God and the Sailor we alike adore But only when in danger, not before: The danger o’er, both are alike requited, God is forgotten and the sailor slighted.

JOHN OWEN

1 a touch of L and

EVEN FOR the West Country of England the summer of 1801 was rare with its cloudless blue skies and generous sunlight. In Plymouth, on this bustling July forenoon, the glare was so bright that the ships which seemed to cover the water from the Hamoaze to the Sound itself danced and shimmered to lessen the grimness of their gun-decks and the scars of those which had endured the fury of battle.

A smart gig pulled purposefully beneath the stern of a tall three-decker and skilfully avoided a cumbersome lighter loaded almost to the gills with great casks and barrels of water. The gig’s pale oars rose and fell together, and her crew in their checkered shirts and tarred hats were a credit to her ship and coxswain. The latter was gauging the comings and goings of other harbour craft, but his mind was firmly on the gig’s passenger, Captain Thomas Herrick, whom he had just carried from the jetty.

Herrick was well aware of his coxswain’s apprehension, just as he could sense the tension from the way his gig’s crew carefully avoided his eye as they feathered their blades and made the boat scud across the water like a bright beetle.

It had been a long, tiresome journey from Kent, Herrick’s home, and as the distance from Plymouth had fallen away he had started to fret over what he would discover.

His ship, the seventy-four-gun Benbow, had arrived in Plymouth barely a month back. It was incredible to believe that it was less than three months since the bloody fight itself, the one

which was now called the Battle of Copenhagen. The small Inshore Squadron, of which Benbow was the flagship, had fought with distinction. Everyone had said so, and the Gazette had hinted that but for their efforts “things” might have gone very differently.

Herrick shifted on his thwart and frowned. He did not notice the stroke oarsman flinch under his stare, nor was he conscious of seeing him at all. Herrick was forty-four years old, and had made the hard and treacherous climb to his present appointment with neither influence nor patronage. He had heard it all before, and despised those who spoke of a sea-fight as if it were a kind of umpired contest.

Those sort of folk never saw the carnage, the broken bodies and minds which went with each encounter. The tangle of cordage and splintered timbers and spars which had to be put to rights without so much as a by-your-leave so that the ruin could be restored into a fighting ship and sent where she could be best used.

He glanced around the busy anchorage. Ships taking on stores, others being refitted. His eye rested on a lithe frigate, mastless and riding high above her reflection, uncluttered by guns and men, as she swung to her warps from a slipway. Just launched. He saw the waving hats and arms, the bright flags curling along her empty gunports, her growing confidence like that of a newly dropped colt.

Herrick frowned again. After eight years of constant war with France and her allies they were still short of frigates. Where would this one go? Who would command her and find glory or ignominy?

Herrick turned and looked at the young lieutenant who had come out to collect him with the gig. He must have arrived during his seven precious days in Kent. He was so pale and young, so unsure of himself that Herrick could barely see him as a newly joined midshipman, let alone a lieutenant. But the war had taken so many that the whole fleet seemed to be manned by boys and old men.

It was useless to ask him anything. He was scared of his own shadow.

Herrick glanced up at his square-shouldered coxswain as he steered the boat beneath another tapering bowsprit and glaring figurehead.

This shivering boy posing as a lieutenant had met him at the jetty, doffed his hat and had stammered in one breath, “The first lieutenant’s respects, sir, and the admiral is come aboard.” Thank God the first lieutenant had been there to greet him, Herrick thought grimly. But what was Rear-Admiral Bolitho, an officer he had served in many parts of the world, a man whom he loved more than any other, doing aboard Benbow now?

It was easy to see him in those last moments outside Copenhagen. The smoke, the terrible din of falling spars and the jarring crash of cannon fire, and always Bolitho had been there. Waving them on. Driving them, leading them with all the reckless determination only he could use. Except that Herrick, who carried the pride deep within him of being his greatest friend, knew the real man underneath. The doubts and the fears, the excitement at a challenge, the despair at the waste of life if wrongly cast away.

Their homecoming should have been different for him above all others. This time there was a woman waiting. A beautiful girl who could and would be a reprieve from all which Bolitho had held dear and had previously lost. Bolitho had been going to London, to the Admiralty, and then back again to his home in Cornwall, that big grey house in Falmouth.

The gig straightened up on the last leg of the journey, and Herrick held his breath as he saw his ship stand out from the other anchored vessels, her black and buff tumblehome shining in the sunlight as a personal welcome. Only a professional seaman, and above all her captain, would see beyond the fresh paint and pitch, the blacked-down rigging and neatly furled canvas. The Benbow’s fat hull was almost hemmed in by lighters and moored platforms.

The air vibrated with the din of hammers and saws, and even as he watched another great bundle of new cordage was being swayed aloft to the mizzen topmast, the one which had been shot away in battle. But Benbow was a new ship and had the strength of two older consorts. She had suffered badly, but was out of dock, and within months would be at sea again with her squadron. In spite of his usual caution, Herrick was pleased and proud with what they had done. Being Herrick, it never occurred to him that much of the success had been due to his own inspiration and his tire-less efforts to get Benbow ready for sea.

His eyes rested on the mizzen-mast and the flag which flapped only occasionally from its truck. The flag of a Rear-Admiral of the Red, but to Herrick it meant so much more. At least he had been able to share it with his new wife, Dulcie. Herrick had been married such a short time, and yet as he had given his sister away in marriage to the beanpole Lieutenant George Gilchrist, just four days back in Maidstone, he had felt like a husband of long years standing. He smiled, his round, homely face losing its stern-ness as he thought about it. His own ability to offer advice on marriage!

The bowman stood up with his boathook at the ready.

Benbow had risen right above the gig as Herrick’s mind had drifted away. Close alongside he could see the repaired timbers, the paint which now hid the blood from the scuppers. As if the ship and not her people had been bleeding to death.

The oars were tossed and Tuck, the coxswain, removed his hat. Their eyes met and Herrick gave a quick smile. “Thank you, Tuck. Smart turnout.”

They understood each other.

Herrick looked up at the entry port and prepared himself for the thousandth time. Once he had never believed he would ever hold his rank of lieutenant. The step from wardroom to quarter-

deck, and now to being the flag-captain to one of the finest sea-officers alive, was even harder to accept.

Like the new house in Kent. Not a cottage, but a real house, with a full admiral living nearby and several rich merchants too.

Dulcie had assured him, “Nothing is too good for you, dear Thomas. You’ve worked for it, you deserve far more.” Herrick sighed. Most of the money had been hers anyway.

How had he ever managed to be so lucky, to find his Dulcie?

“Marines! At- ten-shun!”

A cloud of pipeclay floated above the stolid faces and black shakoes as the muskets banged to the present, and, as the air cringed to the twitter of the boatswains’ calls, Herrick removed his hat to the quarterdeck and to Wolfe, his towering first lieutenant, the most ungainly, but certainly one of the best seamen Herrick had ever met.

The din faded away, and Herrick looked at the side party with sadness. So many new faces to learn. But now he only saw the others who had died in the battle or were suffering the pain and humiliation of some naval hospital.

But Major Clinton of the marines was still here. And beyond his scarlet shoulder Herrick saw old Ben Grubb, the sailing-master. He was lucky to have so many seasoned hands to weld the recruits and pressed men into some kind of company.

“Well, Mr Wolfe, maybe you can tell me why the admiral’s flag is aloft?”

He fell in step with the lieutenant with the two wings of bright ginger hair poking from beneath his hat like studding-sails.

It was as if he had never been away. As if the ship had swallowed him up and the distant shore with its shimmering houses and embrazured batteries was of no importance.

Wolfe said in his flat, harsh voice, “The admiral came off shore yesterday afternoon, sir.” He shot out a massive fist and pointed at some newly coiled halliards. “What’s that lot? Bloody birds’-nests?” He swung away from the transfixed sailor and bellowed, “Mr Swale, take this idiot’s name! He should be a damned weaver, not a seaman!”

Wolfe added, breathing hard, “Most of the new hands are like that. The sweepings of the assizes, with a sprinkling of trained ones.” He tapped his big nose. “Got them off an Indiaman. They said they were free from service in a King’s ship. They said they had the papers to prove it too.”

Herrick gave a wry smile. “But their ship had sailed by the time you sorted things out, Mr Wolfe?” Like his first lieutenant, Herrick had little sympathy with all the prime seamen who were exempt from naval service merely because they were employed by John Company or some harbour authority. England was at war. They needed seamen, not cripples and criminals. Every day it got harder. Herrick had heard that the press-gangs and undaunted recruiting parties were working many miles from the sea now.

He glanced up at the towering mainmast and its imposing spread of rigging and crossed yards. It was not difficult to remember the smoke and the punctured sails. The marines in the maintop yelling and cheering, firing swivels and muskets in a world gone mad.

They walked into the coolness of the poop, each ducking between the heavy deckhead beams.

Wolfe said, “The admiral came alone, sir.” He hesitated, as if to test their relationship. “I thought he might bring his lady.” Herrick eyed him gravely. Wolfe was huge and violent and had seen service in everything from a slaver to a collier brig. He was not the kind of man to be patient with a laggard or allow time for personal weaknesses. But neither was he a gossip.

Herrick said simply, “I had hopes too. By God, if ever a man deserved or needed—”

The rest of his words were cut dead as the marine sentry outside the great cabin tapped his musket smartly on the deck and shouted, “Flag-Captain, sah! ” Wolfe grinned and turned aside. “Damned bullocks!” The door was opened swiftly by little Ozzard, Bolitho’s personal servant. He was an oddity. Although a good servant, he was said to have been an even better lawyer’s clerk, but had fled to the Navy rather than face trial or, as some had unkindly hinted, a quick end on a hangman’s halter.

The great cabin, divided by white screens from the dining and sleeping quarters, had been freshly painted, and the deck was once more covered by checkered canvas with no hint of the battle scars underneath.

Bolitho had been leaning out of a stern window, and as he turned to greet his friend, Herrick felt relieved that there was apparently no change. His gold-laced rear-admiral’s coat lay carelessly across a chair, and he wore only his shirt and breeches. His black hair, with the one loose lock above his right eye, and his ready smile made him seem more like a lieutenant than a flag-officer.

They held hands momentarily, compressing the memories and the pictures into a few seconds.

Bolitho said, “Some hock, Ozzard.” He pulled a chair for Herrick. “Sit you down, Thomas. It is good to see you.” His level grey eyes held on to his friend for a moment longer.

Herrick was sturdier, his face a mite rounder, but that would be his new wife’s care and cooking. There were a few touches of grey on his brown hair, like frost on a strong bush. But the clear blue eyes which could be so stubborn and so hurt were the same.

They touched their goblets and Bolitho added, “What is your state of readiness, Thomas?”

Herrick almost choked on his wine. Readiness? A month in port, and two of the squadron’s strength lost forever during the battle! Even their smallest two-decker, the sixty-four-gun Odin, under the command of Captain Inch, had barely reached safety at the Nore, so deep by the bows had she been. Here in Plymouth, the Indomitable and the Nicator, seventy-fours like Benbow, were in the throes of repair.

He said carefully, “Nicator will be ready for sea soon, sir. The rest of the squadron should be reporting readiness by September, if we can bribe some help from these dockyard thieves!”

“And Styx, what of her?”

Even as he asked of the squadron’s one surviving frigate, Bolitho saw the faraway look in his friend’s eyes. They had lost their other frigate and a sloop-of-war. Wiped away, like footprints on a beach at high water.

Herrick allowed Ozzard to refill the goblet before answering.

“Styx is working night and day, sir. Captain Neale seems able to inspire miracles from his people.” He added apologetically, “I have only just returned from Kent, sir, but I shall be able to give you a full report by the end of the day.” Bolitho had risen to his feet, as if the chair could no longer contain his restlessness.

“Kent?” He smiled. “Forgive me, Thomas. I forgot. I am too full of my own problems to ask about your visit. How did the wedding go?”

As Herrick related the events which culminated in the marriage of his sister to his one-time first lieutenant, Bolitho found his mind moving away again.

When he had returned to Falmouth after the battle at Copenhagen he had been happier, more content than he could believe possible. To have survived had been one thing. To arrive at the Bolitho home with his nephew, Adam Pascoe, and his coxswain and friend, John Allday, had been crowned by the girl who had been waiting there for him. Belinda; he still found it hard to speak her name without fear that it was another dream, a ruse to taunt him back to hard reality.

The squadron, the battle, everything had seemed to fade as they had explored the old house like strangers. Made plans together. Had vowed not to waste a single minute while Bolitho was released from duty.

There was even a rumour of peace in the air. After all the years of war, blockade and violent death, it was said that secret negotiations were being made in London and Paris to stop the fighting, to gain a respite without loss of honour to either side.

Even that had seemed possible in Bolitho’s new dreamlike world.

But within two weeks a courier had come from London with orders for Bolitho to report to the Admiralty to visit his old superior and mentor, Admiral Sir George Beauchamp, who had given him command of the Baltic Inshore Squadron in the first place.

Even then Bolitho had seen the courier’s dramatic despatch as nothing more than a necessary interruption.

Belinda had walked with him to the carriage, her eyes laughing, her body warm against his as she had told him of her plans, what she would do to prepare for their marriage while he was in London. She would be staying at the squire’s house until they were finally married, for there were always loose tongues in a seaport like Falmouth, and Bolitho wanted nothing to spoil it. He disliked Lewis Roxby, the squire, intensely, and could not imagine what his sister Nancy had seen in him when she had married him. But he could be relied on to keep her entertained and occupied with his horses and his spreading empire of farms and villages.

Behind his back, Roxby’s servants called him the King of Cornwall.

The shock had really hit Bolitho when he had been ushered into Admiral Beauchamp’s chambers. He had always been a small, frail man, seemingly weighed down as much by his epaulettes and gold lace as the tremendous responsibility he held and the interest he retained wherever a British man-of-war sailed on the King’s service. Hunched at his littered table, Beauchamp had been unable to rise and greet him. In his sixties, he had looked a hundred years old, and only his eyes had held their fire and alertness.

“I will not waste time, Bolitho. You have little to squander, I daresay. I have none left at all.”

He was dying with each hour and every tight breath, and Bolitho had been both moved and fascinated by the intensity of the little man’s words, the enthusiasm which had always been his greatest quality.

“Your squadron performed with excellence.” A hand like a claw had dragged blindly over the litter of papers on the table.

“Good men lost, but others rising to replace them.” He had nodded as if the words were too heavy for him. “I am asking a lot of you. Probably too much, I don’t know. You have heard about the peace proposals?” His deepset eyes had caught the reflected sunlight from the tall windows. Like lights in a skull. “The rumours are true. We need peace, a peace moulded within the necessity of hypocrisy, to give us time, a breathing space before the final encounter.”

Bolitho had asked quietly, “You do not trust them, sir?”

“Never!” The word had drained the strength from him, and it had taken several moments before Beauchamp had continued,

“The French will force the most advantageous terms for a settle-ment. To obtain them they are already filling their channel ports with invasion craft and barges, and the troops and artillery to fill them. Bonaparte hopes to frighten our people into a covenant advantageous only to him. When his wounds are healed, his ships and regiments replenished, he will tear up the treaty and attack us. There will be no second chance this time.” After another pause, Beauchamp had said in a dull voice, “We must give our people confidence. Show them we can still attack as well as defend. It is the only way we’ll even the odds at the tables. For years we’ve driven the French back into their ports or fought them to surrender. Blockade and patrol, line-of-battle or single ship actions, it is what has made our Navy great. Bonaparte is a soldier, he does not understand these matters, and will take no advice from those who know better, thank God.” His voice had grown weaker, and Bolitho had almost decided to call for assistance for the small, limp figure at the table.

