In Gallant Company

The response was immediate. Shuffles and startled cries, the muffled tinkle of breaking glass followed by a thud as a wouldbe escaper fell victim to Stockdale's cudgel.

Then the door was flung open, but instead of a rush of figures Bolitho was confronted by a giant of a woman, whom he guessed to be the notorious Lucy. She was as tall and as broad as any sailorman, and had the language to match as she screamed abuse and waved her fists in his face.

Lanterns were appearing on every hand, and from windows across the street heads were peering down to enjoy the spectacle of Lucy routing the Navy.

'Why, you poxy young bugger!' She placed her hands on her hips and glowered at Bolitho. -Ow dare you come accusin' me of 'arbouring deserters!'

Other women, some half-naked, were creeping down a rickety stairway at the back of the hallway, their painted faces excited and eager to see what would happen.

'I have my duty.' Bolitho listened to his own voice, disgusted with the jeering woman, humiliated by her contempt.

Stockdale appeared behind her, his face unsmiling as he wheezed, 'Got'em, sir. Six, like 'e said.'

Bolitho nodded. Stockdale must have found his own way through the rear.

'Well done.' He felt sudden anger running through him. 'While we're here we shall take a look for more innocent citizens.'

She reached out and seized his lapels, and pursed her lips to spit into his face.

Bolitho got a brief view of bare, kicking legs and thighs as Stockdale gathered her up in his arms and carried her screaming and cursing down the steps to the street. Without further ado he dropped her face down in a horse trough and held her head under the water for several seconds.

Then he released her, and as she staggered, retching and gasping for breath, he said, 'If you talks to the lieutenant like that again, my beauty, I'll take my snickersnee to yer gizzard, see?'

He nodded to Bolitho. 'All right now, sir.'

Bolitho swallowed hard. He had never seen Stockdale behave like it before.

'Fr, thank you.'

He saw his men nudging each other and grinning, and tried to assert himself. 'Get on with the search.' He watched the six deserters lurching past, one holding his head.

From one of the other houses an anonymous voice yelled, 'Leave 'em be, you varmints!'

Bolitho entered the door and looked at the upended chairs, empty bottles and scraps of clothing. It was more like a prison than a place for pleasure, he thought.

Two additional men were brought down the stairs, one a

lobster fisherman, the other protesting that he was not a sailor

at all. Bolitho looked at the tattoos on his arms and said softly, 'I suggest you hold your tongue. If, as I suspect, you are from a King's ship, it were better to say nothing.' He saw the man pale under his sunburn, as if he had already seen the noose.

A seaman clattered down the stairs and said, 'That's the lot, sir. 'Cept for this youngster.'

Bolitho saw the youth being pushed through the watching girls and decided against it. Probably someone's young son, out on an errand, seeking a first thrill in this foul place. i'I I ~ II'           'Very well. Call the others.'

He looked at the youth, slim-shouldered, eyes downcast and in shadow.

'This is no place for you, boy. Be off, before something worse happens. Where do you live?'

When there was no reply, Bolitho reached out and lifted the other's chin, allowing the lantern light to spill over the frightened face.

He seemed to stand locked in the same position for an age, and yet he was aware of other things happening elsewhere. The feet shuffling on the cobbles as his men sorted their new hands into file, and the distant shout of orders as a military patrol approached from the end of the street.

°t hen events moved swiftly. The figure twisted away and was out and through the door before anyone could move.

A Lieutenant's Lot        log

A seaman bellowed, 'Stop that man!' And along the street Bolitho heard a challenge from the soldiers.

Bolitho ran out shouting, 'gait!' But it was too late, and the crash of the musket seemed like a cannon in the narrow street.

He walked past his men and stood over the sprawled figure as a corporal of infantry ran forward and rolled the body on to its back.

'Thought 'e was escapin from you, sir!'

Bolitho got down and unbuttoned the youth's rough jerkin and shirt. He could feel the skin, still hot and inflamed, and very smooth like the chin had been. There was blood too, glittering in the lantern light as if still alive.

Bolitho ran his hand over the breast. There was no heart-beat, and he could feel the dead eyes staring at him in the darkness. Hostile and accusing.

He stood up, sickened. 'It's a girl.'

Then he turned and added, 'That woman, bring her here.'

The woman called Lucy edged closer, gripping her hands together as she saw the sprawled corpse.

Gone was the bluster and coarse arrogance. Bolitho could almost smell her terror.

He asked, 'Who was she?' He was surprised at the sound of his own voice. Flat and unemotional. A stranger's. 'I'll not ask a second time, woman.'

More noises echoed along the street, and then two mounted figures cantered through the army patrol, and a voice barked, `What the hell is going on here?'

Bolitho touched his hat. 'Officer of the guard, sir.'

It was a major, who wore the same insignia as the man who had shot the unknown girl.

'Oh, I see. Well then.' The major dismounted and stooped over the body. 'Bring that lantern, Corporal !' He put his hand

under the girl's head, letting it roll st'"'y towards the beam.

Bolitho watched, unable to take his eyes from the girl's face.

The major stood up and said quietly, 'Fine kettle of fish, Lieutenant.' He rubbed his chin. 'I'd better rouse the governor. He'll not take kindly to it.'

'What is it, sir?'

