In Gallant Company

5. The quality of Courage

`It's getting lighter, sir.' Bolitho stood beside the motionless wheel and watched the water around the anchored schooner until his eyes throbbed with strain.

Sparke grunted but said nothing, his jaw working up and down on a nugget of cheese.

Bolitho could feel the tension, made more extreme by the noises of sea and creaking timbers. They were anchored in a strange, powerful current, so that the Faithful repeatedly rode forward until her anchor was almost apeak. If the tide fell sharply, and you could not always trust the navigational instructions, she might become impaled on one of the flukes.

Another difference was the lack of order and discipline about the decks. Uniforms and the familiar blue jackets of the boatswain's and master's mates had been put below, and the men lounged around the bulwarks in varying attitudes of relaxed indifference to their officers.

Only the marines, crammed like fish in a barrel, were still sealed in the hold, awaiting the signal which might never come.

Sparke remarked quietly, 'Even this schooner would make a fine command, a good start for any ambitious officer.'

Bolitho watched him cut another piece of cheese, his hands quite steady as he added, 'She'll go to the prize court, but after that…'

Bolitho looked away, but it was another jumping fish which had caught his eye. He must not think about afterwards. For Sparke it would mean almost certain promotion, maybe a command of his own, this schooner even. It was obviously uppermost in his mind just now.

And why not? Bolitho pushed his envy aside as best he could.

He himself, if he avoided death or serious injury, would soon be back in Trojan's crowded belly. He thought of Quinn as he had last seen him and shivered. Perhaps it was because of the wound he had taken on his skull. He reached up and touched it cautiously, as if expecting the agony to come again. But injury was more on his mind than it had been before he had been slashed down. Seeing Quinn's gaping wound had made it nearer, as if the odds were going against him with each new risk and action.

When you were very young, like Couzens or Midshipman Forbes, the sights were just as terrible. But pain and death only seemed to happen to others, never to you. Now, Bolitho knew differently.

Stockdale trod heavily across the deck, his head lowered as if in deep thought, his hands locked behind him. In a long blue coat, he looked every inch a captain, especially one of a privateer.

Metal rasped in the gloom, and Sparke snapped, 'Take that man's name! I want absolute silence on deck!'

Bolitho peered up at the mainmast, searching for the masthead pendant. The wind had shifted further in the night and had backed almost due south. If that sloop had sailed past their position in the hope of beating back again at first light, she would find it doubly hard, and it would take far longer to achieve.

Another figure was beside the wheel, a seaman named Moffitt. Originally from Devon, he had come to America with his father as a young boy to settle in New Hampshire. But when the revolution had been recognized as something more than some ill-organized uprisings, Moffitt's father had found himself on the wrong side. Labelled a Loyalist, he had fled with his family to Halifax, and his hard-worked farm had been taken by his new enemy. Moffitt had been away from home at the time. and had been seized, then forced into a ship of the Revolutionary Navy, one of the first American privateers which had sailed from Newburyport.

Their activities had not lasted for long, and the privateer had been chased and taken by a British frigate. For her company it had meant prison, but for Moffitt it had been a chance to change sides once more, to gain his revenge in his own way against those who had ruined his father.

Now he was beside the wheel, waiting to play his part.

Bolitho heard the approaching hiss of rain as it advanced from the darkness and then fell across the deck and furled sails in a relentless downpour. He tried to keep his hands from getting numb, his body from shivering. It was more than just the discomfort, the anxious misery of waiting. It would make the daylight slow to drive away the night, to give them the vision to know what was happening. Without help they had no chance of finding those they had come to capture. This coastline was riddled with creeks and inlets, bays and the mouths of many rivers, large and small. You could hide a ship of the line here provided you did not mind her going high and dry at low water.

But the land was there, lying across the choppy water like a great black slab. Eventually it would reveal itself. Into coves and trees, hills and undergrowth, where only Indians and animals had ever trod. Around it, and sometimes across it, the two armies manoeuvred, scouted and occasionally clashed in fierce battles of musket and bayonet, hunting-knife and sword.

Whatever the miseries endured by seamen, their life was far the best, Bolitho decided. You carried your home with you. It was up to you what you made of it.

'Boat approaching, sir!'

