In Gallant Company

He heard one of the seamen gasp, and saw what looked like part of a tree edging clear of the shore. Then he realized it was a fat, round-bowed cutter, her single mast and yard covered with branches and gorse, while her broad hull was propelled

slowly but firmly by long sweeps from either beam. She was followed by her twin. They looked Dutch built, and he guessed they had probably been brought here from the Caribbean, or had made their own way to earn a living from fishing and local trading.

He knew that Sparke had been counting on a single vessel, or several small lighters, even pulling boats. Each of these broad-beamed cutters was almost as large as the Faithful and built like a battering-ram.

Moffitt saw his quick nod and said, 'One will be enough. They look as if they could carry a King's arsenal.'

Haskett nodded. 'True. But we have other work after this, south towards the Chesapeake. Our boys captured a British ordnance brigantine a week back. She's aground, but filled to the gills with muskets and powder. We will off-load her cargo into one of the cutters. Enough to supply a whole army!'

Bolitho turned away. He could not bear to look at Sparke's face. He could read his mind, could picture his very plan of attack. With the sloop too far away to be of help, Sparke would seize the whole credit for himself.

The next few moments were the worst Bolitho could recall. The slow business of manoeuvring the two heavy cutters, with their strange disguise and long, galley-like sweeps. They must hold thirty or forty men, he decided. Some seamen, and the rest probably from the local militia, or an independent troop of Washington's scouts.

The Faith f ul's masthead pendant flapped wetly in the wind, and Bolitho saw the nearest cutter start to swing across the current. Minutes to go. Mere minutes, and it would be too late for her to work clear, or set her sails.

Moffitt murmured, 'Stand by there.' If he was nervous, he was not showing it.

A seaman called, 'Aye, aye, sir!'

Bolitho chilled. It might have been expected. That somebody, even himself who had helped to plan the deception, should overplay his part. The smart acknowledgement to Moffitt's order was not that of a defecting sailor or half-trained privateersman.

Haskett swung round with an oath. 'You dirty scum!'

The crash of a pistol made every man freeze. Voices from the dory alongside mingled with the shrill cries of startled seabirds, but Bolitho could only stare at the grey-haired stranger as he staggered towards the bulwark, blood gushing from his mouth, while his hands clutched at his stomach like scarlet claws.

Sparke lowered his pistol and snapped, 'Swivels! Open fire!'

As the four swivels cracked from their mountings, sweeping the side and deck of the nearest cutter with whining canister, Rowhurst's men tore the tarpaulin from the nine-pounder and threw their weight on tackles and handspikes.

A few shots came from the nearest cutter, but the unexpected attack had done what Sparke had intended. The packed canister had swept amongst the men at the long sweeps, cutting them down, and knocking the stroke into chaos. The cutter, was broaching to, drifting abeam, while Rowhurst's other crews waited by the stubby six-pounders which would bear, their slow-matches ready, the guns carefully loaded in advance with grapeshot.

'Fire as you bear!' Bolitho drew his hanger and walked amongst his men as they came alive again. 'Steady!' A ball whined past his face and a seaman fell kicking and screaming beside the dead Elias Haskett.

Sparke took his reloaded pistol from a seaman and remarked absently, 'I hope Rowhurst's aim is as good as his obscenities.'

Even the taciturn Rowhurst seemed shocked out of his usual calm. He was capering from side to side of the nine-pounder's breech, watching as the second cutter managed to set her mainsail and jib, the sweeps discarded and drifting away like bones, the disguise dropping amongst them as the wind ballooned into the canvas.

Rowhurst cursed as one of his men reeled away, a massive hole punched through his forehead. He yelled, 'Ready, sir!' He waited for the Faithful to complete another swing on her cable and then thrust his slow-match to the breech.

Double-shoued, and with grape added for good measure, the gun hurled itself back on its makeshift tackles like an enraged beast. The crash of the explosion rolled around the sea like thunder, and the billowing smoke added to the sense of horror as the cutter's mast disintegrated and fell heavily in a tangle of rigging and thrashing canvas.

'Reload ! Run out when you're ready and fire at will ! '

The shock of Sparke's pistol shot had given way to a wave of wild excitement. This was something they understood. What they had been trained for, day by backbreaking day.

While the swivels and six-pounders kept up their murderous bombardment on the first cutter, Rowhurst's crew maintained a regular attack on the other. With mast and sails gone, she was soon hard aground on a sandbar, and even as someone gave a cheer a savage plume of fire exploded from her stern and spread rapidly with the wind, the rain-soaked timbers spurting steam until the fire took hold and she was ablaze from stem to stern.

Through and above the din of cannon-fire and yelling men Bolitho heard D'Esterre call, 'Lively, Sar'nt Shears, or there'll be little left for us to do!' D'Esterre blinked in the billowing smoke from the cutter and Rowhurst's nine-pounder and said, 'By God, this one will be up to us shortly!'

Bolitho watched the first cutter swinging drunkenly towards the Faith ful's bows. There were more men in evidence on her deck now, but there were many who would never move again. Blood ran in bright threads from her scuppers to mark the havoc left by the canister and packed grape.

'Marines, forward!'

Like puppets they stepped up to the bulwark, their long muskets rising as one.

'Present!' The sergeant waited, ignoring the balls which buzzed overhead or thudded into the timbers. `Fire!'

Bolitho saw those who had gathered at the point where both vessels would come togethei stagger and sway like corn in a field as the carefully aimed volley ripped amongst them.