The major shook his head. 'What you don't know will do you no harm.' He became businesslike as he snapped to the other mounted soldier, 'Corporal Fisher! Ride to the post and rouse the adjutant, I want him and a full platoon here on the double.' He watched the man gallop away and then added, 'This damned house will be dosed and under guard, and you,' his whitegloved finger shot out towards the shivering Lucy, 'are under arrest!'

She almost fell as she pleaded, 'Why me, sir? What have I done?'

The major stood aside as two soldiers ran to seize her arms. 'Treason, madam. That's what!'

He turned more calmly to Bolitho. 'I suggest you go about your affairs, sir. I have no doubt you will hear more of this.' Surprisingly, he gave a quick smile. 'But if it's a consolation, you may have stumbled on something of real value. Too many good men have fallen to treachery. Here's one who will betray no more.'

Bolitho walked back towards the waterfront in silence. The major had recognized the dead girl, and from the fineness of her bones, the smoothness of her skin, she came from a good family.

He tried to guess what had been happening before he and his men had burst in, but all he could remember were her eyes as she had looked at his face, when they had both known the truth.

Bolitho moved a few paces across the quarterdeck in an attempt to stay in the shadow of Trojan's great spanker. It was oppressively hot, and despite a steady wind across the quarter it was impossible to draw comfort from it.

Bolitho turned as a ship's boy reversed the half-hour glass and six bells chimed out from the forecastle. An hour of the forenoon still to run.

He winced as the sun smashed down between the sails' shadows and seared his shoulders like,a blacksmith's forge. He took a telescope from its rack and trained it ahead, seeing the flagship Resolute leap to meet him. How quickly things had changed, he thought. Just the day after the mystery of the dead girl orders had been received to weigh and put to sea with the first favourable wind. No mention was made of the destination or the purpose, and up to the last some of the wardroom cynics had expected it to turn into another exercise, a brief display of strength for the Army's moral support.

That had been four days ago. Four long days of crawling south with barely a ripple around the rudder to show some progress. It had taken them four days to make good four hundred miles.

Bolitho swung the glass slowly across the quarter and saw the sun shimmering on the topgallant sails of the frigate Vanquisher, well out to windward, ready to dash down to assist her ponderous consorts if she were needed. He returned to study the flagship again. just occasionally, as she pitched heavily in a deep swell, he caught sight of another, smaller set of sails, far ahead of the squadron, the admiral's 'eyes'.

As Trojan had weighed anchor and prepared to leave Sandy Hook, Bolitho had watched the sloop-of-war Spite spreading her sails and speeding out of harbour with the minimum of fuss. She was up there now, ready to pass back her signals if she sighted anything which might interest the admiral.

She was a lovely little vessel of eighteen guns, and Bolitho had discovered her to be the one which had fired on the Faithful before Sparke's attempt to seize the ordnance brigantine. Her commander was only twenty-four years old, and, like the three other captains here today, knew exactly what he was doing and where he was ordered to go.

Secrecy seemed to have crept into their world like the first touch of a disease.

The deck trembled, and he heard the port-lids on the lower battery's starboard side being opened, and after a pause the squeak of gun trucks as thirty of Trojan's thirty-two-pounders were run out as if to give battle. If he looked over the side he would be able to see them easily. Just the thought of it was enough. Even the touch of the tinder-dry bulwark or quarterdeck rail was like a burn. What Dalyell, now appointed in charge of the lower gundeck, was suffering, he could barely imagine.

The sails clapped and rustled overhead, and he glanced up at the trailing pendant, looking for a shift of wind. It seemed steady enough from the north-west, but without the strength they needed to drive the humidity and discomfort from between decks.

Rumble, rumble, rumble, the thirty-two-pounders were being run in again, and no doubt Dalyell was peering at his watch and consulting with his midshipmen and petty officers. It was taking too long, and Captain Pears had made his requirements plain from the start of the commission. Clear for action in ten minutes or less, and when firing, three rounds every two minutes. This last exercise had sounded twice as long.

He could picture the stripped and sweating gun crews, struggling to run out those massive cannon. With the ship leaning over on the starboard tack, the guns, each weighing over three tons, had to be hauled bodily up the sloping deck to the ports. This was not the weather for it, but then, it never was, as Cairns had often remarked.

Bolitho stared across the nettings, picturing the invisible land as he had studied it on the chart during each watch. Cape Hatteras and its shoals lay some twenty miles abeam, and beyond, Pamlico Sound and the rivers of North Carolina.

But as far as Bolitho and the look-outs were concerned the sea was theirs. Four ships, spread out to obtain best advantage of wind and visibility, moving slowly towards a secret destination. Bolitho thought about their combined companies, which must amount to close on eighteen hundred officers and men.

Just a few moments earlier he had seen the purser with his clerk hurrying down the main companion, Molesworth carrying his ledger, his clerk with. a box of tools which he used for opening casks and checking the quality of their contents.

It was Monday, and Bolitho could imagine the scribbled instructions in Molesworth's ledger. Per man this day, one pound of biscuit, one gallon of small beer, one pint of oatmeal, two ounces of butter and four ounces of cheese.

After that, it was up to Triphook and his mates to do what they could with it.

No wonder pursers were always worried or dishonest. Sometimes both. Multiply a man's daily ration by the whole company, and by the long days and weeks at sea, and you got some idea of his problems.

Midshipman Couzens, standing discreetly by the lee rail with his telescope ready to train on the flagship, hissed, 'Captain, sir!'

