Barely making a ripple above her own black and buff reflection, Benbow moved slowly past other anchored vessels, all of which were dwarfed by the towering natural fortress of Gibraltar.

It was morning, with the Rock and surrounding landscape partly hidden in mist, a foretaste of the heat to come.

Bolitho stood apart from the other officers and left Herrick free to manœuvre his command the last cable or so to the anchorage. With all canvas but topsails and jib clewed up, Benbow would make a fine sight as she altered course very slightly away from her convoy, the largest vessel of which was already making signals to the shore.

It had taken nearly nine days to reach Gibraltar, and Grubb had described it as a fair and speedy passage. To Bolitho it had been the longest he could recall, and even the daily sight of Belinda on the Indiaman’s poop had failed to calm his sense of urgency and need.

From the beginning, when Herrick had made a signal to the Duchess of Cornwall, their daily rendezvous, separated by the sea and one other ship, had been without any sort of arrangement. It was as if she knew he would be there, as if she had to see him to ensure it was not a dream but a twist of fate which had brought them together. Bolitho had watched her through a telescope, oblivious to the glances of his officers and other watchkeepers.

She always waved, her long hair held down by a large straw hat which in turn was tied beneath her chin by a ribbon.

Now the waiting was almost over and Bolitho felt strangely nervous.

Herrick’s voice interrupted his thoughts.

“Hands wear ship!”

Wolfe’s long legs emerged from the mizzen-mast’s shadow.

“Man the braces, there! Tops’l sheets!”

Bolitho shaded his eyes and looked towards an anchored man-of-war. She had already been identified by the signals midshipman.

She was the Dorsetshire, eighty, flagship of Vice-Admiral Sir John Studdart. He could see the admiral’s flag drooping almost life-lessly from the Dorsetshire’s foremast, and wondered what the officer of the watch would make of his own flag at Benbow’s mizzen instead of Herrick’s broad-pendant.

“Tops’l clew lines! Wake up, that man!” Grubb called, “Ready, sir!”

“Helm a-lee!”

With tired dignity Benbow turned very slowly into the breeze, the way going off her as the remaining sails flapped in confusion before they were fisted to the yards by the waiting topmen.

“Let go!”

Spray flew above the forecastle as the big anchor splashed down into the clear water and more feet stampeded to the boat tier in readiness for lowering the barge alongside with a minimum delay.

Glasses would have been trained on the Benbow’s performance from the moment she had begun her final approach, her fifteen-gun salute to the vice-admiral’s flag booming and reverberating around the bay like a bombardment. Gun for gun the flagship had replied, the smoke drifting upwards on the warm air to min-gle with haze which encircled the Rock like cloud.

“Away, barge crew!” That was Allday, his face showing nothing of the strain he must have endured as a prisoner, his natural sense of responsibility for Bolitho making it that much worse for him.

Herrick joined Bolitho by the nettings and touched his hat.

“Will you go across to the flagship now, sir?”

“Aye, Thomas. No sense in delaying. Someone else might get to Sir John’s ear before me otherwise.” His eyes moved to the distant Indiaman. “I have much to do.”

Herrick saw the quick glance. It was not lost on him, any more than all the other times when he had seen Bolitho on deck, looking for the slim figure in the shady straw hat.

“Barge alongside, sir.” Wolfe watched him curiously, ever ready to learn something from the bond which linked Bolitho to Herrick.

The marines were at the entry port, the boatswain’s mates ready with their silver calls and moistening them on their lips.

Bolitho pressed his sword against his hip, sensing its unfamiliarity, the feeling of loss for his old family blade. He gritted his teeth and walked towards the port. He tried not to limp or to show his sadness for what had gone before. Little pictures flitted through his mind. The old sword on the French commandant’s table, the swarthy rear-admiral, Jean Remond, who had been unable to accept that Bolitho would not swear to make no escape attempt. Above and through it all he saw Neale. Brave, despairing, and in the last seconds of life, strangely content.

The marines presented arms, the calls shrilled, and Bolitho climbed swiftly down to where Allday, splendid in his blue coat and nankeen breeches, and hat in hand, stood to receive him.

Browne was already in the sternsheets, expressionless as he studied Bolitho’s face.

They all watch me, Bolitho thought. Did they expect to see more than a man?

“Bear off forrard! Give way, all!” Allday thrust the tiller bar over, his eyes slitted against the reflected glare.

Bolitho asked softly, “You feel glad to be back, Allday?” The big coxswain nodded, but did not take his eyes from the nearby guard-boat.

“I’ve damned the fleet an’ all it stands for a few times, sir, an’

I’d be a Tom Pepper if I said different.” He glanced briefly at the guard-boat, her oars tossed, a lieutenant standing to remove his hat as the barge sped past him. “But it’s my world for now. Home.”

Browne said, “I can understand that too, sir.” Bolitho settled down on the thwart, his hat tugged firmly across his forehead.

“We all but lost it, Oliver.”

“Toss your oars! Stand by, bowman!” Allday ignored the faces above the Dorsetshire’s gangway, the glint of sunlight on bayonets, the scarlets and blues, the difference of one ship from another.

Bolitho climbed up to the entry port and the clatter and shrill of salutes began all over again.

He saw the vice-admiral by the poop as he waited for his flag-captain to complete the formal welcome before he strolled across the quarterdeck to make his own.

Bolitho had known Studdart as a fellow captain during the American revolution. But he had not seen him for several years and was surprised he had aged so much. He had grown portly, and his round, untroubled face looked as if he enjoyed good living to the full.

He shook him warmly by the hand and exclaimed, “Damn me eyes, Bolitho, you are a sight indeed! Last thing I heard was that the Frogs had stuck your head on a pike!” He laughed loudly.

“Come aft and tell me all. I’d like to be on the same tack as the news bulletins.” He gestured vaguely towards the side. “No doubt the Dons in Algeciras saw your arrival just now. They’ll pass the word to Boney, of that I’m certain.” In the great cabin it was comparatively cool, and after dismissing his servants and sending Browne on an errand, Vice-Admiral Sir John Studdart settled down in silence to listen to Bolitho’s story. He did not interrupt once, and as Bolitho outlined his ideas on the enemy’s chain of semaphore stations he found time to admire Studdart’s relaxed self-control. No wonder he had been promoted ahead of his time. He had taught himself not to worry, or at least not to show it.

Bolitho touched only lightly on Neale’s death, and it was then that the vice-admiral felt moved to speak.

“Styx’s loss was an accident of war. The death of her captain no less distressing.” He reached out to refill their wine goblets.

“However, I would not expect you to blame yourself for his death.

Your flag flies above Benbow, as mine does here. It is why we were given the honour to lead, and why Admiral Beauchamp selected you for the task in Biscay. You did all you could. No one can blame you now. The very fact you discovered the presence of an efficient French semaphore system, when none of our so-called agents has seen fit to inform us, is an additional bounty. Your value to England and the Navy is your life. By escaping with honour, you have fulfilled the faith which Admiral Beauchamp bestowed on you.” He leaned back and studied him cheerfully. “Am I right?” Bolitho said, “I’ve still not achieved what I was sent to do.

The destruction of the enemy’s invasion craft before they are moved to the Channel took priority in my orders. As for our knowing about the semaphore stations along the Biscay coast, it can make no difference. The French can still direct their ships where they are most needed while ours are floundering off shore for all to see. And the newly built invasion craft are all the safer now that our captains are aware of their additional protection.” Studdart smiled wryly. “You’ve not changed, I’ll say that.

Dashing about the countryside like a junior lieutenant, risking life and limb when you should be ordering others to take a few chances.” He shook his head, suddenly grave. “It won’t do. You have your written orders, and only their lordships can alter them.

Once they know you are safe. Maybe news will arrive in the next vessel from England, who knows? But you are in a position to postpone all further action. Beauchamp’s strategy is already out-of-date because of what you discovered when you were taken prisoner. Let it lie, Bolitho. You have a record which anyone, even Nelson, would envy. Don’t create enemies in high places. Peace or war, your future is assured. But stir up trouble in Admiralty or Parliament and you are done for.”

Bolitho rubbed his palm along the arm of his chair. He felt trapped, resentful, even though he knew Studdart’s advice was sound.

Who would care next year what had happened in Biscay?

Perhaps it was all rumour anyway and the French were as desperate for peace as anyone, and with no thought of forcing an invasion when their old enemy was off guard.

Studdart was watching him. “At least think about it, Bolitho.” He waved one hand towards the stern windows. “You could remain here a while, and perhaps request new orders. You might be sent into the Mediterranean to join Saumarez on his campaign, anything would be preferable to the damned Bay of Biscay.”

“Yes, sir. I shall think about it.” He put down his goblet very carefully. “In the meantime, I have to complete some despatches for England.”

The vice-admiral tugged out his watch and examined it.

“God’s teeth, I am expected ashore by the general in one hour.” He got to his feet and regarded Bolitho calmly. “Do more than think about it. You are a flag-officer, and must not involve yourself with the affairs of subordinates. You command, they obey, it is the old order of things, as well you know.” Bolitho stood up and smiled. “Yes, sir.” The vice-admiral waited until his visitor had reached the door and then said, “Give the lady my warmest regards. She might care to sup with me before she leaves the Rock, eh?” As the door closed Studdart walked slowly to the stern windows and stared at the anchored ships of his squadron.

Bolitho would not take heed of his advice, and they both knew it.

The second time he might not be so lucky. Either way. Death or ignominy would be the outcome if he failed again.

Yet in spite of that realization Studdart was surprised to find he envied him.

The Honourable East India Company’s ship Duchess of Cornwall presented a scene of orderly confusion which left little room for the courtesies of greeting a King’s officer, even a rear-admiral.

Leaving Allday scowling up from the barge, and followed closely by Browne, Bolitho allowed himself to be led aft by a harassed lieutenant.

She was a fine ship, he thought grudgingly. No wonder sailors preferred the pay and comfort of an Indiaman to the harsh life in a man-of-war.

Tackles swayed and bobbed from lighters alongside, and as cargo was unloaded with skilled ease, more boxes and well-packed nets were lowered through the hatches for the next leg of the voyage.

The most unfamiliar setting to Bolitho was the chattering crowd of passengers who had either come aboard or were waiting to be ferried across to the garrison.

Wives of senior officers and officials, Bolitho supposed, part of that unseen army of which the people at home knew very little. Storemen and chandlers, sailmakers and farriers, ships’ agents and soldiers of fortune, they must surely outnumber the rest by two to one.

“The captain is here, sir.”

Bolitho scarcely heard him. She stood by the rail, one hand holding her hat to shield her face from the sun. Its ribbon was pale blue like her gown, and when she laughed at something the captain had said to her, Bolitho felt his heart almost stop beating.

An instinct made her turn towards him, her brown eyes very steady as she held his gaze with hers.

The Indiaman’s captain was thickset and competent. Another Herrick perhaps.

He said, “Welcome aboard, sir. I’ve just been telling Mrs Laidlaw that I’d willingly sacrifice every penny I make on this voyage just to keep her as my passenger.” She joined with his laughter, but her eyes told Bolitho to ignore it. Other people’s words had no value here.

Bolitho took her hand and kissed it. The touch of her skin, the smell of its freshness, almost broke his reserve. Maybe he had not recovered and would make a fool of himself when all he wanted to do was . . .

She said softly, “I prayed for this moment, dearest. For this and all the others to come.” Her lip quivered but she tossed her head with something like defiance. “I never doubted you would come. Never.”

The ship’s captain backed away to join the other passengers, murmuring something which neither of them heard.

She looked at Browne and smiled. “I am glad you are safe, Lieutenant. And free again.”

Then she put her hand through Bolitho’s arm and turned him towards the side, shutting out everyone but themselves.

“Thomas Herrick sent word over to the ship, Richard.” She squeezed his arm tightly. “He told me something of what you endured, about your friend Neale. Don’t hide the hurt from me, dearest. There’s no need any more.” Bolitho said, “I wanted him to live so much, but perhaps it was to reassure myself because of what I had brought him to. I—

I thought I understood, but I had learned nothing. Perhaps I care too much, but I cannot change now, nor can I toss lives away merely because my orders are unquestioned.” He turned and looked down at her face, fixing it in his mind like a perfect portrait. “But my love for you is real. Nothing can ever change that.

I did think—”

She reached up and closed his lips with her fingers. “No. I am here because I wanted to try and help. It must have been decided we should meet here.” She tossed back her hair and laughed. “I am happy now. And I shall make you so!” Bolitho touched her hair and remembered how it had hidden her face in the overturned carriage. That too had been “decided.” Prearranged. So there was a fate, just as there was hope.

A master’s mate hovered beside them and touched his hat nervously. He did not look at Bolitho, who guessed the man had probably run from the Navy originally to find security in the East India Company.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, ma’am, but the boat’s waitin’, with your maid already aboard with your boxes.”

“Thank you.” She squeezed Bolitho’s hand’s until her nails bit into his skin. She whispered, “I’m so sorry, my dearest, but I am close to tears. My joy is almost too much.” She smiled and pushed the hair from her eyes. “I must say farewell to the ship’s captain.

He has been most attentive. But I think he was somewhat in awe when he saw you in the Benbow! ” Bolitho smiled. “I never thought I’d want to be a grocery captain like him. But with you for a passenger, I’m not so sure.” Browne watched fascinated as the lines softened around Bolitho’s mouth and eyes. A few minutes together and she had done that for him. One day he would meet a girl like Belinda Laidlaw, such as the one in his dreams, galloping to meet him on a splendid mount.

A thought crossed his mind, and when Bolitho walked to the entry port he saw Benbow’s barge directly below him, the maid and a pile of boxes filling the sternsheets where Allday stood beaming up at him.

Browne explained awkwardly, “Well, sir, I thought, for the admiral’s lady it should be an admiral’s barge.” Bolitho looked at him gravely and then touched his arm.

