A Fine Boy For Killing

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At about the time that Thomas Fox was pulling on his old dark coat and wondering if the morning mist would clear before he reached the marshiest parts of his road, William Bentley was taking his second glass of green tea with his uncle on board the frigate Welfare. They were only about eight miles apart – eight miles of land and water – and they were destined to meet later that day. Thomas, who was fifteen and the son of a small farmer, was excited. He was to take twelve sheep to the market at Portsmouth, on his own; a full day’s work. William, who was fourteen, was not excited; he was business-like, a little worried, faced with a difficult and responsible task.

‘You will find the cutter adequate,’ his uncle told him, sipping his glass of tea. ‘She can be manned by a small crew, but there is room enough on board of her if you manage anything. But William. Remember this much. You are not entitled to do this work. It is, let us say, not strictly within the bounds of legality. Let the men go unarmed. Dolby and Evans may carry pistols, but let them be out of sight.’

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