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Cicely dreamed. It was one that Cicely recognised. On some of her darker days, when all hope seemed lost she would relive it in her waking mind as her conscience tortured her, and she knew the narrative well. Her and Stephen. She had found him…they were together and it was several years hence.

They were in a land which had been little explored by anyone. Stephen was on commission from the Royal Society to further the understanding of the country, its fauna and flora with the objective of writing a comprehensive report. With them was their son, who Cicely had lost nearly two years ago aboard the Surprise. The boy, the image of Dr. Maturin, was about eight or nine, and his primary aim in life was to be exactly like his father in both deed and demeanour.

Cicely had decided to go with them both that morning. Covering her head with a large shawl and tying it firmly around her body she took hold of the traps and nets, following in her husband's footsteps – literally – as Stephen and their son made their way across poor grass and onto the foreshore, laughing and chatting together as they went.

Both of them got further and further away as Cicely followed, towards the bright morning sun and, as she tried to call out to them both to slow down for the nets and traps she was carrying were weighing her down and preventing her from moving. Then, as Stephen and their son got to the shoreline Cicely felt herself being pulled away from them. She tried to call out but she couldn't. Then, just as they seemed too far away to hear her, their son and Stephen began to wave…

Cicely felt her stomach lurch as a knot of sadness tightened in her stomach…this was common, she had felt this many mornings before. It would be fine once she had woken fully, had breakfasted with the navvies on dark grey bread and boiled water and walked the three miles with them to the canal basin and their day's work.

But…something was different. It wasn't dawn: light was not spilling through the shuttered windows of building where the men lived. Indeed, she was not even in their building, unless the ceiling had been replaced with something much more dynamic.

No, this was not their building – Cicely was certain. How was it that she was here – wherever here was – that she could feel fresh air on her skin and the ground beneath her? Cicely felt herself sighing and though the knot in her stomach ebbed and was replaced by a feeling of sadness and bewilderment. A breeze passed by her again and Cicely's ear picked up voices nearby but they were too indistinct to make out.

She looked at the light around her: it was evening. Long shadows were cast outside wherever it was she was and Cicely looked about her trying to deduce her situation. She had little recollection of what had happened beforehand, but she felt her heart race as some memories began to invade her mind…

…the alehouse where she had been with the navvies…

…drinking a little ale…it was against her better judgement but she had to act as a navvie would…she had not had nearly enough to make her forget, of this Cicely was sure…

Cicely leaned back and looked heavenwards, or at least where the heavens would be if the canvas above her were not in the way and pushed her hand against her head. Her headache would certainly suggest she could have drunk too much and Cicely closed her eyes again, tying to make sense of everything.

Her hand drifted to her shoulder as a dull ache radiated around her scapula. She remembered her mother's locket…and trying to sell it to Meg the landlady…Cicely's hand moved towards her neck and then her pocket: the locket, it was gone! Suddenly the events of the previous evening pieced themselves back together hazily in her mind and she felt in the inside of her jerkin. Her money too. Gone!

Too tired to fully take it all in Cicely closed her eyes again. Where was she? Why did she feel so tired?

"…I go tomorrow, Harris. Munro. I'm short enough on men…"

Silence, followed by the crunching of foot on hard ground. Cicely held her breath and listened.

"…what if he 'aint come round, we can't just leave him…"

"…the navvy companies always gives us money for 'em, anyways…"

Opening her eyes, Cicely exhaled and she began to sit up again, rubbing her eyes. Suddenly, she felt a breeze near her shoulder and realised that someone had just entered…wherever it was she was…? Cicely turned, which was painful, and looked sharply towards where the canvas flaps of the tent moved and she watched as a soldier looked towards her.

She shrunk back as the soldier made towards her as the events of the alehouse flashed before her eyes – was this the same man? – and the soldier smiled towards her. He wasn't, but Cicely wasn't about to drop her guard. She watched as the man looked over his shoulder. Cicely drew her knees up to her stomach and huddled back towards the rear of the tent as the soldier shouted, "she's awake."

