In Gallant Company

10

Night Action

Bolitho entered the room at the top of the tower, where the former garrison commander had lived out his spartan days, and found Paget discussing a map with D'Esterre.

Bolitho asked, 'You sent for me, sir?'

He barely recognized his own voice. He had got past tiredness, almost to a point of exhaustion. All through the day he had hurried from one task to another, conscious the whole time of that far-off blue and white column as it weaved in and out of sight along the coast. Now it had vanished altogether, and it seemed likely that the road turned sharply inland before dividing opposite the island.

Paget glanced up sharply. He had shaved, and looked as if he had been freshly pressed with his uniform.

'Yes. Won't be long now, what?' He gestured to a chair. 'All done?'

Bolitho sat down stiffly. All done. Like an endless muddle of jobs. Dead had been buried, prisoners moved to a place where they could be guarded by the minimum of men. Stores and water checked, powder stacked in the deep magazine to create one devastating explosion once the fuses were set and fired. The heavy field-pieces manhandled to the landward side to be trained on the causeway and the opposite stretch of shoreline.

He replied, 'Aye, sir. And I've brought all the seamen inside the fort as you ordered.'

'Good.' Paget poured some wine and pushed the goblet across the table. 'Have some. Not too bad, considering.'

The major continued, 'You see, it's mostly a matter of bluff. We know quite a lot about these fellows, but they'll not know much about us. Yet. They'll see my marines, but one redcoat looks much like another. Anyway, why should the enemy think we are marines, eh? Could just as easily be a strong force of skirmishers who have cut through their lines. That'll give 'em something to worry about.'

Bolitho glanced at D'Esterre, but his normally agile face was expressionless, so Bolitho guessed he and not Paget had thought up the idea of concealing the presence of his sailors.

It made sense, too. After all, there were no boats, and who better than the returning garrison commander would know the impossibility of getting a man-of-war into the anchorage without passing those heavy cannon?

The wind showed no sign of changing direction, and in fact had gained in strength. All afternoon it had driven a pall of dust from the distant marching column out across the sea like gunsmoke.

Paget said, 'Hour or so to sunset. But they'll make themselves felt before dark. That's my wager.'

Bolitho looked across the room and through a narrow window. He could just see part of the hillside where he had lain with young Couzens, a million years ago. The sun-scorched bushes and scrub were moving in the wind like coarse fur, and everything was painted in fiery hues by the evening light.

The marines were down by the uprooted timbers where the pontoon had been moored. Dug into little gullies, they were invisible to eyes across the restless strip of water.

D'Esterre had done a good job of it. Now they all had to sit and wait.

Bolitho said wearily, 'Water is the problem, sir. They always brought it from a stream further down the coast. There's not much left. If they guess we're waiting for a ship to take us off the island, they will know exactly how much time they have. And us, too.'

Paget sniffed. 'I'd thought of that, naturally. They'll try to bombard us out, but there we have the advantage. That beach is too soft to support artillery, and it will take another day at least for them to move their heavier pieces up the hill to hit us from there. As for the causeway, I'd not fancy a frontal attack along it, even at low water!'

Bolitho saw D'Esterre give a small smile. He was probably thinking it was exactly what would have been expected of him and his men if Bolitho had failed to open the gates.

The door banged open and the marine lieutenant from the flagship said excitedly, 'Enemy in sight, sir!'

Paget glared. 'Really, Mr FitzHerbert, this is a garrison, not a scene from Drury Lane, dammit!'

Nevertheless, he got up and walked into the hot glare, reaching for a telescope as he strode to the parapet.

Bolitho rested his hands on the sun-dried wood and stared at the land. Two horsemen, five or six foot soldiers and a large black dog. He had not expected to see the whole enemy column crammed on to the narrow, beach, but the little group was a complete anticlimax.

Paget said, 'They're looking at the pontoon ramps. I can almost hear their brains rattling!'

Bolitho glanced at him. Paget really was enjoying it.

One of the horsemen dismounted and the dog ran across to him, waiting for something to happen. His master, obviously the senior officer present, reached down to fondle his head, the movement familiar, without conscious thought.

FitzHerbert asked cautiously, 'What will they do, sir?'

Paget did not answer immediately. He said, 'Look at those horses, D'Esterre. See how their hoofs are digging into the sand. The only piece of supported road led to the pontoon loading point.' He lowered the glass and chuckled dryly. 'Never thought they'd have to attack, I imagine!'

