ALEXANDER KENT - TO GLORY WE STEER

'That will do, Mr. Ellice.' Bolitho glanced at the decanter.

As if by magic it had emptied during his talk with Trevenen.

'I suggest you take a turn around the maindeck.'

Ellice peered at him uncertainly. Then he grinned. 'Aye, sir. So I will. It'll give me a fair appetite!' He ambled away, his shabby coat hanging around him like a sack. Rain or fine, sun or sheeting, squalls, Ellice was never dressed differently.

Some had even suggested he slept in his clothes.

Bolitho dismissed him from his mind as the pipes shrilled and the decks thudded with bare feet as the men ran to their stations for wearing ship.

Within an hour the Phalarope had gone about, her sails flat and listless in the relentless glare. But in spite of the outward stillness there was enough power in the breeze to cause a small ripple beneath her gilt figurehead, and at the mainmast truck the commissioning pendant flapped and whipped with lonely agitation, as if it commanded the only strength the wind had to offer.

Lieutenant Herrick walked slowly aft along the maindeck, his eyes moving from side to side as he watched the men flaking down ropes and putting a last tautness in sheets and braces. He knew that they were discussing the news about the contaminated water, and other things beside, but as he passed even the usually friendly ones fell silent. The past two weeks of heat and dull discomfort were showing their teeth now, he decided. No one complained or grumbled any more. That was the worst sign of all.

He halted as Midshipman Maynard appeared below the quarterdeck and leaned heavily on a twelve-pounder. Beneath his tan his thin features were as bale as death, and his legs looked as if they were near collapse.

Herrick crossed to his side. `What is it, lad? Are you ill?'

Maynard turned and stared at him, his eyes opaque with fear. For a moment he could not speak, then the words poured from his dry lips in a flood.

`I've just come from below, sir.' He screwed up his face. 'I was sent down to the orlop to fetch Mr. Evans.' He swallowed hard and tried to speak coherently. 'I found him in his cabin, sir.' He retched,and swayed against the gun.

Herrick gripped his arm and whispered fiercely, 'Go on, lad! What the hell is wrong?'

'Dead!' The word was wrung from his lips. 'My God, sir! He's been cut to pieces!' He stared at Herrick's grim features, reliving, the nightmare of his discovery. He repeated faintly, 'Cut to pieces.'

'Keep your voice down!' Herrick struggled to control his shocked thoughts. In a calmer tone he called, 'Mr. Quintal! Take Mr. Maynard aft and see that he is kept alone!'

The boatswain, caught in the act of reprimanding a seaman, stared from one to the other. He touched his forehead and said gruffly, `Aye, aye, sir.' Then he asked quietly, 'Is somethin' up, sir?'

Herrick looked at Quintal's broad, competent face and answered flatly, 'It seems that the purser is dead, Mr. Quintall' He saw the quick start of alarm in the man's eyes and added, `Show no sign! This ship is like a tinderbox as it is.'

Herrick watched the boatswain leading the young midshipman into the shadow of the quarterdeck and then glanced quickly around him. Everything looked as it had two minutes earlier.

Lieutenant Okes had the watch and was standing at the quarterdeck rail, his eyes up at the topsails. Further aft Herrick could just see the captain in conversation with Vibart and Rennie, while at the wheel the two helmsmen looked as if they had been at their posts since time began.

Herrick walked slowly towards the lower cabin hatch. He made himself move calmly, but his heart felt as if it was in his throat.

With all hands employed trimming sails the lower deck was deserted and strangely alien. A few lanterns swung on their hooks, and as he began to climb down the second and last ladder Herrick could sense an air of menace and danger. Even so, he was totally unprepared for the sight in the purser's tiny cabin.

Deep in the hull of the ship the stillness was all the more apparent, and the solitary lantern on the low deckhead cast a steady circle of light on a scene which made Herrick's throat choke with bile. Evans, the purser, must have been secreting a, bag of flour for his own private uses when his assailant had struck him down. He lay spread-eagled on the upended sack, his eyes bright in the lamplight, while from his severed throat a great torrent of dark blood seeped and congealed in the scattered flour. There was blood everywhere, and as Herrick stared with fixed horror at the corpse at his feet he saw that Evans had been stabbed and slashed as if by some crazed beast.

He leaned against the door and touched his face with his hand. His palm felt cold and clammy, and he thought of young Maynard alone with this appalling spectacle. No one could have blamed him if he had rushed screaming to the upperdeck.

'My God!' Herrick's voice hung in the gloom in a mocking echo. He almost cried out again as a foot rasped on the ladder behind him, but as he groped blindly for his pistol he saw that it was Captain Rennie, his scarlet coat like reflection of the blood on the cabin deck.

Rennie brushed past him and stared fixedly at the corpse. Then he said coldly, `I'll put two of my best men on guard here. The cabin must be sealed until there has been an investigation.' He eyed Herrick meaningly. `You know what this means, don't you?

Herrick felt himself nod. `I do.' He pulled himself together. `I'll go and tell the captain.'

As he climbed up the ladder Rennie called quietly, `Easy, Thomas. There will be at least one guilty man watching your face on deck!'

Herrick glanced back at the open cabin door, making himself form a final picture of the murdered man. `I suppose I was expecting something like this.' He bit his lip. 'But when it comes, it's still a shock.'