The sergeant showed no emotion as he beat out the time with his handspike while the ramrods rose and fell together as if on a range.

'Take aim ! Fire.,'

The volley was upset by the sudden collision of both hulls, but not enough to save another handful of the yelling, defiant men who started to clamber aboard, cutlasses swinging, or firing at the nine-pounder's crew on the forecastle.

Sparke shouted, 'Strike, damn you!'

'I'll see you in hell!'

Bolitho ran to the bulwark, briefly aware that someone had defied Sparke even in the face of death.

Sergeant Shears shouted, 'Fix bayonets!' He looked at D'Esterre's raised sword. 'Marines, advance!'

Bolitho shouted, 'Tell them again to strike, sir!'

Sparke looked wild as he retorted, 'They had their chance, damn them!'

The marines moved with precision, shoulder to shoulder, a living red wall which cut the boarders off from the gun crews, separated them from their own craft, and from all hope.

Bolitho saw a figure duck past a bayonet and run aft, a cutlass held across his body like a talisman.

Bolitho raised his hanger, seeing the clumsy way he was holding the cutlass. Worse, he was no more than a youth.

'Surrender!'

But the youth came on, whimpering with pain as Bolitho turned his blade aside and with a twist of the wrist sent his cutlass clashing into the scuppers. Even then he tried to get to grips with Bolitho, sobbing and almost blinded with fury and tears.

Stockdale brought the flat of his cutlass down on the youth's head and knocked him senseless.

Sparke exclaimed, 'It's done.'

He walked past D'Esterre and regarded the remaining attackers coldly. There were not many of them. The rest, dead or wounded by the lunging line of bayonets, sprawled like tired onlookers.

Bolitho sheathed his hanger, feeling sick, and the returning ache in his head.

The dead were always without dignity, he thought. No matter the cause, or the value of a victory.

Sparke shouted, 'Secure the cutter! Mr Libby, take charge there! Balleine, put those rebels under guard!'

Frowd came aft and said quietly, 'We lost three men, sir. An' two wounded, but they'll live, with any fortune.'

Sparke handed his pistol to a seaman. 'Damn it, Mr Bolitho, look what we have achieved!'

Bolitho looked. First at the blackened carcass of the second cutter, almost burnt out and smoking furiously above a litter of wreckage and scattered remains. Most of her crew had either died under Rowhurst's solitary bombardment or had been carried away to drown on the swift current. Few sailors could even swim, he thought grimly.

Alongside, and closer to the eye, the other cutter was an even more horrific sight. Corpses and great patterns of blood were everywhere, and he saw Midshipman Libby with his handful of seamen picking his way over the deck, his face screwed up, fearful of what he would see next.

Sparke said, 'But the hull and spars are intact, d'you see, eh? Two prizes within a week! There'll be some envious glances when we reach Sandy Hook again, make no mistake!' He gestured angrily at the wretched Libby. 'For God's sake, sir! Stir yourself and get that mess over the side. I want to make sail within the hour, damn me if I don't!'

Captain D'Esterre said, 'I'll send some marines to help him.'

Sparke glared. 'You will not, sir. That young gentleman wishes to become a lieutenant. And he probably will, shortages in the fleet being what they are. So be must learn that it rates more than the uniform, damn me so it does!' He beckoned to the master's mate. 'Come below, Mr Frowd. I want a course for the Chesapeake. I'll get the exact position of the brigantine at leisure.'

They both vanished below, and D'Esterre said quietly, 'What a nauseating relish he displays!’

Bolitho saw the first of the corpses going over the side, drifting lazily past, as if glad to be free of it all.

He said bitterly, 'I thought you craved action.'

D'Esterre gripped his shoulder. 'Aye, Dick. I do my duty with the best of 'em. But the day you see me gloat like our energetic second lieutenant, you may shoot me down.'

The youth who had been knocked unconscious by Stockdale was being helped to his feet. He was rubbing his head and sobbing quietly. When he saw Stockdale he tried to hit out at him, but Moffitt caught him easily and pinioned him against the bulwark.

Bolitho said, 'He could have killed you, you know.'

Through his sobs the youth exclaimed, 'I wish he had ! The British killed my father when they burned Norfolk! I swore to avenge him!'

Moffitt said harshly, 'Your people tarred and feathered my young brother! It blinded him!' He pushed the youth towards a waiting marine. 'So we're equal, eh?'

Bolitho said quietly, 'No, opposite, is how I see it.' He nodded to Moffitt. 'I did not know about your brother.'

Moffitt, shaking violently now that it was over, said, 'Oh, there's more, sir, a whole lot more!'

Frowd reappeared on deck and walked past the sobbing prisoner without a glance.

He said grimly, 'I thought this day's work would be an end to it, sir. For the moment at least.'

He looked up at the pendant and then at the cutter alongside, the hands working with buckets and swabs to clear the bloodstains from the scarred and riddled planking.

'She's named the Thrush, I see.' His professional eye confirmed Bolitho s opinion. 'Dutch built. Handy craft, and well able to beat to wind'rd, better even than this one.'

Midshipman Weston hovered nearby, his face as red as his hair. He had shouted a lot during the brief engagement, but had hung back when the Colonials had made their impossible gesture.

Frowd was saying, 'I'd hoped that sloop might have joined us.' He sounded anxious. 'Mr Sparke's got the name of the cove where they beached the brigantine. I know it, but not well.'

