Sword of Honour

5

The Prize

Bolitho placed his sealed letter to Catherine on the table and pictured her reading it, perhaps by her roses, or more probably in the privacy of their rooms. It had been bad enough, leaving her in Falmouth, and this letter was little comfort. Not yet; even sending it was like breaking a precious link.

He pulled out his watch and flicked open the guard: almost two o’clock in the afternoon. No turning back.

He sighed and replaced the watch in his pocket, his eyes moving around the room, its dark timbers almost black with age and the smoke from a thousand fires. He had only stayed at the famous George Inn once before, then as a young captain. It was a timeless place, which had seen more admirals and captains come and go than he could imagine.

The room looked bare now that his chests had been taken out to be sent to his new flagship, empty, ready to forget him and welcome another.

It was not difficult to see Nelson here, perhaps in this very room, on his last days ashore in England. He had left his beloved Emma at their house in Merton. What was she doing now? And what of those who had promised Nelson that she would be taken care of?

He turned away, angry with himself for making the comparison. There was none. Only the bitter rift of separation was the same.

He heard voices on the stairs; one was Avery, the other Allday. It was time.

Down the stairs, the scene was exactly as he had expected. The landlord, anxious to please, careful not to show it. There were plenty of uniforms in evidence, sea officers obviously enjoying themselves, each careful to catch his eye as he passed. Some might have served with him, most had never seen him in the flesh before. But they all knew him.

It was said that when Nelson left the George for the last time the streets had been packed with people trying to catch a glimpse of him, and show their admiration for their hero. Perhaps it had even been love.

He himself had never met ”Our Nel’, although even Adam had exchanged a word or two with him when he had been carrying despatches.

He saw Avery watching him from the doorway, his eyes tawny in the reflected sunlight. Beyond him, Allday stood with his back to the inn, as if he had already rejected the land.

The street was busy, but quite ordinary. No cheering crowds or curious sightseers this time; but then, there was no war raging across the Channel.

”We’ll walk to the Sally Port.” He saw Allday turn and touch his hat to him, the admiral’s coxswain.

Avery observed him thoughtfully, trying to guess the mood of the man to whom he was loyal before all else.

Bolitho said, ”No bands, no parades, George.” He smiled. ”Like God, the navy is only fully appreciated when danger is at the gates!”

Avery tried to sense bitterness or regret, but there was none. He had seen the letter Bolitho had given to the landlord, and knew the truth would be in it, for her alone. For Catherine.

He said, The ship is short-handed, sir. I think Captain Tyacke is eager to put to sea, to learn the strengths and weaknesses amongst the people.” Even Tyacke was different, he thought. Once a hard man to know, he had become as close to a friend as was possible within their ordered lives. And he had seemed withdrawn, as if a part of him were still lingering elsewhere.

He wondered what Bolitho truly thought about the choice of flagship; he himself had only had a few days aboard Frobisher, and he had found little time to meet the other officers, or get the feel of the ship. In a rare moment of confidence, Tyacke had told him that Frobisher, if properly manned and drilled, would be a fast sailer, and had a hull so well designed that even in heavy seas she might remain a relatively dry ship.

That would prove a godsend for her seamen when required to make or reef rebellious canvas, finding what warmth and comfort they could between decks afterwards.

Avery had expected there might be some resentment at Tyacke’s appointment, but he had discovered that Frobisher’s previous captain had been suddenly discharged as medically unfit, and sent ashore with the Admiralty’s blessing. Avery had served Bolitho long enough to know that the real reason for the captain’s hasty departure was probably something very different, and he had gained the impression that the ship’s lieutenants, at least, were glad to see him go. Tyacke had revealed nothing of his own thoughts. He had his own methods of gaining a company’s loyalty, and would tolerate nothing less than the standards he had set in Indomitable.

Bolitho tugged his hat down more firmly as they rounded a corner and the wind off the sea swept to greet them.

Avery had explained that Tyacke had changed the anchorage after leaving the dockyard, and the ship now lay off St. Helens on the east coast of the Isle of Wight. A long, stiff pull for any barge crew, he thought, and Allday would be watching their behaviour and that of the barge with a critical eye. Like other old Jacks, he had always maintained that a ship could be judged by the appearance and handling of her boats.

He considered his own change of role. Tyacke would have attended to everything, food and stores, fresh water, and any fruit juice he could lay hands on, keeping his subordinates at arm’s length until he had learned the reliability, or otherwise, of lieutenants and warrant officers, purser, gunner and boatswain. Bolitho gave a brief smile. And, of course, the midshipmen, the ‘young gentlemen’, for some reason he had not yet discovered always the bane of Tyacke’s life.