“That was well said, Oliver. I’ll not forget.” Browne flushed. “And here she comes, sir.”

She joined them by the port and stared down at the green-painted barge for several seconds.

Then she looked at Bolitho, her eyes misty. “For me, Richard?” Bolitho nodded. “I’d give you the world if I could.” With great care she was assisted into the barge, the seamen in their checkered shirts and tarred hats peering round their tossed oars as if a creature from another world had suddenly come amongst them.

Allday held out his hand to guide her to a cushion on the thwart, but she took it in hers and said quietly, “I am pleased to see you again, John Allday.”

Allday swallowed hard and waited for Bolitho to sit down.

She had come to them. She had even remembered his name.

He glanced at the maid and winked.

“Bear off forrard!”

Allday thought of the lordly Indiaman and the easy discipline of her people. Then he looked at his barge crew, men hardened by the sea and by war. Originally from the jails and the gutters, but he knew he would not change one of them for John Company’s hands.

“Give way, all!”

“What will you do now, Belinda?” It was even hard to speak her name aloud after nursing it in his mind for so long.

“Take passage for England.” She turned to look at Benbow as the barge swept abeam. “I would that I could sail with her!” Bolitho smiled. “In a King’s ship? Poor Thomas would never rest at nights with you in his care!” She dropped her eyes. “I must be alone with you. I am ashamed of the way I feel, but I am helpless.” Bolitho saw the eyes of the stroke oarsman fix on a point somewhere above the girl’s shoulder. If he had heard her words the stroke would have been thrown into chaos.

“I am the same. Once I have seen you received ashore I shall see what must be done for your safe passage to England.” He wanted to touch her, to hold her.

She asked, “When will you be going home?” Bolitho heard the note of anxiety in her voice. “Soon.” He tried not to think about his despatches which he would send in the next fast packet. Orders which would bring Indomitable and Odin to make up the full strength of his small squadron. In her heart Belinda must already know how it would be. He said, “Then we shall be together.”

At the jetty there were two civilians, a man and a woman, waiting to meet them.

The man, a ruddy, genial giant, said, “We’ll take good care of her, Admiral! Visit whenever you will, though from all the rumour flying round the Rock, my guess is that you’ll up-anchor again soon!” He grinned, not realizing what he was causing. “Give those Frogs a bloody nose or two, eh, sir!” Bolitho removed his hat and murmured something appropri-ate.

Once more they held hands and looked at one another without caring, without hiding their feelings.

“I shall come, Belinda. No matter what.” He kissed her hand, and as he did so he saw her other hand move as if to touch his face. He released her fingers and stood back.

At the jetty he found Browne prowling up and down above the barge. He saw Bolitho and touched his hat.

“I have just seen a packet drop anchor, sir. She hoisted a signal to the Flag, despatches on board for the admiral.” Bolitho looked past him. The big Indiaman and another of the ships from the convoy were already shortening their cables and shaking out their canvas ready to sail. Far out to sea, her upper yards hidden in mist, a frigate lay hove to, an escort to shepherd them clear of any potential danger.

Life went on. It had to. It was what Studdart had tried to explain, just as he had warned him of the consequences of failure.

The packet had probably brought new orders for Herrick, as nobody in England would yet have heard of Ceres’ destruction and their escape.

What then? Should he take Studdart’s advice and await a further ruling from the Admiralty?

Again he thought of the Styx, the bleeding and dazed survivors on the beach. The Frenchman who had attacked one of the sailors, the girl who had stared at him from the crowd.

There was no easy way, nor had there ever been.

He looked down into the waiting barge. For the admiral’s lady.

If he turned back now he would dishonour himself. Worse, she might despise him too when time sharpened the memory of his decision.

Allday recognized the mood better than words.

Here we go again, John. He thought he knew how Bolitho felt, and later on he might even share it with him.

He grinned unsympathetically at his bargemen. The rest?

They would follow the flag and do their duty, for that was the lot of poor Jack.

11 S o little time

“MAKE SIX copies and bring them to me for signature.” Bolitho looked over Yovell’s shoulder and marvelled that so large a man could write with such a neat, round hand.

Herrick sat by the stern windows and watched the smoke from his long pipe as it curled out and over the placid water of the bay. It was still only afternoon, and it had been bustle, bustle, bustle from the moment the anchor had hit the bottom.

He said, “When the Admiralty receive your despatches they’ll know you’re alive and well, sir.” He chuckled softly. “Your intended action against the Frogs will make a few sore heads in Whitehall, I’ll wager.”

Bolitho moved restlessly about the cabin and tried to discover if he had forgotten anything. Captain Inch would have already sailed his repaired Odin around from the Nore to join Veriker’s Indomitable at Plymouth, and Keen’s ship lay at anchor here, less than a cable distant. We happy few. They were getting fewer.

The fast packet which had anchored during the forenoon with despatches for Sir John Studdart had also carried further orders for Herrick, as he had suspected. He was to return to Plymouth with Nicator and the frigate Ganymede in company, where he would take overall charge of the squadron until further instructions.

Fast packets, like the hard-worked courier brigs, had little time to themselves. This one, the Thrush, would sail in the morning, and his despatches had to be on board.

Their lordships would get a shock when they found that not only was he alive, but had been rescued by his own flagship.

He watched the clerk gather up his papers and stride heavily from the cabin. He had no need to ask him to hurry. Yovell would have everything ready to sign with time to spare.

Bolitho thought of the one sour note in Herrick’s orders. He was to make contact with the blockading force off Belle Ile and notify Captain Emes that he would stand before a court-martial once Phalarope was relieved from her station.

He thought it wrong and unfair, even though the instigators of the orders had no idea that the squadron’s rear-admiral was alive and free from captivity.

Herrick, on the other hand, had been adamant in his contempt for Emes’s actions.

“Of course he was wrong, sir. Leave Styx to fend for herself and disobey your orders to close with the enemy? If I’d been there I’d have run him up to Benbow’s main-yard and save the expense of a court martial!”

A boat pulled slowly below the stern, some seamen singing and skylarking as they made their way back to their ship. Bolitho watched them. To the Thrush. He had already discovered that no other such vessel was leaving for England for a week.

Belinda would have to be put aboard for, although he had learned that the people with whom she was staying were friends she had known in India, Gibraltar was no place for her to remain.

The squadron would put to sea without delay. If fate turned against him after raising his hopes so high, she would need to be in England, in Falmouth where she would be cared for and loved.

He gestured to Ozzard to fetch some wine from his cooler and said, “Now, Thomas, there is a matter I wish to discuss.” Herrick emptied his pipe and proceeded to refill it with slow, deliberate stabs of his finger.

He did not look up but said, “You have already done so, sir, and my answer is the same. I was appointed acting-commodore because the squadron was divided. You still command the full force as described in the orders.” He looked up, his blue eyes hidden in shadow. “Do you want me to be like Emes and run when I’m needed?”

Bolitho took two goblets from Ozzard and carried them to his friend.

“You know that is rubbish, Thomas. It is not the risk of battle which worries me, but the threat to your future. I can send you with another force to watch over Lorient. That would keep your broad-pendant where it belongs, at the masthead. Damn it, man, you deserve it and much more beside! If you had obeyed the rules and left Ganymede to cut and run from the French, I would still be a prisoner. D’you imagine I’m not grateful for that?

But if the price for my safety is your loss of promotion, then I’m not so sure of the bargain.”

Herrick did not flinch. “I didn’t wait for the arrival of my new flag-captain when I quit Plymouth. I never expected to command a ship of the line such as Benbow. So a captain I’ll probably remain until they kick me on to the beach for good.” He grinned.

“I know one dear lady who would not be too worried by that.” Bolitho dropped on to the bench and studied him gravely.

“And if I order you, Thomas?”

Herrick held a taper to his pipe and puffed placidly for several seconds.

“Ah, well, sir. We’d have to see. But, of course, if you send me out of the main squadron before you commit it to an attack, which in all probability will be cancelled anyway, their lordships will see your act as a lack of confidence.” He eyed him stubbornly.

“So if I am to face ruin either way, I’d rather remain here as your second-in-command.”

Bolitho smiled. “God, man, you’re like Allday!”

“Good.” Herrick reached for his goblet. “He is the only man I know who makes you listen to sense.” He grinned. “No disrespect, sir.”

Bolitho laughed. “None taken.”

He stood up and walked to the sword rack. “I wonder what has happened to the old sword, Thomas?” He shook himself as if to drive away the past. “In truth, I have nothing left. They took my watch, everything.”

Herrick nodded. “A new start. Perhaps that too was as intended.”

“Maybe.”

Herrick added, “Let’s get to sea and finish this damnable waiting.” When Bolitho remained silent he said, “For once you are not so keen to leave, sir. And I’m sure I don’t blame you.” Bolitho took down the bright presentation sword and examined it while he tortured himself with his doubts.

Herrick said, “A lot of good folk put their faith into that sword, sir. Because they trusted you, because you are one of their own sons. So don’t you fret on it now. Whatever happens they’ll stand by you.” He stood up abruptly and added, “And so will I.” He lurched unsteadily against the seat and grinned. “Ship’s a bit lively, sir.”

Bolitho watched him, moved as always by his sincerity.

“It’s like a mill-pond, Thomas. Too much wine, that’s your trouble.”

Herrick gathered up his dignity and walked towards the door.

“And why not, sir? I’m celebrating.” Bolitho watched him leave and murmured, “And God bless you for that, Thomas.”

Browne must have been waiting in the lobby, and as he entered Bolitho said, “Visit the Thrush’s master, Oliver, and arrange passage for—” he turned and faced him “—your admiral’s lady. Make certain she is well cared for. You, better than anybody I know, can manage that.”

Browne watched him impassively. “They sail tomorrow, sir.

Early.”

“I know.”

All this way she had come to find him, directed by some uncanny faith in his survival. Now he was putting her aboard another ship. And yet somehow he knew he was right, that she would understand.

He said suddenly, “I’m going ashore. Have them pipe for my barge crew.” He was speaking quickly in case he should discover an argument against his own actions. “If anything happens, I shall be . . .” He hesitated.

Browne handed him his hat and the regulation pattern sword which Herrick had given him.

“I understand, sir. Leave everything to me.” Bolitho clapped him on the shoulder. “How did I ever manage without you?”

Browne followed him on deck, and while the calls shrilled to muster the barge crew he said, “It is mutual, sir.” As the barge pulled rapidly clear of Benbow’s shadow, Bolitho looked up at her maze of spars and rigging and at the haughty figurehead of Admiral Sir John Benbow. He had died of wounds after being betrayed by certain of his captains.

Bolitho thought of Herrick and Keen, Inch and Neale who had perished for his loyalty.

If Admiral Benbow had been as lucky as he was, it would have been a very different story.

Allday looked down at Bolitho’s squared shoulders, the black queue above the gold-laced collar. Admiral or Jack, it made no difference, he thought. Not when it came to a woman.

The room was small but comfortably furnished, with only the thickness of the outer wall giving any hint that it was part of Gibraltar’s fortifications. There were a few portraits and ornaments to mark the comings and goings of various company agents who had lodged briefly amongst the garrison and the naval presence.

Bolitho said quietly, “I thought they would never leave us.” He had known the Barclays for only a few moments but already thought of them as a single entity rather than individuals.

She smiled and held out her hands to grasp his. “They are kindly people, Richard. But for them . . .” He slipped his arm around her waist and together they walked to the window. The sun had already moved over the Rock, and against the deep blue water the precisely anchored men-of-war looked like models. Only the occasional tail of white spray marked the movements of oared boats, the fleet’s busy messengers.

She leaned her head against his shoulder and murmured, “The Thrush seems so tiny from up here.” She looked at the Benbow anchored at the head of the other vessels. “To think that you command all those men and ships. You are like two people.”

Bolitho moved behind her and allowed her hair to touch his mouth. They were alone. On this overcrowded, unnatural outpost they had found a place to be together. It was like looking down on another world, upon himself at a distance.

She was right. Down there he was a commander, a man who could save or destroy life by a single hoist of flags. Here he was just himself.

She leant against him and said, “But if you are leaving here, then so am I. It is all arranged. I believe that even Polly, my new maid, is eager to go, for I think she hopes to see Allday again.

She is much taken with him.”

“I have so much to tell you, Belinda. I have seen you for so short a while, and now . . .”

“Soon we are to be separated again. I know. But I am trying not to think about that. Not for a few more hours.” Bolitho felt her tense as she asked, “Is it so very dangerous?

It’s all right, you can tell me. I think you know that now.” Bolitho looked over her head at the ships swinging to their cables.

“There will be a fight.” It was a strange feeling. He had never discussed it like this before. “You wait and you wait, you try to see things through the eyes of the enemy, and when it eventually happens it is all suddenly different. Many people at home believe their sailors fight for King and country, to protect their loved ones, and so they do. But when the guns begin to thunder, and the enemy is right there alongside rising above the smoke like the devil’s fury, it is John who calls for Bill, one messmate seeking another, as the bonds of sailormen are stronger than symbols beyond their ship.”

He felt her sob or catch her breath and said quickly, “I am sorry, that was unforgivable!”

Her hair moved against his mouth as she shook her head in protest.

“No. I am proud to share your thoughts, your hopes. I feel a part of you.”

He moved his hands up from her waist and felt her stiffen as he touched her breasts.

“I want you to love me, Belinda. I have been so long in the ways of ships and sailors I am frightened of turning you away.” For a moment she did not speak, but he could feel her heart beating to match his own as he clasped her body to his.

When she spoke he had to bend his head to hear.

“I told you before. I should be ashamed of the way I feel.” She twisted round in his arms and looked up at him. “But I am not ashamed.”

Bolitho kissed her neck and her throat, knowing he must stop, but unable to contain his emotions.

She stroked his hair and moaned softly as his mouth brushed against her breast.

