“Give way all!”

He asked, “How long have you been in Indomitable? ”

“A year, sir. I joined her while she was still laid up in ordinary and about to complete her rebuilding.” He faltered under Tyacke’s eyes. “Before that I was signals midshipman in the Crusader, 32.” Tyacke stared across the stroke oarsman’s broad shoulder at the masts and yards rising up to greet him, as if they were lifting from the seabed. Now he could see the difference. One hundred and eighty feet overall, and of some fourteen hundred tons, her broad beam betrayed that she had been built originally for the line of battle. Her sail plan had changed little, he thought.

With a wind over the quarter she would run like a deer if properly handled.

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He saw the pale sunlight gleaming on several telescopes and knew the men were stampeding to their stations.

What would his first lieutenant be like? Perhaps he had expected promotion, even command of the powerful ship once her overhaul was completed. Indomitable’s last captain had left her months ago, leaving his senior lieutenant in charge until their lordships had decided what to do with her. They had not. He gripped his sword even tighter. Sir Richard Bolitho had made that decision. He could imagine the words. So be it.

“Bring her to larboard, Mr Protheroe!” There was an edge to his voice, although he had not realised it.

As he watched the long tapering jib-boom reaching out towards them like a lance, he saw the figurehead where it crouched beneath the beak-head. Crouched was right. It was in the form of a lion about to attack with both paws slashing at the air. A fine piece of work, Tyacke thought, but it was not the original figurehead, which would have been far too big for the rebuilt hull.

Except for the bright red mouth and gleaming eyes, it shone with expensive gold paint, perhaps a gift from the builders who had converted her.

“Carry on, Mr Protheroe.” He was suddenly eager to begin, his stomach in knots as the gig veered towards the main-chains and the entry port, where he had already seen the scarlet of the marines. My marines.

He thought of Adam Bolitho’s frigate, Anemone. Lying alongside this ship, she would be overwhelmed.

His experienced eye took in everything, from the buff and black hull that shone like glass above the cruising white horses, to the new rigging, shrouds and stays freshly blacked-down and every sail neatly furled, probably by the petty officers themselves for this important occasion.

For all of us, a voice seemed to say.

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He would find himself a personal coxswain. Another Allday, if there was such a man. He would be more than useful at times like these.

The gig had hooked on, the oars tossed, the seamen staring directly astern. Anywhere but at their new captain.

Tyacke rose to his feet, very aware of the lively gig’s movement, waiting for the exact moment to climb up to the entry port.

“Thank you, Mr Protheroe. I am obliged.” Then he seized the handropes and stepped quickly on to the tumblehome before the sea could drag him down.

Like the walk from Larne to the waiting carriage, the minutes seemed endless. As his head rose above the port, the sudden explosion of noise was deafening. The bayoneted muskets of the Royal Marines snapped in salute in time with their officer’s sword, and the calls of boatswain’s mates, followed by the rattle of drums, rose and then fell silent.

Tyacke removed his hat in salute to the extended quarterdeck with its neatly-packed hammock nettings. He noticed that the wheel and compass boxes were unsheltered. Builders and design-ers, then as now, saw only the efficiency of their work, not men being shot down by enemy sharpshooters with nothing but the stowed hammocks to protect them.

A square-faced lieutenant stepped from the ranks of blue and white, warrant officers and midshipmen, two so young that Tyacke wondered how anyone could have allowed them to leave home.

“I am Scarlett, the senior here.” He hesitated and added, “Welcome to Indomitable, sir.”

A serious-looking face. Reliable . . . perhaps.

“Thank you, Mr Scarlett.” He followed the first lieutenant along the rank, all standing in order of seniority. Even Protheroe had managed to slip into the line during the brief ceremony at the entry port.

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Four lieutenants, including the unfortunate Laroche. Their eyes met and Tyacke asked coldly, “How many men did you press, Mr Laroche?”

He stammered, “Three, sir.” He hung his head, expecting the mainmast to fall on him.

“We shall find many more. I daresay all Plymouth knew you were abroad last night.” He moved on, leaving the third lieutenant looking dazed.

Lieutenant Scarlett was saying, “This is Isaac York, sir, our sailing-master.”

A capable, interesting face: you would know him as a deep-water sailor even if he were disguised as a priest.

Tyacke asked, “How long have you been sailing-master, Mr York?”

He was younger than most masters he had known, the characters of almost every vessel.

York grinned. “A year, sir. Afore that I was master’s mate aboard this ship for four years.”

Tyacke nodded, satisfied. A man who knew how she would handle under all conditions. The face appeared about thirty, except that his neatly cut hair was slate-grey.

They turned to the quarterdeck rail. The midshipmen could wait.

Tyacke felt in his coat for his commission. As so ordered, he would read himself in.

“Have all hands lay aft, Mr Scarlett—” He stopped, and saw the first lieutenant’s instant uncertainty. “That man, by the boat tier . . .”

Scarlett relaxed only slightly. “That’s Troughton. He serves as cook. Is something wrong, sir?”

“Have him come aft.”

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the long white apron clumped on to the quarterdeck.

“If you do not approve, sir?” Scarlett sounded apprehensive.

Tyacke stared at the limping figure. He had sensed somebody’s eyes upon him even as he had come aboard. Now, of all times . . . There was utter silence as he strode over to the cook and, reaching him, put his hands on the thin shoulders.

“Dear God. I was told you were dead, Troughton.” The man studied him feature by feature and, lastly, the scars.

Then he glanced down at his wooden leg and said quietly, “They tried to do for both of us that day, sir. I’m so glad you’ve come to the old Indom. Welcome aboard!” Very solemnly they shook hands. So she even had a special nickname, Tyacke thought. It was like a triumph: someone had survived on that hideous day. A young seaman working with a handspike to retrain one of his guns. He should have been killed; Tyacke had imagined him being thrown outboard with all the other corpses. But he himself had been deafened and blinded, and had heard only screams. His own.

As the ship’s company swarmed aft and he took out his commission and unrolled it, Tyacke saw men whispering to each other, those who had seen the incident trying to describe it to their friends. The scarred captain and a one-legged cook.

Grouped behind him, most of the officers were too young to understand, but York the master and the first lieutenant knew well enough what it meant.

And when Tyacke began to read himself in they both leaned closer to hear, as if this tall straight-backed man gave the formality both significance and a new impact.

It was addressed to James Tyacke Esquire, appointing him to the Indomitable on this day in April 1811. Not far from the place where Drake was alleged to have kept the fleet and the Dons waiting while he finished his game of bowls.

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you the charge and command of captain in her accordingly; strictly charging and commanding all the officers and company of the said Indomitable . . . At that point Tyacke looked across the mass of upturned faces. The old Indom. But the one-legged cook was not in sight. Perhaps he had imagined it, and Troughton had been only a lingering spectre who had come back to give him the strength he had needed.

Eventually it was all over, ending with the customary warning. Threat, as he perceived it. Hereof nor you nor any of you may fail as will answer the contrary at your peril.

He rolled up the commission and said, “God Save the King!” There was neither sound nor cheering, and the silence at any other time would have been oppressive.

He replaced his hat and gazed aloft where Sir Richard Bolitho’s flag would soon be hoisted to the mainmast truck for the first time.

“You may dismiss the hands, Mr Scarlett. I will see all officers in my quarters in one hour, if you please.” The figures crowded below the quarterdeck rail were still thinking only of their own future, and not of the ship. Not yet.

And yet despite the silence he could feel only a sense of elation, an emotion which was rare to him.

This was not his beloved Larne. It was a new beginning, for him and for the ship.

Lieutenant Matthew Scarlett strode aft, glancing this way and that to ensure that the ship was tidy, the hammock nettings empty, all spare cordage coiled or flaked down until the new day. The air that touched his face when he passed an open gunport was cold, and the ship’s motion was unsteady for so powerful a hull.

He had overheard the sailing-master lecturing some of the

“young gentlemen” during the dogwatches. “When the gulls fly low over the rocks at night, it’ll be bad next day, no matter what For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 81

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some clever Jacks tell you!” Scarlett had seen the two newest midshipmen glance doubtfully at one another. But the gulls had flown abeam even as the darkness of evening had started to close in around the anchored ship. Isaac York was rarely mistaken.

Past the unattended double wheel and further aft into the shadows, where a Royal Marine sentry stood in the light of a spiralling lantern. The Indomitable had been converted to contain two large cabins aft, one for her captain, and the other for use by the senior officer of a flotilla or squadron.

But for Tyacke’s arrival and the vessel’s selection as Sir Richard Bolitho’s flagship, one of the cabins might have been his. He acknowledged the watchful sentry and reached for the screen door.

The sentry tapped the deck with his musket and bawled, “First Lieutenant, sir! ”

“Enter!”

Scarlett closed the door behind him, his eyes taking in several things at once.

Tyacke’s supper stood on a tray untouched; the coffee he had requested must be ice-cold. The table was completely covered with books, canvas folios and pages of the captain’s own notes.

Scarlett thought of the officers all packed into this cabin shortly after the captain had read himself in. Could that have been only this morning? Tyacke must have been going through the ship’s affairs ever since.

“You have not eaten, sir. May I send for something?” Tyacke looked at him for the first time. “You were at Trafalgar, I believe?”

Scarlett nodded, taken aback by the directness.

“Aye, sir. I was in Lord Nelson’s weather column, the Sparti-ate, 74. Captain Sir Francis Laforey.”

“Did you ever meet Nelson?”

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of us ever met him. After he fell, many of our people wept, as if they had known him all their lives.”

“I see.”

Scarlett watched Tyacke’s sun-browned hands leafing through another book. “Did you ever meet him, sir?” Tyacke stared up from the table, his eyes very blue in the swaying lanterns.

“Like you, I only saw him in the far distance.” He was touching his scarred face, his eyes suddenly hard. “At the Nile.” Scarlett waited. So that was where it had happened.

Tyacke said abruptly, “I understand that the purser’s clerk has been doing the work of ship’s clerk as well as his own?”

“Yes, sir. We have been very short-handed, so I thought . . .” Tyacke closed the book. “Pursers and their clerks are necessary, Mr Scarlett. But it is sometimes a risk to give them too much leeway in ship’s affairs.” He pushed the book aside and opened another where he had used a quill as a marker. “Detail one of the reliable midshipmen for the task until we are fully manned.”

“I shall ask the purser if . . .”

Tyacke regarded him. “No, tell Mr Viney what you intend.” He paused. “I have also been going through the punishment book.”

Scarlett tensed, with growing resentment at the manner in which the new captain was treating him.

“Sir?”

“This man, Fullerton. Three dozen lashes for stealing some trifle or other from a messmate. Rather harsh, surely?”

“It was my decision, sir. It was harsh, but the laws of the lower deck are harder than the Articles of War. His messmates would have put him over the side.” He waited for a challenge, but surprisingly Tyacke smiled.

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Scarlett studied the burned half of his face. He looks at me as the captain, but inwardly he must bleed at every curious stare.

Tyacke said, “I will not tolerate unfair or brutal punishment.

But I will have discipline in my ship and I will always support my officers, unless . . .” He did not finish it.

He pushed some papers along the black and white chequered deck-covering and revealed a bottle of brandy.

“Fetch two glasses.” His voice pursued the first lieutenant as he pulled open a cupboard.

Scarlett saw all the other carefully-stowed bottles. He had watched it being swayed up on a tackle just the previous day.

He said cautiously, “Fine brandy, sir.”

“From a lady.” Who but Lady Catherine would have taken the trouble? Would even have cared?

They drank in silence, the ship groaning around them, a wet breeze rattling the halliards overhead.

Tyacke said, “We will sail with the tide at noon. We will gain sea room and set course for Falmouth, where Sir Richard Bolitho will hoist his flag. I have no doubt that Lady Catherine Somervell will come aboard with him.” He felt rather than saw Scarlett’s surprise. “So make certain the hands are well turned out, and that a bosun’s chair is ready for her.”

Scarlett ventured, “From what I’ve heard of the lady, sir . . .” He saw Tyacke tense, as if about to reprimand him. He continued, “She could climb aboard unaided.” He saw Tyacke nod, his eyes distant, for that moment only another man entirely.

“She could indeed.” He gestured towards the bottle. “Another thing. As of tomorrow, this ship will wear the White Ensign and masthead pendant accordingly.” He took the goblet and stared at it. “I know that Sir Richard is now an Admiral of the Red, and to my knowledge he has always sailed under that colour. But their lordships have decreed that if we are to fight, it will be under the White Ensign.”

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Scarlett looked away. “As we did at Trafalgar, sir.”

“Yes.”

“About a coxswain, sir?”

“D’you have anyone in mind?”

“There’s a gun captain named Fairbrother. A good hand. But if he doesn’t suit I’ll find another.”

“I’ll see him after breakfast.”

Rain pattered across the tall stern windows. “It’s going to blow tomorrow, sir.”

“All the better. I went through your watch and quarter bills.” Immediately he sensed Scarlett’s anxiety. One who resented criticism, or had been unfairly used in the past. “You’ve done a good job. Not too many bumpkins in one watch, or too many seasoned hands in another. But once standing down-Channel I want all hands turned-to for sail and gun drill. They will be our strength, as always.” He stood up and walked aft to the windows, now streaked with salt spray.

“We carry eight midshipmen. Keep them changing around—

get them to work more closely with the master’s mates. It is not enough to tip your hat like some half-pay admiral, or have perfect manners at the mess table. As far as the people are concerned they are King’s officers, God help us, so they will perform accordingly. Who is in charge of signals, by the way?”

“Mr Midshipman Blythe, sir.” Scarlett was amazed at the way the captain’s mind could jump so swiftly from one subject to the next. “He will be due for examination for lieutenant shortly.”

“Is he any good?” He saw the lieutenant start at the bluntness of his question and added more gently, “You do no wrong, Mr Scarlett. Your loyalty is to me and the ship in that order, and not to the members of your wardroom.”

Scarlett smiled. “He attends well to his duties, sir. I must say that his head sometimes gets larger as the examination draws closer!”

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“Well said. One other thing. When Sir Richard’s flag breaks at the mainmast truck, remember, I am still your captain. Always feel free to speak with me. It is better than keeping it all sealed up like some fireship about to explode.” He watched the effect of his words on Scarlett’s open, honest features. “You can carry on now. I feel certain that the wardroom is all agog for your news.” But he said it without malice.

He realised that Scarlett was still there, his hands playing with his cocked hat.

“Is there something else, Mr Scarlett?”

“Well, sir . . .” Scarlett hesitated. “As we are to be of one company, war or no, may I ask something?”

“If it is reasonable.”

“Sir Richard Bolitho. What is he like, sir? Truly like?” For a moment he thought he had tested the captain’s confidences too far. Tyacke’s emotions were mixed, as if one were fighting the other. He strode across the spacious cabin and back again, his hair almost brushing the deckhead.

“We spoke of Lord Nelson, a leader of courage and inspira-tion. One I would have liked to meet. But serve under him—I think not.”

He knew Scarlett was staring at him, earnestly waiting. “Sir Richard Bolitho, now . . .” He hesitated and thought of the brandy and wine Lady Catherine had sent aboard for him. He felt suddenly angry with himself for discussing their special relationship.

But I did invite his confidence. He said quietly, “Let me say this, Mr Scarlett. I would serve no other man. For that is what he is.

A man.” He touched his face but did not notice it. “He gave me back my pride. And my hope.”

“Thank you, sir.” Scarlett reached the screen door. Afterwards he guessed that the captain had not even heard him.

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face in the mirror that hung above his sea-chest. For a second or two he touched the mirror, scratched here and there, dented around the frame. He often wondered how it had survived over the years. Or me, either.

The ship had quietened somewhat after all the bustle and preparations to get under way. Calls twittered and voices still shouted occasional orders, but for the most part they were ready.

