FORM LINE OF BATTLE!

6. PARLEY

Bolitho stepped quickly into the stern cabin and slammed the door behind him. For a few moments he stood gratefully in the welcoming shade, knowing it to be merely an illusion after the relentless heat of the quarterdeck, where he had just witnessed a flogging before the assembled ship's company.

Gimlett, his servant, shuffled nervously across his vision and stared at him with something like awe as he removed his hat and coat and tore open the front of his shirt before unbuckling 'his sword. Without a word he dropped them into Gimlett's arms and walked wearily towards the open stem windows.

The scene which greeted his eyes never changed. The flat, glaring water of the anchorage and the barren hills of Cozar Island shimmering in a heat haze above the sheer-sided cliffs. Even the ship felt unmoving and lifeless. But that was no illusion, for she was moored both fore and aft just inside the arms of the harbour entrance, so that she could present a whole broadside to any would-be attacker who might, scorn the hill-top battery as he had once done.

His eye fell on a glass decanter and goblet which Gimlett had placed on his desk. Almost automatically he poured a full measure and drank it straight down. It was some of the coarse red wine which they had found in plenty in the captured fortress. It gave a brief impression of freshness for a matter of minutes, but like a constant spectre the thirst was soon back again.

Bolitho threw himself on to the bench seat below the windows and listened to the patter of feet across the quarterdeck as the last of the assembled men dismissed below. They needed no goading now. It was close on noon, and in spite of the awnings and the canvas air ducts rigged above every hatch and companion, the ship was already like an oven.

It was strange that after all these years as a sea officer he had never hardened himself completely against flogging.

There was always something which touched his nerve, or some unexpected incident to add to the slow misery of the proceedings.

Frowning, he poured another glass of wine. The man who had just been punished at the gratings was one of those flaws in the pattern of discipline and routine, and he felt strangely troubled, even though it was over and the victim was somewhere in the bowels of the ship receiving the surgeon's rough attention to his lacerated back.

The man in question had been thirsty. It had been as simple as that. In the dead of night he had attempted to broach one of the rancid water casks in the hold and had been caught in the act by the ship's corporal.

Two dozen lashes sounded lenient enough by lower deck standards. In the Service, discipline was harsh and instant. If a man took liberties he might just get away with it. But if not, he knew what to expect.

This man had somehow avoided trouble before, in spite of long service in a dozen ships. Maybe he had been more fearful of losing his pride than of agony under the lash, but after the first five strokes he had begun to scream, while his naked body had writhed against the blood-spattered 'gratings like a man being crucified.

Bolitho stared with distaste at the empty glass. The ship was quiet now. No shouts, no plaintive notes from some forecastle fiddler, no skylarking amongst the midshipmen. There was no spark.left of that unexpected victory, no lasting exultation to ease the sullenness and brooding which hung over the ship like a bad omen.

He ground his teeth with sudden fury. Three weeks. Three long weeks since they had stormed up the fortress steps and hauled down the French flag, and with each dragging day the tension and bitterness mounted.

There was a nervous tap at the door and then Whiting, the purser, peered apprehensively into the cabin. 'You sent for me, sir?'

He was sweating freely for he was extremely fat, with layer upon layer of chins which wobbled above his chest with each step that he took towards the desk. Normally he laughed a good deal, but like most of his trade he retained a pair of sharp, unblinking eyes, and it was said that he knew the extent of the ship's stores down to the last rind of cheese. As he stood shifting from one foot to the other, Bolitho was reminded of a giant codfish.

'I did, Whiting.' He tapped the papers on his desk. `Have you checked the water again?'

The purser hung his head as if he was in some way to blame. `Aye, sir. Cut down to a pint a day per man we can hold out for one more week.' His lower lip pouted doubtfully. `Even then they'll be drinking maggots for the most part, sir.'

Bolitho stood up and leaned his palms against the warm sill. Below him the water was so clear that he could see small fish darting above their shadows across the hard sandy bottom of the anchorage. What must he do? What could he do? For three weeks he had waited for the sloop Chanticleer to return with help from the fleet. He had written a full report for Lord Hood, and had expected a supply ship at the very least within the first few days. But nothing broke the horizon for two whole weeks. At the beginning of the third one the lookouts on the fortress had reported a French frigate approaching from the northwest. For an hour or so the enemy sail had shown itself like a feather above the horizon and had then withdrawn. And the French could afford to wait, he thought savagely. Their island garrison had been awaiting a fresh supply of drinking water within days of the Hyperion's attack. Now the shallow reservoir was filled with dust, and beneath a pitiless sun the English sailors and marines lolled about like corpses with a mere pint per day to hold back the agonies of thirst.