'How did he discover that?'

Frowd walked to the rail and spat into the water. 'Money, sir. There's always a traitor in every group. If the price is right.'

Bolitho made himself relax. He could forget Frowd's bitterness. He had been afraid that Sparke, in his desperate eagerness to complete his victory, would use harsher methods of obtaining his information. His face as he had killed Elias Haskett had been almost inhuman.

How many more Sparkes were there still to discover? he pondered.

In a steady wind, both vessels eventually got under way and started to work clear of the sandbars and shoals, the smoke from the burned-out cutter following them like an evil memory.

Charred remains and gaping corpses parted to allow them through, when with all sails set both vessels started the first leg of their long tack to seaward.

Sparke came on deck during the proceedings. He peered through a telescope to see how Midshipman Libby, ably assisted by the boatswain's mate, Balleine, and a handful of seamen, were managing aboard the Thrush. Then he sniffed at the air and snapped, 'Run up our proper colours, Mr Bolitho, and see that Mr Libby follows our example.'

Later, with both vessels in close company, heeling steeply on the starboard tack, Bolitho felt the stronger upthrust of deeper water, and not for the first time was glad to be rid of the land.

 

From the rendezvous point where they had won such a bloody victory, to the next objective, a cove just north of Cape Charles which marked the entrance to Chesapeake Bay, it was approximately one hundred miles.

Sparke had hoped for a change of wind, but on the contrary, it soon became worse and more set against them. Both vessels were able to keep company, but each tack took longer, each mile gained could be quadrupled by the distance sailed to achieve it.

Every time that Sparke went on deck he showed no sign of apprehension or dismay. He usually examined the Thrush through his glass and then looked up at his own flag. Bolitho had heard one of the marines whispering to his friend that Sparke had made himself an admiral of his own squadron.

The weather and the constant demands of working the schooner to windward had cleared most of the tension and bitterness from Bolitho's thoughts. On the face of it, it had been a success. A vessel seized, another destroyed, and many of the enemy killed or routed. If the plan had misfired, and the trap laid in reverse, he doubted if the enemy would have showed them any mercy either. Once aboard the schooner, the combined numbers of both cutters would have swamped Sparke's resistance before the nine-pounder could have levelled the balance.

It took three days to reach the place where the brig was supposedly hidden. The rugged coastline which pointed south towards the entrance of Chesapeake Bay was treacherous, even more than that which they had left astern. Many a coasting vessel, and larger ships as well, had come to grief as they had battered through foul weather to find the narrow entrance to the bay. Once within it there was room for a fleet, and then some. But to get there was something else entirely, as Bunce had remarked often enough.

Once again, the sad-faced Moffitt was the one to step forward and offer to go ashore alone and spy out the land.

The Faith ful's boat had taken him in, while close to the nearest land both vessels had anchored and mounted guard to ward off any attack.

Bolitho had half expected Moffitt not to return. He had done enough, and might be pining to rejoin his family.

But five hours after being dropped on a tiny beach, while the long-boat laid off to wait for his return, Moffitt appeared, wading through the surf in his eagerness to bring his news.

It was no rumour. The ordnance vessel, a brigantine, was beached inside the cove, exactly as Sparke's informer had described. Moffitt had even discovered her name, the Minstrel, and thought her too badly damaged even to be moved by expert salvage parties.

He had seen some lanterns nearby, and had almost trodden on a sleeping sentry.

Sparke said, 'I will see that you are rewarded for this work, Moffitt.' He was almost emotional as he added, 'This is the quality of courage which will always sustain us.'

Ordering that Moffitt be given a large tot of brandy or rum, both if he wished, Sparke gathered his officers and senior rates together. There was barely room to draw breath in the schooner's cabin, but they soon forgot their discomfort when Sparke said bluntly, 'Dawn attack. We will use our own and Thrush's boat. Surprise attack at first light, right?' He eyed them searchingly. 'Captain D'Esterre, you will land with your contingent under cover of darkness, and find some cover above the cove. Stay there to mark our flank, and our withdrawal if things go wrong.'

Sparke looked at the rough map which Mofftt had helped to make.

'I will of course take the leading boat. Mr Libby will follow in the other.' He looked at Bolitho. 'You will assume command of Thrush and bring her into the cove for the transfer of cargo once I have smashed whatever opposition which may still be near the brigantine. The marines will then move down and support us from the beach.' He clapped his hands together. 'Well?'

D'Esterre said, 'I'd like to leave now, if I may, sir.'

'Yes. I shall need the boats very soon.' He looked at Bolitho. 'You were about to say something?'

'A hundred miles in three days, sir. Another half day by dawn. I doubt very much if we will surprise them.'

'You're not getting like Mr Frowd, surely? A real Jeremiah indeed.'

Bolitho shut his mouth tightly. It was pointless to argue, and anyway, with the marines in position to cover them they could fall back if it was a trap.

Sparke said, 'It is settled then. Good. Mr Frowd will take charge here in our absence, and the nine-pounder will be more than a match for any foolhardy attacker, eh?'

Midshipman Weston licked his lips. His face was glistening with sweat. 'What shall I do, sir?'

Sparke smiled thinly. 'You will be with the fourth lieutenant. Do what he says and you might learn something. Do not do what he says and you may well be dead before you fill yourself with more disgusting food!'

They trooped up on deck, where a few pale stars had appeared to greet them.

Moffitt reported to Captain D'Esterre, 'I'm ready, sir. I'll show you the way.'

