Bolitho #18 - Colours Aloft! Alexander Kent

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Title: Colours Aloft!

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Fiction

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“Another rip-snorting adventure chronicling the dynamic career of a valiant naval officer.”

—Booklist

“The Bolitho series may sail on forever, and that’s just fine.” o co

Alof

o t!

—Kirkus Reviews

t o

! urs

1803: Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho commands his fleet against the French once more, now that the Peace of Amiens is ended. Aboard the Argonaute he faces a war that has become a personal vendetta, for the French Admiral Jobert, who once com-A

manded the Argonaute, has sworn revenge. One last rendezvous l

with this enemy lies ahead for Bolitho and his men—and no e

quarter will be asked or given.

xand

ALEXANDER KENT is the pen name of British author Douglas e

Reeman. After serving in the Royal Navy during WWII, he r

turned to writing, publishing books both under his own name and K

the Bolitho series under the Kent pseudonym. The popular Bolitho e

novels have been translated into nearly two dozen languages.

www.bolithomaritimeproductions.com

ISBN-13: 978-0-935526-72-1

5 1 5 9 5

McBooks Press

www.mcbooks.com

9 780935 526721

Alexande

n r

de Ken

K t

the Bolitho novels: 16

colours

A loft!

Selected Historical Fiction Published by McBooks Press BY ALEXANDER KENT

BY JULIAN STOCKWIN

BY JAMES DUFFY

The Complete

Mutiny

Sand of the Arena

Midshipman Bolitho

Quarterdeck

The Fight for Rome

Stand Into Danger

Tenacious

BY JOHN BIGGINS

In Gallant Company

Command

A Sailor of Austria

Sloop of War

The Admiral’s Daughter

The Emperor’s Coloured Coat

To Glory We Steer

BY JAN NEEDLE

The Two-Headed Eagle

Command a King’s Ship

A Fine Boy for Killing

Tomorrow the World

Passage to Mutiny

The Wicked Trade

With All Despatch

BY R.F. DELDERFIELD

The Spithead Nymph

Form Line of Battle!

Too Few for Drums

Enemy in Sight!

BY DUDLEY POPE

Seven Men of Gascony

The Flag Captain

Ramage

BY JAMES L. NELSON

Signal–Close Action!

Ramage & The Drumbeat

The Only Life That

The Inshore Squadron

Ramage & The Freebooters

Mattered

A Tradition of Victory

Governor Ramage R.N.

Success to the Brave

Ramage’s Prize

BY C.N. PARKINSON

Colours Aloft!

Ramage & The Guillotine

The Guernseyman

Honour This Day

Ramage’s Diamond

Devil to Pay

The Only Victor

Ramage’s Mutiny

The Fireship

Beyond the Reef

Ramage & The Rebels

Touch and Go

The Darkening Sea

The Ramage Touch

So Near So Far

For My Country’s Freedom

Ramage’s Signal

Dead Reckoning

Cross of St George

Ramage & The Renegades

The Life and Times of

Sword of Honour

Ramage’s Devil

Horatio Hornblower

Second to None

Ramage’s Trial

BY DOUGLAS W. JACOBSON

Relentless Pursuit

Ramage’s Challenge

Night of Flames

Man of War

Ramage at Trafalgar

Heart of Oak

Ramage & The Saracens

BY DOUGLAS REEMAN

Ramage & The Dido

Badge of Glory

BY PHILIP MCCUTCHAN

First to Land

Halfhyde at the Bight

BY FREDERICK MARRYAT

The Horizon

of Benin

Frank Mildmay or

Dust on the Sea

Halfhyde’s Island

The Naval Officer

Knife Edge

Halfhyde and the

Mr Midshipman Easy

Guns of Arrest

Newton Forster or

Twelve Seconds to Live

Halfhyde to the Narrows

The Merchant Service

The White Guns

Halfhyde for the Queen

Snarleyyow or

A Prayer for the Ship

Halfhyde Ordered South

The Dog Fiend

For Valour

Halfhyde on Zanatu

The Privateersman

BY DAVID DONACHIE

The Devil’s Own Luck

BY DEWEY LAMBDIN

BY V.A. STUART

The French Admiral

Victors and Lords

The Dying Trade

The Gun Ketch

The Sepoy Mutiny

A Hanging Matter

A King’s Commander

Massacre at Cawnpore

An Element of Chance

Jester’s Fortune

The Cannons of Lucknow

The Scent of Betrayal

The Heroic Garrison

A Game of Bones

What Lies Buried

The Valiant Sailors

On a Making Tide

BY ALEXANDER FULLERTON

The Brave Captains

Tested by Fate

Storm Force to Narvik

Hazard’s Command

Breaking the Line

Last Lift from Crete

Hazard of Huntress

All the Drowning Seas

BY BROOS CAMPBELL

Hazard in Circassia

A Share of Honour

No Quarter

Victory at Sebastopol

The Torch Bearers

The War of Knives

Guns to the Far East

The Gatecrashers

Escape from Hell

Alexander Kent

Colours Aloft!

the Bolitho novels: 16

McBooks Press, Inc.

www.mcbooks.com

ITHACA, NY

Published by McBooks Press 2000

First published in the United Kingdom by Arrow Books 1987

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or any portion thereof in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without the written permission of the publisher. Requests for such permissions should be addressed to McBooks Press, Inc., ID Booth Building, 520 North Meadow St., Ithaca, NY 14850.

Cover painting by Geoffrey Huband.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data Kent, Alexander.

[Colors Aloft!]

Colours aloft / by Alexander Kent.

p. cm. — (Richard Bolitho novels ; 16) ISBN 0-935526-72-2 (alk. paper)

1. Great Britain—History, Naval—19th century— Fiction.

2. Bolitho, Richard (Fictitious character)—Fiction. 3. Napoleonic Wars, 1800‒1815—Fiction. I. Title

PR6061.E63 C6 2000

823'.914—dc21 00-022862

All McBooks Press publications can be ordered by calling toll-free 1-888-BOOKS11 (1-888-266-5711).

Please call to request a free catalog.

Visit the McBooks Press website at www.mcbooks.com.

Printed in the United States of America 9 8 7

TO KIM, MY LOVE

And the sailor lost his heart to her, But she had given him hers long before.

1 ebb T ide

IT WAS unusually cold for mid-September and the cobbled streets of Portsmouth Point shone like metal from the overnight rain.

Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho paused at a corner and stared back at the George Inn where he had stayed for two days since his arrival from Falmouth. There was the old Blue Posts Inn too, a plume of smoke pouring from a chimney, a reminder of long-lost times when he had begun a voyage as a lowly midshipman.

He sighed and turned to his companion who was waiting for him and as they rounded the corner Bolitho felt the Solent’s chill wind like a challenge.

It was morning and yet the narrow streets were all but deserted.

For this was 1803 and the fragile peace had been swept away in the first broadside of May. No young man or casual idler loitered here for fear of the dreaded press-gangs. Like a lesson repeating itself with little learned from before, he thought. He saw his nephew watching him, his eyes troubled, and was reminded of a remark made at the George Inn just that morning while he and Adam had played out a last cup of coffee. The man had been a traveller and had been watching the two sea officers in conversation, and later had said that he had originally taken them for brothers.

Bolitho faced his nephew, hating the moment of parting but knowing it was selfishness to detain him further. Adam Bolitho was twenty-three and in his uncle’s eyes was little changed from the day he had first joined his ship as a midshipman.

COLOURS A LOF T!

But there was a difference, a marked one. Adam had gone through danger and pain, sometimes at his side, other times not.

The line of his mouth and the firmness of his chin showed he had learned well, and the solitary gold epaulette on his left shoulder said all the rest. A commander at twenty-three and now with a ship of his own. The little fourteen-gun brig Firefly lay out there beyond the wall, lost amongst the sprawling anchorage with its big men-of-war, transports and all the life of a naval port at war.

Bolitho looked at him fondly without really seeing him, but catching glimpses of small, swift pictures of what they shared.

He said almost without realizing it, “Your father would have been proud of you today.”

Adam stared at him, his eyes anxious but pleased. “That was good of you.”

Bolitho tugged down his gold-laced hat to compose himself.

Then he said, “If I had to discover a reward for myself in all this, it is here and now, seeing you about to sail with your own command.” Impetuously he gripped his arm. “I shall miss you, Adam.” Adam smiled but his eyes remained sad. “You were looking back just now, Uncle?”

“Aye,” They fell in step again and Bolitho tried to contain the feeling of depression which had been his shadow since leaving Falmouth. Was this then the last time? Was that the cause of his apprehension? Would he end up like so many others on some torn and bloodied deck never to return home?

Adam said, “He thought we were brothers. A compliment to me I thought.”

He laughed and Bolitho saw the midshipman again.

Bolitho adjusted the boat-cloak about his shoulders. His flagship was waiting for him too. Perhaps the weight of responsibility which lay in his sealed orders would drive away his doubts and lose them far astern like the land.

They would all be out there waiting for him. Thank God he COLOURS A LOF T!

had managed to keep Valentine Keen as his flag captain. There would not be too many other familiar faces this time, he thought.

The Peace of Amiens, as it was called, had lasted less than a year but in that time their lordships and a complacent government had seen fit to run down the fleet in numbers and men to a maniac proportion. Sixty out of a hundred sail of the line laid up, and forty thousand sailors and Royal Marines thrown on the beach. Bolitho had been lucky to stay employed when so many had lost everything. It was ironic that his last flagship, Achates, had fought and won the first real battle after the Peace against the odds at a time when the fleet needed to hear of a victory of any kind. It was a further twist of fate that the French admiral’s ship Argonaute, which they had taken as a prize after one of the fiercest close actions Bolitho could recall, was now about to break his flag at the foremast. Achates had been an old ship and would remain in the dockyard for many more months. She had never really recovered from her earlier battles in the Caribbean. Argonaute was new by comparison and had been on her first commission when they had beaten her into surrender.

He wondered briefly if prize-ships ever resented their new masters and one-time enemies. Bolitho had once been flag captain in a prize-ship but could not recall any strange behaviour in his command.

Anyway there was no choice. They needed every ship and experienced seaman they could get. For whereas England had allowed her strength to sap away, the old enemy across the Channel had done the reverse. New ships, young, eager captains, and a vast army bent on final victory painted a gloomy picture for the future.

Some Royal Marines were sheltering by the sallyport wall and sprang to life as the two officers drew near.

It felt strange not to have Allday with him at this moment, Bolitho thought. Hogg, Keen’s coxswain, would be at the stairs with the barge this time. Allday had asked to go and visit 10

COLOURS A LOF T!

someone. That in itself was strange. Allday never asked favours or discussed personal matters, and for a moment Bolitho had wondered if he had intended to accept his earlier offers to stay ashore. He had been at sea all his life apart from a brief spell when he had learned to be a shepherd. He had earned his freedom from the navy a thousand times over. And in Achates his life had nearly ended. Bolitho often thought of that day when his coxswain had taken a sword thrust in the chest which should have killed him instantly. He was usually his old cheerful, irrepressible self, but the wound showed itself none the less. He found it hard to straighten his back when he walked, and Bolitho knew just how much it hurt his pride. He had often compared Allday with an oak, or a faithful dog. He was neither. He was a true friend, one whom he could trust, who saw more of Bolitho the man than any other.

They reached the stairs and Bolitho saw the barge swaying below him, Hogg, the coxswain, and a young lieutenant standing by the boat, faces upturned, heads bared. The tossed oars were in perfect white lines, the tarred hats and checkered shirts of the bargemen saying much for what Keen had already achieved with a new company.

Keen would be watching him right now with his telescope, and probably his new flag-lieutenant, Hector Stayt, whom he had also sent on ahead of him. Stayt was a fellow Cornishman whose father had served with Bolitho’s father. He was highly recommended but looked more like an adventurer than someone who was supposed to show diplomacy when so required.

A thousand worries and regrets rushed through his mind but his face was composed as he turned to his nephew once again.

From one corner of his eye he had seen Adam’s little gig standing well clear while they waited for their youthful commander.

