar, recognizable.

Quinn came aft along the pale deck, staggering to each swooping dip across the troughs.

He shouted, 'The larboard anchor was working free, but we've tatted it home again!'

Bolitho replied, 'Get below. Work out two watches for me, and I'll discuss it with you later.'

Quinn shook his head. 'I don't want to be on my own. I must do something.'

Bolitho thought of the man from Plymouth. 'Go to the wounded, James. Take some rum, or anything you can find in the cabin, and issue it to those poor devils.'

There was no sense in telling him about Gallimore. Let the dying man join his companions in a last escape. The sailor's balm for everything.

A seaman, accompanied by Buller, ducked down the companion ladder, and Bolitho saw it was a swarthy Italian named Borga. It seemed as if Luller had already chosen a cook, and  Bolitho hoped it was a wise decision. Hot food in a seaman's belly after fisting canvas and trying to stay inboard was one thing, but some foreign concoction might spark off a brawl. He glanced at Stockdale and smiled to himself, If so, it would soon be dealt with.

Another hour, and the stars appeared, the scudding clouds driven off like fleeing vagrants.

Bolitho felt the deck becoming steadier, and wondered what tomorrow would be like, how Bunce would have predicted it.

As promised, a hot meal was produced and issued first to the wounded, and then to the seamen as they were relieved from watch in small groups.

Bolitho ate his with relish, although what he was having he did not know. Boiled meat, oatmeal, ground biscuit, it was also laced with rum. It was like nothing he had ever had, but at that moment would have graced any admiral's table.

To Couzens he said, `Are you sorry for your eagerness to Join the White Hills?'

Couzens shook his head, his stomach creaking with Borga's first meal.

'Wait till I get home, sir. They'll never believe it.'

Bolitho pictured Quinn, sitting below with the wounded, and thought of Pears writing a letter to his father. He tried.

He thought too of the despatches he was carrying from Captain Pears to the admiral at Antigua. It was probably safer not to know what Pears had said about him, although it would certainly affect his immediate future, But he still did not really understand Pears, only that under his command he had learned more than he had first realized.

Bolitho stared up at the sky. 'I think we've seen the worst of it. Better fetch Mr Quinn on deck.'

Couzens watched him and blurted out, 'I can stand watch, sir.'

Stockdale grinned lazily. `Aye, sir, he can at that. I'll be on deck, too.' He hid his grin from the midshipman. `Though I'll not be needed, I'm thinkin'.'

`Very well.' Bolitho smiled. `Call me if you're in any doubt.'

He lowered himself through the companionway, glad he had given Couzens the opportunity to face responsibility, surprised too that he had been able to trust him without hesitation.

As he found his way to his small cabin, he heard Frowd snoring loudly and the clatter of a goblet rolling back and forth across the deck.

Tomorrow would be a lot of hard work. First to try to estimate their position and drift, then to set a new course which with luck would carry them to the Leeward Islands and Antigua.

On the chart it did not seem so far, but the prevailing winds would be against them for much of the passage, and it could take days to make good the loss of being driven south.

And once in Antigua, what then? Would the French lieutenant still be there, taking lonely walks in the sun, on his honour not to try and escape?

He laid down on the bench beneath the stern windows, ready to run on deck at the first unusual sound. But Bolitho was fast asleep in a matter of seconds.

 

It was noon, two days after leaving the Trojan, but a lifetime of new experiences and problems.

The weather was less demanding now, and the White Hills was leaning over on the larboard tack, with even her big spanker set and filled by the wind. The vessel felt clean and dry after the storm, and the makeshift routine which Bolitho had worked out with Quinn and Frowd was performing well.

Frowd was on deck, seated on a hatch cover, his leg propped before him as a constant reminder.

Couzens stood by the wheel, while Bolitho and Quinn checked their sextants and compared calculations.

He saw the seaman Dunwoody walk to the lee bulwark and hurl a bucket of slops over the side. He had just emerged from the forecastle, so had probably been with Gallimore. He had still not died, but had been moved to the cable tier, the only place where the stench of the great slimy rope was matched by his own. His wound had gone gangrenous, and it seemed impossible for any man to stand the misery of it.

Quinn said wearily, 'I think we are both right, sir. With the wind staying as it is, we should make a landfall the day after tomorrow.'