The marine nodded. 'You are a glutton for punishment, but lead on, with my blessing.'

The two boats were already filling with marines and would now be in continuous use. That left only the captured dory. It was as well somebody had kept it secured during the fighting.

Stockdale was by the taffrail, his white trousers flapping like miniature sails.

He wheezed, 'Glad you're not going this time, sir.'

Bolitho stiffened. 'Why did you say that?'

'Feeling, sir. Just a feeling. I'll be happier when we're out of here. Back with the real Navy again.'

Bolitho watched the boats pulling clear, the marines' crossbelts stark against the black water.

The trouble with Stockdale was that his 'feelings', as he called them, were too often transformed into actual deeds.

 

Bolitho moved restlessly around the Thrush's tiller, very conscious of the stillness, the air of expectancy which hung over the two vessels.

The wind was from the same direction but was dropping with each passing minute, allowing the warmth to replace the night's chill, the sun to penetrate the full-bellied clouds.

He trained his telescope towards the nearest hillside and saw two tiny scarlet figures just showing above the strange, tangled gorse. D'Esterre's marines were in position, pickets out. They would have a good view of the little cove, although from the Thrush's deck there was nothing to see but fallen, rotting trees by the entrance and the swirl of a cross-current by some scattered rocks.

He heard Midshipman Weston with some seamen sorting out the good sweeps from those broken by the swivels' canister. He could also hear him retching as he found some gruesome fragment which Libby's men had overlooked.

Stockdale joined him by the rail, his face black with stubble and grime.

'Should be there by now, sir. Not heard a shot nor nothin'.'

Bolitho nodded. It was uppermost in his mind. The wind was dropping, and that made movement difficult if urgently

required. He would need to move the Thrush under sweeps, and the longer it took the more chance of an ambush there was.

He cursed Sparke's eagerness, his blind determination to take all the rewards for himself. At any time of day a frigate might pass nearby and they could depend on support by the boatload, I '      even at the expense of sharing the victory.

He said, 'Get in the dory. I'm going to that little beach

yonder.' He pointed to the two scarlet shapes on the hillside.

'I'll be safe enough.'

 

Midshipman Weston panted along the deck, his ungainly feet catching and jarring on splinters from the raked planking.

Bolitho said, 'You take charge here.' He could almost smell his fear. 'I'll be in view the whole time.'

He saw Stockdale and two seamen climbing down to the dory, eager to be doing something to break the strain of waiting. Or maybe to get away from the scene of such carnage.

When Bolitho stepped on to the firm beach, which was not much bigger than the boat itself, it felt good. To smell the different scents, to hear birds and the vague rustling of small creatures nearby was like a balm.

Then one of the seamen exclaimed, 'There, sir! 'Tis Mr Libby's boat!'

Bolitho saw the midshipman's head and shoulders even before he heard the swish of oars.

'Over here!'

Libby waved his hat and grinned. Relief, and more, was plain on his tanned face.

He shouted, 'The second lieutenant says to bring the cutter, sir! There's no sign of anyone ashore, and Mr Sparke thinks they must have run when they saw the boats!'

Bolitho asked, 'What is he doing now?'

'He is about to board the brigantine, sir. She is a fine little vessel, but is badly holed.'

Sparke probably wanted to make quite sure there was no chance of adding her, as well as her cargo, to his little squadron.

Feet slithered on the hillside, and Bolitho swung round to see Moffitt, followed by a marine, stumbling and falling towards him.

'What is it, Moffitt?' He saw the anguish on his face.

'Sir!' He could barely get the words out. 'We tried to signal, but Mr Sparke did not see us!' He gestured wildly. 'Them devils have laid a fuse, I can see the smoke! They're going to blow up the brigantine! They must've been waiting!'

Libby looked appalled. 'Man your oars! We'll go back!'

Bolitho ran into the water to stop him, but even as he spoke the earth and sky seemed to burst apart in one tremendous explosion.

The men in the boat ducked and gasped, while around and across them pieces of splintered wood and rigging rained down, covering the water with leaping feathers of spray.

Then they saw the smoke, lifting and spreading above the cove's shoulder until the sunlight was completely hidden.

Bolitho groped his way to the dory, his ears and mind cringing from the deafening explosion.

Marines blundered down the slope and waited until Libby's oarsmen had recovered sufficiently to bring their boat towards the tiny beach.

But all Bolitho could see was Sparke's face as he had out

lined his last plan. The quality o f courage. It had not sustained him.

Bolitho pulled himself together as D'Esterre with his sergeant and two skirmishers walked towards him.

Again he seemed to hear Sparke's crisp voice. Speaking as he had aboard the schooner when the shocked aftermath of battle had begun to take charge.

'They'll be looking to us. So we'll save our regrets for later.'

It could have been his epitaph.

Bolitho said huskily, 'Get the marines ferried over as quickly as you can.' He turned away from the stench of burning wood and tar. 'We'll get under way directly.'

D'Esterre eyed him strangely. 'Another few minutes and it could have been Libby's boat. Or yours.'

Bolitho met his' gaze and replied, 'There may not be much time. So let's be about it, shall we?'

D'Esterre watched the last squad of marines lining up to await the boat's return. He saw Bolitho and Stockdale climb from the dory to the Faithful's deck, Frowd hurrying across to meet them.

