is the reward!'

Bolitho matched his mood. They had still barely mentioned the one gesture which had drawn them even closer together. But it was there. Like a bond, something unbreakable.

In the evenings, as the ship had continued on her passage to Boston, Adam had made a point of visiting him in his quarters when Bolitho had known that the conviviality of the wardroom would have been far more in keeping for any young officer. But as day followed day Bolitho had thought of Belinda, had wondered how she was faring as her time approached. Adam had sensed his anxiety and had wanted to share it or, better still, dispel it altogether.

Bolitho knew that had he been in Keen's position the work and demands of the ship would have kept him from his private worries, but alone for long periods of time, or with only Allday or his clerk to talk to, he had too much leisure to brood on his concern for Belinda.

Now, with the ship at anchor, her work done for the present, it was at last his turn to act, to repay the confidence Sheaffe had allowed him.

Lieutenant Mountsteven, who was the officer of the watch, touched his hat and said, 'Boat approaching, sir."

Keen nodded and looked at Bolitho. 'Visitors, sir.'

Bolitho knew it was his polite way of asking him to leave.

'I'll be in my cabin if you require me.'

Bolitho turned aft and heard the marines hurrying to the entry port, the bark of commands as Achates prepared to receive a greeting from the land.

Ozzard was tidying up the great cabin, although it always appeared perfect to Bolitho. He glanced at the tethered shape of one of the eighteen-pounders and was glad he had ordered its replacement. It would act as a reminder. The task he had been given was not going to be easy. He tried to stifle the bitterness. If it was a routine task, a more important officer would have been sent in his place. But if anything went wrong, they would, as always, require a scapegoat in the halls of admiralty.

He heard the calls trilling at the entry port and pictured the visitors being received with customary formality.

He walked to the open stern windows and saw a boat idling beneath Achates' great shadow, the passengers pointing and peering at the ship's gilded stern and counter.

It was unnerving to realize his brother had once sailed from here, had walked the streets among people like these. He had known nothing of Adam's existence then. Now Adam was here in his place. He felt a twinge of uneasiness. Perhaps he had been wrong after all to bring him, career or not.

The door opened and Adam stood watching him, a heavily sealed envelope in his hand.

He said, 'We are invited to a reception this evening, Uncle.' He held out the envelope. 'I have just been told that the President of the United States has sent one of his own senior advisers to meet you.'

Bolitho smiled wryly. 'In that case the whole world will know what we are about, Adam. If they were expecting us it was hardly surprising we suffered that encounter just eight days out from England.'

Adam nodded. 'We seemed to have caused quite a stir.' His face broke into a grin. 'Perhaps they want to pay their taxes to King George after all!'

Bolitho shook his head. 'If you talk like that ashore, Adam, we are far more likely to start another war!'

Later, as he lay back in a chair and Allday shaved him with extra care, he tried to measure the extent of his responsibility.

The frigate Sparrowhawk would be on her way here shortly. Captain Duncan was less of a diplomat than he was. He would make his report to San Felipe's governor before continuing his way to Boston for orders, but would leave little doubt as to what the eventual outcome would be.

It seemed inhuman and senseless to hand the island back to the French, no matter what Sheaffe had said. It was not a question of strategy or diplomacy, it was a matter of people. The island had defended itself more than once against enemy assaults, and had sent its own vessels to seek out prizes and harass ships and islands alike in the King's name.

In London and Paris it would seem different. Now, as Allday's razor moved steadily around his throat, it took on the complexity of a Chinese puzzle.

The evening air was mercifully cooler after the oven-heat in an anchored ship, and as Bolitho climbed down into the barge he felt strangely excited. Like someone stepping into the unknown.

Allday growled, 'Give way, all.' Then with measured strokes the green-hulled boat pulled away from the main-chains and turned in a shallow arc towards the shore.

The first lieutenant had been left in charge of the ship, a bitter pill in such a pleasant looking town, Bolitho thought. He glanced at Keen who was joining him at the reception and wondered if he was feeling less strained. He had been kept busier than anyone since the anchor had been dropped, for quite apart from the ship's affairs there had been a steady stream of visitors, each of whom had been received as befitted his station. The captains of the American frigates and some of their subordinates, the officer of the guard, and an extremely pleasant young man who was the son of their host this evening.

The barge pulled strongly beneath the tapering jib-boom and Bolitho could not resist the temptation to look for some sign of the damage sustained in their short encounter. He saw nothing, a compliment to the carpenter and his crew.

He glanced at the handsome figurehead. It was pure white, with one arm outstretched, the other holding a short sword. Achates, faithful friend and armour-bearer of Aeneas.

Beneath the paint the carved wood was smooth and well-worn. It had seen more horizons than any of the ship's company and had weathered every kind of storm.

The barge swept past a lordly Indiaman which was busily loading cargo, despite the lateness of the hour. An officer hurried to her taffrail and doffed his hat as the vice-admiral's boat swept past the stern.

It was ironic that it had been a Company dispute over tea which had fanned the fires of revolution, Bolitho thought. Now, whereas men-of-war were restricted to the necessary areas of their respective flags, the powerful traders came and went as they pleased.

Allday rapped out another order and the bowman rose from his thwart, boat-hook ready to snap down on to a mooring chain.

There were plenty of townspeople thronging the jetty, and many of them had seemingly been here all day to watch the anchored Achates. The watermen of Boston must be making a fortune from their curious passengers.

Keen, Captain Dewar of the Royal Marines, two lieutenants and Adam Bolitho were to be the guests of an influential Boston merchant named Jonathan Chase, while some of the ship's other officers had been invited elsewhere. Keen had warned them to guard their tongues and to listen for any mention of their encounter with the strange ship which would show that the news had preceded their arrival.

Bolitho glanced at some of the young women on the jetty. A few of the trusted seamen and marines would also be allowed ashore, and from the look of these smiling girls the British sailors would be hard put to hold their tongues.

But everything must appear normal and relaxed, with all the old animosities put aside if not actually forgotten.

The bargemen tossed their oars, and Allday removed his hat and watched to make sure Bolitho did not slip on the stone stairs.

Bolitho smiled at him. 'Good crew, Allday.'

Even Allday had admitted that the new barge was a credit to the ship. In their checkered shirts and tarred hats, each man with a pigtail exactly the same length, they could not have been better chosen.

Their host's son, Timothy, was waiting beside two elegant carriages.

As Bolitho approached and some of the onlookers pressed forward for a glimpse of the newcomers, Timothy Chase extended his hand.

'You are welcome here, Admiral. My mother says it is a sign for the future.'

Captain Dewar climbed swiftly from the barge and the sight of his bright tunic brought a cry from the crowd.

'Watch out, boys, the redcoats are comin' back!'

But there was no hostility and more than a few guffaws from the onlookers.

The journey to the Chase residence passed all too quickly for Bolitho, with his host's son pointing out landmarks and fine houses as the carriage rattled along the road from the harbour.

He was obviously very proud of the town where he had been born and brought up. At a guess he was about the same age as Adam, although less reserved as he described each important house and its occupants.

'Boston houses, taken collectively, make a better appearance than those of any other town in New England, sir."

Most of them were built of wood, Bolitho noticed, but some had facades which had been cut and shaped to represent stone.

Bolitho smiled to himself. His host had done well. But he knew from his secret instructions that Chase had made his original wealth from privateering against the British during the revolution.

Boston had been a privateering lair, as had many smaller harbours as far north as Portland.

The two carriages left the road and rolled up a long driveway towards a beautifully proportioned house of three storeys. Like many of the others it was white with tall green shutters by each window, some of which were already brightly lit and welcoming.

Bolitho said quietly, 'Well, Adam, what d'you think?'

Keeping his features equally composed, his nephew answered, 'I could very easily get used to luxury, sir.'

It was not hard to picture their host as he had once been on the deck of a privateer. He had a loud, thick voice which must have found its edge when shouting orders in a storm or above the crash of cannon fire. Jonathan Chase was square and heavily built, with iron-grey hair and skin like tooled leather.

'Well, Admiral, this is indeed a pleasure.' He grasped Bolitho's hand and eyed him curiously. 'An honour too, to have such a gallant sailor in my home.'

Bolitho warmed to him. 'It was good of you to offer your house for this meeting.'

Chase grinned. 'When Thomas Jefferson suggests a thing you don't argue too much, my friend! He may have been president for only a year, but he's learned already that power is heady medicine!' It seemed to amuse him.

Negro footmen whisked away the hats of the guests and Bolitho followed Chase into a great hall filled with people. Chase nodded towards a tray which was loaded with glasses.

'I hope the wine is to your taste, Admiral. It's French.'

Bolitho smiled gravely. 'Is it, indeed."

Faces swam round him, and as Chase introduced his friends and associates Bolitho became very aware of the man's presence and authority.

Keen had been immediately partnered by two very attractive ladies, and Captain Dewar was being led out on to a terrace by another who was clinging to his arm as if she intended to share him with nobody.

Chase lowered his glass and studied Adam for several seconds.

'Your aide, Admiral, what is he, son, or little brother?"

'Nephew.'

Chase beamed. You and I will creep away presently and split a bottle of excellent brandy.' He tapped the side of his nose. 'We can have a talk before our government man arrives.'

He gestured suddenly. 'Nephew, eh. Should have guessed.' He raised his voice. 'Over here, Robina. Someone I'd like you to meet.'

The girl named Robina was a beautiful creature. Slim, graceful, and with a sparkle in her eyes which would turn any man's head.

Chase boomed, 'My niece, Admiral.'

She slipped her arm through Adam's and said, 'I'll show you the gardens, Lieutenant.' She tossed her head at her uncle. 'They'll want to yarn about old times!'

Bolitho smiled. Adam was obviously entranced and allowed himself to be led away without a word.

Chase chuckled. 'Look good together, eh?'

Then he glanced around at his chattering guests.

'I think we can go to my study now. They've forgotten we exist.'

The great study was panelled and like a part of America's young history. Chase had collected many relics of the sea and ships, symbols perhaps of his own stormy beginnings.

Whales' teeth and a harpoon were just a small part. 'To remind me of the old days here.' Paintings of battles, with a British ship on fire in the process of surrendering.

Chase said cheerfully, 'You didn't win all the fights at sea, y'know, Admiral.' He became suddenly serious. 'Samuel Fane, the President's emissary, is a hard bargainer. I like him well enough, for a government man that is, but he hates the British.' He grinned hugely. Thought you should know, though from all I've read and heard about you, you're more than able to take care of yourself.'

Bolitho smiled. 'I appreciate your frankness.'

Chase slopped some brandy into two enormous glasses.

'Think nothing of it. I fought against King George and I was good at the trade. But peace, like war, makes strange bedfellows. You accept that or capsize in the world we live in.'

In the gardens at the rear of the big house the trees and shrubs were already deep in purple shadow. Adam walked arm in arm with the girl, barely daring to speak in case he said something clumsy and spoiled the moment forever. She was without doubt the most beautiful being he had ever laid eyes on.

She stopped and, seizing his hands in hers, swung him round to face her.

'Now, come along, Lieutenant, I have done too much talking. They say I chatter so. I want to know all about you. Your name is Adam and you are the admiral's aide. Tell me more.'

Surprisingly, Adam found it easy to speak with her. As they strolled through the shadows he told her of his life as a sea officer, of his home in Cornwall, an J all the while he was very conscious of her hand through his arm.

She said suddenly, 'You are the admiral's nephew, Adam?'

Even the way she spoke his name was like pure music.

'Yes.'

She said, 'I do not live in Boston. My family is in Newburyport, some thirty miles north from here. It's strange, I hadn't thought of it before. My father sometimes speaks of a man who used to live in our town. His name was Bolitho too.'

Adam tried to think clearly. 'In Newburyport?'

'Yes.' She squeezed his arm. You sound as if you have remembered something.'

He looked at her and wanted to hold her.

'I think it must have been my father.'

She was about to laugh when she realized the seriousness of his tone, the importance of this discovery.

'My uncle says that your ship will be in Boston for weeks. You shall come to Newburyport and meet my family.' She reached up and touched his cheek with her gloved fingers. 'Do not be sad, Adam. If you have a secret, I can share it with you. But tell me only when you want to.'

'I want to.' He found that he meant it with all his heart.

From the study window Bolitho saw them cross the terrace and was moved.

It was time Adam found some enjoyment, even for a fleeting moment. He had known nothing but war and the hard life in King's ships since he had walked all that way from Penzance to find his place in the Bolitho family. Bolitho could picture him exactly. A thin, frightened boy, and yet with the defiant restlessness of a young colt. He thought he heard the girl named Robina laugh. Yes, he was glad for Adam's sake.

A footman opened the double doors of the library and a tall figure in a bottle-green coat and white stockings strode into the study.

Chase said quickly, 'This here is Samuel Fane from the capital.'

Fane had a narrower face with all the animation contained in a pair of deepset eyes which crowded against a strong, beaklike nose.

'Vice-Admiral Bolitho.' He nodded a greeting. 'Well, let's get down to business.'

Bolitho let his arm fall to his side. Maybe Fane did not like shaking hands with an old enemy. But it was a snub, intended or not.

Curiously, it made him feel calmer in some strange way.

Like fighting a duel. When you accept there is no easy way out after all.

Fane said in the same flat voice, 'San Felipe. Now, could you please explain to me, Admiral, how it is that your government thinks it has the right to take or give away people and territory as if they were of no consequence? By what right?

Chase said uneasily, 'Calm down, Sam. You know it is not like that.'

'Do I?' The deepset eyes had not moved from Bolitho.

Bolitho said, 'It was agreed at the peace conference.' He smiled gently. 'As I am sure you are aware. May I assume that the French government has already spoken to yours about it?'

Chase interrupted angrily. 'Course they did. Tell him, Sam, and get down off your high horse. The war's over, remember?'

Fane regarded him coldly. 'I am constantly reminded of it when I see how some have grown rich on the blood of others.'

Bolitho saw the sparks in Chase's eyes and said, 'I thought the French were still your friends?'

Fane shrugged. 'Once, and in the future mebbee. But on San Felipe, across the southern approaches, that's different.'

Bolitho said, 'The people on San Felipe are British subjects.'

Chase grinned. 'So were most of us. Once."

Fane did not hear him. 'Some while ago I received a despatch from the governor of San Felipe. He was worried, naturally, at the British government's intransigence. He has no desire to accept the choice given him, that is to leave a prospering island to the French or to remain there under a foreign flag.'

'I can understand that.'

'Can you. Admiral? That encourages me a little. However, the United States government is not prepared to stand by and allow human beings to be used for barter like cattle in an African slave village.'

Bolitho found that he was on his feet, his voice angry as he retorted, Then there is no point in my wasting your time, Mr Fane, or mine!'

Chase said quickly, 'Easy, you two! Blazes, Sam, the admiral is my guest. I'll not have you brawling like a pair of hell-cats!'

Fane relented slightly. 'It will have to be a compromise.'

Bolitho sat down again. 'In what fashion?'

'Our government would be prepared to accept San Felipe's request to come under the United States' protection.'

'That's impossible.'

'If the French agree, Admiral, would you?' Bolitho glanced at Chase but he was staring at the whales' teeth.

He knew too. They all did. It was not a compromise at all. It was blackmail.

He tried to keep his voice calm. 'The governor had no authority to make such a request, from you or anyone else. We are caught in the tragedy of history. There is nothing we can do about it.'

Fane regarded him bleakly. 'We shall see.'

He added, 'Your flagship has the extended courtesy of my government. This matter cannot be settled in minutes. We must think on it further.'

Bolitho nodded. Fane had been testing him, goading him, for reasons he could still only guess at.

He could not resist saying, 'Your government has also extended a welcome to another of my ships, Mr Fane. The Sparrowhawk. She will be joining me shortly.'

Fane grunted. 'Yes. I know." He thrust his hands beneath his coat tails and added, 'I must leave now.' He gave a curt nod. 'Admiral.'

Chase left the room with him and Bolitho walked to the window again. But where the young lieutenant and the fair-haired girl had been walking was all in darkness.

Bolitho turned to face the doors as he heard Chase's heavy footsteps returning.

In many ways it was harder than fighting a battle, he thought. And far less rewarding.

5

'There may be thunder . . . '

The weeks which followed the reception at Chase's fine house taxed Bolitho to the limit. Jonathan Chase and several other wealthy Bostonians took it upon themselves to make them welcome, and nightly entertainment of one kind or another had become a regular feature for Achates' wardroom.

And yet Bolitho was plagued by the idea that the lack of news and assistance by the President's representative, Samuel Fane, were linked in some way.

Perhaps he should have ignored the outline of his orders and proceeded first to San Felipe without entrusting the opening move to Captain Duncan in the Sparrowhawk. But had he done so his action might have been construed as arrogance or worse.

And where was Sparrowbawk? What had Duncan found so important that he had delayed joining him here at Boston?

On this particular day Bolitho had been unable to touch his midday meal at all. The meat and bread were fresh, brought off shore by one of Chase's own boats, yet he could not face it.

Around and above him the ship was resting in the sweltering heat, and there was the usual heady smell of rum as each mess issued its ration for the day.

Maybe Sheaffe had known it would all be a waste of time which might end in disagreement with the Americans.

He tugged the shirt away from his skin. It felt like a wet rag. He made himself remain in his chair, knowing he would only begin to pace about the cabin like a caged lion if he did not.

Belinda. He twisted round in the chair and stared through the stern windows until his eyes watered. It would be over by now. They would have a child, unless . . .

Suppose something had gone wrong? It was her first time. Anything might happen.

He saw the distant houses move into view as Achates swung indifferently to her cable. It would be better to get to sea again. To do something.

There was a light tap at the screen door and Keen entered, his eyes moving quickly to the untouched plate on Bolitho's table.

'The American frigates are shortening their cables, sir.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Yes. Only the French will be here now.'

Keen said, 'In my opinion, sir, we should have another vessel attached to us for communications.'

'You've been thinking about Duncan's Sparrowhawk too?'

Keen shrugged. 'Well, yes, as a matter of fact. Without even a brig in company we are deaf and dumb to everything beyond the harbour limits.'

Yovell, the clerk, hovered in the doorway. 'Beg pardon, zur, there are some papers for yew to sign.'

Bolitho thought suddenly of his nephew. Adam had asked permission to escort Chase's niece to her home in Newburyport. He could envy him his freedom from the endless waiting and the uncertainty. Bolitho knew he had been poor company and he had even exploded over one of Allday's comments. He had immediately relented. It was not Allday's fault. It was not anybody's.

Bolitho read swiftly through Yovell's handwriting and then put his signature at the bottom. No wonder they said the Admiralty was crammed with written reports. Did anyone ever read them? he wondered.

He said abruptly, 'I shall try once more to discuss the matter of San Felipe with the Americans, after that I shall be pleased to sail for the island, Sparrowhawk or not. You might send word privately to Antigua if you can discover a ship's master for the task. The admiral at English Harbour should be told what we are about. If I add a line to your despatch we might even worm a brig out of his command, eh?'

Ozzard entered and removed the tray with nothing but a reproachful glance to reveal what he thought about it.

Keen said, 'You don't think the Americans would interfere with our affairs, sir?'

'Those frigates, you mean?' Bolitho shook his head. 'It would be unwise. They may voice their displeasure, but they're more likely to remain on the fence as spectators.'

The first lieutenant appeared at the screen door, his head stooped beneath the deckhead beams.

'Your pardon, sir, but Mr Chase's launch is approaching. He has the other gentleman with him.'

Bolitho and Keen exchanged glances.

Bolitho said quietly, 'Fane, the President's emissary, at long last. Now perhaps we can settle the matter.'

Keen picked up his hat and grinned. 'Full guard of honour, Mr Quantock. If there is to be a squall, it will not be of our making!'

Allday padded from the adjoining cabin and glanced at the sword rack, then with a slight hesitation he took down the brightly gilded presentation blade which had been given to Bolitho after the Battle of the Nile.

He gave the old sword a pat and murmured, 'You rest easy.'

Bolitho allowed him to clip the glittering presentation sword to his belt.

The old family sword was for fighting. This was a time for diplomacy.

Some twelve hundred miles south of where Bolitho contained his impatience and waited to receive Mr Samuel Fane, His Britannic Majesty's frigate Sparrouhawk of twenty-six guns was becalmed in blinding sunlight. Two of her boats moved sluggishly on tow-lines ahead of their parent ship, more to give her steerage-way than with any hope of finding a wind.

It had been like this for three whole days since the frigate had weighed anchor in San Felipe, her mission there only partially completed.

In his cabin Captain James Duncan sat at a table, his face set in a frown, as he added another paragraph to an already lengthy letter. It was to his wife and, like most married sea officers, Duncan continued each letter with the same regularity as a personal log. He did not know when the letter would be completed, even less when he would be able to pass it to some home-bound vessel so that his wife would eventually read it in their Dorset home.