Then Beauchamp had jerked his body upright and had snapped, “We need a gesture. Of all the young officers I have watched and guided up the ladder of advancement, you have never failed me.” A wizened finger had wagged at him, like part of a memory of the man Bolitho had recalled so vividly from their first meeting. “Well, not in matters of duty anyway.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Beauchamp had not heard him. “Get as many of your ships to sea as soon as possible. I have written instructions that you are to assume overall command of the blockading squadron off Belle Ile. Further vessels will be obtained for your convenience just as soon as my despatches are delivered to the port admirals.” He had fixed Bolitho with an unwinking stare. “I need you at sea. In Biscay.

I know I am asking everything, but then, I have given all I have to offer.”

The picture of the high-ceilinged room at the Admiralty, the view from the windows of bright carriages, colourful gowns and scarlet uniforms seemed to blur as Bolitho’s mind came back to the cabin in Benbow.

He said, “Admiral Sir George Beauchamp is ordering me to sea, Thomas. No arguments, minimum delays. Unfinished repairs, short-handed, outstanding powder and shot, I shall need to know everything to the last detail. I suggest a conference of all the captains, and I shall draft a letter to Captain Inch which must be sent immediately by courier to his ship at Chatham.” Herrick stared at him. “It sounds urgent, sir.”

“I—I am not sure.” Bolitho recalled Beauchamp’s words. I need you at sea. He looked at Herrick’s troubled face. “I am sorry to burst into your new happiness like this.” He shrugged. “And to Biscay of all places.”

Herrick asked gently, “When you went back to Falmouth, sir . . .”

Bolitho looked through the stern windows and watched a local bumboat edging towards the Benbow’s counter. Food and drink to be examined and bartered for. The small luxuries in a sailor’s life.

He replied, “The house was empty. It was as much my fault as anyone’s. Belinda had gone away with my sister and her husband. My brother-in-law wanted to show her a newly purchased estate in Wales.”

He swung round, unable to conceal the bitterness, the despair.

“After the Baltic and that hell at Copenhagen, who would have expected I should be sent to sea again within weeks?” He looked around the quiet cabin as if listening for those lost sounds of battle. The despairing cries of the wounded, the jubi-lant cheers of the Danish boarders as they had swarmed up through these very stern windows to die on Major Clinton’s bloodied bayonets.

“How will she see it, Thomas? What use are words like duty and honour to a lady who has already given and lost so much?” Herrick watched him, scarcely daring to breathe. He could see it all exactly. Bolitho hurrying back to Falmouth, preparing his explanations, how he would describe his obligations to Beauchamp even if it turned out to be a fruitless gesture.

Beauchamp had given his health in the war against France.

He had selected young men to replace older ones whose minds had been left behind by a war which had expanded beyond their imagination.

He had offered Bolitho his first chance to command a squadron. Now he was dying, his work still unfinished.

Herrick knew Bolitho better than himself. So that was why Bolitho had come to the ship. The house had been empty and with no way of telling Belinda Laidlaw what had been decided.

“She’ll despise me, Thomas. Someone else should have gone in my place. Rear-admirals, especially junior ones, are two a penny.

What am I? Some kind of god?”

Herrick smiled. “She’ll not think anything like that, and you know it! We both do.”

“Do we?” Bolitho walked past him, his hand brushing his shoulder as if to reassure himself. “I wanted to stay. But I needed to do Beauchamp’s bidding. I owe him that much.” It had been like that old dream again. The house empty but for the servants, the wall above the sea lined with wild flowers and humming with insects. But the principal players were not there to enjoy it. Not even Pascoe, and that was almost as unnerving. He had received a letter of appointment to another ship within hours of Bolitho leaving for London.

He smiled even as he fretted about it. The Navy was desperate for experienced officers, and Adam Pascoe was equally eager to take the first opportunity which would carry him to his goal, a command of his own. Bolitho pushed the anxiety from his mind. Adam was just twenty-one. He was ready. He must stop worrying about him.

The sentry’s muffled voice came through the door. “Admiral’s coxswain, sah! ”

Allday stepped into the cabin and smiled broadly at Bolitho.

To Herrick he gave a cheerful nod. “Captain Herrick, sir.” He laid a large canvas bag on the deck.

Bolitho slipped into his uniform coat and allowed Ozzard to pull his queue over the gold-edged collar. Only one good thing had happened, and he had almost forgotten it.

“I shall shift my flag to Styx, Thomas. The sooner I contact my other ships off Belle Ile the better, I think.” He dragged a long envelope from inside his coat and handed it to the astonished Herrick. “From their lordships, Thomas. To take effect as from noon tomorrow.” He nodded to Allday who tipped a great scarlet broad-pendant on to the deck like a carpet. “You, Captain Thomas Herrick of His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Benbow at Plymouth will take upon yourself and assume the appointment of Acting-Commodore of this squadron with all direct responsibilities thereof.” He thrust the envelope into Herrick’s hard palm and wrung the other one warmly. “My God, Thomas, I feel a mite better to see you so miserable!”

Herrick swallowed hard. “Me, sir? Commodore? ” Allday was grinning. “Well done, sir!” Herrick was still staring, his eyes on the red pendant at his feet.

“With my own flag-captain? Who, I mean what . . .” Bolitho signalled for some more wine. His heart still ached as painfully as before and his sense of failure no less evident, but the sight of his friend’s confusion had helped considerably. This was their world. That other existence of marriage plans and security, talk of peace and future stability were alien here.

“I am certain all will be explained in your despatches from London, Thomas.” He watched Herrick’s mind grappling with it and then accepting it as a reality. The Navy taught you that if nothing else. Or you went under. “Think how proud Dulcie will be!”

Herrick nodded slowly. “I suppose so.” He shook his head.

“All the same. Commodore.” He looked steadily at Bolitho, his eyes very blue. “I hope it’ll not steer us too far apart, sir.” Bolitho was moved and turned away to hide his emotion.

How typical of Herrick to think of that first. Not of his right and just promotion, long overdue, but of what it might mean to each of them. Personally.

Allday sauntered to the two swords on the cabin bulkhead, suddenly engrossed in their appearance and condition. The bril-liant presentation sword from the people of Falmouth as recognition of Bolitho’s achievements in the Mediterranean and at the Nile. The other sword, without shine or lustre, outdated but finely balanced, seemed shabby by comparison. But neither the presentation blade, with all its gold and silver, nor a hundred like it, could equal the value of the older one. The Bolitho sword which appeared in several of those family portraits at Falmouth, and which Allday had seen in the press of many a battle, was beyond price.

For once even Allday was unable to accept the sudden orders for sea with his usual philosophy. He had not stepped on shore this time for more than a dog watch, and now they were off again.

He had already been fuming at the unfairness and stupidity which had prevented Bolitho from receiving a proper reward after Copenhagen. Sir Richard Bolitho. It would have just the right ring to it, he thought.

But no, those buggers at the Admiralty had deliberately avoided doing what was proper. He clenched his big fists as he looked at the swords. It was buzzing through the fleet that Nelson had received much the same treatment, so that was some consolation. Nelson had raised all their hearts when he had pretended not to see his superior officer’s signal to break off the action. It was so like the man, what made the Jacks love him and the admirals who never went to sea loathe his very name.

Allday sighed and thought of the girl he had helped to rescue from the wrecked carriage just a few months ago. To think that Bolitho might still lose her because of a few stupid written orders was beyond his understanding.

“A toast to our new commodore.” Bolitho glanced at the goblets. The first lieutenant had come aft, his head bowed beneath the deckhead, while Grubb, the master, feet well apart to pro-portion his considerable weight, was already contemplating the goblet which looked like a thimble in his hand.

Herrick said, “Allday, come here. Under the circumstances, I’d like you to join us.”

Allday wiped his hands on his smart nankeen breeches and mumbled, “Well, thankee, sir.”

Bolitho raised his goblet. “To you, Thomas. To old friends, and old ships.”

Herrick smiled gravely. “It’s a good toast, that one.” Allday drank the wine and withdrew into the shadows of the great cabin. Herrick had wanted him to share it. More than that, he had wanted the others to know it.

Allday slipped out of a small screen door and made his way forward towards the sunshine of the upper deck.

They had come a long way together, while others had been less fortunate. As their numbers grew fewer so the tasks seemed to get harder, he thought. Now Bolitho’s flag would soon be in the Bay of Biscay. A new collection of ships, a different puzzle for the rear-admiral to unravel.

But why the Bay? There were ships and men a-plenty who had been doing that bloody blockade for years, until their hulls had grown weed as long as snakes. No, for Beauchamp to order it, and for Richard Bolitho to be selected for the work, it had to be hard, there was no second way round it.

Allday walked into the sunlight and squinted up at the flag which curled from the mizzen.

“I still say he should be Sir Richard!” The young lieutenant on watch considered ordering him about his affairs and then recalled what he had been told of the admiral’s coxswain. Instead, he moved to the opposite side of the quarterdeck.

When the anchorage was eventually plunged into darkness, with only the riding lights and occasional beam from the shore to divide sea from land, even the Benbow felt to be resting.

Exhausted from their constant work aloft and below, her people lay packed in their hammocks like pods in some sealed cavern.

Beneath the lines of hammocks the guns stood quietly behind their ports, dreaming perhaps of those times when they had shaken the life from the air and made the world cringe with their fury.

Right aft in the great cabin Bolitho sat at his desk, a lantern spiralling gently above him as the ship pulled and tested her cables.

To most of the squadron, and to many of Benbow’s people, he was a name, a leader, whose flag they obeyed. Some had served with him before and were proud of it, proud to be able to give him his nickname which none of the new hands would know.

Equality Dick. There were others who had created their own image of the young rear-admiral, as if by expanding it they would increase their own immortality and fame. There were a few, a very few, like the faithful Ozzard who was dozing like a mouse in his pantry, who saw Bolitho’s moods in the early morning or at the end of a great storm or sea-chase. Or Allday, who had been drawn to him when on the face of things he should have had their first meeting marred by the hatred and humiliation of a press-gang.

Herrick, who had fallen asleep over the last pile of signed reports from the other captains, had known him at the height of excitement and at the depths of despair. Perhaps he better than any other would have recognized the Richard Bolitho who sat poised at his desk, the pen held deliberately above the paper, his mind lost to everything but the girl he was leaving behind.

Then with great care he began. “My dearest Belinda . . .”

RICHARD BOLITHO lay back in a chair and waited for Allday to finish shaving him. Herrick was standing by the screen door, just out of his line of sight, while around and above them the Benbow’s hull and decks quivered and echoed to the clatter of repairs.

Herrick was saying, “I’ve informed Captain Neale that you will be shifting your flag to Styx this forenoon, sir. He seems uncommon pleased about it.”

Bolitho glanced at Allday’s engrossed features as he worked the razor skilfully around his chin. Poor Allday, he obviously dis-approved of the move to a cramped frigate after the comparative luxury of the flagship, just as Herrick mistrusted any other captain’s ability to conduct his affairs.

It was strange how the Navy always managed to weave the threads so finely together. Captain John Neale of the thirty-two-gun Styx had served as a chubby midshipman under Bolitho in his first frigate, in another war. Like Captain Keen who was anchored less than a cable away in the third-rate Nicator, he too had been a midshipman in one of Bolitho’s commands.

He frowned, and wondered when he would hear how Adam Pascoe was progressing, what his appointment was, what manner of captain he now served.

Allday wiped his face carefully and nodded. “All done, sir.” Bolitho washed from a bowl which Allday had placed near the stern windows. No word was said, it was something they had formed over the years. At sea or in harbour, Bolitho disliked wasting time staring at a blank piece of timber while he was preparing himself for another day.

There was so much to do, orders to sign for individual captains, a report of readiness for the Admiralty, approval for the squadron’s mounting dockyard expenses, new appointments to be settled. It would be unfair to leave Herrick with too much unfinished business, he decided.

Herrick remarked, “The mail-boat took your despatches ashore, sir. She’s just returned to her boom.”

“I see.” It was Herrick’s way of telling him that there was no letter from Belinda.

He glanced through one of the windows. The sky was as clear as yesterday’s, but the sea was livelier. He would use the wind to seek out the ships of the blockading squadron where he was to assume control. Off Belle Ile, a key point in a chain of patrols and squadrons which stretched from Gibraltar to the Channel ports. Beauchamp certainly intended that he should be in the centre of things. This particular sector would cover the approaches to Lorient in the north and the vital routes to and from the Loire Estuary to the east. But if it was a stranglehold on the enemy’s trade and resources it could also be a hazard for an unwary British frigate or sloop should she be caught on a lee shore or too interested in a French harbour to notice the swift approach of an attacker.

Bolitho was no stranger to Styx. He had been aboard her several times, and in the Baltic had seen her young captain engage the enemy with the coolness of a veteran.

Bolitho threw down his towel, angry with himself for his dreaming. He must stop going over past events. Think only of what lay ahead, and the ships which would soon be depending on him.

He was a flag-officer now and, like Herrick, he had to accept that promotion was an honour, not some god-given right.

He smiled awkwardly as he realized the others were staring at him.

Allday asked mildly, “Second thoughts, mebbee, sir?”

“About what, damn you?”

Allday rolled his eyes around the big cabin. “Well, I mean, sir, after this the Styx will seem more like a pot o’ paint than a ship! ”

Herrick said, “You get away with murder, Allday. One day you’ll overstep the mark, my lad!” He looked at Bolitho. “All the same, he has a point. You could shift flag to Nicator, and I could take command until—”

Bolitho eyed him impassively. “Old friend, it is no use. For either of us. Today you assume the appointment of commodore and will hoist your broad-pendant accordingly. You will eventually have to select your own flag-captain and attend to the appointment of a new one for Indomitable. ” He tried to parry the thought aside. Another memory.

Indomitable had been in the thick of it at Copenhagen, and it was not until after the order to cease fire that Bolitho had learned that her captain, Charles Keverne, had fallen in the fighting.

Keverne had been Bolitho’s first lieutenant when he had been a flag-captain like Herrick. Links in a chain. As each one broke, the chain got shorter and tighter.

Bolitho continued sharply, “And I cannot moon about here like a sixth lieutenant. The decisions are not ours.” Feet clattered in the passageway, and he knew that, like himself, Herrick was very conscious of these precious moments. Soon there would be the busy comings and goings of officers for orders, senior officials from Plymouth to be flattered and coaxed into greater efforts to finish the repairs. Yovell, his clerk, would have more letters to copy and be signed, Ozzard would need to be told what to pack, what to leave aboard the Benbow until . . . he frowned. Until when?

Herrick turned quickly as the sentry shouted the arrival of the first lieutenant.

“I am needed, sir.” He sounded wretched.

Bolitho gripped his hand. “I am sorry I’ll not be here when your broad-pendant breaks. But if I have to go, I’d like to go with haste.”

Wolfe appeared in the doorway. “Beg pardon, sir, but there’s a visitor coming aboard.” He was looking at Bolitho who felt his heart give a great leap. It fell just as quickly as Wolfe said flatly,

“Your flag-lieutenant is here, sir.” Herrick exclaimed, “Browne?”