Bolitho turned swiftly, the effort making the sweat run between his shoulder blades and gather at his waistband like hot rain.

He touched his hat. 'Sou'-sou'-west, sir. Full and bye.'

Pears glanced at him impassively. 'The wind appears to have veered in the last hour. But not enough to make any difference.'

He said nothing further, and Bolitho crossed to the lee side to allow his captain the freedom of the deck.

Pears paced slowly up and down, his face totally absorbed.

What was he thinking about, Bolitho wondered? His orders, or his wife and family in England?

Pears paused and swivelled his head towards him. 'Pipe some hands forrard, Mr Bolitho. The weather forebrace is as slack as fill, this watch, dammit! 'Pon my soul, sir, you'll have to do better!'

Bolitho nodded. `Aye, sir. At once.'

He gestured to Couzens, and a moment later some seamen were hauling lustily, each knowing he was under the captain's scrutiny.

Bolitho found himself pondering over Pears' behaviour. The forebrace had seemed no slacker than you might expect in the rising and falling gusts of wind. Was it just to keep him on his toes? He thought suddenly of Sparke and his, take that man's name.

The memory saddened him.

He saw Quinn coming up the ladder from the gundeck and nodded to him, adding a quick shake of the head to warn him of Pears' presence.

Quinn was doing far better than Bolitho had dared hope. He had got his colour back, and could walk upright without twisting his face in readiness for the pain.

Bolitho had seen the great scar on Quinn's breast. If his attacker had not been startled and taken off guard, his blade would have sliced through bone and muscle to the heart itself.

The voice settled on the young fifth lieutenant like a mesh. 'Mr Quinn!'

'Sir!' He hurried across the deck, his face working anxiously as to what he had done wrong.

Pears studied him grimly. 'I am indeed glad to see you are up and about.'

Quinn smiled gratefully. Thank you, sir.'

'Quite so.' Pears continued with his daily walk. 'You will exercise your men at repelling boarders this afternoon. Then, if we remain on this tack, you will put the new hands aloft for sail drill.' He nodded curtly. 'That should restore your wellbeing better than any pills, eh?'

Couzens yelled excitedly, `Signal from Flag, sir!' He was peering through his big telescope, his forehead wrinkled like that of an old man as he read the hoist of coloured bunting at Resolute's yard. 'Make more sail, sir!'

Pears growled, 'Call the hands. Get the royals on her. Stuns'ls too if she can take them.' He strode aft as the master appeared beneath the poop, and Bolitho heard him say in his harsh tone 'More sail, that is all he can think of, damn it!'

Cairns hurried up as the calls trilled between decks and brought the watch below scampering to their stations.

'Hands aloft ! Set the royals ! '

Cairns saw Bolitho and shrugged. 'The captain is in a foul mood, Dick. We lay each course a day ahead, but I am as wise as you as to where we are bound.' He looked to see that Pears was not close by. 'It has always been his way to explain, to share his views with us. But now, it seems our admiral has other ideas.'

Bolitho thought of the admiral's youthful enthusiasm. Maybe Pears had become staid, out of touch with things.

But there was nothing wrong with his eyes as he yelled, 'Mr Cairns, sir! Get those topmen aloft, flog them if you must! I'll not be goaded again by the flagship!'

It was noon by the time the royals and then the great, batlike studding sails had been set on either beam. The flagship had also made as much sail as she could carry, and appeared to be buried under the towering pyramids of pale cafivas.

Lieutenant Probyn relieved Bolitho without his usual sarcasm or complaint, but remarked, 'I see no gain in this at all. Day after day, with ne'er a word of explanation. It makes me uneasy, and that's no lie!'

But two more days were to pass before anyone had settled on the truth of the matter.

Rear-Admiral Coutts' little squadron continued on its southerly course and then swung south-east, skirting Cape Fear, so aptly named, to take advantage of the wind's sudden eagerness to help them.

Bolitho was about to go off watch when he was unexpectedly summoned aft to the great cabin.

But it was not a conference, and he found the captain alone at his desk. His coat was hanging across his chairback, and he had loosened his neckdoth and shirt.

Bolitho waited. The captain looked very cam, so it seemed unlikely there was to be a reprimand for something he had done, or not done.

Pears glanced up at him. 'The master, and now the first lieutenant, know the extent of my orders. You may think it strange for me to confide in you before the rest of my officers, but under the circumstances I think it is fair.' He bobbed his head. 'Do sit down.'

Bolitho sat, sensing the sudden irritation which was never far from Pears' manner.

'There was some trouble at New York. You played no small part in it.' Pears smiled wryly. 'Whidi did not surprise me, of course.'

Bolitho pricked up his ears. Somehow he had known that the matter of the dead girl would come up again. Even that it might be connected in some small way with the squadron's unexpected departure from Sandy Hook.

'I will not go into full detail, but the girl you discovered in that brothel was the daughter of a New York government official, a very important one to boot. It could not have come at a worse time. Sir George Helpman is out from England under the direct instructions of both Parliament and Admiralty to discover what is being done to pursue the war, to prevent the whole campaign being bogged down in stalemate. If, or rather when, the French come into the open to fight in strength, we will be hard put to hold what we have, let alone make any gains.'

'I thought we were doing all we could, sir.'