Duncan, for all his bluff ways, was very soft where his wife was concerned. They had been married for only two years, and he had been with her in that time for less than a month. He had no regrets, it was part of the sacrifice you had to make if you intended the Navy as a career. Duncan was a post-captain and had only just passed his twenty-seventh birthday. If he held this command under Bolitho there would be no stopping him, even in a time of uneasy peace.

Like many of his contemporaries, Duncan had little faith in a lasting peace. He had distinguished himself in three major battles and had been extremely successful in other ship-to-ship engagements where the cut and thrust of every good frigate captain showed its worth.

He admired Bolitho tremendously, not merely for his courage and skill — that Duncan could take for granted — but for his true interest in those who served him. Although he would never admit it, Duncan tried to model himself on Bolitho.

That was the main reason for his frown. His visit to San Felipe had not been a success. The governor, Sir Humphrey Rivers, had treated him more as a stupid subordinate than the captain of a King's ship and Bolitho's own representative.

Duncan knew all about ships and the sea, but he had no knowledge at all of men like Rivers.

Rivers had lost his temper at their first meeting. In his impressive house which nestled comfortably amidst a great plantation, Rivers had shouted, 'There's a graveyard by the harbour, Captain! Full of good men who have fought for this island. I'll not betray their trust by handing over everything to the French. Damn your eyes if I shall!'

Duncan secretly agreed with him, but he was used to obeying orders. In any case, he did not like the man, and thought him an arrogant pig.

Bolitho would not thank him for bringing him such empty news. If Rivers refused to comply with the agreed terms he might find himself charged with treason, or an act of mutiny, or whatever governors were disciplined by. Duncan frowned more deeply and put his pen to paper again.

The deck gave a shudder and a pair of brass dividers clattered from another table.

Duncan lurched to his feet as the ship slowly came to life beneath him.

He hurried on deck and found his first lieutenant and sailing-master staring up at the limp canvas as very gently a breeze pushed against the rigging.

Duncan dashed the sweat from his eyes. It was not much, but . . .

'Mr Palmer! Recall those boats and hoist 'em inboard. Pipe all hands.' He clapped the lieutenant on the shoulder and added, 'God damn it, Mr Palmer, maybe we've seen the last of this place, eh?'

He crossed to the side and grasped the sun-heated rail with his powerful hands. He saw the first boat cast off the tow and pull gratefully towards the ship, its sunburned oarsmen almost too weary to make the effort.

Duncan wondered how the other ship was faring. They had sighted her just before both vessels had been becalmed in the stifling heat.

The first lieutenant returned as the hands swarmed up to man halliards and braces.

He said, 'The masthead reported that our shy companion was still with us at eight bells, sir.'

To confirm it the lookout's voice made several of the seamen look up at his lofty perch.

'Deck thar! Ship on th' weather-bow! She's settin' 'er t'gan's'ls!'

Duncan grunted and turned to watch his own ship lean slightly to the mounting pressure. The second boat was being swayed up and over the gangway. His Sparrowhawk was moving again.

The sailing-master said, 'She'll be on a converging tack with us, sir.'

'Put a good man to watch her.'

Duncan pushed the sudden anxiety from his thoughts. For a small moment he had thought it might be Achates, Bolitho coming to look for him, to discover the meaning of the delay.

Blocks clattered and lines snaked through the sheaves as slowly, and then more confidently, Sparrowhawk responded to the pressure in her sails.

'North by west, sir! Full an' bye!'

Duncan rubbed his reddened face and waited for the sails to fill again. It was not much, but enough to make her thrust through the water. Even the tiny island which had shown itself on the horizon had dipped over the sea's rim before the master had identified it. Probably one of the islets of the Bahama chain, Duncan thought.

There were some little ones off San Felipe too. One even had a strange mission church on it, and he had been told that some monks existed there, entirely cut off from everything.

San Felipe had originally been Spanish, so it seemed likely that the monks were the last survivors of that occupation.

Duncan felt in better spirits. He had, after all, done what he had been ordered to do. Bolitho would know how to interpret what he had seen and heard.

'I'm going below, Mr Palmer. I've a letter to finish. Who knows, I may be able to send it off sooner than I thought!'

Palmer smiled. When the captain was in good humour the ship was always a better place.

As the wind continued to fill the sails, and froth gurgled around the bows, the other ship grew larger while she continued purposefully on a converging tack.

Too large for a frigate, Palmer thought, as he clung to the weather shrouds and trained his telescope on her. She was shining in the bright glare, her chequered gun-ports almost awash as she found the wind which had not yet reached Sparrowhauk.

West Indiaman probably, he decided. They were as smart as paint these days. It was said that a grocery captain could earn as much on one passage as would take ten years in the Navy.

'She's hoisted a signal, sir!'

'I can see that, dammit!' Palmer was tired from standing so long in the heat, praying for a wind. It put an edge to his voice which was unusual for him.

The signals midshipman swallowed hard and levelled his big glass on the other vessel, his face screwed up with concentration as he held the lens on the brightly coloured flags at her yard.

'She wishes to speak with us, sir!'

The first lieutenant swore under his breath. It was probably of no importance at all, and to heave to while they exchanged useless information might mean losing the wind again.

He snapped, 'Acknowledge the signal, Mr Clements.' He beckoned to the midshipman of the watch. 'My respects to the captain, Mr Evans. Tell him we shall have to heave to.'

Palmer swung away. The captain's good mood would vanish now.

Duncan, his shirt open to his waist, strode from the companion-way and eyed the other vessel without comment. She could have important news which had a bearing on their mission. Her master might just as easily be eager to exchange gossip. Two ships meeting far from home were all that was required.

'Shorten sail, Mr Palmer. Stand by to come about.' He clasped his hands behind him and watched his men scamper to their stations.

'Put the helm down!'

Duncan beckoned to the midshipman. 'Glass, Mr Evans.'

He took the telescope from the boy's hand and glanced at him as he did so. Midshipman Evans was thirteen, the youngest in Sparrowhawk's gun-room. A likeable youth, who had been mastheaded more than once since leaving England for his practical jokes.

Duncan levelled the glass and braced his legs as the ship heeled violently in a trough and the men up forward loosed the head-sail sheets to allow Sparrouhawk to swing through the eye of the wind. To a landsman the ship would appear in confusion, with rippling sails and clattering rigging, but in a moment or so she would come round on the opposite tack and reduce sail even more.

Duncan smiled grimly. He liked his ship to be handled firmly, like a strong-willed horse.

He stiffened as the other ship swam hugely into the lens. Her yards were swinging, her sails filling like metal breastplates as she changed tack, not into the wind, but to starboard, and as her fore-course thundered out from its yard she seemed to lean forward as she swept down across the frigate's stern.

Duncan yelled, 'Belay that order, Mr Palmer! Bring her about again!'

Men tumbled in confusion and braces and halliards squealed through the blocks and more hands threw themselves among their companions to try and haul the yards round.

Duncan reeled as his ship tried to respond, but she was nearly aback, the sails billowing and cracking against the masts and shrouds.

'Beat to quarters'.'

Duncan stared wildly at the other ship, his skin like ice despite the sun's heat. He should have seen it. Now it was already too late, and even as he stared he saw the other vessel's gun-ports open, the black muzzles poking out into the sunlight, while his own startled marine drummers started the staccato beat which brought more men pouring up from between decks, some still unaware of the danger.

Duncan made himself face the regular flashes along the other vessel's side, the darting orange tongues and rolling bank of smoke. Then in seconds a torrent of iron smashed into the frigate's hull and above the deck, tearing down rigging and spars, punching holes in the flapping canvas, and worse, ploughing through the stern to turn the crowded gun-deck into a bloody shambles.

Duncan clung to the nettings, bellowing like a wounded bull as a ball slammed into one of the quarterdeck guns and flung splinters across the planking, cutting down men and daubing scarlet patterns to mark where they fell.

He felt a blow in his side like the blade of an axe, and when he looked he saw blood pumping down his leg, and when the pain came he could hear himself moaning with agony.

A great shadow swept over him, and with a thundering roar the mizzen-mast and rigging crashed over the side carrying seamen and marines with them.

More violent shocks battered at the hull like iron rams, and Duncan had to hold on to the nettings to prevent himself from falling. 1'heir attacker was following them round, her sails rising above the smoke like the wings of hell itself. She was firing without a break, and still not one of Sparrowhawk's guns had been loaded. Men lay dead and dying everywhere, and when he peered at the helm Duncan saw that the wheel was in fragments, the master and his helmsmen scattered by the fury of the bombardment.

'Mr Palmer!'

His cry was less than a croak. But the first lieutenant was on his knees by the rail, his mouth like a black hole as he screamed silently at his hands which lay before him like torn gloves.

Duncan fell down as more great crashes rocked the hull. He could hear the balls slamming through the deck below and saw smoke rising from an open hatch. She was on fire.

He tried to stand, his rage and his despair making him terrible to see. He had fallen in his own blood, and he could feel the strength running away to match the terrible patterns on the deck around him. 'Let me help, sir!'

Duncan thrust his arm around the boy's shoulders. It was little Evans, and the realization helped to steady him.

He gasped, 'Done for, boy. See to the others.' He felt the midshipman shudder and saw the fear bright in his eyes. He gripped him more tightly with his bloody arm. 'Stand to, boy, you're a King's officer today. Get them — ' Then he fell and this time he did not rise.

A few seamen and marines ran aft and would have flung themselves into the sea astern but for the thirteen-year-old midshipman.

He shouted, 'Quarter-boat! Bosun's mate, take charge there!'

When one tried to knock him aside he snatched a pistol and fired it above their heads. For a moment longer they stared at each other like madmen, then, obedient to their training, they tossed their weapons aside and ran to haul the quarter-boat alongside.

A few shots were still hitting the hull, but Sparrowhawk had no fight left in her. She was settling down, the sea exploring the orlop and reaching up further still so that there was a glint of water below the companion.

Evans ran to aid his friend, the signals midshipman, but he was already dead, a hole in his chest big enough for a man's fist.

Evans stood up very carefully, his feet sliding in blood as the stern began to go under.

He thought he heard one of the other boats nearby, the third lieutenant trying to restore order and rally the survivors.

He looked at his dead captain, a man he had feared and admired. Now he was nothing, and Evans felt unnerved by it, cheated.

A burly marine, one of his comrades over his shoulder like a sack, paused and gasped, 'Come along, sir. Nothin' 'ere now.'

The wounded man groaned and the one who was carrying him peered round, looking for a boat. But something in Evans' face held him there like a shouted command on the square. The marine had been at St Vincent and the Nile, and had seen many of his friends die like this.

He said roughly, 'You've done yer best, so come along er me, eh?'

The hull gave a great shiver. She was going.

The midshipman walked with the marine and did not even blink as the foremast thundered down like a falling cliff.

'I'm ready, thank you.' It seemed little enough comment for such a terrible moment.

As guns tore themselves loose from their lashings and crashed along the deck among the corpses and whimpering wounded, Sparrowhauk lifted her bows and dived steeply. The whirlpool of swirling wreckage, men and pieces of men remained for a long time, long enough for their attacker to make more sail and alter course to the westward.

There were two boats and a roughly lashed raft left as evidence of what had happened, with survivors floundering in search of a handhold or a place in one of them.

A week later, the American brig Baltimore Lady on passage from Guadeloupe to New York, sighted one drifting boat and hove to to investigate. The boat was filled with sun-blackened men, some dead, apparently from wounds or burns, others barely able to speak. Deep score marks on the boat's planking showed where sharks had torn others from their handholds alongside. There was an officer of sorts in charge of the boat. The brig's mate later described him as 'less'n a boy'.

Midshipman Evans had obeyed Duncan's order, 'See to the others.'

It was something he would remember for the rest of his life.

Samuel Fane regarded Bolitho without emotion as he said, 'I have spoken with the President and have also discussed the matter of San Felipe with the French admiral.'

Bolitho watched him calmly. There was no point in attacking Fane for going behind his back and speaking with the French flag-officer. He had every right to, if Boston was to be a neutral ground for the discussions.

Also, being aboard his own flagship made more of a difference than he would have expected. Ashore in Chase's fine house he was the stranger. Here in Achates, with familiar faces and sounds all around him, he felt assured and confident.

He said, 'No steps can be taken until I receive the report from my frigate captain. A compromise may be worked out, but only under the present conditions. Sir Humphrey Rivers is the British Governor of San Felipe, but nothing more than that.'

Jonathan Chase, who had swallowed two glasses of claret in his anxiety that it should be a better meeting than the previous one, exclaimed, 'No harm in that, eh, Sam?"

Fane's deepset eyes settled on him only briefly.

'Our government will not tolerate a war, large or small, where it might endanger United States' trade and progress. It makes more sense to me that the island should come under our protection, if that is the will of the people there.'

He gave a deep sigh. 'But if the admiral wishes to show his authority first, then I suppose we must indulge him.'

Chase held out his glass for Ozzard to refill.

'God damn it, Sam, do you never relax?'

Fane smiled wryly. 'Hardly at all.'

Feet moved on the deck overhead, and Bolitho heard a voice calling an order. It was his world. This sort of double-tongue was alien to him.

He stood up and walked to the stern windows. There was a slow, hot wind across Massachusetts Bay and the sky was slashed by thin, pink clouds. How inviting the sea looked.

Fane was saying, 'It might take a few months to settle, but what of that? The French will not insist on immediate occupation of the island. It will give all of us time.'

Bolitho suddenly saw a naval brig turning into the wind, her anchor splashing down even as her sails were smartly furled at their yards. The ensign which licked out from her gaff was the same as the one at Achates' taffrail.

He replied, 'His Majesty's Government has entrusted me with the task of handing over the island, sir. None of us wants an uprising, especially now that the West Indies are recovering from the war.'

A boat had been dropped from the brig and was already speeding across the water towards the flagship.

Bolitho felt a nerve jump in his throat. What was it? News from home already, could it be . . . ?'

He forced himself to face the others, his eyes almost blind in the cabin's shady interior.

'I shall send a letter to your President. I appreciate very much what he is trying to do - ' He broke off and turned sharply as Ozzard murmured, 'It's the captain, sir.'

Keen stood in the doorway, his hat jammed beneath his arm.

'Please forgive this interruption, sir.' He glanced at the others. 'The commander of the brig Electra is come aboard. He has news for you, sir." His eyes were pleading. 'Very serious news.'

Bolitho nodded. 'I'll not be long, gentlemen.'

He followed Keen from the cabin and saw a young officer waiting by the chart room.

Keen said tightly, 'This is Commander Napier, sir.'

Bolitho looked at him impassively. 'Tell me."

Napier swallowed hard. Electra was his first command, and he had never spoken with a vice-admiral before.

'I was on passage to the south'rd when I sighted an American brig. She signalled for assistance, and when I boarded her I found her to be carrying British seamen.' He flinched under Bolitho's gaze. 'They were survivors.'

Bolitho saw Keen's face, he looked pale in spite of the sun.

The commander added quietly, 'From Sparrowhawk, sir.'

Bolitho clenched his hands together behind him to control his sense of shock. In his heart he had nursed a dread that something had happened to the little frigate. A storm, a reef, or one of a dozen disasters which can befall a ship sailing alone.

Napier continued, 'She was attacked, sir. A two-decker to all accounts, although —

Bolitho could see it as if he had been there himself. Just as their attacker had fired on Achates. Without warning, except that this time her victim had been hopelessly outgunned even if Duncan had been expecting trouble.

'How many?'

Again the young commander could barely speak above a murmur.

'Twenty-five, sir, and some of those are in a poor way.'

Bolitho felt his skin go cold. Twenty-five, out of a company which had numbered two hundred souls.

'Any officers?' He barely recognized his own voice.

'None, sir. Just a midshipman. First commission too.'

Bolitho eyed him bitterly. Duncan had perished with his ship. He could picture him without effort. Duncan had even been to his wedding at Falmouth. A good man, strong and reliable.

It was impossible. A nightmare.

The commander took his silence for displeasure and hurried on, 'The midshipman said that the third lieutenant was in another boat but was badly wounded in the face and neck by splinters. During the night the boats drifted apart, and then the sharks came.' He looked at the deck.

'Bring the midshipman to me.' He saw his hesitation. 'Is he wounded?'

'No, sir.'

Keen said shortly, 'See to it.'

As the commander hurried away Bolitho said, 'Send word to my flag-lieutenant. He must return at once. Fast horse, anything.'

Keen stared at him. 'It was the same ship, wasn't it, sir?'

'I'm certain of it.' He eyed him steadily. 'Ask the surgeon to help with the wounded. The rest of Sparrowhawk's people can be signed on to your books. I want them to be with us when we run that butcher to earth!'

Bolitho strode aft to the cabin. He knew he must look different in some way. Chase had a glass poised in the air, Ozzard was frozen in the act of refilling it. Fane's eyes followed him to the stern windows before he asked, 'Bad news, Admiral?"

Bolitho looked at him and tried to fight the sudden all-consuming anger which coursed through him like fire.

'I am leaving harbour as soon as all my people are aboard.'

Chase shifted in his chair as if to see him better.

'Not waiting for your frigate after all?'

Bolitho shook his head.

'I'm heartily sick of waiting.'

He saw the brig's boat going alongside again. It was cruel to send for the young midshipman after what he had endured. But he had to know everything the boy could tell him.

He said quietly, 'Sparrowhawk's been sunk.'

He heard Chase's quick intake of breath.

Bolitho added, 'So you see, gentlemen, there may be thunder before we can settle things to everyone's satisfaction.'

6

No Easy Way

Captain Valentine Keen sat with legs crossed on one of Bolitho's chairs and watched his superior as he read through a despatch for the Admiralty. It would be put aboard the brig Electra and eventually be transferred to a fleet-courier so that it would be completely out-of-date by the time Admiral Sheaffe was able to examine it.

Keen glanced through the open stern windows and silently cursed the oppressive heat. It seemed to pin the whole ship down so that even the smallest movement was uncomfortable.

Bolitho signed the last page where Yovell had indicated and looked questioningly at his flag-captain. 'Well, Val, are we ready for sea?'

Keen nodded and instantly felt a trickle of sweat run down his spine.

"The water-lighters have cast off, sir. There's just your - ' Bolitho stood up as if pricked by a thorn and strode to the windows.

'My nephew. He should be back on board by now.'

He was thinking aloud. The ship was waiting to weigh anchor. Boats were hoisted, and all hands accounted for. He stared hard at the little brig which had brought the news of Sparrowhawk's loss. Napier, her young commander, would be glad to rid himself of his responsibility to an admiral other than his own. His tiny command would soon be free of Bolitho and hurrying to Antigua to pass the news of the mysterious assassin, the ship which bore no name and showed no colours. Bolitho would have given a lot to hold on to the Electra, but the need to spread the word of the unknown attacker was paramount. Other ships might be lost in the same fashion.

Keen watched the emotions as they chased each other across Bolitho's features. They had seen and done so much together in every kind of action. Now, supposedly in peacetime, they were faced with something which was both baffling and terrible.

Feet thudded overhead, and calls trilled as the watch on deck was ordered to some new task under the first lieutenant's eye.

Bolitho did not see Keen's sympathetic scrutiny. His mind kept swinging from tack to tack, as if he was imprisoned by his own thoughts. Wait in Boston or set sail for San Felipe? It was his decision alone, just as his decision had cost Duncan his life. Keen had spoken with the one surviving midshipman, Evans, but had got little out of him. Bolitho had asked Allday to speak with the boy in his own way and the result had been startling. Allday had that casual, effortless way of talking to people, especially youngsters like Evans, and as he had described what Evans had told him Bolitho had been able to relive that brief, savage encounter which had ended with Sparrowhawk's total destruction.

It was a wonder a boy like Evans had not collapsed completely, Bolitho thought. It was not like going to war with the fear of death a constant companion. It was Evans' very first commission, his only voyage in a man-of-war. He did not even come from a naval family but was the son of a tailor in Cardiff.

To see his best friend, a fellow midshipman, smashed down like a slaughtered animal, to be the last one to speak with the mortally wounded Duncan while the ship exploded around him was more than most could have withstood. Perhaps later, months later, the shock would show itself.

Allday had explained how Evans had sensed an explosion even as his boat had pulled away from the sinking frigate.

The gallery fire had not been doused. Flames had probably spread to the magazine or powder-room, so that for many of the ship's company the end had been quick and the horror of the sharks held back for the others.

Another of the survivors, an experienced gunner's mate, had told Allday that the cannon fire had sounded flatter and louder than he would have expected. She was carrying far heavier weapons, he thought, even though the numbers had been reduced.

Bolitho glanced at the eighteen-pounder near his desk. Probably thirty-two-pounders. But why?

The door opened cautiously and the clerk, Yovell, peered in at them.

Bolitho said, 'Despatches are ready to go.'

What did they matter anyway? He knew it, and so did Keen. Words, words, words. The facts were plain as they were brutal. He had lost a fine ship with most of her people. And there was Duncan and his pretty widow. He had been a good friend. A brave officer.