Sergeant Shears called, 'Saw some more of 'em on the hillside, sir!'

'Can't hit us with a musket from there, thank God.' Paget rubbed his hands. 'Tell your gunner to put a ball down on the end of the causeway.' He looked at Bolitho sharply. 'Now.'

Rowhurst listened to Paget's order with obvious enthusiasm. 'Good as done, sir.'

With some of his men at their handspikes, and other slackening or tightening the tackles, he soon trained the cannon towards the wet bank of sand nearest the land.

'Stand clear, lads!'

Bolitho yelled, 'Keep out of sight, you men! Stockdale, see that our people stay down!'

The crash of the single shot echoed around the fort and across the water like thunder. Scores of birds rose screaming from the trees, and Bolitho was just in time to see a tall spurt of sand as it received the heavy ball like a fist. The horses shied violently and the dog ran round and round, his bark carrying excitedly across the water.

Bolitho grinned and touched Rowhurst's arm. 'Reload.' He strode back to the tower and saw Quinn watching him from the other parapet.

Paget said, 'Good. Fine shot. Just close enough for them to know we're ready and able.'

A few moments later Sergeant Shears called, 'Flag o' truce, sir!'

One horseman was cantering towards the causeway where a tendril of smoke still drifted to mark the fall of shot.

Paget snapped, 'Ready with another ball, Mr Bolitho.'

'It's a flag of truce, sir.' Bolitho forgot his tiredness and met Paget's glare stubbornly. 'I cannot tell Rowhurst to fire on it.'

Paget's eyebrows rose with astonishment. 'What is this? A spark of honour?' He turned to D'Esterre. 'Explain it to him.'

D'Esterre said quietly, 'They'll want to sound us out, discover our strength. They are not fools. One sight of a marine's coat and they'll know how we came, and what for.'

FitzHerbert said unhelpfully, 'The horseman is an officer, sir.'

Bolitho shaded his eyes to follow the distant horse and rider. How was it possible to argue over honour and scruples at such a moment? Today or tomorrow he would be expected to cut down that same man if need be, without question or thought. And yet…

He said bluntly, 'I'll put a ball in the centre of the causeway.'

Paget turned from studying the little group on the beach. 'Oh, very well. But do get on with it!'

The second shot was equally well aimed, and threw spray and sand high into the air while the horseman struggled to regain control of his startled mount.

Then he turned and trotted back along the beach.

'Now they know.' Paget seemed satisfied. 'I think I'd like a glass of wine.' He left them and re-entered his room.

D'Esterre smiled grimly. 'I suspect Emperor Nero was something of a Paget, Dick!'

Bolitho nodded and moved to the seaward side of the tower. Of Probyn's new command there was no trace, and he pictured her gaining more and more distance in the favourable off-shore wind. If the enemy column had seen the vessel leave, they would assume she had turned away at the sight of the redcoats. Otherwise, why should not the fort's new occupiers go with her?

Bluff, stalemate, guessing, it all added up to one thing. What would they do if the sloop did not or could not come to take them off the island? If the water ran out, would Paget surrender? It seemed unlikely the enemy commander would be eager to be lenient after they had blown up his fort and every weapon with it.

He leaned over the parapet and looked at the seamen who were sitting in the shadows waiting for something to do. If the water ran out, could these same men be expected to obey, or keep their hands off the plentiful supply of rum they had unearthed by the stables?

Bolitho recalled Paget's words. He knew where the enemy were getting much of their powder and shot. The information would be little help to Rear-Admiral Coutts if their brave escapade ended here.

Just to be back in Trojan, he thought suddenly. After this he would never complain again. Even if he remained one of her lieutenants for the rest of his service.

The very thought made him smile in spite of his uncertainty. He knew in his heart that if he survived this time he would be as eager as ever to make his own way.

He heard Lieutenant Raye of Trojan's marines clattering up the ladder and reporting to D'Esterre.

To Bolitho it was another sort of life. Tactics and strategy which moved at the speed of a man's feet or a horseman's gallop. No majesty of sail, no matter how frail when the guns roared. just men, and uniforms, dropping into the earth when their time came. Forgotten.