“I want you, Richard. After today neither of us knows what may happen.” When he made to protest she said calmly, “Do you think I want to remember only the embraces of my dead husband, when it is you I want? We have both loved and been loved, but that is in the past.”

He said, “It is past.”

She nodded very slowly. “There is so little time, my dearest.” She held out her hand, her eyes averted as if she were suddenly aware of his nearness. Then with the toss of her head which Bolitho had come to love, she walked to the curtained-off com-partment at the end of the room, tugging at his hand like a wanton child.

Bolitho pulled back the curtain from around the bed and watched her as she unfastened her gown, her hands almost tear-ing at it until with a gasp she stood and faced him, her hair hanging over her naked shoulders in a last attempt at modesty.

Bolitho put his hands around her throat and thrust her hair back and over her spine. Then with infinite care he laid her on the bed, almost afraid to blink in case he missed a second of her beauty and his need for her.

Moments later he lay beside her, their bodies touching, their eyes searching each other for some new discovery.

Bolitho’s shadow moved over her and he saw her eyes following him, while at her sides her fists were clenched as if it was the only way she could withstand the torture of waiting.

Across the floor the blue gown and pale undergarments lay entangled amongst the dress coat with the bright epaulettes, like the ships below the window, discarded and forgotten.

They lost all sense of time and were conscious only of each other. They discovered a love which was both tender and demanding, passionate and gentle.

Darkness fell over the anchorage, but Gibraltar could have been split in halves and they would not have known.

In the first uncertain glow of dawn Bolitho moved carefully from the bed and walked to the window.

A few lights bobbed around the ships, and his returning instinct told him that life had restarted there. The hands had been called, the decks would be holystoned as the yawning watchkeepers waited for the bells to chime, the half-hour glasses to be turned to greet another day.

He heard her move and turned back to the bed where she lay like a fallen statue, one arm outstretched towards him.

He sat down beside her and touched her skin, feeling his resolve crumble, the desire returning to match hers.

Somewhere, a million miles away, a trumpet blared raucously and soldiers blinked away their sleep.

He said softly, “I have to go, Belinda. Your friends will be coming soon to prepare you for the passage to England.”

She nodded. “The Barclays.”

She was trying to smile, but when he touched her body she seized his hand and squeezed it hard around her breast.

“I am not so strong as I believed. The sooner you leave, the quicker will be our reunion, I know that!” Bolitho looked down at her. “I am so lucky.” He turned away.

“If—”

She gripped his hand more tightly. “No, my darling, not if, when! ”

He smiled and slowly released himself from her grip.

“When.” He looked at the crumpled uniform on the floor. “It has a good ring to it.”

Then he pulled on his clothes, not daring to look at her until he had clipped on the sword and was ready to leave.

Then he sat down again, and in an instant she threw her arms around his neck, her naked body pressed against his coat as she kissed him with something like desperation while she breathed words into his skin.

He felt the salt tears against his lips, his or hers, he did not know.

She made no attempt to follow him, but sat on the bed, her knees drawn up to her chin, as she watched him move towards the door.

Then she said huskily, “Now you are the admiral again, and you belong down there with your world. But last night you belonged to me, dear Richard.”

He hesitated, his hand on the door. “I shall always belong to you.”

The next instant he was outside in the passageway, as if it were all a broken dream.

Two servants were in a yard below the walls chopping sticks for a fire, and a garrison cat strolled along the rough stones as if undecided how to begin the day.

Bolitho strode down the slope towards the landing-stage, looking neither right nor left until he reached the jetty.

Then, and only then, did he look back, but the Rock’s shadow had swallowed the house completely.

The guard-boat was idling past the jetty, a lieutenant dozing in the sternsheets while his men continued their monotonous sweep around the squadron. The lieutenant was soon wide awake when he saw Bolitho’s epaulettes in the first sunlight.

As he directed his boat to steer for the squadron’s flagship, the lieutenant’s mind was awhirl with speculation. The admiral had been to a secret meeting with the military governor. He had received instructions on a move to parley with the enemy on a new peace mission.

Bolitho was unaware of the lieutenant’s interest and of everything else but the night which had gone by in minutes, or so it seemed now.

And he had thought of himself as a man of honour! He waited for the shame and the dismay to come, but instead he felt only happiness, as if a great weight had been lifted from him.

“Boat ahoy!”

Bolitho looked up, startled to see Benbow towering high above the boat. He could see the marine sentry with his fixed bayonet moving above the beakhead on his little platform where he watched for unlawful visitors and would-be deserters alike.

The boat’s coxswain cupped his hands and bellowed, “Flag!

Benbow! ”

Bolitho straightened his shoulders and gave a rueful smile.

Now they would all know. Their rear-admiral was back in command.

But he could not let go so easily. Belinda.

“Sir?” The lieutenant stooped attentively by his side.

Bolitho shook his head. “Nothing.” He must have spoken her name aloud.

What had Sir John Studdart said of him? Like a junior lieutenant.

He certainly felt like one.

Herrick walked from beneath the poop and nodded to the master and his men by the wheel before he continued on to the quarterdeck. Without even being aware of it his eyes recorded that everything was as it should be on what promised to be another scorching day.

The ratlines and yards were alive with scurrying figures, and he heard the petty officers’ hoarse cries as they urged the topmen to greater haste.

Herrick paused by the rail and glanced along his command.

The barge was hoisted inboard, as were the other boats. There was the usual air of excitement and expectancy which even discipline and routine could not completely disguise.

Wolfe strode across the deck, his arms and great feet moving like pistons.

He touched his hat and reported, “Ship ready to sail, sir.” He glanced across at their consort and added, “I think we have an edge on Nicator this time.” Herrick grunted. “I should hope so, dammit.” Below on the gun-deck more men surged about in response to the shouted commands, raising fists as names were checked against a watch-bill or duty list.

Benbow was preparing to weigh. At any other time it was rare indeed to see so many of her people disgorged on to the upper decks. Seamen and marines, idlers and ships’ boys, the highest to the most junior. The ship was leaving harbour again. Where bound and to what purpose was not their concern.

Wolfe, like every first lieutenant worth his salt, was going through his own list for the day. At sea or in port, the work had to continue, and his captain must be kept informed.

“Two hands for punishment this forenoon, sir. Page, two dozen lashes for drunkenness and quarrelling.” He paused and glanced from his list to Herrick’s features. “Belcher, twelve lashes for insolence.” He folded his list, satisfied. “All hands aboard, none deserted.”

“Very well. Man the capstan. Get the ship under way.” Herrick beckoned to a midshipman for his telescope and then trained it on the eighty-gun Dorsetshire. No last minute argument from Sir John Studdart. He was probably keeping well out of it.

Bolitho had the bit between his teeth, and anyone seen to agree with him or encourage further action against the enemy’s invasion fleet might be painted with the same brush. He smiled grimly.

As if anyone could or would stop Bolitho now. He glanced up at the flag at the mizzen masthead. Lifting quite well in a rising breeze. It would have to do. He tried not to think of what Dulcie would say when he lost his broad-pendant.

Wolfe said, “I was about early this morning, sir. I saw the rear-admiral come off shore.”

The blue eyes regarded him mildly. “And?” Wolfe shrugged. “Nothing, sir.” He swallowed hard. “Capstan’s manned. That damn fiddler is scraping like a blind man’s spoon.

I’d best go forrard.”

Herrick hid a smile. He knew about Bolitho’s return at first light. The whole ship probably knew or guessed the reason. It was always like that. Good or bad, you shared it.

Clank . . . clank . . . clank . . . The capstan was turning slowly, the men straining over the bars, sweating and breathing hard, while the fiddler kept them going to a well-known shanty.

The great forecourse, loosely brailed, stirred at its yard, and far above the decks the fleet-footed topmen raced each other in readiness to set the upper sails in obedience to Wolfe’s speaking trumpet.

Across the glittering water Herrick could see similar activity aboard Nicator. It would be good to draw the squadron together again. For the last time? Even to think of peace after all the years of fighting was a mockery, he decided.

He heard feet on deck and saw Bolitho, with Browne march-ing in his shadow, crossing the quarterdeck to join him.

They greeted each other formally as Herrick said, “No instructions from the flagship, sir. The anchor’s hove short, and it looks like being a fine day.” As an afterthought he added, “Ganymede sailed at eight bells as you instructed, sir. She will keep company with the packet Thrush until they are clear of these waters.” He watched Bolitho, waiting for a sign.

Bolitho nodded. “Good. I saw them go. Ganymede will contact the rest of our ships long before we reach the rendezvous.” Herrick said, “I’d give a lot to see young Pascoe’s face when he learns that you are alive, sir. I know how I felt!” Bolitho turned and looked at the other seventy-four. As he had said, he had watched the little Thrush clearing the approaches and setting her tan-coloured sails within minutes of catting her anchor. Belinda had probably been watching Benbow from her temporary quarters. Like him, unable to share the moment under the eyes of the squadron.

The signals midshipman called, “Nicator’s cable is hove short, sir!”

“Very well, Mr Stirling. Acknowledge.” Browne took a sudden interest in a seaman who was busily flaking down a line beside him.

He heard Herrick ask politely, “Was everything satisfactory, sir?”

Bolitho eyed him impassively. “It was, Captain Herrick.” Then like conspirators they both smiled broadly at each other and Herrick said, “I wish you both every happiness, sir. My God, when—”

“Ready, sir!”

Wolfe’s harsh voice made Herrick hurry to the rail.

“Loose heads’ls!” He gestured above his head. “Loose tops’ls!”

“Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”

With her canvas rippling and banging in disorder Benbow paid off to the wind, her fat hull brushing the water as she dipped to the pressure.

“Braces there! Heave, lads! ” Round and still further round, with the foreshore and the misty hills pivoting beyond the hurrying seamen and flapping topsails, until the master took control with his helm and compass.

Nicator was already setting more sail as she tilted to the freshening breeze, her scarlet ensign and masthead pendant streaming almost abeam as she took station her flagship.

“The Dons saw us arrive. Now they’ll know we are at sea again.” Bolitho looked at the land but saw only that quiet room, her pale arms open to receive him.

He walked up to the weather side and listened to the shouted orders, the squeak of tackles and blocks as miles of running rigging took the strain.

Up forward, the anchor had been secured to the cathead, and he heard Drodge, the gunner, bellowing instructions to his mates as they checked the lashings on every weapon.

A boatswain’s mate was supervising the rigging of a grating at the gangway in readiness for awarding punishment. One of the sailmaker’s crew sorted through some scraps of canvas with the same lack of emotion. Routine and discipline. It held the ship together no less securely than copper and tar.

He saw Allday carrying his new cutlass towards an open hatch. To sharpen it himself exactly as he wanted it. Who now owned Allday’s old cutlass, Bolitho wondered? The one he had driven into the French beach with such disgust when they had been taken prisoner.

Allday seemed to feel his gaze and turned to peer up at the quarterdeck. He touched his forehead and gave a small smile which only Bolitho or Herrick would recognize.

Some midshipmen were lined up for instruction at one of the upper battery’s eighteen-pounders, and a youthful lieutenant was pointing out the various positions where its crew could change round if a man fell wounded in battle, so that the speed of loading and firing would not be lost.

He spoke with crisp authority, very aware of Bolitho’s tall figure just above him. Bolitho smiled. The lieutenant was about a year older than some of his pupils.

From the galley he saw a puff of smoke as the cook made the most of whatever fresh food he had been able to snatch during their brief stay at Gibraltar, and as he watched the market-place activity of the crowded upper deck he recalled the vice-admiral’s advice to stay aloof and not to involve himself in the affairs of subordinates.

A boatswain’s mate hurried along the deck, his call twitter-ing above the sounds of canvas and spray.

“All hands! Hands lay aft to witness punishment!” Herrick stood by the rail, his chin sunk in his neckcloth, the Articles of War tucked beneath one arm, as seamen and marines surged aft in a human tide.

Bolitho turned towards the poop. I am involved. It is how I am made.

Into the shadows and past the stiff sentry beneath the spiralling lantern.

Browne followed him into the great cabin and shut the door.

“Can I do anything, sir?”

Bolitho handed his coat to Ozzard and loosened his shirt and neckcloth.

“Yes, Oliver. Close the skylight.”

It might be necessary, but he still hated the sound of the cat across a man’s naked back. He sat on the stern bench and stared out at Nicator’s tall shape following obediently on a new tack.

Browne said warily, “Your clerk is here, sir, with some more papers which seem to require your signature.” He faltered. “Shall I tell him to go away, sir?”

Bolitho sighed. “No, ask Yovell to come in. I think I need to lose myself.”

Overhead in the bright sunlight the lash rose and fell on the first man to be seized up for punishment. Most of the assembled company watched with empty eyes, and only the victim’s close friends looked away, ashamed for him and perhaps themselves.

The grating was unrigged and the hands piped to the mid-day meal, with a pint of Black Strap to wash it down.

The two men who had been flogged were taken below to the sickbay to have their backs attended to and their confidence restored by a liberal dose of rum from the surgeon’s special cask.

Alone at last in the cabin, Bolitho sat at his table, a sheet of paper before him. She would probably never read the letter, it might not even be sent. But it would help to keep her with him as the breadth of ocean tried to force them apart.

He touched his cheek where she had kissed him, and then without hesitation began to write.

My dearest Belinda, It is only a few hours since I left you . . .

On deck, as dusk closed in once more and painted the horizon with dull copper, Herrick discussed the reefing arrangements and emergency signals for the night watches. The land had already vanished in shadows, here any strange sail might be an enemy.

And Benbow was a King’s ship, with no time to spare for the frailties of the men who served her.

LIEUTENANT the Honourable Oliver Browne, with his hat clamped tightly beneath one arm, stepped into the stern cabin and waited for Bolitho to look up from his charts and scribbled notes.

“Yes?”

