Stand into Danger

Welcome Aboard

RICHARD BOLITHO thrust some coins into the hand of the man who had carried his sea-chest to the jetty and shivered in the damp air. It was halfway through the forenoon, and yet much of the land and the sprawling houses of Plymouth were hidden in drifting mist. No wind at all to speak of, so that the mist made everything look eerie and dismal.

Bolitho squared his shoulders and stared across the swirling water of the Hamoaze. As he did so he felt the unfamiliar touch of his lieutenant’s uniform which, like everything in his sea-chest, was new: the white lapels of his coat, the cocked hat set squarely across his black hair. Even his breeches and shoes had come from the same shop in Falmouth, in his own county just across the river, from the tailor whose family had been making clothing for sea officers since anyone could remember.

It should be his proudest moment. All he had worked and hoped for. That first, seemingly impossible step from midshipman’s berth to wardroom, to become a King’s officer.

He tugged his hat more firmly across his forehead as if to make himself believe it. It was his proudest moment.

“Be you joinin’ th’ Destiny, zur?”

Bolitho saw that the man who had carried the chest was still beside him. In the dull light he looked poor and ragged, but there was no mistaking what he had once been: a seaman.

Bolitho said, “Yes, she’s lying out there somewhere.”

The man followed his glance across the water, his eyes faraway.

“Fine frigate, zur. Only three years old, she be.” He nodded sadly. “She’s bin fittin’ out for months. Some say for a long voyage.”

Bolitho thought of this man and all the hundreds like him who roamed the shorelines and harbours looking for work, yearning for the sea which they’d once cursed and damned with the best of them.

But this was February 1774, and to all accounts England had been at peace for years. Wars still erupted around the world, of course, but always in the name of trade or self-preservation. Only the old enemies remained the same, content to bide their time, to seek out the weakness which might one day be exploited.

Ships and men, once worth their weight in gold, were cast aside. The vessels to rot, the seamen, like this ragged figure with all the fingers missing from one hand and a scar on his cheek as deep as a knife, left without the means to live.

Bolitho asked, “What were you in?”

Astonishingly, the man seemed to expand and straighten his back as he answered, “Th’ Torbay, zur. Cap’n Keppel.” Just as quickly he slumped down again. “Any chance of a berth in your ship, zur?”

Bolitho shook his head. “I’m new. I don’t know the state aboard Destiny as yet.”

The man sighed. “I’ll call ’e a boat then, zur.”

He put his good hand in his mouth and gave a piercing whistle. There was an answering clatter of oars in the mist and very slowly a waterman’s boat nudged towards the jetty.

Bolitho called, “Destiny, if you please!”

Then he turned to give some more coins to his ragged companion, but he had vanished into the mist. Like a ghost. Gone perhaps to join all the others.

Bolitho clambered into the boat and drew his new cloak around him, his sword gripped between his legs. The waiting was done. It was no longer the day after tomorrow and then tomorrow. It was now.

The boat dipped and gurgled in a cross-current, the oarsman watching Bolitho with little enthusiasm. Another young luff going to make some poor jack’s life hell, he thought. He wondered if the young officer with the grave features and black hair tied to the nape of his neck was so new he would not know the proper waterman’s fare. But then again, this one had a West Country touch in his voice, and even if he was a ‘foreigner’ from across the border in Cornwall, he would not be fooled.

Bolitho went over all that he had discovered about his new ship. Three years old, the ragged man had said. He would know. All Plymouth probably pondered over the care which was being taken to equip and man a frigate in these hard times.

Twenty-eight guns, fast and agile, Destiny was what most young officers dreamed of. In time of war, free of the fleet’s apron strings, swifter than any larger vessel, and more heavily armed than anything smaller, a frigate was a force to be reckoned with. Better hopes of promotion, too, and if you were lucky enough ever to reach the lofty peak of command, so too would a frigate offer the chance of action and prize-money.