D'Esterre had been in too many fights of one sort or another to be affected for long. But this time had been different. He thought of Bolitho's face, suddenly so pale beneath the black hair with its unruly lock above one eye. Determined, using every ounce of strength to contain his feelings.

Junior he might be in rank, but D 'Esterre had felt in those few moments that he was in the presence of his superior.

 

6

 

A Lieutenant’s Lot

 

Lieutenant Neil Cairns looked up from the small bulkhead desk in response to a knock on his cabin door.

'Come!'

Bolitho stepped inside, his hat beneath his arm, his features tired.

Cairns gestured to the only other chair. 'Take those books oft there and sit yourself down, man.' He groped amongst piles of papers, lists and scribbled messages and added, 'There should be some glasses here, too. You look as if you need a drink. I am certain I do. If anyone advises you to take on the role of first lieutenant, I suggest you tell him to go to hell!'

Bolitho sat and loosened his neckcloth. There was the hint of a cool breeze in the cabin, and after hours of walking around New York, and the long pull across the harbour in Trojan's launch he was feeling sweaty and weary. He had been sent ashore to try to get some new hands to replace those killed or injured aboard the Faithful and later when Sparke's cutter and his men had been blasted to fragments. It all seemed like a vague, distorted dream now. Three months ago, and already it was hard to put the order of things together properly. Even the weather made it more obscure. Then it had been miserably cold and bleak, with fierce running seas and the fog which had then seemed like a miracle. Now it was bright sunshine and long periods without any wind at all. The Trojan's hull creaked with dryness and her deck seams shone moistly in the glare, clinging to the shoes and to the seamen's bare feet.

Cairns watched him thoughtfully. Bolitho had changed a great deal, he decided. He had returned to New York with the two prizes a different man. More mature, and lacking the youthful optimism which had marked him out from the others.

The events which had changed him, Sparke's terrible death in particular, had even been noticed by the captain.

Cairns said, 'Red wine, Dick. Warm-, but better than anything else to hand. I bought it from a trader ashore.'

He saw Bolitho tilt back his head, the lock of hair clinging to his forehead and hiding the cruel scar. Despite his service in these waters, Bolitho looked pale, and his grey eyes were like the winter they had long since left behind.

Bolitho knew he was being watched, but he had become used to it. If he had changed, so too had his world. With Sparke dead, the officers had taken another step on promotion's ladder. Bolitho was now the third lieutenant, and the most junior post, then left vacant, had been taken by Midshipman Libby. He was now Trojan's acting sixth lieutenant, whether he was able to take his proper examination or not. The age difference between the captain and his lieutenants was startling. Bolitho would not be twenty-one until October, and his juniors were aged from twenty to Libby's mere seventeen years.

It was a well-used system in the larger ships, but Bolitho could find little comfort in his promotion, even though his new duties had kept him busy enough to hold most of the worst memories to the back of his mind.

Cairns said suddenly, 'The captain wants you to accompany him to the flagship this evening. The admiral is “holding court”, and captains will be expected to produce a likely aide or two.' He refilled the glasses, his features impassive. 'I have work to do with the damned victualling yard, so I'll not be able to go. Not that I care much for empty conversation when the whole world is failing apart.'

He said it with such bitterness that Bolitho was moved to ask, 'Is something troubling you?'

Cairns gave a rare smile. 'Just everything. I am heartily sick of inactivity. Of writing down lists of stores, begging for new cordage and spars, when all those rogues ashore want is for you to pass them a few pieces of gold, damn their eyes!'

Bolitho thought of the two prizes he had brought back to New York. They had been whisked away to the prize court, sold and recommissioned into the King's service almost before die new ensigns had been hoisted.

Not one man of the Trojan's company had been appointed to them, and the lieutenant given command of the Faithful had barely been out from England more than a few weeks. It was unfair, to say the least, and it was obviously a sore point with Cairns. In about eighteen months he would be thirty. The war could be over, and he might be thrown on the beach as a halfpay lieutenant. It was not a very enjoyable prospect for a man without means beyond his naval pay.

'Anyway,' Cairns leaned back and looked at him, 'the captain has made it plain he'd rather have you with him in his admiral's presence than our tippling second lieutenant !'

Bolitho smiled. It was amazing how Probyn survived. He was fortunate perhaps that after Trojan's return from escorting the convoy from Halifax the. ship had barely been to sea at all. Two short patrols in support of the Army and a gunnery exercise with the flagship well within sight of New York was the extent of her efforts. A few more storms and Probyn's weakness might have put an end to him.

Bolitho stood up. 'I'd better get changed then.'

Cairns nodded. 'You're to meet the captain at the end of the first dog-watch. He'll be taking the barge, so make sure the crew are smart and ready. He's in no mood to suffer slackness, I can tell you.'

Sharp at four bells Captain Pears strode on to the quarterdeck, resplendent in his full-dress uniform and carrying his sword at his side like a pointer. If anything, the glittering gold lace set off against the dark blue coat and white breeches made him appear younger and taller.

Bolitho, also dressed in his best clothes, waited by the entry port, a sword, instead of his usual hanger, slung across his waistcoat on a cross-belt.

He had already examined the barge to ensure it was ready and suitable for Trojan's captain. It was a fine-looking boat, with a dark red hull and white painted gunwales. In the sternsheets there were matching red cushions, while across the transom was the ship's name in gilt. Swaying against Trojan's side, with the oars tossed in two vertical lines, her crew dressed in red and white checkered shirts and black tarred hats, the barge looked good enough for an emperor, Bolitho thought.

