In Gallant Company

6. A Lieutenant’s Lot

Lieutenant Neil Cairns looked up from the small bulkhead desk in response to a knock on his cabin door.

'Come!'

Bolitho stepped inside, his hat beneath his arm, his features tired.

Cairns gestured to the only other chair. 'Take those books oft there and sit yourself down, man.' He groped amongst piles of papers, lists and scribbled messages and added, 'There should be some glasses here, too. You look as if you need a drink. I am certain I do. If anyone advises you to take on the role of first lieutenant, I suggest you tell him to go to hell!'

Bolitho sat and loosened his neckcloth. There was the hint of a cool breeze in the cabin, and after hours of walking around New York, and the long pull across the harbour in Trojan's launch he was feeling sweaty and weary. He had been sent ashore to try to get some new hands to replace those killed or injured aboard the Faithful and later when Sparke's cutter and his men had been blasted to fragments. It all seemed like a vague, distorted dream now. Three months ago, and already it was hard to put the order of things together properly. Even the weather made it more obscure. Then it had been miserably cold and bleak, with fierce running seas and the fog which had then seemed like a miracle. Now it was bright sunshine and long periods without any wind at all. The Trojan's hull creaked with dryness and her deck seams shone moistly in the glare, clinging to the shoes and to the seamen's bare feet.

Cairns watched him thoughtfully. Bolitho had changed a great deal, he decided. He had returned to New York with the two prizes a different man. More mature, and lacking the youthful optimism which had marked him out from the others.

The events which had changed him, Sparke's terrible death in particular, had even been noticed by the captain.

Cairns said, 'Red wine, Dick. Warm-, but better than anything else to hand. I bought it from a trader ashore.'

He saw Bolitho tilt back his head, the lock of hair clinging to his forehead and hiding the cruel scar. Despite his service in these waters, Bolitho looked pale, and his grey eyes were like the winter they had long since left behind.

Bolitho knew he was being watched, but he had become used to it. If he had changed, so too had his world. With Sparke dead, the officers had taken another step on promotion's ladder. Bolitho was now the third lieutenant, and the most junior post, then left vacant, had been taken by Midshipman Libby. He was now Trojan's acting sixth lieutenant, whether he was able to take his proper examination or not. The age difference between the captain and his lieutenants was startling. Bolitho would not be twenty-one until October, and his juniors were aged from twenty to Libby's mere seventeen years.

It was a well-used system in the larger ships, but Bolitho could find little comfort in his promotion, even though his new duties had kept him busy enough to hold most of the worst memories to the back of his mind.

Cairns said suddenly, 'The captain wants you to accompany him to the flagship this evening. The admiral is "holding court", and captains will be expected to produce a likely aide or two.' He refilled the glasses, his features impassive. 'I have work to do with the damned victualling yard, so I'll not be able to go. Not that I care much for empty conversation when the whole world is failing apart.'

He said it with such bitterness that Bolitho was moved to ask, 'Is something troubling you?'

Cairns gave a rare smile. 'Just everything. I am heartily sick of inactivity. Of writing down lists of stores, begging for new cordage and spars, when all those rogues ashore want is for you to pass them a few pieces of gold, damn their eyes!'

Bolitho thought of the two prizes he had brought back to New York. They had been whisked away to the prize court, sold and recommissioned into the King's service almost before die new ensigns had been hoisted.

Not one man of the Trojan's company had been appointed to them, and the lieutenant given command of the Faithful had barely been out from England more than a few weeks. It was unfair, to say the least, and it was obviously a sore point with Cairns. In about eighteen months he would be thirty. The war could be over, and he might be thrown on the beach as a halfpay lieutenant. It was not a very enjoyable prospect for a man without means beyond his naval pay.

'Anyway,' Cairns leaned back and looked at him, 'the captain has made it plain he'd rather have you with him in his admiral's presence than our tippling second lieutenant!'

Bolitho smiled. It was amazing how Probyn survived. He was fortunate perhaps that after Trojan's return from escorting the convoy from Halifax the. ship had barely been to sea at all. Two short patrols in support of the Army and a gunnery exercise with the flagship well within sight of New York was the extent of her efforts. A few more storms and Probyn's weakness might have put an end to him.

Bolitho stood up. 'I'd better get changed then.'

Cairns nodded. 'You're to meet the captain at the end of the first dog-watch. He'll be taking the barge, so make sure the crew are smart and ready. He's in no mood to suffer slackness, I can tell you.'

Sharp at four bells Captain Pears strode on to the quarterdeck, resplendent in his full-dress uniform and carrying his sword at his side like a pointer. If anything, the glittering gold lace set off against the dark blue coat and white breeches made him appear younger and taller.

Bolitho, also dressed in his best clothes, waited by the entry port, a sword, instead of his usual hanger, slung across his waistcoat on a cross-belt.

He had already examined the barge to ensure it was ready and suitable for Trojan's captain. It was a fine-looking boat, with a dark red hull and white painted gunwales. In the sternsheets there were matching red cushions, while across the transom was the ship's name in gilt. Swaying against Trojan's side, with the oars tossed in two vertical lines, her crew dressed in red and white checkered shirts and black tarred hats, the barge looked good enough for an emperor, Bolitho thought.

Cairns hurried to the side and murmured something to the captain. Molesworth, the nervous-looking purser, was waiting by the mizzen, and Bolitho guessed that Cairns was going ashore with him to bolster his dealings with the victuallers, who, like ships' chandlers, thought more of personal profit than patriotism.

Captain D'Esterre snapped, 'Marines, present arms!'

The bayoneted muskets jerked up almost to the canvas awning overhead, and Bolitho momentarily forgot Pears as he recalled the marines on the Faith f ul's deck as they had cut down the boarders with the same crisp precision.

Pears seemed to see Bolitho for the first time. 'Ali, it is you.' He ran his eye over Bolitho's best cocked hat, his white lapels and freshly pressed waistcoat. 'I thought I had a new officer for a while.'

Bolitho smiled. 'Thank you, sir.' Pears nodded. 'Carry on.'

