In Gallant Company

16

Orders

As she floundered further from the island's shelter and into open water, the yawl rapidly became unmanageable. With so much damage below, and the dead-weight of weapons and iron shot, she was destroying herself on every wave.

The brig had changed tack again, sweeping away sharply to run almost parallel, while her gun crews settled down to pound the smaller craft into submission. There was no thought left of saving anything or anybody, and even the terrified prisoners were falling under the murderous cannon-fire.

Bolitho found time to notice that the brig, obviously new from some master-builder's yard, was not fully armed. Otherwise the fight would have been over long since. Only half her ports were firing, and he guessed the remainder were supposed to have been filled fromm the yawl's cargo. And this was her master's second attempt. The first had cost many lives, and the loss of the Spite. It seemed as if the brig had a charmed life and would escape yet again.

The deck gave a tremendous lurch and the topmast and upper yard fell in a mess of rigging and flapping canvas. Immediately the deck began to lean over, throwing men from their feet and bringing down more severed rigging.

From the open hatch Bolitho heard the violent inrush of water, the cries of the prisoners as the sea pushed through the frail timbers into the hold.

Bolitho clung to the bulwark and shouted, 'Release those men, Mr Couzens! The rest of you help the wounded!' He stared at Stockdale as he released the useless tiller, 'Lend a hand.' He winced as more shots whistled low overhead. 'We must abandon!'

Stockdale threw an unconscious seaman over his shoulder and strode to the side, peering down to make sure the remaining cutter was still afloat.

'Into the boat! Pass the wounded down.'

Bolitho felt the deck tilt and begin to settle more steeply. She was going by the stern, and the taffrail, with the stump of the after mast, was already awash.

If only the brig would cease firing. It needed just one ball to fall amongst the wounded and they would sink with the cutter. He looked at the swirling water and lively white crests. They would have a poor chance of survival in any case. On the island, which seemed to have moved a mile astern, he could see a few red coats, and guessed that the majority of the marines were running back to man the other bogs. But marines were not seamen. By the time they managed to draw near, it would be over.

fCouzens staggered towards him and gasped, 'The bows are out of the water, sir!' He ducked as another shot ripped through the mainsail and tore it away to rags. Stockdale was trying to climb back on deck, but Bolitho shouted, 'Stand away! She's going down fast!'

With his face like a mask, Stockdale cast off the painter and allowed the current to carry him clear. Bolitho saw Frowd struggling aft to watch the sinking yawl, his fingers bloody as he waved his sword above his head.

The brig was shortening sail, the forecourse vanishing to reveal the rest of her neat hull

Will they try to save us or kill us?

Bolitho said, 'We will swim for it, Mr Couzens.'

The boy nodded jerkily, unable to speak, as he kicked off his shoes and tore frantically at, his shirt.

A shadow moved below the open hatch, and for a moment Bolitho imagined a wounded or trapped man was still down there. But it was a corpse, drifting forward as the water pounded between the decks. It was as high as that.

Couzens stared at the water and murmured, 'I'm not much of a swimmer, s-sir!' His teeth were chattering in spite of the sunlight.

Bolitho looked at him. 'Why in hell's name didn't you leave with the cutter then?' He realized the answer just as quickly and said quietly, 'We will keep together. I see a likely spar yonder..

The brig fired again, the ball skipping over the wave crests, past the swaying cutter and between some floundering swimmers like an attacking swordfish.

So that was why they had shortened sail. To make sure the British force was totally destroyed. So that every officer would think again if in the future he saw a chance of seizing much needed supplies.

The yawl lurched over, tipping loose gear and corpses into the scuppers.

Bolitho watched the brig. But for Couzens he would have stayed and died here, he knew it. If he had to die anyway, it were better to let them see his face. But Couzens did not deserve such a death. For him there must always seem a chance.

The brig was putting her helm over, her yards in confusion as she swung away from the drifting wreck. He could even see her name on the broad counter, White Hills, and a startled face peering at him from the stern windows.

'He's going about!' Bolitho spoke aloud without knowing it. 'What is he thinking of? He'll be in irons in a minute!'

The wind was too strong and the brig's sails too few. In no time she was rendered helpless, her sails all aback in flapping, disordered revolt.

There was a muffled bang, and for an instant Bolitho thought she had sprung a mast or large yard. With disbelief he saw a great gaping hole torn in the brig's main-topsail, the wind slashing it to ribbons against the mast even as he watched.

