So many ifs and maybes. Suppose the plan to land on and capture the French islands of Martinique and Guadaloupe misfired? Without overwhelming superiority at sea the scheme would certainly fail. To draw the main enemy force together and engage it in battle was their only sane approach. He kept his face impassive, knowing that Jenour was watching him. Seven sail of the line and one frigate was hardly an overwhelming squadron.

He heard the first lieutenant call, “Permission to carry out punishment, sir? Able Seaman Wiltshire, two dozen lashes.”

Keen sounded suddenly dispirited. “Very well, Mr Sedgemore.” He looked up at the limply flapping sails and added bitterly, “It seems we have nothing better to do!”

Bolitho turned towards the companion-way. He had seen the expressions on the faces of some of the new hands. Resentful, hostile.

Hardly the faces of men who would rally and fight to the death if so ordered, not by a long stretch of the imagination.

He said, “I’m going aft, Val. Keep me informed.”

Keen stood beside Jenour as the ritual of rigging a grating on the larboard side was supervised by the boatswain and his mates.

Jenour said with concern, “Sir Richard seems depressed, sir.”

Keen tore his eyes from the boatswain who was examining his red baize bag, in which he kept the cat-o’-nine-tails.

“He frets for his lady, Stephen. And yet the sailor in him craves the solution to his problem of command here.” He glanced at the vice-admiral’s flag barely moving at the foremast truck. “Sometimes I wonder …”

He looked round as Sedgemore called, “Pipe the hands, sir?”

Keen acknowledged him curtly, but not before noting the first lieutenant’s complete indifference. As one who hungered for promotion, and had already shown his ability under fire, it was surprising he had not become aware of the need to care for the people he might soon have to lead in battle.

The calls shrilled and twittered from deck to deck. “All hands! All hands lay aft to witness punishment!”

As he walked aft to his quarters Bolitho understood the unpleasantness and necessity as if he were Keen. Holding his ship together, administering punishment with the same equality and fairness as he would reward and promote a promising seaman. He found Yovell waiting with a sheaf of papers requiring his signature but said wearily, “Later, my friend. I am at low ebb, and am poor company at the moment.”

As the portly secretary left the cabin, Allday entered.

“What about me, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho smiled. “Damn your impertinence! But yes—take a seat and join me in a wet.”

Allday grinned, partly reassured. It would all come right in the end. But this time it would take a bit longer.

“That would suit me well, Sir Richard.”

The first crack of the lash penetrated the cabin.

Allday pondered. A beautiful woman, his own flag at the fore, a title from the King. The lash cracked down again. But some things never changed. Ozzard padded into view with his tray: a tall glass of hock and a tankard of rum, as usual.

When Bolitho leaned over to take the glass Ozzard saw the locket hanging around his neck. He had studied it several times when the vice-admiral had been having a wash or a shave. Her lovely shoulders and the suggestion of her breasts, just as he had seen her that day in the barquentine’s cabin. He heard the lash crack down again, but felt only contempt. The man being punished had asked for it, had drawn a knife on a messmate. In a month he would be boasting about the scars left by the cat across his back.

My wounds will never heal.

Towards the close of the afternoon watch, with the reddest sun most of them had ever seen dipping over the island, Black Prince glided slowly towards the anchorage.

Keen watched as Bolitho took a glass and trained it on the shore and the other ships resting at anchor, their spars and rigging already glowing like copper in the failing light. He was relieved to see that Bolitho appeared outwardly restored, with no hint of anxiety in the face he had come to know so well.

Bolitho studied the nearest men-of-war, all 74s, and none of them strangers to him. They were part of his squadron, but likely expecting another to command them. Back from the dead.

He said, “I shall pay my respects to Lord Sutcliffe, Val, as soon as we are anchored.” He turned, surprised as the first crash of a gun-salute echoed and rebounded across the quiet harbour.

“They have fired first, Sir Richard! That will not please Admiral the Lord Sutcliffe.”

Keen dropped his hand and the first gun of Black Prince’s upper battery fired out in reply, the pale smoke hanging low on the water like something solid.

“Take in the courses! Extra topmen aloft, Mr Sedgemore!” Keen strode to the compass and watched the sudden bustle of activity which had entirely replaced the torpor during their slow approach.

Bolitho recognised the 74 drawing nearer: the old Glorious, which like most of the others had been with him at Copenhagen, when he had received the news of Herrick’s convoy and its obvious danger. Her captain, John Crowfoot, was no older than Keen, but he was so grey and stooped that he looked more like a country parson than a highly experienced naval officer.

The guard-boat was already here, her flag hanging limp but still bright enough for Keen to mark down their proposed anchorage, where the flagship would have sufficient room to swing around her cable without fear of fouling any of the other vessels moored there.

The last shot echoed away across the water, thirteen guns in all. Keen was quick to order the gunner to cease firing and commented, “It would seem that Lord Sutcliffe is not here, sir. The salute was to you, as the senior officer.”

Bolitho waited, outwardly calm, but unable to control the old excitement at any landfall.

“Stand by to come about! Ready aft!” The merest pause, then, “Helm a’lee!” Very slowly and heavily Black Prince came into the remaining breath of wind, her topsails already vanishing as the order was shouted along the upper deck, “Let go!”

The anchor fell with a mighty splash into the clear, coppery water, spray bursting over the beak-head like hail.

Keen called, “Awnings and winds’ls, Mr Sedgemore! All eyes are on us, it seems!”

At least it might ease the heat and discomfort between decks. He had learned that early in life as Bolitho’s very junior lieutenant.

Bolitho handed the telescope to a minute midshipman. “Take it, Mr Thornborough, and inform your lieutenant if you sight something that might be of interest.” He saw the boy’s eyes widen at the casual confidence, as if God had just descended to speak to him. He was one of the twelve-year-olds, but it was never too soon to learn that the men who wore the bright epaulettes were human, too.

“Listen!” Keen swung round, his teeth very white in his tanned face. The old Glorious has manned her yards!” He could not conceal his emotion as the great wave of cheering broke from the nearest 74. Men were standing in her shrouds and on her yards; the gangways too were lined with waving and cheering sailors and marines. “The news preceded us after all, Sir Richard! They know you are among them—listen to them!”

Bolitho glanced at some of the seamen below the quarterdeck, who were staring from the anchored Glorious and her consorts to the man whose flag flew at the foremast. A man they knew by rumour and reputation, but nothing more.

Bolitho walked to the nettings and then waved his new hat back and forth above his head, to the obvious delight of the Glorious’s company.

Keen watched in silence, sharing the gesture. How could he ever doubt the men he had known and led, or his own ability to inspire them? One of the other ships had taken up the onslaught of cheering. Keen saw Bolitho’s profile and was satisfied. He understood now anyway. Until the next time.

Sedgemore came aft and touched his hat. “Ship secured, sir!”

Keen said, “Prepare the sheet-anchor, if you please.” He saw no comprehension there and added sharply, “Remember, Mr Sedgemore, we lie on a lee-shore, and we are in a season of storms.”

Midshipman Thornborough, his young face enraptured by all the noise of their reception, called, “Barge approaching, Mr Daubeny!”

Bolitho replaced his hat and stood aside as the marines stamped to the entry port for their first visitor. It would soon be dark; sunset came here like a curtain. But when the shore lights were brighter he might be able to recognise that same house where he had dined beside her, their hands almost brushing one another on the table while she had exchanged polite smiles with her husband, Viscount Somervell, at the opposite end.

The side-party was in position, boatswain’s mates moistening their silver calls on their tongues while the Royal Marines gripped their bayonetted muskets in readiness.

Keen lowered his glass and said quietly, “It’s RearAdmiral Herrick, Sir Richard.” He was suddenly drained of the excitement he had felt at their arrival. “I will be honest, sir. It will cost me dear to make him welcome.”

Bolitho stared at the approaching barge, the oars like bare bones in the deepening shadows.

“Never fear, Val, it is doubtless costing him a great deal more.”

The barge vanished from view and then, after what seemed like an eternity, Herrick’s head and shoulders appeared in the entry port. While the guard presented arms and the calls paid their tribute, he doffed his hat, and stood motionless as if he and Bolitho were quite alone.

In those seconds Bolitho saw that Herrick’s hair appeared to have gone completely grey, and that he held his body stiffly, as if his wound still troubled him.

Bolitho stepped forward and reached out with both hands. “You are welcome here, Thomas.”

Herrick grasped his hands and stared at him, his blue eyes catching the last of the sunshine.

“So it was true … you are alive.” Then he lowered his head and said, loudly enough for Keen and Jenour to hear, “Forgive me.”

As Jenour began to follow the two flag officers aft, Keen thrust out his arm. “Not this time, Stephen. Later perhaps.” He hesitated. “I have just seen something I thought had died. But it’s still there … like a bright flame.” The words seemed to be printed on his mind. Forgive me.

Jenour did not completely understand, and he had never been intimately acquainted with Herrick. If anything he had felt only jealousy when his name had been mentioned, because of his relationship with Bolitho, and the experiences they had shared. But like Keen, he knew he had witnessed a rare moment, and wondered how he might describe it in his next letter.

Allday was standing in the poop’s shadow when Bolitho led the way to the companion ladder; around him the ship was settling down for the dog-watches and their first night at anchor. He could smell the land, and felt the same restlessness he always knew on these occasions.

But all he thought about was Herrick, and how hard it was to believe that he was the same man. Just for those few seconds when they had passed him, it had all come back: Bolitho as the young captain and Herrick the first lieutenant who had believed so passionately in his sailors’ rights.

Allday shook himself and watched the first squad of marines splitting up into sentry pickets at the ship’s vantage points. Poop and forecastle, and the gangways which joined them to one another, where additional heavy shot would be kept handy if some native trader or bumboat came too close during the night watches. One ball dropped through a boat’s hull would soon discourage the others. The sentries were to prevent those tempted by the island from deserting. But even the fear of a flogging or worse would not put some off, he thought.

He rubbed his chest as the wound came alive again. Like the sea itself, it was always a reminder.

Always the pain.

Thomas Herrick stood by the stern windows and stared across the water towards the lights of the port.

Ozzard waited with a tray, his eyes opaque as he watched the visitor, preparing for the worst or the best, as fortune dictated.

“A drink, Thomas? We are presently well stocked, so you can have what you will.” Bolitho saw the indecision.

Herrick sat down carefully, his body still held at a stiff angle.

“I would relish some ginger beer. I’ve almost forgotten what it’s like.”

Bolitho waited for Ozzard to bustle away and then tossed his heavy coat on to the stern bench seat.

“How long have you known, Thomas?”

Herrick’s eyes moved slowly around the great cabin, remembering other visits perhaps, or the days when his own flag flew above his Benbow.

“Two days—a fast packet from England. I could scarcely believe it, and even when your ship was reported offshore I thought some fool might have made a mistake.” He lowered his head and rested it on his hand. “When I think of all we went through …” His voice almost broke. “I still believe it all part of a nightmare.”

Bolitho walked to his chair and rested one hand on his shoulder, as much to steady Herrick as to conceal his own sudden emotion from the returned Ozzard.

Herrick made another effort, and held the fine goblet critically to the lanterns. “Ginger beer.” He watched the clear bubbles. “No wonder they call these the Islands of Death. They try to pretend this is a part of England, and if they don’t drink themselves into early graves, then they fall to a list of fevers that are more than a match for most of our surgeons.” He drank deeply and did not protest when Ozzard refilled the goblet.

Bolitho sat down and took a glass of the hock Catherine had had sent aboard. Ozzard had a knack of keeping such wines cool in the spacious bilges, but it was still something of a miracle how he managed—the hock tasted as if it had been lying in some icy Highland stream.

“And Lord Sutcliffe?” He spoke with care, and could feel Herrick’s uncertainty and discomfort like a part of himself.

Herrick gave a shrug. “Fever. He has been moved up to St John’s—the air is better, they say, but I fear for his life. He placed me in command here until the new squadron was formed … then I was to be at the disposal of its flag officer.” The blue eyes lifted and fixed on Bolitho, regarding him steadily for the first time since he had stepped aboard. “You, in fact, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho said, “Richard. I’d prefer it.”

It was hard to come to grips with this new, remote Herrick, difficult to see him in either of his past guises: the earnest lieutenant, or the defiant rearadmiral who had been within a hair’s breadth of death at his own court martial. There was something of each still remaining, but nothing of both as a single person.

Herrick gazed through the cabin’s dimness again as from somewhere in the ship they heard the far-off calls and the thud of bare feet as watchkeepers rushed to right a wrong above or below deck.

Herrick said, “I never thought I would miss all this after what happened. I’ve had a bellyful of transports—vessels under warrant with masters I personally would not trust to scrub out the heads!”

“And you have had all this to carry on your shoulders, as well as your other work here?”

Herrick did not seem to have heard. “Your eye, Richard. Is it still as bad?”

“You’ve told nobody, Thomas?”

Herrick shook his head, the gesture so familiar that it turned a knife in Bolitho’s heart.

“It was ‘twixt friends—I’ve said nothing. Nor would I.” He hesitated, turning over another thought which had troubled him since Black Prince’s arrival. “The Golden Plover.” He faltered. “I saw Keen and Jenour just now. Was—your—lady saved? Forgive me—I must ask.”

“Yes.” One wrong word or mistimed memory might break this contact forever. “In truth, Thomas, I think that but for her we would all have been lost.” He forced a smile. “After Golden Plover I take your point about transports under warrant!”

Herrick was on his feet, moving beneath the lanterns to throw his shadow across the tethered guns and leather-covered furniture like some restless dancer.

“I’ve done what I can. Without authority I have commandeered twenty schooners and cutters from here and from St Kitts. Without further authority I have swept the dockyard and barracks of lieutenants and ancient mariners, and packed them off on patrols which we cannot otherwise sustain.”

It was like watching someone coming back to life. Bolitho said quietly, “You have my authority, Thomas.”

Herrick, reassured, reeled off all the things he had introduced to give early warning of enemy men-of-war, blockade runners or any suspicious vessel, be it slaver or genuine neutral trader.

“I’ve told them to stand no nonsense. If any master defies our flag he will not move freely in these waters again!” He smiled, and again his whole being changed. “You will remember, Richard, I was in a merchantman myself between wars. I know a few of their tricks!”

“Is our frigate in harbour?”

“I sent her to Port Royal with some additional soldiers on board—another slave revolt. It was best to act with all haste.”

“So we have the squadron, seven sail of the line. And your flotilla of smaller ‘eyes.’”

Herrick frowned. “Six, for the present anyway. The 74 Matchless is in dock. She was caught in a storm two weeks back and lost her foremast. It’s a marvel she didn’t drive ashore.”

He sounded suddenly angry, and Bolitho asked. “Captain Mackbeath, is it not?”

“No, he was replaced after Copenhagen.” His eyes clouded over. Remembering Benbow again, all those who had died that day. “She has a new captain now, more’s the pity—the Lord Rathcullen, who seems unable to take advice about anything. But you know what they say about Irishmen, peers or otherwise.”

Bolitho smiled. “About we Cornishmen too, on occasions!”

Herrick’s eyes crinkled, and he gave a brief laugh. “Aye, damme, I asked for that!”

“Will you sup with me tonight, Thomas?” He saw Herrick’s immediate caution. “I mean with me alone. I would take it as a favour … the land can bide awhile. We are sailors again.”

Herrick shifted in his chair. “I had it all prepared …” He seemed, again, embarrassed and ill at ease.

“It is done. I cannot say what it means to me. We have each had our own reefs to cross, but others will look to us, and care little enough for our troubles.”

Herrick said after a silence, and rather uncertainly, “I shall tell you my ideas if I may. When I return to my residence …” He smiled at some recollection. “The yard-master’s house in fact—frugal and without pretence—I shall work on the plan I was going to present to our new flag officer.”

Bolitho asked quietly, “Do you ever sleep, Thomas?”

“Enough.”

“Did you receive any other news from the packet?”

Herrick took several seconds to drag himself back to the present.

“We are promised another frigate. She’s the Ipswich, 38. Captain Pym.”

“I don’t know the ship, I’m afraid.”

Herrick’s eyes were distant once more. “No. She’s from my part of the world, the Nore.” He changed tack suddenly. “You heard about Gossage, I suppose.” His mouth tightened. “RearAdmiral Gossage, indeed. I wonder how many pieces of silver that rated?”

He was driving himself hard in his unexpected and temporary command, giving himself no time to brood on what had gone before, or on the loss of his ship, for Benbow was a hulk, and would never leave the dockyard again. What a way to end, after all they had done together.

“Easy, Thomas. Put it behind you.”

Herrick eyed him curiously, as much as if to ask, “Could you?”

