To Glory We Steer

7

 

A SPANISH LUGGER

 

Herrick moved slightly around the mizzen mast in an effort to remain in the shadow cast by its thick trunk. He found that his eyes were constantly slitted against the harsh glare, his tongue continually moving across his parched lips as the forenoon watch dragged slowly to its conclusion.

Above his head the sails hung limp and lifeless, and there was not a breath of wind to ruffle the flat, empty expanse of sea, upon which the becalmed frigate lay motionless and hushed.

He plucked at his grubby shirt, immediately irritated by the futility of his action. It felt sodden with sweat, yet his whole being seemed to cry out for moisture. He could feel the deck seams gripping stickily at his shoes, and once when he had inadvertently rested his hand on one of the quarterdeck ninepounders he had almost cried out with pain. The barrel had been as hot as if it had been firing without pause. His lips curled bitterly at the thought. There had been no action, nor was there likely to be under these impossible conditions.

After leaving Antigua the Phalarope had sailed directly to her allotted station, but apart from sighting another patrolling frigate and then later the bulky shape of the Cassius, she had kept the sea to herself.

And now, to top it all, the frigate was becalmed. For twenty-four hours she had idled aimlessly. above her reflection,. carried at will by the sluggish currents, the lookouts worn and weary from staring hopefully for a squall to break the spell. Seven long days since they had sailed with such haste from Antigua, seven days of watching the burnished horizons and waiting.

Herrick glanced forward where the duty watch lay like dead men below the dark shadow of the bulwark. Their halfnaked bodies had already lost their pallor, and more than one unseasoned sailor bore savage burns on his skin from the sun's relentless glare.

Midshipman Neale leaned against the nettings, his round face for once devoid of mischief or interest. Like the rest, he seemed crushed and defeated by the inactivity and heat.

It was hard to believe that anything else existed outside their own enclosed world. St. Kitts lay some fifty miles to the south-east, and the Anegada Passage which separated the Virgin Islands from the disputed Leewards was spread in an eye-searing haze across the motionless bowsprit.

Of Hood's efforts to hold St. Kitts they had heard nothing, and for all Herrick could guess even the war might have ended. When they had met the flagship, Bolitho had made a signal requesting the latest information, but the reply had been unhelpful to say the least. The Phalarope had been carrying out gunnery practice, using several old and useless casks as targets. Herrick knew that Bolitho had done it more to break the monotony than with any hope of improving the standards of marksmanship by such methods.

Cassius's flags had soared angrily to her yards, and soon Maynard had reported warily that the admiral was demanding an immediate cease-fire. `Conserve 'powder and shot', the signal had ordered curtly. So that was that.

Bolitho had made no comment, but Herrick knew his captain well enough now to understand the sudden anger in his grey eyes. It was as if the admiral bad gone out of his way to isolate the Phalarope, as a doctor would separate a leper from his fellow humans.

He jerked from his thoughts as Bolitho's head and shoulders appeared through the cabin hatch. Like the other officers, he was dressed in shirt and white breeches, and his dark hair was clinging to his forehead with sweat. He looked strained and edgy, and Herrick could almost feel restlessness which was making Bolitho fret at the inaction around him.

Herrick said, `Still no wind, sir.'

Bolitho shot him an angry glance and then seemed to control himself. `Thank you, Mr. Herrick. So I see.' He walked to the compass and glanced at the two listless helmsmen. Then he moved to the starboard rail, and Herrick saw him wince as the sun smote his shoulders like a furnace.

Bolitho said quietly, `How are the men?'

Herrick replied vaguely, `Not happy, sir. It is bad enough out here, without short water rations!'

`Quite so.' Bolitho nodded without turning. 'But it is necessary. God knows how long we will be pinned down like this.'

His hand moved vaguely to the scar beneath the rebellious forelock of hair. Herrick had seen him touch the livid mark on several previous occasions, usually when he appeared to be entirely wrapped in his own thoughts. Once Herrick had questioned Stockdale about it, and learned that it had happened when Bolitho, as a junior lieutenant, had been sent ashore to an island with a small party of seamen to refill water casks.