He felt Couzens clutching his arm and shouting 'It's Trojan?, sir! She is here V

Bolitho turned and saw the two-decker, standing as if motionless in the haze, like an extension to the next pair of islets.

Pears must have judged it to the second, biding his time while the same wind which was hampering the brig carried him slowly across the one safe channel of escape.

Two bright tongues stabbed from the forecastle, and Bolitho could see the gun captains as if he were there with them. Probably Bill Chimmo, Trojan's gunner, would personally be supervising each careful shot.

He heard the splintering crash as an eighteen-pound ball blasted its way into the brig.

Then, below his feet the deck started to slide away, and with Couzens clinging to him like a limpet he plunged over the bulwark. But not before he had heard a wild cheer, or before he had seen the bright new flag being hauled down from the brig's gaff.

Even at that range Trojan's starboard broadside could have smashed the brig to pieces in minutes, and her master knew it. A bitter moment for him, but many would thank him all the same.

Gasping and spluttering they reached the drifting spar and clung on to it.

Bolitho managed to say, 'I think you saved me.' For, unlike Couzens, he had forgotten to remove his clothes or even his hanger, and he was grateful for the spar's support.

As he tried to hold his head above the choppy wave crests he saw the cutter turning towards him, the oarsmen leaning outboard to pull some of the swimmers to safety, or allow them to hang along either side of the hull. Further beyond them the

other boats 'were coming too,. the marines and the small party of seamen left to guard them doing better than Bolitho had expected.

He called, `How is the brig?'

Couzens stared across the spar and answered, 'She's hove to, sir! They're not going to make a run for it!'

Bolitho nodded, unable to say anything more. The White Hills had no choice, especially as D'Esterre's boats were being careful not to lay themselves between him and Trojan's formidable artillery.

The brig's capture might not make up for all those who had died, but it would show Trojan's company what they could do, and give them back some pride.

Trojan's remaining boats had been lowered and were coming to join in the rescue. Bolitho could see the two jolly boats and even the gig bouncing over the water. It took a full hour before he and Midshipman Couzens were hauled aboard the gig by a grinning Midshipman Pullen.

Bolitho could well imagine what the delay had done to Stockdale, But Stockdale knew him well enough to stand off with his overloaded boat of wounded and half-drowned men, rather than to show preference for a lieutenant who was to all intents safe and unhurt.

The eventual return aboard the Trojan was one of mixed feelings. Sadness that some of the older and more experienced hands had died or suffered wounds, but riding with it a kind of wild jubilation that they had acted alone, and had won.

When the smartly painted brig was put under the command of a boarding party, and the seamen lining the Trojan's gangway cheered the returning victors, it felt like the greatest triumph of all time.

Small moments stood out, as they always did.

A seaman shaking his friend to tell him they were alongside their ship again, the stunned disbelief when he discovered he had died.

The cheers giving way to laughter as Couzens, as naked as the day he was born, climbed through the entry port with all the dignity he could manage, while two grinning marines presented arms for his benefit,

And Stockdale striding to meet Bolitho, his slow, lopsided smile of welcome better than any words.

Yet somehow it was Pears who held the day. tall, massive like his beloved Trojan, he stood watching in silence.

As Couzens tried to hide himself Pears called harshly, 'That is no way for a King's officer to disport himself, sir! 'Pon my soul, Mr Couzens, I don't know what you are thinking about, and that's the truth! ' Then as the boy ran, flushing, for the nearest companionway, he added, `Proud of you, all the same.'

Bolitho crossed the quarterdeck, his feet squelching noisily.

Pears eyed him grimly. 'Lost the yawl, I see? Loaded, was she?'

'Aye, sir., I believe she was to arm the brig.' He saw his men limping past, tarred hands reaching out to slap their shoulders. He said softly, 'Our people did well, sir.'

He watched the brig spreading her sails again, the torn one little more than rags. He guessed that Pears had sent a master's mate across, while the marines searched and sorted out the captured crew. Frowd might be made prize-master, it might make up for his badly shattered knee. Whatever Thorndike did for him now, or some hospital later on, he would have a bad limp for the rest of his life. He had reached the rank of lieutenant. Frowd would know better than anyone that his wound would prevent his getting any further.

It was late afternoon by the time both vessels had cleared the islands and had sea-room again. It was no small relief to see the reefs and swirling currents left far astern.

When D'Esterre returned to the Trojan he had another interesting find to report.

