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It was early morning on what would have been Edward Hollum's 32nd birthday. As James Fillings snored not three inches away from her Cicely wished her brother well by way of a prayer to heaven, taking care to ask God for forgiveness.

She should have slept, Cicely knew. But there was no sleep to be had – she had been talking to James for the interim hours and now her brain was so full of thoughts slumber was proving difficult, not least the last few images of her beloved brother that she treasured in her cerebral cortex and brought out to her fore-mind whenever she was in need of comfort.

The lieutenant who had been on watch had returned just after James had guessed who she was, having been alerted presumably by the scuffle. Jim had claimed inebriation on the part of Jelfs and that they had brought him a-decks for some air. They had both shouldered him back to the upper gun deck and helped him into a spare hammock, Cicely having wetted his lips with some grog – a derisory consolation for laying him out.

There was precious little privacy aboard a ship, especially one the size and number of souls that was the Victory, but she and James had managed to find two adjacent hammocks, moving them closer to one another as they had done before on the Surprise, when they had been a pair mizzenlads sharing the same duty. They had shared their fears and insecurities; they had banded together when the Nagle and Pizzy had set on stealing their food. They had fought for each other and had risked their lives for each others' safety. Even when it had been revealed that Cicely was not a mizzenlad, this had done nothing to change their friendship.

This time, however, it was different. They had talked, certainly, in their own distinct fashion: James with his innocent way of talking to her, expressing both his amazement that she wasn't aboard the Surprise any more and was here, if not in the guise of her husband, but in his name.

Cicely had told him briefly what had brought her aboard the flagship, leaving out some of the details and not mentioning her blood-bargain with Fouche either. She had been careful to swathe both the laudanum bottle and the letter-opener well inside her clothing not least for their concealment but also their preservation. She had told him she was here on an unpleasant business but that she could not reveal what it was and that it had to be carried out before the inspection the next day otherwise she would surely be found out.

In his excitable fashion James had told her that midshipmen Ellis and Barker's sections were to be carried out the day after due to both the complications of disease and pestilence that were being unearthed in the skilled sections and due to numbers.

"And we dock today too," James had continued, his face inches from Cicely, talking to her through his hammock as she lay in hers. This was how they had always been, lying next to one another in their hammocks separated by the outer edges of the coarse hessian and whispering through it. "The ships are going to tempt the Bucentaure around Cadiz. So you'll have time to do what you need and you can leg it, Rob."

Rob. He still called her by her original pseudonym even though here on the Victory she was Stephen. Cicely hadn't corrected him either: James finding out who she was felt like a glorious ray of bright sunshine glancing through a gap in a rock that made up a deep, black cave.

A large part of her was urging her to confide her secret to her friend, let him in on it and let him console, advise, comfort her. Instead she limited her comments to the mock-dread she harboured if she had had not choice but to stand in line with her fellows for treatment and face he flogging which would be due to her when she refused to concede to inspection. She had used several excuses in the past to disguise her gender, fever, the pox (as one fellow that afternoon had claimed), even leprosy. None of which would have helped that day, or rather, the day after.

Cicely had asked James about his adventures when he had sailed off with Captain Pullings in the Acheron. He had told her about the disguise the French captain had taken to try to fool Pullings and the English crew, and the attempted uprising of the remainder of the French loyal to the Captain.

"So how did you come to be aboard the Victory?" Cicely had pressed and James had gone on to tell her they had docked at Portsmouth and several men had disembarked as the Acheron was refitted. Cicely had asked if he was the only one to be chosen for the Victory and James had hmphed, perhaps a little too loudly as Harrison had been jolted in his slumber and called out.

"They needed an apprentice carpenter," James had whispered once Isiah Harrison had settled back to sleep. "They took on the rebellious Captain! Now Lebec has managed to get himself a plum job on the Victory when other good Englishmen weren't given the honour!"

And that was what Cicely needed to know: Lebec. He had been the former Acheron captain. At least that was something. But it now meant certainty for Cicely in another way too: certainty that he was the assassin whom she must kill within a day. She hadn't mentioned to James about Harris however, probably because Cicely felt there was only so much the lad could take at one time. Perhaps she would before she went…

"You were promoted," Cicelad hd whispered, hoping her good humour had conveyed to Jim lying adjacent her and she was sure that she heard him smile.

"Yes," he had beamed into the darkness. "I've got a plan now, too. I want to go from one end of the ship to the other: perhaps I'll even be Captain one day."

"Or Admiral," had repleid Cicely. She was so pleased for her friend. Innocent, simple that he was yes. But unnervingly honest and open. He had been cut to the core when he had eventually found his father who he had been searching for since he had been able to get to sea, John Fotherington, and discovered that the man was a spy, murderer and traitor to England in the guise of a spy for France.