Bolitho thought of his last ship, the seventy-four-gun Gorgon. Huge, slow-moving, a teeming world of people, miles of rigging, vast spans of canvas, and the spars to carry it. It was also a schoolroom, where the young midshipmen learned how to control and sustain their unwieldy charge, and they learned the hard way.

Bolitho looked up as the waterman said, “Should be seeing her about now, sir.”

Bolitho peered ahead, glad of the interruption to his thoughts. As his mother had said when he had left her in the big grey house at Falmouth, “Put it behind you, Dick. You cannot bring him back. So take care of yourself now. The sea is no place for the unwary.”

The mist darkened and edged aside as the anchored ship loomed into view. The boat was approaching her starboard bow and past the long tapering jib-boom. Like Bolitho’s new uniform on the wet jetty, the Destiny seemed to shine through the drifting murk.

From her lithe black and buff hull to her three mastheads she was a thoroughbred. All her shrouds and standing rigging were freshly blacked down, her yards crossed, and each sail neatly furled to match its neighbour.

Bolitho raised his eyes to the figurehead as it reached out as if to greet him. It was the most beautiful one he had ever seen. A bare-breasted girl with her out-thrust arm pointing to the next horizon. In her hand she held the victor’s crown of laurels. Only the laurels and her unwavering blue stare had been inserted to break her white purity.

The waterman said between pulls, “They say that the woodcarver used his young bride to copy for that, sir.” He showed his teeth in what might have been a grin. “I reckon he had to fight a few away from her! ”

Bolitho watched the frigate slipping past the boat, the occasional activity on her nearest gangway and high above the deck.

She was a beautiful ship. He was lucky.

“Boat ahoy!”

The waterman bawled in reply, “Aye, aye!”

Bolitho saw some movement at the entry port, but not enough to excite much attention. The waterman’s answer to the challenge had said it all. An officer was joining the ship, but nobody senior enough to bother about, let alone her captain.

Bolitho stood up as two seamen leapt into the boat to help make fast and to collect his chest. Bolitho glanced at them quickly. He was not fully eighteen years old, but he had been at sea since he was twelve and had learned to assess and measure the skills of sailormen.

They looked tough and hardy, but the hull of a ship could hide a lot. The sweepings of jails and assize courts, being sent to sea to serve the King rather than face deportation or a hangman’s halter.

The seamen stood aside in the pitching boat as Bolitho handed the oarsman some money.

The man pushed it into his jerkin and grinned. “Thankee, sir. Good luck!”

Bolitho climbed up the frigate’s tumblehome and stepped through the entry port. He was astonished at the difference even though he’d been expecting it. After a ship of the line, the Destiny seemed crowded to a point of confusion. From the twenty 12pounders on her gun deck to the smaller weapons further aft every inch of space seemed to have a purpose and to be in use. Neatly flaked lines, halliards and braces, tiered boats and racks of pikes at the foot of each mast, while in and around every item were men he must soon know by name.

A lieutenant stepped through the side party and asked, “Mr Bolitho?”

Bolitho replaced his hat. “Aye, sir. Come aboard to join.”

The lieutenant nodded curtly. “Follow me. I’ll have your gear taken aft.” He said something to a seaman and then shouted, “Mr Timbrell! Put some more hands in the foretop. It was like bedlam up there when I last inspected it!”

Bolitho just remembered in time to duck his head as they walked aft beneath the quarterdeck. Again the ship appeared to be crowding in on him. More guns, firmly tethered behind each sealed port, the aromas of tar and cordage, fresh paint and crowded humanity, the smells of a living vessel.

He tried to assess the lieutenant who was leading him aft to the wardroom. Slim and round-faced, with that harassed look of a man left in charge.

“Here we are.”

The lieutenant opened a screen door and Bolitho stepped into his new home. Even with the black muzzled twelve-pounders along one side, a reminder, if one was needed, that there was no place in a ship-of-war which was safe when the iron began to fly, it looked surprisingly comfortable. A long table, with high-backed chairs instead of benches like those endured by lowly midshipmen. There were racks for drinking glasses, others for swords and pistols, and on the deck there was a covering of painted canvas.