The White Hills' captain was none other than Jonas Tracy, the brother of the man killed when they had seized the schooner Faithful. He had had every intention of fighting his way from under Trojan's guns, hopeless or not. But the odds had been against him. His company were for the most part new to the trade of a fighting ship, which was the reason for a seasoned privateersman like Tracy being given command in the first place. His reputation, and list of successes against the British, made him an obvious choice. Tracy had ordered his men to put the White Hills about, to try and discover another, narrow passage through the islands. His men, already cowed by the Trojan's unexpected challenge, were completely beaten when that second, carefully aimed ball had smashed into the brig's side. It had shattered to fragments on the breech of a gun on the opposite bulwark, and one splinter, the size of a block, had taken Tracy's arm off at the shoulder. The sight of their tough, hard-swearing captain oat down before their eyes had been more than enough, and they had hauled down their flag.

Bolitho did not know if Tracy was still alive. It was an ironic twist that he had been firing on the man who was responsible for his brother's death without knowing it.

Bolitho was washing himself in his small cabin when he heard a commotion on deck, the distant cry that a sail was in sight.

The other vessel soon showed herself to be a frigate under full sail. She bore down on Trojan and with little fuss dropped a boat in the water to carry her captain across.

Bolitho threw on his shirt and breeches and ran on deck. The frigate was called Kittiwake, and Bolitho knew she was one of those he had seen at Antigua.

With as much ceremony as if they were safely anchored in Plymouth Sound, Trojan received her visitor, As the guard presented muskets, and calls shrilled, Pears stepped forward to greet him. Bolitho realized it was the post-captain who had been on Quinn's court of inquiry. Not the president, nor the one with the thin lips and vindictive manner, but the third officer who had, as far as Bolitho recalled, said nothing at all.

Sunset was closing in rapidly when the Kittizvake's lord and master took his leave, his step less firm than when he had come aboard.

Bolitho watched the frigate make sail again, her canvas like gold silk in the dying sunlight. She would soon be out of sight, her captain free of admirals and ponderous authority. He sighed.

Cairns joined him, his eyes on the duty watch who were preparing to get the ship under way again.

He said quietly, 'She was from Antigua with despatches. She has been realeased from her squadron to go ahead of us to Jamaica. We are not outcasts after all.'

He sounded different. Remote.

`Is something wrong?'

Cairns looked at him, his face glowing in the sunset.

`Captain Pears thinks that the sea war will end in the Caribbean.'

'Not America?' Bolitho did not understand this mood.

`Like me, I think he believes that the war is already finished. Victories we will have, must have if we are to meet the French when they come out. But to win a war takes more than that, Dick.' He touched his shoulder and smiled sadly. 'I am detaining you. The captain wants you aft.' He walked away, calling sharply, `Now then, Mr Dalyell, what is this shambles? Send the topmen aloft" and pipe the hands to the braces! It is like a fish market here!'

Bolitho groped through the shadowed passageway to Pears' cabin.

Pears was sitting at his table, studying a bottle of wine with grim concentration.

He said, 'Sit down.'

Bolitho heard the pad of bare feet overhead, and wondered how they were managing with the captain away from his familiar place by the rail.

He sat.

The cabin looked comfortable and content. Bolitho felt suddenly tired, as if all the strength had drained out of him like sand from an hour-glass.

Pears announced slowly, 'We shall have some claret presently.' Bolitho licked his lips. 'Thank you, sir.' He waited, completely lost. First Cairns, now Pears.

'Captain Viney of the Kittiwake brought orders from the flagship at Antigua. Mr Frowd is appointed into the Maid o f Norfolk, armed transport. With all despatch.'

'But, sir, his leg?'

'I know. The surgeon has patched him as best he can.' His eyes came up and settled firmly on Bolitho's face. 'What does he want most in the world?'

'A ship, sir. Perhaps one day, a command of his own.'

He recalled Frowd's face aboard the yawl. Perhaps even

then he had been thinking of it. A ship, any ship, like the

armed transport written in his appointment, would have done. 'I agree. If he languishes here it will be too late. If he returns

to Antigua,' he shrugged, 'his luck may have changed by

then.'

Bolitho watched him, fascinated by Pears' authority. He had fought in battles, and was now taking his command to deal with God alone knew what in Jamaica, and yet he had time to think about Frowd.

'Then there is Mr Quinn.' Pears opened the bottle, his head to one side as the hull shivered and rolled before settling down on a new tack, 'He was not forgotten.'

Bolitho waited, trying to discover Pears' true feelings.