Yovell remained hovering in the screen doorway.

"There is a mail-packet coming to anchor, sir.' He hesitated. 'From England.'

Bolitho stared at him and was shocked to see the anxiety on Yovell's round features.

My God. he's afraid of me. The shock hit him like a fist. He's terrified because there may be no word from Belinda.

The realization did more to steady his apprehension and doubts than anything. He recalled how only yesterday, as he had waited for Adam to return on board, Yovell had said something to put him at ease. Bolitho had exploded and had cursed him roundly for his interfering. Yet Bolitho had always hated martinets who used their rank and authority to terrorize their subordinates. And it was all too easy. A captain was like a god, so an admiral could do no wrong at all in his own eyes.

He said, 'Thank you, Yovell. Take the quarter-boat and pass my despatches to the Electra. Also any letters from our people.' He watched the man's uncertainty and added, 'Then go over to the mail-packet, will you? There may be something, eh?'

As the clerk made to leave he said quietly, 'I treated you badly. There was no cause for that. Loyalty deserves a whole lot better.'

Keen watched the clerk's wariness change to gratitude, and as the door closed he said, 'That was good of you, sir.'

Bolitho made himself sit down and tugged his shirt free from his moist skin.

'I have been hard on you too, Val. I apologize.'

Keen gauged the moment and said, 'As your flag-captain, I have the freedom to suggest and warn if the occasion arises.'

'You do.' Bolitho smiled grimly. 'Thomas Herrick was quick to use that freedom, so speak your mind.'

Keen shrugged. 'You are beset from every side, sir. The French will not discuss San Felipe with you, nor do they need to as our two governments have signed an agreement on its future. The Americans do not wish to have the French on their doorstep as it could make their own strategy difficult in any future conflict. The governor of the island will fight you all the way, and I suspect that Admiral Sheaffe knew that from the beginning. So why should we worry? If the governor refuses to submit we can arrest him and put him in irons.' His tone hardened. 'Too many men have died to make his position count. Better we take command of the island than to leave its future with him. He probably craves independence from the Crown and will play one faction against the other if we allow it.'

Bolitho smiled. 'I have thought of that. But Sparrowhawk's loss and the unwarranted attack on this ship do not fit the pattern. That ship was Spanish-built, if I'm any judge, and yet His Most Catholic Majesty has voiced no protest about San Felipe. So we either have an attempted coup in the offing or piracy on the grand scale. Hell's teeth, Val, after all these years of war there would be plenty with the experience and the desperation to play for such high odds."

Keen placed his fingertips together. 'And I know you are deeply concerned for your wife, sir.' He watched, waiting to see Bolitho's grey eyes give a flash of danger. 'The waiting has been hard on you, especially after your experiences as a prisoner of war.'

A boat pulled below the counter and Bolitho strode to the windows to examine her passengers. But they were only a few sight-seers, a local trader or two still trying to bargain with the sailors on the upper deck.

Adam was not here.

Keen read his thoughts and said, 'He is young, sir. Maybe it was a wrong choice to appoint him flag-lieutenant.'

Bolitho swung on him hotly. 'Did Browne say as much?'

Keen shook his head. 'I formed my own opinion. Your nephew is a fine young man, and I have nothing but affection for him. You have watched over him from the beginning, treated him like a son.'

Bolitho faced him again. He had no fight left. 'Was that wrong too?'

Keen smiled sadly. 'Certainly not, sir.'

Bolitho walked past his chair and rested his hand momentarily on the young captain's shoulder.

'But you are so right. I did not accept it because I did not wish to.' He waved down Keen's protest. 'I never saw Adam's mother, nobody did. The one good thing she ever did was to send him across the country to Falmouth, to me. But you were correct about me. I love him like a son, but he is not my son. His father was Hugh, my brother. Maybe there is too much of Hugh in him —

Keen stood up quickly. 'Let it stop there, sir. You are tiring yourself to no good purpose. We all look to you. I believe we are in for trouble. I do not think we would have been sent otherwise.'

Bolitho poured two glasses of claret and handed one to Keen.

'You are a good flag-captain, Val. It took courage to say that. And it is true. Personal feelings do not come into it.

Later maybe, but now the slightest anxiety may transmit itself through this ship.' He held the glass to the sunlight. 'And Old Katie will have enough to contend with. She can manage without an admiral who is so wrapped up in his own troubles he can think of nothing else.'

There was a nervous tap at the door and Yovell entered, his eyes fixed on Bolitho.

Keen looked away, unable to watch as Bolitho took the single letter from his clerk's hand.

He wanted to leave but, like the clerk, was unwilling to snap the spell.

Bolitho read the short letter and then folded it with great care.

'Get the ship under way, if you please. The wind will suffice to clear the harbour.' He met Keen's even stare.

'The letter is from my sister in Falmouth. My wife . . . His lips hesitated on her name as if they were afraid. 'Belinda is not well. The letter was written some time ago for the packet made another landfall before Boston. But she knew that the packet was sailing. And she wanted to let me know she was thinking of me.' He turned away, his eyes suddenly stinging. 'Even though she was too ill to write.'

Keen looked at Yovell's stricken face and gave a quick jerk of the head.

When the clerk had gone he said gently, 'It was what I would expect her to do, sir. And that is how you must see it.'

Bolitho looked at him and then nodded. 'Thank you, Val. Please leave me now. I shall come up directly.'

Keen walked through the adjoining cabin space and past the motionless marine sentry at the outer screen door.

Herrick would have known what to do. He felt helpless and yet deeply moved that Bolitho had shared his despair with him.

He saw Allday beside an eighteen-pounder and gestured to him.

Allday listened to him and then gave a great sigh. It seemed to come from the soles of his shoes, Keen thought.

Then Allday said, 'I'll go aft, sir. He needs a friend just now.' His face tried to grin. 'He'll no doubt take me to task for my impertinence, but what the hell? He'll crack like a faulty musket barrel if we allows it, an' that's no error.'

Keen strode out into the noon sunlight, adjusting his hat as his lieutenants and the master turned to face him.

'Stand by to get under way, Mr Quantock. I want to see your best today with half the port watching us.'

As the officers hurried to their stations and the boatswain's mates sent their shrill calls below decks, Keen ran lightly up a poop ladder and looked briefly at the anchored shipping, at the angle of the masthead pendant.

Then he glanced at the open skylight on the poop deck and thought of the man beneath it.

He cupped his hands. 'Mr Mountsteven, your men are like cripples today.'

He saw the lieutenant touch his hat and bob anxiously.

Keen made himself breathe out very slowly.

That was better. He was the captain again.

The negro groom wiped his hands on a piece of rag and announced, 'Wheel all fixed, sah.'

Adam helped the girl to her feet and together they walked reluctantly from the shade of some trees and down to the dusty road.

The carriage had shed a wheel as it had rounded a bend in the road and had dipped into a deep rut.

There had been momentary confusion, the carriage lurching over and a door opening to reveal the road rising to meet them. Then in the sudden silence Adam had realized his unexpected good fortune. What might have ended in injury and disaster had become a perfect conclusion to the visit.

As the carriage had bounced to a halt Adam had acted instantly and without conscious thought other than to save his companion from hurt. Then as the dust settled, and the coachman and groom had hurried fearfully to look inside, Adam had found the girl held tightly in his arms, her fair hair pressed against his mouth, her heart pounding to match his own.

It had taken longer than expected to repair the damage, but Adam had barely noticed. Together they had walked through the green woodland, had held hands while they had watched a stream and spoken of anything but their true feelings.

The whole visit to Newburyport had been an adventure, and Adam had been taken to visit a small, comfortable house by Robina and her father, and they had watched him, fascinated, while he had walked through every room with the owner, a friend of the family, and had touched the walls, the fireplaces, and one old chair which had always been in the house.

Robina had tried not to weep as he had sat in the big chair, his hands grasping the well-worn arms as if he would never let go.

Then he had said quietly, 'My father once sat here, Robina. My father.'

He still could not believe it.

She slipped her hand through his arm and nestled her cheek against his coat.

'You must go, Adam. I have made you late enough as it is.'

Together they moved back to the coach and climbed inside.

As the horses came alive again in their harness, the girl said softly, 'We shall be in Boston very soon.' She turned and looked directly into his eyes. 'You may kiss me now if you wish, Adam.' She tried to make light of it by adding, 'No one can see us here. It would not do for local folk to think that Robina Chase was a fizgig!'

Her mouth was very soft and she had a perfume like fresh flowers.

Then she gently pushed him away and dropped her eyes.

"Well, really, Lieutenant ..." But the jest eluded her. She said breathlessly, 'It's love, isn't it?'

Adam smiled, his mind in a daze. 'It must be.'

The coach rolled across cobbles and on to a stretch of old ships' timbers.

Several people paused to glance at the fair-haired girl and the young sea officer who helped her protectively from the coach.

Adam stared in astonishment and then looked at the girl on his arm.

'What shall I do now, Robina?'

It was like a douche of cold water. Achates had gone.

'So here you are.' Jonathan Chase nodded to his niece and then said grimly, 'Sailed yesterday. Your admiral was hellbent for San Felipe.'

He toyed with the idea of telling the young lieutenant about the Sparrowhawk's end, but as he looked from him to his niece he decided against it.

Instead he said, 'You'd better come home with me, young fella. Tomorrow I'll see what I can do about arranging passage for you. You'd not want to miss your ship, eh?'

He saw their hands touch and knew they had not heard a word.

Chase led the way to his own carriage, his face frowning in thought. His niece was the apple of his eye, but you had to face the facts squarely as you did a problem at sea.

They made a striking pair, but the family would never allow it to go further. He could not imagine what he had been thinking of when he had first introduced them.

A young sea officer, an English one at that, with few prospects other than the Navy, was not the right match for Robina Chase. So the sooner he found his ship again the better.

Bolitho left the shadow of the poop and walked forward to the quarterdeck rail. He noticed the curious glances darted in his direction by the bare-backed seamen who were working on the endless tasks of a fighting ship. Even now they were not used to having a flag-officer in their midst, and could not accept that he did not dress in the style suited to his rank. Like the other officers, Bolitho wore only an open-necked shirt and breeches, and would willingly have stripped naked to gain relief from the heat had that not violated every rule in the book.

He looked up at the canvas, sail by sail. Filling tightly for the present, but at any moment they could fall limp and useless as they had for much of the time since leaving Boston.

Bolitho tried not to allow his mind to dwell on it. Why had his sister Nancy written? Was it really as Keen had suggested, or was she trying to prepare him for bad news? Belinda had been ill. It might be something from her earlier life in India when she had nursed her sick husband until he had died.

He paced across the pale planking, worn smooth by a million bare feet in Old Katie's twenty-one years at sea.

He tried to shift his thoughts away from Falmouth but they lingered instead on his nephew.

Bolitho had wanted, needed to remain in Boston more than anything in his heart and soul. To wait for one more word from Belinda, and to have his nephew rejoin the ship. He should not have allowed him to go to Newburyport. Maybe Keen, like Browne, had been right about that too. He ought not to have chosen one so close as his aide.

Keen crossed the deck and said, 'Wind's holding steady, sir."

He watched Bolitho's reaction. For eight of the longest days he could remember Keen had worked his ship to the southward, spreading every stitch of canvas to coax another knot out of her. It had been a poor average all the same, and he guessed that Quantock was comparing him with the last captain. He did not care about his dour first lieutenant, but was more conscious of the fact that Bolitho had never levelled a single criticism or complaint. He knew better than most that in these waters the wind was never reliable, rarely an ally when you most needed it.

Bolitho looked at the flapping masthead pendant.

'Tomorrow then, Val.'

'Aye, sir. Mr Knocker assures me that we shall be off San Felipe by noon, if the wind holds.' He sounded relieved.

Bolitho looked abeam, at the regular swell and occasional feather of spray as a fish broke the surface. Like Keen, he had studied the charts and sketches of San Felipe until he could see them in his sleep. Fifty miles long but less than twenty miles wide at its broadest parts, it was dominated by an extinct volcano and a huge natural harbour on the southern side. The northern approaches were fiercely guarded by reefs, and there was a further barrier of coral adjoining the little islet on the opposite side. It was a formidable place, even without the old fortress which commanded the approaches to Rodney's Harbour, as the anchorage was named. There was fresh water in plenty, while rich crops of sugar and coffee made a tempting prize. Bolitho found himself inwardly agreeing with the island's governor, Sir Humphrey Rivers, that it was a madness to hand the place back to the French.

Keen was saying, 'I shall use the prevailing wind to approach the harbour from the south-east, sir. I'd not care to run in under cover of darkness.'

He was making light of it, but Bolitho could guess at his concern for his ship. The waters around San Felipe were used to brigs and trading-schooners, but a ship of the line, even a small sixty-four, needed room to breathe.

Bolitho said, 'I shall go ashore and meet the governor as soon as possible. We know that Captain Duncan had an audience with him.'

He glanced forward as Midshipman Evans walked past some of the sailmaker's crew who were speaking with Foord, the fifth lieutenant. The midshipman turned and stared at the little group and then hurried, almost ran, to the nearest hatchway.

Keen explained, 'Another of Sparrouhawk's wounded has died, sir.'

Bolitho nodded. One more dead. The sailmaker's mates would sew him up in an old hammock and drop him overboard at sunset.

'Tell Midshipman Evans to report to my clerk for duties in the cabin. Keep his mind off things.'

He strode away and began to pace up and down until his shirt was plastered to his skin.

Keen shook his head. Take his mind off things. Bolitho had enough worries and responsibilities for ten men, yet he could still spare a thought for the stricken midshipman.

'Deck there!'

Keen looked up and shaded his eyes against the fierce glare.

The masthead lookout on his perch in the cross-trees yelled, 'Land on th' lee bow!'

Keen looked at the master and grinned. 'Well done, Mr Knocker. We shall remain on the present tack until we can gauge the final approach.'

Knocker grunted. His priest's face gave away neither pleasure nor resentment.

Keen glanced at Bolitho. He had heard the cry but gave no sign either.

'I'll drop the corpse outboard during the last dog watch, sir.' Quantock was tall and ungainly but could move like a cat.

Keen faced him and tried not to feel dislike for his senior lieutenant.

'We shall bury him with due honour, Mr Quantock. Have the watch below piped aft at dusk.'

The lieutenant shrugged. 'If you say so, sir. It's just that he was not one of ours — '

Keen saw the little midshipman being led away by Yovell, the clerk, and said sharply, 'He was somebody's, Mr Quantock!'

And as shadows crept down from the horizon and enfolded the slow-moving ship, Achates paid her respects to the dead.

Bolitho donned his uniform and stood beside Keen as he read a few words from his prayer-book, a boatswain's mate holding a lantern so that he could see the page, although Bolitho suspected he knew the words by heart. He noticed too that the man with the lantern was the one he had spoken to who had served in his Lysander at the Nile.

He looked at the darkening horizon but the island had already disappeared. All that day it had risen slowly above the dark blue line, taking shape, spreading out as if growing in size.

Keen said, 'Carry on, Mr Rooke.'

Bolitho heard the slithering sound on a grating, then a splash alongside as the sailor made his journey to the sea-bed.

Bolitho felt himself shiver, and then a sudden stab in his wounded thigh, like a taunt, a reminder.

A Royal Marine was already folding up the burial flag, the hands were moving away to their messes. The officer of the watch was eager to hand over to his successor and join his companions in the wardroom. The ship's routine took over again, as it always did.

But Bolitho pictured the pathetic bundle sinking in Achates' wake. He had heard the first lieutenant's comment and Keen's angry retort.

Not one of ours.

Next time, he thought bitterly, it would be.

The sky above Massachusetts Bay looked angrier than it had since Achates had first come to her anchor.

As Adam stood with a small group on the quay he noticed that several of the ships in harbour had men working on deck, as if they expected a storm.

Jonathan Chase rubbed his chin and squinted at the fast-moving clouds.

'Sorry to hurry you, Lieutenant, but it's best you use the tide before the weather closes in. Won't last much longer than a few hours.'

Adam turned to the girl whose hair looked like silver in the dying light.

He said, 'It was good of you to find me a vessel, sir.' But his heart and eyes told another story.

She took his arm and they looked at the little brigantine which was already pitching heavily, her loosely brailed sails puffing and drumming in the hot wind. She was named Vivid, and Adam guessed it was just luck that Chase had been able to find a master willing to make the passage of some fourteen hundred miles to San Felipe.

The girl said in a fierce whisper, 'Don't go, Adam. There's no need. You can stay with us until . . . ' She looked at him, part pleading, part defiant. 'My uncle will find you employment.' She squeezed his arm more tightly. 'You'll be like your father then.'

Chase said gruffly, 'Here comes a boat. I've had your gear sent over, and a few luxuries to carry back to your ship. Give your uncle my best wishes.' He was speaking quickly as if to hasten the moment of departure.

Adam bent his head and kissed her. He felt moisture on her skin. Spray or tears, he did not know. He knew that he loved her more than any living thing. That he was just as surely going to lose her. He felt as if he was being torn apart. In hell.

The small boat scraped alongside and a voice called roughly, 'Jump in, Lieutenant! No time to dawdle!'

Adam tugged his hat firmly on to his head and did as he was told. The boat was old and scarred, but the oarsmen smart enough.

He peered astern as the boat butted away from the piles and saw her watching him, her face and raised hand very pale against the land.

I shall be back.

He gritted his teeth as spray swept over the gunwale and the boat's coxswain said curtly, 'Here, get ready!'

The brigantine was pitching right above the boat, her two masts spiralling as she tore at her anchor cable.

Adam was almost glad of the sailor's abruptness. He did not want courtesy. They were doing it for Chase's money, not out of respect for a foreign officer.

He clambered up the side and would have fallen headlong but a big man loomed from the shadows and gripped his arm to steady him.

Adam noticed that the man walked with a bad limp, and as he made to thank him saw to his astonishment that he had only one leg. But there was no mistaking his authority as he shouted at his men to work on the capstan.

'Get below, if you please.'

He had a powerful voice with an easy colonial drawl, quite unlike the Bostonians. He was already limping away to supervise his small crew but hesitated and came back again.

'Would you mind takin' off your hat?'

As Adam removed it, and his hair ruffled in the wind, the Vivid's master nodded, well satisfied.

'Thought so. Soon as I laid eyes on you.' He rubbed his hand down his jerkin and thrust it at him. 'My name's Jethro Tyrrell. Welcome aboard my humble command.'

Adam stared at him. 'You knew my father?'

The man called Tyrrell threw back his head and laughed.

'Hell no! But I knew Richard Bolitho.' He limped away and added over his shoulder, 'Useter be his first lieutenant, would you believe?'

Adam groped his way aft to a tiny companion-way, completely mystified.

It did not really matter who commanded the Vivid’s destiny, he thought. He was taking him away from Robina. The first love of his life.

7

To Start a War

'The entrance to Rodney's Harbour is narrow, sir. A mile wide at the most.' Keen lowered his telescope and pursed his lips. 'A well-sited battery could hold a fleet at bay.'

Bolitho walked to the opposite side of the quarterdeck so that his view of the island would not be obscured by shrouds and rigging.

They had made better progress during the night, and now with the morning sunlight outlining the massive pyramid of the extinct volcano he could gauge its size and the rugged shoreline of the island.

The helmsman called, 'Nor'-west by west, sir.' And Knocker grunted an acknowledgement.

Keen glanced at the masthead pendant. It pointed towards the larboard bow with barely a shiver. The wind was still holding.

Bolitho could feel Keen's mind at work as his ship headed warily towards the pointing spur of headland.

The wind would take them directly into the shelter of the harbour. But they were on a lee shore, so every care was necessary. Keen had sent two good leadsmen forward to the chains at first light and their regular cry of 'No bottom, sir!' warned of the dangers.

The sea-bed shelved very steeply, but once they drew level with the small islet off the southern tip of the headland there would be reefs ready to rip out the keel if the ship lost steerage-way.

'Take in the fore-course, Mr Quantock.' Keen sounded calm but his eyes were everywhere as he watched the topsails hardening to the wind. 'Deck there!'

Bolitho grasped his hands behind his back as the lookout yelled down, 'There's a boom across the entrance, sir!'

Keen stared at him. 'What the hell are they thinking of?'

Bolitho said sharply, 'Send an officer aloft. Then prepare to anchor.'

'But ..." Keen's protest stopped with the one word. He knew that Bolitho understood well enough. To anchor on a lee shore in deep water was tempting disaster. If the wind got up Achates might drag her anchor and run helplessly on to the hidden coral.

Bolitho took a few paces while he considered it, determined not to watch a lieutenant's frantic scramble to the masthead.

The governor could reasonably do what he liked to protect the island. Maybe he had already been attacked, and would withdraw the boom when Achates was identified. He dismissed the idea instantly. The ship had served in these waters for most of her life. She would be easily recognized before any other vessel.

The lieutenant who had climbed up to join the lookout called, 'The boom is a line of moored craft, sir!'

