TO GLORY WE STEER - ALEXANDER KENT

`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?'

Bolitho dropped his eyes to hide the excitement he now felt. Martinique, the headquarters of all French naval operations, the most heavily protected fortress in the whole Caribbean.

'You hate the French? Your gallant allies?' Bolitho's sarcasm was not lost on the Spaniard. 'Well, never mind that. Just tell me how many ships were there in the anchorage.' He saw the man's eye glitter with fright and guessed that he understood, which anchorage he meant.

'Many ships, excellency!' He rolled his eyes. 'Many big ships!'

'And who commands these many big ships?' Bolitho could hardly keep the anxiety from his voice now

'The French admiral, excellency!' The Spaniard puffed out his cheeks as if to spit on the deck, but caught sight of the marine sentry watching from the doorway and swallowed noisily. 'He is a French pig, that one!'

'The Count de Grasser'

The man nodded violently. 'But you know everything, Captain! You are blessed by the Almighty!'

Bolitho looked up as Farquhar entered the cabin. 'Well?'

'Only a little English between them, sir.' He seemed angry with himself. 'But I gather they were heading for Puerto Rico.'

Bolitho gestured at the sentry. 'Take this prisoner out and keep him closely guarded.' Then he said absently, 'He was lying. He sailed from Martinique. The French would never allow him to carry on trading when they too might be under siege at any time!' He tapped the chart. 'No, Mr. Farquhar, he was at Martinique well enough, but his destination is elsewhere!'

Vibart entered and bowed his head beneath the deck beams. 'Mr. Okes reports that the cargo is much as you already know, sir. But there are new ships's spars and casks of salt meat stowed beneath the mainn load.' He sounded doubtful. 'There is also a great deal of spare canvas and cordage.'

'As I thought!' Bolitho felt strangely relieved. 'The lugger was taking supplies from Martinique '-his finger moved along the charted islands-'to where?' He looked from Vi-bait's brooding face to Farquhar's baffled one. 'Get that Spanish skipper back here at once!'

Bolitho walked slowly to the stern. windows and leaned out over the water as if to clear his brain. The Spaniard had seemed pleased to tell him about the French ships at Martinique, when he must have known that patrolling British ships would already know this information. He must have imagined that Bolitho had missed the main item.

He swung round as the man was pushed through the door. 'Now listen to me!' His voice was still controlled, but the harshness made the lugger's master start to quiver uncontrollably. 'You lied to me! I warned you what would happen, did I not?' He dropped his voice still further. 'Now just once more. Where were you bound?'

The man swayed. 'Please, excellency! They kill me if they know!'

'And I will kill you if you keep me waiting!' He saw Herrick's face watching him from the doorway with fixed fascination.

'We sail for Mola Island, Captain.' The man seemed-to have shrunk in size. 'The cargo was for ship there!'

Herrick and Farquhar exchanged mystified glances.

Bolitho bent over his chart. ' Mola Island is Dutch' He measured the distance with his dividers. 'Thirty miles to the nor'-east of our present position.' He looked up, his eyes hard and devoid of pity. 'How many such voyages have you made?'

'Many, excellency.' The Spaniard looked as if he wanted to be sick. 'There are soldiers there. French soldiers. They come from the north. They have ships also.'

Bolitho breathed out slowly. 'Of course! De Grasse would never attempt to move his ships against Jamaica or anywhere else unless he could be sure of a diversion elsewhere and full support from the military!' He stared at the others. 'Our fleet watches Martinique to the south and waits for the French to move, and all the time they are filtering down from the American mainland, gathering for a big, final assault!'

Vibart said bleakly, 'We must inform the Cassius, sir.'

Herrick spoke from the doorway, his voice eager. 'We could send the lugger to find the flagship, sir, and stay here in readiness!'

Bolitho did not seem to hear them. 'Sentry, take this prisoner and lock him up with the others. My compliments to the boatswain, and tell him to select any of the lugger's crew he thinks could be sworn into our company. I would imagine that even the Phalarope would seem better than a prison hulk!'

The marine grinned. 'Aye, aye, sir!' He jabbed the Spaniard with his musket and hustled the man away.

'It will be two days before we meet up with the Cassius again.' Bolitho was thinking aloud. 'By then it may be too late. That Spaniard has told us a good deal, but he cannot know the whole truth. If the French have been gathering a force of men and ships in this small island they must be expecting to move, and soon. I consider it our duty to investigate, and do our utmost to stop them.'

Vibart swallowed hard. 'Do you intend to leave the patrol area, sir?'

'Do you have any objections, Mr. Vibart?' Bolitho eyed him calmly.