Tyacke walked to the stern windows and rubbed the misty glass with his sleeve.

It was blustery, the windows full of cruising white horses, the nearest land only a wedge of green.

He could faintly hear the clank, clank of pawls as the seamen threw their weight on the capstan bars. But down aft, this cabin was like a haven, a barrier between him and the ship. Unlike the little Larne where everybody had seemed to get under his feet.

Any minute now and Scarlett would come down and report that they were ready. He would be curious, no doubt, to see how the new captain would perform on his first day at sea.

Tyacke had already been on deck at the first suggestion of dawn, with Plymouth Sound glittering in a moving panorama of small angry waves.

He had found the master, Isaac York, by the compass boxes speaking with two of his mates; the latter had melted away when they had seen their captain up and about so early. They might think him nervous, unable to stay away from the scurrying seamen both on deck and aft.

“How is the wind, Mr York?”

York had peered aloft, his eyes crinkling into deep crow’s-feet.

“Steady enough, sir. East by north. It’ll be lively when we clear the land.”

Confident. A professional sailor who could still appreciate being consulted by his captain.

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sailer, sir. I’ve known none better. She’ll hold close to the wind even under storm stays’ls. Not many frigates could boast as much.” He had squinted up at the small monkey-like figures working far above the deck. “With her press of canvas she can shift herself!” A man proud of his ship, and of what he had achieved to become her master.

Tyacke dragged out his watch. Almost time. He listened to the clank of the capstan and could picture the straining seamen as they fought to haul the ship up to her anchor. Boots thumped overhead: the Royal Marines who were part of the after-guard preparing to free the mizzen sails and the big driver when so ordered. The seamen always claimed contemptuously that the marines were only given the task because the mizzen-mast was the simplest rigged, and even they could manage it.

More feet were running over the deck. Tyacke tried to identify every sound. The boats were hoisted on their tier. The ship’s launch had been landed and a new, dark green barge lashed in its place, the admiral’s own boat. He thought about the colours being hoisted that morning, the White Ensign curling in the wind. Nelson at Trafalgar had been the first admiral to fight a fleet action under that flag. In the smoke and hatred of a sea-battle it was absolutely vital that every captain should know friend from foe, and the Red Ensign or even the Blue had been too dangerous at Trafalgar, where French and Spanish flags of similar colouring could easily have confused the identity of ships, and impeded the immediate response to signals.

He knew that Scarlett was coming even before the sentry yelled out the news. He compared him to the two Royal Marine officers, Captain Cedric du Cann and his lieutenant, David Merrick. Men who would never question their orders, no matter what.

Perhaps it was better to be like them. Imagination could be a risky possession.

He called, “Enter!”

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Scarlett, hat tucked underneath one arm, opened the screen door, his eyes seeking out his captain. To assess his demeanour, or plumb the depths of his uncertainty?

“The anchor is all but hove short, sir.”

“I shall come up.”

Scarlett was still watching him. “The master has laid a course to weather Nare Head, sir.”

“I know.”

Scarlett saw him glance around the cabin. He himself had gone on deck after a late night in the wardroom, fending off spec-ulation and gossip until the others had tired of it. Except the purser, James Viney, who had repeatedly questioned him about the captain’s decision regarding his clerk. Scarlett was beginning to wonder if Viney did have something to hide. It was often said that half the inns and lodging-houses in naval ports were either owned or supplied by pursers at the country’s expense. But once on deck, Scarlett had seen the captain’s skylight still aglow. Did he never sleep or rest? Could he not?

Tyacke led the way up the companion ladder and on to the breezy quarterdeck. A slow glance took it all in. Seamen standing at braces and halliards, topmen already aloft, spread out on the yards and silhouetted against the sky like dwarfs.

Three men on the wheel; York was taking no chances. The lieutenants like little islands of blue and white at each mast, each man staring aft as Tyacke walked to the quarterdeck rail.

He listened to the capstan and heard the faint scrape of a violin, the sound of which had been inaudible in his quarters.

The signals midshipman, Blythe, was standing with his small crew of seamen, his face severe as he watched the captain.

Tyacke nodded to him. He could well imagine he would have a big head.

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with his mates near the wheel, but peered up at him and touched his hat.

“Standing by, sir!”

Tyacke saw a squat figure in a plain blue coat and carrying a rattan cane walking along the larboard guns. That would be Sam Hockenhull, the boatswain, seeking the new men, all of whom were probably sick with dismay at being torn from their loved ones, to go to God knew where, and for how long. Beyond Hockenhull he could see one upraised paw of the lion figurehead.

Further still, the blurred outline of Plymouth and what looked like a church tower.

He walked across the deck, feeling the stares, hating them.

“There are two collier brigs, larboard quarter, Mr York.” The master did not smile. “Aye, sir. I’ve marked ’em well.” Tyacke looked at him. “I’m told that if you ram a fully laden collier it’s like hitting the Barrier Reef.” Then York did grin. “I’ll not be the one to find out, sir!”

“Anchor’s coming home now, sir!”

Tyacke folded his arms. “Get the ship under way, if you please.”

“Stand by the capstan.”

More calls twittered urgently. Spithead Nightingales, the sailors called them.

“Loose the heads’ls!”

Hockenhull the boatswain jabbed the air with his rattan.

“You—move yourself! Take that man’s name, Mr Sloper!”

“Loose tops’ls!” That was Scarlett, his powerful voice magni-fied by his speaking-trumpet while he wiped the drifting spray from his eyes.

“Man the braces! Mr Laroche, put more hands on the weather side as she comes clear!”

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wind eagerly exploring it as if to hurl the topmen down to the deck.

Tyacke studied the great mainsail yard, its canvas still neatly lashed into place. From the quarterdeck it looked twice the length of Larne’s main-yard, where one or two slavers had danced their lives away.

“Anchor’s aweigh, sir!”

Released from the land Indomitable heeled over to the thrust of canvas and rudder, the sea almost brushing the lee gunports while she came about, sails thundering as fore and mainsails were hauled and beaten into submission. Some men lost their footing on the deck and fell gasping until dragged back to the taut braces, helped or punched as seemed necessary.

Tyacke watched the two anchored colliers slide past, as if they and not Indomitable were moving.

He heard the squeak of halliards and saw a new ensign break out from the gaff, so white against the angry clouds.

“Hold her steady! Steer south-west by south!” He walked up the tilting deck while men dashed hither and thither on the wet planking.

“Steady she goes, sir! Full an’ bye!” Tyacke called, “Once we clear the Point we will set the driver, Mr Scarlett!” He had to shout above the violent din of rigging and canvas, the crack of halliards and shrouds as every inch of cordage took and held the strain.

Scarlett touched his hat. “Aye, aye, sir!” He wiped his face and grinned. “Someone wishes us well.”

Tyacke crossed to the nettings and stared across the choppy water. It was Larne. Out at an anchorage now; perhaps leaving this very day. But it was not that. Every yard was manned, with more seamen clinging to the ratlines to wave and cheer. Even Indomitable’s own chorus could not drown the wild cheering.

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and then waved it slowly back and forth above his head.

The uninjured side of Tyacke’s face was turned towards him, and he felt something like pity as he realised what he was seeing.

It was a last farewell.

6 cross of S t george

BOLITHO put his arm around her shoulders and said, “This is far enough, Kate. The path is barely safe even in such clear moonlight.”

They stood side by side on the rough track from Pendennis Point and looked out across the sea. It shone like melting silver, so brightly that the stars seemed faint and insignificant by com-parison.

They had walked and ridden every day since their return from London, savouring every moment, sharing every hour, not speaking of the future.

The hillsides were covered now with bluebells and brilliant, contrasting yellow gorse.

How much longer? Three days perhaps. At the most.

As if reading his thoughts, she said quietly, “Tomorrow your Indomitable will come.”

“Aye. I hope James Tyacke is settling down to the change.” She turned lightly and he felt her looking at him, her hair shining as she pulled out the combs and let it fall across her shoulders.

“Will we settle down, darling Richard?” She shook her head, angry with herself. “Forgive me. It is not easy for either of us.

But I shall miss you so.” She paused, unable to speak of what was uppermost in both their minds. “There may be farewells, but we will never be parted!”

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Tiny lights blinked on the water, like fallen stars, lost in the great full moon.

Bolitho said, “Fishermen at their pots.” He tried to smile. “Or revenue officers after another kind of catch.”

“You know what we promised one another?” She had been wearing a shawl but it had slipped down her arms, to leave her shoulders bare in the moonlight.

“Not to waste a minute, Kate. But that was then. This is now.

I never want to be parted from you again. Once this matter is settled . . .”

She touched his mouth with her fingers, so cool in the night air. “I am so proud of you, and you cannot even understand why.

You are the only man who can do it. You have the experience and the success, and you will give heart to all those under your command. Have their lordships given you all that you wanted?” He caressed her shoulders, their smoothness and their strength exciting him as always.

“All that they have is more likely. Apart from Indomitable and Valkyrie I shall have six other frigates, as soon as Anemone has completed her refit at Plymouth. And there are three brigs as well. Not a fleet, but a flying squadron to be reckoned with.” Thank God Larne was ordered back to the anti-slavery patrols.

It would have been torture for Tyacke to see her in company day after day.

His thoughts turned to George Avery. He was not staying at the house but had gone over to the inn at Fallowfield, where Allday would be fretting about everything as sailing time drew relentlessly closer. It might help Allday to have somebody with him to whom he could talk about the ship and the destination, just as it might help the flag-lieutenant to accept that his sister was dead. That he could have done nothing to save her.

She said suddenly, “Richard, are you troubled about your daughter?”

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Bolitho caught his shoe on some loose stones and felt her arm instantly supporting him. “There are no secrets from you, Kate.” He hesitated. “She will be nine years old in two months’ time.

But I do not know her, nor she me. Her mother has made her into a doll, not like a real child at all.” It was always there. Guilt, a sense of responsibility. It was nothing of which she could be jealous.

He said, as though reading her thoughts, “I love only you.” Catherine faced him. “I shall always remember what you gave up because of me.” She shook her head as he began to protest. “No, hear me, Richard. Because of our love you have been abused and taken for granted, when all England should honour the bravest and the gentlest of her commanders.” She relented.

“The man who forgot to tell his lover he had been made an admiral!”

“I shall never be allowed to forget that!” He turned her towards the deeper shadows of the hillside. “They will have a search party out looking for us. We had best get back to the house.” She put her arm around his waist. “Home.” One word. It was enough.

The austere stone buildings did not soften against the perfect sky. There was a light in the adjoining cottage. Ferguson, Bolitho’s steward, was still awake, doing his books or planning something to please his old friend Allday before he left.

An old dog slumbered in the yard. It was quite deaf, and was no longer much use as a guard dog. But like the crippled and injured men who worked on the estate, the harvest of the war at sea, it belonged here.

Strange not to see leaping flames in the great fireplace. Summer was almost here. Catherine tightened her grip on his arm.

But they would not share it together. She glanced at the rug by the empty grate.

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dear to them, had found one another and had loved, and might still be damned for it.

She had sensed Richard’s unease when he had mentioned Adam’s Anemone, which was still lying at Plymouth. It was a heavy secret to carry.

She glanced over her shoulder and saw the sea beyond the windows shining in the moonlight. The enemy. She could feel the portraits watching from the stairwell. They had all left here, never to return. She thought of the painting Richard wanted done of her, and she had wondered briefly if he would also like one of his brother Hugh, but this was not the time to ask him. Her man was sailing to confront the Americans, and she sensed that in the present hostile atmosphere neither country would back down.

There was too much at stake. He would not wish to be reminded of his brother’s treachery. Had Hugh known of Adam’s existence, perhaps things might have been different. But fate, having determined the course of lives, could not be unwritten.

Together they walked to the broad opened windows and listened to the silence. Once they heard an owl, and Bolitho remarked, “The mice will have to take care tonight.” Tomorrow the ship would come. He would be inextricably involved in its affairs, and haunted by the inevitability of their parting.

She said, “Dear Bryan has left some wine for us!” He took her in his arms and felt the tension in her body. “He knows.”

“Knows what?”

“That I want you, dearest Kate. Need you.” She let him kiss her, on the mouth, the throat, and then on her bare shoulder, watching his hands in the strange light moving over her gown until she could wait no longer.

Then she stood quite naked like a silver statue, her fine breasts uplifted, her arms stretched out to hold him away.

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“Undress, Richard.” Then she lay in the moon’s path before drawing him down beside her. When he reached for her she exclaimed, “They call me a whore, dearest of men . . .”

“I will kill anyone who . . .”

She knelt beside him, tracing each scar on his body, even the deep wound in his forehead.

She kissed him, not with tenderness, but with a fierce aban-don he had rarely experienced. Again he tried to embrace her, but she denied him. “I am here to torment you, Richard. You are mine, completely, for this night!”

Bolitho felt her fingers touch and then grip him, and all the while she was kissing him, her tongue exploring his body as he had so often explored hers.

She broke away and he felt her breasts move over his skin, prolonging every sensation.

Then all at once she was above him, her legs straddling him while she gazed into his face. “I have teased you enough. I shall give you your reward.” He moved to possess her, but she pretended to resist, her nakedness framed against the moonlight, until with a cry she felt him enter her.

As dawn laid its first brush-strokes across the sky they still slept entwined on the bed. The wine stood nearby, untouched, and the owl was long silent. She opened her eyes and turned to study his profile, youthful now in sleep.

She ran her fingers over his body, not wishing to wake him, not wanting to stop. She touched herself and smiled secretly.

Whore, lover, mistress. I am all of these things if you desire me.

She caressed him again and waited, her heart beating, for him to respond.

It was as if she had spoken her thoughts aloud. The next instant he was holding her down like a captive.

“You are shameless, Kate!” Then he kissed her passionately, stifling her gasp as he took her without restraint.

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Down in the yard Ferguson looked up at the opened windows.

The curtains were fluttering out over the sills, blown by some inshore breeze.

So many years since the press-gang had taken him; he thought of it even now. Especially when the press still trod the streets looking for men. He thought, too, of the Battle of the Saintes where he had lost his arm, and Bolitho’s coxswain had been killed trying to protect his captain’s back. Somehow, since then, the little crew had grown around them. Allday, also a pressed man, had become Bolitho’s coxswain, and he too would soon be off to sea again.

He heard Lady Catherine’s quick laugh. Or were they tears?

It troubled him greatly. More than he could remember.

John Allday glanced around the parlour of the Old Hyperion and said, “So Indomitable anchors tomorrow.” Lieutenant George Avery watched him thoughtfully. This was a different Allday from the one he had seen in the smoke of battle, or holding Sir Richard Bolitho in his arms when he had been struck down by splinters. Not even the same big gentle man he had watched going to his wedding, here in Fallowfield on the Helford River.

He was obviously still uneasy about his new existence, and Avery could sympathise with him. It was strangely peaceful. He could hear Allday’s wife Unis speaking with some ploughman in the adjoining room, and the thump of her brother John’s wooden leg as he put up another cask of beer.

A friendly place, and he was glad he had stayed here after hearing about Ethel’s death. He had slept and eaten better than he could remember, and Unis had been very kind to him.

He said, “So the Coastguard say.” Again he watched the conflicting emotions in Allday’s weathered face. Needing to go.

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same table as an officer any more. Any more than I am. It was Bolitho’s doing, his example. My little crew. Allday put out a lighted taper and laid his pipe aside, trying to explain it.

“It’s all so different, y’see, sir? People talk about their farms and the sales of stock an’ grain.” He shook his shaggy head. “I thought I’d get used to it. Resign meself to the land.” He stared hard at the perfect model he had given Unis of the old Hyperion, in which her first husband had been killed. “But not yet, see?” Avery heard the pony and trap being brought into the yard, ready to take him to Falmouth where he might be needed at any time now. He thought of Tyacke’s outburst, and wondered how he would behave when next they met.

