Bolitho stood in the centre of his cabin, while Yovell and Jenour sorted through a bag of despatches and letters which Adam had brought from the shore.

Adam said, 'It was amazing bad luck, Uncle. The Frogs put to sea under Admiral Villeneuve, and Our Nel went looking for them. But while the little admiral was searching around Malta and Alexandria, Villeneuve slipped through the Strait and into the Atlantic. In God's name, Uncle, had your orders been sent earlier you might have met up with 'em! Thank the high heavens you did not!'

Bolitho smiled quietly. Adam spoke with the ease and confidence of a seasoned old campaigner, and he was twenty-four years old; twenty-five in two months' time.

Adam said, 'This old ship, Uncle. Look at us now, eh?' Bolitho nodded as Yovell placed an official Admiralty envelope before him. Adam had joined Hyperion as his first ship, a thin, pale youth, but with all the determination and wildness of a young colt.

Indeed, he thought. Look at us now.

So the French had put to sea at last. Past Gibraltar and across the Atlantic with Nelson eventually in hot pursuit. Villeneuve had apparently sailed westward, though for what purpose nobody seemed quite sure. Bolitho read swiftly, aware of Adam watching him. Wanting to talk with him more than anything, but needing to know what was happening; it might affect them all.

Bolitho handed the letter to Yovell and said, 'So the French are on the move. Is it a trick or are they out to divide our forces?'

Adam was right. Had he been ordered to leave Antigua earlier they might well have met up with the enemy. Five third-rates against one of the finest fleets in the world. The outcome would have been in no doubt. But at least they might have delayed Villeneuve until Nelson caught up with them. He smiled. Our Nel indeed.

Bolitho took the next letter, already opened by Jenour, who had barely taken his eyes off the young commander since he had stepped aboard. A part of the Bolitho story he did not yet share.

Bolitho said softly, 'Hell's teeth. I am to relieve Thomas Herrick at Malta.' He examined his feelings. He should be happy to see the man who was his best friend. After the court of enquiry into Valentine Keen's behaviour, when only Bolitho's word had prevented a court-martial, he was not so certain. Deep in his heart Bolitho knew Herrick had been in the right. Would I have twisted the rules in his place? The question had never been answered.

Adam eyed him gravely. 'But first you sail for England, Uncle.' He forced a grin. 'With me.'

Bolitho took the envelope from him and slit it open. It was strange that of all his people who were dear to him, only Adam had ever met the famous Nelson, had carried more despatches from him in his brig Firefly than anybody.

The new squadron would rest and take on victuals at Gibraltar. Nelson had written in his strange sloping hand, 'Doubtless the care and attention of English Harbour will have left much to complain on!' Was there anything he did not know about?

Bolitho was to be released from his command for a brief visit to their Lordships of Admiralty. The letter ended with the barb Nelson so enjoyed. 'There you may discover how well they fight their wars with words and paper instead of ordnance and good steel….'

It was true that the squadron could do with fresh victualling and some spare spars. The blockade was likely to be a lengthy one. The French must return to port, if only to await reinforcements from their Spanish ally. One of which would likely be the Intrépido.

Bolitho glanced at the pile of charts on a nearby table. The vastness of a great ocean which could hide or swallow a fleet with ease. Thank God Catherine had written her letter from England, otherwise he would have been fretting that she had been taken by the enemy.

He looked at Adam and saw the sudden apprehension in his eyes.

Bolitho said to the others, 'Please leave us a while.' He touched Jenour's arm. 'Delve through the rest of the pile, Stephen. I am afraid I have come to rely too much on you.'

The door closed behind them and Adam said quietly, 'That was kindly done, Uncle. The flag lieutenant is another one caught in your spell.'

Bolitho asked,' What is wrong?'

Adam stood up and crossed to the stern windows. How like his father, Bolitho thought. Hugh would have been proud of him this day, to see him in command of his own ship.

'I know you hate deceit, Uncle.'

'So?'

'I once fought a stupid duel over yonder.'

'I've not forgotten, Adam.'

He shifted his feet on the checkered canvas deck. 'Is it true what they're saying?'

'I expect so. Some of it anyway.'

Adam turned, his hair shining in the sunlight. 'Is it what you want?'

Bolitho nodded. 'I will see that no harm is done to you, Adam. You have been hurt enough, if not by your family then because of it.'

Adam's chin lifted. 'I shall be all right, Uncle. Lord Nelson said to me that England needs all her sons now —'

Bolitho stared. His father had said those same words when he had given him the old sword, which should have been Hugh's but for his disgrace. It was uncanny.

Adam continued, 'If one man can love another, then you have mine, Uncle. You know that already, but you may wish to remember it when others turn against you, which they will. I do not know the lady, but then I do not really know the Lady Belinda.' He looked down, embarrassed. 'In God's name, I am out of my depth!'

Bolitho walked to the windows and stared hard at the nearest ship's motionless reflection.

'She has my heart, Adam. With her I am a man again. Without her I am like a ship denied sails.'

Adam faced him. 'I believe this call to London is for you to settle matters. To clear the air.'

'By denying the truth?'

'It is what I think, Uncle.'

He smiled sadly. 'So wise a head on so young a pair of shoulders.'

Adam shrugged, and appeared suddenly vulnerable. Like the fourteen-year old midshipman who had once walked all the way from his home in Penzance to join Bolitho's Hyperion after the death of his mother. A whore she might have been, but she had tried to care for the boy. And Hugh had known nothing about it, not until it was all too late.

Adam said, 'At least we will keep one another company. I have more despatches from Lord Nelson.' He eyed him steadily. 'I am to carry you back to the squadron when your affairs in London are settled.'

Who had decided that, Bolitho wondered? Nelson himself, getting his own back on those who despised his infatuation with Emma Hamilton, and showing them he had a kindred spirit? Or someone more highly placed, who would use family unity to make him change his mind? He could still not accept that he was going to see Catherine again so soon. Even the news of a temporary French breakout seemed unimportant by comparison.

He recalled the others to the cabin and said, 'I shall require you to remain here in my absence, Stephen.' He shook his head to cool down the protests and added, 'I need you in Hyperion; do you know what I am saying?'

He saw understanding clearing the disappointment from the lieutenant's eyes.

Bolitho said, 'An ally, if you like, someone who will send me word if anything untoward happens.'

He looked at Yovell. 'Help the flag lieutenant all you can.' He forced a smile. 'A rock in stormy seas, eh?'

Yovell did not smile. 'I'm worried about you, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho looked at them. 'Good friends, all of you. But just now and then I have to act alone.'

He thought suddenly of the livid scar on Somervell's neck. Was that what was intended to settle the matter? A duel?

He dismissed the idea immediately. Somervell was too anxious to please the King. No, it was to be a skirmish of a different kind.

He said, 'I shall take Allday with me.'

Adam clapped one hand over his hair and exclaimed, 'I am an idiot! I completely forgot it!' He pointed vaguely through the windows. 'I have taken young Bankart as my own coxswain! He marched aboard Firefly at Plymouth when I called there for orders.'

'That was good of you, Adam.'

He grinned but it did not reach his eyes. 'Only right that one bastard should help another!'

The little brig Firefly weighed and put to sea the following day. It was a rush from the moment Bolitho had read the despatches, and he barely had time to summon his captains and to tell them to use the next weeks to supply and refurbish their ships.

Haven had listened to the instructions without any show of surprise or excitement. Bolitho had impressed on him more than any other, that as flag captain it was his obliged duty to watch over the squadron, and not merely the affairs of his own command. He had also made it very clear that no matter what impressive plan Captain McKee of the frigate Tybalt should put forward as an excuse to steal away and regain his independence, it was to be denied. I need that frigate as much, if not more than I need him.

After Hyperion's cabin, the brig's quarters seemed like a cupboard. Only beneath the skylight could Bolitho stand upright, and he knew that the ship's company had to exist in some parts where the deckhead was only four feet six inches high.

But the vessel seemed as lively inboard as out, and Bolitho quickly noticed that there was a very relaxed feeling between afterguard and forecastle, and was secretly proud of what his nephew had done.

He was disturbed by the fact there had been no more news from Catherine and had told himself she was trying to keep up normal appearances until the gossip died, or was transferred to another. But it worried him nevertheless, especially after reading the one letter which had been sent by Belinda.

It was a cool, and what his mother would have called a sensible letter. She referred only briefly to the infatuation with this woman, something which could be forgiven if not understood. Nothing would be allowed to stand between them. I shall not tolerate it. Had she written in anger he might have felt less troubled. Perhaps she had already met Catherine at one of the receptions which attracted Belinda so much. But that also seemed unlikely.

Once into the Western Ocean Firefly began to live up to her name. Adam kept her standing well out and away from land as day by day they beat their way around the southern shores of Portugal, then north towards the Bay of Biscay. When he asked Adam why he was standing so far out from land he explained with an awkward grin that it was to avoid the weatherbeaten ships of the blockading squadrons. 'If any captain sees Firefly he'll make a signal for me to heave-to so that he can pass over mail for England! This time, I do not have an hour to waste!'

Bolitho found time to pity the men of the blockading squadrons. Week in and week out they tacked up and down in all weathers, while the enemy rested safely in harbour and watched their every move. It was the most hated duty of all, as Hyperion's newer hands would soon appreciate.

The passage of twelve hundred miles from Gibraltar to Portsmouth was one of the liveliest Bolitho could recall. He spent much of the time on deck with Adam, shouting to each other above the roar of spray and wind as the brig spread her canvas to such a degree that Bolitho wondered why the sticks were not torn out of her.

It was exhilarating to be with him again, to see how he had changed from the eager lieutenant to a man in command. Who knew the strain of every piece of cordage and canvas, and could give confidence to those who did not. Sometimes he liked to quote Nelson, the hero he so obviously admired. His first lieutenant, quite new to Bolitho, had asked him nervously about reefing when the Biscay gales had sprung up suddenly like some fierce tribe.

Adam had called above the din, 'It is time to reef when you feel like it!'

Another time he had quoted his uncle when a master's mate had asked about getting the men fed, before or after changing tack?

Adam had glanced across at Bolitho and smiled. 'The people come first this time.'

Then into the Western Approaches and up the Channel, exchanging signals with watchful patrols, and then on a glorious spring morning they sighted the Isle of Wight. Five and a half days from Gibraltar. They had flown right enough.

Bolitho and Adam went to a smaller inn, and not the George, to await the Portsmouth Flier to London. Perhaps they had both spoken so much about the last time they had left Portsmouth together. Too many memories, maybe? Like being cleansed of something bad.

It had been like a tonic to see Allday with his son throughout the lively passage. Now they too were saying their farewells, while young Bankart remained with his ship and Allday boarded the coach. Bolitho protested that Allday had to be an outsider, because the coach was filled to capacity.

Allday merely grinned and looked scornfully at the plump merchants who were the other passengers.

'I want to see the land, Sir Richard, not listen to th' bleatings o' th' likes o' them! I'll be fine on the upper deck!'

Bolitho settled in a corner, his eyes closed as a defence against conversation. Several people had noticed his rank, and were probably waiting to ask him about the war. At least the merchants appeared to be doing well out of it, he thought.

Adam sat opposite him, his eyes distant as he watched the rolling Hampshire countryside, his reflection in the coach window like the portraits at Falmouth.

On and on, stops for fresh horses, tankards of ale from saucy wenches at the various coaching inns. Heavy meals when they halted so that the passengers could ease their aching muscles and test their appetites on anything from rabbit pie to the best beef. The further you went from the sea, the less sign of war you found, Bolitho decided.

The coach ground to a halt at the final inn at Ripley in the county of Surrey.

Bolitho walked along the narrow street, his cloak worn to conceal his uniform although the air was warm and filled with the scent of flowers.

England. My England

He watched the steaming horses being led to the stables and sighed. Tomorrow they would alight at the George in Southwark. London.

Then she would give him back his confidence. Standing there, without a uniform in sight, and the sound of laughter from the inn he found he was able to say it out loud.

'Kate. I love thee.'

Admiral Sir Owen Godschale watched while his servant carried a decanter of claret to a small table and then withdrew. Outside the tall windows the sun was shining, the air hot and dusty, remote like the muffled sounds of countless carriage wheels.

Bolitho took time to sip the claret, surprised that the Admiralty could still make him ill-at-ease and on the defensive. Everything had changed for him; it should be obvious, he thought. He and Adam had been ushered into a small, comfortably furnished library, something quite different from the large reception room he had seen earlier. It had been crowded with sea-officers, mostly captains, or so it had appeared. Restlessly waiting to meet a senior officer or his lackey, to ask favours, to plead for commands, new ships, almost anything. As I once was, he had thought. He still could not get used to the immediate respect, the servility of the Admiralty's servants and guardians.