He was one of the junior officers who had recently been promoted from midshipman and had a shrill, almost girlish voice, so that several of the seamen on the quarterdeck grinned and nudged each other until silenced by a roar from Quantock.

Keen shut his telescope with a snap. 'Stand by to come about. Man the braces. Anchor party up forrard at the double!'

The young lieutenant shouted again, There's a yawl approaching, sir!'

Keen looked at Bolitho, anxiety in his eyes. Bolitho said shortly, 'Anchor then.' 'Helm alee! Stand by, Mr Quantock!'

The yards swung noisily when they turned into the wind, the canvas banging and clattering as the way was taken off the ship.

'Let go!'

The anchor hit the sea violently and threw spray high over the beak-head, while Rooke, the boatswain, and a lieutenant of the forecastle peered over the side. At the same time the topmen worked above the deck to take in the sails and ease any strain on the cable as it continued to run out into deep water.

'All secure, sir!'

Keen nodded but murmured, 'Bloody bastards!'

The yawl thrust slowly away from the land, tacking this way and that as it clawed towards the anchored two-decker.

The midshipman of the watch said, 'There's an officer of sorts on board, sir.'

Captain Dewar of the marines asked, 'Man the side, sir?'

Keen glared at him. 'After refusing my ship an entrance? I'll see him in hell first!'

The yawl's tanned sails were furled, and as she glided against the Achates' tumblehome Bolitho said, 'I'll receive him in the cabin.' He strode aft, unable to watch Keen's anger and humiliation.

It seemed an age before the visitor was brought to the cabin, and Bolitho found himself wondering what Nelson might do under this set of circumstances.

He could not blame the islanders, nor could he condone this behaviour.

The door was opened by Yovell and Bolitho looked at his visitor as he strode to the centre of the cabin. He was certainly dressed in uniform, a blue tunic and white trousers, and wearing both sword and pistol on a highly polished belt. He was aged about thirty, Bolitho thought, and when he spoke he had a faint West Country accent. A Devonian, he decided, like his clerk.

'I bring word from the governor.'

Keen, who had followed him aft, snapped, 'Say sir when you speak to the vice-admiral!'

Bolitho said, 'And what is your name, may I ask?'

The man glanced angrily at Keen. 'Captain Masters of the San Felipe Militia.' He swallowed hard. 'Sir.'

'Well, Captain Masters, before either of us says something which cannot be retracted, let me explain my intentions.'

The man was recovering his confidence and interrupted, 'The governor has instructed me to tell you that the boom will remain in place until all negotiations are completed. After that ..."

Bolitho said quietly, 'After that, as you put it, you are not concerned. But how am I expected to see the governor if my ship is prevented from entering?'

'I shall take you in the yawl." He saw Keen take a pace forward and added quickly, 'Sir.'

'I see. Now I will tell you, Captain Masters of the San Felipe Militia. I am going ashore in my barge and will pass the written decision of His Majesty's Government to the governor.'

Masters said, 'He will not accept it!'

Bolitho looked at Keen. 'Have my barge dropped alongside.'

He saw a protest forming on Keen's face. Just like Thomas Herrick.

Masters persisted, 'I shall lead the way then.'

'No. You are under arrest. Any act of rebellion will be treated harshly, and you shall hang for it, do I make myself clear?'

Bolitho saw his calm words smash home like pistol shots. Masters was probably used to bullying slaves on the plantations and the sudden change of fortune left him speechless.

Keen snapped, 'Remove those weapons.' He raised his voice, 'Sergeant Saxton, take charge of this man!'

Masters gasped as the Royal Marine removed his sword and pistol, and exclaimed, 'Your threats do not frighten me, Admiral!'

Bolitho stood up and walked to the stern windows. Many eyes would be watching the ship from the fortress, waiting to see what would happen. The governor might fire on his barge, even hold him as hostage until . . .

He stopped his racing thoughts and said coldly, 'Then they should.'

When he turned round Masters had been led away, and he heard shouted commands as armed marines took charge of the yawl.

Keen asked anxiously, 'Let me ram the boom, sir? Then we'll enter harbour as planned and rake the mutinous scum for good measure!'

Bolitho eyed him fondly. 'It would take a full day, maybe much longer. Even if you succeeded it would cost many lives, and if the wind rose unexpectedly you would have to disengage and beat clear of the land, past that battery again.'

Keen seemed resigned. 'Which officer will act as your aide, sir? I think I should come with you.'

Bolitho smiled, suddenly relieved that the waiting was over, no matter what the outcome might be.

'What, leave your command? With both of us at Rivers' mercy there's no saying what might happen!' He relented at Keen's crest-fallen expression. 'A junior lieutenant and, er . . . the midshipman, Mr Evans. They will suffice.'

Ozzard took down the old sword from its rack but Bolitho said, 'No. The other one.'

If anything went wrong today the sword would be here for Adam. He knew from their glances that they had both guessed the reason.

On deck the sun had risen above the volcano and the decks were already as hot as bricks in a kiln. Tinder-dry, with tarred rigging and sails which would flare like torches if the island's battery used heated shot. Even with ordinary balls a well-sited battery was more than a match for a slow-moving vessel within the confines of a harbour.

He saw Allday watching him grimly, the curious stares of the seamen and marines on the gangways.

He hesitated at the entry port and looked at Keen.

'If I am wrong.' He saw the captain's jaw tighten. 'Or should I fall today, promise me you will write to Belinda. Try to explain.'

Keen nodded and blurted out, 'If they lay one hand on you sir ... '

'You will do as I ordered, Val. Nothing more or less.'

He touched his hat to the quarterdeck and climbed down into the waiting barge.

He found Trevenen, the sixth lieutenant, and Midshipman Evans already seated in the stern-sheets and said, 'A fine day for it, gentlemen.'

Trevenen was beaming at the unexpected honour of being the admiral's temporary aide, but by contrast Evans looked around him, his eyes dark and empty.

Allday murmured, 'This is no good, sir.'

Bolitho settled down and glanced at the waiting bargemen.

'It won't help by talking about it.'

Allday sighed. He recognized all the signs by now.

'Bear off forrard! Give way, all!'

Bolitho glanced quickly astern and saw the ship drawing away, the faces at the entry port merging and losing individuality.

He looked at his companions. The ship's most junior lieutenant and a thirteen-year-old midshipman might hardly be what the governor would be expecting. But, as in leaving the family sword aboard, he was taking no chances. If things went badly wrong, Keen would need every experienced officer and sailor he could lay hands on.

As the barge dipped into the inshore swell Bolitho heard a clink of metal and realized that cutlasses and pistols were stacked beneath each thwart within easy reach.

He looked up at Allday's impassive features and for a moment their eyes met.

It did not need words, he thought. Allday had made plans all of his own.

The lieutenant said nervously, 'There is the other island, sir.'

Bolitho shaded his eyes and studied the humpbacked islet. It was treeless but with plenty of vegetation around the stone-built mission and outhouses. There was a strip of white beach, and he saw some boats pulled up clear of the surf. Monks, priests or whatever they were, they had to fish and cultivate their land as well as pray, he thought.

He turned his attention to the boom. Lighters and old hulks had been moored in the middle of the entrance, the channel which Achates and any ship of her size would have to use. He looked up at the fortress. Bigger than he had expected, with a sheer drop on the seaward side, impossible to scale, and impervious to twenty-four-pounders.

He could see pale houses on the far side of the harbour. He smiled wryly. Georgetown, Rivers' little kingdom. There were several craft at anchor, mostly traders and fishing boats.

Allday said between his teeth, 'Armed men on the boom, sir.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Steer for the starboard side of the entrance.'

He turned briefly to look for the ship but she had been shut off by the spur of headland. Only Achates' mastheads and topgallant yards showed above the land as if they had been planted there.

Beside him Evans shifted on his thwart and his fingers locked suddenly around his dirk. Like taking a needle to stop a charging bull, Bolitho thought.

He said, 'I brought you with me in case you should remember something.'

The boy looked at him and replied quietly, 'I know, sir.' His gaze shifted beyond the makeshift boom to the centre of the harbour but he said nothing further.

Bolitho guessed that Evans was seeing his ship Sparrowhawk lying there under the guns of the fortress. A King's ship, his home, the start of a career, friends like the other midshipman who had been shot down. But something, anything, might jar his memory. They did not have much else to go on.

Allday tensed at the sharp bang of a musket, and Bolitho saw a ball skip across the water like a fish before dropping abeam.

He said, 'Hold the stroke. Keep pulling.'

His calm tone steadied the bargemen who, with their backs towards the boom, must be expecting the next shot to hit them.

Bolitho squared his shoulders. His cocked hat and bright epaulettes would make a fine marker for any sharpshooter, he thought.

But there were no more shots, and as the barge thrust past the end of the boom he saw groups of men peering at them. All were armed, and one shook his musket threateningly at the grim-faced sailors.

There was no turning back now. No escape.

Bolitho watched a cluster of figures on a jetty below the fortress. It suddenly seemed a long, long way from Sir Hayward Sheaffe's quiet office in the Admiralty where this precise moment had been predicted.

Bolitho was not sure what he had been expecting in San Felipe's governor, but Sir Humphrey Rivers was not it. He was tall, heavily built to a point of grossness, his face very red from both climate and drink, Bolitho thought. But he greeted Bolitho with a jovial, expansive grin and ushered him straight into the cool shadows of the fortress.

As he led the way through a studded door and into a corridor which had been transformed by rugs and several paintings, Rivers said over his shoulder, 'Later I hope you will visit my house. But I guessed you would be eager to settle matters, eh?'

Bolitho saw another door open, a bewigged negro footman giving a bow as they passed him.

Rivers mopped his face with a silk handkerchief and eyed Lieutenant Trevenen and the small midshipman with some amusement.

'By God, Bolitho, do you have a company of boys to do the Admiralty's bidding?'

He snapped his fingers and another footman stepped noiselessly forward with a tray of goblets.

Rivers gave a dry smile. 'Maybe your young companions would care to withdraw?'

'I agree.' There was no point in involving the others.

Then Bolitho said, 'You know why I am here, Sir Humphrey?'

Rivers settled his bulk on a chair and examined his goblet critically.

'Of course. Everyone does. Equally, you know what I think about it?' He chuckled and drank deeply. 'I apologize for the inconvenience of the boom but it is necessary.' He seemed to remember that Masters had not returned with Bolitho and asked abruptly, 'Where's my captain of militia?'

'On board Achates, Sir Humphrey.'

'I see.' He lowered the goblet to be refilled. 'The signs are that the wind is getting up. You will know from your own experience in these waters that it can be savage even at this time of year. It would not do to let your, er, flagship remain so close inshore under such circumstances.'

Bolitho sipped the wine. It was strange he could feel so calm. Rivers had thought of everything. Where a ship would have to stand off if the harbour remained closed.

Rivers was watching him intently. 'Let's face facts. Your ship cannot stay there indefinitely. Soon you will have to weigh. You can ration water until the people are ripe for mutiny, you can even wait for assistance which may never arrive. Or you can draw up a fresh agreement here and now. I will remain as governor with total responsibility for the island's betterment and defence.'

And profit, Bolitho thought.

Rivers stood up with some difficulty and walked to a window.

'This place is impregnable. You must know that. The Americans will help me if need be. I'll not have the Frogs hoisting their colours here. I told your impertinent frigate captain as much.'

'The Sparrowhauk was sunk soon after she left here.'

He watched Rivers' florid face and knew it was a complete surprise to him.

Sunk? What are you saying?'

'She was attacked by a larger man-of-war, blown to hell without a challenge or chance to defend herself. So you see, Sir Humphrey, there are those other than the French who are interested in the island's future.'

Rivers tossed back the wine and turned away to hide his confusion.

'I don't believe it. Probably a pirate, the waters are full of them. With the King's Navy cut to the bone, it's hardly surprising.'

'I want to show you something.' Rivers almost threw down the empty goblet and strode panting to another door at the far end of the chamber. A footman darted ahead of him like a pilot-fish to open it.

Beyond the door the rugs and comfortable chairs were gone. A long embrasured stone wall and a line of heavy artillery looked across the water. Rivers' authority.

Rivers strode to the end cannon and laid one hand on its rounded cascabel with something like affection.

'Here, take a look, Bolitho.'

He stood aside and Bolitho could feel his sense of power. He was filled suddenly with loathing for this man who cared nothing for Duncan or anyone else.

He stooped and peered along the black barrel and saw that the gun was laid on a line of mooring buoys. Tied to one of them was his barge. He could even see Allday standing to shade his eyes and peer at the fortress.

Rivers added smoothly, 'Sparrowhawk was there. I could have sunk her just as easily as I can that boat of yours.'

Bolitho stood up and eyed him calmly. 'You were a flag-officer yourself, Sir Humphrey. You know the Navy would never rest -

Rivers snorted. 'There would be no choice. To suffer great losses to aid the French? Even Parliament would not be that stupid!'

Bolitho glanced across the anchorage again. The water was ruffled like beaten pewter. The wind was rising steadily and he could see the flags whipping out from the moored craft. But they were in shelter. Achates was not.

He said, 'I shall return to my ship.' He did not hide his contempt. 'Unless you wish to detain me also?'

'No agreement, Bolitho?'

'Do not try to deceive me, Sir Humphrey. You knew I would not condone treason.'

Rivers smiled. 'Not like some in your family, eh?'

Bolitho took his hat from a footman. He did it slowly to give himself time to control his anger. It was just as well Adam was elsewhere. Such a crude slur on his father would have brought out his sword, and Rivers' guards would have ended it here and now.

He said, That was cheap, but not totally unexpected.'

Rivers sat down and mopped his face again. He could not hide his excitement, the pleasure which his victory was giving him.

Bolitho walked to the door and saw Midshipman Evans standing alone beside an open window.

Rivers said, 'I have taken the liberty of detaining the young lieutenant until my boat and men are returned.'

Bolitho nodded gravely. 'As you wish.'

Rivers seemed disappointed. 'There is still time for you to reconsider.'

Bolitho gestured to Evans and replied, 'You said yourself, Sir Humphrey, that these waters abound with pirates. I think I have just been speaking to one of them.'

He turned abruptly on his heel and strode through the door, half expecting a shot or a sudden challenge.

Evans almost had to run to keep up with him.

Bolitho snapped, 'Signal the barge."

He felt the hot wind on his cheek, saw the air of menace in the sky. It would have to be smartly done, he thought. There was no choice. Not for him anyway.

Allday watched gratefully as Bolitho and the midshipman climbed into the boat and murmured, 'That's that then, sir."

Bolitho watched the oar blades dig into the water and said, 'An easy stroke, if you please.' His mind was reeling with the urgency of what must be done, but under no circumstances must Rivers suspect his intentions.

Once in the great cabin Bolitho tossed his gold-laced coat to Ozzard and watched Keen, Quantock and the two Royal Marine officers as they were ushered in by Yovell.

'I intend to attack, Captain Keen.' Bolitho was surprised that the glass of wine which Ozzard had just given him did not splinter in his grasp.

Keen said, 'Mr Knocker has doubts about our safety here, sir. The wind - '

'Is it steady?'

Quantock said in his hard voice, 'Rising by the hour, sir.' 'That is not what I asked. Is it steady?' Keen looked anxious. 'Aye, sir.'

"Very well. So make ready for sea.' He saw Keen's sudden relief vanish as he added, 'Then Rivers' lookouts will imagine we are leaving.'

'With respect, sir, no sane man would believe otherwise. We will surely drag our anchor if we remain.'

Bolitho smiled at him. 'Remember Copenhagen, Val?'

Keen nodded, his face pale. 'I do, sir. So you intend to attack in the dark?' He sounded incredulous.

'I do. I know how the battery is laid on the entrance and the main anchorage. Rivers was good enough to show me, although I think he had different reasons."

What was happening to him? It could and would probably end in complete disaster. Remember Copenhagen? he had asked Keen. This was nothing like it. There they had had a whole fleet, and they had had Nelson.

There was a world of difference here. If he lost the ship there was nothing, a costly failure which if he survived would end in a court martial, and would break Belinda's heart.

Yet, in spite of the terrible risks he was actually elated, a madness coursing through him like ice-water.

Keen cleared his throat and glanced at the other officers.

'Right then, sir.'

Bolitho looked away. Keen had accepted. Right or wrong he would follow his orders to hell.

Bolitho made himself smile but his lips felt stiff and unreal.

'At dusk we shall send Masters and his yawl into harbour to exchange with Mr Trevenen.'

Keen shook his head. 'I had forgotten all about him’

Bolitho looked at the two marines. 'And that will be when you come into things.'

It was a matter of perfect timing, and Lady Luck, as Herrick had always proclaimed. Keen thought it was an act of madness, or vanity to cover his defeat by Sir Humphrey Rivers.

That was their only chance. That Rivers would imagine himself to be safe with such odds.

He was probably on the fortress wall at this very moment. Picturing the argument and despair he had flung in their midst.

He briefly outlined his plan of action and saw their varying expressions, their doubts and their uncertainty. But there was the same excitement too. Even Quantock, who said very little, seemed fascinated.

Bolitho said quietly, 'It is hard to fight a war, gentlemen, as you all know. But it seems a great deal easier to start one.'

They filed out to speak with their subordinates and Bolitho sat at his table, a pen poised above some paper.

There might be no time later on, and he wanted her to know his thoughts, just as she had tried to send him her best wishes.

Feet thudded overhead and tackles creaked as his barge was hoisted on to the tier.

Suppose he was mistaken? That Rivers was right about the island being impregnable.

He tried to force the new uncertainty from his mind and wrote, My dearest Belinda . . .

Then he deliberately folded the paper and put it in a drawer. If he was killed she would soon know. There was no point in reopening the wound with a letter which might reach her months later.

Allday entered the cabin and stood watching him, his body angled to the screen door as the ship swayed restlessly in the wind.

Allday said bluntly, 'Attack, sir.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Yes. Did you do as I asked?'

Allday had to grin despite the gravity of the moment.

'Aye, sir, we trailed a boat'd lead an' line all the way to those mooring buoys. It only touched bottom once, and there's room a-plenty for Old Katie, once she's snug inside.' He shook his head with admiration. 'With all those other things to bother you, I don't know how you thought of it, and that's no error!'

Bolitho said, 'Pour us each a glass of brandy, Allday.'

He watched the man's powerful fist as he filled two goblets and waited for the deck to settle.

Allday added as an afterthought, 'Mebbee that's how you becomes an admiral, knowing them things, sir?'

The officer of the watch paused in his prowling on the poop deck as their laughter came through the skylight.

It would be his first action as a lieutenant. He had felt the iron fingers of fear dig into his stomach as Quantock had explained what must be done.

But hearing their vice-admiral laugh like that with his coxswain gave him new strength and he continued with his pacing.

8

Faith

Bolitho took a last glance through the stern windows before Ozzard fastened them tightly and closed the protective shutters. Achates was pitching heavily at her cable, and Bolitho guessed that Keen had doubled the anchor watch for a first sign of its dragging.

It should still have been daylight, but low, angry clouds and drifting spume had closed around the ship like an early dusk.

He could not wait much longer. He dare not.

With the cabin sealed Bolitho felt the air tormenting him like steam and he was running with sweat in seconds.

There was a tap at the outer door and Keen's voice murmuring to someone. He was exactly on time. Had probably been aching for the moment to arrive.

Bolitho nodded to him. 'Let's be about it then.'

He saw the unwilling hostage in the background flanked by the ship's corporal and Black Joe Langtry, Achates' fearsome master-at-arms. The latter had a pair of grotesque black brows and, despite years at sea, an ashen countenance. More like an executioner, Bolitho thought.

'Well, Captain Masters, you will be leaving us directly.' He watched the gleam return to the man's eyes. He had strong faith in his master and might be quick to throw Bolitho's words back in his face. But there was no time to waste.

The yawl is waiting to cast off and take you back to harbour.' Bolitho lifted his arms and saw Masters' eyes shift to the curved fighting hanger which Allday deftly clipped to his belt. 'I am afraid it will be carrying a different crew this time, but you will take us past the boom.'

He watched his words touch a cord in Masters' mind.

'But, but ..."

"The governor has acted unlawfully. I intend to take control of the island, and to do that with a minimum loss of life you will steer us through the entrance.' He counted seconds before adding quietly, 'What happens to Rivers will depend on others. But if you attempt to raise an alarm you will be killed. If you betray us in any other way I will treat such action as treason against the Crown. You know what that will mean.'

He adjusted the hanger on his belt, sickened by the man's stunned features, by his own brutal remedy.

Then he thought of Duncan and the others and said, 'Put him aboard the yawl. I shall follow.'

He looked at Keen. 'This is the only way. You must command the ship.'

They both glanced up as the wind moaned through the shrouds and ratlines like a taunt.

'Your first lieutenant is an excellent seaman, but ashore with men he sometimes abuses too much, who can tell? And we have no margin at all for error.'

He looked from Keen to Allday. Friends. Comrades. So few of us left.