Allday was saying, “Then we get all the old Jacks in here, too.

Not a whole man amongst ’em. But the way they talks you’d think every captain was a bloody saint, and each day afloat was a pleasure trip!” Then he grinned. “Not what they really thought, I’ll wager!”

Unis entered the parlour, and exclaimed, “No, don’t get up, Mr Avery!”

Avery remained standing. She was a pretty little woman, natural and uncomplicated like the countryside, the wild flowers and the bees. She had probably never had an officer stand up for her before in her life. Or anyone else, for that matter.

He said, “I must be leaving, Mrs Allday.” Even that sounded strange, he thought. He saw their quick exchange of glances. The big, shambling sailor and the wife he had never expected to find.

The look told it all. Sudden anxiety, courage too, and full knowledge of what it would mean.

She said, “You go with Mr Avery, John. Give my best wishes to Lady Catherine.” She looked level-eyed at Avery. “A beautiful lady, that one. She’s been good to me.” Allday said hesitantly, “Well, if you don’t need me, Unis—” She folded her arms and pretended to glare at him. “You know For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 98

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you’re anxious to see Sir Richard, so be off with you. You just come back to me tonight.” Then she kissed him, standing on tip-toe to reach his face. “Like a bear with a sore head, you are, John Allday!”

Avery said impulsively, “I’ve been so happy here.” He spoke with such sincerity that she wiped her eyes surreptitiously with her fingers.

She said, “You’ll always be welcome. Until you get settled down, like.”

“Yes. Thank you, Mrs Allday.”

He saw her hand on his sleeve and heard her say, “You don’t say much, and I’ve no right to pry, but you’ve carried a deal of worry these past years, I can tell.” She gave his arm a gentle squeeze. “And sad though it is, it isn’t the loss of your sister I’m speaking of!”

He took the work-worn hand and kissed it. It smelt of fruit and flour.

She stood beside her brother and watched Allday hoist the lieutenant’s chests into the trap.

As the pony clattered across the yard, out of the inn’s shadow and into the bright April sunlight, she said wretchedly, “Oh, John, why must it be?”

Her brother, also called John, wondered if she were speaking to him.

He said quietly, “You told him yet?”

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t be fair. It wouldn’t be right.” She laid her hand across her apron. “He’ll have enough to worry about, fighting them Yankees. I won’t have him fretting over me at the same time.” She smiled. “Sides, I don’t know for sure, do I? Bit late in life to have a babe of my own.” Her brother put his arm around her. “You’ll be brave, lass.” Unis shaded her eyes, but the trap had vanished beyond the hedgerow where some swifts were performing like darts.

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She said suddenly, “My God, John, I’ll miss him so.” He saw her sudden determination and was proud of her.

“But I’ll not let on, or make a big show of it.” She thought of the grave-faced lieutenant with the tawny eyes. Allday had told her that Avery had read her letters for him. She had been deeply touched, especially now that she knew the lieutenant better. There was a woman behind his sadness; she was certain of it. Perhaps when he read her letters to Allday he was pretending they had been written to him.

Someone called from the inn and she tidied her hair before going to serve him.

“I’ll go, lass. You stay an’ dream a while.” She smiled. It was like the sun breaking through cloud. “No, I’ll deal with him! You chop some wood.” She glanced again at the empty road. “It’ll blow cold off the river tonight.” Then she squared her shoulders and marched through the door.

The man uppermost in her thoughts sat in the back of the trap, one leg swinging above the narrow road while he watched the passing countryside. He had known leaving would be hard.

Some dogs were rounding up sheep in one field and he thought of his time as a sheep-minder, when Phalarope had put a press-gang ashore on Pendower and caught several men who were trying to keep their distance. Including me. Nobody had realised that the frigate’s young captain was a local man, born and raised in Falmouth before being packed off to sea like all the other Bolithos.

A lot of water since then. Young Adam a successful frigate captain himself now . . . He sighed, remembering how his own son had quit the navy and gone to settle in the promised land of America. It still hurt him. It always would, the way his son had turned away from him, instead of continuing as Adam’s coxswain.

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thought, troubled by its swift passage; where did it all go?

Avery was also watching the scenery. But he was thinking of Unis Allday’s words. A deal of worry. How did she know?

Two farm workers plodding in the opposite direction waved and yelled, “Yew give them buggers a quiltin’!” Avery raised his hat to them, remembering Bolitho’s bitter words when they had joined the unhappy Valkyrie at Plymouth.

What did men like these care who they were going to fight?

Dutch, French or Dons, it was all the same to them. So long as their bellies were full and they did not have to go to sea or follow the drum, what did it signify to them? He gave a wry smile.

I am becoming cynical, like Sir Richard. To take his mind off it, he twisted round and looked at his companion. “You’ve a fine wife, Allday. I envy you.”

Allday’s eyes crinkled. “Then we’ll have to do something about that, won’t we, sir?”

Avery smiled easily. He would never have believed it possible for this kind of relationship to exist within the rigid strictures of the navy.

Allday asked, “You sorry to leave, sir?” Avery thought about it and remembered his sister’s last, desperate embrace. If only I had known.

He shook his head. “No. There’s nobody to leave.” Allday studied him. Most people would think Lieutenant Avery had all that a man could need. Aide to England’s most famous sailor, with all the chances of rank and prize-money denied to others. But, in fact, he had nothing.

He was both surprised and saddened by his discovery, and said awkwardly, “Perhaps you would have the goodness to write a letter for me once we weighs anchor, sir?” Avery’s clear eyes settled on him. It was like seeing a man reaching for a lifeline.

“It would be an honour.” He almost added, old friend.

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Catherine Somervell was crossing the yard with a sheaf of flowers over one arm when they arrived. She shaded her eyes and watched as they climbed from the trap. “Why, Mr Avery—and John Allday! I was not expecting two such important visitors!” She held out her hand and Avery took it; not like Sillitoe, she thought, nor like the Prince Regent either. He kissed it and she sensed his hesitancy; he was still uncertain about something, perhaps herself and her relationship with Bolitho. It was possible that she would never know.

She greeted Allday with affection. “Why, John Allday, I swear you have filled out a little! Good food and affection do wonders for a man, body and soul.”

Allday said uneasily, “I have to get back, m’lady. But tomorrow . . .”

She said, “Ah, yes, tomorrow. We shall have to make the best of it.”

From an upstairs window Bolitho watched them. His Kate walking between the two uniforms. She looked so at ease with them, so right. He thought of her in the night: the eager desperation of one for the other. Love, passion, and the unspoken dread of parting.

A shaft of sunlight pierced through the leaves in the light offshore breeze, and he put his hand to his eye as if it had been stung. Holding one hand over it he looked again, and after a few seconds his vision seemed to clear and sharpen. It must be the effect of the drops the doctor had given him. Beneath the windows, she turned between two of the most important men in his life. She was as tall as Avery, and perhaps a little taller than Allday.

She must have felt his eyes upon her. She looked up, searching his face, perhaps sensing what had just happened.

She held up the flowers and blew him a kiss.

But all he heard was her voice on the wind. Don’t leave me.

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Captain James Tyacke stood by the quarterdeck rail and watched the throng of bustling figures, which to any ignorant landsman would seem like chaos. He laid one sunburned hand on the rail and was surprised to see it so still even though his whole body seemed to be trembling with an excitement he had rarely known.

It was not recklessness. Not exactly, but he had had to discover what his ship and his unknown company could do.

Shortly after Indomitable had hoisted anchor and successfully beat clear of the Sound, the wind had risen slightly, and by the time she had been laid on her new south-westerly course down-Channel spray was bursting over the beak-head, soaking even the upper yards where dazed and uncertain figures were being pushed and dragged from one task to the next.

Lieutenant Scarlett had ventured, “We are thirty hands short, sir.”

Tyacke had given him a brief glance. “In a sea-fight we could lose that many in minutes.”

“I—I know, sir.”

Tyacke had retorted sharply, “I know you know, but most of these people do not. So get the hands aloft and make all plain sail!”

As the wind and quarter-sea had mounted, the Indomitable, big though she was, had seemed to bound from trough to trough like the lion she followed, spray and spindrift pouring from the bulging canvas like tropical rain. Tyacke had glanced at the sailing-master, his slate-grey hair flapping in the wind, his arms folded as he watched his helmsmen and master’s mates. He had felt his captain’s scrutiny and looked up, his eyes gleaming as he had called, “She can do it, sir!” Tyacke had seen Scarlett and Daubeny the second lieutenant clinging to the stays and staring at him. He said, “Stun’s’ls, Mr Scarlett!”

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Like giant ears the studding-sails were eventually run out from their yards, men slithering and clutching wildly for handholds.

Now, as he looked up at the squared yards and furled sails, at the gulls circling noisily around the ship hoping for scraps, he was amazed by what he had done, what they had all managed to do, one way or the other. Every spar had held, although he had seen the great main-yard bending like an archer’s bow under the tremendous pressure of wind. Here and there cordage had parted, snapping above the din like musket shots, but that was not uncommon with new ropes and halliards. The stretched and seasoned rigging had taken all the strain with no complaint save the clatter and bang of flapping canvas.

Tyacke walked to the taffrail and back again. That was it, why Indomitable was so different from any other ship. It was her power through the water even in half a gale. The noise, frightening to the untrained landmen, had been exhilarating; with each great plunge into sunburst clouds of spray it had been staggering, a sound he could liken to a great gale through a forest, menacing and then rising to a wild shriek of triumph. Isaac York the master had claimed they had logged some fifteen knots, when under those conditions most vessels would have been tempted to shorten sail—or, if undermanned, to lie-to under reefed topsails until it was all over.

As they had closed with the land Tyacke had touched the first lieutenant’s arm, and was certain he had started with alarm.

“Shorten sail, if you please, Mr Scarlett.” He saw the other man’s confusion, thinking perhaps he had misunderstood the order. Tyacke had pointed at the larboard battery of twenty-four-pounders. “You decide. If we fight, and I should fall, you will command here. Can you do it?” Scarlett had stared at him. There had been a lot of coastal shipping moving in and out of the harbour, and the distance between the two headlands, Pendennis Point and St Anthony, For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 104

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had probably looked no wider than a farm gate.

But with York close by, Scarlett had not hesitated.

On the starboard tack with all sails clewed up except topsails and jib, Indomitable must have made an impressive entrance.

But now, safely at anchor, he might well ask himself why he had done it. Even if Scarlett had collided with another vessel or put the ship aground, the responsibility would lie with her captain. As it should.

Scarlett was here again. “All secure, sir.”

“Very well, sway out the barge and put my cox’n in charge.” He almost smiled. “I have no doubt that Allday will bring the barge back himself.”

He saw no understanding on Scarlett’s face. Like these others, the legend had passed him by. He would be part of it soon enough. He heard a yelp of pain and saw a man hurrying forward, holding his shoulder where a boatswain’s mate had obviously struck him with his starter. Nearby, the junior lieutenant Philip Protheroe stood watching the land. He had ignored the incident.

Tyacke said, “Remind that young man of what I said when I took command. An officer must be obeyed. He must also set an example.” Unwittingly his hand had gone to his disfigured face.

“Even if you have been badly used, it does not give you the right to abuse others who cannot answer back.” Scarlett said, “I understand, sir.”

He said curtly, “I am glad to know it!” He watched the new green-painted barge being hoisted and swayed over the starboard gangway, and then lowered slowly into the water alongside, and beckoned to the gun captain who had been chosen for his coxswain. He was a short, completely square man with a puggy face and a chin so blue it must defy every razor.

“You! Over here!”

The man bounded over and knuckled his forehead.

“Aye, sir!”

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“Your name is Fairbrother, right? Bit of a mouthful in times of haste!”

The man stared at him. “’Tis the only one I got, sir.” Tyacke said, “First name?”

“Well, Eli, sir.”

“Right then, Eli, take the barge to the stairs. Wait until they arrive, however long it takes.” From the corner of his eye he saw a boatswain’s chair being lowered from the main-yard. For Lady Catherine Somervell, he had no doubt in his mind. He sensed the curiosity around him. Some of these men had not been with a woman for over a year, perhaps longer.

What would they have thought had they seen that same Catherine Somervell being hauled aboard Larne, wet through in her seaman’s shirt? He knew he himself would never forget.

He looked around the harbour; he had not been in Falmouth for many years. It had not changed. The brooding castle on one headland and the big St Mawes battery on the opposite one. It would take a bold captain to try to cut out a sheltering mer-chantman here, he thought.

Tyacke beckoned to the harassed first lieutenant again. “I want all the boats in the water. Send the purser ashore in one.” He did not miss Scarlett’s sudden interest. “As many fresh vegetables as he can find, fruit too if he can get it. It’s possible, with the Dons being so friendly nowadays!” Scarlett did not miss the sarcasm.

“And I want Captain du Cann to have his marines in a guard-boat, with a picket or two on the nearest land in case some poor wretch tries to run.”

He spoke without emotion, and yet Scarlett sensed that his new captain felt a certain sympathy for those who were so tempted.

“Boat approaching, sir!”

That was Lieutenant John Daubeny, officer-of-the-watch.

Tyacke called to a midshipman, his mind groping for his name.

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“Over here, lad.” He took a telescope from the rack and rested it on the youth’s shoulder. It came to him: his name was Essex, the one appointed to take over the duties of purser’s clerk.

The boat and contents swam into focus.

He quickly recognised the round shoulders of Yovell, Sir Richard’s faithful servant. The boat also contained chests and packing-cases, and the beautifully carved wine-cooler which Catherine had given to Bolitho to replace her original gift, now lying on the seabed with Hyperion.

Scarlett was saying as though almost to himself, “It will be strange, not being a private ship any more.” Tyacke closed the glass with a snap. “Thank you, Mr Essex.

You are exactly the right height.”

The youth was nervous but pleased. Tyacke saw him drop his eyes rather than look at him.

He said heavily, “Strange for me also, Mr Scarlett.” He watched the boat come alongside, Hockenhull, the squat boatswain, leaping down with some of his men to unload it.

Tyacke glanced up to the top of the mainmast. An admiral’s flag. How do I feel? But it would not come to him. Neither pride nor uncertainty. It was something already decided, like a storm at sea, or a first broadside. Only fate would determine the outcome.

“Sir! Sir! The barge is bearing off!” Tyacke gazed along the upper deck. All the confusion had gone now. This was a ship-of-war.

“Not so loud, Mr Essex,” he said. “You’ll awaken the sheep.” Some of the seamen nearby grinned. Tyacke turned aside. It was another small beginning.

“Clear lower deck, Mr Scarlett. Man the side, if you please.” Boatswain’s mates and sideboys in ill-fitting white gloves assembled, followed by the tramp of boots as the guard of honour fell in by the entry port, their lieutenant, David Merrick, looking like an actor in an unfamiliar role. Then the officers, For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 107

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warrant officers, and Captain du Cann standing in his perfectly tailored scarlet coat with several marines and a squad of young fifers and drummers.

Tyacke saw a midshipman below the massive mainmast with its surrounding girdle of boarding-pikes. The flag was expertly folded over the youth’s shoulder, done by more experienced fingers than his own, Tyacke thought. He lifted a glass again and sensed Midshipman Essex’s eagerness to assist him. But he would share none of it this time.

She was dressed in deep green as he had somehow known she would be, with a broad straw hat tied under her chin with a matching ribbon. Beside her, Bolitho sat with his sword between his legs, one hand lying close to but not touching hers.

The flag-lieutenant was with them, and at the tiller he saw Allday’s powerful figure, Tyacke’s own coxswain beside him.