Pears looked at him pityingly. 'When you are more experienced, Bolitho . . .' He looked away, frowning angrily. 'Helpman will see it for himself. The corrupt officials, the dandies of the military government who dance and drink while our soldiers in the field pay the price. And now this. An important official's daughter is discovered to be working hand-in-glove with the rebels. She has been leaving her home in a carriage and changing into boy's clothes just so that she can meet one of Washington's agents and pass him any titbit of secret information she could lay her hands on.'

Bolitho could well imagine the fury and consternation it must have caused. He could find pity for the blowzy whore who had tried to spit in his face. With so much at stake, and with important heads on the block, her interrogators would have few scruples in the manner of gaining information.

Pears said, 'Due to her treachery, the Tracy brothers were able to plot our every move, and but for our taking the Faithful, and Mr Bunce's liaison with the Almighty on matters concerning the weather, we might never have known anything. Links in a chain. And now we have one more scrap to play with. That damned whore had her ear to the keyhole more often than not. The Colonials have a new stronghold, constructed with the express purpose of receiving and transporting powder and weapons to their ships and soldiers.'

Bolitho licked his lips. 'And we are heading there now, sir?'

'That's the strength of it, yes. Fort Exeter, in South Carolina, about thirty miles north of Charles Town.'

Bolitho nodded, remembering clearly what happened near there about a year ago, at another rebel fort, only that had been to the south of Charles Town. A large squadron, with troops as well as marines embarked, had sailed to seize the fort which commanded the inshore waters, and would thus interdict all trade and privateer traffic to and from Charles Town, the busiest port south of Philadelphia. Instead of victory, it had ended in humiliating defeat. Some of the ships had gone aground because of wrongly marked charts, while elsewhere the water had been too deep for the soldiers to wade ashore as had been intended. And all the time the Colonials, snug behind their fortress walls, had kept up a steady bombardment on the largest British vessels, until Commodore Parker, whose flagship had taken the worst of it, had ordered a complete withdrawal. Trojan had been on her way to offer support when she had met the returning ships.

In the Navy, unused to either defeat or failure, it had seemed like an overwhelming disaster.

Pears had been watching his face. 'I see you have not forgotten either, Bolitho. I only hope we all live to remember this new venture.'

With a start Bolitho realized the interview was over. As he made to leave, Pears said quietly, 'I told you all this because of your part in it. But for your actions, we might not have found out about that girl. But for her, Sir George Helpman would not he raising hell in New York.' He leaned back and smiled. 'And but for himn, our admiral would not now be trying to prove he can do what others cannot. Links in a chain, Bolitho, as I said earlier. Think about it.'

Bolitho walked out and cannoned into Captain D'Esterre. The marine said, 'Why, Dick, you look as if you have seen a ghost!'

Bolitho forced a smile. 'I have. Mine.'

When the time came for Lieutenant Cairns to share Pears' orders with the lieutenants and warrant officers, even the most unimaginative one present could not fail to marvel at their admiral's impudence.

While out of sight of land, and with the frigate patrolling to ensure they were left undisturbed, the sloop Spite was to embark all of the flagship's and Trojan's marines, and with boats under tow would head inshore under cover of darkness. The twodeckers, in company with Vanquisher, would then continue along the coast towards the same fort which had routed Commodore Parker's squadron the previous year.

To any watchers along the coast, and to the officers of the fort and the Charles Town garrison, it would not seem an unlikely thing for the British to attempt. Hurt pride, and the fact that the fort was still performing a useful protection for privateers and the landing of stores and powder, were two very good reasons for a second attempt.

Fort Exeter, on the other hand, was easier to defend to seaward, and would feel quite safe when the small squadron had sailed past in full view of the Colonial pickets.

Bolitho, when he had listened to Cairns' level, unemotional voice as he explained the extent of their orders, had imagined he could detect Rear-Admiral Coutts speaking directly to him.

Spite would land the marines, a party of seamen and all the necessary tackle and ladders for scaling walls, and then stand out to sea again before dawn. The rest, an attack from inland towards the rear of the fort, would be left to the discretion of the senior officer. In this case he was Major Samuel Paget, commanding officer of the flagship's marines.

D'Esterre had said of him in confidence, 'A very hard man. Once he has made up his mind nothing will shift him, and no argument is tolerated.'

Bolitho could well believe it. He had seen Paget a few times. Very erect and conscious of the figure he made in his scarlet coat and matching sash, impeccable white lapels and collar, he was nevertheless having difficulty in concealing his growing corpulence. His face had once been handsome, but now, in his middle thirties, the major had all the signs of a heavy drinker, and one who enjoyed a good table.

D'Esterre had also said, 'This little jaunt might take some of the fat off him.'

But he had not smiled, and Bolitho had guessed that he had wished he and not the major was to command.

Once their mission was out in the open the ship's company got down to work and preparation with the usual mixture of attitudes. Grim resignation for those who would be taking part, cheerful optimism from those who would not.

At the chosen time the work of ferrying the marines and seamen to the little sloop-of-war was begun without delay. After the blazing heat of a July day the evening brought little respite, and the gruelling, irksome work soon roused tempers and onthe-spot justice from fist and ropes end.

Bolitho was counting the last group of seamen and making sure they were all armed, as well as being equipped with flasks of water and not hoarded rum, when Cairns strode up to him and snapped, 'There has been another change.'

'How so?'

Bolitho waited, expecting to hear that the raid was being delayed.

Cairns said bitterly, 'I am remaining aboard.' He looked away, hiding his hurt. 'Again.'