Unknown to the captain or anyone else, the island had not been uninhabited, and almost as soon as the launch had grated up the beach the party had been ambushed by a horde of yelling natives. One had snatched up a cutlass from a dying sailor and attacked Bolitho as he had tried to rally his outnumbered men. In his thick, jolting voice Stockdale had described the scene around the launch, with half the sailors butchered or dying and the others falling back desperately in a frantic effort to regain the safety of the sea. Bolitho had fallen, separated from. his men, his face masked in blood from the cutlass slash which should have killed him. The sailors who survived were all for leaving their officer, whom they supposed to be dead anyway, but at the last minute they rallied, and as more boats pulled to their aid Bolitho was dragged to safety.

Herrick knew there was a lot more to it than that. Just as he guessed that it had been Stockdale's massive right arm which had held the men from panic and had saved the man he now served like a devoted dog.

Bolitho walked forward to the quarterdeck rail and stared towards the bows. `The haze, Mr. Herrick. It looks not unlike a Channel mist.'

Herrick's dry lips cracked into a rueful smile. `I never thought I would miss the Channel Fleet, sir. But how I would like to hear the wind and feel the cold spray again.'

`Maybe.' Bolitho seemed lost in his thoughts. `But I have a feeling the wind will return soon.'

Herrick stared at him. It was not a boast or an empty statement of hope. It was like another small picture of the man's quiet confidence, he thought.

There was a step on the deck behind them and Vibart said harshly, `A word, Captain.'

Bolitho replied, `What is it?'

`Your clerk, Mathias, sir.' Vibart watched Bolitho's impassive face as he continued, `He's had a bad fall in the hold, sir.'

`How bad?'

Vibart shook his head. `He'll not see another day, I'm thinking.' There was no pity in his voice.

Bolitho bit his lip. 'I sent him down there myself to check some stores.' He looked up suddenly, his face clouded with concern. `Are you sure nothing can be done for him?'

`The surgeon says not.' Vibart sounded indifferent. `Apart from his ribs, which are badly stove in, he's got a split in his skull you could put a marline-spike through!'

'I see.' Bolitho stared down at his hands on the rail. 'I hardly knew the man, but he was a hard worker and tried to do his best.' He shook his head. `To die in action is one thing, but this ...'

Herrick said quickly, `I will get another clerk, sir. There is a man, Ferguson, one of those pressed in Falmouth. He can read and write, and is more used to that sort of work.' Herrick recalled Ferguson's wretched expression as the ship had left Antigua. He had promised to help him get a letter away to his wife. Perhaps this release from the heavy duties of seamanship and the harsh control of the petty officers would make up for the omission in some way.

Herrick watched Bolitho's grave face and wondered how the captain could find the time to grieve over one man when he himself was burdened with such bitter responsibility.

Bolitho said, `Very well. Detail Ferguson and tell him his duties.'

A yell came from the maintopmast. `Deck there! Squall comin' from the starboard bow!'

Herrick ran to the rail, one hand shading his eyes. Incredulously he saw the gentle ripple pushing down towards the becalmed ship and heard the rigging stirring itself as the inert sails moved slowly into life.

Bolitho. stood upright and clasped his hands behind him. `What are you all staring at? Stir those men, Mr. Herrick, and get the ship under way!'

Herrick nodded. He had seen the excitement beneath Bolitho's outburst. As the sails filled and flapped overhead Bolitho's expression was almost boyish with pleasure.

It was not much of a wind, but sufficient to get the Phalarope moving once more. The water gurgled around her rudder, and as the braces squeaked in the blocks the sails swung to embrace every last ounce of air, eager for the life it had given them.

Bolitho said at length, `Keep her north-west by north, Mr. Herrick. We will remain on this leg until sunset.'

`Aye, aye, sir.' Herrick watched him walk back to the taffrail and peer down pat the small wake. There was no sign of the anxiety he must be feeling, he thought. The wind was a small respite and no way a recompense for the endless, meaningless patrol, yet Bolitho acted as if everything was normal, outwardly at least.

Again the masthead lookout was to prove that nothing could be taken for granted.

`Deck there! Sail fine on the starboard bow!'