He saw Allday on the jetty, apparently relaxed and untroubled, but Bolitho knew him so well. He would already have learned everything he could about the Frobisher of seventy-four guns, once the French two-decker Glorieux. Completed too late for Trafalgar, she had had only a brief career under the Tricolour before she was attacked and captured by two of the blockading squadron while on passage from Belle Isle to Brest. That had been four years ago. Allday would be thinking of that, too: the same year he had married Unis at Fallowfield.

Prize ships, put to work against their old masters, were commonplace in the navy. There had been times when even ships rated as unfit through rot or disrepair had been pressed into service, like his own Hyperion, a ship of which they still yarned and sang in the taverns and alehouses. How Hyperion cleared the way .... Would their lordships make the same mistake of running the fleet down to the bare bones, simply because the immediate danger had been withdrawn?

He glanced at Avery, who was speaking with a waterman, noticing the stiffness with which he held and moved his shoulder when he was not conscious of it. Like Allday and his wounded chest, where a Spanish blade had hacked him down.

They were loyal; it was more than mere loyalty. But they were both sacrificing so much, perhaps a last chance, for his sake.

”Ah, here she be!” Allday scowled. ”A fresh coat of paint will be the first thing!”

Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the barge, which had suddenly appeared around the stern of an anchored frigate. It had probably been obtained direct from the dockyard where Frobisher had just completed an overhaul; there would have been no time to paint it dark green, as was the custom for flag officers’ barges. Again, he felt the same sense of doubt. The last captain, Charles Oliphant, might have remained as his flag captain unless he had explicitly requested James Tyacke.

He recalled Admiral Lord Rhodes’s obvious eagerness for him to take Frobisher as flagship.

He looked at Avery again; perhaps he had noticed the flaw. Captain Oliphant was related in some capacity to Rhodes, although he could not recall where he had heard it mentioned. He frowned. But he would remember.

The barge turned in a wide arc and tossed oars, the bowman hooking on to the jetty while a seaman vaulted onto the worn stonework. Smart enough, with a lieutenant in charge, no doubt wondering what this first encounter would be like.

Avery said quietly, ”That’s Pennington, second lieutenant, sir.”

Allday conceded, ”Not too bad.”

The lieutenant stepped ashore and doffed his hat.

”I am ready to take you directly to your flagship, Sir

Richard.” The eyes, Bolitho noticed, were careful not to meet his own.

”It is a long pull to St. Helens, Mr. Pennington.” He saw the surprise at the use of his name. ”I think they might rest easy for ten minutes.”

The lieutenant stared at the oarsmen, their raised blades dripping like wet bones.

”That will not be necessary, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho said gently, ”Have you so short a memory, sir, that you cannot remember what it was like when you first pulled an oar?”

Pennington dropped his eyes. ”I see, Sir Richard. Very well.” He turned away, and nodded to the boat’s coxswain. ”Rest easy, O’Connor!”

Allday saw the ripple of surprise run through the boat. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, he thought.

Eventually, they were cast off and pulling strongly into the Solent. There were ships of every size and rate, and Bolitho saw sunlight flash on several telescopes as they watched him pass. It would soon be all around Spithead, he thought; the navy was a family, whether you liked it or not.

”What is the state of the ship, Mr. Pennington?” Again, he was aware of an immediate caution, as if the lieutenant suspected a trap.

”All provisioned and watered, Sir Richard.”

”Short-handed?”

”Thirty trained men short, Sir Richard. Full complement of marines.”

Thirty short, out of a full company of six hundred souls, was not crippling, but the last captain should have used his time in the dockyard to recruit or poach men from other sources.

He peered over at a small brig which was scudding abeam, and preparing to set her courses. A fine-looking little ship, he thought, and he wondered if Tyacke had seen her, and was remembering his own command, Larne, which he had given up for Indomitable. For me.

Allday leaned forward as they passed another anchored man-of-war, and Bolitho saw the quick glance from the stroke oarsman, seeing it for himself: the admiral’s coxswain who sat close to his master like a companion.

Allday said, There she is, Sir Richard. I’d know them Frenchie lines anywhere.”

Bolitho shaded his eyes again, aware of the blurring of his vision. The reminder. The taunt.

What Allday had said was true. The longer line of the upper hull, the planking extended beneath the beak head to offer added strength and protection, were distinctively French. British shipbuilders had continued to end their upper gundeck with a flat bulkhead, which rendered the forepart of the ship weaker than the sides. Tyacke would have made full note of that; his own terrible injury at the Nile was the result of French fire devastating the gundeck where he was serving at the time.

Slightly broader in the beam than her English counterparts, Frobisher would provide a better platform for her artillery in poor sailing conditions.

