John Paul Jones

In a little more than a hundred yards' walk from the busy foreshore to the elegant white building at the top of the coast road, but within a minute of leaving the launch Richard Bolitho was damp with sweat. In the broad expanse of English Harbour there had been an illusion of a breeze, but here, as the noon sun stood high above Monk's Hill and bathed the island of Antigua in a shimmering haze, there was no such comfort.

Nevertheless, Bolitho quickened his pace conscious of his rising excitement and a sense of unreality which had been with him since his arrival just a week earlier. Events had moved so fast that he felt unable to keep a grip on them, as if he was a spectator watching somebody else, a being quite alien to his own resources?

Through wide gates, the sand and dust covering his new shoes with a pale layer, and across some well tended gardens towards the building itself. But for the flag which hung limply from its staff it could have been the residence of some rich merchant or shipowner. From the number of Negro servants who were working amidst the flowers and shrubs he guessed that the previous occupant had probably been a dealer in African slaves?

Within the deep porch it felt almost cold after the sun's fierce glare, and he found himself confronted by a red-faced sergeant of marines who, after a cursory glance which covered Bolitho from top to toe, said, "If you will step into this room, sir." His tone, if not offhand was that of a man so used to dealing with the comings and goings of sea-officers that he could no longer become excited by anything or anyone?

Bolitho entered the small room and heard the doors slam behind him. For the first time since he could recall he was quite alone. Alone, and poised on what might be the most important step in his life?