The Flag Captain

2. The Visitor

Bolitho made himself stand quite still for several minutes as he stared towards the house. He had avoided the road through the town and had used instead the narrow twisting lane with its green hedgerows and sweet smells of the countryside. As he stood in the bright sunlight he was conscious of stillness, the hard pressure of the land through his shoes. It was all so different from the constant movement and sounds of shipboard life, and the realisation was one which never failed to surprise and please him. Except that this time it was not the same. He half listened to the gentle murmur of bees, the distant bark of some farm dog as it scurried around the sheep, while his eyes rested on the house, square and uncompromising against the sky and the sloping hill around which led towards the headland.

With a sigh he strode forward again, his shoes disturbing the dust, his eyes squinting against the glare. Once through the broad gates in the grey stone wall he paused, unsure of himself and wishing that he had not come.

Then as the double doors at the top of the steps opened he saw Ferguson, his one-armed steward, backed by two servant girls, waiting to greet him, their smiles so genuine that he was momentarily drawn from his own thoughts, and not a little moved.

Ferguson took his hand and murmured, “God bless you, sir. It is a fine thing to have you back home again.”

Bolitho smiled. “Not for long this time. But thank you.”

He saw Ferguson’s wife, plump and rosy cheeked in her white cap and spotless apron, scurrying to greet him, her face torn between pleasure and tears as she curtsied and said, “Never a warning, sir! But for Jack, the exciseman, we’d not have known you were back! He saw your topsails when the mist lifted and rode here to tell us.”

“Things have changed, Ferguson!” Bolitho removed his hat and walked through the high entrance, aware of the cool stone, the ageless textures of oak panelling which shone dully in the filtered sunlight. “There was a time when the young men of Falmouth could smell a King’s ship before it topped the horizon.”

Ferguson looked away. “Not many young men left now, sir. Those not in safe jobs have all been taken or volunteered! He followed him into the broad room with its empty fireplace and tall leather-backed chairs.

It was very quiet here too, as if the whole house was holding its breath.

Ferguson said, “I will fetch you a glass, sir.” He gestured to his wife and the two servant girls behind Bolitho’s back. “You’ll be wanting some time alone on your first hour…”

Bolitho did not turn. “Thank you.” He heard the door close behind him and then moved to the foot of the staircase, the wall of which was lined with the paintings of all the others who had lived here before him. So familiar. Nothing had changed, and yet…

The stairs creaked as he climbed slowly past the watching

portraits. Captain Daniel Bolitho, his great-great-grandfather, who had fought the French at Bantry Bay. Captain David Bolitho, his great-grandfather, depicted here on the deck of a blazing ship, who had died fighting pirates off the African coast. Where the stairs turned to the right old Denziel Bolitho, his grandfather, the only member of the family to reach the rank of rear-admiral, waited to greet him like a friend. Bolitho could still remember him, or thought he could, from the days when he had sat on his knee as a small child. But maybe it was his father’s stories about him and the familiar picture which he really recalled. He paused and looked directly at the last portrait.

His father had been younger when the portrait had been finished. Straight-backed, level-eyed, with the empty sleeve pinned across his coat, an afterthought of the painter after he had lost an arm in India. Captain James Bolitho. It was difficult to remember him as he had looked on their last meeting so many years back when he had told Bolitho of his other son’s disgrace. Hugh, the apple of his eye, who had killed a brother officer in a duel before fleeing to America to fight against his own country in the Revolution.

Bolitho sighed deeply. They were all dead. Even Hugh, whose deceptions had finally ended in death before his own eyes. A death which was still a secret he could share with no one. Hugh’s record of failure and deception would stay a secret, and his memory rest in peace if he had anything to do with it.

Ferguson called from the foot of the stairs, “I have put the glass by the window, sir. Some claret.” He paused uncertainly before adding, “In your bedroom, sir.” He sounded ill at ease. “They were to have been a surprise, but had not been finished at the time of your last visit…” His voice trailed away as Bolitho walked quickly to the door at the end of the landing and pushed it open.

For a moment longer he could see no change. The four-poster bed held in a shaft of dappled sunlight from the windows. The

tall mirror where she must have sat to comb her hair when he had been away… he felt his throat go dry as he turned to see the two new pictures on the far wall. It was just as if she was alive again, here in this room where she had waited in vain for his return. He wanted to move closer but was afraid, afraid the spell might break. The artist had even caught the sea-green in her eyes, the rich chestnut of her long hair. And the smile. He took a slow step towards it. The smile was perfect. Gentle, amused, the way she had looked at him whenever she had been near.

