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"Young!" Midshipman Blakeney stood over her; an eleven-year old officer berating her for the fifteenth time that day for not swabbing correctly.

"You'll waste the water that way," he said, a bit less sternly. Cicely looked back dumbly at him; an expression she had practiced to perfection.

"Yes, sir," she said, bowing towards him and saluting. "Sorry sir."

Fifteen days into the sailing and she had got pretty much used to her routine; keeping her head down; answering only when requested to; working long hours in filthy conditions. In all her efforts though, there was none so gruelling or more exhausting than mere effort of remaining anonymous.

Cicely's first few days had been the worst; she had to think on her feet in order to escape recognition as a female; washing with what little ration she had when no-one else was around; keeping herself to herself as much as possible so as not to let her guard down.

Their second day involved a more intensive examination of fitness from the doctor and while she queued, her mind worked hard to think how she could get through it without her true identity being discovered. She was second from the front, however when had quarters had been beaten to warn all aboard to be alert. The examination had been abandoned, and subsequently forgotten.

However, she consoled herself, as she lay aching in her hammock each night after ropes, heat and exhaustion gnawed away at her; she had done well so far to evade recognition and the tedium of the tasks involved had given her time to consider how she could approach Edward.

She had refused to drink the grog however; it was a vile poison and caused men to act as fools. She needed to keep a clear head if she was to persuade her brother to forego his commission and turn him to the idea that they could earn a living somewhere else in the Empire.

Cicely glanced from the young Midshipman to the tankard of another man a few feet from her. She knew why it was taken of course; to anaesthetise the pain caused by this way of life. However she knew that sooner or later she must decide on the best course of action with Edward, and in the meantime either tolerate the pain or ignore it.

"Left to right," Blakeney imitated the gesture in mid air. "Left to right, not front to back. You won't waste as much, boy." He nodded as he retreated and Cicely nodded with ample humility displayed then bent her head lower and began to scrub.

Nevertheless, the extreme physicality of the work appeared to diminish when she knew her brother was not far away, and it had been easy to blend into the background of salts: foremasthands, deckhands, powderboys and mizzenlads, especially with the commotion and excitement about the French ship that had been able to pinpoint their position with taciturn accuracy.

Cicely watched Blakeney's feet cross the oak planks and she considered how well, after all this time, picking up leads which had brought her to Brazil, getting aboard the Surprise, that she had managed to accomplish her goal of finding Edward. Now all she needed to do was to formulate a plan to get them both far away from here.

Just as Cicely's mind began to ponder their options, her rhythmic scrubbing was stayed by a filthy beplimsolled foot. She didn't need to look up to know who it was, but she did so anyway.

"And they told us you knew how to mizzen, Young." Joseph Nagel folded his arms mockingly. "Waste of space, if you ask me, what do you say, Pizzy?"

"Ar," said the young boy beside her, not eight years' old. He had dirty blonde curly hair and a face to match; screwing it up scornfully so as to reinforce the mocking words of his crewmate. "Are you goin' a' show 'im, Joe?"

Cicely looked between the boy and the man; what had they in mind this time? It was one thing her fruit ration to be taken, but this morning it had been her whole day's food and grog.

How dissimilar to the crews of both the Invincible and the Rose, who had welcomed Robert Young, allowed him to work alongside them, abiding his faults and watching out for one another. Of course there were times of jocularity, often though at others' expense it was never malevolent.

Now, she had to face malevolence from this man; whether because he was showing off to the younger boy, or for another reason. And if she couldn't own it like a man, this would lead to questions and suspicion. Cicely put down her soap.

"And just what do you mean by that, Nagel?" she said, taking him aback at her forwardness. "I do my job as well as I can."

"Not good enough, by my reckonin'" concluded Joseph Nagel, surveying the work she had completed that morning. "This is one job on any ship that needs the least skill. A woman could do it better than you, and, " he continued, glancing at the quarterdeck, "you still managed to bring attention from the officers. So, I'm here to see you right, just as I seen Fillings."

He put his arm round her, in a mock-friendly gesture, as if offering advice. Cicely glanced up to the quarterdeck, and saw Edward, Callumy and Blakeney nod at one another before turning their backs on them; clearly showing that they thought mizzenlad Young was being assisted by one of his own.

