In Gallant Company

The work to clear up the deck and to search out the vessel's defences and stores went on without a break. The fit and unwounded men did the heavy work, the ones with lesser injuries sat with muskets and at the loaded swivels to watch over the prisoners. The badly wounded, one of whom was the man who had foolishly fired his musket and had lost half his face in doing so, managed as best they could.

Sparke had not mentioned the musket incident. But for it the casualties would have been much reduced, even minimal. The schooner's crew were brave enough, but without that warning, and lacking as they did the hardened discipline of Trojan's seamen, it would likely have ended with little more than a bloody nose or two. Bolitho knew Sparke must have thought about this. He would doubtless be hoping that Pears would see only the prize and forget the oversight.

Several times Bolitho climbed down to the master's cabin where the late Captain Tracy had lived and made his plans. There, Quinn was lying white-faced on a rough bunk, his bandages soaked in blood, his lip cut where he had bitten it to stem the anguish.

Bolitho asked Stockdale what he thought and the man answered readily, 'He has a will to live, sir. But he's precious little hope, I'm thinking.'

 

The first hint of dawn came with the lightening of the surrounding mist.

The schooner's lazaret had been broken open and a generous ration of neat rum issued to all hands, including the two young midshipmen.

Of the attacking force of thirtt/-six officers and seamen, twelve were already dead, or as near to as made no difference, and

several of the survivors had cuts and bruises which had lef them too weak and dazed to be of much use for the moment.

Bolitho watched the paling mist, seeing the schooner taking shape around them. He saw Couzens and Midshipman Libb from Sparke's boat staring at the great bloodstains on the plank ing, perhaps realizing only now what they had seen and done

Mr Frowd, the master's mate, waited by the wheel, watchini the limp sails which Bolitho's men had shaken out in readines for the first breeze. The only sounds were the clatter of loosi gear, the creak of timbers as the vessel rolled uncomfortably o1 the swell.

With the dawn came the awareness of danger, that which < fox might feel when it crosses open land.

Bolitho looked along the deck. The Faithful carried eigh six-pounders and four swivel guns, all of which had been madh in France. This fact, added to the discovery of some very fins and freshly packed brandy in the captain's lazaret, hinted at close relationship with the French privateers.

She was a very handy little vessel, of about seventy-five feet One which would sail to windward better than most and outpace any heavier, square-rigged ship.

Whoever Captain Tracy had once been, he would not have planned to be dead on this new dawn.

The boom of the large gaff-headed mainsail creaked noisily and the deck gave a resounding tremble.

Sparke shouted, 'Lively there ! Here comes the wind!'

Bolitho saw his expression and called, 'Stand by the fores'l!' He waved to Balleine. 'Ready with stays'! and jib!' The schooner's returning life seemed to affect him also. 'A goof hand at the wheel, Mr Frowd !'

Frowd showed his teeth. He had picked a helmsman already, but understood Bolitho's mood. He had been in the Navy a: long as the fourth lieutenant had been on this earth.

Every man had at least two jobs to do at once, but watched by the silent prisoners, they bustled about the confined deck as if they had been doing it for months.

'Sir! Mastheads to starboard!'

Sparke spun round as Bolitho pointed towards the rolling bank of fog. Two masts were standing through above it, one with a drooping pendant, but enough to show it was a larger vessel than the Faithful.

The blocks clattered and squealed as the seamen hauled and panted while the foresail and then the big mainsail with its strange scarlet patch at its throat were set to the wind. The deck tilted, and the helmsman reported gruffly, 'We 'ave steerage way, sir!'

Sparke peered at the misty compass bowl. 'Wind seems as before, Mr Frowd. Let her fall off. We'll try and hold the wind-gage from this other beauty, but we'll run if needs be.'

The two big sails swung out on their booms, shaking away the clinging moisture and yesterday's rain like dogs emerging from a stream.

Bolitho said, 'Mr Couzens ! Take three hands and help Balleine with the stays'l!'

As he turned again he saw what Sparke had seen. With the fog rolling and unfolding downwind like smoke, the other vessel seemed to leap bodily from it. She was a brig, with the now-familiar striped Grand Union flag with its circle of stars set against the hoist already lifting and flapping from her peak.

Something like a sigh came from the watching prisoners, and one called, 'Now you'll see some iron, before they bury you!'

Sparke snapped, 'Keep that man silent, or put a ball in his head, I don't care which.' He glanced at Frowd. 'Fall off two points.'

'Steer nor'-east!'

'Will I have the six-pounders run out, sir?'

Sparke had found a telescope and was training it on the brig.

'She's the old Mischief.' He steadied the glass. 'Ah. I see her captain. Must be the other Tracy.' He looked at Bolitho. No. If we get close enough to use these little guns, the brig will reduce us to toothpicks within half an hour. Agility and speed is all we have.'

He tugged out his watch and studied it. He did not even blink as a gun crashed out and a ball slapped through the foresail like an invisible fist.

Spray lifted over the bows and pattered across the busy seamen there. The wind got stronger as the fog hurried ahead

of the little schooner, as if afraid of being impaled on the jib boom.

The brig had set her topsails and forecourse now and was in hot pursuit, trying to beat to windward and outsail the schooner in one unbroken tack. Her two bow-chasers were shooting gun by gun, the air cringing to the wild scream which could only mean chain-shot or langridge. just one of those around a mast and it would be the start of the end.