Bolitho persisted, “Life still has much to offer.”

“Maybe.” He sat stolidly, with the empty goblet clasped in his square hands like a talisman. “In truth, I am grateful to be of some use again. When I heard the news about you …” He shook his head. “I thought it was another chance. Lady Luck.” He looked at him, suddenly desperate. “But it’s not been easy.”

“Who knows what we might achieve this time?”

Herrick sounded bitter. “They are fools out here. They don’t understand, nor do they know what to expect. Pink-cheeked soldiers more used to the bogs of Ireland than this godforsaken place, and senior officers who’ve scarcely heard a shot fired!”

Bolitho said quietly, “‘He never set a squadron in the field, Nor the division of a battle knows, More than a spinster.’”

Herrick stared at him. “Our Nel?”

Bolitho smiled as he saw his friend emerging. “No, Shakespeare. But it could easily have been.”

In the pantry Allday nudged Ozzard. “More like it, eh?” But he had been thinking of the little inn in Cornwall, and came awkwardly to the point. “Will you pen a letter for me, Tom?”

Ozzard said darkly, “Be warned, that’s all I ask.” He saw Allday’s expression and sighed. “Course I will. Anything for a bit o’ peace!”

The big three-decker lay to her cable, her open gunports reflected in the calm anchorage like lines of eyes. The sentries paced their sections, and from one of the messdecks came the plaintive notes of a fiddle. The officer-of-the-watch paused in his discussion with a master’s mate as the captain appeared by the abandoned double-wheel, where men had fought wind and sea only a week ago as they strove to reach calmer waters.

Keen turned away from the shadowy watchkeepers and walked, deep in thought, to the poop ladder.

His ship and all her company, prime sailors, felons, cowards and honest men who would soon depend on him again, from his ambitious first lieutenant to the squeaking midshipmen, from surgeon to purser’s clerk, they were his to command. An honour; but that he could take for granted. He watched the guard-boat pulling slowly between the moored ships, a riding-light gleaming momentarily on a naked bayonet. He tried to imagine Sir Richard Bolitho and his old friend warily coming together in the great cabin. It would be difficult for both of them. The one who had found all he had ever wanted in his woman; the other who had lost everything, and nearly his life as well.

Seabirds flashed past the lights from the wardroom windows and he thought of that night in the open boat.

Tonight they will nest in Africa.

What price survival then?

He summoned her face, and the memory of unexpected love, which had left them both dazed with disbelief. For the first time in his life, there was someone waiting for him.

He recalled her last embrace, the warmth of her body against his.

“Captain, sir?” The lieutenant hovered on the top of the poop ladder.

“What is it?”

“Mr Julyan’s respects, sir, and he thinks the wind is getting up from the west’rd.”

“Very well, Mr Daubeny. Inform the first lieutenant and pipe the larboard watch.”

As the lieutenant hurried down the ladder Keen pushed all else to the back of his mind.

As he had heard Bolitho say on occasions, “That was then. This is now.”

He was the captain again.

16

POWER OF COMMAND

LADY CATHERINE SOMERVELL stood by one of the tall windows in the library and looked across the garden. The snow was heavier now, and the wheel-tracks of Lewis Roxby’s smart phaeton had almost vanished in just half an hour. Kneeling on a rug before a crackling fire, Nancy was finishing her story of Miles Vincent’s disappearance, and how it was later discovered that he had been taken by the press-gang and put aboard a man-of-war in Carrick Road.

Catherine watched the persistent snow and thought of Black Prince as she had last seen her standing out to sea, taking her heart with her.

She had spoken to some of the old sailors who worked on the estate, men who had served Richard in the past, before they had been cut down in battle; she was even jealous of them when they spoke of days she had never, could never share. One of them calculated that given the time of year and the inexperience of her company, Black Prince should have reached the Indies by now. A world away. Her man, doing things he had been ordered to do, hiding his own worries so that his men would see only confidence.

She turned away from the snow and asked guiltily, “I’m sorry, Nancy—what did you say?”

“I shouldn’t burden you with it, but she is my sister, one of the family … and despite her shortcomings I feel responsible for her, especially with her husband dead.” She looked up as though uncertain. “I was wondering, dear Catherine, if you could tell Richard about it when next you write. Lewis is doing all he can, of course, as it was obviously a mistake.”

Catherine studied her thoughtfully. What Richard’s mother must have been like. Fair, with clear fresh skin. She had a pretty mouth, perhaps all that remained of the young girl who had been in love with Richard’s friend.

Nancy took her silence for disagreement. “I know Miles does not make a favourable impression, but …”

Catherine walked to the fire and sat on the edge of a stool, feeling the heat on her face, imagining him here with her, now.

She said, “When I first met him, I found him glib, with a higher opinion of himself than I would have thought healthy. What I have heard of him since has not improved that image.”

She saw Nancy’s dismay and smiled. “But I will tell Richard in my next letter. I write every few days, in the hope they will reach him in some sort of order.” Inwardly she believed that the young Miles Vincent had probably got what he deserved. He had apparently been at a cock-fight somewhere out towards the Helford River, and the press-gang had burst in on it. They had only found three men who did not possess a legal protection —one of them had been Vincent. She thought of his arrogance, the way he had stared at her during Roxby’s dinner, with the smirk of a conceited child. She thought of Allday and others like Ferguson and the estate workers, seized by the hated press without pity or consideration. The navy needed men, and always would as long as the war dragged on. So men would be taken from the farms and the taverns, from the arms of their loved ones, to rub shoulders with those who had escaped the gallows for the sea at the assizes.

Nancy was saying, “Lewis has already written to his friend, the port admiral at Plymouth … but it might take so long.”

Catherine adjusted her gown and Nancy exclaimed, “My dear—I can still see that place where the sun burned you!”

“I hope I never lose it. It will always remind me.”

“Will you come for Christmas, Catherine? I would be so unhappy to think of you alone here. Please say you will. I would never forgive myself otherwise.”

Catherine reached out and pressed her arm. “Sweet Nancy, you are all responsibilities today! I shall think about it …” She turned as her maid entered the room. “What is it, Sophie?”

“A letter, me lady. The boy just brought it.”

Nancy watched her as she took the letter and saw her eyes mist over as she quickly scanned the handwriting.

“I shall leave, Catherine. It is no moment to share …”

Catherine opened the letter and shook her head. “No, no—it is from Adam.” The handwriting was unfamiliar, and yet similar. It was a short impetuous letter, and somehow typical of him: she could see his grave dark features as he had written it, from Portsmouth it appeared, no doubt with his Anemone coming to life all around him as she completed storing and made ready for sea.

He wrote, “You have been much in my mind of late, and I would that I had been free to speak with you as we have done in the past. There is no one else with whom I can share my thoughts. And when I see what you have done for my beloved uncle I am all gratitude and love for you.” The rest of the letter was almost formal, as if he were composing a report for his admiral. But he ended like the young man who had grown up in war. “Please remember me to my friends at Falmouth, and to Captain Keen’s wife should you see her. With affectionate regard, Adam.” She folded it as if it were something precious.

Nancy said, “What is it?”

“It seems that the French are out. The foul weather was their friend, not ours … Adam is ordered to the West Indies with all haste.”

“How do they know with such certainty that the French are heading there?”

“They know.” She stood up and walked back to the window. Two grooms were reharnessing a fine pair of horses to the phaeton, and as the snow drifted down on them they flicked their ears with obvious displeasure.

Nancy came up beside her and put her arm around her waist. Afterwards Catherine thought it could have been the act of a sister.

“So they will all be together again?”

Catherine said, “I knew in my heart it would happen. We both believe in fate. How else could we have lost each other and then come together again? It was fate.” She turned her head and smiled at her. “You must be glad that your man has his feet on dry land.”

Nancy looked at her very directly. Her eyes, Catherine thought, were the colour of lavender, opened to the sun, and they did not blink as she said quietly, “I once thought to become a sailor’s wife.” Then she threw her arms around her. “I am so selfish—”

“That you are not.” She followed her into the adjoining room and picked up the old cloak she sometimes wore when riding; Richard had once taken it to sea with him, in that other world.

Ferguson, muffled against the weather, was talking with the grooms and helped Nancy into the carriage, noting the tears and the brightness of her eyes as he did so.

As the horses thudded across the packed snow Catherine said, “Do you wish to see me?”

Ferguson followed her through the doors. “I wondered if there was anything I could do, my lady?”

“Take a glass of something with me.” He looked uneasily at his filthy boots but she waved him down. “Be seated. I need to talk.”

He watched her as she took two glasses from a cabinet, her hair shining like glass in the firelight. He still could not picture her in a boat with only some ragged survivors for company.

He stiffened as she said over her shoulder, “You heard about young Miles Vincent, I daresay.”

Did she know of his visit to Roxby? Was that what the squire’s wife had been here about?

“Yes, I did hear something. I didn’t want to trouble you.” He took the glass gratefully. “He was put aboard the Ipswich, according to one of the coastguards. She was off to the Caribbean soon afterwards, it seems. But never fear, m’lady, I am sure her captain will deal fairly with the matter.” He hoped it sounded convincing.

Catherine barely heard him. “The West Indies, you say? It seems everyone is going there, except us. I heard from Captain Adam, you see—he is probably out there off the Lizard at this very moment.”

For the first time Ferguson realised he was drinking brandy. He tried to smile. “Well, here’s to Sir Richard, m’lady, and all our brave fellows!”

She let the cognac run across her tongue like fire.

The French are out. How many times had they heard that? She looked up the staircase where the candlelight flickered on the stern faces of those who had gone from here before, to meet that same challenge. The French are out.

“Oh, dear God, that I was with him now!”

It was, as Ferguson later said to his wife, a cry torn from her heart.

“Land ho!”

Captain Adam Bolitho pressed his hands on the chart and stared at the neat calculations that marked their progress. Beyond the tiny chartroom he knew there would be excitement as the call came from the masthead. Beside him Josiah Partridge, Anemone’s bluff sailing-master, watched his young captain’s face, noting the pride he obviously felt for his command and at the fast passage they had almost completed. In mid-Atlantic they had met with fierce winds, but the frigate seemed to have a charmed life, and once into the sun they had lost no time in sending down the heavy-duty canvas and replacing it with the lighter sails that seemed to make Anemone fly.

Adam said, “You’ve done well, Mr Partridge! I never thought we’d do it. Four thousand miles in seventeen days—what say you about that?”

Old Partridge, as he was called behind his back, beamed at him. Adam Bolitho could be very demanding, perhaps because of his illustrious uncle, but he never spared himself like some. Day and night he had been on deck, more often than not with both watches turned-to while the wind had screamed around them, matched only by the insane chorus of straining rigging and banging canvas.

Then into the friendly north-east trade winds, with the final run across the Western Atlantic where the sunshine had greeted them like heroes. It had been wild and often dangerous, but Anemone’s company had come to trust their youthful captain. Only a fool would try to deceive him.

Adam tapped his brass dividers on a small group of islands to the south of Anguilla. French, Spanish and Dutch, often visited by ships sailing alone, but rarely fought over. Those nations, like the English, had far more important islands to protect in order to keep their sea-lanes open, their trade prospering.

“What about this one, Mr Partridge? It is as close to the passage we must take as makes no difference.”

The sailing-master bent over the table, his purple nose barely inches away; Adam could smell the rum but would overlook it. Partridge was the best sailing-master he had ever known. He had served in the navy in two wars, and in between had made his way around the world in everything from a collier brig to a convict ship. If there was to be foul weather he would inevitably inform his captain even before the glass gave any hint of change. Uncharted shallows, reefs which were larger than previous navigators had estimated, it was all part of his sailor’s lore. He rarely hesitated, and he did not disappoint Adam now.

“That ‘un, zur? That be Bird Island. It’s got some fancy dago name, but to me it’s always been Bird Island.” His round Devonian accent sounded homely here, and reminded Adam of Yovell.

“Lay off a course. I shall inform the first lieutenant. Lord Sutcliffe will not be expecting us anyway, and I doubt if his lordship would think we could make such a speedy passage even if he were!”

Partridge watched him leave and sighed. What it was to be young. And Captain Bolitho certainly looked that, his black hair all anyhow, a none-too-clean shirt open to the waist—more like someone playing the part of a pirate than a skilled frigate captain.

On the quarterdeck, Adam paused to stare up at the great pyramid of sails, so fresh and bright after the dull skies and patched canvas of the Western Ocean.

Many of the men on deck probably thought they were carrying secret despatches of the greatest importance to the Commander-in-Chief, that he should drive his ship so hard. At one time the great main-yard had been bending like a bow under the wind’s powerful thrust, so that even Old Partridge had expected to lose a spar if not the entire mast.

In the whole ship, nobody knew the devil that drove him. Whenever he had snatched time to sleep or bolt down some food, the torment had returned. It was never far away, even now. In his sleep it was worse. Her naked body writhing and slipping from his grip, her eyes angry and accusing as she had pulled away. The dreams left him gasping in his wildly swinging cot, and once, the marine sentry at the screen door had burst in to his assistance.

He strode up the tilting deck and stared across the glistening water, like ten million mirrors, he thought. The gulls were already quitting their islands to investigate the frigate.

Perhaps it was because he had known, really known that somehow his uncle would survive; not only that, but would save anyone who had depended on him. Maybe she believed that he had been as disappointed to learn that her husband lived, as he was overjoyed to hear the news of his uncle’s safety.

And knowing all these things he had taken her, had loved her and compelled her to love him until they had both been exhausted. Now she might see that act as a betrayal, his plea of love nothing but a cruel lie to seize the advantage when she was most vulnerable.

He clenched his fingers into a tight fist. I do love you, Zenoria. I never wanted to dishonour you by forcing myself upon you …

He turned sharply as Peter Sargeant, his first lieutenant who had ridden all the way from Plymouth to the church in Falmouth to bring him the news of the rescue, came up to join him.

“Bird Island, sir?”

A close-run thing. He could feel the shirt clinging to his skin, and not merely because of the sun.

“Yes. A whim perhaps. But vessels call there for water sometimes … Lord Sutcliffe can wait a while longer, and we might get him some news.” He smiled. “And there is always the possibility of a prize or two.” He glanced up at the streaming masthead pendant. “We will alter course directly, and steer south-west-by-west. We should be up to the islands before noon with this wind under our coat-tails!”

They grinned at each other. Young men, with the world and the ocean theirs for the asking.

“Deck there!” They stared up at the bright, washed-out sky. “Sail on th’ starboard bow!”

Several telescopes were seized and trained, and then Lieutenant Sargeant said, “Big schooner, sir.”

Adam levelled his telescope and waited for Anemone to lift her beak-head over a long glassy roller.

“A Guinea-man, I’ll wager.” He snapped the glass shut, his mind already busy with compass and distance. “Full of slaves too, maybe. This new slavery act will come in useful!”

Sargeant cupped his hands. “Both watches, Mr Bond! Stand by on the quarterdeck!”

The sailing-master watched the far-off sliver of sail, clearly etched now against an overlapping backdrop of small islands.

“We’ll lose that ‘un, zur, if us lets ‘em slip amongst they dunghills!”

Adam showed his teeth. “I admire your turn of phrase, Mr Partridge. And no, we shall not lose him.” He turned aside. “Get the royals on her! Then send the gunner aft to me!”

Even though the other vessel had also made more sail, and had changed tack slightly away from her pursuer, she was no match for Anemone. Within an hour she could be clearly seen by everyone on deck who had the time to look. In two hours she was within range of Anemone’s bow-chasers. The gunner laid one of them himself, one hard thumb raised and moved this way or that to direct the crew to use their handspikes and adjust the long nine-pounder until he was satisfied.

Adam called, “As you will, Mr Ayres! Close as you dare!”

Several of the seamen who were near enough to hear grinned at one another. Adam saw the exchanges and was moved. They had become a better ship’s company than he had dared to hope for. Few were volunteers, and many had been transferred from other ships when Anemone had first commissioned without even being allowed to go ashore and visit their homes. And yet, over the months, they had become a self-dependent unit of the fleet. A new ship and her first captain, just as Anemone was Adam’s first frigate. He had always dreamed and hoped for this, to follow in the footsteps of his uncle. He asked a lot of himself, and expected the support of his officers and men. Somehow, the magic had worked.

Just before they had left Spithead to beat down-Channel in a rising gale, they had discovered twelve seamen from a merchant vessel pulling ashore, probably without permission, for a night in the taverns. Adam had sent his third lieutenant and a party ashore and pressed those unfortunate revellers before they had realised what had happened. It had not been strictly legal but, he argued, they should have remained on board until officially paid-off by their captain. Twelve trained hands were a real find, instead of the usual dockside scum and jail-bait most captains had to train and contend with. He could see one of them now, not only reconciled to his situation but actually showing a young landman how to use a marlin spike on some cordage. It was the way of sailors.