Bolitho ran down the ladder to the boat, where Hogg, the burly coxswain, stood in readiness, his hat in his hand like a grim-faced mourner.

The pipes trilled and then the barge tilted to Pears' weight as he stepped down and into the sternsheets.

'Shove off! Out oars!' Hogg was conscious of his captain and watching telescopes from nearby warships. 'Give way all!'

Bolitho sat stiffly with his sword between his knees. lie found it impossible to relax when he was with the captain. So he watched Trojan instead, seeing her curved tumblehome change shape as the boat swung round and beneath her high stern. He saw the red ensign curling listlessly above the taff rail, the glitter of gilt paint and polished fittings.

Every gunport was open to catch the offshore air, and at each one, withdrawn like a resting beast, Trojan's considerable artillery showed a round black muzzle. They too were as clean as D'Esterre's silver buttons.

Bolitho glanced at Pears' grim profile. What news there was of the war was bad. Stalemate at best, real losses too often for comfort. But whatever Pears thought about the situation and the future he was certainly not going to let down his ship by any sign of slackness.

Beneath her furled sails and crossed yards, shimmering in her own haze of black and buff, Trojan was a sight to stir even the most doubting heart.

Pears said suddenly, 'Have you heard from your father?'

Bolitho replied, 'Not of late, sir. He is not much for writing.'

Pears looked directly at him. 'I was sorry to learn of your mother's death. I met her just the once at Weymouth. You were at sea, I believe. A gracious lady. It makes me feel old even to remember her.'

Bolitho looked astern at Trojan. So that was part of it, and no wonder. Suppose, just suppose, that Trojan had to fight. Really fight with ships of her own size and fire power. He thought of the officers Pears would carry into battle. Probyn, getting more difficult and morose every day. Dalyell, cheerful but barely equipped to take over his new role as fourth lieutenant. And poor Quinn, tight-lipped and in constant pain from his wound, and confined to light duties under the surgeon's attention. Now there was Libby, one more boy in a lieutenant's guise. Pears had good cause to worry about it, he thought. It must be like having a shipload of schoolboys.

'How many men did you get today?'

Bolitho stared. Pears knew everything. Even about his trip ashore.

'Four, sir.' It was even worse when you said it aloud.

'Hmm. We may have better luck when the next convoy arrives.' Pears shifted on the red cushion. 'Damned knaves. Prize seamen, protected by the East India Company or some bloody government warrant! Hell's teeth, you'd think it was a crime to fight for your country! But I'll get my hands on a few of 'em, exemptions or not.' He chuckled. 'By the time their lordships hear about it, we'll have changed ' em into King's men!'

Bolitho turned his head as the flagship loomed around another anchored man-of-war.

She was the Resolute, a second-rate of some ninety guns, and a veteran of twenty-five years of service. There were several boats at her booms, and Bolitho guessed it was to be quite a gathering. He looked up at the drooping flag at her mizzen and wondered what their host would be like. Rear-Admiral Graham Coutts, in command of the inshore squadron, had controlled Trojan's destiny since her first arrival in New York. Bolitho had never laid eyes on him and was curious to know what he was like. Probably another Pears, he decided. Rocklike, unbreakable.

He shifted his attention to the professional side of their arrival. The marines at the entry port, the gleam of steel, the bustle of blue and white and the faint shout of commands.

Pears was sitting as before, but Bolitho noticed that his strong fingers were opening and closing around the sharkskin grip of his sword, the first sign of agitation he had ever noticed in him.

It was a fine sword and must have cost a small fortune. It was a presentation sword, given to Pears for some past deed of individual courage, or more likely a victory over one of England 's enemies.

'Ready to toss yer oars!' Hogg was leaning on the balls of his feet, his fingers caressing the tiller-bar as he gauged the final approach. 'Oars up!'

As one the blades rose and remained motionless in paired lines, the sea water trickling unheeded on to the knees of the bargemen.

Pears nodded to his crew and then climbed sedately up the side, doffing his hat to the shrill calls and the usual ceremony which greeted every captain.

Bolitho counted seconds and then followed. He was met by a thin-nosed lieutenant with a telescope jammed beneath his arm who looked at him as if he had just emerged from some stale cheese.

'You are to go aft, sir.' The lieutenant gestured to the poop where Pears, in company with Resolute's flag captain, was hurrying towards the shade.

Bolitho paused to look around the quarterdeck. Very like Trojan's. The lines of tethered guns, their tackles neatly turned on to cleats or flaked down on the snow-white planking. Seamen going about their work, a midshipman studying an incoming brig through his glass, his lips moving silently as he read her flag hoist of numbers which would reveal her name and that of her captain.

Down on the gundeck a seaman was standing beside a corporal of marines, while another midshipman was speaking rapidly to a lieutenant. A crime committed? A man about to be taken aft for punishment? Or he might be up for promotion or discharge. It was a familiar scene which could mean so many things.

He sighed. Bike the Trojan. And yet again, she was completely different.

Bolitho walked slowly beneath the poop and was startled by the sound of music and the muted laughter of men and women. Every screen had been removed and the admiral's quarters had been opened up into one huge cabin. By the open stern windows some violinists were playing with great concentration, and amongst the jostling crowd of sea officers, civilians and several ladies, servants in red jackets carried trays laden with glasses, while others stood at a long table refilling them as fast as they could.

Pears had been swallowed up, and Bolitho nodded to several lieutenants who, like himself, were only here under sufferance.

A tall figure emerged from the crush, and Bolitho saw it was Lamb, the flagship's captain. He was a steady-eyed man with features which might at first appear to be severe, even hard. But when he smiled, everything changed.

'You are Mr Bolitho, I understand?' He held out his hand. 'Welcome aboard. I heard about your exploits last March and wanted to meet you. We can use men of mettle who have seen what war is all about. It, is a hard time, but also one of opportunity for young men such as yourself. If the moment comes, seize your chance. Believe me, Bolitho, they rarely come twice.'

Bolitho thought of the graceful schooner, even the stubbyhulled Thrush. His own chance had already come and gone.

'Come and meet the admiral.' He saw Bolitho s expression and laughed. 'He will not eat you!'

