FORM LINE OF BATTLE!

14. BURDEN OF COMMAND

The Hyperion's reappearance in St. Clar excited little attention or interest, and as she lay at her anchor astern of the flagship it was evident that the townspeople had more on their minds than the arrival of the ship which had started a train of events over which they had no control.

The Monarchist flags still fluttered bravely from buildings and headland, but in the narrow streets the air was heavy with speculation and apprehension. Occasionally people halted in their stride or broke off short in conversation as the distant rumble of artillery or the racing wheels of a gun-carriage reminded them of the sudden proximity of danger.

Within minutes of anchoring a launch had come alongside and Fanshawe, Pomfret's harrassed aide, had arrived to accompany Cheney Seton ashore.

On the slow boat back from Cozar Bolitho had discussed only briefly what they should do. He had not wanted to spoil the peace and new-found happiness, and when the moment of parting had arrived he had still been unwilling to allow her to accept the full responsibility of facing Pomfret alone. But that was the one thing about which she was quite adamant. As he had watched her helped down into the boat he had felt something like pain, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from following her.

That was three days ago, and as he threw himself into the business of assisting with the port's defences he expected to hear something from Pomfret at every minute of each dragging hour. And there was plenty do do. Men had to be found to crew a hastily commandeered flotilla of fishing boats and luggers to be used to patrol the countless coves and minute beaches around the inlet and prevent any attempt at infiltration or surprise attack from an unseen enemy. Unseen except by Cobban's pickets and the wide-flung sections of Spanish cavalry.

The news was not encouraging. It was said that heavy guns had been sighted along the inland road, and never a day passed without some clash between the patrols. A local school had been taken over as a field hospital, and plans were in hand to introduce food rationing should the enemy presence tighten into a full-scale siege.

Each day when he returned wearily to the sanctuary of his quarters Bolitho waited for news from Pomfret. Then when the ship fell quiet for another night he would take out the one note he had received from the girl. and go over it again as if for the first time. She was not staying at Pomfrets headquarters, but had accepted his suggestion to take up residence with the town's mayor and family, at least for the present. She had ended with the words:… from my window 1 can see your ship. My heart is there with you.

Bolitho knew that it was right they should not meet just yet. It was likely that the news of what he had done would spread over the whole port soon enough, but there was no point in adding fuel to whatever fire Pomfret chose to make.

On the third day the summons came. 'All captains and officers in charge of troops to report to field headquarters immediately.'

In the afternoon sunlight the house looked less imposing, and Bolitho noticed that the marines at the gates no longer watched passers-by with indifference, but fingered their bayoneted muskets and stayed close to the guardhouse. It was rumoured that some of the townspeople had already fled to the hills, either out of fear for their families' safety or to await a more prudent time to change their allegiance. Bolitho could not find it in his heart to blame them. Pomfret had drawn an unwavering line between his own forces and the people of St. Clar. Their resentment would change to something worse if the news did not improve soon.

Some of the servants were packing china and glass into wooden cases as he entered the wide doorway, and he guessed that the house's rightful owner was making sure of his possessions before it was too late.

An orderly ushered Bolitho into a darkly panelled study where the others were already assembled. He recognised the other captains who, apart from the two sloop commanders, were all present. The sloops were busy patrolling the northern approaches and keeping a wary eye on the coast road, down which a full-scale attack might come.

Pomfret was standing beside a desk listening to Colonel Cobban and a tall, haughty-looking Spaniard whom he vaguely recognised as Don Joaquin Salgado, the senior Allied officer. There were various representatives of the military, and two or three marines. Not enough to withstand the whole weight of France, he thought grimly.

Fanshawe whispered across Pomfret's shoulder and he glanced quickly towards Bolitho. Just a few seconds, and in that brief exchange Bolitho recognised nothing in the admiral's pale, protruding eyes. Nothing at all.

Pomfret said crisply, 'Be seated, gentlemen.' He tapped one foot impatiently until the noise and shuffling had ceased. 'I have received despatches from Cozar, brought by Hyperion three days ago.' Again the merest glance. But ice-cold and without recognition. 'It seems that we are not to receive the military reinforcements which were expected.' He allowed the murmur of voices to subside before continuing, 'But they will come, gentlemen, they will come.' He waved one hand across his map. 'This campaign in St. Clar could be the making of our stepping-stone to Paris! As more ships and men are made available, we will cut the soft underbelly of France until the enemy sues for peace!' His eyes flashed as he looked round the room. 'And we will deny them that privilege! There will be no peace or parley this time. It will be victory, absolute and final!'