It was Balleine, a hand cupped round his ear, reminding Bolitho of the last moments before they had boarded this same schooner.

For a moment Sparke did not move or speak, and Bolitho imagined he had not heard.

Then he said softly, 'Pass the word. Be ready for treachery.' As Balleine loped away along the deck Sparke said, 'I hear it.'

It was a regular splash of oars, the efforts noisy against a powerful current.

Bolitho said, 'Small boat, sir.' `Yes.'

The boat appeared with startling suddenness, being swirled towards the schooner's bows like a piece of driftwood. A stout fishing dory with about five men aboard.

Then just as quickly it was gone, steered or carried on the current, it was as if they had all imagined it.

Frowd said, 'Not likely to be fishing, sir. Not this time o' day.'

Surprisingly, Sparke was almost jovial as he said, They are just testing us. Seeing what we are about. A King's ship would have given them a dose of canister or grape to send them on their way, as would a smuggler. I've no doubt they've been passing here every night and day for a week or more. Just to be on the safe side.' His teeth showed in his shadowy face. `I'll give them something to remember all their lives!'

The word went along the deck once more and the seamen relaxed slightly, their bodies numbed by the rain and the raw cold.

Overhead the clouds moved swiftly, parting occasionally to allow the colours of dawn to intrude. Grey and blue water, the lush dark green of the land, white crests and the snakelike swirls of an inshore current. They could have been anchored anywhere, but Bolitho knew from his past two years' service that beyond the nearest cape, sheltered by the bay and the entrance to the Delaware River, were towns and settlements, farms and isolated families who had enough to worry about without a war in their midst.

Bolitho's excitement at being at sea again in the calling which had been followed by all his ancestors had soon become soured by his experiences. Many of those he had had to fight had been men like himself, from the West Country, or from Kent, from Newcastle and the Border towns, or from Scotland and Wales. They had chosen this new country, risked much to forge a new life. Because of others in high places, of deep loyalties and deeper mistrusts, the break had come as swiftly as the fall of an axe.

The new Revolutionary government had challenged the King, that should have been enough. But when he thought about it honestly, Bolitho often wished that the men he fought, and those he had seen die, had not called out in the same tongue, and often the same dialect, as himself.

Some gulls circled warily around the schooner's spiralling masts, then allowed themselves to be carried by the wind to more profitable pickings inland.

Sparke said, 'Change the look-outs, and keep one looking to seaward.'

In the strengthening light he looked thinner, his shirt and breeches pressed against his lean body by the rain, shining like snakeskin.

A shaft of watery sunlight probed through the clouds, the first Bolitho had seen for many days.

The telescopes would be watching soon.

He asked, 'Shall I have the mains'l hoisted, sir?'

'Yes.' Sparke fidgeted with his sword-hilt.

The seamen hauled and panted at the rain-swollen halliards until, loosely set-, the sail shook and flapped from its boom, the red patch bright in the weak sunlight.

The schooner swung with it, tugging at the cable, coming alive like a horse testing bit and bridle.

'Boat to starboard, sir!'

Bolitho waited, seeing what looked like the same dory pulling strongly from the shore. It was unlikely that anyone would know or recognize any of the Faith f ul's company, otherwise the recognition patch would be superfluous. Just the sight of the schooner would be enough. Bolitho knew from his childhood how the Cornish smugglers came and went on the tide, within yards of the waiting excisemen, with no more signal than a whistle.

But someone knew. Somewhere between Washington's army and growing fleet of privateers were the link-men, the ones who fixed a rendezvous here, hanged an informer there.

He looked at Stockdale as he strode to the bulwark, and was impressed. Stockdale gestured forward, and two seamen swung a loaded swivel towards the boat, while he shouted in his hoarse voice, 'Stand off there!'

Moffitt stepped up beside him and cupped his hands. 'What d'yqu want of us?'

The boat rocked on the choppy water, the oarsmen crouched over with the rain bouncing on their shoulders. The man at the tiller shouted back, 'That Cap'n Tracy?'

Stockdale shrugged. 'Mebbe.'

Sparke said, 'They're not sure, look at the bloody fools!'

Bolitho turned his back on the shore. He could almost feel the hidden telescopes searching along the deck, examining them all one at a time.

'Where you from?' The boat idled slowly nearer.