More pushing to get through the crowd. Flushed faces, loud voices. It was difficult to imagine that the war was just miles away.

He saw a hunched set of blue shoulders and a gold-laced collar, and groaned inwardly. Ponderous. Slow-moving. A disappointment after all.

But the flag captain pushed the big man aside and revealed a slight figure who barely came up to his shoulder.

Rear-Admiral Graham Coutts looked more like a lieutenant than a flag officer. He had dark brown hair which was tied to the nape of his neck in a casual fashion. He had an equally youthful face, devoid of lines or the usual mask of authority which Bolitho had seen before.

He thrust out his hand. 'Bolitho, is it? Good.' He nodded and smiled impetuously. 'Proud to meet you.' He beckoned to some hidden servant. 'Wine over here!"

Then he said lightly, 'I know all about you. I suspect that if you and not your superior officer had been leading that boat attack you might even have recaptured the brigantine!' He smiled. 'No matter. It showed what can be done, given the will.'

An elegant figure in blue velvet walked from a noisy group by the quarter gallery and the admiral said quietly, 'See that man, Bolitho? That is Sir George Helpman, from London.' His lip curled slightly. 'An "expert" on our malaise here. A very important person. One to be heard and respected at all times.'

The mood changed, and just as swiftly he was the admiral again. 'Be off with you, Bolitho. Enjoy what you wish. The food is palatable today.'

He turned away and Bolitho saw him greeting the man from London. He got the impression that Rear-Admiral Coutts did not like him very much. It had sounded like a warning, although what a lowly lieutenant could do to upset matters was hard to imagine.

He thought about Coutts. Not a bit what he had expected. He shied away from what he felt. Admiration. A strange sense of loyalty for the man he had met for just a few minutes. But it was there. It was useless to deny it.

It was getting dark by the time the guests started to leave. Some were so drunk they hhad to be carried to their boats, others lurched, glassy-eyed and unsupported, fighting each step of the way for fear of disgracing themselves.

Bolitho waited on the quarterdeck, watching the civilians and the officials, the ladies and a few of the military, being helped, pushed or lowered by tackles into the bobbing flotilla of boats alongside.

He had just passed a cabin which he guessed was that of Coutts' flag lieutenant. The door had been slightly ajar, and Bolitho had caught just a brief view before it had swung shut. A woman's body, naked to the waist, her arms wrapped around the officer's head as he tore at her clothing like a madman. And she had been giggling, bubbling with sheer enjoyment.

Her husband or escort was probably lying in one of the boats right now, Bolitho thought. He smiled. Was he shocked or envious again?

A boatswain's mate, harassed by his additional duties, called, 'Yer captain's comin', sir!'

'Aye. Call the barge.' Bolitho adjusted his swordbelt and straightened his hat.

Pears appeared with Captain Lamb. The two men shook hands and then Pears followed Bolitho down into the boat.

As the barge edged clear and swung on a swift moving current, Pears made one comment. 'Disgusting, was it not?'

He then lapsed into silence and did not move until Trojan's lighted gunports were close by. Then he said curtly, 'If that was diplomacy, then thank God I'm a simple sailor!'

Bolitho stood in the swaying boat beside the coxswain, and as Pears reached out for the ladder his foot slipped. Bolitho thought he heard him swear but was not certain. But he felt vaguely honoured to share the moment. Pears was in perfect control again, but only just. That made him seem more human than Bolitho could remember.

Pears' harsh voice came down from the entry port, `Don't stand there like a priest, Mr Bolitho! 'Pon my soul, sir, others have work to do, if you do not!'

Bolitho looked at Hogg and grinned. That was more like it.

Amongst other tasks required of ships' lieutenants was the wearying and thankless duty of officer of the guard. In New York, to ease the work of the shorebound authorities, the various ships at anchor were expected to supply a lieutenant for a full twenty-four-hour duty. It entailed checking the various guardboats which pulled around the jetties and moored ships, to make certain they allowed no enemy agents to get near enough to do damage or discover secret information. Equally, they were required to prevent any of the fleet's seamen from deserting to seek shelter and more doubtful pleasures on the waterfront.

Seamen entrusted with work ashore were often tempted, and drunken, wild-eyed sailors had to be sorted out to await an escort back to their rightful ships, and a few lashes for good measure.

Two nights after his visit to the flagship it fell to Trojan's third lieutenant to place himself at the disposal of the port admiral and provost marshal for such duty. New York made him feel uneasy. A city waiting for something to happen, a pattern to settle once and for all. It was a city of constant movement. Refugees arriving from inland, others thronging offices and government buildings in search of relatives lost in the fighting. Some were already leaving for England and for Canada. Others waited to reap rich rewards from the victors, no matter what colour their coats might be. It could be a dangerous place at night, especially along the crowded waterfront with its taverns and brothels, boarding houses and gaming rooms, where anything was available so long as there was gold for the taking.

Bolitho, followed by a file of armed seamen, walked slowly along a line of sun-dried planked buildings, careful to stay close to the wall and avoid any filth which might be thrown or accidentally dropped on to his patrol.

He heard Stockdale's wheezing breath behind him, the occasional clink of weapons as they made their way towards the main jetty. Few people were in view, although behind most of the shuttered windows he could hear music and voices raised in song or blasphemy.

One house stood silhouetted against the swirling water, and he saw the usual marine sentries outside the entrance, a sergeant pacing up and down by a small lantern.

"Alt! 'Oo goes there?”

'Officer of the guard!'

'Advance an' be recognized!'

It was always the same, even though the marines knew most of the fleet's lieutenants by sight, night or day.

The sergeant stamped to attention. 'Two men for the Vanquisher, sir. Fightin' drunk they are.'

Bolitho walked through some doors and into a large hall. It had once been a fine house, the home of a tea merchant. Now it served the Navy.

'They seem quiet enough, Sergeant.'

The man grinned unfeelingly. 'Ah, sir, now they is!' He gestured to two inert shapes in leg irons. "Ad to quieten 'em, like.'

