The spirits of your fathers

Shall start from every wave;

For the deck it was their field of fame, And ocean was their grave.

THOMAS CAMPBELL

1 L andfall

AS SIX BELLS of the morning watch chimed out from the forecastle belfry, Captain Richard Bolitho walked from beneath the poop and paused momentarily beside the compass. A master’s mate who was standing close to the great double wheel said quickly, “Nor’ west by north, sir,” and then dropped his eyes as Bolitho glanced at him.

It was as if they could all sense his tension, he thought briefly, and although they might not understand its cause, wanted to break him from it.

He strode out on to the broad quarterdeck and crossed to the weather side. Around him, without looking, he could see his officers watching him, gauging his mood, waiting to begin this new day.

But the ship had been in continuous commission for eighteen months, and most of her company, excluding those killed by combat or injury at sea, were the same men who had sailed with him from Plymouth on an October morning in 1795. It was more than enough time for them to realise that he needed to be left alone for these first precious moments of each successive day.

The wet sea mist which had dogged them for most of the night while they had edged slowly up the Channel was still with them, thicker than ever. It swirled around the black criss-cross of shrouds and rigging and seemed to cling to the hull like dew. Beyond the nettings with their neatly stowed hammocks the sea was heaving in a deep offshore swell, but was quite unbroken in the low breeze.

It was dull. The colour of lead.

Bolitho shivered slightly and clasped his hands behind him beneath his coat-tails and looked up, beyond the great braced yards to where a rear-admiral’s flag flapped wetly from the mizzen masthead. It was hard to believe that up there somewhere the sky would be bright blue, warm and comforting, and on this May morning the sun should already be touching the approaching land. His land. Cornwall.

He turned and saw Keverne, the first lieutenant, watching him, waiting for the right moment.

Bolitho forced a smile. “Good morning, Mr Keverne. Not much of a welcome, it appears.”

Keverne relaxed slightly. “Good morning, sir. The wind remains sou’ west, but there is little of it.” He fidgeted with his coat buttons and added, “The master thinks we might anchor awhile. The mist should clear shortly.”

Bolitho glanced towards the short, rotund shape of the ship’s sailing master. His worn, heavy coat was buttoned up to his several chins, so that in the strange light he looked like a round blue ball. He was prematurely grey, even white haired, and had it tied at the nape of his neck in an old fashioned queue, giving it the appearance of a quaint powdered wig of a country squire.

“Well, Mr Partridge.” Bolitho tried again to put some warmth into his tone. “It is not like you to show such reluctance for the shore?”

Partridge shuffled his feet. “Never sailed into Falmouth afore, Cap’n. Not in a three-decker, that is.” Bolitho shifted his gaze to the master’s mate. “Go forrard and see there are two good leadsmen in the chains. Make sure the leads are well armed with tallow. I want no false reports from them.” The man hurried away without a word. Bolitho knew that like the others he would know what to do without being told, just as he was aware he was only giving himself more time to think and consider his motives.

Why should he not take the master’s advice and anchor? Was it recklessness or conceit which made him continue closer and closer towards the invisible shore?

Mournfully a leadsman’s voice echoed from forward. “By th’

mark seven!”

Above the deck the sails stirred restlessly and shone in the mist like oiled silk. Like everything else they were dripping with moisture, and hardly moved by the sluggish breeze from across the larboard quarter.

Falmouth. Perhaps that was the answer to his uncertainty and apprehension. For eighteen months they had been employed on blockade and later the watch over the southern approaches of Ireland. A French attempt to invade Ireland and start an uprising had been expected weekly, yet when it had come just five months ago the British blockade had been caught unready. The invasion attempt had failed more because of bad weather and the French fleet being scattered than any real pressure from the over-worked patrols.

Feet clattered in the passageway beneath the poop and he knew it was the admiral’s servant going to attend his master in the great cabin.

It was strange how after all that had gone before they were coming here, to Falmouth, Bolitho’s home. It was as if fate had overrun everything which both duty and the Admiralty could muster.

“. . . an’ a quarter less seven!” The leadsman’s call was like a chant.

Bolitho began to pace slowly up and down the weather side, his chin lowered into his neckcloth.

Rear-Admiral Sir Charles Thelwall, whose flag flapped so limply from the masthead, had been aboard for over a year. Even when he had first hoisted his flag he had been a sick man. Old for his rank, and weighed down with the responsibility of an over-worked squadron, his health had deteriorated rapidly in the fog and piercing cold of the last winter months. As his flag captain Bolitho had done what he could to ease the pressures on the tired, wizened little admiral, and it had been painful to watch as day by day he fought to overcome the illness which was destroying him.

At last the ship was returning to England to replenish stores and make good other shortages. Sir Charles Thelwall had already despatched a sloop with his reports and needs, and also made known the state of his own illness.

“By th’ mark six!”

So when the ship dropped anchor the admiral would go ashore for the last time. It was unlikely he would live long enough to enjoy it.

And then there was the other twist of fate. Two days earlier, as the ship had tacked ponderously clear of the Wolf Rock in readiness for her passage up the Channel, they had been met by a fast moving brig with new orders for the admiral.

He had been in his cot at the time, racked by his dry, deadly cough which left his handkerchief spotted with blood after each convulsion, and had asked Bolitho to read the despatch which had been passed across in the brig’s jolly boat.

The orders stated in the briefest of terms that His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Euryalus would proceed with all despatch to Falmouth Bay and not to Plymouth as previously arranged. There to receive the flag of Sir Lucius Broughton, Knight of the Bath, Vice-Admiral of the White, and await further instructions.

Once the receipt of the orders had been acknowledged the brig had gone about with undue haste and sped away again. That was also strange. Two vessels meeting for the first time, and with the country in the grip of a war growing in fury and intensity, made even the smallest item of news valuable to the men who kept constant sea watch in all weathers and against any odds.

Even the brig’s approach had been cautious, but Bolitho had grown used to such treatment. For the Euryalus was a prize ship, and as French in appearance as would be expected from a vessel only four years old.

All the same, it was one more thing to put a finer edge on his sense of uncertainty.

“By th’ mark six!”

He turned and said sharply, “Bring that lead aft, Mr Keverne, and set the other to work at once.” A barefooted seaman padded on to the quarterdeck and knuckled his forehead. Then he held out the great, dripping lead and watched as Bolitho dug his fingers into the bottom of it, where the inserted plug of tallow gleamed dully with what looked like pink coral.

Bolitho rubbed the small fragments on his palm and said absently, “The Six Hogs.”

Behind him he heard Partridge murmur admiringly, “If I’d not seen it I’d never ’ave believed it.” Bolitho said, “Alter course a point to larboard, if you please, and pipe the hands to the braces.”

Keverne coughed and then asked quietly, “What are the Six Hogs, sir?”

“Sandbars, Mr Keverne. We are now about two miles due south of St Anthony Head.” He smiled, suddenly ashamed for allowing the apparent miracle to continue. “They call the sandbars by that name, although I do not know why. But they are covered with these small stones, and have been so since I can remember.” He swung round and watched as a sliver of sunlight pierced the swirling mist and touched the quarterdeck with pale gold.

Partridge and the others would have been less in awe of his nav-igation had he been wrong in his calculations. Or perhaps it was more instinct than calculations. Even before he had been bundled off to sea as a gawky twelve-year-old midshipman he had learned every cove and inlet around Falmouth and several miles in either direction as well.

Even so, memory could play tricks, and it would have been small comfort to the admiral or his own prospects if the coming day had found Euryalus aground and dismasted in sight of his home town.

The big topsails flapped loudly and the deck tilted to a sudden pressure of wind, and like an army of departing ghosts the mist seeped through the shrouds and moved clear of the ship.

Bolitho paused in his pacing and stared fixedly at the widen-ing panorama of green coastline which reached away on either bow, growing and coming alive in the sunlight.

There, almost balanced on the jib-boom, or so it appeared, was St Anthony’s beacon, usually the first sight of home to a returning sailor. Slightly to larboard, hunched on the headland, its grey bulk defying the sun and its warmth, was Pendennis Castle, guarding the harbour entrance and Carrick Road as it had down the centuries.

Bolitho licked his lips; they were dry, not merely from salt air.

“Lay a course to the anchorage, Mr Partridge. I am going to pay my respects to the admiral.”

Partridge stared at him and then touched his battered hat.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Below the poop it was cool and dark after the quarterdeck, and as he strode aft towards the companion which led to the admiral’s day cabin Bolitho was still pondering over what might lie in store for him and his command.

As he ran lightly down the companion to the middle deck and past two small ship’s boys who were busily polishing brass hinges on some of the cabin doors, he recalled with sudden clarity how mixed his feelings had once been about assuming command of the Euryalus. It was common enough to take prize ships and put them to work against their old masters, it was more common still to let them keep their original names. Sailors often said it was bad luck to change a ship’s title, but then seafaring people said a lot of things more from habit than known fact.

She had once been named Tornade, flagship of the French admiral Lequiller who had broken the British blockade to cross the Atlantic as far west as the Caribbean, there to cause havoc and destruction until finally run to earth by an inferior British squadron in the Bay of Biscay. She had struck her colours to Bolitho’s own ship, the old Hyperion, but not before she had pounded the worn two-decker almost into a floating wreck.

The Lords of the Admiralty had decided to rename Bolitho’s great prize, mostly it seemed because Lequiller had outwitted them on more than one occasion. It was strange, Bolitho had thought, that those who controlled His Majesty’s Navy from the heights of Admiralty seemed to know so little of ships and men that such changes were thought necessary.

Only the Euryalus’s new figurehead was English. It had been carved with great care by Jethro Miller at St Austell in Cornwall, as a gift from the people of Falmouth to one of their most popular sons. Miller had been Hyperion’s carpenter and had lost a leg in that last terrible battle. But he still retained his skill, and the figurehead which stared with cold blue eyes from the bows with shield and upraised sword had somehow given the Euryalus a small change of personality. It bore little resemblance perhaps to the hero of the Siege of Troy, but it was enough to strike fear into the heart of any enemy who might see it and know what was about to follow.

For the great three-decker was a force to be reckoned with.

Built at Brest by one of the best French yards, she had all the modern refinements and improvements to hull design and sail plan that any captain could wish.

From figurehead to taffrail she measured two hundred and twenty-five feet, and within her two thousand ton bulk she carried not only a hundred guns, including a lower battery of massive thirty-two-pounders, but a company of some eight hundred officers, seamen and marines. She could, when handled properly, act and speak with authority and devastating effect.

When she had commissioned, Bolitho had been made to take every man he could get to crew her constant demands and requirements. Pale-skinned debtors and petty thieves from the jails, a few trained men from other ships laid up for repairs, as well as the usual mixture of characters brought in by the dreaded press-gangs. For they had been hard times, and an ever-demanding fleet had already sifted and poached through every port and village in search of men, and with growing fears of a French invasion no captain could allow himself the luxury of choice when it came to gathering hands to fight his ship.

There had been volunteers too, mostly Cornishmen, who knew Bolitho’s name and reputation even, although many of them had never laid eyes on him in their lives.

It should have been a great step forward for Bolitho, as he had told himself often enough. The Euryalus was a fine ship, and a new one. Not only that, she represented an open acknowledgement of his past record as well as the obvious stepping stone to advancement. It was something dreamed about by every ambitious sea officer, and in a Service where promotion often depended on the death of an officer’s superior, the Euryalus must have been watched with both admiration and envy by those less fortunate.

But to Bolitho she meant something more, something very personal. While he had been searching the Caribbean and then driving back again to the last embrace in the Bay of Biscay he had been tortured by the memory of his wife, Cheney, who had died in Cornwall, without him, when she most needed him. In his heart he knew he could have done nothing. The coach had over-turned and she had been killed, and their unborn child also. His being there would have made no difference. And yet it still haunted him, had made him withdraw from his officers and seamen to a point when he had been tormented by loneliness and loss.

And now he was back again in Falmouth. The big grey stone house would be there waiting for him as always. As it had for all the others before him, and yet it would now seem even more empty than ever.

A marine sentry stamped to attention outside the cabin door, his eyes fixed on some point above Bolitho’s shoulder. Like a toy soldier with his blank expression and scarlet coat.

Sunlight lanced through the great stern windows, throwing countless reflections across the deckhead and dark furniture, and he saw the admiral’s grey-haired secretary checking papers and documents before stowing them in a long metal box. He made to rise from his seat but Bolitho shook his head and walked slowly to the opposite side of the cabin. He could hear the admiral moving about his sleeping cabin, and imagined him contemplating these last hours of his presence aboard his own flagship.

A mirror hung on the bulkhead and Bolitho paused to study himself, tugging his coat into position as if under the critical stare of a senior officer at an inspection.

He still could not get used to the new-style uniform, the additional encumbrance of gold epaulettes to denote his rank of post-captain. It seemed wrong that in a country struggling in the worst war of her history men could create and design new forms of personal adornment when their minds would have been better used in thinking up ideas for fighting and winning battles.

He reached up and touched the rebellious lock of hair which hung down above his right eye. Beneath it, and running up into his hairline, was the familiar cruel scar, the constant reminder of his closest meeting with death. But the hair was still black, without even a strand of grey to mark his forty years, twenty-eight of which had been spent at sea. He smiled slightly, his mouth softening and giving his tanned features a youthful recklessness once again as he turned away, dismissing what he saw as he would a satisfactory subordinate.

The door of the sleeping cabin opened and the little admiral walked unsteadily into a swaying patch of sunlight.

Bolitho said, “We will be anchoring within the hour, Sir Charles. I have made arrangements for you to go ashore whenever is convenient.” He thought suddenly of the many miles of rutted roads, the pain and discomfort, before the admiral could reach his home in Norfolk. “My own house is of course at your disposal for as long as you wish.”

“Thank you.” The admiral eased his shoulders inside the heavy dress coat. “To die in battle against your country’s enemies is one thing.” He sighed and left the rest unsaid.

Bolitho watched him gravely. He had grown very fond of him, and had come to admire his controlled dedication to others, his humanity towards the men of their small squadron.

He said, “We will miss you. sir.” He was sincere, yet very aware of the inadequacy of his words. “I, above all, owe you a great deal, as I think you know.”

The admiral rose to his feet and walked round the desk. Against Bolitho’s tall slim figure he seemed suddenly older and defenceless against what lay ahead of him.

After a pause he said, “You owe me nothing. But for your mind and your integrity I would have been discarded within weeks of hoisting my flag.” He held up one hand. “No, hear what I have to say. Many flag captains would have used my weakness to enhance their own reputations, to show their indispensability before their commanders-in-chief in higher places. If you had spent less time in fighting your country’s enemies and giving your utmost to your subordinates, you would almost certainly have been given the promotion you so richly deserve. It is no shame that you have turned your back on personal advancement, but it is England’s loss. Perhaps your new admiral will appreciate as I do what sort of a man you are, and be more able to ensure . . .” He broke off in a fit of coughing, the soiled handkerchief balled against his mouth until the convulsion had passed.

He said thickly, “See that my servant and secretary are sent ashore in good time. I will come on deck in a moment.” He looked away. “But just for a while I wish to be left alone.” Bolitho walked back to the quarterdeck in thoughtful silence.

Overhead the sky had cleared and was bright blue, while the sea below the nearest headland was agleam with countless dazzling reflections. It would make the admiral’s departure all the harder to bear, he decided.

He looked along the length of the upper deck, at the assembled seamen at the braces and at the topmen already strung out along the yards, dark against the clear sky. With all but her topsails and jib clewed up the Euryalus was barely making headway, her broad hull tipping easily as if to test the depth of water beneath her keel. Those not immediately employed were watching the shore, the neat houses and green hills. The latter were dotted with minute cows, and there were sheep moving aimlessly beneath the castle walls.

A great silence seemed to hang over the ship, broken only by the slap of water against the weather side, the regular creak of rigging and murmur of canvas aloft. Most of the men would not be allowed ashore, and they knew it. Nevertheless, it was a homecoming, something which every sailor knew, even if he could not explain it.

Bolitho took a glass from a midshipman and studied the shoreline, feeling the familiar drag to his heart. He wondered if his housekeeper and his steward, Ferguson, knew of his coming, if they were there now watching the three-decker’s slow approach.

“Very well, Mr Keverne. You may wear ship.” The first lieutenant who had been watching him intently lifted his speaking trumpet and the moment of peace was past.

“Lee braces there! Hands wear ship!” Feet scurried across the planking and the air became alive with squealing blocks and the rattle of halliards.

It was difficult to remember these well drilled men as the motley and ragged collection he had first taken aboard. Even the petty officers seemed to find little to grumble about as the men dashed to their stations, yet when the ship had first commissioned there had been more blows and curses than any sort of order.

It was a good ship’s company. As good as any captain could wish for, Bolitho thought vaguely.

“Tops’l sheets!”

Men leapt like monkeys along the yards and he watched them with something like envy. Working up there, sometimes as much as two hundred feet above the deck, had never failed to sicken him, to his embarrassment and anger.

“Tops’l clew lines!” Keverne’s voice was hoarse, as if he too felt the tension under the eyes of the distant town.

Very slowly the Euryalus glided purposefully to her anchorage, her shadow preceding her on the calm water.

“Helm a’lee!”

As the spokes squeaked over and the ship swung reluctantly into the wind the canvas was already vanishing along her yards, as if each sail was being controlled by a single force.

“Let go!”

There was a loud splash as the anchor dropped beneath the bow, and something like a sigh transmitted itself through the hull and shrouds as the massive cable took the strain and then steadied itself for the first time in months.

“Very well, Mr Keverne. You may call away the barge and then have the cutter and jolly boat swayed out.” Bolitho turned away, knowing he could rely completely on Keverne. He was a good first lieutenant, although Bolitho knew less of him than he had of any previous officer. It was partly his own fault and because of the mounting work laid at his door due to the admiral’s illness. Perhaps it had been a good thing for them both, Bolitho thought. The added responsibility, his growing awareness of strategy and tactics, involving not just one but several vessels in company, had given him less time to brood over his own personal loss. His involvement with the admiral’s affairs had on the other hand given Keverne more responsibility and would stand him in good stead when he had a chance of his own command.

