To Glory We Steer

12

 

`CONFUSION TO OUR ENEMIES!'

 

The high afternoon sun blazed down on the sheltered water and threw a dancing pattern of reflections across the deckhead above Bolitho's small desk. Just by turning his head he could see the lush green hillsides of Antigua and a few scattered dwellings around the smooth stretch of St. John's harbour. He had to force himself back to his task of completing his report in readiness for the admiral's scrutiny.

He leaned his forehead against the palm of his hand, feeling the weakness moving through his veins, willing him to rest, to do anything but attend to the waiting duties and orders. Beneath his shirt he could feel the stiff embrace of the bandage, and allowed his mind to move back in time, as he had done so often since his unexpected return to the Phalarope.

Like everything else which had happened, it was difficult to separate fact from vague delirious pictures which had come and gone with the stabbing agony of his wound. By the merest chance the pistol ball had passed cleanly between his ribs, leaving a deep and ragged scar which made him wince with every sudden movement.

From the moment he had been dragged aboard the frigate and the boats had been hastily hoisted on deck his memory was blurred and disjointed. The savage and unheralded storm had only helped to add to the nightmare quality of his recollections, and for two weeks the ship had driven southwest ahead of the screaming wind, unable to do other than run before it under all but bare spars. Then as he had struggled to avoid the surgeon's clumsy care and the vague comings and goings of his officers, the wind had moderated and Phalarope had at last gone about to beat her way back to Antigua and make her report.

He stared down at the carefully listed descriptions and the mentions of individual names. Nothing must be left out. There was never time for second thoughts.

Each name brought back a different memory and gave him the strange sensation of being an onlooker.

Midshipman Charles Farquhar, who had behaved in a manner far exceeding his actual experience and authority and in the best interests of the Service. A sea-officer who would one day merit senior command.

Arthur Belsey, master's mate, who in spite of his injured arm did everything possible to assist the final destruction of the Andiron.

Bolitho tapped his pen thoughtfully against Belsey's name. That last wild leap to safety from the Andiron's shattered hull had finished any hope he might have had for return to roper duty. His broken arm was now beyond repair and he would be a weakened cripple for the rest of his life. With luck, a good mention in the report, plus Bolitho's commendation, might ensure his quick discharge with some suitable recognition for his long service. He would probably return to Plymouth and open a small inn there, Bolitho thought sadly. Every seaport was full of such men, broken and forgotten, but still clinging to the fringe of the sea which had discarded them.

Of lieutenant Herrick's assault on the artillery there was little to add to the bare facts. If he had tried to embroider the truth, to give Herrick more of the praise which he so richly deserved, the admiral would be quick to see the other side of the coin. That it was largely luck, added to a goodly portion of impudence.

There were so many `ifs', Bolitho thought moodily.

If the cutting-out party had been dropped closer inshore every man would be either dead or imprisoned. If the tide had not.been too strong for Herrick's oarsmen he would have pressed on with his impossible mission, instead of taking the secondary path of his own making.

And what of Stockdale? Without his aid and unshaken loyalty none of these things would have come about at all. In his fight-dulled brain he had worked out each careful move, unaided and without guidance of anyone. And again his last action had been to save Bolitho's life.

But what could he do for him? There was no promotion open to him, no reward which made any sense. Once when he had pattered into the cabin to tend to Bolitho's wound he had asked the giant seaman what he would most cherish as payment for his bravery and his devotion.   

Stockdale had not even hesitated. 'I'd like to go on serving you, Captain. I don't have no other wish!'

Bolitho had been considering the idea of getting Stockdale discharged ashore as soon as the ship returned to an English port. There with a little help he might be able to settle down to live his life in peace and security: But as what? Stockdale's prompt and simple reply had driven the suggestion from hi mind. It would only have hurt the man.