Another gun must have been trained round to bear on the elusive Faithful, and a moment later a ball ripped low over the poop, cutting rigging, and almost hitting one of the prisoners who had risen to watch.

A seaman snarled at him, 'Y'see, matey? Yankee iron is just as bloody for you this time!'

Balleine hurried aft and asked, 'Shall I cut the boats adrift, sir? We might gain half a knot without them.'

Another ball slammed down almost alongside, hurling spray clean over the poop like tropical rain.

A seaman yelled in disbelief, 'The Yankee's goin' about, sir!'

Sparke permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction. With the fog retreating rapidly through her towering masts and rigging like ghostly gunsmoke, the Trojan loomed to meet them, her exposed broadside already run out in twin lines of black muzzles.

Sparke said, 'Bless me, Mr Bolitho! They'll have us if we're not careful!'

Midshipman Libby ran aft like a rabbit, and seconds later the British ensign broke from the gaff, bright scarlet to match the one above Trojan's gilded poop.

Below, in the tiny cabin, Stockdale wiped Quinn's forehead with a wet rag and looked at the skylight.

Quinn moved his lips very slowly. 'What was that sound?'

Stockdale watched him sadly. 'Cheering, sir. Must've sighted the old Trojan.'

He saw Quinn swoon away again on a tide of pain and the brandy which he had been forcing into him. If he lived he might never be the same again. Then he thought of the splashes alongside as the corpses, friends and enemies alike, had been buried at sea. Even so, he'd be better off than them.

 

4

Rendez-Vous

 

Bolitho strode aft and paused beneath the Trojan's' poop, conscious of the many watching eyes which followed him along the deck, just as they had greeted his return on board. He was aware too of his dirty and bedraggled appearance, the tear in his coat sleeve, and smears of dried blood across his breeches.

He looked over his shoulder and saw the prize, more graceful than ever at a distance, riding comfortably beneath Trojan's lee. It was hard to picture what had happened aboard her during the night, let alone accept he had managed to survive it.

Sparke had come across to the Trojan immediately they had made signal contact, and had left Bolitho to attend to the transfer of wounded and the burial of the man whose musket had exploded in his face.

Before reporting to the captain, Bolitho had hurried down to the orlop, almost dreading what he would find. Responsible, that was what Sparke had said. It was how it had felt as he had looked at the spread-eagled body on the surgeon's table, shining like a corpse in the swaying deckhead lanterns. Quinn had been stripped naked, and as Thorndike had slit away the last of the matted bandage, Bolitho had seen the gash for the first time. From the point of Quinn's left shoulder, diagonally across his breast, it opened like an obscene mouth.

Quinn was unconscious, and Thorndike had said curtly, 'Not too bad. But another day,' he shrugged, 'different story.'

Bolitho had asked, 'Can you save him?'

Thorndike had faced him, displaying his bloody apron, as he had snapped, 'I'll do what I can. I have already taken off a man's leg, and another has a splinter in his eye.'

Bolitho had said awkwardly, 'I am sorry, I'il not delay you further.'

Now, as he made his way towards the stern cabin where a scarlet-coated marine stood stiffly on guard, he felt the same dull ache of failure and despair. They had taken a prize, but the cost had been too great.

The marine stamped his boots together, and then Foley, as neat as ever, opened the outer door, his eyes widening as he took in Bolitho's crumpled appearance with obvious disapproval.

In the stern cabin Captain Pears was at his desk, some papers strewn across it, a tall goblet of wine in one hand,

Bolitho stared at Sparke. He was smartly dressed, shaved, and looked as if he had never left the ship.

Pears ordered, 'Wine for the fourth lieutenant.'

He watched Bolitho as he took the goblet from his servant, saw the strain, the dragging weariness of the night's work.

'Mr Sparke has been telling me o f your impressive deeds, Mr Bolitho.' Pears' face was devoid of expression. 'The schooner is a. good catch.'

Bolitho let the wine warm his stomach, soothe the ache in his mind. Sparke had come straight to the ship, had changed and cleaned himself before presenting his report to the captain. How much had he told him about the first part? The startling crash of the musket which had added so much to the bill.

Pears asked, 'How is Mr Quinn, by the way?'

'The surgeon is hopeful, sir.'

Pears eyed him strangely. 'Good. And I understand both the midshipmen behaved well, too.'

He turned his attention to the littered papers, the rest apparently put aside. Finished.

Pears said, 'These papers were found by Mr Sparke in the Faith f ul's cabin. They are of even greater value than the prize herself.' He looked at them grimly. 'They give details of the schooner's mission after she had taken on any captured powder and weapons from the convoy. The escorts would have been hard put to protect the whole convoy and keep it intact after the sort of weather we have been experiencing. And I have no doubt it was even worse conning out of Halifax. As it is, the brig will have to manage without her, although I would expect there to be other wolves trailing such rich cargoes even now.'

Bolitho asked, 'When will you expect to sight the ships, sir?'

'Mr Bunce and I believe tomorrow.' He spoke as if it no longer mattered. 'But there is something else which must be done without delay. The Faithful was to rendezvous with the enemy near the mouth of Delaware Bay. Our Army in Philadelphia is hard put to force supplies upriver to the garrison. There are patrols and skirmishers every mile of the way to fire on our boats and barges. Just think how much worse it will get if the enemy can lay hands on more arms and powder.'

Bolitho nodded and took another goblet from Foley, his mind seeing it exactly.