He thought of the last flogging. There would be others soon, he decided bleakly.

He pushed himself away from the sill and crossed to the quarter windows. At the far end of the little bay he could see the Spanish Princesa floating calmly above her reflection like a carved model. Perhaps he had ordered the Hyperion to be moored across the entrance because of her and not for fear of a seaward attack, he thought. From the moment the other ship had dropped anchor there had been friction, mounting in some cases to open fighting, between seamen from the Hyperion and those of the Spaniard.

After the first week of fruitless waiting the Spanish captain had come aboard to see him. He had got straight to the point. There were nearly a hundred French prisoners on the island. One hundred more bellies to be filled with food and fresh water.

'We must destroy them.' Captain Latorre, had sounded eager. 'They are useless to us!'

His lust for blood had been another reason for Bolitho's decision to keep control of the main fortress in his own grasp. Ashby's marines had it to themselves,. while the Spanish soldiers from the Princesa had to content themselves with the old Moorish fort at the other end of the island.

Latorre had been furious, both with Bolitho's refusal to butcher the prisoners and with his equally firm refusal to allow the Spanish flag to fly above the battery.

The purser broke into his thoughts. 'Them Spaniards have got plenty of water, sir. I'm sure of it.' He scowled. 'Damn them!'

Bolitho eyed him calmly. 'Maybe, Mr. Whiting. I suspect you are right. But if Hyperion were not anchored here with her guns bared I think the gallant Captain Latorre would have already gone. To demand to inspect his ship's stores would be inviting disaster. And I do recall that we are supposed to be allies in this venture!'

The sarcasm was lost on the purser. 'Dons or Frogs, you can't trust none o' them!'

There was a further interruption as Quarme poked his head inside the door.

'Well, Mr. Quarme? Bolitho saw Whiting sigh, as if relieved that the weight had been lifted from his fat shoulders.

Quarme looked tired. 'Signal from the battery, sir. That French frigate was just sighted to the nor'-west, though God knows what he is using for wind.' He wiped his face. 'I wish to heaven we were out there with him!'

Bolitho nodded to the purser. 'Carry on, Mr. Whiting, but make sure that the casks are guarded watch by watch.' As the door closed he continued, 'That frigate will be keeping an eye on our topmasts, or the flag above the battery.'

Quarme shrugged. 'It is a waste of time. Even with Ashby's small force we can hold the island against a fleet!'

Bolitho eyed him narrowly. It was strange that Quarme had so little imagination. 'Let me remove any doubts, Mr. Quarme. If we do not get water within the week we will have to leave this place. Evacuate it!' He turned away angrily. 'The French know about the water, just as they must know we have not been sent any relief.' He shaded his eyes and stared across at the tall cliffs. Below in the placid water the charred remains of the Spanish flagship Marte shone in the sunlight like black bones. 'And without a favourable wind we might even then be too late. Our people are in a bad state already for want of water.'

`Help may be on its way, sir.' Quarme watched him pacing the cabin. 'Lord Hood must have received your report.'

'Must he?' Bolitho paused in his stride, suddenly angry with Quarme's empty trust and his own inability to find a solution. 'I am glad to bear it. Damn it, man, the Chanticleer could have foundered! There might be fire or mutiny aboard her right this minute!'

Quarme tried to smile. 'I think that unlikely..

Bolitho stared at him coldly. 'So you believe that we should just wait and see, is that it?'

Quarme's smile froze. 'I was only meaning that we could not be expected to know this would happen, sir. We took the island as instructed, we carried out our orders to the best of our ability!'

Bolitho felt suddenly calm. 'Obeying orders is not always the final solution, Mr. Quarme. In the King's service you may have many victories and triumphs. But make one mistake and the value is wiped away.' He tugged the shirt away from his damp skin. 'It is not always enough to have tried.'

He made himself sit down again. 'Face the facts. We have no water to speak of, but against that we have ample stores of spirits and wine. Sooner or later some hotheads are going to run wild, and when that happens we will lose more than this damned island!' H, gestured towards the cliff. 'Without Ashby's marines aboard how long do you imagine we could control a company of drink-maddened seamen?'

Quarme stared at him. 'I have served in this ship for several years, sir. I know most of our people well. They would never betray.

Bolitho waved his hand. 'I do not know whether to admire your faith or to pity you your ignorance!' He ignoredd the sudden flush of anger on Quarme's cheeks. 'I have seen mutiny at close quarters. It is an ugly thing. A terrible thing.' He stared out at the mocking water. 'But they were just ordinary men. No better or worse than these. Men do not change. Only situations.'