Rennie watched him go and then stepped carefully over the glaring corpse. Ignoring the thing by his polished boots he began to search methodically amongst the scattered souvenirs of the purser's life.

Herrick's face was like stone as he crossed to the weather side of the quarterdeck to where Bolitho was still speaking with Vibart. He touched his hat and waited until Bolitho turned to face him.

`Well, Mr. Herrick?' Bolitho's smile of welcome faded. 'Is it more trouble?'

Herrick looked quickly around him. 'Mr. Evans has been murdered, sir.' He spoke in a tight, clipped voice which he no longer recognised. 'Maynard found' him a few minutes ago.' He ran his hand across his face. It was still cold, like the mark of death.

Bolitho said slowly, `What have you done so far, Mr. Herrick?' There was nothing in his 'question to betray what he must be feeling, and his features were composed in an impassive mask. `Take your time. Just tell me whgt you saw.'

Herrick moved closer to the rail, his eyes on the glittering water. In a slow, flat voice he described the events from the moment Maynard had appeared on deck to the actual second of realisation.

Bolitho listened in complete silence, and at Herrick's side Vibart stood swaying with the ship, his hands opening and closing from either anger or shock at Maynard's discovery.

Herrick concluded heavily, `He had not been dead long, sir.' He found himself repeating the midshipman's words. 'He has been cut to pieces!'

Captain Rennie marched across the deck and said crisply, `I have put some men on guard, sir.' He saw Bolitho looking at his boots and bent quickly to wipe a bright stain from the polished leather. He added calmly, `I've had a good look round, sir. Evans' pistols are missing. Stolen most likely.'

Bolitho eyed him thoughtfully. `Thank you, gentlemen. You have both behaved very well.'

Vibart said vehemently, `What did I tell you, sir? Softness with these scum is no use! They only understand a hard hand!'

Bolitho said, `His pistols, you say?'

Rennie nodded. `He had two small weapons. He was very proud of them. Gold-mounted and quite valuable, I believe. He said he got them in Spain.' He fell silent, as if he, like the others, was thinking of the dead man as he had once been. One of the most disliked men in the ship. A man with grudges and hates more than most. It was not difficult to understand that he would have an equal number of enemies.

Proby climbed the ladder and touched his hat. `May I dismiss the watch below, sir?' He seemed to realise that he was intruding and muttered, 'Beggin' your pardon, sir!'

Bolitho said, `Have the hands stay at their stations, Mr. Proby.' They all looked at him. There was a new coldness in Bolitho's voice and an unfamiliar hardness in his eyes. To Rennie he continued, `Post sentries at every hatch. Nobody will go below.'

Vibart murmured, `So you'll see it my way, sir?'

Bolitho swung round. `Someone is guilty, Mr. Vibart But not the whole ship! I don't want this man to escape, or his actions to contaminate the rest of our people!' In a calmer tone he said, 'Mr. Herrick, you will take the berth deck with Mr. Farquhar and the boatswain. Captain Rennie will search the rest of the ship with his own men.' He looked down at the waiting seamen on the decks and gangways. 'Mr. Vibart, you will take the upperdeck yourself with Mr. Brock. Look in every locker and beneath each gun, and be as quick as you can!'

He watched them troop down the ladder and then returned his attention to the crowded maindeck. Every sailor was now fully aware that something was wrong. He saw one nudge his companion, and another fell back fearfully as Vibart and the gunner pushed through the watching men.

Perhaps Vibart was right after all? He gripped his bands together behind him with such force that the pain helped to control his whirling mind. No, he must not think like that. Without faith there was nothing. Nothing at all.

As the minutes dragged on a growing wave of apprehension moved across the crowded maindeck like smoke from an uncontrollable fire. The seamen at the foot of the mainmast parted to allow Vibart and the gunner to move through and then shuffled together as if for mutual support.

Pochin rubbed his tarry hands on his trousers and glared angrily after Vibart's bulky figure. `What the hell's happenin'?' He reached out as a boatswain's mate made to pass him. 'Do you know, Mr. Josling?'

Josling darted a quick glance at the quarterdeck. 'The purser. 'E's dead!'

A new ripple of uneasiness broke over the waiting men, and Pochin stared across at Allday who was leaning watchfully against the mast. 'Did you hear that, man?

Allday nodded and then slowly turned his head to look at Onslow… He was standing a bit apart from the others, his legs relaxed, his brown arms hanging loosely at his sides. But there was an air of animal watchfulness about the man, betrayed in the flat hardness of his eyes and the excited dilation of his nostrils. Allday released his breath very slowly. In his own mind he had no doubt as,to where the finger of accusation would point.

Old Strachan muttered, 'Looks bad, don't it? I got a feelin' that we're in for another squall!'

There was a sudden burst of activity from the quarterdeck, and as every head turned aft Captain Rennie's marines trooped up the ladders and formed a solid scarlet barrier athwart the deck. Sergeant Garwood dressed the ranks and then took his place beside the small drummer. Captain Rennie stood coolly ahead of his men, one hand resting on his sword hilt, his face empty of expression.

From the side of his mouth the sergeant rasped, 'Fix bayonets!' Every hand moved as one, the blades rippling along. the swaying front rank before clicking into place on the long muskets.

On deck the tension was almost unbearable. Every man watched transfixed, afraid to speak or turn his head for fear of missing some part of this new drama. Here and there a hand moved to dash away the sweat, and somewhere in the packed throng a man began to cough nervously.