She? The dull pain now radiated out from the epicentre of her shoulder and up her neck as Cicely sought an exit but, before she could get very far another solder, one of rank, appeared head and shoulders next to the first.

"Hello, lass." Cicely looked between the men, backing as far away from them as she could now. How could they know her secret? Where was she? Were these soldiers something to do with the men in the alehouse? She felt about her person for her bindings…they were as she had tied them…how did they know her true gender?

"Don't look so scared. If it hadn't been for Harris here, you might well have been face up in the Thames." The officer, tall, grubby blonde hair and angled features, grinned widely as he looked her up and down in a most un-officer-like manner. The first soldier wasn't the one who had tried to accost her in the alehouse, Cicely figured. He was much shorter, with darker hair – this soldier was fair haired and had thicker-set features.

"Wh…wh…?" Cicely tried to reply but the words she wanted to say wouldn't form themselves.

"Don't worry, lass," the Major added, "nothing's become o' thee: I made sure o' that me-sen." He looked across at the first soldier, who nodded at the officer. "Harris here, has been tellin' me o' you, Miss Hollum. Or should I say, Mrs Maturin?"

"I recognised you in the alehouse," Harris explained. Cicely fixed him with a questioning stare, trying not to let the fear coursing through her body show on her face, "when you said you name was Robert Young." Inching further into the tent the soldier who the officer had called Harris smiled towards her.

"How do you know who I am?" Cicely could feel that her fear had made its way to her vocal cords. "Who are you? Where am I?" Swallowing a few times, her heart racing and the adrenaline building around her lower back, Cicely added, "what happened?"

"You've had a bang on the head," replied the Major. "Here." He proffered a woollen blanket. "This is my tent, lass. You are welcome to its use. Please allow Harris here to fetch you what you need." Nodding stiffly, the Major edged out of his tent and left and Harris smiled to Cicely.

"I could ask you the same thing. The last time I saw you, the doctor had convinced you not to board the Acheron. I was just in front of you." Cicely squinted nervously. In the lantern-light, she still could not take in the man's features fully.

"I sailed under Captain Aubrey, on the Surprise," Harris added. "When Captain Pullings commandeered the Acheron I went with him. You used to knock into my hammock when you came down to see James Fillings."

In the half-light Cicely squinted, trying to discern familiarity in the man's face, before shaking her head, defeated. If he was who he said he was, it didn't matter at the moment. He knew she was she and, at this moment in time, she was safe. Or rather, she was not being pursued out of an alehouse for the sake of a silver locket, which was now lost in any case.

"Here." From behind the canvas flap Harris produced a pewter plate on which sat a large piece of bread. "Some ale too. Look, I know you don't drink strong drink," he added, noticing Cicely's disdainful look, "but the water round here is foul. It's all we can trust until we get moving again."

Cicely held out her hands and took the food gratefully, flinching as the pain in her shoulder flared around her shoulder and upper arm. She was hungry; that was certain. Whatever was going on she could think about it with a full stomach.

"Thank you," she added, smiling a little.

"When you're ready, I'll get the regiment's medical officer to take a look." Harris nodded towards Cicely and smiled in return. "Major Blunt has instructed me to keep you safe. This is his tent, you see. I'm honoured," he added, smiling again.

Cicely stared at Harris again as she made short work of the bread, contemplating her situation. If she were with an army regiment, and if their Major knew who she was, then it was likely he would hand her back to the authorities. But…something felt different. Perhaps it was the Major's manner: his straightforward turn of speech and his dialect. Most men in his position went to great lengths to alter their speech to match that of the aristocracy but not, it seemed, Major Blunt.

Putting down the plate, Cicely swigged the ill-tasting ale, feeling the potent fluid wash down her throat and into her stomach. She sighed. The pain in her head was dulling a little and she felt a little more relaxed, but only a little.