Delaware Bay was some four hundred miles south of where he was standing. A fast, lively craft could reach the rendezvous in three days if the weather favoured her.

They had been that confident, he thought. The red patch on the mainsail. The signal to the watchers on the shore. It was just the right place for it, too. Very shallow and treacherous at low tide, where no prowling frigate would dare give chase for fear of tearing out her keel.

He said, 'You will send the Faithful, sir?'

'Yes. There will be some risk of course. The passage might take longer than we plan for. The enemy know that Faithful has been seized, and will use every ruse to pass the word south without losing a moment. Signals, fast horsemen, it can be done.' He permitted himself a wintry smile. 'Mr Revere has established that point beyond question.'

Sparke drew himself up very stiffly and looked at Bolitho. 'I have been given the honour of commanding this mission.'

Pears said calmly, 'If you wish, Mr Bolitho, you may go with the second lieutenant as before. The choice is yours, this time.'

Bolitho nodded, marvelling that he did not even hesitate. 'Aye, sir. I'd like to go.'

'That is settled then.' Pears dragged out his gold watch. 'I will have your orders written at once, but Mr Sparke already knows the bones of the matter.'

Cairns entered the cabin, his hat tucked under his arm.

'I have sent some hands across to the schooner, sir. The gunner is attending to the armament.' He paused, his eyes on Bolitho. 'Mr Quinn is still unconscious, but the surgeon says his heart and breathing are fair.'

Pears nodded. 'Tell my clerk to come aft at once.'

Cairns hesitated by the door. 'I have brought the prisoners aboard, sir. Shall I swear them in?'

Pears shook his head. 'No. Volunteers I will accept, but this war has taken too firm a hold to expect a change of loyalties as a matter of course. They would be like bad apples in a barrel, and I'll not risk discontent in my ship. We'll hand them to the authorities in New York when we return there.'

Cairns left, and Pears said, 'The written orders will not protect you from the cannon of our patrols in the area. So show them a clean pair of heels. If there are spies about, it will make your guise even more acceptable.'

Teakle, the captain's clerk, scurried into the cabin, and Pears dismissed them. 'Go and prepare yourselves, gentlemen. I want you to keep that rendezvous, and destroy what you discover there. It will be worth a great deal, and may put heart into our troops at Philadelphia.'

The two lieutenants left the cabin, and Sparke said, 'We will be taking some marines this time.' He sounded as if he disliked the idea of sharing his new role. 'But speed is the thing. So go and hurry our people to ferry the rest of the stores and weapons across to the schooner.'

Bolitho touched his hat and replied, 'Aye, sir.'

'And replace Midshipman Couzens with Mr Weston. This is no work for children.'

Bolitho walked out into the chilling air and watched the boats plying back and forth between the unmatched vessels like water-beetles.

Weston was the signals midshipman and, like Libby, who had been in Sparke s boat, would be the next on the list for examination for lieutenant. If Quinn died, the promotion of one of them would be immediate.

He saw Couzens watching from the lee gangway as Trojan rolled and complained while she lay -hove to for the transfer of men and equipment.

Couzens has obviously already been told of the change, and said breathlessly, 'I'd like to come with you, sir.'

Bolitho eyed him gravely. Couzens at thirteen would be worth two of Weston. He was an overweight, ginger-haired youth of seventeen, and something of a bully when he could get away with it.

He replied, 'Next time, maybe.' hle looked away. 'We shall see.'

It was odd that he rarely thought of being replaced himself, of being just another name marked D.D. Discharged Dead.

To be killed was one thing. To be replaced by someone he actually knew at this moment brought it home like a dash of ice water.

He saw Stockdale, arms folded, on the schoonee s little poop as she rolled sickeningly on a procession of troughs. Waiting. Knowing with his inner sense that Bolitho would be going across at any moment to join him.

The marines were climbing down into the boats now, pursued by all the usual insults from the watching seamen.

Captain D'Esterre, accompanied by his sergeant, joined Bolitho on the gangway.

'Thanks to you, Dick, my lads will get some exercise, I trust.' He waved to his lieutenant who was remaining aboard with the rest of the marines. 'Take care! I'll outlive you yet!'

The marine lieutenant grinned and touched his hat. 'At least I may have a chance of winning a hand of cards while you're away, sir!'

Then the captain and his sergeant followed the others into the nearest boat.

Bolitho saw Sparke speaking with Cairns and the master, and said impetuously, 'Visit Mr Quinn whenever you can. Will you do that for me?'

Couzens nodded with sudden gravity. It was a special task. Something just for him alone.

'Aye, sir.' He stood back as Sparke came hurrying from the quarterdeck and added quickly, 'I will pray for you, sir.'

Bolitho stared at him with surprise. But he was moved, too. 'Thank you. That was well said.'

Then, touching his hat to the quarterdeck and nodding to the faces along the gangway, he hurried into the boat.

Sparke thumped down beside him, his written orders bulging from an inner pocket. As the boat shoved off Bolitho saw the seamen hurrying along the Trojan's decks and yards getting ready to make sail again once she had retrieved her boats.

Sparke said, 'At last. Something to make them all sit up and take notice.'

D'Esterre was looking at the dizzily swaying schooner with sudden apprehension.

'How the deuce will we all get settled into her, in heaven's name?'

Sparke bared his teeth. 'It will not be for long. Sailors are used to such small hardships.'

