I suppose that the days of fighting sail and the independent seamen of the eighteenth/nineteenth-century Navy have always fascinated me, perhaps even from my childhood, when I walked around Nelson's Victory and tried to picture the fury of a sea-battle.

During the last war, in spite of my belonging to an Army family, I joined the Navy without hesitation. It seemed the right thing to do, as if it was expected of me. I served in the Battle of the Atlantic and in the campaigns in the Mediterranean and Normandy, but through it all I never lost my affection for those far-off days when only the 'wooden walls' stood between England and her enemies.

Ten years after becoming a professional author and novelist, I fell in with Richard Bolitho and his own life and times. Now, as I research the material of his exploits with my Canadian wife Kim beside me, I feel we can really share the memories of those fine, brutal ships, and the men who by choice or enforcement served and died with them.

Mourn, England, mourn and complain
For the brave Lord Nelson's men
Who died upon that day
All on the main…

English Harbour, in fact the whole island of Antigua, seemed to crouch motionless as if pinned down by the noon sun. The air was humid and oppressively hot, so that the many vessels scattered at anchor were blurred in heavy haze, like reflections in a steamy looking-glass.

This October in 1804 was only days old, the middle of the hurricane season, and one of the worst on record. Several ships had been lost at sea, or driven ashore when they had been caught in some dangerous channel.

English Harbour was the important, some said vital, headquarters for the fleet which served the Caribbean and to the full extent of the Leeward and Windward Islands. Here was a fine anchorage, a dockyard where even the most serious damage and refitting could be carried out. But peace or war, the sea and the weather were constant enemies, and whereas almost every foreign flag was assumed to be hostile, the dangers of these waters were never taken for granted.

English Harbour was some twelve miles from the capital, St John's, and so the social life in and around the dockyard was limited. On a flagged terrace of one of the better houses flanking the hillside behind the harbour, a group of people, mostly officials and their ladies, stood wilting in the unmoving air watching the approach of a man-of-war. It seemed to have taken an eternity for the newcomer to gain substance and shape through the shimmering haze, but now she stood, bows-on to the land, her sails all but flat against her stays and yards.

Ships of war were too commonplace for mention. After years of conflict with France and her allies, such sights were part of these people's daily lives.

This one was a ship-of-the-line, a two-decker, her rounded black and buff hull making a sharp contrast with the milky water and the sky which seemed without colour in the unwavering heat. The sun stood directly above Monk's Hill and was encircled with silver; somewhere out at sea there would be another storm very soon. This ship was different in one respect from other comings and goings. News had been brought by a guardboat that she was from England. To those watching her painstaking approach, just the name of England created so many images. Like a letter from home, a description from some passing sailor. Uncertain weather, shortages, and a daily fear of a French invasion across the Channel. As varied as the land itself, from lush countryside to city squalor. There was hardly a man or woman watching the two-decker who would not have traded Antigua for a mere glimpse of England.

One woman stood apart from the others, her body quite still, except for her hand, which used a fan with economical care to revive the heavy air.

She had tired long ago of the desultory conversation of the people she had come to know and recognise out of necessity. Some of their voices were already slurred with overheated wine, and they had not even sat down to eat as yet.

She turned to conceal her discomfort as she plucked the ivory gown away from her skin. And all the while she watched the ship. From England.

The vessel could have been quite motionless but for a tiny feather of white foam beneath her thrusting, gilded figurehead. Two longboats were leading her inshore, one on either bow; she could not see if they were attached to their mother ship by line or not. They too were barely moving, and only the graceful rise and fall of their oars, pale like wings, gave a hint of effort and purpose.

The woman knew a great deal about ships; she had travelled many hundreds of leagues by sea, and had an eye for their complex detail. A voice from the past seemed to linger in her mind, which had described a ship as man's most beautiful creation. She could hear him add, and as demanding as any woman.

Someone behind her remarked, 'Another round of official visits, I suppose?' No one answered. It was too hot even for speculation. Feet clattered on stone steps and she heard the same voice say, 'Let me know when you get any more news.'

The servant scurried away while his master opened a scrawled message from somebody in the dockyard.

'She's the Hyperion, seventy-four. Captain Haven.'

The woman watched the ship but her mind was drawn to the name. Why should it startle her in some way?

Another voice murmured, 'Good God, Aubrey, I thought she was a hulk. Plymouth, wasn't it?'

Glasses clinked, but the woman did not move. Captain Haven? The name meant nothing.

She saw the guardboat pulling wearily towards the tall two-decker. She loved to watch incoming ships, to see the activity on deck, the outwardly confused preparations until a great anchor splashed down. These sailors would be watching the island, many for the first time. A far cry from the ports and villages of England.

The voice commented, 'Yes, she was. But with this war spreading every day, and our people in Whitehall as unprepared as ever, I suspect that even the wrecks along our coastline will be drummed into service.'

A thicker tone said, 'I remember her now. Fought and took a damned great three-decker single-handed. No wonder the poor old girl was laid up after that, eh, what?'

She watched, hardly daring to blink as the two-decker's shape lengthened, her sails being brailed up while she swung so slowly into whatever breeze she could discover.

'She's no private ship, Aubrey.' Interest had moved the man to the balustrade. 'God, she wears an admiral's flag.'

'Vice-Admiral,' corrected his host. 'Very interesting. She's apparently under the flag of Sir Richard Bolitho, Vice-Admiral of the Red.'

The anchor threw up a column of spray as it fell from the cathead. The woman flattened one hand on the balustrade until the heat of the stone steadied her.

Her husband must have seen her move.

'What is it? Do you know him? A true hero, if half what I've read can be believed.'

She gripped the fan more tightly and pressed it to her breast. So that was how it would be. He was here in Antigua. After all this time, after all he had endured.

No wonder she had remembered the ship's name. He had often spoken so affectionately of his old Hyperion. One of the first ships he had ever commanded as a captain.

She was surprised at her sudden emotion, more so at her ability to conceal it.

'I met him. Years ago.'

'Another glass of wine, gentlemen?'

She relaxed, muscle by muscle, aware of the dampness of her gown, of her body within it.

Even as she thought about it she cursed herself for her stupidity. It could not be like that again. Never.

She turned her back on the ship and smiled at the others. But even the smile was a lie.

Richard Bolitho stood uncertainly in the centre of the great stern cabin, his head cocked to the sudden thud of bare feet across the poop. All the familiar sounds crowded into the cabin, the muffled chorus of commands, the responding squeal of blocks as the yards were braced round. And yet there was hardly any movement. Like a phantom ship. Only the tall, shimmering bars of gold sunlight which moved along one side of the cabin gave any real hint that Hyperion was swinging slowly into the offshore wind.

He watched as the land edged in a green panorama across the first half of the stern windows. Antigua. Even the name was like a stab in the heart, a reawakening of so many memories, so many faces and voices.

It was here in English Harbour where, as a newly appointed commander, he had been given his very first command, the small, lithe sloop-of-war, Sparrow. A different kind of vessel, but then the war with the rebellious Americans had been different also. How long ago it all seemed. Ships and faces, pain and elation.

He thought of the passage here from England. You could not ask for a faster one — thirty days, with the old Hyperion responding like a thoroughbred. They had stayed in company with a convoy of merchantmen, several of which had been packed with soldiers, reinforcements or replacements for the chain of English garrisons throughout the Caribbean. More likely the latter, he thought grimly. Soldiers were known to die like flies out here from one fever or another without ever hearing the crack of a French musket.

Bolitho walked slowly to the stern windows, shading his eyes against the misty glare. He was again aware of his own resentment, his reluctance at being here, knowing the situation would require all the diplomacy and pomp he was not in the mood to offer. It had already begun with the regular crash of salutes, gun for gun with the nearest shore battery, above which the Union Flag did not even ripple in the humid air.

He saw the guardboat riding above her own reflection, her oars stilled as the officer in charge waited for the two-decker to anchor.

Without being up there on the poop or quarterdeck Bolitho could visualise it all, the men at braces and halliards, others strung out along the great yards ready to fist and furl the sails neatly into place, so that from the land it would look as if every stitch of canvas had vanished to the touch of a single hand.

Land. To a sailor it was always a dream. A new adventure.

Bolitho glanced at the dress coat which hung across a chairback, ready for the call to commence his act. When he had been given command of Sparrow all those years ago he would never have believed it possible. Death by accident or in the cannon's mouth, disgrace, or the lack of opportunity to distinguish yourself or gain an admiral's favour, made any promotion a hard climb.

Now the coat was a reality, bearing its twin gold epaulettes with their paired silver stars. And yet… He reached up to brush the loose lock of hair from above his right eye. Like the scar running deep into his hairline where a cutlass had nearly ended his life, nothing changed, not even uncertainty.

He had believed that he might be able to grow into it, even though the step from command to flag rank was the greatest stride of all. Sir Richard Bolitho, Knight of the Bath, Vice-Admiral of the Red, and next to Nelson the youngest on the List. He gave a brief smile. The King had not even remembered his name when he had knighted him. Bolitho had also managed to accept that he was no longer involved with the day-to-day running of a ship, any ship which flew his flag. As a lieutenant he had often glanced aft at the captain's remote figure, and had felt awe, if not always respect. Then as a captain himself he had so often lain awake, fretting, as he listened to the wind and shipboard noises, restraining himself from dashing on deck when he thought the officer of the watch was not aware of the dangers around him. It was hard to delegate; but at least the ship had been his. To the ship's company of any man-of-war their captain was next only to God, and some said uncharitably that that was only due to seniority.

As a flag officer you had to stay aloof and direct the affairs of all your captains and commanders, place whatever forces you controlled where they would serve to the best effect. The power was greater, but so too was the responsibility. Few flag officers had ever allowed themselves to forget that Admiral Byng had been shot for cowardice by a firing party on the deck of his own flagship.

Perhaps he would have settled down to both his rank and unfamiliar title but for his personal life. He shied away from the thought and moved his fingers to his left eye. He massaged the lid and then stared hard at the drifting green bank of land. Sharp and clear again. But it would not last. The surgeon in London had warned him. He needed rest, more treatment, regular care. It would have meant remaining ashore — worse than that, an appointment at the Admiralty.

So why had he asked, almost demanded, another appointment with the fleet? Anywhere, or so it had sounded at the time to the Lords of Admiralty.

Three of his superiors there had told him that he had more than earned a London appointment even before his last great victory. Yet when he had persisted, Bolitho had had the feeling they were equally glad he had declined their offers.

Fate — it must be that. He turned and looked deep into the great cabin. The low, white deckhead, the pale green leather of the chairs, the screen doors which led to the sleeping quarters or to the teeming world of the ship beyond, where a sentry guarded his privacy around the clock.

Hyperion — it had to be an act of Fate.

He could recall the last time he had seen her, after he had worked her into Plymouth. The staring crowds who had thronged the waterfront and Hoe to watch the victor returning home. So many killed, so many more crippled for life after their triumph over Lequiller's squadron in Biscay, and the capture of his great hundred-gun flagship Tornade which Bolitho was later to command as another admiral's flag captain.

But it was this ship which he always remembered. Hyperion, seventy-four. He had walked beside the dock in Plymouth on that awful day when he had said his last farewell; or so he had believed. Battered and ripped open by shot, her rigging and sails flayed to pieces, her splintered decks darkly stained with the blood of those who had fought. They said she would never stand in the line of battle again. There had been many moments while they had struggled back to port in foul weather when he had thought she would sink like some of her adversaries. As he had stood looking at her in the dock he had almost wished that she had found peace on the seabed. With the war growing and spreading, Hyperion had been made into a stores hulk. Mastless, her once-busy gundecks packed with casks and crates, she had become just a part of the dockyard.

She was the first ship-of-the-line Bolitho had ever commanded. Then, as now, he remained a frigate-man at heart, and the idea of being captain of a two-decker had appalled him. But then, too, he had been desperate, although for different reasons. Plagued by the fever which had nearly killed him in the Great South Sea, he was employed ashore at the Nore, recruiting, as the French Revolution swept across the continent like a forest fire. He could recall joining this ship at Gibraltar as if it was yesterday. She had been old and tired and yet she had taken him to her, as if in some way they needed each other.

Bolitho heard the trill of calls, the great splash as the anchor plummeted down into the waters he knew so well.

His flag captain would come to see him very soon now for orders. Try as he might, Bolitho could not see Captain Edmund Haven as an inspiring leader or his personal adviser.

A colourless, impersonal sort of man, and yet even as he considered Haven he knew he was being unfair. Bolitho had joined the ship just days before they had weighed for the passage to the Indies. And in the thirty which had followed, Bolitho had stayed almost completely isolated in his own quarters, so that even Allday, his coxswain, was showing signs of concern.

It was probably something Haven had said on their first tour of the ship, the day before they had put to sea.

Haven had obviously thought it odd, eccentric perhaps, that his admiral should wish to see anything beyond his cabin or the poop, let alone show interest in the gundecks and orlop.

Bolitho's glance rested on the sword rack beside the screen. His own old sword, and the fine presentation one. How could Haven have understood? It was not his fault. Bolitho had taken his apparent dissatisfaction with his command like a personal insult. He had snapped, 'This ship may be old, Captain Haven, but she has out-sailed many far younger! The Chesapeake, the Saintes, Toulon and Biscay — her battle honours read like a history of the navy itself!' It was unfair, but Haven should have known better.

Every yard of that tour had been a rebirth of memory. Only the faces and voices did not fit. But the ship was the same. New masts, and most of her armament replaced by heavier artillery than when she had faced the broadsides of Lequiller's Tornade, gleaming paint and neatly tarred seams; nothing could disguise his Hyperion. He stared round the cabin, seeing it as before. And she was thirty-two years old. When she had been built at Deptford she had had the pick of Kentish oak. Those days of shipbuilding were gone forever, and now most forests had been stripped of their best timber to feed the needs of the fleet.

It was ironic that the great Tornade had been a new ship, yet she had been paid off as a prison-hulk some four years back. He felt his left eye again and cursed wretchedly as the mist seemed to drift across it. He thought of Haven and the others who served this old ship day and night. Did they know or guess that the man whose flag flew from the foremast truck was partially blind in his left eye? Bolitho clenched his fists as he relived that moment, falling to the deck, blinded by sand from the bucket an enemy ball had blasted apart.

He waited for his composure to return. No, Haven did not seem to notice anything beyond his duties.

Bolitho touched one of the chairs and pictured the length and breadth of his flagship. So much of him was in her. His brother had died on the upper deck, had fallen to save his only son Adam, although the boy had been unaware that he was still alive, at the time. And dear Inch who had risen to become Hyperion's first lieutenant. He could see him now, with his anxious, horse-faced grin. Now he too was dead, with so many of their 'happy few'.

And Cheney had also walked these decks —he pushed the chair aside and crossed angrily to the open stern windows.

'You called, Sir Richard?'

It was Ozzard, his mole-like servant. It would be no ship at all without him.

Bolitho turned. He must have spoken her name aloud. How many times; and how long would he suffer like this?

He said, 'I — I am sorry, Ozzard.' He did not go on.

Ozzard folded his paw-like hands under his apron and looked at the glittering anchorage.

'Old times, Sir Richard.'

'Aye.' Bolitho sighed. 'We had better be about it, eh?'

Ozzard held up the heavy coat with its shining epaulettes. Beyond the screen door Bolitho heard the trill of more calls and the squeak of tackles as boats were swayed out for lowering alongside.

Landfall. Once it had been such a magic word.

Ozzard busied himself with the coat but did not bring either sword from the rack. He and Allday were great friends even though most people would see them as chalk and cheese. And Allday would not allow anyone but himself to clip on the sword. Like the old ship, Bolitho thought, Allday was of the best English oak, and when he was gone none would take his place.

He imagined that Ozzard was dismayed that he had chosen the two-decker when he could have had the pick of any first-rate he wanted. At the Admiralty they had gently suggested that although Hyperion was ready for sea again, after a three-year overhaul and refit she might never recover from that last savage battle.

Curiously it had been Nelson, the hero whom Bolitho had never met, who had settled the matter. Someone at the Admiralty must have written to the little admiral to tell him of Bolitho's request. Nelson had sent his own views in a despatch to Their Lordships with typical brevity.

Give Bolitho any ship he wants. He is a sailor, not a landsman.

It would amuse Our Nel, Bolitho thought. Hyperion had been set aside as a hulk until her recommissioning just a few months ago, and she was thirty-two years old.

