Signal-Close Action!

11. The Letter

"WILL that be all for now, sir?" Moffitt, the clerk, regarded Bolitho gloomily, his weedy frame angled to the deck.

"Yes. Thank you." Bolitho leaned back in his chair and loosened his neckcloth. "Tell Ozzard to light some lanterns." He looked astern through the great windows at the fiery orange sunset.

One more dragging day. It was two weeks since he had committed his ships to the passage south, and to all intents they had the sea to themselves. Day after day, using the light winds to steer south-east along the Italian coastline, and then tacking around to the westward to follow the hazy shores of Sicily lying about thirty miles off the larboard bow. And apart from a few Arab craft with their strange lateen rig, they had been unable to make contact with another living soul. They had sighted some isolated sails, but they had made off before the slow-moving seventy-fours could draw near enough to examine them.

Bolitho stared at the empty desk, wondering why he bothered to dictate another empty day's report for Moffitt's benefit. It was unlikely to carry much weight, unless as additional evidence at his own court martial.

He wondered what the Buzzard was doing, and if she had had any luck in finding information about the vanished Frenchmen. Or if, once free of his commodore's eye, and his needs blurred by distance, Javal had gone off to seek gains of his own, He knew he was being unfair to Javal, just as he understood that it was his own desperation which was causing 1t.

He stood up and strode to the door. It had been his custom for as long as he could remember to find peace, if not answers to his doubts, while watching sunsets. He ran quickly up the ladder and on to the poop deck, allowing the north-westerly to play through his shirt, to ease away the heat and staleness of the day. He walked to the weather side and gripped the nettings, watching the vast spread Of. copper and gold strengthening as It hardened along the horizon. It was very beautiful, even awesome, and he was not surprised to find he was still moved by it. He had watched the sun's parting display from every sort of deck, from the chill wastes of the Atlantic to the scorching magnificence of the GreatSouthSea.

Bolitho saw Nicatot's fore topsail flapping and then refilling as she changed course slightly astern of Osiris. How untroubled the three ships must appear. If there had been anyone to.see them pass. Nothing to reveal the teeming life within their rounded hulls, or the work of repairing storm damage which even now was still going on. Changing watches, sail and gun drill, eating and sleeping. It was their world. His world. And yet, even after a full day of it, probably a twin of the one before, and the next beyond it, these men could still find time to escape from each other in their own way. Bone carving, and scrimshaw work; intricate designs made out of rope and scraps of metal, it was difficult to understand how such delicate and finely made objects could come from the hands of British seamen. Snuff-boxes, too, much prized in the wardroom by less experienced officers, which had been worked and polished from chunks of salt beef. Such boxes were as hard and as brightly polished as mahogany, and said much for their maker's skill as well as for their digestion under normal circumstances.

"Deck there! Land on the lee bow!"

Bolitho walked to the opposite side and peered towards the other horizon, already deep purple as the sky followed the retreating sun like a curtain. That would be a part of Malta, he thought, Gozo most likely.

Below the poop rail he heard a master's mate bark, "You, what's yer name? Larssen, is it?" A mumbled reply and then the same voice. "I told yer, I told yer, an" I told yer! Watch the compass and watch the set of the sails. Don’t just stand a"gawpin" until the ship pays off under yer! Jesus, you’ll never rate quartermaster, not in a "undred years!"

Another voice this time. Bolitho recognised the haughty lilt of Lieutenant Fitz-Clarence. "What's the fuss, Mr. Bagley?"

The master's mate replied, "Nuthin" much. Just that the poor old ship is so full of furriners I "ave to tell" em every thin" twice!"

Bolitho began to walk loosely back and forth across the empty poop. Bagley was right of course. Like many King's ships, Lysander had gathered a good portion of foreign seamen into her belly. Swedes and Spaniards, Hanoverians and Danes. There were eleven Negroes, and one Canadian who spoke better French than Farquhar.

He thought suddenly of the American captain, John Thurgood. He would have dropped his cargo and be on his return run by now. His would not be the only happy homecoming. The Spanish sailors whom Bolitho had sent to the barquentine from the prize ship Segura would make their wives and mothers weep and laugh when Thurgood sent them ashore in their own country.

He paused by the rail again and looked astern. But the Segura was too well hidden by the other ships to be seen. He sighed. He had sent some of her crew to an American barquentine, and one of her boats he had given to some French fishermen in exchange for information. Information which he had been unable to transform into results. Because of the storm? Or because he had failed to grasp the situation completely, and by so doing had failed his squadron?