The lieutenant turned and studied Bolitho thoughtfully. “I’m Stephen Rhodes, Second Lieutenant.” He smiled, the change making him more youthful than Bolitho had realized. “As this is your first ship as lieutenant, I’ll try to make the way as easy as I can. Call me Stephen, if you wish, but ‘sir’ in front of the hands.” Rhodes threw back his head and yelled, “Poad!”

A scrawny little man in a blue jacket bustled through a screen door.

“Some wine, Poad. This is the new third lieutenant.”

Poad bobbed. “Pleasure, sir, I’m sure.”

As he hurried away Rhodes remarked, “Good servant, but light-fingered, so don’t leave anything too valuable lying about.” He became serious again. “The first lieutenant is in Plymouth, doing something or other. His name is Charles Palliser, and might seem a bit stiff at first meeting. He’s been in Destiny with the captain from her first commissioning.” He changed tack suddenly. “You were lucky to get this appointment.” It sounded like an accusation. “You’re so young. I’m twenty-three, and was only promoted to second lieutenant when my predecessor was killed.”

“Killed?”

Rhodes grimaced. “Hell, it was nothing heroic. He was thrown off a horse and broke his neck. Good fellow in many ways, but there it is.”

Bolitho watched the wardroom servant putting goblets and a bottle within Rhodes ’ reach.

He said, “I was surprised to get this appointment myself.”

Rhodes eyed him searchingly. “You don’t sound too sure. Don’t you want to join us? God, man, there are a hundred who would jump at the chance!”

Bolitho looked away. A bad beginning.

“It’s not that. My best friend was killed a month back.” It was out in the open. “I just can’t believe it.”

Rhodes ’ eyes softened and he pushed a glass towards him.

“Drink this, Richard. I didn’t understand. Sometimes I wonder why we do this work when others live easily ashore.”

Bolitho smiled at him. Except for his mother’s benefit he had not smiled much lately.

“What are our orders, er, Stephen?”

Rhodes relaxed. “Nobody really knows except the lord and master. A long haul to the south’rd is all I do know. The Caribbean, maybe further still.” He shivered and glared at the nearest gunport. “God I’ll be glad to see the back of this wet misery here!” He took a quick swallow. “We’ve a good company for the most part, but with the usual seasoning of gallows-birds. The sailing master, Mr Gulliver, is newly promoted from master’s mate, but he’s a fine navigator, even if he is a bit awkward amongst his betters. By tonight we shall have a full complement of midshipmen, two of whom are twelve and thirteen respectively.” He grinned. “But don’t be slack with ’em, Richard, just because you were one yourself a dog-watch ago. Your head will be on the block, not theirs!”

Rhodes tugged a watch from his breeches. “First lieutenant will be coming off shortly. I had better chase up the hands. He likes a smart display when he steps aboard.”

He pointed to a small screened cabin. “That one is yours, Richard. Tell Poad what you need and he will get the other servants to deal with it.” Impulsively he thrust out his hand. “Good to have you with us. Welcome aboard.”

Bolitho sat in the empty wardroom listening to the clatter of blocks and rigging, the unending slap of feet above his head. Hoarse voices, the occasional trill of a boatswain’s call as a piece of gear was piped up from a boat alongside, to be stored and checked into its own special place in the hull.

Soon Bolitho would know their faces, their strengths and weaknesses. And in this low-beamed wardroom he would share his hopes and daily life with his fellows. The two other lieutenants, the marine officer, the newly appointed sailing master, the surgeon and the purser. The select few in a company which was listed as being 200 souls.

He had wanted to ask the second lieutenant about the lord and master, as he had described him. Bolitho was very young for his rank, but not so much that he did not know it would have been wrong. To share a confidence and to give a personal opinion of Destiny’s captain would be little short of madness from Rhodes ’ point of view when he had only just met the new arrival.