He felt a chill at the nape of his neck as D'Esterre said to the two lieutenants, 'I feel certain they will attack tonight. An assault to test us out, to be followed up if we are caught unawares.,I want two platoons on immediate readiness. The guns will have to fire over their heads, so keep 'em down in their gullies until I give the word.' He turned and looked meaningly at Bolitho. 'I'll want two guns by the causeway as soon as it gets dark. We might lose them if we fall back, but we stand no chance unless we can give them bloody noses at the first grapple.'

Bolitho nodded. 'I'll see to it.' How calm he sounded. A stranger.

He remembered his feelings as he had stood facing the fort with the pontoon moving away in the darkness. If the enemy broke through the causeway pickets, it was a long way to the gates for those in retreat.

D'Esterre was watching him gravely. 'It sounds worse than it is. We must be ready. Keep our men on the alert and together. We might find ourselves with visitors after dark.' He gestured to the roughly dressed Canadian scouts. 'Two can play their game.'

As shadows deepened between island and mainland, the marines and seamen settled down to wait. The beach was empty once more, and only the churned up sand betrayed where the horses and men had stood to watch the fort.

Paget said, 'Clear night, but no moon.' He wiped one eye and swore. 'Bloody wind! Constant reminder of our one weakness!'

Bolitho, with Stockdale close by his side, left the fort and went to watch the two guns being hauled down to the causeway. It was hard, back-breaking work, and there were no laughs or jests now.

It seemed cold after the day's heat, and Bolitho wondered how he could go through another night without sleep. How any of them could. He passed little gullies, their occupants revealed only by their white cross-belts as they crouched and cradled their muskets and watched the glitter of water.

He found Quinn with Rowhurst, siting the second cannon, arranging powder and shot so that it would be easily found and used in total darkness.

Stockdale wheezed, 'Who'd be a soldier, eh, sir?'

Bolitho thought of the soldiers he had known in England. The local garrison at Falmouth, the dragoons at Bodmin. Wheeling and stamping to the delight of churchgoers on a Sunday, and little boys at any time.

This was entirely different. Brute force, and a determination to match anything which came their way. On desert or muddy field, the soldier's lot was perhaps the worst of all. He wondered briefly how the marines saw it? The best or the worst of their two worlds?

Quinn hurried across to him, speaking fast and almost incoherent.

'They say it will be tonight. Why can't we fall back to the fort? When we attacked it they said the cannon commanded the causeway and the pontoon. So why not the same for the enemy?'

'Easy, James. Keep your voice low. We must hold them off the island. They know this place. We only think we know it. Just a handful of them around the fort and who knows what could happen.'

Quinn dropped his head. 'I've heard talk. They don't want to die for a miserable little island which none of them had ever heard of before.'

'You know why we came.' He was surprised yet again by the tone of his own voice. It seemed harder. Colder. But Quinn must understand. If he broke now, it would not be a mere setback, it would be a headlong rout.

Quinn replied, 'The magazine. The fort. But what will it matter, really count for, after we're dead? It's a pin-prick, a gesture.'

Bolitho said quietly, 'You wanted to be a sea officer, more than anything. Your father wanted differently, for you to stay with him in the City of London.' He watched Quinn's face, pale in the darkness, hating himself for speaking as he was, as he must. 'Well, I think he was right. More than you knew. He realized you would never make a King's officer. Not now. Not ever.' He swung away, shaking off Quinn's hand and saying, `Take the first watch here. I will relieve you directly.'

He knew Quinn was staring after him, wretched and hurt.

Stockdale said, 'That took a lot to speak like so, sir. I know 'ow you cares for the young gentleman, but there's others wot depends on 'im.'

Bolitho paused and looked at him. Stockdale understood. Was always there when he needed him.

'Thank you for that.'

Stockdale shrugged his massive shoulders and said, 'It's

nothing. But I thinks about it sometimes.'

Bolitho touched his arm, warmed and moved by his ungainly

companion. 'I'm sure you do, Stockdale.'

Two hours dragged past. The night got colder, or seemed to,

and the first stiffening tension was giving way to fatigue and

aching discomfort.

Bolitho was between the fort and the causeway when he stopped dead and turned his face towards the mainland.

Stockdale stared at him and then nodded heavily. 'Smoke.'

It was getting thicker by the second, acrid and rasping to eyes and throat as it was urged across the island by the wind. There were flames too, dotted about like malicious orange feathers, changing shape through the smoke, spreading and then linking in serried lines of fires.