“Stand by with the boatswain’s chair!” One small fifer moistened his lips, and a drummer boy gripped his sticks exactly as he had been taught at the barracks.

The sideboys had gone down the side, ready to assist the lady passenger into the chair. There would be many eyes watching her today. The rumours, the gossip, the slander and the indisputable courage after the loss of the Golden Plover.

Tyacke heard the distant bellow, “Oars— up! ” Allday seemed very calm, as always. Like twin lines of bones the dripping oars rose, and steadied even as the bowman hooked on to the main-chains.

The tackle squeaked, and two seamen swung the chair above the gangway.

“Belay that!” Tyacke knew Scarlett was watching him, his face full of questions, but he no longer cared.

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Avery before reaching out for the guide-ropes and staring straight up at the gilded entry port. Allday was looking anxious, Avery too, but she waited for the right moment before stepping out on to the thick, wooden stairs which curved into the ship’s tumblehome, spaced apart for a seaman but hardly for a lady.

Tyacke held his breath until he saw her head and Sir Richard’s cocked hat appear above the top stair.

“Royal Marines, present arms! ” The flash of bayonets and the usual cloud of pipeclay rising from the slings, the shrill of boatswain’s calls, ear-splitting at close quarters.

Bolitho raised his hat to the quarterdeck, his eyes resting only briefly on the White Ensign curling from its staff, then he turned to face forward. Then he said, “A moment, if you please!” In the silence he held out his hand to support her, so that Avery could kneel and replace Catherine’s shoes. He saw the smudge of tar on her foot and a bad snare in her stocking.

As she straightened up their eyes met, and Tyacke saw what passed between them. The love. But above all, the triumph.

Then the fifes and drums broke into Heart of Oak. Only then did Bolitho look up at the mainmast as the flag was run smartly to the truck, where it broke immediately to the wind.

Somehow he knew that Catherine was near to tears. With all society against them, they had achieved this, and they were together.

He stared at the flag until his eyes watered, or was that his own emotion?

His flag. The cross of St George.

There was cheering too, but not because of the flag or the honour of the occasion. It was because of her. The sailor’s woman who had come amongst them to show that she at least cared, for them and for her man.

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to take her hand, she lifted her face and kissed him on the cheek.

“You are so welcome here.” Then she looked over the rail at the silent, watching sailors and marines. “They will not let you down.” She could have been speaking to either of them, Tyacke thought. Or to the ship, Indomitable.

7 like a T roubled sea

RICHARD BOLITHO sat on the long leather bench seat at the foot of the tall stern windows and watched the sea heaving and breaking astern. The ship was no longer quivering to the squeak and rumble of gun trucks, and he guessed that Lieutenant Scarlett had decided to discontinue yet another drill and await better weather while the crews recovered their strength. Sail and gun drill: Tyacke had exercised all hands within a day of leaving Falmouth. He had seen Tyacke glancing at him, as though to know his opinion, whenever he had taken a walk on the quarterdeck, but Bolitho had left him to his own devices. It was difficult enough for him as it was, without interfering or making suggestions.

He felt the timbers bite into his shoulder as the ship plunged into another long trough, every stay and spar creaking to the pressure. It was late afternoon and the watch would be changing soon.

He glanced at the unfinished letter on his table, and imagined her face when she opened it, whenever that might be. Unless they met with a friendly homebound vessel, the letter was likely to be put ashore in Antigua.

He massaged his forehead and pictured her as she had gone down the side in Falmouth, that time in a boatswain’s chair as he had insisted. They had cheered her again when she had been assisted into his barge, with Allday and Avery to see her safely ashore.

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Only she had known the pain their parting had given him.

Equally, she had realised that by coming aboard into his world, no matter how briefly, she had made such a difference for all the men who were sailing into the unknown. Six days out from Falmouth, and a thousand miles already logged. This night they would pass the Azores and cross the 40th parallel of latitude, south-by-south-west, and further still.

He stared at the sea again, shark-blue with long ranks of yellow-toothed breakers. Indomitable was taking it well, and smashed over every obstacle with a kind of arrogance he had rarely seen before. Many of the new hands, raw to the navy and its brutal indifference, had either been seasick or knocked senseless when the pitching deck caught them unawares and flung them against unyielding guns or stanchions. But they would learn; they had no choice. Bolitho had noticed that Tyacke was always on deck whenever drills were being carried out, or some violent change of tack sent the topmen swarming aloft, leaving the landmen and marines to man the braces and trim the great yards while the wind roared around them.

He had heard Scarlett call after a particularly hard exercise at the larboard battery, “Better that time, sir!” And Tyacke’s blunt reply. “Not good enough, Mr Scarlett! It took twelve minutes to clear for action. I want it done in eight!” Six days. How different from those times when he had been so eager to get to grips with the enemy, any enemy that their lordships dictated.

He thought suddenly of the moment when Indomitable had weathered the headland to find open water in the Channel.

Catherine had said nothing of her plans, but he had known she was watching him. He had snatched a telescope from the rack and steadied it carefully while the ship had leaned over stiffly in the offshore wind.

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tiny beaches were then covered by the tide. She had been there, her hair blowing unheeded in the wind, one hand holding Tamara’s bridle while she levelled a small glass on the slow-moving ship.

She would have seen Indomitable come to life, sails being freed from every yard and sheeted home so that they bulged like steel breastplates. She would have seen it all, would have watched the spray leaping beneath the snarling lion while Indomitable carried her man away, beyond touch, each denied to the other. In her own way she had given an example to Tyacke’s watching sailors.

Showing that she knew how they felt, and that she shared the same pain of separation.

Then the land had crept out, and Bolitho had handed the telescope to a staring midshipman.

He had seen the boy’s awe and had said quietly, “Aye, Mr Arlington, mark it well. The other price of war.” The midshipman had not understood. But it must have made a good tale in the gunroom. How the admiral had confided in him.

Ozzard tapped at the door and entered silently. “May I lay for supper at seven bells, sir?”

“Thank you. Yes.” Crossing the first bridge. He would dine with both Tyacke and Avery tonight.

He glanced around the cabin. At least here were familiar furnishings, the mahogany sideboard and dining table, tugging occasionally at their lashings whenever the tiller head gave a particularly violent jerk. Kate’s fine wine-cooler; and beyond in the smaller sleeping compartment he could just see the two new dressing-chests and mirror Catherine had insisted on buying for him.

Ozzard stood in his usual stooped position, his hands held mole-like in his apron. He seemed ill at ease, but these days that was nothing new. As he had with Allday, Bolitho had offered him his freedom to stay behind in safety at the house in Falmouth.

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liked the sea; he was openly terrified whenever they had been called to battle. It was as if he served not out of duty or straight-forward loyalty, but as some kind of penance.

He heard the sentry shout, “Captain, sir! ” Tyacke entered, his lean body angled to the extreme slope of the deck.

“I hope I am not disturbing you, sir?” Bolitho waved him to a chair. “Of course not. Is something wrong?”

Tyacke glanced around the cabin as if he were seeing it for the first time. “I can’t say for certain, sir.” Bolitho gave him time to assemble his thoughts. “You have been on deck for most of the day, James. Will you take a glass with me?”

Tyacke seemed about to refuse, then reconsidered and nodded. Perhaps the casual use of his Christian name had taken him by surprise.

“At noon, sir, when our young gentlemen were shooting the sun, one of them, Craigie, was skylarking. The master sent him aloft to mend his manners.”

He took a glass of cognac from Ozzard and examined it thoughtfully. Bolitho watched him. Mastheading was a common enough punishment, used to curb a midshipman’s high spirits. He had endured it himself. For him it had been worse than for most, as he had always hated heights. The way Indomitable was leaning over on the starboard tack would be enough to teach anyone a lesson, but it was hardly something to concern the captain enough to bring him aft.

Tyacke looked at him and gave a slight smile. “I know, sir. We all went through it.” The smile vanished. “Mr Craigie is not the brightest of stars, but he is blessed with good eyesight.” He did not see, or seem to see, the flicker of emotion on Bolitho’s face.

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the-watch a glass was sent aloft. It was a sail right enough.” He lifted his goblet. “And the ship is still there. Maybe a trivial matter, but I thought you should know.”

Bolitho rubbed his chin. “And on the same tack?”

“Never changes, sir.”

“What d’ you think, James?”

Tyacke seemed surprised that he should be asked. “Whoever it is might take us for a liner with our rig.” He stroked the arm of his chair. “By God, he’d get a surprise if this lady turned on him!”

It was like hearing somebody else. The voice of pride. How Tyacke had spoken of his Larne.

“Could we catch him, d’you think?”

Bolitho watched Tyacke’s expression. Calculating, seeking con-clusions. Strange that they had already given the unknown vessel a character of its own.

“I’ll need three days more, sir. Then, if the weather holds, we should be picking up the north-east trades. That’ll give us power to come about and catch him.” He paused, almost hesitantly. “I know this is faster than any brig, sir, but I’ve done it with Larne when some crafty slaver tried to spy out our intentions.” Bolitho realised that it was the first time Tyacke had mentioned his last command since Indomitable had broken out his flag at the main. “What do you think of the people, James? Are they coming together as one company?”

Instead of answering, Tyacke stood up. “With your permission, sir?” Then he opened the big skylight, his hair ruffling in the sudden breeze. “They’re standing easy. I’ve worked them hard, day in day out since I took command in Plymouth. They may loathe me, fear me, I know not which, nor must I allow myself to care. Good men and scum side by side, gallows-bait and mothers’ boys.” His mouth softened as he said, “Now, sir, you listen to them.”

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Bolitho joined him beneath the skylight and peered up at the straining mizzen topsail far above them.

They were singing. Men off-watch and idlers, resting on deck after a long hard day. It was one of Dibdin’s songs, sometimes used by shantymen when a ship was being hauled up to her anchor in readiness to weigh.

“This life is like a troubled sea—

Wear helm or weather all a’lee,

Wear helm or weather all a’lee,

The ship will neither stay nor wear, But drive of every rock in fear,

Of every rock in fear.”

It was as though Catherine were here, as she had been in the longboat when she had urged Allday to sing to raise their spirits when all had seemed lost.

Tyacke was still watching him, his eyes very blue and steady.

He said, “Your lady understood, sir.” He closed the skylight and gave the lusty voices back to the sounds of sea and wind. “They will not let you down.”

Bolitho touched the locket, which she had fastened around his neck before they had parted.

I shall take it from you when you come to me as my lover again . . .

He made up his mind. “So be it then, James. When the trades are good to us, we’ll go and snare that cunning fox and discover what he is about.”

Tyacke picked up his hat. “I’ll see you at supper, sir. And thank you.”

“For what?”

Tyacke shrugged. “Just—thank you, sir.” Then he was gone.

Ozzard entered the cabin and glanced around without curiosity as Bolitho returned to the skylight and opened it.

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They will not let you down.

“Nor I you.” But the singing had stopped.

Captain Adam Bolitho strode through the dockyard, his hat tugged down on his forehead against the lively breeze from the Sound. He glanced past hurrying seamen and dockyard workers to the wall where Larne had been moored to complete her overhaul, and beyond to the glittering sea itself, now reflecting the afternoon sunlight like a million flashing mirrors.

From this place Indomitable had weighed anchor for Falmouth.

In his heart he knew he had wanted to go aboard before she had made sail, to wish Tyacke good fortune, but convention had held him back. Although Tyacke was older than he, he was still very junior in rank.

He was also aware that Tyacke might have misconstrued his visit, or considered it patronising. It was better to leave him to find his own way, and make his own mistakes without critical eyes or well-meaning advice. Adam admired Tyacke greatly. Next to his uncle he had encountered no greater strength of character, nor higher courage in any man.

He half smiled. Bolitho must have had a quiet word with the port admiral on his behalf. Anemone had been desperately short-handed; after her battle with the privateers, death and mutilation had taken a heavy toll. But when she quit Plymouth this time, her company would be almost complete again. Bolitho must have asked for more men. Scum they might be; many would otherwise have been hanged or deported, but firm discipline and fair treatment would soon change that. The hard men who would never break, Adam would take on himself to train. They often proved to be the best sailors, especially those who had never known anything but poverty and oppression. He tightened his jaw. But if they did not respond to training and example he would change them in other ways.

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He thought of his three lieutenants. All had seen action before, but only one had ever served in a frigate. To Adam the navy was divided down the middle. There were frigates, and then there were all the rest.

The warrant officers were experienced, prime seamen of qual-ity. Again, he suspected his uncle had some hand in their acquisition. But he did not know any of them, as he had his other company. Perhaps it was better that way. He thought of friends he had seen fall in that last sea-fight, of the midshipman for whom he had had such hopes of early promotion. The youth had died in his arms, his eyes staring up at him until they became fixed and unmoving.

Yes, it was better not to become too close. He had seen his uncle’s grief too many times when those dear friends he called his Happy Few had been killed, one by one.

Catherine would be alone now, waiting and wondering, not daring to hope that it might be over quickly, that his uncle might come home safely once again.

He would put into Falmouth and pay his respects to her before taking Anemone to join the new squadron in Antigua.

He had no doubt at all that there would be war. He had never forgotten the American captain, Nathan Beer, now a commodore of his own squadron. An impressive man, a dangerous adversary.

He saw the port admiral’s house with its tower and fine gilded weathervane. His would be a quick visit for the sake of courtesy only, although it might be difficult to escape the admiral, who was known for his bounteous hospitality to the young captains who passed through the dockyard.

A carriage was just arriving at the house, and two others were waiting nearby.

Adam frowned, trying to think of some excuse that would allow him to leave.

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the stones as a Royal Marine ran to open the door and lower the step. Something fell on the ground, and Adam picked it up.

“Excuse me, ma’am. You dropped this.” He stared past her at the severe-looking man who was regarding him as he would an intruder.

Zenoria looked straight into his eyes, only a pulse in her throat betraying her outward composure.

“Why, Captain Bolitho. This is a surprise.” Adam waited for the rebuff, fearing she would turn away. He offered his hand, but she rested hers on the marine’s white glove instead. “Did you know I would be here?” He said, “I did not, I swear it.”

She frowned slightly, as though warning him. “This is Mr Petrie, from London.” She turned to the sharp-faced man. “May I introduce Captain Adam Bolitho, of His Britannic Majesty’s Ship Anemone. ”

The man attempted to smile. It obviously did not come easily to him.

Zenoria added, “He is a lawyer, Captain, and he is under instruction to complete the purchase of a suitable house for us here in Plymouth.”

Her poise and her self-confidence impressed and surprised him, but when she turned from the others he recognised the pain in her eyes. The girl with the moonlit eyes, Bolitho had called her.

He controlled his own emotion with an effort.

A harassed-looking lieutenant hurried down the steps. I see you have introduced one another . . .” He shook his head. “I am all aback today, ma’am. I should have remembered your husband is a great friend of Sir Richard Bolitho.” He turned to Adam. “I was going to send word to your ship, Captain, inviting you to sup with the admiral. But there was no time—you see, sir.”

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when he realised that Adam had not followed.

Adam said, “I am not certain. I mean no offence to your admiral after what he has done for my ship . . .” He looked at her again. No contempt, no resentment. But there was something. “I have no desire to intrude.”

She said quickly, “For my part, there is no intrusion. Do come, Captain Bolitho. I hope to see Lady Catherine while I am in the West Country . . .” She hesitated, “Again.” Then they were in the large reception room, with its vast paintings of sea-battles and memorabilia in glass cases; a great house where admirals had lived for many years, which had never become a home. The port admiral, a small, energetic man with an old-fashioned queue, bounced to greet them. There were several other officers present, and a solitary scarlet-coated marine.

Women too, with the uncomplaining faces of service wives.