Herrick lifted his glass but Bolitho snapped, `You'll not see anything from here! The haze is like a blanket to the north of us!'

Vibart muttered, `Mr. Neale, get aloft!'

`Belay that!' Bolitho sounded dangerously calm. `You go, Mr. Herrick. I want an experienced eye at this moment!'

Herrick ran to the main shrouds and began to climb. He quickly realised how out of condition his body had become, and by the time he had reached the topmast trestle and crosstrees his heart was pounding like a drum. The bearded lookout moved over for him and pointed with a tarry hand.

`Over yonder, sir! Can't make her out yet!'

Herrick ignored the ship swinging like a toy beneath his legs and opened his glass. At first he could see nothing but bright sunlight across the-low-lying haze with the million glittering mirrors of the sea beneath. Then he saw the sail and felt a tinge of disappointment. The hull was well shrouded in mist, but from the sail's strange dorsal shape he guessed it was small, probably a coasting lugger of some sort. Not worth taking as a prize, and hardly worth sinking, he decided angrily. He yelled the information to the deck and saw Bolitho's staring at him.

'A lugger, you say?' Bolitho sounded interested. `Keep watching her!'

`She's not seen us.' The lookout squinted towards the sail. `Reckon us'll be up to 'er afore she spots us.'

Herrick nodded and then looked down as Vibart called, `Pipe all hands! Stand by to wear ship!'

So Bolitho was going to close her anyway. Herrick watched the sudden burst of activity on the decks below. He had not seen such a sight since he was a midshipman. The scampering, apparently aimless figures, which surged from between decks and then merged as if by magic into recognisable patterns of discipline and purpose. He could see the petty officers checking their watch bills as they bawled names and orders. Here and there the officers and warrant officers stood like little isolated rocks amidst the surging tide of running seamen.

Again the yards moved round, flapping indignantly as the frigate altered course two points to starboard. Herrick felt the mast tremble, and tried not to think of the time it would take to fall to the deck.

But the breeze which had found the Phalarope had reached the other sail, and as the mist glided away in its path the lugger gathered way and heeled jauntily, another tan sail already creeping up her stumpy mainmast.

The lookout champed on a wad of tobacco and said calmly, 'Her's a Spaniard! Oi'd know that rig anywhere.'

Bolitho's voice cut through his speculation. `You may come down now, Mr. Herrick! Lively there!'

Herrick reached the deck gasping and sweating to find Bolitho waiting for him, his face deep in concentration.

`She'll have the edge on us, Mr. Herrick. She can make better use of these light airs than we can.' He gestured impatiently towards the forecastle. `Clear away the two chasers and fire across her bows!'

Herrick got his breath and gasped, `Aye, aye, sir! It would only take one ball to- shatter her timbers!'

He saw something like amusement in the grey eyes as Bolitho replied, `She may have the most precious cargo of all time, Mr. Herrick!'

Herrick stared at him dazedly. `Sir?'

Bolitho had turned to watch the gunners scampering forward towards the two long nine-pounders on the forecastle. `Information, Mr. Herrick! Out here, the lack of it could lose

a war!'

One shot was enough. As the tall waterspout fell in a splatter of spray beyond the lugger's bows, first one sail and then the other crumpled and fell, leaving the boat rocking dejectedly to await the Phalarope's pleasure.

 

Bolitho's wide cabin seemed almost cold after the furnace heat of the quarterdeck, and he had to force himself to stand luite still by the stern windows to steady his racing thoughts and plan the next move. With real effort he closed his ears to he muffled shipboard noises and distant shouts as a boat was Iropped alongside to take a boarding party to the lugger, which now rode uneasily under the frigate's lee. It had been ill Bolitho could do to remain outwardly unruffled as his orlers were passed and carried out, so that in the end he could io longer face the watchful glances of his officers or avoid he buzzing speculation of the upperdeck idlers.

His casual guess about the coming of a wind had eemed like a miracle, and when the lookout had reported the ugger in the haze he had felt his pent up emotions churning around like raw alcohol. The waiting and, petty irritations were momentarily put to one side, even the shame he felt for the admiral's attitude to Phalarope could be overlooked, if not forgotten.

There was a tap at the door, and he swung round, caught off guard. `Enter!'

