FORM LINE OF BATTLE!

16. A FACE IN THE CROWD

Bolitho reined his borrowed horse to a halt behind a massive stone barn and lowered himself to the ground. Ashby, who had stayed with him all afternoon, also dismounted and leaned heavily against the wall, his chest heaving with exertion.

It was early evening, but so thick was the drifting smoke that it could have been nightfall, and in the deepening shadows the savage gun-flashes and the sharper pinpoints of musket-fire seemed to ring the small town with an unceasing bombardment.

Ashby said, 'This is as far as we go, sir.' He gestured towards the pale line of the road. 'The French are within a hundred yards of us here.'

Bolitho moved along the wall and ducked behind a rough barricade of wagons and earth-filled barrels. He could see the scattered line of soldiers spreading away on either hand, their movements slow but regulated as they loaded and fired towards the road, their red tunics dark against the dust and loose stones.

A young lieutenant crawled from behind an upended farm cart and ran swiftly to Bolitho's side. Like his men he was bedraggled and filthy, but his voice was quite calm as he pointed' towards the deeply shadowed hills beyond the road.

'We've come back about fifty yards in the past hour, sir. He ducked as a musket-ball whimpered overhead. 'I can't hold on here much longer. I've lost half of my men, and those which are still able to fight are down to their last powder and shot.'

Bolitho opened a small telescope and peered above the barricade. It was already darker, and as he stared towards the bright flashes he saw too the spreadeagled bodies, the white crossbelts which marked every yard of the retreat. Here and there an arm moved, and once in a brief lull he heard a cracked voice calling for water.

He found himself thinking of the makeshift hospital by the jetty. He had seen the girl working beside two army surgeons and the town's solitary doctor, her dress stained with blood, her hair pulled back from her face with a piece of bandage. It was not like the enclosed horror of the Hyperion's orlop, but in some ways it had seemed worse because of its primitive desolation. The crowded ranks of wounded, the stench and -the pitiful cries, a never-ending stream of limping figures coming down the street from the firing line, and from the look of the doctors' haggard faces it had seemed to Bolitho that they worked with neither respite nor feeling, their eyes only on the wretched man who happened to be in front of them at any particular time.

Then she had seen him, and for a long moment their eyes had embraced above the bowed heads and agonised figures between them. Bolitho had told the senior surgeon what he intended to do, but all the while he had been looking at the girl. The surgeon had eyed him with something like disbelief. As yet another wounded man had been carried in he had said wearily, 'We'll get 'em to the boats, Captain! If we have to swim with each one on our backs!'

Bolitho had taken the girl aside to a small room, which appeared to have been a children's nursery at some time. Amidst the litter of soiled dressings and torn uniforms there were crude pictures painted and drawn by some of the children who were now trapped or dying in the beleaguered-town.

She had said, 'I knew you would come, Richard. I just knew!

He had held her against his chest, feeling the tautness in

her limbs, the sudden pressure of her head on his shoulder. 'You're exhausted! You should have gone in the Vanessa!' 'Not without seeing you, Richard.' She had lifted her chin

and studied his face. 'I'm all right, now.'

Outside the building the air had vibrated with gunfire and the sounds of running men. But in those few moments they had been alone, remote from the bitter reality and suffering around them.

Gently he had prised her hands from his coat. 'Seamen from the squadron will be here very soon. Everything will be done to get everyone away from St. Clar. Please tell me that you will go with the others?' He had searched her face, holding on to it with his mind. 'That is all I ask.'

She had nodded very slowly. 'Everyone is saying that you are responsible for the evacuation, Richard. They speak of nothing else. That you returned against orders to help us!' Her eyes had been shining with tears. 'I am glad I stayed behind, if only to see what you are really like!'

Bolitho had replied, 'We are all in this together. There was no other way.'

A shake of the head, the gesture so dear in Bolitho's memory. 'You may say that, Richard, but I know you better than you think. Sir Edmund did nothing, and while others waited, all these men died to no purpose!'