The tide was on the ebb and he saw an old man gathering driftwood where the shingle showed itself. The man glanced up COLOURS A LOF T!

and looked directly at the two officers. They could be brothers.

Each with black hair and the same steady grey eyes. Adam’s hair was cut short in the new fashion for sea officers; Bolitho retained the queue at the nape of his neck.

The man on the shingle threw up a mock salute and Bolitho nodded. A last farewell.

He said, “Take each step with care, Adam. You’ll get your frigate after this if you stay out of trouble.” Adam smiled. “I am sailing for Gibraltar with your dispatches, Uncle. After that I fear the fleet’s apron strings will tether me.” Bolitho returned his smile. It was like seeing himself being reborn. “Apron strings can stretch.” He clasped him against his boat-cloak, oblivious of the rigid marines and the watching bargemen. Almost to himself he said, “God be with you.” Then, as Adam doffed his new gold-laced hat and allowed his raven hair to ruffle in the wind, Bolitho hurried down the stairs. He nodded to the lieutenant. A face from the recent past, except he had been one of Achates’ midshipmen then.

“Good day, Mr Valancey. It will be a hard pull in this wind.” He saw the flush of pleasure on the youngster’s face because he had remembered his name. Any link would help.

He seated himself in the sternsheets and then waved to Adam as, with oars dipping and rising like wings, the smart, green-painted barge thrust clear of the piles.

With unseemly haste the little gig pulled towards the stairs, and as they swept around the stern of an anchored transport the sallyport was hidden from view.

There were many vessels at anchor, their black and buff hulls shining dully in the rain and spray. Beyond them the Isle of Wight was little more than a misty hump, but the wind was steady. Was he glad to go this time?

The lieutenant coughed nervously. “The frigate yonder is Barracouta, sir.” He flinched as Bolitho glanced at him. The frigate 12

COLOURS A LOF T!

must have dropped anchor this morning otherwise he would have been informed. She was to be one of his new squadron under Jeremy Lapish who had commanded a brig like Adam’s when he had last served under him. In war the chance of promotion, like death, was ever present. But it was sensible of the lieutenant to tell him and also showed that he took an interest in the comings and goings within the fleet.

Bolitho said, “What is your appointment?”

“Sixth lieutenant, sir.” One step up from the gunroom.

Hogg swore under his breath and snarled, “Oars! Easy there!” The oar blades hovered, dripping and motionless, as Hogg put his weight on the tiller bar. A longboat was cutting directly across their path, so full of people it looked almost awash.

Hogg glared at the youthful lieutenant and when he remained silent cupped his hands and bellowed, “Stand away there! Make way for a King’s officer!”

Somebody waved and the longboat veered towards some nearby transports.

Bolitho saw that one of the passengers was a young girl, her head and shoulders unprotected against the spray and wet breeze.

She twisted round between two companions to see who was shouting and Bolitho’s eyes met hers across fifty feet of tossing whitecaps. He stared at one of her hands as she gripped the gun-wale. She wore manacles on her wrists, but she turned away before he could see more.

He asked quietly, “Who are those people?” Hogg eased the tiller carefully, still outraged that such a thing could happen under the eyes of his admiral.

He said gruffly, “Convicts, sir.”

Bolitho looked away. Going to Botany Bay probably. What had she done, he wondered? Who was she?

“Ready, bowman!” Hogg was gauging the last cable or so with great care.

COLOURS A LOF T!

Bolitho saw the tapered masts of Argonaute as the barge swept around another two-decker. She was a fine-looking ship, he con-ceded, shining in her new livery with a huge Red Ensign streaming out from her poop to welcome him aboard. She had fine graceful lines and Bolitho knew from hard experience she was an excellent sailer. Her poop deck was rather longer than her English counterparts but otherwise she was little different from any seventy-four, the backbone of the fleet.

But as she drew closer Bolitho saw there were slight differences which any Frenchman would notice. The stronger bow and stiffly raked jib-boom and the gilded stern gallery which seemed almost flamboyant after earlier French ships. It was hard to see her with her decks puddled in blood, as embattled men hacked and thrust at each other to hold their ground. Many good hands died that day and on their way home to Plymouth. The dockyard had done magic with their battered charge, Bolitho thought. He had been tempted to visit his new flagship several times during her refit and repairs but had stayed away. Keen would hardly have been pleased to have his admiral come aboard in the midst of such confusion.

Bolitho had wanted to go, needed to see and speak with people he understood. He tossed the cloak from his shoulders to reveal the gleaming epaulettes, each with its two silver stars. Vice-Admiral of the Red, apart from Nelson the youngest on the Navy list. Even that he could not get used to. Like the title which had made everyone so pleased but which left him feeling awkward, embarrassed.

More pictures flashed through his mind as he watched the ship and gripped the old family sword between his knees.

London, the bright liveries and bowing footmen. The hush as he knelt before His Britannic Majesty, the lightest tap of the sword on his shoulder. Sir Richard Bolitho of Falmouth. It had been a proud moment surely? Belinda had looked so radiantly 14

COLOURS A LOF T!

happy. Adam and Allday beaming like schoolchildren. And yet—

He saw a cluster of figures around the entry port, the blues and whites of the officers, the scarlet of the marines. His world.

They would be watching his every move. Usually Allday would have been on hand to make sure he did not lose his balance or trip over his sword.

The thought of ever being without Allday was beyond belief after what they had seen and endured together. He would be aboard before the ship weighed. He must. I need him more than ever.

He saw the lieutenant staring at him and for a terrible moment imagined he had spoken aloud.

But Valancey was merely anxious and stood aside as Bolitho waited for the barge to sway heavily against Argonaute’s fat flank.

Then he was swarming up the side and through the entry port, his ears cringing to the slap and click of bayoneted muskets presenting arms, and the fifes and drums breaking into Heart of Oak.

There was Keen, his fair hair visible as he doffed his hat and strode to meet him, even as Bolitho’s flag broke smartly from the foremast truck.

“Welcome, Sir Richard.”

Keen smiled, not realizing that the greeting had caught Bolitho unawares. It sounded like somebody else.

“I am glad to be here.” Bolitho nodded to the assembled officers and the watch on deck. If he had still expected to see some sign of the battle he was disappointed. Newly paid deck seams and blacked-down rigging. Neatly furled sails and every upper deck eighteen-pounder with all its tackles and gear perfectly in line as if on parade.

He looked along the deck and through the criss-cross of standing and running rigging. He could see the white shoulder of the figurehead, depicting the handsome youth who had been COLOURS A LOF T!

one of Jason’s crew in the mythical Argo. Less than three years old from the day she had slid into the water at Brest. A new ship by any standard, with a full complement of six hundred and twenty souls, officers, seamen and Royal Marines, although he doubted if even the resourceful Keen had gathered anywhere near that total.

They walked aft beneath the poop deck. By making it longer than in English third-rates, the builders had given better and more spacious accommodation to the officers. In battle, however, as in any man-of-war, the deck would be completely cleared from bow to stern so that every gun, large or small, could be worked without obstruction.

They ducked beneath the deckhead beams and Bolitho saw a marine sentry marking the screen doors of his quarters right aft.

“When Allday comes aboard, Val, I want—” Keen glanced at him curiously. “He preceded you, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho felt a great sense of relief, as he had of fear when Allday had been hacked down on that terrible day.

It was quite dark between decks and Bolitho allowed his feet to guide him by instinct. The smells were like old friends. Tar, oakum, paint, damp canvas. Like the ship’s fabric itself.

He nodded to the marine sentry and entered the stern cabin.

A spacious dining table brought from Falmouth, the wine cabi-net which followed him from ship to ship, and aft in the broad day cabin a fine carpet laid upon the black and white check canvas covering of the deck.

Keen watched his reactions as little mole-like Ozzard, who had been aboard for several days, hurried from the sleeping space.

He too watched as Bolitho walked slowly to The Chair.

Bolitho had had it made in Falmouth. Belinda had disagreed about it and thought he should have something more elegant, as suited his position.

COLOURS A LOF T!

Bolitho touched the high back, which, like the rest of the chair, was covered with dark green leather. It was soft as a woman’s skin under his hand.

He handed his sword to Ozzard and sat down in the chair which would become so important when he could share none of his doubts and worries with his subordinates. Strong arms to rest on, a high back to shut out things or people when needed.

Keen grinned. “Came aboard an hour before we quit Plymouth Sound.” Feet pattered overhead and Keen moved towards the door.

Bolitho smiled, “Be off with you, Val. You’ve much to do. We shall speak later.”

The door closed and he watched his cabin servant padding about with a tray and some glasses. Was Ozzard sorry to be leaving the security and safety of Falmouth? If so, he did not show it. Bolitho waited for Ozzard to place a glass of claret by his side and then withdraw to his pantry. A fine servant, dedicated even beyond his unfailing terror whenever a ship cleared for action. He was well read and full of surprises for one so small and mild. He had once been a lawyer’s clerk. It was said he had gone to sea to escape jail or worse. Like Allday, he was totally dependable.

He glanced around the great cabin. Contre-Amiral Jobert must have sat here often enough in those other days. Must have cocked his head when he heard the lookouts cry out that they had sighted Achates.

The other door opened and Yovell entered with the usual pack of letters under one arm.

“Good day, Mr Yovell.”

“Good morning, Sir Richard.”

They smiled at one another like conspirators. For if Bolitho had gained a title, Yovell’s status had been raised from mere clerk to secretary. With his sloping, fat shoulders and small gold-rimmed spectacles he looked like a prosperous merchant.

COLOURS A LOF T!

Yovell had found a new clerk to assist him, a fresh-faced youth named John Pinkney, whose family had lived in Falmouth for many generations. Ozzard too had gained an assistant; his name was Twigg, but Bolitho had only seen him once when he had called at the house in Falmouth.

He found he was on his feet and was pacing the cabin as if he was trapped.

There was so much he had wanted to say to Belinda. There had been a strangeness between them since their visit to London.

She loved him, but because of the difficult time she had had during Elizabeth’s birth there had been a barrier. A coolness. He could not be certain if—

He looked up, angry without knowing why, as the sentry tapped his musket on the deck and called, “Admiral’s cox’n, sir! ” That marine would soon get to know that Allday came and went as he pleased.

Allday came in and stood in the middle of the carpet, his head just beneath the skylight.

He looked little changed, Bolitho thought, in his blue jacket with the special gilt buttons, and his nankeen trousers to mark him out as the admiral’s coxswain.

“All done, Allday?” Perhaps he would shake him out of his gloom.

Allday stared around the cabin and then back to Bolitho and the new chair.

“Fact is, sir.” He fidgeted with his coat. “I had a bit o’ news.” Bolitho sat down. “Well, what is it, man?”

“I’ve got a son, sir.”

Bolitho exclaimed, “You what? ” Allday grinned sheepishly. “Somebody wrote a letter, sir.

Ferguson read it to me, me not bein’ able—” Bolitho nodded. Ferguson, his steward in Falmouth, could always keep a secret. He and Allday were as thick as thieves.

COLOURS A LOF T!

Allday continued, “There was a girl I used to know. On the farm, it was. Pretty little thing, smart as paint. Seems she died, just a few weeks back.” He looked at Bolitho with sudden desperation. “Well, I mean, sir, I couldn’t just do nothin’, could I?” Bolitho sat back in the chair and watched the emotions hurrying across Allday’s homely face.

“Are you certain about this?”

“Aye, sir. I—I’d like you to speak with him, if it’s not too much to ask?”

Feet moved overhead and somewhere a boatswain’s call trilled to summon more hands to hoist some stores inboard. In the cabin it seemed apart, remote from that other shipboard life.

“You brought him aboard then?”

“He volunteered, sir. He’s worn the King’s coat afore.” There was pride in his voice now. “I just need—” He broke off and looked at his shoes. “I shouldn’t have asked—” Bolitho walked over to him and touched his arm. “Bring him aft when you’re ready. Blast your eyes man, you have the right to ask what you will!”

They stared at each other, then Allday said simply, “I’ll do that, sir.”