'He is to be returned to Antigua for passage to England. The rest we already know. I have written a letter for his father. It won't help much. But I want him to understand that his son only had so much courage. When it left him he was as helpless as Frowd with his leg.' Pears nudged a heavy envelope with the bottle. 'But he tried, and if more young men were doing that, instead of living in comfort at home, we might be better placed than we are.'

Bolitho looked at the bulky envelope. Quinn's life.

Pears became almost brisk. 'But enough of that. I have things to do, orders to dictate.'

He poured two large glasses of claret and held them on the table until Bolitho took one. The ship was leaning so steeply that both would have slithered to the deck otherwise.

It was strange that no one else was here. He had expected D'Esterre, or perhaps Cairns, once he had completed his duties with the watch on deck.

Pears raised his glass and said, 'I expect this will be a long night for you. But there will be longer ones, believe me.'

He raised his glass, like a thimble in his massive fist.

'I wish you luck, Mr Bolitho, and as our redoubtable sailing master would say, God's speed.'

Bolitho stared at him, the claret untouched.

'I am putting you in command of the White Hills. We will part company tomorrow when it is light enough to ferry the wounded over to her.'

Bolitho tried to think, to clear the astonishment from his mind.

Then he said, 'The first lieutenant, sir, with all respect… Pears held up his glass. it was empty. Like Probyri's had once been.

'I was going to send him. I need him here, now more than ever, but he deserves an appointment, even as a prize-master.'

Ile eyed him steadily. 'As you did to Rear-Admiral Coutts, so did he refuse my suggestion.'

He smiled gravely. 'So there we are.'

Bolitho saw his glass being refilled and said dazedly, 'Thank you very much, sir.'

Pears, grimaced. 'So get the claret down you, and say your farewells. You can bother the life out of someone else after this!'

Bolitho found himself outside beside the motionless sentry again, as if it had all been a dream.

He found Cairns still on deck, leaning against the weather nettings and staring across at the brig's lights.

Before Bolitho could speak Cairns said firmly, 'You are going as prize-master tomorrow. It is settled, if I have to send you across in irons.'

Bolitho stood beside him, conscious of the movements behind him, the creak of the wheel, the slap of rigging against spars and canvas.

I expect this will be a long night for you. 'What has happened, Neil?'

He felt very close to this quiet, soft-spoken Scot.

'The captain also received a letter. I don't know who from. It is not his style to whimper. It was a friendly piece of information, if you can call it that. To tell Captain Pears he has been passed over for promotion to flag rank. A captain he will remain.' He looked up at the stars beyond the black rigging and yards. 'And when Trojan eventually pays-off, that will be the end for him. Coutts has been ordered to England under a cloud.' He could not hide his anger, his hurt. 'But he has wealth, and position.' He turned and gestured towards the poop. 'He only has his ship!'

'Thank you for telling me.'

Cairns' teeth were very white in the gloom. 'Away with you, man. Go and pack your chest.'

As Bolitho was about to leave him he added softly, 'But you do understand, my friend? I couldn't desert him now, could I?

The next morning, bright and early, with both vessels hove to, Trojan's boats started to ferry the wounded seamen across to the brig. On their return trips they carried the White Hills' crew into captivity. It must have been one of the shortest commissions in sea history, Bolitho thought.

Nothing seemed exactly real to him, and he found himself forgetting certain tasks, and checking to discover if he had completed others more than once.

Each time he went on deck he had to look across at the brig, rolling uncomfortably in steep troughs. But once under sail

again she could fly if need be. It was too close a memory to forget how she had been handled.

Cairns had already told him that Pears was allowing him to select his own prize-crew. Just enough to work the brig in safety, or run before a storm or powerful enemy.

He did not have to ask Stockdale. He was there, a small bag already packed. His worldly possessions. Pears had also instructed him to take the badly wounded Captain Jonas Tracy to Antigua. He was too severely injured to be moved with the other prisoners, and should be little trouble.

As the time drew near for him to leave, Bolitho was very aware of his own tore emotions. Small incidents from the past stood out to remind him of his two and a half years in the Trojan. It seemed quite unbelievable that he was leaving her, to place himself at the disposal of the admiral commanding in Antigua. it was like starting life all over again. New faces, fresh surroundings.

He had been surprised and not a little moved by some of the men who had actually volunteered to go with him.

Carlsson, the Swede who had been flogged. Dunwoody, the miller's son, Moffitt, the American, Rabbett, the ex-thief, and old Buller, the topman, the man who had recognized the brig from the start. He had been promoted to petty officer and had shaken his head in astonishment at the news.