'Do not be too hard on the admiral.' It had been strange to hear his own words. As if in the last few hours he had seen Pomfret through different eyes, had even understood him a little more. 'He and I wanted the same thing. Only our motives were different.'

Then the first sailors had appeared inside the hospital, their check shirts and clean, purposeful figures alien and unreal in that place of despair and death.

And now, as he crouched beside this pitiful barricade, he could still picture her as he had last seen her. A slim, defiant figure amidst the harvest of war, even managing to smile as he had mounted his horse and ridden to the other end of the town.

A soldier lurched back from a low wall, emitting a shrill scream before pitching headlong beside one of his comrades. The latter did not even turn his head to look at his dead companion, but continued with his loading and firing. Death had become too commonplace to mention. Survival merely a remote possibility.

Bolitho turned and stared behind him. There was the bridge, and below the ridge of earth and scorched grass lay the river. He made up his mind.

'Have you laid the charges, Lieutenant?' He saw the man nod with relief. 'Very well. Fall back across the river and blow the bridge.'

There was a sudden jangle of harness, and as he swung round Bolitho saw the Spanish colonel trotting calmly along the narrow track, and behind him, their breastplates and helmets glittering in the gun-flashes like silver, came the remnants of his cavalry.

Bolitho ducked and then ran back to the high barn. He snapped, 'What are you doing here, Colonel? I told you to prepare your men for evacuation!'

Don Joaquin Salgado sat quite motionless in his saddle, his teeth very white in the darkness. 'You have much to achieve before tomorrow, Captain. Be so kind as to give me the benefit of knowing my profession also.'

'There is nothing beyond this line of men but open ground and the enemy, Colonel!'

The Spaniard nodded. 'And as someone remarked earlier, if the enemy reach the southern headland before you get clear you are all dead men!' He leaned forward slightly, his saddle creaking beneath him. 'I am not leaving my horses to rot, Captain, nor am I going to shoot them. I am a soldier. I am sick and tired of this kind of warfare!' He straightened his back and drew out his curved sabre. 'Good luck, Captain!' Then without another glance he spurred his horse forward and galloped straight for the barricade. The effect on his men was instantaneous. Cheering and whooping like madmen they thundered in pursuit, the flying hoofs skimming past the dazed soldiers by the. barricade, their sabres gleaming like fire as they fanned out and headed for the enemy lines.

Bolitho shouted, 'Fall back now, Lieutenant! That fool has given you the chancel' As the soldiers struggled to their feet and retreated towards the bridge Bolitho turned to stare after the charging cavalry. 'And he said I was brave!'

In the darkness he heard the screams of wounded horses, the sharp exchange of shots, and above all the sudden blare of a cavalry trumpet. But the enemy barrage had stopped. There was no time to stand and marvel at any man's courage. Not now. But later… Bolitho shook himself from his thoughts and ran to his horse.

Ashby yelled, 'None of 'em will live through that, sirl By God, that man must be mad!'

Bolitho nudged the horse towards the bridge. 'Angry, Captain Ashby! And I cannot find it in my heart to blame him.'

When they reached the waterfront they were greeted with even greater confusion. Along the jetty there were boats of every shape and size, and pigtailed sailors were passing women and children down from the steps and out to their comrades without pause, as if they had been doing nothing else for years.

Voices called on every side, officers shouting orders to their men, seamen and marines urging or pleading with some of the civilians who seemed determined to take as much furniture and baggage as the boats would hold.

Bolitho saw a petty officer dragging an old woman away from a tethered calf, saying gruffly, 'No, you can't take that one, Mother! There's little enough room as it is!' But the old woman did not understand and was still struggling and weeping as the seamen carried her to a waiting boat.

And why should she understand? Bolitho stood watching in silence. The calf was probably all she owned in the whole world.

Lieutenant Inch pushed through the surging crowd and touched, his hat. 'The wounded are away, sir!' He was shouting above the din. 'These are the last of the townspeople who want to go!'

Bolitho nodded. 'And the rest?'

'Hiding most likely, sir.' He winced as a sudden explosion rocked the buildings above the jetty. 'What was that?'