Bolitho handed his instrument to Couzens. So it was sir again. "he last link broken.

He said, 'I agree. We may sight the island of Nevis tomorrow, and after that it will be a hard beat all the way across to Antigua.'

He felt a sharp sense of loss. The thought of losing the White Hills seemed unbearable. It was ridiculous of course. Just a few days, but what confidence she had given him, or had discovered in him.

Bolitho glanced along the sunlit deck. Even that no longer seemed so narrow and confined after Trojan's spacious gundeck.

Some of the wounded were resting in the shade, chatting quietly, or watching the other hands at work with professional interest.

Bolitho asked quietly, 'What will you do, James?'

Quinn looked away, 'As my father pleases, I expect. I seem to have the knack of obeying orders.' He faced Bolitho suddenly. 'One day. If you want to, I -- I mean, if you have nowhere to go, would you care to see me?'

Bolitho nodded, wanting to strip away his despair. It was killing him with no less mercy than Gallimore's wounds.

'I will be happy to, James.' He smiled. 'Although I've no doubt your father will think badly of a mere lieutenant in his house. I expect you'll be a rich merchant by the time I get to London.'

Quinn studied him' anxiously. Something in Bolitho's tone seemed to comfort him and he said, 'I thank you for that. And much mdre.'

'Deck there! Sail on the weather bow!'

Bolitho stared up at the lookout. He tried to see the White Hills like a cross on a chart. There were so many islands, French, British, Dutch. This sail could be any kind of ship.

Since the Kittiwake had left Antigua anything might have happened. Peace with the American rebels, war with France.

With a start he realized they were all looking at him.

He said, 'Get aloft, Mr Quinn. Take a glass and tell me what you see.'

Frowd groaned as Quinn hurried past. 'God damn this leg! I should be up them, not, not ...' By the time he had thought of a suitable insult Quinn was already hurrying up the shrouds.

Bolitho paced rapidly back and forth, trying to stay calm and unmoved. She was quite likely a Spaniard, southward bound for the Main and all its treasures. If so, she would soon haul off. She might think White Hills to be a pirate. In these waters you could choose from a dozen sorts of enemy.

Deck, sir! She's a brig!'

One of the wounded men gave a thin cheer. 'She'll be one of ours, lads!'

But Frowd rasped painfully, 'You know what I'm thinking, don't you?'

Bolitho looked at him, his brain suddenly ice-cold.

Of course, it made sense. Cruel sense. And they had got so far. This time, he had believed, with success.

There was still a chance.

He held his voice steady as he called, 'Keep watching her!' To Couzens he added more quietly, 'ire shall have a closer look at her soon enough, I imagine.' He saw the understanding clouding Couzens' eyes. 'Clear for action, if you please. Then load, but do not run out.'

He glanced along the deck, at the brig's small defences. Enough guns to rake the defenceless yawl, but if the oncoming vessel was Captain Tracy's previous command, they would be all but useless.

 

17

 

None So Gallant

 

Bolitho waited for the deck to steady again and then trained his telescope across the larboard bow. He could see the other brig's topsails and topgallants sharply etched against the blue sky, but the rest of the vessel was lost in distance and haze.

If the vessel was the Revenge, her master would recognize the White Hills as soon as she was within reasonable distance. He might have done so already. To alter course away, to wear completely and fly with the wind would tell him what had happened quicker than any challenge.

Bolitho looked up at the masthead pendant. The wind had backed a point or so further. It was tempting to turn and run, but if the wind went against them again, and they were repeatedly made to change tack, the other brig would soon overhaul them. With only a small prize-crew to work the ship, Bolitho knew it. would be asking too much of any man.

He said, 'Let her fall off a point, Stockdale.'

From the mainmast he heard Quinn call, 'I can see her better now ! She's the old Mischief ! I'm almost certain!'

Frowd swore. 'Bloody hell! We'd better show her a clean pair of heels!'

y Stockdale said, 'Nor'-east by east, sir.'

Bolitho cupped his hands, 'Man the braces! You, Buller, put more men on the weather forebrace!'

,He watched narrowly as the yards moved slightly to allow each sail to fill to capacity. But not enough to betray an attempt to escape.