The door opened and Keen looked in at them. He said, “I thought you should know, Sir Richard, Firefly has just weighed and is setting her tops’ls.”

Bolitho smiled. “Thank you.” He looked at Allday. “Come, we’ll watch him leave, eh?”

Allday took the old sword down from its rack and waited to clip it to Bolitho’s belt.

He said quietly, “He’ll need a good cox’n of his own afore long, an’ that’s no error.”

They looked at each other and understood.

Keen watched them and forgot all the demands, the signals which awaited attention and which he must discuss with his COLOURS A LOF T!

admiral. Bolitho and Allday were the rock which would stand when all else fell. He was surprised to discover that this realization still moved him deeply.

Several of the hands working about the quarterdeck withdrew as Bolitho and their captain walked to the nettings. Bolitho could feel their eyes even though his back was turned. They would be pondering on his reputation both as their leader and as a man.

The little brig was heeling over to the wind, showing her copper as she tacked between two anchored seventy-fours.

Bolitho took a glass from the signals midshipman. The youth seemed vaguely familiar. He trained the glass across the nettings and for a few moments saw Firefly’s commander staring across at him, near enough to touch. He was waving his hat slowly from side to side, then one of the ships shut him from view. Bolitho lowered the glass and the scene fell away into the distance.

He handed the telescope to the midshipman. “Thank you, Mr—

”

“Sheaffe, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho eyed him curiously. Of course. He should have remembered that Admiral Sir Hayward Sheaffe had made a point of putting one of his sons in Argonaute. It was unlike him to forget such things. Even Keen’s comment, “Lose the brat overboard and I’ll lose my command to boot!”

He had visited Sheaffe at the Admiralty several times since his return to England. One rank only separated them. It could have been an ocean.

Keen was watching him and as they walked to the opposite side said, “There was no real urgency to come aboard just yet, sir.

It may be another week before the full squadron is assembled here.” He thinks I need to leave the land, Bolitho thought.

He said, “A small enough squadron it will be too, Val. Four sail of the line, Barracouta and the little brig Rapid. ” Keen grinned. “There is also Supreme, sir.” 20

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Bolitho smiled ruefully. “Tops’l cutter. She hardly ranks with her name, eh?”

He considered the three other seventy-fours. One familiar face amongst them. Captain Francis Inch was in command.

Bolitho swung round, his voice almost pleading as he asked,

“What has become of us, Val? We happy few, remember?” Keen said, “I think of it often.” Bolitho’s mood disturbed him.

He had heard the reason, or some of it, the rest he could guess.

Bolitho’s beautiful wife was concerned about his career, although to most sailors a vice-admiral, with or without a knighthood, was about level with the Almighty.

She wanted him to leave Falmouth, to purchase a fine resi-dence in London where his name would be noted and acted upon.

Leave Falmouth? Keen had been at their wedding there, and knew the Bolitho house below Pendennis Castle better than most.

Bolithos had always lived there; it was as much a part of them as the sea itself.

Bolitho was looking across at his one frigate Barracouta.

Lapish, her young captain, had less than three years’ seniority, not even posted. The sight of the anchored frigate, her yards and decks alive with working seamen, jabbed at another memory. The first time he had spoken sharply to Belinda. She had been talking about Nelson. Practically everyone did in London, but not of his courage and his victories, but about his outrageous and unac-ceptable behaviour with that woman.

Belinda had said, “You rank the same as Nelson, but he has a fleet whereas you are being given a squadron!” Bolitho had said, “A fleet is not built on favours!” Curiously enough, despite his fame and his position, Nelson had only two frigates for his whole command, but Bolitho had been too upset to mention the point at the time.

The little admiral had hoisted his flag in Victory, that old and respected first-rate, and had sailed for the Mediterranean to seek COLOURS A LOF T!

out the French at Toulon or make sure they stayed bottled up like those in the Channel Ports.

He had seen Belinda recoil at his tone and they had stared at each other like strangers.

She had said quietly, “I say and do things because I care.” Bolitho had retorted, “Because you think you know best! This is our home, not London!”

Now, watching the ships, remembering lost faces, he wondered what had really provoked him. Enough to bring him here, no matter what it was.

He said softly, “All those men, little more than boys some of them. Farquhar, Keverne, Veitch,” he looked away, “young John Neale, remember? And the rest, where are they? Dead, maimed, ekeing out their lives in one poxy hospital or another, and for what?”

Keen had never seen him like this before. “We’ll beat the Frogs, sir.”

Bolitho gripped his arm. “I daresay. But a lot of good men will have to pay for others’ complacency and stupidity.” He controlled his voice and said calmly, “I will go aft and read my despatches. Dine with me tonight, eh, Val?” Keen touched his hat and watched him leave the quarterdeck.

He saw Stayt, the new flag-lieutenant, strolling towards the poop and wondered if he could replace Bolitho’s nephew or the previous aide Browne. He smiled sadly. With an “e.” Keen walked to the quarterdeck rail and rested his hand on it. Soon the ship would be alive again, a working creature, driven by her pyramids of canvas, expected to deal with anything, anywhere. He glanced up to Bolitho’s flag at the fore. There was no man he would rather serve, none he respected more. Loved. From the moment he had joined Bolitho’s ship as a midshipman he had found his affection growing. Amidst death and danger in the Great South Sea, when Bolitho had almost died of fever, he had 22

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still found the strength to support him in his own loss. Keen still thought of the lovely Malua, who had died of the same terrible fever. Unlike most sea officers, he had never married, had never really recovered from losing her.

He looked along his command and felt vaguely pleased with all they had achieved in so short a time. He recalled the never-ending broadsides, the carnage above and below decks in that last battle. He touched his left shoulder where a splinter had smashed him down. It still ached on occasions. But he was alive. He looked at the men high above the decks working at their endless splic-ing and other ropework.

It had been his good fortune to retain some of the older, seasoned men from Achates. Big Harry Rooke, the boatswain; Grace, the carpenter, who had been worth his weight in gold during the refit at Plymouth. Even Black Joe Langtry, the fearsome looking master-at-arms, had come aboard Argonaute. But they were still well short of seamen. He rubbed his chin as he had seen Bolitho do when he was considering a problem. The port-admiral and a local magistrate were doing their best, but Keen wanted prime seamen, not felons. The thought made him glance across at the two big transports, one an ex-Indiaman by the look of her. They were to carry convicts to the new colony. Was it the right way to expand a place, he wondered? A felon was a felon and the gal-lows a fitter end for his kind.

Paget, the first lieutenant, crossed the deck and touched his hat. “Permission to exercise the lower battery during the afternoon watch, sir?”

Keen saw him glance aft to the poop and smiled. “Have no fear, Mr Paget, our admiral greatly approves of efficient gunnery!

So do I!”

Paget walked away. A good lieutenant, slightly older than the others, he had been in the merchant service for a time during the Peace of Amiens. He should have a command, albeit a small one.

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The little Supreme’s new commander, Hallowes, had been Keen’s fourth lieutenant until the battle. Keen could see it now. Adam Bolitho and Hallowes in a madcap attack on Argonaute’s stern.

With a handful of men they had placed charges around the mainmast and brought it down like a gigantic tree. The enemy had struck almost immediately. So why not Paget? His report was good and he seemed competent enough.

Keen began to pace up and down, his chin in his neckcloth, momentarily oblivious to the rattle of blocks and the hoarse cries of his petty officers as more stores were hauled aboard. Time would tell. One thing was certain, it would be a harder war this time. The feeling of being cheated, even betrayed, after so short-lived a peace would put an edge on every temper.

It would be good to see Inch again, to watch his long horse-face light up when he met Bolitho. It was a sobering thought to realize that Inch and himself were the only post-captains in the squadron. Inch’s two-decker Helicon would arrive from the Nore at any time. Then, under orders once more, they would put out to sea where every sighting would likely be hostile. To Gibraltar, and then?

While Keen paced the deck immersed in his thoughts, Bolitho wandered about his unfamiliar quarters as Ozzard and some extra hands moved his possessions into their new places.

The old sword was on its rack above the fine presentation one from Falmouth’s public subscription. He could remember quite clearly his father giving him the old blade in the grey house where he had been born.

He said gravely, “England needs all her sons now.” He had been grieving for Hugh’s disgrace, his desertion from the Navy.

Hugh should have been given the sword. It would be Adam’s one day.

Bolitho walked into the sleeping compartment and stared at himself in his mirror. Where had the years gone? He would be 24

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forty-seven next month. He looked ten years younger but the thought, like the others, disturbed him.

He thought of Belinda, back in Falmouth. Would there be more changes when he returned? He grimaced at his reflection then turned away. “If, more like.”

Ozzard started. “Sir?”

Bolitho smiled. “Nothing. I have been ashore for too many weeks. The next horizon will cure that directly.” Ozzard was packing things into drawers and a fine hanging wardrobe. He liked to be busy. He hesitated over one drawer and made to tidy some new shirts. His fingers touched a miniature portrait of a girl with long chestnut hair and green eyes. She was so beautiful, he thought.

Twigg, his new assistant, peered over his shoulder. “Shall we

’ang it, Tom? I would if I ’ad a wife like ’er!”

“Get about your work!” Ozzard closed the drawer carefully.

It was not Twigg’s fault, the miniature looked very like Lady Belinda. But Ozzard knew differently: he had heard Bolitho call out her name when he had been badly wounded. Cheney.

Why did she have to die? He picked up a pair of shoes and regarded them unseeingly.

The deck rolled slightly and Ozzard sighed.

This was a life he had come to understand. Better than those poor devils in the convict ships. He gave a gentle smile. If fate had been less kind he might have taken the same one-way passage.

Three days later the small squadron with Argonaute in the van stood down-Channel in a brisk northerly wind.

They had sailed on the ebb, but there was no letter. Bolitho locked his own in the strongbox and watched the land slipping away into the dusk. My England, when shall I see you again?

It was like a cry from the heart, but only the sea replied.

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2 in D istress

BOLITHO walked across the poop and idly watched the other three ships of the line following astern. It was two long days since they had weighed anchor at Spithead and, apart from sail and gun drill, there had been little to break the monotony.

Inch’s Helicon was directly astern, with Despatch and Icarus in direct line although not without a few forthright signals from the flagship.

They had to learn good station-keeping and to respond to every signal without delay. There would be no time later on.

Far away on the starboard quarter, with only her pale topsails showing above the sea and spray, the solitary frigate Barracouta held carefully to windward, ready to dash down and investigate any sighting or support her heavy consorts if so ordered. Bolitho could picture them all, and their captains whom he had seen just briefly prior to sailing. The brig Rapid and the small, rakish cutter Supreme were sweeping far ahead of their flagship, Bolitho’s eyes and intelligence.

Bolitho had decided to leave the briefing to Keen when the captains had assembled in Argonaute’s wardroom. He had always hated speeches just for the want of making them. When they reached the Rock he would know better what was expected and would then lay his intentions before the others.

Inch’s face had been creased with delight when Bolitho had greeted him aboard. He had not changed. Still eager and completely trusting, Bolitho knew he could never share his doubts with one so loyal. Inch would agree with everything he said and did, even to the mouth of Hell.

He turned to watch the hands at work on the gun deck. He had noticed several faces he knew from the Achates. He had remarked to Keen that it did him credit they had volunteered to 26

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serve under him again. He had not seen Keen smile to himself, just as it had never occurred to him that they might have volunteered because of their admiral.

He had seen the loping, misshapen Crocker, the gun captain who had blown down this ship’s mainmast and so finished the battle, looking no different despite his new uniform. He had gained promotion to gunner’s mate and was rarely far away when the drills were carried out.

He saw Allday on the larboard gangway with a fresh-faced youth he guessed was his newly discovered son. It did not seem possible, and he wondered when Allday would decide the time was right and proper to bring him aft to the great cabin. Allday would know better than anyone Bolitho’s dislike of showing favours in a crowded man-of-war. He would doubtless judge the moment perfectly.

Two bells chimed out from the forecastle and Bolitho stirred restlessly. He felt so apart from the ship and those who followed his flag. Keen and his officers dealt with everything, and day by day Argonaute’s company were led, encouraged and driven into a working team. Minutes were knocked off the time for clearing for action, for reefing and making sail, but Bolitho could only share it at a distance.