She glanced at Harris a couple of times; she did recognise him a little. He was one of the sailors who had not terrorised both her and James Fillings over their food ration; indeed, he had pleaded for clemency for her crime of assaulting Nagel when he had voiced the common opinion that her brother, Edward Hollum, was better off dead and at the bottom of the ocean, rather than bringing bad fortune on the Surprise and the souls aboard. At length, Harris smiled at her again, taking the plate and the now-empty tankard from next to her.

"May I ask, Mrs Maturin, how you came to be in a tavern in London in the company of navigationals?" Harris's question hung in the air between them. It was the question, wasn't it, thought Cicely. The one which both he, for the sake of curiosity, and the Major clearly wanted to know.

"Before I answer – " Cicely searched for the man's Christian name, " – Michael…?"

" – Matthew," Harris acknowledged.

" – Matthew." Cicely inhaled deeply. "Is the Major intending to call for a magistrate, because if he is, I have to leave. Now. Tonight."

"But you're injured, Mrs Maturin," Matthew Harris replied urgently, leaning towards her.

" – Cicely – "

" – Cicely..." Harris nodded in acknowledgement, "…you can't be going anywhere. Look, I don't know," he added, circumventing Cicely's anticipated interjection. "The Major's fair; he'll give you a hearing. What is it you've done?"

And so, despite herself, Cicely told Harris briefly of her time in England; of Captain Aubrey allowing her to live with his wife Litten Hall, and that her father's intended husband for her finding out where she was and following her all the way to Shrewsbury. She told him of her flight, and enlisting first into the Shropshire Union canal company and then signing up with the Grand Union. The latter, Cicely added, would be another authority to which she could be handed; those who deserted the canal companies fared little better than those who deserted the army.

"And what brought you to the tavern?" Harris, who had listened with silent interest to her incredible tale, prompted her to relive the last few hours that she remembered.

"I went with the navvies to the alehouse. I knew that Meg buys things." Cicely shifted in sitting position and reached for the grey blanket that the Major had given to her. "I knew I couldn't stay much longer working in the basin if I were to get across to France, or Flanders and, well, the locket is…was…worth something."

"Yes, I saw you talking to Meg," confirmed Harris. "I saw Swanwick harassing you too."

"He chased me outside," Cicely added.

"Yes," agreed Harris. "And he hit you. He stole your money and the locket too. He would have got away with it had it not been for the crowd. Drunk to the back teeth, he were. Not that he'll be able to get into that state again."

As Cicely frowned uncomprehendingly Harris reached into his pocket and pulled out something which he held out towards Cicely. She put her hand out and Harris let go, allowing her mother's silver locket to fall into it. Cicely stared back at Harris until finally the soldier added the missing pieces.

"Your money ended up all over the street." Harris leaned back and exhaled quickly. "The crowd helped themselves; none of us could get that back. But Swanwick had pocketed your locket and was making his way back to camp when Major Blunt caught up with him." Harris looked out through the tent door before back to Cicely. "Swinging by his neck, he was, before the sun had a chance to come up." As Cicely continued to stare at him, Harris added, "Major Blunt comes down hard on thieves. Says it disgraces every single soldier if one of us steals. Says that it helps the enemy."

Looking down at her hand again, Cicely closed her fingers around the locket and a spark of hope appeared in her mind, not least because now she might be able to get aboard a naval ship now; Cicely also knew that she could trust Harris, at least in part.

"Thank you," she replied, rubbing her head and then her shoulder with her other hand. "For everything."

"Mrs Maturin, there's no need to thank me," Harris replied, shaking his head. "I only recognised your name. It wasn't just me who decided to bring you back here; the other men, the soldiers, thought that we should at least treat you. None of them know of your secret, though," he added, noticing the look of panic on her face.

Silence reigned again as Cicely put the locket round her neck once more. After a time, she looked back to Harris.