He wrote: `And of my coxswain, Mark Stockdale, I can only add that without his prompt action the entire mission might have ended in failure. By cutting the Andiron's cable and thereby allowing her to drift beneath Lieutenant Herrick's fire he ensured the total and complete destruction of the ship with a minimum loss to our own side.' He signed his name wearily across the bottom and stood up. Pages, of writing. It was to be hoped that they would be read by those unbiased against the Phalarope's name.

At least Farquhar's uncle, Vice-Admiral Sir Henry Lang ford, would be pleased. His faith would be sustained, and given time his hopes for his nephew would certainly materialise.

Bolitho leaned out of the stem window and let the warm air caress his face. He could hear the creak of tackles and the steady splash of oars as boats plied back and forth to the shore. The ship had dropped anchor in the early morning, and all day the boats had been busy gathering fresh stores and taking the wounded to more comfortable quarters in the town.

He watched the impressive line of anchored ships, the growing might of the West Indies fleet. Perhaps their presence had dwarfed what might have otherwise been a triumphant return for the Phalarope. He frowned at his, recurring thought. Maybe the Phalarope was still to be treated with shame and mistrust?

Bolitho let his eyes move slowly along the great ships with their towering masts and lines of open gunports. There was the Formidable, ninety-eight, fresh out of England with Sir George Rodney's flag at her truck. There were others too, their names already well known in the face of war. Ajax and Resolution, Agamemnon and Royal Oak, and Sir Samuel Hood's flagship Barfleur. And there were some he did not recognise at all, no doubt reinforcements brought by Rodney from the Channel Fleet. And they were all gathering for one purpose. To seek out and destroy the great French and Spanish fleet before it in turn drove the British from the Caribbean for good.

He turned his head to look towards his own small squadron on the other side of the anchorage. The elderly Cassius dwarfing the little Witch of Looe. And one other frigate, the Volcano, a vessel very similar to the Phalarope.

There was still no summons from the admiral. Just a brief message brought by a pink-faced midshipman to state that Bolitho's report was required before sunset. The frigate was to replete reprovisioning and await further orders. Nothing more.

Nothing more until something even stranger had happened.

Halfway through the forenoon a boat had put off from the Cassius and within minutes a dapper lieutenant had reported himself to Bolitho. He had said, 'Rear-Admiral Sir Robert Napier sends his compliments, sir. He wishes to inform you that he will be willing to accept an invitation for dinner tonight aboard your ship. He will be bringing our captain as an additional guest.' The officer had watched the consternation on Bolitho's features and had added helpfully, 'Is there anything I can do to help, sir?'

Bolitho had been stunned by the wording of the message. It was unusual for flag officers to dine aboard their less impressive ships. It was unknown for them actually to word their own invitations!

Bolitho had thought of his dwindling provisions and the crude results produced from the galley.

The lieutenant from the Cassius had obviously been well briefed. 'If I may make a suggestion, sir?'

Bolitho stared at him. 'Anything you can say would be a great help at this moment.'

`My captain is sending some stores from his own pantry, sir. In addition there will be some quite drinkable wine arriving within the hour.' He had ticked off the items on his fingers, his face wrapped in thought. Bolitho had guessed that the young man was not unused to the strange behavior of his admiral. 'If I may suggest some lean pork, sir? It is in goodly supply in St. John's, and the cheese is newly arrived with Admiral Rodney's ships from England.'

Bolitho had sent for Vibart and the purser, Evan, and explained what was due to happen. For once Vibart seemed too surprised to make any comment, and Bolitho had said curtly, 'See to it, Mr. Vibart. And tell my servant to clean out the cabin and lay, a full table.' He had felt suddenly reckless. 'Sir Robert Napier must not expect a flagship's fare aboard a mere frigate!'

Now, looking back, he knew that the momentary recklessness was more likely to have been a result of too much sun on the open quarterdeck and the weakening pain of his wound.

Well, it could not be helped. It was more than obvious what the admiral intended. With Rodney back at the reins he would not wish to lambast Phalarope in public. He would not even risk an open argument aboard his own flagship. No, he would come to the Phalarope in person, like God coming down to smite a sinner, Bolitho thought bitterly. No success would wipe away his first displeasure or recompense his son's death. If- the Andiron lay under guard beneath the guns of his own, flagship the admiral might have felt differently. But the privateer was now less than nothing. A mere pencilled mark on a chart.