The admiral was a handsome, powerfully built man who had distinguished himself in the American Revolution. A contemporary of Bolitho's, they had in fact been posted on the same day. There was little to show of that youthful and daring frigate captain now, Bolitho thought. Godschale looked comfortably sleek, his hands and features pale as if he had not been at sea for years.

He had not held this high appointment for very long. It seemed likely he would discourage anything controversial which might delay or damage his plans to enter the House of Lords.

Godschale was saying, 'It warms the heart to read of your exploits, Sir Richard. We in Admiralty too often feel cut adrift from the actual deeds which we can only plan, and which with God's guidance, can be brought to a victorious fruition.'

Bolitho relaxed slightly. He thought of Nelson's wry comment on wars fought with words and paper. Across the room, his eyes alert, Adam sat with an untouched glass by his side. Was it a courtesy, or part of a plot to include him in this meeting?

Godschale warmed to his theme. 'The treasure-ship was one such reward, although….' his voice dragged over the word. There are some who might suggest you took too much upon yourself. Your task is to lead and to offer the encouragement of your experience, but that is in the past. We have to think of the future.'

Bolitho asked, 'Why was I brought here, Sir Owen?'

The admiral smiled and toyed with his empty glass. 'To put you in the position of knowing what is happening in Europe, and to reward you for your gallant action. I believe it is His Majesty's pleasure to offer you the honorary rank of Lieutenant Colonel in the Royal Marines.'

Bolitho looked at his hands. When was Godschale getting to the point? An honorary appointment to the Royal Marines was only useful if you were faced by a confrontation between Army and Navy in some difficult campaign. It was an honour, of course, but it hardly warranted bringing him away from his squadron.

Godschale said, 'We believe that the French are gathering their fleet in several different areas. Your transfer to the flag at Malta will enable you to disperse your squadron to best advantage.'

'The French are said to be at Martinique, Sir Owen. Nelson declares —'

The admiral showed his teeth like a gentle fox. 'Nelson is not above being wrong, Sir Richard. He may be the country's darling; he is not immune to false judgement.'

The admiral included Adam for the first time. 'I am able to tell your nephew, and it is my honour so to do, that he is appointed captain from the first of June.' He smiled, pleased with himself. The Glorious First of June, eh, Commander?'

Adam stared at him, then at Bolitho. 'Why, I thank you, Sir Owen!'

The admiral wagged his finger. 'You have more than earned your promotion. If you continue as you have I see no reason for your advancement to falter, eh?'

Bolitho saw the mixed emotions on Adam's sunburned features. Promotion. Every young officer's hope and dream. Three years more and he could be a post-captain. But was it a just reward, or a bribe? With the rank would come a different command, maybe even a frigate, what he had always talked about; as his uncle had once been, his father too, except that Hugh had fought on the wrong side.

Godschale turned to Bolitho. 'It is good to be here with you today, Sir Richard. A long, long climb since the Saintes in eighty-two. I wonder if many people realise how hard it is, how easy to fall from grace, sometimes through no fault of ours, eh?'

He must have seen the coldness in Bolitho's eyes and hurried on, 'Before you quit London and return to Gibraltar, you must dine with me.' He glanced only briefly at Adam. 'You too, of course. Wives, a few friends, that kind of affair. It does no harm at all.'

It was not really a request, Bolitho thought. It was an order.

'I am not certain that Lady Belinda is still in London. I have not had the time yet to —'

Godschale looked meaningly at a gilded clock. 'Quite so. You are a busy man. But never fear, my wife saw her just a day back. They are good company for one another while you and I deal with the dirtier matters of war!' He chuckled. 'Settled then.'

Bolitho stood up. He would have to see her anyway, but why no word from or about Catherine? He had gone alone to her house against Adam's wishes, but had got no further than the entrance. An imposing footman had assured him that his visit would be noted, but Viscount Somervell had left the country again on the King's service, and her ladyship was most likely with him.

He knew a lot more than he was saying. And so did Godschale. Even the cheap comment to Adam had an edge to it. The promotion was his right; he had won it without favour and against all prejudice.

Outside the Admiralty building the air seemed cleaner, and Bolitho said, 'What did you make of that?'

Adam shrugged. 'I am not that much of a fool that I could not recognise a threat, Uncle.' His chin lifted again. 'What do you want me to do?'

'You may become involved, Adam.'

He grinned, the strain dropping away like an unwanted mask. 'I am involved, sir!'

'Very well. I shall go to the house I mentioned.' He smiled at a memory. 'Browne, once my flag lieutenant, placed it at my disposal whenever I needed it.' Browne with an 'e'. Since the death of his father, he had succeeded to the title and had taken his place well ahead of Godschale in the House of Lords.

Adam nodded. 'I will put the word about.' He glanced at the imposing buildings and richly dressed passers-by. 'Though this is not some seaport. A man could be lost forever here.'

He glanced at him thoughtfully, 'Are you quite sure, Uncle? Maybe she has gone, thinking it best for you,' he faltered, 'as it might well be. She sounds like a most honourable lady.'

'I am sure, Adam, and thank you for that. I know not where Valentine Keen is at present, and there is no time to reach him by letter. I have days, not weeks.'

He must have displayed his anxiety, and Adam said, 'Rest easy, Uncle. You have many friends.'

They fell into step and walked into the sunshine. There were some people watching the passing carriages and one turned as the two officers appeared.

He called, 'Look, lads, 'tis 'im!' He waved a battered hat. 'God bless you, Dick! Give the Frogs another drubbin'!'

Someone gave a cheer and shouted, 'Don't you listen to them other buggers!'

Bolitho smiled, although his heart felt like breaking.

Then he said quietly, 'Yes, I do have friends after all.'

True to the promise of his one-time flag lieutenant, Bolitho was warmly received at the house in Arlington Street. The master was away in the North of England, the housekeeper explained, but she had her instructions, and conducted them to a suite of pleasant rooms on the first floor. Adam left almost at once to see friends who might be able to shed some light on Catherine's disappearance; for Bolitho was now convinced that she had vanished. He dreaded that Adam might be right, that she had gone away with Somervell for appearance's sake, to save their reputations.

On the first morning Bolitho left the house. He had an immediate clash with Allday, who protested at being left behind. Bolitho had insisted. This is not the quarterdeck with some Frenchie about to board us, old friend!'

Allday had glared out at the busy street. 'The more I'm in London, the less I trust th' place!'

Bolitho had said, 'I need you here. In case someone comes. The housekeeper might turn him away otherwise.'

Or her, Allday thought darkly.

It was not a long walk to the quiet square of which Belinda had written in her letter.

He paused to look at some children who were playing in the grassy centre of the square, their nursemaids standing nearby; gossiping about their respective families, he thought.

One of the little girls might be Elizabeth. It brought him all aback to realise that she must have changed a lot since he had last seen her. She would be three soon. He saw two of the nursemaids curtsy to him, and touched his hat in reply.

Another sailor home from the sea. It seemed ironic now. How would he conduct the next moments in his life?

The house was tall and elegant, like many which had been built in His Majesty's reign. Wide steps flanked by ornate iron railings, with three stories above to match the houses on either side. A servant opened the door and stared at him for several seconds. Then she bobbed in a deep curtsy, and, stammering apologies, took his hat and showed him into a pillared hall with a blue and gilt-leafed ceiling. 'This way, sir!'

She opened a pair of doors, and stood aside while he walked into an equally fine drawing-room. The furniture looked foreign to him, and the curtains and matching carpets were, he guessed, newly made. He thought of the rambling grey house in Falmouth. Compared with this it was like a farm.

He caught sight of himself in a tall, gilded mirror, and automatically straightened his shoulders. His face looked deeply tanned above his spotless waistcoat and breeches, but the uniform made him look like someone he did not know.

Bolitho tried to relax, to pitch his ear to the muted sounds above him in the house. Another world.

The doors opened suddenly and she walked quickly into the room. She was dressed in dark blue which almost matched his own coat, and her hair was piled high to show her small ears and the jewellery around her neck. She looked very composed, defiant.

He said, 'I sent a note. I hope this is convenient?'

She did not take her eyes from him; she was examining him as if to seek some injury or disfigurement, or that he had changed in another way.

'I think it absurd that you should be staying in somebody else's house.'

Bolitho shrugged. 'It seemed best until —'

'Until you saw how I would behave to you, is that it?'

They faced each other, more like strangers than husband and wife.

He replied, 'I tried to explain in my letter —'

She waved him down. 'My cousin is here. He begged me to forgive your foolishness, for all our sakes. I have been much embarrassed by your reckless affair. You are a senior officer of repute, yet you behave like some foul-mouthed seaman with his doxy on the waterfront!'

Bolitho looked around the room; his heart, like his voice, was heavy.

'Some of those foul-mouthed sailors are dying at this very moment to protect houses like this.'

She smiled briefly, as if she had discovered what she had been seeking. 'Tut, Richard! Your share of prize money from the Spanish galleon will more than cover it, so do not lose the issue in hypocrisy!'

Bolitho said flatly, 'It is not an affair.'

'I see.' She moved to a window and touched a long curtain. Then where is this woman you seem to have lost your mind to?' She swung round, her eyes angry. 'I shall tell you! She is with her husband Viscount Somervell, who is apparently more willing to forgive and forget than I!'

'You saw him?'

She tossed her head, her fingers stroking the curtain more quickly to reveal her agitation.

'Of course. We were both very concerned. It was humiliating and degrading.'

'I regret that.'

'But not what you did?'

'That is unfair.' He watched her, amazed that his voice was calm when his whole being was in turmoil. 'But not unexpected.'

She looked past him at the room. 'This belonged to the Duke of Richmond. It is a fine house. Suitable for us. For you.'

Bolitho heard a sound and saw a small child being led past the doors. He knew it was Elizabeth despite her disguise of frothy lace and pale blue silk.

She turned just once, hanging to the hand of her nursemaid. She stared at him without recognition and then walked on. Bolitho said, 'She knew me not.'

'What did you expect?' Then her voice softened. 'It can and must change. Given time —'

He looked at her, hiding his despair. 'Live here? Give up the sea when our very country is in peril? What is this madness, when people cannot see the danger?'

'You can still serve, Richard. Sir Owen Godschale commands the greatest respect both at Court and in Parliament.'

Bolitho rested his hands on the cool marble mantel. 'I cannot do it.'

She watched him in the mirror. Then at least escort me to Sir Owen's reception and dinner. I understand we shall receive notice of it this day.' She hesitated for the first time. 'So that people can see the emptiness of the gossip. She has gone, Richard. Have no doubt of that. Maybe it was an honest reaction, or perhaps she saw where her best fortune lies.' She smiled as he turned hotly towards her. 'Believe what you will. I am thinking of you now. After all, I do have the right!'

Bolitho said quietly, 'I shall stay at the other house until tomorrow. I have to think.'

She nodded, her eyes very clear. 'I understand. I know your moods. Tomorrow we shall begin again. I shall forgive, while you must try to forget. Do not damage your family name because of a momentary infatuation. We parted badly, so I must carry some of the blame.'

She walked beside him to the entrance hall. At no time had they touched, let alone embraced.

She asked, 'Is everything well with you? I did hear that you had been ill.'

He took his hat from the gaping servant. 'I am well enough, thank you.'

Then he turned and walked out into the square as the door closed behind him.

How could he go to the reception and act as if nothing had happened? If he never saw Catherine again, he would never forget her and what she had done for him.

Almost out loud he said, 'I cannot believe she would run away!' The words were torn from him, and he did not even notice two people turn to stare after him.

Allday greeted him warily. 'No news, Sir Richard."

Bolitho threw himself into a chair. 'Fetch me a glass of something, will you?'

'Some nice cool hock?'

Allday watched worriedly as Bolitho replied, 'No. Brandy this time.'

He drank two glasses before its warmth steadied his mind.

'In God's name, I am in hell.'

Allday refilled the glass. It was likely the best thing to make him forget.

He stared round the room. Get back to the sea. That he could understand.

Bolitho's head lolled and the empty glass fell unheeded on the carpet.

The dream was sudden and violent. Catherine pulling at him, her breasts bared as she was dragged away from him, her screams probing at his brain like hot irons.

He awoke with a start and saw Allday release his arm, his face full of concern.

Bolitho gasped, 'I — I'm sorry! It was a nightmare —' He stared round; the room was darker. 'How long have I been here?'

Allday watched him grimly. 'That don't matter now, beggin' yer pardon.' He jabbed his thumb at the door. 'There's someone here to see you. Wouldn't talk to no one else.'

Bolitho's aching mind cleared. 'What about?' He shook his head. 'No matter, fetch him in.'

He got to his feet and stared at his reflection in the window. I am losing my sanity.

Allday pouted. 'Might be a beggar.'

'Fetch him.'