Someone said, 'Hear, hear!' But apart from the lone voice the room's atmosphere was completely still.

Bolitho turned to watch the nearest window. The dusty panes were glittering in the sunlight, and he could see large flies buzzing unconcernedly amongst the awvell-kept flower.beds. Now, in Cornwall, they would be thinking about the coming winter. Laying in fresh logs, and fodder for the animals. In the country winter was an enemy to be held at bay with no less determination than they needed here in St. Clar. He thought suddenly of the girl, as she would look when he showed her around the old grey house below the castle. The house would live again. It would not just be a place for memories, but a home. A real home.

Pomfret was saying, 'Patrols must be maintained at all times, but no attempt to force a major combat will be entertained until we get more troops and artillery, or unless there is no possible alternative.'

He nodded to Cobban and then slumped down in a highbacked gilt chair, his eyes distant and brooding. Cobban rose to his feet, his boots squeaking in the rich carpet.

'Nothing much to add. My men are ready and eager to fight. We have had a few casualties already, but that was to be expected. Watch and guards's the motto, gentlemen! We will hold this port and make the enemy wish he had never chosen to oppose us!'

Don Salgado did not look up as he r%marked casually, 'Fine words, Colonel. But I am nimpressed!'•He toyed with the ornate frogging on his yellow tunic, his face apparently deep in thought. 'I am of the cavalry. I am not used to skulking along hedgerows, or being shot at by some ragged marksman I cannot even see!'

Cobban glared down at him, his carefully chosen words broken by the sudden interruption. He said pompously, 'It is not your concern, if I may say so.'

The Spaniard's dark eyes lifted slowly and fixed on Cobban's red face. 'Brave talk! Perhaps you have overlooked one important point? I command over half of this force, not you!' His voice seemed to sting. 'It was agreed that I would subordinate my infantry and cavalry to your overall command, provided,' the word hung motionless in the air, 'provided the English sent reinforcement!' He gave an eloquent shrug. 'Your Admiral Hood cannot succeed at Toulon with two regiments. So how can you hope to do better with a mere handful of foot soldiers!' He smiled calmly. 'I trust you will remember that when next you decide to tell me my duty here!'

Pomfret seemed to come alive from his trance. 'That will do, gentlemen! The town is ringed by the enemy. There will be harder times to come. But I am assured that massive aid is on the way even as you sit here bickering like women!'

Bolitho watched him closely. If Pomfret was lying to ease away the tension he was doing so very convincingly. He recalled with sudden clarity something Herrick had said of Pomfret's past and of what this whole campaign could mean to him. He had to succeed, and would suffer no interference or uncertainty amongst his small force. He thought too of Sir William Moresby who had died on Hyperion's quarterdeck below the Cozar battery. He had been a different man entirely. Unsure and uncertain of everything but his plain duty. Pomfret at least was single-minded to a point of fanaticism.

The admiral said, 'It seems that everyone has had his say.' The pale eyes flickered around the room. 'Questions?'

'Captain Greig of the frigate Bat rose to his feet. 'But if the reinforcements do not come, sir, I cannot see what…'.

He got no further. Pomfret must have been holding himself in check for some time, and the young captain's doubts were the last straw.

`For God's sake stop snivelling, man!' His voice cracked into a shout, but he did not seem to care. 'What in the name of the Almighty do you know about it? You young frigate captains are all the same, and see nothing beyond some brief conflict or the lustre of damn prize-money!' He pointed accusingly at Greig, who had gone quite pale. 'it was your ship which allowed the Saphir to enter harbour in the first place! If you had seen her, had tried to earn your pay instead of mooning around like some lovesick farmboy, all this might never have happened!'

Greig said thickly, 'I did not leave my station, because I was ordered to remain in the north'rd, sir!'

Pomfret yelled, 'Be silent! How dare you question my word! One more squeak out of you, you impertinent maggot, and I'll have you court-martialled, d'you hear me?' Sweat was pouring down his face as he swung furiously towards the others. 'I will not tell you again, any of you!' He banged his fist across the map. 'We are here to stay! We have been ardered to hold this port until we can strike inland. And that is exactly what I intend!'