Nelson had hoisted his own flag in Victory, a first-rate, but he had found her himself rotting as a prison hulk. He had known in his strange fashion that he had to have her as his flagship. As far as he could recall, Bolitho knew that Victory was eight years older than Hyperion.

Somehow it seemed right that the two old ships should live again, having been discarded without much thought after all they had done.

The outer screen door opened and Daniel Yovell, Bolitho's secretary, stood watching him glumly.

Bolitho relented yet again. It had been easy for none of them because of his moods, his uncertainties. Even Yovell, plump, round-shouldered and so painstaking with his work, had been careful to keep his distance for the past thirty days at sea.

'The Captain will be here shortly, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho slipped his arms into the coat and shrugged himself into the most comfortable position without making his spine prickle with sweat.

'Where is my flag lieutenant?' Bolitho smiled suddenly. Having an official aide had also been hard to accept at the beginning. Now, after two previous flag lieutenants, he found it simple to face.

'Waiting for the barge. After that,' the fat shoulders rose cheerfully, 'you will meet the local dignitaries.' He had taken Bolitho's smile as a return to better things. Yovell's simple Devonian mind required everything to remain safely the same.

Bolitho allowed Ozzard to stand on tip-toe to adjust his neckcloth. For years he had always hung upon the word of admiralty or the senior officer present wherever it happened to be. It was still difficult to believe that this time there was no superior brain to question or satisfy. He was the senior officer. Of course in the end the unwritten naval rule would prevail. If right, others would take the credit. If wrong, he might well carry the blame.

Bolitho glanced at himself in the mirror and grimaced. His hair was still black, apart from some distasteful silver ones in the rebellious lock of hair covering the old scar. The lines at the corners of his mouth were deeper, and his reflection reminded him of the picture of his older brother, Hugh, which hung in Falmouth. Like so many of those Bolitho portraits in the great grey stone house. He controlled his sudden despair. Now, apart from his loyal steward Ferguson and the servants, it was empty.

I am here. It is what I wanted. He glanced around the cabin again. Hyperion. We nearly died together.

Yovell turned aside, his apple-red face wary. 'The Captain, Sir Richard.'

Haven entered, his hat beneath one arm.

'The ship is secured, sir.'

Bolitho nodded. He had told Haven not to address him by his title unless ceremony dictated otherwise. The division between them was already great enough.

'I shall come up.' A shadow moved through the door and Bolitho noticed just the briefest touch of annoyance on Haven's face. That was an improvement from total self-composure, he thought.

Allday walked past the flag captain. 'The barge is alongside, Sir Richard.' He moved to the sword rack and eyed the two weapons thoughtfully. 'The proper one today?'

Bolitho smiled. Allday had problems of his own, but he would keep them to himself until he was ready. Coxswain? A true friend was a better description. It certainly made Haven frown that one so lowly could come and go as he pleased.

Allday stooped to clip the old Bolitho sword to the belt. The leather scabbard had been rebuilt several times, but the tarnished hilt remained the same, and the keen, outmoded blade was as sharp as ever.

Bolitho patted the sword against his hip. 'Another good friend.' Their eyes met. It was almost physical, Bolitho thought. All the influence his rank invited was nothing compared with their close bond.

Haven was of medium build, almost stocky, with curling ginger hair. In his early thirties, he had the look of a sound lawyer or city merchant, and his expression today was quietly expectant, giving nothing away. Bolitho had visited his cabin on one occasion and had remarked on a small portrait, of a beautiful girl with streaming hair, surrounded by flowers.

'My wife,' Haven had replied. His tone had suggested that he would say no more even to his admiral. A strange creature, Bolitho thought; but the ship was smartly run, although with so many new hands and an overload of landsmen, it had appeared as if the first lieutenant could take much of the credit for it.

Bolitho strode through the door, past the rigid Royal Marine sentry and into the glaring sunlight. It was strange to see the wheel lashed in the midships position and abandoned. Every day at sea Bolitho had taken his solitary walks on the windward side of the quarterdeck or poop, had studied the small convoy and one attendant frigate, while his feet had taken him up and down the worn planks, skirting gun tackles and ringbolts without any conscious thought.

Eyes watched him pass, quickly averted if he glanced towards them. It was something he accepted. He knew he would never grow to like it.

Now the ship lay at rest; lines were being flaked down, petty officers moved watchfully between the bare-backed seamen to make sure the ship, no longer an ordinary man-of-war but an admiral's flagship, was as smart as could be expected anywhere.

Bolitho looked aloft at the black criss-cross of shrouds and rigging, the tightly furled sails, and shortened figures busily working high above the decks to make certain all was secure there too.

Some of the lieutenants moved away as he walked to the quarterdeck to look down at the lines of eighteen-pounders which had replaced the original batteries of twelve-pounders.

Faces floated through the busy figures. Like ghosts. Noises intruded above the shouted orders and the clatter of tackles. Decks torn by shot as if ripped by giant claws. Men falling and dying, reaching for aid when there was none. His nephew Adam, then fourteen years old, white-faced and yet wildly determined as the embattled ships had ground together for the last embrace from which there was no escape for either of them.

Haven said, 'The guardboat is alongside, sir.'

Bolitho gestured past him. 'You have not rigged winds'ls, Captain.'

Why could he not bring himself to call Haven by his first name? What is happening to me?

Haven shrugged. 'They are unsightly from the shore, sir.'

Bolitho looked at him. 'They give some air to the people on the gundecks. Have them rigged.'

He tried to contain his annoyance, at himself, and with Haven for not thinking of the furnace heat on an overcrowded gundeck. Hyperion was one hundred and eighty feet long on her gundeck, and carried a total company of some six hundred officers, seamen and marines. In this heat it would feel like twice that number.

He saw Haven snapping his orders to his first lieutenant, the latter glancing towards him as if to see for himself the reason for the rigging of windsails.

The first lieutenant was another odd bird, Bolitho had decided. He was over thirty, old for his rank, and had been commander of a brig. The appointment had not been continued when the vessel had been paid off, and he had been returned to his old rank. He was tall, and unlike his captain, a man of outward excitement and enthusiasm. Tall and darkly handsome, his gipsy good looks reminded Bolitho of a face in the past, but he could not recall whose. He had a ready grin, and was obviously popular with his subordinates, the sort of officer the midshipmen would love to emulate.

Bolitho looked forward, below the finely curved beakhead where he could see the broad shoulders of the figurehead. It was what he had always remembered most when he had left the ship at Plymouth. Hyperion had been so broken and damaged it had been hard to see her as she had once been. The figurehead had told another story.

Under the gilt paint it may have been scarred too, but the piercing blue eyes which stared straight ahead from beneath the crown of a rising sun were as arrogant as ever. One outthrust, muscled arm pointed the same trident towards the next horizon. Even seen from aft, Bolitho gained strength from the old familiarity. Hyperion, one of the Titans, had overthrown the indignity of being denigrated to a hulk.

Allday watched him narrowly. He had seen the gaze, and guessed what it meant. Bolitho was all aback. Allday was still not sure if he agreed with him or not. But he loved Bolitho like no other being and would die for him without question.

He said, 'Barge is ready, Sir Richard.' He wanted to add that it was not much of a crew. Yet.

Bolitho walked slowly to the entry port and glanced down at the boat alongside. Jenour, his new flag lieutenant, was already aboard; so was Yovell, a case of documents clasped across his fat knees. One of the midshipmen stood like a ramrod in the sternsheets. Bolitho checked himself from scanning the youthful features. It was all past. He knew nobody in this ship.

He looked round suddenly and saw the fifers moistening their pipes on their lips, the Royal Marines gripping their pipeclayed musket slings, ready to usher him over the side.

Haven and his first lieutenant, all the other anonymous faces, the blues and whites of the officers, the scarlet of the marines, the tanned bodies of the watching seamen.

He wanted to say to them, 'I am your flag officer, but Hyperion is still my ship!'

He heard Allday climb down to the barge and knew, no matter how he pretended otherwise, he would be watching, ready to reach out and catch him if his eye clouded over and he lost his step. Bolitho raised his hat, and instantly the fifes and drums snapped into a lively crescendo, and the Royal Marine guard presented arms as their major's sword flashed in salute.

Calls trilled and Bolitho lowered himself down the steep tumble-home and into the barge.

His last glance at Haven surprised him. The captain's eye were cold, hostile. It was worth remembering.

The guardboat sidled away and waited to lead the barge through the anchored shipping and harbour craft.

Bolitho shaded his eyes and stared at the land.

It was another challenge. But at that moment it felt like running away.

John Allday squinted his eyes beneath the tilted brim of his hat and watched the inshore current carry the guardboat momentarily off course. He eased his tiller carefully and the freshly painted green barge followed the other boat without even a break in the stroke. Allday's reputation as the vice-admiral's personal coxswain had preceded him.

He stared along the barge crew, his eyes revealing nothing. The boat had been transferred from their last ship Argonaute, the Frog prize, but Bolitho had said that he would leave it to his coxswain to recruit a new crew from Hyperion. That was strange, he had thought. Any of the old crew would have volunteered to shift to Hyperion, for like as not they would have been sent back to sea anyway without much of a chance to visit their loved ones. He dropped his gaze to the figures who sat in the sternsheets. Yovell who had been promoted from clerk to secretary, with the new flag lieutenant beside him. The young officer seemed pleasant enough, but was not from a seagoing family. Most who seized the chance of the overworked appointment saw it as a sure way for their own promotion. Early days yet, Allday decided. In a ship where even the rats were strangers, it was better not to make hasty decisions.

His eyes settled on Bolitho's squared shoulders and he tried to control the apprehension which had been his companion since their return to Falmouth. It ought to have been a proud homecoming despite the pain and the ravages of battle. Even the damage to Bolitho's left eye had seemed less terrible when set against what they had faced and overcome together. It had been about a year ago. Aboard the little cutter Supreme. Allday could recall each day, the painful recovery, the very power of the man he served and loved as he had fought to win his extra battle, to hide his despair and hold the confidence of the men he led. Bolitho never failed to surprise him although they had stayed together for over twenty years. It did not seem possible that there were any surprises left.

They had walked from the harbour at Falmouth and paused at the church which had become so much a part of the Bolitho family. Generations of them were remembered there, births and marriages, victories at sea and violent death also.

Allday had stayed near the big doors of the silent church on that summer's day and had listened with sadness and astonishment as Bolitho spoke her name. Cheney. Just her name; and yet it had told him so much. Allday still believed that when they reached the old grey stone house below Pendennis Castle it would all return to normal. The lovely Lady Belinda who in looks at least was so like the dead Cheney, would somehow make it right, would comfort Bolitho when she realised the extent of his hurt. Maybe heal the agony in his mind which he never mentioned, but which Allday recognised. Suppose the other eye was somehow wounded in battle? The fear of so many sailors and soldiers. Helpless. Unwanted. Ferguson, the estate's steward who had lost an arm at the Saintes what seemed like a million years back, his rosy-cheeked wife Grace the housekeeper, and all the other servants had been waiting to greet them. Laughter, cheers, and a lot of tears too. But Belinda and the child Elizabeth had not been there. Ferguson said that she had sent a letter to explain her absence. God knew it was common enough for a returning sailor to find his family ignorant of his whereabouts, but it could not have come at a worse moment or hit Bolitho so hard.

Even his young nephew Adam, who now held his own command of the brig Firefly, was not able to console him. He had been ordered back to take on supplies and fresh water.

Hyperion was real enough, though. Allday glared at the stroke oarsman as his blade feathered badly and threw spray over the gunwale. Bloody bargemen. They'd learn a thing or two if he had to teach every hand separately.

The old Hyperion was no stranger, but the people were. Was that what Bolitho wanted? Or what he needed? Allday still did not know.

If Keen had been flag captain — Allday's mouth softened. Or poor Inch even, things would seem less strange.

Captain Haven was a cold fish; even his own coxswain, a nuggety Welshman named Evans, had confided over a wet that his lord and master was without humour, and could not be reached.

Allday glanced again at Bolitho's shoulders. How unlike their own relationship. One ship after the other, different seas, but usually the same enemy. And always Bolitho had treated him as a friend, one of the family as he had once put it. It had been casually said, yet Allday had treasured the remark like a pot of gold.

It was funny if you thought about it. Some of his old messmates might even have jibed him had they not been too respectful of his fists. For Allday, like the one-armed Ferguson, had been pressed into the King's service and put aboard Bolitho's ship, the frigate Phalarope — hardly an ingredient for friendship. Allday had stayed with Bolitho ever since the Saintes when his old coxswain had been cut down.

Allday had been a sailor all his life, apart from a short period ashore when he had been a shepherd, of all things. He knew little of his birth and upbringing or even the exact whereabouts of his home. Now, as he grew older, it occasionally troubled him.

He studied Bolitho's hair, the queue tied at the nape of his neck which hung beneath his best gold-laced hat. It was jet-black, and in his appearance he remained youthful; he had sometimes been mistaken for young Adam's brother. Allday, as far as he knew, was the same age, forty-seven, but whereas he had filled out, and his thick brown hair had become streaked with grey, Bolitho never appeared to alter.

At peace he could be withdrawn and grave. But Allday knew most of his sides. A tiger in battle; a man moved almost to tears and despair when he had seen the havoc and agony after a sea-fight.

The guardboat was turning again to pass beneath the tapering jib-boom of a handsome schooner. Allday eased over the tiller and held his breath as fire probed the wound in his chest. That too rarely left his mind. The Spanish blade which had come from nowhere. Bolitho standing to protect him, then throwing down his sword to surrender and so spare his life.

The wound troubled him, and he often found it hard to straighten his shoulders without the pain lancing through him as a cruel reminder.

Bolitho had sometimes suggested that he should remain ashore, if only for a time. He no longer offered him a chance of complete freedom from the navy he had served so well; he knew it would injure Allday like a worse wound.

The barge pointed her stem towards the nearest jetty and Allday saw Bolitho's fingers fasten around the scabbard of the old sword between his knees. So many battles. So often they had marvelled that they had been spared once again when so many others had fallen.

'Bows!' He watched critically as the bowman withdrew his oar and rose with a boathook held ready to snatch for the jetty-chains. They looked smart enough, Allday conceded, in their tarred hats and fresh checkered shirts. But it needed more than paint to make a ship sail.

Allday himself was an imposing figure, although he was rarely aware of it unless he caught the eye of some girl or other, which was more often than he might admit. In his fine blue coat with the special gilt buttons Bolitho had presented to him, and his nankeen breeches, he looked every inch the Heart of Oak so popular in theatre and pleasure-garden performances.

The guardboat moved aside, the officer in charge rising to doff his hat while his oarsmen tossed their looms in salute.

With a start Allday realised that Bolitho had turned to look up at him, his hand momentarily above one eye as if to shield it from the glare. He said nothing, but there was a message in the glance, as if he had shouted it aloud. Like a plea; a recognition which excluded all others for those few seconds.

Allday was a simple man, but he remembered the look long after Bolitho had left the barge. It both worried and moved him. As if he had shared something precious.

He saw some of the bargemen staring at him and roared, 'I've seen smarter Jacks thrown out of a brothel, but by God you'll do better next time, an' that's no error!'

Jenour stepped ashore and smiled as the solitary midshipman blushed with embarrassment at the coxswain's sudden outburst. The flag lieutenant had been with Bolitho just over a month, but already he was beginning to recognise the strange charisma of the man he served, his hero since he had been like that tongue-tied midshipman. Bolitho's voice scattered his thoughts.

'Come along, Mr Jenour. The barge can wait; the affairs of war will not.'

Jenour hid a grin. 'Aye, Sir Richard.' He thought of his parents in Hampshire, how they had shaken their heads when he had told them he intended to be Bolitho's aide one day.

Bolitho had seen the grin and felt the return of his sense of loss. He knew how the young lieutenant felt, how he had once been himself. In the navy's private world you found and hung on to friends with all your might. When they fell you lost something with them. Survival did not spare you the pain of their passing; it never could.

He stopped abruptly on the jetty stairs and thought of Hyperion's first lieutenant. Those gipsy good looks — of course. It had been Keverne he had recalled to mind. They were so alike. Charles Keverne, once his first lieutenant in Euryalus, who had been killed at Copenhagen as captain of his own ship.

'Are you all right, Sir Richard?'

