She almost fell as she pleaded, 'Why me, sir? What have I done?'
The major stood aside as two soldiers ran to seize her arms. 'Treason, madam. That's what!'
He turned more calmly to Bolitho. 'I suggest you go about your affairs, sir. I have no doubt you will hear more of this.' Surprisingly, he gave a quick smile. 'But if it's a consolation, you may have stumbled on something of real value. Too many good men have fallen to treachery. Here's one who will betray no more.'
Bolitho walked back towards the waterfront in silence. The major had recognized the dead girl, and from the fineness of her bones, the smoothness of her skin, she came from a good family.
He tried to guess what had been happening before he and his men had burst in, but all he could remember were her eyes as she had looked at his face, when they had both known the truth.
Bolitho moved a few paces across the quarterdeck in an attempt to stay in the shadow of Trojan's great spanker. It was oppressively hot, and despite a steady wind across the quarter it was impossible to draw comfort from it.
Bolitho turned as a ship's boy reversed the half-hour glass and six bells chimed out from the forecastle. An hour of the forenoon still to run.
He winced as the sun smashed down between the sails' shadows and seared his shoulders like,a blacksmith's forge. He took a telescope from its rack and trained it ahead, seeing the flagship Resolute leap to meet him. How quickly things had changed, he thought. Just the day after the mystery of the dead girl orders had been received to weigh and put to sea with the first favourable wind. No mention was made of the destination or the purpose, and up to the last some of the wardroom cynics had expected it to turn into another exercise, a brief display of strength for the Army's moral support.
That had been four days ago. Four long days of crawling south with barely a ripple around the rudder to show some progress. It had taken them four days to make good four hundred miles.
Bolitho swung the glass slowly across the quarter and saw the sun shimmering on the topgallant sails of the frigate Vanquisher, well out to windward, ready to dash down to assist her ponderous consorts if she were needed. He returned to study the flagship again. just occasionally, as she pitched heavily in a deep swell, he caught sight of another, smaller set of sails, far ahead of the squadron, the admiral's 'eyes'.
As Trojan had weighed anchor and prepared to leave Sandy Hook, Bolitho had watched the sloop-of-war Spite spreading her sails and speeding out of harbour with the minimum of fuss. She was up there now, ready to pass back her signals if she sighted anything which might interest the admiral.
She was a lovely little vessel of eighteen guns, and Bolitho had discovered her to be the one which had fired on the Faithful before Sparke's attempt to seize the ordnance brigantine. Her commander was only twenty-four years old, and, like the three other captains here today, knew exactly what he was doing and where he was ordered to go.
Secrecy seemed to have crept into their world like the first touch of a disease.
The deck trembled, and he heard the port-lids on the lower battery's starboard side being opened, and after a pause the squeak of gun trucks as thirty of Trojan's thirty-two-pounders were run out as if to give battle. If he looked over the side he would be able to see them easily. Just the thought of it was enough. Even the touch of the tinder-dry bulwark or quarterdeck rail was like a burn. What Dalyell, now appointed in charge of the lower gundeck, was suffering, he could barely imagine.
The sails clapped and rustled overhead, and he glanced up at the trailing pendant, looking for a shift of wind. It seemed steady enough from the north-west, but without the strength they needed to drive the humidity and discomfort from between decks.
Rumble, rumble, rumble, the thirty-two-pounders were being run in again, and no doubt Dalyell was peering at his watch and consulting with his midshipmen and petty officers. It was taking too long, and Captain Pears had made his requirements plain from the start of the commission. Clear for action in ten minutes or less, and when firing, three rounds every two minutes. This last exercise had sounded twice as long.
He could picture the stripped and sweating gun crews, struggling to run out those massive cannon. With the ship leaning over on the starboard tack, the guns, each weighing over three tons, had to be hauled bodily up the sloping deck to the ports. This was not the weather for it, but then, it never was, as Cairns had often remarked.
Bolitho stared across the nettings, picturing the invisible land as he had studied it on the chart during each watch. Cape Hatteras and its shoals lay some twenty miles abeam, and beyond, Pamlico Sound and the rivers of North Carolina.
But as far as Bolitho and the look-outs were concerned the sea was theirs. Four ships, spread out to obtain best advantage of wind and visibility, moving slowly towards a secret destination. Bolitho thought about their combined companies, which must amount to close on eighteen hundred officers and men.
Just a few moments earlier he had seen the purser with his clerk hurrying down the main companion, Molesworth carrying his ledger, his clerk with. a box of tools which he used for opening casks and checking the quality of their contents.
It was Monday, and Bolitho could imagine the scribbled instructions in Molesworth's ledger. Per man this day, one pound of biscuit, one gallon of small beer, one pint of oatmeal, two ounces of butter and four ounces of cheese.
After that, it was up to Triphook and his mates to do what they could with it.
No wonder pursers were always worried or dishonest. Sometimes both. Multiply a man's daily ration by the whole company, and by the long days and weeks at sea, and you got some idea of his problems.
Midshipman Couzens, standing discreetly by the lee rail with his telescope ready to train on the flagship, hissed, 'Captain, sir!'
Bolitho turned swiftly, the effort making the sweat run between his shoulder blades and gather at his waistband like hot rain.
He touched his hat. 'Sou'-sou'-west, sir. Full and bye.'
Pears glanced at him impassively. 'The wind appears to have veered in the last hour. But not enough to make any difference.'
He said nothing further, and Bolitho crossed to the lee side to allow his captain the freedom of the deck.
Pears paced slowly up and down, his face totally absorbed.
What was he thinking about, Bolitho wondered? His orders, or his wife and family in England?
Pears paused and swivelled his head towards him. 'Pipe some hands forrard, Mr Bolitho. The weather forebrace is as slack as fill, this watch, dammit! 'Pon my soul, sir, you'll have to do better!'
Bolitho nodded. `Aye, sir. At once.'
He gestured to Couzens, and a moment later some seamen were hauling lustily, each knowing he was under the captain's scrutiny.
Bolitho found himself pondering over Pears' behaviour. The forebrace had seemed no slacker than you might expect in the rising and falling gusts of wind. Was it just to keep him on his toes? He thought suddenly of Sparke and his, take that man's name.
The memory saddened him.
He saw Quinn coming up the ladder from the gundeck and nodded to him, adding a quick shake of the head to warn him of Pears' presence.
Quinn was doing far better than Bolitho had dared hope. He had got his colour back, and could walk upright without twisting his face in readiness for the pain.
Bolitho had seen the great scar on Quinn's breast. If his attacker had not been startled and taken off guard, his blade would have sliced through bone and muscle to the heart itself.
The voice settled on the young fifth lieutenant like a mesh. 'Mr Quinn!'
'Sir!' He hurried across the deck, his face working anxiously as to what he had done wrong.
Pears studied him grimly. 'I am indeed glad to see you are up and about.'
Quinn smiled gratefully. Thank you, sir.'
'Quite so.' Pears continued with his daily walk. 'You will exercise your men at repelling boarders this afternoon. Then, if we remain on this tack, you will put the new hands aloft for sail drill.' He nodded curtly. 'That should restore your wellbeing better than any pills, eh?'
Couzens yelled excitedly, `Signal from Flag, sir!' He was peering through his big telescope, his forehead wrinkled like that of an old man as he read the hoist of coloured bunting at Resolute's yard. 'Make more sail,