"Now," said Nagel, wheeling her round so their backs faced away from the retreating officers. "Show me those pretty hands of yours." Without waiting for Cicely to respond, he held out both of them in one of his own, forcing them palm upwards towards the hazy sun.

"Well," he said mockingly, addressing Pizzy and gesturing towards her hands. "That'll be the reason. No toughness, there. What we need," Nagel continued, as Cicely glanced at her hands then back at him, "is summat rough," he said, pushing her to her knees and placing her hands palm down onto the bleached planks.

Cicely's heart began to beat faster, but still she said nothing in response to his actions. Nagel pulled her to the deck, and forced her hands, palm down onto the planks and dragged them back.

Cicely's head began to spin as she felt the pain of a layer of skin being removed and bit her lip to prevent her from screaming. She looked up quickly but there was no-one around; she knew this was probably what was considered acceptable in the Service. Seconds later a hot angry throbbing coursed through them.

Once Nagel had released her hands, she thrust them, balled, by her sides, refusing to look at them. Cicely tried to focus on Edward, on her need to remain undiscovered, holding in her fury and outrage at what he had just done.

She turned carefully, holding back her will to shout out in response to her pain and tried to lift up her arms to struggle out of his hold, but Nagel was too fast. He turned her back round, gripping her shoulder.

"Pizzy," said Nagel, unpeeling her hands from each other and exposing the raw flesh to daylight as he addressed the boy. "The salt, if you please." This time, Cicely knew it would hurt; her arms began to quiver and she could feel her face bead in cold sweat. The young boy looked up at her, and hesitated.

"Go on," encouraged Nagel. "This'll toughen your hands, right enough," he said, as if doing her a favour. But Pizzy did nothing, continuing to stare at her, past her, then slowly lowered the tin box containing large-grained sea salt.

"I would oblige you to provide me with an answer." The words came from by Cicely's right shoulder and as she felt Nagel's grip loosen, she wrenched her hands out of his grip, clenching her hands into fists.

"Now," said Stephen Maturin, in a mildly admonishing tone of voice. "Hand me the salt there," he said, addressing Pizzy. The boy held out the box, dumbly. Cicely looked down at the planks more out of embarrassment than anything.

"I agree this method of making a man up-to-scratch is effective; however I do not believe it is one with which your Captain would agree." He eyed Nagel, who dropped his head, mumbling something under his breath.

"I am correct, am I not?" The doctor glanced to the quarterdeck where some of the midshipmen had assembled, alert to his interest in the crew. Nagel nodded, reluctantly.

"We'll be, er, back to work then, sir, " he added, ushering Pizzy back to their own deck area.

"Hm," nodded Maturin, turning to Cicely. "Young, isn't it? The young man who was so determined to be a member of this ship's company?" Cicely nodded in astonishment: that was over a fortnight ago.

"I don't believe we've completed the examination from when you joined the ships' company, Young," he continued, taking her by the shoulder. A feeling of mild dread filled Cicely as she looked into his eyes.

"No sir."

"Then I think now would be an appropriate time; I need to ensure the Captain's crew are all Bristol fashion, as they say" he said, aiding her elbow then walking in the direction of the lower decks.

Cicely paused, before following; it would be useless to refuse; he was the type that would remember and call her back. However, she could not possibly work without drawing further attention to herself and here was the chance for rest, even if she would have to make up the work later.

The deck below was cooler than above; a rank breeze of decomposing food wafted past her as she followed the doctor across the gun deck and into his cabin-cum-surgery. The room was lighter and airier than the berthing decks where the men slept; indeed it looked as if Stephen Maturin kept the place clean personally, by the barrel of potash and buckets residing in the corner near the huge oak work desk.

The doctor picked his way across the room to the far end of the desk and reached over for an old leatherbound ledger. He glanced his way down the right-hand page near the end of the book, looking between names and Cicely.

"Sit down, sit down," he encouraged as he retuned to her with the book, putting it down heavily on the desk beside her. "You came aboard…the fifteenth, wasn't it?" Cicely nodded, and then swallowed, looking down at her inflamed hands.