A step sounded in the doorway and Ferguson said quietly, “She wanted them together, sir.”

Bolitho looked at the other portrait for the first time. He was depicted wearing his old dress coat, the one with the broad white lapels which Cheney had liked so much.

He said huskily, “Thank you. It was good of you to remember her wishes.”

Then he walked quickly to the window and leaned over the warm sill. There, just round the hill, he could see the glittering horizon line. What she would have seen from this same window. Once he might have been saddened, even angry, that Ferguson had put the pictures here. To remind him of her, and his loss. He would have been wrong, and now as he stood with his palms resting on the sill he felt strangely at peace. For the first time that he could recall for a long while.

Below in the yard an old gardener peered up and waved his battered hat but he did not see him.

He stepped back into the room and turned once more towards the portraits. They were reunited here. Cheney had seen to that, and nothing could take them apart any more. When he was back at sea again, perhaps on the other side of the world, he would be able to think of this room. The portraits side by side, watching the horizon together.

He said, “That claret will be warm by now. I’ll come down directly.”

Later as he sat at the big desk, writing several letters to be carried to the port officials and chandlers, he thought about all that had happened here in this house. What would become of it when he died? There was only his young nephew, Adam Pascoe, Hugh’s illegitimate son, left to claim the Bolitho inheritance. He was away serving with Captain Thomas Herrick at the moment, but Bolitho decided he would soon do something for the boy to make sure of his rightful ownership of this house. His mouth hardened. Much as he loved his sister Nancy, he would never allow her husband, a Falmouth magistrate and one of the biggest landowners in the county, to get his hands on it.

Ferguson appeared again, his face set in a frown.

“Beg pardon, sir, but there’s a man to see you. He is most insistent.”

“Who is he?”

“I have never laid eyes on him before. A seafaring fellow, there’s no doubt of that, but no officer or gentleman, I’m equally sure!”

Bolitho smiled. It was hard to recall Ferguson as the man who had once been brought aboard his ship Phalarope by the press-gang, he and Allday together, poles apart it had appeared at the time. Yet they had become firm friends, and even when Ferguson had lost an arm at the Saintes he had continued to serve Bolitho here as his steward. Like Allday, he seemed to have that same protective attitude when anything uncertain or unusual was about to occur.

He said, “Show him in. He’ll not be too dangerous, I think.”

Ferguson ushered the visitor through the doors and closed them with obvious reluctance. He would be waiting within a foot of the entrance, Bolitho guessed, just in case.

“What can I do for you?”

The man was thickset and muscular, well tanned and with hair

fashioned into a pigtail. He was wearing a coat which was far too small for him, and Bolitho imagined it had been borrowed to cover up his true identity. For there was no mistaking his broad white trousers and buckled shoes. Even if he had been stark naked he would have known him to be a sailor.

“I begs yer pardon for the liberty, sir.” He knuckled his forehead while his eyes moved quickly round the room. “Me name’s Taylor, master’s mate o’ th’ Auriga, sir.”

Bolitho watched him calmly. He had a faint North Country burr, and was obviously nervous. A deserter hoping for mercy, or a place to hide in another ship? It was not unknown for such men to run back to the one and only world where they might be safe with any sort of luck. Yet there was something vaguely familiar about him.

Taylor added quickly, “I was with you in th’ Sparrow, sir. Back in seventy-nine in th’ West Indies.” He watched Bolitho anxiously. “I was maintopman then, sir.”

Bolitho nodded slowly. “Of course, I remember you now.” In the little sloop Sparrow, his first-ever command, when he had been just twenty-three, and the world had seemed a place for reckless enjoyment and unbounded ambition,

“ We ’eard you was back sir.” Taylor was speaking rapidly. “An’ because o’ me knowin’ you like, I was chosen to come.” He smiled bitterly. “I thought as I’d ’ave to borrow a boat or swim to yer ship. You comin’ ashore so soon made things easier like.” He dropped his eyes under Bolitho’s gaze.

“Are you in trouble, Taylor?”

He looked up, his eyes suddenly defensive. “That will depend on you, sir. I was chosen to speak with you, an’, an’, knowin’ you as a fair an’ just captain, sir, I thought maybe you’d listen to…”

Bolitho stood up and studied him calmly. “Your ship, where is she lying?”