Bolitho did not know what to say. Cairns had obviously set his heart on going with the attack as senior lieutenant. Having missed the chance of being a prize-master, or even of taking part in the Faith ful's capture, he must have seen the landing as his rightful reward, although by going he stood as much chance of being killed as anyone else.

'Someone from the flagship, sir?'

Cairns faced him. 'No. Probyn is to lead, God help you!' Bolitho examined his feelings. 'And young James Quinn is to go with us also.'

Quinn had said nothing when he had been told, but he had looked as if someone had struck him.

Cairns seemed to read his thoughts. 'Aye, Dick. So it may fall to you to look after our people.'

'But why not the flagship? Surely they have a lieutenant and more to spare?'

Cairns regarded him curiously. 'You don't understand admirals, Dick. They never let go of their own. They must always show a perfect front, a well ordered world of officers and men. Coutts will be no exception. He'll want perfection, not a rabble of old men and boys like we are fast becoming.'

He could have said more, Bolitho thought. That Quinn was being sent to prove that his wound had not destroyed his resolution and courage, and Probyn because he would not be missed. He thought of his own position and almost smiled. Pears was only doing what the admiral had done. Keeping the best for himself. Anyone below Cairns in rank and quality would be sacrificed first.

Cairns said, 'I am glad you can still discover humour in this affair, Dick. For myself, I find it intolerable.'

Midshipman Couzens, hung about with telescope, dirk, pistols and a bulging sack of food, called breathlessly, 'Spite has signalled, sir! Last party to go across now.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Very well. Man your boats.'

He watched a second midshipman, a serious-faced sixteenyear-old named Huyghue, climbing down into the cutter to sit beside the coxswain, who was probably twice his age.

'I see you are ready, Mr Bolitho.'

Probyn's thick voice made him turn towards the quarterdeck. The second lieutenant could only just have been told of Pears' change of plans, but he looked remarkably unworried. He was very flushed, but that was quite usual, and as he leaned on the quarterdeck rail to peer at the boats alongside he seemed calm to the point of indifference.

Cairns straightened his back as the captain's heavy tread came across the deck. 'Good luck. Both of you.' He glanced at the dizzily swaying sloop. 'By God, I wish I was coming with you.'

Probyn said nothing but touched his hat to the quarterdeck before following the others down into a crowded boat.

Bolitho saw Stockdale in one of the other boats and nodded to him. If for some reason he had not been taking part, it would have been like an ill-omen, something final. Seeing him there, big and quiet-faced, made up for many of the other, nagging doubts.

Probyn said, 'Shove off, cox'n. I don't want to fry in this damn heat!'

As they drew closer to the sloop, her commanding officer hurried to the side and cupped his hands. 'Move yourselves, damn you ! This is a King's ship, not a bloody lobster boat !'

Only then did Probyn show some mettle. 'Hear that? Impudent young chicken! God, how command changes a man!'

Bolitho shot him a quick glance. In just those few angry words Probyn had revealed a lot. Bolitho knew he had been beached on half-pay before the war. Whether it was because of his drinking, or he had simply become a hardened drinker because of his ill-luck, he was not sure. But he had certainly been passed over for promotion, and to be shouted at by the Spite's youthful commander would not make it any easier.

As they clambered up on to the sloop's busy deck, he wondered where all the marines had gone. As in the Faithful, they had been swallowed up within minutes of boarding. Aft by the taffrail he saw Major Paget speaking with D'Esterre and the two marine lieutenants.

The sloop's commander walked across to meet the last arrivals.

He nodded curtly and then shouted, 'Mr Walker! Get the ship under way, if you please!'

To Bolitho he added, 'I suggest you go below. My people have enough to contend with at present, without being faced by unknown officers from every hand!'

Bolitho touched his hat. Unlike Probyn, he could understand the young man's sharpness. He was very conscious of his command and the mission suddenly thrust upon him. Close by, two ships of the line, his admiral and some senior post captains would be watching, waiting to find fault, to compare his efficiency with others.

The commander swung on his heel. I understand that you were the officer involved with my ship two weeks back, eh?'

He had a sharp, incisive tone, and Bolitho guessed he would be a difficult man to get on with. Twenty-four years old. What had Probyn said? How command changes a man.

'Well?'

'Aye, sir. I was second-in-command of the raid. My senior was killed.'

'I see.' He nodded. 'My gunner nearly did that to you earlier.' He walked away.

Bolitho made his way aft, pushing through the bustling seamen as they ran to braces and halliards, oblivious to everyone but their own officers.

The pulling boats were already falling obediently astern on their lines, and almost before Bolitho's head had passed into the shadow of the companionway the Spite was heeling over to the wind and presenting her counter to the big two-deckers.

The wardroom was crowded with officers, and Spite's purser soon produced bottles and glasses for all the additional guests.

When it came to Probyn he shook his head and said abruptly, 'Not for me, but thankee. Later maybe.'

Bolitho looked away, unable to bear the sight of the man's battle. Probyn had never refused a drink before. And it had cost him a great deal to do it now.

He thought of Probyn's bitterness about the sloop's commander and what lay ahead of them tomorrow.

It was of paramount importance to Probyn that he should succeed, and for that he would give up a lot more than brandy.

During the night and through the following day, Spite tacked back and forth, biding her time while she continued a slow approach towards the land.