The admiral took Zenoria’s arm and Adam heard him say, “I hear you’re buying Boscawen House, m’dear? A fine old place—

the views are breathtaking. Hunting’s good around there too.” She replied, “Rear-Admiral Keen’s father suggested Mr Petrie should deal with the matter.” She glanced at the solemn Petrie.

“He knows more than I about such things.” The admiral nodded, his eyes running over her like an invisible hand. “Quite so, m’dear. A man of the City, he would know.

Not something to trouble your pretty head about.” She looked across the room until she found Adam, and her gaze seemed to say, Help me.

It was suddenly obvious to him. Like the house in Hampshire and the stifling kindness of Keen’s family, nobody had even asked her for her opinion.

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The others laughed and raised their glasses.

Adam saw her looking nervously around, imagining how it might be when Valentine Keen came home again. His father had made no secret of his resentment that Keen should prefer the hazardous life of the navy to power and success in the City. Any more than he would want his grandson to follow Keen into the world of sea and ships.

Adam was surprised he had not heard some mention of this appointment. He glanced at her slight figure again. Like a little girl amongst all these people who knew and wanted no other life.

Lost. Completely lost.

Suppose somebody knew or even suspected the truth? He strode to the admiral’s side, caution gone like the wind from a shot-riddled sail.

“I beg your pardon, sir, but may I show Rear-Admiral Keen’s wife the beautiful garden you have here?”

“So long as you behave yourself, m’lad! I know about young frigate captains!” His barking laugh followed them to the French windows that opened on to a wide terrace, which was decorated with large urns of plants.

As soon as it was possible to speak, Adam said, “I am so sorry about this, Zenoria—I really did not know you were here.” She said nothing, and he continued more urgently, “My ship sails in three days. You have nothing to fear from me. I wronged you . . .

I will never forget. I would never have harmed you, because . . .” Her eyes were misty. He dared not think there might be kindness in them for him. “Because?” One word, so gently said.

“I have no right.”

She put her hand on his sleeve. “We should walk, but remain in view of the house. I know from Lady Catherine’s experience how cruel are those who know nothing but envy.” They walked slowly by the wall, her gown touching the salt-roughened grass, his sword slapping against his thigh.

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Then she asked abruptly, “Can you see me with all these clever, worldly people?” She turned to look up at him. “In truth, Adam, can you?”

He placed his hand over hers and they walked on. “You will captivate them, as you do me.” He waited, expecting her to react angrily, reject him as she had in Hampshire, the last time he had seen her.

But she said, “When Val returns he will rightly expect me to be proud of his achievements, and I want to be equal to his expectations. I am proud of him, and I have never forgotten what I owe him.”

He said, holding her hand against his arm, “And what about you, little mermaid, are you owed nothing? What if others care?” She glanced up at him. “I know you care. Of course I know.

I remember . . .”

“What do you remember?” She was faltering, pulling away.

“When I found you in tears, Adam, grieving for Sir Richard.

And then . . .”

“I loved you, Zenoria. I shall always love you. I want no other.” She stared at him, her eyes frightened. “Stop! You must not say such things!”

They halted at the end of the wall and looked at one another for a long moment. An old gardener carrying a rake passed them; they neither saw nor heard him.

Adam said quietly, “I am not proud of what I am, Zenoria.

But if I could take you from your husband, a man I like and greatly admire, then I would do it.” He saw her agitation but did not release his grip. “I would not hesitate.”

“Please, somebody is coming!”

It was the flag-lieutenant. “The admiral desires you to join the others for refreshments. Afterwards, there will be a recital.” His eyes moved between them but were without curiosity.

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Adam offered his arm and they walked slowly back towards the house.

“Shall I leave, Zenoria?”

She shook her head, her profile suddenly very determined.

“No. Talk to me about your ship—anything, d’you understand?

But do not reveal your heart again like that.” He said, “I still have your glove.” Something to say, to control his need of her.

“Keep it for me.” Her voice was husky. “Think of me sometimes, will you?”

“Always. I love you, Zenoria.” They re-entered the house in silence.

The admiral raised his eyebrows. “God swamp you, Captain Bolitho, I thought you had spirited her away!” She curtsied as if to conceal the colour in her cheeks.

“Only little mermaids can do that, sir!” Their eyes met across the table. Nothing could ever be the same again.

8 D reams

THE FIGURES standing around the quarterdeck and grouped by the big double-wheel were still only shadows, revealed, but without personality against the pale planking.

John Allday waited by the hammock nettings, and glanced at the lightening sky. It would be dawn very soon: the few stars beyond the topgallant yards were fainter than when he had last looked. Then, by daylight, they would know if the captain and sailing-master had judged it correctly.

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early hours. Peering around in the darkness, trying to remember who was where. Seeking out friends, perhaps, or maybe looking out for a boatswain’s mate, ready to use his starter on anyone who was slow to move when the orders came.

James Tyacke was pacing from one side of the broad quarterdeck to the other. Suppose daylight found Indomitable with the ocean to herself? It would be a bad beginning for him as captain, Allday thought.

He felt the wind against his neck and shivered. It had shifted, as York had predicted. The ship was as close-hauled as she would bear, the canvas cracking overhead, losing the wind until the vig-ilant helmsmen brought her back under command again.

Allday heard someone speaking hoarsely to Eli Fairbrother, the gun captain selected to be the captain’s coxswain. He moved into the deeper shadows by the nettings. He was in no mood to chat with the man. He might prove to be a good hand, given time, but at the moment he was so overwhelmed by his unexpected promotion that he would not stop talking about it.

Allday glanced up again into the darkness. He could see some of the shrouds and ratlines now, and far above, a flapping white movement, like a seabird trapped in the rigging. The admiral’s flag at the mainmast truck.

All the years, the pain and the danger. Friends and enemies wiped away, lost like smoke in the wind. To serve with Bolitho had been all he had ever wanted, needed. They had both taken a few bad knocks over their years together, and Allday had shared the best and the worst of it. His oak, Bolitho called him, and the name meant much to Allday. It gave him a sense of belonging that few Jacks were lucky enough to enjoy.

Now they were off again. He rubbed his chest where the Spanish blade had nearly killed him. Always the pain. Sir Richard with his wounded eye; he needed his oak more than ever now.

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had put out from Falmouth he had thought of her. In so short a while Unis had become precious, so dear to him. Once he might have laughed at anybody else who had claimed such an attachment. Not any more. Even Ozzard, who was quick to find fault with most women, had held his peace.

It had been a difficult parting. Ferguson had come over to Fallowfield with his little trap to collect him. They had agreed it would be better so, instead of saying goodbye in Falmouth. He couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her like all those other women who sometimes stood for hours, days even, to stare at some man-of-war in the hope of catching a glimpse of their loved ones.

He had held her very gently. With her he was always gentle, protective, careful not to offend, and she had pressed her face into his blue coat.

“I’ll not break, John. Harder, hold me harder—then kiss me and go.” Then she had looked up at his face, as if to hold every detail. “I love ’ee, John Allday. You’ve brought peace and purpose to my life.”

Allday had said awkwardly, “I’ve not much to offer, my lass.

But I’ll be back, you see if I’m not!”

“I’ll not forgive you if you stay away!” Then there had been tears on her cheeks and she had dashed them away, angry with herself. “Now be off with you!” Then she had hesitated, as if uncertain what to do.

“What is it, lass?”

She had answered, “I put a few things in your bag. I don’t want you depending on ship’s victuals.” Then she stood on tip-toe and kissed him hard on the mouth.

“I’ll pray for you, John.”

Allday had grasped the side of the trap. He knew she could not see him, even though she was smiling and waving. Her eyes were blinded by tears.

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away. Once he had looked back. Unis had been staring at the road, while the Old Hyperion inn sign swung relentlessly above her head.

He thought she had been going to tell him something. When Lieutenant Avery read her next letter to him, maybe she would explain what it was.

All Ferguson had said was, “You’re a lucky man, John.” Allday heard voices nearby. The admiral was coming up.

He heard the new coxswain, Fairbrother, exclaim, “An’ not only that, but the cap’n calls me by my first name!” Allday sighed again. Lucky? When I could be with Unis? He stared into the dark water alongside. But for once he could find no comfort in the familiarity of his world.

Bolitho was wearing his old seagoing coat without the proud epaulettes, and was hatless.

He saw Allday by the side and asked, “How goes it today, old friend?”

Allday glanced towards Tyacke’s coxswain. “He calls me by my first name.” He can put that in his pipe and smoke it! He answered,

“Well enough, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho found Tyacke by the quarterdeck rail with the first lieutenant. Allday could hide nothing from him. They had been together too long for that. He was missing Unis, the first real love he had ever known. As I miss you, Kate.

Tyacke remarked, “We’ll soon know, sir.” He turned to the first lieutenant. “Check each mast, Mr Scarlett. The lieutenants must be certain of every man in their divisions when we come about, even if it takes a mite longer. I don’t want the ship in irons, nor do I want to see anyone lost overboard.” Scarlett had already done it, but knew better than to argue or explain. As he moved forward along the weather gangway he glanced aloft. The flag and masthead pendant were much lighter.

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and yet not so different. He saw Avery with a telescope tucked under one arm. In the wardroom several of the others had tried to pry information out of him concerning the admiral and what he was really like. He had seen Avery’s strange tawny eyes flash like a tiger’s, watched him deflect each question like an experienced duellist.

Faces took on shape and identity, and then the first pale sunshine ran down the upper spars, and revealed to many that the wind had indeed shifted.

Tyacke cupped his hands. “Ready ho!” Figures scampered to braces and halliards, while each lieutenant and midshipman checked his men, very aware of the two figures silhouetted against the paling sky by the quarterdeck rail.

“Put the helm down!”

Bolitho could feel the quarterdeck rail quivering under his hand as the straining seamen let go the headsail sheets, so that the sails could lose the wind and yet not prevent the ship’s head from swinging.

“Off tacks and sheets!” Scarlett’s voice boomed through his speaking-trumpet even as the shadowy bows began to stagger into the eye of the wind.

“Mains’l haul! Haul, lads! Put your bloody backs into it!” Hockenhull, the squat boatswain, sounded fierce but was grinning as the ship around and above him fought to answer the demands of sail and rudder.

“Mains’l haul!”

Bolitho watched the hands hauling at the braces to swing the great yards around, the sails in wild confusion until, with something like a roar, they refilled and the ship heeled right over, canvas taut and bulging, lines being turned expertly on to belay-ing pins, while the landmen tried to keep out of everybody’s way.

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the ship about to lay her on the opposite tack.

The helmsman yelled, “Steady she goes, sir! West by north!

By an’ large!”

Even he sounded excited, and when Bolitho looked at York, the master, he was grinning hugely like a midshipman with a fresh apple pie.

“Deck, there!”

The masthead lookout, the man who saw everything before anyone else. Bolitho saw Tyacke’s brown hand tighten on the rail.

If there was anything to see.

“Sail, fine on the lee bow, sir!”

Tyacke turned to the signals midshipman. “Aloft with you, Mr Blythe, and take a glass with you!”

Bolitho said, “That was well done, Captain Tyacke.” Together they watched the spray bursting over the beak-head. Tyacke said quietly, “Mr York was right about this ship.”

“Deck there!”

Tyacke smiled. “Already? He must have flown up there.” Blythe’s voice reached them again. “Barque, sir! She’s all aback!” Tyacke said contemptuously, “Trying to make a run for it, is he?” He swung round. “Mr Scarlett, get the t’gallants on her and set the forecourse, driver too!” When the first lieutenant hesitated, he snapped, “Lively it is, Mr Scarlett! I’ll not lose the bugger now!”

Bolitho saw the flash of resentment in Scarlett’s eyes, but this was no time to consider a man’s hurt pride.

Tyacke was beckoning to another midshipman, Craigie, the one who had sighted the stranger in the first place.

“Find the gunner, Mr Craigie, and have him lay aft.” He fum-bled in his coat and Bolitho saw the gleam of gold. “You did well.

Quite well.”

The midshipman stared at the coin in his grubby palm.

“Th-thank you, sir!”

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Tyacke’s voice pursued him forward to the main hatchway.

“But next time you skylark on duty, the prize had better be worth-while!”

Several of the seamen who were hauling and coiling a confusion of halliards and tackles grinned.

Bolitho smiled. If the barque proved to be useless it would no longer matter.

They had just accomplished something, and they had done it as one company.

Richard Bolitho opened his eyes and stared at the deckhead, his ears and mind taking in the sounds, the angle of a small shuttered lantern telling him instantly how Indomitable was behaving.

But for the lantern the cabin was in complete darkness, the occasional grumbling clatter of the rudder-head the predominant sound. Not much wind then. Two or three times in the night his sailor’s instinct had awakened him, and as usual he had felt a sense of loss at not being up there with the watch on deck when the ship had changed tack yet again. He had never lost that feeling, and he had often wondered if other flag officers still yearned for the more personal command of a captain.

He lay with his hands behind his head looking into the darkness. It was hard to believe that Indomitable would reach Antigua tomorrow or, if the wind failed them again, the next day at the latest. Even now he knew that the small island of Barbuda was less than fifty miles to the north-west, part of the natural chain that formed the Leeward Islands.

Tyacke could be well pleased with his fast passage. Three weeks from Falmouth, England, to Falmouth and English Harbour in Antigua; and they had been uneventful after the early excitement of sighting and boarding “Blythe’s barque,” as it had become known, only to discover that although she wore American colours she had been under charter to the British government, For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 128

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and had carried nothing more interesting than a mixed cargo of china clay and building materials for Port Royal in Jamaica.

Scarlett had returned fuming with his boarding party. Because of the charter he had been unable to examine the company for British deserters, let alone search the vessel. Later they had sighted and stopped several vessels of various sizes and flags, but apart from a few deserters they had found very little to their advantage.

It had seemed as though the whole ocean had become a desert, and every ship going about her business had somehow avoided them.

There had been little to do but carry out regular sail and gun drills, and, as usual, inactivity had had its side-effects: outbursts of anger and violence on the lower deck, usually between the trained and experienced hands and the amateurs and landmen, whom they seemed to delight in provoking.

The punishment book had made its first appearance and several floggings had been awarded. Bolitho had known and served in ships where floggings had been too commonplace to mention, because a wrong word had been taken for insolence, or a captain had cared little for his subordinates’ methods provided the end results were acceptable. But Bolitho knew Tyacke had felt it badly.

After his little schooner Miranda and the brig Larne, with their tightly-knit companies, the ritual of punishment in a ship of Indomitable’s size had sickened him.

Not that he had lost his determination or pride, and neither his wardroom nor the midshipmen were spared the edge of his tongue. At the boarding of one schooner Avery had accompanied the first lieutenant, and afterwards there had been open hostility from Scarlett, while Avery had withdrawn into apparent indifference and been loath to discuss the subject. Tyacke, in his own forceful fashion, had uncovered the bones of the matter.

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taking an illegal passage to escape from the navy, as long as individual masters spoke up for them or provided false papers.

Avery, who had been told to act only as an observer and not interfere with the first lieutenant’s procedures, had apparently answered that men should be stripped of their shirts for inspection without requesting permission from anybody. A sailor’s back, even if he had been flogged but once, would carry the scars of the cat to the grave. Distinctive naval tattoos were another definite way to identify a deep-water sailorman as a King’s seaman who had run.

Scarlett had retorted sharply, “I’ll trouble you to keep your ideas to yourself, sir!”

Avery had responded equally coldly, and when Tyacke had told him later, Bolitho had been well able to imagine him saying it.

“You can go to hell for all I care!”

Hard work, perverse winds and sometimes blistering heat, each had played a part. Men used to the English Channel and to North Sea blockade duties were resentful at being chased through every minute of a drill, while the newly-pressed hands made mistakes that brought scorn and humiliation in their wake.