Bolitho sat down heavily on the stern bench, suddenly tired and irritable. He stared at the waiting report and then called, `Sentry! Pass the word for Mr. Herrick!'

The report could go across to Cassius now, he thought angrily. Whatever else happened, he wanted to make sure that his men received recognition and had their efforts properly recorded.

Herrick entered the cabin and stood alerty beside the desk. `Take this envelope over to the flagship.' Bolitho saw the immediate concern on Herrick's open face and became more irritated. Try as he might he could not keep the dullness from his voice, and knew that in spite of all his efforts his fatigue was wearing him down, so that every word seemed to drag from his lips.

Herrick said carefully, 'May I suggest that you take a rest; sir? I think you have been doing too much.'

`Kindly attend to your duties, damn you!' Bolitho looked away, angry with Herrick but more so with himself for the unfairness of his attack.

'Aye, aye, sir.' Herrick seemed unmoved and said, 'May I ask if this is the full report about the Andiron, sir?'

Bolitho turned coldly. 'Of course it is! Were you afraid I'd not included your efforts in this escapade?'

Herrick eyed him steadily. 'I am sorry, sir. It's just that-'He swallowed hard. 'Well, we feel, those of us who took part,' he began to stammer. 'You are the one who should take all the credit, sir!'

Bolitho looked at the deck, the blood singing in his ears. 'You have a happy knack of making me feel ashamed, Mr. Herrick. I would be obliged if you would refrain from doing so in the future!' He looked up sharply, remembering with sudden clarity the sound of Herrick's voice in the darkness, the touch of his hands on his wound. 'But thank you.' He walked slowly to the desk. 'The attack on the Andiron was a series of lucky occurrences, Mr. Herrick. The end result may seem to some to justify this. But I must admit that I am still dissatisfied. I believe in luck, but I know that no man can depend upon itl'

ayes, sir.' Herrick watched him closely. `I just wanted you to know how we all feel.' His jaw jutted stubbornly. ,Whatever lies in store for us, we'll feel all the better for your being in command, sir.'

Bolitho ruffled the papers on his desk. `Thank you. Now for God's sake go to the Cassius, Mr. Herrick., He watched Herrick duck through the door and heard his voice calling for the quarter boat.

It was odd how easy it was to tell his fears to Herrick. Stranger too that Herrick was able to listen without taking advantage of this confidence.

His eye fell on the punishment book, and again he felt the tired glow of anger. While he had been a prisoner of his own brother the old disease had broken out again. Floggings and more floggings, with one man dying of his agony under the lash. Maybe there would be time to heal the damage, he thought grimly. He must accept Vibart's sullen explanations, just as he had had to recognise Okes' report on the attack on Mola Island. He must back up his own officers. And if they were weak and stupid, then he must take the blame for that also.

He thought too of Vibart's attitude since his return to command. Due to" his wound and the swirling darkness of pain and sickness he had not seen his face at the actual moment of return. But in the days which had followed, the days and nights of creaking timbers and thundering seas against the hull, he had seen him several times. Once when he had been delirious and sweating in his swaying cot hee had seen Vibart standing over him and had heard him ask, 'Will he live? Tell me, Mr. Ellice, will he live?

Perhaps he had only imagined it. It was hard to tell now. But for a brief moment he was sure he had heard the true resentment in Vibart's voice. He wanted him to die. Just as his return from the dead was still leaving him resentful and bitter.

The door opened and Stockdale said throatily, 'I've told At well to lay out your best uniform, sir. And he'll be in here shortly to prepare the table.' He stared at Bolitho's worn features and then said flatly, 'You'll be taking a rest now, I expect?'

Bolitho glared at him. 'I have work coo do, damn Ay ouple of Stockdale said, 'I'll just turn your hours until the Dog Watches will do you a power of good.'