"What about you, Matthew? How is it that you are now in the army? I would have thought Pullings would be an exceptional captain."

"That he was," replied Harris, nodding in agreement. "But…don't you know…? The Acheron was wrecked just before she got to Portsmouth. Just off the Channel Islands. Many men were lost, including that of the Captain. We swam towards an island, Les Erchons, in the Channel. I clung to the rock for five days until a passing schooner rescued me.

"I know of some others who survived," Harris continued, "…Captain Pullings…Beecher…Fillings…but only a dozen or so of us. The former captain, the French Captain, had disguised himself as the surgeon. Captain Pullings had intended to hand him over to the military authorities but he, and the other few survivors of our battle, had mutinied, scuppered "Acheron"…" Harris shook his head as his voice trailed off.

"How terrible," echoed Cicely, feeling a pang of emotion in her stomach. "All those men…" Those men she knew, dead now in the Channel…all those souls…

"Gorle survived too; he encouraged me to join the North Buck'm company, our company." continued Harris, putting down his rifle. "When we got to Portsmouth he enlisted straight away. He's since transferred to another regiment now. I thought I'd try my luck too..."

…Harris liked it well enough. As Cicely drew the blanket around her, feeling her eyes grow heavy with fatigue she listened to her former seafaring colleague. The surviving French crew of the original Acheron who had been rescued had become Anglicised, had sworn allegiance to King George and, with equal vehemence to fight to the death to defeat Bonaparte. They were ignorant sailors, explained Harris, grateful of their bed and board and he himself had taken the opportunity for an increase in pay and status by joining Blunt's company…

Cicely closed her eyes as Harris's voice trailed off. Her head was feeling dense now, fuzzy but with the absence of pain which the ale she had drunk earlier had taken from her. She lay down as the darkness enveloped her.

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The proto-light of early autumn dawn was the next thing Cicely remembered. Casting a dull eye around her in the half-light she caught sight of Harris, sitting where he had been when she had succumbed to slumber. He seemed to be waiting for her to wake for, when Cicely sat up, rubbing her eyes he smiled in her direction and cleared his throat.

"The Major wants to talk to you," he said. Muzzily, Cicely rubbed her eyes, and rubbed her head again. The pain seemed to have gone, and had dulled in her shoulder, but the anxiety which she had felt about being in an army camp, with no money and little idea as to what she would do now was ever potent in her mind.

"Here." Harris handed Cicely a pewter plate again, containing more food. "And some ale?"

Cicely shook her head. Perhaps she would risk the water later, she thought to herself as she ate the hard, dark bread and Cicely contemplated what Blunt would have to say to her. For her own sake now she would have to make a good case to him.

"Harris."

Cicely put down her now-empty plate and the soldier yielded his silent sentry position to his superior who had uttered Matthew's name, slipping between the tent flaps as Major Blunt filled the void between her and outside.

"I trust yer slept well, lass." Cicely made to get to her feet as the officer stepped into the tent, but Blunt crouched down. Not as well-spoken as Harris, Cicely concluded. He had a Northern, possibly Yorkshire accent which he made no attempt to conceal as other men in his position would.

"Rest, lass," he added, before sitting in Harris's former spot. Un-tensing, Cicely sat back down, and pulled the thick blanket back round her. She didn't want to have to talk about the situation now; she was tired; she ached. But it seemed unavoidable as the tall man before her, with presence as prominent as the white stripes on the shoulders of his green jacket, held her with a steely stare. Cicely knew she would have to step up if she were to come out of the imminent discourse with the officer with something in her favour.

"You put me in summat of a dilemma, Miss." Blunt shifted but continued to hold Cicely's gaze and his intense stare made Cicely feel as if he was weighing her up, testing her by her reactions. "As I understand it, you are a married woman, who worked on Harris's ship; that you were in the company of the ship's captain's wife in England, and you ran off, and dressed yourself as up as a boy." Cicely found herself nodding; it wasn't the first time that she had, as Robert Young, induced a dilemma in a military man and this situation clearly had jarred with the Major.