He closed his eyes, but sleep defied him. It would be dawn soon, and land was in sight, from the masthead at least, exciting many of their company who had never left England before in their lives.

He thought of the dream which had pursued him, almost from the boarding of “Blythe’s barque.” He was not certain how many times it had returned since then, but he knew it had never varied, and when he had woken only minutes ago, he had known somehow that the dream had awakened him. Even his heart had been pounding, something very rare for him unless the dream had become nightmares, like the ones in which he had seen Catherine being carried away from him, her naked body and streaming For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 130

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hair, and her terror, making him call her name aloud before he had burst out of it.

The dream was completely different. Always the same picture, the narrow waters of Carrick Roads in Falmouth, the murky hump of Pendennis Castle lying across the starboard bow of the ship flying an admiral’s flag: his flag—the knowledge of that had been quite definite, as it so often was in dreams. The squadron had been all around him, ready to weigh, or still shortening their cables. About to leave Falmouth, as he had done so many times.

Without realising it he was out of his cot, his bare feet on the deck’s cool slope; and the sudden icy chill of recognition seemed to freeze his whole body, even though his brain told him that the cabin was as hot and humid as before.

The ships of the squadron had all been his own. Undine, Sparrow and Phalarope, Black Prince and Hyperion. There had even been the topsail cutter Avenger, in which he had served under his brother Hugh.

The realisation was unnerving, and he knew that the dream would return yet again. What did it mean? What had brought all those familiar ships to Falmouth, only to depart? And which one had he been on board at the time?

He felt Indomitable shiver, the awakening rattle of rigging and blocks. A freshening breeze. There was the responding slap of bare feet overhead, brief orders to send the watch to braces and halliards and re-trim the great yards and contain the wind once more.

He saw them in his mind: figures in the darkness, the helmsmen as they felt the spokes in their hands, their eyes peering aloft to seek out the shaking sail, or the small gauge nearby so that they could discover the wind’s true direction.

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which he would be praised or abused by the far-off Admiralty.

He even wondered if Avery regretted having accepted this appointment, or if Tyacke had only changed his mind out of sympathy.

He felt the deck lift and slide across a trough; she was moving again. He reached the main cabin and groped his way right aft to the tall windows. He managed to open one of the quarter shutters which, within hours, would be packed with blown salt-spray. No moon, but there were plenty of stars to make the ship’s wake sparkle.

How would he feel at English Harbour, where he and Catherine had found each other again?

She would be remembering it too. The house above the harbour; their love, which had driven even sanity to the winds.

He felt the damp air around his body, and wondered what his seamen and marines would think if they saw him now, dressed only in a loose pair of white trousers, in case he was needed. I am playing the captain again.

His thoughts returned to the barque. Her name was La Perla, and she was registered at Boston. His mind shied away from it.

The enemy. Her master had denied that he had been deliberately following this ship. He smiled to himself. The old Indom, as the one-legged cook, Troughton, had called her. The master had insisted that he had every right in the world to be where he was; but he had obviously been surprised by Indomitable’s speed and agility, and like some others he had mistaken her for the ship of the line she had once been.

He touched the thick glass. What tales could she tell? How many hundreds of feet had trod these decks, what ambitions and failures had lived here?

He heard whispers, and then a door opened. Somehow he knew it was Ozzard before he could smell the coffee.

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seemed to glide down towards him as the helm went over yet again. “This’ll do you good.”

Ozzard always knew. Perhaps he could rarely sleep himself.

The coffee was excellent. He could see her again in the shop in St James’s Street, choosing the coffee with the care she showed for everything. For me.

He found his watch secured to his seagoing coat, and held it against the shuttered lantern. So many memories, dearest Kate.

There was about four hours’ difference between them. A spring morning in Falmouth, the air filled with birdsong and the hum of bees, and always, the salt tang of the sea. Perhaps she was out visiting Nancy and her husband, “the King of Cornwall.” Or perhaps she was changing after an early ride, standing by the tall cheval-glass, disrobing as he had seen her do, a prelude to love in that same room.

He put the empty coffee-cup on the deck where it would be safe from any sudden gust, and climbed once more into his cot.

He imagined that it was a little lighter in the adjoining great cabin, and recalled when she had come to him in the night on another occasion. Dazed with sleep he had gone to her, and had kissed her, but her lips had been like ice. And when he had called her name he had realised that, too, had been a dream.

But even across the ocean he had heard her cry out, “Don’t leave me.”

He closed his eyes and felt something like peace for the first time since Indomitable had weighed.

The phantom squadron did not return.

The small carriage rattled along a straight, well-kept road, the Hampshire countryside laid out in fresh square fields of green and yellow like part of a giant patchwork quilt. It was early still, but when she lowered the window Zenoria could hear the trilling For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 133

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evensong of thrushes, interrupted occasionally by the harsh croak of crows.

They would reach Keen’s family home within half an hour and as always she thought with apprehension of the reception she would get from his sisters. She had visited the proposed new house at Plymouth three times, and on each occasion the lawyer Petrie had accompanied her. He was dozing now on the seat beside her; even he was finding the journeys and negotiations with the land agents in Plymouth more than tiring.

She watched the passing fields and the darker patches of trees on the edge of the New Forest. In a day or so she would go with Petrie to London. Val’s father thought that a man in his position should have a town house as well. He had never meant to offend her, quite the opposite, but he made no secret of the fact that he believed women had no place in matters of property and business, and he probably thought that she had no idea at all of what might be expected of her. He had hinted of further promotion for Val, and every likelihood of a title; and once out of the navy a firm and prosperous place with him in the City.

As she had wandered through room after room in the vastness of Boscawen House in Plymouth, her mind had been unable to accept it: the entire house and spacious gardens filled with servants and workers who would watch her every move, discuss her behind her back, perhaps laugh at her attempts to entertain her betters. She had lost her temper only once when Petrie had explained that there was really no need for her to tire herself with visiting the great empty house, or looking through deeds and past amendments. She had said sharply, “I would remind you that it will be my house too, Mr Petrie! I am also one of the family.” He had studied her, not unkindly, and had replied, “It will be a new and very different experience for you, Mrs Keen. There will be many who will envy you. If you will excuse my impertinence, For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 134

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you are a very fortunate young lady, married to one of England’s heroes who will, I know, do all he can to make your life a happy one.”

She had felt suddenly weary of it. “I know, Mr Petrie. He is a good man, and I owe him much.”

If Petrie knew what she meant, he had given no sign.

If only she had had time to visit Catherine at Falmouth. She felt something like a hand on her heart.

The day proposed for the London visit was the sixth of June.

It was as if Adam were here with her. It had been on that day that she had kissed him, and he had given her some wild roses from beside the track. Where was Adam now? Had he joined his uncle, or would he be ordered to Val’s squadron instead? The thought brought colour to her cheeks. Two who loved her, and yet neither could speak of it.

She could remember his searching gaze at the port admiral’s supper in Plymouth. Could it really be two months ago?

The hand on her arm, his expression so intense but tender, in the way she had never forgotten. I love you, Zenoria.

The carriage slowed on the last rise before the final approach to the Keen estate and farmland. She heard the clink of metal as the guard unholstered his pistols. It was pleasant, peaceful countryside, so unlike the wild rocky coast of her Cornwall, but there were dangers here nevertheless. Deserters, living rough and stealing what they could, footpads, highwaymen; it was not a road on which to travel unprepared.

Petrie stirred and adjusted his spectacles. “Ah, nearly home, I see.” She had not realised he was awake. “A tiring week, Mr Petrie, for us both.”

He nodded sagely. “It is good of your husband’s family to allow me to stay in the house, Mrs Keen. It saves a good deal of time, money too.”

“Yes.” As I am allowed to stay here also.

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She turned to the window again so that he should not see her face. She could smell the flowers and the hedgerows, like per-fume. But not Cornwall.

She tried not to think of the last time Adam had come to this house. How she had berated him, blamed him for what had happened. Then, hating herself for the things she had said, she had run to the front door to call him back. But the road, this road, had been empty. Perhaps while she was in London she might see something he would like. A small present . . . No. It would be cruel, a temptation which she could never honour.

The tall iron gates were open, and with sudden energy the two horses quickened their pace, and she saw a groom hurrying to meet them. Keen’s family’s country house was an awesome building, which never failed to overwhelm her.

Petrie shifted his legs and said, “I see you have another visitor, my dear.” He did not see her sudden anxiety: he was contemplating the supper they would provide for him.

She said in a small voice, “Not a visitor.” Then he did look at her, the way her hand had gone to her throat.

She said, “I recognise the carriage. It is the doctor.” She waited for the horses to wheel round in front of the broad steps before being braked to a halt.

The big double doors opened, as if they had been waiting for this very moment. Although it was still a bright summer’s evening there were chandeliers alight everywhere, and Zenoria saw Val’s sister and her husband standing in the great marble hallway like players poised in the wings.

All at once she was running, heedless of one shoe which had caught in the step and fallen on the driveway.

Then she saw the doctor, a tall, grey man with an out-thrust lower lip. He seized her as she tried to pass him. He had a grip like iron.

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“Be brave, Mrs Keen. I did all that I could. We all did.” She heard a scream, her own. Calling his name, “Perran!

Perran!”

She tore herself free and ran to the open windows, and stared out at the well-cut grass and formal flower beds, where her little son would sit and play with his nurse or Val’s bereaved sister.

She peered blindly at the tall shadows which were already crossing the lawn.

“Dear God! Perran!”

But only the startled crows replied.

She heard someone cry, “Quick! Hold her!” Then there was nothing.

9 the mark of S atan

LADY Catherine Somervell allowed herself to be guided to some cane chairs and a table arranged in the shadow of one of Roxby’s big oaks, pleased that she had thought to bring a pair of shoes to exchange for her riding-boots. She sat down and adjusted her wide-brimmed hat to keep the sunlight from her eyes while Bolitho’s sister Nancy directed a servant to bring tea.

It was a lovely summer day, the air full of birdsong and insects, and the sounds of men haying in the adjoining fields.

Nancy said, “I’m pleased for Lewis, of course—he’s such a dear, and never says a harsh word to me.” She chuckled. “Not within earshot, in any case. But, really, can you imagine my feelings when they bow and call me m’lady?” She reached out impulsively. “For you it is different, Catherine. But I shall never get used to it.” She glanced across to the stone terrace where Roxby was studying some plans with two visitors. “Lewis adores it, as you can see. He never stops. Now he’s For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 137

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discussing the folly he wants built, can you credit it?” Catherine let her chatter on while the table was being laid.

Summer in Cornwall. How perfect it could be, if only he were here. He had been away so long, and there was still no word. She had read in the newspapers that some of the mail-packets had been attacked and plundered. Might their letters have gone astray?

She looked up and found Nancy watching her. “What is it, my dear?”

Nancy smiled. “I worry about you. And I miss him too—he is my brother, after all.” She sat down comfortably, spreading her skirts. “Is something else troubling you?” Catherine shrugged. How pretty Richard’s younger sister must have been. Pretty and fair, like their mother.

“Richard spoke to me about his daughter. It is her birthday quite soon.”

“There is nothing you can do, Catherine. Belinda would never allow her to accept a gift, or anything else.”

“I know. I do not want to see her anyway. When I think of what she tried to do, how she intended to hurt Richard, I know the true meaning of hate.”

She took the cup offered to her and sipped the tea, conscious of the sun’s warmth on the one shoulder turned to its light. She hoped her fatigue did not show in her eyes: she had been sleeping badly, sometimes hardly at all.

Every night she dreamed or thought of Richard, imagined him coming into the room and touching her, arousing her. And yet every day increased the distance between them, as if the ocean had swallowed the ship and all aboard her.

He was still with her, even though the seas divided them, so that she found herself unwilling to visit people, even to discuss the collier brig and the day-to-day running of the estate with Bryan Ferguson, not that he needed her help.

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Keen, last heard of at Cape Town; Adam, who had called briefly to see her before sailing to join his uncle, Allday and Tyacke, Avery and the portly Yovell. At least they had one another to sustain them.

She heard Roxby’s resonant voice bidding his visitors farewell.

She watched him as he strolled across the lawn, his hands in his breeches’ pockets. He loved riding and blood sports, but his fond-ness for good living was exacting a toll. She hoped that Nancy had noticed, and would use her influence to good effect. His face was very red, and it was all too apparent that he was breathing with difficulty. As if he had read her thoughts, he dragged out a large handkerchief and mopped his streaming face. Sir Lewis Roxby, Knight of the Hanoverian Guelphic Order, landowner and magistrate, described in London as “a friend of the Prince of Wales.” He had come a long way for the son of a local farmer.

Roxby waved the tea aside. “Something a bit stronger for me, m’dear!”

“Catherine’s still waiting for a letter, Lewis.” Roxby nodded gravely. “Bad business. Understand how you feel.”

His eyes took in her sun-browned shoulder, the proud or perhaps defiant manner in which she held her head. He had heard all about her boarding his brother-in-law’s flagship at Falmouth.

Up the side like a powder-monkey, to raise cheers even from the pressed men whose fate would be in Richard’s hands.

What a woman. He thought with dislike of Nancy’s sister, Felicity. She would have something vicious to say about it. Mer-cifully she did not come to the house very often now with her stupid son, and when she did call Roxby was careful to keep away, in case he lost his temper again.

He said, “He’ll be home before you know it, m’dear.” He punched the back of his chair. “By God, he’ll soon drub those damn’ Yankees as he did Baratte!”

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Nancy held up one hand, something she rarely did to her husband.

“Now, Lewis. Don’t agitate yourself so.” Catherine saw the quick exchange. So she had noticed. It was just as well.

Roxby grinned. “I’ll go and fetch a drink for meself.” He shook his head. “I don’t know. You women . . .” He walked away heavily, and Catherine watched as Nancy gestured for fresh tea. How different her life might have been had she been allowed time to fall in love with Richard’s young friend Martyn, when they had both been midshipmen together. Here, she had comfort and respect, and she did not have to lie awake at night listening to the wind or the boom of surf below the cliffs. But Nancy was a sea officer’s daughter, and the sister of England’s most famous living sailor. She might still have preferred that other life.

She saw Nancy look up, surprised. Roxby was coming back from the house, carrying a sealed envelope with a perplexed expression on his face. In those remaining seconds Catherine realised he had even neglected to bring himself the promised drink.

Nancy stood up. “What is it?”

Roxby stared at them. “Not sure, m’dear. It was sent to your house, Catherine. Special courier.”

Catherine felt her heart leap. Like a pain. Then she said, “Let me see.” She took the envelope, seeing at a glance that it carried a crest which was vaguely familiar. But she did not recognise the handwriting.

Roxby had drawn close to his wife’s side and had put his arm around her shoulders. He could feel the tension like something hostile. An enemy.

Catherine looked up at both of them. “It is from Valentine Keen’s father. He thought I should be told without any delay. Val and Zenoria’s child is dead. It was an accident. Suffocated.” The For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 140

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words were falling from her lips without order or understanding.

“Zenoria was not at the house when it happened. She collapsed.

Val’s father has written to him. The Admiralty has been informed.” She turned away, seeing and hearing nothing, feeling only the scalding tears which would not come. How long had all this taken? To write the letters, to mourn the child, to arrange for a special courier. She almost spat out the word. Eventually.

While the family stood together in grief, and turned their backs on the girl who had come amongst them. Was it so cruel?

She heard Ferguson’s voice. So he was here too. She reached out to grip his hand, unable to see him.

Roxby asked gruffly, “Have you heard something?”

“Yes, Sir Lewis.” But he was looking at Catherine. “One of the stable lads thought he saw Mrs Keen in Falmouth.” Roxby exploded. “That’s impossible! It’s miles to Hampshire, man!”

