He said, 'Hold her nor'-west, Stockdale, I am assured that is the best course to take.'

He thought of Bunce's wild eyes. Could there be any other course indeed!

Then, leaving Stockdale at the tiller, crouching over the boat's compass, Bolitho groped his way slowly towards the bows, climbing over thwarts and grunting seamen, treading on weapons and the feet of the extra passengers.

The twenty-eight-foot cutter had a crew of eight and a coxswain in normal times. Now she held them and an additional party which in total amounted to eighteen officers and men.

He found Balleine, the boatswain's mate, crouching above the stem like a figurehead, peering into the wet mist, a hand cupped around his ear to pick up the slightest sound which might be a ship, or another boat.

Bolitho said quietly, 'I cannot see the second lieutenant's cutter, so we must assume. we are dependent on our own resources.'

'Aye, sir.' The reply was blunt.

Bolitho thought Balleine might be brooding over the flogging, or merely resentful in being given a look-out's job while Stockdale took the tiller.

Bolitho said, 'I am depending on your experience today.' He saw the man nod and knew he had found the right spot. 'I fear we are somewhat short of it otherwise.'

The boatswain's mate grinned. 'Mr Quinn and Mr Couzens, sir. I'll see 'em fair.'

'I knew it.'

He touched the man's arm and began to make his way aft again. He picked out individual faces and shapes. Dunwoody, a miller's son from Kent. A dark-skinned Arab named Kutbi who had enlisted in Bristol, although nobody knew much about him even now. Rabbett, a tough little man from the Liverpool waterfront, and Varlo, who had been crossed in love, and had been picked up by the press-gang while he had been drowning his sorrows at his local inn. These and many more he had grown to know. Some he knew very well. Others stayed away, keeping the rigid barrier between forecastle and quarterdeck.