Quarme swallowed hard. 'If you say so, sir.'

Bolitho twisted on the bench seat as Allday opened the door a few inches.

'Yes?'

Allday darted a brief glance at the first lieutenant and then said evenly, 'Begging your pardon, but a marine has just come aboard with a message from Captain Ashby.' He eased himself into the cabin. 'He sends his respects, Captain, and would you be prepared to receive the senior French officer in audience?'

Bolitho dragged his mind away from the mental picture of

the empty water casks. 'For what reason,' Allday?'

The big coxswain shrugged. 'Private reasons, Captain. He'll only speak with you.'

Quarme scowled. 'Bloody impudence! I suppose because you stopped the Dons from cutting their throats the French prisoners think you'll grant any damn thing they ask!'

Bolitho looked past him, 'My compliments to Captain Ashby. Tell him to send the man across without delay. I will see him.'

Quarme clenched. his fists. 'Will you require me here, sir?'

Bolitho stood up, his face thoughtful. 'When I send for you, Mr. Quarme.' He watched him stalk towards the door and added slowly, `In war we must change with the wind, Mr. Quarme. No breeze can be ignored when you are drifting on a lee shore!'

The senior surviving officer of the Cozar garrison was an elderly lieutenant of artillery named Charlois. He was a heavily built man with a crumpled, melancholy face and a drooping moustache, and in his ill-fitting uniform and heavy boots presented anything but a military appearance.

Bolitho dismissed Lieutenant, Shanks, who had brought the prisoner from the fortress, and then asked the Frenchman to sit down beside the desk. He saw his eyes watching him as he poured two glasses of wine, but was not deceived by this officer's unprepossessing appearance. For he had commanded the island's main battery. Under his care and knowledge the big but outdated guns had pounded the Spanish eighty-gun flagship into a blazing inferno in a matter of minutes, so that when her magazines had finally exploded the savage victory had been complete. Of the thousand or so ship's company and soldiers crammed aboard, less than a dozen had survived the ordeal. The latter had been carried by the sluggish current to the opposite side of the anchorage, and this fact alone had saved them from the final slaughter by the French sharpshooters below the cliffs.

Charlois raised his glass and said haltingly, 'Your health, Captain.' Then he drained the wine in one quick gulp.

Bolitho eyed him gravely. 'You speak good English.' He hated this waste of time spent in idle remarks, but knew it to be necessary as each summed up the other's strength and weakness.

The officer spread his thick hands. 'I was a prisoner in England in the last war. I was in a castle at Deal.'

'And why do you wish to see me, Lieutenant? Is there some trouble amongst your men?'

The Frenchman bit his lip and glanced quickly around the cabin. Then he lowered his voice and said, 'I have been thinking about our plight, Captain.' He seemed to come to a decision. 'Yours and mine. You have no water for your ships and men. You cannot hold out much longer, is that not so?

Bolitho kept his face impassive. 'If you came out here to tell me this then you have had a wasted journey,. m'sieu!'

Charlois shook his head. 'I regret that I have offended you, Captain. But I am getting old now, and I have outgrown the natural caution of a serving officer.' He smiled at some secret thought. 'But I must rely on your word as a gentleman to repeat nothing of what I am about to say. I have a wife and family in St. Clar and have no wish for them to suffer on my account.’

Before Bolitho could speak he continued quickly, 'I think maybe that you do not realise that my soldiers are not of the true army, eh? They are militia, recruited for the most part from St Clar itself. We have all grown up together. We are simple folk who did not ask for war and revolution, but had to make, as you say, the best of it. The garrison commandant_ was different, he was a true professional.' He shrugged wearily. 'But he died in the fighting.'

Bolitho slid his hands below the desk and gripped his fingers together to control his rising impatience. He asked quietly, 'What are you trying to tell me?'

Charlois dropped his eyes. 'It is said that your Lord 'Ood intends to attack Toulon. There is much feeling there because of the King and his death under the revolution.' He took a deep breath. `Well, Captain, in my small town there is the same feeling!'

Bolitho stood up and walked towards the charts which were spread across the dining table. He knew what the outspoken confession had cost the French officer, what it would mean to his future if it leaked out that he had betrayed his country with words to an English captain.

He said at length, 'How can you be so sure of all this?'

'I have seen the signs.' Charlois sounded sad. 'St. Clar is a small town, no different from a hundred others. We have a few vineyards, a little fishing and coastal trade. Before the Revolution we were slow but content. But this unrest in Toulon and to the east has made compromise impossible. Even now the government is sending an army to crush these idealists for all time. And when that happens they will go further. To fight a war with England our government cannot allow even a small chance of an uprising happening again.'