Moffitt glanced at Sparke, who gave a curt nod. He shouted, 'There's a British man-o'-war to seaward! I'll not wait much longer! Have you no guts, man?'

Frowd said, 'That's done it. Here they come.'

The open mention of the British sloop, and Moffitt's colonial accent, seemed to have carried more weight than the scarlet patch.

The dory grated alongside and a seaman caught the line thrown up by one of the oarsmen.

Stockdale stood looking down at the boat, and then said in an offhand manner which Bolitho had not heard before, 'Tell the one in charge to step aboard. I'm not satisfied.'

He turned towards his officers and Bolitho gave a quick nod.

Sparke hissed, 'Keep him away from the nine-pounder, whatever happens.' He gestured to Balleine. 'Start opening the hold.'

Bolitho watched the man climb up from the boat, trying to picture the Faith ful's deck through his eyes. If anything went wrong now, all they would have to show for their plans would be five corpses and a dory.

The man who stood on the swaying deck was solidly built but agile for his age. He had thick grey hair and a matching beard, and his clothing was roughly stitched, like that of a woodsman.

He faced Stockdale calmly. 'I am Elias Haskett.' He took another half pace. 'You are not the Tracy I remember.' It was not a challenge but a statement.

Moffitt said, 'This is Cap'n Stockdale. We took over the Faithful under Cap'n Tracy's orders.' He smiled, letting it sink in. 'He went in command of a fine brig. Like his brother.'

The man named Elias Haskett seemed convinced. 'We've been expecting you. It ain't easy. The redcoats have been pushing their pickets across the territory, and that ship you told of has been up and down the coast for weeks, like a nervous rabbit.'

He glanced at the others nearby, his eyes resting momentarily on Sparke.

Moffitt said, 'Mostly new hands. British deserters. You know how it goes, man.'

'I do.' Haskett became businesslike. 'Good cargo for us?'

Balleine and a few hands had removed the covers from the hold, and Haskett strode to the coaming to peer below.

Bolitho watched the pattern of men changing again, just as they had practised and rehearsed. The first part was done, or so it appeared. Now he saw Rowhurst, the gunner's mate, stroll casually to join Haskett, his hand resting on his dirk. One note of alarm and Haskett would die before he hit the deck.

Bolitho peered over a seaman's shoulder and tried not to think of the marines who were packed in a hastily constructed and almost airless chamber below a false platform. From the deck it looked as if the hold was full of powder kegs. In fact, there was just one layer, and only two were filled. But it only needed a marine to sneeze and that would be an end to it.

Moffitt clambered down and remarked coolly, 'Good catch. We cut out two from the convoy. We've muskets and bayonets too, and a thousand rounds of nine-pound shot.'

Bolitho wanted to swallow or to clear his parched throat. Moffitt was perfect. He was not acting, he was the intelligent mate of a privateer who knew what he was about.

Haskett said to Stockdale, 'I'll hoist the signal. The boats are hid yonder.' He waved vaguely towards some overlapping trees which ran almost to the water's edge. It could be a tiny cove or the entrance of a hitherto unexplored bay.

'What about the British sloop?' Moffitt glanced briefly at Sparke.

'She'll take half a day to claw back here, an' I've put some good look-outs where they can get a first sight of her.'

Bolitho watched Haskett as he bent on a small red pendant and ran it smartly to the foremast truck. He was no stranger to ships and the sea, no matter how he was dressed.

He heard one of the seamen gasp, and saw what looked like part of a tree edging clear of the shore. Then he realized it was a fat, round-bowed cutter, her single mast and yard covered with branches and gorse, while her broad hull was propelled

slowly but firmly by long sweeps from either beam. She was followed by her twin. They looked Dutch built, and he guessed they had probably been brought here from the Caribbean, or had made their own way to earn a living from fishing and local trading.

He knew that Sparke had been counting on a single vessel, or several small lighters, even pulling boats. Each of these broad-beamed cutters was almost as large as the Faithful and built like a battering-ram.

Moffitt saw his quick nod and said, 'One will be enough. They look as if they could carry a King's arsenal.'

Haskett nodded. 'True. But we have other work after this, south towards the Chesapeake. Our boys captured a British ordnance brigantine a week back. She's aground, but filled to the gills with muskets and powder. We will off-load her cargo into one of the cutters. Enough to supply a whole army!'