Bolitho sat down at a scarred desk, half listening to the noises beyond the doors, the clatter of wheels across the Dutch cobbles, the occasional shriek of some whore.

He looked at the clock. Past midnight. Another four hours to go. At times like this he longed for the Trojan, when hours earlier he had pined to be free from her regulated routine.

When the fleet had first arrived off Staten Island, someone had described it as being like London afloat. It had become too much of a reality to be mentioned nowadays. Bolitho had seen two lieutenants from one of the frigates as they had gone into a gaming house. He knew both by sight but little more. In those few moments he had caught a snatch of their conversation. Sailing on the tide. Going to Antigua with despatches. What it was to be free. Able to get clear away from this floating muddle of ships.

The sergeant reappeared and regarded him doubtfully.

'I got a crimp outside, sir.' He jerked his thumb towards the door. 'I know 'im of old, a rogue but reliable. 'E says there are some 'ands from the brig Diamond. Jumped ship afore she weighed three days back.'

Bolitho stood up, reaching for his hanger. 'What was she?'

The sergeant grinned hugely. 'No bother, sir. She weren't under no warrant, she was with general cargo from an English port.'

Bolitho nodded. A brig from England. That implied trained seamen, deserters or not.

He said, 'Bring the, er, crimp inside.'

The man was typical of his trade. Small, greasy, furtive. They were common enough in any seaport. Boarding-house runners who sold information about likely hands to officers of the Press.

The man whined, 'It be my duty, sir. To 'eip the King's Navy.'

Bolitho eyed him coldly. The man still retained the accent of the London slums.

How many?'

'Six, sir!' His eyes glittered. 'Fine strong lads they be.'

The sergeant said offhandedly, 'They're in Lucy's place.' He grimaced. 'Poxed to the eyebrows, I shouldn't wonder.'

'Tell my men to fall in, Sergeant.' Bolitho tried not to think of the delay this would cause. He would probably miss his sleep altogether.

The crimp said, 'Could we come to an agreement nah, sir?'

'No. You wait here. If I get the men, you'll get paid. If not…' He winked at the grinning marines. 'We'll have you seized up and flogged.'

He strode out into the night, hating the crimp, these detestable methods of getting enough men. Despite the hardships of naval life, there were plenty of volunteers. But there were never enough. Death by many means, and injury by many more, saw to that.

Stockdale asked, 'Where, sir?'

'A place called Lucy's.'

One of the seamen chuckled. 'Oi bin there, zur.'

Bolitho groaned. 'Then you lead. Carry on.'

Once in the narrow, sloping street which stank like an open sewer, Bolitho split his men into two groups. Most of the trusted hands had done it before several times. Even pressed men, once settled in their new life, were ready enough to bring the Navy's rough justice to the fore. If we have to go, why not you! seemed to be their only yardstick.

Stockdale had vanished to the rear of the building, his cutlass in his belt and carrying instead a cudgel as big as a leg of pork.

Bolitho stood for a few more seconds, taking deep breaths while he stared at the sealed door, beyond which he could hear someone crooning quietly like a sick dog. They were probably sleeping it off, he thought grimly. If they were there at all.

He drew his hanger and smashed the pommel against the door several times, shouting, 'Open, in the King's name!'

The response was immediate. Shuffles and startled cries, the muffled tinkle of breaking glass followed by a thud as a wouldbe escaper fell victim to Stockdale's cudgel.

Then the door was flung open, but instead of a rush of figures Bolitho was confronted by a giant of a woman, whom he guessed to be the notorious Lucy. She was as tall and as broad as any sailorman, and had the language to match as she screamed abuse and waved her fists in his face.

Lanterns were appearing on every hand, and from windows across the street heads were peering down to enjoy the spectacle of Lucy routing the Navy.

'Why, you poxy young bugger!' She placed her hands on her hips and glowered at Bolitho. -Ow dare you come accusin' me of 'arbouring deserters!'

Other women, some half-naked, were creeping down a rickety stairway at the back of the hallway, their painted faces excited and eager to see what would happen.

'I have my duty.' Bolitho listened to his own voice, disgusted with the jeering woman, humiliated by her contempt.

Stockdale appeared behind her, his face unsmiling as he wheezed, 'Got'em, sir. Six, like 'e said.'

Bolitho nodded. Stockdale must have found his own way through the rear.

'Well done.' He felt sudden anger running through him. 'While we're here we shall take a look for more innocent citizens.'

She reached out and seized his lapels, and pursed her lips to spit into his face.

Bolitho got a brief view of bare, kicking legs and thighs as Stockdale gathered her up in his arms and carried her screaming and cursing down the steps to the street. Without further ado he dropped her face down in a horse trough and held her head under the water for several seconds.

Then he released her, and as she staggered, retching and gasping for breath, he said, 'If you talks to the lieutenant like that again, my beauty, I'll take my snickersnee to yer gizzard, see?'

He nodded to Bolitho. 'All right now, sir.'

Bolitho swallowed hard. He had never seen Stockdale behave like it before.

'Fr, thank you.'

He saw his men nudging each other and grinning, and tried to assert himself. 'Get on with the search.' He watched the six deserters lurching past, one holding his head.

From one of the other houses an anonymous voice yelled, 'Leave 'em be, you varmints!'

Bolitho entered the door and looked at the upended chairs, empty bottles and scraps of clothing. It was more like a prison than a place for pleasure, he thought.

Two additional men were brought down the stairs, one a

lobster fisherman, the other protesting that he was not a sailor

at all. Bolitho looked at the tattoos on his arms and said softly, 'I suggest you hold your tongue. If, as I suspect, you are from a King's ship, it were better to say nothing.' He saw the man pale under his sunburn, as if he had already seen the noose.

A seaman clattered down the stairs and said, 'That's the lot, sir. 'Cept for this youngster.'

Bolitho saw the youth being pushed through the watching girls and decided against it. Probably someone's young son, out on an errand, seeking a first thrill in this foul place. i'I I ~ II' 'Very well. Call the others.'

He looked at the youth, slim-shouldered, eyes downcast and in shadow.

'This is no place for you, boy. Be off, before something worse happens. Where do you live?'

