Then just as slowly as before he nodded, and without a glance at the gaping barker he picked up his shirt and a small bag.

Bolitho turned to the barker, his anger matched only by his feeling of petty triumph. Once clear of the village he would release the fighter anyway.

The barker yelled, “You can’t do that!”

Little stepped forward threateningly. “ Stow the noise, matey, an’ show respect for a King’s officer, or…” He left the rest in little doubt.

Bolitho licked his lips. “Fall in, men. Corporal, take charge there!”

He saw the big fighter watching the seamen and called, “Your name, what is it?”

“Stockdale, sir.” Even the name was dragged out. His chords must have been mangled in so many fights that even his voice was broken.

Bolitho smiled at him. “Stockdale. I shall not forget you. You will be free to leave us whenever you wish.” He glanced meaningly at Little. “Before we reach the boat.”

Stockdale looked calmly at the little barker who was sitting on a bench, the chain still dangling from his hand.

Then he wheezed very carefully, “No, sir. I’ll not leave you. Not now. Not never.”

Bolitho watched him join up with the others. The man’s obvious sincerity was strangely moving.

Little said quietly, “You’ve no need to worry. This’ll be all round the ship in no time.” He leaned forward so that Bolitho could smell the ale and cheese. “I’m in your division, sir, an’ I’ll beat the block off any bugger who tries to make trouble!”

A shaft of watery sunlight played across the church clock, and as the recruiting party marched stoically towards the next village Bolitho was glad of what he had just done.

Then it began to rain, and he heard Little say, “Not much further, Dipper, then back to the ship for a wet!”

Bolitho looked at Stockdale’s broad shoulders. Another volunteer. That made five in all. He lowered his head against the rain. Fifteen to go.