Bolitho turned away. He could not bear to look at Sparke's face. He could read his mind, could picture his very plan of attack. With the sloop too far away to be of help, Sparke would seize the whole credit for himself.

The next few moments were the worst Bolitho could recall. The slow business of manoeuvring the two heavy cutters, with their strange disguise and long, galley-like sweeps. They must hold thirty or forty men, he decided. Some seamen, and the rest probably from the local militia, or an independent troop of Washington's scouts.

The Faith f ul's masthead pendant flapped wetly in the wind, and Bolitho saw the nearest cutter start to swing across the current. Minutes to go. Mere minutes, and it would be too late for her to work clear, or set her sails.

Moffitt murmured, 'Stand by there.' If he was nervous, he was not showing it.

A seaman called, 'Aye, aye, sir!'

Bolitho chilled. It might have been expected. That somebody, even himself who had helped to plan the deception, should overplay his part. The smart acknowledgement to Moffitt's order was not that of a defecting sailor or half-trained privateersman.

Haskett swung round with an oath. 'You dirty scum!'

The crash of a pistol made every man freeze. Voices from the dory alongside mingled with the shrill cries of startled seabirds, but Bolitho could only stare at the grey-haired stranger as he staggered towards the bulwark, blood gushing from his mouth, while his hands clutched at his stomach like scarlet claws.

Sparke lowered his pistol and snapped, 'Swivels! Open fire!'

As the four swivels cracked from their mountings, sweeping the side and deck of the nearest cutter with whining canister, Rowhurst's men tore the tarpaulin from the nine-pounder and threw their weight on tackles and handspikes.

A few shots came from the nearest cutter, but the unexpected attack had done what Sparke had intended. The packed canister had swept amongst the men at the long sweeps, cutting them down, and knocking the stroke into chaos. The cutter, was broaching to, drifting abeam, while Rowhurst's other crews waited by the stubby six-pounders which would bear, their slow-matches ready, the guns carefully loaded in advance with grapeshot.

'Fire as you bear!' Bolitho drew his hanger and walked amongst his men as they came alive again. 'Steady!' A ball whined past his face and a seaman fell kicking and screaming beside the dead Elias Haskett.

Sparke took his reloaded pistol from a seaman and remarked absently, 'I hope Rowhurst's aim is as good as his obscenities.'

Even the taciturn Rowhurst seemed shocked out of his usual calm. He was capering from side to side of the nine-pounder's breech, watching as the second cutter managed to set her mainsail and jib, the sweeps discarded and drifting away like bones, the disguise dropping amongst them as the wind ballooned into the canvas.

Rowhurst cursed as one of his men reeled away, a massive hole punched through his forehead. He yelled, 'Ready, sir!' He waited for the Faithful to complete another swing on her cable and then thrust his slow-match to the breech.

Double-shoued, and with grape added for good measure, the gun hurled itself back on its makeshift tackles like an enraged beast. The crash of the explosion rolled around the sea like thunder, and the billowing smoke added to the sense of horror as the cutter's mast disintegrated and fell heavily in a tangle of rigging and thrashing canvas.

'Reload! Run out when you're ready and fire at will! '

The shock of Sparke's pistol shot had given way to a wave of wild excitement. This was something they understood. What they had been trained for, day by backbreaking day.

While the swivels and six-pounders kept up their murderous bombardment on the first cutter, Rowhurst's crew maintained a regular attack on the other. With mast and sails gone, she was soon hard aground on a sandbar, and even as someone gave a cheer a savage plume of fire exploded from her stern and spread rapidly with the wind, the rain-soaked timbers spurting steam until the fire took hold and she was ablaze from stem to stern.

Through and above the din of cannon-fire and yelling men Bolitho heard D'Esterre call, 'Lively, Sar'nt Shears, or there'll be little left for us to do!' D'Esterre blinked in the billowing smoke from the cutter and Rowhurst's nine-pounder and said, 'By God, this one will be up to us shortly!'

Bolitho watched the first cutter swinging drunkenly towards the Faith ful's bows. There were more men in evidence on her deck now, but there were many who would never move again. Blood ran in bright threads from her scuppers to mark the havoc left by the canister and packed grape.