Bolitho opened the door of his tiny cabin. About the length of the swinging cot and enough room to sit down. A place for privacy, or as near to it as one could get in a small, bustling man-of-war. After the midshipman’s berth on the orlop deck it was a palace.

His advancement had been very swift, as Rhodes had remarked. But for all that, if the unknown lieutenant had not been killed by a fall from his horse the vacancy for third lieutenant would not have been posted.

Bolitho unlocked the top half of his sea-chest and then hung a mirror on one of the massive timbers beside his cot. He looked at himself, seeing the small lines of strain around his mouth and grey eyes. He was leaner, too, honed down to a youthful toughness which only shipboard food and hard work could produce.

Poad peered at him. “I could pay a waterman to go into town and purchase some extra victuals for you, sir.”

Bolitho smiled. Poad was like a stall-holder at a Cornish fair.

“I have some coming aboard directly, thank you.” He saw the disappointment and added, “But if you see that it’s stowed properly I’ll be obliged.”

Poad nodded quickly and scuttled away. He had made his play. Bolitho’s reaction had been the right one. There would be payment somewhere along the way if Poad looked after the new lieutenant’s personal stores.

A door crashed open and a tall lieutenant strode into the wardroom, hurling his hat on one of the guns and yelling for Poad in one breath.

He examined Bolitho very slowly, his eyes taking in everything from his hair to his new buckled shoes.

He said, “I’m Palliser, the senior.”

He had a crisp way of speaking. He glanced away as Poad ran through the door with a jug of wine.

Bolitho watched the first lieutenant curiously. He was very tall, so that he had to stoop between the deckhead beams. In his late twenties, but with the experience of a man far older. He and Bolitho wore the same uniform, but they were so far apart they could have been standing on either side of an abyss.

“Soyou’re Bolitho.” The eyes swivelled back towards him above the rim of the goblet. “You have a fair report, in words, that is. Well, this is a frigate, Mr Bolitho, not some overmanned third-rate. I need every officer and man working until this ship, my ship, is ready to weigh.” Another fierce swallow. “So report on deck, if you please. Take the launch and get yourself ashore. You must know the lie of the land around here, eh?” He gave a fleeting smile. “Lead a recruiting party to the west bank and examine those villages. Little, gunner’s mate, will assist. He understands the game. There are some posters you can put up at the inns as you go. We need about twenty sound hands, no rubbish. We are up to full complement, but at the end of a long passage that’s another matter. We shall lose a few, have no doubt of it. Anyway, the captain wants it done.”

Bolitho had been thinking of unpacking, of meeting his companions, of having a meal after the long coach journey from Falmouth.

To settle things quite firmly, Palliser said offhandedly, “This is Tuesday, be back aboard noon on Friday. Don’t lose any of your party, and don’t let them pull the wool over your eyes!”

He banged out of the wardroom, calling for somebody else.

Rhodes appeared in the open door and smiled sympathetically. “Hard luck, Richard. But his manner is rougher than his thoughts. He has picked a good shore-party for you. I’ve known some first lieutenants who would give a new junior a collection of moonstruck felons for company, just to give him hell when he returned.” He winked. “Mr Palliser intends to have a command of his own soon. Bear that in mind at all times as I do, it helps considerably!”

Bolitho smiled. “I’d better go at once, in that case.” He hesitated. “And thank you for making me welcome.”

Rhodes sank down in a chair and thought about the noon meal. He heard the clatter of oars alongside and the shout of the launch’s coxswain. What he had seen of Bolitho he liked. Young certainly, but with the restless quality of one who would do well in a tight corner or in a screaming hurricane.

It was strange how you never considered the worries and problems of your betters when you were a midshipman. A lieutenant, junior or not, was a kind of superior being. One who berated and was quick to find fault with the youthful beginners. Now he knew better. Even Palliser was frightened of the captain. Probably the lord and master was terrified of upsetting his admiral, or someone higher still?

