ALEXANDER KENT - TO GLORY WE STEER

Herrick nodded. He had seen the excitement beneath Bolitho's outburst. As the sails filled and flapped overhead Bolitho's expression was almost boyish with pleasure.

It was not much of a wind, but sufficient to get the Phalarope moving once more. The water gurgled around her rudder, and as the braces squeaked in the blocks the sails swung to embrace every last ounce of air, eager for the life it had given them.

Bolitho said at length, `Keep her north-west by north, Mr. Herrick. We will remain on this leg until sunset.'

`Aye, aye, sir.' Herrick watched him walk back to the taffrail and peer down pat the small wake. There was no sign of the anxiety he must be feeling, he thought. The wind was a small respite and no way a recompense for the endless, meaningless patrol, yet Bolitho acted as if everything was normal, outwardly at least.

Again the masthead lookout was to prove that nothing could be taken for granted.

`Deck there! Sail fine on the starboard bow!'

Herrick lifted his glass but Bolitho snapped, `You'll not see anything from here! The haze is like a blanket to the north of us!'

Vibart muttered, `Mr. Neale, get aloft!'

`Belay that!' Bolitho sounded dangerously calm. `You go, Mr. Herrick. I want an experienced eye at this moment!'

Herrick ran to the main shrouds and began to climb. He quickly realised how out of condition his body had become, and by the time he had reached the topmast trestle and crosstrees his heart was pounding like a drum. The bearded lookout moved over for him and pointed with a tarry hand.

`Over yonder, sir! Can't make her out yet!'

Herrick ignored the ship swinging like a toy beneath his legs and opened his glass. At first he could see nothing but bright sunlight across the-low-lying haze with the million glittering mirrors of the sea beneath. Then he saw the sail and felt a tinge of disappointment. The hull was well shrouded in mist, but from the sail's strange dorsal shape he guessed it was small, probably a coasting lugger of some sort. Not worth taking as a prize, and hardly worth sinking, he decided angrily. He yelled the information to the deck and saw Bolitho's staring at him.

'A lugger, you say?' Bolitho sounded interested. `Keep watching her!'

`She's not seen us.' The lookout squinted towards the sail. `Reckon us'll be up to 'er afore she spots us.'

Herrick nodded and then looked down as Vibart called, `Pipe all hands! Stand by to wear ship!'

So Bolitho was going to close her anyway. Herrick watched the sudden burst of activity on the decks below. He had not seen such a sight since he was a midshipman. The scampering, apparently aimless figures, which surged from between decks and then merged as if by magic into recognisable patterns of discipline and purpose. He could see the petty officers checking their watch bills as they bawled names and orders. Here and there the officers and warrant officers stood like little isolated rocks amidst the surging tide of running seamen.

Again the yards moved round, flapping indignantly as the frigate altered course two points to starboard. Herrick felt the mast tremble, and tried not to think of the time it would take to fall to the deck.

But the breeze which had found the Phalarope had reached the other sail, and as the mist glided away in its path the lugger gathered way and heeled jauntily, another tan sail already creeping up her stumpy mainmast.

The lookout champed on a wad of tobacco and said calmly, 'Her's a Spaniard! Oi'd know that rig anywhere.'

Bolitho's voice cut through his speculation. `You may come down now, Mr. Herrick! Lively there!'

Herrick reached the deck gasping and sweating to find Bolitho waiting for him, his face deep in concentration.

`She'll have the edge on us, Mr. Herrick. She can make better use of these light airs than we can.' He gestured impatiently towards the forecastle. `Clear away the two chasers and fire across her bows!'

Herrick got his breath and gasped, `Aye, aye, sir! It would only take one ball to- shatter her timbers!'

He saw something like amusement in the grey eyes as Bolitho replied, `She may have the most precious cargo of all time, Mr. Herrick!'

Herrick stared at him dazedly. `Sir?'

Bolitho had turned to watch the gunners scampering forward towards the two long nine-pounders on the forecastle. `Information, Mr. Herrick! Out here, the lack of it could lose

a war!'

One shot was enough. As the tall waterspout fell in a splatter of spray beyond the lugger's bows, first one sail and then the other crumpled and fell, leaving the boat rocking dejectedly to await the Phalarope's pleasure.

Bolitho's wide cabin seemed almost cold after the furnace heat of the quarterdeck, and he had to force himself to stand luite still by the stern windows to steady his racing thoughts and plan the next move. With real effort he closed his ears to he muffled shipboard noises and distant shouts as a boat was Iropped alongside to take a boarding party to the lugger, which now rode uneasily under the frigate's lee. It had been ill Bolitho could do to remain outwardly unruffled as his orlers were passed and carried out, so that in the end he could io longer face the watchful glances of his officers or avoid he buzzing speculation of the upperdeck idlers.

His casual guess about the coming of a wind had eemed like a miracle, and when the lookout had reported the ugger in the haze he had felt his pent up emotions churning around like raw alcohol. The waiting and, petty irritations were momentarily put to one side, even the shame he felt for the admiral's attitude to Phalarope could be overlooked, if not forgotten.

There was a tap at the door, and he swung round, caught off guard. `Enter!'

He stared for a few seconds at the pale-faced seaman who hovered uncertainly in the doorway. He wrenched his mind away from the lugger and nodded towards the desk by the bulkhead.