"It's not like the Surprise, is it?" Cicely had asked, as she contemplated the size of the Victory, its crew and organisation. "I'm just getting used to what it means to work here."

"It's very posh," James had giggled: Cicely had heard James muffle a giggle. "I remember being served food with a spoon and wondering what it actually was. And the grog is good and strong."

James had then returned to the subject of her mission and had begged her to let him help her. Cicely promised that, there was anything he could do she would tell him. That seemed to please Jim immensely and he had proceeded to tell her other exciting things that had happened during his service aboard the Victory.

Thank you, James…

Cicely's silent thoughts had returned to her contentedly-sleeping friend next to her. Thank you. She looked to the porthole as she clutched her weapons close to her body. Despite the brightness of the late autumn morning the day seemed blacker than ever.

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The ambush had been under way for a good half an hour. The spy had spent but a couple of hours in the company of this regiment's commanding officer, a major, before they were fired upon. Their position was to their advantage – they were high up in the Alcala de Los Gazules and the bandits, though evading detection until they were almost upon them, had found themselves being bombarded with rifle-fire and, from the army wives, loose stones and other miscellaneous mobile projectiles.

He was glad that he still had with him his pistol, won in an illegal duel in London several years before, and more so, that it still had bullets. Or, more correctly, their number were reducing rapidly: he had taken out several of the brigands although several others had taken their place.

The spy could understand how easily such a regiment, cut off and isolated, were such an easy target for robbers and thieves: that had been an objective of his mission, to gather together these lone groups in order to build a strong division in the east in readiness for Sir Arthur Wellesley. At least, that was his official objective. And, as usual, he was delayed in his real mission though he was only a couple of leagues away from where he actually needed to be.

Another man may have found it difficult to traverse Spain as he had done: the Spanish King had allied against France now and so any confrontation with the Spanish, whether army or civilian, was to be avoided at all costs. Well, almost all civilians. If you knew where to put your trust you could find your way across the country as he had done.

A bullet whistled overhead, inches from his scalp as he rolled onto his back, eyeing the clear, azure sky. The regiment was fighting well, but it wasn't a given win. He exhaled and closed his eyes briefly before turning over and levelling his pistol.

He had to make sure this regiment was saved from defeat – so much information to glean from its major. And the robbers were none other than staunch Castilians and that rankled. The spy fired. A hit. Another hit. Small but slow steps to victory.

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Supper that evening consisted of fresh meat purchased from Cadiz that afternoon, biscuit and pease pudding. Even with James sitting below with her, on the upper gun deck (even the minor difference in ranks above decks meant they should not converse above), it was difficult for Cicely to give a good show of relaxed demeanour.

She had spent a lot of the day suffering rudimentary punishments for her failure to obey orders quickly enough or complete her jobs to the required standard. The majority of her day had been spent with hammer in hand re-fixing the stays with metal pegs. It was a long and tedious job offering little opportunity to be up in the lines and sheets tasting the wind. Her smarting calves where she had been kneeling tingled now as she sat a-decks eating the supper.

For the part of her mind that was still in the present Cicely noticed that her food was tasty. Too much of her brain was occupied with the future, however, with a small measure focusing on the past. She had managed to slip off duty during the afternoon watch – her duties were to take buckets and brushes to the lower gun decks. That was where the armoury was. Cicely had managed to grind the letter opener using the granite stone which was used for the battle weapons. The quality of the opener had been superb and, as Cicely had thinned one edge on the stone she had thought what a shame it was to have had to defile it, or file it, as she had done.

The motion of the ship had dulled to almost nothing. The Victory had docked at Cadiz harbour after a tentative and difficult pilot. It seemed to make the food taste better, but perhaps that was because, Cicely mused, she was able to eat it without the necessity of managing its location within the bowl.

"Stephen, you fine?" Philip Dixon sat down next to her as she tried to clear her mind of the chaos within. "Only, you look a bit unwell." His earnest face was wracked with concern. Cicely tried not to look at him, begging him not to be kind to her as she knew he would be.

"Do you want me to get anything for you? Some grog?"

"We can get the doctor," chipped in Bill Gibbons, ambling by. "How's yer fist?" Cicely jerked her head towards Bill, who had a big grin on his face. "Reuben told us you'd laid him out," he continued jovially, leaning against the hold steps.

"I'd been up for some air," replied Cicely, nodding towards Dixon as she recalled Jelfs avoiding her that day. "He was up with Fillings, caught me off guard. I'll be glad when we've seen the doctor on the morrow," she added, hoping it was enough. The crew were in good spirits: that they had docked meant a little leave, and the food, water and grog rations were to be restocked, meaning that good eating for the foreseeable future.

"I'll say," continued Bill, grinning back at Dixon. "I've had such an irritation on me – "

And so he proceeded, regaling all who would listen to his various ailments. As she listened and dusk began to darken to night Cicely felt the desperation in her stomach. Time was up. She had to act that night.