Rhodes smiled. But for a few more precious moments there was peace.

Little, the gunner’s mate, stood back, his broad hands on where his hips should have been, and watched as one of his men tacked up another recruiting poster.

Bolitho pulled out his watch and looked across the village green as a church clock chimed midday.

Little said gruffly, “Mebbee time for a wet, sir?”

Bolitho sighed. Another day, after a sleepless night in a tiny, none too clean inn where he worried that his small recruiting party might desert, in spite of what Rhodes had said about their selection. But Little had made sure that part had gone well. He was totally at odds with his name; squat, overweight, even gross, so that his belly sagged heavily over his cutlass belt like a sack. How he managed it on purser’s rations was a marvel. But he was a good hand, seasoned and experienced, and would stand no nonsense.

Bolitho said, “One more stop, Little. Then…,” he gave a rueful smile, “I’ll buy you all a drink.”

They brightened up immediately. Six seamen, a marine corporal and two drummer boys who looked like toy soldiers freshly out of a box. They did not care about the miserable results of their trek from one village to the next. Usually the sight of Bolitho’s party aroused little interest, except amongst the children and a few snapping dogs. Old habits died hard so near to the sea. Many still recalled the dreaded press-gangs when men could be torn from their families and put in a King’s ship to suffer the harsh conditions of a war which few understood even now. And a goodly number had never come back at all.

Bolitho had managed to obtain four volunteers so far. Four, and Palliser was expecting twenty. He had sent them back with an escort to the boat in case they should have a change of heart. Two of them were seamen, but the others were labourers from a farm who had lost their jobs, “unfairly,” they both said. Bolitho suspected they were willing to volunteer for a more pressing reason, but it was no time to ask questions.

They tramped across the deserted green, the muddy grass splashing up from Bolitho’s shoes and on to his new stockings.

Little had already quickened his pace, and Bolitho wondered if he had done the right thing to offer them all a drink.

He shrugged inwardly. So far nothing had gone right. Matters could hardly get much worse.

Little hissed, “There be some men, sir!” He rubbed his big hands together and said to the corporal, “Now, Dipper, get your little lads to strike up a tune, eh?”

The two minute marines waited for their corporal to relay the order, then while one beat a lively tap on his drum the other drew a fife from his cross-belt and broke into what sounded like a jig.

The corporal’s name was Dyer. Bolitho asked, “Why do you call him Dipper?”

Little grinned, baring several broken teeth, the true mark of a fighter.

“Bless you, sir, ’cause he were a pickpocket afore he saw the light and joined the bullocks!”

The little group of men by the inn seemed to melt away as the seamen and marines drew near.

Two figures remained, and a more incongruous pair it was hard to imagine.

One was small and darting, with a sharp voice which carried easily above the fife and drum. The other was big and powerful, stripped to the waist, his arms and fists hanging at his sides like weapons waiting to be used.

The small man, a barker, enraged earlier by the sudden departure of his audience, saw the sailors and beckoned excitedly.

“Well, well, well, wot ’ave we ’ere then? Sons of the sea, the British Jack Tar!” He doffed his hat to Bolitho. “An’ a real gentleman in command, no doubt of that!”

Bolitho said wearily, “Fall the men out, Little. I’ll have the landlord send some ale and cheese.”

The barker was shouting, “Which one of you brave lads will stand up to this fighter of mine?” His eyes darted amongst them. “A guinea for the man who can stand two minutes against ’im!” The coin flashed between his fingers. “You don’t ’ave to win, my brave boys, just stand and fight for two minutes! ”

He had their full attention now, and Bolitho heard the corporal murmur to Little, “Wot about it, Josh? A ’ole bleedin’ guinea!”