He stared for a few seconds at the pale-faced seaman who hovered uncertainly in the doorway. He wrenched his mind away from the lugger and nodded towards the desk by the bulkhead.

`You must be Ferguson? You will be working here when I require you.' His tone was terse, his thoughts still following the invisible boarding party.

Ferguson stared round the cabin and blinked. `Yes, sir. I mean-aye, aye, sir.' He seemed confused and nervous.

Bolitho studied him kindly. 'I will tell you more of your duties later. At the moment I am rather busy.' He looked round with a jerk as little Neale panted up to the door.

`Captain, sir!' He fought for breath. `Mr. Okes has taken the lugger!'

`So I should hope!' Bolitho- added dryly, `Her skipper has a whole broadside staring down his throat.'

Neale considered the point. 'Er, yes, sir.' He stared up at Bolitho's calm face, obviously wondering how the captain could bear to leave the upperdeck when something was at last happening. He added, `The boat is returning now, sir.'

`That was what I wanted to hear, Mr. Neale.' Bolitho looked through the stem windows towards the empty sea, its surface still ruffled by a small but steady breeze. `When the boat comes alongside tell Captain Rennie with my compliments to keep the lugger's officers apart until I can question them. Mr. Okes can carry on with his search of the lugger and report when he finds anything.'

`The lugger's officers, sir?' Neale's eyes were like saucers.

'They may be dressed in rags, boy, but they are still officers!' Bolitho watched the midshipman patiently. `And make no mistake, they will know these waters like their own faces.'

The midshipman nodded and scurried away. Bolitho paced restlessly around the cabin and then paused by his table where his personal chart of the Caribbean lay in readiness. The complex mass of islands and soundings, the vague surveys and doubtful descriptions were like the clues of a giant puzzle. He frowned and tugged at his chin. Somewhere amongst the tangle of scattered islands lay the key to the whole campaign. The first to find it would win the day. The loser would be driven from the Caribbean for ever.

With the points of his brass dividers he traced the Phalarope's course and halted at the small pencilled cross. Out here he was doing no good. Fifty miles away St. Kitts might still be fighting a siege, whilst just over the horizon Count de Grasse's great fleet could be mustering for a final attack on the scattered British naval units. With the British driven from these islands, the French and their allies would unroll the South Americas like a chart. Would command the North and South Atlantic and reach for the rich rewards of Africa and beyond.

He pushed the apprehension from his mind as he heard the clatter of feet above and the thuds of muskets on the deck planks.

Vibart appeared in the doorway. 'Prisoners aboard, sir.' He glared at Ferguson who seemed to be trying to curl into a ball beside the desk. 'The lugger is Spanish well enough. Twenty men aboard all told, but no resistance. I have the master and two mates under guard outside, sir.'

'Good.' Bolitho stared at the chart. 'Twenty men, you say? That is a large crew for such a small craft. The Spaniards are usually more sparing when they man a vessel of any kind!'

Vibart shrugged. 'Mr. Farquhar says that the lugger has been used for coastal trading. Not much use for us.'

'I'll see the master first. You can go on deck and keep an eye on Mr. Okes' progress in the lugger. Let me know if he has found anything.'

The lugger's skipper was small and swarthy, dressed in a tattered shirt- and wide canvas trousers. Two gold ear-rings bobbed from beneath his lank hair, and his dirty, bare feet completed the picture of neglect and poverty.

Beside him, Midshipman Fargnha.r seemed elegant and unreal.

Bolitho kept his eyes on the chart, conscious of the Spaniard's uneven breathing and the shuffling movements of his bare feet on the deck. He said at length, 'Does he speak English?'

'No, sir.' Farquhar sounded impatient. 'He just gabbles.'

Still Bolitho kept his eyes on the chart. Almost offhandedly he said, 'Then take him on deck and tell the master-at-arms to run a halter up to the mainyard.'

Farquhar fell back startled. 'Halter, sir? Do you mean to hang him?'

'Of course I do!' Bolitho put a rasp in his tone. 'He is no further use to me!'