"Yes. My husband is a doctor and a naturalist too. He is surgeon aboard the HMS Surprise as you rightly said." Talking control of the discussion Cicely tried to think of a way to form her words efficiently; as yet she didn't know Blunt's nature or character…he may well yet let her on way and she needn't challenge him.

"On one hand," continued the Major, taking control of the discussion, "as the Grand Union own yer skin, I could, indeed I should, turn you over to 'em – " so, he wasn't about to let her on her way then, Cicely realised, " – they pay good money, as my men know well. On the other, summon 't sheriff who'll keep you as ward until you can be released to yer father."

"What else do you know about me, Major Blunt?" With what other details has my former colleague furnished you?

"That you were disguised aboard his former ship; that you got wed to 't ship's doctor, that you hoodwinked yer captain; that your father hunts yer. Can you tell me now, lass, why I should not do just that?" Cicely felt herself becoming defensive under the scrutiny of the man. Just because he was her Harris's superior, did not mean she could trust him.

"My father is a selfish bully, Major. He was with a whore when my mother died; he drove my brother into the navy, a profession to which he was unsuited. I was locked away in my father's house for four years as he tried to coerce me into marriage to a local magistrate, for his own political and financial advantage. I took my destiny in my own hands, sir; I swore that no man would control me."

Cicely found herself returning the soldier's firmly held look, holding him with her own eyes and waiting for him to take in her firm and defiant words. Instead of rising to the challenge however, Major Blunt threw his head back and laughed.

"I do not come to you to tell you what to do, haughty lady. If I wanted to do that, we would not be sittin' 'ere." He breathed out heavily through his nose before adding, "but, if you was to leave now, where'd you go, lass? What'd you do?"

Cicely didn't answer immediately – it had been a long time since anyone had managed to annoy her as he was. She rubbed her head again, trying to keep alert and focused, and put her emotions aside. Perhaps a different approach would be more effective.

"I have to get out of England, sir, and find my husband's ship. Harris was kind enough to return my mother's locket to me – "

" – I must apologise on behalf of the soldier who caused your injuries, lass," Blunt interrupted. "'e won't do it again. You have no money, and yer couldn' sell that pretty trinket for the price of passage."

Cicely made to speak but her brain was being torn in all directions as it fought to prioritise her thoughts. What surfaced above the silent cacophony was: I could leave now, but I'll be found, I'm sure. Then the words came, unbidden, spilling out into the air between them, beseechingly.

"I could come with you, sir," she gabbled, getting quickly to her feet and leaning towards Blunt beseechingly. "Robert Young could be your private. He could live as one of your men…work as hard as them, harder if it would prove it to you. Make me one of your men, Major Blunt, and my work would be payment enough I am sure – "

"Impossible!" Blunt was on his feet, looking as if he had just been set on fire. He shook his head incredulously. He eyed Cicely as if waiting for her to admit she was joking. When she did not, Blunt shook his head again.

"Harris said you fought well, on 't ship," Blunt admitted, pacing a little before the tent entrance. "Bloody 'ell, you've just crossed 'alf the country without anyone findin' yer, and 'alfway across the world before that, 'n all…"

Silence reigned, as both conceded a temporary standoff.

"You need men; I heard you said so yourself."

"My men wouldn't abide it and I wouldn't mek 'em. Sailors are softer than my soldiers, lass."

Cicely shifted her weight, wishing she hadn't moved so quickly for the pain was as bad as it had been since waking the first time.

"Apart from Harris, who has to know? I've made as a boy for more years than I care to remember."

"Ar, and you're a married woman, too – "

" – so you see, Major, why you would wish to offer me safe passage to seek out my husband, to be in my rightful place by his side…"

Blunt didn't reply. He remained standing momentarily before moving quickly in Cicely's direction as she staggered backwards a little.