He ignored Bolitho's expression and added cheerfully, 'I see the Formidable's here, sir! She's a fine big ship an' no mistake! But then you'd need a big ship to hold an admiral like Rodney!' He stood a moment longer, one hand resting on the cot. 'Are you ready now, sir?'

Bolitho gave in. 'Well, just two hours. No more.'

He allowed Stockdale to help him into the cot and felt the tiredness closing in on him once more. Stockdale picked up his shoes and said to himself, 'You rest there. We'll need a good captain tonight to meet the bloody admiral!'

As he turned Stockdale's eye fell on Bolitho's empty rack above the cot, and for a moment he felt strangely unnerved. The sword was back there somewhere in the wrecked Andiron.. If only he could have got it back. If only ...

He stared down at Bolitho's face relaxed in sleep. And he wanted to do something for me! He pulled the curtain to shade Bolitho's face from the reflected sunlight and then ambled slowly towards the door.

 

The tall stone jetty threw a welcome rectangle of dark shade across the Phalarope's cutter as it rested easily alongside the steps. Packwood, the boatswain's mate, paused at the top of the steps and looked down at the lolling seamen in the boat. 'You can take a break. But nobody leaves the cutter, got it?'

Onslow squatted comfortably on the gunwale and pulled a short clay pipe from his shirt. Under his breath he murmured, 'Right, Mr. bloody Packwood! We do all the work, and you go off an' fill your belly with rum!'

Most of the other men were too weary to comment. All day they had pulled the cutter back and forth to the anchored frigate, the first. excitement of seeing a friendly port again soon giving way to grumbling complaint.

Packwood was in charge of their party, and although a capable man and considered to be fair in his allocation of work, was plagued by a complete lack of imagination. If he had told the men that the work was essential, not only to the Phalarope's efficiency, but more important, to the welfare of the crew once she returned to sea, some of the bitterness might have been dulled. As it was, Packwood had been too long in the Navy avy to seek for unnecessary explanations to anything. Work was work. Orders would be carried out at all times without question.

Pook, Onslow's constant companion, raised himself on his scrawny legs and peered towards the distant houses. He breathed out slowly. 'Mother of God! I kin see women!'

Onslow grimaced. 'What did you expect? Bloody clergymen?' He watched the men from beneath lowered lids. 'The officers will be doing themselves well enough. You see if I'm not right, lads!' He spat over the side. 'But just one of you try an' lay a little foot on the shore an' see what happens!' He gestured towards a red-coated marine who was leaning contentedly on his grounded musket. 'That bloody bullock'll place a ball between your eyes!'

John Allday lay across the oars and watched Onslow thoughtfully. Every word the man spoke seemed to be carefully weighted and fashioned before it was uttered. He turned as another seaman named Ritchie spoke up from the bow.

Ritchie was a slow-thinking Devon man, with an equally slow manner of speech. 'When we was at Nevis Oi didn't see yew runnin' off, Onslow!' He blinked his mild eyes against the glittering water. 'Yew had plenty of time to go an' join your rebel friends!'

Allday watched Onslow, expecting a flash of anger. But the tall seaman merely eyed Ritchie with something like pity. 'An' what good would that do? If I went over to the rebels or to the Frogs, do you think we'd be any better off?' He had their full attention now. 'No, lads. We'd be exchanging one master for another. A fresh flag, but make no mistake, the lash feels the same in any navy!'

Ritchie scratched his head. '01 still don't see what yew'm gettin' at!'

Pook sneered, 'That's because you're stupid, you great ox!'

'Easy, lads.' Onslow dropped his voice. 'I meant what I said. Out here or in the Americas a man can live well. A new life, with a chance to make something for himself!' He gave a small smile. 'But to start off right a man needs more than hope. He needs money, too!'

Nick Pochin stirred himself and said uneasily, 'If the war ends an' we get paid off, we can go back to our homes.'