Bolitho paused by the inn door and glanced at the prize-fighter for the first time. He looked as strong as ten, and yet there was something despairing and pathetic about him. He was not looking at any of the seamen but apparently staring into space. His nose had been broken, and his face showed the punishment of many fights. Country fairs, for the farming gentry, for anyone who would wager on seeing men fight for a bloody victory. Bolitho was not certain which one he despised more, the man who lived off the fighter or the one who laid bets on his pain.

He said shortly, “I shall be inside, Little.” All at once the thought of a glass of ale or cider beckoned him like a wilful spirit.

Little was already thinking of other things. “Aye, sir.”

It was a friendly little inn, and the landlord hurried to greet Bolitho, his head almost brushing the ceiling. A fire burned brightly in its box, and there was a smell of freshly baked bread and smoked hams.

“You sit down there, Lieutenant. I’ll see to your men presently.” He saw Bolitho’s expression. “Begging your pardon sir, but you’re wasting your time hereabouts. The war took too many away to follow the drum, an’ those what came back went elsewhere to the big towns like Truro an’ Exeter to get work.” He shook his head. “Me now, if I was twenty years younger I might have signed on.” He grinned. “Then again…”

Some while later, Richard Bolitho sat in a high-backed chair beside the fire, the mud drying on his stockings, his coat unbuttoned to allow for the excellent pie the landlord’s wife had brought for him. A big, elderly dog lay by his feet, pulsating gently as it enjoyed the heat and dreamed of some past exploit.

The landlord whispered to his wife, “Did you see him? A King’s officer, no less. Lord, he looks more like a boy!”

Bolitho stirred from his drowsiness and yawned. Then his arms froze in mid air as he heard loud shouts of anger interposed with laughter. He jumped to his feet, groping for his sword and hat and trying to button his coat at the same time.

He almost ran to the door, and when he stumbled into the keen air he saw the seamen and marines falling against each other, convulsed with laughter, while the little barker screamed, “You cheated! You must ’ave cheated!”

Little spun the gold guinea and caught it deftly in his palm. “Not me, matey. Fair an’ square, that’s Josh Little!”

Bolitho snapped, “What’s going on?”

Corporal Dyer said between gasps of laughter, “ ’E put the big prize-fighter on ’is back, sir! Never seen the like!”

Bolitho glared at Little. “I’ll speak to you later! Now fall the men in, we’ve miles to go to the next village!”

He swung round and stared with astonishment as the barker turned on the fighter. The latter was standing as before, as if he had never moved, let alone been knocked down.

The barker picked up a length of chain and screamed, “This is for yer bloody stupidity!” The chain slashed across the man’s naked back. “This is for losin’ my money!” Crack.

Little glanced at Bolitho uneasily. “’Ere, sir, I’ll give the bugger ’is money, I’ll not see that poor devil beaten like a cur!”

Bolitho swallowed hard. The big fighter could have killed his tormentor with one blow. Perhaps he had been on the way down for so long he no longer felt pain or anything else.

But it was more than enough for Bolitho. His bad beginning aboard Destiny, his failure to find the required volunteers were all he could take. This degrading sight tipped the balance completely.

“You there! Belay that!” Bolitho strode forward, watched with both awe and amusement by his men. “Put down that chain at once!”

The barker quailed and then quickly regained his earlier confidence. He had nothing to fear from a young lieutenant. Especially in a district where he was often paid for his services.

“I’ve me rights!”

Little snarled, “Let me ’andle the bugger, sir! I’ll give ’im bloody rights!”

It was all getting out of hand. Some villagers had appeared, too, and Bolitho had a mental picture of his men having a pitched battle with half the countryside before they could get to the launch.

He turned his back on the defiant barker and faced up to the fighter. Near to he was even bigger, but in spite of his size and strength Bolitho saw only his eyes, each of which was partly hidden by lids battered shapeless over the years.

“You know who I am?”

The man nodded slowly, his gaze fixed on Bolitho’s mouth as if he was reading every word.

Gently Bolitho asked, “Will you volunteer for the King’s service? Join the frigate Destiny at Plymouth,” he hesitated, seeing the painful understanding in the man’s eyes, “with me?”

