ALEXANDER KENT - In Gallant Company

Gasping and spluttering they reached the drifting spar and clung on to it.

Bolitho managed to say, 'I think you saved me.' For, unlike Couzens, he had forgotten to remove his clothes or even his hanger, and he was grateful for the spar's support.

As he tried to hold his head above the choppy wave crests he saw the cutter turning towards him, the oarsmen leaning outboard to pull some of the swimmers to safety, or allow them to hang along either side of the hull. Further beyond them the

other boats 'were coming too,. the marines and the small party of seamen left to guard them doing better than Bolitho had expected.

He called, `How is the brig?'

Couzens stared across the spar and answered, 'She's hove to, sir! They're not going to make a run for it!'

Bolitho nodded, unable to say anything more. The White Hills had no choice, especially as D'Esterre's boats were being careful not to lay themselves between him and Trojan's formidable artillery.

The brig's capture might not make up for all those who had died, but it would show Trojan's company what they could do, and give them back some pride.

Trojan's remaining boats had been lowered and were coming to join in the rescue. Bolitho could see the two jolly boats and even the gig bouncing over the water. It took a full hour before he and Midshipman Couzens were hauled aboard the gig by a grinning Midshipman Pullen.

Bolitho could well imagine what the delay had done to Stockdale, But Stockdale knew him well enough to stand off with his overloaded boat of wounded and half-drowned men, rather than to show preference for a lieutenant who was to all intents safe and unhurt.

The eventual return aboard the Trojan was one of mixed feelings. Sadness that some of the older and more experienced hands had died or suffered wounds, but riding with it a kind of wild jubilation that they had acted alone, and had won.

When the smartly painted brig was put under the command of a boarding party, and the seamen lining the Trojan's gangway cheered the returning victors, it felt like the greatest triumph of all time.

Small moments stood out, as they always did.

A seaman shaking his friend to tell him they were alongside their ship again, the stunned disbelief when he discovered he had died.

The cheers giving way to laughter as Couzens, as naked as the day he was born, climbed through the entry port with all the dignity he could manage, while two grinning marines presented arms for his benefit,

And Stockdale striding to meet Bolitho, his slow, lopsided smile of welcome better than any words.

Yet somehow it was Pears who held the day. tall, massive like his beloved Trojan, he stood watching in silence.

As Couzens tried to hide himself Pears called harshly, 'That is no way for a King's officer to disport himself, sir! 'Pon my soul, Mr Couzens, I don't know what you are thinking about, and that's the truth! ' Then as the boy ran, flushing, for the nearest companionway, he added, `Proud of you, all the same.'

Bolitho crossed the quarterdeck, his feet squelching noisily.

Pears eyed him grimly. 'Lost the yawl, I see? Loaded, was she?'

'Aye, sir., I believe she was to arm the brig.' He saw his men limping past, tarred hands reaching out to slap their shoulders. He said softly, 'Our people did well, sir.'

He watched the brig spreading her sails again, the torn one little more than rags. He guessed that Pears had sent a master's mate across, while the marines searched and sorted out the captured crew. Frowd might be made prize-master, it might make up for his badly shattered knee. Whatever Thorndike did for him now, or some hospital later on, he would have a bad limp for the rest of his life. He had reached the rank of lieutenant. Frowd would know better than anyone that his wound would prevent his getting any further.

It was late afternoon by the time both vessels had cleared the islands and had sea-room again. It was no small relief to see the reefs and swirling currents left far astern.

When D'Esterre returned to the Trojan he had another interesting find to report.

The White Hills' captain was none other than Jonas Tracy, the brother of the man killed when they had seized the schooner Faithful. He had had every intention of fighting his way from under Trojan's guns, hopeless or not. But the odds had been against him. His company were for the most part new to the trade of a fighting ship, which was the reason for a seasoned privateersman like Tracy being given command in the first place. His reputation, and list of successes against the British, made him an obvious choice. Tracy had ordered his men to put the White Hills about, to try and discover another, narrow passage through the islands. His men, already cowed by the Trojan's unexpected challenge, were completely beaten when that second, carefully aimed ball had smashed into the brig's side. It had shattered to fragments on the breech of a gun on the opposite bulwark, and one splinter, the size of a block, had taken Tracy's arm off at the shoulder. The sight of their tough, hard-swearing captain oat down before their eyes had been more than enough, and they had hauled down their flag.

Bolitho did not know if Tracy was still alive. It was an ironic twist that he had been firing on the man who was responsible for his brother's death without knowing it.

Bolitho was washing himself in his small cabin when he heard a commotion on deck, the distant cry that a sail was in sight.

The other vessel soon showed herself to be a frigate under full sail. She bore down on Trojan and with little fuss dropped a boat in the water to carry her captain across.

Bolitho threw on his shirt and breeches and ran on deck. The frigate was called Kittiwake, and Bolitho knew she was one of those he had seen at Antigua.

With as much ceremony as if they were safely anchored in Plymouth Sound, Trojan received her visitor, As the guard presented muskets, and calls shrilled, Pears stepped forward to greet him. Bolitho realized it was the post-captain who had been on Quinn's court of inquiry. Not the president, nor the one with the thin lips and vindictive manner, but the third officer who had, as far as Bolitho recalled, said nothing at all.

Sunset was closing in rapidly when the Kittizvake's lord and master took his leave, his step less firm than when he had come aboard.

Bolitho watched the frigate make sail again, her canvas like gold silk in the dying sunlight. She would soon be out of sight, her captain free of admirals and ponderous authority. He sighed.

Cairns joined him, his eyes on the duty watch who were preparing to get the ship under way again.

He said quietly, 'She was from Antigua with despatches. She has been realeased from her squadron to go ahead of us to Jamaica. We are not outcasts after all.'

He sounded different. Remote.

`Is something wrong?'

Cairns looked at him, his face glowing in the sunset.

`Captain Pears thinks that the sea war will end in the Caribbean.'

'Not America?' Bolitho did not understand this mood.

`Like me, I think he believes that the war is already finished. Victories we will have, must have if we are to meet the French when they come out. But to win a war takes more than that, Dick.' He touched his shoulder and smiled sadly. 'I am detaining you. The captain wants you aft.' He walked away, calling sharply, `Now then, Mr Dalyell, what is this shambles? Send the topmen aloft" and pipe the hands to the braces! It is like a fish market here!'

Bolitho groped through the shadowed passageway to Pears' cabin.

Pears was sitting at his table, studying a bottle of wine with grim concentration.

He said, 'Sit down.'

Bolitho heard the pad of bare feet overhead, and wondered how they were managing with the captain away from his familiar place by the rail.