'Damn you, yes?' Bolitho swung round instantly and touched Jenour's cuff. 'Forgive me. Rank offers many privileges. Being foul-mannered is not one of them.'

He walked up the stairs while Jenour stared after him.

Yovell sighed as he sweated up the steep stone steps. The poor lieutenant had a lot to learn. It was to be hoped he had the time.

The long room seemed remarkably cool after the heat beyond the shaded windows.

Bolitho sat in a straight-backed chair and sipped a glass of hock, and marvelled that anything could stay so cold. Lieutenant Jenour and Yovell sat at a separate table, which was littered with files and folios of signals and reports. It was strange to consider that it had been in a more austere part of this same building that Bolitho had waited and fretted for the news of his first command.

The hock was good and very clear. He realised that his glass was already being refilled by a Negro servant and knew he had to be careful. Bolitho enjoyed a glass of wine but had found it easy to avoid the common pitfall in the navy of over-imbibing. That could so often lead to disgrace at the court martial table.

It was too easy to see himself in those first black days at Falmouth, where he had returned there expecting — expecting what? How could he plead dismay and bitterness when truthfully his heart had remained in the church with Cheney?

How still the house had been as he had moved restlessly through the deepening shadows, the candles he held aloft in one hand playing on those stern-faced portraits he had known since he was Elizabeth's age.

He had awakened with his forehead resting on a table amidst puddles of spilled wine, his mouth like a birdcage, his mind disgusted. He had stared at the empty bottles, but could not even remember dragging them from the cellar. The household must have known, and when Ferguson had come to him he had seen that he was fully dressed from the previous day and must have been prowling and searching for a way to help. Bolitho had had to force the truth out of Allday, for he could not recall ordering him out of the house, to leave him alone with his misery. He suspected he had said far worse; he had later heard that Allday had also drunk the night away in the tavern where the innkeeper's daughter had always waited for him, and hoped.

He glanced up and realised that the other officer was speaking to him.

Commodore Aubrey Glassport, Commissioner of the Dockyard in Antigua, and until Hyperion's anchor had dropped, the senior naval officer here, was explaining the whereabouts and dispersal of the local patrols.

'With a vast sea area, Sir Richard, we are hard put to chase and detain blockade-runners or other suspect vessels. The French and their Spanish allies, on the other hand —'

Bolitho pulled a chart towards him. The same old story. Not enough frigates, too many ships-of-the-line ordered elsewhere to reinforce the fleets in the Channel and Mediterranean.

For over an hour he had examined the various reports, the results which had to be set against the days and weeks of patrolling the countless islands and inlets. Occasionally a more daring captain would risk life and limb to break into an enemy anchorage and either cut out a prize or carry out a swift bombardment. It made good reading. It did little to cripple a superior enemy. His mouth hardened. Superior in numbers only.

Glassport took his silence for acceptance and rambled on. He was a round, comfortable man, with sparse hair, and a moon-face which told more of good living than fighting the elements or the French.

He was to have been retired long since, Bolitho had heard, but he had a good rapport with the dockyard so had been kept here. Judging by his cellar he obviously carried his good relations to the victualling masters as well.

Glassport was saying, 'I am fully aware of your past achievements, Sir Richard, and how honoured I am to have you visit my command. I believe that when you were first here, America too was active against us, with many privateers as well as the French fleet.'

'The fact we are no longer at war with America does not necessarily remove the threat of involvement, nor the increasing danger of their supplies and ships to the enemy.' He put down the chart. 'In the next few weeks I want each patrol to be contacted. Do you have a courier-brig here at present?' He watched the man's sudden uncertainty and astonishment. The upending of his quiet, comfortable existence. 'I shall need to see each captain personally. Can you arrange it?'

'Well, er, ahem — yes, Sir Richard.'

'Good.' He picked up the glass and studied the sunlight reflected in its stem. If he moved it very slightly to the left — he waited, sensing Yovell's eyes watching, Jenour's curiosity.

He added, 'I was told that His Majesty's Inspector General is still in the Indies?'

Glassport muttered wretchedly, 'My flag lieutenant will know exactly what —'

Bolitho tensed as the glass's shape blurred over. Like a filmy curtain. It had come more quickly, or was it preying on his mind so much that he was imagining the deterioration?

He exclaimed, 'A simple enough question, I'd have thought. Is he, or is he not?'

Bolitho looked down at the hand in his lap and thought it should be shaking. Remorse, anger; it was neither. Like the moment on the jetty when he had turned on Jenour.

He said more calmly, 'He has been out here for several months, I believe'' He looked up, despairing that his eye might mist over once more.

Glassport replied, 'Viscount Somervell is staying here in Antigua.' He added defensively, 'I trust he is satisfied with his findings.'

Bolitho said nothing. The Inspector General might have been just one more burden to the top-hamper of war. It seemed absurd that someone with such a high-sounding appointment should be employed on a tour of inspection in the West Indies, when England, standing alone against France and the fleets of Spain, was daily expecting an invasion.

Bolitho's instructions from the Admiralty made it clear that he was to meet with the Viscount Somervell without delay, if it meant moving immediately to another island, even to Jamaica.

But he was here. That was something.

Bolitho was feeling weary. He had met most of the dockyard officers and officials, had inspected two topsail cutters which were being completed for naval service, and had toured the local batteries, with Jenour and Glassport finding it hard to keep up with his pace.

He smiled wryly. He was paying for it now.

Glassport watched him sip the hock before saying, 'There is a small reception for you this evening, Sir Richard.' He seemed to falter as the grey eyes lifted to him again. 'It hardly measures up to the occasion, but it was arranged only after your, er, flagship was reported.'

Bolitho noted the hesitation. Just one more who doubted his choice of ship.

Glassport must have feared a possible refusal and scampered on, 'Viscount Somervell will be expecting you.'

'I see.' He glanced at Jenour. 'Inform the Captain.' As the lieutenant made to excuse himself from the room Bolitho said, 'Send a message with my cox'n. I need you with me.'

Jenour stared, then nodded. He was learning a lot today.

Bolitho waited for Yovell to bring the next pile of papers to the table. A far cry from command, the day-to-day running of a ship and her affairs. Every ship was like a small town, a family even. He wondered how Adam was faring with his new command. All he could find as an answer to his thought was envy. Adam was exactly like he had been. More reckless perhaps, but with the same doubtful attitude to his seniors.

Glassport watched him as he leafed through the papers while Yovell stooped politely above his right shoulder.

So this was the man behind the legend. Another Nelson, some said. Though God alone knew Nelson was not very popular in high places. He was the right man to command a fleet. Necessary, but afterwards? He studied Bolitho's lowered head, the loose lock above his eye. A grave, sensitive face, he thought, hard to picture in the battles he had read about. He knew Bolitho had been badly wounded several times, that he had almost died of a fever, although he did not know much about it.

A Knight of the Bath, from a fine old seafaring family, looked on as a hero by the people of England. All the things which Glassport would like to be and to have.

So why had he come to Antigua' There was little or no prospect of a fleet action, and provided they could get reinforcements for the various flotillas, and a replacement for — He wilted as Bolitho touched on that very point, as if he had looked up quickly to see right into his mind with those steady, compelling grey eyes.

'The Dons took the frigate Consort from us?' It sounded like an accusation.

'Two months back, Sir Richard. She drove aground under fire. One of my schooners was able to take off most of her company before the enemy stood against her. The schooner did well, I thought that —'

'The Consort's captain?'

'At St. John's, Sir Richard. He is awaiting the convenience of a court martial.'

'Is he indeed.' Bolitho stood up and turned as Jenour re-entered the room. 'We are going to St. John's.'

Jenour swallowed hard. 'If there is a carriage, Sir Richard —' He looked at Glassport as if for guidance.

Bolitho picked up his sword. 'Two horses, my lad.' He tried to hide his sudden excitement. Or was it merely trailing a coat to draw him from his other anxiety? 'You are from Hampshire, right?'

Jenour nodded. 'Yes. That is —'

'It's settled then. Two horses immediately.'

Glassport stared from one to the other. 'But the reception, Sir Richard?' He sounded horrified.

'This will give me an appetite.' Bolitho smiled. 'I shall return.' He thought of Allday's patience, Ozzard and the others. 'Directly.'

Bolitho peered closely at his reflection in an ornate wall mirror, then thrust the loose lock of hair from his forehead. In the mirror he could see Allday and Ozzard watching him anxiously, and his new flag lieutenant Stephen Jenour massaging his hip after their ride to St. John's and back to English Harbour.

It had been hot, dusty but unexpectedly exhilarating, and had almost been worthwhile just to see the expressions of passers-by as they had galloped along in the hazy sunshine.

It was dark now, dusk came early to the islands, and Bolitho had to study himself very carefully while his ear recorded the sound of violins, the muffled murmur of voices from the grand room where the reception was being held.

Ozzard had brought fresh stockings from the ship, while Allday had collected the fine presentation sword to replace the old blade Bolitho had been wearing.

Bolitho sighed. Most of the candles were protected by tall hurricane glasses so the light was not too strong. It might hide his crumpled shirt, and the stain left by the saddle on his breeches. There had been no time to return to Hyperion. Damn Glassport and his reception. Bolitho would much rather have stayed in his cabin and sifted through all which the frigate captain had told him.

Captain Matthew Price was young to hold command of so fine a vessel. The Consort of thirty-six guns had been working through some shoals when she had been fired on by a coastal battery. She had been that close inshore when she had unfortunately run aground. It was much as Glassport had described. A schooner had taken off many of Consort's people, but had been forced to run, her task incomplete, as Spanish men-of-war had arrived on the scene.

Captain Price was so junior that he had not even been posted, and if a court martial ruled against him, which was more than likely, he would lose everything. At best he might return to the rank of lieutenant. The worst did not bear thinking about.

As Price sat in a small government-owned house to await the calling of the court martial he had plenty to ponder about. Not least that it might have been better had he been taken prisoner, or killed in battle. For his ship had been refloated and was now a part of His Most Catholic Majesty's fleet at La Guaira on the Spanish Main. Frigates were worth their tonnage in gold, and the navy was always in desperate need of them. When Bolitho had been in the Mediterranean there were only six frigates available between Gibraltar and the Levant. The president of Price's court martial would not be able to exclude that fact from his considerations.

Once, in desperation, the young captain had asked Bolitho what he thought of the possible outcome.

Bolitho had told him to expect his sword to point towards him at the table. To hazard his ship was one thing. To lose it to a hated enemy was another entirely.

There had been no sense in promising Price he could do something to divert the court's findings. Price had taken a great risk to discover the Spanish intentions. Laid beside what Bolitho already knew, his information could be invaluable. But it would not help the Consort's captain now.

Bolitho said, 'I suppose it is time.' He looked at a tall clock and added, 'Are our officers present yet?'

Jenour nodded, then winced as the ache throbbed through his thighs and buttocks. Bolitho was a superb horseman, but then so was he, or so he had believed. Bolitho's little joke about people from Hampshire being excellent riders had acted as a spur, but at no time had Jenour been able to keep pace with him.

He said, 'The first lieutenant arrived with the others while you were changing, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho looked down at the immaculate stockings and remembered when he had been a lowly lieutenant with only one fine pair for such occasions as this. The rest had been darned so many times it had been a wonder they had held together.

It gave him time to think about Captain Haven's request to remain aboard ship. He had explained that a storm might spring up without warning and prevent his return from the shore in time to take the necessary precautions. The air was heavy and humid, and the sunset had been like blood.

Hyperion's sailing master, Isaac Penhaligon, a fellow Cornish-man by birth at least, had insisted that a storm was very unlikely. It was as if Haven preferred to keep to himself, even though someone at the reception might take his absence as a snub.

If only Keen was still his flag captain. He had but to ask, and Keen would have come with him. Loyalty, friendship, love, it was something of each.

But Bolitho had pressed Keen to remain in England, at least until he had settled the problems of his lovely Zenoria. More than anything else Keen wanted to marry his dark-eyed girl with the flowing chestnut hair. They loved and were so obviously in love that Bolitho could not bring himself to separate them so soon after they had found each other.

Or was he comparing their love with his own house?

He stopped his thoughts right there. It was not the time. Maybe it never could be now.

Perhaps Haven did not like him? He might even be afraid of him. That was something Bolitho had often found hard to believe in his own days as a captain. When he had first stepped aboard a new command he had tried to hide his nervousness and apprehension. It had been much later when he had understood that a ship's company was far more likely to be worried about him and what he might do.

Jenour asked politely, 'Shall we go, Sir Richard?'

Bolitho wanted to touch his left eye but stared instead at the nearest hurricane glass and the tendril of black smoke which rose straight up to the ceiling. It was clear and bright. No shadows, no mist to taunt him and take him off-guard.

Bolitho glanced at Allday. He would have speak to him soon about his son. Allday had said nothing about him since the young sailor had left Argonaute on their return to England. If I had had a son perhaps I would have wanted too much. Might have expected him to care about all the same things.

A pair of handsome doors were pulled open by footmen who had hitherto been invisible in the shadows.

The music and babble of voices swept into the room like surf on a reef, and Bolitho found himself tensing his muscles as if to withstand a musket ball.

As he walked down the pillared corridor he pondered on the minds and the labour which had created this building on such a small island. A place which through circumstances of war had many times become a vital hinge for England's naval strategy.

He heard Jenour's heels tapping on the floor, and half-smiled as he recalled the lieutenant's eagerness to ride neck-and-neck with him. More like two country squires than King's officers.

He saw the overlapping colours of ladies' gowns, bare shoulder, curious stares as he drew closer to the mass of people. They had had little notice of his coming, Commodore Glassport had said, but he guessed that any official visitor or a ship from England was a welcome event.

He noticed some of Hyperion's wardroom, their blues and whites making a clean contrast with the red and scarlet of the military and Royal Marines. Once again he had to restrain himself from searching for familiar faces, hearing voices, as if he still expected a handshake or a nod of recognition.

There were some steps between two squat pillars, and he saw Glassport peering along the carpet towards him. Relieved no doubt that he had actually arrived after his ride. One figure stood in the centre, debonair and elegant, and dressed from throat to ankle in white. Bolitho knew very little of the man he had come to meet. The Right Honourable the Viscount Somervell, his Majesty's Inspector General in the Caribbean, seemed to have little which equipped him for the appointment. A regular face at Court and at the right receptions, a reckless gambler some said, and a swordsman of renown. The last was well-founded, and it was known that the King had intervened on his behalf after he had killed a man in a duel. To Bolitho it was familiar and painful territory. It hardly qualified him for being here.

A footman with a long stave tapped the floor and called, 'Sir Richard Bolitho, Vice-Admiral of the Red!'

The sudden stillness was almost physical. Bolitho felt their eyes following him as he walked along the carpet. Small cameos stood out. The musicians with their fiddles and bows motionless in mid-air, a young sea-officer nudging his companion and then freezing as Bolitho's glance passed over him. A bold stare from a lady with such a low-cut gown that she need not have covered herself at all, and another from a young girl who smiled shyly then hid her face behind a fan.

Viscount Somervell did not move forward to greet him but stood as before, one hand resting negligently on his hip, the other dangling at his side. His mouth was set in a small smile which could have been either amusement or boredom. His features were of a younger man, but he had the indolent eyes of someone who had seen everything.

'Welcome to—' Somervell turned sharply, his elegant pose destroyed as he glared into a trolley of candelabra which was being wheeled into the room behind him.

The sudden glare of additional light at eye-level caught Bolitho off-balance just as he raised his foot to the first of the steps. A lady dressed in black who had been standing motionless beside the Viscount reached out to steady his arm, while through the mass of candles he saw staring faces, surprise, curiosity, caught like onlookers in a painter's canvas.

'I beg your pardon, Ma'am!' Bolitho regained his balance and tried not to shade his eye as the mist swirled across it. It was like drowning, falling through deeper and deeper water.

He said, 'I am all right—' then stared at the lady's gown. It was not black, but of an exquisite green shot-silk which shone, and seemed to change colour in its folds and curves as the light that had blinded him revealed her for the first time. The gown was cut wide and low from her shoulders, and the hair he remembered so clearly as being long and as dark as his own, was piled in plaits above her ears.

The faces, the returning murmur of speculative chatter faded away. He had known her then as Catherine Pareja. Kate.

He was staring, his momentary blindness forgotten as he saw her eyes, her sudden anxiety giving way to an enforced calm. She had known he was to be here. His was the only surprise.