He heard Allday's familiar tread, and a strange clumping step which reminded him of an old friend he had lost contact with. But the man who was ushered in by Allday was nobody he recognised, nor was his rough uniform familiar.

The visitor removed his outdated tricorn hat to reveal untidy greying hair. He was badly stooped, and Bolitho guessed it was because of his crude wooden leg.

He asked, 'Can I help you? I am —'

The man peered at him and nodded firmly. 'I knows 'oo you are, zur.'

He had a faint West Country accent, and the fashion in which he touched his forehead marked him as an old sailor.

But the uniform with its plain brass buttons was like nothing Bolitho had ever seen.

He said, 'Will you be seated?' He gestured to Allday. 'A glass for — what may I call you?'

The man balanced awkwardly on a chair and nodded again very slowly. 'You won't recall, zur. But me name's Vanzell —'

Allday exclaimed, 'Bless you, so it is!' He stared at the one-legged man and added, 'Gun-captain in th' Phalarope.'

Bolitho gripped the back of a chair to contain his racing thoughts. All those years, and yet he could not understand why he had not recognised the man called Vanzell. A Devonian like Yovell. It was over twenty years back, when he had been a boy-captain like Adam would soon be.

The Saintes Godschale had dismissed as a sentimental memory. It was not like that to Bolitho. The shattered line of battle, the roar of cannon fire while men fell and died, including his first coxswain, Stockdale, who had fallen protecting him. He glanced at Allday, seeing the same memory on his rugged features. He had been there too, as a pressed man, but one who was still with him as a faithful friend.

Vanzell watched their recognition with satisfaction. Then he said, 'I never forget, y'see. 'Ow you helped me an' th' wife when I was cast ashore after losin' me pin to a Froggie ball. You saved us, an' that's a fact, zur.' He put down the glass and stared at him with sudden determination.

'I 'eard you was in London, zur. So I come meself. To try an' repay what you did for me an' th' wife, God rest her soul. There's only me now, but I'll not forget what 'appened after them bastards raked our decks that day.'

Bolitho sat down and faced him. 'What are you doing now?' He tried to conceal the anxiety and urgency in his bearing. This man, this tattered memory from the past, was frightened. For some reason it had cost a lot for him to come.

Vanzell said, 'It will lose me me job, zur.' He was thinking aloud. 'They all knows I once served under you. They'll not forgive me, not never.'

He made up his mind and studied Bolitho searchingly. 'I'm a watchman, zur, it was all I could get. They've no time for half-timbered Jacks no more.' His hand shook as he took another glass from Allday. Then he added huskily. 'I'm at th' Waites, zur.'

'What is that?'

Allday said sharply, 'It's a prison.'

Vanzell downed the glass in one gulp. 'They got 'er there. I know, 'cause I saw 'er, an' I 'eard what the others was sayin' about you both.'

Bolitho could feel the blood rushing through his brain.

In a prison. It was impossible. But he knew it was true.

The man was saying to Allday, 'It's a filthy place full o' scum. Debtors an' lunatics, a bedlam you'd not believe.'

Allday glanced tightly at Bolitho. 'Oh, yes I would, matey.'

Bolitho said, 'Tell the housekeeper I shall need a carriage at once. Do you know where this place is?' Allday shook his head.

Vanzell said, 'I — I'll show 'ee, zur.'

'Good.' Bolitho's mind was suddenly clear, as if it had been doused in icy water.

He asked, 'Would you care to work for me at Falmouth? There'll be a cottage.' He looked away, unable to watch the gratitude. 'There are one or two old Phalaropes working there. You'll feel at home.'

Allday came back and handed him his cloak. Bolitho saw that he had donned his best blue coat with the gilt buttons, and he carried a brace of pistols in his other hand.

Allday watched him while he clipped on his sword. 'It might still be a mistake, Sir Richard.'

'Not this time, old friend.' He looked at him for a few seconds. 'Ready?'

Allday waited for the other man to lead the way to a smart carriage standing outside the door.

The words kept repeating themselves over and over again.

She did not run away. She had not left him.

The Waites prison was just to the north of London and it was almost dark by the time they got there.

It was a grim, high-walled place, and would look ten times worse in daylight.

Bolitho climbed down from the coach and said to Vanzell, 'Wait here. You have done your part.' To Allday he added shortly, 'So let's be about it.'

He hammered on a heavy door and after a long pause it was opened just a few inches. An unshaven man, wearing the same uniform as Vanzell, peered out at them.

'Yeh? 'Oo calls at this late hour?' He held up a lantern, and at that moment Bolitho let his cloak fall from his shoulders so that the light glittered on his epaulettes.

'Tell the governor, or whoever is in charge, that Sir Richard Bolitho wishes to see him.' He stared at the man's confusion and added harshly, 'Now!'

They followed the watchman up a long, untidy pathway to the main building and Bolitho noticed that he was limping. They evidently found it cheaper to employ unwanted ex-servicemen, he thought bitterly. Another door, and a whispered conversation while Bolitho stood in a dank room, his hand on his sword, aware of Allday's painful breathing close behind him.

Allday gasped as a piercing scream, followed by shouts and thuds echoed though the building. Other voices joined in, until the place seemed to cringe in torment. More angry yells, and someone banging on a door with something heavy; and then eventual silence again.

The door opened and the watchman waited to allow Bolitho to enter. The contrast was startling. Good furniture, a great desk littered with ledgers and papers, and a carpet which was as much out of place here as the man who rose to greet him.

Short, and jolly-looking, with a curly wig to cover his baldness, he had all the appearances of a country parson.

'Sir Richard Bolitho, this is indeed an honour.' He glanced at a clock and smiled, like a saucy child. 'And a surprise at this late hour.'

Bolitho ignored his out-thrust had. 'I have come for Lady Somervell. I'll brook no argument. Where is she?'

The man stared at him. 'Indeed, Sir Richard, I would do anything rather than offend such a gallant gentleman, but I fear that someone has played a cruel game with you.'

Bolitho recalled the terrible scream. 'Who do you hold here?'

The little man relaxed slightly. 'Lunatics, and those who plead insanity to avoid their debts to society—'

Bolitho walked around the desk and said softly, 'She is her and you know it. How could you hold a lady in this foul place and not know? I do not care what name she is given, or under what charge. If you do not release her into my care I will see that you are arrested and tried for conspiracy to conceal a crime, and for falsifying the deeds of your office!' He touched the hilt of his sword. 'I am in no mood for more lies!'

The man pleaded, 'Tomorrow perhaps I can discover—'

Bolitho felt a strange calm moving over him. She is here. For just a moment the man's confidence had made him doubt.

He shook his head. 'Now.' By tomorrow she would have been taken elsewhere. Anything could have happened to her.

He said curtly, 'Take us to her room.'

The little man pulled open a drawer and squeaked with fright as Allday responded instantly by drawing and cocking a pistol in one movement. He raised a key in his shaking hands.

'Please, be careful!' He was almost in tears.

Bolitho caught his breath as they walked into a dimly lit corridor. There was straw scattered on the flagstones, and one of the walls was dripping wet. The stench was foul. Dirt, poverty and despair. They stopped outside the last door and the little governor said in a whisper, 'In God's name I had naught to do with it! She was given in my charge until a debt was paid. But if you are certain that —'

Bolitho did not hear him. He stared in through a small window which was heavily barred, each one worn smooth by a thousand desperate fingers.

A lantern shone through a thick glass port, like those used in a ship's hanging magazine. It was a scene from hell.

An old woman was leaning against one wall, rocking from side to side, a tendril of spittle hanging from her mouth as she crooned some forgotten tune to herself. She was filthy, and her ragged clothes were deeply soiled.

On the opposite side Catherine sat on a small wooden bench, her legs apart, her hands clasped between her knees. Her gown was torn, like the day she had come aboard Hyperion, and he saw that her feet were shoeless. Her long hair, uncombed, hung across her partly bared shoulders, hiding her face completely.

She did not move or look up as the key grated in the lock and Bolitho thrust open the door.

Then she whispered very quietly, 'If you come near me, I shall kill you.'

He held out his arms and said, 'Kate. Don't be frightened. Come to me.'

She raised her head and brushed the hair from her eyes with the back of her hand.

Still she did not move or appear to recognise him, and for a moment Bolitho imagined that she had been driven mad by these terrible circumstances.

Then she stood up and stepped a few paces unsteadily towards him.

'Is it you? Really you?' Then she shook her head and exclaimed, 'Don't touch me! I am unclean —'

Bolitho gripped her shoulders and pulled her against him, feeling her protest give way to sobs which were torn from each awful memory. He felt her skin through the back of the gown; she wore nothing else beneath it. Her body was like ice despite the foul, unmoving air. He covered her with his cloak, so that only her face and her bare feet showed in the flickering lanterns.

She saw the governor in the doorway and Bolitho felt her whole body stiffen away from him.

Bolitho said, 'Remove your hat in the presence of my lady, sir!' He found no pleasure in the man's fear. 'Or by God I'll call you out here and now!'

The man shrank away, his hat almost brushing the filthy floor.

Bolitho guided her along the corridor, while some of the inmates watched through their cell doors, their hands gripping the bars like claws. But nobody cried out this time.

'Your shoes, Kate?'

She pressed herself against his side as if the cloak would protect her from everything.

'I sold all I had for food.' She raised her head and studied him. 'I have walked barefoot before.' Her sudden courage made her look fragile. 'Are we really leaving now?'

They reached the heavy gate and she saw the carriage, with the two stamping horses.

She said, 'I will be strong. For you, dear Richard, I —' She saw the shadowy figure inside the coach and asked quickly, 'Who is that?'

Bolitho held her until she was calm again.

He said, 'Just a friend who knew when he was needed.'

Belinda dragged the doors of the drawing room shut behind her and pressed her shoulders against them.

'Lower your voice, Richard!' She watched his shadow striding back and forth across the elegant room, her breasts moving quickly to betray something like fear. 'The servants will hear you!'

Bolitho swung round. 'God damn them, and you too for what you did!'

'What is the matter, Richard? Are you sick or drunk?'

'It is fortunate for both of us that it is not the latter! Otherwise I fear what I might do!'

He stared at her and saw her pale. Then he said in a more controlled voice, 'You knew all the time. You connived with Somervell to have her thrown into a place which is not even fit for pigs!' Once again the pictures flashed across his mind. Catherine sitting in the filthy cell, and later when he had taken her to Browne's house in Arlington Street, when she had tried to prevent him from leaving her.

'Don't go, Richard! It's not worth it! We're together, that's all that matters!'

He had turned by the waiting carriage and had replied, 'But those liars intended otherwise!'

He continued, 'She is no more a debtor than you, and you knew it when you spoke with Somervell. I pray to God that he is as ready with a blade as he is with a pistol, for when I meet with him —'

She exclaimed, 'I have never seen you like this!'

'Nor will you again!'

She said, 'I did it for us, for what we were and could be again.'

Bolitho stared at her, his heart pounding, knowing how close he had come to striking her. Catherine had told him in jerky sentences as the coach had rolled towards the other house, an unexpected rain pattering across the windows.

She had loaned Somervell most of her own money when they had married. Somervell was in fear of his life because of his many gambling debts. But he had friends at Court, even the King, and a government appointment had saved him.

He had deliberately invested some of her money in her name, then left her to face the consequences when he had caused those same investments to fail. All this Somervell had explained to Belinda. It made Bolitho's head swim to realise just how close to success the plan had been. If he had moved into this house, and then been seen at Admiral Godschale's reception, Catherine would have been told that they were reconciled. A final and brutal rejection.

Somervell had left the country; that was the only known truth. When he returned he might have expected Catherine half-mad or even dead. Like a seabird, Catherine could never be caged.

He said, 'You have killed that too. Remember what you threw in my face on more than one occasion after we were married? That because you looked like Cheney, it did not mean that you had anything in common. By God, that was the truest thing you ever said. 'He stared round the room and realised for the first time that his uniform was soaked with rain.

'Keep this house, by all means, Belinda, but spare a thought sometimes for those who fight and die so that you may enjoy what they can never know.'

She moved away, her eyes on him as he wrenched open the doors. He thought he saw a shadow slip back from the stairway, something for the servants to chew on.

'You will be ruined!' She gasped as he stepped towards her as if she expected a blow.

'That is my risk.' He picked up his hat. 'Some day I shall speak with my daughter.' He looked at her for several seconds. 'Send for all you need from Falmouth. You rejected even that. So enjoy your new life with your proud friends.' He opened the front door. 'And God help you!'

He walked through the dark street, heedless of the rain which soothed his face like a familiar friend. He needed to walk, to marshal his thoughts into order, like forming a line of battle. He would make enemies, but that was nothing new. There had been those who had tried to discredit him because of Hugh, had even tried to hurt him through Adam.