A bow-chaser roared out, the pale smoke fanning away through the staysail and jib.

There were several shouts of approval as the ball slammed down hard alongside the other vessel, flinging a tall waterspout high over the deck.

Adam took a speaking-trumpet, “Close, I said, Mr Ayres! I think you must have parted his hair!”

“He’s heaving-to, sir!”

“Very well. Run down on him and send a party across. And no nonsense.”

Old Partridge lowered a glass and remarked, “Looks like a slaver, zur.” He sounded doubtful.

“Spit it out, man. I’m no mind-reader.”

“Too many ships-o’-war hereabouts, zur. Most Guinea-men give these parts a wide berth. From my experience they runs further to the west’rd to that damned hole Haiti or down to the Main where the Dons always find use for more slaves.” He was quite unperturbed by his young captain’s manner; he knew many would have considered it beneath their dignity even to consult a lowly warrant officer.

Adam watched the other vessel floundering about in a cross-wind, her sails in disarray.

“That makes good sense, Mr Partridge. Well said.”

Partridge rubbed his chin to conceal a grin. Despite all his fire and impatience, you could not help but like Captain Adam Bolitho.

“Ready, sir!”

“Go yourself, Mr Sargeant.” He gave him a searching look. “No risks.”

Moments later the cutter pulled away from the frigate’s swaying shadow, the boarding-party crowded amongst the oarsmen and a swivel-gun mounted above the stem.

Adam watched Anemone’s sails filling and banging as she was caught in a powerful undertow from the island.

He glanced at the masthead pendant. “Back the maintops’l, Mr Martin!”

The second lieutenant dragged his eyes from the cutter as it bounced and pitched over the blue water towards the schooner.

To the sailing-master Adam said, “Plenty of sea room, eh?”

“Aye, plenty, zur. An’ no bottom neither.” He pointed vaguely at the land. “Shallows there though.”

Adam took a glass and relaxed slightly. It was always a risk so close to land. Too much depth to anchor, not enough time to weigh if things went wrong. He trained it on the schooner. A few figures on deck but little sign of excitement. If she was a slaver, her master obviously had nothing to hide. But there might be evidence of his trade, or at least enough to question him. They had stopped and searched so many vessels, and had rarely come away empty-handed. Intelligence, the casual mention of some enemy shipping movements. He smiled. Best of all, they might take the ship herself as a prize. He knew he had been lucky; so did his men.

During the last overhaul Adam had arranged to have all the ship’s stern carvings and beak-head, the “gingerbread” as it was nicknamed, painted with real gilt, and not merely dockyard yellow paint: a mark of success for a captain who was skilful enough to gain himself and his company the allotted share of prize-money.

Someone said, “Almost there!” Lieutenant Sargeant could be seen standing in the sternsheets, a speaking-trumpet to his mouth as he shouted to the men on the schooner’s deck. A good officer who had become a friend, or as close to one as Adam could ever accept.

He glanced along the deck. Anemone was a ship any young officer would kill for. Twenty-eight 18-pounders and ten 9-pounders, two of which were chasers. He turned away, and saw Partridge watching him from beside the compass box.

“What is it, zur?”

Adam plucked at his shirt, suddenly cold in spite of the glaring heat. Like fever.

“I’m not sure.”

Partridge rubbed his chin. He had never heard the captain reveal such uncertainty before. Right or wrong, he was always ready with an answer.

The second lieutenant called, “The cutter’s turning to go alongside, sir!”

Adam said sharply, “Recall the boat, Mr Martin! Now!” To the startled Partridge he added, “Prepare to get under way!”

The sailing-master stared at him. “But—but we can rake that bugger, zur!”

Men were already dropping from the shrouds and gangways from where they had been enjoying the spectacle across the water.

The cutter had seen the recall signal, and Lieutenant Sargeant probably felt much the same as Old Partridge. Too much sun.

“He’s standing away, sir!”

There were some ironic cheers from the gun deck, to cover a sense of disappointment. The cutter was almost bows-on now, the oars moving quickly. Sargeant probably thought the lookouts had sighted another vessel further out to sea, which appeared more promising.

“Deck there! Smoke on t’ ‘eadland!”

Adam hurried to the opposite side and trained his glass on the misty green slope.

He heard a man say, “A camp o’ some kind, I reckon.”

Adam shouted, “Hands aloft, Mr Martin! Loose tops’ls! Pipe the hands to the braces!”

Partridge glanced at the shore as the topmen dashed to the shrouds and scampered up the ratlines. To his helmsmen he growled, “Be ready, my lads! We’ll be all aback else!” He had been at sea a long time, and was the oldest man in the ship. He knew that what some simpleton had mistaken for a camp fire was the smoke of an oven, an oven which had just been flung open when the cutter had begun to come about and return to Anemone.

“Break out the main course!”

There were cries of alarm and surprise as a gun banged out, and seconds later a ball slapped through the fore-topsail even as it was released to the wind. Adam tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. Where the ball had punched its hole through the sail was a blackened circle, the mark of heated shot. If it ploughed into the hull the whole ship could become a pyre in minutes. With tarred rigging, sun-dried canvas and a hull filled with powder, paint, spirits and cordage, fire was the dread of every sailor, more than any storm. The worst enemy.

Discipline reasserted itself as men charged to the gangways with water buckets and even sponges from the guns.

Another shot, and the ball skimmed across the sea’s face like something alive.

Adam shouted, “Bring her about! Weather the headland if need be, but I’ll not lose Peter Sargeant!”

Under command again, her forecourse and topsails filling to the hot wind, Anemone showed her copper as she heeled over in the bright sunshine.

The men in the cutter seemed to realise what their captain was doing, and when the boat crashed and ground against the frigate’s side, they flung themselves on to the lines and rope ladders the boatswain had made ready for them. One man slipped and fell, and by the time his head broke surface Anemone had already left him astern.

Adam grasped the nettings until the tarred ropework cut his skin.

I nearly lost her. It kept repeating itself in his aching mind. I nearly lost her.

“Ready about, sir!”

Lieutenant Sargeant hurried aft and turned to stare at the abandoned cutter and the drowning seaman, who was still thrashing helplessly in the water.

“What happened, sir?”

Adam looked at him but barely saw him. “Bait, Peter. That’s what they were.” He turned and looked towards the land as another shot echoed across the placid water. Another few minutes and his ship, his precious Anemone, would have been either hit by some of those white-hot balls or forced into the shallows like a stranded whale. He felt the anger surge through him. He could scarcely believe he could feel like this. Like madness.

“Clear the larboard battery, Mr Martin! Load and run out, double-shotted, if you please!” He ignored the startled expressions, the relief of some of the cutter’s crew obvious as they grinned and shook hands with their comrades.

Sargeant said, “Course to steer, sir?” He must have known, and even beneath his sunburn his face looked pale.

“I want to pass her at half-a-cable!”

Gun captains were racing each other as the larboard battery of long eighteen-pounders were loaded, their wads tamped home, before they were run squealing to the open ports.

Adam raised his glass as each gun captain faced aft. He saw the earlier disinterest aboard the schooner already giving way to panic as the frigate changed tack and bore down on her, her broadside catching the sun like a line of black teeth.

“The hull, Mr Sargeant, not her rigging this time.”

Adam watched intently. A group of men were trying to hoist out a boat, and now there were uniforms clambering on deck from hatchways and holds. French soldiers, some armed, others in obvious terror as they ran about the drifting schooner like blind things.

“Go forrard, Peter.” Adam did not look at him. “If need be, lay each gun yourself. I want every ball to strike true.”

Sargeant ran along the gangway, pausing only to call down to each gun captain.

A midshipman exclaimed, “Some of them are jumping overboard!” Nobody answered; they were either staring at the schooner or at their own captain.

Sargeant drew his sword and stared aft as if still expecting the order to stand-down, then he shouted, “On the uproll, gun by gun, fire!”

The crews were very experienced, and knew their drill by heart. Down along the frigate’s tilting side each gun belched orange fire and hurled itself inboard on its tackles. At one hundred yards’ range they could not miss. Holes appeared in the schooner’s hull and a ricochet burst through the side and brought down a mass of writhing rigging and blocks.

At the fourth gun the sea seemed to split apart in one terrible explosion. Men covered their ears, and others ducked down as splinters and whole lengths of timber and snapped spars cascaded over the sea, changing the clear water into a mass of splashes and pieces of charred wood. When the smoke finally drifted clear there was no piece of the schooner afloat.

Adam closed the glass with a snap. “Put it in the log, Mr Martin. Vessel carried soldiers, powder and shot. There were no survivors.” He handed the glass to the signals midshipman and said tonelessly, “What did you expect, Mr Dunwoody? War can be a bloody business.”

Sargeant came aft and touched his hat. “I didn’t realise, sir. Nor did I know why you recalled my boat.”

“Well, remember in future.” He laid his hand on the lieutenant’s shoulder. It was shaking badly. “I should have known—realised what was happening. It will not happen again.”

He watched the seamen throwing themselves back on the braces until their half-naked bodies were angled to the deck. Beyond them he could see the darting shapes of gulls as they overcame their fear of the explosion and circled above the grisly flotsam in search of food.

“I nearly lost her!” Only when he looked at his friend’s tense features did he realise he had said it aloud.

He shrugged heavily. “So let us go and inform Lord Sutcliffe that he has the French army camping on his back doorstep.”

Four days after Black Prince had dropped anchor Bolitho was lying back in a chair, while Allday shaved him with his usual panache. It was early morning: a good time for a shave, to sip some of Catherine’s fine coffee, and to think. The stern windows and quarter galleries were open to the breeze and he could hear men moving about, washing down decks, preparing the flagship for another day. Visitors and visits: it had been endless, and Bolitho knew he had done little to spare either Jenour or Yovell in his search for information.

He had received every captain, even Herrick’s new enemy, Captain the Lord Rathcullen of the Matchless, a languid, disdainful man, but one with a fiery reputation. That and the ancient family title would be enough to enrage Herrick at any time.

But he was amazed by the change in his old friend since that last terrible day of his court martial. Herrick drove himself without respite, and his inspections of ships and docking resources had left several officials and sea officers cringing from his anger if there were any faults discovered.

It was like being in a sealed room, despite the lush surroundings and the brilliant colours of sea and sky. Until the frigate Tybalt returned from Jamaica or the other reinforcement from England, the Ipswich, arrived, he was without frigates. The other squadrons were scattered, some in Jamaica or St Kitts, others as far away as Bermuda. Every ship under a foreign flag was suspect; without fresh intelligence he knew nothing of greater affairs in Europe. A Spanish or Dutch flag might now be an ally, a Portuguese perhaps hostile. All of his captains, great or lowly, were governed by the old law of admiralty: if you were right, others took the credit. If you were wrong, you carried the blame.

Yovell let out a sigh. “I shall have these orders copied and ready for signature before noon, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho glanced at his red, perspiring face. “Sooner, Mr Yovell. I would appreciate it.”

Jenour finished his coffee and sat pensively gazing across the great cabin. One of the best moments of the day, he thought. This, he shared with no one. Soon the procession would begin: the squadron’s captains, traders wanting favours or escorts for their vessels until they were out in open water, senior officials from the dockyard or the victualling yards. They usually wanted to discuss money, and how much Sir Richard might be persuaded to authorise.

Ozzard opened the door. “The Captain, sir.”

Keen came into the cabin. “I apologise for disturbing you, sir.” He glanced at the razor in Allday’s hand which was suddenly motionless. How a man with fists so large could shave so precisely was beyond understanding. Like his ship models, he thought, not a spar or a block out of scale. Perfect … It sparked off another memory: Allday flinging his knife at the man in the jolly-boat while he dragged poor Sophie aft to the sternsheets.

“What is it, Val?”

“RearAdmiral Herrick’s boat has just left the jetty, sir.”

Bolitho noted the hostility, and was saddened by it. This was one rift which would never heal, particularly as it had been a court of enquiry under Herrick which had questioned Keen’s right to remove Zenoria from the transport ship. It had nearly happened to Catherine, so Bolitho did not blame Keen for so bitter a resentment.

“He is up and abroad early, Val.” He waited, knowing there was more.

“The master’s mate-of-the-watch reported that the admiral’s flag has been rehoisted above the battery, sir.”

“Lord Sutcliffe?” He could hear Allday’s painful breathing. After what Herrick had told him he had not expected Sutcliffe to return to duty.

“Inform the squadron, Val. I’d not wish the admiral to imagine he is being snubbed.”

By the time Herrick reached the flagship Bolitho had changed into a fresh shirt and some new stockings which Catherine had bought for him. They greeted one another informally in the great cabin, where Herrick wasted no time in explaining.

“Came down from St John’s overnight, it appears.” He waved Ozzard’s coffee aside. “He insists on seeing you.” The blue eyes hardened. “It seems that I may not be considered competent enough to control matters here!”

“Easy, Thomas. Perhaps I should speak with the senior surgeon?” He glanced round for Jenour. “The barge, if you please, Stephen.” It gave him time to consider this limited news. It was true that Lord Sutcliffe was still in overall command. He could not be unseated because a subordinate did not agree with his strategy.

Herrick stood, feet apart, staring at the open stern windows.

“Look out for squalls, that’s what I say!”

Bolitho heard the faint squeal of tackles as his barge was hoisted up and outboard of the ship’s side. Perhaps Sutcliffe had some private information he wanted to offer? Or did he know something of the enemy’s movements? That seemed unlikely. If the French did have ships of any consequence in the Caribbean they must have been well concealed.

Herrick added wearily, “I am to accompany you.”

Bolitho saw Jenour signalling through the other door.

He said, “That at least is good news, Thomas.”

Herrick picked up his hat and followed him. As he did so, his coat brushed against the wine cooler which Catherine had had made, with its beautiful carved inlay on the top: the Bolitho coat of arms in three kinds of wood.

He hesitated, then laid one hand on the top. “I had forgotten.” He did not explain.

With the shrill of calls lingering in their ears, they remained silent as the barge pulled smartly from the flagship’s tall shadow and into the first real heat of the day.

Every captain in the squadron would know that Bolitho was going ashore for some official reason; he could see the sunlight flashing on several trained telescopes. The Sunderland and the Glorious, the old Tenacious which had been launched when Bolitho had first entered the navy at the age of twelve. He smiled grimly. And we are both still here.

Allday moved the tiller-bar very slightly and watched the land pivot round, obedient to his hand at the helm. He tensed as the sunshine reflected on fixed bayonets and a squad of marines which was moving up a slope towards the big house with the white-painted walls. The guard to receive Sir Richard Bolitho, but it was not that. Allday glanced at Bolitho’s squared shoulders, his hair so dark against his companion’s greyness. Bolitho had not noticed. Not yet anyway. Lord Sutcliffe could not have chosen a worse place for his stay at English Harbour.

Allday could remember it like yesterday. Where Sir Richard had found his lady again after the years had forced them apart. Where he himself had waited out the night on another occasion, smoking his pipe and enjoying his rum under the stars, knowing that all the while Sir Richard had been with her. With her, in the fullest sense of the word. Another man’s wife. A lot of water had gone through the mill since then, but the scandal was greater than ever.

He saw Bolitho reach up to his eye, and Jenour’s quick, worried glance.

Always the pain.

It seemed as if they could never leave him alone. Their lives were in his hands, and not some poxy admirals who seemed to have done nothing.

He barked, “Bows! Toss your oars!”

He narrowed his eyes to watch the small reception party on the jetty. Bolitho had sensed the edge in his tone and turned slightly to look up at him.

“I know, old friend. I know. There is no defence against memory.”

The barge came alongside the jetty so expertly that you could have cracked an egg between the piles and her hull.

Bolitho stepped down from the boat and paused just long enough to look up at the house. I am here, Kate. And you are with me.

Once Bolitho had realised where he was to meet the admiral-commanding he had prepared himself as if for a confrontation with a person from his past. The trouble was that it was exactly as he had remembered it, with the same wide, paved terrace that overlooked the anchorage, from which Catherine had watched Hyperion standing into harbour, and where she had heard his name mentioned as the man whose flag flew above the old ship.

A few black gardeners loitered around the luxuriant shrubbery, but Bolitho had already formed an impression that the house, like the squad of Royal Marines, was to discourage visitors and not the reverse.

Herrick had introduced him briefly to the senior surgeon, a sad-eyed little man named Ruel. Now as they approached the house Ruel was walking beside him, slowly, Bolitho noticed, as if he were reluctant to visit his charge again.

Bolitho asked quietly, “How is the admiral? I understood he was too ill to return here.”