'And who'll want to remember you there? Onslow looked down at him coldly. 'You've been away too long, like all the rest of us. There'll be nothing for you but begging on the streets!'

Pochin persisted. 'I was a good ploughman once. I could do it again!'

'Aye, maybe you could.' Onslow watched him closely, his eyes full of contempt. `You can push your furrow for the rest of your stupid life. Until the furrow is deep enough for some fat squire to bury you in!'

Another voice asked cautiously, `Well then? What's the point of arguing about it’

'I'll tell you the point!' Onslow slid from the gunwale like a cat. `Soon we'll be at sea again. You've seen the fleet mustering here. There'll be no rest for the likes of us. The buggers always need an extra frigate.' He pointed at the Phalarope as she swung gently at her anchor. `There is our chance, lads! The price of our future!' He lowered his voice again. 'We could take the ship.' He spoke very slowly to allow each word to sink, in. `Then we could use her to bargain for our own price!' He looked around their grim faces. `Just think of it! We could parley with the other side and name our own amount! Then with the money and a free passage we could split up and go our own ways, every one of us richer than he ever thought possible!'

Pochin sat up with a jerk. 'That's mutiny! You mad bugger, we'd all be caught and hanged!'

Onslow grinned. 'Never! After the war is over, who will have time to care about us?'

Pook added gleefully, 'He's right! We'd be rich!'

Allday said, 'And we'd never see England again!'

'And who cares about that?' Onslow threw back his head. 'Do you think we have any chance at present? You saw what they did to Kirk? You've seen men die week by week from disease or the lash. From battle or falling from aloft! And if you escape all that, it's more than likely you'll get shipped off in some other ship, as I was!'

Allday felt a chill at his spine as the uneasiness and resentment moved through the boat like a threat. He said quickly, 'Do you think Captain Bolitho would stand for your ideas?' He looked at the others. 'I've been through the mill, but I trust the captain. He's a brave and a fair man. He'll not let us down!'

Onslow shrugged. 'Suit yourself.' He added tightly, 'Just so long as you keep your thoughts to yourself, mate! If what I said gets out, we'll know where to come a'hunting!'

There was a scattered murmur of assent from the boat, and Allday realised with sudden shock that Onslow's little speech had already gone deep. It was strange that nobody had noticed before how Onslow had persisted in his efforts to rouse the men to mutiny. Perhaps because his words were carefully chosen and without the blind malice of a wronged sailor. The latter was too common to rouse much more than jeers.

He thought too of Mathias's death in the hold and Onslow's careful manoeuvring to get Ferguson the job as captain's clerk. The pattern was like a slow but deadly disease. When the symptoms came to light the victim was already beyond hope.

He said, `You'll find me ready enough, Onslow! Just you keep out of my way!'

Pochin muttered, `Watch out! 'E's comin' back!'

Packwood stood at the top of the steps, his face sweating profusely from a hasty tankard of rum. `Right, my babies! Stand by to take on some more casks!' He swung his rattan casually. `After this trip you can go to your sty and get cleaned up. The admiral is coming to see you all this evening!'

Pook nudged his friend. `That Allday! Is he safe?'

Onslow ran his fingers around the loom of his oar. `The men like him. It must be handled carefully. It needs thinking about.' He watched Allday's naked back rippling in -the sunlight. 'But handled it must be!'

 

Punctual to the minute, Rear-Admiral Sir Robert Napier stepped through the. Phalarope's entry port and removed his hat to receive his due respects. As the shrill pipes faded into silence- and the marine guard presented arms- the frigate's small drummer, accompanied by two reedy fifes, broke into a frail but jaunty march, and with a final glance around the upperdeck Bolitho stepped forward to meet his admiral.

Sir Robert nodded curtly to the assembled officers, and as the marines banged their muskets to the deck he carried out a brief but searching inspection of the guard, followed at a discreet distance by Rennie and Captain Cope of the Cassius.

Bolitho tried to gauge the admiral's mood or his real reason for his visit from the man's profile, but Sir Robert's pinched face remained sphinxlike and unchanging, even when he fired the occasional question or comment to Rennie about the bear

ing of the marines.