Midshipman Couzens, who had been walking behind them, asleep on his feet, gasped, 'What does it mean?'

Bolitho broke into a run. 'They've fired the hillside. They'll attack under the smoke.'

He forced his way through groups of startled, retching marines until he found the cannon.

'Get ready to fire!' He picked out FitzHerbert with one of his corporals, a handkerchief wrapped around his mouth and nose. 'Will you tell the major?'

FitzHerbert shook his head, his eyes streaming. 'No time. He'll know anyway.' He dragged out his sword and yelled, 'Stand to! Face your front! Pass the word to the other section!'

He was groping about, coughing and peering for his men, as more marines ran through the smoke, D'Esterre's voice controlling them, demanding silence, restoring some sort of order.

Couzens forgot himself enough to seize Bolitho's sleeve and murmur, 'Listen! Swimming!'

Bolitho pulled out his hanger and felt for his pistol. Near his home in Cornwall there was a ford across a small river. But sometimes, especially in the winter, it flooded and became impassable to wagons and coaches. But he had seen and heard horses often enough to know what was happening now.

'They're swimming their mounts across! '

He swung round as above the sounds of water and hissing fires he heard a long-drawn-out cheer.

D'Esterre shouted, 'They're coming from the causeway as well!' He pushed through his men and added, 'Keep 'em down, Sarn't! Let the cannon have their word first!'

Some armed seamen amongst them blundered out of the darkness and slithered to a halt as Bolitho called, 'Keep with me! Follow the beach!' His mind was reeling, grappling with the swiftness of events, the closeness of disaster.

A cannon roared out, and from somewhere across the water he heard the cheers falter, broken by a chorus of cries and screams.

The second cannon blasted the darkness apart with its long orange tongue, and Bolitho heard the ball smashing into men and sand, and pictured Quinn stricken with fear as the defiant cheers welled back as strong as before.

Stockdale growled, 'There's one of 'em!'

Bolitho balanced himself on the balls of his feet, watching the hurtling shadow charging from the darkness.

Someone fired a pistol, and he saw the horse's eyes, huge and terrified, as it pounded towards the seamen, and then swerved away as another horseman lurched from the water and loomed above them like an avenging beast.

He thought Stockdale was saying to Couzens, 'Easy, son! Keep with me! Stand yer ground!'

Or be may have been speaking to me, he thought.

Then he forgot everything as he felt his hanger jerk against steel and he threw himself to the attack.

Lieutenant James Quinn ducked as musket-fire clattered along the causeway and some of the shots clanged and ricocheted from the two cannon. He was almost blinded by smoke, from the burning hillside and now with additional fog of gun-fire.

Out in the open it seemed far worse than any gundeck.

Metal shrieked overhead, and through the smoke men stumbled and cursed as they rammed home fresh charges and grapeshot to try and hold off the attack.

'Fire!'

Quinn winced as the nearest cannon belched flame and smoke. In the swift glare he saw running figures and a gleam of weapons before darkness closed in again and the air was rent by terrible screams as the murderous grape found a target.

A marine was yelling in his ear, 'The devils are on the island, sir!' He was almost screaming. 'Cavalry!'

Lieutenant FitzHerbert ran through the smoke. 'Silence, that man!' He fired his pistol along the causeway and added savagely, 'You'll start a panic!'

Quinn gasped, 'Cavalry, he said!'

FitzHerbert glared at him, his eyes shining above the handkerchief like stones.

'We'd all be corpses if there was, man! A few riders, no doubtV

Rowhurst shouted hoarsely, 'Gettin' short of powder!' He blundered towards Quinn. 'Damn yer eyes, sir! Do somethin', fer Christ's sake!'

Quinn nodded, his mind empty of everything but fear. He

saw Midshipman Huyghue crouching on one knee as he tried to

level a pistol above a hastily prepared earthwork.

'Tell Mr Bolitho what is happening!'

The youth stood up, uncertain which way to go. Quinn

gripped his arm. 'Along the beach! Fast as you can!'

A shrill voice shouted, ' 'Ere the buggers come!'

FitzHerbert threw his handkerchief away and waved his

sword. 'Sar'nt Triggs!'

A corporal said, 'He's dead, sir.'

The marine lieutenant looked away. 'God Almighty!' Then as the shouts and whooping cheers echoed across the water he added, 'Forward, marines!'