Cairns hurried to the side and murmured something to the captain. Molesworth, the nervous-looking purser, was waiting by the mizzen, and Bolitho guessed that Cairns was going ashore with him to bolster his dealings with the victuallers, who, like ships' chandlers, thought more of personal profit than patriotism.

Captain D'Esterre snapped, 'Marines, present arms!'

The bayoneted muskets jerked up almost to the canvas awning overhead, and Bolitho momentarily forgot Pears as he recalled the marines on the Faith f ul's deck as they had cut down the boarders with the same crisp precision.

Pears seemed to see Bolitho for the first time. 'Ali, it is you.' He ran his eye over Bolitho's best cocked hat, his white lapels and freshly pressed waistcoat. 'I thought I had a new officer for a while.'

Bolitho smiled. 'Thank you, sir.' Pears nodded. 'Carry on.'

Bolitho ran down the ladder to the boat, where Hogg, the burly coxswain, stood in readiness, his hat in his hand like a grim-faced mourner.

The pipes trilled and then the barge tilted to Pears' weight as he stepped down and into the sternsheets.

'Shove off ! Out oars!' Hogg was conscious of his captain and watching telescopes from nearby warships. 'Give way all!'

Bolitho sat stiffly with his sword between his knees. lie found it impossible to relax when he was with the captain. So he watched Trojan instead, seeing her curved tumblehome change shape as the boat swung round and beneath her high stern. He saw the red ensign curling listlessly above the taff rail, the glitter of gilt paint and polished fittings.

Every gunport was open to catch the offshore air, and at each one, withdrawn like a resting beast, Trojan's considerable artillery showed a round black muzzle. They too were as clean as D'Esterre's silver buttons.

Bolitho glanced at Pears' grim profile. What news there was of the war was bad. Stalemate at best, real losses too often for comfort. But whatever Pears thought about the situation and the future he was certainly not going to let down his ship by any sign of slackness.

Beneath her furled sails and crossed yards, shimmering in her own haze of black and buff, Trojan was a sight to stir even the most doubting heart.

Pears said suddenly, 'Have you heard from your father?'

Bolitho replied, 'Not of late, sir. He is not much for writing.'

Pears looked directly at him. 'I was sorry to learn of your mother's death. I met her just the once at Weymouth. You were at sea, I believe. A gracious lady. It makes me feel old even to remember her.'

Bolitho looked astern at Trojan. So that was part of it, and no wonder. Suppose, just suppose, that Trojan had to fight. Really fight with ships of her own size and fire power. He thought of the officers Pears would carry into battle. Probyn, getting more difficult and morose every day. Dalyell, cheerful but barely equipped to take over his new role as fourth lieutenant. And poor Quinn, tight-lipped and in constant pain from his wound, and confined to light duties under the surgeon's attention. Now there was Libby, one more boy in a lieutenant's guise. Pears had good cause to worry about it, he thought. It must be like having a shipload of schoolboys.

'How many men did you get today?'

Bolitho stared. Pears knew everything. Even about his trip ashore.

'Four, sir.' It was even worse when you said it aloud.

'Hmm. We may have better luck when the next convoy arrives.' Pears shifted on the red cushion. 'Damned knaves. Prize seamen, protected by the East India Company or some bloody government warrant! Hell's teeth, you'd think it was a crime to fight for your country! But I'll get my hands on a few of 'em, exemptions or not.' He chuckled. 'By the time their lordships hear about it, we'll have changed 'em into King's men!'

Bolitho turned his head as the flagship loomed around another anchored man-of-war.

She was the Resolute, a second-rate of some ninety guns, and a veteran of twenty-five years of service. There were several boats at her booms, and Bolitho guessed it was to be quite a gathering. He looked up at the drooping flag at her mizzen and wondered what their host would be like. Rear-Admiral Graham Coutts, in command of the inshore squadron, had controlled Trojan's destiny since her first arrival in New York. Bolitho had never laid eyes on him and was curious to know what he was like. Probably another Pears, he decided. Rocklike, unbreakable.

He shifted his attention to the professional side of their arrival. The marines at the entry port, the gleam of steel, the bustle of blue and white and the faint shout of commands.

Pears was sitting as before, but Bolitho noticed that his strong fingers were opening and closing around the sharkskin grip of his sword, the first sign of agitation he had ever noticed in him.

It was a fine sword and must have cost a small fortune. It was a presentation sword, given to Pears for some past deed of individual courage, or more likely a victory over one of England's enemies.

'Ready to toss yer oars!' Hogg was leaning on the balls of his feet, his fingers caressing the tiller-bar as he gauged the final approach. 'Oars up!'

As one the blades rose and remained motionless in paired lines, the sea water trickling unheeded on to the knees of the bargemen.

Pears nodded to his crew and then climbed sedately up the side, doffing his hat to the shrill calls and the usual ceremony which greeted every captain.

Bolitho counted seconds and then followed. He was met by a thin-nosed lieutenant with a telescope jammed beneath his arm who looked at him as if he had just emerged from some stale cheese.

'You are to go aft, sir.' The lieutenant gestured to the poop where Pears, in company with Resolute's flag captain, was hurrying towards the shade.

Bolitho paused to look around the quarterdeck. Very like Trojan's. The lines of tethered guns, their tackles neatly turned on to cleats or flaked down on the snow-white planking. Seamen going about their work, a midshipman studying an incoming brig through his glass, his lips moving silently as he read her flag hoist of numbers which would reveal her name and that of her captain.