He thought of Catherine, where she should stay. Not at Falmouth, not until he could take her himself. If she would come. Would she see double-meanings in his words because of what had happened? Expect another betrayal?

He dismissed the thought immediately. She was like the blade at his hip, almost unbreakable. Almost.

One thing was certain. Godschale would soon hear what had happened, although no one would speak openly about it without appearing like a conspirator.

He gave a bleak smile. It would be Gibraltar for orders very soon.

His busy mind recorded a shadow and the click of metal. The old sword was in his hand in a second and he called, 'Stand!'

Adam sounded relieved. 'I came looking, Uncle.' He watched as Bolitho sheathed his blade.

'It's done then?'

'Aye. 'Tis done.'

Adam fell into step and removed his hat to stare up into the rain. 'I heard most of it from Allday. It seems I cannot leave you alone for a moment.'

Bolitho said, 'I can still scarce believe it.'

'People change, Uncle.'

'I think not.' Bolitho glanced at two army lieutenants walking unsteadily towards St James's. 'Circumstances may, but not people.'

Adam tactfully changed the subject. 'I have discovered Captain Keen's whereabouts. He is in Cornwall. They had gone there to settle some matters relating to Miss Carwithen's late father.'

Bolitho nodded. He had been afraid that Keen would be married without his being there to witness it. How strange that such a simple thing could still be so important after all which had happened.

'I sent word by courier, Uncle. He should know.'

They fell silent and listened to their shoes on the pavement.

He probably did already. The whole fleet would by now. Offensive to many, but a welcome scandal as far as the overcrowded messdecks were concerned.

They reached the house, where they found Allday sharing a jug of ale with Mrs Robbins, the housekeeper. She was a Londoner born and bred in Bow and despite her genteel surroundings had a voice which sounded like a street trader's. Mrs Robbins got straight down to business.

'She's in bed now, Sir Richard.' She eyed him calmly. 'I give 'er a small guest room.'

Bolitho nodded. He had taken her point. There would be no scandal in this house, no matter how it might appear.

She continued, 'I stripped 'er naked as a brat and bathed 'er proper. Poor luv, she could do wiv it an' all. I burned 'er clothes. They was alive.' She opened her red fist. 'I found these sewn in the 'em.'

They were the earrings he had given her. The only other time they had been in London together.

Bolitho felt a lump in his throat. 'Thank you, Mrs Robbins.'

Surprisingly, her severe features softened.

'It's nuffink, Sir Richard. Young Lord Oliver 'as told me a few yarns about when you saved 'is rump for 'im!' She went off chuckling to herself.

Allday and Adam entered and Bolitho said, 'You heard all that?'

Allday nodded. 'Best to leave her. Old Ma Robbins'll call all hands if anything happens in the night.'

Bolitho sat down and stretched his legs. He had not eaten a crumb since breakfast but he could not face it now.

It had been a close thing, he thought. But perhaps the battle had not even begun.

Catherine stood by a tall window and looked down at the street. The sun was shining brightly, although this side of the street was still in shadow. A few people strolled up and down, and very faintly could be heard the voice of a flower-girl calling her wares.

She said quietly, 'This cannot last.'

Bolitho sat in a chair, his legs crossed, and watched her, still scarcely able to believe it had ever happened, that she was the same woman he had snatched from squalor and humiliation. Or that he was the man who had risked everything, including a court-martial, by threatening the governor of the Waites jail.

He replied, 'We can't stay here. I want to be alone with you. To hold you again, to tell you things.'

She turned her head so that her face too was in shadow. 'You are still worried, Richard. You have no need to be, where my love for you is concerned. It never left me, so how can we lose it now?' She walked slowly around his chair and put her hands on his shoulders. She was dressed in a plain green robe, which the redoubtable Mrs Robbins had bought for her the previous day.

Bolitho said, 'You are protected now. Anything you need, all that I can give, it is yours.' He hurried on as her fingers tightened their grip on his shoulders, glad that she could not see his face. 'It may take months longer even to retrieve what he has stolen from you. You gave him everything, and saved him.'

She said, 'In return he offered me security, a place in society where I could live as I pleased. Foolish? Perhaps I was. But it was a bargain between us. There was no love.' She laid her head against his and added quietly, 'I have done things I am too often ashamed of. But I have never sold my body to another.'

He reached up and gripped her hand. 'That, I know.'

A carriage clattered past, the wheels loud on the cobbles. At night, this household, like others nearby, had servants to spread straw on the road to deaden the sound. London never seemed to sleep. In the past few days Bolitho had lain awake, thinking of Catherine, the code of the house which kept them apart like shy suitors.

She said, 'I want to be somewhere I can hear about you, what you are doing. There will be more danger. In my own way I shall share it with you.'

Bolitho stood up and faced her. 'I will likely receive orders to return to the squadron very soon. Now that I have declared myself, they will probably want rid of me from London as soon as possible.' He smiled and put his hands on her waist, feeling her supple body beneath the robe, their need for each other. There was colour in her cheeks now, and her hair, hanging loose down her back, had recovered its shine.

She saw his eyes and said, 'Mrs Robbins has taken good care of me.'

Bolitho said, There is my house in Falmouth.' Instantly he saw the reluctance, the unspoken protest, and added, 'I know, my lovely Catherine. You will wait until —'

She nodded. 'Until you carry me there as your kept woman!' She tried to laugh but added huskily, 'For that is what they will say.'

They stood holding hands and facing each other for a full minute.

Then she said, 'And I'm not lovely. Only in your eyes, dearest of men.'

He said, 'I want you.' They walked to the window and Bolitho realised that he had not left the house since that night. 'If I cannot marry you —'

She put her fingers on his mouth. 'Enough of that. Do you think I care? I will be what you wish me to be. But I shall always love you, be your tiger if others try to harm you.'

A servant tapped on the door and entered with a small silver salver. On it was a sealed envelope with the familiar Admiralty crest. Bolitho took it, felt her eyes on him as he slit it open.

'I have to see Sir Owen Godschale tomorrow.'

She nodded. 'Orders then.'

'I expect so.' He caught her in his arms. 'It is inevitable.'

'I know it. The thought of losing you —'

Bolitho considered her being alone. He must do something.

She said, 'I keep thinking, we have another day, one more night.' She ran her hands up to his shoulders and to his face. 'It is all I care for.'

He said, 'Before I leave —'

She touched his mouth again. 'I know what you are trying to say. And yes, dearest Richard, I want you to love me like you did in Antigua, and all that time ago here in London. I told you once that you needed to be loved. I am the one to give it to you.'

Mrs Robbins looked in at them. 'Beg pardon, Sir Richard.' Her eyes seemed to measure the distance between them. 'But yer nephew is 'ere.' She relented slightly. 'You're lookin' fair an' bright, m'lady!'

Catherine smiled gravely. 'Please, Mrs Robbins. Do not use that title.' She looked steadily at Bolitho. 'I have no use for it now.

Mrs Robbins, or 'Ma' as Allday called her, wandered slowly down the stairway and saw Adam tidying his unruly black hair in front of a looking-glass.

It was a rum do, she thought. God, everyone in the kitchen was talking about it. It had been bad enough for Elsie, the upstairs maid, when her precious drummer-boy had gone off with a blackie in the West Indies. Not what you expected from the quality; although old Lord Browne had been one for the ladies before he passed on. Then she thought of Bolitho's expression when she had given him the earrings she had rescued from the filthy gown. There was a whole lot more to this than people realised.

She nodded to Adam. ' 'E'll be down in a moment, sir.'

Adam smiled. It was strange, he thought. He had always loved his uncle more than any man. But until now he had never envied him.

Admiral Sir Owen Godschale received Bolitho immediately upon his arrival. Bolitho had the impression that he had cut short another interview, perhaps to get this meeting over and done with without further delay.

'I have received intelligence that the French fleet outran Lord Nelson's ships. Whether he can still call them to battle is doubtful. It seems unlikely that Villeneuve will be willing to fight until he has combined forces with the Spaniards.'

Bolitho stared at the admiral's huge map. So the French were still at sea but could not remain so for long. Nelson must have believed the enemy's intention was to attack British possessions and bases in the Caribbean. Or was it merely one great exercise in strength? The French had fine ships, but they had been sealed up in harbour by an effective blockade. Villeneuve was too experienced to make an attack up the English Channel, to pave the way for Napoleon's armies, with ships and men whose skills and strength had been sapped by inactivity.

Godschale said bluntly, 'So I want you to hoist your flag again and join forces with the Maltese squadron.'

'But I understood that Rear-Admiral Herrick was to be relieved?'

Godschale looked at his map. 'We need every ship where she can do the most good. I have sent orders today by courier-brig to Herrick's command.' He eyed him impassively. 'You know him, of course.'

'Very well.'

'So it would appear that the reception I had planned must now be postponed, Sir Richard. Until quieter times, eh?'

Their eyes met. 'Would I have been invited to attend alone, Sir Owen?' He spoke calmly but the edge was clear in his voice.

'Under the circumstances I think that would have been preferred, yes.'

Bolitho smiled. 'Then under those same circumstances I am glad it is postponed.'

'I resent your damned attitude, sir!'

Bolitho faced his bluff. 'One day, Sir Owen, you may have cause to remember this disgraceful conspiracy. The last time we met you told me that Nelson was not above being wrong. And neither, sir, are you! And should you too fall from grace you will most certainly discover who your true friends are!' He strode from the room, and heard the admiral slam a door behind him like a thunderclap.

Bolitho was still angry when he reached the house. Until he saw Catherine speaking with Adam, and heard a familiar voice from the adjoining study.

Then Allday stepped out of the passageway which led from the kitchen, his jaw still working on some food. They were all staring at him.

Bolitho said, 'I am to return to the squadron as soon as is convenient.'

A shadow fell across the passage, and Captain Valentine Keen stepped into the light.

Bolitho clasped his hands. 'Val! This is a miracle!'

Beyond his friend he saw the girl Zenoria, exactly as he had remembered her. Both of them were travel-stained, and Keen explained, 'We have been on the road for two days. We were already on our way back from Cornwall and by a stroke of fate we met with the courier at a small inn where he was changing his mount.'

Fate. That word. Bolitho said, 'I don't understand.' He saw the girl's face as she walked up to him and held him, while he kissed her on the cheek. Something more had happened.

Keen said, 'I am to be your flag captain, Sir Richard.' He gave Zenoria a despairing glance. 'I was asked. It seemed right.' He handed Bolitho a letter. 'Captain Haven is under arrest. The day after you left in Firefly he attacked another officer and attempted to kill him.' He watched Bolitho's face. 'The commodore at Gibraltar awaits your orders.'

Bolitho sat down while Catherine stood beside him, her hand on his shoulder.

Bolitho looked up at her. My tiger. That poor, wretched man had broken under the strain. There was nothing much in the letter, but Bolitho knew the other officer must be Parris. He at least was alive.

Keen looked from one to the other. 'I was about to suggest that your lady might care to share my home with Zenoria and my sister until we return.'

Bolitho clasped Catherine's hand; he could tell from the way the dark-haired girl from Cornwall was looking at her that it was a perfect arrangement. God alone knew they both had plenty in common.

Keen had rescued Zenoria from the transport ship Orontes after she had been wrongly charged and convicted of attempted murder. She had been trying to defend herself from being raped. Transportation to the penal colony in New South Wales; and she had been innocent. Keen had boarded the transport and cut her down when she was about to be flogged at the ship's master's command. She had taken one blow across her naked back before Keen had stopped the torment. Bolitho knew she would carry the scar all her life. It made him go cold to realise that the same fate could have been thrown at Catherine, but for different reasons. Jealousy and greed were pitiless enemies.

He said, 'What say you, Kate?' The others seemed to fade away as if his damaged eye would only focus on her. 'Will you do it?'

She said nothing but nodded very slowly. Only a blind man would have failed to see the light, the communion, between them.

'It's settled then.' Bolitho looked at their faces. 'Together again.'

It seemed to include them all.

Lieutenant Vicary Parris sat in his cabin only half paying attention to the ship noises above and around him. Compared with the upper deck the cabin with its open gunport seemed almost cool.

The fifth lieutenant, Hyperion's youngest, stood beside the small table and stared at the open punishment book.

Parris asked again, 'Well, do you think it fair, Mr Priddie?'

It was chilling, Parris thought. The vice-admiral had barely quit the Rock in Firefly when Haven had gone on the rampage. At sea, fighting the elements and working the ship, men were often too busy or desperate to question the demands of discipline. But Hyperion was in harbour, and in the hot sunshine, work about the ship and taking on fresh stores made its own slower and more comfortable routine, when men had the time to watch and to nurse resentment.

'I — I am not certain.'

Parris swore under his breath. 'You wanted to pass for lieutenant, but now that you share the wardroom you seem prepared to accept any excuse for a flogging without care or favour?'