Somervell's voice seemed to come from a great distance. He was calm again, his composure recovered.

'Of course, I had forgotten. You have met before.'

Bolitho took her proffered hand and lowered his face to it. Even her perfume was the same.

He heard her reply, 'Some while ago.'

When Bolitho looked up she seemed strangely remote and self-assured. Indifferent even.

She added, 'One could never forget a hero.'

She held out her arm for her husband and turned towards the watching faces.

Bolitho felt an ache in his heart. She was wearing the long gold filigree earrings he had bought her in that other unreal world, in London.

Footmen advanced with trays of glittering glasses, and the small orchestra came to life once again.

Across the wine and past the flushed, posturing faces their eyes met and excluded everyone.

Glassport was saying something to him but he barely heard. After all that had happened, it was still there between them. It must be quenched before it destroyed them both.

Bolitho leaned back in his chair as a white-gloved hand whisked away the half-emptied plate and quickly replaced it with another. He could not remember how many courses he had been offered nor how many times the various goblets and fine glasses had been refilled.

The air was full of noise, the mingled voices of those present, at a guess some forty officers, officials and their ladies with the small contingent from Hyperion's wardroom divided amongst them. The long room and its extended table was brightly lit by candles, beyond which the shadows seemed to sway in a dance of their own as the many footmen and servants bustled back and forth to maintain a steady supply of food and wine.

They must have garnered servants from several houses, Bolitho thought, and he could gather from the occasional savage undertones of the senior footman that there had been several disasters between kitchen and table.

He was seated at Catherine's right hand, and as the conversation and laughter swirled around them he was very aware of her, although she gave little hint of her own feelings at his presence. At the far end of the table Bolitho saw her husband, Viscount Somervell, sipping his wine and listening with apparent boredom to Commodore Glassport's resonant and thickening tones. Occasionally Somervell appeared to glance along the table's length, excluding everyone but his wife or Bolitho. Interest, awareness? It was impossible to determine.

As the doors swung open from time to time to a procession of sweating servants Bolitho saw the candles shiver in the smoky air. Otherwise there was little hint of movement, and he pictured Haven, safe in his cabin, or brooding over his possible role in the future. He might show more animation when he learned what was expected of him and his command.

She turned suddenly and spoke directly to him. 'You are very quiet, Sir Richard.'

He met her gaze and felt his defence falter. She was just as striking, more beautiful even than he had remembered. The sun had given her neck and shoulders a fine blush, and he could see the gentle pulse of her heart where the silk gown folded around it.

One hand lay as if abandoned beside her glass, a folded fan close by. He wanted to touch it, to reassure himself or to reveal his own stupidity.

What am I? So full of conceit, so shallow that I could imagine her drawn to me again after so long?

He said instead, 'It must be seven years.'

Her face remained impassive. To anyone watching she might have been asking about England or the weather.

'Seven years and one month to be exact.'

Bolitho turned as the Viscount laughed at something Glassport had said.

'And then you married him.' It came out like a bitter accusation and he saw her fingers move as if they were listening independently.

'Was it so important?'

She retorted, 'You delude yourself, Richard.' Even the use of his name was like the awakening of an old wound. 'It was not so.' She held his gaze as he turned again. Defiance, pain, it was all there in her dark eyes. 'I need security. Just as you need to be loved.'

Bolitho hardly dared to breathe as the conversation died momentarily around him. He thought the first lieutenant was watching them, that an army colonel had paused with his goblet half-raised as if to catch the words. Even in imagination it felt like a conspiracy.

'Love?'

She nodded slowly, her eyes not leaving his. 'You need it, as the desert craves for rain.'

Bolitho wanted to look away but she seemed to mesmerise him.

She continued in the same unemotional tone, 'I wanted you then, and ended almost hating you. Almost. I have watched your life and career, two very different things, over the past seven years. I would have taken anything you offered me; you were the only man I would have loved without asking for security in marriage.' She touched the fan lightly. 'Instead you took another, one you imagined was a substitute —' She saw the shot strike home. 'I knew it.'

Bolitho replied, 'I thought of you often.'

She smiled but it made her look sad. 'Really?'

He turned his head further so that he could see her clearly. He knew others might watch him for he appeared to face her directly, but his left eye was troubled by the flickering glare and the swooping shadows beyond.

She said, 'The last battle. We heard of it a month back.'

'You knew I was coming here?'

She shook her head. 'No. He tells me little of his government affairs.' She looked quickly along the table and Bolitho saw her smile as if in recognition. He was astonished that the small familiarity with her husband should hurt him so much.

She returned her gaze to his. 'Your injuries, are they —?' She saw him start. 'I helped you once, do you not remember?'

Bolitho dropped his eyes. He had imagined that she had heard or detected his difficulty in seeing her properly. It all flashed through his mind like a wild dream. His wound, the return of the fever which had once almost killed him. Her pale nakedness as she had dropped her gown and folded herself against his gasping, shivering body, while she had spoken unheard words and clasped him to her breasts to repulse the fever's torment.

'I shall never forget.'

She watched him in silence for some moments, her eyes moving over his lowered head and the dangling lock of hair, his grave sunburned features and the lashes which now hid his eyes, glad that he could not see the pain and the yearning in her stare.

Nearby, Major Sebright Adams of Hyperion's Royal Marines was expounding on his experiences at Copenhagen and the bloody aftermath of the battle. Parris, the first lieutenant, was propped on one elbow, apparently listening, but leaning across the young wife of a dockyard official, his arm resting against her shoulder which she made no attempt to remove. Like the other officers, they were momentarily free of responsibility and the need to keep up any pretence and the posture of duty.

Bolitho was more aware than ever of a sudden isolation, the need to tell her his thoughts, his fears; and was revolted at the same time by his weakness.

He said, 'It was a hard fight. We lost many fine men.'

'And you, Richard? What more did you have to lose that you had not already abandoned?'

He exclaimed fiercely, 'Let it be, Catherine. It is over.' He raised his eyes and stared at her intently. 'It must be so!'

A side door opened and more footmen bustled around, but this time without new dishes. It would soon be time for the ladies to withdraw and the men to relieve themselves before settling down to port and brandy. He thought of Allday. He would be out there in the barge with his crew waiting for him. Any petty officer would have been sufficient, but he knew Allday. He would allow no other to wait for him. He would have been in his element tonight, he thought. Bolitho had never known any man able to drink his coxswain under the table, unlike some of the guests.

Somervell's voice cut along the littered cloth although he seemed to have no problem in making it carry.

'I hear that you saw Captain Price today, Sir Richard?'

Bolitho could almost feel the woman at his side holding her breath, as if she sensed the casual remark as a trap. Was guilt that obvious?

Glassport rumbled, 'Not captain for long, I'll wager!' Several of the guests chuckled.

A black footman entered the room and after the smallest glance at Somervell padded to Bolitho's chair, an envelope balanced carefully on a silver salver.

Bolitho took it and prayed that his eye would not torture him now.

Glassport was going on again. 'My only frigate, by God! I'm dashed hard put to know —'

He broke off as Somervell interrupted rudely, 'What is it, Sir Richard? Are we to share it?'

Bolitho folded the paper and glanced at the black footman. He was in time to see a strange sympathy on the man's face, as if he knew.

'You may be spared the spectacle of a brave officer's dishonour, Commodore Glassport.' His voice was hard and although it was directed at one man it gripped the whole table.

'Captain Price is dead.' There was a chorus of gasps. 'He hanged himself.' He could not resist adding, 'Are you satisfied?'

Somervell pushed himself back from the table. 'I think this may be a suitable moment for the ladies to retire.' He rose effortlessly to his feet, as if it was a duty rather than a courtesy.

Bolitho faced her and saw the concern stark in her eyes as if she wanted to tell him out loud.

Instead she said, 'We will meet.' She waited for him to raise his head from a brief bow. 'Soon.' Then with a hiss of silk she merged with the shadows.

Bolitho sat down and watched unseeingly as another hand placed a fresh glass by his place.

It was not their fault, not even the mindless Glassport's.

What could I have done? Nothing could interfere with the mission he intended to undertake.

It might have happened to any one of them. He thought of young Adam instead of the wretched Price sitting alone and picturing the grim faces of the court, the sword turned against him on the table.

It was curious that the message about Price's death had been sent directly from St. John's to Hyperion, his flagship. Haven must have read and considered it before sending it ashore, probably in the charge of some midshipman who in turn would hand it to a footman. It would not have hurt him to bring it in person, he thought.

He realised with a start that the others were on their feet, glasses raised to him in a toast.

Glassport said gruffly, 'To our flag officer, Sir Richard Bolitho, and may he bring us fresh victories!' Even the huge amount of wine he had consumed could not hide the humiliation in his voice.

Bolitho stood up and bowed, but not before he had seen that the white-clad figure at the opposite end had not touched his glass. Bolitho felt his blood stir, like the moment when the topsails of an enemy revealed their intentions, or that moment in early dawn when he had faced another in a duel.

Then he thought of her eyes and her last word. Soon.

He picked up his own glass. So be it then.

The six days which followed Hyperion's arrival at English Harbour were, for Bolitho at least, packed with activity.

Every morning, within an hour of the guardboat's delivery of messages or signals from the shore Bolitho climbed into his barge and with a puzzled flag lieutenant at his elbow threw himself into the affairs of the ships and sailors at his disposal. On the face of it, it was not a very impressive force. Even allowing for three small vessels still in their patrol areas, the flotilla, for it was no more than that, seemed singularly unsuited for the task in hand. Bolitho knew that their lordships' loosely-worded instructions, which were locked in his strongbox, carried all the risk and responsibility of direct orders given to a senior captain, or a lowly one like Price.

The main Antigua squadron, consisting of six ships-of-the-line, were reported as being scattered far to the north-west in the Bahama Islands, probably probing enemy intentions or making a show of force to deter would-be blockade runners from the Americas. The admiral was known to Bolitho, Sir Peter Folhot, a quiet, dignified officer who was said to be sorely tried by ill-health. Not the best ingredients for aggressive action against the French or their Spanish ally.

On the sixth morning, as Bolitho was being carried across the barely ruffled water towards the last of his command, he considered the results of his inspection and studies. Apart from Obdurate, an elderly seventy-four, which was still undergoing storm repairs in the dockyard, he had a total of five brigs, one sloop-of-war, and Thor, a bomb-vessel, which he had left until last. He could have summoned each commander to the flagship; it would have been what they were expecting of any flag officer, let alone one of Bolitho's reputation. They were soon to learn that he liked to discover things for himself, to get the feel of the men he would lead, if not inspire.

He considered Somervell, and his failure to visit Hyperion as he had promised after the reception. Was he making him wait deliberately, to put him in his place, or was he indifferent to the final plan, which they would need to discuss before Bolitho could take decisive action?

He watched the rise and fall of the oars, the way the bargemen averted their eyes whenever he glanced at them, Allday's black shadow across the scrubbed thwarts, passing vessels and those at anchor. Antigua might be a British possession, one so heavily defended that a need for more ships was unnecessary, but there were plenty of traders and coastal sailing-masters, who, if not actual spies, would be ready and willing to part with information to the enemy if only for their own free passage.

Bolitho shaded his eyes and looked towards the nearest hillside, to a battery of heavy guns marked only by a rough parapet and a lifeless flag above it. Defence was all very well, but you won wars by attacking. He saw dust along the coast road, people on the move, and thought again of Catherine. She had been rarely out of his thoughts, and he knew in his heart he had worked himself so hard to hold his personal feelings at bay where they could not interfere.

Perhaps she had told Somervell everything which had happened between them. Or maybe he had forced it out of her? He dismissed the latter immediately. Catherine was too strong to be used like that. He recalled her previous husband, a man twice her age, but one of surprising courage when he had tried to help Bolitho's men defend a merchant ship from corsairs. Catherine had hated him then. Their feelings for each other had grown from that animosity. Like steel in the livid heat of a forge. He was still not sure what had happened to them, where it might otherwise have led.

Such a short climax in London after their meeting outside the Admiralty, when Bolitho had just been appointed commodore of his own squadron.

Seven years and one month Catherine had forgotten nothing. It was unnerving, and at the same time exciting, to realise how she had managed to follow his career, and his life; two separate things as she had put it.

Allday whispered, 'They've manned the side, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho tilted his hat and stared towards the bomb-vessel. His Britannic Majesty's Ship Thor.

Small when compared with a frigate or line-of-battleship, but at the same time heavy-looking and powerful. Designed for bombarding shore installations and the like. Thor's main armament consisted of two massive thirteen-inch mortars. The vessel had to be powerfully built to withstand the downward recoil of the mortars, which were fired almost vertically. With ten heavy carronades and some smaller six-pounders, Thor would be a slow sailer. But unlike many of her earlier consorts which had been ketch-rigged, Thor mounted three masts and a more balanced ship-rig, which might offer some improvement in perverse winds.

A shadow passed over Bolitho's thoughts. Francis Inch had been given command of a bomb-vessel after he had left Hyperion.

He looked up and saw Allday watching him. It was uncanny.

Allday said quietly, 'The old Hekla, Sir Richard — remember her?'

Bolitho nodded, not seeing Lieutenant Jenour's mystified stare. It was hard to accept that Inch was dead. Like so many now.

'Attention on deck!'

Calls trilled and Bolitho seized a ladder with both hands to haul himself through the low entry port.

The vessels he had already visited in harbour had seemed startled by his arrival on board. Their commanders were young; all but one had been lieutenants just months ago.

There was no such nervousness about Thor's captain, Bolitho thought as he doffed his hat to the small quarterdeck.

Commander Ludovic Imrie was tall and narrow-shouldered, so that his solitary gold epaulette looked as if it might fall off at any moment. He stood over six feet, and when you considered Thor's headroom, four feet six inches in some sections, it must have seemed like being caged.

'I bid you welcome, Sir Richard.' Imrie's voice was surprisingly deep, with a Scottish burr which reminded Bolitho of his mother. Bolitho was introduced to two lieutenants and a few junior warrant officers. A small company. He had already noted their names, and sensed their reserve giving way to interest or curiosity.

Imrie dismissed the side-party and after a brief hesitation ushered Bolitho below to his small stern-cabin. As they stooped beneath the massive deck beams, Bolitho recalled his first command, a sloop-of-war, how her first lieutenant had apologised for the lack of space for the new commander. Bolitho had been almost beside himself with glee. After a lieutenant's tiny berth in a ship-of-the-line it had seemed like a palace.

Thor's was even smaller. They sat opposite one another while a wizened messman brought a bottle and some glasses. A far cry from Somervell's table, Bolitho thought.

Imrie spoke easily about his command, which he had held for two years. He was obviously very proud of Thor, and Bolitho sensed an immediate resentment when he suggested that bombs, for the most part, had achieved little so far in the various theatres of war.

'Given a chance, sir —' He grinned and shrugged his narrow shoulders. 'I beg your pardon, Sir Richard, I should have known.'

Bolitho sipped the wine; it was remarkably cool. 'Known what?'

Imrie said, 'I'd heard you tested your captains with a question or two —'

Bolitho smiled. 'It worked this time.' He remembered some of the others he had met in Antigua. He had felt something akin to hostility, if not actual dislike. Because of Price, perhaps? After all, they had known him, had worked in company with his frigate. They might think that he had killed himself deliberately because Bolitho had refused to intervene. Bolitho could think of several occasions when he had felt much the same.

Imrie stared through the skylight at the empty sky.

'If I could he near a good target, sir, I'd put down such a barrage, the enemy'd think Hell had dropped amongst them. The Dons have never faced —' He faltered and added apologetically, 'I mean, that is, if we were against the Spaniards at any time —'

Bolitho eyed him steadily. Imrie had worked it out all by himself. Why else would his vice-admiral bother to call on him? Price's exploits and disaster on the Spanish Main linked with Thor's obvious advantages in the shallows where Consort had run aground had formed their own picture in his mind.

Bolitho said, 'That is well thought, Commander Imrie. I will trust you to keep your suppositions to yourself.' It was odd that none of the others, not even Haven, had once questioned their motives for being here.

Bolitho rubbed his left eyelid and then withdrew his hand quickly. 'I have studied the reports, and have re-read the notes my aide took down when I spoke to Captain Price.'

Imrie had a long face with a craggy jaw and looked as if he could be a formidable opponent in any circumstances. But his features softened as he listened to Bolitho. Perhaps because he had referred to the dead man by his full rank. It offered some small dignity, a far cry from the lonely grave below the East Battery.