Feet clattered on a ladder and the midshipman of the watch approached him warily.

"Well, Mr. Glasson?"

The midshipman touched his hat. "Mr. Fitz-Clarence's respects, sir. The masthead has reported sighting land to the south-east. The master confirms it is Malta, sir."

"Thank you."

Bolitho looked at him gravely. Glasson was seventeen, and had taken over as signals midshipman following Luce's death. There was no other similarity. Glasson was hard and sharp-featured, with a tongue and a sense of discipline to match. He would make a bad lieutenant, if he lived that long. It was strange and pitiful how many there were like Glasson. Who never learned from the frightful stories of mutiny, when the power of the quarterdeck became a small and isolated community in the twinkling of an eye. Between the wars there has been Bligh's Bounty, which had captured- the nation's imagination. Civilians were ever eager to seek out the good or evil of happenings in which they were not involved, and where they suffered no threat or inconvenience. Then the great uprisings at the Nore and Spithead, both caused by grievances long-outstanding by the men of the fleet. And just before he had sailed for Gibraltar to hoist his broad pendant in Lysander Bolitho had listened, shocked and appalled, to the latest evidence of what could happen when men and their resources were pressed beyond limits. H.M. frigate Hermione had sailed into the Spanish port of LaGuaira and surrendered herself to the enemy. Her officers had been butchered in the most horrible manner, and some of her loyal hands had suffered a similar fate. The mutineers had offered their ship to an enemy in exchange for their own freedom. Bolitho did not know much more of the mutiny, other than that the frigate had been under the command of a tyrant. As he looked at Glasson, much of whose confidence was fast departing under his commodore's stare, he marvelled that the lesson still went unheeded.

"What are your hopes for the future?"

Glasson drew himself up. "To serve my King, sir, and to gain my own command."

"Very commendable. " Bolitho added dryly, "Did you learn anything from duties aboard our prize?"

The midshipman relaxed slightly. "The Dons who man her are dolts. They know nothing, and their vessel is in a filthy state. "

Bolitho did not hear him, he was thinking of the letter, the French agent named Yves Gorse. He could feel the blood rushing through his brain like fire. Suppose the Frenchman did not know which vessel should be bringing instructions from Toulon? With communications so difficult, and the final French intentions still a well-guarded secret, it was likely he would know little about the form of delivery.

He turned to Glasson. "My compliments to the flag captain. I should like him to join me on the poop."

Farquhar arrived five minutes later to find Bolitho striding from side to side, hands clasped behind him, as if he were in a state of trance.

Farquhar suggested, "You have come upon a fresh idea, sir?"

Bolitho stopped and looked at him. "I think maybe others gave it to me. I was too involved with my anxieties to heed the obvious."

'sir?"

"I heard the master's mate, Bagley, reprimanding one of the helmsmen. Because he did riot understand him immediately. "

Farquhar frowned. "That would be Larssen, sir. I can have him removed."

"No, no." Bolitho faced him. "It was not that. And something Glasson said about the Segura just now. "

"I see, sir." Farquhar was lost. "At least, I think I do." Bolitho smiled. 'segura. We have been keeping her with- out knowing why. Vanity perhaps? Evidence that we did not fail at everything? And as time went on we forgot she was there. "

Farquhar watched him doubtfully, his eyes glowing in the sunset. 'she's too slow for scouting, sir. I thought we"d agreed on that."

Bolitho nodded. "Have a new prize crew detailed, and send the remaining Spaniards into the squadron. Tell a lieutenant of your choice that I want the prize crew to be as foreign as he can find!"

"Aye, sir.: There was not even surprise now. Farquhar probably believed the strain and responsibility had at last driven him mad.

"And I want it done immediately. Signal the squadron to heave-to before the light goes completely." Farquhar made to hurry away. "What will the lieutenant be required to do, if I may venture to ask, sir?"

"Do, Captain?" He turned away to conceal his sudden excitement. "He will sail the Segura into Malta under false colours, American, I think. And there he will deliver a letter for me."

Farquhar exclaimed, "The French agent?"

"Just so." He started to pace. "I suggest you start at once."

Farquhar waited a moment longer. "It's a great risk, sir."