There were others too, as much a part of the big two-decker as her figurehead or her captain.

He watched Frowd being swayed down to the cutter in a bosun's chair, his bandaged and splinted leg sticking out like a tusk, and hating it all, the indignity of leaving his ship in this fashion.

Quinn had already gone across. It would be difficult to stand between those two, Bolitho thought. Bolitho had already seen Frowd looking bitterly at Quinn. He was probably questioning the fairness of it. 'W'hy should Quinn, who was being rejected by the Navy, be spared, while he was a cripple?

Most of the goodbyes had been said already. Last night, and through the morning. Rough handshakes from gunner and boatswain, grins from others he had watched change from boys to men. Like himself.

D'Esterre had sent some of his own stock of wine across to the brig, and Sergeant Shears had given him a tiny cannon which he had fashioned from odd fragments of silver.

Cairns found him checking over his list of things which he was required to do and said, The Sage says that we're in for a blow, Dick. You'd better be going now.' He thrust out his hand. 'I'll say my farewells here.' He glanced around the deserted wardroom where they had shared so much. 'It will seem emptier with you gone.'

'I'll not forget you.' Bolitho gripped his hand hard. 'Ever!'

They walked forward to the companion ladder, and Cairns said suddenly, 'One thing. Captain Pears thinks you should take another officer to stand watches with you. We cannot spare a master's mate, and lieutenants are as rare as charity until our replacements arrive. So it will have to be a midshipman.'

Bolitho thought about it.

Cairns added, 'Weston will be acting-lieutenant as of now, and both Lunn and Burslem are better left here to finish their training. That leaves Forbes and Couzens who are young enough to begin again anywhere.'

Bolitho smiled. 'I will put it to them.'

Watched by the lieutenants and marine officers, Erasmus Bunce, the master, beckoned to the two thirteen-year-old midshipmen.

'A volunteer is needed, young gentlemen.' Bunce glared at them disdainfully. 'Though what use either o' you will be to Mr Bolitho, I can't say.'

They both stepped forward, Couzens with such a look of pleading on his round face that Bunce asked, 'Is your gear packed?'

Couzens nodded excitedly, and Forbes looked near to tears as he shook his head.

Bunce said, 'Mr Couzens, off you go, and lively. It must be the Lord's blessing to clear the ship of your high spirits and skylarking!' He looked at Bolitho and dropped one eyelid like a gunport. 'Satisfied?'

'Aye.'

Bolitho shook their hands, trying to hold back his emotion. D'Esterre was the last. 'Good luck, Dick. We'll meet again. I shall miss you.'

Bolitho looked across at the White Hills, seeing the wave crests rolling along her hull, making her sway more and more steeply.

His orders were in his pocket, in a heavily sealed envelope. He waited to go, but the ship held on to him. He walked towards the entry port, seeing the gig rising and

falling alongside. In for a blow, Bunce had said. Perhaps it was just as well. To hasten the break and keep him too busy for regrets.

Cairns said quietly, 'Here is the captain.'

Pears strolled across the quarterdeck, his coat-tails flapping out like studding sails, while he held on to his gold-laced hat with one hand.

'Prepare to get under way, Mr Cairns. I'll not lose this wind.'

He seemed to see Bolitho for the first time. 'Still here, sir?' His eyebrows went up. ' 'Pon my soul…' For once he did not finish. Instead he walked across and held out his big hand.

'Be off with you now. My regards to your father when next you see hiss.' He turned away and moved aft towards the compass.

Bolitho touched his hat to the quarterdeck, and clutching his hanger to his hip hurried down into the boat.

The oars dipped into the water, and immediately Trojan fell away, the men on the gangways turning to continue with their work while others ran up the ratlines to loose the topsails again.

Couzens stared back at the ship, his eyes watering in the wind. It looked as if he was crying. Unknown to Bolitho, it was the happiest day in the midshipman's short life.

Bolitho raised his hand, and saw Cairns doing the same. Of Pears there was no sign. Like the Trojan, he was letting go.

Bolitho turned his back and studied the White Hills. His for

so short a time. But his.

As Bunce had predicted, the wind rose rapidly to gale force, and with it the sea changed its face from cruising white horses to long, violent troughs with ragged yellow crests.

The prize-crew got down to work in grim earnest, bringing the ship's head to the south as the wind backed and pushed them hard over, the yards braced round until they would not shift another inch.

