In Gallant Company

The compass held steady at south, south-east, taking the powerful two-decker well away from the land, down towards the long chain of islands which separated the Atlantic from the Caribbean.

The wind held back the heat, and allowed the less badly wounded and injured men to move about the decks, to find themselves again in their own way. The remainder, some of whom might die before they reached Sandy Hook, had gone with the flagship, as had the prisoners, and Coutts' report of the attack.

Only one captive remained aboard, the Frenchman, Contenay. He took regular walks on deck without an escort, and seemed completely at home in a King's ship.

Bolitho had discovered that he still knew little about his own captain. The brief moments of contact, even warmth, upon his return to the ship had been replaced by Pears' usual stem, remote demeanour. Bolitho thought that the admiral's presence had a lot to do with it.

Coutts had appeared on deck this morning. Youthful, relaxed and apparently interested, he had strolled along the weather gangway, pausing to watch the bare-backed seamen at their work, the carpenter with his crew, the sailmaker and the cooper, the ship's tradesmen who daily changed a man-of-war into a busy street.

He had spoken to the officers and some of the senior hands. The Sage had been impressed by his knowledge of Arctic exploration, and Midshipman Forbes reduced to blushing incoherence by a few well-aimed questions.

If he was troubled at the doubtful prospect of running another enemy supply cache to earth, or at what the commanderin-chief might say at his behaviour, he certainly did not show it. His plans he kept to himself, and only Ackerman, his urbane flag lieutenant, the one Bolitho had seen in a cabin with a half-naked woman, and his personal clerk shared his confidences.

Bolitho decided that would also irritate Pears beyond measure.

A step fell on the deck nearby and Cairns joined him at the rail, his eyes taking in the working parties and the set of each sail with practised authority.

He said, 'The admiral is with our captain. I sense an air of grapeshot close by.' He turned and glanced meaningly at the poop skylight. 'I was glad to leave the great men.'

'No news yet?'

'Not much. Like D'Esterre, the admiral plays a taut hand. He will rise like a comet.' He gestured at the deck. 'Or fall like one.'

With Coutts aboard, Cairns also faced changes. The main result was that he shared more of his thoughts with his second lieutenant.

He added slowly, 'The captain was wanting to know why this ship and not Resolute was selected for the mission.' He smiled grimly. 'The admiral explained, as cool as you please, that Trojan is the faster vessel, and her company deserving of reward for their work.'

Bolitho nodded. 'I suppose so. Resolute has been out here far longer and has had few refits, I believe. She must be foul with weed.'

Cairns eyed him admiringly. 'We'll make a politician of you yet.' He waved Bolitho's confusion aside. 'You see, the backhanded compliment. Coutts lays on treacle with talk of reward and the better ship for the task, then in the next breath he gently reminds Captain Pears that his, own flagship is in truth the more deserving.'

Bolitho pursed his lips. 'That is clever.'

'It takes a rogue to recognize one, Dick.'

'In that case, what is the real reason?'

Cairns frowned. 'I suspect because he wants the flagship on her proper station. That would make sense. Also, he despatched Vanquisher as escort, and because she will be sorely needed elsewhere with the growth of privateers everywhere.'

He dropped his voice as Sambell, master's mate of the watch, strolled past with elaborate indifference on his tanned face.

'He will want to follow this plan to the end. Reap the reward, or cover the flaws as best he can. He would not trust our captain to act alone. And if things go disastrously badly, then he will need a scapegoat other than his own flag captain.' Cairns watched Bolitho's eyes. 'I see that you see.'

'I'll never understand this kind of reasoning.'

Cairns winked. 'One day, you'll be teaching it!'

More feet thudded on the sun-dried planking, and Bolitho saw Pears and the sailing master leaving the chart room, the latter carrying his leather satchel which he used to stow his navigational notes and instruments.

He looked much as usual, turning briefly to examine the compass and the two helmsmen, his eyes glittering in the sunlight beneath the great black brows.

Pears, by comparison, appeared tired and in ill humour, impatient to get whatever it was over and done with.

'We'll soon know where this blessed spot is to be, Dick.' Cairns loosened his neckcloth and sighed. 'I hope it is not another Fort Exeter.'

Bolitho watched the first lieutenant continue on his daily rounds, wondering if Cairns was still brooding over the chances of leaving Trojan and getting a ship of his own.

So far, Trojan's lieutenants had not fared very well away from her protection. Sparke killed, Probyn a prisoner of war, while Bolitho had returned each time like a wayward son.

He saw Quinn without his coat, his shirt sticking to his back like another skin, stepping between the busy sailmaker and his mates, his face still pale and strained. Eighteen years old, he looked far more. Bolitho thought. The savage slash across his chest still troubled him. You could see it in his walk and the tightness of his mouth. A constant reminder of other things, too. That moment at the fort when his nerve had failed, and by the guns when he had almost gone mad because of Rowhurst's scorn.

Midshipman Weston shouted suddenly, 'Spite's signalling, sir!'

Bolitho snatched a telescope from its rack and climbed swiftly into the weather shrouds. It took a few moments to find the little sloop-of-war, their only companion on this 'adventure', as Cairns had described it. The glass steadied on Spite's pale topgallant sails and the bright hoist of flags at her yards.

Weston was saying, 'From Spite. Sail in sight to the south'rd.'