'Marines, forward!'

Like puppets they stepped up to the bulwark, their long muskets rising as one.

'Present!' The sergeant waited, ignoring the balls which buzzed overhead or thudded into the timbers. `Fire!'

Bolitho saw those who had gathered at the point where both vessels would come togethei stagger and sway like corn in a field as the carefully aimed volley ripped amongst them.

The sergeant showed no emotion as he beat out the time with his handspike while the ramrods rose and fell together as if on a range.

'Take aim! Fire.,'

The volley was upset by the sudden collision of both hulls, but not enough to save another handful of the yelling, defiant men who started to clamber aboard, cutlasses swinging, or firing at the nine-pounder's crew on the forecastle.

Sparke shouted, 'Strike, damn you!'

'I'll see you in hell!'

Bolitho ran to the bulwark, briefly aware that someone had defied Sparke even in the face of death.

Sergeant Shears shouted, 'Fix bayonets!' He looked at D'Esterre's raised sword. 'Marines, advance!'

Bolitho shouted, 'Tell them again to strike, sir!'

Sparke looked wild as he retorted, 'They had their chance, damn them!'

The marines moved with precision, shoulder to shoulder, a living red wall which cut the boarders off from the gun crews, separated them from their own craft, and from all hope.

Bolitho saw a figure duck past a bayonet and run aft, a cutlass held across his body like a talisman.

Bolitho raised his hanger, seeing the clumsy way he was holding the cutlass. Worse, he was no more than a youth.

'Surrender!'

But the youth came on, whimpering with pain as Bolitho turned his blade aside and with a twist of the wrist sent his cutlass clashing into the scuppers. Even then he tried to get to grips with Bolitho, sobbing and almost blinded with fury and tears.

Stockdale brought the flat of his cutlass down on the youth's head and knocked him senseless.

Sparke exclaimed, 'It's done.'

He walked past D'Esterre and regarded the remaining attackers coldly. There were not many of them. The rest, dead or wounded by the lunging line of bayonets, sprawled like tired onlookers.

Bolitho sheathed his hanger, feeling sick, and the returning ache in his head.

The dead were always without dignity, he thought. No matter the cause, or the value of a victory.

Sparke shouted, 'Secure the cutter! Mr Libby, take charge there! Balleine, put those rebels under guard!'

Frowd came aft and said quietly, 'We lost three men, sir. An' two wounded, but they'll live, with any fortune.'

Sparke handed his pistol to a seaman. 'Damn it, Mr Bolitho, look what we have achieved!'

Bolitho looked. First at the blackened carcass of the second cutter, almost burnt out and smoking furiously above a litter of wreckage and scattered remains. Most of her crew had either died under Rowhurst's solitary bombardment or had been carried away to drown on the swift current. Few sailors could even swim, he thought grimly.

Alongside, and closer to the eye, the other cutter was an even more horrific sight. Corpses and great patterns of blood were everywhere, and he saw Midshipman Libby with his handful of seamen picking his way over the deck, his face screwed up, fearful of what he would see next.

Sparke said, 'But the hull and spars are intact, d'you see, eh? Two prizes within a week! There'll be some envious glances when we reach Sandy Hook again, make no mistake!' He gestured angrily at the wretched Libby. 'For God's sake, sir! Stir yourself and get that mess over the side. I want to make sail within the hour, damn me if I don't!'

Captain D'Esterre said, 'I'll send some marines to help him.'

Sparke glared. 'You will not, sir. That young gentleman wishes to become a lieutenant. And he probably will, shortages in the fleet being what they are. So be must learn that it rates more than the uniform, damn me so it does!' He beckoned to the master's mate. 'Come below, Mr Frowd. I want a course for the Chesapeake. I'll get the exact position of the brigantine at leisure.'

They both vanished below, and D'Esterre said quietly, 'What a nauseating relish he displays!’

Bolitho saw the first of the corpses going over the side, drifting lazily past, as if glad to be free of it all.

He said bitterly, 'I thought you craved action.'

D'Esterre gripped his shoulder. 'Aye, Dick. I do my duty with the best of 'em. But the day you see me gloat like our energetic second lieutenant, you may shoot me down.'