Bolitho discarded his hat and coat and stood beside the unprotected wheel, his ears ringing to the roar of wind and sea, his whole body soaking with spray.

It was lucky the White Hills carried a spare main-topsail, he thought. The one which had been torn apart by Trojan's first shot had been saved for patching but was useless for anything more.

Under reefed topsails and jib, the White Hills ran closehauled to the south, away from the islands and danger.

Quinn, stiff-faced and barely speaking, worked with the hands on deck, and without him Bolitho wondered what he would have done. Couzens had the determination and loyalty of ten men, but experience in handling rigging and sails in a full gale he had not.

Stockdale came aft and joined the two hands at the wheel. Like Bolitho he was drenched to the skin, his clothing stained by tar and salt. He grinned through the drifting streamers of spindrift and bobbed his head at Bolitho.

'Real little lady, ain't she?'

For most of the day they ran with the wind, but towards sunset the strength fell away, and later still the bruised and breathless seamen managed to get aloft and set both mainsail and forecourse. The additional bulging area of canvas pushed the hull over further still, but held her steadier, and more firmly on course.

Bolitho shouted to Quinn, 'Take over! I'm going below!'

After the noise and confusion on deck it seemed almost quiet once he had lowered himself through the companionway.

How small she seemed after Trojan's great girth. He groped his way aft to the cabin, a miniature of Pears' quarters. It was barely large enough to contain Pears' table, he thought. But it looked inviting, and too new to show signs of a previous owner.

He reeled as the sea boiled and thundered along the quarter, and then managed to reach the stern windows. There was nowhere in the cabin, apart from a battened-down skylight, where he could stand upright. What it was like in the messes, he could well imagine. As a midshipman he had once served in a brig very similar to this one. Fast, lively, and never still.

He wondered what had happened to Tracy's other command, the captured brig which he had renamed Revenge. Still attacking British convoys and stalking rich cargoes for ready prizemoney.

The cabin door banged open and Moffitt lurched through it carrying a jug of rum.

He said, 'Mr Frowd thought you might like a drop, sir.'

Bolitho disliked rum, but he needed something. He swallowed it in a gulp, almost choking.

'Mr Frowd, is he all right?' He must visit him soon, but now he was needed and would have to return to the deck.

Moffitt took the empty goblet and grinned at it admiringly. 'Aye, sir. I've got him propped in a cot in his cabin. He'll be safe enough.'

'Good. Get Buller for me.'

Bolitho lay back, feeling the stern rising and then sliding down beneath him, the sea shaking the rudder like a piece of driftwood.

Buller came into the cabin, his head lowered to avoid the beams.

'Zur?'

'You take charge of the victuals. Find someone who can cook. If the wind drops some more we'll get the galley fire re-lit and put something hot into our bellies.'

Buller showed his strong teeth. 'Right away, zur.' Then he too was gone.

Bolitho sighed, the aroma of rum around him like a drug. Chain of command. And he must begin it. No one else was here to goad or encourage his efforts.

His head lolled and he jerked it up with sudden disgust. Like George Probyn. That was a fine beginning. He jumped up and gasped as his head crashed against a beam. But it sobered him even more quickly.

He made his way forward, swaying and feeling his balance with each jubilant lunge of the brig's bowsprit.

Tiny cabins on either side of a small, square space. The wardroom. Stores, and shot garlands, swaying ranks of pod-like hammocks. The ship smelt new, right down to her mess tables, her great coils of stout cable in the tier forward.

He found the wounded Tracy in a cot, swinging in a tiny cabin which was still unfinished. A red-eyed seaman sat in one corner, a pistol between his feet.

Politho peered at the figure in the cot. About thirty, a powerful, hard-faced man, who despite his terrible wound and loss of blood still looked very much alive. But with his arm torn off at the point of the shoulder he would not be much trouble.

He glanced at the sentry and said, 'Watch him, all the same.'

The other wounded men were quiet enough, bandaged, and cushioned from the fierce motion by spare hammocks, blankets and clothing from the brig's store.

Ire paused by a wildly swinging lantern, feeling their pain, their lack of understanding. Again, he was ashamed for thinking of his own reward. They on the other hand knew only that they were being carried away from their ship, which good or bad, had been their home. And to where? Some home-bound vessel, and then what? Put ashore, just another cluster of crippled sailors. Heroes to some, figures of fun to others.

'There'll be some hot food along soon, lads.'