Down on the gundeck a seaman was standing beside a corporal of marines, while another midshipman was speaking rapidly to a lieutenant. A crime committed? A man about to be taken aft for punishment? Or he might be up for promotion or discharge. It was a familiar scene which could mean so many things.

He sighed. Bike the Trojan. And yet again, she was completely different.

Bolitho walked slowly beneath the poop and was startled by the sound of music and the muted laughter of men and women. Every screen had been removed and the admiral's quarters had been opened up into one huge cabin. By the open stern windows some violinists were playing with great concentration, and amongst the jostling crowd of sea officers, civilians and several ladies, servants in red jackets carried trays laden with glasses, while others stood at a long table refilling them as fast as they could.

Pears had been swallowed up, and Bolitho nodded to several lieutenants who, like himself, were only here under sufferance.

A tall figure emerged from the crush, and Bolitho saw it was Lamb, the flagship's captain. He was a steady-eyed man with features which might at first appear to be severe, even hard. But when he smiled, everything changed.

'You are Mr Bolitho, I understand?' He held out his hand. 'Welcome aboard. I heard about your exploits last March and wanted to meet you. We can use men of mettle who have seen what war is all about. It, is a hard time, but also one of opportunity for young men such as yourself. If the moment comes, seize your chance. Believe me, Bolitho, they rarely come twice.'

Bolitho thought of the graceful schooner, even the stubbyhulled Thrush. His own chance had already come and gone.

'Come and meet the admiral.' He saw Bolitho s expression and laughed. 'He will not eat you!'

More pushing to get through the crowd. Flushed faces, loud voices. It was difficult to imagine that the war was just miles away.

He saw a hunched set of blue shoulders and a gold-laced collar, and groaned inwardly. Ponderous. Slow-moving. A disappointment after all.

But the flag captain pushed the big man aside and revealed a slight figure who barely came up to his shoulder.

Rear-Admiral Graham Coutts looked more like a lieutenant than a flag officer. He had dark brown hair which was tied to the nape of his neck in a casual fashion. He had an equally youthful face, devoid of lines or the usual mask of authority which Bolitho had seen before.

He thrust out his hand. 'Bolitho, is it? Good.' He nodded and smiled impetuously. 'Proud to meet you.' He beckoned to some hidden servant. 'Wine over here!"

Then he said lightly, 'I know all about you. I suspect that if you and not your superior officer had been leading that boat attack you might even have recaptured the brigantine!' He smiled. 'No matter. It showed what can be done, given the will.'

An elegant figure in blue velvet walked from a noisy group by the quarter gallery and the admiral said quietly, 'See that man, Bolitho? That is Sir George Helpman, from London.' His lip curled slightly. 'An “expert” on our malaise here. A very important person. One to be heard and respected at all times.'

The mood changed, and just as swiftly he was the admiral again. 'Be off with you, Bolitho. Enjoy what you wish. The food is palatable today.'

He turned away and Bolitho saw him greeting the man from London. He got the impression that Rear-Admiral Coutts did not like him very much. It had sounded like a warning, although what a lowly lieutenant could do to upset matters was hard to imagine.

He thought about Coutts. Not a bit what he had expected. He shied away from what he felt. Admiration. A strange sense of loyalty for the man he had met for just a few minutes. But it was there. It was useless to deny it.

It was getting dark by the time the guests started to leave. Some were so drunk they hhad to be carried to their boats, others lurched, glassy-eyed and unsupported, fighting each step of the way for fear of disgracing themselves.

Bolitho waited on the quarterdeck, watching the civilians and the officials, the ladies and a few of the military, being helped, pushed or lowered by tackles into the bobbing flotilla of boats alongside.

He had just passed a cabin which he guessed was that of Coutts' flag lieutenant. The door had been slightly ajar, and Bolitho had caught just a brief view before it had swung shut. A woman's body, naked to the waist, her arms wrapped around the officer's head as he tore at her clothing like a madman. And she had been giggling, bubbling with sheer enjoyment.

Her husband or escort was probably lying in one of the boats right now, Bolitho thought. He smiled. Was he shocked or envious again?

A boatswain's mate, harassed by his additional duties, called, 'Yer captain's comin', sir!'

'Aye. Call the barge.' Bolitho adjusted his swordbelt and straightened his hat.

Pears appeared with Captain Lamb. The two men shook hands and then Pears followed Bolitho down into the boat.

As the barge edged clear and swung on a swift moving current, Pears made one comment. 'Disgusting, was it not?'

He then lapsed into silence and did not move until Trojan's lighted gunports were close by. Then he said curtly, 'If that was diplomacy, then thank God I'm a simple sailor!'

Bolitho stood in the swaying boat beside the coxswain, and as Pears reached out for the ladder his foot slipped. Bolitho thought he heard him swear but was not certain. But he felt vaguely honoured to share the moment. Pears was in perfect control again, but only just. That made him seem more human than Bolitho could remember.

Pears' harsh voice came down from the entry port, `Don't stand there like a priest, Mr Bolitho! 'Pon my soul, sir, others have work to do, if you do not!'

Bolitho looked at Hogg and grinned. That was more like it.