Bolitho let his mind drift away, seeing his own hand as he continued with the last letter to his father, as if he were actually writing it at this moment.

Today I had the chance to stay with the ship, but I chose to return to the prize. He watched the masts and booms rising above the labouring oarsmen. Perhaps I am wrong, but I believe that Sparke is so full o f hope for the future he can see nothing else.

The boat hooked on and the last of the marines clambered and clattered over the bulwark, swaying on the deck like toy soldiers in an unsteady box.

Shears, their sergeant, soon took charge, and within minutes there was not a red coat to be seen as one by one they climbed down into the vessel's main hold.

One of Trojan's nine-pounders had been ferried across, and was now firmly lashed on the deck, with tackles skilfully fitted to the schooner's available ring-bolts and cleats. How William Chimmo, Trojan's gunner, had managed to get it ferried over, remounted and set in its present position was evidence of a real expert, a professional warrant officer. He had sent one of his mates, a taciturn man called Rowhurst, to tend the ninepounder's needs, and he was looking at the gun, rubbing it with a rag, and probably wondering what would happen to the schooner's deck planking when he had to lay and fire it.

By the time they had sorted out the hands, the new ones and those of the original party who were still aboard, and put them to work, Trojan was already standing downwind, with more and more canvas ballooning from her yards. One boat was still  being lowered inboard on to the tier, Pears was so eager to make up for lost time.

Bolitho watched her for some minutes, seeing her from a distance, as Quinn had once seen the great ships heading down the Thames. Things of power and beauty, while within their hulls they carried as much hope and pain as any landlocked town. Now Quinn was lying on the orlop. Or perhaps already dead.

Mr Frowd touched his hat. 'Ready to get under way, sir.' He glanced meaningly at Sparke who was peering at his written orders, entirely absorbed.

Bolitho called, 'We are ready, sir.'

Sparke scowled, irritated at the interruption. 'Then please be so good as to turn the hands to.'

Frowd rubbed his hands as he looked at the big boomed sails and the waiting seamen.

'She'll fly, this one.' He became formal again. 'I suggest we take account of the present wind, sir, and steer sou'-east. That'll take us well clear of the bay and prepare us for old Nantucket again.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Very well. Bring her about and lay her on the starboard tack.'

Sparke came out of his trance and crossed the deck as the man ran to bring the schooner under command.

'It is a good plan.' He stuck out his narrow chin. 'The late and unlamented Captain Tracy wrote almost everything about the rendezvous except the colour of his countrymen's eyes!'

He gripped a stay as the wheel went over and the two great booms swung above the gurgling water alongside and each sail filled until it looked iron-hard.

Bolitho noticed that even the hole in the foresail made by the brig's cannon had been deftly patched during the last few hours. The dexterity of the British sailor when he put his mind to something was beyond measure, he thought.

The Faithful was responding well, in spite of her changed ownership. With spray leaping over her stem and sluicing into small rivers along her lee scuppers, she came about like a thoroughbred, the sails filling again and thundering to the wind.

Eventually, leaning over stiffly to take full advantage of the new tack, Frowd was satisfied. After serving under Bunce, he had learned to take nothing for granted.

Sparke watched, unblinking, from right aft by the taffrail. He said, 'Dismiss the watch below, Mr Bolitho.' He turned and shaded his eyes to seek out the Trojan, but she

was hidden in a rain squall, little more than a shadow, or a smudge on an imperfect painting.

Sparke lurched unsteadily to the cabin hatch. 'I will be below if you need me.'

Bolitho breathed out slowly. Sparke was no longer a lieutenant. He had become a captain.

 

'Mr Bolitho, sir!'

Bolitho rolled over in the unfamiliar bunk and blinked at a shaded lantern. It was Midshipman Weston, leaning over him, his shadow looming across the cabin like a spectre.

'What is it?'

Bolitho dragged his mind reluctantly from the precious sleep. He sat up, massaging his eyes, his throat sore from the stench of the sealed cabin, the damp, and foul air.

Weston watched him. The second lieutenant's compliments, sir, and would you join him on deck.'

Bolitho threw his legs over the bunk and tested the schooner's motion. It must be nearly dawn, he thought, and Sparke was already about. That was strange, to say the least, as he usually left the matters of watchkeeping and routine alterations of tack and course to Bolitho or Frowd.

Weston said nothing, and Bolitho was disinclined to ask what was happening. It would show doubt and uncertainty to the midshipman, who had enough of his own already.

He scrambled through the companion hatch and winced to the greeting of needle-sharp spray and wind. The sky was much as he had last seen it. Low scudding clouds, and with no sign of a star.

He listened to the boom of canvas, the creak of spars as the schooner plunged drunkenly across a deep trough with such violence it almost flung him to the deck.

It had been like this for three days. The wind had become their enemy more often than not, and they had been made to change tack again and again, beating back and forth for miles to make an advance of just a few cables, or indeed for a complete loss of progress.

Sparke had been almost desperate as day by day they had driven south and then south-west towards the land and the mouth of the Delaware.

Even the most disciplined seaman aboard had become sullen and resentful at Sparke's attitude. He was intolerant of everyone, and seemed totally obsessed by the task entrusted to him, and now the possibility of failure.

Bolitho crossed the slippery planking and shouted above the wind, `You sent for me, sir?'

Sparke swung round, retaining his grip on the weather shrouds, his usually immaculate hair streaming in the wind as he replied angrily, 'Of course, damn it ! You have taken long enough!'