Fort Exeter stood on a sandy four-mile-long island which was shaped rather like an axe-head. At low water it was connected to the mainland by an unreliable causeway of sand and shingle, and the entrance to a lagoon-like anchorage was easily protected by the fort's carefully sited artillery.

As soon as the landing party was ashore, Spite would with draw and be out of sight of land by the following dawn. If the wind died, the attack would be postponed until it returned. Whatever happened, it would not be abandoned unless the enemy were ready and waiting.

When Bolitho thought of Major Samuel Paget, the man who would be leading the attack, he doubted if it would be cancelled even then.

 

8

 

Fort Exeter

 

The landing, which took place at one in the morning, was carried out with unexpected ease. A favourable wind carried the sloop close inshore, where she dropped anchor and started to ferry the marines ashore as if it were part of a peacetime manoeuvre.

Major Samuel Paget went with the first boat, and when Bolitho eventually stepped on to glistening wet sand and squelched after a hurrying file of marines, he found time to admire the man's sense of planning. He had brought two Canadians with him, and had explained they were better at scouting 'than any damn dogs'. They were both fierce-looking men with beards and rough trapper's clothing, and a smell to match any pelt.

One, a sad-eyed Scot named Macdonald, had originally lived for some years in South Carolina, and had been driven from his land when the main Loyalist force in the area had been beaten in a pitched battle by the Patriot militia. His hate reminded Bolitho of the resourceful Moffitt.

Paget greeted Bolitho with his usual abruptness. 'All quiet. I want our men positioned before first light. We'll issue rations and water.' He scanned the starry sky and grunted, 'Too bloody hot for my liking.'

Stockdale said hoarsely, 'Mr Couzens is comin' with the last lot, sir.'

'Very well.' Bolitho watched as Probyn blundered out of some dark scrub, sniffing around him like a fox. 'Everyone's ashore, sir.'

Probyn watched the marines plodding past, their weapons and equipment carefully muffled, like silent ghosts from some forgotten battle.

'God, it makes you think. Here we are, bloody miles from anywhere, marching into heaven knows what, and to what purpose, eh?'

Bolitho smiled. He had been thinking much the same. The marines seemed quite at home on land as they did at sea, but he could sense the wary caution of the seamen, the way they tended to bunch together, no matter what they were threatened with.

D'Esterre appeared from somewhere and showed his teeth. 'Come along, Dick, join the marines and see the world!' He went off to find his lieutenant, swinging his sword like a cane.

Bolitho looked at the beach, shining faintly in the darkness. The boats had already gone, and he imagined he could hear the sounds of sails being shaken out above the murmur of breakers. Then it really hit home. They were to all intents and purposes abandoned on this unknown shore, with just the skill of two Canadian scouts whom Paget had 'borrowed from the Army'.

Suppose that even now they were being trailed, their stumbling progress marked as they approached some terrible ambush. The night was still but for the wind in the trees and the occasional cry of a startled bird. Even the wind sounded different here, which was not surprising, Bolitho thought, as he peered at the strange palms which ran almost to the water's edge. They gave the land a tropical touch, something alien.

Lieutenant Raye of Trojan's marines marched out of the darkness and exclaimed cheerfully, 'Ah, here you are. The major says you are to follow with the rearguard, Mr Bolitho. Make certain the men do not crash into each other with their ladders and suchlike.' He touched his hat to Probyn. 'He sends his compliments, sir, and would you join him with the main party.'

Probyn nodded, muttering, 'Bloody soldiers, that's what we are!'

Bolitho stood aside to allow the seamen to lurch past, some with ladders and heavy tackles, others carrying muskets, powder and shot. The remainder were loaded down with food and water.

Lieutenant Quinn was right at the rear, with only the blurred shapes on either side to reveal some of the marine skirmishers who were covering their advance.

Bolitho fell in step beside him and asked quietly, 'How is the wound, James?'

'I don't feel it much.' Quinn sounded as if he were shivering. 'But I wish we were afloat, instead of here.'

Bolitho recalled him saying much the same before the last fight. D'Esterre and Thorndike, the surgeon, playing cards under a lantern, the ship sleeping around them.

Quinn said, 'I'm afraid of what I might do.' He was almost pleading. 'If I have to face another hand-to-hand, I think I shall break.'

'Easy, man. Don't start meeting trouble before you must.' He knew exactly how Quinn felt. As he had done after being

wounded. It was worse for Quinn. He had not been in action

before that last time.

Quinn did not seem to hear.

'I think of Sparke a lot. How he used to rant and rave. I never really liked him, but I admired his courage, his, his,' he groped for words, 'his style.'

Bolitho reached out to steady a seaman as he almost tripped

over a root with his load of muskets.

Style. Yes, it described Sparke better than anything else. Quinn sighed. 'I could never do what he did. Never in a

thousand years.'

There was a thud, and a marine raised his musket and brought down the butt a second time on some coarse grass beside the file of seamen.

'Snake!' He mopped his face. 'Cor, that's the bloody potful as far as I'm concerned!'

Bolitho thought suddenly of Cornwall. In July. At this very moment. Hedgerows and lush fields, sheep and cows dotted on the hillsides like scattered flowers. He could almost smell it, hear the bees, the swish of hooks as the farm workers cleared some new land to grow more food. To feed the country, the Army.

Midshipman Couzens said between gasps for breath, 'Sky's brighter, sir.'

Bolitho replied, 'We must be near the place then.'