Then just as slowly as before he nodded, and without a glance at the gaping barker he picked up his shirt and a small bag.

Bolitho turned to the barker, his anger matched only by his feeling of petty triumph. Once clear of the village he would release the fighter anyway.

The barker yelled, “You can’t do that!”

Little stepped forward threateningly. “ Stow the noise, matey, an’ show respect for a King’s officer, or…” He left the rest in little doubt.

Bolitho licked his lips. “Fall in, men. Corporal, take charge there!”

He saw the big fighter watching the seamen and called, “Your name, what is it?”

“Stockdale, sir.” Even the name was dragged out. His chords must have been mangled in so many fights that even his voice was broken.

Bolitho smiled at him. “Stockdale. I shall not forget you. You will be free to leave us whenever you wish.” He glanced meaningly at Little. “Before we reach the boat.”

Stockdale looked calmly at the little barker who was sitting on a bench, the chain still dangling from his hand.

Then he wheezed very carefully, “No, sir. I’ll not leave you. Not now. Not never.”

Bolitho watched him join up with the others. The man’s obvious sincerity was strangely moving.

Little said quietly, “You’ve no need to worry. This’ll be all round the ship in no time.” He leaned forward so that Bolitho could smell the ale and cheese. “I’m in your division, sir, an’ I’ll beat the block off any bugger who tries to make trouble!”

A shaft of watery sunlight played across the church clock, and as the recruiting party marched stoically towards the next village Bolitho was glad of what he had just done.

Then it began to rain, and he heard Little say, “Not much further, Dipper, then back to the ship for a wet!”

Bolitho looked at Stockdale’s broad shoulders. Another volunteer. That made five in all. He lowered his head against the rain. Fifteen to go.

The next village was even worse, especially as there was no inn, and the local farmer only allowed them to sleep for the night in an unused barn, and that was with obvious reluctance. He claimed his house was full of visitors, and anyway… That word “anyway” spoke volumes.

The barn leaked in a dozen places and stank like a sewer, and the sailors, like most of their kind, used to the enforced cleanliness of living in close quarters, were loud voiced in their discontent.

Bolitho could not blame them, and when Corporal Dyer came to tell him that the volunteer Stockdale had vanished, he replied, “I’m not surprised, Corporal, but keep an eye on the rest of the party.”

He thought about the missing Stockdale for a long time, and wondered at his own sense of loss. Perhaps Stockdale’s simple words had touched him more deeply than he had realized, that he had represented a change of luck, like a talisman.

Little exclaimed, “God Almighty! Look at this! ”

Stockdale, dripping with rain, stepped into the lantern light and placed a sack at Bolitho’s feet. The men crowded round as the treasures were revealed in the yellow glow. Some chickens, fresh bread and crocks of butter, half a meat pie and, more to the point, two big jars of cider.

Little gasped, “You two men, start plucking the chickens. You, Thomas, watch out for unwanted visitors.” He faced Stockdale and thrust out the guinea. “’Ere, matey, you take it. You’ve bloody earned it!”

Stockdale barely heard. As he bent over his sack he wheezed, “No. ’Twere ’is money. You keep it.”

To Bolitho he said, “This is for you, sir.”

He held out a bottle which looked like brandy. It made sense. The farmer was probably mixed up with the smuggling “trade” hereabouts.

Stockdale watched Bolitho’s face searchingly, then he added, “I’ll make you comfortable, you see.”

Bolitho saw him moving about amongst the busy seamen as if he had been doing it all his life.

Little said quietly, “Reckon you can stop frettin’ now, sir. Old Stockdale will be worth fifteen men all on his bloody own, by my reckonin’!”

Bolitho drank some of the brandy, the grease from a chicken leg running unheeded across the cuff of his new shirt.

He had learned a lot today, not least about himself.

His head lolled, and he did not feel Stockdale remove the cup from his fingers.

And there was always tomorrow.