Couzens came running aft, his hands filthy, his shirt torn in several places.

'Cleared for action, sir. All guns loaded.'

Bolitho smiled tightly. By all guns, Couzens meant the White, Hills' eight six-pounders. She was designed to carry fourteen, and some swivels, but the sinking of the yawl had put paid to that. Eight guns, and only four on either beam. To try and shift a full battery to one side would certainly be seen by the other brig. She was growing in size at a surprising speed, and Bolitho could see the sun reflecting on metal, or perhaps the glass of several telescopes.

She was closing with the White Hills on a converging tack, bowsprit to bowsprit.

The White Hills' original crew had been new and raw, but the Revenge's master would certainly know Tracy by sight. They must try and stand off. Keep up some sort of bluff until dusk.

'Land on the lee bow, sir!' The look-out had been keeping his eyes open too while Quinn watched the other brig.

Bolitho looked at Frowd, seeing his despair. The land was most likely to be one or more of the tiny islands which marked their course past Nevis and then fifty miles on to Antigua. It made it seem much worse. So near, yet so far.

'Brig's altered course, sir!' Then another cry, 'She's run up her flag!'

Bolitho nodded grimly. 'Hoist the same one, Mr Couzens.' He watched as the red and white striped flag ran up to the gaff and broke to the wind.

Frowd was straining up on the hatch cover. 'No use, blast his eyes ! He's closing, and making sure he can keep the windgage!'

'He'll want to speak with us. To find out if we got the guns and powder. This brig was probably meant to join with him at some point.' Bolitho was thinking aloud and saw Frowd nod in agreement.

Stockdale pulled at Couzens' sleeve. 'Get the real flag ready, Mr Couzens. I can't see our lieutenant fighting under false colours. Not today.'

Frowd said despairingly, 'How can we fight, you fool! These privateers are always armed to the gills ! They need to smash an enemy into submission as fast as they can, and before help can be sent to drive 'em off!' He groaned. 'Fight? You must be mad!'

Bolitho made up his mind. 'We will begin to shorten sail directly, as if we are about to speak with him. If we can get near enough without rousing suspicion, we'll rake his poop, do for as many of the after-guard as possible and then run for it.'

Stockdale nodded. 'Later we could shift two guns aft, sir. A stern chase is better'n nothin'.'

Bolitho made himself stand quite still, to give his mind time to work. He had no other choice, and this was not much of one. But it was either a sudden act of daring, or surrender.

`Take in the mains'l.,

Bolitho watched the few spare hands swarming up the ratlines. The other master would see tine depleted crew, and might imagine they had been in a battle. The gash through the bulwark made by Trojan's eighteen-pounder must be plain enough to we.

He levelled his glass on the other vessel, ignoring the shouts and curses as his men fought with the rebellious canvas. Frowd was right. She was heavily armed, and there were plenty of men about her deck, too.

He wondered what had happened to her original captain when she had been captured from under him, Fourteen guns and a determined company would make her a formidable enemy. Bolitho watched her tilting towards him, revealing her maindeck, the line of guns on the opposite side. None was manned, but on this side he could see a few heads peering over the sealed gunports, and guessed they were probably loaded and ready.

Moffitt crossed the deck and said dourly, 'You'll be needin' me, sir? I know how to speak to them bastards!'

'Be ready.'

He studied the set of each sail, the lively froth around the privateer's stem. as she edged over even furt'aer, her yards moving as if controlled by one hand.

Half a mile. Not long now.

He shifted his glance inboard, se~_-ing the quick, anxious gestures of his small company, -even the wounded were craning their heads and trying to see above the weather bulwark.

`Come down, Mr Quinn!' Bolitho looked at Stockdale and Butler. 'See that our people beep their weapons out of sight. When I give the word, I want those four, ouns run out as smartly as you like and Are at will. If we can mark down her officers we may use the surprise to fight clear.'

Quinn arrived beside him, breathing fast, his eyes towards the enemy.

'D'you think they are on to us?

'No.' Bolitho folded his arms, hoping that across the glittering pattern of waves and spray he would appear more relaxed than he felt. 'They would have run down on us before now. They have all the advantage.'