What would happen if instead of a suitable hideout for the landing party, as remembered by the Canadian, Macdonald, they found an enemy encampment?

Sure enough, the rearguard was already catching up with the main party, where Paget's sergeants and corporals waited like the keepers of invisible gates to guide and push the men into smaller sections. Bolitho watched the white cross-belts and the checkered shirts fading away obediently to the preselected sites.

In the centre of what felt like a shallow, wooded basin, the officers grouped together and waited to receive their orders.

Bolitho felt unusually tired and wanted to keep yawning. And yet his mind was very clear, and he guessed that the yawning might also betray his fear. He had known it before. Too often.

Major Paget, still erect and showing no trace of weariness, said, 'Stay with your people. Issue the rations. But mind they waste nothing and leave no trace of their rubbish.' He looked at D'Esterre meaningly. 'You know what to do. Take control of the perimeter. Double the pickets, and tell them to keep down.' To Probyn he said, 'You are in charge here, of course. I shall need an officer with me in a moment.'

Probyn sighed. 'You go, Bolitho. If I send Quinn, the major will eat him for breakfast!'

Bolitho reported to Paget after the others had vanished into the gloom to seek out their men. He took Couzens with him, and answered Stockdale's plea to go too by saying firmly, 'Save your strength for when it is needed, as needed it will be!'

In a fight, or in a raging storm at sea, Stockdale was unbeatable. Creeping through unfamiliar territory, when at any second they might stumble on an enemy look-out or patrol, was not his place. His big frame and powerful limbs were enough to wake an army. But it was painful to sense his hurt all the same.

Couzens, on the other hand, was bubbling with excitement. Bolitho had never known anything like it. He seemed to put the awful sights and sounds behind him, dropping them with the tough resilience of youth in war.

Major Paget was drinking from a silver flask while his orderly checked a brace of pistols for him.

He held out the flask. 'Here. Have some.' He leaned forward, his polished boots squeaking. 'Oh, it's you, Bolitho. I've heard about you.' He did not elaborate.

Bolitho gasped as the hot brandy trickled over his tongue.

Paget nodded to the midshipman. 'Him, too. Man's drink for a man's work eh?' He chuckled, the sound like two dry sticks rubbing together.

Couzens smacked his lips. 'Thank you, sir. That was lovely!' Paget looked at Bolitho and exclaimed, 'Lovely! In hell's name, what sort of a navy is this?'

With the orderly following respectfully at their heels, they set off in a south-westerly direction, the sea to their left, out of sight but comfortingly close.

Bolitho sensed some of D'Esterre's scouts nearby, flitting through the scrub and trees like forest animals as they protected their commanding officer from attack.

They walked on in silence, aware of the lightening sky, the stars fading obediently as the land took shape from the shadows.

They seemed to be moving up a gentle slope now, weaving occasionally to avoid sprawling clumps of prickly bushes and fallen trees.

A dark figure rose out of the shadows, and Paget said, 'Ah, the Canadian gentleman!'

The scout greeted them with a lazy wave. 'This is far enough, Major. The rest o' th' way you gets down on yer belly!'

Paget snapped his fingers, and like a footman serving his master a picnic, the marine orderly brought out with a flourish something like a short green cape.

Paget removed his hat and his sword, then slipped the cape over his head. It completely hid his uniform down as far as his waist.

Bolitho could feel the scout and Couzens staring openmouthed, but when he glanced at the orderly he saw only stiff indifference, and guessed that Paget's own men knew better than to show amusement.

Paget muttered, 'Had the thing made last year. No sense in

getting your head blown off by some backwoodsman, what?' Bolitho grinned. 'Good idea, sir. I've seen poachers use them,

too.'

'Huh: The major lowered himself carefully on to his hands and knees. 'Well, let's get on with it. We'll be pestered by flies and a million sorts of beetles before another hour. I want to be back at the camp by then.'

It took all of half an hour to discover a suitable observation point, and by that time the sky was considerably brighter, and when Bolitho propped himself on his elbows he saw the sea, the horizon like a thin gold thread. He craned forward, the sharppointed grass pricking his face and hands, the soil alive with minute insects. With the sun still below the horizon, the lagoonshaped bay was in darkness, but against the shimmering water, with the restless procession of white horses further to seaward, he could see the fort clearly. A black, untidy shape perched on the end of the low island. He saw two lanterns, and what appeared to be a sheltered fire outside the wall, but little else.

Paget was breathing heavily as he trained a telescope through the grass and rough scrub.

He seemed to be thinking aloud as he muttered, 'Got to be careful at this angle. If the sun comes up suddenly, some fellow down there might see it reflected in this damn glass.'

Couzens whispered to Bolitho, 'Can you see the guns, sir?'

Bolitho shook his head, picturing the marines charging across the alleged causeway into a hail of canister or worse. 'Not yet.' He strained his eyes again. 'The fort is not square, or even rectangular. Six, maybe seven sides. Perhaps one gun per wall.'

The scout wriggled nearer and said, 'They're supposed to have a flat pontoon, Major.' He raised an arm, releasing an even sourer smell. 'When they get supplies sent by land they put th' wagons an' horses on th' pontoon an' haul the thing across.'

Paget nodded. 'As I thought. Well, that's how we'll go. This time tomorrow. While the devils are still asleep.'

The scout sucked his teeth. 'Night-time'd be better.'