The youth who had been knocked unconscious by Stockdale was being helped to his feet. He was rubbing his head and sobbing quietly. When he saw Stockdale he tried to hit out at him, but Moffitt caught him easily and pinioned him against the bulwark.

Bolitho said, 'He could have killed you, you know.'

Through his sobs the youth exclaimed, 'I wish he had! The British killed my father when they burned Norfolk! I swore to avenge him!'

Moffitt said harshly, 'Your people tarred and feathered my young brother! It blinded him!' He pushed the youth towards a waiting marine. 'So we're equal, eh?'

Bolitho said quietly, 'No, opposite, is how I see it.' He nodded to Moffitt. 'I did not know about your brother.'

Moffitt, shaking violently now that it was over, said, 'Oh, there's more, sir, a whole lot more!'

Frowd reappeared on deck and walked past the sobbing prisoner without a glance.

He said grimly, 'I thought this day's work would be an end to it, sir. For the moment at least.'

He looked up at the pendant and then at the cutter alongside, the hands working with buckets and swabs to clear the bloodstains from the scarred and riddled planking.

'She's named the Thrush, I see.' His professional eye confirmed Bolitho s opinion. 'Dutch built. Handy craft, and well able to beat to wind'rd, better even than this one.'

Midshipman Weston hovered nearby, his face as red as his hair. He had shouted a lot during the brief engagement, but had hung back when the Colonials had made their impossible gesture.

Frowd was saying, 'I'd hoped that sloop might have joined us.' He sounded anxious. 'Mr Sparke's got the name of the cove where they beached the brigantine. I know it, but not well.'

'How did he discover that?'

Frowd walked to the rail and spat into the water. 'Money, sir. There's always a traitor in every group. If the price is right.'

Bolitho made himself relax. He could forget Frowd's bitterness. He had been afraid that Sparke, in his desperate eagerness to complete his victory, would use harsher methods of obtaining his information. His face as he had killed Elias Haskett had been almost inhuman.

How many more Sparkes were there still to discover? he pondered.

In a steady wind, both vessels eventually got under way and started to work clear of the sandbars and shoals, the smoke from the burned-out cutter following them like an evil memory.

Charred remains and gaping corpses parted to allow them through, when with all sails set both vessels started the first leg of their long tack to seaward.

Sparke came on deck during the proceedings. He peered through a telescope to see how Midshipman Libby, ably assisted by the boatswain's mate, Balleine, and a handful of seamen, were managing aboard the Thrush. Then he sniffed at the air and snapped, 'Run up our proper colours, Mr Bolitho, and see that Mr Libby follows our example.'

Later, with both vessels in close company, heeling steeply on the starboard tack, Bolitho felt the stronger upthrust of deeper water, and not for the first time was glad to be rid of the land.

From the rendezvous point where they had won such a bloody victory, to the next objective, a cove just north of Cape Charles which marked the entrance to Chesapeake Bay, it was approximately one hundred miles.

Sparke had hoped for a change of wind, but on the contrary, it soon became worse and more set against them. Both vessels were able to keep company, but each tack took longer, each mile gained could be quadrupled by the distance sailed to achieve it.

Every time that Sparke went on deck he showed no sign of apprehension or dismay. He usually examined the Thrush through his glass and then looked up at his own flag. Bolitho had heard one of the marines whispering to his friend that Sparke had made himself an admiral of his own squadron.

The weather and the constant demands of working the schooner to windward had cleared most of the tension and bitterness from Bolitho's thoughts. On the face of it, it had been a success. A vessel seized, another destroyed, and many of the enemy killed or routed. If the plan had misfired, and the trap laid in reverse, he doubted if the enemy would have showed them any mercy either. Once aboard the schooner, the combined numbers of both cutters would have swamped Sparke's resistance before the nine-pounder could have levelled the balance.

It took three days to reach the place where the brig was supposedly hidden. The rugged coastline which pointed south towards the entrance of Chesapeake Bay was treacherous, even more than that which they had left astern. Many a coasting vessel, and larger ships as well, had come to grief as they had battered through foul weather to find the narrow entrance to the bay. Once within it there was room for a fleet, and then some. But to get there was something else entirely, as Bunce had remarked often enough.