The hours dragged heavily and he found himself envying Keen as well as the other captains who had their ships to fill their days.

He walked to the opposite side and stared at the dull, grey sea with its serried ranks of wave crests. One hundred miles abeam was Lorient. He glanced forward to the figurehead’s pale shoulder. They had passed Brest in the night, where this ship had been built. Did Argonaute feel it, he wondered?

Curiously enough Inch’s Helicon was also a French prize, but had had her name changed as was the custom when the battle where she had been taken had been badly fought.

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Bolitho touched the nettings. Nobody could say that about this ship. She had fought well from start to finish. Nelson would be hard put to control the Mediterranean if the enemy had more admirals of Jobert’s breed.

“Deck there! Rapid ’s signallin’, sir!” Bolitho glanced up at the masthead lookout on his precarious, swooping perch. The wind had backed slightly and was almost directly astern. It would be lively up there.

He opened his mouth to speak but Keen was already present.

“Get aloft, Mr Sheaffe, with haste now!” Bolitho watched the slim midshipman swarming up the shrouds. He was sixteen but looked older, and rarely skylarked with the other “young gentlemen” off duty, or during the dogwatches.

He wondered momentarily if Adam would have been so serious had he been his son.

Eventually Sheaffe was able to level his big signals telescope and shouted down to the deck.

“From Supreme, repeated Rapid, sir!” All eyes were raised to his foreshortened silhouette. The clouds seemed to be racing directly above the masthead.

“Sail in sight to the south’rd!”

Keen exclaimed, “I wonder?” He looked at Bolitho. “Frenchies, sir?”

Bolitho said, “Doubt it. We saw some of the blockading squadron yesterday. The enemy would have to slip past them first.” He smiled at Keen’s expression. He was disappointed. It was as clear as if he had said it aloud.

Bolitho said, “Signal Supreme to investigate. She carries only pop-guns, but can outpace anything that floats.” The signal dashed up to the yards and broke stiffly to the wind. Rapid would be waiting to repeat it to the cutter which was out of sight from the flagship. He knew Lieutenant Hallowes’

reputation for recklessness and hoped he would take care.

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Otherwise his new command would be short-lived.

Bolitho heard a step beside him and saw his flag-lieutenant watching the signal party critically as Sheaffe slid down to the deck again.

Stayt said, “Slow. You must do better, Mr Sheaffe, or I shall know why.”

Bolitho said nothing. At least Stayt did not care about reprimanding an admiral’s son.

Stayt said, “Whoever it is will probably turn and run, sir.” Bolitho nodded. If it was a merchantman, no matter what flag she wore, her master would not wish to lose any of his prime seamen to a King’s ship.

He wondered about Stayt. His father had quit the sea a sick man and owned some land around the little village of Zennor.

Stayt’s brothers were both clergymen but it was hard to picture the lieutenant wearing the cloth.

Stayt had a swarthy complexion and dark restless eyes. Like a gypsy. He was not handsome like Keen, but had the rugged good looks which would appeal to women.

Bolitho knew that Stayt always carried a small pistol under his coat and wanted to ask him why. A curious habit, as if he was expecting trouble.

Sheaffe spoke urgently to his assistant midshipman and then climbed swiftly up the mizzen shrouds with his telescope. He was smarting, whereas most midshipmen would have taken Stayt’s comment as part of their lot. A midshipman was neither fish nor fowl, who stood between the lieutenants and the people, and was respected by neither for the most part. It was strange they never remembered that fact when they became lieutenants, Bolitho thought.

“From Supreme, sir!” Sheaffe’s voice was sharp. “She’s the Orontes! ”

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Keen said, “One of the convict ships. But they sailed two days before us.” He eyed Bolitho questioningly. “Strange?”

“From Supreme, sir. Ship requires assistance.”

“Make to Supreme. ” Keen had seen Bolitho nod. “Heave-to and await the flag.” He waited for the signal to break out. Now a general signal. “Make more sail.” Stayt closed his glass with a snap. “The squadron has all acknowledged, sir.”

Bolitho watched the hands dashing up the shrouds and out along the yards to set more sail. The other ships were doing likewise. There was no obvious danger but the squadron would keep in formation. Bolitho had known traps in the past, his own and the enemy’s. He was taking no chances.

The deck staggered and spray lifted above the taffrail as Argonaute responded to the extra pressure of canvas.

“We’ll be up to them by noon, sir.” Keen watched the set of each sail and then shouted, “Another pull on the weather fore-brace, Mr Chaytor! Your division is in confusion today!” He lowered his speaking-trumpet and turned aside. There was little wrong with the lieutenant’s division, but it did no harm to drive them a bit more. He saw Bolitho smile and knew that he had seen through his guard.

Luke Fallowfield, the sailing-master, watched the hardening sails and put another man on the big double-wheel. He had been master in flagships before but had never known one like Bolitho’s.

Most admirals stayed away in their great cabins, but not this one.

Fallowfield was short, but massively built like a huge cask. He had no neck and his head sat directly on his shoulders like a great red pumpkin. He was a shabby, shambling mass of a man, who usually cast the smell of rum in his wake, but his knowledge of navigation and ship-handling was unsurpassed.

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responded to their superiors and subordinates. It kept him in touch. Without this small contact he knew he would be forced into his shielded quarters. In his heart he admitted he did not want to be left alone with his thoughts.

The Orontes grew and lifted from the grey water with each turn of the glass. Lying-to nearby, the Supreme remained an onlooker, her hull rolling and pitching in the troughs.

As soon as Argonaute was within signalling distance Keen observed, “Lost their rudder, damn them!” Stayt said, “The other ship was an ex-Indiaman and in good condition.” His lip curled. “This one is a hulk. I’m glad for their sakes the Bay is being kind.”

Bolitho took a glass and watched the slow exchange of signals. Stayt was right about the ship’s appearance. More like a slaver than a government transport.

He said, “If we take her in tow, Val,” he saw Keen’s dismay,

“and assist her back to port, we will reduce our strength and slow our passage. We cannot abandon her.” Old Fallowfield mumbled, “Squall gettin’ near, zur.” He stared blankly at the officers. “No doubt in my mind.”

“That settles it.” Bolitho folded his arms. “Send a boat across and discover what has happened to her consort, the Philomela. ” He watched Big Harry Rooke, the boatswain, beckoning a boat’s crew towards the tier. It was bad luck, but they had no choice.

“We will escort her to Gibraltar.”

Keen protested, “We’ll take days longer with her in tow, sir.” He was eager to get there. More so to become involved against the enemy. He did not alter.

The first lieutenant clambered down into the waiting boat and was soon speeding across the water towards the drifting vessel.

What a way for the convicts to begin what was already a terrible voyage, Bolitho thought. He tried to shut it from his mind and concentrate on what he must do. If he left the squadron and COLOURS A LOF T!

went on ahead in Barracouta or Rapid to discover what was required of him, there might be an unexpected attack during his absence. A barely trained squadron without its admiral would certainly attract the French if they learned of it.

He made up his mind. “Signal Barracouta to close on the flag.

Captain to repair on board.” He could already see Lapish’s youthful face, grateful to be released from his ponderous companions, to be free of authority.

“Then signal Helicon to prepare to tow.” Inch was by far the most experienced captain, but he would not thank him for it. Not even loyal Inch.

It took the remainder of the day to pass the massive hawser to the rudderless transport, and some hundred sailors from Inch’s command to do it. By the time they had formed up once more in some sort of order Barracouta was already hull down on the horizon and soon out of sight altogether. Lapish would carry despatches from Bolitho to the Governor and commander-in-chief. At least everyone would know they would eventually arrive under the Rock.

Darkness closed in and when Bolitho went aft to the great cabin he saw that the table was carefully laid, the sides and deckhead glittering to the swinging lanterns and new candles.

The exercise with the Orontes and the passing of the tow had given Bolitho an appetite. It had helped to pass the time, to see his squadron doing something other than running out guns or shortening sail.

Ozzard watched him and was satisfied. It was good to see Bolitho in a warmer mood. He would dine with the captain and the new flag-lieutenant. Ozzard was reserving his opinion on the latter. There was something false about Lieutenant Stayt, he decided. Like the lawyer he had once worked for.

Ozzard said, “The cox’n’s waiting, Sir Richard.” Bolitho smiled. “Good.”

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Allday was right aft by the big sloping windows. He faced Bolitho and touched his forehead. Even that he did with massive dignity, Bolitho thought. There was neither subservience nor indifference there.

“How is it coming along?” Bolitho sat on the new chair and stretched his legs. “When do I meet, er, your son?” Allday replied, “Tomorrow forenoon if it suits, Sir Richard.” Even the title rested easily with Allday. He seemed prouder of it than its recipient.

Allday continued, “He’s a fine lad, sir.” He sounded anxious.

“I was wonderin’—”

Now to the truth of the matter. Bolitho said encouragingly,

“Come on, old friend. There are no admirals or coxswains down here.”

Allday watched him worriedly. “I knows that, sir. I’ve always known it. You treated me like one of the family in Falmouth. I don’t reckon anyone would forget that. ” He tried again. “I get a bit o’ pain from time to time, sir.”

“Yes.” Bolitho poured two glasses of claret. “I fear there is no rum within reach.”

The memory brought a slow grin to Allday’s bronzed features. Remembering. The rum which had brought him back to life, if only because his reeling mind had recorded that Bolitho was drinking some out of despair. Bolitho never drank rum. In some strange way it had dragged Allday across the margin of survival and death.

“I wants to do my duty for you, sir. Like always. But somehow—”

Bolitho said gently, “You think I might need a second cox’n, is that it?”

Allday stared at him. Awe, astonishment, gratitude, it was all there.

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“God bless you, sir.” Allday nodded. “It would help the lad, an’ I could keep an eye on him like.” Keen entered and stopped by the screen door. “I beg your pardon, sir.” It seemed quite natural to find the big coxswain having a quiet drink with his admiral. Keen had cause to know and respect Allday. When he had been a midshipman under Bolitho’s command he had been cut down by a great splinter which had driven into his groin like a bloody lance. The frigate’s surgeon had been a drunkard and Allday had carried the barely conscious midshipman below and cut the splinter away himself. It had saved his life. No, he would never forget, especially as the respect had become mutual.

Bolitho smiled. “All done. With your permission, I’d like to take, er—” He glanced at Allday. “What name does he use?” Allday looked at his feet. “John, like me, sir.” He became serious, “Bankart. That was ’er name.” Keen nodded, his handsome features expressionless. His own coxswain, Hogg, had told him about it.

Bolitho said, “A second cox’n. Good idea, eh?” Keen replied gravely, “None better.” They watched him leave and Keen said, “God, he even looks like a father now!”

Bolitho asked, “Do you know this Bankart?” Keen took a glass from Ozzard and held it up to a lantern.

“I saw him sworn in, sir. About twenty or so. Served in the Superb before the Peace. A clean bill.” Bolitho looked away. Keen had checked up already. To protect him or Allday, it did not matter which.

Keen said, “I am in despair over the Orontes, sir. Her master ignores Captain Inch’s instructions and I am fast becoming impatient with the fellow.” He eyed Bolitho thoughtfully. “I’ve a mind to go aboard tomorrow.”

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Bolitho smiled. “Yes. I think my flag-captain will get more done than Inch’s lieutenants.”

Stayt entered the cabin and handed Ozzard his hat. He too had apparently been considering the Orontes.

“I think I have discovered why the other transport sailed on without Orontes, sir.” He leaned over to move a chair and for a second or so revealed the bright pistol beneath his coat. “Philomela carries gold as well as human beings. The paymaster for New South Wales is with it.”

Bolitho rubbed his chin. That was strange. Nobody had mentioned it before.

Keen said bitterly, “Afraid to put his money in a man-of-war, is he? In case we have to fight for him, damn his eyes!” Ozzard hovered by the other screen door. He had heard everything but would keep it to himself. He had known all about the gold, as did most of the squadron. It was funny that the officers were always the last to hear such matters, he thought.