Bolitho controlled his sudden anger, knowing that Sparke's shouted rebuke must have been heard by most of the men on deck. He waited, sensing the lieutenant's mood, his all-consuming need to drive the ship with every stitch she would carry.

Sparke said abruptly, 'The master's mate has suggested we stay on this tack until noon.'

Bolitho forced his mind to grapple with it, to picture their wavering progress on the chart.

He answered without hesitation, 'Mr Frowd means we are less likely to run foul of local shipping, or worse, one of our own patrols.'

'Mr Frowd is an idiot!' hle was yelling again. `.And if you agree with him, you are equally so, damn your eyes!'

Bolitho swallowed hard, counting seconds as he would for a fall of shot.

`I have to agree with him, sir. Ile is a man of much experience.'

'And I am not, I suppose!' Ile held up his free hand. 'Do not bother to argue with me. My mind is settled on it. We will change tack in one hour and head directly for the rendezvous. It will cut the time considerably. On this tack we could be another full day!'

Bolitho tried again. `The enemy will not know our exact time of arrival, sir, or indeed if we are coming at all. War leaves no room for such planning.'

Sparke had not heard him, 'By the living God, I'll not let them get away now. I've waited long enough, watching others being handed gilt-edged commands because they know somebody at the Admiralty or in Court. Well, Mr Bolitho, not me. I've worked all the way. Earned each step up the ladder!'

He seemed to realize what he had said, that he had laid himself wide open before his subordinate, and added, 'Now, call the hands ! Tell Mr Frowd to prepare his chart.' He eyed him fixedly, his face very pale in the gloom. 'I'll have no arguments, Tell him that alsoV

'Have you discussed it with Captain D'Esterre, sir?'

Sparke laughed. 'Certainly not. He is a marine. A soldier as far as I am concerned!'

In the cupboard-like space adjoining the master's cabin which was the Faith ful's chart room, Bolitho joined Frowd and peered at the calculations and compass directions which had become their daily fare since leaving Trojan's company.

Frowd said quietly, 'It will get us there more quickly, sir. But...'

Bolitho was bent low to avoid the deckhead, conscious of the vessel's violent motion, the nearness of the sea through the side.

'Aye, Mr Frowd, there are always the buts. We will just have to hope for some luck.'

Frowd grinned bitterly, `I've no wish to be killed by my own countrymen, by mistake or otherwise, sir.'

An hour later, with all hands employed on deck, Faithful clawed around to starboard, pointing her bowsprit towards the invisible land, a single reef in main and foresail, all that Sparke would tolerate. She was leaning right over to leeward, the sea creaming up and over the bulwark, or sluicing across the tethered nine-pounder like surf around a rock.

It was still extremely cold, and what food the cook managed to produce was soon without warmth, and soggy with spray after its perilous passage along the upper deck.

As the light strengthened, Sparke sent an extra look-out aloft, with orders to report anything he saw. 'Even if it is a floating log.'

Bolitho watched Sparke's anxiety mount all through the forenoon as the schooner pushed steadily westward. Only once did the look-out sight another sail, but it was lost in spray and distance before he could give either a description or the course she was steering.

Stockdale was rarely out of Bolitho's sight, and was using his strength to great advantage as the seamen were ordered from one mast to the other, or made to climb aloft to repair and splice fraying rigging.

The cry from the masthead when it came was like an unexpected shot.

'Land ho!'

Men temporarily forgot their discomfort as they squinted through the curtain of rain and spray, searching for the landfall.

Sparke hung on to the shrouds with his telescope, all dignity forgotten as he waited for the schooner to leap on a steep crest and he found the mark he had been hoping for.

He jumped down to the deck and glared triumphantly at Frowd.

'Let her fall off a point. That is Cape Henlopen yonder to the nor'-west of us!' He could not contain himself. 'Now, Mr Frowd, how about your caution, eh?'

The helmsman called, 'West by north, sir! Full an bye!'

Frowd replied grimly, 'The wind's shifted, sir. Not much as yet, but we're heading for shallows to the south'rd of Delaware Bay.'

Sparke grimaced. 'More caution!'

'It is my duty to warn you on these matters, sir.' He stood his ground.

Bolitho said, 'Mr Frowd is largely responsible for this final landfall, sir.'

'That I will acknowledge at the right time, provided -'

He stared up the mast as a look-out yelled, 'Deck there! Sail on th' larboard quarter!'

'God damn!' Sparke stared up until his eyes brimmed over with water. 'Ask the fool what she is!'

Midshipman Libby was already swarming up the weather shrouds, his feet moving like paddles in his efforts to reach the look-out.

Then he shouted, 'Too small for a frigate, sir! But I think she's sighted us!'

Bolitho watched the tossing grey water. They would all be able to see the newcomer soon. Too small for a frigate, Libby had said. But like one in appearance. Three masts, squarerigged. A sloop-of-war. Faithful's slender hull would be no match for a sloop's sixteen or eighteen cannon.

'We had better come about, sir, and hoist our recognition signal.' He saw the uncertainty on Sparke's narrow features, the scar very bright on his cheek, like a red penny.

The other look-out called excitedly, 'Two small craft to loo'rd, sir! Standin' inshore.'

Bolitho bit his lip. Probably local coasting craft, in company for mutual protection, and steering for the bay.

Their presence ruled out the possibility of parleying with the patrolling sloop. If they were nearby, so too might other, less friendly eyes.

