ALEXANDER KENT: In Gallant Company

The man was a petty officer of sorts and, he guessed, as English as himself.

'You've bitten off too much this time, sir!'

Bolitho felt the man's strength forcing him back, the blade inches from his chest. It was not that he was a better swordsman, but his voice, if not Cornish, was certainly from Bolitho's own West Country.

Moffitt rose shaking his head like a prize-fighter, the blood of another victim glittering on his cutlass.

`And you!'

Bolitho fell back with the petty officer on top of him. Moffitt's blade had been driven into his spine with such force it was a wonder it had not pinioned both of them.

Couzens was ducking and side-stepping wildly as figures staggered and kicked around him like madmen. Steel on steel, and from right aft a chorus of screams as a swivel exploded and burst apart amongst its own crew.

But he managed to shout, 'I came to help!'

Bolitho shook his arm, feeling him cringe, as he said, 'Take two men and get below! Tell them I want this brig set alight!' He knew the boy was terrified of him, his wildness, and his despair. 'Do it!'

Shots were hitting the deck around him and making the corpses jerk to their impact. The Revenge's captain had sent marksmen aloft to mark down Frowd's puny challenge and to kill any of the boarders who looked like an officer or a leader.

Stockdale bellowed, 'Watch out, sir!' He lunged forward as a man rushed at Bolitho with a cutlass, but was not quick enough.

Bolitho saw the fury on the seaman's contorted features and wondered if he himself looked like that, if that was why Couzens had seemed so frightened of him.

The heavy cutlass grated across Bolitho's sword-belt, scoring the brass plate like a musket-ball.

Bolitho saw the man's expression change to fear, then to nothing as t1he hanger opened his face from eye to jaw and threw him screaming into the men behind him.

Bolitho felt sick, worn out and stunned by the savagery of battle. Couzens would not be able to fire the brig, and in any case they had started to cheer. The battle was nearly done. Like Quinn, he had tried.

There it was again, wild and uncontrolled. 'Huzza! Huzzaf'

Bolitho stared at Stockdale. 'That was no enemy!'

He swung round, dropping his guard for the first time, as through the fore-hatch came a sudden rush of dirty, unshaven figures.

Couzens was running with them, beside himself with ecstasy as he shouted, 'Prisoners, sir!'

He was pushed away by the released men as they snatched up fallen cutlasses, belaying pins, anything which could hit or maim their old captors.

Bolitho thought he must be going mad, and yet it was happening. They were obviously seamen captured in previous battles, maybe some from this very brig. But they charged through the dwindling boarding party like an avenging tidal wave, beating down the privateer's crew and hurling some of them over the side in their determination to seize the poop.

Bolitho shouted, 'Come on, lads! One last effort!'

Then, cheering and yelling meaningless words he ran with the rest, his arm like lead as he hacked and parried, cat and pushed his way aft.

A few shots were still hitting the deck nearby, and without warning a seaman slithered down a stay and snatched a pistol from his belt, his face frozen in concentration as he stared at the onrushing figures.

He must have known that nothing could save him, and yet some last spark of anger or pride held him there.

Couzens found himself face to face with him. Bolitho saw what was happening, but was several paces away, and Stockdale further still.

Bolitho shouted hoarsely, 'You shoot and I will kill you!'

The man's eyes did not even flicker, and Bolitho knew he was going to fire, he could even see the trigger starting to give under his finger.

A figure bounded over a pile of tangled sails and threw himself between the pistol and the stricken Couzens, so that the shot was almost muffled.

Bolitho ran and caught Quinn as he fell. He did not see Stockdale's big cutlass swing, but heard just a sharp grunt as the other man died.

Bolitho held Quinn and lowered him to the deck. He knew he was dying and there was nothing he could do. The ball had entered his stomach and there was blood everywhere.

Quinn gasped, 'Sorry… to… leave… you… sir.'

Bolitho held him firmly, knowing Stockdale was guarding his back and that Couzens was kneeling on the deck beside him sobbing uncontrollably.

'Dick,' he said. 'Remember, eh?'

He felt near to tears himself. What made it worse, if that were possible, was the cheering. Aft, in another world, his jubilant sailors and the released captives were hauling down the flag, watched by the Revenge's captain who had been badly wounded in the last charge.

Bolitho said quietly, 'We won, James. It's done.'

Quinn smiled, his eyes looking up through the torn rigging and sails.

'You did.'

He was finding it difficult to speak and his skin looked like damp wax. Bolitho unbuttoned his shirt, seeing the great, cruel scar from Quinn's first battle.

With his free hand he loosened his cross-belt and said gently, 'And you were supposed to be a passenger. But for you, young Couzens would be dead. I'll see they know about it in England. About your courage.'

Quinn's eyes shifted to Bolitho's face. 'I'm not afraid any more,' he coughed and some blood ran down his chin, 'Dick.'

Bolitho was about to speak when he saw the light go from Quinn's eyes. Like a candle being snuffed out.

Very carefully he lowered Quinn's shoulders to the deck and then stood up.

Stockdale touched his elbow. 'Be easy, sir. The people are watchin'.'

Bolitho nodded, his eyes almost blind with strain and emotion. 'Thank- you. Yes.'

He faced the weary but triumphant seamen. It had been a near thing. But these men had done as well as anyone could. They deserved every last effort, no matter how he was feeling.

He said quietly, `That was well done. For a company so small, there could be none so gallant.'

Three days later the two prizes sailed into English Harbour under the eyes of the whole squadron.

It had been a hard three days. Repairing damage just enough to carry them to Antigua, selecting the released prisoners and sharing them between the two brigs.

It should have been a proud moment for Bolitho, but the sadness of Quinn's death was still with him when the look-out reported land in sight.

He had taken command of the Revenge, and one of the first jobs he had ordered after rigging the jury-mast, and burying the dead of both sides, had been the removal of her new name, beneath which Jonas Tracy had painted the favoured motto, DON'T TREAD ON ME, with the serpent insignia for good measure.

As the land had grown out of the sea haze, and the two brigs had tacked carefully towards the harbour, a patrolling frigate had run down on them to investigate.

Couzens had called, 'What shall I tell them, sir?'

Stockdale had looked at Bolitho's features and had thought he had understood.

He had said, 'I'll do it, Mr Couzens.'

Then he had cupped his big hands and had shouted across for all to hear,

'His Majesty's brig Mischief is rejoining the fleet!' It had been a very special moment for him as he had added, 'Lieutenant Richard Bolitho, in command!'