At the end of the double line of men he paused to survey the maindeck. 'You keep a smart ship, Bolitho.' There was nothing in his dry tone to suggest either praise or suspicion.

'Thank you, sir.' Bolitho wished that he was alone aboard the flagship in the great stem cabin. There he could face and deal with anything Sir Robert chose to say. These circumstances kept every comment on a formal and controlled level which made his nerves raw with uncertainty.

Whatever the admiral really thought of the ship, Bolitho was certainly satisfied with her appearance. Long before a frantic messenger had reported a flurry of activity aboard the flagship and the smartly crewed barge had pulled swiftly towards the Phalarope's side, Bolitho had been round his ship to make absolutely sure that Sir Robert would find no fault with her at least.

The ship's company had manned the side, every eye on the small, gold-laced figure in the stern of the barge, and now as the admiral stood in silent contemplation there was an atmosphere of nervous expectancy which defied even the fifes and drum on the quarterdeck.

The admiral said, 'You may dismiss the hands, Bolitho.'

At the prearranged signal the men poured from the maindeck, and with a clash of weapons the marines wheeled and followed suit.

Then he said, 'I have read the report, Bolitho. It had a great deal to say.' His wintry eyes drifted across Bolitho's set features. 1-was particularly interested in the part about the Andiron's captain.' He -saw Bolitho stiffen and continued calmly, 'As a matter of fact I had received information as to his identity, but I thought it best to let you carry out your task.' He shrugged, the movement painful beneath his heavy uniform. 'Of course, what I did not know was that you were in fact already a prisoner at his hands.'

'And if you had known, sir?' Bolitho tried to keep his tone relaxed.

'I am not sure. Your first lieutenant is apparently capable in many ways, but I fear he will always be a man who takes orders. A born subordinate!'

From the corner of his eye Bolitho saw Captain Cope being ushered below by his own officers, and waited for the admiral to continue. He did not have long to wait.

'Andiron is finished. Her very existence was a challenge and an insult to every man in our fleet. I have already passed my views on the matter to the Commander-in-Chief, and I have no doubt you will receive due recognition.' He faced Bolitho squarely. 'However, the fact that your own brother once commanded he? and" is obviously still alive may in some quarters be taken as some sort of connivance on your part.' He walked to the side and stared at the Cassius. 'I do not happen to take that view myself, Bolitho. I gave you the task, not in spite of the Andiron's captain but because of him! You and your ship behaved very well indeed. I have told Sir George Rodney as much.' He added slowly, 'But had your brother been killed it might have been better all round.'

'I think I understand, sir.'

'Of course you do!' The admiral's old testiness was breaking through. 'To be killed is to be forgotten. But if he is taken in the future, he will have no defence. A public trial and hanging will follow. And I think you realise that such disgrace can smear a whole family!'

'Yes, sir.'

Sir Robert rubbed his hands. `Well, enough of that. You carried out your orders as best you could. That will have to suffice for the present. You did in fact find out about the enemy's intentions. If it is true, it will weigh heavily in your favour.'

He looked up at the gently moving flag and murmured, 'We could do with a little good fortune at the moment!'

Sir Robert lapsed into silence until Bolitho had guided him below to his cabin where the other officers were already seated. With the table fully extended and ten officers already crammed round it, the cabin seemed to be full to capacity, and Bolitho found time to wonder why the admiral had bothered to make this journey away from the comparative luxury of his own quarters.

The officers rose to their feet and then sank expectantly into their seats again as Bolitho and the admiral squeezed around the head of the table.

Bolitho also realised for the first time that this was the only occasion he had sat down to dine with all his officers. As Atwell and two hastily recruited messmen began to serve dinner he glanced round the table marking the strange difference which seemed to have come over the familiar faces. They were like embarrassed strangers, he thought vaguely.