You told me that before. As did Thomas Herrick. Have you never taken risks?" Farquhar smiled. "The men will most probably desert once they are m Malta. And the officer in charge will be seized and likely hanged. The Knights of Malta are only too aware of the danger in incurring France 's displeasure. They have been friendly to us in the past. "He shrugged. "But the French army and navy are much nearer than they were then. "

"I agree. Nor would I expect a junior lieutenant to be used in this way."

Farquhar watched him with new interest. "You intend to go with Segura?"

"Under all circumstances. Yes."

Midshipman Glasson had been right about one thing, Bolitho decided. The prize ship Segura was not only dirty, but also contained so many smells of varying ages and strength that it was hard not to retch when between decks.

It was pitch-dark by the time the new prize crew were ferried across in exchange for the remaining Spaniards, and With two good hands on the wheel and canvas reduced to a minimum for the night Segura was left to her Own devices.

Bolitho sat in the tiny cabin and munched some salt pork and iron-hard biscuits which he tried to dissolve in the ship's plentiful supply of red wine.

Farquhar had picked Lieutenant Matthew Veitch to accompany him, and he had already proved that he was. as good aboard an unfamiliar vessel.as he had. been directing Lysander's eighteen -pounders during their fight against the two Frenchmen. In his middle-twenties, Veitch appeared a good deal older and more experienced than his age suggested. He came from the north of. England, from Tynemouth, and his hard accent, added to his. normally stem features made him seem too advanced for his years. But he could wipe it away with a ready smile, and. Bolitho had noticed that his seamen liked and respected him.

Plowman, the senior master's mate, was again selected to join the expedition, and Mr. Midshipman Arthur Breen, a carrot-headed sixteen-year-old whose face was a mass of freckles, completed the vessel's senior authority.

They had been so busy settling into their new ship that. the shadowy topsails of the three seventy-fours had vanished into the gathering darkness before anyone had found time to "comment.

Bolitho looked up as Veitch entered the cramped cabin. "Watch yourself!"

But it was too late. Veitch gave a gasp as his head cracked violently against a deck beam.

Bolitho pointed to a chest. 'sit down and save your skull." He pushed a wine bottle towards him. "Is everything se- cure?"

Aye, sir. "Veitch threw back his head and drained a metal goblet. "I’ve got "em standing watch and watch. It keeps "em busy, and makes sure we don’tget pounced on by some enemy patrol."

Bolitho listened to" the vessel's unfamiliar sounds, the rattle of rigging, the very near movements of the. rudder. Segura was roundly-built, probably Dutch originally, whenever originally had been. Her holds were spacious for her size, and packed to the seams with cargo and gunpowder. Her sail plan was austere, and manageable with the minimum amount of hands. Again, it made her almost certain to be Dutch-built. Profitable, both in space and size of crew, she had doubtless worked every coastline from the Baltic to the African shores. But she was old, and her Spanish masters had let her go badly. Plowman had already reported on the poor quality of her standing rigging and topping lifts, some of which he described as being "as thin as a sailor's wallet."

But Plowman was Grubb's right-hand man." Like the master" he was not content with unreliable workmanship.

Bolitho smiled to himself. If Plowman was bothered, the seamen selected for the prize crew appeared quite the opposite. Even aboard the Lysander, as he had spoken to them briefly before they had clambered into the boats, he had noticed their grins and nudges, the cheerful acceptance of their surprise role. Escape from boredom, something to do to break the daily routine, or maybe the fact that each was hand-picked helped to extend this carefree atmosphere. The notion they had been chosen mostly for their foreign tongues had not apparently arisen.

He could hear someone singing a strange, lilting song, and a regular chorus of voices as the watch below joined in. There was an unusual smell of cooking in the damp air between decks, too, further evidence of their new identity.

Veitch grinned. "They’ve settled in well, sir. That's Larssen singing, and the one detailed to cook is a Dane, so God knows what we’ll be eating tonight!"

Bolitho looked round as Plowman entered the cabin. He said, "I’ve left Mr. Breen with the watch, sir." He took the wine and regarded it gratefully. "Well, thankee, sir."

Bolitho glanced at them approvingly. Each, including himself, wore a plain blue coat, and a scruffier trio it would be hard to find. Typical, he hoped, of the countless hundreds of trading captains who sailed under every flag and carried any cargo they could find for a profit.