"If you please sir, you did examine me." Cicely swallowed again as she spoke, as directing his attention to the entry that she was sure no-one had seen her add to the doctor's record on the day the examination had been abandoned; altering some of George Taylor's details, whose entry she'd copied.

"Sorry?" replied Maturin looking up distractedly from his task of assembling his examination equipment.

"Here…" she said, pointing towards the ledger entry which she had written herself. The doctor stopped what he was doing, and looked where she was pointing.

"Indeed so, Young. But I could've sworn…" Then doctor glanced across the pages at the book.

"You did, sir," Cicely said. "I remember. You didn't finish, and you swore to Jove about the shortcomings of the Service." She smiled briefly, before wincing as Maturin took her hands, placing them palm-up on the desk.

"I did?" He eyed her carefully before looking at her hands then looked back at the entry. "That seems likely; besides I did not - complete - your - height." The doctor looked back up.

"Nevertheless, it is your hands that concern me now. Tell me," he said, looking at her face as he examined her fingers and span, "is there any particular reason for their treatment of you?"

"Not tough enough, sir," she said, looking down. "The lads thought I needed a help, so to speak."

It was quite true, though it wasn't just her. However the benefits of her apparent weakness outweighed any mistreatment. No man aboard insisted she remove her tunic; it was accepted that the weaker crewmembers remained fully clothed because they were scrawny.

As Albert Downing, a fellow mizzenlad aboard the Rose pointed out, sometimes they drew attention to themselves by being fully dressed. The wrong sort of attention, concluded Cicely, if her treatment by Nagel was anything to go by.

"I can see why; you are indeed a weak specimen; but there is hope for you yet," he laughed, pulling her up firmly by the shoulders. "You are not the first by any means to be subjected to this," he added, looking her straight in the eye. "However we are in a new century, and as such I am concerned we should put out-of date practices aside. Now," Stephen got up, slapping her on the shoulder.

"And I am concerned about your overall health. Within a month, on a ship's diet, you should make a fine specimen. Make sure you eat your entire ration, Young." He looked at her hands again and unpeeling them from the wrist. Cicely felt them pound as the blood coarsed beneath them.

"They'll heal, but you won't be able to mizzen. I'll speak to the Captain." Cicely looked up, horrified.

"No sir, please!" she begged, then looked down, hoping to convey her shame at being too scrawny for the service to the doctor. The last thing she wanted was the Captain to enquire after her health. How long would her secret last then?

"May I ask before I consider a third option, is the choice of yours to forego the ship's grog ration a religious one?" Cicely nodded; she'd planned this one. Non-Conformist Protestants, Puritans and Methodists were amongst those Christian denominations who shunned alcohol.

The doctor stood up. "In that case," he said, before pausing in mid-sentence to reach into a chest just behind his table. He pulled out a bottle which Cicely eyed with suspicion.

"Take no more than a sip of this," he said gently. "Don't worry, it's only laudanum." Cicely took it from his hand. The cylindrical bottle reflected the midday sun, and glowed amber. She looked down and sipped, nearly spitting the bitter liquid across the doctor's cabin.

"There now," he consoled, taking the bottle back off Cicely and stowed it away. "I don't advocate it only in the direst need; despite what the Captain thinks, many sailors for religious reasons do not drink. Young Fillings, for example," he added, smiling kindly. Cicely nodded as if agreeing, and then a thought struck her: Nagel had mentioned he had given the same advice to him. Did that mean…

"Er, Doctor?" she said meekly. "Do you mean James Fillings? Is he well now?"

"Certainly, certainly," confirmed Maturin, "although the Laudanum did get the better of him. He's recovering on the berth-deck. You and he are pairs, am I correct?" Cicely nodded again.

As with many jobs aboard, two men were often paired together covering the same work, but on alternate watches. James was at work when she wasn't, which meant they although they had effectively the same job, they had barely spoken. But he appeared very similar to Robert Young in demeanour, and herself in character.

Maturin stood up, and Cicely made to, swallowing against the now-diluted taste of the drug but flopped back down onto the oak chair. Clearly the laudanum was already taking effect.