Browne kept his urbane features expressionless. “Sail in sight to the nor’-east, sir.” He had learned from experience that Bolitho had already heard the cry from the masthead, just as he would know that Browne knew it.

“Thank you.”

Bolitho rubbed his eyes. It had taken over a week to reach the rendezvous area. Two days of good sailing, with a favourable wind across the quarter when neither reefing nor changing tack was required. Then other days, with frustrating hours of retrim-ming yards and canvas, tired men scrambling aloft to shorten sail in a sudden squall, only to be piped up the ratlines immediately to loose them again.

Westward into the Atlantic and then up along the coast of Portugal. They had sighted a few vessels, but the distance and the slowness of the two seventy-fours made any kind of investigation impossible.

Bolitho had kept much to himself during the passage. Going over Beauchamp’s original plans but coming up all-standing whenever he had set them against an actual attack.

He threw his brass dividers on to the charts and stood up.

“What ship, I wonder?”

And what would he find in his little squadron? Ganymede should have contacted each ship, and every man would know their rear-admiral’s flag would soon be joining them.

Browne said, “They say she’s a frigate, sir.” Their eyes met. Then it would be Phalarope, unless it was a Frenchman who had slipped through the blockade undetected.

Browne added, “May I ask what you intend, sir?”

“I shall see Emes.”

He seemed to hear Herrick inside his mind. Let me deal with him, sir. I’ll settle his future for him! Loyal, but biased. How would Adam see it, he wondered? He had twice nearly lost his young life trying to defend his uncle’s name. No. Emes did not strike him as a man who would ruin Adam’s career to save his own. But before a court-martial anything could happen.

He heard Herrick’s shoes in the lobby, and as Ozzard hurried to open the screen door Bolitho said, “Leave us, Oliver.” Herrick bustled into the cabin and barely noticed the flag-lieutenant as he passed.

Bolitho said, “Sit down, Thomas, and be calm. ” Herrick peered around the cabin, his eyes still half-blinded from the glare on the quarterdeck.

“Calm, sir? It is a lot to ask!” He grimaced. “She’s Phalarope right enough.” He raised his eyebrows. “I can see that you are not surprised, sir?”

“No. Captain Emes has been in command here during our absence. He is a post-captain of experience. But for his previous trouble, his actions at the Ile d’Yeu might have roused little criticism, even from you.”

Herrick shifted in his chair, unconvinced. “I doubt that.” Bolitho moved to the stern windows and looked at some gulls which were swooping and screaming below the counter. The cook had probably hurled some scraps outboard.

“I need every competent officer, Thomas. If one is at fault, the blame must lie with his captain. If it is a captain who shows weakness, then the responsibility must lie with his admiral.” He smiled wryly. “In this particular case, me.” He hurried on. “No, hear me out, Thomas. Many of the squadron’s officers are raw replacements, and the worst wrath they have faced so far is that of a sailing-master or first lieutenant, am I right?”

“Well, I suppose so, sir.”

Bolitho smiled fondly. “That’s hardly an agreement, but it is a start. If, as I intend, we are to attack and destroy those French vessels, I shall draw heavily upon my captains. It is obvious that we are getting no more support, and Sir John Studdart knew nothing of any extra craft from his own command.” He did not conceal the bitterness. “Not even one solitary gun brig!” Beyond the cabin they heard Wolfe’s voice through his speaking trumpet, the responding clatter of blocks and halliards as men ran to obey him.

Herrick stood up. “We are about to change tack, sir.”

“Go to them, Thomas. When you are ready, you may heave to and request that Captain Emes comes aboard. He’ll be expecting it.”

“I still think . . .” Herrick grinned ruefully and said instead,

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Browne re-entered the cabin. “They’re signalling Phalarope now, sir.” He sounded puzzled. “Captain repair on board flagship. I thought you might ask for your nephew to come across too, sir?”

“I am longing to see him.” Bolitho looked up at the deckhead beams as bare feet slapped across the dried planking. “I am not proud of the fact I am using him.”

“Using him, sir?”

“Emes commands Phalarope, and he can decide if he shall bring his first lieutenant as a courtesy to me. If he does not choose to do so, he will have the stage to himself, unchallenged, as he is the first captain to meet us on this station. But if he decides to bring him, he must risk whatever my nephew may say.” Browne’s face cleared. “That is very shrewd, sir.”

“I am learning, Oliver. Very slowly, but I am learning.” The cabin tilted heavily to one side and Bolitho heard the creak of yards as Benbow swung slowly into the wind. He saw Nicator standing at a distance under shortened sail as she watched over her consorts.

Browne said, “I’ll go on deck, sir.”

“Yes. Let me know what is happening.” Browne picked up his hat and asked hesitantly, “If Captain Emes fails to satisfy you, sir . . .”

“I shall send him packing by the next available vessel. I need good officers, and I have said as much to Captain Herrick. But I’d rather send Phalarope amongst the enemy with a midshipman in command than risk more lives to satisfy my vanity!” Browne nodded and hurried away, another lesson learned.

Herrick saw him emerge into the sunlight and asked irrita-bly, “What have you been doing, Mr Browne?”

“Our admiral, sir. The way he sees things. Like an artist painting a picture.”

“Humph.” Herrick turned to watch the frigate heading into the wind, her sails aback as she prepared to lower a boat. He said grimly, “Just so long as somebody doesn’t break the frame before the picture is finished!” He saw the surprise on Browne’s face and added, “Oh yes, Mr Browne with an ‘e,’ a few of us do have minds of our own, you know!”

Browne hid a smile and walked to the lee side as Major Clinton, his sun-reddened face almost matching his tunic, marched to Herrick and barked, “Guard of honour, sir?”

“Yes. Man the side, Major. He is a captain.” He moved away and added under his breath, “At the moment.” The midshipman-of-the-watch called, “Boat’s put off, sir!” Browne hurried to the poop. He found Bolitho standing by the windows as if he had not moved.

“Phalarope’s gig is heading for us, sir.” He saw the way Bolitho’s hands gripped one another behind his back. Tense. Like a spring.

Browne said quietly, “Captain Emes has your nephew with him, sir.” He expected some instant response, a show of relief.

Instead Bolitho said, “I used to believe that all flag-officers were like gods. They created situations and formed decisions while we lesser beings merely obeyed. Now I know differently. Perhaps Vice-Admiral Studdart was right after all.”

“Sir?”

“Nothing. Tell Ozzard to bring my coat. If my emotions are at war with each other, I am certain Emes will have fared far worse. So let’s be about it, eh?”

He heard the twitter of calls, the muffled stamp of booted feet by the entry port.

As Ozzard held his coat up to his shoulders, Bolitho thought suddenly of his first command. Small, crowded, intimate.

He had believed then, as he did now, that to be given a ship was the most coveted gift which could be bestowed on any living creature.

Now others commanded, while he was forced to lead and decide their destinies. But no matter what, he would never forget what that first command had meant to him.

Browne announced, “Captain Emes of the Phalarope, sir.” Bolitho stood behind the table and said, “You may withdraw.” Had he met Captain Emes ashore or in any other surroundings he doubted if he would have recognized him. He still held himself very erect as he stood opposite the table, hat beneath his arm, his sword gripped firmly, too firmly, in the other hand. In spite of his employment on the Belle Ile station and the favourable weather which had given most of the ships’ companies a healthy tan, Emes looked deathly pale, and in the reflected sunlight from the stern windows his skin had the pallor of wax. He was twenty-nine, but looked ten years older.

Bolitho said, “You may sit, Captain Emes. This is an informal meeting for, as I must tell you, it seems likely you will be required to face at best a court of enquiry, at worst . . .” He shrugged. “In the latter case, I would be called more as a witness than as a member of the court or as your flag-officer.” Emes sat down carefully on the edge of the chair. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

“I doubt that. But before further action is taken I need to know your own explanation for your conduct on the morning of the 21st July when Styx became a total loss.” Emes began slowly and deliberately, as if he had rehearsed for this very moment. “I was in the favourable position of being able to see the French to seaward, and the other force which you were intending to engage. With the wind in the enemy’s favour, I con-cluded there was no chance of our destroying the invasion craft with time available to beat clear. I held my ship in position to wind’rd as ordered, in case . . .”

Bolitho watched him impassively. It would be easy to dismiss him as a coward. It was equally possible to feel pity for him.

He said, “When Styx struck the wreck, what then?” Emes stared round the cabin like a trapped animal. “Styx had no chance. I saw her take the full force of the collision, her masts fall, her helm abandoned. She was a hulk from that moment. I—

I wanted to drop my boats and attempt a rescue. It is never easy to stand off and watch men die.”

“But you did just that.” Bolitho was surprised at his own voice. Flat, devoid of hope or sympathy.

Emes’s eyes settled on him only briefly before continuing their tortured search around the cabin.

He said tightly, “I was the senior captain present, sir. With just Rapid to support me, and she only a brig of fourteen guns, I saw no reasonable chance of a rescue. Phalarope would have been caught by the enemy ships which were moving down wind under all sail.

A ship of the line and two frigates. What possible chance would an old vessel like mine have stood, but for making a useless and bloody gesture? Rapid would have been destroyed also.” Bolitho watched the emotions on Emes’s pale features as he relived the battle of conscience versus logic.

“And as senior officer I had responsibilities to Captain Duncan in Sparrowhawk. He was in ignorance of what was happening.

Alone and unsupported, he would have been the next to go. The whole force would have been destroyed, and the enemy’s back door left unguarded from that moment.” He looked down at his hat and pressed it on to his knees as if to find the strength to go on. “I decided to discontinue the action, and ordered Rapid to follow my directions. I have continued with the patrols and the blockading of harbours as instructed. With Ganymede’s arrival I was able to fill the gap left by Captain Neale’s ship.” He looked up, his eyes wretched. “I was shocked to learn of his death.” His head dropped again. “That is all I have to say, sir.” Bolitho leaned back in his chair and watched him thoughtfully. Emes had not pleaded or attempted to excuse his actions.

“And now, Captain Emes, do you regret your decisions?” Emes gave a shrug which seemed to shake his whole body.

“In all truth, sir, I do not know. I knew that by abandoning Styx and her survivors I was also leaving my flag-officer to his fate. In view of my record, I think perhaps I should have cast common sense to the wind and gone down fighting. Officers I have since met make no bones on their sentiments. I could feel the hostil-ity when I stepped aboard Benbow, and there are some who will be eager to damn me in your eyes. A court martial?” He lifted his head again with something like defiance. “It was inevitable, I suppose.”

“But you think their lordships would be wrong to proceed with it nevertheless?”

Emes struggled with his conscience as if it was alien to him.

“It would be easy to throw myself on your mercy, sir. After all, you could have been killed by a stray ball within minutes of starting the action, and then I would have been the senior captain anyway. I would then have ordered Neale to discontinue the engagement. Had he disobeyed me, sir, he and not I would be facing a court-martial.”

Bolitho stood up and moved to the stern windows. He saw Phalarope lying hove to some two cables away, her gingerbread glittering cheerfully in the sunlight. What did she think of her latest captain? He saw Emes’s reflection in the thick glass, the way he sat rigidly yet without life. A man counting the odds yet unwilling to give in.

Bolitho said, “I knew John Neale very well. He was once a young midshipman under my command. As was Captain Keen of Nicator, while Captain Inch, who will shortly be joining us in Odin, was once my lieutenant. And there are many more I have known for years, have watched grow to the Navy’s demands or die because of them.”

He heard Emes murmur huskily, “You are fortunate, sir. I envy you those friends and their methods.” Bolitho turned and regarded him searchingly. “And there is my own nephew, of course. Midshipman, and now first lieutenant under your charge.”

Emes nodded. “I have no doubts at all of his scorn for me, sir.”

Bolitho sat down and glanced at the litter of charts and notes which would still be there after he had dismissed Emes. It would be simple to remove him without even waiting for a suitable replacement. A senior lieutenant, someone like Wolfe, could easily assume command until told otherwise. Why take unnecessary chances when so much was at stake?

And yet . . . The two words stuck in his skin like thorns.

“They are all a comfort to me, Emes, whereas to you they are an additional hurdle. Because of me, they may despise you. Even my good friend, Commodore Herrick, a man of great integrity and no little courage, was quick to speak his anger. He, after all, risked his position, maybe even this ship, on a whim, on a simple belief he might be able to find me. So you see, your decision, though logical, might be seen differently by others who were not even present on that damnable morning.” Emes waited and then said dully, “Then there is no hope, sir.” How quiet the ship seemed to be, Bolitho thought. As if she were holding her breath, like all the men who worked within her deep hull. He had known many such moments. Like the bad days of the mutinies at Spithead and the Nore. The boom of a signal gun, the breaking of a court-martial jack which had finished many a good officer just as surely as a halter at the main-yard or a merciless flogging round the fleet had ended the lives of their men.

“There is always hope, Captain Emes.” Bolitho stood up and saw Emes lurch to his feet as if to receive a sentence. He continued, “For my part, I think you acted correctly, and I was there.”

“Sir?” Emes swayed and held his head on one side as if he had suddenly lost his hearing.

“I know now that the French ships were there by arrangement. But none of us did at the time. Had I been in your position I ought to have behaved in exactly the same way. I shall write as much to their lordships.”

Emes regarded him for several seconds. “Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say. I wanted to do the honourable thing, but everything I believed stood in my way. I am more than merely grateful. You will never know how much it means. I can bear what others say and think of me, they are unimportant. But you,” he shrugged, at a loss, “I hope I would act with such humanity if our roles were reversed.”

“Very well. Send me a full report of what your patrols have discovered during my, er, absence, and when you sight Rapid, ask her to make contact with me immediately.”

Emes licked his lips. “Yes, sir.” He turned to leave and still hesitated.

“Well, Captain Emes, spit it out. Very soon we shall all be too busy for recriminations.”

“Just one thing, sir. You said just now, I ought to have behaved in exactly the same way. ”

Bolitho frowned. “Did I?”