When there was no reply, Bolitho reached out and lifted the other's chin, allowing the lantern light to spill over the frightened face.

He seemed to stand locked in the same position for an age, and yet he was aware of other things happening elsewhere. The feet shuffling on the cobbles as his men sorted their new hands into file, and the distant shout of orders as a military patrol approached from the end of the street.

°t hen events moved swiftly. The figure twisted away and was out and through the door before anyone could move.

A Lieutenant's Lot log

A seaman bellowed, 'Stop that man!' And along the street Bolitho heard a challenge from the soldiers.

Bolitho ran out shouting, 'gait!' But it was too late, and the crash of the musket seemed like a cannon in the narrow street.

He walked past his men and stood over the sprawled figure as a corporal of infantry ran forward and rolled the body on to its back.

'Thought 'e was escapin from you, sir!'

Bolitho got down and unbuttoned the youth's rough jerkin and shirt. He could feel the skin, still hot and inflamed, and very smooth like the chin had been. There was blood too, glittering in the lantern light as if still alive.

Bolitho ran his hand over the breast. There was no heart-beat, and he could feel the dead eyes staring at him in the darkness. Hostile and accusing.

He stood up, sickened. 'It's a girl.'

Then he turned and added, 'That woman, bring her here.'

The woman called Lucy edged closer, gripping her hands together as she saw the sprawled corpse.

Gone was the bluster and coarse arrogance. Bolitho could almost smell her terror.

He asked, 'Who was she?' He was surprised at the sound of his own voice. Flat and unemotional. A stranger's. 'I'll not ask a second time, woman.'

More noises echoed along the street, and then two mounted figures cantered through the army patrol, and a voice barked, `What the hell is going on here?'

Bolitho touched his hat. 'Officer of the guard, sir.'

It was a major, who wore the same insignia as the man who had shot the unknown girl.

'Oh, I see. Well then.' The major dismounted and stooped over the body. 'Bring that lantern, Corporal!' He put his hand

under the girl's head, letting it roll st'"'y towards the beam.

Bolitho watched, unable to take his eyes from the girl's face.

The major stood up and said quietly, 'Fine kettle of fish, Lieutenant.' He rubbed his chin. 'I'd better rouse the governor. He'll not take kindly to it.'

'What is it, sir?'

The major shook his head. 'What you don't know will do you no harm.' He became businesslike as he snapped to the other mounted soldier, 'Corporal Fisher! Ride to the post and rouse the adjutant, I want him and a full platoon here on the double.' He watched the man gallop away and then added, 'This damned house will be dosed and under guard, and you,' his whitegloved finger shot out towards the shivering Lucy, 'are under arrest!'

She almost fell as she pleaded, 'Why me, sir? What have I done?'

The major stood aside as two soldiers ran to seize her arms. 'Treason, madam. That's what!'

He turned more calmly to Bolitho. 'I suggest you go about your affairs, sir. I have no doubt you will hear more of this.' Surprisingly, he gave a quick smile. 'But if it's a consolation, you may have stumbled on something of real value. Too many good men have fallen to treachery. Here's one who will betray no more.'

Bolitho walked back towards the waterfront in silence. The major had recognized the dead girl, and from the fineness of her bones, the smoothness of her skin, she came from a good family.

He tried to guess what had been happening before he and his men had burst in, but all he could remember were her eyes as she had looked at his face, when they had both known the truth.

Bolitho moved a few paces across the quarterdeck in an attempt to stay in the shadow of Trojan's great spanker. It was oppressively hot, and despite a steady wind across the quarter it was impossible to draw comfort from it.

Bolitho turned as a ship's boy reversed the half-hour glass and six bells chimed out from the forecastle. An hour of the forenoon still to run.

He winced as the sun smashed down between the sails' shadows and seared his shoulders like,a blacksmith's forge. He took a telescope from its rack and trained it ahead, seeing the flagship Resolute leap to meet him. How quickly things had changed, he thought. Just the day after the mystery of the dead girl orders had been received to weigh and put to sea with the first favourable wind. No mention was made of the destination or the purpose, and up to the last some of the wardroom cynics had expected it to turn into another exercise, a brief display of strength for the Army's moral support.

That had been four days ago. Four long days of crawling south with barely a ripple around the rudder to show some progress. It had taken them four days to make good four hundred miles.

Bolitho swung the glass slowly across the quarter and saw the sun shimmering on the topgallant sails of the frigate Vanquisher, well out to windward, ready to dash down to assist her ponderous consorts if she were needed. He returned to study the flagship again. just occasionally, as she pitched heavily in a deep swell, he caught sight of another, smaller set of sails, far ahead of the squadron, the admiral's 'eyes'.

As Trojan had weighed anchor and prepared to leave Sandy Hook, Bolitho had watched the sloop-of-war Spite spreading her sails and speeding out of harbour with the minimum of fuss. She was up there now, ready to pass back her signals if she sighted anything which might interest the admiral.

She was a lovely little vessel of eighteen guns, and Bolitho had discovered her to be the one which had fired on the Faithful before Sparke's attempt to seize the ordnance brigantine. Her commander was only twenty-four years old, and, like the three other captains here today, knew exactly what he was doing and where he was ordered to go.

Secrecy seemed to have crept into their world like the first touch of a disease.

The deck trembled, and he heard the port-lids on the lower battery's starboard side being opened, and after a pause the squeak of gun trucks as thirty of Trojan's thirty-two-pounders were run out as if to give battle. If he looked over the side he would be able to see them easily. Just the thought of it was enough. Even the touch of the tinder-dry bulwark or quarterdeck rail was like a burn. What Dalyell, now appointed in charge of the lower gundeck, was suffering, he could barely imagine.

The sails clapped and rustled overhead, and he glanced up at the trailing pendant, looking for a shift of wind. It seemed steady enough from the north-west, but without the strength they needed to drive the humidity and discomfort from between decks.

Rumble, rumble, rumble, the thirty-two-pounders were being run in again, and no doubt Dalyell was peering at his watch and consulting with his midshipmen and petty officers. It was taking too long, and Captain Pears had made his requirements plain from the start of the commission. Clear for action in ten minutes or less, and when firing, three rounds every two minutes. This last exercise had sounded twice as long.