If the wind chose this moment to change ... He shut his mind to the possibility and concentrated on the sails and masthead pendant. The wind, which was fresh and steady, came from the north-west. The White Hills had her yards well braced, heeling on the larboard tack, the wind across her quarter. If they could just delay the other captain's suspicions, and then hold him off until dark, they might well lose him amongst the islands when daylight returned.

And even then, if the privateer's captain was so set on another victory and made further contact, they might be able to give him the slip further north, or in the narrows between Nevis and St Christophers. In those treacherous waters, off some deadly place like the Scotch Bonnet, they might even tempt their pursuer aground.

The only ally at this precarious stage was the wind. Both brigs were carrying the bulk of their sails, so either could tack or come about with agility if need be.

Stockdale observed, `She must be steerin' almost sou'-east, sir. The wind right astern of 'er.'

Bolitho nodded, knowing Stockdale wanted to help, if only by making a professional comment.

The range had dropped to a mere quarter-mile, and it was possible to see the watching figures on the other vessel's poop and forecastle.

'When she tries to hail us, Moffitt, tell her captain that Tracy is sick, badly wounded after a brush with the British.' He saw the man tighten his lips. 'It's no lie, so keep it simple, eh?'

Moffitt said coldly, 'I'll see that he don't recover if them buggers board us, sir!'

Along the weather side the seamen were crawling on their hands and knees, like strange worshippers around the four small cannon. Ball and grape to each gun. It would not even be felt by a stately two-decker like Trojan. But one good blast across the enemy's quarterdeck might do the trick. Time, time, time. It was like a hammer on an anvil.

Two small shadows moved on the Revenge's side, and Bolitho heard a murmur of anxiety from some of the wounded seamen. Revenge had raised two of her forward port lids, and as he watched he saw the sunlight touch a pair of black muzzles as she ran out the guns.

Frowd muttered uneasily, 'He knows, the bugger!'

Bolitho shook his head. 'I think not. He would run out a broadside if he was sure of an enemy, and maybe tack across our stern.' Again, it was like sharing his thoughts with those around him. 'He'll have been watching us all this time, as we have him. Tracy's absence from the deck will have been noted. If Revenge's captain is newly appointed, he'll be wary of taking a chance, but unwilling to show fear or uncertainty to his men. Following a man like Tracy must be quite a task.'

He saw some of his seamen glance at each other, for support, to discover a new confidence. But he knew he was only guessing out of sheer hope.

Revenge's captain might be even more experienced than Tracy. And at this very moment was using the White Hills' unchanged tack for one terrible bombardment, his guns already manned and ready to fire.

Moffitt took a speaking trumpet and climbed casually into the weather shrouds. It was far too early, but it might lull the enemy's caution.

If not, the fight would explode across this deck within fifteen minutes.

Bolitho said evenly, 'You men, carry Mr Frowd and the other wounded below. If we have to abandon, the quarter boat will be used for them only.'

Frowd swivelled round on his hatch cover like an enraged terrier.

'Damn your eyes, I'll not die like a sick woman!' He grimaced as the pain stabbed through him, and he continued in a more controlled tone, 'I meant no disrespect, sir, but try and see it my way.'

'And which way is that?'

Frowd swayed about like a bush in a wind as the hull lifted and sliced through the choppy water.

'If your plan works, sir, and I pray to God it does, it will be a chase which only luck and superior seamanship can wim?

Bolitho smiled, 'Perhaps.'

'But, as I suspect, we may have to fight, for God's sake let me play my part. I have been in the Navy all my remembered years. To end my time cowering below when the metal flies overhead would make my life as worthless as that of any gallows-bird.'

'Very well.' Bolitho looked at Couzens. 'Help the lieutenant aft and see that he is supplied with enough powder and shot to reload the pistols and muskets to give an impression of strength and greater numbers.'

Frowd exclaimed, 'That's it, sir. I ask for nothing more. Those devils will outnumber us four to one, maybe more. We can take a few with us if we can maintain rapid fire.'

It was incredible, Bolitho thought. The prospect of sudden death had been made suddenly stark and inevitable by Frowd's words, and yet the previous apprehension seemed to have gone. The waiting had been the worst part, the simple task of fighting and dying was something they all understood. It was like hearing Sparke all over again. Keep them busy. No time to moan and weaken.