Ruel glanced around at the others: Jenour and Herrick, two of the admiral’s staff and a captain of marines.

He answered cautiously, “He is dying, Sir Richard. I am surprised he has survived so long.” He saw Bolitho’s questioning gaze and added, “I have been a surgeon in the islands for ten years. I have become accustomed to Death’s various guises.”

“Fever then.” He heard Herrick speaking to Jenour and wondered if he was thinking of his wife Dulcie, who had died so cruelly of typhus in Kent. And if he realised at long last that Catherine might easily have died too by refusing to abandon her in her last hours on earth.

“I think you should know, Sir Richard.” Ruel was finding it hard to be confidential in the bright sunshine with people around him discussing England, the war and the weather as if nothing at all were unusual.

“Tell me. I am no innocent, and no stranger to death, either.”

He saw the surgeon raise one hand to his lips. “It is not fever, Sir Richard. Lord Sutcliffe is diseased, beyond medical aid. Spiritual too, I would imagine.”

“I see.” Bolitho looked up at the elegant house, the best in English Harbour. Where they had found one another, where they had loved so fiercely, ignoring the challenge to honour and reputation, and the harm their liaison might provoke.

He said shortly, “Syphilis.” He saw the quick nod. “I had heard something of the admiral’s reputation, but I had no idea …” He broke off. What was the point of involving the surgeon? Common seamen became diseased from their rare contacts with women of the town; senior officers were never discussed in the same breath.

The surgeon hesitated. “I fear you may get little sense from his lordship. His mind is failing, and he has iritis, and cannot bear the pain of daylight.” He shrugged ruefully. “I am sorry, Sir Richard. I know of your care for the ordinary sailor, and the assistance you gave to Sir Piers Blachford, under whom I had the honour to prepare myself for this sickening profession.”

Blachford. He never seemed to be far away. Bolitho said, “I thank you for your frankness, Doctor Ruel. Your calling is not so sickening as you proclaim—I am all the more confident now that I have met you.” He nodded to the others. “I shall go in now. Stephen, come with me.”

Herrick sounded surprised. “What about me?”

Bolitho said calmly, “Trust me.”

Two marines opened the doors and they stepped into the great hallway. Like yesterday. Like now. The smiling, insincere faces, the women in their daring gowns and jewels, the sudden brightness of the light. Then stumbling on an unseen step. Catherine stepping away from the others to assist him. A contact which, after so long, had seemed to burn like a fuse.

Although it was morning and the harbour outside gleaming with sunlit reflections and deep colours, it was like that night again.

A nervous black servant bowed to them and gestured to the nearest doorway.

Bolitho murmured, “The admiral cannot see very well—any kind of light sears his eyes. Do you understand?”

Jenour gravely commented, “He does not have long, Sir Richard. It is tertiary syphilis at the most virulent stage.”

Despite his anxiety, Bolitho found time to be surprised at the young lieutenant’s understanding. But then his father was an apothecary, and his uncle a doctor of some repute in Southampton. They had probably hated Jenour’s throwing away a possible career in medicine for the risks and uncertainty of naval service.

He said, “Help me, Stephen.” He did not need to explain further.

As the door was opened he found himself in complete darkness. But as he strained his eyes he saw a sliver of hard sunlight between two curtains and knew he was in the room where she had discovered his injury, and he had been unable to distinguish the colour of a ribbon in her hair. Yesterday.

“Be seated, Sir Richard.” The voice came out of nowhere, surprisingly strong, petulant even, like someone who had been kept waiting.

Bolitho gasped, and instantly felt Jenour’s hand at his elbow. He had collided with a low stool or table, and the realisation of his helplessness made him suddenly despairing and angry.

“I am sorry to greet you in this fashion.” The tone said otherwise.

Bolitho found a chair and sat on it carefully. In that one sliver of light he could see the man’s outline against the wall, and worse, his eyes, like white stones in the solitary beam.

“And I am sorry that you are thus indisposed, my lord.”

There was silence, and Bolitho became aware of the sour stench in the room, the odour of soiled linen.

“I am, of course, aware of your reputation and your family history. I am honoured that you should be sent here to replace me.”

“I did not know, my lord. Nobody in England has heard of your …”

“Misfortune? Was that how you were about to describe it?”

“I meant no disrespect, my lord.”

“No, no, of course, you would not. I command here. My orders stand until …” He broke off in a fit of coughing and retching.

Bolitho waited and then said, “The French will surely know of our intentions to attack and, if possible, seize Martinique. Without it they would be unable to operate in the Caribbean. My orders are to seek out the enemy before he can use his ships to attack and weaken our assault. We need all our strength.” He paused. It was hopeless. Like talking to a shadow. But Sutcliffe was right about one thing. He did hold overall command, diseased, mad or otherwise. He continued, “May I suggest that when Tybalt returns from Jamaica you send a fast schooner there and request the admiral to give you further support?”

Sutcliffe cleared his throat noisily. “RearAdmiral Herrick authorised the impressment of those schooners, but then he is a man well acquainted with insubordination. I have every intention of informing their lordships of any further acts of disloyalty. Do I make myself clear?”

Bolitho answered quietly, “It sounds like a threat, my lord.”

“No. A promise, certainly!”

Jenour shuffled his feet and instantly the disembodied eyes shifted towards him. “Who is that? You brought a witness?”

“My flag lieutenant.”

“I see.” He laughed gently, a chilling sound in such a stifling room. “I knew Viscount Somervell, of course, when he was His Majesty’s Inspector General in the Indies and I was in the Barbados. A man of honour, I thought … but you will doubtless disagree, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho touched his eye, his mind reeling. The man was mad. But not so mad that he had lost the use of spite.

“You are correct, my lord. I do disagree.” He was committed now. “I know him to have been a knave, a liar and a man who enjoyed killing for the sake of it!”

He heard the admiral vomit into a basin and clenched his fists in disgust. God, were these the wages of sin the old rector at Falmouth had threatened them with, when they had all been frightened children? The legacy of doom?

When Sutcliffe spoke again he sounded quite calm, dangerously so.

“I have heard your reports of some so-called Dutch frigate, your passionate belief that the enemy intends to divide our forces. Here, you will obey me. Carry out your patrols and exercise your people; that would make good sense. But try to discredit me and I will see you damned to hell!”

“Very probably, my lord.” He stood up and waited for Jenour to guide his arm.

“I have not dismissed you yet, sir.”

Bolitho turned wearily. It was so pointless, so futile. With the greater part of the fleet held in readiness to repel an attack on Jamaica, the way was wide open for French counter-action. And all I have is six ships.

Jamaica was nearly thirteen hundred miles to the west. Even with favourable winds it would take ships far too long to regain their command of the Leeward Islands.

He said, “I believe that the enemy intend to attack our bases here, my lord.”

“Here? Antigua? St Kitts perhaps? Where else do you imagine them?” He gave a shrill laugh which ended in another bout of retching. This time it did not stop.

Bolitho found the door open, Jenour’s face filled with concern as the half-light of the hallway greeted them.

The surgeon was waiting for him, standing apart from the others as if he had guessed what had happened.

“How long, Doctor?” He heard Sutcliffe ringing his bell, saw the obvious reluctance of the servants to answer it. “Can you tell me that?”

The doctor shrugged. “Out here, men and women die every day, quietly and without complaint. It is God’s will, they say. I have grown accustomed to it, though I can never accept it.” He considered the question. “Impossible to say, Sir Richard. He might die tomorrow; he could survive a month, even longer, by which time he will not know his own name.”

“Then we are done for.” He felt the fury rising again. There were thousands of men depending on their superiors. Did nobody care? The admiral was going to die, eaten alive by his disease. But to the outside world, if it believed the lie, he was a man worn out by his devotion to duty.

The surgeon stood by one of the shaded windows, and pointed at the bright silver line of the horizon.

“Yonder lies the enemy, Sir Richard. He is not there for no purpose.” He studied Bolitho’s grave features. “For you, God’s will is not enough, is it?”

For a long moment Bolitho stood with Jenour on the sun-baked jetty while the barge was manoeuvred alongside the stairs. In the violent light the same officers who had been sent to greet him hovered discreetly and at a distance. Perhaps they were glad to see him leave after disturbing their secluded world, thinking perhaps that routine would save them. Sutcliffe would die, and after a fitting ceremonial funeral, another admiral would arrive. Life would go on.

“Well, Stephen, what do you think of this?”

Jenour stared out to sea. “I believe that Lord Sutcliffe is fully aware of his authority, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho waited. “I need to know, Stephen. To rest on one’s own views can be like an unbaited trap.”

Jenour bit his lip. “None of the officers here would dare to defy him. Right or wrong, Lord Sutcliffe commands their destinies. To speak otherwise would be seen as treason, or at best, mutiny.” His open face was filled with anxiety. “Nobody will support you, Sir Richard.” He faltered. “Except the squadron and your captains, who will expect you to act on their behalf.”

Bolitho said bitterly, “Yes, and ask them to die for me.” He turned aside as the barge hooked on. “What of RearAdmiral Herrick? Come on, speak out, man—as my friend now!”

“He will do nothing. He risked all for his own satisfaction at his court martial.” He watched the pain in Bolitho’s eyes. “He will never do so again.”

Allday stepped on to the jetty and removed his hat, immediately taking in Bolitho’s expression and the flag lieutenant’s unusual intensity.

Bolitho climbed down after Jenour and settled in the sternsheets.

It was the second time in the day that Jenour had surprised him. Once again, he knew he was right.

17

SHIPS PASSING

BOLITHO went on deck, the taste of coffee lingering on his tongue. Keen was about to exercise the upper gun deck’s twelve-pounders and he saw the casual glances as he walked to the quarterdeck rail. They had become used to seeing their vice-admiral dressed so informally in only shirt and breeches, and Bolitho was pleased that Keen had impressed it on all his officers to do likewise. If it did not make them seem more approachable, it might at least show them as human beings.

Keen smiled. “Sail in sight, sir. Hull-up to wind’rd.” He tried to make it interesting, a piece of news to break the day-to-day monotony.

Black Prince was steering due south, some 250 miles from Antigua. Abeam, the lookouts could just manage to distinguish the island of St Lucia, the silent volcano of Soufriere a prominent landmark that had saved many seafarers over the years.

Astern of the flagship the two 74s Valkyrie and Relentless kept their snail’s pace, their reflections barely moving on a dark blue sea which appeared solid enough to walk on, like crude glass. The remaining ships Bolitho had placed under Crowfoot’s command, and sent to patrol the Guadeloupe Passage to the north.

This was frustration at its worst. The ships were too slow, and on several occasions they had sighted unidentified vessels, which had soon headed away rather than face the prospect of being stopped and searched by the powerful men-of-war. They had to have smaller ships in support. Godschale, a frigate captain himself in that other war, should have moved heaven and earth to get them.

Who was the newcomer? Obviously not an enemy. He would have been off like a fox at the sight of hounds if he was.

Sedgemore was shouting to Lieutenant Whyham, “Keep them at it, sir! I want these twelve-pounders cleared for action in ten minutes, less if they have the will for it!”

Bolitho glanced at the gun crews. Bare backs less rawly burned, and more the colour of leather. He had not timed the upper batteries, but he knew by his own standards as a captain that they were a long way from Sedgemore’s target.

“Deck there! She’s a frigate!”

Bolitho saw Keen watching him. What was it this time, Sutcliffe’s death or news of home? Or the war had ended, and they had been the last to know.

“Heave-to, Captain Keen. Let him run down on us.” He looked again at the gun crews. “I would suggest you continue the drills, Mr Sedgemore. It has been known for ships to carry on fighting even when adrift.”

“Aloft with a glass, Mr Houston!” Keen turned away to escape Sedgemore’s sudden deflation. “Mr Julyan, stand by to wear ship, if you please!”

While the big three-decker floundered round into the wind and her two consorts endeavoured to remain on station, their pyramids of sails almost lifeless, the upper deck’s twenty-eight guns went through the frantic routine of clearing for action.

“Deck, sir! She’s made her number!” The midshipman’s voice was shrill when calling from such a height and Bolitho guessed that he hated the fact. “She’s the Tybalt, 36, Captain Esse!”

Bolitho tried to contain his sudden hope. The last of his squadron, and a frigate. It was like an answered prayer.

He lifted a glass from the rack and trained it on the approaching ship. Where was Adam now, he wondered? And where had the time gone? It was now mid-January 1809. A new year, without anything to show for it. He thought of England, the bitter wind off the Atlantic seeping around the old house and gardens. What of Catherine? Could she really be happy in that kind of life, alone amongst people who for the most part would always remain strangers? Or might she become bored, impatient, and turn to other distractions?

In two hours Tybalt was almost in gunshot range and Bolitho said, “Captain repair on board as soon as is convenient, Val.”

He frowned when one of the gun crews fell about in confusion as the twelve-pounder, released from its breeching-rope, ran momentarily out of control.

Sedgemore yelled, “God damn your eyes, Blake, your people are all cripples today!”

Bolitho touched the locket beneath his damp shirt and smiled. What was he thinking of? They were lovers. Nothing could break that.

He waited until the frigate was hove-to and had lowered her gig and then went below to his cabin. Let there be news this time.

Captain William Esse was tall and thin with a pleasant smile and an old-fashioned manner, which seemed at odds with his 25 years. He laid a canvas bag on the cabin table and seated himself with great care, as if afraid his long legs might become entangled.

“What news, Captain Esse? I must know without delay.”

Esse smiled and took a glass from Ozzard. “Jamaica was hot, Sir Richard, and the slave-revolt little more than a skirmish. The extra soldiers were not needed at all.” He shrugged. “So we brought them back to Antigua.”

“What of Lord Sutcliffe?”

Esse gave him a blank stare. “He is still alive, Sir Richard, although I was not asked to see him.” He saw Bolitho’s expression and added hastily, “A fast packet visited English Harbour. There are letters for you from England.”

Bolitho touched the heavy pouch. Letters from Catherine, one at least. It was like a hunger, a longing. All the rest was disappointment. There was no news of the enemy. Perhaps the threat was only in his mind. Or maybe the journey in the open boat had blunted his reckoning in some way?

Over three months since he had left Spithead. It felt like eternity. And Sutcliffe was still defying death. He wondered how Herrick was managing to stay out of trouble.

Esse exclaimed, “But I almost forgot, Sir Richard! As we weighed anchor, Anemone entered harbour. I was not able to speak much with Captain Bolitho, but I gather he was bringing despatches for Lord Sutcliffe. He shouted across to me that it was something important. But I did not catch the gist of it.”

“How strange. My nephew was in my mind just now as I watched Tybalt running down on us. But why here? It must be serious.” The unanswered questions hung in the cabin’s still air. Despatches for the admiral. But the Admiralty would be in ignorance about Sutcliffe’s condition.

He persisted, “Can you remember nothing further of this conversation?”

Esse frowned so that his pale eyes disappeared. “I took little notice, Sir Richard, as it did not concern the squadron.”

“What did he say?”

“The French. He said something about enemy ships … I assumed he meant in home waters.”

“My God.” Bolitho saw Ozzard peering through his hatch. “Fetch the captain and my flag lieutenant!”

To the bemused Esse he said, “I shall give you written orders. You must return to English Harbour with all haste. You will see RearAdmiral Herrick and make certain that copies of my despatches are sent immediately to St Kitts and to London.” He turned away so that Esse should not see his despair. London? It could as well be the moon for all the good it would do now.

Keen and Jenour entered. Bolitho said tersely, “Adam has come from England. Despatches from the Admiralty, no doubt—they’d never release a frigate otherwise.”

Keen said gently, “But we don’t know for certain, sir.”

“My responsibility, Val.” He tried to smile but it eluded him. It had been reported over the months that the French were secretly reinforcing their squadrons in the Caribbean. Now they were ready. In a matter of weeks a combined naval and military force would attack Martinique. And with some of the English supporting squadrons tied down in Jamaica … He felt a cold touch on his spine. It would be Herrick’s massacred convoy all over again.

He said quietly, “Make quite sure that RearAdmiral Herrick understands. Every available ship and garrison must stand-to. For once the enemy has scattered our invasion force, they will surely turn upon Antigua.”

Esse nodded, his face very calm. “I shall do my best.”

“Leave me now. I have matters to dictate.”

Alone with Keen and Jenour, while the ship pitched on a low swell and the upper deck echoed to the squeak and thud of Sedgemore’s mock battle, Bolitho said, “You think me mad?”

“Far from that, sir.” Keen paused. “But it must be said: it is all surmise.”

“Possibly. But we know from the past week that there is no enemy movement down here. So the ships must be elsewhere, correct?”

“If they are coming this way, sir.”