He could picture the stripped and sweating gun crews, struggling to run out those massive cannon. With the ship leaning over on the starboard tack, the guns, each weighing over three tons, had to be hauled bodily up the sloping deck to the ports. This was not the weather for it, but then, it never was, as Cairns had often remarked.

Bolitho stared across the nettings, picturing the invisible land as he had studied it on the chart during each watch. Cape Hatteras and its shoals lay some twenty miles abeam, and beyond, Pamlico Sound and the rivers of North Carolina.

But as far as Bolitho and the look-outs were concerned the sea was theirs. Four ships, spread out to obtain best advantage of wind and visibility, moving slowly towards a secret destination. Bolitho thought about their combined companies, which must amount to close on eighteen hundred officers and men.

Just a few moments earlier he had seen the purser with his clerk hurrying down the main companion, Molesworth carrying his ledger, his clerk with. a box of tools which he used for opening casks and checking the quality of their contents.

It was Monday, and Bolitho could imagine the scribbled instructions in Molesworth's ledger. Per man this day, one pound of biscuit, one gallon of small beer, one pint of oatmeal, two ounces of butter and four ounces of cheese.

After that, it was up to Triphook and his mates to do what they could with it.

No wonder pursers were always worried or dishonest. Sometimes both. Multiply a man's daily ration by the whole company, and by the long days and weeks at sea, and you got some idea of his problems.

Midshipman Couzens, standing discreetly by the lee rail with his telescope ready to train on the flagship, hissed, 'Captain, sir!'

Bolitho turned swiftly, the effort making the sweat run between his shoulder blades and gather at his waistband like hot rain.

He touched his hat. 'Sou'-sou'-west, sir. Full and bye.'

Pears glanced at him impassively. 'The wind appears to have veered in the last hour. But not enough to make any difference.'

He said nothing further, and Bolitho crossed to the lee side to allow his captain the freedom of the deck.

Pears paced slowly up and down, his face totally absorbed.

What was he thinking about, Bolitho wondered? His orders, or his wife and family in England?

Pears paused and swivelled his head towards him. 'Pipe some hands forrard, Mr Bolitho. The weather forebrace is as slack as fill, this watch, dammit! 'Pon my soul, sir, you'll have to do better!'

Bolitho nodded. `Aye, sir. At once.'

He gestured to Couzens, and a moment later some seamen were hauling lustily, each knowing he was under the captain's scrutiny.

Bolitho found himself pondering over Pears' behaviour. The forebrace had seemed no slacker than you might expect in the rising and falling gusts of wind. Was it just to keep him on his toes? He thought suddenly of Sparke and his, take that man's name.

The memory saddened him.

He saw Quinn coming up the ladder from the gundeck and nodded to him, adding a quick shake of the head to warn him of Pears' presence.

Quinn was doing far better than Bolitho had dared hope. He had got his colour back, and could walk upright without twisting his face in readiness for the pain.

Bolitho had seen the great scar on Quinn's breast. If his attacker had not been startled and taken off guard, his blade would have sliced through bone and muscle to the heart itself.

The voice settled on the young fifth lieutenant like a mesh. 'Mr Quinn!'

'Sir!' He hurried across the deck, his face working anxiously as to what he had done wrong.

Pears studied him grimly. 'I am indeed glad to see you are up and about.'

Quinn smiled gratefully. Thank you, sir.'

'Quite so.' Pears continued with his daily walk. 'You will exercise your men at repelling boarders this afternoon. Then, if we remain on this tack, you will put the new hands aloft for sail drill.' He nodded curtly. 'That should restore your wellbeing better than any pills, eh?'

Couzens yelled excitedly, `Signal from Flag, sir!' He was peering through his big telescope, his forehead wrinkled like that of an old man as he read the hoist of coloured bunting at Resolute's yard. 'Make more sail, sir!'

Pears growled, 'Call the hands. Get the royals on her. Stuns'ls too if she can take them.' He strode aft as the master appeared beneath the poop, and Bolitho heard him say in his harsh tone 'More sail, that is all he can think of, damn it!'

Cairns hurried up as the calls trilled between decks and brought the watch below scampering to their stations.

'Hands aloft! Set the royals! '

Cairns saw Bolitho and shrugged. 'The captain is in a foul mood, Dick. We lay each course a day ahead, but I am as wise as you as to where we are bound.' He looked to see that Pears was not close by. 'It has always been his way to explain, to share his views with us. But now, it seems our admiral has other ideas.'

Bolitho thought of the admiral's youthful enthusiasm. Maybe Pears had become staid, out of touch with things.

But there was nothing wrong with his eyes as he yelled, 'Mr Cairns, sir! Get those topmen aloft, flog them if you must! I'll not be goaded again by the flagship!'

It was noon by the time the royals and then the great, batlike studding sails had been set on either beam. The flagship had also made as much sail as she could carry, and appeared to be buried under the towering pyramids of pale cafivas.

Lieutenant Probyn relieved Bolitho without his usual sarcasm or complaint, but remarked, 'I see no gain in this at all. Day after day, with ne'er a word of explanation. It makes me uneasy, and that's no lie!'

But two more days were to pass before anyone had settled on the truth of the matter.

Rear-Admiral Coutts' little squadron continued on its southerly course and then swung south-east, skirting Cape Fear, so aptly named, to take advantage of the wind's sudden eagerness to help them.

Bolitho was about to go off watch when he was unexpectedly summoned aft to the great cabin.

But it was not a conference, and he found the captain alone at his desk. His coat was hanging across his chairback, and he had loosened his neckdoth and shirt.

Bolitho waited. The captain looked very cam, so it seemed unlikely there was to be a reprimand for something he had done, or not done.

Pears glanced up at him. 'The master, and now the first lieutenant, know the extent of my orders. You may think it strange for me to confide in you before the rest of my officers, but under the circumstances I think it is fair.' He bobbed his head. 'Do sit down.'

Bolitho sat, sensing the sudden irritation which was never far from Pears' manner.