“Dinner is served, Sir Richard,” he said meekly.

When Bolitho went on deck the following morning he saw the disarray in his ships after a mounting overnight gale. Now, as each captain endeavoured to place his ship on the required station, the wind just as mischievously dropped to a wet breeze, to leave the heavier vessels rolling uncomfortably in the troughs, their sails flapping and banging in confusion.

Keen glared across at the Orontes. Quite rightly Inch had cast off the tow during the night to avoid a collision and now it would have to begin all over again.

Keen sounded exasperated. “Call away the gig. I shall go over to her.” He took a glass from the midshipman-of-the-watch and trained it on the drifting transport. Half to himself he said, “I have already had words with my carpenter, Sir Richard. With his aid I intend to coax Orontes’ master into rigging a jury rudder.” COLOURS A LOF T!

Bolitho raised his own telescope and studied the other vessel. Her decks seemed to be full of people, crew or convicts it was impossible to tell. No one appeared to be working and he said quietly, “Take some marines with you, Val.” Keen lowered his glass and looked at him. “Aye, sir.” He sounded uneasy. “Some of their people are drinking. At this time of the day!”

The gig and then a cutter were lowered alongside while the flagship came into the wind and lay hove-to, her reefed canvas flapping wetly in the spray.

Keen hurried to the entry port and Bolitho said, “Go with him, Mr Stayt. You may learn something less basic then seamanship today.”

Keen waited impatiently as a squad of Royal Marines clattered down into the cutter with their junior officer Lieutenant Orde. He was a haughty young man who obviously resented the idea of soaking his immaculate scarlet coat on the crossing Keen touched his hat to the quarterdeck and then hurried down the side where Hogg waited with his gig.

Keen had no doubts in his mind that the next months would be crucial as England and her old enemy circled one another to seek out and exploit a first weakness. He wanted to begin, to use his ship where she was most needed. For Keen it was like a driving force. He had nothing else.

Once he glanced astern and saw his ship riding easily in the swell and Bolitho’s straight figure by the quarterdeck rail.

Argonaute would serve him well, Keen thought. I owe him that and so much more.

The coxswain swore silently as the gig shuddered alongside and hooked onto the main-chains. The cutter, caught on a sudden crest, was carried past, the marines watching with amusement as the oarsmen fought to regain control.

Stayt stood aside to allow Keen to climb the ladder. After the 36

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lively motion and stinging spray the Orontes’ broad deck seemed almost sluggish and without wind.

There were figures everywhere, on the deck and gangways, even in the tops overhead. A few carried weapons, guards probably, the rest looked like the sweepings of a jail.

But Keen saw only the drama being enacted below the poop.

The rigged grating, a great brute of a boatswain’s mate with what looked like a long whip in his hand as he stared at the figure seized up for flogging.

Keen hated the savage ritual of a flogging, more so the occasional need for it. Ever since he had seen his first punishment as a young midshipman, like most sea officers he had fought to conceal his revulsion for the sake of discipline. Others, it seemed, could watch it without turning a hair.

But this was different. He felt his spine go cold as he stared at the spreadeagled form on the grating.

A seaman exclaimed behind him, “Christ A’mighty, sir, it’s a girl!”

She was stripped almost to her buttocks, her face and shoulders hidden by her hair, her arms stretched out as if she had been crucified.

Keen stepped forward but before he could speak the boatswain’s mate drew back his arm and curled the whip across the girl’s back with the sound of a pistol shot.

Keen saw her arch her body, her torn clothing falling still further. But she did not scream for the force of the blow had smashed the breath from her body. Then, after what seemed like several seconds, a bright scarlet line showed itself from one bare shoulder to the opposite hip and then the blood ran down her back, and as the man drew back his arm she began to struggle.

Keen said sharply, “Belay that! ” He felt Stayt beside him but did not take his eyes from the scene. Around and above him he could hear a baying chorus of voices. Anger, disappointment—

they had wanted to watch her flogged.

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In the sudden silence Keen said, “Mr Stayt! If that man so much as lifts his whip I order you to shoot him dead!” Stayt stepped forward, the pistol already cocked in his hand.

He raised his arm, not like a man going into battle, but as a duel-list would balance his weapon for that one, vital shot.

A portly figure in a blue coat pushed towards Keen, his jowls jogging with fury.

Keen regarded him calmly although he was feeling cold anger sweeping through him, blinding him to everything but the desire to smash this man, the master, in the face.

“What the hell do you think you’re about, blast you!” The man was almost incoherent with rage and drink.

Keen met his angry glare. “I am Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag-captain. You abuse your authority, sir.” He felt his relief as he heard the marines scrambling up the side. At last. Inch had obviously withdrawn his own men before the squall. In another moment, he, Stayt and the others might have been overwhelmed.

Most of the crew looked too drunk to be able to think, let alone take orders.

Lieutenant Orde seemed unable to respond to what he saw, but Blackburn, his big sergeant, rasped, “Fix bayonets, Marines!

If they moves, cut ’em down!” Blackburn did not trust anyone who did not wear the scarlet coat of the Corps.

The rasp of steel seemed to shock the vessel’s ungainly master.

He said in a conciliatory tone, “She’s a damned thief, that’s what. No better than a common whore! I must have order and discipline in my ship! If I had my way—” He broke off as Keen said gently, “Cut her down. Cover her with something.”

A seaman called, “She’m fainted, sir!” Keen made himself cross to the grating. He saw the way her slight figure was dragging on her bound wrists, the blood running down her spine. Her breasts were pressed into the grating, 38

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and he could see where her heart pumped against the scrubbed wood.

She had fainted, but the pain would be waiting for her.

Hogg had appeared on deck and Keen heard him sheathe his cutlass. He must have thought the worst to quit his gig and come aboard without an order. A riot, a mutiny, Hogg was ready to save his captain. Like Allday had done for Bolitho.

Hogg strode over and cut the bonds and caught her as she fell, the last of her blood-spattered clothing gathered up in his arms as he hid her body from the silent onlookers. The ship’s master said thickly, “I have a surgeon.” Keen eyed him. “I can well imagine.” It must have been the way he looked rather than what he said, because the master fell back as if he had seen his own danger in Keen’s eyes.

“Take her to the gig, Hogg, and return to the ship. You go with the boat, Mr Stayt. I have work to do here.” He saw the barest hint of resentment in the lieutenant’s dark eyes. He wanted to shoot, to kill the man with the whip. Anyone. Keen knew that look. Perhaps I have it also?

“Now, Captain Latimer.” Keen was surprised he had remembered the man’s name, when moments earlier he had wanted to smash him to the deck. “I intend that you shall put your best hands to work on a jury rudder. I will supply more men when required, but you will waste no more time, do you understand?”

“The girl?” The earlier anger showed itself. “I’m responsible for every living soul aboard.”

Keen eyed him coldly. “Then God help them. There are women in Captain Inch’s ship, wives of the Gibraltar garrison officers. They can take care of the girl for the present, after my surgeon has examined her.”

The other man knew his authority was dwindling with each second.

“It must be said, Captain, you’ve not heard the last o’ this.” COLOURS A LOF T!

Keen raised one hand and saw the man flinch. But he tapped his blue lapel and said, “Nor you, I can promise that.” Another boat ground alongside and he heard Argonaute’s carpenter and his selected crew climbing aboard.

Keen turned away; he was needed aboard the flagship for a dozen things, but some last warning made him turn.

“If you are thinking, Captain Latimer, that it is a long, long way to New South Wales, let me assure you that you will not even see Gibraltar if you abuse your authority again.” He climbed down into the cutter and waited to be pulled back to the ship.

He was breathing hard and thought his hands must be shaking. He saw the cutter’s midshipman staring at him. He must have seen most of it.

Keen said, “You are all eyes today, Mr Hext.” Hext, just thirteen years old, nodded and swallowed hard.

“I—I’m sorry, sir. But, but—”

“Go on, Mr Hext.”

Hext flushed crimson, knowing that the oarsmen were watching as they pushed and pulled on their looms.

“When I saw it, sir, I—I wanted to stand with you—” Keen smiled, moved by the boy’s sincerity. It was probably hero-worship and nothing deeper, but it did more to steady Keen’s mood than he could have believed possible.

He had heard it said that Hext wrote many letters to his par-ents although there was little time to post any of them.

He said, “Never be afraid to help the helpless, Mr Hext.

Think on it.”

The midshipman clung to the tiller bar and stared blindly at the towering masts and rigging of the flagship.

He would write about it in his next letter.

“Toss your oars!” he piped.

It was a moment he would never lose.

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3 N o deadlier enemy

BOLITHO was leaning on the sill of the great stern windows when Keen entered his cabin, his hat beneath one arm.

Astern of Argonaute the other ships tilted over on the larboard tack, the courses and topsails braced round to hold the wind.

Apart, and yet still with her escort, the Orontes was making better progress with her jury rudder, but the squadron’s speed was still severely reduced.

The ship felt cold and damp. Bolitho thought of the Mediterranean and the warmth they would find there.

It was a full day since the trouble aboard Orontes and Bolitho could imagine the speculation on the lower deck, wardroom too, about the girl in the sickbay.

Keen looked at him and asked, “You wished to see me, Sir Richard?”

It would not be lost on Keen that Ozzard and the others were absent. It was to be a private conversation.

“Yes. A letter has been sent to me by Orontes’ master.” Keen nodded. “My cox’n collected it, sir.”

“In it he protests at your behaviour, our behaviour since you are under my command, and threatens to take the matter to higher authority.”

Keen said softly, “I am sorry. I did not mean to involve you—” Bolitho said, “I would have expected no other action from you, Val. I am not troubled by that oaf ’s threat. If I were to press home a claim from his employers for salvage Captain Latimer would be on the beach before he knew it. His sort are scum, they work for blood-money, like their counterparts in slavery.” Keen waited, half surprised that Bolitho had not taken him to task for interfering in the first place. He should have known.

Bolitho asked, “Have you spoken to this girl?” COLOURS A LOF T!

Keen shrugged. “Well, no, sir. I thought it best to leave her with the surgeon until she recovers. You should have seen the whip, the size of the man who struck her—” Bolitho was thinking aloud. “She will have to be cared for by another woman. I did consider Inch’s ship after your suggestion, but I’m not sure. Officers’ wives and a girl sentenced to transportation, though for what crime we cannot yet know. I will ask Latimer for details of her warrant.” Keen said, “It is good of you to take the trouble, sir. If I had only known—”

Bolitho smiled gravely. “You would still have acted as you did.”

Feet thudded overhead and blocks squealed as the officer-of-the-watch yelled for the braces to be manned.

In a crowded King’s ship a solitary woman could be seen as many things, not least bad luck. Landsmen might scoff at such beliefs. If they went to sea they would soon know differently.

“See the girl yourself, Val. Then tell me what you think. At Gibraltar we can shift her to the Philomela. From what you say, Latimer would certainly take his revenge otherwise.” Keen made to withdraw. He had meant to visit the girl and speak with the surgeon further about her. No matter what she had done in her young life, she did not deserve the agony and humiliation of a flogging.

Bolitho waited for the door to close and then sat down again beneath the stern windows.

Time and time again he kept thinking of Falmouth, of the sheer happiness of his home-coming, holding his new and only child Elizabeth in his arms, so awkwardly that Belinda had laughed at him.

Bolitho had always understood how difficult it must be for any woman to cross the threshold of the Bolitho home. Too many shadows and memories, so much expected of a newcomer. And 42

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in Belinda’s case she had been replacing Cheney, or so it would seem to her.

It had hit Bolitho hardest when he had discovered that Cheney’s portrait, the companion to the one she had had done of him, had been removed from the room where the two pictures once hung together. She with the headland behind her, her eyes like the sea, and he in his white-lapelled coat, as the captain she had loved so much. His portrait now hung with the others, alongside that of his father, Captain James.

He had said nothing; he had not wanted to hurt her, but it still disturbed him. Like a betrayal.

He kept telling himself that Belinda only wanted to help him, to make others appreciate his worth to the country.