Bolitho turned and looked at him. Weston was now the senior midshipman, and probably smarting at Pears' advice to promote Mr Frowd to acting lieutenant instead of him. Advice from a captain was as good as a command.

Bolitho felt almost sorry for Weston. Almost. Ungainly, overweight, belligerent. He would be a bad officer if he lived long enough.

'Very well. Keep watching Spite. I'll not inform the captain

yet.,

Bolitho continued his measured pacing. The air seemed fresh, but when you paused for too long you felt the sun's power right enough. His own shirt was sodden with sweat, and the scar across his shoulder stung like a snakebite.

The sloop's captain would be fretting and eager to be off on his own, he thought. Right now he would be watching the unknown sail, considering, translating details into facts to relay as well as he could with his signal book for his admiral's decision.

Half an hour passed. Smoke gushed from the galley funnel, and Molesworth, the purser, and his clerk appeared en route for the spirit store to check the daily issue of rum or brandy.

Some marines, who had been drilling on the forecastle, holding off imaginary boarders, marched aft and returned their pikes. There was also a small contingent of marines from the flagship to help fill the gaps until proper replacements could be obtained. Bolitho thought of all the little mounds on the island. Who would care?

Weston called, 'From Spite, sir. Disregard.'

Another small encounter. Most likely a Dutchman on her lawful occasions. Anyway, Cunningham of the Spite was satisfied. In fact, the strange sail had probably made off at full speed at the first sign of the sloop's topsails. It paid to be careful these days. The margin between friend and foe changed too often for over-confidence.

Stockdale crossed the quarterdeck on his way aft to the starboard battery.

As he passed he whispered, 'Admiral, sir.'

Bolitho stiffened and turned as Coutts walked out of the poop and into the glare.

Bolitho touched his hat, wondering briefly if Weston had deliberately failed to warn him.

Coutts smiled easily. "Morning, Bolitho, Still on watch, I

see.' He had a pleasant, even voice, unaffected.

Bolitho replied, 'A moment more, sir.'

Coutts took a glass and studied the far-off Spite for several

minutes.

'Good man, Cunningham. Should be posted soon with any luck.'

Bolitho said nothing, but thought of Cunningham's youth. His luck. With Coutts' blessing he would be made a full captain, and with the war going as it was he would make post rank within three years. Safe from demotion, on the road to higher things.

'I can hear your mind at work, Bolitho.' Coutts tossed the glass to Weston. Again, the action was casual, yet timed to the second. 'Do not fret. When your time arrives you will discover that a captain's life is not all claret and prize-money.' Just for a moment his eyes hardened. 'But the opportunities are there.

For those who will dare, and who do not use their orders as substitutes for initiative.'

Bolitho said, 'Yes, sir.'

He did not know what Coutts was implying. That there was hope for him? Or that he was merely revealing his feelings for Pears?

Coutts shrugged his shoulders and added, 'Dine with me tonight. I will have Ackerman invite a few others.'

Once more, Bolitho discerned the youthful devilment and touch of steel.

'In my quarters of course. I feel certain the captain will not object.'

He strolled away, nodding to Sambell and Weston as if they were yokels on the village green.

The hands were already gathering on the upper gundeck for the afternoon watch, and Bolitho knew that Dalyell would soon be here to relieve him. Unlike George Probyn, he was never late.

Bolitho was confused by what he had heard. He felt excited at Coutts' interest, yet uneasy because of it. It was like disloyalty to Pears. He smiled at his confusion. Pears probably didn't even like him, so what was the matter?

Dalyell appeared, blinking in the sunlight, some crumbs sticking to his coat.

'The watch is aft, sir.'

Bolitho eyed him gravely. 'Very well, Mr Dalyell.'

They both winked, their faces hidden from the men, their good spirits masked by the formality.

Quinn, on the larboard gangway, watched the two lieutenants as they supervised the usual milling confusion of changing watches. He had seen, and had felt, the ache of longing rising to match the pain of his wound. Bolitho had come out of it, or if not, had managed to put his memories behind him. While all he could do was to measure each step, calculate every action as he went along. He kept telling himself that his momentary defiance, his stand at the causeway had not been a fluke. That he had failed once, but had fought to retrieve and hold on to his pride again.

He felt that the ship's company were watching him, rating his confidence. It was why he was lingering on the gangway, waiting for Bolitho before he went below for the noon meal. Bolitho was his strength. His only chance, if chance there was.

Bolitho beckoned to him. 'Not hungry, James? And I am told that we have some fine beef today, barely a year or so in the cask!' He clapped Quinn on the shoulder. 'Make the best of it, eh?'

When Quinn faced him he saw the sudden gravity in Bolitho's eyes and knew his words had nothing to do with food.

 

With her yards re-trimmed and her great spread of canvas filling and banging in the wind, Trojan settled down on her new tack.

Bolitho looked at Cairns and touched his hat. 'Steady as she goes, sir.'

Cairns nodded. 'Dismiss the watch below, if you please.' As the seamen and the afterguard hurried thankfully below,

Bolitho glanced quickly at Pears, who was with the admiral on

the weather side of the quarterdeck.

It was another fiery sunset, and against it the two men were in silhouette, their faces hidden. But there was no mistaking Coutts' irritation, Pears' dogged stubbornness.

It all seemed a long, long way from the relaxed supper in the great cabin. Coutts had kept the wit and conversation going with little pause, except to recharge the glasses. He had enthralled the young lieutenants with stories of intrigue and corruption in the New York military government. Of the grand houses in London, the men, and in many cases the ladies who held the reins of power.