`You must be Ferguson? You will be working here when I require you.' His tone was terse, his thoughts still following the invisible boarding party.

Ferguson stared round the cabin and blinked. `Yes, sir. I mean-aye, aye, sir.' He seemed confused and nervous.

Bolitho studied him kindly. 'I will tell you more of your duties later. At the moment I am rather busy.' He looked round with a jerk as little Neale panted up to the door.

`Captain, sir!' He fought for breath. `Mr. Okes has taken the lugger!'

`So I should hope!' Bolitho- added dryly, `Her skipper has a whole broadside staring down his throat.'

Neale considered the point. 'Er, yes, sir.' He stared up at Bolitho's calm face, obviously wondering how the captain could bear to leave the upperdeck when something was at last happening. He added, `The boat is returning now, sir.'

`That was what I wanted to hear, Mr. Neale.' Bolitho looked through the stem windows towards the empty sea, its surface still ruffled by a small but steady breeze. `When the boat comes alongside tell Captain Rennie with my compliments to keep the lugger's officers apart until I can question them. Mr. Okes can carry on with his search of the lugger and report when he finds anything.'

`The lugger's officers, sir?' Neale's eyes were like saucers.

'They may be dressed in rags, boy, but they are still officers!' Bolitho watched the midshipman patiently. `And make no mistake, they will know these waters like their own faces.'

The midshipman nodded and scurried away. Bolitho paced restlessly around the cabin and then paused by his table where his personal chart of the Caribbean lay in readiness. The complex mass of islands and soundings, the vague surveys and doubtful descriptions were like the clues of a giant puzzle. He frowned and tugged at his chin. Somewhere amongst the tangle of scattered islands lay the key to the whole campaign. The first to find it would win the day. The loser would be driven from the Caribbean for ever.

With the points of his brass dividers he traced the Phalarope's course and halted at the small pencilled cross. Out here he was doing no good. Fifty miles away St. Kitts might still be fighting a siege, whilst just over the horizon Count de Grasse's great fleet could be mustering for a final attack on the scattered British naval units. With the British driven from these islands, the French and their allies would unroll the South Americas like a chart. Would command the North and South Atlantic and reach for the rich rewards of Africa and beyond.

He pushed the apprehension from his mind as he heard the clatter of feet above and the thuds of muskets on the deck planks.

Vibart appeared in the doorway. 'Prisoners aboard, sir.' He glared at Ferguson who seemed to be trying to curl into a ball beside the desk. 'The lugger is Spanish well enough. Twenty men aboard all told, but no resistance. I have the master and two mates under guard outside, sir.'

'Good.' Bolitho stared at the chart. 'Twenty men, you say? That is a large crew for such a small craft. The Spaniards are usually more sparing when they man a vessel of any kind!'

Vibart shrugged. 'Mr. Farquhar says that the lugger has been used for coastal trading. Not much use for us.'

'I'll see the master first. You can go on deck and keep an eye on Mr. Okes' progress in the lugger. Let me know if he has found anything.'

The lugger's skipper was small and swarthy, dressed in a tattered shirt- and wide canvas trousers. Two gold ear-rings bobbed from beneath his lank hair, and his dirty, bare feet completed the picture of neglect and poverty.

Beside him, Midshipman Fargnha.r seemed elegant and unreal.

Bolitho kept his eyes on the chart, conscious of the Spaniard's uneven breathing and the shuffling movements of his bare feet on the deck. He said at length, 'Does he speak English?'

'No, sir.' Farquhar sounded impatient. 'He just gabbles.'

Still Bolitho kept his eyes on the chart. Almost offhandedly he said, 'Then take him on deck and tell the master-at-arms to run a halter up to the mainyard.'

Farquhar fell back startled. 'Halter, sir? Do you mean to hang him?'

'Of course I do!' Bolitho put a rasp in his tone. 'He is no further use to me!'

The Spaniard's legs buckled and he pitched forward at Bolitho's feet. Sobbing and weeping he pulled at Bolitho's legs, the words flooding from his lips in a wild torrent.

`Please, Captain! No hang, please! I am a good man, sir, I have wife and many poor children!' His cheeks were running with tears. `Please, sir, no hang!' The last word wass almost a shriek.

Bolitho stepped from the man's grasp and said calmly. `I had an idea that your knowledge of English might return.' To Farquhar he added crisply, `You may try that ruse on the two mates. See what you can find out!' He turned back to the whimpering man on the deck. `Now stand up and answer my questions, or indeed I will hang you!'

He waited a few more moments, his mind half dwelling on what might have happened if the Spaniard really had been unable to speak English. Then he asked, 'Where were you heading and with what cargo?'

The man stood swaying from side to side, his grubby hands clasped as if in prayer. 'I go to Puerto Rico, Captain. I take small cargo of timber, a little sugar.' He wrung his hands. 'But you can take it all, excellency! Just spare my life!'

'Hold your tongue!' Bolitho peered at the chart. The story was possible. These small trading boats were as common as fleas in the Caribbean. He asked sharply, 'From where did you come?'

The man smiled ingratiatingly. 'I go all around, Captain.' He waved his hands vaguely. 'I carry only small cargoes. I reap a living where I can. It is a hard, hard life, excellency!'

'I will ask you once more!' Bolitho fixed him with a hard stare.

The man shifted wretchedly. ' Martinique, Captain. I has small work there. But I hate the French,, you understand?'