Stand Into Danger Read Free Page B

on purser’s rations was a marvel. But he was a good hand, seasoned and experienced, and would stand no nonsense.
    Bolitho said, “One more stop, Little. Then . . . ,” he gave a rueful smile, “I’ll buy you all a drink.”
    They brightened up immediately. 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.
    â€œBless you, sir, ’cause he were a pickpocket afore he saw the light and joined the bullocks!”
    The little group of men by the inn seemed to melt away as the seamen and marines drew near.
    Two figures remained, and a more incongruous pair it was hard to imagine.
    One was small and darting, with a sharp voice which carried easily above the fife and drum. The other was big and powerful, stripped to the waist, his arms and fists hanging at his sides like weapons waiting to be used.
    The small man, a barker, enraged earlier by the sudden departure of his audience, saw the sailors and beckoned excitedly.
    â€œWell, well, well, wot ’ave we ’ere then? Sons of the sea, the British Jack Tar!” He doffed his hat to Bolitho. “An’ a real gentleman in command, no doubt of that!”
    Bolitho said wearily, “Fall the men out, Little. I’ll have the landlord send some ale and cheese.”
    The barker was shouting, “Which one of you brave lads will stand up to this fighter of mine?” His eyes darted amongst them. “A guinea for the man who can stand two minutes against ’im!” The coin flashed between his fingers. “You don’t ’ave to win, my brave boys, just stand and fight for two minutes! ”
    He had their full attention now, and Bolitho heard the corporal murmur to Little, “Wot about it, Josh? A ’ole bleedin’ guinea!”
    Bolitho paused by the inn door and glanced at the prize-fighter for the first time. He looked as strong as ten, and yet there was something despairing and pathetic about him. He was not looking at any of the seamen but apparently staring into space. His nose had been broken, and his face showed the punishment of many fights. Country fairs, for the farming gentry, for anyone who