ALEXANDER KENT: In Gallant Company

They had the sea to themselves, for after beating clear of Nantucket and pushing on towards the entrance of Massachusetts Bay they were well clear of both land and local shipping.. Somewhere, some sixty miles across the weather side, lay Boston. There were quite a few aboard Trojan who could remember Boston as it had once been before the bitterness and resentment had flared into anger and blood.

The Bay itself was avoided by all but the foolhardy. It was the home of some of the most able privateers, and Bolitho wondered, not for the first time, if there were any stalking the powerful two-decker at this moment.

Cairns had a muffler around his throat, and asked, 'What make you of the weather, Dick?'

Bolitho watched the men streaming to the hatches on their way to the galley and their cramped messes.

He had taken over the watch as Bunce had been keeping a stern eye on the ritual taking of noon sights, although it was more a routine than to serve any real purpose in this poor visibility. The midshipmen lined up with their sextants, the master's mates watching their progress, or their lack of it.

Bolitho replied calmly, 'Fog.'

Cairns stared at him. 'Is this one of your Celtic fantasies,

man?'

Bolitho smiled. 'The master said fog.'

The first lieutenant sighed. 'Then fog it will be. Though in

this half gale I see no chance of it!'

'Deck there!'

They looked up, caught off guard after so much isolation

Bolitho saw the shortened figure of the mainmast look-out, a tiny shape against the low clouds. It made him dizzy just to watch.

'Sail on th' weather beam, sir!'

The two lieutenants snatched telescopes and climbed into the shrouds. But there was nothing. just the wavecrests, angrier and steeper in the searching lens, and the hard, relentless glare.

'Shall I inform the captain, sir?'

Bolitho watched Cairns ' face as he returned to the deck. He could almost see his mind working. A sail. What did it mean? Unlikely to be friendly. Even a lost and confused ship's master would not fail to understand the dangers hereabouts.

'Not yet.' Cairns glanced meaningly towards the poop. 'He'll have heard the masthead anyway. He'll not fuss until we're

ready.'

Bolitho thought about it. Another view of Captain Pears which he had not considered. But it was true. He never did rush on deck like some captains, afraid for their ships, or impatient for answers to unanswerable questions.

He looked at Cairns ' quiet face again. It was also true that Cairns inspired such trust.

Bolitho asked, 'Shall I go aloft and see for myself?'

Cairns shook his head. 'No. I will. The captain will doubtless want a full report.'

Bolitho watched the first lieutenant hurrying up the shrouds, the telescope slung over his shoulders like a musket. Up and up, around the futtock shrouds and past the hooded swivel gun there to the topmast and further still towards the look-out who sat so calmly on the crosstrees, as if he was on a comfortable village bench.

He dragged his eyes away from Cairns ' progress. It was something he could never get used to or conquer. His hatred of heights. Each time he had to go aloft, which was mercifully rare, he felt the same nausea, the same dread of falling.

He saw a familiar figure on the gundeck below the quarterdeck rail and felt something like affection for the big, ungainly man in checkered shirt and flapping white trousers. One more link with the little Destiny. Stockdale, the muscular prize-fighter he had rescued from a barker outside an inn when he and a dispirited recruiting party had been trying to drum up volunteers for the ship.

Stockdale had taken to the sea in a manner born. As strong as five men, he never abused his power, and was more gentle than many. The angry barker had been hitting Stockdale with a length of chain for losing in a fight with one of Bolitho's men. The man in question must have cheated in some way, for Bolitho had never seen Stockdale beaten since.

He spoke very little, and when he did it was with effort, as his vocal chords had been cruelly damaged in countless barefist fights up and down every fair and pitch in the land.

Seeing him then, stripped to the waist, cut about the back by the barker's chain, had been too much for Bolitho. When he had asked Stockdale to enlist he had said it almost without thinking of the consequences. Stockdale had merely nodded, picked up his things and had followed him to the ship.

And whenever Bolitho needed aid, or was in trouble, Stockdale was always there. Like that last time, when Bolitho had seen the screaming savage rushing at him with a cutlass snatched from a dying seaman. Later he had heard all about it. How Stockdale had rallied the retreating seamen, had picked him up like a child and had carried him to safety.

When Bolitho's appointment to Trojan had arrived, he had imagined that would be an end to their strange relationship. But somehow, then as now, Stockdale had managed it.

He had wheezed, 'One day, you'll be a cap'n, sir. Reckon you'll need a coxswain.'

Bolitho smiled down at him. Stockdale could do almost anything. Splice, reef and steer if need be. But he was a gun captain now, on one of Trojan's upper battery of thirty eighteen

pounders. And naturally he just happened to be in Bolitho's own division.

'What d'you think, Stockdale?'

The man's battered face split into a wide grin. 'They be watching us, Mr Bolitho,'

Bolitho saw the painful movements of his throat. The sea's bite was making it hard for Stockdale.

'You think so, eh?'

'Aye.' He sounded very confident. 'They'll know what we're about, an' where we're heading. I wager there'll be other craft hull down where we can't see'em.'

Cairns ' feet hit the deck as he slid down a stay with the agility of a midshipman.

He said, 'Schooner by the cut of her. Can barely make her out, it's so damn hazy.' He shivered in a sudden gust. 'Same tack as ourselves.' He saw Bolitho smile at Stockdale, and asked, 'May I share the joke?'

'Stockdale said that the other sail is watching us, sir. Keeping well up to wind'rd.'

Cairns opened his mouth as if to contradict and then said, 'I fear he may be right. Instead of a show of strength, Trojan may be leading the pack down on to the very booty we are trying to protect.' He rubbed his chin. 'By God, that is a sour thought. I had expected an attack to be on the convoy's rear, the usual straggler cut out before the escort has had time to intervene.'

'All the same.' He rubbed his chin harder. 'They'll not try to attack with Trojan's broadsides so near.'

Bolitho recalled Pears' voice at the conference. The hint of doubt. His suspicion then had now become more real.

Cairns glanced aft, past the two helmsmen who stood straddle-legged by the great double wheel, their eyes moving from sail to compass.

'It's not much to tell the captain, Dick. He has his orders. Trojan is no frigate. If we lost time in some fruitless manoeuvres we might never reach the convoy in time. You have seen the wind's perverse manners hereabouts. It could happen tomorrow. Or now.'

Bolitho said quietly, 'Remember what the Sage said. Fog.' He watched the word hitting Cairns Like a pistol ball. 'If we have to lie to, we'll be no use to anyone.'

Cairns studied him searchingly. 'I should have seen that.

These privateersmen know more about local conditions than any

of us.' He gave a wry smile. 'Except the Sage.' Lieutenant Quinn came on deck and touched his hat. 'I'm to relieve you, sir.'

Ile looked from Bolitho to the straining masses of canvas. Bolitho would only go for a quick meal, especially as he wanted to know about Pears' reactions. But to the sixth lieutenant, eighteen years old, it would seem a lifetime of awesome responsibility, for to all intents and purposes he would control Trojan's destiny for as long as he trod the quarterdeck.