The Spaniard's legs buckled and he pitched forward at Boli108

tho's feet. Sobbing and weeping he pulled at Bolitho's legs, the words flooding from his lips in a wild torrent.

`Please, Captain! No hang, please! I am a good man, sir, I have wife and many poor children!' His cheeks were running with tears. `Please, sir, no hang!' The last word wass almost a shriek.

Bolitho stepped from the man's grasp and said calmly. `I had an idea that your knowledge of English might return.' To Farquhar he added crisply, `You may try that ruse on the two mates. See what you can find out!' He turned back to the whimpering man on the deck. `Now stand up and answer my questions, or indeed I will hang you!'

He waited a few more moments, his mind half dwelling on what might have happened if the Spaniard really had been unable to speak English. Then he asked, 'Where were you heading and with what cargo?'

The man stood swaying from side to side, his grubby hands clasped as if in prayer. 'I go to Puerto Rico, Captain. I take small cargo of timber, a little sugar.' He wrung his hands. 'But you can take it all, excellency! Just spare my life!'

'Hold your tongue!' Bolitho peered at the chart. The story was possible. These small trading boats were as common as fleas in the Caribbean. He asked sharply, 'From where did you come?'

The man smiled ingratiatingly. 'I go all around, Captain.' He waved his hands vaguely. 'I carry only small cargoes. I reap a living where I can. It is a hard, hard life, excellency!'

'I will ask you once more!' Bolitho fixed him with a hard stare.

The man shifted wretchedly. 'Martinique, Captain. I has small work there. But I hate the French,, you understand?'

Bolitho dropped his eyes to hide the excitement he now felt. Martinique, the headquarters of all French naval operations, the most heavily protected fortress in the whole Caribbean.

'You hate the French? Your gallant allies?' Bolitho's sarcasm was not lost on the Spaniard. 'Well, never mind that. Just tell me how many ships were there in the anchorage.' He saw the man's eye glitter with fright and guessed that he understood, which anchorage he meant.

'Many ships, excellency!' He rolled his eyes. 'Many big ships!'

'And who commands these many big ships?' Bolitho could hardly keep the anxiety from his voice now

'The French admiral, excellency!' The Spaniard puffed out his cheeks as if to spit on the deck, but caught sight of the marine sentry watching from the doorway and swallowed noisily. 'He is a French pig, that one!'

'The Count de Grasser'

The man nodded violently. 'But you know everything, Captain! You are blessed by the Almighty!'

Bolitho looked up as Farquhar entered the cabin. 'Well?'

'Only a little English between them, sir.' He seemed angry with himself. 'But I gather they were heading for Puerto Rico.'

Bolitho gestured at the sentry. 'Take this prisoner out and keep him closely guarded.' Then he said absently, 'He was lying. He sailed from Martinique. The French would never allow him to carry on trading when they too might be under siege at any time!' He tapped the chart. 'No, Mr. Farquhar, he was at Martinique well enough, but his destination is elsewhere!'

Vibart entered and bowed his head beneath the deck beams. 'Mr. Okes reports that the cargo is much as you already know, sir. But there are new ships's spars and casks of salt meat stowed beneath the mainn load.' He sounded doubtful. 'There is also a great deal of spare canvas and cordage.'

'As I thought!' Bolitho felt strangely relieved. 'The lugger was taking supplies from Martinique'-his finger moved along the charted islands--'to where?' He looked from Vi-bait's brooding face to Farquhar's baffled one. 'Get that Spanish skipper back here at once!'

Bolitho walked slowly to the stern. windows and leaned out over the water as if to clear his brain. The Spaniard had seemed pleased to tell him about the French ships at Martinique, when he must have known that patrolling British ships would already know this information. He must have imagined that Bolitho had missed the main item.

He swung round as the man was pushed through the door. 'Now listen to me!' His voice was still controlled, but the harshness made the lugger's master start to quiver uncontrollably. 'You lied to me! I warned you what would happen, did I not?' He dropped his voice still further. 'Now just once more. Where were you bound?'

The man swayed. 'Please, excellency! They kill me if they know!'

'And I will kill you if you keep me waiting!' He saw Herrick's face watching him from the doorway with fixed fascination.