He turned to watch as the Revenge's jib and staysails quivered and flapped like tapered wings, and knew she was falling off a little more to run even closer to the White Hills. Nearer, she looked impressive and well armed.

Her hull was weatherbeaten and the sails stained and patched in several places. She must have been made to work and fight hard against her previous owners, Bolitho thought grimly.

'We will give her a few more minutes, Stockdale, and then you can bring her round to steer due east. It will be the obvious thing to do if we are to draw close enough to speak.'

He winced as a handspike clattered across the deck and a other vessel. Moffitt had seen what he had not even dared to hope for. Maybe it was Gallimore's screams which, added to Moffitt's outward confidence and the fact that the White Hills was the right vessel in almost the right place, had convinced Revenge's captain that all was well.

But there was still the matter of Tracy's new orders. Probably details of the next rendezvous, or news of a supply convoy left open to attack.

In a few moments Revenge's captain would have to face the fact he was now in the senior position. He was the one who would have to decide what to do.

Bolitho said quietly, 'He'll suggest we both heave to so that he can come over to us and speak with Tracy and see how he is.'

Quinn stared at him, his face like a mask. 'Will we go about then, sir?'

'Aye.' Bolitho stole a quick glance at the masthead pendant. 'The moment he decides to shorten sail and head into the wind, we'll use our chance.' He called to the nearest gun crew, 'Be ready, lads!' He saw an over-eager seaman struggling off his knees and reaching for a slow-match. 'Belay that! Wait for the word!'

The Revenge's captain called, 'We'll heave to. I'll be over to you as soon as -'

He got no further. Like some terrifying creature emerging from a tomb, Captain Jonas Tracy lurched through the forehatch, his eyes bulging from his head with agony and fury.

He carried a pistol which he fired at a seaman who ran to restrain him, the ball smashing the man in the forehead and hurling him on his back in a welter of blood.

And all the time he was bellowing, his voice stronger than most of the men around him.

'Rake the bastard! It's a trick, you damn fool!'

From the other brig came a series of shouts and confused

orders, and then like bewildered hogs the guns began to run

out through the ports along her side.

Another seaman hurried towards the swaying figure by the hatch, only to be clubbed senseless by the pistol. That last effort was more than enough. Blood was spurting through the wad of bandages around his armpit, and his stubbled face seemed to be whitening even as he tried to drag himself to the nearest gun, as if the life was flooding out of him.

Bolitho saw it all as in a wild dream, with events and sequences overlapping, yet totally separate. Gallimore's sudden cries had lured Tracy's guard from his post. And who could blame him? Tracy's terrible wound should have been enough to kill almost anyone.

And Revenge's captain's voice calling across to Moffitt must have somehow dragged Tracy from his unconscious state to sudden, violent action.

Whatever had begun it, Bolitho knew there was no chance at all of completing his flimsy plan.

He yelled, 'Run out!'

He watched his men hurling themselves on their tackles, the four guns squeaking to the open ports with desperation matched only by despair.

'Fire!'

As the guns crashed out in a ragged salvo, Bolitho shouted, 'Stockdale! Put the helm down!'

As Stockdale and a helmsman spun the spokes, Bolitho dragged out his hanger, knowing that nothing, nothing on earth could change this moment.

He heard startled shouts from his own men and musket shots from the Revenge as like a wild animal the White Hills responded to the helm and swung up into the wind, sails shaking and convulsing, as the other vessel appeared to charge right across her bowsprit.

There were several isolated shots, his or theirs, Bolitho did not know. He was running forward, his feet slipping on blood as he tore past the dying Tracy towards the point of impact

Like a great tusk the jib boom smashed through Revenge's rigging and stays, the impact shaking the hull and deck with the force of going aground.

And still the wind, and the White Hills' impetus, drove them harder and faster together, until with a tremendous crash, followed by the sounds of spars splintering in half, the two brigs came together in a brutal embrace.

Bolitho's ears were ringing to the sounds of falling rigging and thrashing sails, of Revenge's topmast, complete with topgallant and a mountain of uncontrollable canvas, plunging down through the drifting gunsmoke to add to the destruction.

But he was angry, wildly so, and could not control himself as he waved his hanger and shouted, 'Come on, lads! At 'em!'