Six hours later and Cicely had woken in a spare hammock. Six bells on the first watch. The excuse of illness had meant that she hadn't been disturbed which wasn't altogether beneficial. The chilly evening air penetrated her long smock – being in port meant the air, whatever its temperature lingered rather than being equilibrated out on the wave – and she reached for her overjacket.

Sternwise Cicely could hear the familiar humdrum of hands relaxing after a rigorous but exciting day. The odd whoop and curse echoed above the general merriment, possibly some card game or other, or betting on weevil racing (the ship's quartermaster was now guarding the livestock on pain of bilge pump duty for anyone caught trying to get at the hens again).

She dangled her legs over the side. This was it. Lebec would now be working on the forecastle deck with the carpenter. The captain, under orders of Lord Nelson, had been polishing the flagship, bolt and barrel, man and sail and all. The timbers around the prow, not six months old by Cicely's reckoning, were being replaced. Jenkinson had had to wait until they docked in order to source new oak supplies which, in Spain, were difficult to obtain.

Pulling the coat around her, Cicely leaned towards the next vacant hammock and leaned forward, holding the rolled edge as she dropped down. Exiting the aft-hatch moments later the breeze tousled her hair as she surveyed the view.

The second lieutenant who had been on watch the previous night was pacing the deck. Cicely inched her way towards the fo'csle as she watched him, hoping that he wouldn't order her away. A couple of middies, clearly excited at the prospect of being in a foreign port and with battle in their nostrils heralded their high spirits in a demeanour unbefitting of an officer-in-waiting.

She moved towards the railings, leaning backwards on the larboard side. The port of Cadiz was in front of her. Below her the wharf's dark boards stained with seaweed and grime leered back at her. Cicely felt her heart beating in her chest trying not to let the inanimate wood betray to her conscious mind the true nature of her feelings. She leaned back fore.

The lieutenant was making his way towards the stern of the ship, towards the mizzen deck. At his pace, she kept in the shadows under the railings of the fo'csle deck until she was larboard side. To her left the irregular hammering of iron into wood alerted her senses to her prey. Just there. The Frenchman was just there, ignorant of his fate soon to be. The carpenter, she knew, had been supping down in the gundeck at the Captain's table. Lebec had his grog close.

Again, the autumnal zephyrs blew past her clothing within which her weapons were concealed. Laudanum. Fashioned knife. Above her the stowed shrouds filled with air, then dropped suddenly.

Cicely always used to like that time of year. In the autumn, around Michaelmas, society folk would come. Ladies in their finery, gentlemen holding their hands and smiling. They would talk to her father, talk, sing, dance. Look beautiful. Look handsome. Cicely liked society then when society was, in the eyes of a six year old, just men and women in their finery having a good time.

If she succeeded, and there was little hope that she would, how would she disassociate herself from the man's murder? So much about it put witnesses nearby. Her arsenal was distinguishable and who but the most dunderly seaman not confirm they had seen her a-decks the previous evening at the time both the laudanum and letter opener went missing? The best she could hope for there, after her own hanging, would be that indeed Stephen would be released by the French interrogator Fouche, and that's if he kept his word.

She would fail then, Cicely knew, either through lack of courage or because it was a foolhardy, ill-conceived plan formulated in too little time and Stephen would die because of her…

The waves lapped erratically at the hull, its blackness suddenly growing and to her more becoming as the moments passed. To immerse herself in the blackness, to hide herself…from the Captain…from Lebec…from Wigg…the water was cleansing, it would wash away her sins…

Leaning forward, Cicely closed her eyes. And then opened them again at the jerk on her shoulder. Her shirt was being tugged at and she realised that she had one foot on the railtop.

"In a day or two, we go to war." Cicely turned once released from the grip on her shoulder and swallowed. Admiral Lord Nelson was addressing her. Or rather, the back of the Admiral of the Fleet was addressing her: the man himself was leaning over the parapet which she herself had been only moments before. Suddenly he turned and Cicely took in his angular, non-descript features.

Had she not known him, his visage from the oil-canvas hanging in the cabin of Jack Aubrey, or noticed his ensign, it would have been almost impossible for her to discern or deduce that this man, shorter than she had expected and slight, was in charge of the whole fleet behind them.

Cicely saluted quickly, bowing her head deferentially. Nelson looked at her for a moment, neither acknowledging her submission to rank or denying it. Instead he looked past her, towards the mizzen deck. Then he looked at her directly, his right eye fixing on her as a bayonet to a wounded Frenchman.

"What's your name, lad?" His tone was even, with nothing to tell its origin.

"Stephen, my Lord," she replied. "Stephen Maturin. Mizzenlad."