“Yes, sir. It was good of you to say so, but now that I understand how your people feel for you, even though I have never been fortunate to serve you and learn about it for myself, I know that the word ought is the true key.” Bolitho said, “Well, you serve me now, Captain Emes, so let that be an end to it.”

Browne entered the cabin silently as Emes departed, his eyes brimming with curiosity.

Bolitho said heavily, “He should be the admiral, Oliver, not me.

He shook himself and tried to disperse the truth. Emes had been correct. Perhaps the word ought had been used intentionally.

For in his heart he knew he would have gone to Styx’s aid, no matter what. But Emes was in the right, that was equally certain.

Browne coughed politely. “I can see that you are going to have some explaining to do, sir.”

He held open the door and Bolitho saw Pascoe half running across the other cabin in his eagerness to reach him.

They stood for several long moments, and then Pascoe exclaimed, “I cannot tell you what the news did for me, Uncle. I thought . . . when there was no word . . . we all thought . . .” Bolitho put his arm around the youthful lieutenant’s shoulder and together they walked to the stern windows. The ship was all behind them. Here was only the sea, empty now that Phalarope had fallen down wind and had laid bare the horizon.

The lieutenant’s uniform had done little to change the youth who had joined his old Hyperion as a young midshipman. His black hair, cut in the new short length, was as unruly as ever, and his body felt as if it needed six months of Cornish cooking to put more flesh on it.

He said, “Adam, you must know I had some concern about your joining Phalarope, even though the opportunity of being first lieutenant at twenty-one is enough to tempt a saint, which you are certainly not! Captain Emes has not made any report on your progress, but I have no doubt—” He felt Pascoe tense as he turned to face him incredulously.

“But, Uncle! You’ve not allowed him to remain?” Bolitho shook his finger. “You may be a nephew, and when I am in despair I sometimes admit that I am quite fond of you—” It was not working this time. Pascoe stood with his hands clenched at his sides, his dark eyes flashing as he said, “He left you to die! I couldn’t believe it! I pleaded with him! I very nearly flew at him!” He shook his head violently. “He’s not fit to have Phalarope, or any other ship!”

“How did Phalarope’s people behave when Captain Emes ordered them to change tack away from the enemy?” Pascoe blinked, disconcerted by the question. “They obeyed, naturally. In any case, they do not know you as I do, Uncle.” Bolitho gripped the youth’s shoulders and shook him gently but firmly.

“I love you for that, Adam, but it must surely prove my point?

The same one I just made to your captain.”

“But, but . . .”

Bolitho released him and smiled ruefully. “Now I am not speaking as uncle to nephew, but as rear-admiral commanding this squadron to one of his officers, a damned cheeky one at that.

Emes acted in the best way he knew. Even after considering what people would say and read into his interpretation at the time. We cannot always know the man who leads, just as I am no longer privileged to recognize the face of every sailor and marine who obeys.”

“I think I can see that.”

Bolitho nodded. “Good. I have enough problems without you starting a war of your own.”

Pascoe smiled. “Everything will be all right now, Uncle, you see.”

Bolitho said, “I am being serious. Emes commands, and you owe it to him to give everything you know for the ship’s benefit.

If you were to fall in battle, there must be no gulf between captain and company. The bridge made by any first lieutenant between poop and fo’c’s’le has to survive. And if Emes were to die, the people have got to look to you as their leader, and not remember the petty bickering which went before. I am right, Adam.”

“I suppose so, Uncle. All the same—”

“God, you’re getting like Herrick. Now be off with you. To your ship, and heaven help you if I see any slackness; for I shall know where to lay the blame!”

This time Pascoe grinned and could not control it.

“Very well, Uncle.”

They walked out to the quarterdeck where Herrick waited in unsmiling silence beside Captain Emes.

Herrick said, “Wind’s freshening, sir. May I suggest that I have Phalarope’s gig piped to the chains?” He glanced meaning-fully at Emes. “Her captain will want to get back on board, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Pascoe darted a quick glance between them and then stepped smartly up to his captain.

“Thank you for allowing me to accompany you, sir.” Emes eyed him warily. “A pleasure, Mr Pascoe.” For a moment longer Bolitho held on to the relationship he shared with his nephew.

“I met Belinda Laidlaw at Gibraltar. She is now on passage to England.” He could feel his cheeks flush under the youth’s stare.

Pascoe smiled. “I see, Unc—sir. I did not know. It must have been a very happy reunion.”

He glanced from Bolitho to Herrick and smiled. “I’m sure it was, in every way.”

They touched their hats, and then Emes followed Pascoe down into the tossing gig alongside.

Herrick whispered fiercely, “Impudent young bugger!” Bolitho faced him gravely. “About what, Thomas? Did I miss something?”

“Well, er, I mean to say, sir—” Herrick lapsed into confused silence.

Wolfe’s great shadow loomed over them.

“Permission to get the ship under way, sir?” Bolitho nodded curtly. “Granted. I fear the commodore is choking on words.”

Bolitho walked up to the weather side as the hands ran to the braces and halliards once again.

There was some cloud about, and the sea was lively with sharp-backed wavelets. They might be in for a blow.

He watched the Phalarope’s gig manœuvring alongside her parent ship, and recalled Pascoe’s words. It must have been a very happy reunion. Had he really guessed, or had he merely touched upon his uncle’s sense of guilt?

But one thing was certain. Pascoe was pleased for them both, and that would help the weeks to pass better than he would ever know.

The first excitement of rejoining his small force of ships became more difficult for Bolitho to sustain as days dragged into weeks with nothing achieved. The blockade had not changed merely because he wanted it to. The boredom and drudgery of beating up and down the enemy coast in all weathers had produced its inevitable aftermath of slackness and subsequent punishment at the gangway.

It was not difficult to imagine the French admiral watching their sails from a safe vantage point on the shore, while he took his time to prepare his growing fleet of invasion craft for the next and possibly last move into the English Channel.

Ganymede had gone close inshore to spy out the whereabouts of anchored shipping, and had been forced to run from two enemy frigates which had pounced on her in the middle of a rain squall.

The close-knit system of semaphore stations was working as well as ever.

But Ganymede’s captain had discovered an increase in local fishing craft before he had been chased into open water.

At the end of the third week the lookouts sighted Indomitable and Odin running down to join their flagship. Bolitho felt a sense of relief. He had been expecting a firm recall from the Admiralty, or a request for him to return home and to leave Herrick in overall command. It would mean the end of Beauchamp’s plans, and also that Styx’s sacrifice had been in vain.

As the three ships of the line manœuvred ponderously under Benbow’s lee, the unemployed hands lined the gangways and stared at their consorts, as sailors always did and always would. Familiar faces, news from home, anything which might make the dreary routine of blockade bearable until they were eventually relieved.

Bolitho was on deck with Herrick to watch the exchange of signals, to feel the sense of pride at the sight of these familiar ships. Bolitho had not seen Odin since her savage battering at Copenhagen, but without effort he could visualize Francis Inch, her horse-faced captain, the way he would bob with genuine pleasure when they next met. But that would have to wait a while longer. There was news to be exchanged, despatches to read and answer. And anyway, Bolitho thought with sudden disappointment, he had nothing to call his captains together for.

Bolitho took his usual stroll on the quarterdeck and was left alone to his thoughts. Up and down, up and down, his feet avoid-ing gun tackles and flaked cordage without effort.

The ships shortened sail, and a boat was sent across to Benbow with an impressive bag of letters and Admiralty instructions.

By the time he had completed his walk and had returned to his quarters, Bolitho felt vaguely depressed. Perhaps it was the absence of news and the hint of a chill in these September days.

Biscay could be a terrible station in really bad weather. It would take more than gun and sail drills to keep the ships’ companies alert and ready to fight.

It had to be soon. Otherwise the French would be prevented from moving the bulk of their new invasion craft by worsening weather, just as their enemies would be driven away from the dangerous coastline for the same reason. Soon.

Browne was opening envelopes and piling official documents to one side while he placed personal letters on Bolitho’s table.

The flag-lieutenant said, “No new orders, sir.” He sounded so cheerful that Bolitho had to bite back a rebuke.

It was not Browne’s fault. Perhaps it had never been intended that their presence here was to be anything but a gesture.

His eyes fell on the letter which lay uppermost on the table.

“Thank you, Oliver.”

He sat down and read it slowly, afraid he might miss something, or worse that she had written of some regret for what had happened at Gibraltar.

Her words were like a warm breeze. In minutes he felt strangely relaxed, and even the pain in his wounded thigh left him in peace.

She was waiting.

Bolitho stood up quickly. “Make a signal to Phalarope, Oliver, repeated to Rapid. ” He walked across the cabin, the letter clutched in his hand.

Browne was still staring up at him from the table, fascinated by the swift change.

Bolitho snapped, “Wake up, Oliver! You wanted orders, well, here they are. Tell Rapid, investigate possibility of capturing a fishing boat and report when ready.” He tapped his mouth with Belinda’s letter and then held it to his nose. Her perfume. She must have done it deliberately.

Browne wrote frantically on his book and asked, “May I ask why, sir?”

Bolitho smiled at him. “If they won’t come out to us, we’ll have to go inshore amongst them!”

Browne got to his feet. “I’ll signal Phalarope, sir.” There would be more than a little risk in seizing one of the local boats sighted by Ganymede. But it would involve only a handful of men. Determined and well-led, they might be the means to provide the picklock to Contre-Amiral Remond’s back door!

Browne returned a few moments later, his blue coat bright with droplets of spray.

He said, “Wind’s still getting up, sir.”

“Good.”

Bolitho rubbed his hands. He could picture his signal being passed from ship to ship with no less efficiency and speed than the enemy’s semaphore. Rapid ’s young commander, Jeremy Lapish, had only just been promoted from lieutenant. He was said to be keen and competent, two sound qualities for a man who was after recognition and further advancement. Bolitho could also imagine his nephew when he heard of the signal when it was passed on from his own ship. He would see himself in charge of the raid, with all its risks and the wild cut and thrust of close action.

Browne sat down and continued to study the despatches tied in their pink Admiralty tape.

“Looking back, sir.” He watched Bolitho gravely. “When we were prisoners, in some ways it was Captain Neale who held us together. I believe we were too worried for his safety to care for our own predicament. I often think about him.” Bolitho nodded. “He’ll be thinking of us, I shouldn’t wonder, when next we beat to quarters.” He smiled. “I hope we do something he’d be proud of.”

The wind rose and veered, the sea changed its face from blue to grey, and as dusk closed down the sight of land the squadron took station for the night.

Deep down on Benbow’s orlop deck, as the ship swayed and groaned around them, Allday and Tuck, the captain’s coxswain, sat in companionable silence and shared a bottle of rum. The smell of the rum and the swinging lantern was making both of them drowsy, but the two coxswains were content.

Tuck asked suddenly, “D’you reckon your admiral’s goin’ to fight, John?”

Allday held his glass against the guttering candle and examined the level of its contents.

“Course he will, Frank.”

Tuck grimaced. “If I ’ad a woman like the one ’e’s got ’is grapnels on, I’d stay well clear o’ the Frenchie’s iron.” He grinned admiringly. “An’ you lives at ’is ’ouse when you’re ashore, right?” Allday’s head lolled. He could see the stone walls and the hedgerows as if he were there. The two inns he liked best in Falmouth, the girl at the George who had done him a favour or two. Then there was Mrs Laidlaw’s new maid Polly, she was a neat parcel and no mistake.

He said, “That’s right, Frank. One of the family, that’s me.” But Tuck was fast asleep.

Allday leant his back against a massive frame and wondered why he was changing. He always tried to keep his life afloat separate from the one which Bolitho had given him at Falmouth.

He thought of the coming battle. Tuck must be mad if he believed Bolitho would give way to the Frogs. Not now, not after all they had seen and done together.

Fight they would, and Allday was troubled that it affected him so deeply.

Aloud he said to the ship, “I’m getting bloody old, that’s what.”

Tuck groaned and muttered, “Wassat?”

“Shut up, you stupid bugger.” Allday lurched to his feet.

“Come on then, I’ll help sling your hammock for you.” Some eight miles from Allday’s flickering lantern another scene was being enacted in the Rapid ’s small cabin as Lapish, her commander, explained what was required.

The brig was pitching violently in a steep offshore swell, but neither Lapish nor his equally youthful first lieutenant even noticed it.

Lapish was saying, “You’ve seen the signal from the Flag, Peter, and you know what to look for. I’ll drop the boat as close as I can and stand off until you return, with or without a fisherman.” He grinned at the lieutenant. “Does it frighten you?”

“It’s one way to promotion, sir.”

They both bent over the chart to complete their calculations.

The lieutenant had never spoken to his rear-admiral, and had only seen him a few times at a distance. But what did it matter?

Tomorrow there might be a new admiral in command. The lieutenant laid his hanger on a bench beside his favourite pistols. Or I might be dead.

In the long chain of command the next few hours were all that mattered.

“Ready, Peter?”

“Aye, sir.”

They listened to the dash of spray over the deck. A foul night for boatwork, but a perfect one for what they had in mind.

And anyway, they had their orders from the Flag.

LIEUTENANT Wolfe ducked his head beneath the deckhead beams and clumped noisily into the cabin. He waited while Bolitho and Herrick completed some calculations on a chart and then said,

“Signal from Rapid, repeated by Phalarope. French boat captured.

No alarm given. ”

Bolitho glanced at Herrick. “That was good work. The brig is aptly named.” To Wolfe he said, “Signal Rapid to send her prize to the flagship. The fewer prying eyes to see her the better. And tell Commander Lapish, well done.”

Herrick rubbed his chin doubtfully. “No alarm roused, eh?

Lapish must have taken full advantage of the foul weather yesterday, lucky young devil.”

“I expect so.” Bolitho kept his voice non-committal as he stooped over the chart once more.