Keverne was extremely competent, but for one failing. On several occasions during the commission he had shown himself given to short but violent fits of temper over which he appeared to have little control.

In his late twenties, tall and straight, he had swarthy, almost gypsy, good looks. With dark flashing eyes and extremely white teeth, he was a man ladies would be quick to appreciate, Bolitho thought.

Bolitho dismissed him from his mind as the admiral appeared beneath the poop, carrying his hat and blinking his pale eyes in the sunlight.

He stood for several moments watching as the barge was hoisted up and outboard, the tackles squeaking while Tebbutt, the thick-armed boatswain, barked his orders from the starboard gangway.

Bolitho watched him narrowly. The admiral was making every last moment count. Hoarding these small shipboard pictures in his mind.

He heard a familiar voice at his elbow and turned to see Allday, his coxswain, studying him impassively.

Allday showed his teeth. “Good, Captain.” He glanced at the admiral. “Will I take Sir Charles across now?” Bolitho did not reply at once. How often he had taken Allday for granted. Familiar, loyal and completely invaluable, it was hard to imagine life without him. He was broader now than the lithe topman he had once seen brought aboard his beloved frigate Phalarope as a pressed man so many years back. There were streaks of grey in his thick hair, and his homely, tanned face was more seasoned, like a ship’s timber. But he was really the same as ever, and Bolitho was suddenly grateful for it.

“I will ask him directly, Allday.”

He turned sharply as Keverne said, “Guardboat approaching, sir.”

Bolitho looked across the glittering water and saw an armed cutter moving purposefully towards the anchored three-decker. It was then that he noticed that not a single craft of any kind had made an attempt to leave harbour and follow the guardboat’s example. He felt a twinge of anxiety. What could be wrong? Some sort of terrible fever abroad in the port? It was certainly not the sight of the Euryalus this time. Otherwise the guns in the castle would have announced their own displeasure.

He took a glass from its rack and trained it on the cutter. The tan sails and intent faces of several seamen swam across the lens, and then he saw a naval captain, an empty sleeve pinned across his coat, sitting squarely in the sternsheets, his eyes fixed on the Euryalus. The sight of the uniform and empty sleeve brought a fresh pang to Bolitho’s thoughts. It could have been his dead father returned to the living.

The admiral asked testily, “What is the trouble?”

“Just some formality, Sir Charles.” Bolitho looked at Keverne.

“Man the side, if you please.”

Captain Giffard of the marines drew his sword and marched importantly to the entry port, and watched as his men mustered in a tight scarlet squad to receive the ship’s first visitor. Boatswain’s mates and sideboys completed the party, and Bolitho walked down the quarterdeck ladder to join Keverne and the officer of the watch.

The cutter’s sails vanished, and as the bowman hooked on to the chains, and the calls trilled in salute, the one-armed captain clambered awkwardly through the port and doffed his cocked hat to the quarterdeck, where the admiral watched the scene with neither emotion nor visible interest. Perhaps he already felt excluded, Bolitho thought.

“Captain James Rook, sir.” The newcomer replaced his hat and glanced rapidly around him. He was well past middle age, and must have been brought back to the Service to replace a younger man. “I am in charge of harbour patrols and impressment, sir.” He faltered, some of the sureness leaving him under Bolitho’s impassive grey eyes. “Do I have the honour of addressing Sir Charles Thelwall’s flag captain?”

“You do.”

Bolitho glanced past him and down into the cutter. There was a mounted swivel gun aboard, and several armed men beside the normal crew.

He added calmly, “Are you expecting an attack?” The man did not reply directly. “I have brought a despatch for your admiral.” He cleared his throat, as if very aware of the watching faces all around him. “Perhaps if we might go aft, sir?”

“Of course.”

Bolitho was getting unreasonably irritated by the man’s ponderous and evasive manner. They had their orders, and nothing this captain could tell him would not keep until later.

He stopped at the top of the ladder and turned sharply. “Sir Charles has been unwell. Can this matter not wait?” Captain Rook took a deep breath, and Bolitho caught the heavy smell of brandy before he replied softly, “Then you do not know? You have not been in contact with the fleet?” Bolitho snapped, “For God’s sake stop beating around the bush, man! I have a ship to provision, sick men to be got ashore, and two hundred other things to do today. Surely you cannot have forgotten what it is like to command a ship?” He reached out and touched his arm. “Forgive me. That was unfair.” He had seen the sudden hurt in the man’s eyes and was ashamed at his own impatience. His nerves must be more damaged than he had imagined, he thought bitterly.

Captain Rook dropped his eyes. “Mutiny, sir.” His single hand moved up his coat and unbuttoned it carefully to reveal a heavy, red-sealed envelope.

Bolitho stared at the busy hand, his mind still ringing with that one terrible word. Mutiny, he had said, but where? The castle looked as usual, the flag shining like coloured metal at the top of its lofty staff. The garrison would have little cause to mutiny anyway. They were mostly local volunteers or militia and knew they were far better off defending their own homes than plodding through mud or desert in some far-off campaign.

Rook said slowly, “The fleet at Spithead. It broke out last month and the ships were seized by their people until certain demands were met.” He shrugged awkwardly. “It is finished now.

Lord Howe confronted the ringleaders and the Channel Fleet is at sea again.” He looked hard at Bolitho. “It is well your squadron was in ignorance. It might have gone badly with you otherwise.” Bolitho looked past him and saw Keverne and several of his officers watching from the opposite side of the deck. They would sense something was wrong. But when they really knew . . . He deliberately turned away from them.

“I have often expected some isolated outbreak.” He could not hide the anger in his voice. “Some politicians and sea officers imagine that common sailors are little better than vermin and have treated them accordingly.” He stared hard at Rook. “But for the fleet to mutiny as one man! That is a terrible thing!” Rook seemed vaguely relieved that he had at last unburdened himself. Or maybe he had been half expecting to find the Euryalus in the hands of mutineers demanding heaven knew what.

He said, “Many fear that the worst is yet to come. There has been trouble at the Nore too, though we do not hear the full truth down here. I have patrols everywhere in case other troublemak-ers come this way. Some of the ringleaders are said to be Irish, and the Admiralty may expect this to be a diversion for another attempt to invade there.” He sighed worriedly. “To live and see this thing is beyond me, and that’s a fact!” Mutiny. Bolitho looked over to where the admiral was in close conversation with his secretary. This was a bad ending to his career.

Bolitho had known the full meaning, the hot, unreasoning fury which mutiny could bring in its wake. But that was in isolated ships, where conditions or climate, privation or downright brutality of an individual captain were normally the root causes. For a whole fleet to explode against the discipline and authority of its officers, and therefore King and Parliament as well, was another matter entirely. It took organisation and extreme skill as well as some driving force at the head of it to have any hope of success.

And it had succeeded, there was no doubt of that.

He said, “I will speak with Sir Charles at once.” He took the envelope from Rook’s hand. “This is a bitter homecoming.” Rook made as if to join Keverne and the others, but halted as Bolitho added sharply, “You will favour me by remaining silent until I tell you otherwise.”

The admiral did not look up or speak until Bolitho had finished telling him of Rook’s news. Then he said, “If the French come out again, England will be done for.” He looked at his hands and let them fall to his sides. “Where is Vice-Admiral Broughton? Is he not here after all?” Bolitho held out the envelope and said gently, “Perhaps this will explain what we are to do, sir.” He could see the emotions crossing and re-crossing the admiral’s wizened face. He had been hating the thought of striking his flag for the last time. But he had accepted it. It was like his illness, unbeatable. But now that there was a real possibility of continuing he was probably torn between two paths.

He said, “Show our visitor aft.” He made an effort to square his shoulders. “Then set the hands to work. It would be unwise for them to see their leaders in despair.” Then followed by his secretary he walked slowly and painfully into the poop’s shadow.

When Bolitho joined him again in the great cabin the admiral was sitting at the desk, as if he had never left it.

“This despatch is from Sir Lucius Broughton.” He waved to a chair. “Euryalus will remain at Falmouth to receive his flag, but at present he is in London. It seems that a new squadron is to be formed here, although to what purpose is not explained.” He sounded very tired. “You are to ensure that our people have no contact with the shore, and those sent there because of illness or injury will not be returned.” His mouth twisted angrily. “Afraid of spreading the disease on board, no doubt.” Bolitho was still standing, his mind grappling with all that the words entailed.

The admiral continued in the same flat voice, “You will of course tell your officers what you think fit, but under no circumstances must the people be informed of the unrest at the Nore.

It is worse than I feared.” He looked at Bolitho’s grim face and added: “Captain Rook is required to assist you with all your supplies, and has instructions to bring any further stores or new spars and cordage direct to the ship.”

Bolitho said slowly, “Sir Lucius Broughton, I know little of him. It is difficult to anticipate his wishes.” The admiral smiled briefly. “His flag was flying in one of the ships which mutinied at Spithead. I imagine his main requirement will be that it does not happen again.” He groped for his handkerchief and gripped the edge of the desk. “I must rest awhile and think of what has to be done. It would be better if you went ashore in my place. You may find that things are less dangerous than we imagine.” He met Bolitho’s eyes. “But I would inform Captain Giffard first, so that his marines may be in readiness for trouble.” He looked away and added, “I have seen the way our people look up to you, Bolitho.

Sailors are simple folk who ask little more than justice in exchange for their lot afloat. But . . .” the word hung in the air, “they are only human. And our first duty is to retain control, no matter at what cost.”

Bolitho picked up his hat. “I know, sir.” He thought suddenly of the crowded world beyond the panelled bulkhead. At sea or in battle they would fight and die without question. The constant demands of harsh discipline and danger left little room for outside ideals and hopes. But once the spark touched off the latent power of these same men anything might happen, and it would be no use pleading ignorance or isolation then.

On the quarterdeck again he was conscious of the change around him. How could you expect something like this to remain a secret? News travelled like wildfire in an overcrowded ship, though none could explain how it happened.

He beckoned to Keverne and said flatly, “You will please go aft and report to Captain Rook.” He saw Keverne’s dark features settle into a mask of anticipation. “You will then inform the ship’s lieutenants and senior warrant officers of the general position. I will hold you responsible until my return. You will arrange to have the sick and injured taken ashore, but not in our boats, understood?”

Keverne opened his mouth and then closed it again. He nodded firmly.

Bolitho said, “I will tell you now. There has been rumour of mutiny at the Nore. If any stranger attempts to approach or board this ship he will be deterred at once. If that cannot be done then he will be arrested and put in isolation immediately.” Keverne rested one hand on his sword. “If I catch a damned sea-lawyer I’ll teach him a thing or two, sir!” His eyes blazed dangerously.

Bolitho faced him impassively. “You will obey my orders, Mr Keverne. Nothing more or less.” He turned and sought out Allday’s thickset figure by the nettings. “Call away my barge crew immediately.”

Keverne said, “You are taking your own boat, sir?” Bolitho replied coldly, “If I cannot trust them, after what we have borne and suffered together, then I can find no hope or solution for anything!”

Without another word he strode down the ladder where the side party still waited above the swaying cutter at the entry port.

Just a moment longer he stood and looked back at his ship and at the seamen who were already busy rigging awnings and assisting the sick men through the hatchways. As was his custom he had seen that every man aboard was issued with new clothing from the slop chest. Unlike some miserly captains who allowed their men to stay in the rags worn when they were pressed in town or village alike. But right now he could find no comfort at the sight of the wide trousers and checked shirts, the healthy faces and busy preparations. Clothing, and proper food when it was at all possible to obtain it, should be their right, not the privilege handed out by some godlike commander. It was little enough for what these same men gave in return.

He shut the thought from his mind and touched his hat to the quarterdeck and side party before lowering himself down into the barge which Allday had steered purposefully between the cutter and the ship’s towering side.

“Shove off forrard!” Allday squinted into the sunlight and watched as the barge edged clear of the other boat. “Out oars, give way together!”

Then as the barge gathered speed, the oars dipping and rising as one, he looked down at Bolitho’s back and pursed his lips. He knew most of Bolitho’s moods better than his own, and could well imagine what he must be thinking now. Mutiny in the Service he loved, and to which he had given everything. Allday had discovered all about it from the coxswain of the guardboat, a man he had served with many years back. How could a secret like that be kept for more than minutes?

He ran his eye across Bolitho’s squared shoulders with their new and strangely alien gold epaulettes and at the jet black hair beneath his cocked hat. He had hardly changed, he thought. Even though he carried them all through one hazard after another.

He glared at the bow oarsman who had let his eye wander to watch a gull diving for fish close abeam and then thought of what should have been waiting for Bolitho at Falmouth. That lovely girl and a child to welcome him home. Instead he had nothing but trouble, and once more was expected to do another’s work as well as his own.

Allday saw Bolitho’s fingers playing a little tattoo on the worn hilt of his sword and relaxed slightly. Between them they had seen and done much together. The sword seemed to sum it all up better than words or actual thought.

The barge swung round and glided into the shadow of the jetty, and as the bowman hooked on and Allday removed his hat Bolitho rose and climbed over the gunwale and on to the worn, familiar steps.

He would have liked Allday with him just now, but it would not be right to leave the barge unattended.

“You may return to the ship, Allday.” He saw the flash of anxiety in the big coxswain’s eyes and added quietly, “I will know where you are when I need you.”

Allday remained standing and watched Bolitho stride between two saluting militiamen at the top of the jetty.

Under his breath he muttered, “By God, Captain, we are going to need you! ”

Then he looked down at the lolling bargemen and growled,

“Now, you idle buggers, let me see you make this boat move! ” The stroke oar, a grizzled seaman with thick red hair, said between his teeth, “Do yewm reckon the word o’ the troubles will reach us ’ere?”

Allday eyed him bleakly. So they all knew already.

He grinned. “Word is like dung, matey, it must be spread about to be any use!” He dropped his voice. “So it’s up to us to make sure it doesn’t happen, eh?”

When he looked astern again Bolitho had already vanished, and he wondered what would be waiting for him on his return home.

BOLITHO made himself stand quite still for several minutes as he stared towards the house. He had avoided the road through the town and had used instead the narrow twisting lane with its green hedgerows and sweet smells of the countryside. As he stood in the bright sunlight he was conscious of stillness, the hard pressure of the land through his shoes. It was all so different from the constant movement and sounds of shipboard life, and the realisation was one which never failed to surprise and please him.

Except that this time it was not the same. He half listened to the gentle murmur of bees, the distant bark of some farm dog as it scurried around the sheep, while his eyes rested on the house, square and uncompromising against the sky and the sloping hill around which led towards the headland.

With a sigh he strode forward again, his shoes disturbing the dust, his eyes squinting against the glare. Once through the broad gates in the grey stone wall he paused, unsure of himself and wishing that he had not come.

Then as the double doors at the top of the steps opened he saw Ferguson, his one-armed steward, backed by two servant girls, waiting to greet him, their smiles so genuine that he was momentarily drawn from his own thoughts, and not a little moved.

Ferguson took his hand and murmured, “God bless you, sir. It is a fine thing to have you back home again.” Bolitho smiled. “Not for long this time. But thank you.” He saw Ferguson’s wife, plump and rosy cheeked in her white cap and spotless apron, scurrying to greet him, her face torn between pleasure and tears as she curtsied and said, “Never a warning, sir! But for Jack, the exciseman, we’d not have known you were back! He saw your topsails when the mist lifted and rode here to tell us.”

“Things have changed, Ferguson!” Bolitho removed his hat and walked through the high entrance, aware of the cool stone, the ageless textures of oak panelling which shone dully in the filtered sunlight. “There was a time when the young men of Falmouth could smell a King’s ship before it topped the horizon.” Ferguson looked away. “Not many young men left now, sir.

Those not in safe jobs have all been taken or volunteered! He followed him into the broad room with its empty fireplace and tall leather-backed chairs.

It was very quiet here too, as if the whole house was holding its breath.

Ferguson said, “I will fetch you a glass, sir.” He gestured to his wife and the two servant girls behind Bolitho’s back. “You’ll be wanting some time alone on your first hour . . .” Bolitho did not turn. “Thank you.” He heard the door close behind him and then moved to the foot of the staircase, the wall of which was lined with the paintings of all the others who had lived here before him. So familiar. Nothing had changed, and yet . . .

The stairs creaked as he climbed slowly past the watching portraits. Captain Daniel Bolitho, his great-great-grandfather, who had fought the French at Bantry Bay. Captain David Bolitho, his great-grandfather, depicted here on the deck of a blazing ship, who had died fighting pirates off the African coast. Where the stairs turned to the right old Denziel Bolitho, his grandfather, the only member of the family to reach the rank of rear-admiral, waited to greet him like a friend. Bolitho could still remember him, or thought he could, from the days when he had sat on his knee as a small child. But maybe it was his father’s stories about him and the familiar picture which he really recalled. He paused and looked directly at the last portrait.

His father had been younger when the portrait had been finished. Straight-backed, level-eyed, with the empty sleeve pinned across his coat, an afterthought of the painter after he had lost an arm in India. Captain James Bolitho. It was difficult to remember him as he had looked on their last meeting so many years back when he had told Bolitho of his other son’s disgrace. Hugh, the apple of his eye, who had killed a brother officer in a duel before fleeing to America to fight against his own country in the Revolution.

Bolitho sighed deeply. They were all dead. Even Hugh, whose deceptions had finally ended in death before his own eyes. A death which was still a secret he could share with no one. Hugh’s record of failure and deception would stay a secret, and his memory rest in peace if he had anything to do with it.

Ferguson called from the foot of the stairs, “I have put the glass by the window, sir. Some claret.” He paused uncertainly before adding, “In your bedroom, sir.” He sounded ill at ease. “They were to have been a surprise, but had not been finished at the time of your last visit . . .” His voice trailed away as Bolitho walked quickly to the door at the end of the landing and pushed it open.

For a moment longer he could see no change. The four-poster bed held in a shaft of dappled sunlight from the windows. The tall mirror where she must have sat to comb her hair when he had been away . . . he felt his throat go dry as he turned to see the two new pictures on the far wall. It was just as if she was alive again, here in this room where she had waited in vain for his return. He wanted to move closer but was afraid, afraid the spell might break. The artist had even caught the sea-green in her eyes, the rich chestnut of her long hair. And the smile. He took a slow step towards it. The smile was perfect. Gentle, amused, the way she had looked at him whenever she had been near.