Bolitho watched narrowly and saw the effect of Pomfret's words on the silent officers around him. They seemed stunned by his outburst. Dash of the Tenacious even looked embarrassed. Only the Spanish colonel appeared unconcerned. As he stared at his gleaming boots he could have been smiling a little.

Cobban cleared his throat uneasily. That will be all, gentleman.' He started to gather up some papers and then let them fall again.

Pomfret had seated himself in the gilt chair, and as the officers made to leave he picked up a pair of brass dividers and jabbed them in the air. 'I want a word with you, Captain Bolitho!'

Bolitho heard the door closing behind him and stood quite still by the desk. Cobban had walked to a window breathing heavily, as if he had just been running.

Pomfret ignored the soldier, but to Fanshawe, who still fiddled nervously with some papers, he snapped, 'Get out!'

Bolitho kept his voice flat and impersonal. 'Sir?'

The admiral was leaning back in the chair watching Bolitho while the dividers beat a small tattoo on the desk-top.

He said, 'Next to Dash you are the senior captain here.' He was very calm again. 'It is not unlikely that the enemy will try and attack us by sea, or at least attempt to cut off our supplies.' Tap, tap, tap went the dividers. `You will therefore take Hyperion to sea at first light tomorrow and carry out a patrol along the northern approaches to the inlet.'

Bolitho watched him steadily. 'Until when, sir?'

'Until I order otherwise!' Pomfret threw the dividers on the desk. 'I need my flagship here in harbour in case some of these spineless fishermen show the same sort of stupidity as that fool Greig.'

'I see, sir.' Bolitho could sense the heat rising in his wounded arm, the sudden dryness in his throat as the impact of Pomfret's words made itself felt.

Pomfret did not leave him a moment to speak further. He said almost casually, 'By the way, now that Miss Seton has informed me of her changed status, I intend that she should be put aboard the first available ship out of port.'

Bolitho said tightly, 'I can understand your feelings, sir, but they can be no cause for putting her to more inconvenience and hardship.'

'Really?' Pomfret dabbed his forehead with a silk handkerchief. 'You may have overlooked the fact that I arranged, for her to come here in the first place! As an English citizen she is under my protection…' His voice grew louder. 'And as flag officer in charge here I intend to enforce that protection without delay!'

Bolitho replied, 'Is that your last word, sir?' Any sort of understanding or compassion he might have felt for Pomfret's predicament faded at that moment in time. It could be weeks before any ship was available to carry Cheney Seton to England, or any other port of safety. And all that time, while tension mounted around St. Clar and the siege blossomed into outright war, she would be alone amongst strangers, while he would be isolated aboard his ship, unable to see or help her.

'It is.' Pomfret's eyes were flat and without pity. 'I,do not like you, Bolitho, and I dislike anyone who allows his mind to be changed by sentiment. So be warned!' He stood up violently and walked towards the windows. 'You may leave now!'

Bolitho clapped on his hat and pushed through the door, only half-aware of what he was doing. He would see her at once. There was still time to make arrangements.

He halted in his tracks by the main entrance as he saw Seton and Midshipman Piper talking in low tones below the steps.

'What are you doing here?'

Piper touched his hat and replied glumly, 'I brought Seton ashore in my boat, sir.' His monkey face was heavy with misery. 'He is to report here at once, sir.'

Bolitho shifted his eyes to Seton. 'Do you know the reason, boy?

'Y-Yes, sir. Sir Edmund has o-ordered that I be u-used f-ffor…'

He broke off wretchedly as Piper interrupted, 'He is to be seconded to the military for signals purposes, sir.'

Bolitho controlled his cold anger and said quietly, `When this is all over I will be happy to see you back aboard, Mr. Seton. You have done well, no, very well, and I am equally sure you will bring more credit to the ship in your new work.'

Seton blinked rapidly and stammered, 'Th-thank y-you, sir.'

It was not uncommon for midshipmen to be used in this manner, but the fact that Pomfret had failed to mention it made Bolitho even more certain it was no casual appointment. But surely no man, not even Pomfret, would use a boy's life to gain some sort of revenge? He thought of the admiral's sudden rage with Greig and felt a cold chill run up his spine.

He held out his hand and the boy grasped it tightly. 'I will see that your sister is well taken care of.' It was strange, even unnerving, to realise that this frail-looking midshipman would be as close to him as his own brother had been. As he studied the boy's pale face he knew he would be closer still.