Once Pears and the sailing master had concluded their calculations, the ship's destination and purpose had gone through each deck like a bolt of lightning.

There was a small island, one of a group, which lay in the passage between Santa Domingo and Puerto Rico. Avoided by all but the most experienced navigators, it would seem to be the ideal place for transferring arms and powder to Washington's growing fleet of supply vessels.

A s Coutts had discussed his hopes for a swift ending of the mission, Bolitho and most of the others had sensed his eagerness, his excitement at the prospect of a quick victory. He had known that nothing could outpace him with a warning, no horseman to carry the word that the British were coming. Not this time. With the vast Atlantic at his back, the keen-eyed Spite sweeping well ahead, Coutts had had good reason for confidence.

But that had been fifteen days ago. The delays had been unavoidable, but nevertheless had put a marked strain on Coutts and his officers. Several times Trojan had been forced to lie to while Spite made off under full sail to investigate a strange vessel and then beat the weary miles round again and make her report. The wind too had backed and veered as _ Bunce had predicted, but had on the whole favoured their slow advance.

Now, with another sunset closing over the ship, Bolitho could sense a growing impatience, even anger in Coutts' quick movements with head and hands.

Once more Spite had been sent ahead to discover if the tiny island was in fact the one described in Paget's documents. If it was, Cunningham was to put a boat ashore and if possible discover the strength of the enemy there. If there was nothing at all, he was to report back instantly. Either way, he should have returned by now. With darkness closing in with its usual swiftness, it was very unlikely they would make contact until tomorrow. Another day. More anxiety.

He stiffened and touched his hat as Pears strode past, his feet thudding loudly on the planking. The slam of the chart room door was further evidence of his mood.

Bolitho waited, knowing Coutts was going to speak with him.

'A long day, Bolitho.'

'Aye, sir.' Bolitho faced him, trying to discover the man's feelings. 'But the glass is steady. We should be able to maintain our tack during the night.'

Coutts had not heard. He rested his hands on the quarterdeck rail and stared down intently at the larboard battery of eighteenpounders. He was without his hat, and his hair was blowing across his forehead to make him appear even younger.

He asked quietly, 'Are you like the others? Do you think me a fool to press on with this mission, a task which has no more substance than a scrap of paper?'

'I am only a lieutenant, sir. I was not aware of any doubt.'

Coutts laughed bitterly. 'Doubt? God, man, there's a mountain of it!'

Bolitho waited, feeling the admiral's urgency, his frustration.

Coutts said, 'When you reach flag rank you believe the world is yours. You are only partly right. I was a frigate captain, and good at my work.'

'I know, sir.'

'Thank you.' Coutts seemed surprised. 'Most people look at an admiral and seem to think he has never been anything else, not an ordinary man at all.' He pointed vaguely through Trojan's black web of shrouds and stays. 'But I believe the information is true. Otherwise I would not have risked my ships and my reputation. I do not care what some soft-spoken official from London thinks of me. I want to get this war over, with more cards on our side than across the enemy's table.' He was speaking quickly, his hands moving eloquently to describe his feelings, his fears. `Each extra day brings more enemies against us. Ships to seek out and bring to battle. We have no squadrons to spare, but the enemy's agility is such that we must match his every move. No merchantman is safe without escort. We have even been forced to send armed vessels to the Davis Strait to protect our whaling ships ! It is no time for the timid, or the one who waits for the enemy to act first.'

His terse, emphatic manner of speaking, of sharing his thoughts, was something new to Bolitho. It was like seeing the world, his world, opening up to reach far beyond the ship's hull, and further still to every sea where Britain's authority was being challenged.

'I was wondering, sir.' Bolitho hesitated and then added, 'Why you did not request ships to be sent from Antigua? We have sailed four times the distance it would have taken the vessels which patrol from there.'

Coutts watched him, his face in shadow, saying nothing, as if he were seeking some criticism in Bolitho's question.

Then he said, 'I could have sent Spite to the admiral at Antigua. It would have been faster certainly.' He turned away.

'But would they have acted? I think not. The affairs in New York and the threat of Washington's armies seem a long way off in the Caribbean. Only the commander-in-chief could have made a request, and with Sir George Helpman at his elbow, I doubt he would have done more than enter it in his report for the Admiralty.'

Bolitho understood. It was one thing to hear of a victorious sea fight, but nothing to match the sight of a beaten enemy being brought into port, her flag beneath the British ensign.

Coutts had evidence, but that was insufficient. Too many men had died so far to warrant another haphazard scheme. And with Probyn's prize being re-taken by the enemy, even the destruction of Fort Exeter might appear unimportant in far-off London.

But a sharp, determined attack on a supply base, right under the noses of the French who were flaunting their neutrality like a false flag, might sway the balance. Especially if successfully completed before anyone could say no.

Coutts seemed to read his thoughts. 'Remember this, Bolitho. When you attain high rank, never ask what you shall do. The superior minds of Admiralty tend to say no, rather than encourage risk, which might disturb their rarified existence. Even if you put your career and your life in jeopardy, do as you believe is right, and in the manner best for your country. Acting merely to placate your superiors is living a lie.'