'The bridge.' Bolitho walked to the edge of the stonework and watched the boats gliding downstream.

Another lieutenant reported at his side, 'Harvester has unloaded the, er, convicts, sir.' He seemed stunned by the noise and chaotic activity.

'Very well.' Bolitho tore his eyes from the hurrying figures, the despair and sudden desperation of escape. 'I'll come and speak to them.'

The convicts were herded into a low-beamed shed behind the jetty. Bolitho recognised Captain Poole of the transport Erebus as he stood uncertainly looking at his extra passengers.

He said, 'Are they all ready to leave?'

Poole grinned. 'My ship is like nothing on earth, Captain! You can hardly move a belaying pin for people!' He saw the strain on Bolitho's face and added firmly, 'But never fear, I'll get 'em away from here!'

Bolitho mounted a discarded case and looked around the watching faces. Even in the feeble lantern light he could see that most of the convicts looked fitter than when he had last seen them. He had to force his mind back again. How long was that? Could it really be only four months?

He said, 'You are leaving now aboard the Erebus. There are no guards or manacles.' He saw the sudden shiver of excitement move through the packed figures below him. 'Captain Poole has written orders from Rear-Admiral Pomfret which he will hand to the senior officer at Gibraltar.' How easy the lie came to him. The orders were sealed with Pomfret's crest, but the signature was his own. 'I have no doubt that many of you will be pardoned, although some may wish to await the next convoy to New Holland to try and carve out a new life in a different country.' He felt dizzy with fatigue but continued, 'You have behaved with dignity, and no little courage. That at least is worth rewarding!'

He turned to leave, but a voice called, 'A moment, Captain Bolithol'

When he faced them again they were all staring at him, their eyes glittering in the lamplight.

The voice said, 'We know what you have done for us, Captain! Don't we, lads?' There was an answering rumble of assent. 'Some would have left us to rot in Cozar, but you had us took off! We just want you to know that you've give us back more than a hope o' freedom, Captain! You've give us back our respect!'

Bolitho walked blindly into the darkness, the great wave of cheering following him like surf roaring on a reef. Poole was grinning openly, but his words were lost in the noise.

Then Bolitho saw Midshipman Seton standing beside the jetty, one hand in a bandage, the other holding an exhausted horse by the bridle.

The boy said, 'May I rejoin the ship, sir?'

Bolitho touched his shoulder. 'Thank God you're safe! I have been searching for you this afternoon.'

Seton looked embarrassed. 'I g-got lost, sir. Actually, the horse bolted, and it t-took me two days to get back through the French lines.'

Bolitho smiled wearily. 'Mr. Piper will be glad to learn of that, he was expecting you to meet with some difficulty on your own!'

He looked back as the convicts poured down the stairs and into the next batch of boats. 'Stay here and help these men, Seton. When they are clear you can come to the admiral's headquarters. I will be there.'

The midshipman asked, 'Is it over, sir?

`Nearly so.' The words sounded final. 'At dawn tomorrow we will take off the last of the soldiers.' He shrugged. 'It will be a day for you to remember.'

Seton nodded, suddenly grave. 'I saw my sister before she left, sir. She told me e-everything.' He shifted his feet. 'Everything th-that has happened, sir!'

Bolitho saw Ashby waiting by the horses and replied quietly, 'Now then, Mr. Seton, you are starting to stutter again!' As he walked away he saw that the boy was still staring after him.

The square beside Pomfret's headquarters was deserted but for a few marines and a scavenging dog. He noticed that the enemy's bombardment had stopped and there was a great silence over the battered town, as if it was holding its breath for the coming of daylight and the final act of misery.

He entered the house and found the panelled study empty and strangely forlorn, the map lying on the floor beside Pomfret's desk. As he slumped into a chair he saw Allday watching him from the door.

He said, 'The admiral's sleeping, Captain. I've got him cleaned up, and Mr. Fanshawe is up there watching over him.'. He added firmly, 'I think you should get a bit of sleep too, Captain. You look worn out, if I may say so.'