Once again, the sad-faced Moffitt was the one to step forward and offer to go ashore alone and spy out the land.

The Faith ful's boat had taken him in, while close to the nearest land both vessels had anchored and mounted guard to ward off any attack.

Bolitho had half expected Moffitt not to return. He had done enough, and might be pining to rejoin his family.

But five hours after being dropped on a tiny beach, while the long-boat laid off to wait for his return, Moffitt appeared, wading through the surf in his eagerness to bring his news.

It was no rumour. The ordnance vessel, a brigantine, was beached inside the cove, exactly as Sparke's informer had described. Moffitt had even discovered her name, the Minstrel, and thought her too badly damaged even to be moved by expert salvage parties.

He had seen some lanterns nearby, and had almost trodden on a sleeping sentry.

Sparke said, 'I will see that you are rewarded for this work, Moffitt.' He was almost emotional as he added, 'This is the quality of courage which will always sustain us.'

Ordering that Moffitt be given a large tot of brandy or rum, both if he wished, Sparke gathered his officers and senior rates together. There was barely room to draw breath in the schooner's cabin, but they soon forgot their discomfort when Sparke said bluntly, 'Dawn attack. We will use our own and Thrush's boat. Surprise attack at first light, right?' He eyed them searchingly. 'Captain D'Esterre, you will land with your contingent under cover of darkness, and find some cover above the cove. Stay there to mark our flank, and our withdrawal if things go wrong.'

Sparke looked at the rough map which Mofftt had helped to make.

'I will of course take the leading boat. Mr Libby will follow in the other.' He looked at Bolitho. 'You will assume command of Thrush and bring her into the cove for the transfer of cargo once I have smashed whatever opposition which may still be near the brigantine. The marines will then move down and support us from the beach.' He clapped his hands together. 'Well?'

D'Esterre said, 'I'd like to leave now, if I may, sir.'

'Yes. I shall need the boats very soon.' He looked at Bolitho. 'You were about to say something?'

'A hundred miles in three days, sir. Another half day by dawn. I doubt very much if we will surprise them.'

'You're not getting like Mr Frowd, surely? A real Jeremiah indeed.'

Bolitho shut his mouth tightly. It was pointless to argue, and anyway, with the marines in position to cover them they could fall back if it was a trap.

Sparke said, 'It is settled then. Good. Mr Frowd will take charge here in our absence, and the nine-pounder will be more than a match for any foolhardy attacker, eh?'

Midshipman Weston licked his lips. His face was glistening with sweat. 'What shall I do, sir?'

Sparke smiled thinly. 'You will be with the fourth lieutenant. Do what he says and you might learn something. Do not do what he says and you may well be dead before you fill yourself with more disgusting food!'

They trooped up on deck, where a few pale stars had appeared to greet them.

Moffitt reported to Captain D'Esterre, 'I'm ready, sir. I'll show you the way.'

The marine nodded. 'You are a glutton for punishment, but lead on, with my blessing.'

The two boats were already filling with marines and would now be in continuous use. That left only the captured dory. It was as well somebody had kept it secured during the fighting.

Stockdale was by the taffrail, his white trousers flapping like miniature sails.

He wheezed, 'Glad you're not going this time, sir.'

Bolitho stiffened. 'Why did you say that?'

'Feeling, sir. Just a feeling. I'll be happier when we're out of here. Back with the real Navy again.'

Bolitho watched the boats pulling clear, the marines' crossbelts stark against the black water.

The trouble with Stockdale was that his 'feelings', as he called them, were too often transformed into actual deeds.

Bolitho moved restlessly around the Thrush's tiller, very conscious of the stillness, the air of expectancy which hung over the two vessels.

The wind was from the same direction but was dropping with each passing minute, allowing the warmth to replace the night's chill, the sun to penetrate the full-bellied clouds.

He trained his telescope towards the nearest hillside and saw two tiny scarlet figures just showing above the strange, tangled gorse. D'Esterre's marines were in position, pickets out. They would have a good view of the little cove, although from the Thrush's deck there was nothing to see but fallen, rotting trees by the entrance and the swirl of a cross-current by some scattered rocks.

He heard Midshipman Weston with some seamen sorting out the good sweeps from those broken by the swivels' canister. He could also hear him retching as he found some gruesome fragment which Libby's men had overlooked.