Pears loomed through the dimming light and said harshly, 'We will shorten sail in one hour, Mr Bolitho. But I'll not lie to. There's too much current for comfort hereabouts.' He looked at the admiral and added curtly, 'We shall need to be on station for Spite's return.'

Coutts took Pears' arm and guided him away, but not far enough for Bolitho to miss the anger in his voice as he snapped, 'By God, you drive me too hard, Captain! I'll brook no insolence from you, or anyone else, d'you hear?'

Pears rumbled something, but they were out of earshot.

Bolitho saw Couzens, his face glowing in the compass light as he wrote his entry on the master's mate's slate. He seemed to symbolize something. Youth, innocence or ignorance, whichever way you looked at it. They were all being carried forward to what might easily turn into a disaster. Coutts' determination to win might soon give way to grasping straws. Pears' mistrust of his superior could do for all of them just as easily.

Bolitho was torn between them. He admired Coutts more than he could say. Yet he could understand Pears' more cautious approach. The old and the new. One man at the peak of his career, whereas the admiral saw himself in a far greater role in the not too distant future.

He heard Cairns on the upper gundeck speaking with Tolcher, the boatswain.

Discussing tomorrow's routine which could never be allowed to falter. Not in war or peace, and no matter what kind of man walked the poop in lordly silence. The ship came first. Tomorrow, and all the other tomorrows. Painting to be done, a man to be flogged, another to be promoted, rigging and spars to be overhauled. It never ceased.

He remembered suddenly what Probyn had said about taking full advantage of any chance which offered itself. It was as if he had heard him speak aloud.

Well, Cairns would be off the ship soon. Even Pears could not refuse the next time. Bolitho sighed, finding no comfort in the fact that in a matter of weeks or days he might be doing Cairns' work until Pears could find himself a more experienced replacement.

Cairns would make a good commander. Fair, firm and intelligent. A few more like him and there would be victories enough to satisfy everyone, he thought bitterly.

Midshipman Couzens crossed the deck and asked, 'Will we see any more action, sir?'

Bolitho considered it.

'You know as much as I.'

Couzens stepped back to hide his expression. He had seen Bolitho discussing important matters with the admiral. Naturally he would not allow himself to share such privileged information with a mere midshipman. But that Bolitho knew that he knew was almost as good as sharing it, he thought.

 

To everyone's relief, and no little surprise, the Spite's topsails were reported by the masthead look-out within minutes of the first dawn light. A tiny, pale pyramid of sails, drawing nearer and nearer with such maddening slowness that Bolitho could sense the mood around him like a threat.

The decks were holystoned, and the hands had their breakfast washed down with beer. Then they mustered for the many tasks throughout the ship, and more than one petty officer had to use threats and brute force to stop his men from peering outboard to see how much nearer the sloop had come.

When she had beaten as close as she could manage, she went about and lay hove to under Trojan's lee, and a boat was dropped smartly in the water to carry Cunningham in person to make his report.

Bolitho stood with the side party to receive the youthful commander, and did not envy him at all. He had seen Coutts pacing the poop and staring at the Spite, and had also felt Pears' harsh reprimands more than once during the morning about matters which at any other time he would have thought too trivial for comment.

But Cunningham showed no anxiety as he climbed through the entry port and doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and saluting marines. His eyes passed over Bolitho without even a blink of recognition and then he strode aft to meet the captain.

Later, Bolitho was summoned to the great cabin, where he found Cairns already waiting with the flag lieutenant.

He was not really surprised at being called aft. It was customary for the first lieutenant and his immediate subordinate to be invited, if only to listen, when some important manoeuvre was to be undertaken.

They could hear Pears' voice from the dining cabin, loud and angry, and Cunningham's clipped, almost matter of fact tone as he explained something.

Cairns looked at Lieutenant Ackerman. 'They seem to be in a sour mood today.'

Ackerman kept his face blank. 'The admiral will have his way.'

A screen door was thrust open and the three other men entered the cabin abruptly, like late arrivals in a theatre.

Bolitho looked at Coutts. Gone was the uncertainty.

He said lightly, 'Well, gentlemen, Major Paget's piece of  intelligence has proved its worth.' He nodded to Cunningham. 'Tell them.'

Cunningham explained how he had discovered the little island, and under cover of darkness had put a landing party ashore. It had taken longer than expected, but after sighting wood-smoke he had guessed there were people there and every care had to be taken to avoid detection.

Bolitho guessed he had been rehearsing that part on his way over in the boat. To forestall any criticism which, once made, might damage his chances of reward.

He said, 'There is a good anchorage, not large, but well concealed from seaward. There are several huts, and plenty of evidence that ships put in to load and unload cargo, even to refit if need be.'

Pears asked, 'Who did you send?'

Bolitho waited, seeing Courts' brief smile as the sloop's commander replied just as sharply, 'I went myself, sir. I was not mistaken about what I saw.'

Coutts asked, 'What else?'

Cunningham was still glaring at Pears. 'A sizeable schooner is anchored there. Privateer. No doubt of it.'

They exchanged glances, and Coutts said, 'She'll be waiting for another vessel. I'll lay odds that there are enough weapons to supply two regiments!'

Pears persisted, 'But suppose there's nothing but the schooner.' He looked round the cabin with something like dismay. 'Like taking a cudgel to crack a small egg!'