Allday hid a grin. “Browne with an ‘e.’”

“Send him aft.” Bolitho sat down again.

Lieutenant the Honourable Oliver Browne had been thrust upon him as flag-lieutenant by Beauchamp. Instead of the empty-minded aide he had appeared at first meeting, Browne had proved himself invaluable as adviser to a newly appointed rear-admiral, and later as a friend. When the battered ships had returned from the Baltic, Bolitho had allowed Browne a choice. Return to his more civilized surroundings and duties in London, or resume as his flag-lieutenant.

When Browne entered the cabin he looked unusually dishevelled and weary.

Herrick and Wolfe hastily left the cabin, and Bolitho said,

“This is unexpected.”

The lieutenant sank down into a proffered chair, and as his cloak fell aside Bolitho saw the dark stains on his breeches, sweat and leather. He must have ridden like a madman.

Browne said huskily, “Sir George Beauchamp died last night, sir. He completed his orders for your squadron and then . . .” He gave a shrug. “He was at his table with his maps and charts.” He shook his head. “I thought you should know, sir. Before you sail for Belle Ile.”

Bolitho had learned never to question Browne’s knowledge of things which were supposed to be secret.

“Ozzard. Make some fresh coffee for my flag-lieutenant.” He saw Browne’s tired features light up slightly. “If that is what you intend to be?”

Browne released the cloak from his throat and shook himself.

“Indeed, I was praying for that, sir. I wish nothing more than to get away from London, from the carrion!” Overhead, calls trilled and tackles creaked as more stores and equipment were hoisted up from the lighters alongside.

But down in the cabin it was different. Very still, as Browne described how Beauchamp had died at his table, his signature barely dry on his last despatches.

Browne said evenly, “I have brought those orders direct to you, sir. Had you sailed before I arrived here, it is likely they would never have been put aboard a courier brig and sent after you.”

“You are saying that Sir George’s plan would have been cancelled?”

Browne held a cup of coffee in both hands, his face thoughtful. “Postponed indefinitely. There are, I fear, too many in high places who can see nothing but a treaty with France. Not as the respite which Lord St Vincent and some of the others see it, but as a means to profit and exploit the plunder which an armistice will bring. Any attack on French harbours and shipping with peace so near would be seen by them as a handicap not an advantage.”

“Thank you for telling me.”

Bolitho looked past him at the two swords on the bulkhead.

What did men such as Browne had described know of honour?

Browne smiled. “I thought it was important you should know.

With Sir George Beauchamp alive and in control of future events, your activities on the new station would have made no difference to your security, no matter what hornets’ nest you disturbed.” He looked at Bolitho steadily, his youthful face suddenly mature. “But with Sir George dead there is nobody to defend you if things go wrong. His record of achievements and service will give weight to your instructions and nobody will question them. But should you fail, it will be a scapegoat not a blameless commander who returns here.”

Bolitho nodded. “Not for the first time.” Browne smiled. “After Copenhagen I can believe anything of you, sir, but I am uneasy about the risk this time. Your name is known and toasted from Falmouth to the ale houses of Whitechapel. And so is Nelson’s, but their lordships are not so impressed that they could not hurt him for his impudence at Copenhagen.”

“Tell me.” Bolitho stared at the young lieutenant. His was another world. Intrigue and scheming, influence of fortune and family. No wonder Browne was glad to be quitting the land. The Benbow had given him a taste for excitement.

Browne sounded bitter. “Nelson. Victor of the Nile, hero of Copenhagen, the public’s darling. And now, their lordships intend that he should be appointed to take charge of a new force of recruited landsmen to defend the Channel coast against possible invaders!” He spat out the words angrily. “A set of drunken, good-for-nothing rascals to all accounts! A fine reward for Our Nel!” Bolitho was appalled. He had heard plenty of gossip about Nelson’s contempt for authority, his incredible luck which had so far saved him when others might have expected ruin at a court martial. Browne was only trying to protect him. He had no chance at all if he failed to execute Beauchamp’s plan with complete success.

Bolitho said quietly, “If you are coming with me, I intend to sail on the tide. Tell Allday what you need and he will have it sent over to Styx. Anything else you require will doubtless catch up with you later. With influential friends like yours, it should he easy to arrange.” He held out his hand. “Tell me. What are these orders?”

Browne said, “The French have been gathering invasion craft along their northern ports for months, as you know, sir. By way of intelligence obtained from the Portuguese, it appears that many of the invasion craft are being built, armed and stored in harbours along the coastline of Biscay.” He smiled wryly. “Your new sector, sir. I did not always see eye to eye with Sir George, but he had style, sir, and this plan to destroy an invasion fleet before it can be moved to the Channel has his touch, the mark of the master!” He flushed. “I do beg your pardon, sir. But I still cannot accept he is dead.”

Bolitho turned the heavy folder of instructions over in his hands. Beauchamp’s last strategy worked out to the final detail.

All it needed was the man to translate it into action. Bolitho was moved to realize that Beauchamp must have considered him from the very beginning. There was no choice at all, and never had been.

He said quietly, “I have another letter to write.” He looked around the cabin, the shimmering reflections of the sea along the white deckhead. To trade this for the dash and excitement of a small frigate, to set his collection of vessels against the stronghold of France itself was no mere gesture. Perhaps it was intended for him, like a part of fate. At the beginning of the war, as a very young captain, Bolitho had taken part in the ill-fated attack on Toulon, the attempt by the French royalists to overturn the revolution and reverse the course of history. They had made history well enough, Bolitho thought grimly, but it had ended in bloody disaster.

Bolitho felt a chill at his spine. Maybe everything was decided by fate. Belinda may have thought he was coming back to Falmouth for several months, perhaps longer if peace was indeed signed. In fact, he stared through the stern windows at the anchored ships, she was being protected from further pain. He was not coming back. It had to happen one day. He touched his left thigh, expecting to feel the pain where the musket ball had cut him down. So soon after that? Not a respite, not even a warning.

Bolitho said abruptly, “On second thoughts, I’ll not write a letter, I shall shift to Styx directly. Tell my cox’n, will you?”

Alone at last, Bolitho sat on the bench below the windows and kneaded his eyes with his knuckles until the pain steadied him.

Fate had been kind to him, had even allowed him the touch and the sight of love, something he would hold on to until it was decided even that should vanish.

Herrick appeared in the doorway. “Boat’s alongside, sir.” By the entry port with its side party and scarlet-coated marines Bolitho paused and stared across at the rakish frigate. Her sails were already loosely brailed, and figures moved about her spars and ratlines like insects: impatient to be off, to seek the unreach-able horizon.

Herrick said, “The squadron will be ready to proceed in weeks not months, sir. I’ll not be satisfied until Benbow’s under your orders again.”

Bolitho smiled, the wind plucking at his coat as if to tug him away, and lifting the lock of hair to reveal the livid scar beneath.

“If you should see her, Thomas . . .” He gripped his friend’s hand, unable to continue.

Herrick returned the grasp firmly. “I’ll tell her, sir. You just take care of yourself. Lady Luck can’t be expected to solve everything!”

They stood back from each other and allowed formality to separate them.

As the Benbow’s barge pulled smartly away from the seventy-four’s tall side, Bolitho turned and raised his hand, but Herrick had already merged with the men around him and the ship which had meant so much to both of them.

Bolitho climbed through the companionway and paused to gain his bearings as the frigate took another violent plunge beneath him. All day long it had been the same. Once clear of Plymouth Sound, the Styx had set every stitch of canvas to take full advantage of a stiffening north-easterly. Although Bolitho had remained for most of the day in the frigate’s cabin going carefully through his written orders and making notes for later use, he had been constantly reminded of the agility and the exuberance of a small ship.

Captain Neale had used the friendly wind under his coat-tails to put his people through every kind of sail drill. All afternoon the decks had quivered to the slap and bang of bare feet, the urgent voices of petty officers and lieutenants rising above the din to create order out of chaos. Neale was no better off than any other captain. Many of his trained men had been promoted and moved to other vessels. The remaining skilled hands had been thinly spread amongst the new ones, some of whom were still so shocked at being snatched by the press or hauled from the comparative safety of the local jails that they were too terrified to venture up the madly vibrating ratlines without a few blows to encourage them.

He saw Neale with his taciturn first lieutenant leaning at the weather side of the quarterdeck, their hair plastered across their faces, their eyes everywhere as they searched for flaws in the patterns of sail-handling and quickness to respond to orders. Later on such failings could lose lives, even the ship. Neale had grown well with his profession, although it was not difficult to see him as the thirteen-year-old midshipman Bolitho had once discovered under his command. He saw Bolitho and hurried to greet him.

“I shall be shortening sail presently, sir!” He had to shout above the hiss and surge of sea alongside. “But we’ve made a good run today!”

Bolitho walked to the nettings and held on firmly as the ship plunged forward and down, her tapering jib-boom slicing at the drifting spray like a lance. No wonder Adam yearned so much for a command of his own. As I once did. Bolitho looked up at the bulging canvas, the spread legs of some seamen working out along the swaying length of the main-yard. It was what he missed most. The ability to hold and tame the power of a ship like Styx, to match his skill with rudder and sail against her own wanton desire to be free.

Neale watched him and asked, “I hope we are not disturbing you, sir?”

Bolitho shook his head. It was a tonic, one to drive the anxieties away, to make nonsense of anything beyond here and now.

“Deck there!” The masthead lookout’s voice was shredded by the wind. “Land on th’ weather bow!” Neale grinned impetuously and snatched a telescope from its rack by the wheel. He trained it over the nettings and then handed it to Bolitho.

“There, sir. France.”

Bolitho waited for the deck to lurch up again from a long line of white horses and then steadied the glass on the bearing.

It was getting dark already, but not so much that he could not see the dull purple blur of land. Ushant, with Brest somewhere beyond. Names carved into the heart of any sailor who had sweated out the months in a blockading squadron.

Soon they would alter course and run south-east, deeper and deeper into the Bay of Biscay. That was Neale’s problem, but it was nothing compared with the task he must order his ships to do.

Within a week Beauchamp’s orders would have been acknowledged by the flag-officers concerned. Captains would be rousing their men, laying off courses to rendezvous with their new rear-admiral. A cross on a chart near Belle Ile. And within a month Bolitho would be expected to act, to catch the enemy off balance inside his own defences.

Browne was obviously awed by his ability to discuss the proposed tactics as if success was already an accepted fact. But Browne had been appointed to his position of personal aide in London through his father’s influence, and knew little of the Navy’s harsh methods of training for command. Like most sea-officers, Bolitho had gone to his first ship at the age of twelve. Within a very short time he had been made to learn how to take charge of a longboat and discover an authority he had not known he had possessed.

Laying out a great anchor for kedging, carrying passengers and stores between ship and land, and later leading a boat’s crew in hand-to-hand attacks against pirates and privateers, all had been part of a very thorough schooling for the young officer.

Lieutenant, captain and now rear-admiral, Bolitho felt little different, but accepted that everything had been changed for him.

Now it was not just a question of momentary courage or madness, the ability to risk life and limb rather than reveal fear to the men you led. Nor was it a case of obeying orders, no matter what was happening or how horrible were the scenes of hell around you. Now he must decide the destiny of others, who would live or die depended on his skill, his understanding of the rough facts at his disposal. And there were many more who might depend on that first judgement, even, as Beauchamp had made clear, the country itself.

It was a harsh school, right enough, Bolitho thought. But a lot of good had come from it. The petty tyrants and bullies were fewer now, for braggarts had little to sustain them in the face of an enemy broadside. Adroit young leaders were emerging daily.

He glanced at Neale’s profile. Men like him, who could rouse that vital loyalty when it was most needed.

Apparently unaware of his superior’s scrutiny, Neale said, “We shall change tack at midnight, sir. Close-hauled, it’s likely to be a bit lively.”

Bolitho smiled. Browne was already as sick as a dog in his borrowed cabin.

“We should sight some of our ships tomorrow then.”

“Aye, sir.” Neale turned as a young midshipman struggled across the spray-dashed planking and scribbled quickly on the slate by the wheel. “Oh, this is Mr Kilburne, sir, my signals midshipman.”

The youth, aged about sixteen, froze solid and stared at Bolitho as if he was having a seizure.

Bolitho smiled. “I am pleased to meet you.” As the midshipman still seemed unable to move, Neale added,

“Mr Kilburne has a question for you, sir.” Bolitho grinned. “Don’t play with the boy, Neale. Is your memory so short?” He turned to the midshipman. “What is it?” Kilburne, astonished that he was still alive after being brought face-to-face with his admiral, a young one or not, stammered,

“W—well, sir, we were all so excited when we were told about your coming aboard . . .”

By all he probably meant the ship’s three other midshipmen, Bolitho thought.

Kilburne added, “Is it true, sir, that the first frigate you commanded was the Phalarope? ” Neale said abruptly, “That’s enough, Mr Kilburne!” He turned apologetically to Bolitho. “I am sorry, sir. I thought the idiot was going to ask you something different.” Bolitho could feel the sudden tension. “What is it, Mr Kilburne? I am still all attention.” Kilburne said wretchedly, “I was correcting the signals book, sir.” He darted a frightened glance at his captain, wondering what had suddenly changed everything into a nightmare. “Phalarope is joining the squadron, sir. Captain Emes.” Bolitho tightened his hold of the nettings, his mind wrestling with Kilburne’s words.

Surely he was wrong. But how could he be? There had been nothing published about a new vessel named Phalarope. He looked at Neale. And he had just been remembering him aboard that very ship. It was unnerving.

Neale said awkwardly, “I was surprised too, sir. But I didn’t want to dampen your first night aboard. My officers were looking forward to having you as their honoured guest, although the fare is hardly a banquet.”

Bolitho nodded. “I shall be honoured, Captain Neale.” But his mind still clung to the Phalarope. She must be all of twenty-five years old by now. She had been about six years old when he had taken command of her at Spithead. A ship cursed by cruelty and despair, whose people had been so abused by her previous captain they were ripe for mutiny.

He could remember it all. The topsails and pendants of the French fleet rising above the horizon like mounted knights about to charge. The Battle of the Saintes it was called, and when it had ended in victory Phalarope had been a barely-floating wreck.

“Are you all right, sir?” Neale was looking at him anxiously, his own ship momentarily forgotten.

Bolitho said quietly, “She’s too old for this kind of work. I thought she was finished. The honourable way, not left to rot as a prison hulk or storeship in some dismal harbour.” The Navy was desperately short of frigates, but surely not that desperate?

Neale said helpfully, “I did hear she had been fitting out in Ireland, sir. But I imagined it was for use as guard-ship or accom-modation vessel.”

Bolitho stared out at the advancing lines of jagged whitecaps.

Phalarope. After all this time, so many miles, so many ships and faces. Herrick may have seen the signals book by now. It would mean so much to him too. Bolitho took a sharp breath. And Allday, who had been brought aboard Phalarope as a pressed man like a felon.

He realized that the midshipman was still watching him, his eyes filling his face.

Bolitho touched his arm. “You have nothing to worry about, Mr Kilburne. It was just a shock, that is all. She was a fine ship; we made her something special.”

Neale said, “With respect, sir, you made her that.” Bolitho descended the ladder again and then strode aft towards the marine sentry by the cabin door.