Catherine said quietly, “So they let her go. Allowed her to leave the house, after what had happened to her.” She thrust out the letter. “I think you should read it.” She put her other hand on his arm. “As a dear friend, and perhaps later as a magistrate.” Roxby cleared his throat and peered at some figures beyond the trees who had paused to discover what had happened.

“You, Brooks! Ride like the devil to Truro and fetch Captain Tregear with his dragoons! Tell him I sent you!”

“No.” Catherine released their hands. “I know where she is.

When I rode here I knew someone was watching me. I did not know she was saying goodbye . . .”

Ferguson took her hand. “Let me take you home, m’lady.” He was pleading, trying to help, as Allday would have done.

Roxby called, “Carriage! Fetch some men!” But it was already too late. They left the carriage where Catherine had waited with Tamara to watch Indomitable clear the harbour, all those weeks ago.

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Then along the winding cliff path, which had crumbled away in so many places, dangerous even for a sure-footed Cornish girl in the dark. But it had not been in the dark, and as they scrambled up the last stretch Catherine saw the familiar landmark, like some crouching thing, known locally as Trystan’s Leap.

Catherine stood motionless, her gown and hair moving slowly in the light breeze off the water. She was aware of nothing but the rise and fall of the sea’s glistening face, the longboat, so tiny from up here, backing oars like a water-beetle to avoid the hissing rocks which the receding tide would soon reveal to the sun.

They were lifting a small figure from the undertow, an oar moving this way and that to maintain control of the boat.

She heard herself say, “I am going down. I must.” She felt a hand seize her wrist, to guide her as she began her descent. But there was nobody beside her. Aloud she said,

“Richard, it’s you.”

When she reached the suddenly bare, shining crescent of beach her gown was torn, her hands cut and bleeding.

One of the coastguards stepped between her and the little bundle on the sand.

“No, my lady. You can’t go no further.” It was Tom, who had so often seen and spoken with her when they had met on these same cliffs. He dropped his eyes as she stared at him. “’Er face is gone. The rocks—”

“Just for a moment—I beg you!”

Another voice called, “I’ve covered she some, Tom.” The coastguard let her pass him then, and she walked blindly to the body. She knelt down on the hard wet sand and grasped the out-thrust hand. So cold, so very still. Even the wedding ring had been battered by the rocks.

Very gently she raised the corpse, so that the bandaged head drooped against her shoulder as if she were listening.

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see the beginning of the scar where the whip had laid open Zenoria’s back on the transport, from which Val had rescued her.

On their walks along this coast Zenoria had referred to it as the mark of Satan.

She could hear Roxby gasping and panting down the last part of the track, then his hands firm on her shoulders as some of the others took the girl’s body from her.

“Was it her?”

“Yes. There can be no mistake.” Then she said, “Perhaps she cried out. I might have heard, or thought it was a seabird.” Then she shook her head, rejecting it, knowing she must. “No. She wanted to go. We who are closest to her might have helped her more. But the pain is only just beginning.” Ferguson asked, “What shall we do, m’lady?” She said, “We must do what Richard would have done, were he here. We must take her back to the sea, to Zennor, from whence she came. Perhaps her spirit will be at peace there. God knows she had little of it elsewhere.” Afterwards, Bryan Ferguson knew it was something he would never forget. Nor want to.

Sir Richard Bolitho walked slowly across the stone-flagged terrace and felt the heat coursing up through his shoes. It was very hot, and the sun seemed to stand directly above Monk’s Hill, unwavering, and appearing to discourage even the movement of small craft in the wide expanse of English Harbour. Other houses, used mostly by senior officials and dockyard officers, stood out white and stark against the lush greenery, like this building, to which he had come seven years ago, and where he had found Catherine again. Seven years. It seemed impossible. So much had happened since that time. Friends killed: fine ships lost or battered into hulks in every corner of the world and across every ocean.

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He reached the stone balustrade and touched it with his fingers. Like a heated gun-barrel. Just as it must have been when she had stood here in this very place and position to watch the painful approach of his ship, Hyperion. The old ship’s name had meant very little to her, and she had been totally unprepared for the shock when she had heard her husband mention that Hyperion had become a flagship. My flagship.

He cupped one hand over his left eye and looked at the ships anchored here. Part of his squadron sprawling untidily to their cables in the airless heat.

Beyond the larger Indomitable, the three frigates, Zest, Virtue and Chivalrous, made perfect reflections on the still water, their ensigns and pendants barely moving. The big frigate Valkyrie, now commanded by Captain Peter Dawes, lay at Halifax, with two sixth-rates in company. Together they and three brigs represented the Leeward Squadron. Only one was still missing, and she should arrive here very shortly. Adam’s Anemone, fresh from her refit and manned almost completely by strangers, would complete a lively and useful force. Adam might miss the faces lost in the last fight with Baratte, but improving the performance of the new men and the ship herself would keep him too busy to brood. He loved Anemone more than any ship: he would not rest until she responded to his hand like the true thoroughbred she was.

Bolitho took his hand from his eye and was surprised that it gave him no pain or irritation. The air was clearer, and perhaps his freedom ashore with Catherine had helped more than he knew. He studied his ships again, each one as strong or as frag-ile as the man who commanded her.

So many times had Bolitho come to this small but powerful outpost in the Caribbean to stand against the American rebels, the Dutch, the Spaniards and the old enemy, France. And now the new American navy was posing a threat once again. There had still been no declaration of war, nor even a suggestion from For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 144

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either government that danger threatened on the horizon.

Bolitho watched a few boats weaving in and out among the moored men-of-war. Otherwise nothing stirred. In a month or so that would change with the beginning of the hurricane season. It had been that time of year when he had come here last, and found Catherine.

He thought of her letters, which had arrived only two days ago, all together in a sealed bag, having gone to Gibraltar first by accident. He smiled, hearing her voice in each written word, savouring them. Strange how, unlike letters, unpleasant and direct despatches from higher command never seemed to go astray, but found you without any apparent difficulty.

He had read through all of them twice, and he would read them again later when the ship was at rest.

Once, when he had been sitting at his table, the ship dark around him and lanterns glinting on the water like fireflies, he had heard the low murmur of a voice reading aloud close by. He understood now what it meant: his flag-lieutenant George Avery was reading a letter from home for Allday’s benefit.

A small, unlikely thing perhaps, but Bolitho had been touched by it. The lieutenant, who like Tyacke never received letters from anybody; and the one who received them and could not read them. Another bond among We Happy Few.

Catherine’s letters were written with care and with love. Their contact was so important, vital to him, and she understood exactly what he needed to know. Seemingly inconsequential details of the house, the weather, her roses and the people who were part of that other life which he had had to discard, like all those other times, and all those Bolithos before him.

She told him of the cliff walks, and the gossip in the town, of Roxby’s obvious pleasure in his knighthood, of her mare Tamara. But she never wrote of the war.

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how she had waited with Tamara to watch the powerful ship spreading sail and heading for the Channel.

It was such a proud sight, darling Richard. But I was the proud-est of all. I did not cry, I could not, I could not allow tears to hide those precious moments. There goes my man. An admiral of England, the rock so many have depended on for so long. Only a man, you once described yourself. So typical of you, dearest of men, but not true. You lead, they follow, so it will be until the last shot in this damnable war.

Last night you came to me again darling Richard. I allowed you to touch me before you left me . . . There was more, her words bringing him a poignant elation and comfort, which made other concerns unimportant.

Was that why he had stayed away from this fine house until her letters had arrived to sustain him? Am I still so unsure, although our love has survived even the fiercest trial?

He crossed to the nearest door and paused in the bars of dusty sunlight. Although the furniture was covered with protective sheets, and the valuable candlesticks and crystal had been removed, he could still see it as it had been. When he had stumbled, half blinded by reflected lights, and she had reached out to steady him. He had not known Catherine was here, whereas she had endured the knowledge of his arrival, and emotions and memories of their affair too powerful not to be re-awakened.

There was a gleam of scarlet from the other end of the terrace as a Royal Marine wandered past the windows. He was one of a handful who had been instructed to watch over the empty house, and to ensure that nothing went missing before the next occupant arrived from England. As Somervell had been despatched to take up residence here. A man trusted by the King, a man respected because of his lovely wife, and perhaps for little else by those who truly knew him.

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swirled through the rooms like torn sails in a mounting wind. She had carried a loaded pistol hidden against her thigh. He would never forget the look in her fine, dark eyes when she had recognised her intruder.

She had written that she was losing her maid Sophie, who was to marry the son of a prosperous farmer over near Fallowfield. He wondered if Allday was still troubled over his separation from Unis. Love, permanent love, was so new to him, and completely unexpected.

Bolitho walked out into the glare again, glad he had come back to this place. Perhaps it would be possible to write to her about it, in a way that would not hurt her. He smiled faintly, sensing that she would already know he had made his pilgrimage here.

He descended the worn stone steps and paused to look back at the house. The windows were shuttered. Blind. And yet curiously he felt as if the place were watching him.

Allday was sitting on a bollard by the waterfront, his hat tilted over his eyes. He stood up immediately and signalled to the long, green-painted barge idling in the shadow of a stores hulk. Bolitho wondered if the new barge crew knew how lucky they were to have him to watch over them. Other coxswains, no matter how junior, might have left them baking in the heat until they were required, but this big, shambling sailor always cared. Until somebody crossed him. Then the heavens would fall.

Allday watched the approaching barge with a critical eye. A second coxswain had been appointed as his assistant, mostly to supervise its cleaning and general maintenance. He would be a help to Allday, who was so often troubled by his old chest wound.

Bolitho looked away. Allday’s expression seemed to suggest that the man in question still had a long way to go.

“A lot of memories in this place, old friend.” Allday answered thoughtfully. “Indeed, sir, more than a few.” Bolitho said impulsively, “I know how you are feeling . . .

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about home. But I have to tell you, Lady Catherine is grateful that you came with me. And so am I.”

It was like a cloud drifting away. Allday gave a great grin, so that his troubled thoughts seemed to go with it.

“Ah, well, we just need Cap’n Adam alongside now, and we’ll be ready for anything . . .” His eyes hardened as the barge tossed oars too soon and came against the fenders with a sickening lurch.

Unabashed, Protheroe, the young fourth lieutenant, leapt ashore and removed his hat with a flourish. “At your service, Sir Richard!” Beyond his shoulder Bolitho heard Allday growl at the second coxswain, “I don’t care, see? Even if he is a bloody officer, you take charge. Don’t treat the barge like a battering-ram!” Protheroe’s bright confidence had been replaced by two vivid spots of colour in his cheeks. He had heard every word, as Allday had intended.

Bolitho settled himself in the sternsheets and waited for the barge to glide away from the jetty.

He glanced at Protheroe and said quietly, “If it is of any consolation, I once collided with my admiral’s barge when I was a midshipman.”

“Oh?” The relief flooded his face. “Oh!” After the din and turmoil of being piped on board, Bolitho took Allday to one side. “Captain Tyacke and I are being entertained to dinner in the wardroom tonight. It may be the last chance we get for a while.”

“I knows about that, sir.”

Bolitho hid a smile. Like many other people Allday probably thought it was absurd that the admiral and the ship’s captain had to wait for an invitation before they could enter the wardroom mess. His father had dismissed it as tradition, part of the navy’s mystique. But where did all that go when the screens were torn down, and the decks were cleared from bow to stern, and such gentility was drowned and lost in the din of war?

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“When it is done, and if you have a mind, lay aft and join me and Captain Tyacke for a wet, as you would call it.” Allday grinned, and thought of the captain’s new coxswain, Eli Fairbrother. The day he gets asked for a wet will be the day.

Bolitho saw Scarlett, the first lieutenant, waiting nearby.

“Mr Scarlett, how may I help you?”

Scarlett almost stammered. “Tonight, Sir Richard, I . . .”

“We have not forgotten. And I intend that we should entertain all our captains who may be present as soon as Anemone arrives. It is always good to know the men who command the ships you may have to rely on.”

Scarlett came out of his troubled thoughts. “A sail was sighted at noon, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho recalled once more Hyperion’s approach at snail’s pace as Catherine had described it to him so many times. Today, there was even less wind at the newcomer’s disposal.

Scarlett glanced at the listless masthead pendant. “The army lookout station on Monk’s Hill sent word that she may be the schooner Kelpie. She is apparently due.” He sensed the question in Bolitho’s eyes. “Mail-packet, Sir Richard, from the Bermudas.” An odd expression, a sadness, Bolitho thought, crossed his face.

“Before that, England.”

Bolitho turned away. Maybe another letter from Catherine?

Perhaps new directions from the Admiralty?

Bethune might have changed his mind, or been ordered to change it. He had seen the doubts for himself. It was dangerous, as it was delicate. The Americans could be provoked into war, or they could be dissuaded from open conflict. Nothing would be achieved by sitting still and pretending a confrontation would go away of its own accord.

“So let’s be about it then,” he said.

Scarlett was still staring after him as he strode aft to the cabin.

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Lieutenant George Avery nodded to the marine sentry and waited for Ozzard to open the screen door for him.

The great cabin was lit only by two lanterns, and right aft beyond the tall stern windows he could see some scattered shore lights, and the moon’s silver reflection on the gently breathing water.

He saw his admiral sitting on the bench seat, his heavy gold-laced coat draped over Ozzard’s arm, his shirt open while he sipped a tall glass of hock.

Bolitho said, “Be seated.”

He saw Allday begin to rise for the lieutenant, but he changed his mind as Avery shook his head. To Bolitho he said, “Let it be like that time in Freetown, Sir Richard. There are no officers here tonight. Only men.”

Bolitho smiled. Avery was more outspoken than usual; but there had been plenty of wine at the wardroom dinner, and so much food that, considering the temperature and the unmoving air between decks, it was a wonder some of them had not collapsed.

After the first awkward formalities between the mostly young officers and their admiral, as well as their formidable captain, things had settled down. Unlike meat from the cask, rock-hard when the cooks got their hands on it, there was a pleasant surprise on offer, an unlimited supply of fresh roast pork. The captain of the dockyard had his own pigs on the island, and had presented the meat from his own larder.

Apart from the four lieutenants and the two Royal Marine officers, the wardroom consisted of the ship’s specialists. Isaac York, the sailing-master, seemed to have an endless fund of stories about strange ports he had visited since going to sea at the age of eight. It was Bolitho’s first real meeting with the ship’s surgeon, Philip Beauclerk, young for his trade, with the palest eyes Bolitho had ever seen. Almost transparent, like sea-polished glass. An For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 150

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educated, quiet-spoken man, a far cry from the rough and ready surgeons, the butchers as they were called; men like George Minchin who had once served in Hyperion, and had been on board when the old ship had given up the fight. Wild-eyed, crude, and often half-drunk with rum, he had nevertheless saved many lives that day. And he had not quit the ship until the last of the wounded, or those who were not beyond hope, had been taken off.

Minchin would be in Halifax now, serving in the big frigate Valkyrie, where Bolitho had last met him.

Bolitho had caught Beauclerk watching him several times throughout the meal, the general drinking and the seemingly endless procession of toasts. It was impossible that he could know anything about his eye. Or was it? There was no more private society than the medical profession. But Beauclerk had spoken with great intelligence and interest about what might lie ahead, and was probably trying to guess what his own part might be. It was very hard to picture him like Minchin in that raging, bloody hell on the orlop deck, the wings-and-limbs tubs filled to over-flowing with the gory remnants of those who had been cut down in battle.

Three midshipmen had been invited too, and one of them, Midshipman David Cleugh, had been required to call the Loyal Toast. This he did in a piping, quavery voice. He had then been sternly ordered to drink a full goblet of brandy by the captain of marines. For, by coincidence, it was the midshipman’s twelfth birthday.