Bolitho said, 'The approaches are too well protected for what I must keep in mind. Any well-sited artillery can destroy a slow-moving vessel with ease, and with heated shot the effect would be disastrous.'

Imrie rubbed his chin, his eyes far away. As Bolitho had noticed, they were unmatched, one dark and the other pale blue.

He said, 'If we are both thinking of the same patch of coast, Sir Richard, and of course we can't be sure of that —'

Jenour watched, fascinated. These two officers, each a veteran in his own field, yet able to discuss something he still could not grasp, and chuckle over it like two conspiring schoolboys. It was unbelievable.

Bolitho nodded. 'But if —'

'Even Thor might have to lay-off too far to use the mortars, Sir Richard.' He scanned his face as if expecting an argument or disappointment. 'We don't draw much less than Consort did.'

A boat thudded alongside and Bolitho heard Allday barking at someone for interrupting their conference.

Then his face appeared in the skylight. He said, 'Beggin' your pardon, Sir Richard. Message from Hyperion. The Inspector General is come aboard.'

Bolitho concealed a tremor of excitement. Somervell had given in to curiosity at last. Or was he imagining that also? That there was already some kind of contest between them?

Bolitho stood up and winced as his head struck one of the beams.

Imrie exclaimed, 'God damn it, Sir Richard, I should have warned you!'

Bolitho reached for his hat. 'It acted as a reminder. It was less painful than the memory.'

On deck, the side-party had assembled and Bolitho saw Hyperion's jolly-boat already pulling back to the ship. Allday clambered fuming down to the waiting barge. He had sent that pink-faced midshipman off with a flea in his ear. Young puppy. He glared at the bargemen. 'Stand by in the boat, damn you!'

Bolitho made a decision. 'Tell your senior to take over, Imrie. I wish you to accompany me directly.'

Imrie's jaw dropped open. 'But, Sir Richard —'

Bolitho saw his first lieutenant watching them. 'He is just aching to take command, albeit for a day — it is every first lieutenant's dream!' He was amazed at his own good humour. It was like a dam holding all the worries here and at home back and out of view.

He stooped over as if to examine one of the snout-nosed twenty-four pounder carronades. It gave him time to massage his eye again, to drive off the mist which the sharp sunlight had thrown at him as if to crack his confidence.

Imrie whispered to Jenour, 'What a man, eh? I think I'd follow him to hell and back!'

Jenour watched Bolitho's shoulders. 'Aye, sir.' It was only a guess, but he saw more than anyone of Bolitho apart from Allday and the cabin staff. It was strange that they never mentioned it. But Jenour's uncle was a physician in Southampton. He had spoken of something like this. Jenour had seen Bolitho caught off balance, like the moment when the Viscount's beautiful wife had reached out to aid him, and other times at sea before that.

But nothing was ever said about it. He had to be mistaken. All the way across the anchorage Bolitho pondered over his mission. If he had frigates, even one at his disposal, he could plan around the one, formidable obstacle.

La Guaira, the Spanish port on the Main and gateway to the capital Caracas, was impregnable. That was only because nobody had ever attempted it before. He could feel Imrie's curiosity and was glad he had visited the Thor before discussing the venture with Haven and the others.

Imrie would be confident but not reckless. Price had believed he could do it, although for different reasons. Had he succeeded, it was unlikely that even a tiny fishing dory could slip through the Dons' defences afterwards.

Allday muttered, 'We have to put round t'other side, Sir Richard.' He sounded irritated, and Bolitho knew that he was still brooding over his newly-discovered and as quickly lost son. Jenour stood up and swayed in the barge. 'The water-lighters are alongside, Sir Richard. Shall I signal them to stand away for you?'

Bolitho tugged his coat. 'Sit down, you impatient young upstart.' He knew the young lieutenant was smiling at his rebuke. 'We need fresh water, and Hyperion does have two sides to her!' They pulled around the bows and past the out-thrust trident. Bolitho glanced up at the figurehead's fierce stare. Many a man must have seen that lancing through the gunsmoke and felt a last fear before he was cut down in battle.

He found Haven agitated and probably worried that Bolitho would berate him.

'I am sorry about the lighters, sir! I was not expecting you!' Bolitho crossed the deck and looked down. Again, it was to test his eye, to prepare it for the cool shadows between decks.

'No matter.' He knew Haven was watching Imrie with suspicion and said, 'Commander Imrie is my guest.' He rested his hands on the sun-baked woodwork and regarded the nearest lighter. They were huge, flat-bottomed craft, their open hulls lined with great casks of water. One line of casks had already been hoisted up and lowered inboard on tackles; and Bolitho saw Parris, the first lieutenant, one foot resting negligently on a hatch coaming, watching Sheargold the beaky-faced purser check each cask before it was sent below. He was about to turn away and then said, 'The lighter is still on even keel, yet all the casks are on the outboard side.'

Haven observed him warily, as if he thought Bolitho had been too long in the sun.

'They are so constructed, sir. Nothing will tilt them.'

Bolitho straightened his back and looked at Imrie.

'There you have it, Imrie. A platform for your mortars!' He ignored their combined astonishment.

'Now, I must meet the Inspector General!'

In the bars of bright forenoon sunlight, The Right Honourable the Viscount Somervell lounged against a leather-backed chair and listened without interruption. He was dressed in very pale green with brocade and stitching which would put any prince to shame. Close-to and in the brilliant glare Somervell looked younger, mid-thirties, her age or perhaps less.

Bolitho tried not to think beyond the outline of his plan, but Catherine seemed to linger in the great cabin like a shadow, as if she too was making comparisons.

Bolitho walked to the stern windows and looked out at some passing fishing boats. The anchorage was still flat and calm, but the mist was drifting seawards, and the pendant above an anchored brig was lifting occasionally to a lifeless breeze.

He said, 'Captain Price —' He paused, expecting Somervell to interrupt, or to voice some scathing comment. He did not. '— made a practice of patrolling that section of the Main where he was eventually forced to abandon Consort. He took careful note of everything he saw, and searched or destroyed some twenty enemy vessels in the process. Given time —'

This was Somervell's cue. 'It ran out for him.' He leaned forward in his chair, his pale eyes unblinking despite the harsh glare. 'And you have actually discussed some of this secret matter with, er, a Commander Imrie?' He spoke the man's name indifferently, as a landowner might speak of a lowly farm labourer. 'That is surely an extra risk?'

Bolitho replied, 'Imrie is an intelligent officer, shrewd too. When I spoke to my other commanders earlier I had the impression that they were convinced I intended to try and cut out the Consort, or Intrépido as she has been renamed.'

Somervell pressed his fingertips together. 'You have done your work well, Sir Richard!'

Bolitho continued, 'Imrie would guess immediately that I had something else in mind. He knew that his Thor is too heavy and slow for a cutting-out expedition.'

'I am relieved to know that you have told him no more at present.'

Bolitho lowered his eyes to the chart, unnerved that Somervell could get under his skin so easily.

'Every year, Spanish treasure convoys set sail from the Main with each ship carrying a King's ransom. Between them, the church and the army have raped the continent, and now the King of Spain needs gold all the more. His French masters are making certain of their share.'

Somervell stood up and walked casually to the chart. Everything he did looked bored and unhurried, but his reputation as a swordsman made a lie of that.

He said, 'When I first came out here at His Majesty's direction —' He dabbed his mouth with a silk handkerchief and Bolitho thought it was to hide a small smile, 'I considered that the capture of such treasure might be just another dream. I know that Nelson has had some luck, but that was at sea where the chance of finding such booty is even more difficult.'

He traced the lines with one finger. 'La Guaira is well defended. It is where they will have taken the Consort.'

'With respect, my lord, I doubt that. La Guaira is the gateway to the capital, Caracas, but it is not suitable to refit a man-of-war, and it seems likely she will have been damaged after driving ashore.' Before Somervell could disagree he touched the coast away from La Guaira. 'Here, my lord, Puerto Cabello, seventy miles to the west'rd. It would be a far more likely destination.'

'Hmm.' Somervell leaned over the chart and Bolitho noticed a livid scar below his ear. A close call, he thought grimly.

Somervell continued, 'It is rather near to your intended operation. I am really not convinced.' He stood up and walked around the cabin as if pacing out a rectangle. 'Price saw vessels at anchor, and I have had reports that treasure-ships are using La Guaira. The place is well defended, with at least three fortresses, and as Consort discovered to her cost, some other batteries, probably horse-artillery, for good measure.' He shook his head. 'I don't like it. If we still had the frigate it might, and I only say might, be different. Should you attack, and the Dons repulse you, we shall toss away every chance of surprise. The King of Spain would lose a fleet, rather than surrender his gold. I am not convinced.'

Bolitho watched him and felt strangely calm. In his mind the hazy plan had become suddenly real, like a shoreline hardening through a dawn mist. War at sea was always a risk. It took more than skill and plain courage, it took what his friend Thomas Herrick would describe as the work of Lady Luck. Friend? Was he still that after what had happened?

'I am prepared to take that chance, my lord.'

'Well, maybe I am not!' Somervell swung round, his eyes cold. There is more than glory at stake here!'

'I never doubted it, my lord.'

They faced one another, each testing the other's intentions.

Somervell said suddenly, 'When I first came to this damned place I imagined that some well-tried and gallant captain would be sent to seek out and capture one of the galleons.' He almost spat out the word. 'I was informed that a squadron would eventually come and seal off the escape routes which these Spanish ladies take on their passage to the Canaries and their home ports.' He held out one hand as if about to bow. 'Instead, you are sent, like a vanguard, to give the matter weight, to carry it through no matter what. So if we fail, the enemy victory will seem all the greater — what do you say about that?'

Bolitho shrugged. 'I think it can be done.' It came to him like a cry in the night. Somervell needed it to succeed more than anyone. Because of disfavour at court or because he was in some sort of trouble which a share of the prize money would readily take care of ?

He said flatly, 'There is no time left, my lord. If we wait until reinforcements arrive from England, and I must stress that I am only expecting three more liners, the whole world will be after us. A victory may help our finances, but I can assure you that it will more than damage the Franco-Spanish alliance.'

Somervell sat down and carefully arranged his coat to give his thoughts time to settle.

He said irritably, 'The secret will out anyway.'

Bolitho watched him pout his lips and tried not to imagine them touching her neck, her breast.

Then Somervell smiled; it made him appear momentarily vulnerable. Then I agree. It shall be done as you describe. I am empowered to get you any assistance you need.' The smile vanished. 'But I cannot help you if —'

Bolitho nodded, satisfied. 'Yes, my lord, that word if can mean so much to a sea-officer.'

He heard someone hailing a boat, the clatter of oars nearby and guessed that Somervell had planned his departure, like his visit, to the minute.

Bolitho said, 'I shall tell Captain Haven at once.'

Somervell was only half-listening but he said, 'As little as possible. When two men share a secret, it is no longer a secret.' He looked at the screen door as Ozzard entered carrying his hat with elaborate care.

Somervell said quietly, 'I am glad we met. Though for the life of me I cannot imagine why you insisted on taking this mission.' He eyed him quizzically. 'A death-wish perhaps? You must surely have no need for more glory.' Then he turned on his heel and strode from the cabin.

At the entry port he glanced indifferently at the rigid marines and waiting side-party, then at Imrie's lanky shape by a poop ladder.

'I would imagine that the Lady Belinda is displeased about your zest for duty so soon after your recent victory?' He smiled wryly, then walked to the entry port without another glance.

Bolitho watched the smart launch being pulled away from Hyperion's shadow and pondered what they had discussed; more, what they had left unsaid.

The reference to Belinda, for instance. What had Somervell expected to incite? Or was it merely something he could not restrain when neither of them had once mentioned Catherine?

Bolitho looked at the nearest anchored brig, the Upholder. Very like Adam's command, he thought.

Haven moved nearer and touched his hat. 'Any orders, Sir Richard?'

Bolitho pulled out his watch and snapped open the guard. Exactly noon, yet it felt like no time since he had left to visit Thor.

'Thank you, Captain Haven.' Their eyes met, and Bolitho could feel the other man's reserve, a wariness which was almost physical. 'I shall require all our captains on board at the close of the afternoon watch. Bring them aft to my quarters.'

Haven swallowed. The rest of our vessels are still at sea, sir.'

Bolitho glanced round, but the guard was dismissed, and only a few idlers and the master's mate of the watch were nearby.

He said, 'I intend to up-anchor within the week, as soon as there is wind enough to fill our canvas. We shall sail southwest to the Main and stand off La Guaira.'

Haven had ruddy, sunburned cheeks which matched his hair, but they seemed to pale. 'That's six hundred miles, sir! In this ship, without support, I'm not certain —'

Bolitho lowered his face and said, 'Have you no stomach for it, man? Or are you seeking an early retirement?' He hated himself, knowing that Haven could not hit back.

He added simply, 'I need you, and so does this ship. It has to be enough.' He turned away, despairing at what he saw in Haven's eyes.

He noticed Imrie and called, 'Come with me, I wish to pick your brains.'

Bolitho winced as a shaft of sunlight lanced down through the mizzen shrouds. For just those few seconds his eye was completely blind, and it was all he could do not to cry out.

A death-wish, Somervell had said. Bolitho groped into the poop's shadows and felt the bitterness coursing through him. Too many had died because of him, and even his friends were damaged by his touch.

Imrie ducked his head beneath the poop and walked beside him into the gloom between decks.

'I have been thinking, Sir Richard, and I've a few ideas —'

He had not seen the dismay on his admiral's face, nor could he guess how his simple remarks were like a lifeline for him.

Bolitho said, 'Then we shall quench our thirst while I listen.'

Haven watched them leave the quarterdeck and called for the signals midshipman. He told the boy the nature and time of the signal for the other captains to repair on board, then turned as the first lieutenant hurried towards him.

Before the lieutenant could speak Haven rasped, 'Do I have to perform your duties too, damn you?' He strode away adding, 'By God, if you cannot do better, I'll see you cast ashore for good!'

Parris stared after him, only his tightly bunched fists giving a hint of his anger and resentment.

'And God damn you too!' He saw the midshipman staring owlishly at him and wondered if he had spoken aloud. He grinned wearily. 'It's a fine life, Mr Mirrielees, provided you hold your tongue!'

At eight bells that afternoon, the signal was run up to the yard. It was begun.

Bolitho stood in the centre of the deserted boatshed and allowed his eyes to grow accustomed to its shapes and shadows. It was a great, ramshackle building, lit by just a few guttering lanterns which swayed on long chains to reduce the risk of fire, and which gave the impression that the place was moving like a ship.

It was evening outside, but unlike the previous ones the darkness was alive with sounds, the creak and slap of palm fronds, the uneasy ripple of wavelets beneath the crude slipway upon which the water-lighter had been prepared for its passage south. The boatshed had been a hive of activity, with shipwrights and sailors working against time to rig extra bilge pumps and fit iron crutches along the bulwarks so that it could be manhandled by long sweeps when required.

Bolitho felt the loose sand in his shoes from his walk along the foreshore while he went over his plans for the hundredth time. Jenour had kept him close company, but had respected his need to be alone, at least with his thoughts.

Bolitho listened to the lap of water, the gentle moan of wind through the weather-worn roof. They had prayed for wind; now it might rise and turn against them. If the lighter was swamped before it could reach the rendezvous he must decide what to do. He would either have to send Thor inshore unsupported, or call off the attack. He thought of Somervell's eyes, of the doubt he had seen there. No, he would not back down from the attack; it was pointless to consider alternatives.

He glanced around at the black, inert shadows. Skeletons of old boats, frames of others yet to be completed. The smells of paint, tar and cordage It was strange that it never failed to excite him even after all the years at sea.

Bolitho could recall the sheds at Falmouth, where he and his brother, Hugh, and sometimes his sisters had explored all the secret places, and had imagined themselves to be pirates and princesses in distress. He felt a stab in his heart as he pictured his child, Elizabeth. How she had plucked at his epaulettes and buttons when he had first seen her, had picked her up so awkwardly.

Instead of drawing him and Belinda closer, the child had done the opposite. One of their disputes had been over Belinda's announcement that she wanted her daughter to have a governess and a proper nurse to care for her. That, and the proposed move to London, had sparked it off.