A few heads turned to look at him. One man he recognized as Gallimore, a seaman employed as a painter aboard the Trojan. He had been badly injured by canister during the attack on the yawl. He had lost most of his right hand, and had been hit in the face by wood splinters.

He managed to whisper, 'Where we goin', sir?'

Bolitho knelt down on the deck beside him. The man was dying. He did not know how he knew, or why. Others nearby were more badly hurt, yet bore their pain with defiant, even surly resignation. They would survive.

He said, 'English Harbour. The surgeons there will help you. You'll see.'

The man reached out, seeking Bolitho's hand. 'Oi don't want to die, sir. Oi got a wife an' children in Plymouth.' He tried to shake his head. 'Oi mustn't die, sir.'

Bolitho felt a catch in his throat. Plymouth. It might just as well be Russia.

'Rest easy, Gallimore.' lire withdrew his hand carefully. 'You are with your friends.'

He walked aft again to the companionway, bent almost double in the space between decks.

The wind and spray were almost welcome. He found Couzens with Stockdale by the wheel, while Quinn was groping along the forecastle with two seamen.

Stockdale said gruffly, 'All 'oldin' firm, sir. Mr Quinn is lookin' at the weather braces.' He peered up at the dark sky. 'Wind's backed a piece more. Fallin' off, too.'

The bows lifted towards the sky, then came down in a trough with a shuddering lurch. It was enough to hurl a man from the yards, had there been one up there.

Stockdale muttered, 'Must be bad for the lads below, sir.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Gallimore's dying, I think.'

'I know, sir.'

Stockdale eased the spokes and studied the quivering maintopsail, the canvas ballooning out as if to tear itself from the yard.

Bolitho glanced at him. Of course, Stockdale would have known. He had lived with suffering for most of his life. Death would seem familiar, recognizable.

Quinn came aft along the pale deck, staggering to each swooping dip across the troughs.

He shouted, 'The larboard anchor was working free, but we've tatted it home again!'

Bolitho replied, 'Get below. Work out two watches for me, and I'll discuss it with you later.'

Quinn shook his head. 'I don't want to be on my own. I must do something.'

Bolitho thought of the man from Plymouth. 'Go to the wounded, James. Take some rum, or anything you can find in the cabin, and issue it to those poor devils.'

There was no sense in telling him about Gallimore. Let the dying man join his companions in a last escape. The sailor's balm for everything.

A seaman, accompanied by Buller, ducked down the companion ladder, and Bolitho saw it was a swarthy Italian named Borga. It seemed as if Luller had already chosen a cook, and Bolitho hoped it was a wise decision. Hot food in a seaman's belly after fisting canvas and trying to stay inboard was one thing, but some foreign concoction might spark off a brawl. He glanced at Stockdale and smiled to himself, If so, it would soon be dealt with.

Another hour, and the stars appeared, the scudding clouds driven off like fleeing vagrants.

Bolitho felt the deck becoming steadier, and wondered what tomorrow would be like, how Bunce would have predicted it.

As promised, a hot meal was produced and issued first to the wounded, and then to the seamen as they were relieved from watch in small groups.

Bolitho ate his with relish, although what he was having he did not know. Boiled meat, oatmeal, ground biscuit, it was also laced with rum. It was like nothing he had ever had, but at that moment would have graced any admiral's table.

To Couzens he said, `Are you sorry for your eagerness to Join the White Hills?'

Couzens shook his head, his stomach creaking with Borga's first meal.

'Wait till I get home, sir. They'll never believe it.'

Bolitho pictured Quinn, sitting below with the wounded, and thought of Pears writing a letter to his father. He tried.

He thought too of the despatches he was carrying from Captain Pears to the admiral at Antigua. It was probably safer not to know what Pears had said about him, although it would certainly affect his immediate future, But he still did not really understand Pears, only that under his command he had learned more than he had first realized.

Bolitho stared up at the sky. 'I think we've seen the worst of it. Better fetch Mr Quinn on deck.'

Couzens watched him and blurted out, 'I can stand watch, sir.'

Stockdale grinned lazily. `Aye, sir, he can at that. I'll be on deck, too.' He hid his grin from the midshipman. `Though I'll not be needed, I'm thinkin'.'

`Very well.' Bolitho smiled. `Call me if you're in any doubt.'

He lowered himself through the companionway, glad he had given Couzens the opportunity to face responsibility, surprised too that he had been able to trust him without hesitation.

As he found his way to his small cabin, he heard Frowd snoring loudly and the clatter of a goblet rolling back and forth across the deck.