Bolitho turned and studied him gravely. 'They will come to St. Clar too, is that it?'

Charlois nodded heavily. 'There will be killings and reprisals. Old scores will be paid off in blood. It will be the end for us.'

Bolitho could feel the excitement churning at his insides as he turned the Frenchman's words over in his mind. After all, Lord Hood had indeed implied that the main purpose of taking Cozar was to give an impression of a multi-pronged attack on the French mainland. But even he had not suspected that such an invasion might be welcomed.

Charlois watched him anxiously. 'We could arrange a parley. I know the mayor very well. He is married to my cousin. It would not be difficult.'

'It sounds too easy, m'sieu. My ship would be in danger of attack should your words prove false.' He watched closely for some sign of guilt, but there was only desperation in the man's eyes.

'I have thought about it for many days. You have all my men as prisoners. In St. Clar they have the crew of your sloop Fairfax which we took as a prize here in Cozar. You could parley for an exchange. That is not uncommon, eh? Then if the signs were favourable we could explore the possibility of joining Toulon 's fight against the King's murderers!' He was sweating badly, and not merely because of the heat.

Bolitho bit his lip until the pain steadied his racing thoughts. 'Very well.' He shot Charlois a hard glance. 'I would also want water in exchange for the prisoners.'

Charlois staggered to his feet, obviously relieved to be free of his inner burden. 'That would be simple, Captain. This island was to be fully garrisoned in a month or so, and the water lighters are already at St. Clar.'

Bolitho crossed to the door. 'Pass the word for the first lieutenant.' Then he walked back to the desk and eyed the French officer for several seconds.

He said quietly, 'If you have tried to deceive me, m'sieu, you will regret it.'

Quarme entered the cabin. 'Sir?

'I want all the French prisoners stowed aboard within the hour. By that time I will have drafted fresh orders for Captain Ashby, for we will have to sail without him.'

Quarme stared at him. 'Sail, sir?

Bolitho signalled for the waiting guards to escort Charlois from the cabin then he said calmly, 'I want all the boats swung out forthwith. Our people can warp the ship from the anchorage. With luck we will take advantage of some offshore breeze to get under way again.'

Quarme still did not seem able to grasp what was happening.

'But, sir, the hands are too parched and exhausted for that sort of task! Some of them are lying below like dead menl'

"Then stir them, Mr. Quarme, stir them!' He looked through the windows towards the haze-covered hills. 'Break out every last drop of water for them. I want this ship at sea, do. you understand? By tonight I intend to close St. Clar and arrange a parley.' He watched his words causing consternation on Quarme's face.

Almost gently he added, 'It may be the breeze I was telling you about earlier.' Overhead he heard the shrill of pipes and the sounds of the guardboat being pulled clear of the side. 'Before we see another day dawn, Mr. Quarme, we may have had some small achievement. We will either have paved the way for future operations on the mainland, or we will all be prisoners of war.' He smiled openly at Quarme's rigid features. 'Either way we will have water to drink!'

Bolitho walked slowly across the quarterdeck and held his watch close against the shaded binnacle lamp. In the dim glow he saw that the time was exactly half past three in the morning, and less than fifteen minutes since he had last allowed himself a glance at his watch.

He recrossed the deck with the same slow tread, every step a concentrated effort to control his rising sense of urgency and despair. It had been two full hours since the Hyperion had hove to and dropped her jolly boat in the black, undulating water alongside. Two hours of waiting and fretting while the Hyperion had sailed slowly back and forth with the great wedge of land barely two miles abeam. Soon it would be getting lighter, although for the moment the night was as dark as ever. Only the stars remained bright and unmoving, and as he stared upwards through the black tracery of shrouds and rigging it seemed as if some were within feet of the gently spiralling topmasts. They cast a small glow across the topsails, so that against the night sky they appeared ghost-white and vulnerable.

The offshore breeze was holding steady and felt ice cool after the heat of the day, and although the ship was cleared for action most of the gun crews still lolled beside their weapons, exhausted from the agonising haul out of Cozar. In relays they had pulled on their oars, blinded with sweat, their hands raw and blistered as like beasts of burden the ship's boats had warped the Hyperion clear of the anchorage and out to the open water beyond.

Once it had seemed as if the Hyperion was only intent on destroying herself on the shoals by the harbour entrance, and only the extra efforts of the oarsmen, urged on by blows and curses from their petty officers, had pulled her clear. But even that had not been enough. The dazed and gasping seamen had stared hopefully astern, their eyes watching the sails for some sign of life. But the canvas had mocked them, hanging from the yards limp and flat, so that it seemed as if the wind would never come.