She had exclaimed on one occasion, 'Because you were raised in Falmouth with other village children, you cannot expect me to refuse Elizabeth the chance to better herself, to take proper advantage of your achievements.'

It had been a difficult birth, while Bolitho had been away at sea. The doctor had warned Belinda against having another child, and a coldness had formed between them which Bolitho found hard to accept and understand.

She had said sharply on another occasion, 'I told you from the beginning, I am not Cheney. Had we not looked so much alike I fear you would have turned elsewhere!'

Bolitho had wanted to break down the barrier, take her to him and pour out his anguish. To tell her more of the damage to his eye, admit what it might mean.

Instead he had met her in London, and there had been an unreal, bitter hostility which both of them would regret.

Bolitho touched his buttons and thought of Elizabeth again. She was just sixteen months old. He stared around with sudden desperation. Would she never play in boatsheds like this one? Romp on the sand and come home filthy to be scolded and loved? He sighed, and Jenour responded immediately. 'Thor should be well on her way, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho nodded. The bomb-vessel had sailed the previous night. God alone knew if spies had already gleaned news of her proposed employment. Bolitho had made certain that rumours had been circulated that Thor was taking the lighter in tow to St Christopher's, and even Glassport had put aside his resentment to provide some deck cargo with the senior officer's name and destination plainly marked.

Anyway, it was too late now. Perhaps it had been so when he had insisted on sailing in advance of his new squadron, to deal with the King's need for gold in his own way. Death-wish. It stuck in his mind like a barb.

He said, 'Imrie will doubtless be glad to be at sea.'

Jenour watched his upright figure and saw that he had removed his hat and loosened his neckcloth as if to draw every benefit from this last walk ashore.

Bolitho did not notice the glance, but was thinking of his other commanders. Haven had been right about one thing. The remaining three vessels of his small force had not yet returned to English Harbour. Either Glassport's schooner had been unable to find them, or they had separately decided to drag out their time. He thought of their faces when they had gathered in the great cabin. Thynne, of the third-rate Obdurate which was still completing repairs to storm-damage, was the only post-captain amongst them. Bolitho's main impression had been one of youth, the other that of polite wariness. They had all known the dead Price, and perhaps they saw in Bolitho's strategy something stolen, by which their admiral intended to profit.

He had remarked as much to Jenour, not because his young flag-lieutenant had either the experience or the wisdom to comment, but because he needed to share it with someone he could trust.

Typically, Jenour had insisted, 'They all know your record, Sir Richard. That is enough for any man!'

Bolitho glanced at him now. A pleasant, eager young man who reminded him of no one. Maybe that was the reason for his choice. That and his unnerving knowledge of his past exploits, ships and battles.

The three brigs, Upholder, Tetrarch and Vesta, would weigh tomorrow and sail with their flagship. It was to be hoped they did not run down on some enemy frigates before they reached the Main. The brigs mounted only forty-two pop-guns between them. If only the one sloop-of-war had received his recall signal. The Phaedra at least looked like a small frigate, and in proper hands could double as one. Or was he again thinking of his first command, and the luck he had enjoyed with her?

Bolitho walked slowly to the end of the slipway where it dipped into the uneasy catspaws. The water looked like ebony, with only occasional shadows and reflections from riding-lights, or as in Hyperion's case, the checkered lines of open gunports. He felt the warm breeze stir his coat-tails and tried to picture his chart, the uncertainties which marked each of the six hundred miles as surely as any beacons.

Bolitho tried not to become irritated when he thought of Haven. He was no coward, but had shown himself to be beset by other, deeper anxieties. Whatever he really believed about being given command of a veteran like Hyperion, Bolitho knew differently. Old she might be, but she was a far better sailer than most. He smiled sadly, recalling her as she had been when he had first taken command as a young captain. She had been in commission so long without entering harbour for a refit that she was unbearably slow. Even with her copper-sheathing, the weed on her bottom had been yards long, so that under full sail she could only manage half the speed of her companions.

It was unusual for any captain to antagonise his admiral, whether he hated him or not. The climb to promotion was hard enough without flinging down more obstacles. Haven refused every offer of personal contact, and when, on the passage from England, tradition had insisted on his presence at table while Bolitho had entertained some of the junior officers, he had kept to himself. Alone amongst so many. He thought of the picture of Haven's pretty wife. Was she the cause of his moods? Bolitho grimaced in the darkness. That he would understand well enough.

A shadowy fishing-boat slipped past the nearest anchored brig. She could be carrying a message to the enemy. If the Dons found out what they intended, the admiral in Havana would have a whole squadron at sea within hours of receiving the news.

It was time to return to the jetty where his barge would be waiting, but he felt a reluctance to leave. It was peaceful here, an escape from danger and the call of duty.

The fishing-boat had vanished, unaware of the thoughts it had roused.

Bolitho stared at Hyperion's glowing lines of open ports. As if she was still hanging on to the angry sunset, or was burning from within. He thought of the six hundred souls packed into her rounded hull and once again felt the pain of his responsibility, which wrongly directed could destroy them all.

They did not ask for much, and even the simplest comforts were too often denied them. He could picture these faceless men now, the Royal Marines in their barracks, as they termed their section of the deck, polishing and cleaning their equipment. At other mess tables between the guns where sailors lived out their watches below, some seamen would be working on delicate scrimshaw, or making tiny models of bone and shell. Seamen with hands so roughened by cordage and tar, yet they could still produce such fine results. The midshipmen, of which Hyperion carried eight, would be performing their studies for promotion to the godly rank of lieutenant, sometimes working by the smallest light, a glim set in an old shell.

The officers had not yet emerged except for brief contact on deck, or at dinner in his cabin. Given time they would show what they could or could not do. Bolitho swung his hat at some buzzing insect in the darkness. Given leadership. It all came down to that. He heard Jenour's shoes scrape on the rough ground as he turned towards the top of the boatshed.

Then he heard the carriage wheels, the stamp of a restless horse, and a man calling out to calm it.

Jenour whispered hoarsely, ' 'Tis a lady, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho turned, only his heart giving away his feelings. Not once did he question who it might be at this hour. Perhaps he had inwardly been expecting her, hoping she might find him. And yet he knew otherwise. He felt off-guard, as if he had been stripped naked.

They met below the propped-up bow of an old boat and Bolitho saw that she was covered from head to toe in a long cloak; its cowl hung loosely over her hair. Beyond her he could see a carriage on the road, a man at the horse's head, two small lamps casting an orange glow across the harness.

Jenour made to leave but she waved his apology aside and said, 'It is well. I have my maid with me.'

Bolitho stepped closer but she did not move towards him. She was completely hidden by the cloak, with just the oval of her face and a gold chain at her throat to break the darkness.

She said, 'You are leaving very soon.' It was a statement. 'I came to wish you luck with whatever —' Her voice trailed away. Bolitho held out his hand, but she said quickly, 'No. It is unfair.' She spoke without emotion, so that her voice seemed full of it. 'You met my husband?'

'Yes.' Bolitho tried to see her eyes but they too Were in deep shadow. 'But I want to speak about you, to hear what you have been doing.'

She lifted her chin. 'Since you left me?' She half turned away. 'My husband spoke to me of your private meeting. You impressed him. He does not admire others very often. The fact you knew of the frigate's new name…'

Bolitho persisted, 'I need to talk, Kate.' He saw her shiver.

She said quietly, 'I once asked you to call me that.'

'I know. I do not forget.' He shrugged and knew he was floundering, losing a battle he could not fight.

'Nor I. I read everything I could, as if I expected that with time I could lose what I had felt. Hatred was not enough…' She broke off. 'I was hurt — I bled because of you.'

'I did not know.'

She did not hear him. 'Did you imagine that your life meant so little to me that I could watch years of it pass and not be hurt? Years I could never share… did you think I loved you so little?'

'I thought you turned aside, Kate.'

'Perhaps I did. There was nothing offered. More than anything I wanted you to succeed, to be recognised for what you are. Would you have had people sneer when I passed as they do at Nelson's whore' How would you have ridden that storm, tell me?'

Bolitho heard Jenour's shoes as he moved away, but no longer cared.

'Please give me the chance to explain —'

She shook her head. 'You married another and have a child, I believe.'

Bolitho dropped his hands to his sides. 'And what of you? You married him.'

'Him?' She showed one hand through the cloak but withdrew it again. 'Lacey needed me. I was able to help him. As I told you, I wanted security.'

They watched each other in silence and then she said, 'Take care in whatever madness you are involved. I shall probably not see you again.'

Bolitho said, 'I shall sail tomorrow. But then he doubtless told you that too.'

For the first time her voice rose in passion and anger.

'Don't you use that tone with me! I came tonight because of the love I believed in. Not out of grief or pity. If you think —'

He reached out and gripped her arm through the cloak.

'Do not leave in anger, Kate.' He expected her to tear her arm away and hurry back to the coach. But something in his tone seemed to hold her.

He persisted, 'When I think of never seeing you again I feel guilty, because I know I could not bear it.'

She said in a whisper, 'It was your choice.'

'Not entirely.'

'Would you tell your wife you had seen me? I understand she is quite a beauty. Could you do that?'

She stepped back slightly. 'Your silence is my answer.'

Bolitho said bitterly, 'It is not like that.'

She glanced round towards the carriage and Bolitho saw the cowl fall from her head, caught the gleam of the lamps on her earrings. The ones he had given her.

She said, 'Please leave.' When he made to hold her again she backed away. 'Tomorrow I shall see the ships stand away from the land.' She put her hand to her face. 'I will feel nothing, Richard, because my heart, such as it is, will sail with you. Now go!'

Then she turned and ran from the shed, her cloak swirling about her until she reached the carriage.

Jenour said huskily, 'I am indeed sorry, Sir Richard —'

Bolitho turned on him. 'It's time you grew up, Mr Jenour!'

Jenour hurried after him, his mind still in a whirl from what he had seen and unwillingly shared.

Bolitho paused by the jetty and looked back. The carriage lamps were still motionless, and he knew she was watching him even in the darkness.

He heard the barge moving towards the jetty and was suddenly thankful. The sea had claimed him back.

At noon on the third day at sea Bolitho went on deck and walked along the weather side. It was like the other days, as if nothing, not even the men on watch, had changed.

He shaded his eyes to glance up at the masthead pendant. The wind was steady, as before, across the starboard quarter, creating a long regular swell which stretched unbroken in either direction. He heard the helmsman call, 'Steady as she goes, sir! Sou' west by west!' Bolitho knew it was more for his benefit than the officer-of-the-watch.

He looked at the long swell, the easy way Hyperion raised her quarter and allowed it to break against her flank. A few men were working high above the deck, their bodies tanned or peeling according to their time at sea. It never stopped. Splicing and reeving new lines, tarring-down and refilling the boats with water on their tier to keep the seams from opening in the relentless glare.

Bolitho felt the officer-of-the-watch glancing at him and tried to remember what he could about him. In a fight, one man could win or lose it. He paced slowly past the packed hammock nettings. Vernon Quayle was Hyperion's fourth lieutenant, and unless he was checked or possibly killed he would be a tyrant if he ever reached post-rank He was twenty-two, of a naval family, with sulky good looks and a quick temper. There had been three men flogged in his division since leaving England. Haven should have a word with the first lieutenant. Maybe he had, although the captain and his senior never appeared to speak except on matters of routine and discipline.

Bolitho tried not to think of Hyperion as she had once been. If any man-of-war could be said to be a happy ship in days like these, then so she had been then.

He walked forward to the quarterdeck rail and looked along the upper deck, the market-place of any warship.

The sailmaker and his mates were rolling up repaired lengths of canvas, and putting away their palms and needles. There was a sickly smell of cooking from the galley funnel, though how they could eat boiled pork in this heat was hard to fathom.

Bolitho could taste Ozzard's strong coffee on his tongue, but the thought of eating made him swallow hard. He had barely eaten since leaving English Harbour. Anxiety, strain, or was it still the guilt of seeing Catherine again?

Lieutenant Quayle touched his hat. 'Upholder is on station, Sir Richard. The masthead makes a report every half-hour.' It sounded as if he was about to add, 'or I'll know the reason!'

Upholder was hull-down on the horizon and would be the first to signal that she had sighted Thor at the rendezvous. Or not. Bolitho had placed the brig in the van because of her young commander, William Trotter, a thoughtful Devonian who had impressed him during their first few meetings. It needed brains as well as good lookouts when so much depended on that first sighting.

Tetrarch was somewhere up to windward, ready to dash down if needed, and the third brig, Vesta, was far astern, her main role to ensure they were not being followed by some inquisitive stranger. So far they had seen nothing It was as if the sea had emptied, that some dreadful warning had cleared it like an arena.

Tomorrow they would be near enough to land for the masthead to recognise it.

Bolitho had spoken to Hyperion's sailing master, Isaac Penhaligon. Haven was fortunate to have such an experienced master, he thought. So am I. Penhaligon was a Cornishman also, but in name only. He had been packed off to sea as a cabin-boy at the tender age of seven years, and had walked ashore very little since. He was now about sixty, with a deeply-lined face the colour of leather, and eyes so bright they seemed to belong to a younger person trapped within. He had served in a packet-ship, in East Indiamen, and eventually had, as he had put it, donned the King's coat as a master's mate. His skill and knowledge of the oceans and their moods would be hard to rival, Bolitho thought. An additional piece of luck was that he once sailed in these same waters, had fought off buccaneers and slavers, had done so much that nothing seemed to daunt him. Bolitho had watched him checking the noon sights, his eyes on the assembled midshipmen whose navigation and maritime knowledge lay in his hands, ready to make a rough comment if things went wrong. He was never sarcastic with the young gentlemen, but he was very severe, and they were obviously in awe of him.

Penhaligon had compared his charts and notes with Price's own observations and had commented sparingly, 'Knew his navigation, that one.' It was praise indeed.

A petty officer approached the lieutenant and knuckled his forehead. Bolitho was thankful to be left alone as Quayle hurried away. He had seen the petty officer's expression. Not just respect for an officer. It was more like fear.

He stroked the worn rail, hot from the sunlight. He thought of that last meeting in the boatshed, Catherine's voice and fervour. He had to see her again, if only to explain. Explain what? It could do nothing but harm to her. To both of them.

She had seemed unreachable, eager to tell him the hurt he had done her, and yet…

He remembered vividly their first meeting, and when she had cursed him for the death of her husband. Her second husband. There had also been the one she rarely mentioned, a reckless soldier-of-fortune who had died in Spam in some drunken brawl. Who had she been then, and where had she come from? It was hard to see her, so captivating and striking as she was now, set against the squalor she had once touched on in a moment of intimacy.

And what of Somervell? Was he as cold and indifferent as he appeared? Or was he merely contemptuous; amused perhaps while he watched the reawakening of old memories, which he might use or ignore as he chose?

Would he ever know, or would he spend the rest of his life remembering how it had once been for so short a time, knowing that she was watching from a distance, waiting to learn what he was doing, or if he had fallen in battle?

Quayle had gone to the helm and was snapping something at the midshipman-of-the-watch. Like the others, he was properly dressed, although he must be sweating fire in this heat.

Had Keen been his flag captain he would have — Bolitho called, 'Send for my servant!'

Quayle came alive. 'At once, Sir Richard!'

Ozzard emerged from the shadows of the poop and stood blinking in the glare, more mole-like than ever. Small, loyal and ever ready to serve Bolitho whenever he could He had even read to him when he had been partially blinded, and before, when he had been smashed down by a musket. Meek and timid, but underneath there was another kind of man. He was well-educated and had once been a lawyer's clerk; he had run away to sea to avoid prosecution, and some said the hangman's halter.

Bolitho said, 'Take my coat, if you please.' Ozzard did not even blink as the vice-admiral tossed his coat over his arm and then handed him his hat.

Others were staring, but by tomorrow even Haven might tell his officers to walk the decks in their shirts and not suffer in silence. If it took a uniform to make an officer, there was no hope for any of them.

Ozzard gave a small smile, then scurried thankfully into the shadows again.

He had watched most faces of Bolitho, his moods of excitement and despair. There had been too many of the latter, he thought.

Past the marine sentry and into the great cabin. The world he shared with Bolitho, where rank was of little importance. He held up the coat and examined it for traces of tar or strands of spun yarn. Then he saw his own reflection in the mirror and held the coat against his own small frame. The coat hung almost to his ankles and he gave a shy smile.

He gripped the coat tightly as he saw himself that terrible day when the lawyer had sent him home early.