He saw the dazed faces change to maddened excitement as they responded. In a small tide they charged towards the bows, while from aft Bolitho could hear Frowd and his collection of cripples firing across the arrowhead of water with every weapon they could lay hands on.

And here was the enemy's deck right beneath his legs. Staring eyes and wild shouts, while others struggled and kicked beneath the severed rigging and splintered woodwork.

A bayonet lunged out and sent a seaman screaming down into the smoke, but Bolitho let himself drop, felt his feet find their balance on the other deck, while on either side of him his boarding party surged forward to the attack. The man with the bayoneted musket swung wildly to face him, but Stockdale seized him and smashed the cutlass-guard in his mouth. As the man toppled away, Stockdale hacked him across the neck and finished it.

The first shocked surprise at seeing the White Hills turn towards them and deliberately force herself into a collision would soon give way to a rage and determination to overwhelm that of the boarders. This, Bolitho knew, but at a distance, as if it were already beyond his reach.

Once, as he ducked beneath a fallen yard to slash a man across the arm who was aiming a pistol at somebody, Bolitho caught a glimpse of his brief command. With her big mainyard sprung in two like a giant's longbow, and with the canvas and rigging piled over her forecastle like so much rubbish, she looked almost a wreck.

Beyond the debris, and licking above the thinning smoke, he saw a patch of scarlet, and realized that despite everything which had happened he had given the order to run up the colours, and yet could remember nothing about it.

'This way, lads!' It was Buller, brandishing a boarding axe and a pistol. 'Fight yer way aft!' Then he fell, his face set in an expression of complete surprise.

Now So Gallant           Z83

Bolitho gritted his teehh, Time, which they had won with such care, had run out.

From the Revenge's quarterdeck came the crash of a swivel gun, and Bolitho realized that someone was still firing at the White Hills, Above the din of clashing steel, screams and curses, he heard answering shots, a .d could picture Frowd yelling defiance, and waiting to die.

Somehow they had fought their way to the midships part of the deck, where the piled debris of cordage and broken spars made every move doubly hard, but where, if you hesitated, it was asking to be killed.

He saw Dunwoody rolling over and over on the bloodied deck, struggling with one of the Revenge's seamen, one hand cut to shreds as he tried to hold off the man's dirk while he groped for his fallen cutlass. Another man ran from the smoke, raised a boarding pike and drove it through Dunwoody s neck, pinioning his kicking body to the planking until the dirk stabbed him into stillness.

Bolitho saw it all, and as he struggled over an upended gig he found himself face to face with the Revenge's captain. Beyond him he could see the abandoned wheel and the torn splinters standing up from the quarterdeck like quills, the sprawled bodies and crawling wounded who had fallen to the four doubly loaded six-pounders.

Bolitho ducked as the man's blade sliced above his head, caught his foot in a trailing rope and fell heavily on his side. He watched the blade rise and plunge towards him again, and held up his hanger to take the brunt of the blow. The numbing shock jarred his shoulder like a kick, and he saw the other officer turn and run aft, leaving Bolitho rather than face a sudden rally of the boarding party. Rabbett, his cutlass bloody to the hilt, Carlsson, the Swede, with a bayoneted musket he must have snatched from one of the brig's men, even Borga, the Roman cook, who held a dirk in either hand like one of his ancestors in the gladiators' arena, were still here and ready to fight.

On the far side of the deck he saw Quinn with the rest of the boarders, white-faced and with blood running from his forehead, locked in combat with twice his own number.

Bolitho saw Couzens and yelled hoarsely, `Get back aboard! I told you to stay with Mr Frowd !'

He gasped and ducked as a shadow passed in front of him. Then with a sharp twist of his arm he brought the hanger round to lock with his attacker's cutlass.

The man was a petty officer of sorts and, he guessed, as English as himself.

'You've bitten off too much this time, sir!'

Bolitho felt the man's strength forcing him back, the blade inches from his chest. It was not that he was a better swordsman, but his voice, if not Cornish, was certainly from Bolitho's own West Country.

Moffitt rose shaking his head like a prize-fighter, the blood of another victim glittering on his cutlass.

`And you!'