Bolitho strode about the cabin. There was no news. So why should he care, with a mad superior who would see any initiative, even by him, as gross insubordination? It would be a bitter twist of fate if Herrick were a witness at his court martial!

Aloud he said harshly, “But I do care. It is what we are here for!”

To Keen he said more evenly, “Bring the ship about, Val, and signal the others to keep station on us. We will pass through the St Lucia Channel tonight. A longer haul, but it will give us more favourable winds. With luck we shall meet with Captain Crowfoot’s ships and then we can beat up to wind’rd. Tybalt will have rejoined us by then. If not …” He did not need to say more.

Keen said, “I’m ready, sir.”

Bolitho smiled at him. “To the final battle, the gates of hell if need be, eh, Val?”

Keen did not smile in return. “Yes,” he said. “Always.”

RearAdmiral Thomas Herrick stood by an open window and mopped his face with his handkerchief. The noon heat made it hard to think, and the persistent attacks by mosquitoes and other insects were a constant irritation.

Seated at a table, Captain John Pearse, now his second-in-command because of the admiral’s disgusting illness but normally captain of the busy dockyard, watched him guardedly. Pearse was content enough with his appointment even though he knew he would rise no higher in the navy. He had been a long time in the Indies and was used to the extremes of climate; also long enough to avoid the many fevers and diseases which weekly led to sea-burials or funerals in the small garrison cemeteries, with their pathetic regimental crests and the names of towns and villages in the mother-country Pearse could barely remember. He wondered what was so disturbing Herrick. Sutcliffe was dying; he must die, or he would drive his staff as mad as himself. The horror of his appalling condition—sores, black vomit and near-blindness—pervaded the whole building, and Herrick’s temper was daily growing more fraught.

There had been one such display of unreasonable anger just now when a messenger had come to inform them that the frigate Tybalt had cleared the entrance and was now on passage to join Bolitho’s squadron, and that yet another frigate had been reported standing inshore. “She’s the Anemone, sir, 38, commanded by …” He had got no further. Herrick had snarled, “I know who commands her, man—Sir Richard’s nephew! Stop wasting my time!”

Pearse said carefully, “I think it would be prudent to recall Tybalt, sir. Anemone may have news which might need attention.”

Herrick saw the two frigates passing one another on a converging tack, the red coats moving on the battery to prepare a salute.

“I think not.” The two vessels were slowly drawing apart now. Why was Adam here? Surely there was no more news since Black Prince had arrived at English Harbour? He heard feet running by, servants going to assist the admiral no doubt. Diseased of body and diseased of mind. He were better dead.

Pearse fiddled with some papers and looked warily at Herrick. “Perhaps the French have surrendered.” He regretted it immediately.

“Surrendered? Never in a million years, man! Damned barbarians, they’ll fight to the last ditch.”

He winced as the first guns echoed around the harbour. He strode to the sill and watched the frigate gliding towards the guard-boat. The breeze was fresher; it might clear the air. He saw the gunsmoke drifting close to the water and recalled his own service in frigates. But never in command of one.

It had been Adam who had brought the news to him of Dulcie’s terrible death. Had it been anyone else he might have been able to contain it, at least for a while, from the curious. But Adam was a Bolitho, even if he held the family name only because of his uncle; he had been born a bastard, and his father had deserted the navy to join the American rebels … and yet that shame never tarnished him, or impeded his promotion.

It was all so unfair. Dulcie had given him everything: stability, pride, and above all, love. But a child had been denied them. He watched the flash of the final gun, the anchor throwing up spray as Anemone came to rest. Even Richard and his wife had been blessed with a daughter. How could he have turned his back on her? He thought suddenly of Catherine. She had stayed with Dulcie to the end, in very real danger to herself. Why can I not come to terms with it?

He said abruptly, “Pass the word to the signal-station, Captain Pearse. I want to see Anemone’s captain before anyone else does.”

Captain Pearse nodded uneasily. It was unlikely that Lord Sutcliffe would know or care what was happening.

It was another hour before Adam Bolitho arrived, his hat crammed under one arm, his short hanger pressed against his thigh.

Herrick shook his hand. “Do not keep me in suspense, Adam! This is most unexpected. How long have you been at sea?”

Adam glanced around. Although the officer-of-the-guard had shouted to him from his boat that Lord Sutcliffe was sick, he had somehow expected to find him here.

“Eighteen days, sir.” He smiled, the recklessness on his tanned face wiping away the shadows of command.

Herrick waved him to a chair and sat down opposite him, frowning.

“Why the urgency?”

“I have important despatches from the Admiralty, sir. It seems that the bad weather in the Atlantic allowed some French ships to avoid our blockading squadrons.” He waited, expecting some reaction he could recognise. “I am ordered to acquaint Lord Sutcliffe with the despatches without delay.”

“Impossible. He is too ill. I cannot tell him anything.”

“But—” Adam grappled with Herrick’s blunt reply. “It may be vital. It is said that the enemy ships are on passage here, though I believe that some, if not all, are already arrived. I clashed with a shore-mounted gun a day ago. Heated shot—I was nearly in irons until we worked clear. French soldiers too …”

“You had time to go after the enemy then? Looking for a prize, perhaps?”

Adam regarded him with surprise. “Yes, there was a schooner, sir. She was carrying powder and soldiers and I dished her up as we left.”

“Very commendable.” Herrick looked at his hands in his lap. “Your uncle is to the south’rd; he has divided his squadron. You see, we had no frigates until Tybalt returned from Port Royal. And now you.” He looked up, his blue eyes very bright. “And I gather there is another on passage too. A veritable fleet indeed!”

Adam controlled his disappointment and a growing impatience with effort. “What is it, sir? Is something wrong? Maybe I could help.”

“Wrong? Why should there be?” He was on his feet again and standing by the window without realising he had moved. “Your family seems to think it holds the answer to all ills, wouldn’t you say?”

Adam stood up slowly. “May I speak plainly, sir?”

“I would expect nothing else.”

“I have known you since I was a midshipman. I have always thought of you as a friend, as well as an experienced sailor.”

“Has it changed?” Herrick squinted into the light, seeing the distant activity aboard this young man’s ship.

“Later I seemed to become someone who came between you and your true friend.” He gestured toward the sea. “Who is out there now, and in ignorance of these French reinforcements.” His voice was sharper, but he could not help it. “I am no longer that midshipman, sir. I command one of His Majesty’s finest frigates, and I believe I am successful at it.”

“There is no need to shout.” Herrick faced him. “I am not empowered to open Lord Sutcliffe’s despatches—even you must realise that. Your uncle commands the squadron, and our other vessels are gathered either at Jamaica or the Barbados. We have only local patrols, which sail out of here and St Kitts, but you must know that, surely.” His tone was impatient. “I only wish RearAdmiral Hector Gossage were here to share the rewards of his damned folly!”

Adam watched him uneasily. “That would be difficult. I heard he had died within weeks of taking up his appointment.”

Herrick stared at him. “My God! I did not know.”

Adam looked away. “Then I shall make sail forthwith and seek out my uncle’s squadron. He must be warned.” He hesitated, hating to plead. “I beg you, sir, for his love if for nothing else, open the despatches!”

Herrick said coldly, “There is a lot of the rebel in you, did you know that?”

“If you are referring to my late father, sir, remember what they say about casting the first stone.”

“Thank you for reminding me. You may return to your ship and prepare for sea. I will order the water-lighters alongside immediately.” He saw the cloud lift from the young captain’s face and added harshly, “No, not for you to skip about the ocean in search of glory! I am ordering you to Port Royal. The admiral there can decide. He and General Beckwith are to lead the invasion of Martinique.”

Adam said with disbelief, “But by then it will be too late!”

“Don’t lecture me, my boy—this is war, not the pulpit.”

“I will await your pleasure, sir.” He was a stranger; there was nothing more to be said or done here. “I can scarce credit what has happened, what has become of something which was so dear to my uncle.” He swung away. “But no longer to me, sir!”

It was dusk by the time Anemone had again weighed anchor and was setting her topsails in a glowing copper sunset. Herrick watched from the window, and after some hesitation raised a goblet of cognac to his lips. The first he had taken since Gossage’s astounding evidence on the last day of the court martial.

Damn that young tiger for his impertinence. His arrogance. Herrick drained the brandy and almost choked on it. He would take no more risks, no matter how the critics might jabber about it later. They were safe. He would never be that now. In any case, Black Prince was a big ship, far larger than his poor Benbow had been on that terrible day. She was capable of her own defence.

The door opened and Captain Pearse entered the silent room. He looked at the empty goblet and the unopened despatches, which lay by the strongbox.

Herrick said heavily, “I said no interruptions! I want to think! And if it’s about Captain Adam Bolitho, I’ll trouble you not to interfere!”

The captain replied coldly, “The surgeon has been to see me, sir. Lord Sutcliffe has just died.”

His eyes glowed in the candlelight as he watched Herrick take the news, gripping the sill with one hand. “So you command here until relieved, sir.”

Herrick felt the blood pounding in his temples like insistent hammers. He had sent Adam away. It was too late now. By dawn, not even a schooner would find him.

Very deliberately he walked to the table, unfastened the canvas envelope and removed the enclosure with its bright Admiralty seal. He still could not bring himself to open it. The contents were likely already out of date and intended only for the man who now lay dead in his own filth. Distance and communications, time and strategy which could only be guesswork, left for the man who had to execute it. He had seen Bolitho in his young nephew’s face. Never once had he hesitated, even when he was judged at fault. A charmed life. What had they called it? Charisma. Like Nelson, who had paid for it with his life.

The captain saw his hesitation. “Nobody will blame you, sir.”

He stood like a witness as Herrick picked up a knife and slit open the seal. Earlier he had been afraid that Herrick was going to ask him to be his ally in overthrowing Sutcliffe’s authority. He had wondered how he was going to refuse. Now it was no longer necessary.

Herrick looked up, as though trying to see him in the poor light.

“It states that five sail of the line were forced through the blockade. RearAdmiral Andre Baratte—” he could not bring himself to use the French title, “escaped out of Brest in a Dutch frigate, the Triton.” He paused, as if in silent agreement. “So he was right about that too.”

Captain Pearse asked, “You know the French admiral, sir?”

“Of him. His father was a great man, but went to the guillotine with all the rest during the Terror.” He did not conceal his disgust. “But his son survived. He has distinguished himself in matters of deceit and secrecy.” He looked through Pearse without seeing him. “What they call strategy, in high places.”

“What shall we do, sir?”

Herrick ignored him. “Why didn’t that poxed-up object over there die before Adam came? I could have done something then. Now it’s too damned late.”

“Five sail of the line, sir. Plus those already here in the Caribbean … it makes this Baratte a formidable threat.”

Herrick took up his hat. “Arrange the burial party for Lord Sutcliffe. And tell the major commanding the main battery that the next time he fires a salute, it will likely be at the French fleet!”

He left Pearse staring at the despatches, his mind in a daze. All so quick. At the stroke of a pen.

Aloud he exclaimed, “But it was nobody’s fault!” Only the buzzing insects answered.

Far out to sea, her topsails and upper yards painted silver by the moon, the frigate Anemone heeled over to a freshening north-easterly. Lieutenants Sargeant and Martin picked their way into the small chartroom where they found their captain poring over his charts.

The first lieutenant said, “You wanted us, sir?”

Adam smiled and touched his arm. “I treated you badly when I came aboard.”

Sargeant sounded relieved. “I was slow to understand, sir. We felt—all of us who know—saddened by your news, your orders not to go in search of the flagship.”

“Thank you.” Adam picked up the brass dividers. “Nelson once said that written orders are never any substitute for a captain’s initiative.”

The two lieutenants watched him in silence, while the third and most junior paced the planks overhead, probably speculating as to what was happening.

Adam said quietly, “There will be some risk, but not to you, if I am proven wrong.” He glanced around, seeing the whole of his ship as if she were laid out like a plan. “But chances must be taken.”

Sargeant looked at the dividers and the scrawled calculations. “You do not intend to sail for Port Royal, sir. You are going to hunt for Sir Richard’s ships.” He said it so calmly, and yet, in its implication, it sounded like a thunderclap.

Lieutenant Martin exclaimed, “You might lose everything, sir!”

“Yes. I have thought about it.” He studied the chart. “Even my uncle could not help me. Not this time.” He looked up, his eyes very bright. “Are you with me? I would not blame you if …”

Sargeant placed his hand over his on the chart and Martin laid his on top. Then he said, “I’ll tell Old Partridge. He never liked Jamaica anyway.”

They left him alone and for a long while Adam stood loosely in the chartroom, his body swaying with his ship.

He thought of his uncle, out there in the darkness with Keen. His lover’s husband. A strange rendezvous.

He tossed down the dividers and smiled. “So be it, then!” There would be no regrets.

Bolitho walked up the tilting deck until he could see the frigate Anemone riding hove-to under Black Prince’s lee, her sails and slender hull pale pink in the early morning light.

He turned and stared at his nephew, who was holding an empty coffee cup, his expression that of a young boy who had just been scolded by someone he loves or respects. In this case, both.

Bolitho said, “I can scarcely believe it, Adam. You deliberately disobeyed orders to come and seek me out?” It had been dawn when the masthead lookout had reported Anemone’s topgallants, and for an instant longer Bolitho had believed it was Tybalt returning already after taking his letters to Herrick. “You know what this can mean. I knew you were a wild young devil, but I never thought …” He broke off, hating what he was doing to him. “Enough of that. How did you find me and reach me before Tybalt?”

Adam put down his cup. “I know your ways in these waters, sir.”

Bolitho walked down the deck and put his hands on his shoulders.

“I am damned pleased to see you nonetheless. If you leave at once, your despatches for Vice-Admiral Sir Alexander Cochrane will not be delayed more than a day. And you did not sight the other half of my squadron? That is strange.”

Adam stood up and looked for Ozzard. He was never far away. “Tell them to call my gig alongside.” He turned to Bolitho. “I could not simply sail away and leave you without news, Uncle. I tried to pass it to Tybalt, but it was all too quick.”

“It was warning enough, Adam. But your own news about the schooner, the shore-mounted gun—that is serious. I cannot think why Thomas Herrick would not go over Lord Sutcliffe’s head. He was beyond reason when I saw him; Thomas would be fully justified. I simply do not understand.”

Adam bit his lip. “I wish I could remain with you. But for you I would be nothing, but I’d risk it all if the same circumstances offered themselves again.”

Bolitho walked with him to the companion ladder. It was stranger still that Herrick had not opened the despatches before Adam had been sent away. French ships, but what kind and how many? And whose was the mind that controlled them?

The decks were crowded as both watches were mustered in readiness to get under way again. The other two 74s were falling off downwind, their captains doubtless fretting to know what had happened.

Keen was watching his men. The sail drill had certainly improved, but there was a long way to go yet. He nodded cordially to Adam and remarked, “You are all surprises!” He had purposefully left them alone together in the great cabin. So much to say in so short a time. And like every sailor, each would know it could be for the last time.

Adam said, “I have given a sketch of the island to the flag lieutenant.” He sighed. “Though I doubt if the French will linger there. They will know I carried the news to Antigua.” He added with sudden bitterness, “For all the damned good it did!”

Bolitho gripped his arm. “It takes longer than you think to move an army, Adam. My instinct tells me that they will shift from there, and perhaps from other islands, when they know our Martinique attack has begun. They will likely have better intelligence in these waters than I do.” He dropped his voice. “We will be together soon, Adam. Cochrane is not the admiral to deprive me of an extra fifth-rate when I need her so badly!”

Adam forced a smile. Just being close to Keen had brought the raw memory back to torment him. Himself with Zenoria. Zenoria giving herself to Keen, as she had to him.

He touched his hat and climbed swiftly down to his bobbing gig.

Bolitho said quietly, “Still a wild one, Val. He risked everything to bring us news.”

Keen glanced at his troubled face. “He has his ship, with prospects higher than he ever dreamed.” He saw the first lieutenant staring at him intently, like a keeper’s hound. “What he needs is a good wife, someone who’ll be waiting for him when he has the sea at his back.”

He said to Sedgemore, “You seem all eagerness to get under way. So carry on, if you please.” He watched the immediate tide of seamen and marines, the small islands of blue authority which were his lieutenants and warrant ranks as the hands were urged to halliards and braces.

Bolitho turned to Jenour. “I shall require Yovell to produce two letters for me, Stephen. We will not waste time by stopping for a captains’ conference: we will drop a boat, and send my orders to Valkyrie and Relentless in that fashion.”

“Shall we attack the island without Tybalt’s support, sir?” He saw that Jenour was watching him anxiously, probably thinking of the time when he would be ordered elsewhere.