There was no point in telling Herrick how he had lain awake worrying about his orders to Rapid. Even one man lost to no purpose was too many. He had felt this way ever since Styx had gone and Neale had died with so many of his company. He looked at Herrick’s homely face. No, there was no point in disturbing him also.

Instead he ran his finger along the great triangle on the chart.

It stretched south-east from Belle Ile to the Ile d’Yeu, then seaward to a point some forty miles to the west. Then north once more to Belle Ile. His three frigates patrolled along the invisible thread nearest to the coast, while the ships of the line were made to endure the uncertainties of unsheltered waters where they could be directed to attack if the French attempted to break out.

Amongst and between Bolitho’s ships the little Rapid acted as messenger and spy. Lapish must have enjoyed his successful cutting-out raid, no matter how brief it had been. Action soon drove away the cobwebs, and his men would have the laugh on the companies of their heaviest consorts.

He said, “The French must be getting ready to move. We have to know what is happening closer inshore.” He looked up as Browne entered the cabin. “The captured fishing boat will be joining us directly. I want you to board her and make a full investigation.”

Herrick said, “I can send Mr Wolfe.” Bolitho smiled. “I need something different from seamanship, Thomas. I think Mr Browne may see what others might miss.”

“Humph.” Herrick stared at the chart. “I wonder. Still, I suppose it may be worth a try.”

Browne said calmly, “May I suggest something, sir?”

“Of course.”

Browne walked to the cable. He had completely recovered from seasickness, and even the squall which had battered at the squadron throughout the night had left him untouched.

“I’ve heard that the fishermen have been gathering for weeks.

It is customary so that they can work under the protection of the French guard-boats. If Rapid ’s commander is certain that nobody saw his men seize one of the boats, a picked prize crew could surely work inshore again and see what is happening?” Herrick sighed deeply. “Well, naturally, man! It was what we intended! And I thought you had something new to offer!” Browne gave a gentle smile. “With respect, sir, I meant that the boat could be sailed right amongst the others, for a time anyway.”

Herrick shook his head. “Mad. Quite mad. They would be seen for what they were within an hour.” Browne persisted. “If someone aboard spoke fluent French . . .” Herrick looked despairingly at Bolitho. “And how many French scholars do we have aboard, sir?” Browne coughed. “Me, sir, for one, and I have discovered that Mr Midshipman Stirling and Mr Midshipman Gaisford are passable.”

Herrick stared at him. “Well, I’ll be double damned!” Bolitho said slowly, “Is there any alternative?” Browne shrugged. “None, sir.”

Bolitho studied the chart, although in his mind he could see every sounding, shoal and distance.

It might work. The unlikely so often did. If it failed, Browne and his men would be taken. If they were wearing disguise when they were captured it would mean certain death. He thought of the little graves by the prison wall, the scars of musket balls where the victims had been shot down.

Browne was watching his uncertainty. He said, “I should like to try, sir. It would help in some way. For Captain Neale.” From that other world beyond the cabin the marine sentry shouted, “Midshipman o’ th’ watch, sah!” Midshipman Haines tiptoed nervously towards his betters and said in a whisper, “The first lieutenant’s respects, sir, and the French prize is in sight to the north-east’rd.” Herrick glared at him. “Is that all, Mr Haines?”

“N—no, sir. Mr Wolfe said to tell you that there are three French soldiers on board.”

Unwittingly the boy had left the most vital part until the end.

Bolitho said, “Thank you, Mr Haines. My compliments to the first lieutenant, and ask him to keep me informed as she draws closer.”

It was all suddenly startlingly clear. He recalled the French soldiers aboard those other fishing boats on that terrible morning when Styx had foundered. Perhaps the local garrison always kept a few available for such duties. It was not unknown for fishermen and smugglers from either side to meet offshore and exchange news and contraband. Contre-Amiral Remond would not wish his squadron to be betrayed by some careless scrap of gossip.

Three enemy soldiers. In his mind’s eye he could already see Browne in one of the uniforms, and when he looked at the lieutenant he could tell he was thinking exactly that.

“Very well. Search the boat and report to me. After that . . .” His gaze fell on the chart. “I shall decide.” Herrick asked, “You know the risks?” Browne nodded. “Yes, sir.”

“And you still want to go?”

“Yes, sir.”

Herrick spread his hands. “As I thought, quite mad.” Bolitho glanced from one to the other. Both so different, yet each so important to him.

He stood up. “I shall take a walk on deck, Thomas. I need to think.”

Herrick understood. “I shall see that you are not disturbed, sir.”

Later, as Bolitho paced back and forth on the quarterdeck, he tried to put himself in Remond’s place. He had met him for just that short while, and yet it made such a difference. Now the enemy had a face, a personality. Maybe it was better if the foe remained anonymous, he thought.

It was nearly dusk by the time the little fishing boat had manœuvred under Benbow’s lee and Browne had gone across to examine her.

While the ratlines and gangways were crammed with curious seamen, Bolitho stood aloof and watched the newcomer with no less interest. A dirty, hard-worked vessel with patched sails and a littered deck, she was not much bigger than Benbow’s barge. Her appearance was less than heroic and would turn the average naval boatswain grey with disgust.

Browne in his blue and white uniform made a stark contrast against the vessel’s squalor.

The jolly-boat returned with a young lieutenant whom Bolitho guessed to be the leader of the cutting-out party. As he climbed up Benbow’s tumblehome and touched his hat to the side party, Bolitho saw he was a mere youth, nineteen at the most.

Wolfe was about to take him aft to the captain’s quarters when Bolitho called impetuously, “Come here!” Young and in awe of the flagship’s surroundings he might be, but the lieutenant had that certain panache as he hurried aft to the quarterdeck. The mark of a victor.

He touched his hat. “Lieutenant Peter Searle, sir, of the brig Rapid. ”

“You took the prize, I believe, Mr Searle?” The lieutenant turned and glanced across at the grubby fishing boat. He seemed to see her for the first time for what she really was.

He replied, “She was anchored apart from the others, sir. I put two men outboard, good swimmers, and sent them to cut the cable so that she could drift down on my own boat. There was half a gale blowing by that time and my boat was leaking badly.” He smiled as he remembered what it had been like, the lines of strain falling from his face. “I knew we had to take her right then or swim in search of Rapid! ”

“Was there a fight?”

“There were four soldiers aboard, sir, I’d been told nothing about them. They killed poor Miller and stunned Thompson before we could get to grips. It was quickly done.” Bolitho said, “I’m proud of you.” It was strange how the unfortunate man named Miller had suddenly become so real even though he had never met him.

“And nobody raised the alarm?”

“No, sir. I’m certain of it.” As an afterthought Searle said, “I dropped the corpses over the side in the darkness, there were only three, including Miller. But I had them hurried down with some ballast around them. They’ll not be afloat anywhere to tell the tale.”

“Thank you, Mr Searle.”

The lieutenant added hesitantly, “I am told you intend to use the boat against the enemy, sir? If so, I’d like to volunteer my services.”

“Who told you that?”

The lieutenant flushed under Bolitho’s gaze. “I—I forget, sir.” Bolitho smiled. “No matter, I think I can guess. I shall be glad to appoint you in charge of the prize. You are obviously a man of resourcefulness. With that and my flag-lieutenant’s uncanny habit of being right, you should be a great asset.” They both turned as Herrick appeared on deck, and Bolitho said, “We will begin tonight. Tell Major Clinton I require four of his top marksmen to accompany the prize crew, and they’ll need a good master’s mate as well. And see he is the best Mr Grubb can offer, not the one least likely to be missed.” Herrick looked as if he was going to protest but changed his mind.

Bolitho turned to the lieutenant again. “I shall give you your orders, but you must know that if you are captured there is little hope for you.”

“I understand, sir.” He smiled cheerfully. “All my party are volunteers.”

Bolitho looked at the fishing boat. Now he understood. He had been worried about risking lives, but this young lieutenant was actually grateful to him. For the chance, the rare, precious opportunity which every young officer prayed might come his way. To think that I was exactly like him.

He said, “Bring the prisoners over, and put some of our people aboard to aid Mr Browne.” He glanced at the gathering dusk, the last daylight which still clung to Nicator’s upper yards. “My God, Thomas, I am sick and tired of waiting for the enemy to shift himself. It is time we stirred them a little!” He saw Allday on the larboard gangway. He too was staring over at the fishing boat, his thick body stiff and tense. At least Allday would be spared from this piece of reckless endeavour, Bolitho thought.

He waited on deck until the handful of prisoners were ferried across, the first being three French soldiers. They were followed by one of Clinton’s marines who carried a bloodied uniform across his arm, his features screwed up with distaste. The uniform’s previous owner would have no further use of it.

Eventually, when it was almost dark and the ships were reefing down for the night, Browne returned on board.

“That boat stinks like a sewer, sir! As do those who man her!”

“Did you discover anything?”

Browne nodded. “She hails from Brest and is no local craft.

We are in luck. I managed to convince her master that he would be freed later on if he told us the truth. Equally he would swing from the main-yard if he did not. He assured me that there is a large French squadron, which he believes to be under local control, for the sole purpose of guarding the invasion fleet. It certainly sounded as if Contre-Amiral Remond is in immediate command.” He saw the flicker of hurt in Bolitho’s eyes. “I knew we should meet him again, sir.”

“Yes. Are you still intent on this mission, Oliver? We are alone now, so speak as you will. You know me better than to blame you if you change your mind.”

“I want to go, sir. Now more than ever, for some reason. Perhaps because of Remond, of Styx, and for being able to help you, properly, instead of handing you despatches and writing signals.” Bolitho touched his arm. “Thank you for that, Oliver. Now go and prepare yourself.”

Herrick walked across to rejoin him as Browne hurried away.

“He’s no fighting sailor, sir.”

Bolitho looked at his friend, both surprised and moved that Herrick could show such concern which until now he had done everything to hide.

“Perhaps, Thomas. But he has real courage, which he needs to use.”

Herrick frowned as Wolfe strode across the deck with a new list of names gripped in his hand.

“More questions to be answered, dammit!” Bolitho smiled and walked aft to the poop. Almost too casually he said, “I have a signal to be sent to Phalarope. I will write it now so that it can be hoisted at first light.” Wolfe waited, imperturbable as ever. “Trouble, sir?”

“I’m not sure.” Herrick could not conceal his uncertainty.

“Give me the broadside and the din of war any time, Mr Wolfe!

This cat and mouse game is not my plaything!” Wolfe grinned. “Now about this list of promotions, sir . . .” With her patched sails hard-bellied to the wind the fishing boat punched through the steep waves, her lee gunwale awash.

Lieutenant Searle who, like most of his prize crew, was dressed in fisherman’s smock and heavy boots, called sharply, “Hold her close to the wind!”

Beside him near the tiller Browne tried to stay on his feet as the boat plunged and reeled beneath him. In his soldier’s coat and white crossbelt it was all he could do to retain his dignity and keep his mind on the approaching danger.

It was almost dawn, but another cloudy one, and the sea appeared much wilder and more dangerous than from Benbow’s lofty quarterdeck.

They had worked through the night to make the boat as comfortable as possible, and had jettisoned much of the spare fishing gear. But the stench remained, and Browne found some comfort that he was at least on deck and not crammed in the hold with the rest of the party.

The master’s mate, who had taken the tiller himself, said,

“Enemy coast ahead, sir.”

Browne swallowed hard. “Thank you, Mr Hoblin.” He must take his word, for as Grubb, the master, had assured him before they had set sail, “Mr Hoblin’s got a nose for it, sir!” Searle bared his teeth as cold spray dashed over the gunwale and soaked his head and shoulders.

He gasped, “I doubt if the French will have a guard-boat running this early. They’re not eager to get a wetting!” Midshipman Stirling, piratical in his smock and a large red woollen hat, asked, “How close shall we go, sir?” Browne glanced down at him. There was no fear in the boy’s voice. If anything, he sounded impatient for something to happen.

“As near as we dare.”

Searle said, “The wind’s steady enough. Nor’-east. If we can just slip amongst the others we should be safe enough. When they see you they’ll be in no mood for talk.” He grinned.

“Fishermen the world over have no love for uniforms. Customs officers, the navy, even the honest trooper is an enemy to them.” A seaman who lay prone in the bows called hoarsely, “Two boats, fine to starboard!”

Hoblin said, “Fishermen. Under way too.” The seamen rushed to the halliards but slowed as Browne called, “Easy! This is a fisherman, not a King’s ship, so take your time! ”

They grinned and nudged each other as if it was all a huge joke.

Searle said, “Bring her about. But hold to wind’rd of those two.” He twisted round as the sails shook noisily and then filled again. “Belle Ile must be to the north of us now.”

The master’s mate nodded and squinted at his boat’s compass. “No more’n two mile, I’d say, sir.” Nobody questioned his judgement and he was vaguely pleased. He was after all the old-est man in the boat by some ten years.

“Damn, here comes the rain.”

Browne nodded miserably and tried to draw his coarse uniform about his throat. The smell of stale sweat left by its owner was almost worse than the fish.

Great heavy drops of rain, sporadic at first and then hissing across the water like metal bars to hammer the boat and occupants without mercy.

Browne groaned. “I’ll never complain about fish again! The men who catch it earn every penny!” Slowly and reluctantly the feeble daylight pushed through the clouds and heavy rain. More boats took shape and personality, and as one sighted another they fanned out into casual forma-tions in readiness to begin their work.

Searle ordered, “Steer due east. Steady as you go.” To Browne he added, “That will give us the wind-gage. It will also take us nearer to the mainland.” He was staring at Browne through the rain. “Not far from where Ganymede found you.”

“Yes.”

Browne blinked the rain from his eyes. He still could not bring himself to talk about it, except to Bolitho. It was something terrible, and yet very special, between them.

He squinted up at the mainmast with its frayed rigging which looked as old as time itself.