A step sounded in the doorway and Ferguson said quietly, “She wanted them together, sir.”

Bolitho looked at the other portrait for the first time. He was depicted wearing his old dress coat, the one with the broad white lapels which Cheney had liked so much.

He said huskily, “Thank you. It was good of you to remember her wishes.”

Then he walked quickly to the window and leaned over the warm sill. There, just round the hill, he could see the glittering horizon line. What she would have seen from this same window.

Once he might have been saddened, even angry, that Ferguson had put the pictures here. To remind him of her, and his loss. He would have been wrong, and now as he stood with his palms resting on the sill he felt strangely at peace. For the first time that he could recall for a long while.

Below in the yard an old gardener peered up and waved his battered hat but he did not see him.

He stepped back into the room and turned once more towards the portraits. They were reunited here. Cheney had seen to that, and nothing could take them apart any more. When he was back at sea again, perhaps on the other side of the world, he would be able to think of this room. The portraits side by side, watching the horizon together.

He said, “That claret will be warm by now. I’ll come down directly.”

Later as he sat at the big desk, writing several letters to be carried to the port officials and chandlers, he thought about all that had happened here in this house. What would become of it when he died? There was only his young nephew, Adam Pascoe, Hugh’s illegitimate son, left to claim the Bolitho inheritance. He was away serving with Captain Thomas Herrick at the moment, but Bolitho decided he would soon do something for the boy to make sure of his rightful ownership of this house. His mouth hardened.

Much as he loved his sister Nancy, he would never allow her husband, a Falmouth magistrate and one of the biggest landowners in the county, to get his hands on it.

Ferguson appeared again, his face set in a frown.

“Beg pardon, sir, but there’s a man to see you. He is most insistent.”

“Who is he?”

“I have never laid eyes on him before. A seafaring fellow, there’s no doubt of that, but no officer or gentleman, I’m equally sure!” Bolitho smiled. It was hard to recall Ferguson as the man who had once been brought aboard his ship Phalarope by the press-gang, he and Allday together, poles apart it had appeared at the time. Yet they had become firm friends, and even when Ferguson had lost an arm at the Saintes he had continued to serve Bolitho here as his steward. Like Allday, he seemed to have that same protective attitude when anything uncertain or unusual was about to occur.

He said, “Show him in. He’ll not be too dangerous, I think.” Ferguson ushered the visitor through the doors and closed them with obvious reluctance. He would be waiting within a foot of the entrance, Bolitho guessed, just in case.

“What can I do for you?”

The man was thickset and muscular, well tanned and with hair fashioned into a pigtail. He was wearing a coat which was far too small for him, and Bolitho imagined it had been borrowed to cover up his true identity. For there was no mistaking his broad white trousers and buckled shoes. Even if he had been stark naked he would have known him to be a sailor.

“I begs yer pardon for the liberty, sir.” He knuckled his forehead while his eyes moved quickly round the room. “Me name’s Taylor, master’s mate o’ th’ Auriga, sir.” Bolitho watched him calmly. He had a faint North Country burr, and was obviously nervous. A deserter hoping for mercy, or a place to hide in another ship? It was not unknown for such men to run back to the one and only world where they might be safe with any sort of luck. Yet there was something vaguely familiar about him.

Taylor added quickly, “I was with you in th’ Sparrow, sir. Back in seventy-nine in th’ West Indies.” He watched Bolitho anxiously. “I was maintopman then, sir.” Bolitho nodded slowly. “Of course, I remember you now.” In the little sloop Sparrow, his first-ever command, when he had been just twenty-three, and the world had seemed a place for reckless enjoyment and unbounded ambition,

“We ’eard you was back sir.” Taylor was speaking rapidly. “An’

because o’ me knowin’ you like, I was chosen to come.” He smiled bitterly. “I thought as I’d ’ave to borrow a boat or swim to yer ship. You comin’ ashore so soon made things easier like.” He dropped his eyes under Bolitho’s gaze.

“Are you in trouble, Taylor?”

He looked up, his eyes suddenly defensive. “That will depend on you, sir. I was chosen to speak with you, an’, an’, knowin’ you as a fair an’ just captain, sir, I thought maybe you’d listen to . . .” Bolitho stood up and studied him calmly. “Your ship, where is she lying?”

Taylor jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “Long the coast to th’ east’rd, sir.” Something like pride crossed his tanned face.

“Frigate, thirty-six, sir.”

“I see.” Bolitho walked slowly to the empty fireplace and back again. “And you, and men like you, have seized control, is that it?

A mutineer? ” He saw the man flinch and added harshly, “If you knew me, really knew me, you’d realise I’d not parley with those who betray their trust!”

Taylor said thickly, “If you’d ’ear me out, sir, that’s all I ask.

After that you can ’ave me seized an’ ’anged if you so wish it, an’

well I knows that fact.”

Bolitho bit his lip. It had taken courage to come here like this.

Courage and something more. This Taylor was no freshly pressed man, no lower deck sea-lawyer. He was a professional seaman. It could not have been easy for him. At any moment during his journey to Falmouth he might have been seen anyway by someone wishing to ingratiate himself with the authorities, and a patrol might even now be marching to the gates.

He said, “Very well. I cannot promise to agree with your views, but I will listen. That is all I can say.” Taylor relaxed slightly. “We ’ave bin attached to the Channel Fleet, sir, an’ in regular commission for two years. We’ve ’ad little rest, for the fleet is always short o’ frigates, as you well knows.

We was at Spit’ead when the trouble started last month, but our cap’n put to sea afore we could show our support with the others.” He bunched his hands tightly and continued bitterly, “I must say it, sir, so’s you’ll understand. Our cap’n’s a ’ard man, an’ th’

first lieutenant’s so taken with abusin’ the people there’s ’ardly one aboard whose back ’as not bin ripped open by th’ cat!” Bolitho gripped his hands behind him. Stop him now, before he says any more. By listening so far you have implicated yourself in God knows what.

Instead he said coldly, “We are at war, Taylor. Times are hard for officers as well as seamen.”

Taylor eyed him stubbornly. “When the trouble broke at Spit’ead it was agreed by th’ delegates of the Fleet that we would go to sea an’ fight if th’ Frogs came out. There’s not a single Jack who’d be disloyal, sir. But some o’ the ships ’ave bad officers, sir, there’s none can say otherwise. There’s some where no pay or bounty ’as bin paid for months an’ the ’ands near starvin’ on foul food! When Black Dick,” he flushed, “beg pardon, sir, I mean Lord ’Owe, spoke to our delegates it was all settled. ’E agreed to our requests as best ’e could.” He frowned. “But we was at sea by then an’ ’ad no part in the settlement. In fact, our cap’n ’as bin worse instead o’ better! An’ that’s God’s truth, on my oath!”

“So you’ve taken the ship?”

“Aye, sir. Until justice is agreed on.” He looked at the floor.

“We ’eard of the orders to join this new squadron under Vice-Admiral Broughton. It’ll maybe mean years away from England.

It’s not fair that our wrongs should stay unrighted. We knew Admiral Broughton at Spit’ead, sir. ’E’s said to be a good officer, but would go ’ard with any more trouble.”

“And if I say nothing can be done, what then?” Taylor looked him in the eyes. “There’s many aboard who swear we’ll ’ang anyway. They want to sail the ship to France an’

trade ’er for their freedom.” He hardened his jaw. “But those like me say otherwise, sir. We just want our rights like the boys at Spit’ead got.”

Bolitho eyed him narrowly. How much did Taylor know of the other unrest at the Nore? He might be genuine, or could be the tool of someone more experienced in revolt. There was little doubt that what he had said of his ship was true.

He said, “Have you harmed anyone aboard?”

“None, sir, you’ve my word.” Taylor spread his hands pleadingly. “If you could tell ’em that you’d put our case to the admiral, sir, it’d make a world o’ difference! “Something like a sad smile showed on his rough features. “I think some of the lieutenants an’

th’ master are a might glad it’s ’appened, sir. It’s bin a terrible un’appy ship.”

Bolitho’s mind moved rapidly. Vice-Admiral Broughton might be in London. He could be anywhere. Until he hoisted his flag Rear-Admiral Thelwall was still in command, and he was too sick to be involved in anything like this.

There was Captain Rook, and the officer commanding the local garrison. There were probably dragoons still at Truro, and the port admiral thirty miles away in Plymouth. And all were equally useless at this moment of time.

If a frigate was indeed handed over to the enemy it might act as a general signal to the men at the Nore, who were still hovering on the brink of mutiny. It might even be seen as the thing to do when all else had failed. A chill ran down his spine. If the French got to hear of it they would act without delay to put an invasion into force. The thought of a confused demoralised fleet being destroyed because he alone had failed to act was unthinkable, no matter what the consequences might be later.

He asked shortly, “What else were you told to explain?”

“The Auriga’s anchored in Veryan Bay. Some eight miles from

’ere. Do you know of it, sir?”

Bolitho smiled grimly. “I am a Cornishman, Taylor. Yes, I know it well.”

Taylor licked his lips. Maybe he had been expecting instant arrest. Now that Bolitho was listening to him he seemed unable to get the words out fast enough.

“If I’m not back afore sunset they’ll make sail, sir. We bin approached by an armed cutter more’n once an’ we’ve told ’em to stand off, that we’re anchored to carry out some repairs.” Bolitho nodded. It was not unusual for smaller ships to take refuge in that particular bay. It was quiet and fairly well sheltered in anything but severe weather. Whoever had steered this mutiny to its present state certainly knew what he was doing.

Taylor continued, “There’s a little inn on the west side o’ th’

bay, sir.”

Bolitho said, “The Drake’s Head. A smugglers’ haunt, to all accounts.”

“Maybe, sir.” Taylor watched him uncertainly. “But if you’ll come there tonight an’ meet our delegates, we can settle matters there an’ then like.”

Bolitho turned away. How easy it all sounded. And what was the Auriga’s captain supposed to think about it? Merely pack his chest and leave? The simple reasoning probably seemed sound enough between decks, but it would cut little cloth when it reached higher authority.

But the most important and urgent thing was to stop the ship being taken and given to the enemy. Bolitho had no doubt that her captain was all and more than Taylor had described. There were enough of such petty tyrants throughout the Service, and he had even assumed an earlier command himself because of the previous captain’s callousness.

Anyway, he could not hide his head and ignore it.

He said, “Very well.”

“Thank you, sir.” Taylor nodded vehemently. “You must come alone, but for a servant. They says they’ll kill the cap’n if there’s any sort o’ treachery.” He hung his head. “I’m sorry, sir, it was none o’ my wantin’. All I wished was to end me days in one piece, with a pot o’ prize money at th’ end o’ it to open a little inn maybe, or a chandler’s.”

Bolitho looked at him gravely. Instead, you’ll probably end on a yardarm, he thought.

Taylor said suddenly, “They’ll listen to you, sir. I just know it.

With a new cap’n the ship’d be ready to live again.”

“I will promise nothing. Lord Howe’s pardon should certainly have applied to your ship, however . . .” He faced the other man steadily. “It could go hard with you, as I expect you know.”

“Aye, sir. But when you’ve lived with misery for so long it is a chance we must face up to.”

Bolitho walked to the door. “I will ride to the inn at dusk. If what you have told me is true, I will do what I can to bring the matter to a rightful conclusion.”

The relief on Taylor’s face faded as Bolitho added flatly, “If on the other hand this is some delaying tactic to give your people more time to dispose of the ship, be in no doubt of the consequences. It has been done before, and the culprits have always been run to ground.” He paused. “Eventually.” The man knuckled his forehead and hurried out into the passage.

Ferguson watched him go with obvious distaste.

“Is it all well, sir?”

“At present, thank you.” He pulled his watch from his pocket.

“Send someone to signal for my barge.” He saw the disappointment on Ferguson’s face and added, “I will be back ashore later today, but there are things to attend to.” An hour later Bolitho climbed up through the Euryalus’s gilded entry port and removed his hat to the pipes’ shrill greeting and the stamp and slap of muskets.

Keverne looked unusually preoccupied. When they reached the quarterdeck he said shortly, “The surgeon is worried about the admiral, sir. He is very low, and I am afraid for him.” Bolitho glanced at Allday whose face had been screwed up with burning curiosity ever since the barge had reached the jetty.

“Keep the bargemen standing by. I may require them soon.” Then he strode aft and down to the admiral’s quarters.

Lying quietly in his cot the admiral seemed even smaller and more fragile. His eyes were shut, and there was blood on his shirt-front as well as the handkerchief.

Bolitho glanced at the surgeon, a thin, wiry man with unusually large and hairy hands.

“Well, Mr Spargo?”

He shrugged. “I cannot be sure, sir. He ought to be on shore.

I am only a ship’s surgeon.” He shrugged again. “But the effort of moving him now might be fatal.”

Bolitho nodded, his mind made up.

“Then leave him here and watch him well.” To Keverne he said, “Come up to my cabin.”

Keverne followed him in silence until they had reached the wide cabin which ran the whole breadth of the poop. Through the open stern windows was a perfect view of St Anthony Head, moving slightly as the ship swung ponderously on the current.

“I have to go ashore again, Mr Keverne.” He must be careful not to involve his first lieutenant, yet at the same time he had to be primed enough to know what to do if the scheme misfired.

Keverne’s face was a mask. “Sir?”

Bolitho unclipped his sword and laid it on the table.

“There is no news of Vice-Admiral Broughton yet. Nor is there any hint of unrest ashore. Captain Rook’s boats will be alongside after our people have had their meal, and you can carry on with loading stores all afternoon and into the dog watches if the sea remains calm.”

Keverne waited, knowing there was more to come.

“Sir Charles is very sick, as you have seen.” Bolitho wished Keverne would show some curiosity, like Herrick would have done when he had been his first lieutenant. “So you will be in command until my return.”

“When will that be, sir?”

“I am not sure. Later tonight perhaps!” He had Keverne’s interest roused at last.

“Is there something I can do to help, sir?” He paused. “Will there be trouble?”

“Not if I can prevent it. I will leave written orders for you to act upon if I am delayed for more than the night. You will open them and take whatever . . .” he held up his hand, “no, every necessary step to see that they are carried out without delay.” His mind grappled with the picture of the chart within his brain. It would take Euryalus more than two hours to up anchor and reach Veryan Bay, where the sight of her terrible armament would soon quell even the stoutest heart into submission. But by then it might be far too late.

Why not put to sea now, without further delay? No one would blame him, probably quite the reverse. He frowned and dismissed the idea immediately. This was to be a new squadron. And with the war entering its most dangerous stage so far, it would be a bad beginning for the flagship to pound an anchored consort into a bloody shambles because he had not the nerve or the will to do otherwise.

Surprisingly, Keverne smiled, showing his even teeth.

“I have not been with you for eighteen months and learned nothing of your methods, sir.” The smile vanished. “And I hope I have your confidence!”

Bolitho smiled. “A captain can only go so far to share his thoughts, Mr Keverne. His responsibility he must hold to himself, as you will one day discover.” If it goes badly tonight you may be promoted earlier than you imagine, he thought bleakly.

Trute, the cabin servant, stepped gingerly through the door and asked, “Permission to lay th’ table for your lunch, sir?” Keverne said, “I will go and attend to the hands, sir.” He watched distantly as Trute busied himself with plates and cutlery at the long table. “I’ll not be sorry to get to sea again.” He left the cabin without another word.

As Bolitho sat moodily at his lonely table toying with the cold rabbit pie which must have been sent directly from the shore by Rook, he thought back over what Taylor had told him. The fact that he had been able to reach Falmouth and find the house so quickly spoke volumes, and suggested there were other watchful eyes already close by, ready to pass the word back to the Auriga.

Any sort of deception, marines landed at the jetty or some such precaution other than normal port practice, would soon arouse suspicion, and the Auriga’s captain would be in grave danger, the consequences terrible.

He stood up angrily. How long would it take before such men were pruned from the Navy once and for all? A new breed of officer was growing up, and finding the scope to attack the enemy as well as better the living conditions of their own seamen. But here and there was the bully and tyrant, often men with influence in high places who could not be broken or removed until moments like these, when it was too late.

Trute returned and eyed him worriedly. “Did yew not like the pie, sir?” He was a Devon man and viewed Bolitho, like all Cornishmen, with both apprehension and a little awe.

“Later perhaps.” Bolitho glanced at the sword. Old and so worn, the one which appeared in many of those family portraits.

“I will leave this in your care.” He tried to keep his voice normal.

“I shall take a hanger.” He paused. “And pistols.” Trute gaped at the sword. “Leave it, sir?” Bolitho ignored him. “Now pass the word for my cox’n.” Allday was equally surprised. “Won’t seem the same without the sword, Captain.” He shook his head. “Whatever next!” Bolitho snapped, “I have told you before that one of these days you will open your mouth too wide. You are not so old and wise that you can avoid my displeasure!” Allday smiled. “Aye, aye, Captain.” It was hopeless. “We will be going ashore together. Do you know the Drake’s Head?”

Allday became serious. “Aye. Veryan Bay. ’Tis owned by an old yaw-sighted villain. One eye points forrard, t’other almost abeam, but his wits are as sharp as a midshipman’s hunger.”

“Good. That is where we are going.” Allday frowned as Trute re-entered and laid a brace of pistols on the table beside a curved hanger.

He asked mildly. “A duel, Captain?”

“Call away the barge. Then give my compliments to Mr Keverne and tell him I am ready to leave, as soon as I have written his orders.”

Bolitho made a further visit to see the admiral, but there was little change. He appeared to be resting quietly, his wizened face more relaxed in sleep.

On deck he found Keverne waiting for him.

“Barge alongside, sir.” Keverne looked aloft at the listless flag.

