The next village was even worse, especially as there was no inn, and the local farmer only allowed them to sleep for the night in an unused barn, and that was with obvious reluctance. He claimed his house was full of visitors, and anyway… That word “anyway” spoke volumes.

The barn leaked in a dozen places and stank like a sewer, and the sailors, like most of their kind, used to the enforced cleanliness of living in close quarters, were loud voiced in their discontent.

Bolitho could not blame them, and when Corporal Dyer came to tell him that the volunteer Stockdale had vanished, he replied, “I’m not surprised, Corporal, but keep an eye on the rest of the party.”

He thought about the missing Stockdale for a long time, and wondered at his own sense of loss. Perhaps Stockdale’s simple words had touched him more deeply than he had realized, that he had represented a change of luck, like a talisman.

Little exclaimed, “God Almighty! Look at this! ”

Stockdale, dripping with rain, stepped into the lantern light and placed a sack at Bolitho’s feet. The men crowded round as the treasures were revealed in the yellow glow. Some chickens, fresh bread and crocks of butter, half a meat pie and, more to the point, two big jars of cider.

Little gasped, “You two men, start plucking the chickens. You, Thomas, watch out for unwanted visitors.” He faced Stockdale and thrust out the guinea. “’Ere, matey, you take it. You’ve bloody earned it!”

Stockdale barely heard. As he bent over his sack he wheezed, “No. ’Twere ’is money. You keep it.”

To Bolitho he said, “This is for you, sir.”

He held out a bottle which looked like brandy. It made sense. The farmer was probably mixed up with the smuggling “trade” hereabouts.

Stockdale watched Bolitho’s face searchingly, then he added, “I’ll make you comfortable, you see.”