“Tybalt will find us. Herrick must have opened his despatches by now. After that it is anybody’s guess.”

Perhaps, Jenour thought. But it will be your responsibility.

Someone called above the din of billowing canvas and creaking blocks, “Anemone’s setting her courses!” Another group of idlers gave the frigate a cheer as she heeled over with the wind in her flapping sails.

Bolitho paused to watch her as she gathered way like the thoroughbred she was.

He said, “God care for you, Adam.” But his words were lost in the bustle around him.

Later in the day, when a rising north-easterly had found and filled their canvas and thrust the flagship over until her lower gunports were all but awash, Bolitho sat alone in his cabin, covering his injured eye with one hand while he flattened her letter yet again on the table.

“My darling Richard, dearest of men, how I wonder where you are today, and what you are doing …” With great care Bolitho held up the pressed ivy leaf, crimson with winter, which she had sent in the letter. “From our home …”

Bolitho replaced it in the envelope, and stared with shocked disbelief as a tear splashed on the back of his hand.

It was as if she had sent him one of her own.

18

GHOSTS

CAPTAIN Valentine Keen waited until Bolitho had completed some calculations on his personal chart near the stern windows, and said, “Nothing to report, sir.”

Bolitho studied the chart, the curving line of scattered islands in the Windward and Leeward groups. Places he would never forget, Mola Island, the Saintes, the Mona passage, confined waters and rugged fragments of land, their names written in blood. Great sea battles won and lost, and the rebellion which had cost them America. How could a nation as small as England have endured so much, standing alone and fighting France, Spain, Holland and then America all at once? And they were still fighting, although at long last it looked as if the tide might be on the turn in Europe. But here in the Indies the odds were as before, with the chances of running the enemy to earth more a matter of luck than knowledge.

Keen ventured, “We can make another sweep to the nor’-west, sir. It may be that Captain Crowfoot has taken his ships up towards Nevis in the hope of discovering the enemy.”

“I had thought of that. He is a resourceful man.” He straightened his back and stared at the chart, which seemed to mock him. “It is what I myself might have done. You can lose a whole squadron amongst those islands.” The persistent worry returned. “But he knows nothing of what Adam faced at Bird Island. If only Thomas Herrick had opened those despatches. They might reveal nothing, but …”

Keen said, “Their lordships would not release a frigate like Anemone to no purpose.” He sounded bitter, as Adam had been.

Bolitho said, “Make to Relentless and Valkyrie. Form line abreast of the Flag. While there is good light, keep the distance five miles apart. That will give us a broader span of vision.” He listened to the wind through the rigging. It was still fresh, so they should make a few knots more before it eased off again. He waited for Jenour to scribble on his pad and hurry away to find his signals party.

He went on, “They are both experienced captains—that is something, Val. I do not know Kirby of the Relentless, she had Captain Tabart at Copenhagen. But he has a good reputation. Flippance I have known for years.” He gave a distant smile. “Governs his ship with the Bible and the Admiralty Fighting Instructions. The mixture seems to work well in his case.”

Keen made for the door. “I shall shorten sail to allow the others time to work into position. Also, I must tell the first lieutenant to select his very best lookouts.”

Bolitho had returned to his chart; he was rubbing his eyelid again.

He said, “Our master lookout from the jolly-boat, William Owen—what of him?”

Keen was surprised. How could he even find a moment to recall an ordinary sailor amongst so many?

He replied, “I cannot speak too highly of him. I intend to rate him up to petty officer shortly …” He stopped as he saw Bolitho watching him, as if someone had just called his name.

“Do it now, Val. There may not be time later, and we shall need every experienced hand.”

Keen closed the door very quietly and hurried up the companion ladder.

“Shorten sail, Mr Sedgemore!” He shaded his eyes against the fierce light to look at Jenour’s flags streaming from the yards, the signals midshipman with his raised glass calling out as each of the ships acknowledged.

Julyan the sailing-master shouted, “As before, sir!”

Keen nodded, his mind busy. “When we get under full canvas again we shall continue to the nor-‘west. Your noon sights will have to be your best today, Mr Julyan, for afterwards we will change tack and steer for the islands, Bird Island in particular.”

Their eyes met and then Julyan said, “Tomorrow, then?”

Keen turned away as the calls shrilled to muster the watch on deck for shortening sail. “Master’s Mate, find the seaman named William Owen for me.” Do it now, Val, Bolitho had said. Was it the same instinct which Keen had cause to respect? How did he know? But he did know, as Julyan accepted it without question.

He saw Owen striding along the lee gangway, completely at ease, as he had appeared even after the Golden Plover’s loss.

He stepped on to the quarterdeck and knuckled his forehead. “Aye, sir?”

“Everyone spoke well of you, Owen, although I already knew your abilities.” He tried to smile. “It shall be logged immediately that you are to be promoted, with pay and victuals accordingly.”

Owen stared at him. He had an open, homely face which reminded Keen of Allday, when he had first met him aboard the frigate Undine under Bolitho’s command. All those dangerous years ago, when he himself had been a young midshipman, like the one on watch nearby: De Courcy, who was pretending not to listen.

“Well, thank ‘ee, sir!” Owen seemed genuinely pleased. “I’ve been at sea in one ship or t’other for fifteen years. Never thought this would happen!” He repeated with a grin, “Thank ‘ee, sir.”

Keen thought of the man in the great cabin below his feet. How did he know?

“Mr Sedgemore will explain your duties, at his leisure, but for the moment I am putting you with my cox’n. Together you will assist Mr Gilpin the bosun, should I need the boats to be lowered.”

Just for the briefest moment Keen saw his eyes flicker. “But keep it to yourself.” He turned as Sedgemore hurried towards him. “Something wrong?”

“I heard a mention of boats, sir.”

“And you will know why.”

Sedgemore stared round as Masterman, the sergeant of marines, exclaimed, “Gawd, look at the old Relentless! She’s gettin’ a bustle on, an’ no mistake!”

Sedgemore persisted quietly, “But the sea is empty, sir.”

“We are informed that our combined attack on Martinique by Vice-Admiral Cochrane’s ships and the army under General Beckwith is due to begin at any time. Weather permitting, in a matter of days. If I were the French commander of the ships and men at his disposal, I would move against vital bases—Antigua, for instance. If taken, it would leave our fleet like a headless chicken.”

Sedgemore found himself looking at the place on the quarterdeck where his predecessor Cazalet had died. Smart cordage, spotless decks, the men at the helm watching the compass and sails as they had always done. It was hard to imagine the hell it had been.

He said tentatively, “But what if we came against them, sir, I—I mean without support?” It was rare to see him at such a loss for words.

“Then the people will fight, as they have never done before. Hereabouts the sea is a bottomless cavern, a place of total darkness, I believe. It is not much of an alternative, do you think?”

Sedgemore hurried away, needing something to do to stay his mind.

“Relentless on station, sir!”

Keen walked to the weather side and watched Valkyrie, under every stitch of canvas, clawing away towards the horizon to complete their line abreast, then he saw the vice-admiral’s coxswain making his way aft and called, “Memories, Allday?”

Allday squinted up at him and gave his lop-sided grin. “Few more o’ them shortly, I shouldn’t wonder, sir!”

He vanished beneath the deck, going to the great cabin, knowing in his own private way that he was needed there.

Keen turned to the officer-of-the-watch, the third lieutenant. “I am going to my quarters, Mr Joyce. Call me at noon so that we may compare sun-sights.” He paused. “Earlier if you need me.”

Joyce smiled. He had served captains he would never dare to call, even if the ship seemed to be falling apart; afterwards they would blame an uncertain lieutenant with equal passion. To his midshipman he said, “Remember all that you see and hear, Mr De Courcy. It might stand you in good stead, in the unlikely event that you stay alive long enough to be given a command!”

The midshipman, who was fifteen, was not too troubled by Joyce’s manner. His father was a rearadmiral, and his grandfather before him.

“Aye, aye, sir! I will take heed of everything!”

Joyce turned away, hiding a smile. Cheeky little bugger, he thought.

Shortly after the ritual of shooting the sun with their sextants, and the murmured comparisons around the chart table, Black Prince and her two consorts crossed the eighteenth parallel, and came around towards the western horizon.

Lieutenant Stephen Jenour noted Ozzard’s dour expression as he passed him at the cabin screen doors; the little man was carrying away Bolitho’s breakfast, the one he had come to know was his favourite at sea. A slice of fat pork, fried pale brown with biscuit crumbs, and black treacle on a separate ship’s biscuit. It was untouched, and only the coffee had vanished.

He saw Allday running a cloth up and down Bolitho’s old sword as he must have done a thousand times, while his gaze rested on the broad panorama through the stern windows. Even allowing for the salt stains on the thick glass and the hazy dawn light, the view was breathtaking. The eastern horizon coming to life, the sea choppy and milky under the steady pressure of wind. Birds too, gliding back and forth below the ship’s counter waiting for scraps, screaming away occasionally as some fish or other rose too close to the surface.

Jenour saw Bolitho on the bench seat, one foot on the checkered deck covering, his other knee drawn up to his chin; he saw too that his heavy uniform coat and hat lay on a chair, like the garb of some actor waiting in the wings.

He rather wished he could try his hand with his sketch book, but there was no time, and he told himself he could never capture the tension and the curious intimacy of this private moment.

Bolitho turned his head. “Look at the birds, Stephen. If only we knew what they had seen in their flights amongst the islands. Perhaps nothing.” He glanced at a line of serried wave crests as the wind sped amongst them. “If I am wrong this time, and with the wind still pressing, it may take days to beat back again and search elsewhere.”

Jenour said, “Relentless is in sight abeam, Sir Richard. She is on perfect station, it seems.”

Somewhere far ahead of Black Prince’s tapering jib-boom lay the islands. They would still be in shadow, but daylight, when it came, would be swift.

“How is Captain Keen?”

“He was about early, Sir Richard. I could sleep very little too.”

Bolitho gave a quick smile. “At least you do not have to stand watches with the others, Stephen. Maybe I do not work you hard enough.”

He let his mind drift with the spray against the stern windows, the hollow boom of the tiller-head as the rudder took the strain of sea and wind.

There is nothing more I can do. I am in a dark room. I cannot even rely on circumstances, for I do not know them.

Suppose the enemy attacked Antigua? What would Herrick do? Face another hopeless battle like the last? Or would he order a withdrawal until help arrived? He would fight. To punish himself, or to cast scorn on those who had wanted him guilty.

He thought of Adam’s anger and sense of betrayal, and tried to picture how it had been between him and his old friend. Something else was troubling Adam; maybe he would share it, given the chance.

Jenour said, “That was a hail from the masthead, Sir Richard.” His face was both troubled and excited.

Bolitho saw Allday’s polishing cloth pause on the keen old blade. He had not heard it either.

“Be easy, Stephen. We shall know soon enough.”

Jenour watched him, fascinated, envious of the way he could contain his inner feelings, especially when so much depended on today. Or tomorrow. But he knew it would be today.

The sentry bawled, “Midshipman-of-the-watch, sah!”

Midshipman M’Innes entered timidly and peered around the semi-dark cabin. “Captain Keen’s respects, Sir Richard, and … and …”

Bolitho prompted gently, “We are all agog, Mr M’Innes, so please share it with us.”

The youth flushed under his sunburn. “A sail is reported to the west’rd. The lookout says she may be a frigate.”

Bolitho smiled, but his mind was like ice. A frigate. She would be able to see Black Prince, if not the others, set against the brightening horizon. A friend then? She must be Tybalt. He tried to quell his rising hope. Even with a frigate it would take days to search amongst these islands.

“My compliments to the Captain. I shall come directly.”

He picked up his empty coffee cup and stared at it. “Little boys and old men. Good ones and felons.”

Allday grinned. “Nothing changes, Sir Richard.” He picked up the sword and thrust it into its fine leather scabbard. It must have worn out many of those in its lifetime, he thought. But only the one sword.

“Not yet, old friend.” Bolitho looked towards his flag lieutenant, and there was something like pain in his grey eyes. “Are you prepared, Stephen?”

Jenour said steadily, although he did not fully understand, “I’m ready, Sir Richard.”

“Come, let us go up.” He touched his arm impetuously. “They are not always the same thing!”

Allday watched them leave and sat down in Bolitho’s chair. The wound was aching badly. A sure sign. He laughed harshly. Nerves? An old Jack like you! Blast your eyes for a fool!

Ozzard had entered silently. “What is it, John?”

“Do something for me. Fetch my jacket an’ cutlass from my mess, will you?”

Ozzard reacted predictably. “I’m not your servant!”

Allday felt the tension draining away. It always did when you knew. “I’ll be needed in a minute or two, Tom.” He saw Ozzard’s sudden anxiety and added kindly, “We’re going to fight today. So be off with you, eh, matey?” He seized one thin arm as Ozzard began to hurry away. “I shall speak my piece, then close the hatches.” He felt fear through the little man’s sleeve. “If the worst happens …” He let the words sink in. “I want no more o’ that madness we had in our old Hyperion. Like it or not, we’re mates. We stand together.” He watched the gratitude in Ozzard’s eyes and added roughly, “Fetch me a wet too, eh?”

Unaware of the private drama in the great cabin, Bolitho stood beside Keen and Jenour at the quarterdeck rail, his arms folded as he watched the sea opening itself on either beam in the first feeble sunlight. He saw Relentless directly abeam, perhaps a mile away until daylight made signals readily visible. Beyond her he thought he saw Valkyrie’s pale pyramid of sails, and wondered if Flippance had also sighted the far-off ship.

Bolitho glanced at the many figures moving along the upper gun deck and in the rigging overhead. The work never ceased. Splicing and repairing, tarring-down and caulking, and always the guns which dominated their daily lives. On the crowded messdecks the seamen who lived with them saw the guns when they were piped from their hammocks, with a touch of a starter for the last ones out, at their messdeck tables, where they took their too-often crude meals and drank their daily tots, or beer if any was still drinkable. The guns separated them like silent guardians. When they were off watch and repaired their clothing, “a bit of jewing” as the sailors termed it, or made models and yarned of ships and places they had seen, so too, the guns were always with them.

And as a result of all the drills and the demanding discipline, the guns would wait for the ports to open, and be run out, and would turn those same messdecks into a smoke-filled hell.

“A glass, if you please.” He took it from Midshipman M’Innes and trained it abeam. The nearest 74 was sharper now, and he could even see tiny figures moving along the gangways, covering the hammocks which had been packed down hard in the nettings for another day.

Midshipman Houston stood with, but apart from, his signals party, his telescope raised, his face almost disdainful. He was probably thinking of his hoped-for promotion to lieutenant: the first rung on the ladder.

“She’s Tybalt, sir!”

As men chatted and discussed what it might mean, Bolitho levelled the glass again and wanted to cover his injured eye with his hand, but the telescope was too heavy. And those around him might see, and suspect.

How grey it looked beyond the flapping jib, but that would soon change. He found the frigate’s pale topsails and saw the tiny, bright flags, the only true colour against the horizon, suddenly dip and vanish.

“Another signal, Mr Houston!” Keen’s voice was unusually sharp.

“Aye, sir!” His voice was sulky, like the time he had been ordered aloft for bearing down on the seaman Owen.

Jenour read it first. “Signal, Sir Richard. Enemy ships bearing north-west!”

Bolitho was aware of the sudden silence around him. Tybalt must have been searching for him and had run down on the enemy formation without knowing what it was. They were lucky to be alive.

“Acknowledge. Tell Tybalt to take station to windward.” He ignored the bright flags soaring aloft to break from the yards, the other bunting strewn around the midshipman and signals party like fallen standards on a battlefield.

Jenour was waiting with his book. “General—Prepare for battle.”

Then as the flags soared up again and were acknowledged by the other two ships, Bolitho said, “Then another, Stephen. Form line of battle ahead of the Flag.”

Keen understood. Bolitho was saving the flagship’s massive artillery until he could estimate the enemy’s strength and intentions.

Bolitho turned and saw Allday carrying his coat and hat across the old sword like an offering.

He slipped his arms into the coat, and knew the sailing-master was watching as he took his hat also. Remembering their last fight together, when he had worn Bolitho’s hat into battle.

He raised his arms and allowed Allday to fasten the sword into place. Allday was wearing his best jacket, the one with the special gilt buttons he had given him. Their eyes met and Bolitho said quietly, “So, old friend. It will be warm work today.”

Keen saw the exchange, but was thinking of Zenoria. He would never go home if he was maimed or disfigured. Never.

When he looked again he was surprised by the intensity of Bolitho’s gaze. It was as if he had read his innermost thoughts.

Bolitho smiled. “Are you ready?” He waited, as if to share his strength with him. “Very well, Captain Keen.” He was still smiling, excluding all those nearby. “You may beat to quarters!”