“Feel like a climb, Mr Stirling?”

The midshipman tightened his belt. “Aye, sir. What am I to do?” Searle leaned over and tapped Browne’s shoulder. “Good idea.

Get aloft, my lad, and pretend to be doing some running repairs.

Take a palm and needle with you, though I doubt if any of the Frenchies carries a telescope.”

Stirling swarmed up the quivering rigging like a monkey and was soon outwardly engrossed in his work.

Corporal Coote, one of the four marines who was enduring the stench and violent motion of the hold, raised his head above the coaming and surveyed the two lieutenants hopefully.

Browne asked, “Well, Corporal?”

“We just found some wine in an old box down ’ere, sir.” His face was a picture of innocence. “When we’m on these jobs our own officers usually let us take a wet when there’s some lying handy.”

Browne nodded. “I suppose that would be all right.” The master’s mate’s voice exploded between them like a charge of canister. “How does it feel to be a damn liar, Coote? I see rightly enough how it looks!”

The corporal sank slowly from view as Hoblin muttered,

“Bloody bullocks, beggin’ your pardon, gentlemen, but they’d take the wooden leg off a cripple to kindle a fire!” Browne looked at Searle and grinned. “I could manage a drink myself!”

Searle turned aside. Browne was his superior, but obviously had not been trained in the ways of the lower deck, or the barracks either for that matter. He loosened his hanger at his side.

It would certainly be a sharp end to their mission if they arrived amongst the enemy with half of the crew dead-drunk.

He said, “Bring her up another point.” He mopped his streaming face with his sleeve. “Sharp lookout, everyone!” There were about thirty fishing vessels, as far as Browne could see. By skilful use of helm and wind, the master’s mate held the boat clear of the others, while on the cluttered deck the sailors dragged tackle and floats about as if they had been fishermen all their lives.

“Don’t see any soldiers. Not on deck anyway.” Searle banged his hands together. “If only I dared to use a glass on them!”

Above the deck, swinging from his shaking perch, Midshipman Stirling peered at the other vessels and allowed his legs to dangle in the rain. Like most fourteen-year-old midshipmen, Stirling was untroubled by heights. The fishing boat’s mainmast was like a pike after Benbow’s dizzy topgallant yards. What a story he would have to tell the others when he returned to Benbow.

Like the moment when the commodore had allowed him to take down and hold Bolitho’s sword. Even if his fellow midshipmen had not altogether believed a word of it, it was still one of the greatest things which had happened in his young life.

He watched the rain passing away from the hull and across the nearest boat which was sailing a cable’s length to starboard.

He continued with the pretence of stitching although he had lost the sailmaker’s needle within minutes of climbing from the deck.

Below him the boat yawed unsteadily in a trough, and Stirling heard the squeak of a block as he was swung against the mast like a bread sack.

And there they were, shining in the grey light, their rigging and crossed yards glistening from the downpour.

He called, “Larboard bow, sir! Five, no six sail of the line!” He was almost incoherent with excitement. “All at anchor!” On deck the lieutenants and Hoblin exchanged questioning glances. The master’s mate said, “They wasn’t there two days back, sir! Must have slipped out of Lorient. They’d have been seen else.” Browne looked up at the dangling figure. “Any more?”

“Can’t tell, sir. I think it’s raining again over there! But there are some small ships at anchor, I—I’m certain of it!” Browne looked at Searle and exclaimed, “Remond’s flying squadron, it must be.” He clapped his new friend on the arm. “It’s strange. We came to discover something, but now that we’ve found it, the shock is almost greater.”

“What now?”

Browne stared across the spray. Stirling had good eyes, he thought. As far as he could see there was just the cruising ranks of white crests with a blurred image of land far beyond.

“We must rejoin the squadron. The French are out, and Rear-Admiral Bolitho will need to know it.”

“Steady, sir!”

A seaman jabbed a tarred thumb towards the other boats.

One which they had not previously noticed was on a converging tack, and as the rain moved clear Browne saw two uniforms, and worse, a swivel gun mounted above the stem.

Searle called hoarsely, “Pass the word! Take no notice!” Browne saw the immediate change. Even Stirling had wrapped one arm around the mast as if to protect himself.

“Let her fall off two points.”

Hoblin murmured, “No use. The bugger’s seen us.”

“Damn!” Searle looked at Browne. “What do you want me to do?”

Hoblin said, “They can head us off. We’ve no chance.” Browne stared at the other vessel. Two more uniforms had appeared. There had after all been four soldiers originally in this boat.

“No chance to run, but we can fight.” Searle nodded. “If we board her and put her out of action before they range that swivel on us, we might be able to run for it.” He shivered. “Anyway, I’m not being taken prisoner like this!” Hoblin grimaced as a beam of pale sunlight touched the sails as if to betray them to the enemy.

“When we need the sun we get rain! Now it’s t’other way round, blast it!”

Searle licked his lips. “They’ll be in hailing distance soon.” Without looking up he said, “Mr Stirling! When I give the word get down from there on the double! Corporal Coote! Marksmen ready!”

Boots scraped in the hold, and Browne heard the clatter of equipment as the marines prepared themselves. It was what they knew best, no matter what the odds might be.

Browne called, “You can have all the wine you can drink after this, Corporal!”

Somebody actually managed a laugh.

“They’re shortening sail, sir.”

Browne saw the men on the other boat taking in the sails, and one of the soldiers making his way forward to the gun. The soldier appeared quite relaxed, and one of his companions was smoking a pipe while he watched the fishermen fisting the rough canvas into submission.

“They’re calling us alongside!” Hoblin sounded as if he was speaking through his teeth. “Ready, sir?” Searle glanced at Browne and then barked, “Stand by, lads!” He watched the other boat’s shadow writhing across the crested water, the sudden uncertainty as they drew nearer and nearer, an arrowhead of water trapped between them like something solid.

“Now! Helm a-lee! ”

The boat swayed over to the unexpected thrust, and even as the seamen ran to shorten sail the hulls collided, surged away and then struck again.

Midshipman Stirling slithered to the deck and almost pitched between the two boats as Hoblin swung the tiller bar and nursed the bows into the other vessel’s bulwark.

Corporal Coote yelled, “Ready! Take aim!” The four muskets poked over the hold’s coaming like lances. “Fire!” On the opposite deck four men, including two soldiers, dropped where they stood. The swivel exploded with a deafening bang, but the man who held the firing lanyard was also dead, while the full charge of canister scythed harmlessly into the air.

Grapnels held the boats together, and yelling like madmen a handful of boarders leapt on to the Frenchman’s deck, boarding axes and cutlasses painting the scattered rigging and tackle with daubs of scarlet.

Searle shouted wildly, “Cut her adrift! Get back on board, lively, you mad bastards!”

He had seen Hoblin’s frantic signals, and now as the others turned away from the dead soldiers and cowering fishermen they saw the stiff pyramid of sails cleaving from the rain like some terrible dorsal fin.

“Cast off! Make sail! ”

Searle dragged a seaman headlong over the gunwale as the two hulls drifted apart.

Browne watched the desperate preparations, the previous excitement changing into something like panic. But for the unexpected meeting with the other boat and its soldiers they would have escaped undetected.

He turned and stared across the quarter as the boat plunged over the crests and pointed her bows seaward once more. It had all taken a few minutes. It would not take much longer to end it.

The pursuing ship was changing tack with neat precision, her yards swinging together as she headed towards her quarry.

Hoblin remarked, “French corvette. Seen plenty round here.” He spoke with nothing more than professional interest, as if he realized the hopelessness of it.

The other fishing boats had scattered in disorder, like spectators stampeding away from a mad bull.

Browne unfastened his borrowed coat and then threw it over the side. It would make no difference, but he felt better for it.

He heard Stirling talking to himself, in prayer, or to hold up his pretence of courage, he did not know.

“How long?”

Searle looked at him calmly. “Thirty minutes. Her captain will try to work round astern of us. There are some shallows near his larboard side, and he’ll want all the sea-room he can get to perform his execution!” Even he spoke without anger or bitterness.

The French man-of-war was small and agile, and from the deck of the fishing boat looked as big as a frigate. She was carrying so much sail it made Browne feel that their own boat was unmoving, and as the distance fell away he thought of Bolitho, waiting for the news he could no longer give him.

He blinked and realized that a tongue of flame had flashed from the Frenchman’s forecastle. Then came the bang and a fore-shortened whistle as a ball slapped down to starboard and ricocheted across the waves like a mad thing.

“Ranging shot, sir.”

Searle said sharply, “Alter course two points to starboard.” The fishing boat responded slowly, and when the next ball sliced through the water it hurled a cascade of spray halfway across the deck.

Corporal Coote lay full length on the deck and tried to aim his musket at the pursuing ship.

Then disgustedly he said, “Can’t do it. I’ll wait a bit longer.

Might take a couple with me.”

Midshipman Stirling jammed his knuckles in his mouth and bit on them as another ball punched through the mainsail and threw up a tall waterspout a full cable away.

Searle said, “Trying to dismast us. Wants us taken alive.” He drew his hanger. “Not me.”

The game could not be prolonged for ever. As the land and all the other boats dropped back astern the corvette’s commander must have realized it was taking too long.

He altered course several points to larboard to present three of his forward gunports. Before he resumed his original course each gun fired a carefully laid shot, one of which smashed through the fishing boar’s counter with the force of a reef.

Hoblin lurched back on his feet and gasped, “Helm’s still answering, sir!”

Browne heard water gurgling and sluicing through the hold.

It was madness, pathetic and proud at the same time.

Searle nodded sharply, “Steady as you go then!” Crash. The corvette’s bow-chaser struck home with devastating effect. A marine who had been hurrying to help the seamen with the foresail spun round like a top, one leg severed by the ball before it ploughed on to kill two of the sailors and smash them into a broken, bloody shambles. Wood splinters flew everywhere, and the hull was so deep in the water it was a wonder they were making headway.

Browne stared at the dying marine with dismay. They were all being killed like dumb animals. What was the point? What did it prove?

Another waterspout shot above the bulwark, and Midshipman Stirling spun round, his hand clutching his arm where a feather of jagged wood stood out like a quill.

He gasped, “I’m all right, sir!” Then he stared at the blood which ran through his fingers and fainted.

Browne looked at Searle. “I can’t let them die like this!” Corporal Coote lurched aft to join them and pointed through the smoke from the last shot.

“Mebbee they won’t ’ave to, sir!”

Browne turned and stared, unable to accept it, or that the corvette was going about, still wreathed in her own gunsmoke.

“It’s Phalarope! ”

Nobody spoke, and even the dying marine lay silent as he stared up at the sky and waited for the pain to end.

With her gilded figurehead shining in the weak sunlight, the old frigate was shortening sail, her topmen spread along her yards like birds on perches as they stood inshore towards the sinking hulk.

Then Hoblin exclaimed, “Gawd, she’s taking a chance! If the Frogs come out now . . .”

“Never mind.” Browne stooped down and lifted the midshipman to his feet. “Get ready to abandon. Help the wounded.” It could not be happening.

A voice echoed across the water. “We’re coming alongside!” Browne watched the frigate’s yards swinging again, the way her deck lifted to the pressure of canvas as she was steered further and further into the wind.

There would not be much time.

Corporal Coote picked up a fallen musket and looked at the marine who had lost his leg.

“You won’t need this any more, mate.” He turned away from the dead marine, his eyes blank. “Be ready, lads!” Phalarope towered above them, and faces bobbed on the gangways to reappear on the chains or at the gunports, anywhere a man could be hauled to safety.

The next moments were like the climax of the same nightmare. Startled cries, the splintering of wood and the clatter of falling spars as the frigate drove unerringly against the listing boat.

Browne felt Searle thrust him towards some waiting seamen, and to his astonishment saw that he was half laughing, half sobbing as he shouted, “I’m last off. Only command I’ve ever had, y’see?”

Then Browne felt himself being dragged over hard and unyielding objects before being laid face upwards on the deck.

A shadow covered his eyes and he saw Pascoe looking down at him.

Browne managed to gasp, “How did you manage to get here?” Pascoe smiled sadly. “My uncle arranged it, Oliver.” Browne let his head fall back to the deck and closed his eyes.

“Madness.”

“Didn’t you know?” Pascoe beckoned to some seamen. “It runs in the family.”

BOLITHO stood with arms folded and watched his flag-lieutenant swallow a second glass of brandy.

Herrick grinned and said, “I think he needed that, sir.” Browne placed the glass on the table and waited as Ozzard moved in like a dancer to refill it. Then he looked at his hands as if he was surprised they were not visibly shaking and said,

“There were some moments when I thought I had misjudged my abilities, sir.”

“You did well.”

Bolitho recalled his feelings when he had received the signal from Phalarope. The fishing boat had sunk, but all except three of the prize crew were safe.

He walked to the chart and spread his hands around the vital triangle. Remond’s squadron had left harbour, knowing that sooner or later their presence would be discovered. The French were obviously expecting to move their fleet of invasion craft before the weather worsened and place them across the Channel from England. Added to the ever-present rumour of intended attack, their arrival would give plenty of weight to the enemy’s bargain-ing power.

Browne said wearily, “Mr Searle of Rapid did all the hard work, sir. But for him . . .”

“I shall see that his part is mentioned in my despatches.” Bolitho smiled. “But you were the real surprise.” He grinned wryly at Herrick. “To some more than others.” Herrick shrugged. “Well, sir, now that we know the enemy is out of port, what shall we do? Attack or blockade?” Bolitho paced across the cabin and back again. The ship felt calmer and steadier, and although it was now late evening he could see a bronze sunset reflecting against the salt-caked windows. Soon, soon, the words seemed to hammer at his brain.

“Captains’ conference tomorrow forenoon, Thomas. I can’t wait any longer.”

He frowned as voices murmured in the outer cabin, and then Yovell poked his head around the screen door. It was impossible to avoid interruptions in a flagship.