Stockdale joined him by the rail, his face black with stubble and grime.

'Should be there by now, sir. Not heard a shot nor nothin'.'

Bolitho nodded. It was uppermost in his mind. The wind was dropping, and that made movement difficult if urgently

required. He would need to move the Thrush under sweeps, and the longer it took the more chance of an ambush there was.

He cursed Sparke's eagerness, his blind determination to take all the rewards for himself. At any time of day a frigate might pass nearby and they could depend on support by the boatload, I ' even at the expense of sharing the victory.

He said, 'Get in the dory. I'm going to that little beach

yonder.' He pointed to the two scarlet shapes on the hillside.

'I'll be safe enough.'

Midshipman Weston panted along the deck, his ungainly feet catching and jarring on splinters from the raked planking.

Bolitho said, 'You take charge here.' He could almost smell his fear. 'I'll be in view the whole time.'

He saw Stockdale and two seamen climbing down to the dory, eager to be doing something to break the strain of waiting. Or maybe to get away from the scene of such carnage.

When Bolitho stepped on to the firm beach, which was not much bigger than the boat itself, it felt good. To smell the different scents, to hear birds and the vague rustling of small creatures nearby was like a balm.

Then one of the seamen exclaimed, 'There, sir! 'Tis Mr Libby's boat!'

Bolitho saw the midshipman's head and shoulders even before he heard the swish of oars.

'Over here!'

Libby waved his hat and grinned. Relief, and more, was plain on his tanned face.

He shouted, 'The second lieutenant says to bring the cutter, sir! There's no sign of anyone ashore, and Mr Sparke thinks they must have run when they saw the boats!'

Bolitho asked, 'What is he doing now?'

'He is about to board the brigantine, sir. She is a fine little vessel, but is badly holed.'

Sparke probably wanted to make quite sure there was no chance of adding her, as well as her cargo, to his little squadron.

Feet slithered on the hillside, and Bolitho swung round to see Moffitt, followed by a marine, stumbling and falling towards him.

'What is it, Moffitt?' He saw the anguish on his face.

'Sir!' He could barely get the words out. 'We tried to signal, but Mr Sparke did not see us!' He gestured wildly. 'Them devils have laid a fuse, I can see the smoke! They're going to blow up the brigantine! They must've been waiting!'

Libby looked appalled. 'Man your oars! We'll go back!'

Bolitho ran into the water to stop him, but even as he spoke the earth and sky seemed to burst apart in one tremendous explosion.

The men in the boat ducked and gasped, while around and across them pieces of splintered wood and rigging rained down, covering the water with leaping feathers of spray.

Then they saw the smoke, lifting and spreading above the cove's shoulder until the sunlight was completely hidden.

Bolitho groped his way to the dory, his ears and mind cringing from the deafening explosion.

Marines blundered down the slope and waited until Libby's oarsmen had recovered sufficiently to bring their boat towards the tiny beach.

But all Bolitho could see was Sparke's face as he had out

lined his last plan. The quality o f courage. It had not sustained him.

Bolitho pulled himself together as D'Esterre with his sergeant and two skirmishers walked towards him.

Again he seemed to hear Sparke's crisp voice. Speaking as he had aboard the schooner when the shocked aftermath of battle had begun to take charge.

'They'll be looking to us. So we'll save our regrets for later.'

It could have been his epitaph.

Bolitho said huskily, 'Get the marines ferried over as quickly as you can.' He turned away from the stench of burning wood and tar. 'We'll get under way directly.'

D'Esterre eyed him strangely. 'Another few minutes and it could have been Libby's boat. Or yours.'

Bolitho met his' gaze and replied, 'There may not be much time. So let's be about it, shall we?'

D'Esterre watched the last squad of marines lining up to await the boat's return. He saw Bolitho and Stockdale climb from the dory to the Faithful's deck, Frowd hurrying across to meet them.

D'Esterre had been in too many fights of one sort or another to be affected for long. But this time had been different. He thought of Bolitho's face, suddenly so pale beneath the black hair with its unruly lock above one eye. Determined, using every ounce of strength to contain his feelings.

Junior he might be in rank, but D 'Esterre had felt in those few moments that he was in the presence of his superior.