'We sail for Mola Island, Captain.' The man seemed-to have shrunk in size. 'The cargo was for ship there!'

Herrick and Farquhar exchanged mystified glances.

Bolitho bent over his chart. 'Mola Island is Dutch' He measured the distance with his dividers. 'Thirty miles to the nor'-east of our present position.' He looked up, his eyes hard and devoid of pity. 'How many such voyages have you made?'

'Many, excellency.' The Spaniard looked as if he wanted to be sick. 'There are soldiers there. French soldiers. They come from the north. They have ships also.'

Bolitho breathed out slowly. 'Of course! De Grasse would never attempt to move his ships against Jamaica or anywhere else unless he could be sure of a diversion elsewhere and full support from the military!' He stared at the others. 'Our fleet watches Martinique to the south and waits for the French to move, and all the time they are filtering down from the American mainland, gathering for a big, final assault!'

Vibart said bleakly, 'We must inform the Cassius, sir.'

Herrick spoke from the doorway, his voice eager. 'We could send the lugger to find the flagship, sir, and stay here in readiness!'

Bolitho did not seem to hear them. 'Sentry, take this prisoner and lock him up with the others. My compliments to the boatswain, and tell him to select any of the lugger's crew he thinks could be sworn into our company. I would imagine that even the Phalarope would seem better than a prison hulk!'

The marine grinned. 'Aye, aye, sir!' He jabbed the Spaniard with his musket and hustled the man away.

'It will be two days before we meet up with the Cassius again.' Bolitho was thinking aloud. 'By then it may be too late. That Spaniard has told us a good deal, but he cannot know the whole truth. If the French have been gathering a force of men and ships in this small island they must be expecting to move, and soon. I consider it our duty to investigate, and do our utmost to stop them.'

Vibart swallowed hard. 'Do you intend to leave the patrol area, sir?'

'Do you have any objections, Mr. Vibart?' Bolitho eyed him calmly.

'It is not my responsibility, sir.' Vibart dropped his gaze before Bolitho's cool stare.

Herrick said quickly, 'It is a great risk, if I may say so, sir.'

'As is everything worthwhile, Mr. Herrick.' Bolitho straightened his back and added briskly, 'My compliments to Mr. Proby. Tell him to wear ship and steer north-east. We will be sailing close to the wind so it will be nightfall before we reach Mola Island. Before that time there is much to be arranged, gentlemen!'

He looked around their faces and continued, `Put a prize crew aboard the lugger, and ask Mr. Okes to search for the recognition signals. It is my guess that this island will be heavily guarded. The lugger will be too useful to spare for finding the admiral.'

Vibart said sulkily, `The admiral will not be pleased by your acting like this, sir.'

'And my conscience would never rest if I allowed my own prestige to come before this obvious duty, Mr. Vibart!'

His eyes moved to Herrick and Farquhar. 'This will be a good opportunity for each of you.' He paused and looked around the cabin. 'For the ship, too.'

He waited until the cabin had emptied and then walked to the windows again. For one more minute he allowed the nagging doubts to play havoc with his thoughts. He had acted impetuously and without pausing to consider the possible consequences. Skill and ability were only half the battle. There always had to be a good amount of luck. And if he was mistaken now, there would not be that amount of luck in the whole world.

He saw Ferguson watching from the desk like a mesmerised rabbit and realised that he had forgotten all about his being there. But the story he might repeat on the berth deck might do good for the ship's dwindling morale, he thought vaguely. If the Phalarope was lucky this time it would make all the difference.

And if not? He shrugged. There would be few survivors to dispute the matter.

Above his head he heard the afterguard tramping with the braces and felt the deck canting slightly as the frigate went about. Momentarily framed in the stem windows he saw the small lugger swinging round to keep station on the quarter, and wondered how many men had already cursed the keeneyed lookout for sighting her.

Aloud he remarked, 'You will have something to tell your wife now, Ferguson. She will be proud of you perhaps?'

 

Bolitho heaved himself from the cutter's sternsheets and allowed groping hands to pull him unceremoniously up and over the lugger's low bulwark. For several seconds he stood swaying on the unfamiliar deck to allow his eyes to get accustomed to the gloom and the packed figures around him.