'You, Allday, have the most dangerous part. You will lower the barge at the seaward side. It cannot be seen now from the fortress.'

Allday eyed him stubbornly. 'I know what to do, sir. Take the boat past them moorings and light a beacon.'

'It is a hard thing to ask. If we fail you will be cut off.'

Allday grunted. 'I'd rather stay with you, sir. It's my right, my place.'

Bolitho gripped his arm and tried to hide his emotion.

'Without that beacon Achates has no chance of entering harbour. No chance to avoid running aground in this wind.

And yonshall be with me, old friend. Make no mistake about it.'

Keen said, 'I still believe ..." Then he shut his mouth and gave a rueful grin. 'But it's done.' He loosened his shirt and touched his sword. 'Rivers may be surprised, but that compares little with my own feelings!'

He nodded to Allday and strode from the cabin, his voice going ahead as he rapped out his orders.

Bolitho took a pistol and thrust it into his belt. Did it really matter if Quantock led the attack? In his heart he knew it did. Men being asked to face death while fighting for a cause they did not understand, or if they did probably had a greater sympathy for the foe, needed to see him there too. To watch him die or share whatever fate he had flung them into.

Allday followed him from the cabin, breathing hard as he ducked beneath the deckhead beams. Around them in the gloom half-naked seamen were already standing to the guns, while on the deck below the hands had cleared for action with barely a sound or an order being shouted by the lieutenants and warrant officers.

On the quarterdeck more figures stood in dark clusters or tottered about in the hot wind. It felt like burning sand, the spray hard enough to blind a man.

Bolitho tilted his head to peer at the thrashing canvas as it rippled and boomed against the spars. Once set free the ship would be like a wild thing. A good sailer, they said. She would need to be all that and more.

Tackles squeaked and he heard the barge being lowered down the side. Even though he was hidden in the menacing gloom he could almost feel Allday's resentment, his anxiety, as once more he was parted from him, from his special place in things.

Keen shouted, 'Good luck, sir!'

They made a quick handclasp, their fingers running with warm spray. Then Bolitho was out and swinging down to the pitching yawl, where hands reached out to help him aboard.

A voice growled, 'Who's this, Ted? Gawd, let's get on with it!'

Another gave a hoarse cheer. "Tis th' admiral, lads!'

They pushed round him as if they did not believe he was joining them. In his sodden, grubby shirt he could have been anyone, but they knew, and from the darkness a voice called, 'Welcome, Equality Dick!'

Bolitho groped his way aft, moved and, as usual, ashamed that he had not even considered that these unknown seamen might trust him.

He heard Mountsteven, the second lieutenant, say cheerfully, 'Smells like a Portland whore-house, sir.' His total lack of respect showed that he too was caught in the madness like the rest.

'It's powerful."

Bolitho reached the tiller and peered at the men nearest him. He saw Christy, the boatswain's mate who had been in the Lysander, and the vague shape of Masters, who was easily recognizable in his militia uniform.

The boat certainly stank. It was crammed with inflammable materials. Old canvas, cordage soaked in grease and pitch, oil and various oddments from the gunner's store. One careless spark and the whole boat would ignite like a grenade.

Once they had seized the boom and cut its moorings, Allday's barge, followed by Achates' two cutters with the marines, would spread the attack. He had noticed that the yawl's original crew, like the guards he had seen around the fortress, were mostly of slave stock, left-overs and half-breeds from the island's various occupations.

It was unlikely that officers like Masters would live in quarters within the fortress. It would take time for them to be called from their comfortable homes. He shivered slightly. Unless of course Rivers had already seen through his scheme and every gun was loaded and ready for the first sign of an attack.

He said, 'Cast off, Mr Mountsteven. Show a lantern forrard as planned.' He glanced at Masters. 'You have your instructions. If you value your life and the chance to rejoin your family, I would advise you to be prudent.'

He heard Christy rattle his cutlass in its scabbard as an unspoken warning.

With the mooring lines released and the sails spreading over the deck like giant wings, the big yawl reeled away from Achates' protection.

Rivers' men on the boom would be wary, but they had no cause to expect such a rash course of action. He had a sudden stark picture of Achates in the first dawn light, wrecked across the entrance and a ready target for the great guns.

A voice whispered, 'Land ahead, sir!'

Bolitho felt a murmur run through the crowded space between decks where the mass of seamen crouched and waited for the onslaught. Blades scraped each other, and men groped for pistols and muskets in total darkness to make certain they were dry and ready. One foolhardy move, a musket being fired by accident, and all would be lost. Bolitho was grateful that Achates' people were mostly experienced hands. Well trained, part of a family.

He clung to a backstay and peered through the spray towards the darker wedge of land on the larboard bow. To starboard the fortress and the fifteen-hundred foot high volcano were a vague blur in this eerie light.

A lantern bobbed across the water, seemingly from the sea itself, and Bolitho thought he heard a shout.

Masters said harshly, 'Dip the forrard lantern!' He sounded as if he could barely breathe. 'Twice!'

The lantern dipped and rose twice as directed, and Bolitho found that he was holding his breath. It was Masters' chance to betray him, to prove his last loyalty to Rivers. But nothing happened, and the light on the boom remained steady and flickering above the tossing wavecrests.

The tiller-bar creaked as Masters guided the helmsman's hand. He had committed himself and had no intention of drowning because of faulty steering.

Bolitho saw the end of the boom and a few hunched figures around the guide light. Someone was shouting at the yawl, and Masters waved, his lordly gesture made pathetic by his treachery.

'Now! Helm hard to starboard! Take in the sails!'

The seamen, used to working in all weathers in daylight or darkness, brought the yawl hard against the moored craft and heavy timbers. As their grapnels soared across the startled guards the first concealed sailor leapt on to the boom, his cutlass silencing a challenge and changing it to a terrible cry.

The boom was suddenly swarming with men, and while some took care of the wretched guards, others dragged out the yawl's dangerous cargo and wedged it into position.

'Light the fuses! Slow-match there! Lively!' Mountsteven barked out his orders while the prisoners were flung unceremoniously into the yawl.

Bolitho peered up at the fortress's blurred shape. No sound or sign. Maybe Rivers had really expected him to ignore his honour and his future and sign some illegal document. It would not have been unique in naval history.

'Moorings cut, sir!'

One slow-match sparked briefly like a glow-worm and then another as the last sailor jumped into the tossing boat. 'Cast off!'

Barely glancing at the cowering survivors from their swift attack the seamen thrust with long sweeps, boat-hooks and anything else they could find to carry the yawl away from the boom.

Lieutenant Mountsteven in his excitement seized Bolitho's arm and pointed with his hanger. 'There goes your man, sir!'

With only the oar blades visible like trailing white snakes the barge swept through the gap and was into the harbour before the yawl had staggered clear.

'Steer for the shore!'

Bolitho strode to the opposite side where Masters was leaning over the gunwale to peer towards the fortress.

It was like being in a mill-race, with the deck swaying from side to side, sometimes awash as the sweeps fought to hold steerage-way.

'That was well done, Masters.' Bolitho ignored the man's astonished glance and shouted, 'Stand by, lads!'

There was a muffled explosion and suddenly the yawl and their upturned faces were bathed in a vivid orange glare as the drifting boom burst into flames. In seconds it had moved well past the headland and was breaking up into smaller fiery shapes as the lashings parted.

Bolitho tightened the hanger's thong around his wrist and tested his wounded leg. If it failed him now . . .

The yawl hit the land, rebounded with the sea boiling over the gunwale and sweeping men aside like untidy sacks, and then drove ashore yet again. Bolitho heard wood splintering, the inrushing water surging and dragging at his legs as the boat continued to batter its way along a line of rocks.

But grapnels were already finding a grip, and as the first men clambered cursing and spluttering on to firm ground Bolitho heard the far-off blare of a trumpet.

He tried to fix the picture of the hillside in his mind, then turned to watch as another part of the drifting boom exploded in a great plume of sparks and flames.

The whole of Georgetown must surely be on the alert by now.

Crack . . . crack . . . crack . . . Musket shots whined impotently through the spray as some sentries fired from the fortress walls.

'Rally the men, Mr Mountsteven.'

The lieutenant was regarding the remains of the yawl. There was no way out by that method.

Someone gave a hoarse cheer which was instantly silenced by an unseen petty officer.

But Bolitho felt like cheering too. The Achates' cutters were pulling like demons as they swept through some last remnants of the boom, the marines' white cross-belts stark and clear despite the gloom.

From the bows of one came the sharp crack of a musket and a yell of command, magnified through a speaking-trumpet to add unreality to the moment.

A cutter was pulling directly for one of Rivers' own boats. Doubtless one which was bringing the unfortunate Lieutenant Trevenen to be exchanged. If they had harmed him . . .

He did not let his mind dwell on it as Mountsteven shouted, 'All accounted for, sir!'

'Carry on! Fast as you can! Across the track from the town. Scatter the men among the rocks, anywhere so that they can slow an attack until the marines support us!'

In spite of his racing thoughts he almost smiled at the absurdity of his orders. More like a general than a naval officer with a boatload of seamen and a company of marines, if they ever managed to reach here.

He ran with the seamen through dark rocks and great bushes which loomed and shook like monsters in the fierce wind as if to frighten them from their purpose.

'Here, sir!'

That was Christy, and Bolitho dropped beside him but gasped as the pain stabbed from his wounded thigh.

Christy was peering at his pistols and had a cutlass bared and lying beside him.

Bolitho saw others running and stooping as they sought out cover, while more musket shots whimpered overhead. Where was Rivers, he wondered? In his fine house, or up there on the fortress wondering if they were all going mad?

He pounded the wet ground with his fist. Everything depended on Allday. He might have run into a guard-boat like the one confronted by Achates' cutter. Even now Keen would be weighing anchor, watching the flames on the severed boom, all he had to divide sea from rock.

Soon those flames would have died too.

A voice yelled a command and a loose volley of shots cracked up the slope towards the fortress.

Scott, Achates' third lieutenant and Keen's next most experienced officer, yelled, 'Reload! Steady, lads!' He must have seen some movement at the fortress gates.

Bolitho tried not to think of Keen's helplessness as his ship tore free from the ground and began to claw her way round and into solid darkness. Short-handed because of the landing party, and with at least three of his officers out of the ship, it must be a living nightmare.

He saw Christy's eyes glow like twin matches and turned as a column of fire gushed from the end of the moorings.

Allday, in spite of all his doubts and arguments, had done it. The fire was burning brightly where the bargemen had lashed it to one of the buoys, and another would be ready when it died.

Then a cannon roared out like a thunder-clap. Where the ball went nobody saw. It had probably ripped over the very buoy which Rivers had indicated when he had made his casual threat.

Masters was crawling on the ground and when he saw Bolitho flopped down beside him. Now that he had done it he was unable to stop shaking with fear.

Bolitho looked at him and asked, 'What is the date, Mr Masters?"

Masters gulped and managed to reply, 'J-July the ninth, I believe, sir!"

He would have jumped to his feet if Christy had not dragged him down for his own safety.

Masters' voice cracked as he asked, 'I heard something! What's happening?'

Bolitho had heard it too. The faint rattle of drums and the frail sound of fifes.

He could see it as if he were there with them. His marines, marching along a rough road in this howling wind, the little drummer boys keeping an even distance behind their officers as if they were on parade. A road none of them had even seen, and some would never see it when daylight came.

Bolitho managed to say, 'The date is important. One we shall remember."

He twisted his head to see another of Allday's blazing flares, but this time his eyes seemed blurred.

He drove the knuckle-bow of his hanger into the ground near his face and whispered, 'We shall win. We shall win'.' It sounded like a prayer.

Keen ran up the poop ladder and clung to a rail as the wind drove along the full length of his ship, the sound rising and strengthening like some obscene chorus.

His mind reeled as he tried to calculate the time and distance he had left to bring Achates about once the anchor broke free. He could dimly hear the creak of the capstan, the hoarse shouts of petty officers as they waited for the moment.

Keen returned to the quarterdeck, his face stinging as if the flesh were raw. He saw the dark outline of the wheel and a handful of helmsmen, the master with a midshipman standing nearby. Seamen of the after-guard at the braces, their half-naked bodies shining in the gloom like wet marble.

Soon . . . soon. Now or never. Keen had read it often enough in the Gazette or some Admiralty report. One of His Majesty's ships driven ashore and lost. A court martial later pronounced ... He stopped his racing thoughts and shouted above the din, 'Ready, Mr Quantock?'

The tall figure of the first lieutenant, angled like a cripple's against the sloping deck, staggered towards him.

'It's no use, sir!"

Keen faced him angrily. Keep your voice down, man!"

Quantock leaned forward as if to see him better.

'The master agrees with me. It's madness. We'll never manage it.' He was encouraged by Keen's silence. 'There's no shame in standing away, sir. There may still be time.'

"Anchor's hove short, sir!' The cry came like a dirge.

'Time? What has that to do with it, damn your eyes!'

Keen strode to the nettings and saw some seamen watching him anxiously.

Quantock persisted, 'Captain Glazebrook would never - '

Keen retorted, 'He is dead. We are not. Do you suggest that we abandon our admiral and all his party because we are at some risk? Is that what you are advising, Mr Quantock?' The release of his bitterness and anger seemed to help him. 'I'll see you, the master and all else in hell before I turn and run!'

He walked to the quarterdeck rail and peered aloft at the wildly thrashing canvas. They might lose a sail or a spar, perhaps the whole lot. But Bolitho was out there beyond the swaying poop. Pictures flashed through his thoughts. The Great South Sea. The girl he had loved, who had died of the fever which had almost done for Bolitho. In spite of his own despair Bolitho had tried to comfort him. Leave him now after what they had endured together? Never in ten thousand bloody years.

'Pass the word to the topmen, Mr Fraser. It will be close. Clear lower deck and put every available man on braces and halliards.' He grappled for the name of the lieutenant nearby. 'Mr Foord, prepare to drop the larboard anchor if the worst should happen.' It might hold her long enough to get some of the hands ashore.

He heard himself say calmly, 'Well, Mr Quantock?'

Quantock was glaring through the drifting spray.

'Aye, aye, sir.'

He snatched up his speaking-trumpet and strode to the side.

Keen gripped the smooth rail. How many captains had stood here? In storm or becalmed, entering harbour after a long and successful passage, or concealing fear as the deck had quivered and rocked to the roar of cannon fire.

Was he to be the last captain? He listened to the clank of pawls around the capstan, the crack of a starter across someone's back as a boatswain's mate drove the men on the bars to greater efforts. Their weight and muscle to shift Achates' bulk against wind and sea.

He glanced once more at the crossed yards, the great rippling shapes of loosened sails where the topmen clung and waited to free them to the wind.

There was no sign of a light. The burning boom had vanished. Perhaps Allday had been prevented from reaching his objective. He would have given his life if so. One more picture rose in his mind. Of himself gasping and sobbing in agony. A mere midshipman with a great wooden splinter thrust into his groin like a spear. Of Allday, suddenly gentle, carrying him below and cutting the splinter away rather than trust his life to the ship's drunken surgeon.

'Anchor's awei . . . ' The rest was lost as the ship toppled to one side with waves rearing above the gangways and nettings like breakers on a reef.

'Loose tops'ls'.'

The helmsmen slithered and fell but clung stubbornly to the big double wheel as the ship swung madly with the wind, the freed topsails crashing out from their yards, the sound of the gusts through canvas and shrouds drowning the cries of officers and seamen alike.

Keen forced his eyes to remain open as the sea dashed over the nettings and drenched him from head to toe. The water felt warm, jubilant in its efforts to throw the ship out of control.

He saw the Sparrowhawk's midshipman, little Evans, clinging to a stay, his feet kicking at air as the deck plunged and yawed beneath him.

A dark object fell from the mizzen, hit the gangway with a sickening crack and vanished into the waves alongside. The man must have been torn from his precarious perch by the straining canvas. He had not even time to cry out.

Voices ebbed and died through the terrible chorus like souls already lost.

'More hands to the weather fore-brace there!'

'Mr Rooke, send two men aloft ..."

'Take this man to the surgeon!'

'Lively there! The gig's breaking adrift!'

Suddenly the master shouted hoarsely, 'Answering, sir!'

Keen turned and peered towards him. He could feel the wind flaying his mouth so that his lips were forced apart in a wild grin. But she was answering. With her main-yard braced hard round, the sails forcing her over so that the sea boiled through the sealed gun-ports in fierce jets, Achates was beginning to turn her full length into the teeth of the storm.

Broken rigging streamed down-wind like dead creeper, and Keen had already heard the rip of tearing canvas from overhead and knew that men were there to fight the damage with their bare hands.

'Nor'-east by north!' The man sounded breathless. 'Nor' by east!'

Keen gripped the rail until his fists ached. She was trying. Doing the impossible as with every second the wind drove her towards the blacker shadows of the land.

The yards creaked again and Keen watched the seamen straining wildly at the braces, some with their pale bodies almost touching the deck as they hauled with all their strength. Quantock's harsh voice was everywhere, harrying, threatening, demanding.

The deck seemed to lean forward and down in a great single thrust, and the sea roared through the beak-head and over the forecastle in a solid flood. Men tumbled and were washed aside like puppets, and it was a marvel that none of the guns was torn from its lashings. Keen had seen that too. A great gun thundering about the deck like an insane beast, crushing men who tried to snare it, smashing anything which stood in its path.

He watched with chilled fascination as the bows rose very slowly, the sea cascading away with a subdued roar. The ship was pointing towards the land. At the solid, unmoving barrier.

To confirm his disbelief he heard Knocker yell, 'Nor'-west it is, sir!'

There was still no signal. Nor would there be, he thought.

He should have felt despair for what he had done. Quan-tock had been right. There would have been no blame. Officially. He had been ordered to force the entrance rather than face the carefully sited battery in broad daylight. Achates was the only King's ship, Bolitho the only flag-officer here to act and decide. Nobody could have laid the blame on Keen's shoulder.

Now he might lose the ship and every man-jack aboard, and the island's defiance would remain as if they had never come to this damned place.

Yet in spite of the realization he was glad. He had tried. Bolitho would know it. And other ships would come to avenge them, British or French, it would make no difference in the end.

The lieutenant named Foord yelled wildly, 'The signal! Hell's teeth, the signal’ He was almost weeping with disbelief.

Keen said sharply, 'Control yourself, man! Mr Knocker! Bring her up a point to starboard!'

He tried to relax his limbs one at a time as he watched the hissing glow against the swift-moving clouds. Men ran to the braces again, and he heard the fore-topgallant sail boom out from its yard and knew that the topsail had been the one torn apart by the wind.

There it was. No mistake. Allday had done it.

'Nor'-west by north, sir! Steady as she goes!'

They seemed to be tearing through the water at a tremendous pace, like a runaway coach, its horses gone mad.

But Keen had heard something different in the gaunt sailing-master's voice. Not merely surprise or relief. Respect perhaps?

'Leadsmen in the chains!'

Keen pushed himself from the rail and walked to the opposite side to watch a leaping hurdle of breakers. The reefs looked close enough to touch with a pike.

He heard the cry of a leadsman but had no idea what the depth would be.

He saw the land suddenly close alongside, more spray, and felt the deck shiver as the keel ploughed into dangerous shallows.

Knocker was passing more helm orders, his voice suddenly loud as the ship ran past the headland where the boom had once been.

There were vague explosions. Musket fire and the occasional boom of artillery. But it was unreal. Nothing to do with the plunging two-decker and her men.

Keen heard shouts from forward and then caught his breath as the ship gave a violent lurch. Then down the side he saw the dark outline of a small vessel, battered from her moorings by Achates, and capsizing slowly as they continued up the harbour.

The flare was still burning fiercely and Keen could see the flames reflecting on a paler shape nearby, Allday's barge. He snatched a telescope from a midshipman and trained it across the larboard bow.

In the reflected glow he could see the bargemen standing and waving their tarred hats as they saw the ship heading towards them. Achates must make quite a sight, Keen thought. Sails shining in the flare, while her hull remained locked in darkness.

'Prepare to shorten sail, Mr Quantock!'

Keen found that his whole being was shaking uncontrollably, like a man on the verge of death.

Then he saw the lights of the town for the first time, glittering through the spray like tiny jewels. They were almost there. It was incredible. Impossible, some would say.

Somewhere another cannon banged out, but Keen had no idea where the ball fell.

'Stand by to wear ship, Mr Quantock.'

There was still plenty of real danger. If the ship failed to respond this time they could drive on to the beach or become entangled with anchored shipping like a porpoise in a net.

Perhaps they had created their own trap? Keen found he could consider it without emotion. It would not matter now. If they could not leave, neither would anyone else. He pictured Bolitho's grave features and hoped he had seen Achates drive into the harbour like a phantom ship.

If it could only be settled in a battle of wills, he knew who would emerge the victor.

'Man the lee braces!' Quantock loomed towards him. 'I've ordered both anchors to be ready, sir, and put a lieutenant in charge of the compressor. In this gale the cable might part if ..." He left the rest unsaid.