He saw a figure squatting on one of the Styx’s twelve-pounders.

It was gloomy between decks and still too early for wasting lanterns where they were not needed. Had it been pitch dark Bolitho would have known Allday’s sturdy figure. Like an oak.

Always nearby when he was needed. Ready to use his cheek when his courage was to no avail.

He made to stand but Bolitho said quietly, “Rest easy. You’ve heard then?”

“Aye, sir.” Allday nodded heavily. “It’s not right. Not fair.”

“Don’t be an old woman, Allday. You’ve been at sea long enough to know better. Ships come and go. One you served in last year might lie alongside you tomorrow. Another you may have seen in a dozen different ports, or fighting in a hundred fights, yet never set foot aboard, may well be your next appointment.” Allday persisted stubbornly. “S’not that, sir. She were different. They’ve no right to put her in the Bay, she’s too old, an’ I doubt if she ever got over the Saintes. God knows, I never did.” Bolitho watched him, suddenly uneasy. “There’s nothing I can do. She will be under my command, like the others.” Allday stood up and turned beside the cannon, his head bowed between the beams.

“But she’s not like the others!” Bolitho bit back the sharp retort as quickly as it had formed.

Why take it out on Allday? Like the midshipman on the quarterdeck who had unwittingly broken the news, he was not to blame.

Bolitho said quietly, “No, Allday, she’s not. I won’t deny it.

But it rests between us. You know how sailors love to create mys-tery when there is none. We’ll need all our wits about us in the next month or so without lower deck gossip. We cannot afford to look back.”

Allday sighed. The sound seemed to rise right up from his shoes.

“I expect you’re right, sir.” He tried to shake himself free of it. “Anyway, I must get you ready for the wardroom. It’ll be something for ’em to remember.” But his usual humour evaded him.

Bolitho walked to the cabin door. “Well, let’s be about it then, shall we?”

Allday followed him, deep in thought. Nineteen years ago it was. When Bolitho had not been much older than his nephew, Mr Pascoe. There had been plenty of danger and cut-and-thrust since then, and all the while they had stayed together. A pressed seaman and a youthful captain who had somehow turned a ship blackened by every sort of tyranny into one to win the hearts and pride of her company. Now she was coming back down the years, like a phantom ship. To help or to haunt, he wondered?

He saw Bolitho standing by the stern windows watching the light dying across the frothing water beneath the frigate’s counter.

He cares all right. Most likely more than I do.

Under shortened canvas the frigate turned on to her new course and pointed her bowsprit towards the Bay, and a rendezvous.

CAPTAIN John Neale of the frigate Styx broke off his morning discussion with his first lieutenant and waited for Bolitho to leave the companion-way. This was their seventh day out of Plymouth, and Neale was still surprised at his admiral’s unflagging energy.

Bolitho had certainly taken a good keen look at the enemy shoreline, and the ships at his disposal. That had been the first shock, when they had made contact with the inshore patrol, the frigate Sparrowhawk, a day after sighting Belle Ile. Apart from a speedy brig, aptly named Rapid, there had been one other frigate in the sector, the Unrivalled. Neale grimaced. Had been. Her captain had been beating close inshore when he had made the fatal mistake of not leaving himself enough sea-room to claw into open waters. Two enemy ships had run down on him from windward, and only Unrivalled captain’s skill had enabled him to escape capture or destruction. As far as Bolitho’s small force was concerned, it might just as well have been either, for, pitted with shot holes and under jury-rig, the Unrivalled had crawled for home and the security of a dockyard.

Neale glanced at the masthead pendant. The wind had shifted to the north again. It was lively and gusty. He hoped that the battered survivor reached port intact.

Bolitho nodded as Neale touched his hat. No matter what time he chose to come on deck, even before daylight, Neale always seemed to be there ahead of him. If there was anything wrong with his ship, he wanted to see it for himself first and not be told by his admiral. He had learned well.

Bolitho had been thinking about his thinly-stretched force while Allday had been pouring coffee for him. Until reinforcements arrived, he now had but two frigates on the station, with the brig for keeping contact with the bigger squadrons to north and south. It looked very manageable on a wall chart in Whitehall.

Out here, with dawn touching the endless ranks of wave crests in a dirty yellow glow, it was a desert.

But shortly they would see the pyramid of sails far abeam where Sparrowhawk cruised within sight of Belle Ile and any local shipping which might be hugging the coast en route for Nantes or northward to Lorient.

How they must hate us, he thought. The dogged, storm-dashed ships which were always there at the break of every day.

Waiting to dash in and seize a prize under the enemy’s nose, or scurry to rouse the main fleet if the French admirals dared to present a challenge.

What he had seen of his small force he liked. He had boarded both the brig and the other frigate, getting drenched on each occasion as he had been forced to leap unceremoniously while his boat had poised on a passing crest.

He had seen the grins, and had known that his small bravado had been appreciated.

They had to know him, like one of their own. Not as an aloof flag-officer on the poop of some great three-decker, but as the man who would be amongst them when danger came.

He remarked, “Wind’s shifted.”

Neale watched his foretopmen dashing aloft yet again to reset the topgallant.

“Aye, sir. The master states it’ll back still further before nightfall.”

Bolitho smiled. The sailing-master would know. His breed always seemed to understand the wind before it knew its own mind.

Seven days out of Plymouth. It was like a dirge in his thoughts.

And with little to show for it. Even if his whole squadron arrived, what should he do or say?

Only one chink had shown itself. Each of the captains, Duncan, a bluff, red-faced youngster of the Sparrowhawk, and, still younger, Lapish of the Rapid, had mentioned the ease with which the enemy seemed able to foretell their movements. In the past year raids had been mounted on nearby ports by heavier ships of the line, and on each occasion the French had been prepared, with their own vessels and shore batteries ready to make a full attack pointless.

And yet the squadrons to north and south stopped and searched every so-called neutral and warned them away from any area where they might discover the true strength of the British patrols. Or the lack of it, more likely, he thought wryly.

He began to pace the side of the quarterdeck, his hands behind him, as he toyed with this tiny fragment of intelligence.

The French might have been using small boats at night. No, they would be too slow, and incapable of escaping if they were sighted.

Fast horsemen along the coast, ready to ride as Browne had done, to carry their news to the local commanders. Possible. But still unlikely. The poor roads and long distances between harbours would make for serious delays.

In spite of his guard, Bolitho felt his mind slip back to Falmouth. Belinda would be there again. Visiting the empty house, where Ferguson, his one-armed steward, would try his best to explain and to console her. What would she think? How could she know the ways of the Navy?

She was thirty-four, ten years his junior. She would not wait, should not be made to suffer as she had done with her late husband.

Bolitho stopped and gripped the nettings tightly. Even now she might be with someone else. Younger perhaps, with his feet firmly set on the land.

Browne joined him by the nettings and offered weakly, “Good morning, sir.”

Browne had rarely been seen since leaving Plymouth, although his fight with the frigate’s lively movements and the smells which were constant reminders of his seasickness was spoken of with awe even by the older hands.

He looked a little stronger, Bolitho thought. It was ironic, for whereas he himself was beset with problems both personal and tactical, he had never felt in better health. The ship, the constant comings and goings of faces which were already familiar, were ready reminders of his own days as a frigate captain.

There was a kind of hardness to his body, and a swiftness of thought which could soon be lost in a ponderous ship of the line.

“I must make contact with Rapid today, Browne. I intend to stand her closer inshore, unless the master is wrong about the change of wind.”

Browne watched him thoughtfully. Having to think again was bringing the colour back to his face. So how did Bolitho manage it? he wondered. Boarding the other ships, discussing details of local trade and coastal craft with Neale, he never appeared to tire.

He was driving himself like this to hold his other thoughts at bay. At least he had learned that much about Bolitho.

“Deck there!”

Browne looked aloft and winced as he saw the tiny figure perched on the crosstrees high above the deck.

“Sail on th’ starboard quarter!”

Neale came hurrying across the deck, and as Bolitho gave him a curt nod, shouted, “All hands, Mr Pickthorn! We shall wear ship at once and beat to wind’rd!”

Before his first lieutenant had even time to snatch up his speaking trumpet, or the boatswain’s mates had run below with their calls trilling to rouse the hands, Neale was already calculat-ing and scheming, even though he could not yet see the newcomer.

Bolitho watched the seamen and marines flooding up through the hatches and along both gangways, to be stemmed and mustered into their stations by petty officers and master’s mates.

Neale said, “The light is better, sir. In a moment or so—”

“Man the braces there! Stand by to wear ship!”

“Put up the helm!”

With yards and canvas banging in confusion and blocks shrieking like live things as the cordage raced through the sheaves, Styx leaned heavily towards the sea, spray climbing the gangways and pattering across the straining seamen at the braces in pellets.

“Full an’ bye, sir! Sou’-west by west!” Neale moved a pace this way and that, watching as his command came under control again, her lee gunports almost awash.

“Aloft with you, Mr Kilburne, and take a glass.” To the quarterdeck at large he said, “If she’s a Frenchie, we’ll dish her up before she stands inshore.”

Browne murmured, “Such confidence.” Bolitho sensed, rather than felt, Allday at his side, and held up his arms so that the burly coxswain could clip the sword to his belt.

Allday looked suddenly older, although he and Bolitho were of the same age. The lower deck was insensitive when it came to the smallest comfort.

Even as an admiral’s personal coxswain, life was not that easy.

Allday would be the first to deny it, just as he would be angry and hurt if Bolitho suggested he took himself to Falmouth to enjoy the comfort and security which were his right.

Allday saw his gaze and gave his lazy grin. “I can still give some o’ these mothers’ boys a run for their money, sir!” Bolitho nodded slowly. When it came, it would be on a day like this. Like all the others when Allday had fetched the old sword and they had shared some stupid joke together.

Perhaps it was because of Neale, or the fact he was made to be an onlooker.

He lifted his eyes to the mizzen truck where his flag stood out in the wind like painted metal.

Then he shook himself angrily. If Beauchamp had appointed another junior admiral for this work he would have been equally unsettled.

Allday moved away, satisfied with what he had seen.

Several telescopes rose like swivels, and Bolitho waited until Midshipman Kilburne’s voice floated thinly from the masthead.

“Deck, sir! She’s British!”

A small pause while he endeavoured to cling to his precari-ous perch and open his signal book with the other hand.

“She’s Phalarope, thirty-two, Captain Emes, sir!”

Allday muttered, “Holy God!”

Bolitho folded his arms and waited for the bows to rise again, the horizon appearing to tilt as if to rid itself of the two converging pyramids of sails.

Bolitho had known she would come today. Even as Styx’s people had run to halliards and braces, he had known.

Neale watched him warily. “What orders, sir?” Bolitho turned to see the bright signal flags break from Styx’s yard. Numbers exchanged, two ships meeting on a pinpoint. To most of the hands it was a welcome diversion, as well as a sight of some additional fire power.

“Heave to when convenient, if you please. Make to—” his tongue faltered over her name, “to Phalarope that I shall be coming aboard.”

Neale nodded. “Aye, sir.”

Bolitho took a telescope from the midshipman of the watch and walked up the deck to the weather side.

He was conscious of each move and every heartbeat, like an actor about to make an entrance.

He held his breath and waited for the sea to smooth itself.

There she was. With her yards already swinging, her topgallants and main-course being manhandled into submission, she was heeling on to a fresh tack. Bolitho moved the glass just a fraction more. Before that bowsprit plunged down again in a welter of flying spindrift he saw that familiar figurehead, the gilded bird riding on a dolphin.

The same and yet different. He was frowning as he moved the glass again, seeing the insect-like figures on the ratlines and gangways, the blues and whites of the officers aft by the wheel.

Outdated, that was it. The weak sunlight touched the frigate’s poop, and Bolitho recalled the fineness of her gingerbread, carved by experts in the trade. That had been another war.

Newer frigates like Styx had fewer embellishments, less dignity, honed down to the demands of chase and battle.

Neale lowered his telescope and said huskily, “Hell’s teeth, sir, it’s like yesterday. Like watching myself.” Bolitho looked past him at Allday by the hammock nettings.

He was opening and closing his large fists, staring at the fast-running frigate until his eyes watered. So that he looked as if he was weeping.

He made himself raise the telescope once again. She was smart for her age, and was reacting to the sight of a rear-admiral’s flag just as Bolitho had once done when he had taken Phalarope to Antigua.

Neale called, “Heave to, Mr Pickthorn! Have the gig swayed out.”

Browne asked, “Will you require me, sir?”

“If you want to come, please do.” Bolitho saw the uncertainty, the need to understand. He added, “If you can trust your stomach during the crossing.”

Allday walked to the entry port and waited for the gig to be pulled round to the main-chains. Neale’s own coxswain nodded to Allday and allowed him to take his place at the tiller without comment.

Bolitho noticed all and none of these things. So it was right through Styx already, probably every vessel under his flag.

He touched his hat to the officers and marines at the entry port, and to Neale said quietly, “I will renew the acquaintance-ship for all of us.”

Who did he mean? Allday and Neale, Herrick back in Plymouth, or Ferguson, his steward, who had lost his arm at the Saintes. Or perhaps he was speaking for the others who would never come home.

Then he was settled in the sternsheets, the oars already thrashing at the tossing water to take the gig clear of the side.

Allday called, “Give way, all!”

Bolitho glanced up at him. But Allday kept his eyes fixed on the ship. Perhaps they had both known this would happen, but now that it had, could no longer share it.

Bolitho unclipped the boat cloak he wore, and threw it clear of the bright gold epaulettes, each with its new silver star.

It was just another ship in a desperately depleted squadron, and he was their admiral.

He glanced again at Allday’s rigid shoulders and knew it was a lie.

After the creak of oars and the sting of spray it seemed suddenly subdued on the Phalarope’s deck. Bolitho replaced his hat and nodded briefly to the ship’s marine officer who had arranged his men in two scarlet ranks to receive him.

“Captain Emes?” Bolitho held out his hand as the slightly built figure stepped forward. He had a swift impression of alert wariness, a youthful face, but with a mouth hardened by the rigours of command.

Emes said, “I am honoured to receive you aboard, sir.” Again there was a sharpness to his voice, a man on guard, one who had been practising for this very moment. “Although I fear you must know Phalarope better than I do.” A shutter seemed to drop behind his level gaze, as if he had already said too much. He half turned, but although he was about to present his officers, his eyes were elsewhere, seeking flaws to the pattern, anything which might make a poor showing.

Bolitho could well understand any captain being eager to make a good impression on his new flag-officer, the man who could fulfil or shatter his hopes for any kind of future. But he had gleaned enough about Emes to doubt if that was the full story.

A post-captain at twenty-nine was a record to be proud of, and should have given him a confidence to go with it.

Emes said crisply, “My senior you will also know better than I, sir.” Emes stood aside as if to watch for reactions.

Bolitho exclaimed, “Adam! Of all things!” Lieutenant Adam Pascoe, looking even younger than his twenty-one years, was both relieved and pleased.

“I—I am sorry, Unc—” he flushed, “sir, I had no way of letting you know. The appointment came without warning and I had to leave for Ireland by the first packet.” They examined each other, more like brothers than uncle and nephew.