Frowd suggested helpfully, 'If we come about now, sir, we can outsail her, even to wind'rd. I've been in schooners afore, and I know what they can do.'

Sparke's voice rose almost to a scream. 'How dare you question my judgement! I'll have you disrated if you speak like that to me again ! Come about, wait and see, run away. God damn it, you're more like an old woman than a master's mate!'

Frowd looked away, angry and hurt.

Bolitho broke in, 'I know what he was trying to say, sir.' He watched Sparke's eyes swivel towards him but did not drop his gaze. 'We can stand off and wait a better chance. If we continue, even with the darkness soon upon us, that sloop-of-war has only to bide her time, to hold us in the shallows until we go aground, or admit defeat. The people we are supposed to meet and capture will not wait to share the same fate, I think.'

When Sparke spoke again he was very composed, even calm. 'I will overlook your anxiety on Mr Frowd's behalf, for I have observed your tendency to become involved in petty matters.' He nodded to Frowd. 'Carry on. Hold this tack as long as the wind favours it. In half an hour send a good leadsman to the chains.' He smiled wryly. 'Will that satisfy you?'

Frowd knuckled his forehead. 'Aye, aye, sir.'

When the half-hour glass was turned beside the compass the other vessel's topgallant sails were in sight from the deck.

D'Esterre, very pale from the hold's discomfort, came up to Bolitho and said hoarsely, 'God, I am so sick, I would wish to die.' He peered at the sloop's straining sails and added, 'Will she catch us?'

'I think not. She's bound to go about soon.' He pointed to the creaming wash alongside. 'There's barely eight fathom under our keel, and it'll soon be half as much.'

The marine stared at the water with amazement. 'You have done nothing to reassure me, Dick!'

Bolitho could imagine the activity aboard the pursuing sloop. She would be almost as big as the Destiny, he thought wistfully. Fast, agile, free of the fleet's ponderous authority. Every glass would now be trained on the scurrying Faithful and her strange red device. The bow-chasers were probably run out with the hope of a crippling shot. Her captain would be waiting to see what the schooner might do and act accordingly. After months of dreary patrol work, with precious little help from the coastal villages, he would see the schooner as some small reward. When the truth was discovered, and Sparke had to explain what he had been doing, there would be a double-hell to pay.

He could understand Sparke's eagerness to get to grips with the enemy and do what Pears expected of him. But Frowd's advice had been sound, and he should have taken it. Now, they would have the sloop to contend with while they hunted for the Colonists and the craft they would be using to ferry powder and shot to a safe hiding place.

There was a muffled bang, the sound blown away by the wind almost as quickly.

A ball slashed along the nearest wave crest, and Stockdale said admiringly, 'Not bad shooting.'

A second ball ripped right above the schooner's poop, and then Sparke, who had been standing rigidly like a statue, shouted harshly, 'There! What did I tell you? She's wearing! Going About, just as I said she would! '

Bolitho watched the angle of the sloop's yards changing, the momentary confusion of her sails before she leaned over on the opposite tack.

Midshipman Weston exclaimed, `That was most clever of you, sir. I would never have believed...'

Bolitho felt his lips crease into a smile, in spite of his anxiety. Sparke, no matter what mood he was in, had little time for crawlers.

'Hold your tongue! When I want praise from you I will ask for it! Now be about your duties, or I'll have Balleine lay his rattan across your fat rump!'

Weston scurried away, his face screwed up with humiliation as he pushed through some grinning seamen.

Sparke said, 'We will shorten sail, Mr Bolitho. Tell Balleine to close up his anchor party in case we have to let go in haste. See that our people are all armed, and that the gunner's mate knows what to do when required.' His eyes fell on Stockdale. 'Get below and put on one of the coats in the cabin. Captain Tracy was about your build, I believe. You'll not be near enough for them to spy the difference.'

Bolitho gave his orders, and felt some relief at Sparke's sudden return to his old self. Right or wrong, successful or not, it was better to be with the devil one knew.

He came out of his thoughts as Sparke snapped, 'Really, must I do everything?'

As the evening gloom followed them towards the land, Faith, ul's approach became more stealthy and cautious. The hands waited to take in the sails, or to put the schooner into the wind should they run across some uncharted sandbar or reef, and every few minutes the leadsman's mournful chant from the forecastle reminded anyone who might still be in doubt of their precarious position.

Later, a little before midnight, Faithful's anchor splashed down, and she came to rest once again.

 

5

 

The quality of Courage

 

`It's getting lighter, sir.' Bolitho stood beside the motionless wheel and watched the water around the anchored schooner until his eyes throbbed with strain.

Sparke grunted but said nothing, his jaw working up and down on a nugget of cheese.

Bolitho could feel the tension, made more extreme by the noises of sea and creaking timbers. They were anchored in a strange, powerful current, so that the Faithful repeatedly rode forward until her anchor was almost apeak. If the tide fell sharply, and you could not always trust the navigational instructions, she might become impaled on one of the flukes.

Another difference was the lack of order and discipline about the decks. Uniforms and the familiar blue jackets of the boatswain's and master's mates had been put below, and the men lounged around the bulwarks in varying attitudes of relaxed indifference to their officers.

Only the marines, crammed like fish in a barrel, were still sealed in the hold, awaiting the signal which might never come.

Sparke remarked quietly, 'Even this schooner would make a fine command, a good start for any ambitious officer.'