'There was some trouble at New York. You played no small part in it.' Pears smiled wryly. 'Whidi did not surprise me, of course.'

Bolitho pricked up his ears. Somehow he had known that the matter of the dead girl would come up again. Even that it might be connected in some small way with the squadron's unexpected departure from Sandy Hook.

'I will not go into full detail, but the girl you discovered in that brothel was the daughter of a New York government official, a very important one to boot. It could not have come at a worse time. Sir George Helpman is out from England under the direct instructions of both Parliament and Admiralty to discover what is being done to pursue the war, to prevent the whole campaign being bogged down in stalemate. If, or rather when, the French come into the open to fight in strength, we will be hard put to hold what we have, let alone make any gains.'

'I thought we were doing all we could, sir.'

Pears looked at him pityingly. 'When you are more experienced, Bolitho…' He looked away, frowning angrily. 'Helpman will see it for himself. The corrupt officials, the dandies of the military government who dance and drink while our soldiers in the field pay the price. And now this. An important official's daughter is discovered to be working hand-in-glove with the rebels. She has been leaving her home in a carriage and changing into boy's clothes just so that she can meet one of Washington 's agents and pass him any titbit of secret information she could lay her hands on.'

Bolitho could well imagine the fury and consternation it must have caused. He could find pity for the blowzy whore who had tried to spit in his face. With so much at stake, and with important heads on the block, her interrogators would have few scruples in the manner of gaining information.

Pears said, 'Due to her treachery, the Tracy brothers were able to plot our every move, and but for our taking the Faithful, and Mr Bunce's liaison with the Almighty on matters concerning the weather, we might never have known anything. Links in a chain. And now we have one more scrap to play with. That damned whore had her ear to the keyhole more often than not. The Colonials have a new stronghold, constructed with the express purpose of receiving and transporting powder and weapons to their ships and soldiers.'

Bolitho licked his lips. 'And we are heading there now, sir?'

'That's the strength of it, yes. Fort Exeter, in South Carolina, about thirty miles north of Charles Town.'

Bolitho nodded, remembering clearly what happened near there about a year ago, at another rebel fort, only that had been to the south of Charles Town. A large squadron, with troops as well as marines embarked, had sailed to seize the fort which commanded the inshore waters, and would thus interdict all trade and privateer traffic to and from Charles Town, the busiest port south of Philadelphia. Instead of victory, it had ended in humiliating defeat. Some of the ships had gone aground because of wrongly marked charts, while elsewhere the water had been too deep for the soldiers to wade ashore as had been intended. And all the time the Colonials, snug behind their fortress walls, had kept up a steady bombardment on the largest British vessels, until Commodore Parker, whose flagship had taken the worst of it, had ordered a complete withdrawal. Trojan had been on her way to offer support when she had met the returning ships.

In the Navy, unused to either defeat or failure, it had seemed like an overwhelming disaster.

Pears had been watching his face. 'I see you have not forgotten either, Bolitho. I only hope we all live to remember this new venture.'

With a start Bolitho realized the interview was over. As he made to leave, Pears said quietly, 'I told you all this because of your part in it. But for your actions, we might not have found out about that girl. But for her, Sir George Helpman would not he raising hell in New York.' He leaned back and smiled. 'And but for himn, our admiral would not now be trying to prove he can do what others cannot. Links in a chain, Bolitho, as I said earlier. Think about it.'

Bolitho walked out and cannoned into Captain D'Esterre. The marine said, 'Why, Dick, you look as if you have seen a ghost!'

Bolitho forced a smile. 'I have. Mine.'

When the time came for Lieutenant Cairns to share Pears' orders with the lieutenants and warrant officers, even the most unimaginative one present could not fail to marvel at their admiral's impudence.

While out of sight of land, and with the frigate patrolling to ensure they were left undisturbed, the sloop Spite was to embark all of the flagship's and Trojan's marines, and with boats under tow would head inshore under cover of darkness. The twodeckers, in company with Vanquisher, would then continue along the coast towards the same fort which had routed Commodore Parker's squadron the previous year.

To any watchers along the coast, and to the officers of the fort and the Charles Town garrison, it would not seem an unlikely thing for the British to attempt. Hurt pride, and the fact that the fort was still performing a useful protection for privateers and the landing of stores and powder, were two very good reasons for a second attempt.

Fort Exeter, on the other hand, was easier to defend to seaward, and would feel quite safe when the small squadron had sailed past in full view of the Colonial pickets.

Bolitho, when he had listened to Cairns ' level, unemotional voice as he explained the extent of their orders, had imagined he could detect Rear-Admiral Coutts speaking directly to him.

Spite would land the marines, a party of seamen and all the necessary tackle and ladders for scaling walls, and then stand out to sea again before dawn. The rest, an attack from inland towards the rear of the fort, would be left to the discretion of the senior officer. In this case he was Major Samuel Paget, commanding officer of the flagship's marines.

D'Esterre had said of him in confidence, 'A very hard man. Once he has made up his mind nothing will shift him, and no argument is tolerated.'

Bolitho could well believe it. He had seen Paget a few times. Very erect and conscious of the figure he made in his scarlet coat and matching sash, impeccable white lapels and collar, he was nevertheless having difficulty in concealing his growing corpulence. His face had once been handsome, but now, in his middle thirties, the major had all the signs of a heavy drinker, and one who enjoyed a good table.

D'Esterre had also said, 'This little jaunt might take some of the fat off him.'

But he had not smiled, and Bolitho had guessed that he had wished he and not the major was to command.

Once their mission was out in the open the ship's company got down to work and preparation with the usual mixture of attitudes. Grim resignation for those who would be taking part, cheerful optimism from those who would not.

At the chosen time the work of ferrying the marines and seamen to the little sloop-of-war was begun without delay. After the blazing heat of a July day the evening brought little respite, and the gruelling, irksome work soon roused tempers and onthe-spot justice from fist and ropes end.

Bolitho was counting the last group of seamen and making sure they were all armed, as well as being equipped with flasks of water and not hoarded rum, when Cairns strode up to him and snapped, 'There has been another change.'

