ALEXANDER KENT - In Gallant Company

He sat.

The cabin looked comfortable and content. Bolitho felt suddenly tired, as if all the strength had drained out of him like sand from an hour-glass.

Pears announced slowly, 'We shall have some claret presently.' Bolitho licked his lips. 'Thank you, sir.' He waited, completely lost. First Cairns, now Pears.

'Captain Viney of the Kittiwake brought orders from the flagship at Antigua. Mr Frowd is appointed into the Maid o f Norfolk, armed transport. With all despatch.'

'But, sir, his leg?'

'I know. The surgeon has patched him as best he can.' His eyes came up and settled firmly on Bolitho's face. 'What does he want most in the world?'

'A ship, sir. Perhaps one day, a command of his own.'

He recalled Frowd's face aboard the yawl. Perhaps even

then he had been thinking of it. A ship, any ship, like the

armed transport written in his appointment, would have done. 'I agree. If he languishes here it will be too late. If he returns

to Antigua,' he shrugged, 'his luck may have changed by

then.'

Bolitho watched him, fascinated by Pears' authority. He had fought in battles, and was now taking his command to deal with God alone knew what in Jamaica, and yet he had time to think about Frowd.

'Then there is Mr Quinn.' Pears opened the bottle, his head to one side as the hull shivered and rolled before settling down on a new tack, 'He was not forgotten.'

Bolitho waited, trying to discover Pears' true feelings.

'He is to be returned to Antigua for passage to England. The rest we already know. I have written a letter for his father. It won't help much. But I want him to understand that his son only had so much courage. When it left him he was as helpless as Frowd with his leg.' Pears nudged a heavy envelope with the bottle. 'But he tried, and if more young men were doing that, instead of living in comfort at home, we might be better placed than we are.'

Bolitho looked at the bulky envelope. Quinn's life.

Pears became almost brisk. 'But enough of that. I have things to do, orders to dictate.'

He poured two large glasses of claret and held them on the table until Bolitho took one. The ship was leaning so steeply that both would have slithered to the deck otherwise.

It was strange that no one else was here. He had expected D'Esterre, or perhaps Cairns, once he had completed his duties with the watch on deck.

Pears raised his glass and said, 'I expect this will be a long night for you. But there will be longer ones, believe me.'

He raised his glass, like a thimble in his massive fist.

'I wish you luck, Mr Bolitho, and as our redoubtable sailing master would say, God's speed.'

Bolitho stared at him, the claret untouched.

'I am putting you in command of the White Hills. We will part company tomorrow when it is light enough to ferry the wounded over to her.'

Bolitho tried to think, to clear the astonishment from his mind.

Then he said, 'The first lieutenant, sir, with all respect… Pears held up his glass. it was empty. Like Probyri's had once been.

'I was going to send him. I need him here, now more than ever, but he deserves an appointment, even as a prize-master.'

Ile eyed him steadily. 'As you did to Rear-Admiral Coutts, so did he refuse my suggestion.'

He smiled gravely. 'So there we are.'

Bolitho saw his glass being refilled and said dazedly, 'Thank you very much, sir.'

Pears, grimaced. 'So get the claret down you, and say your farewells. You can bother the life out of someone else after this!'

Bolitho found himself outside beside the motionless sentry again, as if it had all been a dream.

He found Cairns still on deck, leaning against the weather nettings and staring across at the brig's lights.

Before Bolitho could speak Cairns said firmly, 'You are going as prize-master tomorrow. It is settled, if I have to send you across in irons.'

Bolitho stood beside him, conscious of the movements behind him, the creak of the wheel, the slap of rigging against spars and canvas.

I expect this will be a long night for you. 'What has happened, Neil?'

He felt very close to this quiet, soft-spoken Scot.

'The captain also received a letter. I don't know who from. It is not his style to whimper. It was a friendly piece of information, if you can call it that. To tell Captain Pears he has been passed over for promotion to flag rank. A captain he will remain.' He looked up at the stars beyond the black rigging and yards. 'And when Trojan eventually pays-off, that will be the end for him. Coutts has been ordered to England under a cloud.' He could not hide his anger, his hurt. 'But he has wealth, and position.' He turned and gestured towards the poop. 'He only has his ship!'

'Thank you for telling me.'

Cairns' teeth were very white in the gloom. 'Away with you, man. Go and pack your chest.'

As Bolitho was about to leave him he added softly, 'But you do understand, my friend? I couldn't desert him now, could I?

The next morning, bright and early, with both vessels hove to, Trojan's boats started to ferry the wounded seamen across to the brig. On their return trips they carried the White Hills' crew into captivity. It must have been one of the shortest commissions in sea history, Bolitho thought.

Nothing seemed exactly real to him, and he found himself forgetting certain tasks, and checking to discover if he had completed others more than once.

Each time he went on deck he had to look across at the brig, rolling uncomfortably in steep troughs. But once under sail

again she could fly if need be. It was too close a memory to forget how she had been handled.

Cairns had already told him that Pears was allowing him to select his own prize-crew. Just enough to work the brig in safety, or run before a storm or powerful enemy.

He did not have to ask Stockdale. He was there, a small bag already packed. His worldly possessions. Pears had also instructed him to take the badly wounded Captain Jonas Tracy to Antigua. He was too severely injured to be moved with the other prisoners, and should be little trouble.

As the time drew near for him to leave, Bolitho was very aware of his own tore emotions. Small incidents from the past stood out to remind him of his two and a half years in the Trojan. It seemed quite unbelievable that he was leaving her, to place himself at the disposal of the admiral commanding in Antigua. it was like starting life all over again. New faces, fresh surroundings.

He had been surprised and not a little moved by some of the men who had actually volunteered to go with him.

Carlsson, the Swede who had been flogged. Dunwoody, the miller's son, Moffitt, the American, Rabbett, the ex-thief, and old Buller, the topman, the man who had recognized the brig from the start. He had been promoted to petty officer and had shaken his head in astonishment at the news.

There were others too, as much a part of the big two-decker as her figurehead or her captain.

He watched Frowd being swayed down to the cutter in a bosun's chair, his bandaged and splinted leg sticking out like a tusk, and hating it all, the indignity of leaving his ship in this fashion.

Quinn had already gone across. It would be difficult to stand between those two, Bolitho thought. Bolitho had already seen Frowd looking bitterly at Quinn. He was probably questioning the fairness of it. 'W'hy should Quinn, who was being rejected by the Navy, be spared, while he was a cripple?

Most of the goodbyes had been said already. Last night, and through the morning. Rough handshakes from gunner and boatswain, grins from others he had watched change from boys to men. Like himself.

D'Esterre had sent some of his own stock of wine across to the brig, and Sergeant Shears had given him a tiny cannon which he had fashioned from odd fragments of silver.