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one side as the three made to return to their boat.
     
    “There was just one more thing,” the captain said, turning. “What officers are aboard?”
     
    If Chilton was thrown by the question he did not show it, and Bank’s opinion of the lad improved further. “All of the standing officers, sir. Most, bar the carpenter, have been with her since she launched. Surgeon’s still appointed, but ashore at present, an’ there are a fair few petty officers; a master’s mate, the quartermaster and three midshipmen.”
     
    “Marines?”
     
    “Lieutenant Marshall, sir. And Sergeant Rice, with thirty or so privates.”
     
    “Detailed, or are they aboard?” Banks asked.
     
    “Aboard sir, there is a shortage of accommodation ashore, an’ we had a few runners when we first came in.”
     
    “No sailing master?”
     
    “No, sir. Mr Seabrook retired at the end of the commission.”
     
    “Surgeon’s mates?” Banks might have guessed that King would ask that question.
     
    “We only had the one, and he went to Ardent . Surgeon’s wife is used to helping out. She is not trained, but very good with the men, and they respect her.”
     
    Banks didn’t particularly like the idea of women in a ship, but at least there was room for King’s friend Manning, as well as quite a few of his own followers, by the sound of it.
     
    “Here she is now, sir,” Chilton said unexpectedly, as he noticed a figure at the far end of the upper deck. Banks turned to see a blonde woman carrying a large bundle of blankets walking towards them.
     
    “This is Mrs Clarkson,” Chilton said as she drew closer. “Sir Richard Banks, Scylla ‘s new captain.”
     
    Banks cleared his throat and the woman smiled politely, her laundry limiting further contact.
     
    “Mr Chilton is rather premature, madam,” he said. “Mr Caulfield, Mr King and I are merely inspecting the ship; nothing is official or in any way certain.”
     
    “Well, she is a good one,” Mrs Clarkson said, looking into his eyes in a way that Banks found oddly disturbing.
     
    “So I see,” he said stiffly. The woman was clearly in no way intimidated by him; it was as if she could see beyond his rank and title, and look directly at the man beneath.
     
    “An’ lucky, though I don’t much hold with luck myself,” she continued. “I think you makes your own, don’t you, Sir Richard?” She grinned, and Banks blushed slightly.
     
    “It is not something to which I have given much thought,” he said, feeling just a little foolish.
     
    “ That is probably sensible,” she beamed. “It don’t do to get too deep with such matters.”
     
    The men laughed awkwardly and Banks studied the woman with a little more care. Mrs Clarkson noticed the attention, but did not turn away. “Anyways,” she said after the briefest of pauses. “I hope you like what you see.”
     
    * * *
     
    With her three masts and bluff bow, the lugger appeared little different from the numerous small craft that plied the South Coast of England. She might be used for fishing, or one of a hundred other tasks, and when they left Portsmouth with the morning tide and in brilliant sunshine, Crowley and his men drew little attention. By noon the weather had started to grow unseasonably cold, and a steady rain began that continued throughout the night and all of the following day. What wind there was stayed with them, however; and the rain finally eased off as evening fell, just as they sighted the French coast and commenced the final run in toward Brest, shelter, and warm, dry beds.
     
    Crowley shifted uncomfortably on the wooden thwart that had supported him for the last two days. Beside him Walsh drew his damp greatcoat more tightly about his body and lowered his head once more. Walsh had been horribly sick for most of the journey, yet hardly complained, even though he probably felt about as bad as was possible. Crowley knew better than to try and speak; when a man is sea-sick he has little need of