Seton said, 'I am so happy about you and my sister, sir.' Then he walked quickly into the building, and it was not until he had reached the square that Bolitho realised the boy had not stuttered once in his last sentence.

As they reached the jetty stairs Piper asked, 'D'you think he will be all right, sir?' He was trotting to keep up with Bolitho's quick strides. 'I mean, sir, he's lost without me to keep an eye on him!'

Bolitho stopped above the nodding boat and looked down at him. 'I'm sure of it, Mr. Piper. He has had a good teacher!'

But as he climbed down into the jolly boat he tried to tell himself that his words were not just a lie.

At first light the following day the Hyperion weighed, and with her yards braced round to catch the limp north-westerly breeze, passed slowly between the protective arms of the headlands.

The town appeared to be sleeping, for apart from the watchmen and a few drowsy marines, the jetty and waterfront were quiet and deserted.

Herrick stood by the quarterdeck rail, hands on hips as he stared critically at the men working high above, their bare arms shining like gold in the probing sunlight. Some of the unemployed hands were on the gangways staring at the slow moving panorama of hills and sheltered houses, and beside the tiered boats he saw Piper standing with the jollyboat crew as they secured the final lashings before the ship rose to meet the open sea. The midshipman was shading his eyes and staring across the larboard quarter, and Herrick guessed he was still thinking about his friend.

When he turned away from the rail he realised that Bolitho was also looking astern, a telescope trained across the nettings with his sound arm.

He said, 'Anchor tatted and ship secured for sea, sir.'

Bolitho lowered the glass. The creeping side of the nearest headland had pushed the town from sight. But he had seen her. For long minutes as his ship had edged unwillingly towards the harbour mouth he had watched her, holding her slim figure in the lens until the last possible moment. She was standing on a small balcony right above the water, her body pale against the open window, her face so clear and close that he almost imagined he could reach out and touch it. When he lowered the glass, houses and anchored ships shrank away and lost individuality and meaning in the twinkling of an eye. The link was already broken.

He turned his face to the wind and shivered slightly as it explored his chest through the open shirt. When he had been awakened before the dawn he had lain motionless in his cot for several minutes after Gimlett had departed. Without effort he could remember her nearness, the touch of her hand, the very smell of her hair as they had made that hasty farewell at Labouret's house. As he lay in his cot the warmth of the sheets had seemed like the closeness of that embrace, and when he had gone to his mirror to shave the feel of his fingers on his face had recalled the caress of her hand.

He said abruptly, 'As soon as we are clear you may get the courses set, Mr. Herrick. We will steer to the nor'-east and take advantage of this offshore wind.'

Herrick nodded. `When we were in the South Sea I swore I would never pray for winds such as some of those we met there. But even the North Sea in winter is better than this crawling.'

Bolitho looked at him distantly. 'I know. A sharp wind, the icy spray in your teeth can take away the pain of thinking too much, and too deeply.'

Gossett was watching the distant beacon, his eye measuring the drift and bearing without conscious effort. `Ready to wear ship, sir!'

Herrick asked, 'Is all well, sir?' He faltered. 'Were you able to make your arrangements?'

Bolitho sighed. 'Some, Thomas. Labouret has promised to do all he can, and I have a good ally there in Captain Ashby. For once I am not sorry to leave him behind on land.'

As the ship moved clear of the headland she tilted readily to the waiting swell, the sunlight lancing down through her taut rigging and playing across the Titan's crown below the bowsprit.

Bolitho jerked himself from his brooding thoughts. 'Wear ship, if you please!'

Herrick waited until the order had been repeated and piped along the upper deck before asking, 'Any orders, sir?'

Bolitho suddenly remembered the freshly made coffee in his cabin. He had not been able to face it before. Now he needed it, if only to be alone. He said, 'We will exercise the lower battery at eight bells, Mr. Herrick. I do not want those guns to get rusted through lack of use.'

Herrick smiled and watched him stride beneath the poop. He was making the best of it, he thought. And he was right to throw the ship and her company into a busy routine as of now. Hyperion's masters came and went with the years and she cared little if anything for their personal worries. She had to be sailed and maintained, so then did the men who served her.