Keen regarded him calmly. 'Carry on, if you please.'

There was no change in Quantock and Keen felt strangely glad. It seemed wrong that he should change in any way because of a single reckless act. When you considered it, Keen thought, there was no other description for it.

'Tops'l clew-lines!'

Keen watched the flurry of activity above the deck. Those men had done well, he thought. To preserve their lives, their ship and their pride as only sailors could.

'Helm alee!'

Once again the deck tilted over, Allday's barge swinging away from the jib-boom as if it had taken flight. But the wind and sea had lost their punch. Momentarily. They would bide their time. There was always another battle.

'Let go!'

Keen heard a splash and felt the planking quiver slightly as the second anchor banged against the hull as it swung from its cat-head in readiness to drop if the other failed.

Blocks squealed, and slowly but surely the unseen topmen kicked and fisted the rebellious canvas to each yard and secured it.

The motion eased immediately, and Keen said as calmly as he could, 'Lower the remaining boats. I want a warp run out from aft. Tell Mr Rooke to report to me.' He turned away from Quantock's bitter silence. 'I also want a muster of all hands immediately. Casualties and serious injuries too, if you please.'

A tiny figure appeared at his elbow. It was Ozzard, Bolitho's molelike servant. 'Here, sir.'

He held out a silver tankard, one of Bolitho's own.

Keen held it to his lips and almost choked on rum. But it did what Ozzard intended and he handed him the tankard.

"That was thoughtful. Thank you.'

They both watched as the gig and then the jolly-boat were hoisted from the tier and swayed out above the gangway. More men were bustling aft while boatswain's mates bawled instructions for laying out a massive warp. Against the pale planking the huge rope looked like an endless serpent.

Ozzard asked timidly, 'Will he be safe, sir?'

Keen saw a lieutenant and Harry Rooke, the boatswain, hurrying towards him for orders, but there was something in Ozzard's voice which held him.

Safe? It was a word rarely considered in the King's service.

Faith had more meaning. Faith to enter a strange harbour despite the hazards and possible consequences. Faith of men like Allday who would risk anything because of Bolitho's word and reputation.

He smiled before turning towards his waiting subordinates.

'He will be expecting a lot from us tomorrow, Ozzard, that I do know.'

Ozzard bobbed and nodded. It was good enough for him.

9

A Close Thing

Bolitho felt a hand touch his arm and tried not to groan as the stiffness plucked at his wound. Had he really been asleep? The realization shocked him into immediate alertness. 'What is it, man?'

Lieutenant Mountsteven watched him curiously, as if he did not really believe he was sharing a small rough gully with his vice-admiral.

'Dawn soon, sir. I've roused all hands.'

Bolitho sat up and rubbed his eyes. They felt raw and tired, and he noticed for the first time that the wind had almost died.

Looking back, it still seemed unreal, an impossible hallucination. He peered over the edge of the ground and saw the vague glint of water, as if he expected to see Achates forcing the entrance, her sails bulging like metal breastplates, burnished gold by the spluttering flares. Achates was only a small sixty-four, but in the eerie glare she had seemingly filled the harbour and had brought wild cheers and not a few tears from Bolitho's seamen.

Around him he heard men gathering up their weapons and recalled the Royal Marine corporal who had been sent by Captain Dewar to report that all his men were ashore and in position.

That too seemed like part of a dream, the corporal apparently unmoved and immaculate in his scarlet uniform.

He grinned, despite his anxieties. By comparison he felt' like a vagrant in his stained shirt and his hair full of grit and blown sand.

The fortress was still lost in darkness, but the old volcano had a fine rim of grey light around its summit.

Mountsteven handed him a flask and said, 'I've put a good lookout to watch for the ship, sir. The marines will prevent any attempt to move a cannon from the town to fire on her.'

Bolitho held the flask to his lips and felt his eyes water as the raw brandy burned his tongue. So much depended on Rivers. Given time he could move his heavy battery to another wall where with ordinary shot he could pound Achates to fragments. With heated shot he could achieve it in minutes.

It was as if the whole island was unwilling to wake, to enter the new day. He doubted if Rivers had had much sleep, wherever he was.

He looked round as somewhere a cock crowed defiantly in the damp air.

The third lieutenant scrambled down the slope and said breathlessly, 'They're moving artillery in the fortress, sir. I put a picket as close as I could.' He too took the flask from the other lieutenant and raised it to his lips. He grimaced and added, 'But the gates are still shut.'

Bolitho nodded, his mind grappling with such frugal intelligence. Rivers must be regaining confidence, whereas the first excitement of the landing and breaking the boom was already fading with the dawn.

Bolitho stood up carefully and wiped his face with his sleeve. What a wretched situation it was. People in England would question the need for men to die for such a cause when the French would gather all the spoils anyway. He cursed angrily and knew he was thinking only of himself, of his hopes for a future with Belinda. No wonder youthful lieutenants like Mountsteven and Scott eyed him with some curiosity. He should have known, have remembered his own service as a lieutenant. Then he had never considered the personal problems of his superiors, their wives, or that they might be as apprehensive as their subordinates when the time came to fight.

He shook the mood aside like an old cloak. To live without Belinda would be unbearable. But to live without honour would be beyond him.

There was a startled challenge from the waterside and Bolitho heard Allday's voice, hushed but fierce as he retorted, 'It's me, you blind fool! Hold your noise or I'll spit you, so I will!' He stumbled down the slope and peered uncertainly at the three officers.

Bolitho smiled. 'You performed a miracle. It was well done!'

Allday seemed to realize that one of the dishevelled shapes was Bolitho and bared his teeth in the gloom. 'Thankee, sir.'

Scott said, 'Thought you might have run into a guard-boat, Allday.'

Allday looked at him as if to consider if a mere lieutenant was worth his attention, then said,' We did, sir.' He drew his hand across his throat. 'No bother at all.'

The violent crash of a single cannon made several of the men gasp with surprise. Birds rose screaming and squawking in pale clouds from land and water alike, and as the sailors watched the smoke drift from the ramparts they all heard the unmistakable thud of a direct hit.

Bolitho fastened his sword-belt and snapped, 'They've found Achates.'

As if in answer to his words there was a swift response from the direction of the town. Musket fire for the most part, and then the sounds of horses clattering along a road.

Rivers' militia intended to attack them before they had found their proper bearings on the island, while a re-sited battery would concentrate on the anchored ship.

Bolitho said, 'Captain Keen will have to be quick. We must win him some more time.'

He peered round and noticed that already the landscape and the nearest huddle of seamen had grown sharper in the feeble light.

Mountsteven asked quietly, 'What do you intend, sir?'

'Flag of truce.' Bolitho saw his look of amazement and added sharply, 'Two volunteers, if you please.'

He tried not to flinch as the gun fired again. He did not hear the ball strike, but in a few moments the gunner would have his target in full view.

Allday said bluntly, 'One volunteer. I'm comin', sir.'

Bolitho walked from his patch of cover and faced the track which wound its way up to the fortress. A bluff? He had nothing else to offer.

With Allday breathing hard at his side, and the boatswain's mate, Christy, a step or so in the rear, Bolitho strode along the rough ground. Christy was carrying a shirt on a boat-hook as a flag of truce and was quietly whistling to himself as he followed his admiral. He had even managed to make a joke of the fact that the shirt belonged to one of the two midshipmen who were with the landing party. 'The only young gentlemen with one clean enough for the occasion,' as he had put it.

Bolitho was astonished that he could still raise a grin or two with his remark.

'Halt.' That's far enough!'

Bolitho stood quite still, the fortress looming over him like a grey cliff. He thought he heard a scrape of metal and imagined a marksman taking careful aim at him, white flag or not. Again he felt the same bitterness welling up inside him. Who would care? Hundreds, thousands of sailors and soldiers had died all over the world for one cause or another, but who ever remembered why?

He cupped his hands. 'I want to speak with Sir Humphrey Rivers!'

There was a derisive chuckle. 'Don't you mean parley, sir?'

Bolitho pressed his hands tightly to his sides. He had been right. Rivers was inside. Otherwise the unknown men above the gates would have said so, to mock him for his mistake.

Allday muttered, 'I'll give that bugger parley!'

'Oh, it's you, Bolitho! I thought we had some beggars at the gates, what?'

Bolitho found he could relax now that he knew Rivers was really here.

'And pray, what can I do for you before I take you and your ruffians into custody?'

Bolitho felt his heart pumping against his ribs as if it was the only part of his body still able to respond. Surely the light was brighter? But for the storm the whole fortress would already be visible.

Somewhere beyond the wall he heard a man yell, 'Ready to fire, sir!'

But Rivers was enjoying himself. 'A moment longer, Tate! I must hear the gallant admiral's request.'

Bolitho said in a whisper, 'They cannot shoot while Rivers is there. The ship is in direct line with him.' He raised his voice again, 'I ask you to hold your fire and stand down your men. You have no chance of defeating us, and your people must know full well of the consequences for their actions against a King's ship.'

He tried to picture his words being passed from man to man behind that wall. But they were all islanders, and probably little better than pirates in times of war, although the more sensitive term 'privateer' had made their trade almost legal.

Rivers shouted angrily, 'God damn you, Bolitho! You had your chance, now you shall pay dearly for your bloody arrogance!'

Bolitho blinked as a shaft of bright sunlight pierced the ramparts of the fortress's central tower and laid bare the hillside behind him.

Bolitho heard some of the seamen calling from their hiding places and guessed the sun had also uncovered the anchored two-decker.

Rivers' voice rose higher still as he shouted, 'There's your target, lads! Make every ball tell. That captain is a bigger fool than his admiral!'

Bolitho turned very slowly and looked across the water to the white houses and the cluster of moored vessels. He found that he could ignore the chorus of jeers from Rivers' men as he saw what Keen and his depleted company had achieved in complete darkness. The long cable which had been run out to a mooring buoy from Achates' stern held the ship motionless, so that her whole broadside was exposed to the fortress battery. Keen had converted the ship from a living creature to a moored double battery. One side faced the town, the other commanded the anchorage and anything which tried to enter or leave. No wonder Rivers had mistaken their intentions.

Rivers yelled, 'I have a force of mounted men coming to deal with you, Bolitho. Your disgrace and ignominy after this reckless escapade will put paid to any future assaults on my islands

Bolitho could see him framed against the washed-out blue sky, could feel the loathing in the man like something solid. He saw smoke rising lazily above the grey stones and knew they were heating shot to destroy Achates. There was no more time to spare.

He called, 'I shall return to my men, Sir Humphrey ..." He felt a nerve jump in his throat as he heard the far-off but familiar rumble. This time he dared not turn, dared not take his eyes from Rivers' silhouette as the muffled sound suddenly ceased.

Rivers exclaimed, 'What good can that do? Not one of her guns can even scratch these walls!' But he sounded less forceful, as if, like Bolitho, the sound of Achates running out her guns on both broadsides had released a memory.

'Do you have a telescope, Sir Humphrey?'

It was difficult to stay calm when every fibre made him want to charge at the gates and smash them down with his bare fists.

Rivers was already peering through a glass towards the motionless ship. Achates' total stillness made it somehow unnerving. Each sail neatly furled, not a soul moving above the black and buff hull.

Bolitho said, 'You will see a man in the mainmast cross-trees, a lieutenant to be exact. He too will have a telescope this morning, Sir Humphrey. Trained inland towards your house and estate.'

Rivers said, 'Don't play for time!'

'And after that, the town, Sir Humphrey, until not even a stone stands on end.'

The roar when it came was tremendous, thrown back from Achates' hidden side by the land, so that it echoed and re-echoed around the fortress as if the battery there had already opened fire.

Bolitho twisted round to watch the dense smoke moving away from the ship towards the shore, where moments earlier many people had been waiting to see the uneven battle.

Aboard ship Keen's officers would be passing instructions to the capstans, another turn on the massive warp to swing the ship further still towards the target.

He saw the scar on Achates' tumblehome where the first ball had found a mark. It was nothing to what heated shot would do.

A small pendant rose smartly to Achates' main-yard and flapped in the breeze.

Bolitho said flatly, 'The next broadside is laid and ready. It is your decision.'

Behind him he heard Christy murmur, 'Gawd.'

Allday said, 'The cavalry are comin", sir.'

Bolitho saw the cluster of horsemen cantering along the track which led from the town. They looked unruly, startled probably by the sudden blast of cannon fire. Mercenaries, local planters, militiamen, it did not matter. If they took control of the road and captured Bolitho's party it would mean another change of fortunes.

A bugle blared briefly and Bolitho saw the files of scarlet-coated marines emerge from the brush where they had lain in hiding and prepared for this final moment.

He saw the glitter of sunlight on the fixed bayonets, and could imagine Dewar and his lieutenant receiving the reports of the seasoned professionals like Sergeant Saxton.

The horses had gathered speed, the dust spewing away from the hoofs in a solid bank.

There was a ragged volley of shots, and Bolitho felt a cold grip in his stomach as three of the tiny scarlet figures fell across the track.

The marines seemed to take an eternity, the front rank kneeling beside their dead comrades while the rear rank took aim above their heads. More shots. This time it was a small drummer who fell.

Allday gasped, 'Jesus, why don't they shoot, damn them!'

Dewar's blade flashed down and the crash of muskets seemed as if a single shot had been fired.

Horses and men tumbled in confusion, but when the smoke cleared from the hillside the scarlet lines were unchanged. The horsemen were returning to the town, their dead and wounded left to their own resources.

Christy said fiercely, 'The gates are openin', sir!'

It was over. In twos and threes, and then in a flood, the fortress's garrison hurried into the sunlight, dropping their weapons as they ran.

Last of all came Rivers, swaying from side to side as if he were drunk.

But there was no slur in his voice as he faced Bolitho and said, 'I'll see you in hell for this!' He stared wildly at the lush green slope beyond the town. 'My house, my family, you fired on them without caring -

Bolitho said sharply, 'By your orders some of my men have died today.' He tried to hold his anger under control. 'And for what? Because of your greed and ambition.' He turned away, afraid he would finally lose control. 'And have no fear, Sir Humphrey. While you were prepared to burn a King's ship to her water-line and murder every man-jack aboard if need be, Captain Keen took care to keep his guns unshotted. You were defeated by smoke, nothing more.'

It should have been a proud moment but Bolitho was sickened by it.

To Allday he said, 'We shall return to the ship. Dewar's men will take charge here.'

Allday gestured towards the stricken Rivers. 'What about 'im?'

'See that he is well guarded for his own safety."

Allday glared as two seamen seized Rivers and hustled him back towards the fortress.

Almost to himself Bolitho added, 'It is always easy for the victor to exact revenge.' Then he clapped the burly coxswain on the arm and said, 'The sea is where I belong.'

Allday breathed out very slowly. It had been a close thing that time. He shivered despite the growing warmth. Getting past it. Leave it to the youngsters after this.

The delusion cheered him slightly and he quickened his pace.

The seamen stood on either side of the track and grinned as Bolitho walked amongst them.

Bolitho knew or could guess what they were thinking. One of us. Because he was as dirty and dishevelled as they were. Because he had been with them when the bluff could so easily have gone the wrong way.

There was so much to be done. The fortress to be occupied by Dewar's marines, the islanders to be sorted and placated. Despatches to be written. Explanations to be made.

Somewhere a wounded horse screamed in agony. Like a woman in terror. Mercifully it was silenced by a pistol shot.

Bolitho paused by the place where Dewar had made his stand. The drummer-boy lay on his back, his blue eyes and pinched features frozen at the moment of impact.

Allday thought he heard Bolitho murmur, 'Too young for this game.' Then he pulled out his handkerchief and laid it on the boy's face.

One of us. It seemed to mock him as he walked through the grinning, nodding sailors who had all expected to die on this fine morning.

I lead. They follow.

He stared across at the Achates and his flag which flapped occasionally from the foremast truck.

He saw the barge idling by some rocks ready to carry him to the ship. He straightened his back and looked neither right nor left.

A lieutenant was standing in the stern-sheets, his hat in his hand. In a moment they would start to cheer. They were the victors, and that was enough for them. It had to be.

He hesitated and looked at Allday's homely face.

'Well, old friend, what are you thinking?'

Allday frowned, off-balance at this mood which he did not recognize.

Bolitho said quietly, 'I think I know anyway.' He faced the bargemen and forced a smile. 'Now let us find that other damned pirate!'

The lieutenant raised his cocked hat and the men began to cheer.

Bolitho sat down and looked at his torn breeches. One of us.

Bolitho sat in his day-cabin and sighed as Yovell placed yet another copied letter before him for signature.

The fear and thrill of their attack seemed far behind them, even though it was still less than a week since he had faced Rivers outside the fortress. Their casualties had been mercifully few and had been buried on the hillside in the island's own graveyard.

Bolitho stood up and crossed restlessly to the stern windows and leaned over the passive water of the anchorage. The sill was hot beneath his palms, the sun high above the extinct volcano.

He saw Achates' guard-boat pulling slowly and with little enthusiasm in the blinding glare and could guess what they, like most of the ship's company, were thinking.

With their governor under arrest the islanders had settled down to await events. All resistance and hostility had ceased, and some of the local militia had been resworn to assist the Royal Marines mount guard on the fortress and battery. But it went deeper. It was a passive resistance, the townspeople taking pains to look away whenever a naval working party or sea officer walked past.

The sailors were at first hurt then resentful. Some had died, few really understood why, but they deserved better, they thought.

It was noon and the smell of boiling tar mingled with the headier aroma of rum as the daily ration was served to each mess throughout the ship. Fewer hammers broke the stillness now, and there was little to show of the damage made by the fortress's cannon, although one seaman had lost an eye because of a flying splinter.

There was a tap at the outer screen door and Keen entered, his hat beneath his arm. He looked less strained, Bolitho thought. He guessed that Keen had been dealing with his own procession of demands and reports. The surgeon and the first lieutenant, the purser and the master, they all paid their respects to the captain, if only to shift their own loads on to his shoulders.

'You sent for me, sir?'

'Sit down, Val.' Bolitho loosened his shirt for the hundredth time. 'How is the work progressing?'

'I turn the hands to work if only to keep their minds busy, sir. Achates is ready for anything. Bandbox neat, she is.'

Bolitho nodded. He had already noticed the new pride Keen had shown for his ship. Maybe her previous captain's example had haunted him and dominated the other officers from the grave.

Bolitho had heard of Keen's clash with Quantock before the headlong charge into harbour. It was hard to believe any of it had happened. But the Union Flag flew above the fortress, and to all outward appearances the island was as before.

Soon he would have to send a despatch to the French admiral whose ships lay waiting at Boston. If they were indeed still there.

Then the peace would shatter here and the pain begin all over again.

Keen watched Bolitho's grave features and said, 'The admiral at Antigua will send aid if you request it, sir.' He saw the line of Bolitho's jaw harden and added, 'But doubtless you have already considered that.'

'I was given this task, Val. Perhaps it is pride which stands in my way. Some might say conceit.' He waved down Keen's protest. 'We all have some. But I need eyes and ears, not another flag-officer to breathe down my neck. But for Sparrowhawk's loss . . .

They looked at each other. It still seemed as if Duncan was alive.

Keen said, 'Once we weigh and go in search of that damned ship the island could erupt. These people could starve out the garrison, but not the other way round. I think we should order a summary court martial and run Sir Humphrey up to the main-yard on a halter.' He spoke with unusual bitterness. 'Alive he is still a menace.'

They stood up as a single musket shot echoed across the water.

'Guard-boat. Must have sighted something.'

Keen snatched up his hat. 'I'll find out, sir.'

Bolitho took a telescope from its rack and waited for Achates to swing gently to her anchor. He watched the fortress swim into view, the upper ramparts half hidden in heat-haze so that the Union Flag seemed to be pinned to the sky itself. There was the headland and the tiny island and its Spanish mission beyond. Then he saw a solitary tanned topsail rounding the point before settling down on a final approach towards the anchorage.

The guard-boat, one of Achates' cutters, rocked on the swell, her oars protruding along either side like bleached bones.

A small brigantine. Probably some local trader. Her master would get a surprise when he saw Achates' bulk in the harbour.

Keen came back, his face moist with sweat.

'I've ordered the guard-boat to lead the brigantine to a buoy.' He waited for Bolitho to turn. 'She's been fired on to all acounts, sir. I'm sending the surgeon over immediately.'

'Fired on?"

Keen shrugged. 'That's all I know.'

'I see. Well, signal any local craft to stand away. I have an uneasy feeling about this.'

He raised his glass and steadied it on the brigantine as her flapping jib was taken in and she rounded smartly on to a mooring buoy.

He moved the glass carefully along the vessel's side. Black pock-marks marred her paintwork. Grape or cannister. Anything heavier would have sunk such a frail craft. The glass settled on two figures aft by the tiller. A big man in a blue coat with untidy grey hair. The other . . .