Pascoe added uncertainly, “When I heard what my appointment was to be, I am afraid I thought of little else.” Bolitho moved on and shook hands with the second and third lieutenants, the sailing-master, ship’s surgeon, and the captain of marines. Beyond them, the midshipmen and other warrant officers were backed by crowds of curious seamen, who were too surprised at this unexpected visit on their first commission to be aware of the more personal emotions by the entry port.

Bolitho looked slowly along the gun-deck, at the neatly flaked lines and taut rigging. He could even remember the way she had felt that first time when he had stepped aboard.

He cleared his throat. “Dismiss the hands, Captain Emes, and take station to windward of Styx. ” He did not see the astonishment in Emes’s eyes. “Allday, send back the gig.” He hesitated.

“You remain with me.”

The mass of seamen and marines broke into orderly confusion as the call to get under way was piped around the deck.

Within fifteen minutes Emes had reset the courses and topgallants, and although some of the hands were slow and even clumsy as they ran to obey his commands, it was obvious they had been training hard since leaving harbour.

Browne said, “Fine ship, sir.” He looked around at the bustling figures, the stamp of bare feet as the seamen hauled hard on the braces.

Bolitho walked along the weather gangway, oblivious to the darting glances from the seamen and Emes’s shadow behind him.

He stopped suddenly and pointed below the opposite gangway. No wonder she had seemed changed. Instead of her original nal lines of twelve-pounders, each gunport was filled by a blunt-muzzled carronade. The carronade, or “smasher” as it was respect-fully termed by the sailors, was carried in almost every man-of-war.

Normally mounted on either bow, it could throw an enormous ball which burst on impact and discharged a murderous hail of grape through an enemy’s unprotected stern with horrifying effect.

But as a ship’s armament, never. It had been tried experimentally some years back in another frigate, the Rainbow, but had proved unsuccessful and not a little dangerous in close combat.

Emes said quickly, “They were already mounted before I took charge of the refit, sir. I understand that they were taken into consideration when Phalarope was selected for this sector.” He waved his hand to the quarterdeck. “I still have eight 9-pounders as well, sir.” He sounded defensive.

Bolitho looked at him. “Admiral Sir George Beauchamp had been doing more planning than I realized.” When Emes did not even blink, he imagined he as yet knew nothing of his orders.

A midshipman called, “Styx is signalling, sir!” Emes grunted, “I shall come aft.” He sounded relieved. “If you will excuse me, sir?”

Bolitho nodded and walked slowly along the gangway, his ears searching for lost voices, his eyes catching brief pictures of almost forgotten faces on the strangers around him.

A clean, smart ship, with a captain who would stand no nonsense. It seemed incredible that Pascoe should be the senior lieutenant. His nephew’s dream had come true. Bolitho tried to find comfort there. He would have been the same, or was there still the other memory, the stain which had left a lasting mark in this ship?

Allday murmured, “All these smashers, sir. She’ll shake her innards on to the sea-bed if she’s called to give battle.” Bolitho paused on the forecastle, his palm resting on a worn handrail.

“You were here at the Saintes, Allday.” Allday glanced around the pitching deck. “Aye, sir. Me an’ a few others.” His voice strengthened and he seemed to rise from his depression. “God, the Frenchies were at us that day, an’ that’s no error! I saw the first lieutenant fall, an’ the second. Mr Herrick, young Mr Herrick he was in them days, took their place, and more than once I thought my time had come.” He watched Bolitho’s grave features. “I saw your coxswain fall too, old Stockdale.” He shook his head affectionately. “Protecting your back from the Frog marksmen, he was.”

Bolitho nodded. The memory was still painful. The fact he had not even seen Stockdale die in his defence had made it worse.

Allday grinned. But it made him look sad. “I determined right then, that if you was alive at the end o’ the day, I’d be your coxswain in his place. Mind you, sir, I’ve regretted more’n once since then, but still . . .”

Pascoe clattered up a ladder from the gun-deck. “Captain Emes has released me to act as your guide, sir.” He smiled awkwardly. “I suspect she is little altered.” Bolitho glanced aft and saw Emes outlined against the bright sky. Watching him, wondering if they were exchanging secrets he could not share. It was wrong and unfair, Bolitho thought. But he had to know.

“Did you see Mrs Laidlaw, Adam?”

“No, sir. I had gone before she returned.” He shrugged. “I left her a letter, of course, Uncle.”

“Thank you.”

He was glad now that he had told Pascoe about his father. If he had not . . .

As if reading his thoughts, Pascoe said, “When my father fought against us during the American Revolution he attacked this ship. I’ve thought about it such a lot, and have tried to see how it was for you and him.” He watched Bolitho anxiously and then blurted out, “Anyway, Uncle, I wanted to join her. Even as the most junior lieutenant I’d have come.” Bolitho gripped his arm. “I’m glad.” He looked at the tilting deck. “For both of you.”

A midshipman ran forward and touched his hat. “Captain’s respects, sir, and there is a signal for you.” But on the quarterdeck once more Emes seemed unruffled by the news.

“Styx has sighted a brig to the south’rd, sir.” He looked up with sudden irritation as his own masthead called that he had sighted a strange sail. “Must be blind, that one!” Bolitho turned to hide his face. He knew that Neale often trusted a lookout or a midshipman aloft with a powerful telescope when the visibility made it worthwhile.

Emes contained his anger. “Would you care to come below, sir? Some claret perhaps?”

Bolitho looked at him calmly. Emes was afraid of him. Ill at ease.

“Thank you. Signal Styx to investigate, if you please, while you and I share a glass.”

The cabin, like the rest of the ship, was neat and clean, but with nothing lying about to show something of its owner’s character.

Emes busied himself with some goblets while Bolitho stared aft through the salt-smeared windows and allowed his mind to grapple with old memories.

“Young Mr Pascoe is performing well, sir.” Bolitho eyed him across the claret. “If he were not, I would expect no favour, Captain.”

The directness of his reply threw Emes into confusion.

“I see, sir, yes, I understand. But I know what people say, what they think.”

“And what am I thinking?”

Emes paced across the cabin and back again. “The fleet is so short of experienced officers, sir, and I, as a post-captain, have been given command of this old ship.” He watched Bolitho for a sign that he might have gone too far, but when he remained silent added forcefully, “She was a fine vessel, and under your command one of great distinction.” He looked around, deflated and trapped. “Now she is old, her frames and timbers weakened by years of harbour duty. But I am glad to command her for all that.” He looked Bolitho straight in the eyes. “Grateful would be a better word.”

Bolitho put down the goblet very carefully. “Now I remember.” He had been so full of his own worries, so affected by the return of his old command, he had barely thought of her captain.

Now it came like a fist in the darkness. Captain Daniel Emes of the frigate Abdiel, who had faced a court martial about a year ago.

He should have remembered. Emes had broken off an engagement with a larger enemy force not many leagues from this very position, but by so doing had allowed another British ship to be captured. It had been rumoured that only Emes’s early promotion to post-rank, and his previously excellent record, had saved him from oblivion and disgrace.

There was a tap at the door and Browne peered in at them, his face suitably blank.

“My pardon, sir, but Styx has signalled that she is in contact.

The brig is from the southern squadron with despatches.” He glanced swiftly at Emes’s strained features. “It would seem that the brig is eager to speak with us.”

“I shall return to Styx directly.” As Browne hurried away Bolitho added slowly, “Phalarope was a newer ship when I took command, but a far less happy one than she is today. You may think she is too old for the kind of work we have to do. You may also believe she is not good enough for an officer of your skill and experience.” He picked up his hat and walked to the door. “I cannot speak for the former, but I shall certainly form my own judgement on the latter. As far as I am concerned, you are one of my captains.” He looked at him levelly. “The past is buried.” Every inch of the surrounding cabin seemed to throw the last words back in his face. But he had to trust Emes, had to make him return that trust.

Emes said thickly, “Thank you for that, sir.”

“Before we join the others, Captain Emes. If you were faced tomorrow with the same sort of situation as the one which led to a court martial, how would you act?” Emes shrugged. “I have asked myself a thousand times, sir.

In truth, I am not sure.”

Bolitho touched his arm, sensing his rigidity and wariness outwardly protected by the bright epaulettes.

He smiled. “Had you said otherwise, I think I would have requested a replacement for your command by the next brig!” Later, as the two frigates tacked closer together, and the far off brig spread more sail to beat up to them, Bolitho stood by the quarterdeck rail and looked along the length of the upper deck.

So much had happened and had nearly ended here. He heard Emes rapping out orders in his same crisp tones. A difficult man with a difficult choice if ever he had to make it again.

Allday said suddenly, “Well, sir, what d’you think?” Bolitho smiled at him. “I’m glad she’s come back, Allday.

There are too few veterans here today.” Bolitho waited for the glasses to be refilled and tried to contain his new excitement. The Styx’s stern cabin looked snug and pleased with itself in the glow of the deckhead lanterns, and although the hull groaned and shuddered around them, Bolitho knew that the sea was calmer, that true to the sailing-master’s prediction the wind had backed to the north-west.

He looked around the small group, and although it was black beyond the stern windows he could picture the other two frigates following in line astern while their captains awaited his pleasure.

Only Rapid ’s young commander was absent, prowling somewhere to the north-east in readiness to dash down and alert his consorts if the French attempted a breakout under cover of darkness.

How would the parents and families feel if they could see their offspring on this night, he wondered? The bluff, red-faced Duncan of Sparrowhawk, relating with some relish, and to Neale’s obvious amusement, a recent entanglement with a magistrate’s wife in Bristol. Emes of the Phalarope, alert and very self-contained, watching and listening. Browne leaning over the fat shoulders of Smith, Neale’s clerk, and murmuring about some item or other.

Aboard the three frigates of Bolitho’s small force the first lieutenants would in turn be wondering at the outcome of this meeting. What would it mean to each of them personally?

Promotion, death, even a command if their lord and master should fail.

The clerk straightened his shoulders and silently withdrew from the cabin.

Bolitho listened to the sluice of water around the rudder, the faint tap, tap, tap of halliards, and a restless step of a watchkeeper overhead. A ship. A living thing.

“Gentlemen. Your health.”

Bolitho sat down at the table and turned over a chart. The three ships were standing inshore towards the Loire Estuary, but that was nothing unusual. British ships, in company or alone, had done it a thousand times to keep the French fleet guessing and to sever their precious lines of supply and communication.

The brig which today had made contact with Styx was already well on her way to the north and England. Despatches from the vice-admiral commanding the southern squadron, another piece of intelligence which might eventually be used by the brains of Admiralty.

But, as was customary in local strategy, the brig’s commander had been instructed to make contact with any senior officer he discovered on passage. A keen-eyed lookout had ensured that the officer concerned was Bolitho.

He said, “You all know by now the bones of our orders, our true reason for being here.”

He glanced around their intent faces. Young and serious, each aware of the supposedly secret peace proposals, and conscious that with peace could come the sudden end of any hope for advancement. Bolitho understood very well. Between the wars he had been one of the very fortunate few who had been given a ship when the majority of officers had been thrown on the beach like paupers.

“A week ago, two of our patrols to the south’rd fell in with a Spanish trader and tried to take her as a prize. It was near dark and the Spaniard made a run for it. But with a few balls slammed into his hull, and a shifting cargo for good measure, he began to capsize. A boarding party was just in time to seize some papers, and discover that the vessel’s holds were filled with building stone.

With encouragement the Spanish master admitted he was bringing his cargo into this sector.” He touched the chart with his fingers. “Fifteen leagues south of our present position, to the Ile d’Yeu.”

As he had expected, some of their earlier excitement had given way to disappointment. He decided not to play with them any longer.

“The Spanish master stated that he had visited the island several times, and on every occasion had landed a cargo of stone.” He picked up the brass dividers and moved them over the chart.

“He also said that the anchorage was filled with small vessels, newly built and fitted out. He did not know of their purpose until shown some drawings of French invasion craft of the kind being gathered in the Channel ports.” He nodded, seeing their immediate interest. “The very same. So while we watch Belle Ile and Lorient, the French admiral is moving his flotillas of gun brigs and bombs whenever he is told it is safe to do so.” Duncan opened his mouth and shut it again.

Bolitho asked, “Captain Duncan, you have a question?”

“The stone, sir, I don’t see the point of it. Och, even new craft don’t need that much ballast while they are fitting out, and I’m sure there must be plenty closer to the building yards.”

“Perhaps by moving their craft close inshore they prefer to use the stone as ballast until they are ready for final commissioning at Lorient or Brest. The stone would then be off-loaded and used for fortifications and local batteries. It would make good sense, and draw far less attention than the movement of larger vessels in our area. All this time we have been watching the wrong sector, but now we know, gentlemen, and I intend to act upon this information.”

Neale and Duncan grinned at each other, as if they were being included in a mission already fought and won.

Emes said flatly, “But without further reinforcements, sir, it will be a hard nut to crack. I know the Ile d’Yeu, and the narrow channel between it and the mainland. An easy anchorage to protect, a hazardous one to attack.” He withdrew behind his mask as the others stared at him as if he had uttered some terrible oath.

“Well said.” Bolitho spread his hands across the chart. “We will create a diversion. The French will not expect a raid within such confined waters if they see us elsewhere, where they expect to see us.”

He turned to Browne who had been trying to catch his eye for several minutes.

“Yes?”

“Well, sir, if we wait until reinforcements arrive, as Sir George Beauchamp desired in his original plan, we could stand a better chance of success surely? Or if the brig which brought the news eventually returns with new orders countermanding our present commitment, then we shall be obliged to do nothing.” Duncan exploded, “Do nothing, man! What are you saying?” Bolitho smiled. “I take your point, Browne.” Like Herrick and Allday, he was trying to shield him. If he attacked and failed, his head would be on the block. If he held back, nobody could blame him, but Beauchamp’s trust would be dishonoured for ever.

He said quietly, “If there is to be peace, it must be decided on fair and equal terms and not under the threat of invasion. If later there is to be war, we must ensure now that our people are not outmanœuvred from the moment the treaty is torn in shreds.

I don’t see that I have any choice.” Duncan and Neale nodded firmly in agreement, but Emes merely brushed a loose thread from his sleeve, his face expressionless.

In the silence, Bolitho was conscious of Smith’s pen scraping on paper, and of his own heart against his ribs.

He added, “I have seen too many ships lost, too many lives tossed away, to ignore something which may be important, even vital, to our future. I suggest you return to your duties, gentlemen, and I shall endeavour to do mine.” As the three captains left the cabin, Bolitho said, “Thank you for trying to protect me, Oliver. But there was never any choice.

Even without this new information, I should have been forced to act. At least I know where. The how always takes a mite longer, eh?”

Browne smiled, touched at Bolitho’s confidence in him, the familiar use of his name.

When Bolitho spoke again his voice was preoccupied, even distant.

“And something troubles me . . .” He thought of Emes, withdrawn and resentful, of his nephew, Adam, so pleased with the realization of a dream, and of the girl in Falmouth.

“When I have discovered what it is, I shall feel more confident perhaps.”

If I have not already left it too late.

SEVEN DAYS after calling his captains together in conference, Bolitho was growing more and more restless for news. It was like being abandoned by the world beyond Styx’s hull, or being cast adrift because of some terrible plague.

He had deliberately sent the other two frigates to maintain close watch on Belle Ile and its approaches. This would ensure that the French would believe their enemy’s blockade remained unchanged. Also, if the Spanish shipmaster’s information proved false, it might allow time to call heavier vessels from the other squadrons if there was an attempt to break out.