Sun-dried, exhausted men were barely a team to combat the Hyperion's bulk at the best of times. Her one thousand six hundred-odd tons seemed to play with the puny boats which tugged at her massive bows like so many beetles. And then, even as one of the cutters had fallen away from her station, the oarsmen drooping at their thwarts indifferent to both blows and threats from a frantic midshipman, the sails had given one violeut shiver, and as the men had stared wearily with disbelief, the water around their boats had come alive with small, whipping catspaws.

For the rest of the daylight and deep into the night hours the ship had regained her power from the growing northwesterly and had driven up and around the distant coastline.

Then, as soon as night had closed in around them, they had shortened sail and beaten nearer and nearer to that great slab of deeper darkness, beyond which lay the sheltered port of St. Clar.

Now it was over there abeam, lost beneath the stars and below the rolling bank of hills beyond. There was not a light or beacon, and more than once a nervous lookout had report ed small craft approaching the ship, only to discover they were shadows or some trick of current to pluck the nerves of every man aboard.

Bolitho laid his hands on the quarterdeck rail and stared fixedly into the darkness. He was unable to stop himself going over and over what he had done, and as the minutes dragged past he felt the rising tension of despair. adding to his uncertainties.

He had allowed the French officer, Charlois, to go ashore in the jolly boat to make contact with his friends in St. Clar. The chance of the rough plan succeeding had always been thin, but Bolitho still tortured himself with doubts of what he could have done, of what he should have done to give the scheme even a small hope of success. It was no consolation to know that he still had all the French prisoners aboard. Without water he might just as well surrender to St. Clar, or scuttle the ship within reach of the shore.

He thought too of Lieutenant Inch's excited horse-face when he had told him that he was to take charge of the jolly boat's small party. Inch was a keen enough officer, but he lacked experience for this sort of thing, and Bolitho knew that deep in his heart he had chosen him more because he was the junior lieutenant and therefore the least loss if Charlois chose treachery rather than any desire to parley.

He thought suddenly of Midshipman Seton. It was strange that he had voluntereed to go with inch, and stranger too that Bolitho felt such a sense of loss now that he was gone from the ship. But if Seton had a terrible stammer, he could do something better than anyone else aboard. He could speak fluent French.

Quarme murmued at his side, `Any orders, sir?'

Bolitho squinted his eyes at the distant hump of land and tried to memorise the picture of the chart in his mind. `Lay her on the larboard tack, Mr. Quarme. Full and bye.'

Quarme hesitated. `That will bring us very close inshore, sir.'

Bolitho looked past him. 'Put two good leadsmen in the chains. We must give the jolly boat every chance.'

He heard the men stirring at the braces and the gentle slap of water around the rudder as the helm went over. What was the point? If Inch was already a prisoner he was only prolonging the agony. With the morning sun would come disaster. The end of everything.

From forward came a splash followed by the leadsman's droning chant, 'By th' mark twenty!'

A small figure moved below the nettings, and he saw Midshipman Piper's monkey-like shape standing on tiptoe to peer at the land. It was strange how close he and Seton had become. The cheeky, devil-may-care Piper and the nervous, stammering Seton. But as Bolitho watched the boy's apprehensive movements he knew just how firm that friendship had become.

… and a quarter less fifteen!' The chant floated back to mock him further. Once around this slab of headland and the water shoaled considerably.

The big wheel creaked at his back and the helmsman intoned, 'Nor' by west, sir! Full an' bye!'

Quarme crossed to his side again. 'If this wind drops away, sir, we'll not be able to beat clear of the headland on the far side of the bay.' He sounded very much on edge.

'I'm as much aware of that as you, Mr. Quarme.' He faced him in the darkness. 'More so, I expect, since it is my responsibility.'

Quarme looked away. 'I'm sorry, sir, but I just thought…' He broke off as the leadsman called tonelessly, 'By the mark ten!'

Bolitho rubbed his chin. 'Shoaling.' Just one word, yet it seemed to mark the failure like a crude signature.

He heard himself say, 'We will continue deeper into the bay. By the time we reach the other side the sky will be brightening, and by then..

He swung round as a voice yelled, 'Boats on the larboard quarter, sir!' As he ran to the nettings the lookout added sharply, 'hree, no four on 'em, sir!'

Bolitho snatched a telescope and swung it across the, nettings, his mind aching with concentration as he stared over the heaving pattern of dark water and reflected stars. Then he saw them, low black shapes outlined by a disturbed pattern of white splashes.