"I have seen you at work, lad," Nelson continued, turning to glance at the lieutenant who was walking past them. He saluted hurriedly. "And I consider you a vital part of my crew. No skill or talent can ace the quality of hard work. I value hard work, Maturin," he continued. Nelson looked out to sea, the starboard side of the flagship. Cicely felt her shame pool in her feet. She was to kill an assassin…his assassin…would she the opportunity now? Could she even carry out the macabre deed?

"Did you ever hear the Goose-rhyme about a horse-shoe nail?" Cicely did not answer. It was clear Lord Nelson was going to avail her of it. He continued to address the blackness as he spoke.

"It concludes 'for want of a nail the kingdom is lost.' It tells of small things affecting greater ones." Suddenly Nelson turned and looked at her again, before glancing past her and at the lowered plank where, it appeared, a score of men, captains, lieutenants, a commodore by the look of it, were being piped aboard. The watch-lieutenant had gone to address them.

Cicely looked back at Lord Nelson. Perhaps she could tell him? Maybe she could warn him? The thought faded to nothing as perhaps the most powerful man in the armed forces of Britain spoke to her again.

"So, as you can see, I must leave you to carry out your duties. Remember, the dawnbird may eat the worm, but it is the second mouse that eats the cheese."

And the Lord Admiral nodded in her direction before turning and making his way towards the officers then joining them as the throng descended the fore-hatch.

So many people aboard. This was Cicely's first thoughts. She couldn't do it now. Where would Lebec be in a few hours? Could she manage it then, before dawn? Of course, if she left the ship and wasn't there for roll call the next morning, she would be classed as having deserted her post.

Blind to her direction though heading aft towards the mizzen again, Cicely knew she had to hide. She had to consider her options. She needed to –

"Cicely, what's the matter?"

Before her, the worried face of James Fillings took in hers. Five minutes later they were at the bilge-pumps, wedging themselves between the structural knees. Fifteen – and three people aboard Victory knew of Nelson's assassin and two of those three were talking quickly and urgently to one another. Twenty-five and they were being followed across the main deck by one of their own.

"James, thank you!" Using a main sheet that James had concealed about him – had they been apprehended its "hiding place" would be spotted immediately around the skinny frame of Fillings – he tied one end to the aft-sheet. The plan was this: desertion. She would belay the rope to the wharf, wait until the officers from other ships had disembarked and used their wake to disguise her steps.

"You're my pair, Rob," he replied in his usual affable tone, then he leaned forward, and hugged her. "I'll miss you!"

"I don't have to go," she replied, giving Jim the chance to back out of the burden he had just taken on. He patted his chest where the bottle of laudanum now resided.

"I couldn't see my friend hanged, could I? Nor the doctor killed." Cicely felt her heart lurch as her friend smiled back at her. James had time, far more time than she had. He just had to prevent Lebec from killing Nelson. Whether he killed him or not was up to him and besides, in the heat of battle mistakes could be made. One hand on the rope which was to take her the vertical length of the stern Cicely turned to James.

"Bye, Jim," she said, one foot on the railing. She took in his innocent face as she looked at her friend – the best friend she had ever had, Cicely knew that now. She leaned forward and planted a sisterly kiss on his lips. Then, over his shoulder she saw Jelfs, his face torn between indignant anger and confusion.

"Stephen? Fillings?"

Cicely jumped. Clutching the rope between her hands she sought a hasty descent – and got one, her skin scorched from her hands from the rope-twine – but she reached the end of the jetty, as was the target. Reuben Jelfs had barely spoken to her all day and had maintained a stand-offish mode.

There was no disguising herself now – perhaps if Jelfs had not alerted the watch-lieutenant, as she had heard him do, she might be able to wait it out, as she and James had planned. But she could hear the bell being rung double-time and the assembly of men aboard. Her feet touched the windows of the Captain's office – within, the officers she had seen boarding were seated, crowded together from what she could make out, and she tried to make sure she kicked off from the window sill rather than risk putting her foot through the glass.

She ran. Across the sea-worn planks and onto the hard earth. Cicely looked about her for a bolt-hole. Ahead of her were some small out-buildings, the main town of Cadiz being a mile away. To her left, as she had seen that day, a high-ground outcrop of rocks and trees. To her left, more strand.

Left it was. Ignoring the shouts behind her to hold fast, Cicely continued to run as the bell reverberated into the night air. As she got to a clump of rocks she crouched down, chancing a look behind her. At the same time a bullet landed a couple of feet in front of her on the sand. She looked back at the flagship. It thronged with several dozen men, many in the red coat of the Royal Marines.

She couldn't stay there – someone would be after her. Cicely knelt up, but was forced down again by a hail of gunfire. But the shouts were getting louder. Men were coming for her and, for desertion, she would be executed. She got to her feet and ran, pausing momentarily as a bullet tore through her shirt and ripped across shoulder. Cicely screamed, but kept on running.