Six seamen, a marine corporal and two drummer boys who looked like toy soldiers freshly out of a box. They did not care about the miserable results of their trek from one village to the next. Usually the sight of Bolitho’s party aroused little interest, except amongst the children and a few snapping dogs. Old habits died hard so near to the sea. Many still recalled the dreaded press-gangs when men could be torn from their families and put in a King’s ship to suffer the harsh conditions of a war which few understood even now. And a goodly number had never come back at all.

Bolitho had managed to obtain four volunteers so far. Four, and Palliser was expecting twenty. He had sent them back with an escort to the boat in case they should have a change of heart. Two of them were seamen, but the others were labourers from a farm who had lost their jobs, “unfairly,” they both said. Bolitho suspected they were willing to volunteer for a more pressing reason, but it was no time to ask questions.

They tramped across the deserted green, the muddy grass splashing up from Bolitho’s shoes and on to his new stockings.

Little had already quickened his pace, and Bolitho wondered if he had done the right thing to offer them all a drink.

He shrugged inwardly. So far nothing had gone right. Matters could hardly get much worse.

Little hissed, “There be some men, sir!” He rubbed his big hands together and said to the corporal, “Now, Dipper, get your little lads to strike up a tune, eh?”

The two minute marines waited for their corporal to relay the order, then while one beat a lively tap on his drum the other drew a fife from his cross-belt and broke into what sounded like a jig.

The corporal’s name was Dyer. Bolitho asked, “Why do you call him Dipper?”

Little grinned, baring several broken teeth, the true mark of a fighter.

“Bless you, sir, ’cause he were a pickpocket afore he saw the light and joined the bullocks!”