Taylor jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Long the coast to

th’ east’rd, sir.” Something like pride crossed his tanned face. “Frigate, thirty-six, sir.”

“I see.” Bolitho walked slowly to the empty fireplace and back again. “And you, and men like you, have seized control, is that it? A mutineer?” He saw the man flinch and added harshly, “If you knew me, really knew me, you’d realise I’d not parley with those who betray their trust!”

Taylor said thickly, “If you’d ’ear me out, sir, that’s all I ask. After that you can ’ave me seized an’ ’anged if you so wish it, an’ well I knows that fact.”

Bolitho bit his lip. It had taken courage to come here like this. Courage and something more. This Taylor was no freshly pressed man, no lower deck sea-lawyer. He was a professional seaman. It could not have been easy for him. At any moment during his journey to Falmouth he might have been seen anyway by someone wishing to ingratiate himself with the authorities, and a patrol might even now be marching to the gates.

He said, “Very well. I cannot promise to agree with your views, but I will listen. That is all I can say.”

Taylor relaxed slightly. “We ’ave bin attached to the Channel Fleet, sir, an’ in regular commission for two years. We’ve ’ad little rest, for the fleet is always short o’ frigates, as you well knows. We was at Spit’ead when the trouble started last month, but our cap’n put to sea afore we could show our support with the others.” He bunched his hands tightly and continued bitterly, “I must say it, sir, so’s you’ll understand. Our cap’n’s a ’ard man, an’ th’ first lieutenant’s so taken with abusin’ the people there’s ’ardly one aboard whose back ’as not bin ripped open by th’ cat!”

Bolitho gripped his hands behind him. Stop him now, before he says any more. By listening so far you have implicated yourself in God knows what.

Instead he said coldly, “We are at war, Taylor. Times are hard for officers as well as seamen.”

Taylor eyed him stubbornly. “When the trouble broke at Spit’ead it was agreed by th’ delegates of the Fleet that we would go to sea an’ fight if th’ Frogs came out. There’s not a single Jack who’d be disloyal, sir. But some o’ the ships ’ave bad officers, sir, there’s none can say otherwise. There’s some where no pay or bounty ’as bin paid for months an’ the ’ands near starvin’ on foul food! When Black Dick,” he flushed, “beg pardon, sir, I mean Lord ’Owe, spoke to our delegates it was all settled. ’E agreed to our requests as best ’e could.” He frowned. “But we was at sea by then an’ ’ad no part in the settlement. In fact, our cap’n ’as bin worse instead o’ better! An’ that’s God’s truth, on my oath!”

“So you’ve taken the ship?”

“Aye, sir. Until justice is agreed on.” He looked at the floor. “ We ’eard of the orders to join this new squadron under Vice-Admiral Broughton. It’ll maybe mean years away from England. It’s not fair that our wrongs should stay unrighted. We knew Admiral Broughton at Spit’ead, sir. ’E’s said to be a good officer, but would go ’ard with any more trouble.”

“And if I say nothing can be done, what then?”

Taylor looked him in the eyes. “There’s many aboard who swear we’ll ’ang anyway. They want to sail the ship to France an’ trade ’er for their freedom.” He hardened his jaw. “But those like me say otherwise, sir. We just want our rights like the boys at Spit’ead got.”

Bolitho eyed him narrowly. How much did Taylor know of the other unrest at the Nore? He might be genuine, or could be the tool of someone more experienced in revolt. There was little doubt that what he had said of his ship was true.

He said, “Have you harmed anyone aboard?”

“None, sir, you’ve my word.” Taylor spread his hands pleadingly. “If you could tell ’em that you’d put our case to the admiral, sir, it’d make a world o’ difference! “Something like a sad smile showed on his rough features. “I think some of the lieutenants an’

th’ master are a might glad it’s ’appened, sir. It’s bin a terrible un’appy ship.”

Bolitho’s mind moved rapidly. Vice-Admiral Broughton might be in London. He could be anywhere. Until he hoisted his flag Rear-Admiral Thelwall was still in command, and he was too sick to be involved in anything like this.

There was Captain Rook, and the officer commanding the local garrison. There were probably dragoons still at Truro, and the port admiral thirty miles away in Plymouth. And all were equally useless at this moment of time.

If a frigate was indeed handed over to the enemy it might act as a general signal to the men at the Nore, who were still hovering on the brink of mutiny. It might even be seen as the thing to do when all else had failed. A chill ran down his spine. If the French got to hear of it they would act without delay to put an invasion into force. The thought of a confused demoralised fleet being destroyed because he alone had failed to act was unthinkable, no matter what the consequences might be later.