"Tomorrow we’ll run for Malta." Bolitho watched as Plowman tamped black tobacco in a long clay pipe. "I am Captain, " he smiled gravely, "Richard Pascoe. You can keep your own names. Mr. Veitch will be first mate. Mr. Plowman, second. My cox"n, Allday, will be filling the part of boatswain."

Plowman hesitated and then thrust a great pot of tobacco across the rickety table.

"If you"d care to try it, sir? It's, well, it's fair."

Bolitho took a pipe from a sandalwood box above the small chart table and handed another to Veitch.

"Anything once, Mr. Plowman!"

He became serious. "I will go ashore with Allday and a boat's crew. You will appear to be preparing to open hatches. But be ready to cut the cable and put to sea if anything goes wrong, If this should happen, you can stand inshore for a further two nights. Where I have marked on the chart. If there is still no signal from me, you must rejoin the squadron at Syracuse. Captain Farquhar will act accordingly. "

The air thickened visibly with smoke, and Bolitho said, "Fetch some more wine from the locker. Like our people up forrard, I feel strangely at peace; Tonight anyway."

Shoes clicked overhead and Veitch smiled. "Young Mr. Breen is alone up there. He is feeling like a post-captain, no doubt!"

Bolitho let the drowsiness move over him. He thought of Pascoe, his dark eyes eager and pleading as he had asked to be allowed to join him. He touched the old sword which lay against the table. Perhaps he should have left it in Lysander. If anything happened to him, the sword would probably disappear forever. And it was important in some strange way that Pascoe should have it. One day.

He did not see Veitch give a wink-to Plowman, who rose and said, "I’d better go an" relieve Mr. Breen, sir."

Veitch nodded. "And I must go forrard and see that all is well."

He stood up and cracked his head again.

"Damn these stingy shipbuilders, sir!" He grinned ruefull y. "A ship of the line maybe is crowded, but she keeps a man" s head on his shoulders!"

Alone once more, Bolitho leaned over his chart and studied it beneath a spiralling lantern. He removed his blue coat and loosened his neckcloth, feeling the sweat running freely down his spine. It was stiflingly hot, and the wine had not slaked his thirst.

Allday entered the cabin. "I’m bringing something to eat in a minute, sir." He wrinkled his nose. "This hull stinks like Exeter market!"

"The heat is no help to us." Bolitho threw down his dividers. "I will go on deck for a breath of air directly." "As you will, sir." Allday watched him pass. "I will send word when your meal is ready."

He looked round the untidy cabin and shrugged. Damp, dirty and smelly it certainly was". But after the oppressive heat of the day it felt almost cool. He saw the empty wine bottles and-chuckled. The commodore's heat was probably an inner one.

"Brail up the fores"l."

Bolitho shaded his eyes to examine the untidy sprawl of sand-coloured fortifications which protected every entrance to Valletta harbour. As they had made their slow approach, and had watched the sun rise behind Malta 's weather-worn defences, it had been hard for some of the seamen to see it for anything but a fortress.

'steady as you go." Plowman shifted his sturdy frame around the helmsmen, a pipe jutting from his jaw.

Bolitho knew that he, like most of the others, was finding it difficult to act in this casual and slack fashion after the rigid discipline of a King's ship. And at no other time was there anything more important about a ship's appearance than when entering harbour.

Bolitho ran his eye along the littered deck. Seamen lounged against either bulwark, pointing at landmarks, some with genuine interest, others with elaborate pretence.

Midshipman Breen said, "I’ve heard of this island many times, sir. I never thought I’d ever see it."

Plowman grinned. "Aye. Valletta was so named after the Grand Master of the Knights in honour of "is defence of it against the Turks."

"Were you here then?" Breen watched the master's mate with undisguised awe.

"Ardly, Mr. Breen. That was over two "undred years back!" He looked at Veitch and shook his head. "Was I "ere indeed!"

The nearest fortress was gliding abeam now, its upper rampart crowded with colourful figures. It was apparently used as much as a thoroughfare as a bastion. Beyond it, Bolitho saw the glittering water opening up to receive the Segura. The harbour was busy with shipping and tiny oared boats which scurried back and forth from vessels to jetties like water-beetles. There were a few schooners, gaunt Arab dhows, and the more common feluccas with their huge lateen sails. Two painted and gilt-encrusted galliasses lay beside a flight of stone steps. Like things from the past. They might have looked not too much out of place when the Romans had conquered England, Bolitho thought. The Knights of Malta had used them very successfully over the centuries for harrying Turkish ports and shipping, and had done much to drive the Turks" influence away from the West, it was hoped for good.