Stumbling and choking in the smoke, the marines emerged from their gullies and ditches, their bayonets rising in obedience to the order, their feet searching for firm ground as they peered with stinging eyes for a sign of their enemy.

A hail of musket-fire came from the causeway, and a third of the marines fell dead or wounded.

Quinn stared with disbelief as the marines fired, started to reload and then crumpled to another well-timed volley.

FitzHerbert yelled, 'I suggest you spike those guns! Or get your seamen to reload our muskets!'

He gave a choking cry and pitched through his dwindling line of marines, his jaw completely shot away.

Quinn shouted, 'Rowhurst! Fall back!'

Rowhurst thrust past him, his eyes wild. 'Most of the lads ave gone already!' Even in the face of such danger he could not hide his contempt. 'You might as well run, too!'

From over his shoulder Quinn heard the sudden blare of a trumpet. It seemed to grip the remaining marines like a steel hand.

The corporal, earlier on the edge of terror, called, 'Retreat! Easy, lads! Reload, take air n!' He waited for some of the wounded to hop or crawl through the line. 'Fire!'

Quinn could not grasp what was happening. He heard the snap of commands, the click of weapons, and somehow knew that D'Esterre was coming to cover the withdrawal. The enemy were barely yards away, he could hear their feet slipping and squelching on the wet sand, sense their combined anger and madness as they surged forward to retake the landing-place. Yet all he could think of was Rowhurst's disgust, the need to win his respect in these last minutes.

He gasped, 'Which gun is loaded?'

He staggered down the slope, his pistol still unloaded, and the hanger which his father had had specially made by the best City sword cutler firmly in its scabbard.

Rowhurst, dazed and bewildered by the change of events, paused and stared at the groping lieutenant. Like a blind man.

It was stupid to go back with him. What safety remained was a long run to the fort's gates. Every moment here cut away a hope of survival.

Rowhurst was a volunteer, and prided himself on being as good a gunner's mate as any in the fleet. In a month or so, if fate was kind, he might gain promotion, proper warrant rank in another ship somewhere.

He watched Quinn's pathetic efforts to find the gun, which because of the marines leaving cover was still unfired. Either way it was over. If he waited, he would die with Quinn. If he escaped, Quinn would charge him with disobeying orders, insolence to an officer. Something like that.

Rowhurst gave a great sigh and made up his mind.

''Ere, this is the one.' He forced a grin. 'Sir!'

A corpse propped against one of the wheels gave a little jerk as more random shots slammed into it. It was as if the dead were returning to life to witness their last madness.

The crash of the explosion as the slow-match found its mark, and the whole double-shotted charge swept through the packed ranks of attackers, seemed to bring some small control to Quinn's cringing mind. He groped for the finely made hanger, his eyes streaming, his ears deafened by that final explosion.

All he could say was, 'Thank you, Rowhurst! Thank you!'

But Rowhurst had been right about one thing. He lay staring angrily at the smoke, a hole placed dead centre through his forehead. No gunner's mate could have laid a better shot.

Quinn walked dazedly away from the guns, his sword-arm at his side. The white breeches of dead marines shone in the darkness, staring eyes and fallen weapons marked each moment of sacrifice.

But Quinn was also aware that the din of shouting had gone from the causeway. They too had taken enough.

He stopped, suddenly tense and ready as figures came down towards him. Two marines, the big gun captain called Stockdale. And a lieutenant with a drawn blade in his hand.

Quinn looked at the ground, wanting to speak, to explain what Rowhurst had done, had made him do.

But Bolitho took his arm and said quietly, 'The corporal told me. But for your example, no one outside the fort would be alive now.'

They waited as the first line of marines came down from the fort, letting the battered and bleeding survivors from the causeway pass through them to safety.

Bolitho ached all over, and his sword-arm felt as heavy as iron. He could still feel the fear and desperation of the past hour. The thundering horses, the swords cutting out of the darkness, and then the sudden rallying of his own mixed collection of seamen.

Couzens had been stunned after being knocked over by a horse, and three seamen were dead. He himself had been struck from behind, and the edge of the sabre had touched his shoulder like a red-hot knife.

Now the horses had gone, swimming or drifting with the current, but gone from here. Several of their riders had stayed behind. For ever.