He asked shortly, “What else were you told to explain?”

“The Auriga’s anchored in Veryan Bay. Some eight miles from ’ere. Do you know of it, sir?”

Bolitho smiled grimly. “I am a Cornishman, Taylor. Yes, I know it well.”

Taylor licked his lips. Maybe he had been expecting instant arrest. Now that Bolitho was listening to him he seemed unable to get the words out fast enough.

“If I’m not back afore sunset they’ll make sail, sir. We bin approached by an armed cutter more’n once an’ we’ve told ’em to stand off, that we’re anchored to carry out some repairs.”

Bolitho nodded. It was not unusual for smaller ships to take refuge in that particular bay. It was quiet and fairly well sheltered in anything but severe weather. Whoever had steered this mutiny to its present state certainly knew what he was doing.

Taylor continued, “There’s a little inn on the west side o’ th’ bay, sir.”

Bolitho said, “The Drake’s Head. A smugglers’ haunt, to all accounts.”

“Maybe, sir.” Taylor watched him uncertainly. “But if you’ll come there tonight an’ meet our delegates, we can settle matters there an’ then like.”

Bolitho turned away. How easy it all sounded. And what was the Auriga’s captain supposed to think about it? Merely pack his chest and leave? The simple reasoning probably seemed sound enough between decks, but it would cut little cloth when it reached higher authority.

But the most important and urgent thing was to stop the ship being taken and given to the enemy. Bolitho had no doubt that her captain was all and more than Taylor had described. There were enough of such petty tyrants throughout the Service, and he had even assumed an earlier command himself because of the previous captain’s callousness.

Anyway, he could not hide his head and ignore it.

He said, “Very well.”

“Thank you, sir.” Taylor nodded vehemently. “You must come alone, but for a servant. They says they’ll kill the cap’n if there’s any sort o’ treachery.” He hung his head. “I’m sorry, sir, it was none o’ my wantin’. All I wished was to end me days in one piece, with a pot o’ prize money at th’ end o’ it to open a little inn maybe, or a chandler’s.”

Bolitho looked at him gravely. Instead, you’ll probably end on a yardarm, he thought.

Taylor said suddenly, “They’ll listen to you, sir. I just know it. With a new cap’n the ship’d be ready to live again.”

“I will promise nothing. Lord Howe’s pardon should certainly have applied to your ship, however…” He faced the other man steadily. “It could go hard with you, as I expect you know.”

“Aye, sir. But when you’ve lived with misery for so long it is a chance we must face up to.”

Bolitho walked to the door. “I will ride to the inn at dusk. If what you have told me is true, I will do what I can to bring the matter to a rightful conclusion.”

The relief on Taylor’s face faded as Bolitho added flatly, “If on the other hand this is some delaying tactic to give your people more time to dispose of the ship, be in no doubt of the consequences. It has been done before, and the culprits have always been run to ground.” He paused. “Eventually.”

The man knuckled his forehead and hurried out into the passage.

Ferguson watched him go with obvious distaste.

“Is it all well, sir?”

“At present, thank you.” He pulled his watch from his pocket. “Send someone to signal for my barge.” He saw the disappointment on Ferguson’s face and added, “I will be back ashore later today, but there are things to attend to.”

An hour later Bolitho climbed up through the Euryalus’s gilded entry port and removed his hat to the pipes’ shrill greeting and the stamp and slap of muskets.

Keverne looked unusually preoccupied. When they reached the quarterdeck he said shortly, “The surgeon is worried about the admiral, sir. He is very low, and I am afraid for him.”

Bolitho glanced at Allday whose face had been screwed up with burning curiosity ever since the barge had reached the jetty.

“Keep the bargemen standing by. I may require them soon.”

Then he strode aft and down to the admiral’s quarters.

Lying quietly in his cot the admiral seemed even smaller and more fragile. His eyes were shut, and there was blood on his shirt-front as well as the handkerchief.

Bolitho glanced at the surgeon, a thin, wiry man with unusually large and hairy hands.

“Well, Mr Spargo?”

He shrugged. “I cannot be sure, sir. He ought to be on shore. I am only a ship’s surgeon.” He shrugged again. “But the effort of moving him now might be fatal.”

Bolitho nodded, his mind made up.

“Then leave him here and watch him well.” To Keverne he said, “Come up to my cabin.”