But now, Malta 's role had changed again. It had with- drawn on to its own resources, combing revenue and trade from ships which came to the harbour, or anchored out of sheer necessity through storm or attack by corsairs.

'stand by the anchor."

Bolitho strode to the foot of the mainmast and watched for any sign of a challenge. In fact, there was little interest, so he guessed that Segura was not the first vessel to enter wearing the American flag.

Allday whispered, "By God, it will take Mr. Gilchrist a year to get these lads to jump like seamen again." He grinned as one of the men spat deliberately on the deck and then grinned somewhat sheepishly at his companions. Such an act would have cost him a dozen lashes in Lysander.

Veitch called, "Hands wear ship!"

Bolitho took a brass telescope and trained it on the longest stone jetty; Boats were already shoving off, laden to their gunwales with fruit, basketware and probably women as well. For despite the original Christian standards and guidance within these stout walls, the core had long since deteriorated, and it was hinted that even the Knights themselves looked more to personal enjoyments than to heaven.

"Helm a"lee!"

The Segura tilted above her shadow, the patched sails barely moving as she headed into the wind, and her rusting anchor splashed into clear water. "Mr. Veitch. If you allow these bumboats alongside, I suggest you make certain their occupants stay in them. You can let a few aboard at a time. They’ll get out of control otherwise. "

Veitch gave a rare smile. "Aye, sir. It"d be a powerful combination, eh? A hold full of wine, some British tars and whatever mischief these traders are about to offer!"

Allday was already mustering a small but fearsome looking anchor watch. Each man was armed with a cutlass, and in addition a heavy wooden stave.

"Lower the boat."

Bolitho wiped his face and throat. It was more stifling in the harbour than below decks.

The first craft were already alongside, the merchants and boatmen standing upright to display their wares, and vieing with each other in a variety of tongues.

Veitch came aft again. "All done, sir. I’ve got two swivels loaded with canister, and a stand of muskets hidden under the fo"c'sle. I noticed that the harbour batteries face seaward, so we’ll be all right for the present."

Bolitho nodded. "People who build fortresses often make that mistake. They never expect an attack from the rear." He thought of the charge down a Spanish hillside, the crackle of musket fire, and the marines cheering like fiends as they went in with their bayonets fixed.

"Just as well."

"Boat's lowered, sir."

Allday strode to the bulwark by the main shrouds as a dark-skinned little man wearing a turban and hung about with beads, bottles and gaudy daggers tried to climb on to the deck. "Wait for the order, Mustapha!" Allday cupped his hand under the man's chin and sent him pitching back into the

water. It raised a chorus of laughter and jeers from the unfortunate bumboatman's companions, who probably considered that this vessel's master, if hard-hearted, was at least going to be fair to all.

Veitch followed Bolitho to the rail. "If an official comes aboard, sir, shall I bluff it out?"

Bolitho had been in Malta before. He smiled grimly. "Be guided by Mr. Plowman. I suspect he has visited here on other unorthodox missions. The port officers may decide to wait until you show signs of unloading. But if they come and ask for your papers, tell them what I told you to say. That we had to throw them overboard when chased by an unknown ship. You will find a bag of gold coins in the cabin to grease the hawse for you. "

Plowman grinned at the lieutenant's uncertainty. "Love you, Mr. Veitch! Port officials are the same everywhere, an" with more an" more Yankee ships finding their ways into the Mediterranean they’ll not want to lose a new sort of trade!"

Bolitho threw one leg over the rail. "And watch our people.

There may be French spies amongst these bumboat men. It’ll do no harm to spread the notion anyway!"

He clambered down into the Segura 's remaining longboat. 'shove off."

As the boat pulled away he saw one of the traders tap smartly on a pile of rugs, and from beneath it he also saw a smooth, rounded arm pushing the covering aside. It was no man's arm. With Segura 's captain out of the way, the real trading was about to begin.

Allday murmured, "Top of the stairs, sir. Two officers of some kind."

But the officers paid them little attention, other than a courteous nod, and continued to watch the anchored newcomer, possibly judging the right moment to board her.

Bolitho stood on the hot stonework and waited for Allday and one other to climb up beside him. The seaman was the Swede, Larssen. He had a cheerful, trusting expression, and one of the broadest pairs of shoulders Bolitho had seen.