In the confusion of shortening sail yet again to allow the other ships to form line ahead, the sudden rattle of drums from the marine drummer boys, the muffled calls between decks were almost drowned. Then as men stared at each other, while others ran wildly to their stations at the guns or high above the decks in the fighting-tops, discipline seemed to hesitate as full realisation came to those men who had never before faced an enemy.

Petty officers and boatswain’s mates chased the laggards with blows and curses, while beside those guns visible on the upper deck, gun captains were already selecting the first balls from the shot garlands.

Sedgemore peered aft anxiously. “Ready, sir!”

Keen tore his eyes from the hardening shape of the approaching frigate and called, “Faster this time, Mr Sedgemore!”

He glanced at Bolitho for confirmation. “Clear for action!”

There was less turmoil, or so it appeared from the quarterdeck. This was mainly because the ship’s company was separated into smaller groups, men were known to one another, and even their stations for battle were familiar to them.

Jenour watched over his signals party and then started with alarm as Houston called, “Signal from Tybalt, sir! Repeated Valkyrie and Relentless. Estimate six sail of the line to the nor’-west! “

Keen said, “Alter course two points to starboard. Steer westnor’-west.”

Bolitho did not have to think about Keen’s actions; he had proved his skill many times. But he had seen the men on deck peering at one another as if for answers to their fears. The odds remained the same. Two to one. He had faced such odds before, but most of the people had not.

“Acknowledge!”

Up and down the line the pendants rose and dipped again, while with their yards braced round in response to Keen’s signal, the others headed up closer to the wind.

Bolitho called, “Will you go aloft with a glass, Stephen?”

Jenour made for the shrouds but paused as Bolitho called after him. “I must know.” Unconsciously he was touching his eyelid again, his face set with grim determination.

Allday folded his arms and nodded to Tojohns as he hurried to join the boatswain by the boat tier. Here we go, he thought.

He rubbed his chest and saw Bolitho watching him. He gave a slow grin. “Just a habit, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho turned away as Jenour yelled from the crosstrees.

“From Tybalt, sir! One frigate in company! ” Eventually it would be clear enough to see the enemy from the deck. But not that soon. Bolitho shaded his eyes to look at the masthead pendant. Noon then. He saw Julyan putting extra hands on the wheel, the marines trooping to poop and forecastle, and up the quivering ratlines to the fighting-tops where they would try to mark down the enemy’s officers, or rake them with swivel-guns if they drew close enough together.

Other patches of scarlet marked each hatchway and ladder: sentries to prevent terrified men from running below to hide. To cut them down, if necessary, to maintain the others’ will to fight.

Bolitho heard Julyan murmur, “‘Less the wind backs a piece, them buggers’ll hold the advantage, sir.”

Keen nodded, dismissing what he already knew.

The breeze was a lively one and showed no sign of failing. If the enemy held the wind-gage, it was just possible they might be unable to run out their lower deck artillery with the ports almost awash. Black Prince on the other hand would keep the advantage with her main armament as the ship heeled over to the sail’s demands.

It was little enough. Bolitho walked to the tightly packed hammock nettings and rested against them while he levelled his telescope like a musket. He saw the ornate gingerbread across Relentless’s counter and poop reflecting and holding the flicker of feeble sunshine. Valkyrie led the line, and he was thankful. He knew Flippance; he would be like an extension of his right arm and would likely be the first to engage the enemy. So they had a frigate with them. In his heart he knew it was the Dutch-built one which Owen had described. The other ships, whichever they were, must have slipped through the blockade during the foul weather or even earlier. At the second attack on Copenhagen several had broken out, and not all had been recovered or brought to battle. They would be from different ports, perhaps with captains who had never fought together before. The man who commanded such a mixed squadron would have had to travel fast and independently in order to rally the ships he must lead.

It struck Bolitho like a fist. Why did I not think of it before? There was one French officer who stood head and shoulders above the others, a young frigate captain when they had been fighting out here, in these same waters. A voice seemed to mock him from the past. Were a frigate captain, Bolitho … He held flag rank now, having survived the terrible bloodletting of the Terror. A brilliant man, and one who would certainly use a frigate, no matter who had built her, to restore the pride which had been lost at the Nile and Trafalgar.

“Andre Baratte, Val. That’s who we are facing today.”

Then he remembered that none of those around him had been here in that other war. Except for Allday, and he would not have known. We Happy Few. All gone, wiped away in time if not memory.

Keen tried to understand, sensing his sudden depression. “What is it, sir?”

“Baratte was a very daring frigate captain, Val. I have no doubt of his equal ability as an admiral.”

He glanced down at the spitting crests alongside. “Make a signal to that effect to Valkyrie through Relentless. Spell it out with care. It may be useless to Captain Flippance, but he should be prepared.”

He stepped aside as midshipmen and seamen ran to the flag halliards again.

The name seemed to taunt him. Thomas Herrick would know, and it had likely been in the despatches he had refused to open. The Admiralty would send a frigate to carry such news. It sickened him to think of Herrick refusing to act; and it was impossible to see him as he had once been. Or was he himself the only one who still trusted in their old friendship?

High above their heads, perched on the main crosstrees and watched with curious amusement by a pigtailed seaman, Lieutenant Stephen Jenour watched the sea’s face shining, and felt the first heat on his skin. With great care he adjusted his telescope and waited for the ship to heave herself upright again from a long trough. He could feel the mast and spars trembling beneath him, hear the wind moaning through the rigging and into the booming canvas. Unlike Bolitho he had a good head for heights, and he never grew tired of being this tall—above everything.

“Oh, my God.” He tightened his fingers on the telescope again. He could just make out the ships Tybalt had reported, and one, a frigate that stood apart from all the rest. She was even managing to stay on a different tack.

The lookout asked, “Be it bad, zur?”

Jenour glanced at him. An old sailor. One of the few still left.

He said, “Take this glass. Tell me what you see.”

The man squinted through it, the crowsfeet around his eyes creasing his leathery skin.

“Beyond them ships, zur?” He shook his head, as if shocked that he could still be surprised. “‘Tis a fleet, zur!”

Jenour lowered himself swiftly past and around the maintop, where the marine marksmen lounged against the barricades watching his descent with interest.

Bolitho listened to him without comment, then said, “It will be an army of invasion. Adam saw only a part of it, but this is the truth of the matter.”

Keen said, “Can they be stopped, sir?”

“Until aid arrives, yes, Val.”

He looked towards the horizon, still dim with mist, like the smoke of a silent battle.

“Get rid of the boats. The victors can recover them.”

He ignored the calls and the rush of seamen to the hoisting tackles. “Well, there it is, Stephen. I thank you for your eyes today.” He saw other men running to prepare chain lifts to rig from the yards, to prevent them from falling on the unprotected gun crews if they were shot away. “What will he do, I wonder?”

“If …” Jenour shivered as he recalled what he had just seen. “If it is indeed the same French officer, and if, as you suspect, he was in that frigate …”

Bolitho tried to smile, but he could not. “Too many ifs, Stephen.”

“He will know you are here, Sir Richard. Know, too, that you have never run from the enemy.”

Bolitho touched his arm. “Then I have lost one ruse before it is begun. But I believe you are right.”

He watched the first of the boats being lowered, then cast adrift and left under the control of a canvas sea anchor. He thought suddenly of the Golden Plover. Was Fate so certain after all? Had death merely been postponed until today?

Yet again he seemed to hear her voice, Don’t leave me, and he answered her, but only in his mind. Never.

He saw Keen staring around the orderly decks, where men stood or crouched to await the next command. Perhaps he was already calculating the cost, seeing these same decks strewn with the dead and dying as Herrick’s flagship had been.

Bolitho said abruptly, “Let us have some music to pass the while, Captain!” The formality was for those nearest to them. If they lived, they would remember.

Keen gave a faint smile. “Portsmouth Lass, sir?”

Their eyes met. Another memory. “None other.”

So while the ships sailed slowly towards an unknown enemy, the small marine fifers marched up and down the deck, piping out a sailor’s tune neither Bolitho nor Keen would ever forget.

Bolitho felt for the locket beneath his shirt and pressed it against his skin.

I am here, Kate, and you are with me.

Lieutenant Sedgemore had been watching Bolitho and the flag captain, his mind as yet unable to grasp the enormity of the enemy’s strength. But once this was over … He allowed his eyes to stray to that part of the deck where his predecessor had died so horribly. As if he expected to see him lying there, torn apart.

He felt cold, despite the strengthening sun. He had seen something which he had only known as a stranger. It was fear.

19

WE HAPPY FEW

BOLITHO plucked the shirt from his skin and watched some ship’s boys carrying drinking water beneath either gangway for the gun crews. It had seemed an eternity since Valkyrie’s signal, “Enemy in sight!” had been repeated down the line, and Bolitho knew that despite their superiority in strength and numbers it was probably much worse for the oncoming French vessels. Black Prince had her yards braced hard round and was as close to the wind as such a large ship could stand, but at least they were holding formation and staying in line, with only half a mile between each of them. The enemy had the wind striking directly across their larboard bows, so that they appeared to weave this way and that, leaning over one minute with their sails like metal breastplates, and the next caught aback in a confusion of thrashing canvas.

Bolitho shaded his face to look through the mass of rigging. Nets had been rigged to catch falling blocks or broken spars, any of which could kill a man as efficiently as an iron ball. It was like being sealed in a trap. Men, weapons of war, everything they had come to accept as their daily existence.

Bolitho sought out the frigate Tybalt and saw her beating against the wind with no less difficulty than the enemy. But once the liners were close enough to engage, Captain Esse would run down from his hard-won position to windward and attack the enemy’s fleet of transports and supply vessels to scatter or destroy any which fell under his broadsides. He might have little hope of survival, but every frigate captain knew the risks of independent action. Tybalt’s hull was created and designed for just such operations, but her timbers were no match at all for the massive firepower of a line-of-battle. Bolitho took a telescope from Midshipman De Courcy and trained it with care until he had found the ragged formation of ships which lay far away across the starboard bow. So slow. He had been right the first time. It would be at noon when the first guns tested the range.

And for what? It might rate a comment in the Gazette as had Hyperion’s last battle. That had been almost lost in the resounding echoes of Trafalgar, and the death of the nation’s hero.

Ferguson would hear it first, either in the town or from the post-boy. Then Catherine. He glanced at Keen’s handsome profile. One did not need to be a magician to know what he was thinking as the time dragged by and men leaned on their weapons, some already gasping for breath as the suspense wore them down like exhausted survivors from a battle still to fight.

After all, what did Martinique really matter? They had taken it from the French by force in 1794 but, typically, had handed it back during the brief Peace of Amiens. It was always the same, and Bolitho had often been reminded of the words of an embittered sergeant of marines who had exclaimed, “Surely if it’s worth dyin’ for, it’s worth ‘oldin’ on to?” Down over the years his lonely protest had remained unanswered.

Now, with the war changing direction in Europe, the prospect of throwing lives and ships away to no lasting purpose went against everything he held important.

Once again, they were faced with action, not because it was logical or unavoidable, but because war had started to outstrip the minds of men who planned its strategy from afar.

Keen had joined him. “If the rest of the squadron finds us, sir, we could still win the day. But if Captain Crowfoot has no inkling …” He turned and stared into the bright sunshine as Tybalt completed another tack.

“I cannot send Tybalt to find him, Val. She is our only hope today.”

Keen watched the men at the helm, Julyan speaking quietly with two of his master’s mates. “I know.”

Bolitho took a cup of water from one of the boys. And what of Thomas Herrick? Had he rallied some of his local patrols, and was he already heading out to offer support? It seemed far more likely that he would take charge of the 74 Matchless under the command of his latest enemy, Captain the Lord Rathcullen. Her repairs would be almost completed, and in any case, the sight of just one additional sail of the line might make a difference to an invasion fleet which would wish to avoid battle at any cost. It was unnerving: this constant comparison with the events which had led to Herrick’s court martial. In her letter Catherine had touched briefly on the sudden death of Hector Gossage, Herrick’s flag captain at that costly battle for the convoy. He had never recovered fully after losing his arm, and even the unexpected promotion to flag rank could not protect him from the onslaught of gangrene. Had he known he was doomed that day in the great cabin below, his version of the evidence might have been very different. Bolitho had his suspicions, but they were not something he could voice freely without proof. Either way, Gossage had saved Herrick’s future and probably his very life.

The only constant factor had been in the presence of Sir Paul Sillitoe.

Keen said, “They’re forming into two lines, sir.”

Bolitho raised the glass again, knowing that as he did so, Midshipman De Courcy was watching him fixedly. Another admiral in the making. How different his navy would be, he thought.

He settled on the two ships leading the enemy’s lines, sails writhing while they tacked yet again, with the frigate passing through them, the terrier between the bulls.

The masts and yards were bright with signals and the streaming Tricolour flags, just as the short English line had hoisted extra ensigns as a gesture of defiance. Or was it only a hopeless obstinacy.

Major Bourchier called, “Royal Marines, stand-to for inspection!”

He gestured to his second-in-command, Lieutenant Courtenay, a veteran for one so young. Who but the Royals would have an inspection in the presence of the enemy and, perhaps, in the face of death?

Bolitho touched his eye. It was itching badly, so that it watered whenever he looked towards the sun.

“What is the range, do you think, Val?”

“Two miles, sir. No more.” He thought again of the jolly-boat, and Bolitho’s desperate attempt to conceal his blindness from those who were relying on him.

He saw Allday loosening his cutlass, and Jenour peering up at the flags while Midshipman Houston listened to his instructions.

And there was the sixth lieutenant, James Cross, a boy dressed as an officer and in charge of the afterguard and the mizzen-mast with its less complicated sail plan and rigging. He looked neither right nor left, and never towards the slowly advancing Frenchman. And Lieutenant Whyham, the fourth senior who had served under him in the old Argonaute six years ago as a cheerful midshipman. He looked resolved enough as he watched his division of guns, and the spare hands who would be employed on the mainmast, the true strength of any ship of the line.

And down below in the darkened gun decks all the others would be waiting, straining their ears, trying to recall a home or loved ones, but finding nothing.

The Royal Marine lieutenant was saying, “I’ve never seen such a turnout, Colour Sergeant! Give him extra work after this is done with!”

The other marines grinned. They were not new to the ship, and but for a mere handful of recruits were of one unit, the scarlet line that stood through thick and thin between officers and forecastle. In spite of the crowded world between decks they still managed to keep to themselves, in their own “barracks,” as they called their messes.

There was a dull bang, and seconds later a thin waterspout shot up from the sea to leave a wisp of smoke where it had fallen.

The first lieutenant forced a grin. “They’ll have to do better than that!” But his eyes were empty.

Keen said, “I cannot see the sense in dividing their strength, sir.”

“I think I know what they intend, Val. Three will go for our two consorts.” He saw his words sink in. “The other half will come for us.” All at once the plan was so clear he could almost see it in action.

“Shall I load and run out, sir?”

He did not reply directly. “Pass the word to the gunner and Lieutenant Joyce on the lower gun deck. We still have time. Valkyrie will be the first to engage.” He considered. “Yes, there is time enough. The enemy will try to do as much damage to our spars and rigging as possible to keep us from supporting our friends. But our thirty-two-pounders will outshoot them. How much bar-shot and anything for that very purpose do we have? We will race them at their own game.”

It was not hard to understand the French tactics. It was customary for them to aim for the rigging to disable their opponents, whereas the English put their faith in rapid broadsides to smash the hulls into submission.

Keen said, “It is unlikely that we carry enough for more than a few full broadsides. But I shall pass your instructions to the gunner immediately. Mr Joyce is a good officer—I shall see that he is instructed to point each gun himself. With the wind holding us over, we should be able to maul them badly.”

“After that, Val, pass the order to load and run out.”

There were a few more shots but nobody saw where they fell, probably ahead of Valkyrie in the van.

The three other French ships had shortened sail, preparing to fight the three-decker with a vice-admiral’s flag at the fore. The first embrace would be vital. The wind’s steady strength would carry the enemies apart immediately afterwards, and it would take more time to regain any sort of advantage.

Whistles shrilled below decks and as the port lids were hoisted, the whole ship seemed to hold her breath. Then, with her decks shaking under their tremendous weight, she ran out her guns, their crews busy with handspikes while they peered over the black muzzles to catch a glimpse of the enemy. More whistles. Every gun loaded, the great lower battery packed with murderous linked shot, some like bars which doubled in length as it screamed through the air, others shaped like iron spades which when fired spun around like the sails of a mill.

Keen said, “Let her fall off two points. I want to draw the others away.”