Priddie hung his head. The Captain insisted —'

'Yes, he would.' Parris leaned back and counted seconds to restore his temper. At any other time he would have requested, even demanded a transfer to another ship, and to hell with the consequences. But he had lost his last command; he wanted, no, he needed any recommendation which might offer the opening to another promotion.

He had served under several captains. Some brave, some too cautious. Others ran their ships like the King's Regulations and would never take a risk which might raise an admiral's eyebrow. He had even served under the worst kind of all, a sadist who punished men for the sake of it, who had watched every breath-stopping stroke of the cat until the victim's back had been like seared meat.

There was no defence against Haven. He simply hated him. He used the weapon of his complete authority to punish seamen without proper consideration as if to force his first lieutenant to challenge it.

He touched the book. 'Look at this, man. Two dozen lashes for fighting. They were skylarking in the dog watches, nothing more; you must have seen that?'

Priddie flushed. 'The Captain said that discipline on deck was lax. That eyes ashore would be watching. He would tolerate no more slackness.'

Parris bit off a harsh retort. Priddie had not yet forgotten what it was like to be a midshipman. As first lieutenant he should do something. He could appeal to no one; the other captains would see his behaviour as betrayal, something which might rebound on their own authority if encouraged. Right or wrong, the captain was like a god. Only one man cared enough to stop it, and he was on passage for England with trouble enough of his own if he did not bow down to threats. It seemed unlikely that Bolitho would bend a knee to anyone if he believed what he was doing was right.

Parris considered the ship's surgeon, George Minchin. But he had tried before to no avail. Minchin was a drunkard like so many ships' surgeons. Butchers, at whose hands more men died than ever did because of their original injury or wound.

Hyperion was supposed to be getting a senior surgeon, one of several being sent into the various squadrons to observe and report on what they discovered. But that was later. It was now he was needed.

Parris said, 'Leave it to me.' He saw the lieutenant's eyes light up, thankful that he was no longer involved.

Parris added angrily, 'You'll never hold a command, Mr Priddie, unless you face up to the rank you carry.'

He climbed to the quarterdeck and watched the seamen swaying up new rigging to the mizzen top. There was a strong smell of fresh tar for blacking-down, the sounds of hammers and an adze as Horrocks the carpenter and his mates completed work on a new cutter, built from materials to hand. They worked well, he thought, would even be happy, but for the cloud which always hung over the poop.

With a sigh he made his way aft and waited for the Royal Marine sentry to announce him.

Captain Haven was sitting at his desk, papers arranged within easy reach, his coat hanging from the chairback as he fanned his face with his handkerchief.

'Well, Mr Parris' I have much to do.'

Parris made himself ignore the obvious dismissal. He noticed that the pens on the desk were all clean and dry. Haven had written nothing. It was as if he had prepared for this, had been expecting his visit despite the hint of rejection.

Parris began carefully, 'The two men for punishment, sir.'

'Oh, which two? I was beginning to believe that the people did much as they pleased.'

'Trotter and Dixon, sir. They have not been in any trouble before. Had the fifth lieutenant come to me —' He got no further. Haven snapped, 'But you were not aboard, sir. No, you were elsewhere, I believe''

'Under your orders, sir.'

'Don't be impertinent!' Haven shifted on his chair. It reminded Parris of a fisherman he had watched when he had felt something take the hook.

Haven said, 'They were behaving in a disgusting and disorderly fashion! I saw them. As usual I had to stop the rot!'

'But two dozen lashes, sir. I could give them a week's extra work. Discipline would be upheld, and I think Mr Priddie would learn from it.'

'I see, you are blaming the junior lieutenant now.' He smiled. Parris could feel the strain clutching at him like claws. 'Men will be flogged, and Mr Priddie will take the blame for it. God damn your eyes, sir! Do you think I give a sniff for what they think? I command here, they will do my bidding, do I make myself clear?' He was shouting. Parris said, 'You do, sir.'

'I am glad to hear it.' Haven watched him, his eyes slitted in the filtered sunlight. 'Your part in the cutting-out will be known at the Admiralty, I have no doubt. But you can crawl after our admiral's coat-tails as long as you like. I shall see that your disloyalty and damned arrogance are noted fully when your case for promotion is considered again!'

Parris felt the cabin sway. 'Did you call me disloyal, sir?'

Haven almost screamed at him. 'Yes, you lecherous swine, I bloody well did!'

Parris stared at him. It was worse than anything which had happened before. He saw the sunlight at the bottom of the captain's door blackened in places by feet. There were men out there listening. God, he thought, despairingly, what chance do we have if we stand into battle?

He said, 'I think we may both have spoken out of turn, sir.'

'Don't you ever dare to reprimand me, blast you! I suppose that when you lie in your cot you think of me down aft, sneer because of the foul deed you committed — well, answer me, you bloody hound!'

Parris knew he should summon another officer, just as he knew he would strike Haven down in the next few seconds. Something, like a warning in his sleep, seemed to stay his anger and resentment. He wants you to strike him. He wants you as his next victim.

Haven slumped back in his chair, as if the strength and fury had left him. But when he looked up again Parris saw it was still there in his eyes, like fires of hate.

In an almost conversational voice Haven said, 'You really thought I would not find you out? Could you be that stupid?'

Parris held his breath, his heart pounding; he had believed that nothing more could unseat him.

Haven continued, 'I know your ways and manners, the love you bear for yourself. Oh yes, I am not without some wit and understanding.' He pointed at the portrait of his wife but kept his eyes on Parris.

He said in a hoarse whisper, 'The guilt is as plain as day on your face!'

Parris thought he had misheard. 'I met the lady once, but —'

'Don't you dare to speak of her in my presence!' Haven lurched to his feet. 'You with your soft tongue and manners to match, just the sort she'd listen to!'

'Sir. Please say nothing more. We may both regret it.'

Haven did not appear to be listening. 'You took her when I was occupied in this ship! I worked myself sick pulling this damned rabble into one company. Then they hoisted the flag of a man much like you, I suspect, who thinks he can have any woman he chooses!'

'I can't listen, sir. It is not true anyway. I saw —' He hesitated and finished, 'I did not touch her, I swear to God!'

Haven said in a small voice, 'After all that I gave her.'

'You are wrong, sir.' Parris looked at the door. Someone must come surely? The whole poop must hear Haven's rantings.

Haven shouted suddenly, 'It's your child, you bloody animal!'

Parris clenched his fists. So that was it. He said, 'I am leaving now, sir. I will not listen to your insults or your insinuations. And as far as your wife is concerned, all I can say is that I am sorry for her.' He turned to go as Haven screamed, 'You'll go nowhere, God damn you!'

The roar of the pistol in the confined space was deafening. It was like being struck by an iron bar. Then Parris felt the pain, the hot wetness of blood even as he hit the deck.

He saw the darkness closing in. It was like smoke or fog, with just one clear space in it where the captain was trying to ram another charge into his pistol.

Before the pain bore him into oblivion Parris's agonised mind was able to record that Haven was laughing. Laughing as if he could not stop.

It was early morning on a fine June day when Bolitho rehoisted his flag above Hyperion, and prepared his squadron to leave the Rock.

During Firefly's speedy passage to Gibraltar, Bolitho and Keen had had much to discuss. If Keen had been unsettled at being made flag captain of a squadron he knew nothing about he barely showed it, while for Bolitho it was the return of a friend; like being made whole again.

At the commodore's request he had visited Haven at the place where he was being confined ashore. He had expected him to be in a state of shock, or at least ready to offer something in the way of a defence for shooting Parris down in cold blood.

A garrison doctor had told Bolitho that Haven either did not remember, or did not care about what had happened.

He had risen as Bolitho had entered his small room and had said, The ship is ready, Sir Richard. I took steps to ensure that old or not, Hyperion will match her artillery against any Frenchman when called to!'

Bolitho had said, 'You are relieved. I am sending you to England.'

Haven had stared at him. 'Relieved? Has my promotion been announced?'

Upon returning to the ship Bolitho had been handed a letter addressed to Haven, which had just been brought by a mail schooner from Spithead. Under the circumstances Bolitho decided to open it; he might at least be able to spare someone in England the bitter truth about Haven, until the facts were released at his inevitable court-martial.

Afterwards, Bolitho was not certain he should have read it. The letter was from Haven's wife. It stated in an almost matter-of-fact fashion that she had left him to live with a wealthy mill-owner who was making uniforms for the military, where she and her child would be well cared for.

It seemed that the mill-owner was the father of the child, so it was certainly not Parris's. When Haven eventually came to his senses, if he ever did, that would be the hardest cross to bear.

The first lieutenant must be born lucky, Bolitho thought. The pistol ball had lifted too much in the short range of the cabin, and had embedded itself in his shoulder and chipped the bone. He must have suffered terrible agony as Minchin had sought to probe it out. But the shot had been intended for his heart.

Keen had asked Bolitho, 'Do you wish to keep him aboard? The wound will take weeks to heal, and I fear it was roughly treated.' He had probably been remembering how a great splinter had speared into his groin; rather than allow him to face the torture of a drunken surgeon, it had been Allday who had cut the jagged wood away.

'He is an experienced officer. I have hopes for his promotion. God knows we can use some skilled juniors for command.'

Keen had agreed. 'It will certainly put the other lieutenants on their mettle!'

And so with mixed feelings the squadron sailed and headed east into the Mediterranean, the sea which had seen so many battles, and where Bolitho had almost died.

With Hyperion in the van, Bolitho's flag at the fore, and the other third-rates following astern, heeling steeply to a lively north-westerly, their departure probably roused as much speculation as their arrival. Bolitho watched the Rock's famous silhouette until it was lost in haze. The strange cloud of steam rising against an otherwise clear sky was a permanent feature when the wind cooled the overheated stones, so that from a distance it appeared like a smouldering volcano.

Most of Hyperion's company had grown used to one another since the ship had commissioned, and Keen was almost the only stranger amongst them.

As day followed day, and each ship exercised her people at sail or gun drill, Bolitho was thankful for the fates which had brought Keen back to him.

Unlike Haven, he did know Bolitho's ways and standards, had served him both as a midshipman and lieutenant before eventually becoming his flag captain. The ship's company seemed to sense the bond between their captain and admiral, and the older hands would note and appreciate that if Keen did not know something about his ship he was not too proud to ask. It never occurred to Bolitho that Keen had perhaps learned it from him.

It had been sad to part with Firefly, but she had bustled on to deliver more despatches to admirals and captains who were eagerly awaiting the latest news of the French. Amongst Firefly's mountain of despatches there would doubtless be a few like the one which Haven had still not read. War was as cruel in the home as it was on the high seas, he thought.

When he met with Adam again his promotion would have been confirmed. It seemed strange to consider it. He could imagine what they would think and say at Falmouth when the latest Captain Bolitho came home. Unless Adam eventually met and married the girl of his choice, he would be the last captain to arrive at the house in Cornwall.

He often thought of Catherine and their farewell. They had shared their passion and love equally, and she had insisted that she accompany him all the way to Portsmouth to board the little Firefly. Keen had said his own goodbyes earlier when he had gone to Portsmouth with Adam in another carriage.

With the horses stamping and steaming in the sunshine Catherine had clung to him, searching his face, touching it with tenderness and then dismay when Allday had told them the boat was waiting at the sally port.

He had asked her to wait by the carriage but she had followed him to the wooden stairs where so many sea-officers had left the land. There had been a small crowd watching the ships and the officers being pulled out to them.

Bolitho had noticed that there were very few of the age for service. It would be a fool who risked the press gang's net if he had no stomach for the fight.

The people had raised a cheer, and some of them recognised Bolitho, as well they might.

One had shouted, 'Good luck, Equality Dick, an' to yer lady as well!'

He had faced her and he had seen tears for the first time.

She had whispered, 'They included me!'

As the boat had pulled clear of the stairs Bolitho had looked back, but she had vanished. And yet as they had bumped over a choppy Solent where Firefly tugged at her cable, he had sensed that she was still there. Watching him to the last second. He had written to ask her just that, and to tell her what her love meant to him.

He remembered what Belinda had said about their infatuation. Allday had described Catherine as a sailor's woman, an' that's no error. When he said it, it sounded the greatest compliment of all.

While the frigate Tybalt and the sloop-of-war Phaedra chased and questioned any coaster or trader foolish enough to be caught under their guns, Bolitho and Keen studied the scanty reports, as day by day they sailed deeper into the Mediterranean.

It was said that Nelson was still in the Atlantic and had joined up with his friend and second-in-command Vice-Admiral Collingwood. Nelson had probably decided that the enemy were trying to divide the British squadrons by ruses and quick dashes from safe harbours. Only when that was achieved would Napoleon launch his invasion across the Channel.