Allday remarked, "In case we run into a spot of trouble." He paused and looked at him. "You all right, sir?"

Bolitho replied, "Of course. Don’t fuss." He turned away. 'send the boat away. We will attract as little attention as possible. "

He heard Allday speaking to the boat's crew and tried not to keep plucking the shirt away from his body. It was wringing with sweat, and he felt strangely light-headed. The wine? Some of the food he had eaten last night? Inwardly, another more likely reason was already forming and it was all he could do to conceal his sudden anxiety.

It was improbable, surely. He gritted his teeth, willing Allday to finish with the boat and follow him into some shadow. But it was not impossible. Nearly nine years ago, in the GreatSouthSea. The fever had all but killed him. He had had a few bouts of it since, but not for a year or so. He almost cursed aloud. It could not be. It must not happen now of all times.

Allday said, "Ready, sir."

"Good. Now let us find that address and finish the matter. " He swayed and touched Allday's shoulder. "Damn!"

As he pushed his way through a group of chattering traders, Allday watched him with sudden alarm. Larssen asked, "The captain? Is he not well?"

Allday gripped his arm tightly. "Listen, and listen good. If it's what I think it is, he's going to be all aback within the hour. Stay with me and do whatever I do, see?"

The Swede shrugged. "Yes, sir, Mr. All-Day!"

Mercifully the address was not far from the harbour stairs. In fact, the white walled building was attached to one of the smaller fortresses as if for support, and from a broad balcony Bolitho could see the end of a large telescope trained across the anchorage like a gun.

He felt beneath his coat to make sure his pistol was loose and ready to draw. He was taking a great gamble. Perhaps this French agent already knew of the vessel's fate which had been entrusted with this letter. The convoy which Buzzard had chased, and with which the ship had been sailing, might have been into Malta, left word and gone on to its intended destination.

But he still believed it unlikely. A letter of such importance, if such it was, would have been carried by one of the French escorting frigates and then sent ashore by boat, probably at night.

He said shortly, "Come along. We shall have to make haste."

The lower part of the building was filled with wine casks and mounds of straw for packing bottles. A few Maltese labourers were rolling empty barrels down a ramp to a cellar, and a bored-looking man with a ruffled shirt and mustard-coloured breeches was writing in a ledger on the top of another cask.

He looked up, his eyes wary. 'sit He could have been almost anything, from Greek to Dutchman.

Bolitho said, "I only speak English. I’m master of the American ship which has just anchored."

The man did not reply at once, but there was no doubt in his eyes, no lack of understanding.

Then he said, "American. Yes. I understand."

Bolitho cleared his throat and tried to keep his voice steady. "I wish to see M'sieu Gorse."

Again the unwavering stare. But no cry of alarm, no rush of feet from this man's assistants.

He replied eventually, "I am not certain that I can arrange it. "

Allday stepped forward, his face bleak. "If the cap"n says he wants to see him, that's it, matey! We ain"t come all this way with a goddamn letter just to be kept waiting!"

The man gave a tight smile. "I "ave to be careful." He looked meaningly at the harbour. 'so do you."

He closed the ledger and beckoned them to some narrow stone steps.

Bolitho looked at Allday. 'stay here with Larssen." His mouth was completely dry, and the roof of it was burning like hot sand. He shook his head with sudden impatience. "No arguments! If things go wrong now, one will have as much of a chance as three!" He tried to smile, to reassure him. "I" 11 call soon enough if need be."

He turned his back and followed the man up the steps. "Through a door and into a long room, one side of which was open to the harbour and the spread of ships and buildings which shimmered in the sunlight like a great tapestry.

"Ah, Capitaine!" A white figure moved from the balcony. "I "alf expected it would be you."

Yves Gorse was short and rotund. He had a thick black beard, as if to compensate for his complete blandess, and small, delicate hands which were never still.

Bolitho eyed him calmly. "I would have been here sooner, but I ran foul of a British frigate. Had to throw my papers overboard, but managed to shake the bastard off in a storm." "I see." Gorse pointed one delicate hand to a chair. "Please be seated. You look unwell, Capitaine?"

"I’m well enough. "

"Per"aps." Gorse walked to the window and stared down at the water. "And you are called?"

"Pascoe. It's a Cornish name."