Already the cutter had shoved off, and apart from the gleam of white spray around the oars it was lost in the enfolding darkness. Bolitho tried to see where the Phalarope now lay, but she, too, was well hidden, with not one glimmer of light to betray her presence. He tried to hold on to the mental picture of the chart and of the island which now lay somewhere across the lugger's blunt bows.

Captain Rennie loomed out of the darkness and said in an unnecessary whisper. `I've packed the marines below, sir. Sergeant Garwood will keep 'em quiet until they are required.'

Bolitho nodded and tried to remember once again if he had left anything to chance. 'You have made sure that all muskets and pistols are unloaded?'

Rennie nodded. 'Yes, sir.' He sounded as if he meant, 'Of course, sir'. A primed musket exploding at the wrong moment, a trigger pulled by an over-excited marine, and their lives would be worth even less than they were now.

'Good.' Bolitho groped his way aft where Stockdale stood straddle-legged beside the crude tiller bar, his head cocked towards the loose flapping sails. Midshipman Farquhar squatted by a shapeless bundle on the deck which Bolitho managed to recognise as the luckless Spanish skipper. He had been brought along as both guide and surety.

Rennie asked flatly, 'Do you think we will get inshore without trouble?

Bolitho glanced up at the high, bright stars. There was the merest sliver of silver for a moon floating above its reflection in the flat water. The night was dark enough to hide anything. Maybe too dark.

He said, 'We shall see. Now get under way, and make sure the compass light is well shaded.' He walked clear of Rennie and his questions and brushed past the crouching sailors whose eyes gleamed like marbles as they watched him pass. Occasionally he heard the rasp of a cutlass or a dull clink from the bows where McIntosh, a gunner's mate, was making a last-minute examination of his hastily rigged swivel gun. It was loaded with canister, and at close range would be quite deadly. It had to be perfect, Bolitho thought grimly. There might be no time for a second shot.

He wondered what Vibart was thinking, left in charge of the frigate, with hours to wait before he could play his part in the raid. He thought, too, of Herrick's face when he had told him he was taking Lieutenant Okes with him in the lugger. Herrick had known there was no other choice in the matter. Okes was his senior, and it was only fair that he should get the chance of making a name for himself. Or dying before Herrick, Bolitho thought dryly. Vibart's position and seniority made him the obvious choice for taking charge of -the Phalarope, and if both Bolitho and Vibart were killed, Herrick could still move his way up the chain of command.

Bolitho scowled in the darkness and cursed himself for his morbid thoughts. Perhaps, he was already too tired, too worn out by planning and preparation to think any more. All day long, while the frigate had beaten her way towards Mola Island, things had moved at a swift pace. Men and weapons had been transferred to the lugger, and-the latter's cargo bad been either dropped overboard or rowed across to the Phalarope for their ovm use. The lugger's cramped hold was now packed with marines, each man too busy fighting back the nausea thrown up by the stench of fish oil and sour vegetables to care much about what might lie ahead.

Mathias, Bolitho's clerk, had died and had been dropped overboard with a brief prayer, his death and passing hardly making a break in the frantic preparations. Looking back, it was hard even to recall his face.

Lieutenant Okes stumbled along the side deck, his shoulders hunched as if he expected to be struck by some unseen object. He peered at Bolitho's watchful shape and muttered, 'All-all the men are ready, sir.' He sounded taut and nervous.

Bolitho grunted. Okes' behaviour had been worrying him for some time. He had even offered to stay aboard the frigate in Herrick's place, which was odd, in spite of the danger. Okes, he knew, was not a rich man, and any extra promotion, a glowing report in the Gazette, would make all the difference to his career. He was probably frightened. Well, so was anyone but.a raving maniac, Bolitho thought.

He replied, 'We shall see the headland soon. There should be plenty of surf to show its position.' He screwed up his eyes to will himself to see the picture he had built of the island in his mind.