So while Styx cruised slowly back and forth along a twenty-mile triangle to the south, Bolitho had ordered the little brig to maintain contact between them.

It was frustrating, almost maddening, to know nothing, and it was all he could do to restrain himself from going on deck whenever he heard a cry from the masthead or some unusual disturbance among the men on watch. The weather did nothing to help. The wind had fallen away to a leisurely breeze, with barely a whitecap to break the Bay’s shark-blue emptiness. The ship’s company, although much aware of the responsibility of carrying their admiral about his affairs, grew slack and casual. Here and there seamen would loll at their monotonous tasks of splicing and whipping, polishing and stitching, and, hidden from the quarterdeck, others would lie sprawled in the tops, fast asleep.

Bolitho had noticed that neither Neale nor Browne had mentioned the lack of support from north or south. Beauchamp’s wishes must have been translated into deeds by now, even the gun brigs from Gibraltar should have arrived to give him the support he needed. The fact that Browne stayed silent suggested he and not his rear-admiral was closer to the truth. No support would arrive. The strategy so carefully planned by Beauchamp would be allowed to lie in some Admiralty strongbox until conveniently forgotten.

Allday entered the cabin and removed Bolitho’s sword from its rack to give it a daily polish. He hesitated, his thick shadow swaying easily to the ship’s gentle lift and plunge.

“That brig could have been delayed, sir. Wind was against her.

Takes time to beat up-channel. I remember when we was in—” Bolitho shook his head. “Not now. I know you mean well, but she must have made port with days to spare. Those craft are well used to their work.”

Allday sighed. “No sense in blaming yourself, sir.” He paused as if expecting Bolitho to turn on him. “These past days you’ve been like a falcon on a line, not able to do what he wants.” Bolitho sat down on the bench beneath the stern windows.

It was strange, but a fact, that it was easy to talk with his big coxswain, whereas he could never express even the hint of a doubt to Neale or any of his officers. That would imply weakness, uncertainty, what a man remembered when the iron began to fly, when he most needed to be inspired.

Allday was probably right. It was all too soon after the Baltic. Allday would realize that better than any of them. He had carried him in his arms when his wound had burst open and he almost died.

He asked, “What does your falcon do, Allday?” Allday drew the old sword and raised it level with his eye until the edge gleamed in the reflected sunlight like a silver thread.

“He bides his time, sir. If he’s meant to be free, somehow he’ll manage it.”

They both looked up, off guard, as the masthead’s voice echoed through the skylight. “Deck there! Sail on th’ larboard quarter!” Feet pounded across the planking and another voice snapped,

“Alert the captain, Mr Manning! Mr Kilburne, aloft with you, smartly now!”

Bolitho and Allday exchanged glances.

It was the part Bolitho hated most. Having to wait. Not able to rush up and join the others and make his own judgement.

Neale was the captain.

Voices sighed back and forth across the quarterdeck, but more subdued now. They were conscious either of Neale’s arrival on deck or of the fact that the cabin skylight was propped fully open.

Allday murmured, “God damn them, they are taking an age!” In spite of his own anxiety, Bolitho was forced to smile.

“Easy, Allday. I will assist you if things become too difficult!” But when a breathless midshipman arrived and blurted out his captain’s respects, and that a sail was closing to larboard, he found his admiral apparently at ease and untroubled on the stern bench and his coxswain engrossed in polishing a sword.

On the quarterdeck the sun was very hot, and made the shadows of rigging and shrouds criss-cross the pale planking like black bars.

Bolitho joined Neale by the hammock nettings. Like the other officers, he had discarded his heavy coat and was wearing shirt and breeches, with nothing to distinguish him from his subordinates. Anyone in Styx’s company of some two hundred and forty souls who did not recognize his admiral after two weeks of cramped isolation was beyond help, Bolitho thought.

Neale said, “Lookout thinks there are two vessels, sir.” He shifted under Bolitho’s gaze. “The heat haze is making it hard to determine.”

Bolitho nodded, unaware that in his eagerness he had been almost glaring at him.

“Deck, sir! She’s a brig!” A pause, and then the midshipman named Kilburne shouted, “And—and one other, sir!” The sailing-master whispered to one of his mates, “Gawd

’elp us!”

Neale cupped his hands. “What the hell are you talking about, sir?”

The second lieutenant who was on watch said helpfully, “I could get aloft, sir.”

“Remain here!” Neale turned to his first lieutenant. “Mr Pickthorn, I must ask you to go as I am seemingly supported by blind men and cripples!”

Pickthorn concealed a grin and was swarming up the ratlines before Neale had recovered his composure.

The air shook to the far-off bang of a gun, and Bolitho had to move to the lee side to hide his own impatience.

“Deck! ’Tis Rapid, sir! In pursuit of a small vessel, possibly a yawl!”

Neale squinted at the masthead pendant and the listless rise and fall of his sails and exclaimed, “Damn them! We’ll stand no chance!”

Bolitho said sharply, “What is the course to steer for Ile d’Yeu?”

Neale dragged his mind away from the thought of losing prize-money, no matter how small.

The sailing-master called, “Due east, sir, as makes no difference.”

Bolitho strode across the deck, barely conscious of the curious stares, the sun which had already changed his shirt into a wet rag.

“Bring her about, Captain Neale, and beat to wind’rd! When you are within signalling distance, I wish you to order Rapid to stand away!”

Pickthorn arrived on deck with a thump. He said hoarsely,

“The yawl is making a run for it, sir! But Rapid ’s overhauling her fast!” He sensed the tension. “Sir?”

“Signal Rapid to disengage! Then call the hands and prepare to come about.” Neale glanced quickly at Bolitho. “We are taking over the chase.”

Pickthorn stared. “I see. Aye, at once, sir!” Calls shrilled, and within minutes the men were straining at the braces, bringing the frigate heeling round until her canvas was almost aback. Sails banged and flapped in wild confusion, and had the wind been any stronger, she would have been in danger of losing a few spars.

The other midshipman on watch closed his telescope and said, “Rapid has acknowledged, sir.” There was no need to add what everyone was thinking. It was unheard of for any ship, let alone the one wearing the flag of a rear-admiral, to snatch a prize from a consort. With Styx standing almost into the wind, it was even likely the elusive yawl would slip clean away from both of them. That would raise a few jeers in some French harbour tonight.

The master yelled, “Nor’-nor’-west, sir! Full an’ bye!” Bolitho did not have to be told. The frigate was pitching unsteadily, the air filled with the din of canvas and blocks, of angry voices trying to hold the ship on course.

Bolitho shut the others from his mind as he levelled a telescope and concentrated everything on the distant patch of sails.

She was big for a yawl, and had every piece of canvas set in her favour as she ran free with the wind. Courier, smuggler, it was of no account. She needed to get to safety, and the nearest land was the Ile d’Yeu.

Neale said bitterly, “If I change tack to starboard and gain more wind I might still head her off. We have six hours before dusk.” He sounded disappointed and confused.

“Remain as you are, Captain Neale. I shall require you to luff directly. Put her in stays. ”

“But, but . . .” Neale was at a loss for words. To snatch then lose a prize, deliberately at that, was more than he could accept.

Bolitho eyed him calmly. “I want that yawl to believe we have been taken aback.”

Neale nodded jerkily. “Aye, sir. Mr Pickthorn! We are standing into the wind! Stand by tacks and sheets!” He added huskily,

“I believe it myself, sir!”

As the helm was put up still further, Styx lifted like a stag caught by a musket ball in mid-air. Under Pickthorn’s guidance, and the curses and blows of the frantic petty officers and topmen, the ship plunged down into a deep trough, the sails flapping against the masts and forcing the hull over like a waterlogged cutter.

A seaman fell from the ratlines, the sea directly below his kicking feet before two of his companions hauled him gasping to safety. But not a spar cracked apart, nor did any sail split into ribbons, as the stricken frigate wallowed helplessly out of control.

Bolitho raised his glass again and watched for the yawl’s tan-coloured sails. Well to starboard now, her hull partly hidden in the blue water.

“A moment more, Captain Neale.”

Bolitho handed the telescope to Allday. If Allday thought he had gone mad he certainly did not show it.

Then Bolitho said, “Get her under way again and continue the chase. Do not set your t’gallants. I want a chase, but if you catch that yawl I’ll make you eat your prize-money!”

It was like seeing a cloud part across a clear sky as Neale stared at him with amazement and admiration.

“Follow the Frenchie all the way to the island, sir?” Bolitho watched the disorganized bunches of seamen being rounded up and set to the braces and halliards, once more.

“All the way.”

As Neale hurried to pass his orders to his lieutenants, Bolitho turned and looked at Allday. “Well?” Allday wiped his mouth with the back of his fist. “I reckon the falcon is free, sir, an’ that’s no error!”

“Deck there! Land ahead! Fine on th’ lee bow!” Bolitho tried to conceal his rising excitement as officers and master’s mates jostled each other at the quarterdeck rail to train their telescopes.

Neale commented worriedly, “The wind is dropping, sir.

Bolitho glanced up at the topsails, the almost painful way they lifted to the wind and emptied just as swiftly.

The chase had been going on for two hours, with the yawl running in direct line ahead of the frigate’s jib-boom. To lose her now, with the land in sight, would be sheer stupidity.

“Set your t’gallants, stuns’ls too if you think fit.” Bolitho turned away as Neale beckoned to his first lieutenant and walked aft to the wheel.

He nodded to the sailing-master and asked, “What is the channel like beyond the Ile d’Yeu, Mr Bundy?” The master was a small, shabby man with a face like cracked leather. Old Ben Grubb, the sailing-master of the Benbow, would make four of him, Bolitho thought.

But there was nothing shabby about his mind or reply.

“A bad ’un, sir. ’Bout ten mile from the island to the mainland, but a bad bottom, no more’n three fathom at the most at low water.” He stared ahead of the flapping sails as if he could already see the island. “A place to anchor a flotilla of small craft, I reckon.” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “The ’ole island is no longer than five mile accordin’ to my chart.”

“Thank you, Mr Bundy.”

Bolitho turned away to rejoin Neale and did not see the relief and pleasure on Bundy’s lean features. Bolitho had not merely asked his opinion, but had made certain that his mates and helmsmen had heard him do so.

“I can just make it out, sir.” Neale waited for Bolitho to pick up a telescope. “But the haze makes everything shapeless.” Bolitho held his breath and waited for the deck to rise again.

There it was, a patch of darker blue against the sea. The island where the Spanish ship had off-loaded her cargo of building stone.

The yawl was heading for the northern tip of the island, but once around the sheltered side would probably stand even closer inshore and follow the coast further south to Nantes.

Her master would have the wind at his disposal should the pursuing frigate try to head him off at the last minute or be joined by another patrol from the south. Bolitho smiled wryly. It was unlikely there was another British man-of-war within two hundred miles south of this quarterdeck.

He lowered the glass and watched the seamen strung out along the upper yards as the topsails were set and sheeted home, their bellies filling listlessly to the warm breeze. Four hours of good daylight left. It would have to be enough. To stand off until daylight would be like blowing a warning trumpet to the nearest French garrison.

Many telescopes were probably laid on the speedy yawl and the menacing pyramid of sails in pursuit. A horseman would be despatched to the local commander. An artillery battery would be alerted to warn off the foolish English captain who was risking everything in order to catch such a small prize.

Neale asked casually, “What do you intend, sir?” Perhaps he took Bolitho’s silence for uncertainty. “We could alter course and make better use of the wind. Then head for the southern end of the island, maybe catch the Frogs as they break free of the channel?”

“Yes. But if the yawl decided not to head further south?” Neale shrugged. “We shall lose her.” Bolitho raised the glass again and steadied it on the distant island.

“We have done that already, Captain Neale.” Neale stared at him. “Then you intend to work as close to the island as you can and estimate the defences?” He was completely lost.

Bolitho smiled at him. “I intend we should do better than that. We shall enter the channel itself. With the wind under our coat-tails, I think even the French will be surprised!” Neale swallowed hard. “Aye, sir. But Mr Bundy says—” Bolitho nodded. “I know. Three fathoms at low water. It will have to be done well.” He grinned and touched his arm, glad that he was able to mask his own anxiety from the young captain. “I have every faith in you.”

He turned towards the companion-way. “Allday, fetch me something cool from the wine store.” He nodded to the watching lieutenants. “I have to think.” Allday followed him down the ladder and aft to the cabin, while overhead the decks shook to the immediate activity of hurrying seamen.

He grinned admiringly. “By God, sir, that stirred them well enough!”

Bolitho walked to the stern windows and leaned out to stare at the rippling wake from the rudder. He heard the muffled shout of commands, the squeal of trucks as somewhere up forward the bow-chasers were prepared for the first shots of the engagement.

How he had wanted to remain on deck and take part. But he had to accept that Neale was an extension of himself. Without being told what to do he had already accepted Bolitho’s strategy, and would execute it without question. In a matter of hours he might be lying dead or screaming on his surgeon’s table. His beloved Styx could become a drifting dismasted hulk, or pushed hard aground because the chart was mistaken. And all because of his admiral’s order.

Bolitho said, “Fetch Mr Browne and ask him to join me for a glass.”

Bolitho relaxed very slowly as the door closed behind Allday.

Browne was different from anyone he knew. At least he might keep his mind away from the very real possibility of failure.

When Bolitho returned to the quarterdeck the little island had grown considerably, so that it sprawled across the starboard bow like a blunt-headed monster.

Neale said, “We are overhauling her, sir.” He waited to watch Bolitho’s reactions. “But the yawl is almost abreast of the headland.”

Bolitho studied the sloping island, the lively white crests around some reefs and a smaller islet like the monster’s pup. The yawl was keeping very near to the tip of the island, so that she appeared to be trying to climb bodily on to dry land.

Neale called sharply, “Bring her up a point, Mr Bundy!”

“Aye, sir. East by north.”

Bolitho moved the glass very carefully, seeing the flapping jibsail and two seamen standing on the forecastle, like giants as they were captured in the lens.

A few low buildings at the foot of the island, probably more on the landward side. He stiffened as he saw some grey walls near to the top of the headland. A battery perhaps? Even as he watched he saw a tiny pin-prick of colour caught in the sunlight like a butterfly. The mast was still invisible, but the butterfly was a tricolour.

He said, “Clear for action, Captain Neale. And please tell your gunner to try a few shots on that yawl.” As the marine drummers beat their sticks so rapidly that their hands were blurred, and the boatswain’s mates yelled, “Hands to quarters! Clear for action!” Bolitho could sense the wild excitement being unleashed about him like a tide-race.

The starboard bow-chaser crashed out violently and threw itself inboard on its tackles, and even as its crew darted around it to sponge out and reload, Bolitho saw the ball drop in direct line with the yawl’s sails, flinging up a column of water like a spouting whale.

The other gun belched smoke and flames, and a second waterspout brought a chorus of cheers from the topmen and those who were able to see it.

Neale said, “No chance of a hit unless we can close the range.” The first lieutenant hurried aft and touched his hat. “Cleared for action, sir.”

Neale deliberately tugged his watch from his breeches and studied it, his round face impassive as he said, “Twelve minutes, Mr Pickthorn. Won’t do. I want it done in ten or less.” Bolitho had to turn away. It could have been himself speaking when he had commanded Phalarope and Neale had been the junior midshipman.