But Falmouth was his home, not London. He could almost hear the words so harsh in that quiet room.

He sighed and turned his thoughts to Allday. He had probably felt the new atmosphere at Falmouth. It was impossible to guess what he made of it. Or maybe Allday had been so concerned with the discovery of his son that he had had no time for speculation.

He pictured the two of them as they had stood here in the cabin. Allday, powerful, proud in his blue jacket with the prized gilt buttons, head cocked to listen and watch as Bolitho spoke with the young sailor, John Bankart.

Bolitho could remember when Allday had been brought aboard his frigate Phalarope, a victim of the press-gang. It was twenty years ago although it did not seem possible. Ferguson, Bolitho’s steward now at Falmouth, had been dragged aboard with him. No wonder they had remained so close.

Allday had been very like this young sailor. Clear-eyed, honest-looking, with a sort of defiance just below the surface. He had met with a recruiting party and signed on with little hesitation when he was around eighteen. He disliked farm life, and knew COLOURS A LOF T!

that as a volunteer he would get better treatment than pressed men in a King’s ship.

His mother had never married. Allday had hinted uncomfortably that the farmer had often taken her to his bed, under the threat that otherwise he would get rid of her and her bastard son.

It had touched a nerve for Bolitho. The memory of Adam’s arrival on board his ship after walking all the way from Penzance when his mother had died. It was too similar not to move him.

Bankart had already proved himself a good seaman and could reef, splice and steer, equal to many his senior in age and service.

As second coxswain he would have little contact with his admiral. His duties would be confined to maintaining the readiness and appearance of the barge, going on errands to ships and the shore, and helping Allday in any way that he could. It seemed a satisfactory solution for the present.

He got up and walked into his sleeping compartment, then, after a slight hesitation, he opened a drawer and took out the beautiful oval miniature. The artist had caught her expression perfectly. Bolitho replaced it under his shirts.

What was the matter with him?

He was happy. He had a lovely wife ten years his junior, and now a daughter. And yet—

He turned away and re-entered the day cabin.

When they joined the fleet things would be different. Action, danger, and the rewards of victory.

He stared at his reflection in the salt-encrusted windows and smiled wryly.

Sir Richard, yet at the actual moment the King had seemingly forgotten his name.

Bolitho tried to gather his thoughts for the months ahead, how Lapish would react the first time the squadron’s only frigate was called to arms, but it eluded him.

He thought instead of the portrait which had gone from the 44

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room which looked towards the sea, and wished suddenly he had brought it with him.

Far beneath Bolitho’s spacious quarters and the view astern from its gilded gallery, Argonaute’s sickbay seemed airless. For the orlop deck, below the level of the waterline, was completely sealed, a place of leaping shadows from the swaying, spiralling lanterns where the massive deckhead beams were so low a man could not stand upright. From the day the ship had been built, the orlop had not, and would never see the light of day.

Tiny hutchlike cabins lined part of the deck where warrant officers clung to their privacy with barely room to move. Nearby was the midshipmen’s berth where the “young gentlemen” lived their disordered lives and were expected to study for promotion by the light of a glim, an oiled wick in a shell or an old tin.

The hanging magazine and powder stores, where a single spark could bring disaster, shared the deck with them, and below them the great holds carried everything to sustain the ship for many months if need be.

Right aft at the foot of a companion ladder the sickbay seemed bright by comparison with its white paint and racks of jars and bottles.

Keen strode towards it, his head automatically lowered to avoid the beams, his epaulettes glittering as he passed from one lantern to the next. Dark shapes and vague faces loomed and faded in the gloom, that other world away from sea and sky.

He saw James Tuson, the surgeon, speaking with his assistant, a tall, pallid Channel Islander named Carcaud. The latter was more Breton than English, but was intelligent and could both read and write. Keen knew that Tuson, who had been Achates’

surgeon, took a great interest in his lanky assistant and had taught him as much as he could. They even played chess together.

Keen liked the silver-haired Tuson, although he knew him no COLOURS A LOF T!

more than in their previous ship. He was a fine surgeon, twenty times better than most of his profession who served the King’s ships. But he kept to himself, not an easy thing in this teeming world between decks, and often went to the wardroom only for meals.

A marine, his crossbelts very white in the poor light, straightened his back and made Tuson turn towards the captain. It had been a wise precaution to place a sentry at the door, Keen thought.

Many of the hands had been aboard one ship or another without a break for many months. Any woman might be at risk. One labelled a felon even more so.

Tuson murmured something and his assistant, bent almost double, melted into the shadows.

Keen said, “How is she?”

Tuson unrolled his shirt sleeves and considered the question.

“She says nothing, to me anyway. She’s young, under twenty I’d wager, and her skin is fine, and her hands have not worked in a field.” He turned away from the rigid sentry whose leather hat seemed to be wedged against the deckhead, and dropped his voice.

“There are several bruises. I fear she may have been raped or savagely molested.” He sighed. “I’d not risk an examination under the circumstances.”

Keen nodded. The girl had suddenly become a person, someone real and not just a victim.

The surgeon was watching him thoughtfully; he rarely smiled.

“She can’t stay here, sir.”

Keen avoided the issue. “I’ll speak with her.” He hesitated,

“Unless you advise to the contrary?” The surgeon led the way towards the small, bright place.

“She knows where she is, but be patient, I beg you.” Keen stepped into the sickbay and saw the girl lying face down on a pillow and covered with a sheet. She appeared to be sleeping, but Keen could tell by her quick breathing that she was 46

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pretending. The surgeon pulled down the sheet and Keen saw her back tense.

Tuson said in his soft, matter-of-fact tones, “The scar is heal-ing, but—” He lifted a loose dressing and Keen saw the deep cut left by the whip. If he had not acted promptly, or had not gone over to the ship at all, she would be crippled or dead. In the lantern light the scar looked black.

Tuson pointed to hair which was long and dark brown; it was matted and tangled and as he touched it Keen saw her stiffen again.

He said, “She needs a bath and some fresh clothing.” Keen said, “I’ll send a lieutenant over to the Orontes as soon as we anchor. She must have some possessions surely.” His words seemed to strike her like the whip and she rolled over violently, covering her breasts with the sheet and oblivious to the immediate droplets of blood which broke from her scar.

“No, not back there! Please, not back to that, that place!” Keen was taken aback by the outburst. The girl was almost beautiful, something which bruises and disordered hair could not conceal. She had small, well-shaped hands, and eyes so wide they were almost starting from her face as she pleaded with him.

He said, “Easy, girl. Easy now.” He reached out to steady her but saw Tuson give a quick shake of his head.

The surgeon said, “This is the captain. He saved you from the flogging.”

She looked at Keen’s anxious face and said, “You, sir?” It was little more than a whisper. “It was you?” She had a soft, West Country voice. It was impossible to imagine her standing trial and being transported in that filthy vessel with the other prisoners.

“Yes.” Around him the ship kept up her continuous chorus of creaks and groans with the occasional boom of water beyond the massive timbers as the keel crashed into a trough. But Keen COLOURS A LOF T!

was conscious only of stillness, as if all time had suddenly stopped.

He heard himself ask, “What’s your name?” She glanced quickly at the surgeon, who nodded encouragingly.

“Carwithen.” She clutched the sheet tighter as Tuson read-justed the dressings on her back.

“Where are you from?”

“Dorset, sir, from Lyme.” Her small chin lifted briefly and he saw it tremble. “But I’m Cornish really.” Tuson grunted, “Thought so.” He straightened his back.

“Now lie still, and don’t open the cut again. I’ll have some food brought down.” He turned to the door and beckoned to his waiting assistant.

She looked at Keen once more and said in a hoarse whisper,

“You really are the captain, sir?”

Keen knew that her guard was about to break. He had grown up with two younger sisters and knew the first signs. God alone knew, she had suffered enough.

He moved to the door, pausing as the hull dipped and then reluctantly lifted her eighteen hundred tons for the next challenge. The girl did not take her eyes from his face. “What will you have done with me, sir?”

Her eyes were shining. He must not be here when the tears broke through.

Instead he asked bluntly, “What’s your first name?” She seemed caught off balance. “Zenoria.” He backed away. “Well, Zenoria, do as the surgeon directs. I will ensure that no harm comes to you.” He passed the sentry without even seeing him.

What had he done? How could he promise her anything, and why should he? He did not even know her.

As he hurried up the first companion ladder he already knew the answers to both questions. It was madness. I must be mad.

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It seemed to mock him and he was suddenly grateful to see the sky once again.

Lieutenant Hector Stayt leaned over the table and placed another copy of Bolitho’s orders for his signature. They would be passed to all the other captains when they finally anchored at Gibraltar.

That would be in two days’ time if the wind remained in their favour. It had been a long, empty week since the incident aboard Orontes, but now, as the small squadron steered to the south-east with the Spanish coastline from Cadiz to Algeciras barely visible to the most keen-eyed lookout, the passage was almost over.

Bolitho glanced over Yovell’s round handwriting before putting his own signature at the bottom. The same orders but each would be interpreted differently by the captains who read them. Once in the Mediterranean there would be neither time nor opportunity to get to know his officers nor they him.

He thought of Keen and his visits to their unexpected passenger. The French builders had allowed an extra chart space abaft the master’s cabin, and this had been made as comfortable as possible for the girl Zenoria Carwithen. A cot, a mirror, some clean sheets from the wardroom had somehow transformed it.

Ozzard had even managed to discover a spare officer’s commode in the hold and had installed it for her use. They must not get too fond of the idea of having her aboard, he thought. Once at the Rock . . .

Stayt said, “I did hear something about that girl, Sir Richard.” It was not the first time the flag-lieutenant had seemed to read Bolitho’s thoughts. It was unnerving and irritating.

“And?” Bolitho looked up from the table.

Stayt sounded almost indifferent now that he had his admiral’s attention.

“Oh, she was mixed up in a riot of some kind, I understand.

It was near to my father’s property. Someone was murdered before the military arrived.” He gave a thin smile. “Late as usual.” COLOURS A LOF T!

Bolitho looked past him at the swords on their rack. One so bright and gleaming, the other almost shabby by comparison.

Stayt took his silence for interest. “Her father was hanged.” Bolitho dragged out his watch and opened the guard. “Time to exercise the squadron’s signals, Mr Stayt. I’ll be up directly.” Stayt left. He had a springy walk; it seemed to show his great self-confidence.

Bolitho frowned. Conceit anyway.

Yovell moved to the table and gathered up the papers. He glanced at Bolitho over his small gold spectacles and said, “It wasn’t quite like that, Sir Richard.” Bolitho looked at him. “Tell me. I’d like to hear it. From you.” Yovell smiled sadly. “Carwithen was a printer, sir. A fine one, I’m told. Some of the farmworkers asked him to print some hand-bills, a sort of protest it was, about two landowners who had been keeping them short of money and chattels. Carwithen was a bit of a firebrand by all accounts, believed in speaking his mind, especially when others were being wronged.” He flushed but Bolitho nodded.

“Speak as you will, man.”

It was strange that Yovell should know. He lived at the Bolitho house when he was ashore, but he was a Devonian, a “foreigner” as far as local folk were concerned. Yet he always seemed to know about the people around him.

“Carwithen’s wife had died previous to that, so they sent the girl out of the county.”

“To Dorset?”

“Aye sir, that were it.”

So something else must have happened since the “riot” as Stayt had described it.

He heard the trill of calls from the quarterdeck as the signalling party were mustered under Stayt’s eagle eye. Signals, especially in battle, should be few, short and precise.

Bolitho made up his mind and said, “Fetch Allday.” 50

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Allday glanced questioningly at the secretary as they entered, but Yovell merely shrugged his sloping shoulders.

“Sir?”

“Go with Yovell and fetch that girl aft.” He saw their surprise. “Now, if you please.”

Keen would be busy on deck watching the other ships as they acknowledged and obeyed the signals from the flag.

Allday’s jaw looked stubborn.

“If you thinks it’s wise, sir—”

Bolitho eyed him firmly. “I do.”