He heard Rooke snap, 'hey're under oars, my God! Big sweeps too by the look of 'em!'

Bolitho shut the glass and handed it to Midshipman Caswell. But before he could speak he heard Quarme's voice right by his ear, sharp and insistent, and only barely controlled.

'Boats under sweeps, sir! They'll be oared galleys. My God, I've seen them in the Indies. A big gun right in the bow and

able to row round under a ship's counter and pound her to boxwood without her being able to turn fast enough to hit back!'

His voice must have carried to the other side of the quarterdeck and Bolitho saw several faces turned towards him and heard a sudden buzz of alarm.

`Control your voice, Mr. Quarme! Do you want our people to panic?'

But Quarme seemed unable to stop himself. 'I knew this would happen! You wouldn't listen! You don't care about anything but your own glory!' He was sobbing now, as if he neither knew nor cared what he was saying.

Bolitho said harshly, `Keep silent, man! Get a grip on yourself!'

Rooke's voice cut through the darkness like a knife. 'I heard that, sir!' He seemed to have forgotten about the approaching boats. About everything but the fact that by speaking up he had killed Quarme's career as surely as if he had shot him with a pistol.

Quarme turned and stared at him, his body suddenly limp and swaying with the deck. like a drunken man.

It was a tableau. An unmoving collection of statues, none of whom could control events any more.

Gossett, massive and unmoving beside the wheel. The gunners by the quarterdeck nine-pounders, crouching and watching like disturbed animals. Caswell and Piper too shocked to move or speak, and Rooke by the rail, hands on hips, head on one side, his face pale against the night sky.

As if from the sea itself a voice suddenly shattered the silence. 'Hyperion ahoy! Permission to board!'

Bolitho looked away. It was Lieutenant Inch. Quietly he said, 'Heave to, if you please, and signal Mr. Inch's boat alongside. Open the boarding nets for him, but watch the other craft in case of tricks.'

Quarme broke from his trance and made as if to carry out the orders, his movements automatic, the products of discipline and training.

Bolitho's words halted him in his tracks. 'You are relieved, Mr. Quarme. Go to your quarters.' To Rooke he added, 'Carry on, if you please.'

Quarme said, 'I only meant to say…: Then he turned on his heel and walked to the ladder, the men parting to let him pass. Ashamed for him, yet unable to take their eyes from his misery.

Bolitho-walked aft to the poop ladder and stood for several long minutes while his anger and disappointment gave way to dull acceptance. If Rooke had stayed quiet he might have been able to overlook Quarme's insubordination. If Quarme had retained his self-control for just a moment longer, inch's unexpected return -might have saved him. But in his heart he also knew that he would never have been able to trust Quarme again, no matter what Rooke had said or done. Quarme had been afraid, and later his fear might have cost lives other than his own. Bolitho knew that every man but an idiot was afraid. But showing it was unforgivable.

Lieutenant Inch clattered up the quarterdeck ladder and groped his way breathlessly past the silent onlookers. 'I'm back, sirl' His long face was split in an excited grin. 'We found the mayor of St. Clar. He's coming up the side now.'

`And those other boats, Mr. Inch, what are they?'

Inch became aware of the heaviness in Bolitho's tone and of the tension around him. He swallowed hard. 'I brought the water lighters, sir. I thought it would save time.'

Bolitho stared at him impassively. 'Save time?' He thought of Quarme below in his private prison. Of Rooke and all the others who depended on him, right or wrong.

Inch nodded awkwardly. 'Aye, sir. They were all jolly decent about it really…' He looked down aghast as something long and dark fell from his coat and rolled to Bolitho's feet.

'And what is,that, Mr. Inch? Bolitho could feel the tension of his mind like a vise.

Inch said in a small voice, 'A loaf of fresh bread, sir.'

From the darkness a voice broke into a helpless burst of laughter. It was taken up by the midshipmen and by the men at the guns, some of whom had not heard a word. It was relief, despair and gratitude all mixed together.

Bolitho said slowly, 'Very well, Mr. Inch. You have done a good piece of work tonight.' He felt the same nervous excitement plucking his words like strings. 'Now pick up your loaf and attend to your duties.'

As Inch fled past the chuckling seamen he added, 'Prepare to anchor, Mr. Rooke. As the fifth lieutenant has just told us, it will save time!'

He turned on his heel adding, 'Pass the word for Lieutenant Charlois and his mayor. I will see them in my cabin.'

