Jack Aubrey watched as the men, both old and new, went to their new duties. How pleased he was to be in service again as Surprise sailed behind Victory on their return voyage to Portsmouth. And equally, how glad he was to be rid of the French prisoners. Rude, hostile and understandably partisan – it had been difficult to maintain good spirits in his men, have them remain courteous and well-mannered in return.

Mercifully Dupuytren had made a full recovery. On docking at Yport, where the prisoners had been exchanged, he had thanked Aubrey for his hospitality, and almost immediately, been taken into custody by French soldiers. Jack knew that the French, for their hostile, aggressive manner, were likely to release their returning men without much of a fuss - that was the French way.

It had been a difficult political exchange between the British ships and the French soldiers. Mistrust on all sides had delayed the berthing of the ships to unload the French prisoners and it had taken Collingwood himself to depart Victory and speak to the Major who had been co-ordinating the British prisoners in order for the standoff to be resolved.

Turning on the quarterdeck to look back at the enemy country Aubrey breathed again. He was glad it was all over, if truth be told. Aubrey had felt the relief course through him once the prisoners had been taken aboard, once the ropes tethering them to France had been thrown aboard and relief had given way almost immediately to uncertainty.

The prisoners who were returning to Portsmouth with them were a diverse lot: sailors yes, and soldiers; women, men, some children, even. The French, seemingly, had been as indiscriminate in their incarceration of British as by their number – far more British seemed to been returned than the Royal Naval ships had left in their stead. Most, Surprise included, were very full and he would be glad to seem many of the ex-prisoners returned to Portsmouth and he could reorganise his crew.

Descending the steps from the quarterdeck and onto the main deck, Aubrey watched the hustle and bustle aboard, all deftly co-ordinated by his officers. There had been an inundation of volunteers and all were welcome amongst Aubrey's men.

Turning, Jack looked at the closed door of his cabin, taking the handle firmly before pushing on it. Clearly amongst the ex-prisoners assisting their rescue ship was a matter of pride which further bolstered their patriotism. There had been no shortage of men volunteering for even the most menial of roles and, for once, Jack had had the pick of those with experience.

Stepping inside he made to sit down when the door was rapped upon firmly. Jack looked up from the paper with the Admiralty stamp in the corner.

"Enter." Moments later, his pursed lips widened into a grin, as he added, "Tom! Come in, come in!" Aubrey half-rose and gestured towards his Queen Anne chair as his ex-first lieutenant stood before him. Shabbier and rougher round the edges, Tom Pullings had not lost his beaming smile and joviality of spirit. The last time Jack had seen the man he had just promoted him to Captain aboard the "Acheron", the ship he had so cunningly ensnared just off the Galapagos Islands. Now, some of the events of his colleague's story that had been hitherto unknown to Aubrey were revealing themselves.

"Thank you," Pullings replied, nodding at the neck. "It's good to see you too, Jack." And Tom Pullings proceeded to tell Aubrey the events of the previous eighteen months.

The Acheron had docked under Pullings at Valparaiso to take on supplies and rest his men. He had then taken the ship around the Horn and into the South Atlantic. He had ascertained that the ship's surgeon was formerly the Acheron's captain in disguise and had promptly imprisoned him in the hold. As Pullings recounted this part Aubrey found himself admiring the ingenuity of the plan.

Apart from that, his captaincy had been relatively uneventful – he had followed his orders as ascribed by Aubrey; he had managed his men and encouraged them. The French crew had co-operated too: he had given them all a choice, either to swear allegiance to the British Crown or to be imprisoned for the duration of the voyage.

Some had chosen the latter but several had been Anglicised. Aubrey had not been surprised: they were simple men and their priorities were work and wages. Republican ideals did not fill empty stomachs.

And then, a storm hit the soon-to-be HMS Charlotte as they passed into the Celtic Sea. Pullings had organised his men, but they were not well trained or efficient. They had done their best in the storm – as Tom Pullings recounted this part of his tale Aubrey could tell the incident was heavy on man's mind – but the gale had ripped the main mast from the deck and caused the ship to capsize. His men, his new crew had perished – the last he had seen of the ship it had been rolling on its side as it was lashed with thirty-foot-high waves, driving rain and lightning. Tom Pullings had then awoken in the custody of French Republican soldiers and had been there until his release that day.

"I believed all of my men were lost Jack," Pullings concluded. "I had been thrown clear of the main deck. I was surprised…delighted to see several other crew members on the quayside this day."

"A blessing it is, indeed," agreed Aubrey, pacing round to the near-side of his desk. "That the Lord Admiral had organised such a feat of tactical diplomacy. That we have claimed many men back this day. Would you care to partake in a ration?" Jack Aubrey continued his traverse to the port-side of his office, picking up the rum decanter with one hand.