'The first part of the information is correct, Captain Pears.' Coutts was watching him. Compelling, insisting. 'Why do you still doubt the rest? This island is obviously chosen for its access. From the Leeward or Windward Islands, from as far south as the Spanish Main, it would present an excellent place for exchange, even for rearming a merchant vessel and changing her to a privateer.' He did not conceal his impatience. 'This time we'll cut them off at the roots. For good.'

He started to move around the cabin, as if unable to hold his excitement in check.

'Think of it. All we have to do is trap them in their anchorage and seize whatever vessel tries to enter. The French will think again about allowing their people to be laid so low. A setback like that would also give their Spanish friends something to ponder on before they run like jackals to sample the spoils.'

Bolitho tried to see it like an outsider. To avoid considering Coutts as his superior, someone he had shared a few weeks of his life with.

Was this discovery really that important? Or was Coutts merely blowing it up like a bladder to make it appear so?

A few huts and a schooner did not sound very promising, and it was obvious from Pears' resentful expression that he thought much the same.

When he looked again the mood had changed once more. Foley, the cabin servant, was here, and glasses of wine were already being handed round as if to celebrate Cunningham's news.

Coutts raised his glass. 'I'll give you a sentiment.' He was smiling broadly. 'To a victory, gentlemen. And let us make it as painless as we can!'

He had turned to look through the stern windows and did not see Pears place his glass on the tray, untouched.

Bolitho tasted the wine, but like the mood it was suddenly bitter.

 

13

 

No More Pretence

 

'Captain's a'comin', sir!' The boatswain's mate's whisper seemed unnaturally loud in the dawn stillness.

Bolitho turned, seeking out Pears' heavy figure as he moved to the compass, murmured something to Sambell, the master's mate, and then walked forward to the quarterdeck rail.

Bolitho knew better than to say anything at this point. It was early in the morning, and as Trojan ploughed a steady southerly course under her topsails and jib, it was as if they were in the middle of a tropical downpour. The rain had burst over the slow-moving ship with the fierceness of a storm, advancing out of the darkness to thunder across canvas and decks and pass just as quickly across the opposite beam. But now, an hour later, the water still trickled and thudded from sails and rigging, from the tops and down through the scuppers in miniature cascades. When the sun rose there would be so much steam it would be like a fire-ship, Bolitho thought.

But Pears knew all this, and required no telling. He had watched too many dawns on so many seas to need some lieutenant to remind him.

It was still quite dark on the upper gundeck, but Bolitho knew that every cannon was manned and cleared for action within minutes of the galley fires being doused. It was an uncanny, sinister feeling. This great ship, moving like a shadow into deeper darkness, the sails shaking occasionally to a tired wind, the wheel creaking as the helmsmen sought to hold her on course.

Somewhere, up ahead, lay Coutts' objective. The tiny, remote island where he hoped, no, intended to find so much. Isla San Bernardo, little more than a dot on Erasmus Bunce's chart. It was said to have been the last resting place of some exclusive order of friars who had landed there over a hundred years ago. Bunce had remarked scathingly that they had probably arrived there by accident, imagining it to be one of the mainlands. That seemed likely, Bolitho thought. The passage between Santo Domingo and Puerto Rico was some ninety miles wide, a veritable ocean for some tiny, inexperienced boat. The friars had long passed into history, massacred it was said by pirates, by marooned captives, by one of a dozen scourges which still ravaged the length and breadth of the rich Caribbean.

Spite was there now, in position and ready to seal the anchorage. Cunningham must be rubbing his hands, seeing the citation in the Gazette as if it were already written.

Bolitho heard Pears moving towards him. It was time. He said, 'Wind holding steady, sir, nor' by west.' He waited, sensing the man's responsibility, his doubt.

Pears muttered, 'Very well, Mr Bolitho. We shall get light to see our way before long.' He raised his eyes to the mastheads, to the great rectangles of pale canvas and the fading stars beyond.

Bolitho followed his glance, wondering how it must feel. To command, to carry the final reward, or blame. Cairns seemed exactly ready for it, whereas he felt unsure, too far removed to understand what Pears must be feeling. Cairns would be leaving soon, he thought. Would that bring him closer to Pears? He doubted it.

Cairns came now out of the darkness without causing a stir, as he always did.

He touched his hat to Pears' bulky shape and to Bolitho said, 'I've just been round the lower gundeck. Not enough hands there, but I doubt we'll be fighting a fleet today!'

Bolitho recalled Coutts' excitement over a single schooner and smiled.

'With Spite's aid, I expect we'll give a good account of ourselves!'

Pears turned with sudden anger. 'Get aloft, Mr Bolitho! Use some of your wit on the masthead look-out and report what you see.' He swung away. 'Unless your sickness at heights still prevails!’

His sarcasm was clearly heard by the helmsmen and the quarterdeck gun crews. Bolitho felt both surprised and embarrassed by the outburst, and saw a marine turning away to hide a broad grin.

Cairns said quietly, 'Which gives you some idea of his own anxiety, Dick.'

That simple comment helped to steady Bolitho as he climbed up the mainmast ratlines, purposefully disdaining the lubber's hole at the maintop to climb out and cling with fingers and toes to the futtock shrouds, his body arched above the deck far below. His resentment at Pears' words enabled him to reach the topgallant mast without even a stab of nausea, and when at last, breathless and sweating, he clambered on to the crosstrees beside the look-out, he realized he had climbed that far with more haste than his usual caution.