Bolitho watched him cut another piece of cheese, his hands quite steady as he added, 'She'll go to the prize court, but after that ...'

Bolitho looked away, but it was another jumping fish which had caught his eye. He must not think about afterwards. For Sparke it would mean almost certain promotion, maybe a command of his own, this schooner even. It was obviously uppermost in his mind just now.

And why not? Bolitho pushed his envy aside as best he could.

He himself, if he avoided death or serious injury, would soon be back in Trojan's crowded belly. He thought of Quinn as he had last seen him and shivered. Perhaps it was because of the wound he had taken on his skull. He reached up and touched it cautiously, as if expecting the agony to come again. But injury was more on his mind than it had been before he had been slashed down. Seeing Quinn's gaping wound had made it nearer, as if the odds were going against him with each new risk and action.

When you were very young, like Couzens or Midshipman Forbes, the sights were just as terrible. But pain and death only seemed to happen to others, never to you. Now, Bolitho knew differently.

Stockdale trod heavily across the deck, his head lowered as if in deep thought, his hands locked behind him. In a long blue coat, he looked every inch a captain, especially one of a privateer.

Metal rasped in the gloom, and Sparke snapped, 'Take that man's name! I want absolute silence on deck!'

Bolitho peered up at the mainmast, searching for the masthead pendant. The wind had shifted further in the night and had backed almost due south. If that sloop had sailed past their position in the hope of beating back again at first light, she would find it doubly hard, and it would take far longer to achieve.

Another figure was beside the wheel, a seaman named Moffitt. Originally from Devon, he had come to America with his father as a young boy to settle in New Hampshire. But when the revolution had been recognized as something more than some ill-organized uprisings, Moffitt's father had found himself on the wrong side. Labelled a Loyalist, he had fled with his family to Halifax, and his hard-worked farm had been taken by his new enemy. Moffitt had been away from home at the time. and had been seized, then forced into a ship of the Revolutionary Navy, one of the first American privateers which had sailed from Newburyport.

Their activities had not lasted for long, and the privateer had been chased and taken by a British frigate. For her company it had meant prison, but for Moffitt it had been a chance to change sides once more, to gain his revenge in his own way against those who had ruined his father.

Now he was beside the wheel, waiting to play his part.

Bolitho heard the approaching hiss of rain as it advanced from the darkness and then fell across the deck and furled sails in a relentless downpour. He tried to keep his hands from getting numb, his body from shivering. It was more than just the discomfort, the anxious misery of waiting. It would make the daylight slow to drive away the night, to give them the vision to know what was happening. Without help they had no chance of finding those they had come to capture. This coastline was riddled with creeks and inlets, bays and the mouths of many rivers, large and small. You could hide a ship of the line here provided you did not mind her going high and dry at low water.

But the land was there, lying across the choppy water like a great black slab. Eventually it would reveal itself. Into coves and trees, hills and undergrowth, where only Indians and animals had ever trod. Around it, and sometimes across it, the two armies manoeuvred, scouted and occasionally clashed in fierce battles of musket and bayonet, hunting-knife and sword.

Whatever the miseries endured by seamen, their life was far the best, Bolitho decided. You carried your home with you. It was up to you what you made of it.

'Boat approaching, sir!'

It was Balleine, a hand cupped round his ear, reminding Bolitho of the last moments before they had boarded this same schooner.

For a moment Sparke did not move or speak, and Bolitho imagined he had not heard.

Then he said softly, 'Pass the word. Be ready for treachery.' As Balleine loped away along the deck Sparke said, 'I hear it.'

It was a regular splash of oars, the efforts noisy against a powerful current.

Bolitho said, 'Small boat, sir.' `Yes.'

The boat appeared with startling suddenness, being swirled towards the schooner's bows like a piece of driftwood. A stout fishing dory with about five men aboard.

Then just as quickly it was gone, steered or carried on the current, it was as if they had all imagined it.

Frowd said, 'Not likely to be fishing, sir. Not this time o' day.'

Surprisingly, Sparke was almost jovial as he said, They are just testing us. Seeing what we are about. A King's ship would have given them a dose of canister or grape to send them on their way, as would a smuggler. I've no doubt they've been passing here every night and day for a week or more. Just to be on the safe side.' His teeth showed in his shadowy face. `I'll give them something to remember all their lives!'

The word went along the deck once more and the seamen relaxed slightly, their bodies numbed by the rain and the raw cold.

Overhead the clouds moved swiftly, parting occasionally to allow the colours of dawn to intrude. Grey and blue water, the lush dark green of the land, white crests and the snakelike swirls of an inshore current. They could have been anchored anywhere, but Bolitho knew from his past two years' service that beyond the nearest cape, sheltered by the bay and the entrance to the Delaware River, were towns and settlements, farms and isolated families who had enough to worry about without a war in their midst.

Bolitho's excitement at being at sea again in the calling which had been followed by all his ancestors had soon become soured by his experiences. Many of those he had had to fight had been men like himself, from the West Country, or from Kent, from Newcastle and the Border towns, or from Scotland and Wales. They had chosen this new country, risked much to forge a new life. Because of others in high places, of deep loyalties and deeper mistrusts, the break had come as swiftly as the fall of an axe.

The new Revolutionary government had challenged the King, that should have been enough. But when he thought about it honestly, Bolitho often wished that the men he fought, and those he had seen die, had not called out in the same tongue, and often the same dialect, as himself.