Keverne followed him in silence until they had reached the wide cabin which ran the whole breadth of the poop. Through the open stern windows was a perfect view of St Anthony Head, moving slightly as the ship swung ponderously on the current.

“I have to go ashore again, Mr Keverne.” He must be careful not to involve his first lieutenant, yet at the same time he had to be primed enough to know what to do if the scheme misfired.

Keverne’s face was a mask. “Sir?”

Bolitho unclipped his sword and laid it on the table.

“There is no news of Vice-Admiral Broughton yet. Nor is there any hint of unrest ashore. Captain Rook’s boats will be alongside after our people have had their meal, and you can carry on with loading stores all afternoon and into the dog watches if the sea remains calm.”

Keverne waited, knowing there was more to come.

“Sir Charles is very sick, as you have seen.” Bolitho wished Keverne would show some curiosity, like Herrick would have done when he had been his first lieutenant. “So you will be in command until my return.”

“When will that be, sir?”

“I am not sure. Later tonight perhaps!”

He had Keverne’s interest roused at last.

“Is there something I can do to help, sir?” He paused. “Will there be trouble?”

“Not if I can prevent it. I will leave written orders for you to act upon if I am delayed for more than the night. You will open

them and take whatever…” he held up his hand, “no, every necessary step to see that they are carried out without delay.” His mind grappled with the picture of the chart within his brain. It would take Euryalus more than two hours to up anchor and reach Veryan Bay, where the sight of her terrible armament would soon quell even the stoutest heart into submission. But by then it might be far too late.

Why not put to sea now, without further delay? No one would blame him, probably quite the reverse. He frowned and dismissed the idea immediately. This was to be a new squadron. And with the war entering its most dangerous stage so far, it would be a bad beginning for the flagship to pound an anchored consort into a bloody shambles because he had not the nerve or the will to do otherwise.

Surprisingly, Keverne smiled, showing his even teeth.

“I have not been with you for eighteen months and learned nothing of your methods, sir.” The smile vanished. “And I hope I have your confidence!”

Bolitho smiled. “A captain can only go so far to share his thoughts, Mr Keverne. His responsibility he must hold to himself, as you will one day discover.” If it goes badly tonight you may be promoted earlier than you imagine, he thought bleakly.

Trute, the cabin servant, stepped gingerly through the door and asked, “Permission to lay th’ table for your lunch, sir?”

Keverne said, “I will go and attend to the hands, sir.” He watched distantly as Trute busied himself with plates and cutlery at the long table. “I’ll not be sorry to get to sea again.” He left the cabin without another word.

As Bolitho sat moodily at his lonely table toying with the cold rabbit pie which must have been sent directly from the shore by Rook, he thought back over what Taylor had told him. The fact that he had been able to reach Falmouth and find the house so quickly spoke volumes, and suggested there were other watchful

eyes already close by, ready to pass the word back to the Auriga. Any sort of deception, marines landed at the jetty or some such precaution other than normal port practice, would soon arouse suspicion, and the Auriga’s captain would be in grave danger, the consequences terrible.

He stood up angrily. How long would it take before such men were pruned from the Navy once and for all? A new breed of officer was growing up, and finding the scope to attack the enemy as well as better the living conditions of their own seamen. But here and there was the bully and tyrant, often men with influence in high places who could not be broken or removed until moments like these, when it was too late.

Trute returned and eyed him worriedly. “Did yew not like the pie, sir?” He was a Devon man and viewed Bolitho, like all Cornishmen, with both apprehension and a little awe.

“Later perhaps.” Bolitho glanced at the sword. Old and so worn, the one which appeared in many of those family portraits. “I will leave this in your care.” He tried to keep his voice normal. “I shall take a hanger.” He paused. “And pistols.”

Trute gaped at the sword. “Leave it, sir?”

Bolitho ignored him. “Now pass the word for my cox’n.”

Allday was equally surprised. “Won’t seem the same without the sword, Captain.” He shook his head. “Whatever next!”

Bolitho snapped, “I have told you before that one of these days you will open your mouth too wide. You are not so old and wise that you can avoid my displeasure!”

Allday smiled. “Aye, aye, Captain.”

It was hopeless. “We will be going ashore together. Do you know the Drake’s Head?”

Allday became serious. “Aye. Veryan Bay. ’Tis owned by an old yaw-sighted villain. One eye points forrard, t’other almost abeam, but his wits are as sharp as a midshipman’s hunger.”