"Indeed, thank you," replied Tom Pullings. "It seems like an age since I have indulged."

"How ill-fated for such a misfortune to play out – and on your first command too. Were you resources poor? I know that some of the woodwork could have done with time and a good brush. And, of course, the hull to be coppered, now that would surely have saved the ship a good deal of time in repairs."

Aubrey stepped closer to Pullings, holding towards his latter first-lieutenant a glass of rum. Tom Pullings took it, throwing it straight down, a sign of politeness in the Service. Aubrey, who had the decanter in his other hand proffered more spirit which Pullings had readily accepted. So the young man's unfortunate circumstances explained why Surprise had been included in the plans of the Admiralty, that Aubrey's ship was required to meet up with the Acheron and why the plans changed so suddenly.

"I would tend to agree," replied Pullings. "I have had time, more than enough time, to consider that dreadful night. Perhaps the ship was not in her prime; perhaps we were not as slick or efficient under pressure. It could have been an accumulation of both factors…or something else, either directly, or circuitously. All I know is that the disaster happened and though I trusted my crew to follow their orders, which they did; their work did not prevent it." Pullings sagged at the shoulders and looked face-down at the bare oak boards as if the weight of this burden was firmly pressing him down.

"And now you are to depart at Portsmouth," Aubrey prompted. "You can give your account officially to Admiralty House."

"So will many others," replied Pullings. "All officers and middies are to report to their commanding officers or equivalent rating. They will have to employ more secretaries than exist in London, I fancy," he added, smiling wryly.

"That would be Commodore Reedy," replied Aubrey, trying to repress a grin.

"Indeed," nodded Pullings before draining his glass of spirit, appearing not to notice Jack's mirth. "And hope that there will still be a shortage of captains…that I may be in command of my own ship again."

"You will," replied Aubrey brightly, "of that I am confident."

"And the Surprise? I imagine the good doctor's naturalistic finds are the most excitement you've seen," he added. Were that was so, thought Aubrey solemnly. Were that so. And he proceeded to tell Tom Pullings of the recent history of the ship beginning with Cicely's departure to Mrs Aubrey and her subsequent disappearance through to Hardy replacing Stephen as the Surprise's doctor, all of which Aubrey told with great candour and which Pullings accepted in professional astonishment.

Once Jack had finished Tom Pullings got to his feet, handing Jack the glass his former Captain and friend had proffered. "I must continue with the duties your men have assigned to us."

Aubrey smiled: how like Pullings, a naval man akin to himself, that he would undertake the menial tasks that his middies had organised for the ex-prisoners to carry out in return for their journey home. More credit to the man that he would be accepting orders from not only men inferior in rank to himself but also those who had previously been under his command.

"Well," concluded Aubrey, leaning against his table. "It's good to see you, Tom. I am just sorry that it had to be in such circumstances."

"Yes, sir – Jack," Pullings corrected himself. As it had been Jack himself who had promoted him and, as yet, he had not had the rank either confirmed or repealed, Tom knew that the protocol was to directly address anyone of the same rank by their first name. "Good to see you." He saluted.

"You too, Tom. Good luck."

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On her hands and knees Cicely put her effort into scraping the non-existent salt and dirt from the decking planks of the Royal Navy's flagship. Like with all of the ships bearing ex-military and naval prisoners their time as they crossed the channel from liberty to home was taken carrying out menial, unskilled tasks adecks.

The ship had sailed in haste after her group had boarded and the rescued prisoners had been left standing together on the main deck, waiting for instruction. Cicely had looked above her, at the tall masts, the wide decks and took in the quality that was the Victory, a first rate ship of the line and the Navy's flagship Glorious indeed. It had not been long before they had been put to work, however.

As the bristles raked the woodgrain Cicely's mind veered between thoughts of her beloved Stephen, ascertaining the identity of the former captain of the Acheron and knowing that, despite her supreme efforts, the ship was bearing her towards Portsmouth, to her home country where her absence in both her social and navigational arenas had been, at the very least, keenly noted.

So she had to find a way to remain aboard. Cicely had heard other mizzenlads talking about the officers, that they were departing the ship and had to give an account of their time in prison in the enemy country, presumably to shed light, however small, on French strategy or organisation. What would happen to the unskilled lads – deckhands, loblollies, mizzenlads – was unclear but what was had been the lack of Victory's own of these men. She had to make sure that her current run of good fortune didn't end at the Solent.

But there was a measure of hope then. Cicely breathed out with the brushing action as her mind rested briefly on Stephen's face. It had been tormenting her since she had been told by Fouche of his residence within the prison in which she had been. Where had he been? For all she knew he might have been close to her. What had he done to him? Surely by now, as the Frenchman knew that he was a spy, he had been tortured.