Bolitho fell back with the petty officer on top of him. Moffitt's blade had been driven into his spine with such force it was a wonder it had not pinioned both of them.

Couzens was ducking and side-stepping wildly as figures staggered and kicked around him like madmen. Steel on steel, and from right aft a chorus of screams as a swivel exploded and burst apart amongst its own crew.

But he managed to shout, 'I came to help!'

Bolitho shook his arm, feeling him cringe, as he said, 'Take two men and get below! Tell them I want this brig set alight!' He knew the boy was terrified of him, his wildness, and his despair. 'Do it!'

Shots were hitting the deck around him and making the corpses jerk to their impact. The Revenge's captain had sent marksmen aloft to mark down Frowd's puny challenge and to kill any of the boarders who looked like an officer or a leader.

Stockdale bellowed, 'Watch out, sir!' He lunged forward as a man rushed at Bolitho with a cutlass, but was not quick enough.

Bolitho saw the fury on the seaman's contorted features and wondered if he himself looked like that, if that was why Couzens had seemed so frightened of him.

The heavy cutlass grated across Bolitho's sword-belt, scoring the brass plate like a musket-ball.

Bolitho saw the man's expression change to fear, then to nothing as t1he hanger opened his face from eye to jaw and threw him screaming into the men behind him.

Bolitho felt sick, worn out and stunned by the savagery of battle. Couzens would not be able to fire the brig, and in any case they had started to cheer. The battle was nearly done. Like Quinn, he had tried.

There it was again, wild and uncontrolled. 'Huzza! Huzzaf'

Bolitho stared at Stockdale. 'That was no enemy!'

He swung round, dropping his guard for the first time, as through the fore-hatch came a sudden rush of dirty, unshaven figures.

Couzens was running with them, beside himself with ecstasy as he shouted, 'Prisoners, sir!'

He was pushed away by the released men as they snatched up fallen cutlasses, belaying pins, anything which could hit or maim their old captors.

Bolitho thought he must be going mad, and yet it was happening. They were obviously seamen captured in previous battles, maybe some from this very brig. But they charged through the dwindling boarding party like an avenging tidal wave, beating down the privateer's crew and hurling some of them over the side in their determination to seize the poop.

Bolitho shouted, 'Come on, lads! One last effort!'

Then, cheering and yelling meaningless words he ran with the rest, his arm like lead as he hacked and parried, cat and pushed his way aft.

A few shots were still hitting the deck nearby, and without warning a seaman slithered down a stay and snatched a pistol from his belt, his face frozen in concentration as he stared at the onrushing figures.

He must have known that nothing could save him, and yet some last spark of anger or pride held him there.

Couzens found himself face to face with him. Bolitho saw what was happening, but was several paces away, and Stockdale further still.

Bolitho shouted hoarsely, 'You shoot and I will kill you!'

The man's eyes did not even flicker, and Bolitho knew he was going to fire, he could even see the trigger starting to give under his finger.

A figure bounded over a pile of tangled sails and threw himself between the pistol and the stricken Couzens, so that the shot was almost muffled.

Bolitho ran and caught Quinn as he fell. He did not see Stockdale's big cutlass swing, but heard just a sharp grunt as the other man died.

Bolitho held Quinn and lowered him to the deck. He knew he was dying and there was nothing he could do. The ball had entered his stomach and there was blood everywhere.

Quinn gasped, 'Sorry ... to . . . leave ... you ... sir.'

Bolitho held him firmly, knowing Stockdale was guarding his back and that Couzens was kneeling on the deck beside him sobbing uncontrollably.

'Dick,' he said. 'Remember, eh?'

He felt near to tears himself. What made it worse, if that were possible, was the cheering. Aft, in another world, his jubilant sailors and the released captives were hauling down the flag, watched by the Revenge's captain who had been badly wounded in the last charge.

Bolitho said quietly, 'We won, James. It's done.'

Quinn smiled, his eyes looking up through the torn rigging and sails.

'You did.'

He was finding it difficult to speak and his skin looked like damp wax. Bolitho unbuttoned his shirt, seeing the great, cruel scar from Quinn's first battle.

With his free hand he loosened his cross-belt and said gently, 'And you were supposed to be a passenger. But for you, young Couzens would be dead. I'll see they know about it in England. About your courage.'