Apart from his lieutenants and Captain Rennie he had arranged for the three midshipmen to be present also. As representatives of the ship's warrant officers Proby, the master, and Tobias Ellice, the surgeon, sat in stiff discomfort, their eyes on their plates.

Still the admiral gave no sign of relaxing. In almost complete silence the dinner went on. But with it came the wine, this time brought by the admiral's personal steward, a tall, disdainful man in a scarlet jacket. It was then that Bolitho began to realise what Sir Robert was doing. Coupled with the tension and the unaccustomed richness of the excellent dinner, the wine began to take effect. When Bolitho noticed that the admiral had hardly eaten more than a bird's share of the food and made a point of keeping the same glass of wine at his elbow, he fully understood.

Voices grew louder, and while Sir Robert sat calmly at Bolitho's side the officers began to talk more freely. Bolitho did not know which he felt more. Annoyance or admiration. Not content with a bald report, no matter how concise, Sir Robert was here to hear for himself. From the men who until now had been mere names from Bolitho's pen.

Some of the strain seemed to drain out of him. Right or wrong, the admiral's sly methods were now beyond his control.

Slowly the story began to unfold. Each phase being taken up and polished by a different officer. The attack on Mola Island and the taking of the battery. The more eloquent elaborated on the plan as a whole, the less capable ones contenting themselves on painting the smaller parts to the overall picture.

There was humour too in some of the recollections. Like the story of Parker, the master's mate, who had commanded the jolly boat during the attack on the Andiron. Separated  from the other boats by the rising sea, he had returned to the

Phalarope only to have his discomfort further increased by a volley of musket fire from some vigilant marines. And the story of Captain Rennie conducting the retreat from Mola Island with his sword in one hand and half a chicken pie in the other. But this sort of reminiscence did not last.

Sir Robert snapped suddenly, 'And you, Mr. Farquhar, were left behind with the Spanish prisoner?'

Farquhar eyed him carefully, and for a moment Bolitho felt the tension returning to the crowded table. But Farquhar kept his head. Even the fact that it was well known that Sir Robert normally made a point, of never addressing anyone below the rank of lieutenant failed to ruffle him.

'Yes, sir. I joined the captain and together we went into captivity.'

The admiral swung round in his chair and peered at Okes, who until now had remained almost silent. 'Your part in this business seems to have kept you very busy, Mr. Okes?'

The lieutenant looked up startled. 'Er, yes, sir. I did what I had to do. There was no other way!'

Sir Robert sipped his wine and eyed him coolly. 'For an officer who has gained nothing but glory you sound remarkably guarded, Mr. Okes. A modicum of modesty is welcome these days, but not when it sounds remarkably like guiltl' For a second longer he held Okes' pale face with his cold eyes, and then he laughed. It was a humourless sound, but it helped to beak the sudden and unhappy silence.

'And you, Mr. Herrick?' Sir Robert craned round his own captain to stare along the table. `Your exploits at Nevis seem a trifle haphazard? But against that you obtained the result you intended no doubt?'

Herrick gave a broad grin. 'Captain Bolitho has already pointed out to me the pitfalls of too much luck, sir!'

'Did he indeed?' The admiral's eyebrows rose slightly. 'I am gratified to hear it.'

And on it went in the same vein. The admiral would question and listen, or when that failed would openly provoke the luckless officer into some excited and unguarded reply.

The loyal toast was called for by the junior officer present. Midshipman Neale, dwarfed on either side by Proby and Ellice, squeaked, `Gentlemen, the King!' and then sank into a blushing silence.

Bolitho noticed that the admiral's right hand was curled like a claw around his goblet, and when the latter saw him looking at it the admiral snapped petulantly, 'Damned rheumatism! Had it for years!'

For a few moments Bolitho took time to appreciate the man sitting by his side. Not the admiral, with all his petty foibles, his unfair uses of privilege and rank, but the actual man.

He was old, probably in his sixties, and to Bolitho's knowledge had not set foot ashore for more than a few days at a time in the last ten years. He had shifted his flag from ship to ship, dealing with problems and strategy which Bolitho could only half imagine.