He saw Ozzard lifting his coat from a chair but shook his head. Any sort of liaison would be destroyed before it had begun if she found herself confronted by a vice-admiral.

From what Keen and Tuson had said she seemed to be an intelligent girl, and her father’s influence had obviously gained her some education.

He was interfering, but he had seen Keen’s face whenever he had mentioned the girl. Bolitho had not forgotten what it was like; he must act before the girl was taken from the ship.

He was totally unprepared for what happened next.

Yovell opened the screen door and the girl walked hesitantly towards the stern cabin. Against Allday’s powerful figure she looked small, but her head was up, and only her eyes moved as she paused below the skylight.

She was dressed in a white shirt and breeches of one of the midshipmen, and her long brown hair was pulled back to the nape of her neck with a ribbon, so that she almost looked as if she belonged in the gunroom. But her feet were bare, small like her hands, and Yovell explained hastily, “Even the young gentlemen didn’t have shoes small enough for her.” Bolitho said, “Sit down. I wish to talk with you.” He saw the stiff way she held her shoulder. Tuson had said COLOURS A LOF T!

her back would be scarred for life. And that had been from just one stroke.

“I should like to know—” He saw her eyes level on his; they were dark brown, misty. No wonder Keen was under some kind of magic. “—what brought you to these circumstances.” Yovell murmured, “Tell, Sir Richard, lass, he’ll not eat you.” She started with alarm, her lips parting as she exclaimed, “Sir Richard!”

Bolitho wanted to glare at Yovell but said, “Just tell me.

Please.”

But she stared at him. “But—but I’ve met the captain?” Yovell said patiently, “The admiral here commands all the ships, all the captains, Miss, and some two thousand eight hundred jack tars and marines.” He watched her gravely. “A big job to do, so speak up an’ don’t you waste his time, eh?” Bolitho smiled. “He means well, er, Zenoria, isn’t it?” She looked at her hands in her lap. Then she said, “They took my father, sir. He was a fine man, a clever man too. He believed in people’s rights.” Her eyes took on a faraway look and Bolitho found he was holding his breath. Just to hear her speak. It was like hearing Cornwall again.

“I saw him hang, sir.”

“But why?”

“It was the squire, sir. He came to the house with some of his men and they tried to smash his press. My father soon showed them.” Her chin lifted with sudden pride so that she looked all the more vulnerable. “He pulled the squire from his horse, and others came from the village to help him. Someone was killed.

Then the dragoons came and took him away.”

“How old were you then?”

“Seventeen, sir. That was two years ago. They sent me to Dorset, to work in a big household and help teach the children there.” 52

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It was difficult to speak as he wished with Yovell and Allday listening. But he had to be certain she was not lying, not a whore as stated by Orontes ’ master. It could be dangerous to be alone with her.

“Tell me about what happened in Lyme.” Yovell said severely, “Your warrant will come aboard, my lass, so no use lying about it!”

“For God’s sake, man, hold your tongue!” Bolitho saw the girl cringe as if his anger was directed partly at her.

He said, “Fetch her a glass, Allday.” He was trying to cover his own confusion. “I must know.”

She dropped her eyes. “Everyone knew about my father and what had happened. The master was always touching me, making remarks, telling me how lucky I was to have a roof over my head. Then one day he came to my room.” She was beginning to shake. “He tried to—” She took a glass from Allday but did not drink from it. “He forced me to do things—” She looked up, her eyes wild and pleading. “I’d been making some repairs to the children’s clothing.” She could barely get the words out. “I took the scissors and I stabbed him.”

Bolitho stood up and walked slowly behind her chair. It was so clear in her voice. He could almost see it happening.

“And then?”

“He didn’t die, sir, but I was sent to the Assizes. You know the rest, sir.”

Transportation for life.

“You may return to your cabin, Zenoria.” Bolitho looked down at her upturned face. Nineteen years old, but in the midshipman’s shirt with her hair tied back she looked like a child.

She stood up and handed her glass to Allday. It was still full.

“That Captain Latimer wanted me too, sir.” It was all she needed to say.

“Tomorrow my secretary will help you to write all this down.

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I cannot, must not pretend that I can help in this matter.” He touched her shoulder and this time she did not flinch. “But I promise you, I shall try.”

He turned aft to the windows and waited to hear the door close.

When Allday came back he said simply, “That were kindly done, an’ that’s no error, sir. She’s sobbin’ fit to bust now, but it’ll do her good.”

“You think so?” Bolitho watched the flags soaring up Helicon’s yards, but saw only the girl’s eyes, the pain that was so deeply lodged there. I saw him hang. He thought of the squire who had married his sister Nancy at Falmouth. A rich landowner who had always had his eye on the Bolitho house. Local people called him the King of Cornwall behind his back. But he was good to Nancy even if he was a braggart who lived too well in peace and war.

He was also a magistrate, but even he would have recommended mercy rather than deportation. Or would he?

More calls trilled and he knew that the drills were ended for another day.

He watched the door and heard the sentry’s heels bang together. Keen entered and exclaimed, “May I speak, Sir Richard?” Allday and Yovell left the cabin and Keen said, “I have just heard, sir. I regret that you did not feel free to ask me when—” Bolitho said quietly, “Sit down, Val. We are not going to fight.

I saw the girl because of you, not in spite of you.” Keen stared at him. “Me?”

Bolitho gestured to a chair. “She sat there. Now pray do likewise.”

Bolitho watched the emotions crossing Keen’s features. He had rarely seen Keen angry, but this was different, protective.

He said, “She will have to be put ashore once we anchor. It is only a temporary solution, but I think I can arrange it. From what she has told me and what was left unsaid, I believe there is some hope, if only—”

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He broke off as Keen exclaimed, “I can write to my cousin in the City of London. I am sure we can—” He turned and looked at Bolitho, his eyes steady. “It was good of you, sir. I should have understood.”

Bolitho poured two glasses of brandy and guessed that Ozzard was pressed against his pantry shutter.

“She has been cruelly used, Val.” He let his words drop like shot into a still pool. “Raped, it would seem, and that’s just the half of it.” He watched the pain in Keen’s blue eyes. He had guessed correctly. Bolitho did not know whether it gave him satisfaction or grief.

Keen said quietly, “I have a great affection for her, sir.” He looked up, his eyes defiant as if he expected Bolitho to explode.

“I know that, Val. I think I knew that day when you went down to visit her, maybe even earlier.” He nodded. “That’s settled then.”

Keen put down the empty glass although he had barely noticed what he was drinking.

“It’s impossible! I am mad even to think of it!” Bolitho said, “How old are you, Val? Thirty-five or six?”

“A year older than that, sir. And she is just a girl.”

“A woman, Val, so remember it, eh? As you get older the gap between you will lessen, not widen.” He put his head on one side and smiled at Keen’s expression.

Perhaps he had done wrong by both of them. The senior officer or the Governor at Gibraltar might refuse to allow the girl to remain there.

But at least the truth was out and Bolitho found that he was surprisingly lifted by it.

Keen said, “I am deluding myself, sir.” Bolitho touched his arm. “We shall see—” He glanced at the skylight as a lookout’s cry floated down from aloft.

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A minute later the midshipman-of-the-watch appeared breathless at the door.

“Beg pardon, sir.” He stared from Keen to his admiral. “Mr Paget’s respects, and we have just sighted a sail, sir.” It was Midshipman Hext, his eyes now moving around the great cabin, doubtless remembering it for another letter.

Bolitho smiled gravely. “And are we to be told where this sail might be, in due course?”

The boy blushed. “I—I’m sorry, Sir Richard. It bears to the sou’-east.”

Keen said, “My compliments to the first lieutenant. I shall come up.” He still sounded different, as if only half his mind was working on the news.

Bolitho said, “Signal Rapid to investigate.” His thoughts clung to that small moment of warmth they had shared and then he said, “Might be news of the French.” Keen’s eyes cleared. “Aye, sir.” Then he was gone.

But it was to be news of a graver sort.

As the other ship drew closer she was soon identified as the Barracouta. Bolitho took a telescope and joined Keen at the quarterdeck rail to watch as Lapish clawed his way to windward to draw closer to the squadron.

There were men at work on her yards and several of her sails were patched. Even as he watched Bolitho saw a great mass of cordage being hoisted aloft, the work not even faltering as the business of sailing the ship went on.

“She’s been in a fight.” Keen nodded to his first lieutenant.

“Prepare to shorten sail, Mr Paget.” Bolitho kept his face impassive as the men around the quarterdeck stared at him. So it was beginning already. The momentary calm was over.

“You are right, Val. Captain repair on board immediately.” 56

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An hour later Captain Jeremy Lapish sat in Bolitho’s cabin.

He seemed to have aged since he had left the squadron to carry despatches to Gibraltar.

He explained, “I sighted a schooner inshore and closed to see what she was about.” He took a goblet gratefully from Ozzard.

“Before I knew where we were there were two French frigates coming around the point with the wind under their coat-tails.” Bolitho saw the despair and misery on the young captain’s face. Just what he had feared had happened. The schooner had been the bait and the two Frenchmen had almost run Lapish’s ship onto a lee shore.

“I shall read your report later.” Bolitho eyed him sternly. “Did you lose any hands?”

Lapish nodded, his eyes dull. “Two, sir.” Quite rightly Lapish had run from his attackers. Outsailed and outgunned, he had had little choice.

Would I have done the same? Bolitho looked at him. “What of Gibraltar?”

Lapish shook himself from his thoughts. He had nearly lost his ship so soon after taking command. Almost as bad, he may have lost the confidence of his people.

He said, “Gibraltar is closed, sir.” He laid a heavy envelope on the table and they all looked at it as he added, “Fever. It has struck down half the garrison.”

Bolitho walked across the cabin and back again. The Rock was notorious for outbreaks of fever, but what a time for this to happen.

“There is no deadlier enemy.” He looked at Keen. “We shall have to stand offshore until we know what is happening.” To Lapish he said, “Return to your ship.” He wanted to share his pain, to commiserate with him. Instead he closed his mind and said sharply, “Think yourself fortunate to have a ship left to command.” Keen left to see the crestfallen Lapish over the side.

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Fever. Bolitho shivered. Just the word brought back the nightmare, when he had nearly died of it. It might still return.

He shook himself and tried to consider how the news would affect them. With Gibraltar closed to them he would have to decide for himself what to do.

He smiled grimly. He was no longer just an onlooker.

4 B ait

WITH THE crash of a salute lingering in the air the small squadron came round into the wind and anchored in succession.

Bolitho stood by the nettings and saw the relief on Keen’s face. The manoeuvre was executed well despite so many new hands throughout the ships.

He turned and looked up at the great towering mass of Gibraltar. In the past it had always been a refuge, a safe anchorage; now it seemed edged with menace.

There were few men-of-war present, and they were moored clear of the jetty near the other convict ship Philomela and some local craft. Several guard-boats plied slowly back and forth. Bolitho saw that they carried redcoats and each mounted at least one swivel. It was as bad as that.

“We call the other captains aboard today.” He saw Keen training his telescope on one of the boats which was pulling towards the flagship. “Aye, sir. I think we have a visitor.”

The boat paused, the oars backing water below the main-chains while the crew stared up at the two-decker as if she was part of another world.

A post-captain stood in the sternsheets and squinted up at the quarterdeck.

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“I cannot come aboard, Sir Richard! I have to tell you that the Governor has taken charge here; the admiral is ill.” He kept his voice unhurried and level as if well aware of the countless ears and eyes which were gauging the danger.

Bolitho walked to the entry port and stood looking down at the boat. Each man in it would probably give all he owned to be allowed on board, even though he might bring the fever with him.

The sunburned captain in the boat called, “I have sent a courier brig, Firefly, to Lord Nelson.” It was strange that only Inch had ever met the little admiral and had rarely ceased to tell of it. Now Adam might meet him.

The captain added, “I understand that officers’ wives are taking passage in your squadron, Sir Richard. I have to tell you that if they land, they must do so now. It is their right to be with their husbands if they so wish. But they cannot leave until this fever is broken.”