'You may not, Allday!' But he could not find the strength to resist as Allday bent to pull off his shoes and unbluckle his swordbelt.

The coxswain added, 'I've got some soup, Captain. That should put a sparkle back inside you.'

He padded away whistling to himself, and Bolitho let his head loll against the chairback, his whole frame suddenly empty of feeling. There was such a lot still to do. He had not yet found Cobban, or arranged for the final destruction of the port's meagre installations.

Bolitho thought of the girl's face and the brightness in her eyes when they had parted. At first light the ships would sail, leaving only men-of-war to watch over the final phase of retreat.

Retreat. The word hung over him like an insult. It was never easy to accept, no matter how valid the reason.

His head drooped, the weariness closing over him like a cloak. But dimly he heard Allday re-enter the room and felt him wrap a blanket around his aching body.

As if from far away he heard Allday mutter, 'That's right, Captain, you sleep. There's many who'll sleep in safety because of you. I hope to God Almighty they know who saved 'em!'

Bolitho wanted to speak, but nothing came. Seconds later he surrendered to the waiting darkness.

Lieutenant Herrick thrust himself away from the quarterdeck rail and rubbed his eyes vigorously. Another second and he knew he would have fallen asleep on his feet. Around him the darkened ship seemed to be sleeping, and apart from the occasional shuffle from one of the watchkeepers or sentries and the gentle moan of wind through the shrouds, a great silence hung over the sheltered inlet.

The sky had clouded during the night, and as he walked slowly towards the poop ladder he felt a brief touch of rain across his cheek. The dawn was not far away, and already there was an uncertain lightening to mark the distant horizon like dull pewter.

He heard Tomlin, the boatswain, speaking angrily in the darkness, and guessed that he had stumbled upon some unfortunate seaman asleep at his station. It was hardly surprising. The men had worked like demons until the fading light had shown the last of the squadron's boats pulling wearily from the town to disperse amongst the anchored ships. What had seemed an impossible and hopeless task had been achieved, but no one really knew how it had been accomplished in such a short time. Men, women and children. Wounded soldiers and hastily recalled troops from beyond the bridge. Somehow they had been crammed aboard the transports, but Herrick doubted if any had been able to sleep. Each gust of offshore wind brought the smell of fire and death to. remind them of that which they would soon leave behind.

And somewhere out there beyond the dark edge of land Bolitho was still busy, he thought grimly. Taking upon his own, shoulders what others should have done.

There was a step beside him and he saw Gossett's massive shape outlined against the pale deck shrouded in a tarpaulin Coat.

The master said quietly, 'Not long now, Mr. 'Errick.'

'So you could not sleep either?' Herrick banged his hands together to restore the circulation. 'God, this has been a long night!'

Gossett grunted. 'I'll not rest easy until our own people are inboard once more.' He held up his hand as a pipe shrilled across the water like a disturbed bird. 'They're callin' the hands aboard the transports. They'll be weighin' very shortly.'

'Good.' Herrick squinted against the cool wind to watch a small lantern moving along one of the transport's decks. When daylight once more laid bare the ruin of St. Clar the little convoy would be clear out ' to sea. The Spanish Princesa was to act as the main escort, with the frigate Bat and one of the sloops for additional support as far as Gibraltar.

Gossett seemed to read his thoughts. 'At least we can depend on the Princesa this time. She'll be headin' for her own

waters and'll need no encouragement to get a move on!' He sounded bitter.

They both started as a voice challenged from the starboard gangway, 'Boat ahoy?'

Back from the gloom came the instant response, 'Aye, aye!'

Gossett murmured, 'That's odd. It looks like the barge, but the cap'n's not aboard 'er.'

Herrick nodded and strode quickly to the ladder. 'He'll not come until everyone else is away, Mr. Gossett.'

The master sighed. `You do not have to tell me that!'

The barge booked on to the main chains, and within seconds Allday was pulling himself through the entry port. He saw the lieutenant and knuckled his forehead.