'How so?'

Bolitho waited, expecting to hear that the raid was being delayed.

Cairns said bitterly, 'I am remaining aboard.' He looked away, hiding his hurt. 'Again.'

Bolitho did not know what to say. Cairns had obviously set his heart on going with the attack as senior lieutenant. Having missed the chance of being a prize-master, or even of taking part in the Faith ful's capture, he must have seen the landing as his rightful reward, although by going he stood as much chance of being killed as anyone else.

'Someone from the flagship, sir?'

Cairns faced him. 'No. Probyn is to lead, God help you!' Bolitho examined his feelings. 'And young James Quinn is to go with us also.'

Quinn had said nothing when he had been told, but he had looked as if someone had struck him.

Cairns seemed to read his thoughts. 'Aye, Dick. So it may fall to you to look after our people.'

'But why not the flagship? Surely they have a lieutenant and more to spare?'

Cairns regarded him curiously. 'You don't understand admirals, Dick. They never let go of their own. They must always show a perfect front, a well ordered world of officers and men. Coutts will be no exception. He'll want perfection, not a rabble of old men and boys like we are fast becoming.'

He could have said more, Bolitho thought. That Quinn was being sent to prove that his wound had not destroyed his resolution and courage, and Probyn because he would not be missed. He thought of his own position and almost smiled. Pears was only doing what the admiral had done. Keeping the best for himself. Anyone below Cairns in rank and quality would be sacrificed first.

Cairns said, 'I am glad you can still discover humour in this affair, Dick. For myself, I find it intolerable.'

Midshipman Couzens, hung about with telescope, dirk, pistols and a bulging sack of food, called breathlessly, 'Spite has signalled, sir! Last party to go across now.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Very well. Man your boats.'

He watched a second midshipman, a serious-faced sixteenyear-old named Huyghue, climbing down into the cutter to sit beside the coxswain, who was probably twice his age.

'I see you are ready, Mr Bolitho.'

Probyn's thick voice made him turn towards the quarterdeck. The second lieutenant could only just have been told of Pears' change of plans, but he looked remarkably unworried. He was very flushed, but that was quite usual, and as he leaned on the quarterdeck rail to peer at the boats alongside he seemed calm to the point of indifference.

Cairns straightened his back as the captain's heavy tread came across the deck. 'Good luck. Both of you.' He glanced at the dizzily swaying sloop. 'By God, I wish I was coming with you.'

Probyn said nothing but touched his hat to the quarterdeck before following the others down into a crowded boat.

Bolitho saw Stockdale in one of the other boats and nodded to him. If for some reason he had not been taking part, it would have been like an ill-omen, something final. Seeing him there, big and quiet-faced, made up for many of the other, nagging doubts.

Probyn said, 'Shove off, cox'n. I don't want to fry in this damn heat!'

As they drew closer to the sloop, her commanding officer hurried to the side and cupped his hands. 'Move yourselves, damn you! This is a King's ship, not a bloody lobster boat!'

Only then did Probyn show some mettle. 'Hear that? Impudent young chicken! God, how command changes a man!'

Bolitho shot him a quick glance. In just those few angry words Probyn had revealed a lot. Bolitho knew he had been beached on half-pay before the war. Whether it was because of his drinking, or he had simply become a hardened drinker because of his ill-luck, he was not sure. But he had certainly been passed over for promotion, and to be shouted at by the Spite's youthful commander would not make it any easier.

As they clambered up on to the sloop's busy deck, he wondered where all the marines had gone. As in the Faithful, they had been swallowed up within minutes of boarding. Aft by the taffrail he saw Major Paget speaking with D'Esterre and the two marine lieutenants.

The sloop's commander walked across to meet the last arrivals.

He nodded curtly and then shouted, 'Mr Walker! Get the ship under way, if you please!'

To Bolitho he added, 'I suggest you go below. My people have enough to contend with at present, without being faced by unknown officers from every hand!'

Bolitho touched his hat. Unlike Probyn, he could understand the young man's sharpness. He was very conscious of his command and the mission suddenly thrust upon him. Close by, two ships of the line, his admiral and some senior post captains would be watching, waiting to find fault, to compare his efficiency with others.

The commander swung on his heel. I understand that you were the officer involved with my ship two weeks back, eh?'

He had a sharp, incisive tone, and Bolitho guessed he would be a difficult man to get on with. Twenty-four years old. What had Probyn said? How command changes a man.

'Well?'

'Aye, sir. I was second-in-command of the raid. My senior was killed.'

'I see.' He nodded. 'My gunner nearly did that to you earlier.' He walked away.

Bolitho made his way aft, pushing through the bustling seamen as they ran to braces and halliards, oblivious to everyone but their own officers.

The pulling boats were already falling obediently astern on their lines, and almost before Bolitho's head had passed into the shadow of the companionway the Spite was heeling over to the wind and presenting her counter to the big two-deckers.

The wardroom was crowded with officers, and Spite's purser soon produced bottles and glasses for all the additional guests.

When it came to Probyn he shook his head and said abruptly, 'Not for me, but thankee. Later maybe.'

Bolitho looked away, unable to bear the sight of the man's battle. Probyn had never refused a drink before. And it had cost him a great deal to do it now.

He thought of Probyn's bitterness about the sloop's commander and what lay ahead of them tomorrow.

It was of paramount importance to Probyn that he should succeed, and for that he would give up a lot more than brandy.

During the night and through the following day, Spite tacked back and forth, biding her time while she continued a slow approach towards the land.

Fort Exeter stood on a sandy four-mile-long island which was shaped rather like an axe-head. At low water it was connected to the mainland by an unreliable causeway of sand and shingle, and the entrance to a lagoon-like anchorage was easily protected by the fort's carefully sited artillery.

As soon as the landing party was ashore, Spite would with draw and be out of sight of land by the following dawn. If the wind died, the attack would be postponed until it returned. Whatever happened, it would not be abandoned unless the enemy were ready and waiting.

When Bolitho thought of Major Samuel Paget, the man who would be leading the attack, he doubted if it would be cancelled even then.