As he ducked his head unnecessarily beneath the poop he allowed his guard to drop. Nothing which happened now could or would surprise him. Taking on water within gunshot of an enemy port. A loaf of bread on the quarterdeck. And an officer who -broke, not under fire, but under the pressure of his own doubts.

He heard the clatter of blocks and the flapping protest of canvas as the ship heeled heavily into the wind to drop anchor.

He found Allday waiting beside his desk, a glass of brandy poured and ready.

'What are you gaping at, Allday?' He glared angrily at his own reflection in the stern windows. Even in the poor light from the two swinging lanterns he looked strained to the point of exhaustion.

'Are you all right, Captain?' Allday watched him gravely.

'It's not my body which is sick this time!' He sat down wearily on the bench seat and stared at the hilt of his sword.

The coxswain nodded. 'It will come right in the end, Captaro' He swung round angrily as feet clattered in the passageway beyond the door. 'Shall I send them away?'

Bolitho looked at him with sudden affection. 'No, Allday. If it is all to come right, as you predict, then we must help it along a little!'

Midshipman Piper stepped briskly into Bolitho's cabin and then faltered as he saw his captain staring astern through the great windows.

'Mr. Rooke's respects, sir.' Piper's eyes dropped hopefully towards an untouched tray of food on the table. 'The masthead lookout has just sighted Cozar on the lee bow.'

Bolith did not turn. 'Thank you.' Half to himself he added, 'We will enter harbour in about three hours, all being well.'

Piper seemed surprised by this display of confidence and nodded with sudden gravity. 'Aye, sir, with the t'gallants and royals drawing so well we shall have no difficulty.'

Bolitho turned and eyed him emptily. 'There is something you can- do for me, Mr. Piper.' He had not even heard the boy's comment. 'Would you go below and tell Mr. Quarme to join me right away.'

'Aye, aye, sir.' Piper scurried away, his mind busy as to how he would describe his intimate conversation with the captain to the less informed members of the gunroom.

Bolitho slumped down on the bench seat and stared at his untouched meal with something like nausea. He was hungry, yet the thought of food sickened him.

It was strange that after all that had happened he could find no joy, no sense of achievement. In the fresh northwesterly the ship seemed to be ploughing across the whitecapped sea with new life, and even the harsh sunlight lacked its earlier feeling of danger and foreboding. With all sails set and every shroud and stay humming like a part of a finely tuned instrument, the Hyperion sounded as if she was pleased with herself, even grateful for her fresh chance. There were other shipboard noises too which should have given him confidence. Some of the men were singing and calling to one another as they worked high aloft on the swaying yards, their cares momentarily dispersed by the knowledge that there was fresh water in plenty to drink, that the sailor's terror of thirst was moved back in time to become merely another possibility.

Bolitho stared at the frothing wake and at the handful of swooping gulls which had followed the ship all the way from St. Clar. Even now it was hard to believe what had happened. The furtive boats, and alien French voices in the darkness. Inch's excitement, and the interview with Lieutenant Charlois and the mayor of St. Clar. The latter had been a small, leathery man in a velvet coat, a vital little being of quick gestures and a disarming laugh.

While every man had worked with a will to sway the fresh water casks aboard, the mayor, whose name was Labouret, had further confirmed everything that Charlois had described. The people of St. Clar had no love for the English, but then as Labouret had remarked, they did not really know them! But the Revolution they did know. What it had done, and what it would do if allowed to continue.

Bolitho had listened to them with hardly a word of interruption. In his mind he had seen the Revolution through new eyes, and had sensed the same feeling of uncleanness he had endured when his men in the frigate Phalarope had mutinied. That mutiny had been caused by other men's deeds, and had occurred in spite of everything he had done to prevent it and all he had tried to put right. And when it had come it had been as swift and as terrible as if he had provoked it himself.

And as he had listened closely to the two Frenchmen he had felt deeply for them. To them St. Clar might seem the centre of the whole world, but Bolitho knew that their cause was already lost. They had not caused the Revolution, but like a mutiny it had happened none the less.

Charlois had said finally, 'I kept my word, Captain. You have water and the crew of the sloop Fairfax.' He had smiled with something like embarrassment. 'We must keep the sloop for the present, you understand? It would not be well to show our hand completely, eh?'

Bolitho understood well enough. If Lord Hood shied away from the idea of a further attack on the mainland, the sloop might be the only token of loyalty for the men of St. Clar to show to a revengeful Revolutionary Court.

In the dawn's clear light the Hyperion had weighed and butted out into the freshening wind. Apart from the returned company of the sloop and the water, the French had even supplied fresh new casks to replace the Hyperion's rotten and much-used ones. They had made their gesture, and had even sent horsemen to the headlands to make sure that the Hyperion's presence remained undetected and safe.