“The wind has died for some while, I think.” Bolitho grunted. It was just as if Keverne was trying to warn him. That once he left the ship he was alone and without much hope of assistance. He cursed his own uncertainty. Keverne did not know, and anyway, what else could be done? To wait until the new admiral arrived was merely hiding from the responsibility he had accepted as his own. He said abruptly, “Look after her.” Then he lowered himself down to the waiting boat.

When they reached the jetty he climbed the steps and paused to look back. Framed against the blue water and clear sky the ship seemed indestructible, permanent. An illusion, he thought grimly.

No vessel was stronger than those who served her.

Allday watched critically as the acting coxswain manoeuvred the barge clear of the stones for the return journey. Then he asked, “What now, Captain?”

“To the house. I have things to do, and we will require two horses.”

He reached up and felt the locket beneath his shirt. The one she had given him containing a lock of that perfect chestnut hair. He would leave it at the house. Whatever happened this night, he was not going to have someone else pawing over the locket.

He added slowly, “A fine day. It is hard to think of war, and other things.”

Allday said, “Aye, Captain. A tankard and a woman’s voice would not come amiss right at present.” Bolitho was suddenly impatient. “Well, come along, Allday.

When the oven’s hot it is time to bake. No sense in wasting time in dreams.”

Allday followed him readily, his mouth set in a smile. Like the wind across the sea, all the signs were there. Whatever the captain was planning, that which was troubling him enough to make him provoke his own anger, would go hard with someone before another dawn.

He thought suddenly of Bolitho’s words and grimaced. A topsail yard or a rough backstay, he could manage either. Even a reluctant woman was not too much trouble. But a horse! He rubbed his buttocks. By the time they reached the Drake’s Head he would have need for more than a tankard, he thought gloomily.

They left the house before dusk, but by the time they had crossed the river at a small ford, well clear of Falmouth, it was getting dark rapidly. But Bolitho knew the countryside like the back of his hand, and with Allday trotting uncomfortably behind him kept up a good pace until he had found the narrow twisting lane which led to Veryan. In places it was very steep, with the trees almost touching overhead, the thick brush alive with squeaks and startled rustlings as they passed by.

Then a sharp curve and for a few more minutes he saw the edge of the headland itself, with a writhing pattern of surf far below where the rocks lay like black teeth at the foot of the high cliffs.

Allday gasped, “My God, Captain, this horse has no respect for my rump!”

“Hold your noise, damn you!” Bolitho reined his horse at the top of yet another steep slope and strained his eyes towards a darker line of tangled bushes.

The cliff edge had moved inwards again and probably came to within yards of the bushes. Beyond he could see the sea shining dully in the gloom, flat and unruffled, like pewter. But the bay was in deeper shadow, there might not be a ship there at all.

Equally there could be half a dozen.

He shivered slightly and was glad he had allowed Mrs.

Ferguson to have her way over the boat-cloak. It was cold up here, and the air felt damp. There would be another sea mist in before dawn.

He heard Allday breathing heavily beside him and said, “Not much farther now. The inn is about half a mile from here.” Allday grunted. “I don’t like it, Captain.”

“You do not have to like it.” Bolitho looked at him. He had told Allday the bones of what was happening and nothing more.

Just enough to clear himself if anything went wrong. “Surely you’ve not forgotten . . .”

He broke off and gripped his arm. “What was that?” Allday stood up on his stirrups. “A hare maybe?” The shout, when it came, was with the suddenness of a shot.

“Keep still and raise yer ’ands in the air where we can see ’em!” Allday groped for his cutlass. “By God, it’s a bloody ambush!”

“Belay that, Allday!” Bolitho wheeled his horse against him and knocked his hand away from the weapon. “It is what I expected, man.”

The voice said, “Easy, Cap’n! We don’t want to cut you down but . . .”

Another voice, more insistent and hard with tension, snapped,

“We can do without wasting time, just you go an’ disarm ’em, and lively with it!”

There seemed to be about three men, Bolitho thought. He watched as a shadowy figure reached up to relieve Allday of his cutlass, and heard the clatter of steel as it fell in the lane.

Another man materialised out of the darkness right beside him and said, “An’ you, sir. You’ll have pistols with you?” Bolitho handed them down with the hanger and said coldly,

“I was told that some sort of trust was needed. I did not know it was to be one-sided.”

The man faltered. “We’re takin’ a great risk, Cap’n. You might have brung the militia with you.” He sounded frightened.

The man who had not shown himself shouted, “Take the horses and lead ’em.” A pause and then, “I’ll be astern. One wrong tack and I will fire, no matter the rights an’ wrongs of the argument.” Allday said between his teeth, “I’ll spit him, the bugger, for talking like that!”

Bolitho remained silent, allowing the horse to jog along with the man walking at its head. It was no more than he had anticipated. Nobody but a fool would arrange a meeting without taking these elementary precautions. They had probably been followed for the last few miles, the horses’ hoofbeats would have drowned most of the noise.

A single light appeared round the bend in the lane and he saw the pale outline of the inn. A small, untidy building, added to and altered over the years without much idea of beauty, he thought vaguely.

There was no moon and the stars looked very small. It was colder too, and he knew that the sea was not far away now, perhaps half a mile to the foot of the cliffs by way of a rugged and dangerous path. No wonder the inn was considered safe for smugglers.

“Dismount.”

Two more figures moved from the building and he saw the glint of metal as he swung himself from the saddle.

“Follow me.”

It was only a lantern burning inside the low-beamed parlour, but after the dark lane it seemed like a beacon. The room smelt of ale and tobacco, bacon and dirt.

The innkeeper stepped into the lamplight, wiping his hands on a long, filthy apron. He was exactly as Allday had described, with one eye veering away as if trying to burst out of its socket.

He said in a thin, wheedling tone, “None o’ my doin’, sir. I wants you to remember that I had no part in all this.” He trained his good eye on Bolitho and added, “I knew your father, sir, a fine man . . .”

The voice barked, “Hold your damn noise! I’ll leave you hanging on your bloody rafters if you don’t stow your whining!” Bolitho turned slowly as the innkeeper cringed into the shadows. The speaker was about thirty, ruddy faced but lacking the toughness expected of a seaman. His clothes were quite good. A plain blue coat and a shirt which had been recently washed. His face was intelligent but hard. A man who became angry very easily, Bolitho decided.

“I do not see Taylor here.”

The man, obviously the leader, said coldly, “He is with the boat.” Bolitho looked at the others. There were four of them, and probably two more outside. All seamen, they were ill at ease and watching their spokesman with a mixture of anxiety and resignation.

“You will be seated, Captain. I have sent for some ale.” He lifted his lip in a sneer. “But perhaps someone of your standing would prefer brandy, eh?”

Bolitho eyed him calmly. The man was trying to provoke him.

“The ale will be very welcome.” He opened his cloak and dropped it on a chair. “You must be the chosen delegate? ”

“I am.” He watched with mounting irritation as the innkeeper shuffled to the table with some tankards and a brimming earth-enware jug of ale. “You wait in your kitchen!”

In a more level tone he continued, “Now, Captain, have you decided to accept our terms?”

“I was not aware that any had been agreed upon.” Bolitho lifted a tankard and noticed with relief that his hand was still steady.

“You have taken a King’s ship. That is an act of mutiny as well as one of treason if you persist with the rest of your plan.” Strangely, the man seemed more satisfied than angry. He looked at the others and said, “You see, lads! There’s no bargain-ing with the likes of him. You should have listened to me in the first place instead of wasting time.” A grizzled petty officer replied quickly, “Easy! Mebbe if you was to tell ’im the other things like we agreed?”

“You’re a fool!” He turned back to Bolitho. “I knew this would happen. The lads at Spithead won their cause because they stood together. Next time there’ll be no damn promises strong enough to break us!”

The petty officer said gruffly, “Would you look at this book, sir.” He pushed it over the table, his eyes on Bolitho’s face. “I bin at sea man an’ boy for thirty years. I’ve never bin in anything like this afore, an’ that’s God’s truth, sir.”

“You’ll hang just the same, you fool!” The spokesman eyed him with contempt. “But show him if it makes you feel better.” Bolitho opened the canvas-covered book and leafed past the first few pages. It was the frigate’s punishment book, and as he ran his eyes down the neatly written records he felt the revulsion twisting his stomach like fever.

None of these men could have known the effect it would have on him. They were merely trying to show him what they had suffered. But in the past Bolitho had always inspected the punishment book of any ship of which he had just taken command. He believed it gave a better picture of her previous commander than any other testimony.

He could feel them watching him, sense the tension surrounding him like a physical thing.

Most of the offences listed were trivial and fairly typical.

Disorderly behaviour, disobedience, carelessness and insolence.

Many of them he knew from experience would mean little more than ignorance on the part of the man involved.

But the punishments were savage. In one week alone, while the Auriga had been patrolling off Le Havre, her captain had awarded a total of one thousand lashes. Two men had been flogged twice in the same period, one of whom had died under the lash.

He shut the book and looked up. There were so many questions he wanted to ask. Why the first lieutenant had done nothing to prevent such brutality? He checked the thought instantly. What would Keverne have done in the past if his own captain had ordered such punishment? The realisation made him suddenly angry. He had seen often enough the way men looked at him when things went wrong, as they often did in the complex matters of working a ship-of-the-line. Sometimes it amounted to real terror, and it never failed to sicken him. A captain, any captain, was second only to God as far as his men were concerned. A superior being who could encourage advancement with one hand and order the most vicious punishment with the other. To think that some captains, the Auriga’s amongst them, could abuse such power was nothing but abhorrent to him.

He said slowly, “I would like to come aboard and speak with your captain.” As several of them started to speak at once he added, “Otherwise I can do nothing.” The chief delegate said, “You may have fooled the others, but I can see through your deception well enough.” He gestured angrily. “First a show of sympathy, and the next thing we’ll know is the gibbet on some sea wall where every passing sailor can see what value there is in trusting the word of an officer!” Allday gave a savage oath and half rose to his feet, but looked helplessly at Bolitho as he said, “Rest easy, Allday. When a man thinks that righting a wrong is a waste of time, there is little point in argument.”

One of the seamen said thickly, “Aye, what’s wrong in the cap’n comin’ aboard? If ’e breaks ’is faith with us we can take ’im along as ’ostage.”

There was a murmur of agreement, and for an instant Bolitho saw the leader caught off guard.

He decided to make another move. “If on the other hand you had no intention of seeking justice, and merely wanted an excuse to hand your ship to the enemy, ” he let his voice drag over the word, “then I should warn you that I have already made certain arrangements to forestall you.”

“He’s bluffing!” But the man’s voice was less assured now.

“There’s no ship within miles of us here!”

“There will be another mist at dawn.” He thrust his hands under the table knowing they were quivering with excitement or worse. “You will be unable to make sail before the forenoon. I know this bay well and it is too dangerous.” He hardened his tone. “Especially without the help of your officers.” The petty officer muttered, “’E’s right, Tom.” He craned forward. “Why not do like ’e says? We got nowt to lose by listenin’.” Bolitho studied the leader thoughtfully. His name was Tom. It was a beginning.

“Damn your eyes, the lot of you!” The man was flushed with sudden anger. “A batch of delegates, are you? More like a pack of old women!”

The anger calmed as suddenly as before, and Bolitho was reminded of Keverne.

He said harshly, “Right then, so be it.” He gestured to the old petty officer. “You will remain here with one lookout.” He glanced at Allday, his eyes hostile. “And you can keep this lackey as hostage. If we make the signal I want him dead. If there’s some sort of attack we will kill the pair of them and hang them beside our own precious lord and bloody master, right?” The petty officer flinched but nodded in agreement.

Bolitho looked at Allday’s grim features and forced a smile.

“You wanted a rest and a tankard. You have both.” Then he rested his hand briefly on his shoulder. He could almost feel the man’s tension and anger beneath it. “It will be all right.” He tried to give value to his words. “We are not fighting the enemy.”

“We shall see!” The man named Tom opened the door and made a mock bow. “Now walk in front of me and mind your manners. I’ll not pipe my eye if I have to cut you down here and now!”

Bolitho strode into the darkness without answering. The night was still before them, but there was a lot to do before dawn if there was to be any hope of success. As he hurried down the steep track his mind returned to the punishment book. It was surprising that men driven and provoked by such inhumanity had bothered to try to seek justice by channels they only barely understood. It was more surprising still that the mutiny had not broken out months earlier. The realisation helped to encourage him, although he knew it was little enough to sustain anything.

“BOAT AHOY!” The challenge seemed to come from nowhere.

A man in the bows cupped his hands and replied, “The delegates!”

Bolitho tensed on the thwart as the anchored frigate suddenly grew out of the darkness, the crossed yards and gently spiralling masts black against the stars. While the jolly boat manoeuvred alongside he noted the carefully spread boarding nets above the ship’s gangway, the dark clusters of figures crowding around the entry port. He could feel his heart racing, and wondered if his own apprehension was matched by the waiting mutineers’.

A hand thrust at his shoulder. “Up you go.” As he swung himself up through the port, a lantern was unshuttered, the yellow beam playing across his epaulettes while the press of seamen pushed closer to see him.

A man said, “’E came then.”

Then Taylor’s voice, brittle and urgent. “Stand aside, mates.

There’s work to be done.”

Bolitho stood in silence as the head delegate whispered further instructions to the watch on deck. The ship seemed under control, with no sign of argument or drunkenness as might be expected. Two of the guns were run out, and he guessed they were loaded with grape, just in case some suspicious patrol boat came too close for safety.

A petty officer stood watch on the quarterdeck, but there was no officer in view. Nor were there any marines.

The man named Tom said sharply, “We’ll go aft and you can meet the cap’n.” It was impossible to see his expression. “But no tricks.”

Bolitho walked aft and ducked beneath the poop. In spite of serving in two ships-of-the-line in succession, he had never gotten used to their spacious headroom. Perhaps, even after all this time, he still yearned for the independence and dash of a frigate.

Two armed seamen watched his approach, and after a further hesitation shuffled their feet to attention.

“That’s right, lads, show some respect, eh?” The delegate was enjoying himself.

He threw open the cabin door and followed Bolitho inside. It was well lit by three swaying lanterns, but the stern windows were shuttered, and the air was moist, even humid. A seaman, armed with a musket, was leaning against the bulkhead, and seated on the bench seat beneath the stern windows was the Auriga’s captain.

He was fairly young, about twenty-six, Bolitho imagined, with the single epaulette on his right shoulder to indicate he held less than three years’ seniority as captain. He had sharp, finely defined features, but his eyes were set close together so that his nose seemed out of proportion. He stared at Bolitho for several seconds and then jumped to his feet.

The delegate said quickly, “This is Captain Bolitho.” He waited as the emotions changed on the other man’s face. “He is alone.

No grand force of bullocks to save you, I’m afraid.” Bolitho removed his hat and placed it on the table. “You are Captain Brice? Then I shall tell you at once that I am here without authority other than my own.”

Briefly he saw something like shock in the other man’s eyes before a shutter fell and he became composed again. Composed yet watchful, like a wary animal.

Brice replied, “My officers are under guard. The marines have not yet joined the ship. They were due to be sent direct from Plymouth.” He darted a look at the delegate. “Otherwise Mr Gates here would be singing a different tune, damn his eyes!” The delegate said quietly, “Now, sir, none of that, please. I’d have you dancing at the gratings right now if I had my way! But there’ll be time enough for that later, eh?” Bolitho said, “I should like to talk with Captain Brice alone.” He waited, expecting an argument, but the delegate replied calmly, “Suit yourself. It’ll do no good, and you know it.” He left the cabin with the armed seaman, slamming the door and whistling indifferently as he went.

Brice opened his mouth to speak but Bolitho said shortly,

“There is little time, so I will be as brief as I can. This is a very serious matter, and if your ship is handed to the enemy there is no saying what repercussions may result. I have nothing to bargain with, and little to offer to ensure these men are brought back under command.”

The other man stared at him. “But, sir, are you not the flag captain? One show of force, a full-scale attack, and these scum would soon lose the heart for mutiny!” Bolitho shook his head. “The new squadron has not been formed as yet. Every ship is elsewhere, or too far to be any use.

My own is at Falmouth. She could be on the moon for all the help she can be to you.” He hardened his voice. “I have heard some of the grievances and I can find little if any sympathy for your personal position.”

If he had struck Brice the effect could not have been more startling. He jumped to his feet, his thin mouth working with anger.

“That is a damnable thing to say! I have worked this ship to the best of my ability, and I have a record of prizes to prove it. I have been plagued with the scum of the gutters, and officers either too young or too lazy to enforce anything like the standard I expect.”

Bolitho kept his face impassive. “Except for your senior, I understand?”

Before Brice could reply he rapped, “And kindly sit down!

When you address me you will keep a civil tongue in your head!” He was shouting and the fact surprised him. It must be infectious, he thought. But his sudden display of anger seemed to have had the right effect.

Brice sank on to the seat and said heavily, “My first lieutenant is a good officer, sir. A firm man, but that . . .” Bolitho finished it for him. “That is what you expect, eh?” Beyond the bulkhead some voices were raised in argument and then died away just as quickly.

He added, “Your behaviour, were you now in port, would make you eligible for court-martial.” He saw the shot go home. The sudden clenching of Brice’s fingers. “Surely after the affair at Spithead you should have taken some heed of their requirements?

Good God, man, they deserve justice if nothing else.” Brice regarded him angrily. “They got what they deserved.” Bolitho recalled Taylor’s words. An unhappy ship. It was not difficult to imagine the hell this man must have made her.

“Then I cannot help you.”

Brice’s eyes gleamed with sudden malice. “They’ll never allow you to leave the ship now!”

“Perhaps not.” Bolitho stood up and walked to the opposite side. “But there will be a mist in the bay at dawn. When it clears your ship will be facing something more than words and threats.

I have no doubt that your people will fight no matter what the odds, for by then it will be too late for second thoughts, too late for compromise.”

Brice said, “I hope I see them die!”

“I doubt that, Captain. In afterlife maybe. For you and I will be dangling high enough for the best view of all.”

“They wouldn’t dare! ” But Brice sounded less sure now.

“Would they not?” Bolitho leaned across the table until they were only two feet apart. “You have tormented them beyond all reason, have acted more like a demented fiend than a King’s officer.” He reached out and tore the epaulette from Brice’s shoulder and threw it on the table, his face stiff with anger. “How dare you talk of what they can or cannot do under such handling?