"He will be fit tomorrow evening, as will you be yourself to resume duty the morning after." He noticed the look of panic cross her face. "I will merely inform the captain you have been treated for work-related injuries, and being of a particular faith compels you to reject the grog." Cicely watched as a small satisfied smile crossed his face, as if somewhere a small victory had been won.

"You are to remain here, Young, until the effects wear off. Fillings has had the only recuperation bunk and I did not anticipate more of this."

Placing a kindly hand on her shoulder and helped her up with the elbow Dr. Stephen Maturin gestured towards his own bunk, waiting until she sat down on it before leaving Miss Cicely Hollum in his cabin.

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On returning to mizzening two days later Cicely was surprised that Nagel or any of the others were not bothering her.

She had awoken muzzily in a dark cabin, not being able to place where she was. It wasn't until the her eyes had adjusted to the dark as she lay still in the bunk that her eyes focused on the doctor poring over a book, magnifying glass in one hand and spectacles upon his nose.

Maturin had helped her to her feet before summoning assistance from a deckhand to take her to the crew berths where he confined her to quarters on a thin broth and citrus until the doctor was happy that she could work, reassured her that while he had informed the Captain of her injuries had not disclosed how they had occurred.

Cicely's confinement had allowed her time to think, and also become frustrated: she had time to notice with growing ill humour that her brother was by far the least popular middie aboard; the night before she was declared fit to work she forced herself to furiously devise plans of their escape as a bastion against the open contempt she had heard.

Why, she thought, as she worked away at the oak planks of the Surprise, has Captain Aubrey not seen how entirely unsuited to the work on board ship? Why has he not reassigned him or suggested other duties for him to do?

Such thoughts nagged at Cicely, along with their unknown destination and as long as it remained a mystery this frustrated her as she could not set into action any firm plan for herself and Edward. It would appear as though she must wait; carry out her duties as Robert Young until she could reveal her identity to her brother and they could leave the Surprise.

However the crew seemed to have the idea that Aubrey was about to take them round the Horn and, as every day appeared to Cicely to grow ever colder and shorter, she was inclined to agree with them.

The motivation for the crew's beliefs, she discovered, stemmed from an incident, she learned one evening, involving a French ship. She approached James Fillings on the lowerdeck, who had told her he was off watch through illness. They sat close to then main group of men not on duty, who were drinking, singing and carousing and he told her that most of the sailors believed it to be cursed, and that someone aboard was the cause of it.

"Do you believe it?" asked Cicely, that same evening. Many of the other mizzens and foremasts had retired a-hammock; but Fillings appeared rather less inclined to do so. Cicely had seen Nagel, Warley and the others return there an hour ago and though they had not bothered her since the day of her "toughening-up" she preferred not to be reminded.

"Oh no," he said, smiling at her and chuckling slightly. "I am a Non-Conformist," he added, in rather more hushed tones. "We don't believe in curses. You?"

"Church of England," she said nodding slightly, though with some degree of reservation; since she left England she hadn't been to a Protestant church to worship, and even before that she had rather doubted God was on her side. She rubbed her palms together as a sharp-cold breeze leaped the side of the Surprise.

"So how did you end up in Brazil? It's rough business being away from those you love," she added, looking wistfully in the direction of the quarterdeck.

"My father," said James, glancing out to sea now, across ice-covered straits and rivulets. "I was originally aboard another ship, the Emerald. Her captain, Fitzherbert grew ill and died, and the rest of the crew abandoned the ship. I was mizzened in Emira. That's where my father was born, in Portugal. My grandfather was exiled to Madeira and stripped of his wealth in the '30s. It was his boat that Charles James Stuart honoured to bring him to Scotland". James sighed with wistful pride.

Charles James Stuart, Cicely thought. The Young Pretender. Many of those loyal to the Jacobites; who would see a Scottish Catholic on Britain's throne than a Dutch Protestant, had been soundly driven out of England and Scotland once Bonnie Prince Charlie had been defeated.

"My father fought for Nelson, though. Nearly broke my grandfather's heart. But father said he was doing what he believed in, like his father before him. Grandfather couldn't argue with that, though."