In the early light, as the water boats had cast off, Rooke had remarked, 'I doubt the Frogs will keep their mouths shut for long! Some damn fisherman will be off up the coast to sell information to the nearest French garrison!'

Bolitho had replied coldly, 'Such deceit may have been your own experience, Mr. Rooke. In Cornwall it is not unknown for towns and villages to have that kind of loyalty.'

Rooke had said nothing. Perhaps in the dawn's pale light he had seen the warning in the captain's eyes.

Bolitho stared moodily at the written report on his desk. Just a few more lines and it would be done. If he could get Lord Hood's advice and backing a full invasion would still be possible. Either way St. Clar might become a battleground.

He reached out and touched -the unfinished report. Again his mind clouded with the one thing which had tainted everything else. Maybe if he told Quarme to hold his tongue he could arrange for him to return to England. With the country once more gripped in a war it was unlikely that many would notice the faults of a mere lieutenant. Quarme might start again. By taking it upon himself to send him away, Bolitho knew that he might be able to save him from a court-martial, even if he risked one for himself. There was only Rooks, he bit his lip and frowned. But first of all it depended on Quarme and how he felt after his enforced privacy with his thoughts.

There was a knock at the door, but when he looked up it was no Quarme but the master.

'I am sorry, Mr. Gossett, but unless it is an urgent matter it will have to keep.'

Gossett watched him sadly, his great body swaying with the ship like a tree. 'I just saw young Mr. Piper, sir. 'E was upset, so I thought I'd betterr bring the news meself.'

Bolitho stared at him, suddenly ice cold.

Gossett nodded slowly, 'Mr. Quarme is dead, sir. 'Anged 'imself in 'is cabin.'

'I see.' Bolitho turned away to hide his stricken face.

The master cleared his throat noisily. 'Poor man, 'e's been very worried of late.'

Bolitho turned and met the other man's eyes. 'When I took Cozar with the Chanticleer I had occasion to watch Hyperion making those mock attacks to draw the battery's fire. It was superb seamanship.' He let his words hang in the air and saw Gossett's eyes flicker with sudden alarm. 'Seamanship gained from many years in every sort of vessel, and under fire.'

Gossett shifted his feet. 'I suppose so, sir.'

'You sailed the Hyperion that day, did you not? I want the truthl'.

The master lifted his head with something like defiance. 'I did, sir. 'E was a good officer. But if you'll pardon the liberty, 'e was 'aving a lot o' trouble with 'is wife. She comes o' good stock and likes to live well.' He shrugged wearily. 'Mr. Quarme was a lieutenant an' nothing more, sir.'

'You mean that he had no money?' Bolitho's voice was toneless.

`That's right, sir.' The master's tanned face became angry. 'Then there was all this filthy talk about 'im pinching some money that was in 'is keeping..

Bolitho held up his hand. 'Why wasn't I told about this?

Gossett looked away. 'We all knew 'e would never steal from 'is own ship, sir. Not like some as I could mention. 'E was going to 'ave it out with Cap'n Turner, 'e even told me as 'ow Cap'n Turner 'ad found out the true thief.'

Bolitho said quietly, 'But Turner died of a heart attack.' He thought of the surgeon's guilty outburst at the first conference in the wardroom and Rooke's scathing attack on him.

Gossett said gruffly, 'I'm sorry I let you down, sir, after all you've done for us an' the ship. But I felt I owed it to 'im y'see'

'I see.' Bolitho rested his fingers on the waiting report. 'It is no excuse, Mr. Gossett. Your loyalty must always be to the ship, not to individuals.' He eyed the master levelly. 'But thank you for telling me. I expect I would have done the same.'

Then he said, 'This is just between ourselves, Mr. Gossett.'

The master nodded firmly. 'Then so it will remain, sir.'

For a long while after Gossett had left the cabin Bolitho sat quite motionless by the.windows. Then he picked up his pen and wrote swiftly across the bottom of his report '-this gallant officer whom as I earlier reported handled the ship with great courage under constant enemy fire with no regard for his personal safety, later took his own life under tragic circumstances. He was, I am convinced, a sick man, and but for his failure to consider his own welfare before the security of his ship, would have lived to make a place for himself in the Navy where his name would be long remembered.'

He signed the report and stared at it for several minutes.

It was little enough, he thought bitterly, and would do nothing for Quarme. But in England it might bring some small comfort to those who read it and still remembered him as the man Gossett had tried to shield from disaster.

But Bolitho knew that disaster when it came usually attacked from within. From that there was no defence.