As Yovell had mildly suggested, 'If that is so, Sir Richard, then you are the senior officer in the Mediterranean.'

Bolitho had barely considered it. But if true, it meant one thing to him. When the enemy came his way he would need to ask no one what he must do. It made the weight of command seem more appealing.

One forenoon as he took his walk on the quarterdeck he saw Lieutenant Parris moving along a gangway, his arm strapped to his side, his steps unsteady while he gauged the rise and fall of the hull. He appeared to have withdrawn more into himself since Haven's attack with intent to murder him. Keen had said that he was well content to have him as his senior, but had not known him before so could not make a comparison.

Parris moved slowly to the lee side of the quarterdeck and clung to a stay to watch some seabirds swooping and diving alongside.

Bolitho walked across from the weather side. 'How do you feel?'

Parris tried to straighten his back but winced and apologised. 'It is slow progress, Sir Richard.' He stared up at the bulging sails, the tiny figures working amongst and high above them. 'I'll feel a mite better when I know I can climb up there again.'

Bolitho studied his strong, gipsy profile. A ladies' man? An enigma?

Parris saw his scrutiny and said awkwardly, 'May I thank you for allowing me to remain aboard, Sir Richard. I am less than useless at the moment.'

'Captain Keen made the final decision.'

Parris nodded, his eyes lost in memory. 'He makes this old ship come alive.' He hesitated, as if measuring the confidence. 'I was sorry to hear of your trouble in London, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho looked at the blue water and tensed as his damaged eye misted slightly in the moist air.

'Nelson has a saying, I believe.' It was like quoting one of Adam's favourites. 'The boldest measures are usually the safest.'

Parris stood back as Keen appeared below the poop-deck, but added, 'I wish you much joy, Sir Richard. Both of you.'

Keen joined him by the nettings. 'We shall sight Malta tomorrow in the forenoon watch.' He glanced over at the master's powerful figure. 'Mr Penhaligon assures me.'

Bolitho smiled. 'I was speaking with the first lieutenant. A strange fellow.'

Keen laughed. 'It is wrong, I know, to jest on it, but I have met captains I would have dearly liked to shoot. But never the other way about!'

Down by the boat-tier Allday turned as he heard their laughter. Keen's old coxswain had been killed aboard their last ship, Argonaute. Allday had selected a new man for him, but secretly wished it was his son.

Keen's coxswain was named Tojohns, and he had been captain of the foretop. He glanced aft with him and said, 'A new ship since he stepped aboard.' He studied Allday curiously. 'You've known him a long while then?'

Allday smiled. 'A year or two. He'll do me, an' he's good for Sir Richard, that's the thing.'

Allday thought about their parting at Portsmouth Point. The people cheering and waving their hats, the women smiling fit to burst. It had to work this time. He frowned as the other coxswain broke into his thoughts.

Tojohns asked, 'Why did you pick me?'

Allday gave a lazy grin. Tojohns was a fine seaman and knew how to put himself about in a fight. He was not in the least like old Hogg, Keen's original coxswain. Chalk and cheese. What they said about me and Stockdale.

Allday said, ''Cause you talk too much!'

Tojohns laughed but fell silent as a passing midshipman glanced sharply at him. It was hard to accept his new role. He would no longer have to be up there at the shrill of every call, fighting wild canvas with his foretopmen. Like Allday he was apart from all that. Somebody, for the first time.

'Mind you.' Allday watched him gravely. 'Whatever you sees down aft, you keep it to yerself, right, matey?'

Tojohns nodded. Down aft. Yes, he was somebody.

Six bells chimed out from Hyperion's forecastle and Captain Valentine Keen touched his hat to Bolitho, barely able to suppress a smile.

The master was right about our arrival here, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho raised his telescope to scan the familiar walls and batteries of Valletta. 'Only just.'

It had been a lengthy passage from Gibraltar, over eight days to log the weary twelve hundred miles. It had given Keen time to impress his methods on the whole ship, but had filled Bolitho with misgivings at the forthcoming meeting with Herrick.

He said slowly, 'Only three ships-of-the-line, Val.' He had recognised Herrick's flagship Benbow almost as soon as the masthead lookouts. Once his own flagship, and like Hyperion, full of memories. Keen would be remembering her for very different reasons. Here he had faced a court of enquiry presided over by Herrick. It could have ruined him, but for Bolitho's intervention. Past history? It seemed unlikely he would ever forget.

Bolitho said, 'I can make out the frigate yonder, anchored beyond Benbow.' He had been afraid that she would have been sent elsewhere. She was named La Mouette, a French prize taken off Toulon while Bolitho had been at Antigua. She was a small vessel of only twenty-six guns, but beggars could not be choosers. Any frigate was welcome at this stage of the war against the new cat-and-mouse methods used by the French.

Keen said, 'But it raises our line of battle to eight.' He smiled. 'We have managed with far less in the past.'

Jenour stood slightly apart, supervising the signals midshipmen with their bright flags strewn about in apparent disorder.

Bolitho crossed to the opposite side to watch as the next astern, Thynne's Obdurate, took in more sail and tacked slowly after her admiral.

He pictured Herrick in Benbow, watching perhaps as the five major ships of Bolitho's squadron moved ponderously on a converging tack in readiness to anchor. It was very hot, and Bolitho had seen the sunlight flash on many telescopes amongst the anchored ships. Would Herrick be regretting this meeting, he wondered? Or thinking how their friendship had been born out of battle and a near mutiny in that other war against the American rebels?

He said, 'Very well, Mr Jenour, you may signal now.'

He glanced at Keen's profile. 'We shall just beat eight bells, Val, and so save Mr Penhaligon's reputation!'

'All acknowledged, sir!'

As the signal was briskly hauled to the deck, the ships faced up to the feeble breeze and dropped anchor.

Bolitho said, 'I have to go aft. I shall require my barge directly.'

Keen faced him. 'You'll not wait for the rear-admiral to come aboard, Sir Richard?'

Keen must have guessed that he was going to visit Benbow mainly to avoid having to greet Herrick with all the usual formalities. Their last meeting had been across the court's table. When next they met it would have to be as man-to-man. For both their sakes.

'Old friends do not need to rest on tradition, Val.' Bolitho hoped it sounded more convincing than it felt.

He tried to push it from his mind. Herrick had been here a long time; he might well have news of the enemy. Intelligence was everything. Without the little scraps of information gathered by the patrols and casual encounters they were helpless.

He heard Allday calling hoarsely to his barge crew, the creak of tackles as the boat, soon followed by others, was swayed up and over the gangway.

A few local craft were already approaching the ships, their hulls crammed with cheap wares to tempt the sailors to part with their money. Like Portsmouth and any other seaport, there would be women too for the land-starved men if the captains turned a blind eye. It must be hard for any man to accept, Bolitho thought. The officers came and went as duty permitted, but only trusted hands and those of the press-gangs were ever allowed to set foot ashore. Month in and year out, it was a marvel there had not been more outbreaks of rebellion in the fleet.

He thought of Catherine as he had left her. Keen would be thinking the same about Zenoria. It would be ten thousand times worse if they could not meet until the war had ended, or they had been thrown on the beach as rejected cripples, like the one-legged man.

He went to his cabin and collected some letters which had been brought on board Firefly at the last moment. For Herrick. He gave a grim smile. Like bearing gifts.

Ozzard pattered round him, his eyes everywhere, to make sure that Bolitho had forgotten nothing.

It made Bolitho think of Catherine's face when he had presented her with the fan Ozzard had cleaned.

She had said, 'Keep it. It is all I have to give you. Have it by you. Then I shall be near when you need me.'

He sighed and walked out past the sentry and Keen's open cabin door, where fresh white paint disguised where Haven's pistol had been fired. Haven was lucky that Parris was still alive. Or was he? His career was wrecked, and there would be nothing waiting for him when he eventually reached his home.

He walked into the bright sunlight and saw the Royal Marines assembled at the entry port, boatswain's mates with their silver calls, Keen and Jenour ready to pay their respects.

Major Adams of the Royal Mannes raised his sword and barked:

'Guard ready, sir!'

Keen looked at Bolitho. 'Barge alongside, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho raised his hat to the quarterdeck and saw bare-backed seamen working aloft on the mizzen yard peering down at him, their feet dangling in space.

One ship. One company.

Bolitho hurried down to the barge. The memories would have to wait.

Rear-Admiral Thomas Herrick stood with his hands grasped behind his back and watched the other ships anchoring, while the wind fell away to leave their sails almost empty. Gunsmoke from exchanged salutes drifted towards the shore, and Herrick tensed as he saw the green barge being lowered alongside Hyperion almost as soon as the Jack was hoisted forward.

Captain Hector Gossage remarked, 'It seems that the vice-admiral is coming to us immediately, sir.'

Herrick grunted. There were so many new faces in his command, and his flag captain had only been with him for a few months. His predecessor, Dewar, had gone home in ill health and Herrick still missed him.

Herrick said, 'Prepare to receive him. Full guard. You know what to do.'

He wanted to be left alone, to think. When he had received his new orders from Sir Owen Godschale at the Admiralty, Herrick had thought of little else. The last time he had met Bolitho had been here in the Mediterranean when Benbow had been under heavy attack from Jobert's squadron. Re-united in battle, friends meeting against the heartless terms of war. But afterwards, when Bolitho had sailed for England, Herrick had thought a great deal about the court of enquiry, how Bolitho had cursed them after he had heard of Inch's death. Herrick still believed that Bolitho's hurt and anger had been directed at him, not the anonymous court.

He thought of Godschale's personal letter, which had accompanied the changed orders. Herrick had already learned of the liaison between Bolitho and the woman he had known as Catherine Pareja. He had always felt ill-at-ease with her, out of his depth. A proud, uninhibited woman. In his eyes she lacked modesty, humility. He thought of his dear, loving Dulcie at their new house in Kent. Not a bit like her at all.

How brave Dulcie had been when she had been told finally that she could not bear him any children. She had said softly, 'If only we had met earlier, Thomas. Maybe we would have had a fine son to follow you into the navy.'

He thought of Bolitho's life in Falmouth, the same old grey house where he had been entertained when Bolitho had commanded Phalarope, and he had risen to become his first lieutenant. It seemed like a century ago.

Herrick had always been stocky, but he had filled out comfortably since he had married Dulcie, and had risen to the unbelievable height of rear-admiral as well. He had been out here so long that his round, honest face was almost the colour of mahogany, which made his bright blue eyes and the streaks of grey in his hair seem all the more noticeable.

What could Richard Bolitho be thinking of? He had a lovely wife and daughter he could be proud of. Any serving officer could envy his record, fights won at cost to himself, but never failing to hold his men's values close to his heart. His sailors had called him Equality Dick, a nickname taken up by the popular newsheets ashore. But some of those were telling a very different story now. Of the vice-admiral who cared more for a lady than his own reputation.

Godschale had skirted round it very well in his letter.

'I know you are both old friends, but you may find it difficult now to serve under him when you were expecting quite rightly to be relieved.'

By saying nothing, Godschale had said everything. A warning or a threat? You could take it either way.

He heard the marines falling in at the entry port, their officer snapping out commands as he inspected the guard.

Captain Gossage rejoined him and watched the array of anchored ships.

He said, 'They look fine enough, sir.'

Herrick nodded. His own ships needed to be relieved, if only for a quick overhaul and complete restoring. He had only been able to release one vessel at a time for watering or to gather new victuals, and the sudden change of orders to place him under Bolitho's flag had left everyone surprised or resentful.

Gossage was saying, 'I served with Edmund Haven a few years ago, sir.'

'Haven ?' Herrick pulled his mind back. 'Bolitho's flag captain.'

Gossage nodded. 'A dull fellow, I thought. Only got Hyperion because she was little more than a hulk.'

Herrick dug his chin into his neckcloth. 'I'd not let Sir Richard hear you say that. It is not a view he would share.'

The officer-of-the-watch called, 'The barge is casting off, sir!'

'Very well. Man the side.'

In her last letter Dulcie had said little about Belinda. They had been in touch, but it seemed likely that any confidences would be kept secret. He smiled sadly. Even from him.

Herrick thought too of the girl Bolitho had once loved and married — Cheney Seton. Herrick had been at the marriage. It had been his terrible mission to carry the news of her tragic death to Bolitho at sea. He had known that Belinda was not another like her. But Bolitho had seemed settled, especially after he had been presented with a daughter. Herrick tried to keep things straight. It had nothing to do with the cruel fact that Dulcie was beyond the age to give him children. Even as he arranged his thoughts he recognised the lie. Could almost hear the comparison. Why them and not us?