“Good. That is where we are going.”

Allday frowned as Trute re-entered and laid a brace of pistols on the table beside a curved hanger.

He asked mildly. “A duel, Captain?”

“Call away the barge. Then give my compliments to Mr Keverne and tell him I am ready to leave, as soon as I have written his orders.”

Bolitho made a further visit to see the admiral, but there was little change. He appeared to be resting quietly, his wizened face more relaxed in sleep.

On deck he found Keverne waiting for him.

“Barge alongside, sir.” Keverne looked aloft at the listless flag. “The wind has died for some while, I think.”

Bolitho grunted. It was just as if Keverne was trying to warn him. That once he left the ship he was alone and without much hope of assistance. He cursed his own uncertainty. Keverne did not know, and anyway, what else could be done? To wait until the new admiral arrived was merely hiding from the responsibility he had accepted as his own. He said abruptly, “Look after her.” Then he lowered himself down to the waiting boat.

When they reached the jetty he climbed the steps and paused to look back. Framed against the blue water and clear sky the ship seemed indestructible, permanent. An illusion, he thought grimly. No vessel was stronger than those who served her.

Allday watched critically as the acting coxswain manoeuvred the barge clear of the stones for the return journey. Then he asked, “What now, Captain?”

“ To the house. I have things to do, and we will require two horses.”

He reached up and felt the locket beneath his shirt. The one she had given him containing a lock of that perfect chestnut hair. He would leave it at the house. Whatever happened this night, he was not going to have someone else pawing over the locket.

He added slowly, “A fine day. It is hard to think of war, and other things.”

Allday said, “Aye, Captain. A tankard and a woman’s voice would not come amiss right at present.”

Bolitho was suddenly impatient. “Well, come along, Allday. When the oven’s hot it is time to bake. No sense in wasting time in dreams.”

Allday followed him readily, his mouth set in a smile. Like the wind across the sea, all the signs were there. Whatever the captain was planning, that which was troubling him enough to make him provoke his own anger, would go hard with someone before another dawn.

He thought suddenly of Bolitho’s words and grimaced. A topsail yard or a rough backstay, he could manage either. Even a reluctant woman was not too much trouble. But a horse! He rubbed his buttocks. By the time they reached the Drake’s Head he would have need for more than a tankard, he thought gloomily.

They left the house before dusk, but by the time they had crossed the river at a small ford, well clear of Falmouth, it was getting dark rapidly. But Bolitho knew the countryside like the back of his hand, and with Allday trotting uncomfortably behind him kept up a good pace until he had found the narrow twisting lane which led to Veryan. In places it was very steep, with the trees almost touching overhead, the thick brush alive with squeaks and startled rustlings as they passed by.

Then a sharp curve and for a few more minutes he saw the edge of the headland itself, with a writhing pattern of surf far below where the rocks lay like black teeth at the foot of the high cliffs.

Allday gasped, “My God, Captain, this horse has no respect for my rump!”

“Hold your noise, damn you!” Bolitho reined his horse at the

top of yet another steep slope and strained his eyes towards a darker line of tangled bushes.

The cliff edge had moved inwards again and probably came to within yards of the bushes. Beyond he could see the sea shining dully in the gloom, flat and unruffled, like pewter. But the bay was in deeper shadow, there might not be a ship there at all. Equally there could be half a dozen.

He shivered slightly and was glad he had allowed Mrs. Ferguson to have her way over the boat-cloak. It was cold up here, and the air felt damp. There would be another sea mist in before dawn.

He heard Allday breathing heavily beside him and said, “Not much farther now. The inn is about half a mile from here.”

Allday grunted. “I don’t like it, Captain.”

“You do not have to like it.” Bolitho looked at him. He had told Allday the bones of what was happening and nothing more. Just enough to clear himself if anything went wrong. “Surely you’ve not forgotten…”

He broke off and gripped his arm. “What was that?”

Allday stood up on his stirrups. “A hare maybe?”

The shout, when it came, was with the suddenness of a shot.

“Keep still and raise yer ’ands in the air where we can see ’em!”

Allday groped for his cutlass. “By God, it’s a bloody ambush!”

“Belay that, Allday!” Bolitho wheeled his horse against him and knocked his hand away from the weapon. “It is what I expected, man.”

The voice said, “Easy, Cap’n! We don’t want to cut you down but…”

Another voice, more insistent and hard with tension, snapped, “ We can do without wasting time, just you go an’ disarm ’em, and lively with it!”