The seaman said, 'It be lightenin' now, zur. Be a fine old day, I'm thinkin':

Bolitho looked at him, drawing deep breaths to recover himself. He recognized the man, an elderly topman named Buller. Elderly by naval standards, but he was probably no more than thirty. Worn out by the endless demands of wind and sea, of fighting maddened canvas in the teeth of a gale, fisting and kicking until every nail was almost torn from his hands, and his muscles strained and ruptured beyond treatment, he would soon be relegated to safer work on the forecastle or with the afterguard.

But the important thing to Bolitho was that the man was untroubled. Not merely by height and discomfort, but by the unexpected appearance of his second lieutenant.

Bolitho thought of the marine's grin. That too was suddenly important. There had been no malice, no pleasure at seeing him trodden on by the captain.

He replied, 'It will be hot anyway.' He pointed past the foremast, strangely bare without its topgallant set at the yard. 'D'you know these waters, Buller?'

The man considered it. 'Can't say I do, zur. But then, can't say I don't. One place is like another to a sailorman.' He chuckled. 'Less'e's let ashore, o' course.'

Bolitho thought of the brothel in New York, the woman screaming obscenities in his face, the dead girl's breast still warm under his palm.

One place like another. That was true enough, he thought. Even the merchant seamen were the same. Every ship was the last. One more voyage, just enough pay and bounty saved, and it would be used to buy a little alehouse, a chandlery, a smallholding from some country squire. But it never seemed to happen, unless the man was thrown on the beach in peacetime, or rejected as a useless cripple. The sea always won in the end.

The outboard end of the fore-topsail yard paled slightly, and when he twisted round Bolitho saw the first hint of dawn. He peered down and swallowed hard. The deck, darkly ribbed around by the upper batteries of guns, seemed a mile beneath his dangling legs. He would just have to put up with it. If the hatred of heights had plagued him since his first ship when he had been twelve years old, it was' not likely to relent now.

Bolitho felt the mast and its' spars trembling and swaying beneath him. He had gone to sea as a midshipman in 1768. The year Trojan had been launched. He had thought of it before, but this morning, up here and strangely isolated, it seemed like an omen, a warning. He shivered. He was getting as bad as Quinn.

On the quarterdeck, unaware or indifferent to his second lieutenant's fancies, Pears paced back and forth across the damp planking.

Cairns watched him, and aft on the raised poop D'Esterre stood with his arms crossed, thinking of Fort Exeter, of Bolitho, and of his dead marines.

A door opened and slammed, and voices floated around the quarterdeck to announce the admiral's arrival. He was followed by his aide, Ackerman, and even in the poor light looked alert and wide awake.

He paused near the wheel and spoke to Bunce, then with a nod to Cairns said, "Morning, Captain. Is everything ready?'

Cairns winced. Where Pears was concerned, things were always ready.

But Pears sounded unruffled. 'Aye, sir. Cleared for action, but guns not loaded,' the slightest hint of dryness, 'or run out.'

Coutts glanced at him. 'I can see that.' He turned away. 'Spite must be in position now. I suggest you set more sail, Captain. The time for guessing is done.'

Cairns relayed the order and seconds later, with the topmen rushing out along the upper yards and the wet canvas falling and then billowing sluggishly to the wind, Trojan tilted more steeply to the extra pressure.

'I've been looking at the chart again.' Coutts was half watching the activity above the deck. `There seems to be no other anchorage. Deep water to the south'rd and a shoal or two against the shore. Cunningham put his landing party to the south'rd. A clever move. He thinks things out, that one.'

Pears dragged his eyes from the lithe topmen as they slithered down to the deck again.

He said, 'It was the only place, I'd have thought, sir.' 'Really?'

Coutts moved away with his flag lieutenant, the cut well and truly driven home.

A few gulls dipped out of the darkness and circled the ship like pieces of spindrift. They seemed to tell of the land's nearness, and their almost disinterested attitude implied they had other sources of food close by.

From his dizzy perch Bolitho watched the birds as they floated past him. They reminded him of all those other times, different landfalls, but mostly of Falmouth. The little fishing villages which nestled in rocky clefts along the Cornish coast, the boats coming home, the gulls screaming and mewing above them.

He came out of his thoughts as Buller said, "Ell, zur, Spite's well off station!' He showed some excitement for the first time. 'There'll be the devil to pay now!'

Bolitho found time to marvel that the seaman should care and be so accurate in his opinions. Coutts would be furious, and it might take Trojan a whole day to beat back to her original station and allow Cunningham a second chance.

'I'd better get down and tell the captain.' He was thinking aloud.

Why had he mentioned it? Even thought of it? Had it been to stop another wave of frustration throughout the ship, or merely to protect Coutts' credibility?

Buller grunted. 'She probably lost a man over the side.'

Bolitho did not answer. He hoped Cunningham was the kind of man who would waste valuable time to look for a man overboard. But that was as far as it went. He swung the telescope over his arm and pressed his shoulders against the shivering mast.

'I'll leave this with you, Buller. When I go down, give us a hail as soon as you can make out what she's up to.'

He tried not to think of the drop to the deck, how long it would take if the ship gave a lurch before he could use both hands to hold on again.

It was like looking through a dark bottle. A few hints of whitecaps, a glassiness on the sea's face to show that dawn was nearby. Then he saw the pale squares of canvas, barely clear as yet, but rising from the darkness like a broken iceberg.