"Steady, lass," he instructed as Cicely allowed him to help her sit down, despite herself. "I'll tell you my decision in t' mornin'. You've the use of my tent what's left o' this night, o' course. Rest well, lass," he finished, before adding, "I am so sorry for what you've been brought to – "

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The sun woke Cicely for the third time in less than twelve hours. She felt sick as she had once again been torn away from her family during her unconscious slumber. The tent had taken on a dull grey colour and through the material she could see the rounded outlines of people outside, crunching on the ground beneath them, going about what Cicely supposed was their duties.

She looked around her again as the pain in her head caught up with her consciousness. Damn her feeble physical form; how she longed to be better…fitter…there had been a time she could beat the rest of them from deck to main topmast…not now, Cicely feared. Now, she had succumbed to frailty.

Cicely wondered whether she had convinced the Major to take her aboard as a soldier. She knew if she were in his position she probably wouldn't –

- she could hear voices…and listened as a crunching sound suggested people were near the tent…

"…if she's from a noble family, then someone's bound to offer a reward…" Cicely sought to focus on the words being spoken, trying to make them more understandable in her muzzy mind.

"…so you'd turn her over then?" Another voice, Irish…neither voices were Harris or Blunt and…they were talking about her! So much for keeping it between themselves! Cicely sat upright as conflicting thoughts fought for precedence in her brain. She had been right all along: they were planning to turn her in. So much for Matthew Harris's assertion that the Major would be fair!

She had to go – now. She had her locket, she could try to sell it again –

- a crunch near the tent entrance made her look up.

"I'll tell her," she heard Harris say.

"No, I will." Major Blunt's had spoke right outside his tent. More crunching –

– but that was behind her now as Cicely crawled between the groundsheet and the canvas – daylight ahead of her and boots in the distance going about their business –

The ground felt soft around her elbows and knees but the gap was narrow and she had to struggle. Quickly! She had to get out and away – Cicely struggled now as the pressure of her headache built behind her eyes as she sought to be away –

– however her efforts were ultimately in vain as she felt hands around her waist. The light before her receded as she was reintroduced to the interior of the Major's tent by its owner. Cicely squirmed and struggled, twisting onto her back and seeking liberty but the Major continued to hold onto her obstinately.

"Where're ye goin' lass?"

As Cicely tried again to get away he leered at her, as if delighting in her failed escape attempt. Cicely sagged and closed her eyes. It was no use. The Major was far stronger than she was so she could not overcome him by might. Perhaps, when her head was clearer he could be reasoned with.

"I don't think you're too well." Blunt had eased his hold, but not much. Cicely said nothing, but opened her eyes again, searching for a hook, a thread, something to hold onto which would give her a fighting chance to guard herself against being given back to her father, or the Grand Union from which she had apparently absconded.

"I'm well, Major," Cicely replied graciously. "And I am grateful for your hospitality."

"You're not well enough to leave us, lass. And you've no money." Cicely felt her nerve snap: she had begun with politeness but here, with the Major's tone indiscernible from mockery and being denied her autonomy, her resolve to use charm faltered.

"Be in no doubt, sir, that there is no point in delaying me now," warned Cicely hotly. "At the first opportunity, I will run."

"And where do you imagine you will go that I or my men cannot follow you?" Blunt let go his grip and she pushed herself back into a sitting position, looking at him disdainfully. "You get yourself into bother in an alehouse…you are sought by your father who you chose to run from – "

"I think I've explained – " began Cicely, but she was cut off by the Major.

" – you're a lady, or so your family name betrays. And yet you've used your position to flee, troubling people as you go. Have you never thought, lass, that you are not entitled to all such freedom you have demanded? Some females would be more than grateful being in your position, yet you choose to give yourself to poverty and hardship when you have no need to suffer so."