There seemed to be about three men, Bolitho thought. He watched as a shadowy figure reached up to relieve Allday of

his cutlass, and heard the clatter of steel as it fell in the lane.

Another man materialised out of the darkness right beside him and said, “An’ you, sir. You’ll have pistols with you?”

Bolitho handed them down with the hanger and said coldly, “I was told that some sort of trust was needed. I did not know it was to be one-sided.”

The man faltered. “We’re takin’ a great risk, Cap’n. You might have brung the militia with you.” He sounded frightened.

The man who had not shown himself shouted, “Take the horses and lead ’em.” A pause and then, “I’ll be astern. One wrong tack and I will fire, no matter the rights an’ wrongs of the argument.”

Allday said between his teeth, “I’ll spit him, the bugger, for talking like that!”

Bolitho remained silent, allowing the horse to jog along with the man walking at its head. It was no more than he had anticipated. Nobody but a fool would arrange a meeting without taking these elementary precautions. They had probably been followed for the last few miles, the horses’ hoofbeats would have drowned most of the noise.

A single light appeared round the bend in the lane and he saw the pale outline of the inn. A small, untidy building, added to and altered over the years without much idea of beauty, he thought vaguely.

There was no moon and the stars looked very small. It was colder too, and he knew that the sea was not far away now, perhaps half a mile to the foot of the cliffs by way of a rugged and dangerous path. No wonder the inn was considered safe for smugglers.

“Dismount.”

Two more figures moved from the building and he saw the glint of metal as he swung himself from the saddle.

“Follow me.”

It was only a lantern burning inside the low-beamed parlour,

but after the dark lane it seemed like a beacon. The room smelt of ale and tobacco, bacon and dirt.

The innkeeper stepped into the lamplight, wiping his hands on a long, filthy apron. He was exactly as Allday had described, with one eye veering away as if trying to burst out of its socket.

He said in a thin, wheedling tone, “None o’ my doin’, sir. I wants you to remember that I had no part in all this.” He trained his good eye on Bolitho and added, “I knew your father, sir, a fine man…”

The voice barked, “Hold your damn noise! I’ll leave you hanging on your bloody rafters if you don’t stow your whining!”

Bolitho turned slowly as the innkeeper cringed into the shadows. The speaker was about thirty, ruddy faced but lacking the toughness expected of a seaman. His clothes were quite good. A plain blue coat and a shirt which had been recently washed. His face was intelligent but hard. A man who became angry very easily, Bolitho decided.

“I do not see Taylor here.”

The man, obviously the leader, said coldly, “He is with the boat.”

Bolitho looked at the others. There were four of them, and probably two more outside. All seamen, they were ill at ease and watching their spokesman with a mixture of anxiety and resignation.

“You will be seated, Captain. I have sent for some ale.” He lifted his lip in a sneer. “But perhaps someone of your standing would prefer brandy, eh?”

Bolitho eyed him calmly. The man was trying to provoke him.

“The ale will be very welcome.” He opened his cloak and dropped it on a chair. “You must be the chosen delegate?”

“I am.” He watched with mounting irritation as the innkeeper shuffled to the table with some tankards and a brimming earthenware jug of ale. “You wait in your kitchen!”

In a more level tone he continued, “Now, Captain, have you decided to accept our terms?”

“I was not aware that any had been agreed upon.” Bolitho lifted a tankard and noticed with relief that his hand was still steady. “You have taken a King’s ship. That is an act of mutiny as well as one of treason if you persist with the rest of your plan.”

Strangely, the man seemed more satisfied than angry. He looked at the others and said, “You see, lads! There’s no bargaining with the likes of him. You should have listened to me in the first place instead of wasting time.”

A grizzled petty officer replied quickly, “Easy! Mebbe if you was to tell ’im the other things like we agreed?”

“You’re a fool!” He turned back to Bolitho. “I knew this would happen. The lads at Spithead won their cause because they stood together. Next time there’ll be no damn promises strong enough to break us!”

The petty officer said gruffly, “Would you look at this book, sir.” He pushed it over the table, his eyes on Bolitho’s face. “I bin at sea man an’ boy for thirty years. I’ve never bin in anything like this afore, an’ that’s God’s truth, sir.”

“You’ll hang just the same, you fool!” The spokesman eyed him with contempt. “But show him if it makes you feel better.”