'Captain's compliments, sir.' He peered back into the barge and hissed, 'Hold your noise, damn you!' Then to Herrick he continued, 'Would you give a hand to take the admiral aft, sir?'

Herrick stared at him. 'The admiral?' He saw Rowlstone climbing through the port and the smaller shape of Midshipman Piper close behind him.

Allday said calmly, 'The captain's orders are that Sir Edmund is to be put in his sleeping cabin, sir.' He saw Herrick peering round for the master's mate of the watch and added sharply, 'He said there was to be no fuss! Nobody's to see the admiral until he's on his feet again!'

Herrick nodded, the realisation sweeping over him.- He knew Allday of old. He had never known him to panic or get his orders confused. If Bolitho wanted Pomfret's transfer kept quiet, there was a very good reason.

He beckoned to Gossett. 'Here, give a hand!'

Like conspirators they manhandled Pomfret's blanketed figure through the entry port and aft to the quarterdeck. The admiral's aide was assisting with the rough stretcher, and from his dragging footsteps Herrick imagined that he too had been awake all night.

Allday watched the small group groping its way beneath the poop before adding, 'The captain is coming off with the rearguard, sir.' He rubbed his hand across his chin with a loud rasping sound. 'It will have to be quick.'

Herrick nodded. 'We will be ready.' He reached out as Allday turned to rejoin his barge crew. 'Tell Captain Bolitho. He broke off, not knowing how to express his true feelings.

Aliday grinned in the darkness. 'I don't have to tell him anything, sir. He'll be knowing what you think, I shouldn't wonder.'

Herrick watched the barge as it backed away from the side. The stroke slow and weary, like the men.

Aloud he muttered, 'I expect he will…'

A seamen called, 'Transports is shortenin' their cables, sir! I kin see the old Erebus breakin' out 'er foretops'l already!'

.'Very well.' Herrick watched the pale patches of sail giving shape and identity to the other ships as one after the other they prepared to weigh anchor. He said, `Tell Mr. Tomlin to call our people in fifteen minutes, and see that the cooks have got their fires alight.' He shivered slightly. `It'll be a while before we get another cooked meal, if I'm any judge!'

Gossett rejoined him at the rail. 'What does it all mean, Mr. 'Errick? Why is Sir Edmund aboard us instead o' the flagship?'

Herrick glanced briefly at the anchored Tenacious before replying. 'The reasons are not our concern. But at dawn we will hoist Sir Edmund's flag at the mizzen.' He knew Gossett was staring at him. 'The responsibility shifts with the flag, of that I am sure!'

As the first sunlight touched the hills and filtered down between the rubble-strewn streets the enemy guns reopened fire. Black columns of smoke poured from the jetty, the bright sparks and drifting ashes marking the last stages of destruction as small groups of soldiers threw pii-soaked rags into the moored fishing boats and storage sheds before setting them ablaze.

Captain Ashby stood grim faced beside his square of marines watching the remaining files of soldiers hurrying back from the firing line, some carrying wounded comrades, others using their muskets as crutches as they headed for the water and the waiting boats.

In the big house Bolitho stood by one of the open windows, his hands resting on the sill while he studied the hills beyond the town. He heard the crunch of boots below him and saw the young infantry officer peering up at him.

'Is everything completed?'

The soldier nodded. 'The last picket is falling back now, sir.' He turned and drew his smoke-blackened figure to attention as a young lieutenant and three armed soldiers marched around a bend in the road, their step measured and correct, as if they were on parade. The lieutenant was carrying the regiment's colour, and as he passed Bolitho saw there were real tears "running down his face, cutting through the grime like painted lines.

Bolitho walked back across the room. The house already seemed lost, and derelict, with little to show it had once been Pomfret's 'stepping-stone to Paris '.

In the square Ashby greeted him formally. `The charges are laid, sir. The Frogs will be here at any time now.'

Bolitho nodded, listening to the creeping murmur of heavy guns as the enemy put down a final barrage on the waiting line of redcoats. Without effort he could still see the crouching figures along the edge of the barricades and earthworks, apparently ready and resolved to withstand the last attack. It was almost the worst part of the whole wretched business, he thought. Just before dawn, while the weary troops had crept back from their positions, Lieutenant Inch and a party of seamen had prepared the last rearguard under his direction.