Were you one of my officers I would have had you broken long before you could bring disgrace to the commission entrusted to you!” He stood back, his heart pumping against his ribs.

“Make no mistake, Captain Brice, if your ship does escape to be given to the enemy, you were better dead anyway. The shame will otherwise grip you tighter than any damned halter, believe me!” Brice stared round the cabin and then let his eyes rest on the discarded epaulette. He seemed shocked, even stunned, by Bolitho’s attack.

Bolitho added in a calmer tone, “You cannot kill a man’s need to be free, don’t you understand that? Freedom is hard to win, harder still to hold, but these men of yours, confused and ignorant perhaps, they all understand what liberty means.” He had no idea if his words were having any effect. The voices on deck were getting louder again and he felt a growing sense of despair. He continued, “All seamen realise that once in the King’s service their lot is as good or as bad as their commanders will allow. But you cannot ask or expect them to fight or give of their best when their own treatment is unnecessarily wretched.” Brice looked at his hands. They were trembling badly. He said thickly, “They mutinied. Against me, and my authority.”

“Your authority is nearly done.” Bolitho watched him gravely.

“Because of you I have put my coxswain in jeopardy. But you have sacrificed far more than our lives, and I am only sad that you will not live long enough to see what you have done.” The door banged open and the man Gates stepped into the cabin, his hands on his hips.

“All done, gentlemen?” He was smiling.

Bolitho faced him, aware of the dryness in his throat, the sudden silence in the airless cabin.

“Thank you, yes.” He did not look at Brice as he continued evenly, “Your captain has agreed to place himself under open arrest and await my orders. If you release the ship’s officers immediately . . .”

Gates stared at him. “What did you say?” Bolitho tensed, expecting Brice to shout abuse or demand the immediate withdrawal of his promise. But he said nothing, and when he turned his head he saw that Brice was staring at the deck, as if in a state of collapse.

The master’s mate, Taylor, pushed through the other men and shouted wildly, “D’you see, lads? What did I tell you?” He stared at Bolitho, his eyes misty with relief. “God, Cap’n, you’ll never regret this!”

Gates interrupted hoarsely, “You fools! You blind, ignorant madmen!” Then he looked at Bolitho. “Tell ’em the rest!” Bolitho met his stare. “The rest? There has been an unlawful disobedience of orders. Under the given circumstances I believe that justice will be reasonable. However,” he looked at the watching seamen by the door, “it will not be entirely overlooked.” Gates said, “The rope never overlooks anyone, does it?” Taylor was the first to break the sudden stillness. “What chance do we ’ave, Cap’n?” He squared his shoulders. “We’re not as blind as some think. We know what we done was wrong, but if there’s some ’ope for us, then . . .”

His voice trailed away into silence again.

Bolitho replied quietly, “I will speak with Sir Charles Thelwall.

He is a humane and generous officer, that I will vouch for. He will no doubt think, as I do, that what has happened is bad. But what might have occurred, far worse.” He shrugged. “I can say no more than that.”

Gates glared around him. “Well, lads, are you still with me?” Taylor looked at the others. “We’ll ’ave a parley. But I’m for takin’ Cap’n Bolitho’s word as it stands.” He rubbed his mouth.

“I’ve worked all me life to get as far as I ’ave, an’ no doubt I’ll lose what I’ve gained. I’ll most likely taste the cat, but it won’t be the first time. Rather all that than live in misery. An’ I don’t fancy spendin’ the rest o’ me days in some Frog town or ’idin’ whenever I sees a uniform.” He turned to the door. “A parley, lads.” Gates watched them file out and then said quietly, “If they agree to your empty promises, Captain Bolitho, then I’ll first take his confession down in writing.” Bolitho shook his head. “You can give your evidence at the court-martial.”

“Me?” Gates laughed. “I’ll not be aboard when these fools are taken!” He twisted round to listen to the babble of voices. “I will be back.” Then he left the cabin.

Brice breathed out slowly. “That was a terrible risk. They might still not believe you.”

“We can only hope.” Bolitho sat down. “And I trust that you believe it also. That was no mere threat to deceive either them or you.”

He glanced at the door, trying not to show his uncertainty.

“That man Gates seems to know a great deal.”

“He was my clerk.” Brice sounded lost in thought. “I caught him stealing spirits and had him flogged. By God, if I ever get my hands on him . . .” He did not continue.

The cabin lanterns swayed in unison and settled at a steeper angle. Bolitho cocked his head to listen. There was more breeze, so the mist might not come after all. Perverse as ever, the Cornish weather was always ready to make a man a liar.

The door banged open and Taylor entered the cabin. “We’ve decided, sir.” He ignored Brice. “We agree.” Bolitho stood up and tried to hide his relief. “Thank you.” A boat thudded against the hull and he heard orders being shouted to the oarsmen.

Taylor added, “They’ve gone for the others, sir, an’ yer cox’n.” He dropped his eyes. “Gates ’as run.” More voices, and three lieutenants, dishevelled and apprehensive, stepped into the cabin. Two were very young, the third, tall and tight-lipped, was obviously the first lieutenant, the one Taylor had described as taken with abusing the people, having them flogged at the slightest pretext. He thought of Keverne and was suddenly grateful.

The lieutenant said harshly, “I am Massie, sir, the senior.” He glanced enquiringly at Brice but stiffened as Bolitho said,

“You will place yourself under open arrest.” He added sharply,

“For your own good at present.”

He looked at the other officers. “How is the wind?”

“Freshening, sir. From the sou’ west.” The young lieutenant sounded dazed.

“Very well. Inform the master that we will be raising the anchor as soon as the boat returns. If we are to reach Falmouth before morning we must beat well clear of the bay.” He forced a smile. “I’d not wish to have the Auriga piled on Gull Rock for all to see!”

On deck it seemed cleaner, the air less threatening. An illusion again, but with good reason, Bolitho thought.

He found the frigate’s sailing master listening to the lieutenant with silent disbelief.

Bolitho said calmly, “I will take the responsibility.” In a quieter tone he added, “Far better to take a small risk than to leave your people with too much time on their hands.” Inwardly he thought, also it is better to make sail in darkness than to confront the Euryalus’s broadsides at first light.

When the boat came alongside again he saw Allday scrambling through the entry port, his head turning in all directions as if to take on the whole ship single-handed.

He found Bolitho and said thickly. “By the Lord, Captain, I never expected this!” The admiration was only overshadowed by his obvious concern.

Bolitho looked at him and grinned. “I am sorry to have placed you in danger.”

The big coxswain waited until some scurrying seamen had run past. “I was just about to leave the inn, Captain, and try my luck again on that damned horse. I might have been able to reach Falmouth in time to raise the alarm.” Bolitho frowned. “What of your guards?” Allday shrugged and then pulled up the leg of his trousers.

Even in the gloom it was possible to see the small double-barrelled pistol protruding from his stocking.

“I reckon I could have laid those two beauties to rest without too much sweat!”

“You will never fail to amaze me, Allday.” Bolitho stared at him. “So you had a plan all of your own, eh?”

“Not all my own. Bryan Ferguson gave me the pistol before we left. He bought it off one of the Falmouth Packet officers.” He breathed out noisily. “I’d not be wanting to leave it all to you, Captain.” He peered around the quarterdeck. “Not amongst bloody hounds like these!”

Bolitho turned away, his mind dwelling on Allday’s simple loyalty. He wanted to find the right words, something which might convey just how much it meant to him at this moment of time.

“Thank you, Allday. That was reckless but extremely far-sighted of you.”

Why could he never find the words when he needed them? And why was Allday grinning almost enough to split his face in two?

Allday said, “Strike me blind, Captain, you are a cool one, and there’s no mistake. We might both be dead, an’ instead here we are as safe as the Tower of London.” He rubbed his buttocks.

“Also, we return to Falmouth as sailors should, and not on some bony, misbegotten animal.”

Bolitho gripped his thick forearm. “I am glad you are satisfied.” A lieutenant crossed the deck and touched his hat. “Capstan manned and boat hoisted, sir.”

“Very good.” He felt suddenly light-headed. Perhaps he had not, after all, realised just how close he had been to disaster.

Allday had understood and had been prepared in his own way.

But suppose Brice had refused to submit, or Gates had held his grip on the other men? He dismissed it from his thoughts. That part was over, and he could thank God no one had been injured, let alone killed, in the uprising.

“Tell the master to lay a course to clear the foreland, if you please. We will run to the sou’ east until we have the sea room to go about.”

The young officer stood quite still, his eyes filling his face in the darkness.

Bolitho added gently, “Your name is Laker, am I right?” He saw him nod. “Well, Mr Laker, just imagine that both of your seniors had been killed in action.” Another nod. “It is your quarterdeck for the moment, and it would be well for your people to see you taking control right away. Trust is like gold, it must be earned to be of any true value.”

The youngster said quietly, “Thank you, sir.” Then he walked away, and seconds later the capstan began to clank round to the accompaniment of a half-hearted shanty.

Bolitho walked slowly aft and stood near the wheel. He would be ready, in case the frigate drove too close inshore. But if the Auriga had any hope of regaining her place in affairs, she had to begin here and now, with her own hands in command.

It was as if Allday was reading his mind.

He said softly, “Reminds me of when we were in the old Phalarope, Captain.” He glanced up as the sails cracked and stirred in readiness for the next order. “It took a long, long time before we got our good name back!” Bolitho nodded. “I remember.”

“Loose the heads’ls!”

Feet scampered across the tilting decks, and from forward came the steady clank of the capstan as the men trudged around it.

“Anchors aweigh there!”

The dark land mass swam slowly across the quarter as the frigate tore free of the ground and paid off into the gentle wind.

Bolitho thought momentarily of Brice down there in his cabin, feeling his ship come alive, with voices other than his own calling the commands. How would I feel under such circumstances? He shuddered and then pushed Brice from his mind.

If the same circumstances ever did arise, then, like Brice, he would deserve it, he thought firmly.

“Steady as you go!”

“Nor’ west by west, sir!” The big wheel squeaked as the Auriga glided slowly towards the land.

Bolitho stayed by the weather rail watching the town in the brittle morning sunlight. The Euryalus was swinging almost bows on towards the approaching frigate, her topgallant yards gold in the pale glare, the fierce-eyed figurehead bright against the spray-dappled hull.

He looked around the busy activity on the frigate’s main deck, the first time he had seen her in daylight. Brice must have been mean as well as a tyrant. The paintwork was faded and flaking, and the seamen were dressed mostly in ragged scraps of clothing and appeared for the most part half starved. Several of them, without shirts as they worked about the deck, had backs so scarred that they looked as if they had been mauled by some crazed beast.

Forward, the anchor party stood watching the outspreading arms of the bay, the town of Falmouth beyond, still in the morning shadow. A guardboat idled above her own reflection, a blue flag at the masthead to indicate where the incoming frigate was to drop anchor. Both the young lieutenants and the ship’s master were concentrating on the last two cables, and Bolitho said quietly, “You had better pass the word to your gunner to prepare a salute, Mr Laker. With all else on your mind it would be a shame to forget that a rear-admiral demands a salute of thirteen guns.” The lieutenant looked startled and then gave a shy grin. “I had not forgotten, sir, although I was not expecting you to test me.” He pointed across the nettings. “But as you well know, sir, it will require fifteen guns.” He was still smiling as he hurried back to join the master by the wheel.

Bolitho walked to the nettings and climbed up on to a bollard.

It could not be. The lieutenant had to be deceived by a trick of the light, or the fact that Euryalus was swinging her bows towards them.

He jumped back to the deck and saw Allday watching him.

There was no error. The flag which now lifted in the sunlight flew from the three-decker’s foremast.

Allday said quietly, “So he’s arrived, Captain?” While the Auriga moved slowly towards the anchorage, the salute banging out at regular five-second intervals, Bolitho made himself walk back and forth along the weather side of the quarterdeck. Glasses would be trained on the frigate, he must be seen to be both safe and in control. It seemed to take an age for those last moments to drag by. Moments in which he wondered what had happened to Rear-Admiral Thelwall, and what Broughton would think of his actions. When he looked again he saw the Euryalus swinging across the bowsprit as the frigate went about, and with canvas cracking and slapping against the yards turned easily into the wind. The anchor had barely dropped into the water when Bolitho heard another sound, growing in the clear air like a roll of great drums. As he swung round and ran to the side he saw, with something like sick horror, the three rows of gun ports along the Euryalus’s side opening together, and as if guided by a single hand, the whole triple array of black muzzles running out into the sunlight.

The lieutenant murmured, “My God!”

Taylor ran aft, pointing dazedly. “Boats comin’, sir!” There were nearly a dozen of them. Cutters and launches, all crammed with marines, their coats shining like blood as they sat motionless between the busy oars.

Some of the seamen seemed unable to drag their eyes from the Euryalus’s massive armament, as if they expected every gun to open fire. A few remained staring at the quarterdeck, watching Bolitho, perhaps hoping to read their own fate on his face.

The leading boat rounded the frigate’s quarter, shielded from the flagship’s guns, and headed towards the entry port. Captain Rook was in the sternsheets, and as he drew alongside he looked up and shouted, “Are you safe, sir?” Allday muttered, “Bloody fool!” But Bolitho did not hear.

He looked down at Rook’s red face and replied, “Of course.” He hoped the seamen nearby would hear him. They would need all their trust in the next few moments.

Rook clambered up to the deck and touched his hat.

“We were worried, sir, very worried indeed.” He saw the two lieutenants watching him and shouted, “Hand your swords to the lieutenant of marines immediately!” Bolitho snapped, “By whose order?”

“I beg pardon, sir,” Rook looked uncomfortable. “By order of Vice-Admiral Sir Lucius Broughton.” He turned as more boats grappled alongside and the gangway suddenly came alive with grimfaced marines, their muskets and fixed bayonets trained on the crowded main deck.

Bolitho crossed over to the lieutenants. “Rest assured, I will see that you are not abused.” He looked at Rook. “I am making you responsible.”

The one-armed officer wiped his forehead worriedly. “As you say, sir.”

Bolitho walked back to the quarterdeck rail and looked along the crowded mass of silent seamen.

“I gave you my word. Keep your peace and obey orders. I shall go across and meet the admiral without delay.” He saw Taylor make as if to come aft and then stop when a marine jerked a bayonet in his direction.

Bolitho called, “I have not forgotten, Taylor.” Then he turned and made his way to the port. A boat was coming from the Euryalus. No doubt for him, and an explanation.

He glanced back at the silent, watching men. They were dreading what would happen next. No, they were terrified, he could almost smell their fear, and wanted to reassure them.

He thought suddenly of Brice who had caused it all, and of the clerk Gates who had used the captain’s cruelty for his own ends. Now Gates was free somewhere, and Brice might just as easily escape without dishonour. He tightened his jaw and waited impatiently for the boat to get alongside.

We shall see, he thought coldly.

Bolitho raised his hat to the quarterdeck and asked quietly, “Well, Mr Keverne? I think I need an explanation, and quickly.” Keverne replied just as quietly, “I could not help it sir. Vice-Admiral Broughton arrived during the last dog watch yesterday.

He came overland by way of Truro.” He shrugged helplessly, his face worried. “I had to tell him of your sealed orders, and he required me to open them.”

Bolitho paused by the poop and looked down at the larboard battery of twelve-pounders, still run out and pointing at the Auriga. Most of their crews, however, were looking aft at him, their expressions torn between surprise and anxiety. As well they might, he thought bitterly.

But it was not Keverne’s fault, and that was something. For a while he had been tortured with the idea that Keverne might have given his secret orders willingly, to ingratiate himself with the new admiral.

He asked, “How is Sir Charles?”

Keverne shook his head. “No better, sir.” The second lieutenant crossed the deck and touched his hat,

“The vice-admiral is waiting to see you, sir.” He fidgeted with his sword hilt. “With respect, sir, he seems somewhat impatient.” Bolitho forced a slow smile. “Very well, Mr Meheux, it is a day for urgency.”

But he did not feel like smiling. He could not blame the admiral for demanding to know of his whereabouts. After all, flag officers were not accustomed to making excuses for their own lateness, or explaining their reasons to subordinates. But to have the frigate put under the guns of his own flagship was unthinkable.

He made himself walk the last few steps to the admiral’s quarters at a slower pace. To give his mind time to clear for the confrontation.

A marine corporal opened the door, his eyes blank. Even he seemed like a stranger.

Vice-Admiral Sir Lucius Broughton was standing right aft by the tall windows, a telescope trained towards the shore. He was wearing his undress blue coat and gold epaulettes, and appeared thoroughly engrossed. When he turned Bolitho saw that he was much younger than he had anticipated, about forty, the same age as himself. He was not tall, but his body was slim and upright, giving an impression of height. That again was fairly unusual.

Once they had attained the coveted flag rank, admirals often tended to run to portliness. Spared the constant demands of watchkeeping, or appearing on deck at all times of day and night, they reaped rewards other than those of high command.

Broughton’s face was neither angry nor impatient. In fact, it was relaxed to a point of complete calm. He had light brown hair, quite short, and tied in a small queue above his collar.

“Ah, Bolitho, so we meet at last.” He was not being sarcastic, merely matter-of-fact. As if Bolitho had just returned from some vague journey.

His voice was easy and aristocratic, and when he walked across a patch of sunlight from the stern windows Bolitho saw that his clothes were of the finest materials, his sword hilt hand-worked in gold facings.

He replied, “I am sorry I was not here to greet you, sir. There was some doubt as to your time of arrival.”

“Quite.” Broughton sat down at the desk and regarded him calmly. “I expect to be receiving news of my other ships very shortly. After that, the sooner we are at sea and working in company the better.”

Bolitho cleared his throat. “The Auriga, sir. With respect, I would like to explain what has happened.” Broughton pressed his fingertips together and smiled gently.

For a few moments he looked almost boyish, his eyes shining with something like amusement.