And now there was Catherine. Rumours were always blown up out of all proportion. Like Nelson's much-vaunted affair. Later, Nelson would regret it. When he laid down his sword for the last time, there would be many old enemies eager to forget his triumphs and his worth. Herrick came of a poor family and knew how hard it was to rise above any superior's dislike, let alone outright hostility. Bolitho had saved him from it, had given him the chance he would otherwise never have had. There was no denying that. And yet —

Gossage straightened his hat. 'Barge approaching, sir!'

A voice yelled, 'Clear the upper deck!'

It would not look right to have the gundeck and forecastle crowded with idlers when Bolitho came aboard. But they were there all the same, despite some tempting smells from the galley funnel.

Herrick gripped his sword and pressed it to his side. Old friends. None closer. How could it happen like this?

The calls shrilled and the Royal Marine fifers struck into Heart of Oak, while the guard slapped their muskets to the present in a small cloud of pipeclay.

Bolitho stood framed against the sea's silky blue and doffed his hat.

He had not changed, Herrick thought. And as far as he could see, he had no grey hairs, although he was a year older than Herrick himself.

Bolitho nodded to the Royal Marines and said, 'Smart guard, Major.' Then he strode across to Herrick and thrust out his hand.

Herrick seized it, knowing how important this moment was, perhaps to Bolitho as well.

'Welcome, Sir Richard!'

Bolitho smiled, his teeth white against his sunburned skin.

'It is good to see you, Thomas. Though I fear you must hate this change of plans.'

Together they walked aft to the great cabin while the guard was dismissed, and Allday cast off the barge to idle comfortably within Benbow's fat shadow.

In the cabin it seemed cool after the quarterdeck, and Herrick watched as Bolitho seated himself by the stern windows, saw his eyes moving around while he recalled it as it had once been. His own flagship. There had been other changes too. That last battle had made certain of that.

The servant brought some wine and Bolitho said, 'It seems that Our Nel is still in the Atlantic.'

Herrick swallowed his wine without noticing it. 'So they say. I have heard that he may return to England and haul down his flag, as it looks unlikely that the French will venture out in strength. Not this year anyway.'

'Is that what you think?' Bolitho examined the glass. Herrick was on edge. More than he had expected. 'It is possible, of course, that the enemy may slip through the Strait again and run for Toulon.'

Herrick frowned. 'If so, we shall have 'em. Caught between us and the main fleet.'

'But suppose Villeneuve intends to break out from another direction ? By the time their lordships got word to us, he would be beating up the Channel, while we remain kicking our heels in ignorance.'

Herrick stirred uneasily. 'I am keeping up my patrols —'

'I knew you would. I see you are short of a ship?' Herrick was startled. 'Absolute, yes. I sent her to Gibraltar. She's so rotten, I wonder she remains afloat.' He seemed to stiffen. 'It was my responsibility. I did not know then that you were assuming total command.'

Bolitho smiled. 'Easy, Thomas. It was not meant as a criticism. I might have done the same.'

Herrick looked at the deck. Might. He said, 'I shall be pleased to hear of your intentions.'

'Presently, Thomas. Perhaps we might sup together?' Herrick looked up and saw the grey eyes watching him. Pleading with him?

He replied, 'I'd relish that.' He faltered. 'You could bring Captain Haven if you wish, although I understand —'

Bolitho stared at him. Of course. He would not have heard yet.

'Haven is under arrest, Thomas. In due course I expect he will stand trial for attempting to murder his first lieutenant.' He almost smiled at Herrick's astonishment. It probably sounded completely insane. He added, 'Haven imagined that the lieutenant was having an affair with his wife. There was a child. He was wrong, as it turned out. But the damage was done.'

Herrick refilled his glass and spilled some wine on the table without heeding it.

'I have to speak out, Sir Richard.'

Bolitho watched him gravely. 'No rank or title 'twixt us, Thomas — unless you need a barricade for your purpose?'

Herrick exclaimed, 'This woman. What can she mean to you except —'

Bolitho said quietly, 'You and I are friends, Thomas. Let us remain as such.' He looked past him and pictured Catherine in the shadows. He said, 'I am in love with her. Is that so hard to understand?' He tried to keep the bitterness from his tone. 'How would you feel, Thomas, if some stranger referred to your Dulcie as this woman, eh?'

Herrick gripped the arms of his chair. 'God damn it, Richard, why do you twist the truth? You know, you must know what everyone is saying, that you are besotted by her, have thrown your wife and child to the winds so that you can lose yourself, and to hell with all who care for you!'

Bolitho thought briefly of the grand house in London. 'I've thrown nobody to the winds. I have found someone I can love. Reason does not come into it.' He stood up and crossed to the windows. 'You must know I do not act lightly in such matters.' He swung round. 'Are you judging me too? Who are you — Christ?'

They faced each other like enemies. Then Bolitho said, 'I need her, and I pray that she may always need me. Now let that be an end to it, man!'

Herrick took several deep breaths and refilled both glasses.

'I shall never agree ' He fixed Bolitho with the bright blue eyes he had always remembered. 'But I'll not let it put my duty at risk.'

Bolitho sat down again 'Duty, Thomas? Don't speak to me of that. I've had a bellyful of late.' He made up his mind. 'This combined squadron is our responsibility. I am not usurping your leadership and that you must know. I don't share their lordships' attitude on the French, that is if they indeed have one. Pierre Villeneuve is a man of great intelligence, he is not one to go by the book of fighting instructions. He needs to be cautious on the one hand, for if he fails in his ultimate mission to clear the Channel for invasion, then he must die at the guillotine.'

Herrick muttered, 'Barbarians!'

Bolitho smiled. 'We must explore every possibility and keep our ships together except for the patrols. When the time comes, it will be a hard sail to find and support Nelson and brave Collingwood.' He put down his glass very slowly. 'You see, I do not believe that the French will wait until next year. They have run the course.' He looked through the sun's glare towards the anchored ships. 'So have we.'

Herrick felt safer on familiar ground. 'Who do you have as flag captain?'

Bolitho watched him and said dryly, 'Captain Keen. There is none better. Now that you are promoted beyond my reach, Thomas.'

Herrick did not hide his dismay. 'So we are all drawn together?'

Bolitho nodded. 'Remember Lieutenant Browne — how he called us 'We Happy Few?'

Herrick frowned. 'I don't need reminding.'

'Well, think on it, Thomas, my friend, there are even fewer of us now!'

Bolitho stood up and reached for his hat. 'I must return to Hyperion. Perhaps later —' He left it unsaid. Then he placed the packet of letters for Herrick on the table.

'From England, Thomas. There will be more news, I expect.' Their eyes met and Bolitho ended quietly, 'I wanted you to hear it from me, as a friend, rather than assault your ears with more gossip from the sewers.'

Herrick protested, 'I did not mean to hurt you. It is for you that I care.'

Bolitho shrugged. 'We will fight the war together, Thomas. It seems that will have to suffice.'

They stood side-by-side at the entry port while Allday manoeuvred the barge alongside once again. Allday had never been caught out before and would be fuming about it.

Like everyone else he must have expected him to remain longer with his oldest friend.

Bolitho walked towards the entry port as the marine guard presented their muskets to the salute, the bayonets shining like ice in the glare.

He caught his shoe in a ring-bolt, and would have fallen but for a lieutenant who thrust out his arm to save him.

'Thank you, sir!'

He saw Herrick standing at him with sudden anxiety, the major of marines swaying beside the guard with his sword still rigid in his gloved hand.

Herrick exclaimed, 'Are you well, Sir Richard?' Bolitho looked at the nearest ship and gritted his teeth as the mist partly covered his eye. A close thing. He had been so gripped with emotion and disappointment at this visit that he had allowed his guard to fall. As in a sword-fight, it only took a second.

He replied, 'Well enough, thank you.'

They looked at one another. 'It shall not happen again.'

Some seamen had climbed into the shrouds and began to cheer as the barge pulled strongly from the shadow and into the sunlight. Allday swung the tiller bar and glanced quickly at Bolitho's squared shoulders, the familiar ribbon which drew his hair back above the collar. Allday could remember it no other way.

He listened to the cheers, carried on by another of the seventy-fours close by.

Fools, he thought savagely. What the hell did they know? They had seen nothing, knew even less.

But he had watched, and had felt it even from the barge. Two friends with nothing to say, nothing to span the gap which had yawned between them like a moat around a fortress.

He saw the stroke oarsman watching Bolitho instead of his loom and glared at him until he paled under his stare.

Allday swore that he would never take anyone at face value again. For or against me, that'll be my measure of a man.

Bolitho twisted round suddenly and shaded his eyes to look at him.

'It's all right, Allday.' He saw his words sink in. 'So be easy.'

Allday forgot his watching bargemen and grinned awkwardly. Bolitho had read his thoughts even with his back turned.

Allday said, 'I was rememberin', Sir Richard.'

'I know that. But at the moment I am too full to speak on it.'

The barge glided to the main chains and Bolitho glanced up at the waiting side-party.

He hesitated. 'I sometimes think we may hope for too much, old friend.'

Then he was gone, and the shrill of calls announced his arrival on deck.

Allday shook his head and muttered, 'I never seen him like this afore.'

'What's that, Cox'n?'

Allday swung round, his eyes blazing. 'And you! Watch your stroke in future, or I'll have the hide off ye!'

He forgot the bargemen and stared hard at the towering tumblehome of the ship's side. Close to, you could see the gouged scars of battle beneath the smart buff and black paintwork.

Like us, he thought, suddenly troubled. Waiting for the last fight. When it came, you would need all the friends you could find.

Bolitho leaned on one elbow and put his signature on yet another despatch for the Admiralty. In the great cabin the air was heavy and humid, and even with gunports and skylight open, he felt the sweat running down his spine. He had discarded his coat, and his shirt was open almost to his waist, but it made little difference.

He stared at the date on the next despatch which Yovell pushed discreetly before him. September; over three months since he had said his farewell to Catherine and returned to Gibraltar. He looked towards the open stern windows. To this. Hardly a ripple today, and the sea shone like glass, almost too painful to watch.

It seemed far longer. The endless days of beating up and down in the teeth of a raw Levantine, or lying becalmed without even a whisper of a breeze to fill the sails.

It could not go on. It was like sitting on a powder-keg and worse. Or was it all in his mind, a tension born of his own uncertainties? Fresh water was getting low again, and that might soon provoke trouble on the crowded messdecks.

Of the enemy there was no sign. Hyperion and her consorts lay to the west of Sardinia, while Herrick and his depleted squadron maintained their endless patrol from the Strait of Sicily to as far north as Naples Bay.

The other occupant of the cabin gave a polite cough. Bolitho glanced up and smiled. 'Routine, Sir Piers, but it will not take much longer.'

Sir Piers Blachford settled down in his chair and stretched out his long legs. To the officers in the squadron his arrival in the last courier-brig had been seen as another responsibility, a civilian sent to probe and investigate, a resented intruder.

It had not taken long for this strange man to alter all that. If they were honest, most of those who had taken offence at his arrival would be sorry to see him leave.

Blachford was a senior member of the College of Surgeons, one of the few who had volunteered to visit the navy's squadrons, no matter at what discomfort to themselves, to examine injuries and their treatment in the spartan and often horrific conditions of a man-of-war. He was a man of boundless energy and never seemed to tire as he was ferried from one ship to the other, to meet and reason with their surgeons, to instruct each captain on the better use of their meagre facilities for caring for the sick.

And yet he was some twenty years older than Bolitho, as thin as a ramrod, with the longest and most pointed nose Bolitho had ever seen. It was more like an instrument for his trade than part of his face. Also, he was very tall, and creeping about the different decks and peering into storerooms and sickbays must have taxed his strength and his patience, but he never complained. Bolitho would miss him. It was a rare treat to share a conversation at the end of a day with a man whose world was healing, rather than running an elusive enemy to ground.

Bolitho had received two letters from Catherine, both in the same parcel from a naval schooner.

She was safe and well in the Hampshire house which was owned by Keen's father. He was a powerful man in the City of London, and kept the country house as a retreat. He had welcomed Catherine there, just as he had Zenoria. The favour went two ways, because one of Keen's sisters was there also, her husband, a lieutenant with the Channel Fleet, having been lost at sea. A comfort, and a warning too.

He nodded to Yovell, who gathered up the papers and withdrew.

Bolitho said, 'I expect that your ship will meet with us soon. I hope we have helped in your research?'

Blachford eyed him thoughtfully. 'I am always amazed that casualties are not greater when I see the hell-holes in which they endure their suffering. It will take time to compare our findings at the College of Surgeons. It will be well spent. The recognition of wounds, the responses of the victims, a division of causes, be they gunshot or caused by thrusting or slashing blades. Immediate recognition can save time, and eventually lives. Mortification, gangrene and the terror it brings with it, each must be treated differently.'

Bolitho tried to imagine this same, reedy man with the wispy white hair in the midst of a battle. Surprisingly, it was not difficult.