Bolitho opened the canvas-covered book and leafed past the first few pages. It was the frigate’s punishment book, and as he ran his eyes down the neatly written records he felt the revulsion twisting his stomach like fever.

None of these men could have known the effect it would have on him. They were merely trying to show him what they had suffered. But in the past Bolitho had always inspected the punishment book of any ship of which he had just taken command. He believed it gave a better picture of her previous commander than any other testimony.

He could feel them watching him, sense the tension surrounding him like a physical thing.

Most of the offences listed were trivial and fairly typical. Disorderly behaviour, disobedience, carelessness and insolence. Many of them he knew from experience would mean little more than ignorance on the part of the man involved.

But the punishments were savage. In one week alone, while the Auriga had been patrolling off Le Havre, her captain had awarded a total of one thousand lashes. Two men had been flogged twice in the same period, one of whom had died under the lash.

He shut the book and looked up. There were so many questions he wanted to ask. Why the first lieutenant had done nothing to prevent such brutality? He checked the thought instantly. What would Keverne have done in the past if his own captain had ordered such punishment? The realisation made him suddenly angry. He had seen often enough the way men looked at him when things went wrong, as they often did in the complex matters of working a ship-of-the-line. Sometimes it amounted to real terror, and it never failed to sicken him. A captain, any captain, was second only to God as far as his men were concerned. A superior being who could encourage advancement with one hand and order the most vicious punishment with the other. To think that some captains, the Auriga’s amongst them, could abuse such power was nothing but abhorrent to him.

He said slowly, “I would like to come aboard and speak with your captain.” As several of them started to speak at once he added, “Otherwise I can do nothing.”

The chief delegate said, “You may have fooled the others, but I can see through your deception well enough.” He gestured angrily. “First a show of sympathy, and the next thing we’ll know is the gibbet on some sea wall where every passing sailor can see what value there is in trusting the word of an officer!”

Allday gave a savage oath and half rose to his feet, but looked

helplessly at Bolitho as he said, “Rest easy, Allday. When a man thinks that righting a wrong is a waste of time, there is little point in argument.”

One of the seamen said thickly, “Aye, what’s wrong in the cap’n comin’ aboard? If ’e breaks ’is faith with us we can take ’im along as ’ostage.”

There was a murmur of agreement, and for an instant Bolitho saw the leader caught off guard.

He decided to make another move. “If on the other hand you had no intention of seeking justice, and merely wanted an excuse to hand your ship to the enemy,” he let his voice drag over the word, “then I should warn you that I have already made certain arrangements to forestall you.”

“He’s bluffing!” But the man’s voice was less assured now. “There’s no ship within miles of us here!”

“There will be another mist at dawn.” He thrust his hands under the table knowing they were quivering with excitement or worse. “You will be unable to make sail before the forenoon. I know this bay well and it is too dangerous.” He hardened his tone. “Especially without the help of your officers.”

The petty officer muttered, “’E’s right, Tom.” He craned forward. “Why not do like ’e says? We got nowt to lose by listenin’.”

Bolitho studied the leader thoughtfully. His name was Tom. It was a beginning.

“Damn your eyes, the lot of you!” The man was flushed with sudden anger. “A batch of delegates, are you? More like a pack of old women!”

The anger calmed as suddenly as before, and Bolitho was reminded of Keverne.

He said harshly, “Right then, so be it.” He gestured to the old petty officer. “You will remain here with one lookout.” He glanced at Allday, his eyes hostile. “And you can keep this lackey as hostage. If we make the signal I want him dead. If there’s some

sort of attack we will kill the pair of them and hang them beside our own precious lord and bloody master, right?”

The petty officer flinched but nodded in agreement.

Bolitho looked at Allday’s grim features and forced a smile. “You wanted a rest and a tankard. You have both.” Then he rested his hand briefly on his shoulder. He could almost feel the man’s tension and anger beneath it. “It will be all right.” He tried to give value to his words. “We are not fighting the enemy.”

“We shall see!” The man named Tom opened the door and made a mock bow. “Now walk in front of me and mind your manners. I’ll not pipe my eye if I have to cut you down here and now!”

Bolitho strode into the darkness without answering. The night was still before them, but there was a lot to do before dawn if there was to be any hope of success. As he hurried down the steep track his mind returned to the punishment book. It was surprising that men driven and provoked by such inhumanity had bothered to try to seek justice by channels they only barely understood. It was more surprising still that the mutiny had not broken out months earlier. The realisation helped to encourage him, although he knew it was little enough to sustain anything.