Bolitho saw the Orontes swinging to her anchor, a guard-boat idling nearby to deter anyone from trying to swim ashore.

It would require a lot of planning. Water, supplies, repairs.

The squadron would need them all and more.

“I have despatches from the Governor, Sir Richard.” A satchel was being lifted to the main-chains on a boat-hook. Bolitho saw Carcaud, the lanky surgeon’s mate, leaning down to seize it in a flannel bag. Tuson was taking no chances even with that.

Bolitho felt Keen watching him as he called, “All the ladies are astern of me in Helicon. I have one woman aboard my ship.” The captain shrugged apologetically. “If she is not of the garrison, Sir Richard, I am ordered to inform you no other person can be landed.”

The boat began to move away, the oars stirring unwillingly.

The captain raised his hat. “I shall collect the ladies now, sir!” The contact was broken.

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Keen lowered his voice. “You did not tell him that the girl is a prisoner, sir?”

Bolitho watched the flannel bag being carried aft.

“I do not recall that he asked, Val.” He left a patch of shade and stared up at the Rock, its ancient Moorish castle shrouded in heat haze.

“The Governor might easily have shut her in a cell, Val. He has raised a state of seige here, one girl more or less would stand no chance.”

Keen stared after him, knowing that his lieutenants were waiting with their demands and lists.

Bolitho had to search through his despatches and compare them with his instructions from the Admiralty. It was a great responsibility to his ships and his men. But he had still found time to think about the girl named Zenoria. It was unnerving.

He turned and looked at his officers. “Well, Mr Paget, where shall we begin?” His face was quite calm; he was the flag-captain again. If one hint of this matter reached higher authority Bolitho’s name would be smeared too. And yet he had not hesitated.

By the boat tier Allday peered up at the green-painted barge and frowned. It would not be lowered, here at Gib anyway. He climbed up to peer into the sleek hull, biting his lip as if he expected the hot pain to surge through his chest again. The boat was half filled with water. The seams would not open in the sunlight. He glanced down at Bankart and grinned.

“You’ve made a good start, lad.” He was pleased although still dazed by the change of events which had given him a son. That was the strange thing. They spoke a lot with each other, but apart from Bankart’s dead mother they had nothing in common except the Navy. But he was a pleasant lad and did not abuse his small authority of second coxswain as some might.

Allday dropped to the deck and said, “Time for a wet. We’ll 60

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not be needed just now.” He glanced aft. “The admiral’s too busy for chatter.”

Bankart ducked beneath a gangway and asked, “What is he like? I’ve heard tell you’ve been with him since—” Allday eyed him fondly. “Since around the day you was born, I reckon. A fine man. Brave, an’ loyal to his mates.” He thought of the girl in midshipman’s clothing. All bloody hell would break if Keen wasn’t careful. He had heard some of the seamen laying odds on whether the captain had had his way with her. “All right for the officers, eh, lads? Poor Jack is the one to suffer!” Allday had silenced that one with his fist, but there would be plenty more who thought as much.

He said, “I’ll take you with me to the house when we gets home. It’s a grand place, but they found room for me like one o’

their own.”

The mention of Falmouth made him suddenly uneasy. He had seen Bolitho’s dismay change to resentment over something Lady Belinda had said or done.

Allday would back Bolitho anywhere against all odds, but he felt sympathy for his lovely wife. It could not be a smooth passage to follow in Cheney’s shadow. Bolitho would have to accept this. There was no going back.

He shook himself out of his mood as he caught the heady aroma of rum.

“A good wet, that’s what we need.”

The surgeon was standing just inside the door of the makeshift cabin, wiping his strong fingers on a cloth, as Keen appeared.

Keen glanced at the Royal Marine sentry and saw that his blank face was wet with sweat, for despite the hastily rigged windsails to every hatch the air felt hot and sluggish.

“How is she?”

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Tuson eyed him for several seconds. “I’ve removed the dressing, sir.”

Keen walked past him and saw the girl sitting on a stool, her hair released from its ribbon and covering her shoulders.

He asked, “Does it still hurt very much?” Her eyes lifted to his. “It is bearable, sir.” She moved her shoulders warily beneath the shirt and winced. “It feels stiff.” She seemed to realize that her borrowed shirt had fallen open and dragged it together quickly.

Then she said, “I heard what happened today. About me.” She looked up and he saw the anxiety stark in her eyes. “Will I be sent to that ship again, sir? I’ll kill myself before—” Keen said, “No. Don’t speak of it.” Tuson watched from the door. The tall, elegant captain and the long-haired girl on the stool. Miles apart and yet there was something like a shaft of light between them.

He cleared his throat. “I’ll fetch some ointment for that scar, my girl.” He looked at Keen and added quietly, “I shall be about ten minutes, sir.” Then he was gone.

She asked, “Would you like to sit with me, sir?” She gestured to a heavy chest. Then she smiled. It was the first time Keen had seen her smile. She said, “Not what you’re used to, I’m sure.” Her sudden confidence left her and she added huskily, “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Keen watched her hands in her lap and wanted to hold them. “I wish I could make you more comfortable.” She lifted her gaze and watched him steadily.

“What is it you want of me?” She sounded neither angry nor frightened. It was as if she had been expecting him to demand freely what she had already been brutally forced to give.

Keen said, “I want to take care of you.” He looked at the deck. He thought she would call for the sentry or, worse, laugh at him and his clumsiness.

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Without a word she moved from the stool and knelt down against his legs and rested her head on his knees.

Keen found that he was stroking her long hair, saying meaningless words, anything to prolong this impossible moment.

There were footsteps on a companion ladder and outside the door the sentry dragged the butt of his musket across the deck.

Tuson was coming back.

Then she looked up at him and he saw that her eyes were streaming with tears, could feel them wet through his white breeches.

“You mean it, don’t you?” The words were torn from her.

Keen stood up and raised her to her feet. Without shoes she barely reached his chest.

He touched her face, and then very carefully as if he was handling something precious and delicate he lifted her chin with his fingers. “Believe it. I have never meant anything so much.” Then as Tuson’s shadow moved between them he stepped back through the door.

Tuson watched them, surprised that he could still feel so emotional after what his trade had done to him. It was like sharing something. A secret. But it would not remain one for long.

Ozzard and his assistants had brought extra lanterns to the great cabin so that the windows overlooking the harbour seemed black by comparison.

It was the first time that all the captains of Bolitho’s squadron had been gathered together like this. There was an air of good humour and perhaps some relief that they were staying away from the fever.

Keen waited until all the goblets had been filled and then said, “Pay attention, gentlemen.”

Bolitho stood by the windows, his hands tucked behind him under his coat-tails.

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A landsman would be impressed, he thought; his little band of captains made a fine sight beneath the slowly spiralling lanterns.

Francis Inch was the most senior, his long face empty of anxiety or concern about anything. Keen, the only other post-captain, looked tense as he glanced at his companions.

His mind was still turning over what had happened between him and their passenger. One good thing had occured, Bolitho decided. A Jamaican girl, one of the servants who had been travelling with the garrison wives, had pleaded not to be sent ashore.

In view of the Governor’s order this seemed a suitable solution for a companion for Zenoria Carwithen. It would not stop the speculation but might halve the gossip.

Philip Montresor of the Despatch was a young, eager-faced man, who was not in the least daunted by the solitary epaulette on his right shoulder. Next to him, Tobias Houston of the Icarus looked old for his rank and had indeed gained it by a roundabout route through John Company and later the Revenue Service. He had a round, hard face like a weathered nut, and a mouth little more than a slit.

Commander Marcus Quarrell was leaning across to whisper something to Lapish, who had commanded his brig Rapid before him. Quarrell was a lively, friendly man from the Isle of Man.

But his humour was failing with Lapish who still looked sunk in gloom.

Lieutenant Hallowes of the cutter Supreme was also present and quite rightly, he was as much a captain as any of them. For the present anyway.

They were a mixed bunch, Bolitho thought. The whole fleet must be like this as their lordships tried to produce ships and men for a war which even an idiot should have expected.

He looked over their expectant faces, the gold and blue of their uniforms, the confidence he had heard in their voices.

He said, “Gentlemen, I intend to sail with a minimum of 64

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delay. In his despatches the Governor has informed me that an East Indiaman will be arriving any day now to take passage around the Cape of Good Hope. With her trained company and heavy artillery she will be able to offer a suitable escort to the two convict vessels until they are clear of French interference. I am sure the Governor will be able to persuade the grocery captain.” They all laughed. The HEIC was not known for losing time on a fast passage no matter for what reason.

It hid Bolitho’s relief. He had been afraid that the Governor might demand one of his ships for the task; there were too few already without that.

He continued, “This is unlike the blockades of Brest and the Bay. There, foul though it is for the ships involved, they can be relieved and sent to England for restoring or repairs in a couple of weeks. In the Mediterranean there is no such relief. Toulon is our main cause of anxiety; to watch the enemy and discover his intention will need constant vigilance. But where can we go for our supplies and, even more important, our fresh drinking water?

Gibraltar is eight hundred miles from Toulon, and Malta about the same. A ship sent from Malta might be away from her admiral for over two months.” He smiled wryly. “Pleasant for her captain maybe,” he saw them grin, “but in the meantime the enemy could be away on the wind. I have no doubt that Vice-Admiral Nelson has already found a possible solution. If not, I intend to act independently.” He could see the captains of the seventy-fours considering what he had said. Each ship carried fresh water for only ninety days, and that was on a restricted ration. They had to find a source of water above all else.

“You must continue regular gun and sail drills at all times.

Apart from improving both it will keep the people occupied.” There was a smell of food and he guessed that Ozzard was waiting to serve dinner for the gathered captains.

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He said, “We will speak later, but do you have any questions?” Montresor got to his feet. Like Keen he had fair hair and the fresh complexion of a schoolboy.

He asked, “Are we to blockade the French at Toulon and the other ports, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho replied, “Not entirely. Our main task is to catch them if they break out, and destroy them. They will be testing us, remember, feeling our strength as well as our ability.” He saw Keen’s face. He alone knew what Bolitho had left until now.

“There is one French squadron, newly formed, but not yet reported in Toulon.”

Even as he said it he found it hard to believe, impossible to accept.

“Rear-Admiral Jobert commands it.” He saw their exchange of glances; for some it had not sunk in.

He looked round the great cabin. “This was his ship, gentlemen. We took it from him some five months ago.” How had Jobert managed it? To obtain an exchange with some British prisoner of equal rank perhaps, but Bolitho had heard of no such arrangement.

“He will know our movements, also that my flag flies above the squadron. He is a brave and resourceful officer and will be out for revenge.”

Inch leaned forward and bobbed. “We’ll finish him this time!” Bolitho looked at the three junior officers. “Your importance is paramount. I have no doubt in my mind that Jobert was behind the trap laid for Barracouta. ” It was little more than a guess, but fitted what he knew about Jobert. The look of gratitude on Lapish’s face more than made up for it. He would not repeat his mistake.

Bolitho said, “Jobert may intend to seek out any small, detached vessel and destroy her and so leave the flagship deaf and blind.”

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With his ex-flagship and Helicon, another French prize, trailing their coats in his waters, Jobert would need little encouragement to level the score.

At the back of his mind Bolitho wondered if Admiral Sheaffe had known about this when he had last seen him. An encouragement for one was a goad for the other. Perhaps I am the bait?

Keen murmured bitterly, “We should have done for him there and then!” It was unusual for him to sound so vehement.

Worrying about the girl and what would become of her now that they were moving deeper into the Mediterranean? What should be done with her? Perhaps, after all, his plan had gone wrong and might eventually do her some real harm.

He thrust it from his mind. The war would not wait. It was something greater than any of them had known.

He said quietly, “So let us dine together, gentlemen.” Inch beamed. “And think of our loved ones, eh?” Captain Houston gave a thin smile. “Some can do more than think about them to all accounts.” Keen looked pale but managed to remain silent.

Bolitho said, “Captain Houston, I am not sure if that was meant to be offensive? If so, then I am offended.” His grey eyes were suddenly hard. “I am waiting.” The silence was oppressive like the humidity in the cabin.

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