“By all means, Bolitho, although I would have thought that explanations are hardly needed. Your action to prevent the ship falling in French hands was, to say the least, unorthodox, and at no little personal risk. Your loss to me would have been a hard one, although some might say the loss of the frigate would have been even more serious.” He shifted in the chair, the smile gone.

“But the frigate is here in Falmouth, and all such vessels are too short in numbers for us to be over-particular about their past records.”

“I believe her captain should be removed at once, sir. Also her first lieutenant.” Bolitho tried to relax, but for once he felt uneasy, even out of his depth with the new admiral. He added, “It took some courage for the ship’s company to act as they did. But for the Spithead trouble, and the promises made to our people there, it might never have happened.”

Broughton looked at him thoughtfully. “You obviously do not believe that. You think that this Brice caused it himself, and possibly you’re right.” He shrugged. “Sir Charles Thelwall told me of his great trust in your reasoning. I will of course be guided by that.”

Bolitho said, “I gave my word to them, sir. That their complaints would be properly investigated.”

“Did you? Well, of course that would be expected. No blame will attach to you now that you have retrieved the ship intact.”

Again the brief smile. “To lie skilfully and in a good cause is always forgivable.”

“It was no lie, sir.” Bolitho could feel his apprehension giving way to anger. “They were brutally used—worse, they were driven beyond reason.”

He waited, watching for some sign, but Broughton’s face was empty of expression.

He continued slowly, “I am sure Sir Charles would have acted with humanity, sir. Especially in view of the circumstances elsewhere.”

“Sir Charles has gone ashore.” He could have been speaking of an unwanted piece of baggage. “I will decide what is to be done. When I have examined all the facts.” He paused. “Facts, Bolitho, not supposition, then I will tell you what I desire to be done. In the meantime, Captain Brice and his officers will be quartered ashore with the garrison. You will supply a guard watch aboard Auriga in company with the marines.” He stood up and walked round the desk, his movements easy, almost graceful.

“I hate any sort of unnecessary recriminations, Bolitho!” His mouth tightened. “But I have already had my fill of deputations and degradation at Spithead. I’ll suffer none of it under my flag here.”

Bolitho watched him despairingly. “If I could be given permission to deal with the matter, sir? It will be a bad beginning to take severe action . . .”

The admiral sighed. “You are persistent. I hope that characteristic is not confined merely to domestic matters. But if you will write a full report I will see what must be done.” He looked Bolitho steadily in the eyes. “You must know that being efficient is not the easiest way to popularity.” He seemed to become impatient. “But enough of that for the present. I will be giving dinner in my cabin tonight. I find it the best way of meeting my officers!” The smile reappeared. “No objections to that, I trust?” Bolitho tried to hide his anger. He was more disturbed with his own inability to convince Broughton than he was with the admiral’s wishes over dinner. He had managed the interview badly, and blamed himself accordingly. The admiral only knew what he was told, could only act on facts, as he had just explained.

He replied, “I am sorry, sir. I did not mean to . . .” Broughton raised one hand. “Do not apologise. I like a man with fire in his belly. If I had wanted a flag captain who merely said yes all the time, I could have got one of a hundred!” He nodded. “And you have been up all night. That cannot have helped.

Now be so good as to send for the purser. I will tell him what I require from the town. I have just been looking at it. Small, but not too rustic, I hope.”

Bolitho smiled for the first time. “I was born here, sir.” The admiral eyed him calmly. “Now there is an admission.” Bolitho made to leave the cabin but paused and said, “May I order the guns to be secured, sir?”

“You are her captain, Bolitho, as well as mine.” He lifted an eyebrow. “You do not approve of my action?”

“It is not that exactly, sir.” It was starting again, but he could not halt the words. “I have been with this ship for eighteen months. This matter of the frigate is bad enough, without their having to fire on their own kind into the bargain.”

“Very well.” Broughton yawned. “You really do care, do you not?”

Bolitho nodded firmly. “About trust, sir? Aye, I do.”

“I really must take you to London with me, Bolitho.” Broughton walked back to the windows, his face in shadow. “You would be something of a novelty there. Unique in fact.” Bolitho reached the sunlit quarterdeck without seeing a foot of the journey.

Keverne touched his hat and asked anxiously, “Any orders, sir?”

“Yes, Mr Keverne. Pass the word for the purser and then . . .” He paused, still thinking of the Auriga and Broughton’s quiet amusement.

“Then, sir?”

“Then keep out of my way, Mr Keverne, until I say otherwise!” The master watched him stride to the side and begin to pace back and forth, his brows set in a frown of concentration.

To the baffled Keverne he said quietly, “More squalls, I’m thinkin’. An’ not for the better.”

Keverne glared at him. “When I need your opinion, Mr Partridge, I’ll damn well ask for it!” Then he too hurried away towards the quarterdeck ladder.

Partridge glanced up at the new flag at the fore. Young puppy, he chuckled unfeelingly. Wrath went with rank. Things never changed in the Navy. He turned, realising that the captain had stopped his pacing and was studying him gravely.

“Sir?”

“I was just thinking, Mr Partridge, how nice it must be to have nothing to do in the whole world but stand in the sun grinning like some village idiot.”

The master swallowed hard. “Sorry, sir.” Surprisingly, Bolitho smiled. “Continue to stand if you wish. I have a feeling that this peace is to be shortlived.” He turned on his heel and walked briskly beneath the poop towards his cabin.

Partridge sighed and mopped his chins with a red handkerchief. A flagship could often make life hard on a sailing master.

Then he looked across at the anchored frigate and shook his head sadly. Still, he thought, others were worse off. A whole lot worse.

THE SMART, maroon-painted berlin rattled busily over a hump-backed bridge and swung left on to the main coach road for Falmouth.

Richard Bolitho put out one hand to steady himself against the swaying motion as the wheels bounced into the steep ruts and watched the dust pouring back from the horses’ hoofs and from beneath the carriage itself. He was only half aware of the passing countryside, the different shades of green and occasional clumps of sheep in the fields adjoining the narrow, twisting road. In his best dress uniform and cocked hat he was hot and uncomfortable, and the berlin’s violent motion was worse than any small boat in a choppy harbour, yet he hardly noticed any of these things.

The previous day Rear-Admiral Thelwall had died in his sleep at Bolitho’s house, at peace for the first time in many months.

When Captain Rook had conveyed the news to the anchored Euryalus Vice-Admiral Broughton had said, “I understand it was his wish to return to Norfolk. You had better make the necessary arrangements, Bolitho.” He had given one of his relaxed smiles.

“Anyway, I think Sir Charles would have wished to know you were with him on the last journey.” And so with unseemly haste, a small procession of carriages had set out for Truro, where the little admiral’s body would await collection for the long ride to the other side of England.

It was difficult to know if Broughton was being sincere about his regrets. It was true he had much to do in his new command, and yet Bolitho got the distinct impression that Broughton was a man who had little time for anything which did not work at full efficiency. Or anyone who was beyond help or further use.

The berlin swerved and he heard the coachman yelling curses at a small carrier’s cart drawn by one sleepy-looking pony. The cart was laden with chickens and farm produce, and the red-faced driver returned the barrage with equal vigour and vulgarity.

Bolitho smiled. It was probably one of his brother-in-law’s farm workers, and he realised with a start that in the four busy days since his bringing the Auriga into Falmouth he had not laid an eye either on him or any of his relatives.

The coach settled down on a firmer piece of road for the last three-mile run to the sea, and he found himself thinking back over the hectic and demanding days following on his arrival and that of his new admiral.

He could not recall anyone quite like Broughton. He usually seemed so relaxed, yet he had a mind like quicksilver and never seemed to tire.

Bolitho could remember how at his dinner party in the great cabin he kept the conversation moving amongst the assembled ship’s officers, never monopolising it, yet making everyone present very aware of his overall control.

He was still not sure he really understood the man behind the charm and the easy refinement which Broughton displayed on most occasions.

Broughton seemed to be unreachable, yet Bolitho knew he was only excusing his own dislike and mistrust for many of the things which the admiral represented. Privilege and an undisputed pattern of power, another world which Bolitho had had little part of, and wanted still less.

When Broughton spoke of his house in London, the constant comings and goings of names and personalities, it was no mere boasting. It was his natural way of life. Something he took as his right.

Listening to him as the wine was passed and the three-decker rolled easily at her anchor, it was excusable to think that all important decisions in the war against France and her growing allies were made not in Admiralty but around the coffee tables of London, or at receptions in houses such as his own.

In spite of this, however, Bolitho had no doubt as to Broughton’s understanding of wider affairs and the internal politics of the Navy. Broughton had fought at the battle of Cape St Vincent some three months earlier, and his grasp of the tactics, his ability to paint a visual picture for Bolitho’s benefit, was impressive.

Bolitho could recall his own envy and bitterness when news of Jervis’s great victory had reached him as he had carried out the wretched routine of blockade off southern Ireland. Had the enemy made a real attempt to invade Ireland, and had the Euryalus and her few consorts managed to call them to battle, he might have felt differently. As he had eagerly scanned the reports of Jervis’s victory he had been aware yet again how much luck there seemed to be in drawing two forces together for a convulsive action.

Old Admiral Jervis had been made Earl St Vincent because of it, and another name, that of Commodore Nelson, had brought a ring of new hope for the future.

Bolitho could recall seeing the young Nelson briefly during the ill-fated venture at Toulon. He was two years younger than himself, yet already a commodore, and provided he could stay alive would soon reach further heights in the chain of command.

Bolitho did not grudge such a sea officer his just rewards, but at the same time was fully aware of his own backwater, or that was how it appeared.

Euryalus had been joined by three more ships-of-the-line, all seventy-fours, two frigates, including Auriga, and a small sloop.

Anchored in fine array in Falmouth Bay they made an impressive sight, but he knew from bitter experience that once at sea and spread out in an empty, tossing desert they would appear not so vast or invincible. It was unlikely that Broughton’s small squadron was to be entrusted with anything but the fringe of more important affairs.

The one bright light in the busy four days of Broughton’s command had been his final acceptance of Bolitho’s suggestions and pleas on behalf of the Auriga’s ship’s company.

The master’s mate, Taylor, was in custody and would no doubt be disrated. Captain Brice and his first lieutenant were still ashore with the garrison, and the frigate’s daily life had shown an amazing improvement. Apart from her own newly arrived marines there were no additional guards aboard, and Bolitho had sent Lieutenant Keverne to take temporary command until a new captain was appointed. The fact that Broughton had agreed to all this, and Keverne was seen to be the chosen officer aboard, made the lieutenant’s chance of promotion and permanent command very likely. Bolitho would be sorry to lose him, but glad to see him get such an unexpected chance.

The horses slowed and topped the last rise, so that he could see the harbour and the sea beyond spread like a colourful map below him. The anchored squadron, the busy comings and goings of Captain Rook’s shore boats, showed both purpose and readiness. Once at sea, it should not take too long to get each captain used to the other’s ways, for the ships to work as one through the mind of their admiral.

But where they would eventually sail, or what their final role entailed, was still a mystery. Broughton knew a lot more than he confided and had said several times, “You prepare my ships, Bolitho. I will settle the rest once I hear from London.” Broughton certainly appeared confident that everything was working out to his satisfaction. As the ships laboured from sunrise to sunset, restoring and watering, replenishing cordage and sharing out whatever human harvest collected by Rook’s press-gangs, he spent most of his time in his cabin or dining ashore with the local officials who might help speed the refitting of his command.

All the gloom and most of the apprehension which the Auriga’s arrival had brought to Falmouth had disappeared, and Bolitho was grateful that Broughton had shown humanity and such leniency over the matter. What had occurred at Spithead must never occur again, and he would have to watch not only the Auriga but each ship of the squadron to make doubly certain of it.

He picked up his sword from the seat and watched while the berlin rolled across the worn cobbles and squeaked to a halt outside the familiar coaching inn by the jetty, the horses steaming and tossing their heads, impatient for their rest and feed.

A few townspeople moved around the square, but he was instantly aware of the redcoated soldiers and an air of tension which had been lacking when he had left with Thelwall’s body for Truro.

He saw Rook hurrying towards him, his face working with relief and concern.

“What is it?” Bolitho took his arm and led him into the inn’s long shadow.

Rook glanced around him. “The Nore. The mutiny has not only spread, but the whole of the fleet there is in the hands of mutineers and under arms!” He dropped his voice. “A brig from Plymouth brought the news today. Your admiral is in a savage mood because of it.”

Bolitho fell in step beside him, keeping his face calm although his mind was racing at this latest news.

“But how can it be that we have only just heard?” Rook rugged at his neckcloth as if it was choking him.

“A patrol found the London courier dead in a hedgerow. His throat cut and his pouch empty. Someone knew he was riding here and made sure Admiral Broughton would stay in ignorance for as long as possible.” He signalled towards a seaman by the jetty. “Call a boat alongside, man!” Bolitho walked to the edge of the warm stonework and looked towards the ships. Euryalus shimmered in a heat haze and there seemed to be plenty of work going on both aloft and around her decks. Was it possible that things could change so quickly? That order and training would give way to mutiny and distrust?

Rook added haltingly, “I do not know if it is my place to say it, but I believe Sir Lucius Broughton was deeply scarred by his experience at Spithead. It will go hard with anyone who tries to disobey him in the future.”

The boat jarred against the jetty and Bolitho followed him into it. Rook remained standing until Bolitho had settled himself in the sternsheets and then gestured to the coxswain to head for the flagship.

Bolitho said slowly, “Let us hope we can get to sea without any more delay. There is room to think and plan once the land is well astern.” He was thinking aloud and Rook said nothing.

It seemed to take an age to reach the three-decker’s side, and as the boat drew closer he saw that the boarding nets had been rigged and there were marines pacing the gangways and standing at both poop and forecastle.

He climbed quickly up the side and through the entry port, removing his hat as the salutes shrilled once more and the guard presented arms.

Weigall, the third lieutenant, said quickly, “The admiral is expecting you, sir.” He looked uneasy. “I am sorry your barge was not waiting at the jetty, but all boats are recalled, sir.” Bolitho nodded. “Thank you.” He masked his sudden apprehension and walked aft into the poop’s shadow. He had to appear calm and normal even though he felt very much the reverse.

At the cabin bulkhead he saw there were three armed marines instead of the usual solitary guard and that their bayonets were fixed.

He tightened his jaw and opened the door, conscious of Rook’s heavy breathing behind him, of his own dry throat as he saw the other officers already assembled there.

A table had been arranged athwartships, backed by chairs, so that the cabin had taken on the appearance of a court of enquiry.

He saw too that the officers who were standing watching him in silence were the other captains from the squadron, even the young commander from the sloop Restless.

A lieutenant, quite unknown to Bolitho, hurried towards him, his face set in a tight smile which could be either welcome or sheer relief at his arrival.

“Welcome back, sir.” He gestured towards the closed door of Broughton’s small chart cabin. “Sir Lucius is expecting you, sir.” He seemed to realise that Bolitho was still unmoving and added apologetically, “I’m Calvert, sir. The admiral’s new flag-lieutenant.”

He spoke in the same refined drawl as Broughton, but there was no other similarity. He looked harassed and confused, and Bolitho felt a note of warning in his mind. In the short while he had been at Truro, shaking hands with officials, listening to sonorous condolences, all this had happened. He heard himself say curtly, “Then lead the way, Mr Calvert, we will no doubt get acquainted in due course.”

It was very hot in the small cabin, and Bolitho saw that the deckhead skylight was shut, so that there was hardly any air left to breathe.

Broughton was standing beside the table, his arms folded, and staring at the door, as if he had been frozen in the same attitude for some time. His dress coat lay on a chair, and in the filtered sunlight his gleaming white shirt showed darker patches of sweat.

He was very calm, his face quite devoid of expression as he nodded to Bolitho and then snapped to the lieutenant, “Wait outside, Calvert.”

The lieutenant fidgeted with his coat and muttered, “The letters, sir, I thought . . .”

“God, man, are you deaf as well as stupid!” He leaned on the table and shouted, “I said get out! ”

As the door banged shut behind the wretched Calvert, Bolitho waited for Broughton’s rage to expand. It was just as if he had kept it contained to the last possible second. Until his return on board to receive the full brunt of it.

Surprisingly, his voice was almost normal as he continued, “By God, I’m glad you got back aboard punctually.” He gestured to an open envelope on the table. “Sailing orders at last. That don-key Calvert brought them from London.” Bolitho waited, allowing Broughton time to calm down. He said quietly, “Had you wished it, sir, I could have obtained a flag-lieutenant from the squadron . . .” Broughton eyed him coldly. “Oh, to damnation with him! Some favour I received years ago has to be repaid. I promised to take that fool off his father’s hands and away from London.” He broke off and peered up at the skylight, his head on one side as if listening.

Then he said, “You have heard the news, no doubt.” His chest was moving with sudden anger again. “These miserable, treacherous scum have the impudence to mutiny, eh? The whole fleet at the Nore aflame with, with . . .” he groped for the word and then added harshly, “so much for your damned humanity. Conceit is what I call it, if you believe for one single moment that their sort respect leniency!”

Bolitho said, “With all deference, sir, I think there is no connection between the Auriga and the trouble at the Nore.”

“Do you not?” His voice was steady again. Too steady. “I can assure you, Captain Bolitho, I have already had my fill of treachery at Spithead. To have my own flagship taken over by a lot of crawling, sanctimonious, lying bastards. The humiliation, the very shame of it clings to me like the stench of a sewer.” There was a discreet tap at the door and Captain Giffard of the ship’s marines peered in and reported, “All ready, sir.” He withdrew hurriedly under Broughton’s stare.

Bolitho said, “May I ask what is happening, sir?”

“You may.” Broughton dragged his coat from the chair, his face shining damply with sweat. “Because of you I went against my better judgement. Because of you I allowed the Auriga’s mutineers to stay free and untried.” He swung round, his eyes blazing.

“Because of you and your damned promises, promises which you had neither the authority nor the right to offer, I must leave them untouched, if only to uphold your authority as flag captain!” He was shouting now, and Bolitho could picture the other captains beyond the closed door sympathising with him, or grateful that a superior was being cut down to their level. Bolitho did not know any of them enough to decide which. He only knew he was both angry and bitter at the admiral’s sudden attack.