He had discovered his young wife, naked in the arms of a man he had known and respected for years.

They had tried to bluff it out and all the while he had been dying as he had stared at them.

Later, when he had left the small house on the Thames at Wapping Wall, he had seen the shopkeeper's name opposite. Tom Ozzard, Scrivener. He had decided then and there it was to be his new identity.

Never once had he looked back to the room where he had stopped their lies with an axe, had hacked and slashed until there was nothing recognisable in human form.

On Tower Hill he had found the recruiting party; they were never far away, always in the hopes of a volunteer, or some drunkard who would take a coin and then find himself in a man-of-war until he was paid off or killed.

The lieutenant in charge had regarded him with doubt and then amusement. Prime seamen, strong young men, were what the King needed.

Ozzard carefully folded the coat. It was different now. They would take a cripple on two crutches if they got the chance.

Tom Ozzard, servant to a vice-admiral, afraid, no, terrified of battle when the ship quaked and reeled around him, a man with no past, no future.

One day, deep in his heart, Ozzard knew he would go back to that little house at Wapping Wall. Then, only then, he would give in to what he had done.

From the masthead lookout, curled up in the cross-trees, to Allday, sprawled in his hammock while he slept off the aftermath of several wets, from Ozzard to the man in the great cabin whom he served, most thoughts were on tomorrow.

Hyperion in all her years, and over the countless leagues she had sailed, had seen many come and go.

Beyond the figurehead's trident lay the horizon. Beyond that, only destiny could identify.

Bolitho walked up the wet planking to the weather side of the quarterdeck and steadied himself by gripping the hammock nettings. It was still dark, with only spectres of spray leaping over the hull to break the sea's blackness.

Darker shadow moved across the quarterdeck to merge with a small group by the rail, where Haven and two of his lieutenants received their reports and passed out new orders.

Voices murmured from the gundeck, and Bolitho could picture the hands at work around the invisible eighteen-pounders, while on the deck below the heavier battery of thirty-two pounders, although equally busy, remained silent. Down there, beneath the massive deckhead beams, the gun crews were used to managing their charges in constant gloom.

The hands had been piped to an even earlier breakfast, probably an unnecessary precaution because when dawn found them they would still be out of sight of land — except, with any luck, by the masthead lookouts. In the past hour Hyperion had altered course, and was heading due west, her yards close-hauled with their reduced canvas of forecourse and topsails. It explained the uneasy, turbulent motion, but Bolitho had noticed the difference in the weather as soon as his feet had touched the damp rug by his cot.

The wind was steady but had risen; not much, but after the seemingly constant calm or glassy swell, it seemed violent by comparison.

Everyone nearby knew he was on deck and had discreetly crossed to the lee side to give him room to walk if he chose. He looked up at the rigging and saw the braced topsails for the first time. They were flapping noisily, showing their displeasure at being so tightly reined.

He had been awake for most of the night, but when the hands were called, and the work of preparing the ship for whatever lay ahead begun, he had felt a strange eagerness to sleep.

Allday had padded into the cabin, and while Ozzard had magicked up his strong coffee, the big coxswain had shaved him by the light of a spiralling lantern.

Allday had still not unburdened himself about his son. Bolitho could remember his elation when he had discovered he had a son of twenty, one he had known nothing about, who had decided to join him when his mother, an old love of Allday's, had died.

Then aboard the cutter Supreme after Bolitho had been cut down and almost completely blinded, Allday had nursed an anger and a despair that his son, also named John, was a coward, and had run below at the very moment when Bolitho had needed him most. Now he knew differently. Afraid of the fire of battle perhaps, but no coward. It took a brave heart to disguise fear when the enemy's iron raked the decks.

But his son had asked to leave the ship when they had docked. For Allday's sake and for everyone's peace of mind Bolitho had spoken to the officer in charge of the coastguard near Falmouth, and asked him to find a place for him. His son, John Bankart as he was named after his mother, had been a good seaman, and could reef, splice and steer with the most experienced Jack. He had been performing the duties of second-coxswain in the prize Argonaute to help Allday, who was too proud to admit that his terrible wound was making things hard for him. Also, Allday had been able to keep an eye on him, until the day when Bolitho had been wounded whilst aboard the little cutter.

Bolitho disliked asking favours of anyone, especially because of his rank, and now he was unsure that he had done the right thing. Allday brooded about it, and when not required on duty spent too much time alone, or sitting with a tot in his hand in Ozzard's pantry.

We are both in need. Like dog and master. Each fearful that the other would die first.

A youthful voice exclaimed, 'Sunrise, sir!'

Haven muttered something, then crossed to the weather side. He touched his hat in the darkness.

'The boats are ready for lowering, Sir Richard.' He seemed more formal than ever. 'But if Upholder is on station we should get plenty of warning if we need to clear for action,'

'I agree.' Bolitho wondered what lay behind the formality. Was he hoping to see Upholder's signal flying to announce she had Thor in sight? Or was he expecting the sea to be empty, the effort and the preparation a waste of time?

He said, 'I never tire of this moment.' Together they watched the first glimpse of sunlight as it rimmed the horizon like a fine gold wire. With Hyperion on her present tack the sun would rise almost directly astern, to paint each sail by turn then reach out far ahead, as if to show them the way to the land.

Haven commented, 'I just hope the Dons don't know we're so near.'

Bolitho hid a smile. Haven would make Job seem like an optimist.

Another figure crossed the deck and waited for Haven to see him. It was the first lieutenant.

Haven moved a few paces away. 'Well? What now?' His voice was hushed, but the hostility was obvious.

Parris said calmly, 'The two men for punishment, sir. May I tell the master-at-arms to stand over their sentence until —'

'You shall not, Mr Parris. Discipline is discipline, and I'll not have men escape their just deserts because we may or may not be engaging an enemy.'

Parris stood his ground. 'It was nothing that serious, sir.'

Haven nodded, satisfied. 'One of them is from your part-of-ship, am I right? Laker? Insolent to a petty officer.'

Parris's eyes seemed to glow from within as the first weak sunlight made patterns on the planking.

'They both lost their tempers, sir. The petty officer called him a whore's bastard.' He seemed to relax, knowing the battle was already lost. 'Me, sir, I'd have torn out his bloody tongue!'

Haven hissed, 'I shall speak with you later! Those men will be seized up and flogged at six bells!'

Parris touched his hat and walked away.

Bolitho heard the captain say, 'Bloody hound!'

It was no part of his to interfere. Bolitho looked at the sunrise, but it was spoiled by what he had heard.

He would have to speak to Haven about it later when they were alone. He glanced up at the mizzen topmast as a shaft of light played across the shrouds and running rigging. If he waited until action was joined it might be too late.

The words seemed to echo around his mind. If I should fall… Every ship was only as strong as her captain. If there was something wrong… He looked round, Haven brushed from his thoughts, as the masthead yelled, 'Sail in sight to the sou'-west!'

Bolitho clenched his hands into fists. It must be Upholder, right on station. He had been right in his choice for the van.

He said, 'Prepare to come about, Captain Haven.'

Haven nodded. 'Pipe the hands to the braces, Mr Quayle.'

Another face fitted into the pattern; Bolitho's companion of the forenoon watch the day before. The sort of officer who would have no compassion when it came to a flogging.

Bolitho added, 'Do you have a good man aloft today?' Haven stared at him, his face still masked in shadow. 'I — I! believe so, sir.'

'Send up an experienced hand. A master's mate for my money.'

'Aye, sir.' Haven sounded tense. Angry with himself for not thinking of the obvious. He could scarcely blame Parris for that.

Bolitho glanced around as the shadows nearby took on shape and personality. Two young midshipmen, both in their first ship, the officer-of-the-watch, and below the break in the poop he saw the tall, powerful figure of Penhaligon the master. If he was satisfied with their progress you would never know, Bolitho thought.

'Deck there! Upholder in sight!'

Bolitho guessed the voice was that of Rimer, master's mate of the watch. He was a small, bronzed man with features so creased that he looked like some seafarer from a bygone age. The other vessel was little more than a blur in the faint daylight, but Rimer's experience and keen eye told him all he needed to know.

Bolitho said, 'Mr Jenour, get aloft with a glass.' He turned aside as the young lieutenant hurried to the shrouds. 'I trust you climb as fast as you ride?'

He saw the flash of teeth as Jenour grinned back at him. Then he was gone, his arms and legs working with all the ease of a nimble maintopman.

Haven crossed the deck and looked up at Jenour's white breeches. 'It will be light enough soon, sir.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Then we shall know.'

He bunched his fists together under his coat-tails as Jenour's voice pealed down.

'Signal from Upholder, sir! Thor in company!'

Bolitho tried not to show excitement or surprise. Imrie had done it.

'Acknowledge!' He had to cup his hands to shout above the slap of canvas and rigging. There was no further signal from Upholder. It meant nothing had gone wrong so far, and that the ungainly lighter was still safely in tow.

He said, 'When the others are in sight, Captain Haven, signal them to proceed while we are all of one mind. There is no time for another conference. Even now there is a chance we might be discovered before we are all in position.'

He walked to the nettings again. There was no point in showing doubt or uncertainty to Haven. He looked aloft as more and more of the rigging and spars took shape in the sunlight. It was strange that he had never mastered his dislike of heights. As a midshipman he had faced each dash aloft to help shorten or make more sail as a separate challenge. At night in particular, with the yards heeling over towards the bursting spray and the deck little more than a blur far beneath his feet, he had felt an enduring terror.

He saw some Royal Marines on the mizzen-top, their scarlet coats very bright while they leaned over the barricade to watch for the brig Upholder. Bolitho would have dearly liked to climb up past them without caring, as Jenour had done. He touched his left eyelid, then blinked at the reflected sunlight. Deceptively clear, but the worry was always there.

He looked along the upper deck, the gun crews standing down to go about their normal tasks as the first tension disappeared with the night.

So many miles. Too many memories. During the night when he had lain awake in his cot listening to the sluice and creak of the sea around the rudder he had recalled another time when Hyperion had sailed this far, while he had been her captain. They had slipped past the Isles of Pascua in the darkness and Bolitho could remember exactly that dawn attack on the French ships anchored there. And it was nine years ago. The same ship. But was he still the same man?

He glanced up at the mizzen top and was suddenly angry with himself.

'Hand me that glass, if you please.' He took it from a startled midshipman and walked purposefully to the weather shrouds. He could feel Haven watching him, saw Parris trying not to stare from the larboard gangway where he was in discussion with Sam Lintott, the boatswain. Probably telling him when to rig the gratings so that punishment could be carried out as ordered.

Then he saw Allday squinting up from the maindeck, his jaw still working on a piece of biscuit while he, too, stared with astonishment. Bolitho swung himself up and around the shrouds and felt the ratlines quiver with each step while the big signals telescope bounced against his hip like a quiver of arrows.

It was easier than he would have believed, but as he clambered into the top he decided it was far enough.

The marines stood back, nudging and grinning to each other. Bolitho was able to recall the name of the corporal, a fierce-looking man who had been a Norfolk poacher before he signed on with the Corps. Not before time, Major Adams had hinted darkly.

'Where is she, Corporal Rogate?'

The marine pointed. 'Yonder, sir! Larboard bow!'

Bolitho steadied the long telescope and watched as the brig's narrow poop and braced yards leapt into view. Figures moved about Upholder's quarterdeck, steeply angled as the ship heeled over to show her bright copper to the early sunshine.

Bolitho waited for Hyperion to sway upright and for the mizzen topmast to restrain its shivering, and beyond Upholder he saw a tan-coloured pyramid of sails. Thor was ready and waiting.

He lowered the glass as if to bring his thoughts into equal focus. Had he decided from the very beginning that he would lead the attack? If it failed, he would be taken prisoner, or… He gave a grim smile. The or did not bear thinking about.

Corporal Rogate saw the secret smile and wondered how he would describe it to the others during the next watch below. How the admiral had spoken to him, just like another Royal. One of us.

Bolitho knew that if he sent another officer and the plan misfired, the blame would be laid at his door anyway.

They had to trust him. In his heart Bolitho knew that the next months were crucial for England, and for the fleet in particular. Leadership and trust went hand in hand. To most of his command he was a stranger and their trust had to be earned.

He considered his argument with sudden contempt. Death-wish. Was that a part of it too?

He concentrated on the brig's sturdy shape as she ducked and rose across steep waves. In his mind's eye he could already see the land as it would appear when they drew nearer. The anchorage at La Guaira consisted mainly of an open roadstead across the front of the town. It was known to be heavily defended by several fortresses, some of which were quite newly constructed because of the comings and goings of treasure-ships. Although La Guaira was just six miles or so from the capital, Caracas, the latter could only be reached by a twisting, mountainous road some four times that distance.

As soon as Hyperion and her consorts were sighted the Spanish authorities would send word to the capital with all the haste they could manage. Because of the time it would take on that precarious road, La Guaira might just as well be an island, he thought. All the intelligence they had been able to gather from traders and blockade-runners alike pointed to the captured frigate Consort being at Puerto Cabello, eighty miles further westward along the coast of the Main.

But suppose the enemy did not fall for the ruse, would not believe that the British men-of-war were intending to cut out the new addition to their fleet?

So much depended on Price's maps and observations, and above all, luck.

He looked down at the deck far below and bit his lip. He knew he would never have sent a subordinate to carry out such a mission even nine years back when he had commanded the old Hyperion. He glanced at the marines. 'There's work for all of you soon, my lads.'

He swung himself down on to the futtock shrouds, more conscious of their faces split into huge grins than of the wind which flapped around his coat as if to fling him to the deck. It was so easy. A word, a smile, and they would die for you. It made him feel bitter and humble at the same time.

By the time he had reached the quarterdeck his mind had cleared. 'Very well. In one hour we shall alter course to the sou' west.' He saw the others nod. 'Have Upholder and Tetrarch tack closer to the land. I don't want the Dons to get near enough to see our strength.' He saw Penhaligon the sailing master give a wry smile and added, 'Or our lack of it. Thor will hold to windward of us in company with Vesta. Let me know when it is light enough to make signals.' He turned towards the poop and then paused. 'Captain Haven, a moment if you please.'

In the great cabin the strengthening sunlight made strange patterns on the caked salt which had spattered the stern windows. Most of the ship had been cleared for action before dawn. Bolitho's quarters were like a reminder of better times, until these screens were taken down, and the cabin furniture with all traces of his occupation here were taken to the security of the hold. He glanced at the black-barrelled nine-pounders which faced their closed ports on either side of the cabin. Then these two beauties would have the place to themselves.

Haven waited for Ozzard to close the screen door and withdraw, then stood with his feet apart, his hat balanced in both hands.

Bolitho looked at the sea beyond the smeared glass. 'I intend to shift to Thor at dusk. You will take Hyperion with Vesta and Tetrarch in company. By first light tomorrow you should be in sight of Puerto Cabello and the enemy will be convinced that you intend to attack. They will not know your full strength — we have been lucky in reaching this far undetected.' He turned in time to see the captain gripping his hat so fiercely that it buckled in his fingers. He had expected an outburst or perhaps the outline of an alternative strategy. Haven said nothing, but stared at him as if he had misheard.

Bolitho continued quietly, 'There is no other way. If we are to capture or destroy a treasure-ship it must be done at anchor. We have too few ships for an extended search if she slips past us.'

Haven swallowed hard. 'But to go yourself, sir? In my experience I have never known such a thing.'

'With God's help and a little luck, Captain Haven, I should be in position in the shallows to the west of La Guaira at the very moment you are making your mock attack.' He faced him steadily. 'Do not risk your ships. If a large enemy force arrives you will discontinue the action and stand away. The wind is still steady at north-by-west. Mr Penhaligon believes it may back directly which would be in our favour.'

Haven looked around the cabin as if to seek an escape.

'He may be wrong, sir.'

Bolitho shrugged. 'I would not dare to disagree with him.'

But his attempt to lighten the tension was lost as Haven blurted out, 'If I am forced to withdraw, who will believe —'

Bolitho looked away to hide his disappointment. 'I will have new orders written for you. No blame will be laid at your door.'

Haven said, 'I was not suggesting it merely for my own benefit, sir!'

Bolitho sat down on the bench seat and tried not to think of all those other times when he had sat here. Hopes, plans, anxieties.

He said, 'I shall want thirty seamen from your company. I would prefer an officer whom they know to command them.'