D'Esterre found them as he came through the thinning smoke and said, 'We held them. It was costly, Dick, but it could save us.' He held up his hat and fanned his streaming face. 'See? The wind is going about at last. If there is a ship for us, then she can come.'

He watched a marine being carried past, his leg smashed out of recognition. In the darkness the blood looked like fresh tar.

'We must get replacements to the causeway. I've sent for a new gun crew.' He saw Couzens walking very slowly towards them, rubbing his head and groaning. 'I'm glad he's all right.' D'Esterre replaced his hat as he saw his sergeant hurrying towards him. 'I'm afraid they took the other midshipman, Huyghue, prisoner.'

Quinn said brokenly, 'I sent him to look for you. It was my fault.'

Bolitho shook his head. 'No. Some of the enemy got amongst us. They'd allowed for failure, I expect, and wanted to seize a few prisoners just in case.'

Bolitho made to thrust his hanger into its scabbard and discovered that the hilt was sticky with blood. He let out a long sigh, trying to fit his thoughts in order. But, as usual, nothing came, as if his mind was trying to protect him, to cushion him from the horror and frantic savagery of hand to hand fighting. Sounds, brief faces and shapes, terror and wild hate. But nothing real. It might come later, when his mind was able to accept it.

Had it all been worthwhile? Was liberty that precious?

And tomorrow, no, today, it would all begin again.

He heard Quinn call, 'They will need more powder for those guns! See to it, will you!'

An anonymous figure in checkered shirt and white trousers hurried away to do his bidding. An ordinary sailor. He could be every sailor, Bolitho thought.

Quinn faced him. 'If you want to report to Major Paget, I can take charge here.' He waited, watching Bolitho's strained features as if searching for something. 'I can, really.'

Bolitho nodded. 'I'd be grateful, James. I shall be back directly.'

Stockdale said roughly, 'With Rowhurst gone, you'll need a fair 'and at the guns, sir.' He grinned at Quinn's face. 'Keep up the good work, eh, sir?'

Bolitho made his way into the fort, weaving through groups of wounded, each one a small island of pain in the glow of a lantern. Daylight would reveal the real extent of what they had endured.

Paget was in his room, and although Bolitho knew he had been controlling the defences from the first minutes, he looked as if he had never left the place.

Paget said, 'We will hold the causeway tonight, of course.' He gestured to a bottle of wine. 'But tomorrow we will prepare for evacuation. When the ship comes, we will send the wounded and those who have stood guard tonight, first. No time for any bluff. If they've got prisoners, they know what we're up to.'

Bolitho let the wine run over his tongue. God, it tasted good. Better than anything.

'What if the ship does not come, sir?'

'Well, that simplifies things.' Paget watched him coldly. 'We'll blow the magazine, and fight our way out.' He smiled very briefly. 'It won't come to that.'

'I see, sir.' In fact, he did not.

Paget ruffled some papers. 'I want you to sleep. For an hour or so.' He held up his hand. 'That is an order. You've done fine work here, and now I thank God that fool Probyn made the decision he did.'

'I'd like to report on Mr Quinn's part, sir.' The major was getting misty in Bolitho's aching vision. 'And the two midshipmen. They are all very young.'

Paget pressed his fingertips together and regarded him unsmilingly. 'Not like you, of course, an ancient warrior, what?'

Bolitho picked up his hat and made for the door. With Paget you knew exactly where you were. He had selected him for some precious sleep. The very thought made him want to lie down immediately and close his eyes.

Equally, he knew the true reason for Paget's concern. Someone would have to stay behind and light the fuses. You needed a measure of alertness for that!

Bolitho walked past D'Esterre without even seeing him.

The marine captain picked up the wine bottle and said, 'You told him, sir? About tomorrow?'

Paget shrugged. 'No. He is like I was at his age. Didn't need to be told everything.' He glared at his subordinate. 'Unlike some.'

D'Esterre smiled and walked to the window. Somewhere across the water a telescope might be trained on the fort, on this lighted window.

Like Bolitho, he knew he should be snatching an hour's rest. But out there, still hidden in darkness, were many of his men, sprawled in the careless attitudes of death. He could not find it in his heart to leave them now. It would be like a betrayal.

A gentle snore made him turn. Paget was fast asleep in the chair, his face completely devoid of anxiety.

Better to be like him, D'Esterre thought bitterly. Then he downed the drink in one swallow and strode out into the darkness.