He picked up his speaking trumpet and shouted, `Mr. Pearse, have the lower battery piped to quarters at eight bells! And I'll want two minutes lopped off the time it takes to clear for action!'

He saw the gunner nod, and then began to pace the quarterdeck. I am even beginning to sound like Bolitho, he thought. The realisation cheered him, and he quickened his stride 'accordingly.

Nightfall found the Hyperion some twenty miles northnorth-east from St. Clar, her sails almost motionless as she wallowed heavily in a deep-offshore swell. In Bolitho's cabin the air was humid and lifeless, and most of the officers present were careful to stay beneath the open skylight, their faces shining damply in the swaying lanterns.

Bolitho stood with his back to the shuttered stern windows watching in silence as Gimlett moved nervously across the cabin filling the officers' glasses and passing round the pipe tobacco. Beyond the bulkhead the ship was unusually quiet, and only the sluice of water around the rudder and the creak of steering tackles intruded, and then only as reminders of the Hyperion's slow progress. Not that it mattered, Bolitho considered bitterly. His patrol area laid little importance on either speed or direction. The ship just had to be there. But the slow pace, the dull regularity of movement left his men with too much time on their hands. Time to brood and consider their wretched lack of purpose. Whatever else happened he had to make sure that they did not suffer because of Pomfret's imposed isolation. He had called his officers to the cabin socially and for no other reason but to start as he would have to continue, if the carefully built up morale was not to crumble before his eyes.

As he looked slowly around their faces it was again brought home to him how his collection of subordinates had dwindled and changed. Quarme and Dalby were dead, the two marines and young Seton back there in St. Clar. The rest, for the most part, looked strained and worn down by the never-ending work. It was the way of nearly every sailor to grumble about his lot, but these, he decided, had good cause. Young Piper, for instance, was sixteen. He had joined the ship at thirteen, and to the present day had hardly set foot ashore but to carry out minor duties, or in his beloved jolly boat. Throughout the labouring hull it was mostly the same. No wonder landsmen feared the sounds of the press gangs, even the sight of a naval uniform, when such heartless conditions were taken for granted. Yet these men, who lived and died beside the guns they saw on every waking day, were unbeatable in battle, just as they were seemingly unbreakable in spirit. Sometimes they were starved by miserly captains, flogged by tyrants, or treated like animals by others. Yet when the call came they rarely failed. It was something which Bolitho never really quite understood. Some said it was out of fear, others that the inbuilt tradition and harsh discipline of the Navy were the real reasons. But he believed it went far deeper. A man-o'-war was a way of life. The Cause and the Flag often came second to the love of the men around her crowded decks. They fought to protect each other, to avenge old comrades lost in forgotten battles. And they fought for their ship.

He said quietly, 'I called you together, gentlemen, in order that you should see clearly the difficulties ahead. It may be weeks before we are relieved. Nobody knows what the French intend to do, or if they are yet able to do it. But with such uncertainty abroad our place is at sea. Whatever victories the enemy obtains in Europe he cannot win an overall conquest just so long as our ships are ready to meet him.'

He saw Herrick nodding soberly and young Caswell biting his lip.

'We will have daily drills as before. But this time we must go further. Try to take the men's minds off themselves. Ar_ range contests, no matter how trivial or small, and do your best to encourage them all. What has been unnoticed in the past, good or bad, will become an event if the loneliness and boredom seize control from you.' He lifted his glass. 'A toast, gentlemen. "The ship, and God bless her"'

The glasses clinked and the assembled officers waited for Boltiho to continue.

He said more crisply, 'With our number shrinking as it is, I have decided to promote Midshipman Gordon to actinglieutenant. He will assist Mr. Rooke with the upper battery.'

He paused as the other midshipmen pounded Gordon's shoulders, and his face, a great mass of large freckles, broke into a surprised grin. Bolitho glanced swiftly at Rooke and noticed he was nodding in silent agreement.

It had been a careful choice. Gordon had been with Rooke when he had stormed and taken the St. Clar beacon. They seemed to get on very well together, and he suspected it was because they both came from old and established families. Gordon's uncle was a vice-admiral, and that knowledge might help to keep Rooke's temper in check.

'In addition,' the buzz of voices stilled, 'I think one of the master's mates could stand watches until Mr. Fowler is well again.'

Inch looked up. 'May I suggest Bunce, sir? He is a very reliable man.'