"And what is it you believe in, you little tyke?" The voice neither Cicely's nor James's cut cleanly through the bitter air. She turned and behind them both Harris and Bonden stood. pewters in hands, leering drunkenly at them both.

"I see Nagel has managed to toughen you a bit," said Harris critically, dropping James's palm. He looked at Cicely. "But there's nay hope for those as don't want to be helped, eh, Barrett?"

Cicely glanced sideways quickly to James, and she saw he had his head bowed, and his hands clasped together. Clearly Nagel and his gang had toughened one of the mizzenlads to their satisfaction.

"I don't see what business it is of yours," replied Cicely, instinctively defending James Fillings. "We get on with our job well enough."

"Ar," said Harris, looking her hard in the eye. "And leave the slack to the rest on us. 'Aint that right, Bonden?"

All three of them turned to Barrett Bonden: by the look of him, Cicely thought, he was the less intoxicated of the two. It was he who she would look for sympathy then if matters looked like they were turning for the worst.

"Aye," agreed Bonden, looking back at Harris. "But yer can't expect 'em to do their best on next to no rations, Bill. You know 'e's takin' em, eh?" Harris looked back at Bonden, his stance changing now to more stiff and formal.

Cicely glanced at James: so that was it. Nagel and his lot were stealing rations from the sailors, and would explain why hers had disappeared on infrequent occasions. She'd heard about that before, how it was one of the worst crimes recognised by the Service; it needed fit and healthy men, all of them, to operate efficiently.

However should any man report such a crime his subsequent treatment by the rest of the crew amounted to almost total social exclusion. Plainly, it was better to put up with it than lose fellowship.

"Ar, agreed Harris, backing down slightly before Cicely and James. "You do your best, lads. And don't forget, what 'its 'em 'ard is what 'its 'em 'ard. Sometimes it's the only way." And with that, both of the older men returned to the main crowd.

"You too?" said Cicely when they'd been left alone. She sat down on an empty rum barrel, next to James. He nodded. "Can't be much helped," he added glumly. "The doctor thinks I need to increase my fruit ration. Made me promise to eat all of my limes every day, and this would make me better. But how can I do that when I haven't got them?"

He looked beseechingly at Cicely, who patted him on the shoulder. She nodded in agreement, feeling almost guilty for latching onto this convenient excuse.

"I know," she said, a little more brightly. "We've got to look out for one another. We take our meals at the same time. I could pass you mine, or you could give me yours. The one of us that's empty handed could be awkward about it when Nagel takes them, pretend we've forgotten them, or given them to Pizzy already. This would give the other a chance to hide and eat both. Then the other could eat double the next day." Does that sound right, I wonder?

James nodded. "Sounds like a good plan," he said, seeming slightly happier. "So," he said, changing the subject. "What is it you're running from?" Cicely stopped. "What?" she asked, taken aback.

"We're all running from something, eh? Warley from Mrs Warley, Richards from the King, Bonden from the debtors. What's yours, Robert?"

Be careful, she warned herself. Don't let anything go. You haven't come all this way to be defeated now. She glanced at the waxing moon, and considered her choice of words.

"My past mistakes," she said eventually. "There are things that I have left too long that need putting right."

"And you're going to do that in the Royal N?" said James, doubtfully. "Well, at least you'll have some thinking time. I did think the Captain was taking the ship back to Cadiz, but it seems like we'll be in the South Seas before we see Spanish ladies."

He coughed and stood up, shifting his bandaging round his waist until it was more comfortable.

"Yourself?" she asked, more out of a desire to remove the opportunity for James to press her further.

"My father was taken into service before Nelson when they needed men for the War. My mother refused to leave him, but the captain, a cruel man, said she would be lashed if she remaining aboard." He sighed, looking out onto the midnight seas.

"She took me to my grandfather, and we remained there until my father returned. He went back to sea again, under Nelson, but that's the last we've seen of him. I went to sea at eight. I'm looking for him, if truth be told," he said, muttering this last sentence under his breath towards her.

"By the fact that you are still aboard, does this mean you haven't found him yet?" James shook his head sadly.

"No," he confirmed. "I've not found him. But I won't give up," he said, looking back at the ocean. As he did so, Cicely sneaked a glance at her brother. Neither will I, she thought.

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