He said harshly, “It was my decision, sir. There was no one else here at the time . . .”

Broughton yelled, “Do not interrupt me, Bolitho! By God, it might have been better if you had attacked the Auriga and blown her to pieces. If they have officers like you at the Nore, then heaven help England!”

He snatched his sword and clipped it into his belt, adding,

“Well, we shall see about mutiny in this squadron.” Bolitho controlled his voice with an effort. I am sorry you cannot accept my judgement, sir.”

“Judgement?” Broughton looked at him. “I call it surrender.” He shrugged and reached for his hat. “I cannot right a wrong, but by heaven I’ll show them I’ll have no insubordination in my ships!”

He threw open the door and strode into the great cabin.

“Be seated, gentlemen.” He took his place in the centre chair and gestured to Bolitho to sit beside him. “Now, gentlemen, I have called this summary court by the authority invested in me which has been given special powers until such time as the present emergency has been curtailed.”

Bolitho looked quickly at the others. Their faces were like masks. They were probably dazed by the swift change of events and wondering how it would affect them personally.

Broughton seemed to be speaking to the opposite bulkhead, his voice even and under control once again. “The ringleader of the Auriga’s insurrection was one Thomas Gates, captain’s clerk.

He was, er, allowed to escape, and will no doubt be responsible with others for the death of the courier and seizure of my sealed despatches.”

The air in the cabin was stiff with tension, so that shipboard noises seemed suddenly loud and unreal.

Broughton continued calmly, “The master’s mate,” he glanced at a paper before him, “one John Taylor, at present under guard for conspiracy, is thereby the senior culprit available to this court.”

“May I speak, sir?” Bolitho’s voice made every head turn towards him. For just those few seconds he saw the others as individuals, the differing expressions mirrored in their eyes. Sympathy, understanding, from one even amusement.

He shut them out of his thoughts as he continued quietly, “Taylor was one of many, sir. He came to me because he trusted me.” Broughton turned to study him, his eyes distant. “Two of his companions have already laid evidence against him as the ringleader, next to Gates.” For an instant his gaze softened with something like compassion. “They could be getting even with Taylor for deposing their leader. They might equally be just and loyal seamen.” His mouth hardened. “That is no longer my concern. This squadron is, and I intend to see it fulfils whatever duty laid upon it without interference.” He let his gaze lock with Bolitho’s. “From anyone.”

Then he rapped the table with his knuckles. “Bring in the prisoner.”

Bolitho sat quite still as Taylor entered between two marines with Captain Giffard marching stiffly at his back. He looked pale but composed, and as he saw Bolitho his face lit up with sudden recognition.

Broughton eyed him coolly. “John Taylor, you are charged with mutinous conspiracy and seizure of His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Auriga. You were accused with one other, not yet in custody, of this same act, and are called here to receive sentence.” He tapped his fingertips together and added quietly, “Your treachery, at a time when England is fighting for her very life, singles you out as a man without either pride or conscience. You, a master’s mate, trained and trusted by your superiors, have betrayed the very Service which has given you your means to live.” Taylor seemed stunned. He replied in a small voice, “Not true, sir.” He shook his head. “Not true.”

“However,” Broughton leaned back in his chair and looked at the deckhead beams, “in view of your past record, and all that my flag captain has done and said on your behalf . . .” He broke off as Taylor took half a step forward, his eyes shining with sudden hope. As a marine pulled him back again Broughton added, “I have decided not to impose the maximum penalty, as your case, in my personal view, demands.”

Taylor turned his head dazedly and peered at Bolitho. In the same small voice he whispered, “Thankee, sir. God bless you.” Broughton sounded irritated. “Instead, the punishment awarded will be that of two dozen lashes and disrating.” Taylor nodded, his eyes swimming with emotion. “Thankee, sir!” Broughton’s voice was like a knife. “Two dozen lashes from each ship assembled here at Falmouth.” He nodded. “Remove the prisoner.”

Taylor said nothing as the marines wheeled him round and marched him out.

Bolitho stared at the closed doors, the empty space where Taylor had stood, and felt as if the cabin was closing in on him.

As if he and not Taylor had received the sentence.

Broughton rose and said briefly, “Return to your ships, gentlemen, and read my new standing orders which Mr Calvert will make available. Punishment will be carried out at eight bells tomorrow forenoon. Normal procedure.” As they filed out past Calvert, Bolitho said quietly, “Why, sir?

In the name of God, why? ”

Broughton looked past him, his eyes bleak, “Because I say so.” Bolitho picked up his hat, his mind dulled by the sudden sav-agery of Broughton’s justice.

“Any more orders for the present, sir?” He did not know how he was managing to keep his tone formal and devoid of feeling.

“Yes. Pass the word to Captain Brice to resume command of Auriga. ” He regarded Bolitho for several seconds. “Mine is the responsibility. So too is the privilege.” Bolitho met his gaze and replied, “If Taylor had been given a court-martial, sir . . .” He stopped, realising how he had stepped into the trap.

Broughton smiled gently. “A proper court-martial would have hanged him, and well you know it. The sentence would have been carried out too late to make an example and time and indulgence would have been wasted. As it is now, Taylor’s punishment will act as a warning, if not a deterrent to this squadron where we need it most. And he may live to make capital from his one moment of personal insurrection, and will have you to thank for it.” As Bolitho turned to leave he added, “There will be a conference here immediately the punishment is completed. Make a signal for all captains to repair on board,” he took out his watch,

“but I can leave that for you to arrange, I think. I have been invited to join a local magistrate for dinner. A man called Roxby, know him?”

“My brother-in-law, sir.” His voice was like stone.

“Really?” Broughton walked towards his sleeping cabin. “You people seem to be everywhere.” The door slammed behind him.

Bolitho reached the quarterdeck without seeing a foot of the journey. The shadows were more angled and the sun already dipping towards the headland. A few seamen lounged on the gangways, and from forward came the plaintive notes of a violin.

The officer of the watch crossed to the opposite side to allow Bolitho his usual seclusion, and beside the boat tier two midshipmen were shrilling with laughter as they chased each other towards the main shrouds.

Bolitho leaned his hands on the bulwark and stared unblinkingly at the orange sun. He did not feel like pacing this evening, and wherever he turned he seemed to see Taylor’s face, the pathetic gratitude at receiving two dozen lashes, changing to horror at the final sentence. He would be down below now, hearing the midshipmen laughing and the fiddler’s sad lament. Maybe it was for him. If so, Broughton’s cruel example had already misfired, he thought bitterly.

He shifted his gaze to the Auriga as she swung gently at her cable. Some would say that Taylor’s punishment was a worthwhile sacrifice of one man against so many. But for Bolitho’s action every man aboard might have been flogged or worse, or the ship could indeed have been lost to the enemy.

But there were others who would say that whatever the outcome, the course of naval justice would never be found by flogging scapegoats. And Bolitho knew Taylor was one of these, and was ashamed because of it.

Bolitho was staring emptily through the great stern windows of his cabin when Allday entered and said, “All ready, Captain.” Without waiting for a reply he took down the old sword from its rack on the panelled bulkhead and turned it over in his hands, pausing to rub the tarnished hilt across the sleeve of his jacket.

Then he said quietly, “You did your best, Captain. There’s no value in blaming yourself.”

Bolitho held up his arms to allow the big coxswain to buckle the sword around his waist and then let them fall to his sides.

Through the thick glass windows he could see the distant town swinging gently as wind and tide took the Euryalus under control. He was again aware of the silence which had fallen over the whole ship since Keverne had come down to report that the lower decks were cleared and that it was close on eight bells.

He picked up his hat and glanced briefly around the cabin. It should have been a good day for quitting the land. A fair breeze had sprung up from the south-west overnight and the air was clean and crisp.

He sighed and walked from the cabin, past the table and its untouched breakfast, through the door with the rigid sentry and towards the bright rectangle of sunlight and the open quarterdeck beyond.

Keverne was waiting, his dark features inscrutable as he touched his hat and said formally, “Two minutes, sir.” Bolitho studied the lieutenant gravely. If Keverne was brooding about his sudden removal from possible command he did not show it. If he was thinking about his captain’s feelings he concealed that too.

Bolitho nodded and walked slowly to the weather side of the deck where the ship’s lieutenants were already mustered. Slightly to leeward the senior warrant officers and midshipmen stood in neat lines, their bodies swaying easily to the ship’s motion.

A glance aft told him that Giffard’s marines were fallen in across the poop, their tunics very bright in the fresh sunlight, the white cross-belts and polished boots making their usual impeccable array.

He turned and walked to the quarterdeck rail, letting his eyes move over the great press of seamen who were crowded along the gangways, in the tiered boats and clinging to the shrouds, as if eager to watch the coming drama. But he could tell from the silence, the air of grim expectancy, that hardened to discipline and swift punishment though they were, there was no acceptance there.

Eight bells chimed from the forecastle and he saw the officers stiffen as Broughton, accompanied by Lieutenant Calvert, walked briskly on to the quarterdeck.

Bolitho touched his hat but said nothing.

Across the anchorage the air shivered as a solitary gun boomed out, and then came the doleful sound of drumming. He saw the surgeon below the break in the poop whispering to Tebbutt, the boatswain, and his two mates, one of whom carried the familiar red baize bag. The latter dropped his eyes as he realised his captain was looking at him.

Broughton’s fingers were tapping the hilt of his beautiful sword, seemingly in time with the distant drum. He appeared relaxed, and as fresh as ever.

Bolitho tensed as one of the young midshipmen wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, a quick nervous gesture which brought back a sudden memory like the feel of an old wound.

He had been only fourteen himself when he had witnessed his first flogging through the fleet. He had seen most of it in a mist of tears and nausea, and the nightmare had never completely left him. In a service where flogging was commonplace and an accepted punishment, and in many cases more than justified, this final spectacle was still the worst, where onlookers felt degraded almost as much as the victim.

Broughton remarked, “We will be weighing this afternoon, Bolitho. Our destination is Gibraltar, where I will receive further orders and news of developments.” He looked up at his flag at the fore and added, “A fine day for it.” Bolitho looked away, trying to shut the persistent drumming from his ears.

“All the ships are fully provisioned, sir.” He stopped. Broughton knew that as well as he did. It was just something to say. Why should this one event mar everything? He should have realised by now that the days when he had been a young frigate captain were gone for good. Then, faces and people were real individuals. When one suffered it was felt throughout the cramped confines of the ship. Now he had to realise that men were no longer individuals. They were necessities, like the artillery and the rigging, the fresh water supply and the very planking upon which he now stood.

He felt Broughton watching and deliberately turned away. But it did matter, and he did care, and he knew he could not change.

Not for Broughton, or to further his own chances of promotion in the Service he loved and now needed more than ever before.

He heard Keverne clear his throat and then something like a sigh from the watching seamen on the gangways.

Around the bows of the Zeus, the nearest seventy-four, came a slow procession of longboats, one from each ship in the squadron, the oars rising and falling with the “Rogue’s March” of the drum. He could see Euryalus’s boat second in the line, dark green like those now lashed in their tier and crowded with silent men. Each one in the procession carried marines, the lethal glitter of their bayonets and gleam of scarlet bringing colour to the grim spectacle as the boats turned slightly and headed for the flagship.

Broughton said softly, “This should not take too long, I think.”

“Way ’nough!”

The Auriga’s longboat glided alongside and hooked on to the main chains, while the others swayed above their reflections to witness punishment.

Bolitho took the Articles of War from Keverne and walked quickly to the entry port. Spargo, the surgeon, was already down in the boat accompanied by the boatswain’s mates, and he glanced up as Bolitho’s shadow fell across the rigid oarsmen.

He said, “Fit for punishment, sir.” Bolitho made himself look at the figure in the forepart of the frigate’s longboat. Bent almost double, his arms lashed out on a capstan bar as if crucified, it was hard to believe it was Taylor.

The man who had come to ask for help. For forgiveness and . . .

He removed his hat, opened the book and begin to read the Articles, the sentence and punishment.

Below in the boat, Taylor stirred slightly, and Bolitho paused to look once again.

The thwarts and planking of the boat were covered with blood.

Not the blood of battle, but black. Like the remnants of torn skin which hung from his mangled back. Black and ripped, so that the exposed bones shone in the sunlight like polished marble.

The boatswain’s mate glanced up and asked thickly, “Two dozen, zur?”

“Do your duty.”

Bolitho replaced his hat and kept his eyes on the nearest two-decker as the man drew back his arm and then brought the lash down with terrible force.

A step sounded beside him and Broughton said quietly, “He seems to be taking it well enough.” No concern or real interest.

Just a casual comment.

Just as suddenly it was over, and as the boat cast off again to continue its way to the next ship Bolitho saw Taylor trying to turn his head to look up at him. But he did not have the strength.

Bolitho turned away, sickened by the sight of the contorted face, the broken lips, the thing which had once been John Taylor.

He said harshly, “Dismiss the hands, Mr Keverne.” He glanced involuntarily back again at the re-formed procession. Two more ships to go. He would never live through it. A younger man possibly, but not Taylor.

He heard Broughton’s voice again, very near. “If he had not been one of your old ship’s company—er, the Sparrow was it?”—

he sighed—“you would not have felt so involved, so vulnerable.” When Bolitho did not reply he added curtly, “An example had to be made. They’ll not forget it, I think.” Bolitho straightened his back and faced him, his voice steady as he replied, “Neither will I, sir.” For just a few more seconds their eyes held, and then the shutter seemed to fall as Broughton said, “I am going below. Make the signal for all captains as soon as possible.” Then he was gone.

Bolitho took a grip of his thoughts, his anger and disgust.

“Mr Keverne, you will instruct the midshipmen of the watch to bend the signal for all captains to repair on board.” Keverne watched him curiously. “When shall it be hoisted, sir?” A voice called, “Signal from Valorous, sir. Prisoner has died under punishment.”

Bolitho kept his eyes on Keverne. “You may hoist it now.” Then he turned on his heel and strode aft to his cabin.

SHARP at two bells of the forenoon watch Vice-Admiral Sir Lucius Broughton strode on to the Euryalus’s quarterdeck. After nodding briskly to Bolitho he took a glass from a midshipman and proceeded to study each ship of his squadron in turn.

Bolitho ran his eye quickly along the upper deck where gun crews were going through their drill, watched with extra attention, now that the admiral had arrived, by Meheux, his round-faced second lieutenant.

It had been three days since they had sailed from Falmouth, a long, slow three days during which they had logged a mere four hundred miles. Bolitho gripped the quarterdeck rail, his body angled against the steep tilt, as with her consorts Euryalus plunged ponderously on a slow starboard tack, her great yards braced round, the straining topsails hard-bellied like metal in the wind.

Not that it had been bad sailing weather, quite the reverse.

Skirting the Bay of Biscay, for instance, Partridge, the master, had remarked that he had rarely seen it so favourable. Now, with a freshening north-westerly ruffling the sea into an endless panorama of crisp whitecaps it seemed likely the opportunity was going. It would soon be time to reef, rather than make more sail.

Once clear of the land Broughton had decided to start putting his ships through their paces, to check the flaws and draw out the varied qualities or otherwise of his new command.

Bolitho darted another glance towards him, wondering what new complaints or suggestions would come out of his inspection.

In any flagship a captain was constantly aware of his admiral’s presence, must allow for every mood or whim and somehow work it into his own scheme for running a routine without confusion.

And yet he was surprised to find that he still knew Broughton hardly at all. He seemed to run his daily life by the clock with very little deviation. Breakfast at eight, dinner at half past two and supper at nine. Exactly at nine o’clock each forenoon he would come on deck and behave just as he was doing now. If anything, he appeared too rigid, and not merely in his habits.

The first day at sea, for instance, he had put his battle tactics into immediate operation. But unlike usual practice, he had retained the Euryalus at third place in the line, with only the one remaining seventy-four, the Valorous, stationed astern.

While the ships had tacked and floundered in a quarter sea to obey his curt signals Broughton had remarked, “One must study the captains just as much as the ships they command.” Bolitho grasped immediately what he meant and had appreciated the sense of it.

It was pointless in some actions to have the most powerful ship, the one flying the admiral’s flag in particular, crashing headlong into the enemy’s line. She could be disabled and rendered useless when she was most needed, when the admiral had the time and information to know of the enemy’s intentions.

Without using a glass he could see the leading ships quite easily, keeping the same positions that Broughton had ordered from the outset. Leading the line, and almost hidden by the straining topsails and forecourse of the next astern, was the two-decker Zeus. She was an elderly seventy-four, a veteran of the Glorious First of June, St Vincent and several smaller actions. Her captain, Robert Rattray, had been in command for three years and was known for his aggressive behaviour in battle, a bulldog tenacity which showed clearly on his square, weathered face. Exactly the kind of captain to take the first searing crash of a broadside when testing the enemy’s line. A seasoned, professional seaman, but with little else in his head but a strong sense of duty and a desire to do battle.

Captain Falcon of the Tanais, the second seventy-four, was quite the opposite. A mournful, untidy-looking man, with hooded, thoughtful eyes, he would be one to follow without question, but would use his imagination as well as his training to explore Rattray’s first approach.

About a mile astern of the Euryalus was the last in the line, the Valorous. Commanded by Captain Rodney Furneaux, a tight-lipped and haughty autocrat, she had proved to be a fast and manoeuvrable vessel under nearly all circumstances, and provided she could maintain her station would be well placed to protect the flagship or run down to assist any of her consorts if they got into difficulties.

Bolitho heard the glass close with its customary snap and turned to touch his hat as Broughton walked towards him.

He said formally, “Wind still from the nor’ west, sir, but freshening.” He saw Broughton’s eyes move slowly along the sweating lines of seamen at the guns. “The new course is sou’ west by west.”

Broughton gave a grunt. “Good. Your gun crews appear to be adequate.”

That was one thing Bolitho had learned. Broughton usually opened the day with some such comment. Like a spur, or a calculated insult.

He replied calmly, “Clear for action in ten minutes or less, sir, and then three broadsides every two minutes.” Broughton studied him thoughtfully. “That is your standard, is it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I have heard of some of your standards. ” Broughton placed his hands on his hips and peered up at the maintop where some marines were exercising with a swivel gun. “I hope our people will remember when the times comes.”