Bolitho exclaimed, 'God damn it, Val, it's young Adam! If he's taken any unnecessary risks, I'll ..."

They faced each other and laughed.

'I'm a fine example for him, eh?'

It seemed an eternity for a boat to make the passage between Achates and the newcomer.

Bolitho replaced the glass on its rack. It would not do for Adam to think he was worried and over-protective. All the same . . .

Keen said, 'I'll go on deck and er, welcome them, sir.' He hid a smile as he shut the door behind him.

Adam entered the cabin, his features anxious and apprehensive.

'I'm sorry, sir -

Bolitho strode to him and gripped his shoulders. 'You're here. That's all that matters.'

Adam looked round the cabin as if afraid of what he might see.

'The guard-boat, Uncle. They told me about the battle. How you had to fight your way into this place.' He lowered his eyes so that a lock of black hair fell across his forehead. 'I heard about Sparrowhawk too. I'm so sorry.'

Bolitho led him to a chair and said quietly, 'Never mind about that. Tell me about your troubles.'

It was an amazing story which the young lieutenant blurted out. Just a few days ago, after riding out a fierce storm near the Great Bahama Bank, they had been confronted by a frigate. She had been Spanish and had ordered them to heave to and to await a boarding party. The brigantine's master had apparently been suspicious and when the frigate's boat had been almost alongside he had clapped on all sail and had headed away, a favourable wind taking him into some shallows too dangerous for the frigate to follow. But not before the Spanish boarding party had opened fire with swivels and a bow gun which had peppered the side and killed the brigantine's mate.

Bolitho listened without interruption. You were never safe. Not really safe. While he had been fretting over San Felipe's future, Adam had faced an unexplained attack and possible death.

He said, The vessel's master must be an audacious fellow. Courageous too. I should like to meet him.'

Adam looked at him, his eyes shining. He wanted, no needed to tell Bolitho about Robina, but after what he had seen and heard on his passage from Boston he would not spoil the moment for a fortune.

'He came over with me! He's here!'

Bolitho eyed him questioningly. 'Well, let's have him in.'

The sentry opened the screen door and stood aside to allow the visitor to enter. Only the marine's eyes moved beneath his glazed leather hat as he said, 'Master of the Vivid, sir!' The 'sir' was accompanied by a sharp tap on the deck with his musket.

Bolitho opened his mouth to speak and then stared with astonishment. The patched blue coat with old navy buttons sewn on the cuffs, the wooden stump which protruded from one of his trouser legs, none of these things could destroy the man's identity.

Bolitho hurried to greet him and held out both hands.

'Jethro Tyrrell. Twenty years, man. And here you are!'

He watched as Tyrrell put his head on one side and regarded him with mock amusement.

'A vice-admiral, they tell me.' He nodded slowly, his untidy grey hair falling over his collar. 'Never knew the Admiralty had that kind'a sense!'

He released his grip and limped around the great cabin, his hand touching things, his eyes everywhere.

Bolitho watched him, the memories flashing through his thoughts like fiery pictures.

The little sloop-of-war Sparrow, his first command, and with Jethro Tyrrell, a Colonist officer, as his lieutenant.

It was painful to see his dragging stump, his worn clothing.

Tyrrell paused by Bolitho's coat which was tossed carelessly on a chair.

He touched one gold epaulette with his forefinger and said softly, 'As you say. Twenty years. You've done well, Dick. Real proud o' you.'

Even the soft Virginian drawl brought back a hundred more memories.

Tyrrell sat down carefully and adjusted his coat. 'I'd best be off. Just wanted to see you. Don't want to — '

Bolitho exclaimed, 'I was your commanding officer once, remember? You'll stay here and tell me everything. I tried to discover your whereabouts after the war.'

Tyrrell watched Ozzard bustling round him with goblets and bottles.

He said, 'When I was sent young Adam there as a passenger I knew I had to see you.' His eyes shone in the reflected sunlight.

'They were great days, eh?' He glanced at the spell-bound lieutenant. 'Real young terror he was. Younger than me too. Fought a duel for a girl who wanted him dead, and almost took on the Frogs single-handed.' He was smiling broadly but his eyes were incredibly sad.

Bolitho asked gently, 'What are you doing these days?'

'This an' that. I command the Vivid, but she's not mine, worse luck. Do a lot o' trading between the islands. The Dons and the King's ships are always after me as they think I'm a smuggler too. That's a joke. Look at me!'

The door opened and Keen entered warily.

Bolitho said, 'This is Jethro Tyrrell.' He looked at the grey-haired man in the chair. 'My first lieutenant in the Sparrow.' He smiled at Keen's surprise. 'Another war, Val, but a fine little ship.'

Tyrrell shifted in his chair, uncomfortable under their stares.

'Anyways, I hear you're having a spot of trouble here. Goin' to hand back San Felipe to the Frogs, right?'

Bolitho nodded gravely. 'News travels a long way.'

Tyrrell grimaced. 'Not fast enough, it seems. It's the bloody Dons you want to worry about. They intend to take this island.' He regarded their faces with quiet satisfaction. 'They will too if you're not damn careful. They've got eyes everywhere. They even tried to stop my Vivid to search her and see if I was carrying despatches or letters.' He glanced at Adam. 'My God, if they'd found him aboard they'd have murdered the lot of us, I shouldn't wonder.'

Bolitho leaned towards him. 'Is that really true? About the Spaniards?'

Tyrrell looked at him grimly. 'I need money to buy the Vivid. She's not much, but it would be a new start for me.' He turned his face away. 'Just as you want the ship which put down your frigate.'

He sounded hurt. Ashamed. But there was no doubting his sincerity.

Bolitho said, 'I'll help you, Jethro. I would have done anyway if I'd only known.'

'I had some pride, Dick. Then I did. Now I'm desperate. Lost my family, all gone. All I've got left is the sea, and I need a ship.'

Bolitho walked past him and then stopped with his hand on the big man's shoulder. 'You shall have it. Trust me.'

Tyrrell gave a great sigh. 'Then I'll take you to that bloody Spaniard.'

Bolitho looked at Keen. He seemed too stunned to speak. Twenty years. It could be yesterday.

10

The Face of Loyalty

'For God's sake close the skylight, Allday!'

Bolitho leaned over his chart again, his hands around neat calculations and soundings, San Felipe and the neighbouring shores of Cuba and Haiti.

With the stern windows shut and now the cabin skylight, the place was like a kiln. It was to no avail anyway, and Bolitho heard Black Joe Langtry's voice quite easily as the master-at-arms counted out the stroke of the cat-o'-ninetails.

It was strange Bolitho had never accepted or grown used to it. A captain's last resort at maintaining discipline.

A roll of drums, a pause and then that awful crack of the lash across a man's naked back.

He stared hard at the chart until his eyes watered.

Ten!' Langtry's harsh voice intruded again.

Keen would be up there with his officers, watching it. Hating it. But any King's ship sailing alone and without resort to other support was always in danger of exploding into chaos.

Three trusted seamen had deserted while working ashore for the purser, but had been hunted down and brought back by some of the local militia. They had apparently met some half-caste girls at one of the plantations. The rest needed little imagination.

Crack. 'Eleven!'

Now they were paying the price for their momentary pleasures. Keen had awarded the minimum punishment of twenty-four lashes apiece. But it was enough to turn a man's back into a tangle of raw flesh.

Bolitho thought of Tyrrell again. He was aboard his brigantine Vivid attending to storm damage and putting right the other scars left by the Spaniard's swivels.

It was unnerving that Tyrrell should appear like this. Memories of those far-off days together, of the little Sparrow and what she had meant to both of them.

Am I to be ever plagued by memory?

Just as the frigate Phalarope, which had been Bolitho's second command, had sailed in his squadron last year like a spectre from the past, now came Sparrow's reminder to haunt him.

Was it really so? Was I happier then with less responsibility? Prepared to risk life, even lose it, rather than chance reputation as he was doing now.

The drums ceased and he realized the floggings had ended.

He knew Tyrrell, really knew him. Had been with him when he had been smashed to the deck and had lost his leg.

Now he was a shabby reflection of that other man. Outwardly he was no danger to anyone. He was just the sort of ship's master who would hear rumours about the movements and activities of men-of-war. Their nationality and colours mattered little to the master of a small trader. All were potentially dangerous. Seeking prime seamen, even through press-gangs, was no longer in use. Who would know or care until it was too late for the luckless sailor anyway?

Tyrrell had been unshakeable about the powerful two-decker. She wore no colours and carried no name, but Spanish frigates from Santo Domingo, even those from La Guaira hundreds of miles to the south'rd, knew her and kept their distance.

This mysterious ship, which had not hesitated to fire on Achates when Keen had outwitted her in the darkness and had butchered Sparrowhawk's people without mercy, was in the Caribbean and its approaches for a purpose. A task in which she would risk anything if required.

He heard Allday open the skylight and knew that he, like Ozzard and everyone who came near, was being especially careful.

Bolitho looked at his big coxswain and shrugged helplessly. 'I do not know what is happening to me.' Allday nodded his head and smiled. ' Waitin', that's what's wrong, sir.' 'I suppose so.'

Bolitho looked down at the chart again. It was a week since Vivid had sailed into the harbour and Tyrrell had re-entered his life. Without another ship Bolitho dared not leave San Felipe. An attack might be launched by Rivers' supporters, there were plenty of them in evidence. Bolitho could not blame them. They would have to quit their homes and their plantations when the French came. Perhaps Keen had been right. If they hanged Rivers it might end there.

But Rivers had powerful friends in America and the City of London. In Bolitho's eyes he was no better than a pirate. But a proper trial in London would be required by their lordships to prove it.

If Tyrrell was right and the unknown two-decker was preparing to mount an attack on San Felipe, it was folly to leave the harbour unguarded. Achates had proved what could be done when it seemed worth the risk.

The door opened and Adam walked into the cabin.

A full week since they had been reunited and yet they had said very little. Adam was keeping something from him. Or maybe he had been too busy and preoccupied to share the young lieutenant's confidences.

He said, 'Signal from the battery, sir. The brig Electra is standing into the bay. She should anchor within the hour.'

'Thank you, Adam."

Bolitho's eyes moved back to the chart. He could picture the brig's commander clearly when he had described his discovery of the Sparrowhawk's few survivors in an American trader. Napier, that was his name. He must have sailed under every inch of canvas to make such a fast passage to Antigua and then westwards to San Felipe. Dare he hope that Electra would be able to wait in the harbour as a show of authority? She was only a small brig, but she flew the same flag as Achates.

Bolitho suspected that many of the islanders would be happier if a King's ship was always here, rather than leave the door open for the French or, as Tyrrell had said, the Spaniards.

Bolitho walked to the windows and shaded his eyes with his forearm.

'Signal Electra's captain to repair on board immediately he anchors.'

Adam smiled gravely. 'I have requested the battery to relay that signal already, Uncle.'

Bolitho turned and spread his hands. 'You'll make a fine commander one of these days, my lad.'

Keen entered the cabin and dropped into a chair at Bolitho's bidding.

'I wonder what news she brings us, sir?'

He took a glass of hock gratefully and held it to his lips. Ozzard had been keeping a special store of it in the bilges ever since the ship had left the Beaulieu River in Hampshire.

'Any news will be welcome. I sometimes feel like a man who has gone deaf.'

Keen said, 'Maybe their lordships will recall us.'

Bolitho said, 'Adam, make a signal to Vivid, better still, go across and speak with Mr Tyrrell. I'd like him aboard with me when we sail.'

Keen waited for the door to close and then put his glass down very carefully.

'May I say something, sir?'

'You disagree with my proposed strategy, is that it?"

Keen smiled briefly. 'You are taking a terrible chance. Two chances to be exact.' When Bolitho remained silent he continued, 'This man Tyrrell. How much do you know about him?'

'He was my first lieutenant..." Keen nodded. 'You mean that's not enough after twenty years?'

Keen shrugged. 'Hard to say, sir. He said himself he's desperate. He's lost his wife and family, even his reputation, because he fought for the King rather than Washington.'

'Go on.' Bolitho could sense Allday holding his breath.

'Suppose you meet with the Spaniard and bring her to action, what would we do if she hoists her true colours? Would you spark off a war?'

'Tell me about the second risk.'

Keen was perfectly right to point it out to him. But it made Bolitho feel more isolated than ever.

'The second one is that the Spanish ship, If she is still in these waters, might be waiting for you to leave harbour so that she can snatch Achates' place. You would have to fight your way back in. Not against a few stupid planters and the local militia, but a real ship, and the men to back up her authority. In my opinion, the risk outweighs the profit.' He dropped his eyes. 'I — I am sorry, sir. But it had to be said.'

Bolitho smiled sadly. 'I understand what it cost you. In truth, I do not know if a risk can ever be measured. I don't wish our people to die for no purpose. Nor do I want my own body divided between the wings and limbs tubs around the surgeon's table. I have everything to live for. Now. But ... '

Keen grinned and took a refilled glass from Ozzard.

'Aye, sir, but. What a powerful argument that small word can raise against reason!'

Bolitho tapped the chart with his brass dividers.

'I believe that ship to be here, just as Jethro Tyrrell described. She has a sizeable company, so will require a good haven to shelter in while her captain seeks information about us. Beset as we are by enemies, that part will not be too difficult for him.'

Keen stood up and joined him by the table.

‘Tyrrell is right, it would make things very difficult in a war.' He ran his fingers along the islands. Puerto Rico, Santo Domingo, Haiti, even Cuba. 'The Spaniards would command all the approaches to the Caribbean and to Jamaica.' He nodded slowly, understanding spreading on his handsome features. 'And San Felipe stands astride the Windward Passage like a drawbridge. No wonder the French want the island for themselves. They need an ally, but they are not required to trust him!'

They were both studying the chart when a midshipman announced the arrival of Electra at the anchorage.

Keen buttoned his coat.

'I'll receive Commander Napier, sir.' He glanced at the table. 'I'm still not sure that I am convinced, sir.' Bolitho smiled. 'You will be.'

He allowed Ozzard to assist him into his sea-going coat out of respect for Electra’ s captain.

His body ran with sweat, and through the stern windows he saw the gentle rise and fall of the clear water and imagined himself swimming naked there. His thoughts turned instantly to Belinda. It only took a split second. Like dropping your guard through fatigue or over-confidence. The enemy's blade darting forward like a steel tongue. He had tried to occupy every moment of his time with his work and the puzzle which he must solve. But every so often he saw only Belinda and the distance which divided them like an eternal barrier.

He vaguely heard footsteps and lowered voices. He had to recover himself for their sakes as well as his own.

Soon now, probably very soon, they would have to fight. This was no haphazard scheme or piratical aspiration. The unknown ship had already proved that to be in the right was no protection. Too many had died already to support such an argument.

He faced the door. In any war the cannon was impartial. Its roar swept away saint and sinner with the same indifference.

Commander Napier, with a shining new epaulette fixed to his left shoulder for the occasion, entered and clicked his shoes together.

Bolitho took the heavy envelope from his hand and passed it to Yovell.

'You made a speedy passage, Commander Napier.'

Bolitho tried to contain his impatience as Napier was put in a chair and a glass of wine brought for him.

Napier said, 'English Harbour is almost empty of ships but for a third-rate which is refitting and two frigates. The admiral has taken the squadron to the Leeward Islands, sir. Commodore Chater is in temporary command.' He swallowed under Bolitho's grey stare. 'He sends you his respects and best wishes, sir.'

Bolitho heard Yovell breaking the seals on the canvas envelope and wanted to run and tear out the despatches from Antigua. But without the admiral there he was helpless. He knew a little of Commodore Chater. He was not one to risk the displeasure of his superior with some brave gesture.

Napier added huskily, 'I am commanded to place myself and Electra at your wishes, sir.' He screwed up his eyes as he tried to recall exactly what Chater had told him. 'When he learned of Sparrowhawk's loss he wished to send some marines to enlarge your force.'

Bolitho nodded. 'But the marines have also sailed with the squadron, am I right?'

Napier replied miserably, 'Aye, sir.' Then he brightened and added, 'But I was ordered to embark a platoon of the Sixtieth Foot in their stead, sir.'

Keen, who had followed him aft, said quietly, 'That's something.'

Bolitho turned towards the windows while he tried to fit the pieces together.

Napier said brightly, 'But I expect you knew about the soldiers, sir. The commodore sent word with the courier-brig which sailed two days ahead of me.'

Bolitho swung round. 'What did you say?'

Napier paled. 'The courier, sir. Despatches for the admiral at Antigua, others for you, sir.' He looked to Keen for comfort. 'From England, sir.'

Keen exclaimed, 'You were right, sir. They must have caught and sunk the courier-brig too.'

Bolitho grasped his hands behind his back and squeezed them until the pain controlled his dismay.

From England. With despatches. And letters. News of Belinda. And now . . .

He looked at Keen. 'So you are convinced?' He did not hear his answer.

To Napier he said, 'Have you a capable first lieutenant?'

Napier was completely lost. For hours he had rehearsed what he would say to Bolitho. He had had time to put on his best uniform. Now it had all shattered. Like opening a door to greet a friend and finding oneself confronted by a madman.

He managed to nod. 'Aye, sir. He is a good officer.'

'Just as well.' Bolitho looked at Keen. 'First opportunity tomorrow we will weigh and put to sea. In the meantime I shall endeavour to glean what I can from the gallant commodore's despatches. But before that ..." He crossed to the table and poured Napier another glass of hock. 'We shall all drink a toast. You too, Allday.'

Allday took a glass from Ozzard and watched the transformation in looks and tone.

Bolitho felt his mouth lift to a grin.

'A toast.' He raised his glass. 'To Mr Napier, the new acting-governor of San Felipe!'

'Sou'-west by south, sir! Steady she goes!'

Bolitho half listened to the helmsman's report but concentrated on the sprawling purple blur on the larboard horizon. It was afternoon and the sun still beat down on the slow-moving ship with relentless ferocity. But after the oppressive hostility in San Felipe it was like a tonic.

Bolitho could feel it in the ship around and beneath him, the cheerful banter of the seamen on deck. Mountsteven, who was officer of the watch, barely raised his voice as he supervised the final resetting of the fore-course.

Bolitho steadied his telescope and watched the vague suggestion of land, Haiti, which lay some fifteen miles to larboard. Despite the distance it had an air of menace. Whenever possible sailors avoided its shores with their tales of witchcraft and horrifying rites.

Achates had been delayed a further day in San Felipe for want of wind, but now with the prevailing north-easterly filling her topsails and courses she was standing down the Windward Passage as if she was enjoying it. Here the Passage between Cuba and Haiti was barely seventy miles wide, its narrowest part. In time of war it would be hard to force a convoy through, with San Felipe in enemy hands. The more he considered it, the less Bolitho could understand the reason for his orders.

He handed the glass to one of the midshipmen and began to pace slowly up and down the quarterdeck. He hoped he had not been too hard on Commander Napier. The latter appeared to be relishing his new, if brief, appointment as temporary governor. With his fourteen-gun brig anchored below the powerful battery, and a smart platoon of the Sixtieth Foot, or the Royal Americans as they were still known, in the fortress, he was able to present a show of strength.

He saw some marines having their muskets and equipment inspected by Lieutenant Hawtayne. He was glad they were back on board where they belonged. It seemed very likely they would soon be needed again.

He hid a smile as the marine lieutenant said in his piping voice, 'Smarten yourself up, Jones! You've had your rest ashore!'

Bolitho knew that the picture of the dead drummer-boy would last a long time in his memory.

He heard Adam's light step nearby and saw him waiting to speak.

'How is my flag-lieutenant today?' Adam smiled. It was the moment.

'Miss Robina is a fine girl, Uncle. I've never met anyone like her . . .'

Bolitho let it pour out without interruption. So that was the trouble. But for his own worries he would have realized that the ride to Newburyport would be a beginning rather than an ending.

'Have you asked her father for her hand in marriage?'

Adam blushed. 'It's far too soon, Uncle, that is, I hinted perhaps sometime in the future, that is, not the too distant future . . . His voice trailed away and he stared at the dark water abeam. Then he said, 'I know she won't have me, of course. Her uncle knows. He was glad to get rid of me aboard one of his vessels.'

Bolitho looked at him. Vivid was owned by Chase. It was strange that Tyrrell had not mentioned it.

'Let us walk awhile, Adam.'

They paced back and forth for several minutes while the ship moved and worked around them.

Bolitho said, 'You have a future in the Navy, Adam. A good one, if I have any say in the matter. You come of fine sea-going stock, but so have many others. Whatever gain you make, and whatever achievements you have won, you will have done so without the use of privilege, remember that. Yours will be a better Navy, or should be when young officers like you have positions of authority. We're an island race. We shall always need ships and those brave enough to fight them.'

Adam glanced at him. 'It is what I want. Have wanted since I joined your Hyperion as midshipman.'

Bolitho looked down at the gun-deck and saw the seaman who had lost an eye being greeted by some of his messmates as he swayed uncertainly past an eighteen-pounder. He was still unused to it. But with his black eye-patch to conceal the oakum which filled the empty socket he looked every inch a hero, and they were treating him as such.