But when the French ceased their bombardment and entered the town the soldiers would not shoot back, nor would they surrender, for they were already dead. From the field hospital and the battered earthworks the seamen had gathered up their unprotesting bodies, had arranged them with their muskets in a silent array. There was even a flag above their sightless faces, a last grim mockery.

Bolitho shook himself from his brooding. Dead men could not suffer twice. The living had to be saved.

He snapped, `Carry on, Ashby! Fire the fuses!'

He heard the blare of a bugle and a sudden wave of cheering as, the first French soldiers charged down from the coast road. Around him.the marines were breaking up into sections, falling back towards the shattered jetty, their bayonets still trained towards the shadowed streets.

There were no signs of the inhabitants who had chosen to remain in St. Clar. They were hiding and holding their breaths, and when the first wave of fury and bloodshed had passed they would come out into the open to make their peace with their countrymen, Bolitho thought. Friends, even relatives would be denounced as proof of loyalty to the Revolution. The reckoning would be harsh and prolonged.

Right now the first French troops would be staring at. the dead defenders, possibly wondering at the meaning of this macabre attempt to delay their final victory.

At that instant the first fuse reached its target, and the whole town seemed to rock on its foundations from the force of the explosion.

Ashby said hoarsely, `That's the main magazine, sir! That'll have caught some of the bastards!' He waved his sword. `Into the boats!'

As yet another great explosion ravaged the town the marines hurled themselves into the boats to follow those already pulling away downstream. A few French sharpshooters must have infiltrated the harbour buildings, and here and there the water spouted with tall feathers of spray as they fired after the retreating boats.

Ashby watched his lieutenant running towards him from the square, hatless, and carrying a smoking slow match. `All done, Shanks?T

'The last fuse is just going, sir!' Shanks grimaced as a violent detonation brought down a complete house across the entrance of a narrow street, the shockwave almost hurliing him bodily into the water.

The barge was hooked on to the jetty piles, and as the last marines clambered down Allday yelled, `Here come the cavalry, Captain!'

There were about a dozen of them. They burst from a sidestreet, and as they sighted the barge at the jetty stairs they charged full tilt through the smoke of the last explosion.

Bolitho took a quick look round and then jumped for the gunwale.

As the boat backed clear the crouching seaman in the bows laid his eye against the mounted swivel gun and then stood clear. With a jerk on the lanyard the gun fired, the final shot of the retreat.

Bolitho clutched the gunwale as the tiller went over, and the roofless houses crept out to hide the tangled, bloody remains of horses and riders cut down by the double charge of cannister.

It was all but over. Briefly he found time to wonder about Colonel Cobban, but in his heart could find no pity for him.

During the night, as he had lain sleeping in Pomfret's deserted study, a messenger had burst in to tell him that Cobban had gone under a flag of truce to the French commander. To arrange a 'peace with honour' as he had described it.

Now, in the grim reality of daylight the French would probably see Cobban's pitiful attempt to save his own skin merely as a delaying tactic to cover the British evacuation. It was grotesque to realise that Cobban might even be remembered as a selfless and courageous officer because of it.

The boats were already gliding into the deeper waters of the inlet, and Bolitho levered his aching body upright in the sternsheets as he watched the two ships of the line waiting to receive them. Then he saw Pomfret's flag flapping gaily from the Hyperion's mizzen and knew that Herrick understood, even if he did not agree with what he was doing.

Within half an hour both ships had weighed, and as the wind freshened to drive the smoke seaward from the burning town Bolitho stood by the nettings, hands clasped behind his back, his eyes fixed on the reflected fires inside the harbour.

But when the Hyperion spread her sails and heeled towards the wide entrance there was one final act, as if it had been set and timed for this single moment.