'You may, Mr. Inch. You can attend to it directly.' He saw Inch nod and take- another sip at his glass. What a difference in the man. Perhaps him most of all. From the fifth and junior lieutenant he had risen to fouth, but more important he had gained the self-confidence to go with it.

They all looked up at the skylight as a muffled voice yelled, 'Avast there! What the devil do you think you're about?' There was a sound of running feet, and then the same voice bellowed, 'Deck there! Man overboard!'

As the officers rushed to the door Gossett could be heard shouting, 'Back the mizzen tops'!! Call away the quarter boat!'

The quarterdeck was very dark and not a star was visible beyond the unmoving clouds. Figures were rushing down gangways, and from right aft Bolitho heard the crew of the quarter boat falling over each other in desperation, urged on by the voice which had called the alarm.

Bolitho snapped, 'What is it, Mr. Gossett? How did the man fall overboard?'

Bunce, the thickset master's mate whom Inch had just mentioned, pushed through the running men and touched his forehead. 'I saw 'im, sir. I was by the wheel as one of my lads was changin' the binnacle lamp.' He shuddered. 'I looks up, sir, an' there's this face starin' at me! Gawd, it was awful, an' I pray to my Maker I never sees the like again!'

The ship was swaying drunkenly as the flapping canvas volleyed and thundered against the yards and masts, and from somewhere beyond the high poop Bolitho heard the thrash of oars, the shouted' instructions from the boat's coxswain.

Bunce added, 'It was Mr. Fowler, sir. 'E'd took off all his dressin' and was carryin' a mirror in 'is 'and. 'E was cryin' like a baby, sir, and all the time we was lookin' at 'is face.'

An anonymous voice spoke up from the darkness. 'That's roight, sir! Cut from eye to chin it were, an' no nose at all!'

Bolitho walked slowly to the nettings. Poor Fowler. He had been a good-looking lieutenant before the French officer's sword had felled him at his side.

He heard Bunce say to Herrick, 'I tried to stop 'im, sir, but 'e just went mad! 'E was nearly naked, an' I couldn't 'old 'im.' He shuddered again. "E just kept runnin', and dived clear afore we could reach 'im!'

Bolitho watched the boat dipping and rising on the ebony water, the oars striking bright patterns of phosphorescence which seemed to cling to the blades like ghostly weed.

`Can't see nuthin', sir!' The coxswain was standing upright in his boat.

Bolitho said shortly, 'Recall the boat, Mr. Herrick, and put the ship back on course.'

He walked past the silent, watching figures and saw inch trying to console Midshipman Lory, who had been a great friend of Fowler's. He said, 'Mr. Inch, you are now third lieutenant, it seems. I hope that is the last promotion for some time by these means.'

Then he strode into his cabin and stared round at the discarded wineglasses. He tried to pull the ~ stopper from a decanter but it was stuck fast, and because of his disabled arm he was unable to get any purchase on it, 'Gimlettl' He banged the decanter down savagely as the servant ran anxiously into the cabin. 'Get me a glass of wine, and quickly!'

When he lifted it to his lips he saw that his hand was shaking badly and he could do nothing about it. But it was not fever this time. He could feel the anger and despair rising inside him like a flood, and it was all he could do to prevent himself from hurling the glass at the bulkhead. He was not blaming himself for Fowler's death, but for letting him stay alive. He should have left him to die in the blazing Fairfax. At least he' would have been spared the agony and the terror, the dragging hours while he fingered his bandages and his shocked mind lingered on what lay beneath.

Fowler would have been remembered as,a brave man. Not as a poor, crazed wreck. Why did the dead lack dignity? How could it be that a man you knew, someone whose habits were as familiar as your own, could change in seconds to nothing? An empty shell.

He banged down the glass. 'Another!'

And he had just finished telling the others of such events which could prey on the minds of men. Fowler was no longer a man, it seemed, but an event!

He thought of Pomfret and what he was doing to him, to his whole ship. 'Damn you! Damn you to hell!' His voice shook with anger, so that Gimlett recoiled like some beaten dog.

Then he took told of himself with one savage effort. 'It is all right, Gimlett. Have no fear.' He held up his glass against a lantern and waited for the wine to settle and stay motionless in the beam like blood. 'I was not shouting at you. You can leave now.'

Alone once more Bolitho sat down heavily, and after a few moments drew the girl's folded letter from his coat and began to read.