'It is not my responsibility, sir.' Vibart dropped his gaze before Bolitho's cool stare.

Herrick said quickly, 'It is a great risk, if I may say so, sir.'

'As is everything worthwhile, Mr. Herrick.' Bolitho straightened his back and added briskly, 'My compliments to Mr. Proby. Tell him to wear ship and steer north-east. We will be sailing close to the wind so it will be nightfall before we reach Mola Island. Before that time there is much to be arranged, gentlemen!'

He looked around their faces and continued, `Put a prize crew aboard the lugger, and ask Mr. Okes to search for the recognition signals. It is my guess that this island will be heavily guarded. The lugger will be too useful to spare for finding the admiral.'

Vibart said sulkily, `The admiral will not be pleased by your acting like this, sir.'

'And my conscience would never rest if I allowed my own prestige to come before this obvious duty, Mr. Vibart!'

His eyes moved to Herrick and Farquhar. 'This will be a good opportunity for each of you.' He paused and looked around the cabin. 'For the ship, too.'

He waited until the cabin had emptied and then walked to the windows again. For one more minute he allowed the nagging doubts to play havoc with his thoughts. He had acted impetuously and without pausing to consider the possible consequences. Skill and ability were only half the battle. There always had to be a good amount of luck. And if he was mistaken now, there would not be that amount of luck in the whole world.

He saw Ferguson watching from the desk like a mesmerised rabbit and realised that he had forgotten all about his being there. But the story he might repeat on the berth deck might do good for the ship's dwindling morale, he thought vaguely. If the Phalarope was lucky this time it would make all the difference.

And if not? He shrugged. There would be few survivors to dispute the matter.

Above his head he heard the afterguard tramping with the braces and felt the deck canting slightly as the frigate went about. Momentarily framed in the stem windows he saw the small lugger swinging round to keep station on the quarter, and wondered how many men had already cursed the keeneyed lookout for sighting her.

Aloud he remarked, 'You will have something to tell your wife now, Ferguson. She will be proud of you perhaps?'

Bolitho heaved himself from the cutter's sternsheets and allowed groping hands to pull him unceremoniously up and over the lugger's low bulwark. For several seconds he stood swaying on the unfamiliar deck to allow his eyes to get accustomed to the gloom and the packed figures around him.

Already the cutter had shoved off, and apart from the gleam of white spray around the oars it was lost in the enfolding darkness. Bolitho tried to see where the Phalarope now lay, but she, too, was well hidden, with not one glimmer of light to betray her presence. He tried to hold on to the mental picture of the chart and of the island which now lay somewhere across the lugger's blunt bows.

Captain Rennie loomed out of the darkness and said in an unnecessary whisper. `I've packed the marines below, sir. Sergeant Garwood will keep 'em quiet until they are required.'

Bolitho nodded and tried to remember once again if he had left anything to chance. 'You have made sure that all muskets and pistols are unloaded?'

Rennie nodded. 'Yes, sir.' He sounded as if he meant, 'Of course, sir'. A primed musket exploding at the wrong moment, a trigger pulled by an over-excited marine, and their lives would be worth even less than they were now.

'Good.' Bolitho groped his way aft where Stockdale stood straddle-legged beside the crude tiller bar, his head cocked towards the loose flapping sails. Midshipman Farquhar squatted by a shapeless bundle on the deck which Bolitho managed to recognise as the luckless Spanish skipper. He had been brought along as both guide and surety.

Rennie asked flatly, 'Do you think we will get inshore without trouble?

Bolitho glanced up at the high, bright stars. There was the merest sliver of silver for a moon floating above its reflection in the flat water. The night was dark enough to hide anything. Maybe too dark.

He said, 'We shall see. Now get under way, and make sure the compass light is well shaded.' He walked clear of Rennie and his questions and brushed past the crouching sailors whose eyes gleamed like marbles as they watched him pass. Occasionally he heard the rasp of a cutlass or a dull clink from the bows where McIntosh, a gunner's mate, was making a last-minute examination of his hastily rigged swivel gun. It was loaded with canister, and at close range would be quite deadly. It had to be perfect, Bolitho thought grimly. There might be no time for a second shot.

He wondered what Vibart was thinking, left in charge of the frigate, with hours to wait before he could play his part in the raid. He thought, too, of Herrick's face when he had told him he was taking Lieutenant Okes with him in the lugger. Herrick had known there was no other choice in the matter. Okes was his senior, and it was only fair that he should get the chance of making a name for himself. Or dying before Herrick, Bolitho thought dryly. Vibart's position and seniority made him the obvious choice for taking charge of -the Phalarope, and if both Bolitho and Vibart were killed, Herrick could still move his way up the chain of command.