It was at that moment that Valkyrie and then Relentless opened fire, the pale smoke fanning through their sails and rigging like low cloud. Much of the broadside fell short, flinging up banks of broken water, some of which reached the enemy vessels. The air quivered as the French line responded, the long orange tongues spitting out along the gunports. As Bolitho had predicted it was not a powerful reply; the lower guns were cruising just above the sea, and it seemed likely that the officers could not elevate them enough to reach the two 74s.

“Steady as you go!” Keen crossed the quarterdeck, his eyes everywhere as he stared from the set of the sails to the enemy formation. They were beginning to draw near on a converging tack, whilst beyond them he could make out the sleek hull of the solitary frigate. He turned to say so to Bolitho, but saw him smile.

“I’ve seen her. She flies a rearadmiral’s flag. It would be exactly what Baratte would do. This way he can remain in control, but move between the formations without delay.”

Keen found himself able to smile back. “What you might do, sir, if I’m not mistaken!”

Sedgemore was striding along the upper gun deck, his bared sword resting on his shoulder as he looked quickly at each crew. From the gun captains with their trigger lines already pulled taut, to the seamen on either side of the carriage, ready to sponge out the smoking muzzles and reload as they had done so many times in Keen’s relentless drills. The boys had sanded the decks, while others stood ready to fetch fresh powder from the magazine so long as it was needed. Boys from the seaport slums, or unwanted children from families already worn down by childbirth. The same age as the midshipmen for the most part. A million miles apart.

Keen drew his sword and tossed the scabbard to Tojohns, his coxswain. He would not sheath it again until the enemy struck, or it was dragged from his dead hand.

The leading French ship was changing tack very slightly. Bolitho imagined Joyce and his subordinates on the lower gun deck, watching the square ports, the glittering expanse of water and then out of nowhere, the enemy’s bowsprit and beak-head.

Bolitho glanced at the masthead pendant. It was pointing stiffly, like a lance, and he felt the deck tilting even further to leeward. The shrill of Joyce’s whistle was drowned by the first pair of guns, and another, and still more until the air was filled with choking smoke. In the confines of that great gun deck it would be far worse.

The leading Frenchman seemed to wilt, her canvas writhing as if torn apart by giant claws, and with a sliding crash which could be heard across the water her foremast and rigging fell over the side, taking shrouds, spars and shrieking men with it.

The second ship, another 74, had been obeying a signal to close on the leader, and now because her consort was staggering out of line, her forecastle strangely bare with the mast gone, there was danger of collision.

Keen shouted, “Fire at will!”

Whistles again, the upper and middle gun decks roared out at the enemy. Bolitho saw wreckage fly from the second ship, and holes punched through her flapping sails as the iron raked her from bow to poop.

John Allday gritted his teeth. “For what we are about to receive …”

Every port along the enemy’s side flashed fire and Bolitho gripped the quarterdeck rail as he felt the shots smashing into the hull like great hammers. But nothing fell from above, and already several of the gun captains below him had their hands in the air, ready to fire again.

Keen yelled, “On the uproll, Mr Sedgemore!”

“Fire!”

The long twelve-pounders flung themselves inboard on the tackles, their black muzzles streaming smoke and hissing like live things as the wet sponges were rammed into them.

“Run out!” Sedgemore wiped his sweating face. “As you bear, lads! Fire!”

The third ship had dropped downwind to avoid the leading two and swayed over to the force of a full broadside as she fired directly into Black Prince’s quarter.

There were crashes and screams from below the poop, and the rumble of a gun being upended.

“Put your helm down!” Keen watched the leading ship swinging towards them, still out of control because of the great mass of rigging and spars hauling her round like some huge sea anchor. He raised a glass and saw the gleam of axes as men tried to cut away the fallen mast, while others stood, apparently unable to move as Black Prince’s jib-boom passed their own.

At this range Joyce’s great thirty-two-pounders could not miss. The enemy stood at barely thirty yards’ range when his guns thundered from every port, and another broadside of screaming metal ripped through the remaining masts and spars or across the deck itself.

Major Bourchier watched with little more than professional interest as his lieutenant snapped, “Marines! Fix bayonets! Stand-to! “

They stepped smartly up to the packed nettings and slid their muskets across the hammocks to take aim.

Smoke swirled over the deck. Bolitho felt Allday flinch beside him as a ball crashed through a port and splintered on the breech of a gun even as it was being run out.

The gun’s crew were hurled in all directions, some cut to pieces to cover the men at the neighbouring twelve-pounder with blood, others smashed down where they had been standing in their fixed attitudes before they fell to the deck.

Midshipman Hilditch, one of the twelve-year-olds who had joined Black Prince at Spithead, had been running messages to and from the lower gun deck. He fell down the open hatchway, but not before Bolitho had seen that half of his face had gone. Like Tyacke.

“She’s trying to cross our stern, Val!”

Bolitho watched men running to Keen’s commands, hauling on braces and halliards to allow the ship to turn even further downwind. Their immediate danger was the third ship in the French line. If she managed to press astern, and at this close range, she could pour a full broadside deck by deck through Black Prince’s unprotected stern. Any fighting ship, once cleared for action, was open from bow to counter; a single carefully timed broadside would turn the open gun decks into a bloody shambles. But the enemy had left it too late, and was now coming about to overreach the flagship’s starboard quarter.

“Marines! Open fire!”

Like puny pop-guns amidst the thunder of the main armament the muskets obeyed, while far away in an unreal war the other battle raged on unheeded. When Bolitho raised his telescope he saw with dismay that Relentless was drifting, her steering apparently shot away, her main and mizzen cut down like savaged trees as she continued to fire into the dense smoke. Valkyrie’s masts were still intact, and he could see her flag floating above the drifting pall as if detached from any vessel.

More shots hammered into the lower hull, and men screamed and fell dying as two balls burst through the nettings, killing gun crews on the disengaged side.

A terrified midshipman ran across the quarterdeck, his eyes wide, probably from seeing Hilditch’s body on the ladder. If, mercifully, the iron splinter had killed him.

Keen shouted, “Walk, Mr Stuart! The people are looking to you today!”

Bolitho winced as another ragged burst of firing exploded over the deck. Keen’s remarks had been like hearing himself, all that time ago. He heard the boy gasp, “No more bar-shot, sir!”

“Get below. Tell Mr Joyce to resume firing at the ship on our quarter.”

The boy left the quarterdeck, walking, a small lost figure not daring to look at the sights around him.

Some of the crews of the forward division broke away, cowering, as another ball screamed past them and overturned another gun.

Sedgemore was there instantly. “Get back! Fight your gun, you bastards, or fight me!”

They ran to the tackles again, the gun captain watching them with a shame Bolitho could sense even from the quarterdeck.

The nettings above the deck were bouncing with fallen cordage, and a musket dropped by someone from the maintop. Some seamen were struggling up the lee shrouds with a boatswain’s mate to try to repair dangling rigging. One fell almost at once as marksmen fired from the other ship to test their aim and prepare to mark down the officers.

“The second ship is closing, sir!” Keen’s hand went to his head as his hat was knocked to the deck. The shot had missed him by inches.

In a brief lull Bolitho heard the sharper bang of Tybalt’s guns. She must be among the supply ships.

“Must concentrate on the last one, Val!”

He almost fell as a ball smashed across the deck and cut down two of the helmsmen.

Two more ran to replace them but the quartermaster yelled, “She don’t answer, sir!” His white trousers were splashed with bright blood from his two companions but all he could think of was the wheel. The ship was already going out of control.

More shots hammered the stout hull, and Bolitho found himself recalling Hyperion’s last fight. She would have been no match for this merciless bombardment. A great explosion made the air cringe, but the intensity of the crossfire from all the engaged ships soon recovered.

It must have been a supply vessel blowing up, like the one Adam had destroyed.

Bolitho lifted a glass and watched the men swarming across the forecastle of the French ship, some exchanging fire with the marines, others brandishing hangers and axes, preparing to board as Black Prince continued to fall downwind.

Keen stared at him with wretched eyes. “If we had some support, sir!” It was like a cry of despair.

Major Bourchier shouted hoarsely, “More marines down aft, Mr Courtenay!” But the lieutenant lay dead beside his sergeant, and Bolitho was reminded of those first terrible seconds when he had boarded Herrick’s flagship. Herrick had still been calling out orders to his marines, who had been strewn across the bloodied decks like broken toy soldiers.

Allday drew his cutlass and said, “Together again, eh, Sir Richard?” He watched narrowly as Tojohns hurried to give Keen his hat. There was a neat hole punched through its brim.

Keen felt suddenly at ease. The madness, then. He had seen some of the new men break and run from their stations when death had moaned amongst them. But not I. This is my ship. They will take it from me on pain of death.

Balls hammered into the deck nearby and he guessed that the French marksmen were shooting from the two-decker’s foretop. Then he heard Tojohns cry out, and saw him lurch against an unmanned gun, blood spilling from his mouth. Jenour knelt beside him but shook his head. “He’s gone, sir.”

Bolitho shouted, “Come here, Stephen!” He had seen the tell-tale splinters spurting from the deck. The enemy marksmen must have seen Jenour’s uniform even through the choking barrier of smoke.

Jenour had caught the same unreasoning madness: he lifted his hat in salute towards the enemy’s foretop, and then strolled unhurriedly across the deck to join him.

Allday glanced at the other coxswain, glaring and ugly in death, and sliced the air defiantly with his blade. “Never volunteer, matey!”

There was a shuddering lurch as the other ship’s bowsprit drove into the mizzen rigging like a tusk. Men were falling or leaping down on to Black Prince’s chains and gangway only to be hurled off, screaming, by seamen with pikes who thrust them through the nettings, forcing them into the narrowing wedge of trapped water.

Lieutenant Sedgemore yelled, “Two men! Over here! Help train this gun round as far as …”

A heavy ball struck him in the chest, and he dropped very slowly to his knees, his face filled with disbelief. He was dead before he hit the reddened planking.

Keen shouted, “I’ll not strike!”

Bolitho drew the old sword and saw Allday’s big shadow overlap his own.

“Nor I!”

Somewhere a trumpet wailed through the sporadic firing.

As if to a signal, every ship fell silent. It was like being rendered deaf, until the cries and screams of the wounded and dying betrayed the gruesome reality of the battle.

Keen wiped his mouth with his sleeve. “What is happening?” He saw Midshipman Houston staring at him, his cheek laid bare by a wood splinter. “Aloft with you!”

Bolitho heard Lieutenant Whyham taking charge of the upper deck, and wondered if he saw the corpse of his superior as his chance of promotion, as Sedgemore had once done.

He heard Houston’s voice too, shrill above the other sounds, shocked perhaps by the torn corpses in the maintop, which had received a full charge of grapeshot.

“From Valkyrie, sir! Ships to the north-west!”

Bolitho gripped Keen’s arm until he winced with pain. “He came after all, Val!” He looked around the deeply stained decks, the sprawled dead, the crawling, sobbing wounded. “If only it had been sooner!”

The French ships were making sail, and as the smoke began to roll downwind Bolitho saw the enemy’s solitary frigate, a rearadmiral’s flag at the mizzen truck, and then, slowly emerging through the smoke beyond her, Tybalt. Her sails were peppered with holes, and there were deep scars along her hull.

But Bolitho could only stare at the motionless enemy frigate. He rubbed his eye until the pain made him cry out.

“The flag, Val! Look at it and tell me I’m not insane!”

Keen forced a smile; the madness was draining away. Afterwards it would be worse. But now … He replied, “It’s our flag, sir,” and then, surprised. “There’s more to Tybalt’s captain than I realised!”

Houston’s voice intruded. “The leading ship is Matchless, 74, sir! She flies a rearadmiral’s flag!” A short pause as if the words had caught in his throat. “The others are our ships too!”

Whatever else was said was drowned by a wild burst of cheering. Men spilled out of hatchways and from guns; others hung in the rigging and cheered as if the rest of the squadron could hear them.

Keen asked, “Shall we give chase to the enemy, sir?”

Bolitho rested against the sun-dried woodwork. There was fresh blood on his sleeve, but whose and when he did not know.

“No chase. There has been enough butchery today, and the enemy’s plans are broken in the Indies.” He wiped his face again. Herrick had not forgotten. But for him, Black Prince and the others would have been overrun. But they had scattered the enemy. To some the price would be seen as paltry. Whereas, if they had struck to the enemy to save lives, they would have been dishonoured, damned by those same politicians who would eventually give him credit.

He gazed at the tired, powder-stained faces he knew and loved—that was the only word to describe it.

Allday, massive and unhurt, turning to take a mug of something from Ozzard as he crept past the damage and the gaping corpses. Keen, already thinking of his men, and the need to prepare his ship again for any challenge, be it from the enemy or the ocean.

And those he only knew by sight and name. Like the two midshipmen nearby who were sobbing quietly, not caring who saw their relief. Julyan the sailing-master, tying his favourite red handkerchief around the wrist of one of his mates.

And all those who were cheering still, at him and to one another. And here came William Coutts the surgeon, more like a slaughterman in his bloodstained apron. Bringing the bill to his captain, the price they had paid on this day in February. The names of those who would never see England again, or know pride in anything they had done.

Jenour said, “Orders, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho reached out and gripped his arms, and said quietly, “Over there—the captured frigate Triton.” He saw it shake Jenour even from the brutal reality of battle.

“I … I don’t want to, Sir Richard …”

“You will take my despatches to London yourself, Commander Jenour. Their lordships will doubtless give her to another, more experienced or with more influence, but certainly not more worthy. Equally, they must offer you a command of your own.”

Jenour could not speak, and Allday turned away, unwilling to watch.

Bolitho insisted, “I shall miss you, Stephen, more than you realise. But war is war, and I owe your experience to the men you will command.”

Jenour nodded, his face lowered. “I shall never forget …”

“And something else, Stephen. I want you to see Lady Catherine yourself and give her my letter. Will you do that?”

Jenour could say nothing. His face was drawn and masklike.

“Tell her what it was like, tell her the truth—the way only you can. And give her … my deepest love.” He himself could no longer speak; his eyes were distant, seeing her walking on that wintry headland.

Someone called, “Matchless is lying-to, sir!”

Her Irish captain, Lord Rathcullen, must have sailed her like a madman, like the day he had all but dismasted her. The remaining ships of the squadron were still far astern of him.

Keen said, “I can’t make it out, sir. They’ve lowered the rearadmiral’s flag.” Then he said sharply, “Muster the side party—Matchless has dropped a boat.”

Bolitho said, “That is to let me know that I am in command again—he wants no part in all this.”

But when the boat came alongside there was no Herrick aboard.

Bolitho greeted the tall Irish peer at the entry port and said, “You arrived just in time, sir!”

Rathcullen looked around at the dangling rigging, the dull smears where corpses had been dragged away, the hanging smoke and lingering chaos he had missed.

“I thought we were too late, Sir Richard. When I discovered what …”

“But where is RearAdmiral Herrick? Is he well?”

Rathcullen was shaking hands with Keen. “It was a ruse, Sir Richard. I guessed that if the enemy saw an admiral’s flag they would assume a far larger squadron was about to engage them.”

Keen said shortly, “It succeeded. Nothing else would have saved us, and we captured the French admiral for good measure.” But his voice was dull; he was haunted by the disbelief, the deepening hurt on Bolitho’s face.

His head still echoed to the crash and thunder of battle: men dying, others pleading for death rather than the surgeon’s knife. But all he could think of was Herrick.

Rathcullen sensed his disappointment. He said in a dispassionate voice, “I reminded RearAdmiral Herrick that I came under your command, sir. I suggested he should hoist his flag over my ship later—it gave me the notion for my ruse.”

“What did he say?”

Rathcullen glanced grimly at Keen. “He said, ‘I’ll not be blamed twice,’ Sir Richard.”

“I see.”

Keen said, “I’d be obliged if you would pass a tow to my ship, Captain, until I can have the steering re-rigged.”

He looked back only once, and Bolitho half-raised a hand to him.

“Thank you, Val.”

Ozzard had reappeared with a heavy goblet. Allday took it and held it out to Bolitho. In his fist it looked like a thimble.

“Not all wounds bleed, Sir Richard.” He watched him put it to his lips. He hesitated. “Lady Catherine would tell you. Some people change. It’s not always their fault …”

Bolitho emptied the glass, and wondered if it had come from the shop in St James’s.

“I thank God you do not, old friend.”

Jenour saw them walking together, and pausing to talk with some of the seamen. Their world. It had been his; it was his no more. He looked across at the captured frigate, and seemed to hear Bolitho’s voice again. The most coveted gift.

But Lieutenant, now Acting-Commander, Stephen Jenour, once of Southampton, England, felt that he had just lost everything.

Is that a sail on the horizon?

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