Paget replied scornfully, The dark is damn useless to everybody, man! No, we'll watch today. Tomorrow we attack.'

'As you say, Major.'

Paget rolled over heavily and peered at Bolitho. 'You take the first watch, eh? Send the boy to me if you sight anything useful.' Then, with remarkable stealth, he was gone.

Couzens smiled tightly, 'Are we alone, sir?' For the first time he sounded nervous.

Bolitho smiled tightly. 'It would seem so. But you saw where the last picket was. If you go back with a message, put yourself in his hands. I don't want you wandering off.'

He drew a pistol from his belt and felt it carefully. Then he unsheathed his hanger and laid it beside him, thrusting the blade into the sand to hide any reflection.

It was going to be very hot before long. Bolitho tried not to think of fresh drinking water.

Couzens said, 'I feel I'm doing something, sir. Something useful at last.'

Bolitho sighed. 'I hope you're right.'

By the time the sun's rim had broken above the horizon and come spilling down towards the fort and its protected anchorage, Bolitho had learned a lot more about his companion. Couzens was the fifth son of a Norfolk clergyman, had a sister called Beth who intended to marry the squire's son if she got half a chance, and whose mother made the best apple pie in the county.

They both fell silent as they peered at the newly revealed fort and its immediate surroundings. Bolitho had been right about its shape. It was hexagonal, and the walls, which were of double thickness and constructed of stout palmetto wood, had their inner sections filled with rocks and packed earth. Both inner and outer wall was covered by a parapet, and Bolitho guessed that even the heaviest ball would find it hard to penetrate such a barrier.

He saw a squat tower on the seaward side, with a flagpole, and a drifting smear of smoke which suggested a galley somewhere below in the central courtyard.

There were the usual loopholes, and as the light strengthened Bolitho saw two gun embrasures pointing towards the mainland and the causeway, and he could also see the shadow of a gateway between them.

Two small boats were pulled up on to the nearest beach, and the skeleton of another, probably the only remains of some skirmish a year or more ago.

Couzens whispered excitedly, 'There, sir! The pontoon!'

Bolitho lowered his eye to the telescope and scanned first the fort and then the moored pontoon. It was a crude affair, with trailing ropes, and slatted ramps for horses and wagons. The sand on both mainland and beach was churned up to mark the many comings and goings.

He moved the glass carefully towards the anchorage. Small, but good enough for two vessels. Brigs and schooners most likely, he thought.

A trumpet echoed over the swirling water, and moments later a flag jerked up to the top of the pole and broke dejectedly towards them. A few heads moved on the parapet, and then Bolitho saw a solitary figure appear from the pontoon's inner ramp, a musket over his shoulder, gripped casually by the muzzle. Bolitho held his breath. That was worth knowing. He had had no idea there was a space there for a sentry.

With daylight spreading inland, and his companions on the move again, the sentry's night vigil was done. If Paget's scheme was going to work, that sentry would have to be despatched first.

As the first hour dragged by, Bolitho studied the fort carefully and methodically, as much to take his mind off the mounting glare and heat than with any purpose in mind.

There did not appear to be many men in the garrison, and the amount of horse tracks by the pontoon suggested that quite a number had left very recently. Probably in response to the news of the British squadron which had been sighted heading further south.

Bolitho thought of Rear-Admiral Coutts' plan, the simplicity of it. He would like to be here now, he thought. Seeing his ideas taking shape.

The Canadian, Macdonald, slid up beside him without a sound and showed his stained teeth.

'It'd bin no use you reachin' fer yer blade, mister!' His grin widened. 'I could'a slit yer throat easy-like!'

Bolitho swallowed hard. 'Most probably.' He saw Quinn and Midshipman Huyghue crawling through the scrub towards him and said, 'We are relieved, it seems.'

Later, when they reached Paget's command post, Bolitho described what he had seen.

Paget said, 'We must get that pontoon.' He looked meaningly at Probyn. 'Job for seamen, eh?'

Probyn shrugged. 'Of course, sir.'

Bolitho sat with his back to a palm and drank some water from a flask.

Stockdale squatted nearby and asked, 'Is it a bad one, sir?' 'I'm not sure yet.'

He saw the pontoon, the sentry stretching as he had emerged from his hiding place. He'd quite likely been asleep. It would not be difficult for such an easily defended fort to become overconfident.

Stockdale watched him worriedly. 'I've made a place for you to lie, sir.' He pointed to a rough cover of brush and fronds. 'Can't fight without sleep.'

Bolitho crawled under the tiny piece of cover, the freshness of the water already gone from his mouth.

It was going to be the longest day of all, he thought grimly, and the waiting unbearable.

He turned his head as he heard someone snoring. It was Couzens, lying on his back, his freckled features burned painfully by the sun.

The sight of such apparent confidence and trust helped to steady Bolitho. Couzens was probably dreaming of his mother's pies, or the sleepy Norfolk village where something or somebody had put the idea in his mind to be a sea officer and leave the land.

Stockdale leaned back against a tree and watched Bolitho fall asleep.

He was still watching when one of D'Esterre's marines crawled through the scrub and hissed, 'Where is the lieutenant?'

Bolitho awoke reluctantly, his mind trying to grapple with where he was and what he was doing.

The marine explained wearily, 'The major's compliments,

sir, and would you join 'im where you was this mornin'.' Bolitho stood up, each muscle protesting violently.