A solitary horseman appeared high on the southern headland, his yellow uniform shining in the pale light while he stood watching the departing ships. Bolitho did not need a glass to see that it was the Spanish colonel. No wonder there had been no sudden bombardment from the headland. Salgado's cavalry had done their work well, but the cost was plain because of this one, lonely figure.

Even as he watched he saw the Spaniard fall sideways from his saddle to lie within feet of the edge. Whether it was from some unheard musket-shot, or from wounds already suffered, in battle, no one knew.

Salgado's horse moved towards the edge of the headland, nuzzling its master as if to return him to life. Long after the ships had cleared the land the horse still stood outlined against the clouded sky. Like a monument.

Bolitho looked away. A memorial to all of us, he thought.

Then he glanced at Herrick, his eyes dull and unseeing. 'As soon as Harvester and Chanticleer are in company we will lay a course to round Cozar, Mr. Herrick.'

Herrick watched him sadly. 'We are rejoining the fleet, sir?'

Bolitho nodded and then turned towards the rolling bank of smoke. `There is nothing left for us here.'

Ashby waited until Bolitho had left the quarterdeck and then said quietly, `But by God the French will remember our visit, Mr. Herrick!'

Herrick sighed deeply. 'So will I, Captain Ashby. So will 1!'

Then he opened his glass and trained it on the Tenacious, as obedient to the flag she tacked ponderously to take station astern.

In his cabin Bolitho stood by the stern windows also watching the three-decker, her sails very white in the morning light. He wondered vaguely what Dash would think now, and whether he would remember where his loyalty lay when the aftermath of battle and retreat cooled to investigation or the search for a scrapegoat.

He looked round as Inch appeared in the doorway. 'Do you wish to see me?'

Inch was still grimy from the dust and smoke of St. Clar and his horse face was drooping with fatigue. 'I am very sorry, sir.' He fumbled in his pocket. 'But in the heat of the fighting and that terrible work with those dead soldiers,' he brought out something which shone in the reflections' from the dancing water, 'I simply forgot to give this to you.'

Bolitho stared, hardly understanding what he saw. Tautly he asked, 'Where did you get this?'

Inch replied, 'It was one of the convicts, sir. Just before the last of 'em went into the boats for the Erebus.'

Bolitho took the ring and held it in the palm of his hand.

Inch was watching him curiously. 'This fellow came up to me at the very last second. He gave me the ring and said I was to hand it to you personally.' He faltered. 'He said that he wanted you to have it for your, er, bride, sir!'

Bolitho felt the cabin closing in around him. It was not possible.

Inch asked awkwardly, 'Have you seen it before, sir?

Bolitho did not answer. 'This man. Did you get a good look at him?' He took a pace towards him. 'Well, did you?'

Inch recoiled. 'It was dark, sir.' He screwed up his eyes. 'He was very grey, but quite a gentleman I should say…'

He fell silent as Bolitho pushed past him and ran out to the quarterdeck. He saw Herrick staring at him but did not care. Snatching a glass from a startled midshipman he climbed into the mizzen shrouds, his heart pounding his ribs like a drum.

Then he saw the convoy, far off below the horizon and almost lost from view. In a week or so they would reach Gibraltar and the human cargo would scatter to the winds for ever.

He climbed unsteadily back to the deck and stood looking at the ring. The man had been grey, Inch had said. But then he was getting grey the last time he had seen him. Ten, no eleven years ago. And to think that all these months he must have watched him from amongst the other convicts, while he had known nothing, had still believed his brother to be dead.

But if he had known, what could he have done? Hugh must have been on his way to New Holland for some minor crime like the others. One sign of recognition and he would have been seized for what he really was, a deserter from the King's Navy, a traitor to his country. And Bolitho's own life would have been laid in ruins had he lifted a finger to aid his deception.

So Hugh had waited, had bided his time until the last possible moment before sending his own private message, when there was no chance of facing him. The one possession which he knew would mean more than any words.

Herrick crossed to his side and looked down at the ring. `That is a fine piece of work; sir.'

Bolitho stared through him. 'It belonged to my mother.' Then without another word he walked aft towards his cabin.