Amongst other tasks required of ships' lieutenants was the wearying and thankless duty of officer of the guard. In New York, to ease the work of the shorebound authorities, the various ships at anchor were expected to supply a lieutenant for a full twenty-four-hour duty. It entailed checking the various guardboats which pulled around the jetties and moored ships, to make certain they allowed no enemy agents to get near enough to do damage or discover secret information. Equally, they were required to prevent any of the fleet's seamen from deserting to seek shelter and more doubtful pleasures on the waterfront.

Seamen entrusted with work ashore were often tempted, and drunken, wild-eyed sailors had to be sorted out to await an escort back to their rightful ships, and a few lashes for good measure.

Two nights after his visit to the flagship it fell to Trojan's third lieutenant to place himself at the disposal of the port admiral and provost marshal for such duty. New York made him feel uneasy. A city waiting for something to happen, a pattern to settle once and for all. It was a city of constant movement . Refugees arriving from inland, others thronging offices and government buildings in search of relatives lost in the fighting. Some were already leaving for England and for Canada. Others waited to reap rich rewards from the victors, no matter what colour their coats might be. It could be a dangerous place at night, especially along the crowded waterfront with its taverns and brothels, boarding houses and gaming rooms, where anything was available so long as there was gold for the taking.

Bolitho, followed by a file of armed seamen, walked slowly along a line of sun-dried planked buildings, careful to stay close to the wall and avoid any filth which might be thrown or accidentally dropped on to his patrol.

He heard Stockdale's wheezing breath behind him, the occasional clink of weapons as they made their way towards the main jetty. Few people were in view, although behind most of the shuttered windows he could hear music and voices raised in song or blasphemy.

One house stood silhouetted against the swirling water, and he saw the usual marine sentries outside the entrance, a sergeant pacing up and down by a small lantern.

"Alt! 'Oo goes there?”

'Officer of the guard!'

'Advance an' be recognized !'

It was always the same, even though the marines knew most of the fleet's lieutenants by sight, night or day.

The sergeant stamped to attention. 'Two men for the Vanquisher, sir. Fightin' drunk they are.'

Bolitho walked through some doors and into a large hall. It had once been a fine house, the home of a tea merchant. Now it served the Navy.

'They seem quiet enough, Sergeant.'

The man grinned unfeelingly. 'Ah, sir, now they is!' He gestured to two inert shapes in leg irons. "Ad to quieten 'em, like.'

Bolitho sat down at a scarred desk, half listening to the noises beyond the doors, the clatter of wheels across the Dutch cobbles, the occasional shriek of some whore.

He looked at the clock. Past midnight. Another four hours to go. At times like this he longed for the Trojan, when hours earlier he had pined to be free from her regulated routine.

When the fleet had first arrived off Staten Island, someone had described it as being like London afloat. It had become too much of a reality to be mentioned nowadays. Bolitho had seen two lieutenants from one of the frigates as they had gone into a gaming house. He knew both by sight but little more. In those few moments he had caught a snatch of their conversation. Sailing on the tide. Going to Antigua with despatches. What it was to be free. Able to get clear away from this floating muddle of ships.

The sergeant reappeared and regarded him doubtfully.

'I got a crimp outside, sir.' He jerked his thumb towards the door. 'I know 'im of old, a rogue but reliable. 'E says there are some 'ands from the brig Diamond. Jumped ship afore she weighed three days back.'

Bolitho stood up, reaching for his hanger. 'What was she?'

The sergeant grinned hugely. 'No bother, sir. She weren't under no warrant, she was with general cargo from an English port.'

Bolitho nodded. A brig from England. That implied trained seamen, deserters or not.

He said, 'Bring the, er, crimp inside.'

The man was typical of his trade. Small, greasy, furtive. They were common enough in any seaport. Boarding-house runners who sold information about likely hands to officers of the Press.

The man whined, 'It be my duty, sir. To 'eip the King's Navy.'

Bolitho eyed him coldly. The man still retained the accent of the London slums.

How many?'

'Six, sir!' His eyes glittered. 'Fine strong lads they be.'

The sergeant said offhandedly, 'They're in Lucy's place.' He grimaced. 'Poxed to the eyebrows, I shouldn't wonder.'

'Tell my men to fall in, Sergeant.' Bolitho tried not to think of the delay this would cause. He would probably miss his sleep altogether.

The crimp said, 'Could we come to an agreement nah, sir?'

'No. You wait here. If I get the men, you'll get paid. If not . . .' He winked at the grinning marines. 'We'll have you seized up and flogged.'

He strode out into the night, hating the crimp, these detestable methods of getting enough men. Despite the hardships of naval life, there were plenty of volunteers. But there were never enough. Death by many means, and injury by many more, saw to that.

Stockdale asked, 'Where, sir?'

'A place called Lucy's.'

One of the seamen chuckled. 'Oi bin there, zur.'

Bolitho groaned. 'Then you lead. Carry on.'

Once in the narrow, sloping street which stank like an open sewer, Bolitho split his men into two groups. Most of the trusted hands had done it before several times. Even pressed men, once settled in their new life, were ready enough to bring the Navy's rough justice to the fore. If we have to go, why not you! seemed to be their only yardstick.

Stockdale had vanished to the rear of the building, his cutlass in his belt and carrying instead a cudgel as big as a leg of pork.

Bolitho stood for a few more seconds, taking deep breaths while he stared at the sealed door, beyond which he could hear someone crooning quietly like a sick dog. They were probably sleeping it off, he thought grimly. If they were there at all.

He drew his hanger and smashed the pommel against the door several times, shouting, 'Open, in the King's name!'