The admiral was looking at him unwinkingly. 'Are you still -wondering why I came, Bolitho?' He did not wait for an answer. 'I commanded a frigate myself many years ago. The happiest time in the Navy for me. Life was easier in many ways then. But the stakes were not so high.' The shutter dropped again. 'I came because I wanted to see what you have made of this ship.' He tugged at his chin as if to seek some way of avoiding a compliment. 'What I find does not displease me entirely.' He dropped his voice, so that it was almost lost in the newly awakened conversation around the table. 'Most of your officers appear to have great respect for you. I know from experience that it is very hard to come byl'

Bolitho gave a small smile. 'Thank you, sir.'

'And you can remove that stupid smile from your face!'

The admiral shifted beneath his coat. 'I like to know the men whom I command! When I see a sail on the horizon I don't wish to know the size of her guns or the state of her paintwork. I want to know the mind of the man in control, see? He stared over the heads of the lolling officers. 'England is fighting for her life. It is a war of defence now. The attack will come later, perhaps years later, after I am dead and buried! But until that time England depends on her ships, maybe only a couple of hundred ships which are in a position to act to full advantage!' He tapped on the table, so that the others fell silent and turned to listen. 'And those ships depend on their captains and no one else!'

Bolitho opened his mouth to speak but the admiral said testily, 'Hear me out! I know your reputation now. You are an idealist in many ways. You have hopes for better conditions for your men, so that they can make the sea an honourable career again.' He waved a finger. 'When I was younger I wanted all those things and more beside. But a good captain is the one who accepts all these difficulties as they stand and still manages to run an efficient ship, one worthy of honour and praise!'

He glared round the table. 'Well, gentlemen, did I make myself understood?'

Bolitho followed his gaze. Vibart, flushed and unsmiling. Herrick, still grinning and unquenched by the admiral's earlier sarcasm. Rennie, stiff-backed but with eyes so glassy that they were beyond focus. Old Daniel Proby, humbled by being with such illustrious company, yet whose face was stiff with sudden pride, as if he had heard a deeper meaning in the admiral's words. And Ellice, the bucolic surgeon, who had been drinking without pause since they had arrived at table. Bolitho could find time to pity Ellice. Poorly paid, like all ships' surgeons, it was no wonder he was more of a butcher than a doctor. It was a race which would win. Drink or a fatal mistake, it was merely a matter of time.

Okes, still smarting from the admiral's keen appraisal of the half-remembered attack on Mola Island. Bolitho noticed how he kept darting quick, desperate glances towards Farquhar, who by comparison was calm and impassive, his thoughts perhaps far away. Maybe still back there below the shattered bridge where he had been left to die by the man who now sat watching him. The fact that Farquhar had made neither comment nor complaint must be all the more worrying for Okes, Bolitho thought grimly.

And the two other midshipmen, Maynard and Neale. Excited and untouched by the deeper channels of comment and thought around them, Bolitho was suddenly very aware of his responsibility to all of them.

The admiral stood up and lifted his glass. 'A toast!' His pale eyes flashed below the low beams. `Death to the French!'

The glasses came up as one and the voices rumbled the reply, 'And confusion to our enemies!'

The admiral. called to his captain, 'Time we were going, Cope!'

Bolitho followed him to the upperdeck, only half listening to the scamper of feet and the hurried creak of oars alongside. It was over. The admiral would never admit a mistake, but Bolitho knew that the worst was behind him. Phalarope was free of disgrace at last.

He lifted his hat' as the admiral crossed to the port and waited until he had vanished to the waiting barge. Then he clamped on his hat and began to pace the deserted quarterdeck, his hands clasped behind him.

The admiral had also made it plain in his own way that if the ship was free of disgrace it was up to her captain to keep her so.

He looked at the riding lights dancing across the water and listened to the plaintive scrape of a violin and the accompanymg sadness of an old shanty. If the men could still sing there was hope for all of them, he thought.