He said, 'It is something we all dread.'

Blachford smiled faintly. 'That is very honest. I am afraid one tends to think of senior officers as glory-seeking men without heart.'

Bolitho smiled back. 'Both our worlds appear different from the outside. When I joined my first ship I was a boy. I had to learn that the packed, frightening world between decks was not just a mass, a mindless body. It took me a long time.' He stared at the glittering reflections that moved across one of the guns which shared the cabin, as Hyperion responded to a breath of wind. 'I am still learning.'

Through the open skylight he heard the shrill of a call, the slap of bare feet as the watch on deck responded to the order to man the braces yet again, and retrim the great yards to hold this cupful of wind. He heard Parris, too, and was reminded of a strange incident when one of the infrequent Levantine gales had swept down on them from the east, throwing the ship into confusion.

A man had gone overboard, probably like Keen's sister's husband, and while the ship forged away with the gale, the sailor had floundered astern, waiting to perish. For no ship could be brought about in such a blow without the real risk of dismasting her. Some captains would not even have considered it.

Keen had been on deck and had yelled for the quarter-boat to be cast adrift. The man overboard could obviously swim; there was a chance he might be able to reach the boat. There were also some captains who would have denied even that, saying that any boat was worth far more than a common seaman who might die anyway.

But Parris had shinned down to the boat with a handful of volunteers. The next morning the wind had backed and dropped, its amusement at their efforts postponed. They had recovered the boat, and the half-drowned seaman.

Parris had been sick with pain from his wounded shoulder, and Blachford had examined it afresh, and had done all he could. Bolitho had seen respect on Keen's face, just as he had recorded Parris's fanatical determination to prove himself. Because of him, there was one family in Portsmouth who would not grieve just yet. Blachford must also have been thinking of it, as well as all the other small incidents which when moulded into one hull made a fighting ship.

He remarked, 'That was a brave thing your lieutenant did. Not many would even attempt it. It can be no help to see your own ship being carried further and further away until you are quite alone.'

Bolitho called for Ozzard. 'Some wine?' He smiled. 'You are only unpopular aboard this ship if you ask for water!'

The joke hid the truth. They had to divide the squadron soon. If they did not water the ships…. He shut it from his mind as Ozzard entered the cabin.

And all the time he felt Blachford watching him. He had only once touched on the subject of his eye, but had dropped the matter when Bolitho had made light of it.

Blachford said abruptly, 'You must do something about your eye. I have a fine colleague who will be pleased to examine it if I ask him.'

Bolitho watched Ozzard as he poured the wine. There was nothing on the little man's face to show he was listening to every word.

Bolitho spread his hands. 'What can I do? Leave the squadron when at any moment the enemy may break out?'

Blachford was unmoved. 'You have a second-in-command. Are you afraid to delegate? I did hear that you took the treasure galleon because you would not risk another in your place.'

Bolitho smiled. 'Perhaps I did not care about the risk.'

Blachford sipped his wine but his eyes remained on Bolitho. Bolitho was reminded of a watchful heron in the reeds at Falmouth. Waiting to strike.

'But that has changed?' The heron blinked at him.

'You are playing games with me.'

'Not really. To cure the sick is one thing. To understand the leaders who decide if a man shall live or die is another essential part of my studies.'

Bolitho stood up and moved restlessly about the cabin. 'I am the cat on the wrong side of every door. When I am at home I fret about my ships and my sailors. Once here and I yearn for just a sight of England, the feel of grass underfoot, the smell of the land.'

Blachford said quietly, 'Think about it. A raging gale like the one I shared with you, the sting of salt spray and the constant demands of duty are no place for what you need.' He made up his mind. 'I tell you this. If you do not heed my warning you will lose all sight in that eye.'

Bolitho looked down at him and smiled sadly. 'And if I hand over my flag? Can you be sure the eye will be saved?'

Blachford shrugged. 'I am certain of nothing, but —'

Bolitho touched his shoulder. 'Aye, the but; it is always there. No, I cannot leave. Call me what you will, but I am needed here.' He waved his hand towards the water. 'Hundreds of men are depending on me, just as their sons will probably depend on your eventual findings, eh?'

Blachford sighed. 'I call you stubborn.'

Bolitho said. 'I am not ready for the surgeon's wings-and-limbs tub just yet, and I do not yearn for glory as some will proclaim.'

'At least think about it.' Blachford waited and added gently, 'You have another to consider now.'

Bolitho looked up as a far-off voice cried out, 'Deck there! Sail on the lee bow!'

Bolitho laughed. 'With luck that will be your passage to England. I fear I am no match for your devious ways.'

Blachford stood up and ducked his head between the massive beams. 'I never thought it, but I'll be sorry to go.' He looked at Bolitho curiously. 'How can you know that from a masthead's call?'

Bolitho grinned. 'No other ship would dare come near us!'

Later, as the newcomer drew closer, the officer-of-the-watch reported to Keen that she was the brig Firefly. The vessel which, like the old Superb in Nelson's famous squadron, sailed when others slept.

Bolitho watched as Blachford's much-used chests and folios were carried on deck and said, 'You will meet my nephew. He is good company.'

But Firefly was no longer captained by Adam Bolitho; it was another young commander who hurried aboard the flagship to make his report.

Bolitho met him aft and asked, 'What of my nephew?'

The commander, who looked like a midshipman aping his betters, explained that Adam had received his promotion. It was all he knew, and was almost tongue-tied at meeting a vice-admiral face to face. Especially one who was now well known for reasons other than the sea, Bolitho thought bleakly.

He was glad for Adam. But he would have liked more than anything to see him.

Keen stood beside him as Firefly spread more sails, and tacked around in an effort to catch the feeble wind.

Keen said, 'It seems wrong without him in command.'

Bolitho looked up at Hyperion's braced yards, the masthead pendant lifting and curling in the glare.

'Aye, Val, I wish him all the luck —' he faltered and remembered Herrick's Lady Luck. 'With men like Sir Piers Blachford taking an interest at long last, maybe Adam's navy will be a safer one for those who serve the fleet.'

He watched the brig until she was stern-on and spreading more canvas, and her upper yards were touched with gold. In two weeks' time Firefly would be in England.

Keen moved away as Bolitho began to pace up and down the weather side of the quarterdeck.

In his loose, white shirt, his lock of hair blowing in the breeze, he did not look much like an admiral.

Keen smiled. He was a man.

A week later the schooner Lady Jane, sailing under Admiralty warrant, was sighted by the frigate Tybalt, whose captain immediately signalled his flagship.

The wind was fair but had veered considerably, so that the smart schooner had to beat back and forth for several hours before more signals could be exchanged.

On Hyperion's quarterdeck, Bolitho stood with Keen and watched the schooner's white sails fill to the opposite tack, while Jenour's signals party ran up another acknowledgement.

Jenour said excitedly, 'She is from Gibraltar with despatches, Sir Richard.'

Keen remarked, They must be urgent. The schooner is making heavy weather of it.' He gestured to Parris. 'Prepare to heave-to, if you please.'

Calls trilled between decks and men swarmed through hatchways and along the upperdeck to be mustered by their petty officers.

Bolitho touched his eyelid and pressed it gently. It had barely troubled him since Sir Piers Blachford had left the ship. Was it possible that it might improve, despite what he had said?

'Lady Jane's hove-to, Sir Richard. She's putting down a boat.'

Someone chuckled, 'Gawd, her captain looks about twelve years old!'

Bolitho watched the small boat rising and dipping over the smooth-sided swell.

He had been in his cabin when the hail had come from the masthead about Tybalt's signal He had been composing fresh orders for Herrick and his captains. Divide the squadron. Delay no longer.

Bolitho glanced at the nearest gangway, the bare-backed seamen clinging to the nettings to watch as the boat pulled nearer Was it wrong to curse boredom when the alternative could be sudden death'

'Heave-to, if you please!'

Parris raised his speaking trumpet. 'Main tops'l braces!' Even he seemed to have forgotten his wound.

Hyperion came slowly into the wind, while Bolitho kept his gaze on the approaching boat.

Suppose it was just one more despatch, which in the end meant nothing' He swung away to hide the anger he felt for himself. In God's name, he should be used to that by now.

Lady Jane's captain, a pink-cheeked lieutenant named Edwardes, clambered through the entry port and stared around like someone trapped.

Keen stepped forward. 'Come aft, sir. My admiral will speak with you.'

But Bolitho stared at the second figure who was being hauled unceremoniously on deck, accompanied by grins and nudges from the seamen.

Bolitho exclaimed, 'So you could not stay away!' Sir Piers Blachford waved a warning hand as a sailor made to drop his case of instruments on the deck. Then he said simply, 'I had reached Gibraltar. There I was told that the French are massed at Cadiz with their Spanish allies. I could not see my way to joining the fleet, so I decided to return here in the schooner.' He smiled gently. 'I have the blessing of authority behind me, Sir Richard.'

Keen smiled wryly. 'You are more likely to get sunburn or dry rot if you stay with us, Sir Piers!' But his eyes were on Bolitho, seeing the change in him. It never failed to move him, just to watch his expression, the sudden glint in his dark grey eyes.

In the cabin Bolitho slit open the weighted canvas envelope himself. The shipboard sounds seemed to be muffled, as if Hyperion too was holding her breath.

The others stood around like unrehearsed players. Keen, feet astride, his fair hair and handsome features picked out in a bar of sunlight. Yovell by the table, a pen still gripped in his hand. Sir Piers Blachford, sitting down because of his height, but unusually subdued, as if he knew this was a moment he must share and remember. Jenour by the table, close enough for Bolitho to hear his rapid breathing. And Lieutenant Edwardes who had carried the despatches under all sail from the Rock, gulping gratefully from a tankard which Ozzard had put into his hand.

And of course, Allday. Was it by chance, or had he taken his stance by the rack with its two swords to mark the moment?

Bolitho said quietly, 'Last month Lord Nelson hauled down his flag and returned home after failing to bring the French to battle.' He glanced at Blachford. 'The French fleet is at Cadiz, so too the Spanish squadrons. Vice-Admiral Collingwood is blockading the enemy in Cadiz.'

Jenour whispered, 'And Lord Nelson?'

Bolitho looked at him. 'Nelson has rejoined Victory, and is now doubtless with the fleet.'

For a long moment nobody spoke. Then Keen asked, 'They will break out? They must.'

Bolitho gripped his hands behind him. 'I agree. Villeneuve is ready. He has no choice. Which way will he head? North to Biscay, or back here, Toulon perhaps?" He studied their intent faces. 'We shall be ready. We are ordered to prepare to join Lord Nelson, to blockade or to fight; only Villeneuve knows which.'

He felt every muscle relax, as if a weight had been lifted from his shoulders.

He looked at the pink-cheeked lieutenant. 'So you are on your way?'

'Aye, Sir Richard.' He waved vaguely. 'First to Malta, and then….'

Bolitho watched the sparkle in his eyes; he was planning how he would relate to his friends, how he had carried the word to the rest of the fleet.

'I wish you Godspeed.'

Keen left to see the young man over the side and Bolitho said, 'Make a signal to Tybalt, repeated to Phaedra. Captain to close the Flag and repair on board without delay.'

Jenour wrote in his book and said, 'Immediately, Sir Richard.' He almost ran from the cabin.

Bolitho looked at Blachford. 'I shall send Phaedra to recall the rest of the squadron. When Herrick joins me, I intend to move to the west. If there is to be a fight, then we shall share it.' He smiled and added, 'You will be more than welcome here if that happens.'

Keen came back and asked, 'Will you send Phaedra, Sir Richard?'

'Yes.'

Bolitho thought, Val's mind matches my own. He is thinking it a pity it could not be Adam going to tell Herrick the news.

Blachford remarked, 'But it may end in another blockade?'

Keen shook his head. 'I think not, Sir Piers. There is too much at stake here.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Not least, Villeneuve's honour.'

He walked to the stern windows and wondered how long it would take Dunstan to work his sloop-of-war back to the squadron.

So Nelson had quit the land to rejoin his Victory? He must feel it too. Bolitho ran his palms over the worn sill of the stern windows and watched the sea rise and fall beneath the counter. Two old ships. He thought of the sally port where he had released his hold on Catherine that last time. Nelson would have used those same stairs. One day they would meet. It was inevitable. Dear Inch had met him, and Adam was on speaking terms. He smiled to himself. Our Nel.

There were whispers at the screen door, then Keen said, ''Phaedra is in sight, Sir Richard.'

'Good. We'll send her on her way before dusk with any luck.'

Bolitho threw off his gold-laced coat and sat at the table. 'I shall write my orders, Mr Yovell. Tell your clerk to prepare copies for every captain.'

He stared at the sun glinting across the fresh ink. Upon receipt of these orders you are to proceed with all despatch — Right or wrong, it was a time for action.