Cicely felt tears prick her eyes as the Major spoke. He was right, of course, to some extent. She had acted arrogantly. But, as Blunt stood there, speaking her own guilt aloud she wasn't about to acknowledge his accusations.

"In my father's home I would have more freedom were I to be the most pitiful slave in the whole world. Cicely pulled herself to her feet and ignoring the dizziness from her throbbing head which now returning again. "Had I not chosen to live my own life I would be dispatched to be the wife of a swine of a man. I'd wished to be with my brother, but I didn't get the chance to even talk to him as his sister before he took his life." Cicely looked him in the eye as he straightened to his full height. "Were I to be a man I doubt my actions would sit more comfortably with you, sir."

For a moment a silent standoff grew between Major Blunt and Mrs Maturin as both returned each other's stare.

"I know exactly what to do with you." Major Blunt broke the stalemate and strode towards Cicely and, as hope faded, replaced seamlessly with dread. "This is how it is going to be in my camp and, lass, you will do what I say." Cicely made to say something, forcing her feet to keep her standing where she was when her whole core was screaming at her to flee. Blunt's mocking expression had returned and he reached down and held her wrists tightly.

"Major," Cicely managed, and then something she had hardly ever said in her life, so foreign it was to her nature.

Please help me.

She could not manage it, though the words formed at the back of her throat. She looked to the hard ground underfoot. She felt him loose her wrists.

"What'll you do, lass?" the Major continued, his tone a little softer than before, as he addressed the top of her head, his breath soft on her shorn hair. Cicely looked up resolutely into his pale blue eyes.

"Find out where the Surprise is," she replied boldly, breaking her gaze from him and looking around her. "I know that the flagship, the Victory, is going to dock at Calais this month. There are still men loyal to England there."

There was a pause before Blunt replied.

"No lass. That yer won't be doin'."

Cicely looked at him, fear overtaking her. This was it: he'd made her bear her soul, tell him the bald truth and all along he was going to turn her over. She felt herself sigh aloud in despair. Then Cicely glanced at the tent flap –

"No," he repeated again, seizing her wrists again as it crossed Cicely's mind to bolt again. "We go aboard a naval ship in two days' time." Blunt looked towards the tent opening as Cicely was now and she drew her eyes questioningly to his face.

"You can find yer way about a ship; 'arris 'as vouched fer yer. I could do with another m –, person who knows their way round a tub." He let her go again and strode to the side of the tent where the, for want of a better word, door, was wafting in the breeze. "Sergeant Major Harker?" Blunt leaned through and shouted out. A voice not too far away replied.

"Yes sir?"

"Get Young here a uniform. He is to rest and be seen by the physician. Bring food, too."

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The regiment's doctor, a short, dark-haired man in round spectacles, had barely been in the tent before he left again. Under Blunt's supervision he only briefly examined her stature and span, perhaps because he had seemed a little uncertain at Blunt's instruction to examine her without actually examining her.

"What I want ter know is, can he 'old a rifle?" Blunt had said eventually, clearly exasperated. The physician had said nothing, felt her brow and diagnosed fatigue, recommending rest and nourishment, the very remedy, Cicely noted, that Blunt had iterated himself to the doctor once he had brought him to Cicely. And, for once, she had done as she was told. She rested, ate and considered her immediate future, where she would be able to tread the boards again and do a job which she had some skill and do it well in return for the opportunity to locate "Surprise".

The day and evening had passed quickly. Both Harris and Blunt had returned to visit her; the latter clearly taking his own rest elsewhere and she had been left to her more optimistic thoughts and dreams until the dawn bugle roused her the next morning.

The green of the rifleman's tunic glowed in the early morning sun. It had been a good fit if the sleeves were too long and the boots that the Sergeant Major had brought with the uniform were the best she had had since those she had stolen from "The Mount's" stable.