Haven said instantly, 'May I suggest my first lieutenant, sir?'

Their eyes met. I thought you might. He nodded. 'Agreed.'

Calls trilled from the quarterdeck and Haven glanced at the door.

Bolitho said abruptly, 'I have not yet finished.' He tried to remain calm but Haven's behaviour was unnerving. 'If the enemy does throw a force against you there is no way that you can cover my withdrawal from La Guaira.'

Haven lifted his chin slightly. 'If you say so, Sir Richard.'

'I do. In which case you will assume command of the flotilla.'

'And may I ask what you would do, sir?'

Bolitho stood up.' What I came to do.' He sensed that Allday was waiting close by the door. Another argument, when he told him he was not coming over to Thor with him.

'Before you leave, Captain Haven.' He tried not to blink as the mist filtered persistently across his left eye. 'Do not have those men flogged. I cannot interfere, because everyone aboard would know that I had taken sides, as you already knew when you crossed swords with your senior in my presence.' He thought he saw Haven pale slightly. 'These people have little enough, God knows, and to see their messmates flogged before being ordered into battle can do nothing but harm. Loyalty is all-important, but remember that while you are under my flag, loyalty goes both ways.'

Haven backed away. 'I hope I know my duty, Sir Richard.'

'So do I.' He watched the door close, then exclaimed, 'God damn him'.'

But it was Jenour who entered, wiping tar from his fingers with a piece of rag.

He watched as if to gauge Bolitho's mood, and said, 'A fine view from up there. I have come to report that your signals have been made and acknowledged.' He glanced up as feet thudded overhead and voices echoed from the maindeck. 'We are about to change tack, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho barely heard. 'What is the matter with that man, eh?'

Jenour remarked, 'You have told him what you intend.'

Bolitho nodded. 'I'd have thought any captain would have jumped at the chance to cast his admiral adrift. I know I did.' He stared round the cabin, searching for ghosts. 'Instead, he thinks of nothing but—' He checked himself. It was unthinkable to discuss the flag captain with Jenour. Was he so isolated that he could find no other solace?

Jenour said simply, 'I am not so impertinent as to say what I think, Sir Richard.' He looked up and added, 'But I would stand by whatever you ordered me to do.'

Bolitho relaxed and clapped him on the shoulder. 'They say that faith can move a mountain, Stephen!'

Jenour stared. Bolitho had called him by name. It was probably a mistake.

Bolitho said, 'We will transfer to Thor before dusk. It must be smartly done, Stephen, for we have a long way to travel.'

It was not a mistake. Jenour seemed to glow. He stammered, 'Your coxswain is waiting outside, Sir Richard.' He watched as Bolitho strode across the cabin, then chilled as he cannoned into a chair which Haven must have moved.

'Are you all right, Sir Richard?' He fell back as Bolitho turned towards him. But this time there was no anger in his sensitive features. Bolitho said quietly, 'My eye troubles me a little. It is nothing. Now send in my cox'n.'

Allday walked past the lieutenant and said, 'I have to speak my piece, Sir Richard. When you goes across to that bomb,' he almost spat out the word, 'I'll be beside you. Like always, an' I don't give a bugger, beggin' your pardon, Sir Richard.' Bolitho retorted, 'You've been drinking, Allday.'

'A bit, sir. Just a few wets afore we leave the ship.' He put his head on one side like a shaggy dog. 'We will, won't we, sir?'

It came out surprisingly easily. 'Yes, old friend. Together. One more time.'

Allday regarded him gravely, sensing his despair. 'Wot is it, sir?'

'I nearly told that youngster, Jenour. Nearly came right out with it.' He was talking to himself aloud. 'That I'm terrified of going blind.'

Allday licked his lips. 'Young Mr Jenour looks on you as a bit of a hero, sir.'

'Not like you, eh?' But neither of them smiled.

Allday had not seen him like this for a long while, not since…

He cursed himself, took the blame for not being here when he was needed. It made him angry when he compared Haven with Captain Keen, or Herrick. He looked around the cabin where they had shared and lost so much together. Bolitho had nobody to share it with, to lessen the load. On the messdecks the Jacks thought the admiral wanted for nothing. By Jesus, that was just what he had. Nothing.

Allday said, 'I know it's not my place to say it, but —'

Bolitho shook his head. 'When did that ever stop you?'

Allday persisted, 'I don't know how to put it in officers' language like.' He took a deep breath. 'Cap'n Haven's wife is havin' a baby, probably dropped it by now, I shouldn't wonder.'

Bolitho stared at him. 'What of it, man?'

Allday tried not to release a deep breath of relief as he saw the impatience in Bolitho's grey eyes.

'He thinks that someone else may be the father, so to speak.'

Bolitho exclaimed, 'Well, even supposing —' He looked away, surprised, when he ought not to have been, at Allday's knowledge. 'I see.' It was not the first time. A ship in dock, a bored wife and a likely suitor. But it had taken Allday to put his finger on it.

Bolitho eyed him sadly. How could he leave him behind? What a pair. One so cruelly wounded by a Spanish sword thrust, the other slowly going blind.

He said, 'I shall write some letters.'

They looked at each other without speaking. Cornwall in late October. Grey sky, and rich hues of fallen leaves. Chipping-hammers in the fields where farmers took time to repair their walls and fences. The elderly militia drilling in the square outside the cathedral where Bolitho had been married.

Allday moved away towards Ozzard's pantry. He would ask the little man to write a letter for him to the innkeeper's daughter in Falmouth, though God alone knew if she would ever get it.

He thought of Lady Belinda and the time they had found her in the overturned coach. And of the one named Catherine who might still harbour feelings for Bolitho. A fine-looking woman, he thought, but a lot of trouble. He grinned. A sailor's woman, no matter what airs and graces she hoisted at her yards. And if she was right for Bolitho, that was all that mattered.

Alone at his table Bolitho drew the paper towards him and watched the sunlight touch the pen like fire.

In his mind he could see the words as he had written them before. 'My dearest Belinda.'

At noon he went on deck for his walk, and when Ozzard entered the cabin to tidy things he saw the paper with the pen nearby. Neither had been used.

The transfer from Hyperion to the bomb-vessel Thor was carried out just before sunset, without mishap. Men and weapons with extra powder and shot were ferried across, the boats leaping and then almost disappearing between the crests of a deep swell.

Bolitho watched from the quarterdeck while Hyperion lay hove-to, her canvas booming in protest, and once again marvelled at the sunset's primitive beauty. The long undulating swell, like the boats and their labouring crews, seemed to glow like rough bronze, while even the faces around him looked unreal; like strangers.

With two of Hyperion's boats and thirty of her men safely transferred, Bolitho made the final crossing in a jolly boat.

He had barely been received aboard Thor before he saw Hyperion's yards swinging round, her shadowed outline shortening as she turned away to follow the two brigs into the last of the sunset.

If Commander Ludovic Imrie was bothered by having his flag officer coming aboard his modest command, he did not show it. He displayed more surprise when Bolitho announced that he did not intend to wear his epaulettes, and suggested that Imrie, as Thor's commander, should follow his example.

He had remarked calmly, 'Your people know you well enough. I trust that they will know me too when this affair is finished!' Bolitho was able to forget Hyperion and the others as they headed further and further away towards Puerto Cabello. He could feel the tension mount around him as Thor made more sail and steered, close-hauled, towards the invisible shoreline.

Hour followed hour, with hushed voices calling from the chains where two leadsmen took regular soundings, so that their reports could be checked carefully against the chart and the notes Bolitho had made after his meeting with Captain Price.

The noise was loud, but deceptive. Astern on its tow-line, the clumsy lighter was pumped constantly in a battle which Imrie had admitted had begun within hours of leaving harbour. Any rise in the sea brought instant danger from flooding, and now, with both Thor's heavy mortars and their crews on board, the lighter's loss would spell disaster.

Bolitho prowled restlessly around the vessel's quarterdeck and pictured the land in his mind, as he had seen it that late afternoon. He had made himself climb aloft just once more, this time to the maintop, and through a rising haze had seen the tell-tale landmarks of La Guaira. The vast blue-grey range of the Caracas Mountains, and further to the west the impressive saddle-shaped peaks of the Silla de Caracas.

Penhaligon could be rightfully proud of his navigation, he thought. Allday barely left his side after they had come aboard, and Bolitho could hear his uneven breathing, his fingers drumming against the hilt of a heavy cutlass.

It made Bolitho touch the unfamiliar shape of the hanger at his belt. The prospect of action right inside the enemy's territory occupied everyone's mind, but Bolitho doubted if Allday had missed his decision to leave the old family sword behind in Hyperion. He had almost lost it once before. Allday would be remembering that too, thinking Bolitho had left it with Ozzard only because he believed he might not return.

Adam would wear the sword one day. It would never fall into enemy hands again.

Later, in Imrie's small cabin, they peered at the chart behind shuttered stern windows. Thor was cleared for action, but her chance would come only if the first part succeeded. Bolitho traced the twisting shallows with the dividers, as Price must have done before his ship had driven ashore. He felt the others crowding around and against him. Imrie and his senior master's mate, Lieutenant Parris, and Thor's second lieutenant, who would cover the attack.

Bolitho wondered momentarily if Parris was thinking about the floggings, which had been cancelled at Haven's order. Or of the fact that Haven had insisted that the two culprits should be included in the raiding party. All the bad eggs in one basket maybe, he thought.

He pulled out his watch and laid it beneath a low-slung lantern.

'Thor will anchor within the half-hour. All boats will cast off immediately, the jolly boat leading. Soundings must be taken, but not unnecessarily. Stealth is vital. We must be in position by dawn.' He glanced at their grim expressions. 'Questions?'

Dalmaine, Thor's second lieutenant, raised his hand. 'What if the Don has moved, sir?'

It was amazing how easy they found it to speak up, Bolitho thought. Without the intimidating vice-admiral's epaulettes, and in their own ship, they had already spoken of their ideas, their anxieties as well. It was like being in a frigate or a sloop-of-war, all over again.

'Then we will be unlucky.' Bolitho smiled and saw Jenour's eyes watching the brass dividers as he tapped the chart. 'But there have been no reports of any large ships on the move.'

The lieutenant persisted, 'And the battery, sir. Suppose we cannot take it by surprise?'

It was Imrie who answered. 'I would suggest, Mr Dalmaine, that all your pride in your mortars will have been misplaced!' The others laughed. It was the first healthy sign. Bolitho said, 'We destroy the battery, then Thor can follow through the sandbars. Her carronades will more than take care of any guardboats.' He stood up carefully to avoid the low beams. 'And then we shall attack.'

Parris said, 'And if we are repulsed, Sir Richard?'

Their eyes met across the small table. Bolitho studied his gipsy good looks, the reckless candour in his voice. A West Country man, probably from Dorset. Allday's blunt words seemed to intrude, and he thought of the small portrait in Haven's cabin.

He said, 'The treasure-ship must be sunk, fired if possible. It may not prevent salvage, but the delay will be considerable for the Don's coffers!'

'I see, sir.' Parris rubbed his chin. 'The wind's backed. It could help us.' He spoke without emotion, not as a lieutenant who might well be dead, or screaming under a Spanish surgeon's knife by morning, but as a man used to command.

He was considering alternatives. Suppose, if, perhaps.

Bolitho watched him. 'So shall we be about it, gentlemen?' They met his gaze. Did they know, he wondered? Would they still trust his judgement? He smiled in spite of his thoughts. Haven certainly trusted nobody!

Imrie said cheerfully, 'Och, Sir Richard, we'll a' be rich men by noon!'

They left the cabin, stooping and groping like cripples. Bolitho waited until Imrie alone remained.

'It must be said. If I fall, you must withdraw if you think fit.'

Imrie studied him thoughtfully. 'If you fall, Sir Richard, it will be because I've failed you.' He glanced around the cramped cabin. 'We'll make you proud, you'll see, sir!'

Bolitho walked out into the darkness and stared at the stars until his mind was steady again.

Why did you never get used to it? The simple loyalty. Their honesty with one another, which was unknown or ignored by so many people at home.

Thor dropped anchor, and as she swung to her cable in a lively current, the boats were manhandled alongside or hoisted outboard with such speed that Bolitho guessed that her commander had been drilling and preparing for this moment since he had weighed at English Harbour.

He settled himself in the sternsheets of the jolly boat, which even in the darkness seemed heavy, low in the water with her weight of men and weapons. He had discarded his coat and hat and could have been another lieutenant like Parris.

Allday and Jenour were crowded against him, and while Allday watched the oarsmen with a critical eye, the flag lieutenant said excitedly, 'They'll never believe this!' By they, he meant his parents, Bolitho guessed. It seemed to sum up his whole command, he decided. Captains or seamen, there were more sons than fathers.

He heard the grind of long sweeps as the lighter was cast adrift from Thor's quarter, spray bursting over the blades until two more boats flung over their tow-lines.

It was a crazy plan, but one which might just work. Bolitho plucked his shirt away from his body. Sweat or spray, he could not be sure. He concentrated on the time, the whispered soundings, the steady rise and fall of oars. He did not even dare to peer astern to ensure that the others were following.

The boats were at the mercy of the currents and tides around the invisible sandbars. One minute gurgling beneath the keel, and the next with all the oars thrashing and heaving to prevent the hull from being swung in the wrong direction.

He pictured Parris with the main body of men, and Dalmaine in the lighter with his mortars, the hands baling to keep the craft afloat. So close inshore he would not dare to use the pumps now.

There was a startled gasp from the bows, and the coxswain called hoarsely, 'Oars! Easy, lads!'

With the blades stilled and dripping above either beam, the jolly boat pirouetted around in the channel like an untidy sea-creature. A man scrambled aft and stared at Bolitho for several seconds.

He gasped, 'Vessel anchored dead ahead, sir!' He faltered, as if suddenly aware that he was addressing his admiral. 'Small 'un, sir. Schooner mebbee!'

Jenour groaned softly. 'What damned luck! We'd never —'

Bolitho swung round. 'Shutter the lantern astern!' He prayed that Parris would see it in time. An alarm now would catch them in the open. It was too far to pull back, impossible to slip past the anchored ship without being challenged.

He heard himself say, 'Very well, Cox'n. Give way all. Very steady now.' He recalled Keen's calm voice when he had spoken with his gun crews before a battle. Like a rider quieting a troubled mount.

He said, 'It's up to us. No turning back.' He made each word sink in but it was like speaking into darkness or an empty boat. 'Steer a little to larboard, Cox'n.' He heard a rasp of steel, and a petty officer saying in a fierce whisper, 'No, don't load! The first man to loose off a ball will feel my dirk in 'is belly!'

And suddenly there she was. Tall, spiralling masts and furled sails, a shaded anchor light which threw thin gold lines up her shrouds. Bolitho stared at it as the boat glided towards her bows and outstretched jib-boom.

Was it to be here, like this?

He heard the oars being hauled inboard with elaborate care, the sudden scramble in the bows where the keen-eyed seaman had first sighted this unexpected stranger.

Allday muttered restlessly, 'Come on, you buggers, let's be 'avin' you!'

Bolitho stood up and saw the jib-boom swooping above him as the current carried them into the hull like a piece of driftwood. Jenour was crouching beside him, his hanger already drawn, his head thrown back as if expecting a shot.

'Grapnel!'

It thudded over the bulwark even as the boat surged alongside.

'At 'em, lads!' The fury of the man's whisper was like a trumpet call. Bolitho felt himself knocked and carried up the side, seizing lines, scrabbling for handholds, until with something like madness they flung themselves on to the vessel's deck.

A figure ran from beneath the foremast, his yell of alarm cut short as a seaman brought him down with a cudgel; two other shapes seemed to rise up under their feet and in those split seconds Bolitho realised that the anchor watch had been asleep on deck.

Around him he could sense the wildness of his men, the claws of tension giving way to a brittle hatred of anything that spoke or moved.

Voices echoed below deck, and Bolitho shouted, 'Easy, lads! Hold fast!' He listened to one voice in particular rising above the rest and knew it was speaking a language he did not recognise.

Jenour gasped, 'Swedish, sir!"

Bolitho watched the boarding party prodding at the schooner's crew, as singly or in small groups they clambered through two hatches to gape at their change of circumstances.

Bolitho heard the stealthy movement of oars nearby and guessed that Parris with one of his boats was close alongside. He had probably been expecting a sudden challenge, the raking murder of swivels.