It was shaped something like a rough horseshoe, with the deep anchorage lying snugly between the two, curved headlands. But the village was on the seaward side of the nearest headland, that being the only beach on the whole island. According to the chart and what he had wrung from the lugger's skipper, the village was connected to the anchorage by a rough road which crossed a steep ravine by way of a wooden bridge. The tip of the headland was therefore isolated by the ravine, and on its highest point there was said to be a powerful battery of guns, probably twenty-four pounders, which could easily defend the whole anchorage. A sandbar and several isolated reefs completed the hazardous approach. In fact, the approach was impossible without consent from both battery and good daylight. No wonder the French had chosen this place as their strongpoint.

"Eadland, sir!' A seaman pointed abeam. `There, sir!'

Bolitho nodded and walked aft again. `Steer close, Stockdale. There is a beach about a quarter of a mile ahead, and a wooden pier, if this Spaniard's word is worth anything!'

From the bow a seaman dropped his leadline overboard and then said hoarsely, 'By the mark two, sir!'

Two fathoms under the keel, and still a long way to go. There was no chance of a surprise attack here either, except by craft as small as the lugger. The only thing in their favour was surprise. Nobody-iii. his right mind would expect a single small boat to approach a heavily guarded island in total darkness.

Belsey, the master's mate, said gruffly, 'I can see th' pier, sir. Look, over yonder!'

Bolitho swallowed hard, conscious of a prickling in his spine. He readjusted his sword and made sure that his pistol was ready at his waist.

'Get the Spaniard up here!' The tension was making his voice harsh, and he heard the prisoner's teeth chattering like dice.

He gripped the man's arm, smelling his fear. Now was the time to make the Spaniard more afraid of him than of anything the enemy could do. 'Listen to me!' He shook the man slowly with each word. 'When we are challenged, you know what to do?'

The Spaniard nodded violently. 'Show lantern. Give the signal, excellency!'

'And if they ask why you are coming in at night tell them you have despatches for the garrison commander.'

'But, excellency! I never get despatches!'

'Hold your tongue! Just tell them! If I know anything about sentries, they'll be satisfied for long enough!'

The pier crept out of the darkness like a black finger, and as the sails were lowered swiftly and the lugger glided gently towards the tall piles a lantern flickered into life and a voice yelled, 'Qui va la?'

The Spaniard opened the shutter of his own lantern. Two long flashes and two short ones. In a quavering voice he began to stutter his message, his words broken up by great gulps for breath. He was shaking so badly that Farquhar had to hold him upright against the mast like a corpse.

The sentry called something to another man, as yet hidden by a small hut in the middle of the pier, and Bolitho heard him laugh. There was a click of metal and then another as the sentries uncocked their muskets.

The bow swung against the pier, and Bolitho saw the sentry leaning forward to watch the lugger bump alongside. He had slung his musket over his shoulder, and his tall shako shone briefly in the glow from the long clay pipe. Bolitho held his breath. This was the time to see if he had chosen his men correctly.

He saw a sailor, moving with elaborate calm, climb nimbly up the nearest wooden ladder, the mooring rope in his hand. The sentry called after him, his voice muffled as he turned his back to watch the man looping the rope's eye over a bollard.

The next sailor, who had been crouching on the stem, leapt straight upwards like a cat. For a moment the two figures swayed together in a macabre dance, but there was hardly any sound. Only when the sailor released his grip and lowered the dead sentry carefully on the pier did Bolitho realise it was time to act.

He snapped, `Next man up!'

Belsey, the master's mate, slipped over the bows, and followed by the other seaman who was wiping his knife blade on his trousers, disappeared around the side of the hut.

This time there was a little more noise. A clatter of a falling musket, and something like a gurgle. But nothing more.

Bolitho scrambled up to the pier, his body shaking with suppressed excitement. `Right, Mr. Okes, get your party ashore and up to the end of the pier at the double!' He stopped an onrushing seaman with the back of his hand and snarled, `Quietly there! There's a guardhouse at the far end!'

Rennie's marines were already pouring gratefully from the hold, their white crossbelts bright and eerie against their uniforms. Rennie had not forgotten his part, and within minutes he had split his men into two parties, and with a single command had both files trotting briskly -along the pier towards the silent village.

Stockdale was the last to leave the lugger, his cutlass swinging from his hand like a toy.

Bolitho took a last look round and checked his bearings. `Very well, Stockdale, let us go and take a look!'