Spite must have changed tack considerably, he thought. She was standing in well towards the hidden anchorage, but she should have been miles nearer by now. Buller was right, but there would be more than the devil to pay after this. There would be ... he stiffened, momentarily forgetting his precarious position.

'Wot is it, zur?' Buller had sensed something.

Bolitho did not know what to say. He was wrong of course. Had to be.

He held the swaying blur of sails in his lens and then, straining every nerve until the wound on his forehead began to throb in time with his heart-beats, he lowered the glass just a fraction.

Still deep in shadow, but it was there right enough. He wanted it to be a dream, a fault in the telescope. But instead of Spite's rakish single deck there was something more solid, deep and hard like a double reflection.

He thrust the glass at the seaman and then cupped his hands to his mouth.

'Deck there! Sail on the starboard bow!' He hesitated a few moments longer, imagining the sudden tension and astonishment below him. Then, 'Ship o f the line!'

Buller exclaimed slowly, 'You done it proper now, zur!'

Bolitho was already slithering downwards, groping for a backstay, his eyes still holding that menacing outline.

Coutts was waiting for him, his head thrust forward as he asked, `Are you certain?'

Pears strode past them, his eyes everywhere as he prepared himself for the next vital hours.

Only once did he glance at Bolitho. Then to Coutts he snapped, 'He's certain, sir.'

Cairns said quietly, 'Now here's a fine thing, Dick. She'll not be one of ours.'

The admiral heard him and said curtly, 'I don't care what she is, Mr Cairns. If she stands against us, then damn your eyes, she's an enemy in my book!' He peered after the captain and raised his voice. 'Have the guns loaded, if you please!' He seemed to sense Pears' arguments from the opposite side of the deck. 'And let me see what this ship of yours can do today!'

 

Along either side of the upper gundedc the crews threw themselves on their tackles and handspikes and manhandled their heavy cannon up to the closed ports.

Bolitho stood by the boat tier, straining his eyes through the gloom as he watched one gun captain after another raise his fist to signify he was loaded and ready.

Midshipman Huss peered over the main hatch and yelled, 'Lower gundeck ready, sir!'

Bolitho pictured Dalyell down there with thirty great thirtytwo-pounders. Like everyone else in the wardroom, he had risen in rank, but his experience had altered little. Bolitho knew that if and when Trojan was required to give battle it would test everyone to the limit.

Quinn crossed from the opposite side and asked, `What is going on, Dick?' He was almost knocked from his feet as some ship's boys hurried aft with carriers of shot for the quarterdeck nine-pounders.

Bolitho looked up at the mainmast, through the shaking rigging and spread canvas, recalling his feelings such a short while back when he had watched the other ship through the telescope. It had been fifteen minutes ago, but the daylight seemed reluctant to reveal the newcomer, and only the look-outs, and perhaps the marines in the tops, could see the ship properly.

He replied, `Maybe that ship is here on passage for another port in the Caribbean.'

As he said it he knew he was deluding himself, or perhaps trying to ease Quinn's anxiety. The ship was no English manof-war. Every large vessel was being held within a squadron, just in case France openly joined in the fight. Unlikely to be a Spaniard either. They usually used their larger men-of-war to escort the rich treasure ships from the Main, through the pirate-infested waters and all the way to Santa Cruz and safety. No, it had to be a Frenchman.

Bolitho chilled with excitement. He had seen French ships in plenty. Well designed and built, they were said to be equally well manned.

He looked around the tiered boats and saw Coutts, hands behind his back, speaking with Pears and old Bunce. They all appeared calm enough, although with Pears you could never be sure. It was strange to see the quarterdeck so busy in the first light. Crouching gun crews on either side, and further aft, standing against the hammock nettings, D'Esterre's depleted ranks of marines. Near one battery of nine-pounders he could see Libby, one-time signals midshipman, now acting fifth lieutenant. What must he be thinking, Bolitho wondered? Seventeen years old, and yet if a blast of canister and grape raked the quarterdeck with its bloody furrows he might find himself in temporary command until someone else could reach him. Frowd was there, too. From master's mate to acting sixth lieutenant. It was mad when you considered it, he was even older than Cairns by a year or two. He was standing quite near Sambell, the other master's mate. But that was all. Before Sparke had been killed and Probyn captured it had been Jack and Arthur. Now it was sir and Mr Sambell.

He heard Cairns call, 'Let her fall off a point!'

Then later the helmsman's cry, 'Steady as she goes, sir! Sou'-east by sou' !'

The braces were manned, the yards trimmed for the slight alteration of course. Apart from the rustle and grumble of the sails, the ship's own private sounds, there was silence.

Bolitho pictured the chart, and beyond the bows the island as it must appear to those who could see. A headland sliding out towards the starboard bow, around which lay the entrance to the anchorage. Where Spite, presumably, was on station after all. God, she would get a surprise when the newcomer showed herself around the shoulder of land. Cunningham's look-outs would probably mistake her for the Trojan.

'Deck there!' Buller s hoarse voice. 'T'other ship's shortenin' sail, zur!'

Someone said, 'She's sighted Spite, 'tis my guess.'

The larboard battery dipped over slightly to the pressure of wind in the sails, and Bolitho saw the tethered guns glint suddenly as the daylight lanced through the shrouds and halliards.

Colour was returning to familiar things. Faces emerged as people, features became expressions again. Here and there a man moved, to adjust a gun tackle, or push loose equipment away from a carriage or breech, to brush hair from eyes, to make sure a cutlass or boarding axe was within reach.