The bow-chasers continued to fire after the yawl, and although the balls were dropping short by a cable, the Frenchman obviously did not know how lucky he was, for he began to tack violently from side to side as if to avoid the next fall of shot.

Neale smiled. “Interesting, sir. If he continues like that we may take him yet.”

Smoke drifted harmlessly from the grey wall on the headland, and after what seemed like an eternity some eight or nine spouts of water shot from the sea well away from the frigate’s side.

Bolitho listened to the dying echo of the concealed battery.

Just a token, a warning.

“Bring her up now, Captain Neale.”

Neale nodded, his mind grappling with the dozen or so problems which were most immediate to him.

“We will alter course four points to larboard, Mr Pickthorn, and steer nor’-east by north.”

“Hands to the braces there!”

As the big double wheel was turned steadily to leeward, Styx responded easily to the pressure of sail and rudder, the island appearing to slide away to starboard.

Bolitho raised his glass once more. Across the starboard bow was the beginning of the channel, and far beyond it, barely visible through the haze, was a deeper tone, the coast of France.

No more shots came from the battery, and while the yawl continued to move past the island’s northern shoreline, Styx headed purposefully away, as if she intended to discontinue the chase.

Bolitho walked to the quarterdeck rail and looked along the upper deck. Beneath the gangway on either side he saw the gun crews crouching by each sealed port, the instruments of their trade within ready reach. Each gun-captain was a king, every breech a small demanding kingdom.

The decks had been well sanded, and high above the busy seamen and marines chain-slings had been fixed to each yard and nets spread above their heads to further protect them from falling wreckage.

Neale watched him. “Another fifteen minutes, sir.” He added hesitantly, “I’ve put two of my best leadsmen in the chains. The tide is already on the ebb, I fear.” Bolitho nodded. Neale had thought of everything. He saw some of the men at the nearest guns staring up at him. Trying perhaps to decide their own fates this day by what they saw in him.

Bolitho said, “Fetch my coat, Allday.” He heard Neale give a small sigh and added, “Have no fear, there’ll be no sharpshooters today, I think.” Allday held out his coat and slipped it over his shoulders. The effect was instant, as if there had been something lacking.

Several seamen gave a cheer, and the marines in the maintop who were manning the swivels waved their hats as if something special had just happened.

Neale said quietly, “That was good of you, sir. They like to see. To know.”

“And you? What about your feelings?” Neale gave a great grin, as if, like the cheering, it had been held back for this small moment.

“Your flag flies in my ship, sir. It’s a proud day for all of us, but especially for me.” His gaze shifted to the two bright epaulettes on Bolitho’s shoulders. “There’s many who’d wish to be here with us today.” He did not have to mention their names.

Bolitho looked past him at the creaming water alongside.

“Then so be it.” He saw Browne hurrying to join him, all signs of seasickness gone. “When you are ready, Captain Neale.” Neale cupped his hands. “Stand by to come about, Mr Pickthorn! We will steer south-east!” With yards creaking round, and hull dipping to the pressure of increased sail, Styx turned her bows purposefully to starboard until she pointed towards the centre of the channel. Caught unaware, and showing her full length for the first time, the distant yawl appeared to be pinioned on the jib-boom and incapable of movement.

“South-east, sir! Steady as she goes!”

“Get the royals on her, Mr Pickthorn! Then load and run out!”

Bolitho stood close against the rail, watching the island moving in again to starboard, some drifting smoke against the sky which might be anything from burning gorse to a furnace heat-ing shot. Styx was moving very rapidly through the water, as with royals and topgallants at last responding to a following wind she headed into the channel.

A whistle shrilled and along either side the port lids were hauled open, and at another signal the Styx’s guns were run out, their black muzzles poking into the dying sunlight like teeth.

Bolitho shivered slightly in spite of his coat. If the French had had any doubts about their intentions, they would soon disappear now.

Without turning his head he knew Allday and Browne stood at his back, that Neale was nearby. What had Browne called the original squadron before Copenhagen? We Happy Few. As spray dashed over the tightly packed hammock nettings to sting his cheeks like ice, he knew exactly what he had meant.

He watched the frigate’s two other lieutenants pacing slowly back and forth behind the guns, swords drawn and across their shoulders like walking-sticks as their ship sailed into action. These were the sailors who were never seen by the people they defended through each day of war. The powers of Admiralty could plan and scheme, and dissect every item of intelligence about the enemy’s intentions and movements, but it was left to men and boys like these to do the job. The stuff of battle. Bolitho smiled quietly.

One of his old captains had described his own men like that in another war.

Around him, some of the men saw the smile and knew it was because of them.

Because it was their day.

“BY TH’ MARK SEVEN!” The leadsman’s voice seemed unnaturally loud to the intent figures on Styx’s quarterdeck.

Bolitho looked up quickly as the big mainsail and forecourse filled and hardened to the breeze. You could hardly call it a wind, but with her canvas drawing well Styx was making a favourable eight or nine knots through the water.

He watched the island as it grew larger above the starboard bow. The sun had moved across it in the last few minutes, or so it appeared, and the nearest rise of headland was already in shadow.

The bow-chasers continued to fire at regular intervals, while far ahead of the Styx’s beakhead the French yawl was wavering from side to side, her master apparently still convinced he was the prime target.

Neale lowered his telescope and said, “Dusk early tonight, sir.” He added bitterly, “It damn well would be!” Bolitho said nothing but concentrated on the small island. As the ship stood deeper into the channel between it and the mainland, he was conscious of the tension around him, and wondered what the French were doing across that narrowing strip of water.

There had been no more shots, and he felt the returning bite of anxiety, the feeling he might have miscalculated, that there was nothing important here after all.

Allday shifted his feet and muttered, “Must be asleep, the lot o’ ’em!”

Browne remarked, “I can see smoke. There, low down, man!” Neale hurried across the deck, thrusting a midshipman aside like an empty sack.

“Where?” He trained his glass again. “God dammit, it’s not smoke, it’s dust! ”

Bolitho picked up a telescope and followed the bearing carefully. Dust it was, and the reason became clear as a team of horses charged from behind some low scrub, a limber and cannon bounc-ing behind them as they headed for the other end of the island.

Within minutes another limber and fieldpiece followed it along the track, the dying sunlight glinting briefly on the outriders’ uniforms and equipment.

Bolitho closed his glass and tried to control his excitement.

He had not been mistaken. The French had been so sure of their safe anchorage that they had relied on field artillery rather than a fixed shore battery. They probably intended to remove the guns altogether once the last of the new invasion craft had been delivered to their final destination.

No wonder Styx had not been fired on after the first warning shots. The fall of shot had been too precise, fired by soldiers used to the ways of a land battle. A naval gunner would have laid and fired each of his battery by hand. Just to be certain and to avoid wasting shot. The latter was always paramount in a sailor’s mind when he was aboard ship and a long way from ready supplies, so why should he change his ways ashore?

“Deck there!”

Neale wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and growled,

“Well, come on, man, spit it out!”

But the masthead lookout was too well trained to be bothered by the impatient group far beneath his dangling legs.

Then he called, “Ships at anchor round the point, sir!” One of the leadsmen shouted from forward, “By th’ mark five!” But apart from Bundy, the master, nobody seemed to care.

Some peered beyond the bows, others stared up at the masthead, eager for more news.

“A dozen or more at anchor, sir!” Even the distance from deck to topmast could not hide the man’s disbelief as he added hoarsely,

“No, sir, far more’n that!”

Neale clapped his hands together. “Got ’em, by God!” Bundy said quickly, “We’re enterin’ the shallows, sir.” He flinched under Neale’s stare. “Sorry, sir, but you had to know.”

“Deep four! ” The leadsman’s voice was like a sad chant.

The first lieutenant joined Bundy by his chart. “Tide’s still on the ebb.” He glanced meaningly at his captain and then at the upper yards.

Neale said, “Get the royals on her. We’ll run with the tide.” He looked at Bolitho and added, “With your consent, sir?”

“I agree. We need haste above all.” He forgot the cries of the seamen as they freed the sails from the upper yards, the bark of orders and squeal of halliards, for as the ship forged on a converging track towards the next headland he saw the first of the anchored vessels. No wonder the lookout was amazed. There were dozens of them, some moored in pairs, others, possibly gun brigs or bombs, anchored separately, a veri-table armada of small ships. It was not difficult to imagine them disgorging French dragoons and infantry on to the beaches of southern England.

“Deep four!” The leadsman hauled up his line so rapidly that his muscular arm appeared blurred in the red sunlight.

Neale shouted, “Stand by, starboard battery!” He watched as every gun-captain raised his hand along the side, while behind them their lieutenants continued to prowl up and down like strangers to each other.

The island was much deeper in shadow, and against it the crowded hulls of the newly-built vessels looked like one vast, ungainly raft.

Bolitho stared at the glowing red ball of sunlight. Not long now. If only Sparrowhawk, even Rapid, were here. As it was, it would soon be too shallow to manœuvre without running aground, and they could never sink or damage more than two or three.

He snapped, “Where’s the yawl?”

Neale called, “Fine on the starboard bow, sir. I think she intends to anchor amongst that lot, if she can.” Bolitho made up his mind. “Tell your gun-captains to hit the yawl. A guinea for the first crew to cripple her!” There were a few gasps of surprise at the choice of target, but after some quick adjustments with handspikes and tackles, the gun-captains shouted their readiness.

“As you bear!” Neale raised his curved hanger above his head.

“On the uproll!” Seconds became hours. “Fire!” Down the frigate’s side each gun muzzle belched fire and smoke and hurled itself inboard on its tackles. The forward guns were being sponged out and reloaded even as the aftermost division added to the din.

The yawl, caught at the very moment she was trying to change tack towards the other vessels, seemed to collapse under the weight of iron as each double-shotted gun blasted across a range of less than two cables.

Around the stricken yawl the sea was patterned with splashes as falling shot, wreckage and splintered spars cascaded down on every side.

A tiny pin-prick of light winked from the battered hull and almost immediately blossomed into a great gout of fire. A powder cask touched by a spark, a dazed seaman caught off balance with a lantern between decks, it could have been anything.

Bundy exclaimed thickly, “God, she’s ablaze!” Bolitho tried to contain the sick pity he felt for the men on that blazing vessel. One heavy ball would have been enough to sink her, a broadside had changed her into an inferno. A fireship.

He kept his voice level as he said, “That should make the others up-anchor!”

Something punched through the maincourse and left a hole big enough for a man to climb through. One of those horse artillery gunners had reached his site.

The first lieutenant yelled, “They’s cutting their cables!” Caught by wind and tide, the wide cluster of moored craft was already opening up as each master endeavoured to fight his way clear, to make sail and to hell with his consorts. Anything but stay and be destroyed by fire or the enemy frigate which was rushing headlong towards them with only a few feet beneath her keel.

“As you bear! Continue firing!”

Neale hurried to the quarterdeck rail as the nearest vessels loomed out of the deepening shadows, his cheeks glowing in the reflected flames.

“Larboard battery, stand by! ” The crews started to cheer as another vessel appeared on the opposite bow, some sails already set and her stem pointing towards France.

As the larboard battery joined in the fight, the escaping craft was deluged in falling waterspouts, while above her deck masts and canvas were flung about as if lashed by a great gale.

Neale said, “She’s done for.” He flinched as metal shrieked low above the hammock nettings and smashed down in the sea abeam.

Bolitho stared at the chaos which seemed in danger of colliding with and snaring the attacking frigate. Vessels which had cut their cables too soon were drifting down entangled with some of their consorts, and others were risking everything to escape into open water. They were as much in danger from their own artillery ashore as they were from Neale’s guns. For it was almost dark now, apart from the flashing tongues of cannon fire, the flames of burning vessels having been quenched by the sea.

“Cease firing, Captain Neale.”

Bolitho tried to free his mind of the elation the taste of battle had created around him. Not one ball had hit Styx, and not a man had even been injured. The kind of sea-fight every sailor dreamed about.

“Sir?” Neale watched him eagerly.

“If you were the French commander here, what would you do? Recall the vessels and anchor them again while you set up a new battery to protect them, or send them packing to the north where they were intended?”

Neale grinned at two of his smoke-blackened seamen who were cheering and capering in a wild dance.

Then he became serious. “I’d not send them back to their original harbours. It would seem like incompetence, cowardice even, with such urgency demanded for their delivery.” He nodded slowly. “I’d send them on, sir, before we can summon heavier reinforcements.”

Bolitho smiled gravely. “I agree with you. So tell the master to lay a course to clear this channel and then beat back to the rendezvous. As soon as we sight Rapid I’ll send her to find the others. I’ll wager Rapid is still close at hand and wondering what the devil we have been doing. Apart from stealing her prize, that is!” He gripped Neale’s arm, unable to keep the excitement to himself. “We shall have the wind in our favour, think of it, man!

We know that no support is coming from Lorient or Brest for these craft, otherwise Sparrowhawk or Phalarope would have sighted it. We have just created panic, but panic will not last. We must act at once. Phalarope, with her armament of carronades, can reap a rich harvest amongst these flimsy vessels.” He looked up sharply as the sails flapped noisily above the deck. They were drawing under the lee of the island, but once in deeper water they could soon fight their way back to their friends.

Neale said doubtfully, “We shall be close inshore, sir.” He grinned. “But you are right, we can do it.” He shouted, “Mr Pickthorn! Hands to the braces! Stand by to come about!” Bolitho made to leave and then said, “I shall not forget your support, Captain Neale. You could have lost your keel back there.” Neale watched him go and remarked, “After that, I could sail this ship on a heavy dew!”

Bundy looked at his mates and grimaced. “Not with me, ’e bloody won’t!”

Bolitho opened his eyes and groaned. His body felt as if it had been kicked in several different places, and he realized he had fallen asleep in Neale’s chair.

His senses returned instantly as he saw Allday bending over him.

“What is it?”

Allday placed a mug of coffee carefully on the table.

“Wind’s freshening, sir, and it’ll be first light in half an hour.” He stood back, his head bowed between the deckhead beams, and eyed Bolitho critically. “Thought you’d want a shave before dawn.” Bolitho stretched his legs and sipped the coffee. Allday never forgot anything.

Now, as the deck lifted and quivered beneath the chair, he found it hard to believe that in the hours since they had burst upon the anchorage they had made contact with the brig Rapid, which in turn had hurried away to complete the link in the chain of command with Phalarope.

The rest had been much easier than expected. Turning once more to take full advantage of the wind, the two frigates had steered south-east, while Rapid had continued her search for Duncan’s Sparrowhawk.

It was not much of a flotilla, Bolitho conceded, but what it lacked in numbers it certainly made up for in agility and fire power. He had seen it in Styx, the wildness which was akin to some kind of insanity when the guns had roared out their challenge. If they could find and get amongst the enemy invasion craft just once again, the panic they had already created would spread like a forest fire.

Then he could make his report to the Admiralty: Beauchamp’s wishes had been carried out.

There was a tap at the door, but this time it was Neale, his round face flushed from the wind and spray.

“Phalarope’s in sight astern, sir. Sky’s brightening, but the wind’s backed to north by west. I’ve sent the people to breakfast early. I have a feeling we shall be busy today. If the Frogs have sailed, that is.”

Bolitho nodded. “If they have not, we shall repeat yesterday’s tactics, only this time we shall have Phalarope’s carronades.” He sensed Allday’s sudden stiffness, the way the razor had stilled in mid-air.