Some gulls circled warily around the schooner's spiralling masts, then allowed themselves to be carried by the wind to more profitable pickings inland.

Sparke said, 'Change the look-outs, and keep one looking to seaward.'

In the strengthening light he looked thinner, his shirt and breeches pressed against his lean body by the rain, shining like snakeskin.

A shaft of watery sunlight probed through the clouds, the first Bolitho had seen for many days.

The telescopes would be watching soon.

He asked, 'Shall I have the mains'l hoisted, sir?'

'Yes.' Sparke fidgeted with his sword-hilt.

The seamen hauled and panted at the rain-swollen halliards until, loosely set-, the sail shook and flapped from its boom, the red patch bright in the weak sunlight.

The schooner swung with it, tugging at the cable, coming alive like a horse testing bit and bridle.

'Boat to starboard, sir!'

Bolitho waited, seeing what looked like the same dory pulling strongly from the shore. It was unlikely that anyone would know or recognize any of the Faith f ul's company, otherwise the recognition patch would be superfluous. Just the sight of the schooner would be enough. Bolitho knew from his childhood how the Cornish smugglers came and went on the tide, within yards of the waiting excisemen, with no more signal than a whistle.

But someone knew. Somewhere between Washington's army and growing fleet of privateers were the link-men, the ones who fixed a rendezvous here, hanged an informer there.

He looked at Stockdale as he strode to the bulwark, and was impressed. Stockdale gestured forward, and two seamen swung a loaded swivel towards the boat, while he shouted in his hoarse voice, 'Stand off there!'

Moffitt stepped up beside him and cupped his hands. 'What d'yqu want of us?'

The boat rocked on the choppy water, the oarsmen crouched over with the rain bouncing on their shoulders. The man at the tiller shouted back, 'That Cap'n Tracy?'

Stockdale shrugged. 'Mebbe.'

Sparke said, 'They're not sure, look at the bloody fools!'

Bolitho turned his back on the shore. He could almost feel the hidden telescopes searching along the deck, examining them all one at a time.

'Where you from?' The boat idled slowly nearer.

Moffitt glanced at Sparke, who gave a curt nod. He shouted, 'There's a British man-o'-war to seaward! I'll not wait much longer! Have you no guts, man?'

Frowd said, 'That's done it. Here they come.'

The open mention of the British sloop, and Moffitt's colonial accent, seemed to have carried more weight than the scarlet patch.

The dory grated alongside and a seaman caught the line thrown up by one of the oarsmen.

Stockdale stood looking down at the boat, and then said in an offhand manner which Bolitho had not heard before, 'Tell the one in charge to step aboard. I'm not satisfied.'

He turned towards his officers and Bolitho gave a quick nod.

Sparke hissed, 'Keep him away from the nine-pounder, whatever happens.' He gestured to Balleine. 'Start opening the hold.'

Bolitho watched the man climb up from the boat, trying to picture the Faith ful's deck through his eyes. If anything went wrong now, all they would have to show for their plans would be five corpses and a dory.

The man who stood on the swaying deck was solidly built but agile for his age. He had thick grey hair and a matching beard, and his clothing was roughly stitched, like that of a woodsman.

He faced Stockdale calmly. 'I am Elias Haskett.' He took another half pace. 'You are not the Tracy I remember.' It was not a challenge but a statement.

Moffitt said, 'This is Cap'n Stockdale. We took over the Faithful under Cap'n Tracy's orders.' He smiled, letting it sink in. 'He went in command of a fine brig. Like his brother.'

The man named Elias Haskett seemed convinced. 'We've been expecting you. It ain't easy. The redcoats have been pushing their pickets across the territory, and that ship you told of has been up and down the coast for weeks, like a nervous rabbit.'

He glanced at the others nearby, his eyes resting momentarily on Sparke.

Moffitt said, 'Mostly new hands. British deserters. You know how it goes, man.'

'I do.' Haskett became businesslike. 'Good cargo for us?'

Balleine and a few hands had removed the covers from the hold, and Haskett strode to the coaming to peer below.

Bolitho watched the pattern of men changing again, just as they had practised and rehearsed. The first part was done, or so it appeared. Now he saw Rowhurst, the gunner's mate, stroll casually to join Haskett, his hand resting on his dirk. One note of alarm and Haskett would die before he hit the deck.

Bolitho peered over a seaman's shoulder and tried not to think of the marines who were packed in a hastily constructed and almost airless chamber below a false platform. From the deck it looked as if the hold was full of powder kegs. In fact, there was just one layer, and only two were filled. But it only needed a marine to sneeze and that would be an end to it.

Moffitt clambered down and remarked coolly, 'Good catch. We cut out two from the convoy. We've muskets and bayonets too, and a thousand rounds of nine-pound shot.'

Bolitho wanted to swallow or to clear his parched throat. Moffitt was perfect. He was not acting, he was the intelligent mate of a privateer who knew what he was about.

Haskett said to Stockdale, 'I'll hoist the signal. The boats are hid yonder.' He waved vaguely towards some overlapping trees which ran almost to the water's edge. It could be a tiny cove or the entrance of a hitherto unexplored bay.

'What about the British sloop?' Moffitt glanced briefly at Sparke.

'She'll take half a day to claw back here, an' I've put some good look-outs where they can get a first sight of her.'

Bolitho watched Haskett as he bent on a small red pendant and ran it smartly to the foremast truck. He was no stranger to ships and the sea, no matter how he was dressed.