Tomorrow would be a lot of hard work. First to try to estimate their position and drift, then to set a new course which with luck would carry them to the Leeward Islands and Antigua.

On the chart it did not seem so far, but the prevailing winds would be against them for much of the passage, and it could take days to make good the loss of being driven south.

And once in Antigua, what then? Would the French lieutenant still be there, taking lonely walks in the sun, on his honour not to try and escape?

He laid down on the bench beneath the stern windows, ready to run on deck at the first unusual sound. But Bolitho was fast asleep in a matter of seconds.

It was noon, two days after leaving the Trojan, but a lifetime of new experiences and problems.

The weather was less demanding now, and the White Hills was leaning over on the larboard tack, with even her big spanker set and filled by the wind. The vessel felt clean and dry after the storm, and the makeshift routine which Bolitho had worked out with Quinn and Frowd was performing well.

Frowd was on deck, seated on a hatch cover, his leg propped before him as a constant reminder.

Couzens stood by the wheel, while Bolitho and Quinn checked their sextants and compared calculations.

He saw the seaman Dunwoody walk to the lee bulwark and hurl a bucket of slops over the side. He had just emerged from the forecastle, so had probably been with Gallimore. He had still not died, but had been moved to the cable tier, the only place where the stench of the great slimy rope was matched by his own. His wound had gone gangrenous, and it seemed impossible for any man to stand the misery of it.

Quinn said wearily, 'I think we are both right, sir. With the wind staying as it is, we should make a landfall the day after tomorrow.'

Bolitho handed his instrument to Couzens. So it was sir again. "he last link broken.

He said, 'I agree. We may sight the island of Nevis tomorrow, and after that it will be a hard beat all the way across to Antigua.'

He felt a sharp sense of loss. The thought of losing the White Hills seemed unbearable. It was ridiculous of course. Just a few days, but what confidence she had given him, or had discovered in him.

Bolitho glanced along the sunlit deck. Even that no longer seemed so narrow and confined after Trojan's spacious gundeck.

Some of the wounded were resting in the shade, chatting quietly, or watching the other hands at work with professional interest.

Bolitho asked quietly, 'What will you do, James?'

Quinn looked away, 'As my father pleases, I expect. I seem to have the knack of obeying orders.' He faced Bolitho suddenly. 'One day. If you want to, I – I mean, if you have nowhere to go, would you care to see me?'

Bolitho nodded, wanting to strip away his despair. It was killing him with no less mercy than Gallimore's wounds.

'I will be happy to, James.' He smiled. 'Although I've no doubt your father will think badly of a mere lieutenant in his house. I expect you'll be a rich merchant by the time I get to London.'

Quinn studied him' anxiously. Something in Bolitho's tone seemed to comfort him and he said, 'I thank you for that. And much mdre.'

'Deck there! Sail on the weather bow!'

Bolitho stared up at the lookout. He tried to see the White Hills like a cross on a chart. There were so many islands, French, British, Dutch. This sail could be any kind of ship.

Since the Kittiwake had left Antigua anything might have happened. Peace with the American rebels, war with France.

With a start he realized they were all looking at him.

He said, 'Get aloft, Mr Quinn. Take a glass and tell me what you see.'

Frowd groaned as Quinn hurried past. 'God damn this leg! I should be up them, not, not…' By the time he had thought of a suitable insult Quinn was already hurrying up the shrouds.

Bolitho paced rapidly back and forth, trying to stay calm and unmoved. She was quite likely a Spaniard, southward bound for the Main and all its treasures. If so, she would soon haul off. She might think White Hills to be a pirate. In these waters you could choose from a dozen sorts of enemy.

Deck, sir! She's a brig!'

One of the wounded men gave a thin cheer. 'She'll be one of ours, lads!'

But Frowd rasped painfully, 'You know what I'm thinking, don't you?'

Bolitho looked at him, his brain suddenly ice-cold.

Of course, it made sense. Cruel sense. And they had got so far. This time, he had believed, with success.

There was still a chance.

He held his voice steady as he called, 'Keep watching her!' To Couzens he added more quietly, 'ire shall have a closer look at her soon enough, I imagine.' He saw the understanding clouding Couzens' eyes. 'Clear for action, if you please. Then load, but do not run out.'

He glanced along the deck, at the brig's small defences. Enough guns to rake the defenceless yawl, but if the oncoming vessel was Captain Tracy's previous command, they would be all but useless.