Neale cocked his head as voices echoed along the upper deck.

He did not see Allday’s apprehension as he hurried away to his duties.

Bolitho lay back in the chair and said quietly, “The sea is empty, Allday. We shall destroy those craft today, come what may.

After that . . .”

Allday continued to shave him without comment.

It was strange to realize that Phalarope was sailing somewhere astern, in sight as yet only to the keen-eyed masthead lookouts.

The ship which had changed everything for him, for Allday, and others who were so near to him. It was also unnerving to accept he was probably more excited about seeing Phalarope under full sail and awaiting his wishes than he was at the prospect of destroying helpless craft which could not hit back. But their menace was real enough, as Beauchamp had seen for many months. He sighed and thought instead of Belinda. What would she be doing at this moment? Lying in her bed, listening to the first birds, the early farm carts on the move down the lanes? Thinking of him perhaps, or the future? After today things might be different. Again, he could find himself ordered to the other side of the world.

Belinda’s late husband had hated being a soldier and had resigned his commission to serve with the Honourable East India Company. Would she equally hate being married to a sailor?

Another tap at the door broke his thoughts and he was almost grateful. Almost.

It was Browne, all sickness gone, and as impeccable as if he was about to carry a despatch to Parliament itself.

“Is it time?”

Browne nodded. “Dawn’s coming up, sir.” He glanced at Allday and saw him shrug. It was not like him to look so disconsolate.

Bolitho stood and felt the ship’s eager thrusting movement.

The wind had backed again, Neale had said. They would have to watch out they did not run on a lee shore. He smiled grimly. So would the French.

He slipped into his coat. “I am ready.” He looked at Allday again. “Another dawn.”

Allday made a great effort. “Aye, sir. I hope when we greet the next one the taffrail will be pointing at France. I hate this bay, and all it means to a seaman.”

Bolitho let it lie there. When Allday was having a rare mood, it was best left well alone. There were other things at stake today.

After the sealed warmth of the cabin the quarterdeck felt almost icy. Bolitho returned Neale’s greeting and nodded to the other officers on watch. The ship was cleared for action, or would be once the last screen between Neale’s quarters and the gun-deck had been removed, but there was little hint of it yet.

The gun crews lounged in the shadows beneath the gangways, and the men in the tops were hidden by the black rigging and lively canvas.

Bolitho walked aft to the taffrail, aware of the marines resting by the nettings on either side, their muskets propped against the packed hammocks. How pale their crossbelts looked in the weird light, while their uniforms appeared to be black.

He tensed as for the first time he saw the old frigate following astern.

Her topgallant yards and masthead pendant held the first light on them, while the rest of the sails and the hull itself were lost in darkness. A ghost ship indeed.

He shook himself out of his doldrums and thought instead about the rest of his command. Rapid may have found Duncan by now. Other ships might be on their way to assist as Beauchamp had originally directed. Like Browne, he doubted it.

Neale joined him by the rail and together they watched the dawn spreading and spilling over from the land. A fiery red dawn.

Bolitho smiled and remembered his mother. Red sky at morning, shepherds warning. He felt a sudden chill at his spine and turned to look for Allday. Allday had been a shepherd when the press-gang had seized him. Bolitho swung round again, furious with himself and with his fantasy.

He said, “As soon as you can, make contact with Phalarope.

Signal her to maintain station to windward.” As Browne hurried away to prepare his signal, Bolitho said to Neale, “When Phalarope has acknowledged, we shall stand closer inshore.”

Neale hesitated. “We shall be seen at once, sir.” Bolitho shrugged. “By then it will be too late.” He wished suddenly that Herrick was here with him. Like a rock. Part of himself. And ready to argue in his stubborn way.

Neale would follow him to and through the gates of hell without a murmur, but not Herrick. If there was a flaw in the plan he would see it.

Bolitho looked up at the masthead pendant and then at his own flag. Stiff, like banners. The wind was still rising.

Unconsciously his fingers played with the worn pommel of his sword. He was being unfair. To Neale and to Allday, to Herrick, who was not even present.

It was his flag at the mizzen masthead, and the responsibility was his alone.

Surprisingly, he felt more at ease after that, and when he took his regular walk along the side of the quarterdeck there was nothing to betray the fear that he had almost lost his confidence.

Bolitho saw Styx’s first lieutenant cross to the compass and glance at it before studying each sail in turn.

Nothing was said, nor was there need. The professionals in the frigate’s company knew their ship like they knew each other.

Any comment from Pickthorn that the wind had backed another point would have been resented by the master, and judged by Neale to be a display of nerves.

Bolitho had seen it all before, and had endured it too. He walked aft again, watching the colour spreading across the sea and its endless parade of white-horses. Salt stung his mouth and cheeks but he barely noticed it. He stared towards Phalarope as she plunged obediently to windward, squarely on Styx’s starboard quarter. She looked splendid, with her closed gunports making a chequered line along her side. The gilded figurehead was bright in the early sunlight, and he could just make out a knot of blue figures on her quarterdeck. One of them would be Adam, he thought. Like Pickthorn, watching over his sails, ready to order men here or there to keep each piece of canvas filled and hard to the wind. Phalarope was heeling heavily towards him, pushed over by the press of sails and the occasional steep crest under her keel.

How this ship must look.

Bolitho turned and walked down to the quarterdeck rail again.

The gun crews were still at their stations, the tension gone as daylight laid bare an empty sea. The second and third lieutenants were chatting together, swords sheathed, their attitudes of men at ease in a park.

Neale was moving his telescope across the larboard nettings, studying the undulating, slate-coloured slopes of the mainland.

They were standing some five miles out, but many eyes would have seen them.

Neale tossed his glass to a midshipman and commented glumly, “Not a damn thing.”

Browne joined Bolitho by the rail. “She’s really flying, sir.” Bolitho looked at him and smiled. Browne was more stirred by the lively ship beneath him as she lifted and plunged through the white-horses than he was troubled by the inaction.

“Yes. My nephew will have his hands full but will enjoy every second, no doubt.”

“I don’t envy him that, sir!” Browne was careful never to mention Phalarope’s captain. “A raw company, lieutenants no more than boys, I’ll be content with my duties here!” Bundy called, “Mist ahead, sir!”

Neale grunted. He had seen it already, seeping low down like pale smoke. The fact the master had mentioned it implied he was troubled. In a moment or so the lookouts would see the southern headland of the Loire Estuary. After that, the next report would be sighting the Ile d’Yeu. Right back where they had started, except that they were much closer inshore.

He looked over at Bolitho, who stood with his hands behind his back, his legs apart to take the deck’s uneven roll. He will never turn back. Not in a thousand years.

Neale felt strangely sorry for Bolitho at this moment. Disturbed that what had started as a daring piece of strategy had seemingly gone wrong.

“Deck there! Sails on the larboard bow!” Neale climbed into the shrouds and beckoned urgently for his telescope.

Bolitho folded his arms across his chest, certain that if he did not everyone around him would see them shaking with anxiety.

The mist dipped and swirled as the wind found it and drove it inshore. And there they were, like a phalanx of Roman soldiers on the march, six lines of small vessels under sail. In the bright glare even the pendants and ensigns looked stiff, like lances.

Browne breathed out slowly. “In daylight there look even more of them.”

Bolitho nodded, his lips suddenly like dust. The fleet of small vessels was making hard going of it, tacking back and forth in an effort to retain formation and to gain some progress against the wind.

Neale exclaimed, “What will they do now? Scatter and run?” Bolitho said, “Make more sail, Captain Neale, every stitch you can carry, and let us not give the enemy a chance to decide!” He turned and saw Browne smiling broadly while men dashed past him to obey the shrill pipe to loose more canvas. The great studding-sails would be run out on either beam like huge ears to carry them faster and still faster towards the mass of slow-moving hulls.

Across the starboard quarter Bolitho saw Phalarope’s pyramid of pale canvas tilt more steeply as she followed suit, and he thought he could hear the scrape of a fiddle as her seamen were urged to greater efforts to keep station on the rear-admiral’s flag.

Midshipman Kilburne, who had managed to keep his glass trained on the other frigate in spite of the bustle around him, called, “From Phalarope, sir! Sail to the nor’-west! ” Neale barely turned. “That’ll be Rapid, most likely.” Bolitho gripped the rail as the ship slid deeply beneath him.

The decks were running with spray, as if it was pouring rain, and some of the bare-backed gun crews looked drenched as Styx plunged towards the widening array of vessels.

The bearing would be right for Rapid. She must have found Sparrowhawk and was coming to join the fight. He bit his lip.

Slaughter, more likely.

“Load and run out, if you please. We will engage on either beam.”

Bolitho tugged out his watch and opened the guard. Exactly eight in the morning. Even as the thought touched him the bells chimed out from the forecastle. Even there, a ship’s boy had managed to remember his part of the pattern which made a ship work.

“The enemy is dividing into two flotillas, sir.” Pickthorn shook his head. “They’ll not outrun us now, and there are only rocks or the beach beyond them!” Even he sounded dismayed at the enemy’s helplessness.

Kilburne jammed the big signals telescope against his eye until the pain made it water. Bolitho was barely two feet from him and he did not want to disturb his thoughts by making a stupid mistake. He blinked hard and tried again, seeing Phalarope’s iron-hard canvas swoop across the lens, the bright hoist of flags at her yard.

He was not mistaken. Shakily he called, “From Phalarope, sir.

She’s made Rapid ’s number.” Bolitho turned. It was common practice for one ship to repeat another’s signal, but something in the midshipman’s tone warned him of sudden danger.

“From Rapid, sir. Enemy in sight to the nor’-west! ” Browne murmured softly, “Hell’s teeth!”

“Any orders, sir?” Neale looked at Bolitho, his face and eyes calm. As if he already knew, and accepted it.

Bolitho shook his head. “We will attack. Alter course to larboard and head off any of the leaders who try to break past us.” He turned on his heel as once again the men dashed to the braces and halliards, most of them oblivious to the menace hidden below the horizon.

Allday pushed himself away from the nettings and strode deliberately to Bolitho’s side.

Bolitho eyed him thoughtfully. “Well, perhaps you were right after all, old friend. But there’s no getting round it.” Allday stared past him towards the converging array of sails and low hulls, hating what he saw, what it might cost.

But he said simply, “We’ll dish ’em up, sir. One way or the other.”

Some muskets and a few swivels crackled from the leading vessels, their puny challenge blanketed by the roar of Styx’s first broadside.

Neale cupped his hands. “Mr Pickthorn! Shorten sail! Get the royals and t’gan’s’ls off her!” He watched as the studding-sail booms were hauled bodily inboard to their yards, men calling to one another as guns crashed out and recoiled below them, and a few musket balls and enemy canister scythed wickedly between the shrouds.

Bolitho said, “Mr Browne. Make to Phalarope. Engage the enemy. ”

There was still time. With Styx riding astride the channel to part and scatter the enemy’s neat columns, Phalarope’s massive armament of carronades would demolish the van and centre and give them room to beat clear and join Rapid to seaward. But Phalarope was already making another signal.

Midshipman Kilburne shouted in between the explosions from each battery, “Repeated from Rapid, sir! Estimate three enemy sail to the nor’-west. ” His lips moved painfully as the gun below the quarterdeck rail crashed inboard on its tackles, its crew already darting around it with fresh powder and shot. He continued,

“Estimate one ship of the line.” Allday’s palm rasped over his jaw. “Is that all?” As if to add to the torment, the masthead lookout yelled,

“Deck there! Land on th’ starboard bow!” Bundy nodded, his eyes like stones. The Ile d’Yeu. Like the lower jaw of a great trap.

Pickthorn dropped his speaking trumpet as his topmen came swarming down the ratlines again. “Phalarope’s shortening sail, sir.”

Bolitho glanced up at Styx’s last hoist of flags. His order to Captain Emes to close with the enemy formation and engage them.

He heard Browne snap angrily, “Has she not seen the signal, Mr Kilburne?”

Kilburne lowered his glass only to reply. “She has acknowledged it, sir.”

Browne looked at Bolitho, his face white with disbelief.

“Acknowledged!”

Canister screamed over the quarterdeck and punched the hammock nettings like invisible fists.

A marine dropped to his knees, blood pouring from his face, as two of his comrades dragged him to safety. Their first casualty.

A blazing lugger, ungainly and out of command, with flames darting from weapon ports like red tongues, passed dangerously down the larboard side, where the boatswain and his men waited with water buckets and axes to quench any outbreak of fire in the tarred rigging and vulnerable canvas.

Neale said flatly, “Phalarope is not responding, sir.”

“Signal Phalarope to make more sail. ” Bolitho felt some of the men watching him, still unwilling or unable to believe what was happening.

“She’s acknowledged, sir.”

It was almost impossible to think with guns firing and the decks filled with choking smoke.

Bolitho looked at Neale. If he broke off the action now and abandoned the enemy, they could come about and with luck fight clear. If not, Styx could not hope to destroy more than a handful of vessels, and only then at the cost of her own people.

He stared at the other frigate as she fell further and further astern, until his eyes and mind throbbed with pain and anger.

Browne had been right from the beginning. Now there was no chance left, and it was certainly not worth losing a whole ship and her company.

He cleared his throat and said, “Discontinue the action, Captain Neale. Bring her about. It is finished.” Neale stared at him, his face filled with dismay.

“But, sir, we can still hit them! Single-handed if we must!” The masthead lookout’s voice shattered the sudden silence even as the guns ceased firing.

“Deck there! Three sail in sight to the nor’-west.” Bolitho felt as if the whole ship had been stricken. No one moved, and some hands on the forecastle who had cheered the last order, believing it to be the signal of their victory, now peered aft like old men.

Perhaps the lookouts, good though they were, had been dis-tracted by the oncoming mass of small vessels, and then the menace of larger ships hull-up on the horizon, but whatever the reason, they did not see the real danger until it was already upon them.

It fell to one of Neale’s leadsmen as he took up his station in the chains as Styx had headed towards the same shallow channel to scream, “Wreck! Dead ahead!” Bolitho gripped the rail and watched as the men near him broke from their trance and stampeded to obey the cry to shorten sail still further, while others strained at the braces to haul round the yards and change tack.

It was possibly one of the very craft they had sunk the previous day, drifting waterlogged with wind and tide until it found its destroyer. Or it might have been an older wreck, some stubborn survivor from the chain of reefs and sandbars which guarded the Loire’s approaches like sentinels.

The shock when it came was not sudden. It seemed unending as the frigate drove on and over the hulk, her frames shaking, until with the crashing roar of an avalanche the main and fore masts thundered down across the forecastle and into the sea.

Great coils of trailing shrouds and splintered spars followed, while men shrieked and cursed as they were smashed underneath or dragged bodily over the side by the tendrils of runaway rigging.

Only the mizzen remained standing, Bolitho’s flag still flapping above the destruction and death as if to mark the place for all time. Then as the wreck tore free from Styx’s keel and giant air bubbles exploded obscenely on either beam, it too swayed and then plunged headlong to the gun-deck.

Neale yelled, “Mr Pickthorn!” Then he faltered, aware of the blood on his hand which had run down from his scalp, and of his loyal first lieutenant who had been cut in half by one of the broken shrouds as it had ripped over him with the whole weight of the topmast stretching it like a wire.