The camp was situated close to a wood with open fields to one side. The ground was hard, compressed through from wear, with grassy clumps here and there. In front of her a large tent which, as men in identical tunic and trousers to her were entering and leaving carrying clothing, blankets and guns, must be the stores. Cicely turned, seeking the Major or, at least, Harris. It took her a few moments to realise what it was she had seen: a large frigate in dock right in front of her.

Cicely's heart beat faster as she analysed the sheets and rigs. No, she concluded, not "Surprise". But she may have been there longer in her deliberation had not a hand clamped her shoulder.

"I take it you accept my terms?" Blunt looked past her and at the frigate himself. "We are going to the enemy, to France. We're to provide a force to help the rebellious French…aristocrats…liberals…traitors…" His voice trailed off as Cicely turned to the Major.

"Major Blunt," she replied, "may I clarify? You need my expertise, what basic it is, to help your men to France. And I may use my time to seek "Surprise?"

"Yes, lad," Blunt confirmed. "Should you not when we dock at Quiberon, you may be at your liberty." Cicely nodded. That meant she was released from any formal agreement which Blunt would undoubtedly make her undertake to officially become a rifleman private.

Blunt led her fifty yards to where the rest of the company, almost a dozen men, who were in full swing of making their preparations. Some of them looked up from their tasks, Matthew Harris included, who winked at Cicely as they stood straight for their Major.

"Men, we are today to board His Majesty's ship "Thorn", Major Blunt began. The riflemen, silent before him, looked past him as he spoke.

"This is the day we have been waiting for, and we are in luck." He looked at Cicely, who tried not to let her self-consciousness show on her face. To Blunt's side a large-framed man had joined him. She knew enough about uniforms to deduce he was the Sergeant Major who had issued her the uniform. Almost six inches taller than Blunt, who was tall enough, and almost twice his girth in bulk and muscle – the man would have to be nimble to operate low with a rifle. Cicely realised she was staring and the man stared back. Clearly Blunt must have divulged his arrangement with Cicely with his next in command. Not that she had much choice over what he did or said now. She had agreed and, for the first time in five years, her fate was now presided over by a man.

"Men, we have a young private here. Or should I say, Private Young." Cicely felt all eyes on her. She looked back at her new colleagues impassively as a couple of murmurs amongst the men began to rise. They stopped dead as Blunt began to speak again.

"Private Young here has got himself into a rather difficult situation. He owes a debt to some people who don't take no for an answer."

"Don't we all," someone said. Snorts of agreement accompanied it.

"The Grand Union are like that," said another.

"If he returns to the canallers the company will have him hanged, even if I speak for him." Blunt surveyed his men and Cicely was reminded of Aubrey's similar approach when he was impressing understanding onto his seamen.

"Shame! Shame!"

"So, Young here has offered to work off his debt, work for country under my command until we reach the continent. He is to redeem himself with the best company this country has known. We are the King's Own!"

"Hurrah!" The reply was lusty and strong and Cicely was fully convinced that the riflemen before she and Blunt believed completely in his words.

"I offered him the king's shilling, and he has taken it!"

"Hurrah!"

"Bet that's not 'e's taken!" another voice added jovially.

"We have a much to prepare. Men: to usual jobs. And say goodbye to yer wives. We're goin' to France this night!"

"Hurrah! Hurrah!"

Cicely watched as the men stood down informally and recommenced their duties: cleaning rifles; folding blankets; dismantling tents…

…how like the navy in some ways, Cicely thought. The discipline and chain of command, certainly. A charismatic officer that commanded respect, just like Aubrey. But past the rigour and hierarchy a certain solidarity which was dissimilar to that aboard ship – perhaps it was the fact the men were not contained – the men seemed open and more liberated and it was more of a choice or effort to band together to make their company work.

"Young?" Cicely was brought back to the present moment from her daydreaming. She looked up at Blunt who had a

"You too. Get started." He gestured to the corner of the stores tent. "We're goin' tonight. That pile of boots over there all need polishin'."