Adam tried to find the words. 'Men like that one, Uncle. They mean a lot to you. They're not just ignorant hands, they matter, don't they?'

Bolitho faced him. 'They most certainly do. We must never take them for granted, Adam. There are plenty of others who do that!'

Adam nodded. 'When I sat in my father's old chair ..."

Bolitho asked quietly, 'At Newburyport? Where his ship was once sheltered?'

Adam looked away. He had not meant it to slip out quite like that, or so soon.

"They showed me, Uncle. It was the family name, you see. Not common in New England.'

'I'm glad. You've seen more than I.'

He heard Keen approaching and was suddenly thankful. It was not just Hugh's memory, what he had done to their father when he had deserted to fight for the American rebels, not because of that or the shame which-even Rivers had been quick to mention. Bolitho tried to face it. He was jealous. Hurt, even though it was ridiculous.

Keen touched his hat. 'Mr Tyrrell is in the chartroom with the master, sir. I think we should examine the next chart.' He glanced professionally at the clear sky. 'Should be able to maintain a fair speed all night at this rate.' He seemed oblivious to the awkward silence.

'Good, I'll come directly.' He nodded to his nephew. 'You too. It's all experience for whatever you intend.'

He hesitated outside the chartroom and said abruptly, 'Take charge, Val. I'm going aft. You can explain it all later.'

Adam asked anxiously, 'Are you feeling unwell, sir?'

Bolitho said, 'Just tired.'

He strode away and was soon lost in the shadows below the poop deck.

He was unable to face all of them crammed together in the small space of the chartroom. Knocker, the master, Quantock, Captain Dewar of the Royal Marines, and their assistants as well.

Bolitho had left another letter with Napier at San Felipe, and a copy to be sent by any other vessel which might happen to call at the harbour for supplies or water.

Not knowing about Belinda was tearing at him like claws. He had not realized how brittle his reserves had become. Not until Adam had reminded him of Hugh. My father's old chair.

Before, Hugh had remained misty and obscure. Now he was here amongst them. Fighting for his place.

Bolitho slumped down on the stern seat and stared at the glistening froth left by Achates' rudder.

Allday padded in from the dining space. 'Can I fetch you a glass, sir?' He was careful to keep his voice level.

'No, but thank you.' Bolitho twisted round to look at him. 'You are the only one who really knows me, do you understand that?'

'Sometime I do, an' then again sometime I don't, sir. By an' large I think I sees the man more'n others do.'

Bolitho lay back and breathed in the damp air. 'God, Allday, I am in hell.' But when he looked again Allday had vanished.

He watched a fish jumping astern. Who could blame Allday? He was probably ashamed of seeing his secret despair.

But Allday, as was his wont, had gone to his tiny, screened-off mess which he shared with his two friends, Jewell, the Achates' sailmaker, and the boatswain's mate Christy whom he had known in the Lysander at the Nile.

Three great tots of rum later he presented himself at Keen's cabin door.

The captain's clerk regarded him warily. 'What do 'ee want, Allday?'

The clerk winced as Allday breathed out the heavy fumes. 'Request to see the cap'n.'

It was unorthodox, and Keen was feeling weary after the discussion in the chartroom. But he knew Allday, and owed him his very life.

'Come in and close the door.' He dismissed his clerk and asked, 'What is it, man? You look like someone intent on a fight?'

Allday took another long breath. 'It's the admiral, sir. He's carryin' more'n his share. It's not fair . . . '

Keen smiled. So that was all. He had imagined something terrible had occurred.

Allday continued, 'I just wanted to say my piece, sir, seein' you're a decent man an' a real friend to 'im down aft. It's somethin' the flag-lieutenant said to 'im. I feel it in me bones. Somethin' which wounded 'im deeply.'

Keen was tired but he was intelligent and quick-witted. He knew he should have seen it. The unusual strangeness between the vice-admiral and his nephew.

He said, 'Leave it with me, Allday. I understand.'

Allday studied his face and then nodded. 'Had to speak, sir. Otherwise, officer or not, I'll put the flag-lieutenant across my knee and beat the hell out of 'im!'

Keen stood up. 'I didn't hear that, Allday.' He smiled gravely. 'Now be off with you.'

For a long while Keen sat at his table and watched the sun dying on the gently heaving sea.

He had a million things to do, for somehow he knew they would be called to fight very soon now. Like Allday, he thought, in me bones. The memory did not amuse him but he found that he was able to forget the conference, Quantock's silent disapproval and the man Tyrrell's brash promises to lead them to a place where they could hold an advantage against the other ship.

And all because of Allday. He had known Bolitho's coxswain on and off for eighteen turbulent years. Years of hardship and war, of momentary distractions and the incredible joy of staying alive when that seemed an impossibility.

One word stood out where Allday was concerned. Loyalty.

Keen reached wearily for the bell to summon his clerk.

He doubted if many people could describe what loyalty was, but he had been privileged to see what it looked like.

11

Revenge

'All hands, all hands! Hands aloft an' loose topsails!'

Bolitho stood at the quarterdeck rail and watched the dripping cutters being secured yet again on their tier. Achates had anchored for several hours while the boats had been lowered to examine an inlet where a ship might be concealed. As on all the other occasions, they had returned with nothing to report.

Bolitho shaded his eyes from the intense glare to look at the land. Santo Domingo was just a few miles to the north-west, then the Mona Passage, back to the northern approaches where they had started.

Two weeks wasted. Making use of winds which would barely move a leaf on an inland stream.

He watched the big topsails flapping and filling as the ship heeled slightly on her new tack.

Keen crossed the quarterdeck and waited for Bolitho to face him.

'With respect, sir, I think we should return to San Felipe.'

Bolitho replied, 'I know these waters well, Val. You can hide a fleet if need be. You think I'm mistaken, don't you?' He touched his crumpled shirt and smiled. 'I don't blame you. These past weeks have been hard on all of us.'

Keen said, 'I'm worried for you, sir. The longer we wait ..."

Bolitho nodded. 'I know. My head on the block. I've always understood that.'

The shrouds creaked as the wind increased a little to fill the sails. High above the decks the extra lookouts strained their eyes and silently cursed their officers for their discomfort.

Bolitho heard the heavy tap of Tyrrell's wooden stump and turned to greet him. Keen made his excuses and moved to another part of the quarterdeck. His mistrust and growing suspicion were obvious.

Tyrrell glanced at Keen and said, 'Don't like me much, that one.' He sounded worried, less confident.

Bolitho asked, 'Are you still certain, Jethro?'

'She could have gone elsewhere.' He pounded his fist on the rail. 'But several friends told me she'd been usin' one of the inlets as a restin' place. She's nothin' to fear from the Dons. They know what she's about, I'm certain of that too.'

Bolitho looked at him thoughtfully. 'We're inside their waters now. I've no authority even to be here unless that damned ship is sheltering behind the Spanish flag.'

Keen returned, his face expressionless. 'We shall have to change tack again shortly, sir.' He purposely ignored Tyrrell. 'After that it will be a hard beat up to the Mona Passage. The wind is poor enough, but it seems intent on holding us back.'

Even as he spoke the fore-topsail flapped and banged against the shrouds and men scurried to the braces to retrim the yards yet again.

Tyrrell said suddenly, 'I know of a place. Give me a boat.' He was speaking quickly as if to stifle his own arguments against his suggestion. 'You don't believe me. I'm not even sure myself.'

They looked up as a lookout yelled, 'Deck there! Sail to the nor'-west!'

Keen murmured, 'Bloody hell! It'll be a patrol boat out of Santo Domingo!'

Tyrrell regarded him bleakly. 'They'll have been watchin' your fine ship for days, Captain, I'll wager a bounty on it!'

Keen looked away and retorted, 'You'd know about bounties right enough!'

Bolitho said sharply, 'Enough.'

He looked up at the masthead. A fine, clear day, the lookout would see better than anyone.

He cupped his hands and shouted, 'What ship?'

Bolitho was aware that several of the seamen nearby had stopped work to stare. An admiral, even a junior one, shouting? It must seem like heresy.

The lookout shouted down, 'Frigate, sir, by the cut of her!'

Bolitho nodded. A frigate. Keen was probably right. There was not much time. Two hours at the most.

He said, 'Heave to, if you please, and lower a cutter. Lieutenant in charge, and have the boat armed.'

Voices yelled around him and feet pounded across the sun-dried planking as Achates came reluctantly into the wind even as the boat was hoisted jerkily above the starboard gangway.

Knocker hovered at Keen's elbow and muttered, 'The inlet is a mere scratch, sir. Never get a ship in there!'

Tyrrell replied heavily, 'Your chart says that. I say different!'

Bolitho watched Scott, the third lieutenant, hastily buckling on his hanger while the wardroom servant followed him with his pistol and cocked hat. From fretting torpor to urgent activity, how often Bolitho had known and shared that.

'Cutter alongside, sir!'

There was a thud as a swivel-gun was mounted in the boat's bows, and two seamen began to ram a charge down its muzzle.

Bolitho said quietly, 'Did you always know about this inlet, Jethro? These past two weeks and before, you knew this was the place? Yet in a moment or two we would have changed tack and the opportunity would have been lost.'

Tyrrell said, 'You wanted that ship. I kept a bargain.'

Then he was gone, swinging his wooden leg in great strides as he made for the entry port.

Bolitho knew the truth at that moment, but something made him hurry to the nettings and call, 'Take care, Jethro! And good luck!'

Tyrrell paused, his big hands grasping the lines of the stairs down the tumblehome as he stared aft at the quarterdeck, his eyes watering in the sunlight. For just a few moments the years fell away and they were back in Sparrow. Then Tyrrell swung himself out and down into the cutter, his wooden stump jutting out like a tusk.

Keen murmured, 'I wonder.'

The cutter pulled quickly away from the side, the oars rising and dipping to a fast stroke, her coxswain standing upright behind the lieutenant as he headed for the shore.

Bolitho bit his lip. 'I trusted him. Perhaps it was too strong for him in the end."

Keen shook his head. 'I don't understand, sir.'

Bolitho watched the boat swinging round in a tight arc as Tyrrell's arm pointed to larboard in a new direction. He could see the swirl of an inshore current, the way the trees and thick scrub ran down to the water's edge. It was hard to believe that the inlet was other than the chart had described.

There was a far-off bang and then the lookout called, 'Frigate's fired a shot, sir!'

Knocker remarked dourly, 'Couldn't hit Gibraltar from there!'

Bolitho glanced at Keen. Was it a warning to Achates to quit Spanish waters or a signal to someone else?

He said, 'I suggest you beat to quarters. Clear for action without delay.' He turned to watch the cutter's progress. 'We'll not be caught a second time.'

Around him men stood stiffly like crude statues, unable to believe what they had heard.

Then, as the drums rattled and voices barked hoarsely between decks, the truth became clear to everyone.

Keen folded his arms and looked down the length of his command. Men hurried along either gangway, tamping down the tightly packed hammocks in the nettings, while ship's boys dashed among the guns and spread sand which might prevent a man from slipping if the blood started to flow. Big Harry Rooke, the boatswain, was yelling at some of his own party as they scrambled along the yards to rig chain-slings to prevent the spars from falling on the men below. Others tore down screens between decks to transform the great space from small, individual messes and cabins into one open battery from bow to stern.

Quantock looked up from the gun-deck and touched his hat.

'Cleared for action, sir!' He had learned Keen's ways by now. Just as Keen had once learned them under Bolitho's command. 'Nine minutes, sir!'

Keen nodded. 'That was well done, Mr Quantock.'

But there was nothing between them, and neither smiled because of the small compliment.

Bolitho raised a telescope and watched the distant cutter. What Lieutenant Scott and the others must be thinking he could only guess. The roll of drums as Achates beat to quarters, the bang of a cannon, and all the time they were pulling further and further from their ship, their home.

He heard Allday give a discreet cough and saw him holding out his coat for him while Ozzard fussed around behind with his sword. Adam was here too, clear-eyed and looking incredibly young and anxious.

'Orders, sir?'

Bolitho allowed Allday to clip on the old sword and was saddened by Adam's formality.

He said, 'I am sorry, Adam. I should have known. You have every right to be proud. In your place I would have felt the same.'

The youthful lieutenant took half a pace towards him. 'I would cut off a hand rather than hurt you, sir. It was just that ..."

'It was just that you wanted to share it with me and I was too busy to listen.'

Keen said, 'Ready, sir.'

He glanced from one to the other and felt strangely relieved. He looked directly at Allday but the coxswain did not even blink. Keen smiled. Allday was a fox.

'Very well.' Bolitho looked at his Hag at the foremast truck. 'Run up the colours, if you please. And then, Mr Bolitho, make a signal. Enemy in sight.' He saw Adam's expression change from surprise to understanding as he added for the quarterdeck's benefit, 'We might as well give them the idea we are not totally alone, eh, lads?'

He looked at Keen. 'Let's be about it.'

Suppose there was nothing? That he had been wrong about Tyrrell, about everything else? He would be a laughingstock.

He saw the signals midshipman, Ferrier, with his assistants, and little F.vans from the Sparrowhawk busy at the halliards, and then as the bright balls of bunting dashed up the yard and broke to the breeze there was an excited cheer from the men at the upper-deck eighteen-pounders.

Most of them could not distinguish one flag from another. But to them it meant more than words. It was a symbol. A part of them.

Keen watched Bolitho's face and sighed. I should have known.

There was a sharp whiplash crack and several voices yelled, 'They've fired on the cutter, the buggers!' Cheers one instant, fury the next.

Bolitho snatched a glass and watched the cutter coming about, the oars in momentary confusion as the water around it leapt with vicious feathers of spray. He saw a corpse pushed roughly over the gunwale to give more space to the oarsmen, and heard a loud bang as the cutter's swivel raked the trees nearest to the beach.

Keen was shouting, 'We may have to leave the cutter, Mr Quantock! But signal Mr Scott to return with all haste!'

He glanced at Bolitho but saw that he was standing by the nettings, his eyes fixed on the partly hidden inlet as if he was expecting something to happen.

The cutter was moving slowly now, and Bolitho knew that more than one of the seamen had been hit, probably by musket fire. He shifted his gaze from the lively current which betrayed the inlet and saw Tyrrell standing at the boat's tiller, waving a fist to drive the oarsmen to greater efforts.

The main-topsail lifted and cracked with sudden impatience.

Bolitho said, 'Be ready to get the ship under way again, Mr Knocker. We have a few minutes yet.'

Quantock said, 'The frigate's holding on the same course, sir.'

Bolitho felt his mouth run dry as something moved beyond and through a long bank of trees. Like a serpent's tail, yellow and red in the sunlight. The masthead pendant of a large ship, the remainder of her still hidden as she edged slowly through the concealed channel towards open water.

Then her tapering jib-boom and figurehead, blazing gold, and her forecastle and a tightly reefed topsail, her jib barely flapping as she moved sedately into the glare.

Another few moments and they would have lost her. They must have been holding their breaths as Achates had sailed past, laughed at their pathetic efforts to find them. Bolitho clenched his fists behind his coat tails. They would not laugh much longer.

The cutter was less than a cable away, and Keen said, 'Grapnel ready. No time to hoist the boat now!'

He tore his eyes from the other vessel as it moved from cover until she seemed to fill the shoreline.

'Hell's teeth, she's the one right enough!"

Bolitho lifted the old sword two inches from its scabbard and then snapped it down again.

'Finally, Captain Keen, you are convinced."

He heard shouts as the boat's crew were hauled bodily up the side while the wounded were hoisted on bowlines, their anguished cries ignored in the haste to get them to safety.

Achates heeled more firmly in the wind, her hull brushing away the cutter like a piece of flotsam. Tyrrell remained standing at the tiller, his sole companion a dead seaman who crouched over an oar as if temporarily exhausted.

Bolitho exclaimed, 'Throw him a line! I'll not leave him!'

In his heart he knew Tyrrell intended to remain in the boat, to be carried away by the current. He had purposefully guided Achates from one false scent to another, and had even suggested that the boats should examine a cove directly alongside the other ship's real hiding-place. Nobody would ever have known. But something at the very last moment had persuaded him to act as he had.

Now the truth would come out. He would be lucky to escape with his life for what he had done.

Bolitho saw a heaving-line snake over the drifting boat, watched Tyrrell's uncertainty and anguish before he caught the line and took two turns around the abandoned swivel-gun.

Keen waited only long enough for Tyrrell to be seized by the waiting hands at the entry port before he yelled his orders and sent his men rushing aloft again to set the topgallant sails in what seemed like a rising wind.

Bolitho felt the ship shudder, the urgent clatter of blocks and rigging as Achates responded to the pressure.

Keen stared at him and said, 'What was the damn fool trying to do anyway? What chance will — ' But the rest of his words were lost in the jarring roar of gunfire.

Along the other ship's side the heavy muzzles were jerking back into their ports and suddenly the air above Achates' decks was filled with deadly iron. Several holes appeared in the tightly braced sails, and Bolitho felt the familiar jerk through his shoes as other balls struck hard into the hull.

He watched as Knocker's helmsmen took control and very slowly at first, and then more confidently, the ship pointed her bowsprit towards the land, the wind pushing her over with an invisible hand. The other ship was following suit to take the maximum advantage of the wind.

Had Bolitho ordered Keen to beat up the Mona Passage to take advantage of this same wind on the other side of the islands, it would have taken days to reach San Felipe. The ship which was now almost bows on as she clawed away from the shallows would have beaten them with time to spare. The little Electra would have fought to the finish, but nothing could have stopped the inevitable.

Keen held out his arm. 'Easy, Mr Knocker! Easy now!'

Achates continued to turn, her sails bulging hard on the opposite tack as the seamen on braces and halliards threw their weight against the swing of the yards.

The master grunted over his shoulder and the helmsmen slowed the great spinning spokes of the wheel.

'Steady, sir! West by north!'

Bolitho licked his lips. The enemy's ports were at too extreme an angle to fire. She had made her challenge prematurely. But she was a well-handled ship and was already responding to the wind as she came about.

'Starboard battery!' Keen's sword came out of its scabbard with a hiss. 'On the uproll!'

Down the Achates' side and on the deck below the gun captains would be peering through their ports, trigger lines taut, as they watched their target swim into view.

The bright blade flashed down in the sunlight, and with a drawn-out roll of thunder the eighteen- and twenty-four-pounders of both decks hurled themselves inboard on their tackles.

The smoke billowed towards the bows and Bolitho watched as the enemy's rigging and canvas danced wildly under the onslaught. Tall waterspouts lined the enemy's bilge as other balls slammed hard down alongside, but she returned the fire even as she completed her manoeuvre.

Bolitho felt the deck shake and heard a terrible shriek from one of the hatchways.

Every gun crew was working like madmen, sponges, charges and rammers moving like parts of the men themselves. Finally those shining black balls from the shot-garlands, rammed home with a last tap for good measure. Each crew was racing its neighbour, and as every captain held up his hand Keen shouted hoarsely, 'Broadside! Fire!'

This time there was no mistake, and at a range of barely two cables it was possible to see Achates' weight of iron smashing into the other ship's hull, splintering a gangway and bringing down a tangled heap of rigging from the mizzen.

But the enemy's heavier thirty-two-pounders were already reloaded and poking through their ports like angry snouts. Again the stabbing line of orange tongues, the terrible commotion and crash between decks as many of the balls found their mark.

Bolitho saw a man hurled from his gun, his face a mask of blood. He also saw Midshipman Evans standing stiff and unmoving as he stared at the other ship. If he was afraid of the din of battle he did not show it, but in his pale features Bolitho saw the enemy through the boy's own eyes. He was remembering her as he had last seen her, when his ship had been smashed and set ablaze, when Duncan had died beside him.

Bolitho called, 'Walk about, Mr Evans!' He saw the boy look at him without understanding and added, 'You are small but still a prime target.'

Evans gave what might have been a smile and then went to aid the fallen seaman.

The guns rolled inboard again on their tackles, the air cringed to their explosions and men gasped in the dense smoke and charred fragments which surrounded them.

Hallowes, the fourth lieutenant, strode behind the forward division of guns, his hanger across his shoulder as he peered at his crews.

'Stop your vents!'

'Sponge out!'

Several men ducked as hammocks burst from the nettings and metal screamed against one of the guns on the opposite side. Two men fell, another limped away and crouched below the gangway like a frightened animal.

Load!'

Hallowes pointed at the crouching seaman and shouted, 'Back to your station, now! 'Run out!'

Again the squeaking rumble of trucks as gun by gun the ship presented her full broadside to the enemy. The latter had changed tack slightly and was converging on Achates, her guns firing again and again.

Bolitho watched Keen moving from one side of the quarterdeck to the other. More shots hammered the side, and there was a great chorus from the lower gun-deck and Bolitho knew that a twenty-four-pounder had been upended or, worse still, had broken away from its tackles.