"I am aware of that, Captaine," He turned with remarkable lightness. "But I am not aware of any Captaine Pascoe?"

Bolitho shrugged. "In this game we must learn to trust each other, surely?"

"Game?" Gorse moved around the room. "It was never that Although your country is still too young to appreciate the dangers. "

Bolitho retorted angrily, "Have you forgotten about our Revolution? I seem to recall it came a goodly few years before yours!"

"Touche!" Gorse smiled, showing small but perfect teeth.

"I meant no offence. Now this letter. May I "aye it?"

Bolitho pulled it from his pocket "You see, M'sieu, I trust you."

Gorse opened the letter and held it in a patch of sunlight.

Bolitho tried not to watch him, to search for some sign that Gorse had noticed how the letter had been re-sealed. Gorse, however, seemed satisfied: No, relieved was more the word for it.

He said, "Good. Now per"aps you will take some wine.

Better than the muck you will be carrying toer, where are you bound?"

Bolitho clenched his fingers in his pockets to control his limbs. They felt as if they were shaking so badly that Gorse must surely have noticed. This was the moment. If he tried to fence with Gorse, or attempted to trick him further, the man would know immediately. Gorse was a trusted enemy agent. His outward cover of wine merchant and chandler would have been built up carefully over many years. Which meant he would have no wish to return to France, a country very different from the one he must have left a long while ago. Many of his fellow merchants had breathed their last while staring down into a bloodied basket and waiting for the blade to drop.

Malta stood like an awkward sentinel in the gateway between the western and eastern Mediterranean. His work in gathering intelligence for France would stand him in good stead, especially when that fleet sailed from Toulon, as sail it must.

He replied casually, " Corfu of course. There's no change.

I’d have thought my friend John Thurgood would have anchored here in his Santa Paula. He had the same destination, as I expect you well know."

Gorse smiled modestly. "I know many things."

Bolitho tried to relax, to find comfort that his lie was accepted. But he was feeling much worse, and he knew his breathing was getting faster. Visions flashed across his mind like parts of a nightmare. The pale beaches and waving palms at Tahiti, and beyond to other islands. Pictures at odds with men dying horribly of fever, and the remainder drawing together in terror and despair.

He heard himself ask, "The letter, was it good news?"

It was, Captaine. Although the Maltese people may think otherwise when the time comes." He appeared concerned. i "Realiy, I must insist that you rest. You do not seem well at all.

Bolitho said, "Fever. Long time ago. Coming back again." He had to speak in short sentences. "But I will be ready to sail."

"But there is no "urry. You can rest-" A look of alarm crossed his face. "Unless it is dangerous to others?" Bolitho stood up and steadied himself against the chairback. "No. Call my men. I will feel better aboard the ship."

"As you wish." He snapped his fingers to someone outside the door.

Even through his dizziness Bolitho was able to grasp that Gorse had been prepared to kill him, had posted men out of sight for the purpose, if he had failed to convince him.

He managed to ask, "Do you wish me to carry any letters to Corfu, M'sieu?"

"No." Gorse regarded him worriedly. "My next letters will come by more direct means."

Allday loomed into the room, the Swede at his back. Gorse snapped, "Your captain is ill."

Bolitho felt Allday gripping his arm. "Easy, sir! We’ll soon have you safe!"

Down the steep steps and out into the merciless sunlight again. He was more carried than aided, and he was dimly aware of passing Maltese grinning at the three sailors who had emerged so unsteadily from a wine store.

Allday barked, "Go on ahead, Larssen, an" signal for the boat!" He added harshly, "If you"re not at the jetty when we gets there, I’ll find you if it takes a lifetime!"

Bolitho felt himself being helped.into some shade, His body was streaming with sweat, but unlike the previous time it was ice-cold, so that he could not stop shivering.

He gasped, "Must… get… on." It was no use. His strength was fading fast. "Must… tell… the… squadron." Then he collapsed completely.

Four seamen, led by Larssen, came running up from the harbour and stared at Allday with surprise.

Allday rapped, "Lively, carry him to the boat!" He pulled off his coat and wrapped it round Bolitho. "And don’tstop for anyone!"

It seemed an endless stretch of water between jetty and ship, and every foot of the way Allday held Bolitho against his body, his eyes on the Segura 's loosely furled sails, willing them closer.

As far as he was concerned, the squadron, the French and the whole bloody world could go their own way. If anything happened to Bolitho, nothing else would matter.