Bolitho waited. There would be more.

The admiral said absently, “When I dined with your brother-in-law at Falmouth he was telling me something of your family background.” He turned and looked hard at Bolitho. “I knew of your brother’s, er, misfortune, of course.” He let it sink in before adding, “How he deserted from the Navy.” He paused, his head slightly on one side.

Bolitho faced him coldly. “He died in America, sir.” It was strange how easily the lie came now. But the resentment was as strong as ever, and he had a sudden mad desire to say something to shock Broughton from his safe, all-powerful pillar. What would he say, for instance, if he knew that Hugh had been killed in action, right there, where he was now standing? At least Broughton’s probing remarks had allowed him to think of Hugh’s death without so much remorse and despair. As his eye moved briefly across Broughton’s shoulder to the broad, orderly quarterdeck, the great double wheel with its attentive helmsman and master’s mate, it was hard to see it as the bloody shambles on that day Hugh had died. Using his own body as a shield to save his son Adam, who was still completely ignorant of his father’s presence, as men had screamed and died in the din of battle.

Broughton said, “And all over a duel, I believe? Could never understand the stupid attitude of people who made duelling a crime. Do you pride yourself as a swordsman, by any chance?” Bolitho forced a smile, “My sword has often been a comfort in battle, sir.” He could not see where this line of talk was leading.

The admiral showed his teeth. They were very small and even.

“A duel is for gentlemen.” He shook his head. “But as there seem to be so many in Parliament today who are neither swordsmen nor gentlemen, I suppose we must expect this sort of obstruction.” He glanced towards the poop. “I will take a walk for half an hour.” Bolitho watched him go up the poop ladder. The admiral’s daily walk. It never varied either.

He let his mind return to Broughton’s plan of battle. Perhaps the answer lay with him rather than the plan. Too much rigidity.

But surely he would have learned from experience that in many cases ships were called to give battle when scattered and without any set order at all? At St Vincent where Broughton had actually fought, Commodore Nelson had once again confounded the critics by dashing into the attack without regard for any set strat-agem. Bolitho had mentioned it to Broughton and had gained one further clue to his unwavering attitude.

He had snapped, “Nelson, Nelson, that’s all I hear! I saw him in his damned Captain, although I was busy myself at the time.

More luck on his side than any sense of timing.” He had become very cool with equal suddenness. “Give your people a plan, something to learn and learn until they can act as one in total darkness or the middle of a typhoon. Keep at them without rest until they can think of nothing else. You can keep your damned heroics for my part. Give me a plan, one that is well tried, and I’ll give you a victory!”

Bolitho thought back over that one brief insight. Broughton was actually jealous. Senior to Nelson, an officer he did not even know except by reputation, with influence and breeding to support his every move, and yet he was jealous for all that.

It did not add much to Bolitho’s knowledge of his superior, but it did make him seem more human.

Broughton had never mentioned Taylor’s death or the savage flogging since weighing anchor. Even at the hasty conference after the punishment he had made little comment, but for one about maintaining discipline at all times.

In fact, as the wine had been passed around the assembled captains in the same cabin where Taylor had heard his terrible fate, Broughton had been completely at ease, even jocular as he had told the others of the sailing orders for Gibraltar.

Bolitho could recall seeing the Auriga’s longboat grounding on a sandbar, the marines digging a hasty grave for Taylor’s corpse, working fast in the sunlight to beat a rising tide. Taylor would rot in an unmarked grave. A martyr, or a victim of circumstances, it was hard to know which.

Once at sea again Bolitho had watched his own ship’s company for any sign of unrest, but the daily routine had kept them too busy perhaps for recriminations or argument. The squadron had sailed without further incident and with no fresh news of the troubles at the Nore.

He shaded his eyes to peer at the glittering horizon line.

Somewhere out there, far to windward and visible only to the masthead lookouts, was the ship in question, the Auriga, once again under the command of her original captain, Brice. Bolitho had made it his business to summon him aboard just prior to sailing and had given him a warning as to his behaviour. He had known it to be useless even as he was speaking to him.

Brice had stood quite still in his cabin, his hat beneath his arm, his pale eyes avoiding Bolitho’s until he had finished.

Then he had said softly, “Vice-Admiral Broughton does not accept that there was a mutiny. Neither, sir, did you when you came aboard my ship. The fact that I am being returned to my rightful command surely proves that whatever wrongs were committed were by others.” He had smiled slightly. “One who escaped, and the other who was treated with more leniency than might be expected in these dangerous times.” Bolitho had walked around the table, feeling the other man’s hate behind the mask of quiet amusement, knowing his own feelings were little better.

“Now hear my words, Brice, and remember them. We are going on a special mission, maybe an important one for England. You will do well to change your ways if you wish to see your home-land again.”

Brice had stiffened. “There’ll be no more uprisings in my ship, sir!”

Bolitho had forced a smile. “I was not referring to your own people. If you betray your trust once more, I will personally see that you are brought to a court-martial, and that you receive the justice you so obviously enjoy imposing on others!” Bolitho walked to the nettings and glanced down at the water leaping against the tall side. The squadron was about one hundred miles north-west of Cape Ortegal, the very corner of Spain.

If ships had minds of their own, would Euryalus be remembering it too? he wondered. It was here that she fought under the French flag against Bolitho’s old Hyperion. Where her decks ran scarlet and the battle raged without let-up until its grisly conclusion. But maybe ships did not care after all. Men died, crying for half-remembered wives and children, for mothers, or for their comrades in hell. Others lived on in a maimed existence ashore, forgotten by the sea and avoided by many of those who could have helped them.

But the ships sailed on, impatient perhaps with the fools who manned them.

“Sir! Zeus is signalling!” The midshipman of the watch was suddenly galvanised into action. He jumped into the shrouds, his big telescope already to his eye. “Zeus to Flag. Strange sail bearing nor’ west.” He looked down at Bolitho, his face shining with excitement.

Bolitho nodded. “Excellent, Mr Tothill. That was quickly done.” He glanced round and saw Keverne hurrying towards him.

The signal probably meant nothing, but after drills and dragging uncertainty any sort of change was welcome. It had swept his other thoughts away like cobwebs.

“Sir?” Keverne eyed him intently.

“Dismiss the hands from drills and prepare to set the t’gallants on her.” He looked aloft, his eyes watering in the crisp breeze.

“The royals too if the wind gets no worse.” As he hurried away Broughton reappeared on the quarterdeck, his face very calm.

Bolitho said, “Sail to the nor’ west, sir.” He saw the brightness in the admiral’s eyes and guessed how hard it was for him to appear so controlled.

Broughton pursed his lips. “Signal the Auriga to intercept.”

“Aye, sir.”

Bolitho beckoned to the signal midshipman and could almost feel Broughton’s impatience at his back. Only the previous day he had sent the other frigate, Coquette, on ahead at full speed to reach Gibraltar with his despatches, and to make sure there was no change in plans for his squadron. With Auriga to windward and the little sloop Restless sweeping downwind in the hopes of snatching a French or Spanish fisherman for information, it had left his resources very strained.

The boy reported, “Auriga has acknowledged, sir.” Bolitho could picture the scene on the frigate’s deck as the distant flags had been studied, probably from some swaying yard far above the sea, by another midshipman like Tothill.

He could well imagine Brice’s feelings at this moment too. A chance to further his position with the admiral and before the whole squadron would not be taken lightly. And heaven help any poor wretch who displeased him at such a time.

He took the big glass and climbed up beside the midshipman in the weather shrouds, and trained it towards the horizon. The frigate leapt into view, her topsails already filling as she went about and dashed towards the newcomer. He could imagine the sounds of spray cascading over her bowsprit, the scream of blocks and rigging as more, and more canvas thundered out from her yards to contain and hold the wind for her own power.

It was easy to forget men like Brice at such times, he thought vaguely. Auriga was a beautiful little ship, a living, vital thing as she heeled to the wind and buried her lee gunports in foam.

He returned to the deck and said, “Permission to give chase, sir?”

For another small moment he shared a common understanding and excitement with Broughton. Saw his jaw tighten, the gleam in his eyes.

“Yes.” He stood aside as Bolitho raised his hand to Keverne.

Then he added, “All ships will, however, retain their stations.

See to it.”

As the signal soared up the yards and broke to the wind Bolitho saw the other ships hoist their acknowledgements as one. Every captain must have been waiting for this. Praying for something to break the monotony and the uncertain watchfulness which had dogged them since Falmouth.

Overhead the growing spread of canvas cracked and boomed, the great yards bending like bows until they looked as if they would tear free from the masts. The hull tilted still further, so that men hastening about the upper deck seemed to be leaning at strange and unreal angles, while more, and still more, canvas bellied out to the wind.

On the lower gundeck the ports would be completely submerged, and Bolitho could hear the pumps already clanking as the hull took the strain and accepted it.

But they were overhauling the nearest seventy-four, and through the straining criss-cross of rigging and shrouds he could see the officers on the Tanais’s quarterdeck peering astern at the flagship as she begin to creep up on them.

Broughton said testily, “Signal Tanais to make more sail, dammit!” As he walked away to the opposite side Bolitho heard Partridge mutter, “Her’ll ’ave the sticks out of ’er if she does, by God!” Bolitho snapped, “Mr Tothill, get to the masthead and double quick! I need some good eyes up there today.” He made himself walk slowly back and forth on the weather side, hating the slow pace of the squadron as he tried to picture what the other ship was doing.

“Deck there! Zeus is signalling, sir! Enemy in sight! ” His voice was shrill with excitement. “A frigate, steering due east!” Keverne rubbed his hands. “Running for Vigo, I shouldn’t wonder.”

He looked unusually tense, and Bolitho guessed he was probably picturing what might have been with himself commanding Auriga instead of Brice.

He replied, “There’s a good chance we can head her off, Mr Keverne.”

Brice had the wind almost under his coat-tails and was fairly flying across the path of his slow and ponderous consorts. The Frenchman could either try to outpace him or go about and lose valuable time trying to beat out to sea again. If he chose the latter course, one of the ships in the line might even get an opportunity . . .

He jerked round as Broughton rapped, “God damn the Valorous! ” He threw his telescope to a seaman. “Now she’s falling back.”

The signal soared aloft immediately to Euryalus’s yards. Make more sail. But even as the acknowledgement broke from the two-decker Bolitho saw her fore topgallant sail disintegrate like ashes as it tore itself to fragments in the wind.

Bolitho said, “Shall I signal Zeus to chase independently, sir?

She’s got a good lead.” He knew the answer already, saw Broughton’s mouth tightening as he added, “The Frenchman might still slip away from Auriga. ”

“No.” One word, with nothing to show disappointment or anger.

Bolitho looked away. The Frenchman would be surprised that there was no change in the squadron’s line of advance. He was somewhere right ahead of the column, hidden by Zeus’s tall pyramid of sails, and moving very fast. But Auriga had crossed over now, and he could see her speeding downwind, every sail set and drawing its full as she tore towards the enemy. As she lifted and smashed down across the serried lines of whitecaps he could see the sunlight playing on her bared copper, and her sleek hull which shone in the glare like glass.

Zeus edged slightly out of line and Bolitho held his breath as he watched the French frigate sway momentarily into view. About five miles away. It did not seem possible that they had converged on her so quickly.

Auriga would be about three miles distant, and she had already overreached the other frigate. Bolitho tried to clear his mind, to think what he would do in the enemy’s place. Go about, or try to continue towards the land hidden below that mocking horizon? There was certainly no chance of beating the Auriga on her present course. Yet, if he made a dash for it he was almost sure to run into the arms of a British patrol along the Portuguese coast. Vigo was the last safe refuge, unless he was prepared to turn and fight.

Broughton said, “Make a general signal. Shorten sail and re-form correct stations.” He eyed Bolitho bleakly. “Auriga can handle the Frog now.”

As the signal was passed and repeated up and down the line Bolitho could almost sense the frustration around him. Four powerful ships, yet because of Broughton’s inflexible rules as impotent as merchantmen.

A dull bang echoed across the water and Bolitho saw a puff of brown smoke drifting towards the French ship. Brice had fired a ranging shot, although it was not possible to see where it fell.

Every glass came up as Keverne said hoarsely, “The Frog’s wearing ship! By God, look at him!” The French captain had mistimed it badly. Bolitho could almost pity him as he put his ship round in an effort to cross the Auriga’s bows. He could see her bared bilge, the sun dancing on her straining sails as the yards swung still further until she was heeling right over in her own spray. A solid thunder of gunfire echoed and re-echoed across the tossing water, and Bolitho imagined Brice’s first broadside smashing into the exposed bilge as he used his advantage of wind and position to follow her round.

Somebody in the Euryalus’s foretop raised a cheer, but otherwise there was complete silence as seamen and marines watched the frigates overlapping, clawing closer and closer to each other, the smoke already whipped free in the wind.

Another ripple of flashes, this time from the Frenchman, but the Auriga’s masts and yards remained intact, whereas the enemy’s canvas was pitted with holes, her main topsail tearing itself to ribbons after the first barrage.

Keverne whispered, “A good prize, I’m thinking. We can do with another frigate anyway.”

It was hard to distinguish what was happening now. The two ships could only be half a cable apart, and getting nearer each minute. More cannon fire, and then the enemy’s mizzen top- gallant pitched down into the rolling smoke, the ripped canvas and rigging following it into the bedlam below.

Broughton said, “She’ll strike soon.”

“The wind’s droppin’, sir.” Partridge kept his voice hushed, as if fearful of breaking the concentration.

Broughton replied. “It does not matter now.” He was smiling.

A new silence had fallen, and across the last three miles which separated the Zeus from the two frigates they could see that the gunfire had ceased and both ships lay locked together.

It was over.

Broughton said softly, “Well, well, Bolitho. What do you have to say about that? ”

Some marines on the forecastle removed their shakos and began to cheer, the cry taken up aboard the Tanais directly ahead.

Bolitho brushed past the admiral and snatched a telescope from its rack as the cheering began to falter and die almost as soon as it was begun. He felt his skin chill as he watched the flag fluttering down from the Auriga’s peak like a wounded bird, to be replaced instantly by another. The same flag which still lifted jauntily above the tattered sails of her adversary. The tricolour of France.

Keverne gasped, “By God, those bastards have struck to the Frogs! They never even tried to fight ’em!” He sounded stunned with disbelief.

The Auriga was already drifting clear of the Frenchman, and there was fresh activity on her deck and yards as she swung slowly downwind and away from the helpless squadron. Through the glass Bolitho could see her marines, their red coats making a patch of colour as they were disarmed and herded below by a French boarding party. Not that a boarding party was necessary, he thought bitterly. The whole of the ship’s company, which seconds before had been fighting so well, had surrendered. Gone over to the enemy. He replaced the glass, unable to hold it because his hand was shaking with both anger and despair.

Without effort he could see the delegates gathered in the little inn at Veryan Bay. Allday and his hidden pistol. The man called Gates. And John Taylor, crucified and maimed because he had tried to help.

Partridge said in a small voice, “No chance of catchin’ ’em now.

They’ll be in Vigo afore dusk.” He looked away, his shoulders slumped. “To see it ’appen like that!” Broughton was still staring at the two frigates, which were already pulling away and spreading more sail.

“You may signal Restless to take station to windward!” He sounded remote, like a stranger. “Then make a general signal to resume original course! He looked at Bolitho. “So there’s an end to your talk of loyalty.” His tone was like a whip.

Bolitho shook his head. “You told me you must understand a captain as much as the ship he commands. I believe you, sir.” He moved his gaze towards the distant Auriga. She seemed to have grown smaller under the alien flag. “Just as I believe that while men like Brice are permitted their authority, such things as we have witnessed today may continue.” Broughton stepped back, as if Bolitho had uttered some terrible obscenity. Then he said, “Captain Brice may have fallen in battle.” He walked aft. “For his sake, I trust that is the case.” Then he vanished into the gloom below the poop.

Lieutenant Meheux said loudly, “Well, there was nothing we could do to stop it. Now, if I could have got my battery to bear we could have given them a lesson in manners.” Several unemployed officers joined in the discussion, and Allday, who had been standing below the poop in case he was needed, glared at them with disgust.

He saw Bolitho pacing slowly back and forth on the weather side, his head lowered in thought. All the rest of them were pretending to console him and themselves, but really they wanted to be reassured and had no idea what the captain was thinking.

But Allday knew, had seen the pain in his grey eyes at the first sight of that hated tricolour. He would be recalling the time he had been made to fight another British ship under an enemy flag, with his own brother in command.

He was feeling Auriga’s shame like his own, and all these empty-headed puppies could talk about was their own blameless part in it.

Allday strode towards Bolitho, hardly realising that his feet had started to move. He saw Bolitho halt, the swift anger in his eyes at being disturbed.

“What is it?” The voice was cold, but Allday was undeterred.

“I was just thinking, Captain.” He paused, gauging the moment. “The Frogs have just got a British frigate, but not by force of arms.”

“Well?” He sounded dangerously calm.

Allday grinned. “I was just looking around while all that was going on.” The grin got wider. “Now this three-decker, for instance. I seem to remember we took her together without too much difficulty in the face of some very angry Frogs.” Bolitho glared at him. “That is a damn stupid comparison to make! If you can think of nothing more useful to say then be good enough to get out of my sight!” His voice was loud enough to make several heads turn in their direction.

Allday walked slowly away, hopeful and at the same time afraid that he had for once mistimed his attempt to help.

Bolitho’s voice halted him.

“Now that you mention it, Allday.” Bolitho dropped his eyes as the other man turned towards him. “It was a fine prize. And still is. Thank you for reminding me. It was wrong I should forget what British seamen can do.”

Allday glanced at the silent lieutenants and smiled gently before sauntering back to his place by the poop ladder.

Bolitho’s voice broke the silence again.

“Very well, Mr Keverne, you may pipe the lower battery to quarters and exercise the crews now that the ports are no longer awash.”

He paused and looked over the nettings so that Keverne had to hurry forward to hear the rest of his words. Even then he was not sure if he was meant to listen.