His clerk said apologetically, “Sorry to trouble you, sir. Officer o’ the watch sends his respects and reports the sighting of a courier brig. Indomitable has just hoisted the signal.” Bolitho looked at the chart. The brig would not be able to communicate before daylight tomorrow. It was as if more decisions were being made for him.

“Thank you, Yovell.” He turned to Herrick. “The French squadron will stay in readiness at its anchorage, that’s my opinion. Once the invasion craft begin to move from Lorient and their other local harbours, Remond will be kept informed of our intentions by semaphore. There will be no need for him to deploy the main part of his force until he knows what I attempt.” Herrick said bitterly, “The defender always has the edge over any attacker.”

Bolitho watched him thoughtfully. Herrick would follow him to the death if so ordered. But it was obvious he was against the plan of attack. The French admiral had all the advantage of swift communications right along the vital stretch of coast. Once the British squadron chose to attack, Remond would summon aid from Lorient, Brest and anywhere else nearby while he closed with Benbow and her consorts.

In his heart Bolitho was equally certain that the unexpected arrival of a courier brig meant fresh orders. To cancel the attack before it had begun. To save face rather than endure the humiliation of a defeat while secret negotiations were being conducted.

Without realizing it he said aloud, “They don’t have to fight wars! It might knock some sense into their heads if they did!”

Herrick had obviously been thinking about the brig’s arrival.

“A cancellation, a recall even, would save a lot of bother, sir.” He hurried on stubbornly, “I understand what is right and honourable, sir. I suspect their lordships only know what is expedient.” Bolitho looked past him at the stern windows. The glow of sunset had vanished.

“We’ll have the conference as planned. Then,” he looked calmly at Herrick, “I intend to shift my flag to Odin. ” He saw Herrick jerk upright in his chair, his expression one of total disbelief. “Easy, Thomas. Think before you protest. Odin is the smallest liner in the squadron, a little sixty-four. Remember, it was Nelson who shifted his command flag from the St George to the Elephant at Copenhagen because she was smaller and drew less water for inshore tactics. I intend to follow our Nel’s example for this attack.”

Herrick had struggled to his feet, while Browne sat limply in his chair, his eyes heavy with fatigue and too much brandy, as he watched them both.

Herrick exploded, “That’s got nothing to do with it! With respect, sir, I know you of old, and I can see right through this plan as if it were full of holes! You want my broad-pendant above Benbow when we clear for action, so that in any defeat I shall be absolved! Just as you signalled Phalarope to stand inshore this morning to allow for any trouble over the fishing boat.”

“Well, Thomas, it turned out to be necessary.” Herrick would not yield. “But that was not the reason, sir!

You did it to give Emes another chance!” Bolitho eyed him impassively. “Odin is the more suitable ship, and there’s an end to it. Now sit down and finish your drink, man.

Besides which, I need the squadron to be split in two. It is our only chance of dividing the enemy.” He waited, hating what he was doing to Herrick, knowing there was no other way.

Browne muttered thickly, “The prison.”

They both looked at him, and Bolitho asked, “What about it?” Browne made to rise but sank down again. “You remember, sir. Our walk from the prison. The French had a semaphore station on that church.”

Herrick said angrily, “Do you wish to go and pray there?” Browne did not seem to hear him. “We decided it was the last semaphore station on the southern side of the Loire.” He made to slap his hand on the table but missed. “Destroy it and the link in the chain is broken.”

Bolitho said quietly, “I know. It is what I intended we should try to do. But that was then, not now.” He watched him fondly.

“Why not turn in, Oliver? You must be exhausted.” Browne shook his head violently. “S’not what I meant, sir.

Admiral Remond will depend on information. He’ll know full well we’d never attempt a night attack. Any ship of the line would be aground before she’s moved more than a mile in those waters.” Bolitho said, “If you’re suggesting what I think you are, then put it right out of your mind.”

Browne got to his feet and dragged the chart across the table.

“But think of it, sir! A break in the chain. No signals for twenty miles or more! It would give you the time you must have!” The strength left his legs and he slumped down again.

Herrick exclaimed, “I must be getting old or something.”

“There is a small beach, Thomas.” Bolitho spoke quietly as he relived the moment. The little commandant and his watchful guards. The wind dying as they had felt their way down the path to the shore. The only suitable place for Ceres ’ captain to send his boat to collect them. “From it to the semaphore station is hardly any distance, once you are there. It would be folly.” Browne said, “I could find the place. I’m not likely to forget it.”

“But even if you could . . .” Herrick scanned the chart and then looked at Bolitho.

“Am I becoming too involved again, Thomas, is that it?” Bolitho watched him despairingly. “Neale could have found the place, so too could I. But Oliver is my flag-lieutenant, and I’ve allowed him to risk his life enough already without this madcap scheme!”

Herrick replied harshly, “John Neale’s dead, sir, and for once you can’t go yourself. The cutting-out of the fishing boat was your idea, and it proved to be well worthwhile, although I suspect you were more worried than you showed for the safety of your flag-lieutenant. I know I was.” He waited, judging the moment like an experienced gun-captain gauging the exact fall of shot. “A marine and two good seamen died this morning because of that encounter. I knew them, sir, but did you?” Bolitho shook his head. “No. Are you saying I did not care because of it?”

Herrick watched him gravely. “I am telling you you must not care, sir. The three men died, but they helped to give us a small advance knowledge which we may use against the enemy. At the conference tomorrow they would all answer the same. A few lives to save the many is any captain’s rule.” His mouth softened and he added, “Ask for volunteers and you would get more lieutenants than you could shake a stick at. But none of them would know that beach or the path to the semaphore. It is a terrible risk, but only Mr Browne knows where to go.” He looked sadly at the flag-lieutenant. “If it gives us another advantage and a chance to reduce casualties, then it is a risk we must offer.” Browne nodded vaguely. “That’s what I said, sir.”

“I know, Oliver.” Bolitho ran his fingers along the glittering sword on its rack. “But have you weighed up the danger against the chances of success?”

“He’s asleep, sir.” Herrick looked at him for several seconds.

“Anyway, it’s the only decision. It’s all we have.” Bolitho looked at the sleeping lieutenant, his legs out-thrust like a man resting by the roadside. Herrick was right of course.

He said, “You do not spare your words, Thomas, when you know something should or must be done.” Herrick picked up his hat and smiled grimly. “I had a very good teacher, sir.” He glanced at Browne. “Lady Luck may be fair to him again.”

As the door closed behind him Bolitho said quietly, “He’ll need more than luck this time, old friend.” As one captain after another arrived on board Benbow at the arranged time, the stern cabin took on an air of cheerful informality. The captains, senior and junior alike, were among their own kind, and no longer required the screen of authority to conceal their private anxieties or hopes.

At the entry port the marine guard and side party received each one, and each would pause with hat removed while the calls trilled and muskets slapped to the present to pay respect to the gold epaulettes and the men who wore them.

In the cabin, Allday and Tuck, assisted by Ozzard, arranged chairs, poured wine and made their temporary guests as comfortable as possible. To Allday some of the arrivals were old friends. Francis Inch of the Odin, with his long horse-face and genial bobbing enthusiasm. Valentine Keen of the Nicator, fair and elegant, who had served Bolitho previously as both midshipman and junior lieutenant. He had a special greeting for Allday, and the others watched as he grasped the burly coxswain’s fist and shook it warmly. Some understood this rare relationship, others remained mystified. Keen could never forget how he had been hurled to the deck in battle, a great splinter driven into his groin like some terrible missile. The ship’s surgeon had been too drunk to help him, and it had been Allday who had held him down and had personally cut out the wood splinter and saved his life.

Duncan of the Sparrowhawk, even redder in the face as he shouted into Captain Veriker’s deaf ear, and the latest appointment to the squadron, George Lockhart of the frigate Ganymede.

Some arrived in their own boats, others from the furthest extremes of the patrol areas were collected and brought to the flagship by the ubiquitous Rapid which now lay hove to nearby, ready to return the various lords and masters to their rightful commands.

But whether they flaunted the two epaulettes of captain in a lofty seventy-four, or the single adornment of a junior commander like Lapish, to their companies each was a king in his own right, and when out of contact with higher authority could act with almost absolute power, right or wrong.

Herrick stood like a rock amongst them, knowing everything about some, enough about the others.

Only Captain Daniel Emes of the Phalarope stood apart from the rest, his face stiff and devoid of expression as he gripped a full goblet in one hand while his other tapped out a slow tattoo on his sword-hilt.

It had taken most of the morning watch and half of the forenoon to gather them together, and during that time the courier brig had sent over her despatches and then made off in search of the next squadron to the south.

Only Herrick amongst those present knew what the weighted bag had contained, and he was keeping it to himself. He knew what Bolitho intended. There was no point in discussing it further.

The door opened and Bolitho entered, followed by his flag-lieutenant. Browne had always been regarded as a necessary shadow by most of the others, but his recent escapades as an escaped prisoner of war, the partner in a daring probe amongst the enemy’s shipping, had raised him to a far different light.

Bolitho shook hands with each of his captains. Inch so obviously glad to be with him again, and Keen who had shared so much in the past, not least the death of the girl Bolitho had once loved.

He saw Emes standing on his own and walked over to him.

“That was a well executed operation, Captain Emes. You saved my flag-lieutenant, but now it seems I am to lose him again.” There was a ripple of laughter which helped to soften their dislike for Emes.

Only Herrick remained grim-faced.

They seated themselves again and Bolitho outlined as briefly as he could the French movements, the arrival of Remond’s flying squadron, as it was now known, and the need of an early attack to forestall any attempt to convoy the invasion craft into more heavily protected waters.

There was need for additional warnings about this treacherous coast and the dangers from unpredictable winds. The conditions, like the war, were impartial, as the loss of Styx and the French Ceres had recently driven home.

Each captain present was experienced and under no illusions about an attack in daylight, and in many ways there was an air of expectancy rather than doubt, as if, like Bolitho, they wanted to get it over and done with.

Like players in a village drama, others came and went to the captains’ conference. Old Ben Grubb, the sailing-master, forth-right and unimpressed by the presence of so many captains and his own rear-admiral, rumbled through the state of tides and currents, the hazards of wrecks, which would be carefully noted and copied by the industrious Yovell.

Wolfe, the first lieutenant, who in peaceful times had once served in these same waters for a while in the merchant service, had some local knowledge to add.

Bolitho said, “When we mount our attack there will be no second chance.” He looked around their faces, seeing each one weighing up his own separate part of the whole. “The chain of semaphore stations is as great an enemy as any French squadron, and to break it, for even a short while, demands the highest in courage and resolve. Fortunately for us, we have such a man who will lead a raid on the station which adjoins the prison we shared so recently.”

Bolitho could sense the instant change in the cabin as all eyes moved to Browne.

He continued, “The raid will be carried out tomorrow night under cover of darkness and making full use of the tide and the fact there will be no moon.” He glanced at Lapish’s intent face.

“Mr Browne has requested that your first lieutenant, Mr Searle, again be appointed to work with him. I suggest a maximum of six hand-picked men, with at least two who are experts in fuses and placing explosives.”

Lapish nodded. “I have such hands, sir. One was a miner and well used to placing charges.”

“Good. I will leave that to you, Commander Lapish. You will stand inshore tomorrow night, land the raiding party and then withdraw. Rapid will rejoin the squadron and report by pre-arranged night signal.” He had gone over and over it again in his mind so that it was almost like repeating someone else’s words.

“Commodore Herrick will take station off Belle Ile, with Nicator and Indomitable in company, and Sparrowhawk for close observa-tion inshore.” He looked directly at Inch. “I shall shift my flag directly to your ship, and with Phalarope’s carronades for good measure, we shall make the first attack on the invasion craft at their moorings.”

Inch bobbed and beamed, as if he had just been offered a knighthood. “A great day, sir!”

“Perhaps.” Bolitho looked around the cabin. “Ganymede will be my scouting vessel, and Rapid will link our two forces together.” He let the murmur of voices die and then said, “The squadron will attack at dawn the day after tomorrow. That is all, gentlemen, except to say that God be with you.” The captains rose to their feet and gathered round Browne to slap him on the back and congratulate him for his bravery, even though each one of them probably knew he was saying goodbye to a man already as good as dead. If Browne was thinking the same, he certainly did not show it. He seemed to have matured over the past weeks, so that in some ways he appeared senior to the captains around him.

Herrick whispered fiercely, “You did not tell them about the new orders, sir!”

“Recall? Discontinue the plan of attack?” Bolitho watched Browne sadly. “They would still support me, and by knowing of their lordships’ change of heart they would be considered accom-plices at any court of enquiry later on. Yovell will have written it all down for anyone who cares to read it.” Herrick persisted, “That piece in the orders, sir, about using your discretion . . .”

Bolitho nodded. “I know. Whatever happens I must accept the responsibility.” He smiled suddenly. “Nothing changes, does it?” One by one the captains departed, each eager to return to his own command and prepare his people for battle.

Bolitho waited until Browne arrived at the entry port, ready to be taken across to the waiting brig.

Browne said, “I am worried about your not having a suitable aide, sir. Perhaps Commodore Herrick could select a replacement?”

Bolitho shook his head. “The midshipman who was injured, I’ll take him. He is good with signals, you said, and his French is passable, you said that too.” It was impossible to keep it casual and matter of fact.

“Stirling.” Browne smiled. “Young but eager. Hardly suitable for your aide, sir.”

Bolitho looked at the Benbow’s barge being swayed outboard in readiness to carry him to Inch’s ship.

“He will be only temporary, I trust, Oliver?” Their eyes met and then Bolitho grasped his hand. “I am not happy about this.

Take good care. I’ve got used to your ways now.” Browne returned the handclasp but did not smile. “Don’t worry, sir, you’ll get the time you need.” He stood back and touched his hat, the contact broken.