The petty officers and midshipmen stood out at intervals, little blue and white markers in the chain of command.

Far above the deck, at the highest point, the long masthead pendant licked out ahead like a scarlet serpent. Wind was holding steady, Bolitho thought. Even so, there was no chance of heading off the other ship.

Quinn whispered, 'What will the admiral do? What can he do? We're not at war with France.'

Midshipman Forbes scurried along the deck, skipping over tackles and flaked halliards like a rabbit.

He touched his hat and said breathlessly, 'Captain's compliments, sir, and would you bring the French lieutenant aft?' Bolitho nodded. 'Very well.'

Forbes was really enjoying himself. Aft with the mighty, too excited and too young to see the teeth of danger. Quinn said, 'I'll fetch him.'

Bolitho shook his head, smiling at the absurdity of it. He had to bring the French officer because Cairns was busy on the quarterdeck and everyone else was too junior. Etiquette would be observed even at the gates of hell, he thought.

He found the Frenchman on the orlop deck, sitting with the surgeon outside the sickbay while Thorndike's assistants laid out the makeshift table with his instruments.

Thorndike asked irritably, 'What the hell are we doing now?' He glared at his helpers. 'Wasting time and dirtying my things. They must be short of work to do!'

Bolitho said to Contenay, The captain wishes to see you.'

Together they climbed up through the lower gundeck, a place in almost complete darkness with every port shut and only the slow-matches glowing slightly in the tubs by each division of cannon.

Contenay said, 'There is trouble, my friend?'

'A ship. One of yours.'

It was strange, Bolitho thought, it was easier to speak with the Frenchman than the surgeon.

'Mon Diem.' Contenay nodded to a marine sentry at the next hatchway and added, 'I will have to watch my words, I think.'

On deck it was much brighter. It seemed impossible that it had changed so much in the time to go to the orlop and back again.

On the quarterdeck Bolitho announced, 'M'sieu Contenay, sir.'

Pears glared at him. 'Over here.' He strode across to the nettings where Coutts and the flag lieutenant were training telescopes towards the other ship.

Bolitho stole a quick glance at her. He had not been mistaken. She made a proud sight, leaning over, close-hauled on the starboard tack, her topgallant sails and maincourse already brailed up to the yards, her bilge clearly visible as she tacked towards the entrance.

The prisoner, sir.' Pears too was looking at the other vessel.

Coutts lowered his glass and regarded the Frenchman calmly. 'Ah yes. The ship yonder, m'sieu, do you know her?'

Contenay's mouth turned down, as if he was about to refuse an answer. Then he shrugged and replied, 'She is the

Argonaute.'

Ackerman nodded. 'Thought as much, sir. I saw her' once off Guadeloupe. A seventy-four. Fine looking ship.'

Pears said heavily, 'She too wears a rear-admiral's flag.' He glanced questioningly at Contenay.

He said, 'It is true. Contre-Amiral Andre Lemercier.'

Coutts eyed him searchingly. 'You were one of his officers, am I right?'

'I am one of his officers, m'sieu.' He looked towards the other two-decker. 'It is all I am prepared or required to say.'

Pears exploded, 'You mind your manners, sir ! We don't need to be told more. You were aiding the King's enemies, abetting an unlawful rebellion, and now you expect to be treated as an innocent bystander!'

Coutts seemed surprised at the outburst. 'Well said, Captain. But I think the lieutenant is well aware of what he has done, and where he stands.'

Bolitho watched, fascinated, hoping Pears would not notice him and order him down to the gundeck.

A private drama which excluded everyone else, and yet which could decide their future.

Cairns said quietly, 'Here is a problem for the admiral, Dick. Is it a real stalemate? Or shall we force our views on the Frenchman?'

Bolitho watched Coutts' youthful profile. He was no doubt regretting his shift of flag now. His ninety-gun Resolute would be more than a match for the French seventy-four. Trojan had no such advantage. About the same size, and with just two more guns than the Argonaute, she was undermanned and lacking experienced officers.

If Contenay was typical of Argonaute's wardroom, she would be an adversary to reckon with. What the hell was Cunningham doing? A sloop-of-war was far too frail to match iron with the line of battle, but an extra show of strength, no matter how small, would be doubly welcome.

'Take the prisoner down. I may require him presently.' Coutts beckoned to D'Esterre. 'Attend to it.' To Bolitho he said, 'Warn the masthead to report what Spite is doing the instant he sights her.'

Bolitho hurried to the quarterdeck ladder. The masthead look-out, like everyone else above deck, was probably more interested in the French two-decker than in Spite.

Trojan maintained her set course, every telescope trained on the other ship as she moved at right angles across the bows, nearer and nearer to the headland.

Coutts must be worried. He could not anchor, and if he continued past the entrance he would lose the wind-gage and it might take hours to beat back again. If he stood out to sea, the same must apply. His only course was to follow the Frenchman, who obviously intended to ignore Trojan's intentions, to treat her as if she did not exist.

The headland was sloping more quickly now, to reveal the one on the opposite side of the entrance. Two green arms reaching out to receive them.

Bolitho felt the mounting glare from the sun, the sudden dryness in his throat as the look-out yelled, 'Deck there! Spite's aground, zur!'

Something like a sigh ran along the Trojan's decks.