She had tried not to let her mind dwell on the details but only on the moment that he would be released, once she had located and…incapacitated the ex-Acheron captain. That she would actually have to kill the man was another thing Cicely was trying not to allow her mind to dwell on – surely if she could ensure he did not attack Lord Nelson before any battle the Victory and the French fleet were to engage in, this would be enough to allow Fouche's plan to come to fruition –

"Boy! BOY!"

Cicely raised her back and looked up. Towards her, past a couple of smaller boys, the midshipman for that particular area of the deck was pacing towards her. He looked a little like Will Blakeney – small, impish features and tousled hair – but this young man was several years older, taller and thinner, and with a scowl to his features.

"Boy!" He leaned over Cicely and shouted the word at her. "You are not going fast enough! Quicker, quicker I say!" Cicely bent her head quickly in submission. The last thing she needed was to bring attention to herself.

"Quicker!" the man shouted. His boots were in her eye-line – clean, sparkling boots which matched the highly organised, pristine appearance of the flagship. Nothing about this ship hinted at anything other than perfection and perfection achieved through productivity, standards and hard work.

"Scrub, boy, scrub!"

Cicely kept her head down and tried to look as if she was working harder than she had been just now. The middie was standing close to her and Cicely could imagine his scowling face looking disapprovingly at what she was doing. Had she been able to scour the ship from hull to top-mast, from bowsprit to stern in five minutes that still would probably not earn more than a wordless nod. Just as a puckish urge to polish the man's boots with her deck-brush arose the midshipman started to move, walking off behind her, presumably to shout at the next mizzenlad who had not been working hard enough. Not surprisingly…

"Boy! Quickly…!"

Cicely drove the coarse brush bristles into the woodgrain again as her mind drifted to her pressing matter. Harris, she remembered, had told her about the Acheron, and how it had been sabotaged by the French aboard. That the former captain had disguised himself as the surgeon and organised a mutiny. That they had chosen a storm to cover their attack. What else had he told her…? Cicely cast her mind back to the conversation she had had with poor Matthew Harris…had he ever described the man…? Had she ever seen him herself? She had been aboard Acheron when the fighting ensued. Neither of these avenues of thought ended with anything positive or useful.

The most important thing was to stay aboard, though. If she was reassigned to another ship, even as a mizzenlad, she would not be able to locate this assassin. She would have to make a good case for herself.

But then, what would happen when she did become on of the Victory's crew? She had called herself Stephen Maturin – what had she been thinking? Cicely knew he could not be Robert Young any more, especially as now they were heading back to England. But to call herself Maturin? That had been crazy: the victory was efficient and she knew that there would be no ducking the ship's log. She would have to come up with enough realistic information to satisfy the officer in charge of the crew – even if all of it was fictitious? And what if this ex-French captain, or anyone for that matter, knew Stephen?

"Boy!" The screeching of the word behind her caused interrupted Cicely's contemplations, causing her to kneel upwards and turn but it wasn't her that the middie was yelling at: the deckhand descending the steps between the quarter deck and the main was – well, someone she knew. Someone she knew very well indeed.

Cicely felt herself smiling. It was a faint glimmer of hope in the gloom and uncertainty. In the company of the scowling midshipman, and being berated for something or other, James Fillings was making his way past her.

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Having enjoyed the brief respite in Andorra the spy had used the cover of darkness to cross the well-defended border into Catalonia. This region of Spain was a part of him, the time he had spent there, the work he had done preparing. All his training in London would now be challenged to the full in this part of his plan and the spy considered the valuable information that his long-since-departed equal had provided him.

Another man may have felt guilt at the manner he had obtained the information and especially what he was to do with it but not he. This was a matter of espionage and this was a matter of pride.

The aim was simple – he must ascertain the factions against Bonaparte and concentrate them with the strategy of allowing the British military a foothold on the peninsula.

The plan was fraught with problems, however. There were currently pockets of British regiments around Spain – they had been sent there when Spain had originally allied itself with Britain against the French Republic. All had looked bright until Bonaparte's forces flooded over the border and the Spanish monarchy, the dying Hapsburg line, had swiftly changed sides.

Other regiments – Austrian, Prussian, also remained and were being slowly driven out of the country. It was his job to convince them of a safe haven in Catalonia – the region's denizens, bent on independence, were against Castile where the government was trying to hold together a weak union of provinces – and provide a united front. The Catalan people had fought Napoleon's forces off the Mediterranean coast from the day they had heard the Government had allied with Bonaparte. It was the perfect location and, once together, a counter-attack could be mounted.

How this would happen, in what form would remain to be seen – the regiments were, clearly, still under the orders of their respective armies, or contact had been severed and they had been left stranded. It would be down to his skill as an agent of espionage and his charisma to inspire loyalty until the British Army arrived. At least he was far from Paris, Fouche, and that wretched business.

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Completely off the wall!

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