The quietest man in the wardroom had been James Viney, the purser. He had been unable to drag his eyes from the captain, who sat directly opposite him. Like a mesmerised rabbit, Bolitho had thought. Tyacke had not come aft for a last drink, and had made his excuses as the messmen had started to clear away the table so that cards and dice could be produced. Out of politeness nobody would move until the senior guests had departed.

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Tyacke, his torn face in shadow, had said only, “I want to go through a book or two before I turn in.” Bolitho recalled the purser’s nervousness. The books might have a lot to do with that.

Bolitho had thrust out his hand, and had seen the sudden surprise in those clear blue eyes that reminded him so much of Thomas Herrick. “Thank you, James.”

“For what, sir?” His handshake had been firm, nevertheless.

Bolitho had answered quietly, “You know for what. As I know what this evening cost you. But believe me, you will not regret it.

Nor will I.”

Ozzard brought another glass of hock and placed a goblet of rum almost within Allday’s reach: his quiet, stubborn way of showing he was not his servant.

They sat in silence, listening to the ship’s private noises and the dragging step of a watchkeeper overhead.

Avery said suddenly, “The leaves will soon fall in England.” Then he shook his head and winced. “God, how I shall pay for all that wine in the morning!”

Bolitho touched the locket inside his shirt and saw Avery glance as it flashed in the lantern light. Perhaps they all saw him in different ways. Few would imagine he could be as he was when he and Catherine were together.

Scarlett had also asked Yovell as a guest, but he had declined, and had spent the evening in the tiny cabin that also served him as an office and writing-space.

Allday had assured him that Yovell was quite happy to be alone. He had said with some amusement, “He reads his Bible every night. There’s still quite a lot of it to take in!” Through the open skylight and stern windows they heard the creak of oars. It was so still that every sound seemed to carry.

Then the hail, “Boat ahoy!”

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stood up. “I’ll go and see, sir.” He smiled suddenly, and appeared young and relaxed, as he must have been once. “There may not be another officer sober enough to deal with it!” The oars were louder, nearer. Then came the reply. “Officer-of-the-Guard!”

Bolitho massaged his eyes. He was tired, but rare moments with friends like these could not be ignored.

He thought of Scarlett, anxious and unsure of himself during the meal. Was it so important to him? He was a good officer, and watching him going about his duties Bolitho might have believed that he was completely confident, with perhaps only his next promotion uppermost in his mind. He had noticed, however, that neither he nor Avery had spoken to one another.

Avery returned, carrying a waterproof envelope.

“Would you believe, sir, the mail-schooner Kelpie entered harbour in pitch darkness after all. The guard-boat stood by just in case.” He held out the envelope. “Kelpie met with Anemone. She’s waiting until first light before she comes in.” Bolitho said, “Very wise, with the harbour full of ships, and Adam with a raw company.”

He saw Allday watching him questioningly.

Bolitho said, “It’s from Lady Catherine.” A cold hand seemed to touch him and he could not shake it off. He recognised her handwriting instantly, and had seen an Admiralty wax seal on the envelope. A priority. For private correspondence?

Avery stood up. “Then I shall leave you, sir.”

“No!” He was surprised by the sharpness of his own voice.

What is the matter with me? “Ozzard, recharge the glasses, if you please.” Even Ozzard was motionless, watching, listening.

“If you will excuse me.” Bolitho slit open the envelope and unfolded her letter.

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He was suddenly quite alone, with only the letter, her words rising to meet him.

My darling Richard,

I would give anything not to write this letter, to send you news which will grieve you as it has me.

I have to tell you that Val’s little boy is dead. It was an accident, and he suffocated in his cot before anyone could help him.

Bolitho looked away, feeling the sting in his eye and yet unable to hide it.

He heard Allday ask thickly, “What is it, sir?” But Bolitho shook his head and read on.

The others saw him fold the letter and then raise it to his lips.

Then he became aware of his companions. He felt as though he had been absent from them for a long time.

Ozzard held out a glass of brandy and bobbed nervously. “Just a sip, sir.”

“Thank you.” He could barely taste it. As a child before entering the navy he had often walked with his mother along that path. To Trystan’s Leap. It had been frightening even in daylight, full of legend and superstition. He felt the cold hand on his heart again, and in his mind’s eye he saw her falling, so slowly, her long hair like weed as she came to the surface, her slender body broken on those terrible rocks. He asked, although it did not seem like his own voice, “They sighted Anemone, you say?” Avery responded crisply, “Aye, sir. Standing about five miles to the sou’-west.”

Bolitho stood up and crossed to the two swords, which hung on their rack. Adam, he thought, Adam, Adam . . .

How could he tell him? And what of Val, so proud of his first son, who was one day to wear the King’s uniform?

He touched the old family sword. What did fate intend?

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each of them in turn. The stooping little figure by the pantry hatch; Avery, on his feet again, his eyes wary, uncertain. Lastly he looked at Allday.

“I have to tell you that Rear-Admiral Keen’s child is dead.” He tried not to think of Catherine on the beach with the dead girl’s body in her arms. “Shortly afterwards . . .” There was no point in telling these honest men that the family had said and done nothing at all until Keen’s father had been located in London. “The girl we saw wed Val at Zennor killed herself.” He saw Allday’s fists open and close as he added, “At Trystan’s Leap.”

Avery said, “Rear-Admiral Keen will be desolate, sir.” Bolitho turned to him, calm now, knowing what must be done.

“Do something for me. Go now and ensure that there is a note in the signals log for the morning watch. As soon as Anemone is within signals range I want Captain repair on board hoisted. Then hoist Immediate when she is anchored.” Allday offered roughly, “I could clear away the barge and collect him, sir.”

Bolitho stared at him. “No, old friend. This is a private matter for as long as we may keep it so.” To Avery he said, “Please do it. I will see you tomorrow.” He paused. “Thank you.” Allday made to follow but Bolitho said, “Wait.” Allday sat down heavily. They were alone, and they could hear Ozzard tidying up in his pantry.

“You knew . . . their feeling for one another.” Allday sighed. “I seen ’em together.”

“There was no intrigue, if that’s what you mean?” Allday watched him carefully. Knowing this man so well, but with no words to help him now that he needed it.

He said, “Not in the way we means, sir. But love’s new to me, and I’ve heard tell that it can be a blessing, then again it can be a curse.”

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“And you knew all this.”

“Felt it, more like.”

“No one must suspect. Captain . . . Adam means so much to me.”

“I knows it, sir. It must have been another world to that poor lass.” He shrugged. “They looked so right together, I thought.” Bolitho walked past him, but paused with his hand on his massive shoulder.

“A curse, you said?” He thought of Catherine’s words, a cry from the heart. The Mark of Satan.

He said quietly, “Then let them have peace now.” He was still sitting at the open stern windows when the first pale sunlight spread across English Harbour.

In Cornwall, the passage of time would have blurred the memories of most people, while in some isolated villages there would be those still pondering on the old beliefs, curses and morals, and the torment for those who defied them.

But this morning there was still a pretence of peace. Above his head on the quarterdeck he knew Avery had not slept either, and was watching even as Adam’s Anemone glided slowly to her anchorage. For him it would still be a puzzle, a mystery he was not privileged to share, but he must sense that the answer lay in the flags barely moving in the breeze.

Captain repair on board. Immediate.

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part ii: 1812

10 D eception

CAPTAIN James Tyacke stood at the top of the companion ladder and waited for his eyes to become accustomed to the early morning darkness. It was a moment he never grew tired of. Quiet because the hands had not yet been piped to begin another day, private because of the lingering shadows. Above all, private; no easy thing in a man-of-war, not even for her captain.

In a short while the sun would change everything, reaching from horizon to horizon, all privacy gone. Water was getting short; they would have to return to Antigua in a few days’ time.

What would they find? Fresh orders, news from England, the war, that other world?

None of it mattered much to Tyacke. The Indomitable was his main concern. Week in, week out, he had drilled his company until it was almost impossible to tell the seasoned professionals from the landmen. Gunnery and sail drill, but with leisure still for the simple pleasures sailors enjoyed. Parted from their homes, it was all they had to keep them out of mischief. Hornpipes and wrestling in the dogwatches, and contests, mast against mast, to see which one could reef or make more sail in the least time.

Indomitable was now a ship-of-war which could give a good account of herself if so called.

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French ports, and to seek out deserters from the King’s navy. The Leeward Squadron had taken several prizes and recovered many such deserters, mostly sailing in American merchantmen, trying to reach a new life in what they believed to be a democratic par-adise. Compared with the hardships they were forced to suffer under the British flag in this endless war, it probably was.

The first lieutenant was officer-of-the-watch and he could sense his presence on the opposite side of the quarterdeck. Scarlett had become used to Tyacke’s ways, his early walks on deck when most captains would have been content to leave a morning watch to their senior lieutenants.

It was still cold, the quarterdeck rail damp with moisture.

When dawn came up that would all change: the vapour would rise from the sails and rigging like steam, and the tar in the deck seams would cling to shoes and bare feet alike.

Tyacke could see it clearly in his mind’s eye, as if he were a sea-eagle soaring high above the blue water with the ships like tiny models below: in a ragged, uneven line abreast, Indomitable in the centre and the two smaller frigates, one to starboard and one to larboard. Once they had exchanged the first signals their line would extend and take proper station. The masthead lookouts would be able to see one another, just, and together their span of vision would cover a range of some sixty miles. To the spies, and to the small trading vessels who would sell their information to anybody, the Leeward Squadron that patrolled as far north as the Canadian port of Halifax would have become well known. A protection or a threat: their presence could be inter-preted either way. The big 42-gun frigate Valkyrie was the senior ship at Halifax, and the rest of their vessels could operate either together or independently between the two main bases.

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endure Halifax’s bitter winters, where rigging could swell in the blocks and freeze, leaving any ship barely able to tack or shorten sail.

He considered the other captains, knowing them now as individuals. The necessity of that had been taught him by Bolitho.

To assume you knew a captain’s mind simply because he was a captain could be as dangerous as any hurricane.

All the leagues they had sailed, in company or with the ocean to themselves. He imagined green fields in England. They had gone through another winter, into a new year, and now that year was half gone. It was June 1812, and if it was to be as demanding as the previous year, overhauls would have to be arranged.

English Harbour at Antigua was adequate for limited repairs, but not for an extensive campaign. And should there be a sea-fight with more destruction to hulls and rigging . . . He sighed.

When had the navy ever had enough of anything?

He stepped back from the rail and heard the first lieutenant crossing the damp planking.

“Good morning, Mr Scarlett. Is all well?”

“Aye, sir. Wind steady at nor’-east by north. Course west by north. Estimated position some 150 miles north-east of Cape Hai-tien.”

Tyacke smiled grimly. “As close to that damned country as I’d ever want to get!”

Scarlett asked, “What orders for the forenoon, sir?” He hesitated as Tyacke turned sharply towards him. “What is it, sir?” Tyacke shook his head. “Nothing.” But there was something.

It was like a sixth sense, which he had at first refused to accept when he had been on the anti-slavery patrols, sometimes a premonition of where his prey might be found.

He felt it now. Something would happen today. He moved restlessly across the deck, telling himself he was a fool. Like the morning when Adam Bolitho had come eagerly aboard at Antigua For My Country's Freedo#261496D 7/10/08 11:14 AM Page 159

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in response to the flagship’s signal. Immediate. When he had left Indomitable an hour or so later he had walked like a man face to face with some terrible fate.

Bolitho had sent for him and had broken the news about Rear-Admiral Keen’s wife and her death on the Cornish cliffs.

Just for a moment Tyacke had imagined that Bolitho had once felt a certain tenderness for the girl. Then he had dismissed the idea, thinking of Catherine Somervell, how she had come aboard at Falmouth, and how the sailors had loved her for it.

What then? In his heart he knew the connection that bound them was a deeper secret than he would ever share. But why should a young woman’s tragedy have the power to affect them so profoundly? It happened. Women and their children often died of fever or other causes on their way to join their husbands, in the navy, or the army with its far-flung outposts and lonely forts.

Even the Caribbean possessions were described as the Islands of Death. Certainly more soldiers died of fever out here than ever fell to an enemy ball or bayonet. Death was commonplace. Perhaps it was the rumour of suicide that they could not accept.

Allday would know, he thought. But when it came to sharing secrets, Allday was like the Rock of Gibraltar.

Scarlett joined him again. “The admiral’s about early, sir.” Tyacke nodded. He wanted to shake Scarlett. A good officer and very conscientious, and as popular with the lower deck as any first lieutenant could hope to expect.

Don’t be timid with me. I told you before. My blood may be spilled before yours, and you could find yourself in command. Think of it, man.

Talk to me. Share your thoughts.

He said, “He has always been the same, I believe.” Had he, he wondered? Or was some premonition driving Bolitho also?

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awakened like the man it represented. A boatswain’s mate and a handful of men checking the boats on their tier, inspecting hatch fastenings, putting fresh oil in the compass lamps. A ship coming to life.

The master’s mate-of-the-watch said softly, “Admiral’s comin’

up, sir.”

“Thank you, Mr Brickwood.” Tyacke recalled the beginning, when all these men had been unfamiliar. Knowing from his own experience and later from Bolitho’s example how important it was to remember each man’s name as well as his face. In the navy you owned little else.

The midshipman-of-the-watch, a youth named Deane, said rather loudly, “Half-past four, sir!” Bolitho walked amongst them, his ruffled shirt very clear against the deck and the sea’s dark backdrop beyond.

“Good morning, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho looked towards him. “It is, too, Captain Tyacke.” He nodded to the first lieutenant. “And you, Mr Scarlett? Are your lookouts aloft?”

“Aye, sir.” Hesitant again: it was impossible to know what he was thinking.

Bolitho rubbed his hands. “That is a vile smell from the gal-ley funnel. We must endeavour to take on more supplies when we return to English Harbour. Fresh fruit, with any luck.” Tyacke hid a smile. Just for a moment Bolitho was allowing himself to be a captain again, with a captain’s concern for every man and boy aboard.

“Walk with me, James.” Together they began to pace the quarterdeck. In the dim light they could have been brothers.

Bolitho asked, “What ails that man?”

Tyacke shrugged. “He’s an officer not lacking in some fine qualities, sir, but . . .”

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He looked up as the first thin sunlight felt its way through the tarred rigging and out along the braced main-yard. Even the sea had gained colour, a rich blue which gave it an appearance of even greater depth than the thousand-odd fathoms claimed to lie beneath Indomitable’s keel.

Tyacke watched Bolitho’s profile, the obvious pleasure it gave him to see another dawn. In spite of all his service, he could still suppress and contain his inner worries, if only for this moment of the day.

Bolitho turned aside as the usual procession of figures trooped aft to speak either with the first lieutenant or the captain. When the hands had been fed, the main deck would become the market-place, where the professional men would work with their own little crews. The sailmaker and his mates, repairing and still more repairing. Nothing could be wasted with a ship so many hundreds of miles from harbour. The carpenter, too, with his team. He was Evan Brace, said to be the oldest man in the squadron. He certainly looked it. But he could still repair, and if necessary build, a boat as well as any man.

Bolitho heard a familiar Yorkshire voice. Joseph Foxhill was the cooper, up early to obtain deck space where he could scour and clean some of his empty casks before they were refilled.

A midshipman strode beneath the quarterdeck rail, the white patches on his collar showing brightly through the withdrawing shadows, and he was reminded painfully of Adam. He tended to think of him always as a midshipman, the lively colt-like boy who had joined his ship when his mother had died. He sighed. He would never forget the look on Adam’s dark features when he had told him about Zenoria. It had been pitiful to see his stunned disbelief. Like the tragedy you try to pretend has not happened.

You will awake, and it will have been a dream . . .

He had not resisted when Bolitho had made him sit down, and he had asked his uncle quietly to repeat what he had said.