He shook himself mentally. The war was over. It was to be Malta, not Halifax this time. He thought suddenly of Adam, and of Valentine Keen. Nothing more must happen to them, with the war in North America so nearly finished. Neither side could win, even as neither side could demonstrate a willingness to submit.

He put his hand to his eyes again as the barge swept beneath the ship’s long and tapering jib boom, and did not see Avery’s immediate concern. And here was the figurehead, shining in fresh paint and gilt: Sir Martin Frobisher, explorer, navigator, and one of Drake’s fighting captains. He had been portrayed with jutting beard, staring blue eyes, and a black Elizabethan breastplate.

He wondered what had become of the original figurehead, so obviously unsuitable when the ship had changed names. It was not unknown for a prize to retain its old name, but the navy already had a Glorious on the list, and confusion might have occurred in the endless ebb and flow of signals and fleet orders.

The lieutenant called, ”Bows!”

And there it was. The curved tumble home the new black and buff paint, the entry-port and the waiting rank of scarlet.

His flagship. It was a proud moment.

He touched the locket beneath his shirt, and prepared to stand as the barge surged alongside.

I am here, Kate.

He turned, momentarily off guard, convinced that he had heard her voice; he could not have been mistaken. Don’t leave me.

The Royal Marine sentry outside the screen door of the great cabin was as stiff and motionless as a man could be with the ship swaying gently at her anchor. After the bright sunlight, the shouted commands, the fifes and drums, the din of a flagship’s welcome to her new lord and master, it seemed peaceful here, protected.

The ceremony had been brief, with his flag breaking at the mainmast truck, timed to the exact beat of a drum, and standing out in the Solent breeze like painted metal.

There had followed a quick presentation to the assembled ranks of lieutenants and senior warrant officers: a nod here, a nervous smile there, each man glancing surreptitiously at him before he, in turn, came under scrutiny.

Like the marine sentry, given time, he would get to know them, some better than others. It was always the hardest part to accept: the division, the barrier which rank had thrust upon him. He was not the captain. He could never again be as close as a captain to the people he commanded.

He nodded to the sentry, and although the man’s eyes did not flicker beneath his glazed leather hat, the contact had been made.

The stern cabin was broad, spacious, and strangely welcoming. Even the strong smells of paint and fresh tar which pervaded the whole ship could not interfere with the familiarity of these things. The wine cooler with the Bolitho crest carved upon it, which Catherine had had made to replace the one lost with Hyperion, the high-backed chair in which he sometimes slept, his desk, his books, some old, some she had given him because of the clarity of their print. He saw Ozzard hovering by what was apparently his pantry door, and he had already seen his secretary, Yovell, observing from his own vantage point during the ceremony, when the admiral’s flag had been broken out. They had worked very hard to prepare this place for him, and he had been moved by it.

Tyacke followed him into the cabin. ”All fair, Sir Richard?”

He nodded. ”You have done well, James, in so short a time.”

Tyacke glanced around. ”There’s more room here than there would have been. Four eighteen-pounders were removed.”

Bolitho watched him carefully, but saw no sign of strain or discouragement. A new command, an unknown company, a way of doing things which might offend or irritate him, but Tyacke’s face gave nothing away.

”Take a glass, James.” He guessed that A very, like Allday, had purposely stayed away for this first meeting since they had shaken hands at Plymouth, where Indomitable had been paid off.

”I’d relish that, sir.” He made to take out his watch, and then hesitated. ”But only one glass. I’ve still a few ends to splice before I’m ready.”

Bolitho watched Ozzard pouring the wine, apparently indifferent to the sounds of a ship at anchor, muffled voices, the clatter of blocks and tackles as more provisions or equipment were hoisted aboard. The Caribbean, Mauritius, Halifax, and now Malta. His thoughts were unknown, the barrier here the greatest of all.

Tyacke sat, but Bolitho knew his ear was pitched to that other world.

He said, ”I’ve been through the books and the signals. They seem to be in order.”

Bolitho waited, knowing what was coming next.

”The punishment book lists nothing unusual.” He looked at Bolitho. ”Not like some we’ve seen together, sir.” He was referring to the frigate Reaper, but, almost superstitiously, avoided mentioning her name. ”Discipline is fair enough, but they need more gun and sail drills before I’m handing out any bouquets!”

”And what of your officers?”

Tyacke raised his glass, and paused as a boatswain’s call twittered in the distance.

Then he said, ”The senior lieutenant, Kellett, seems very competent.” He looked at him directly, no longer averting the burned face, as he had in the past. ”I may be speaking out of turn, sir, but I think the first lieutenant has been carrying this ship, not just during the overhaul, but before that. I can feel it. Sense it.”

Bolitho sipped the wine. Perhaps it had come from the shop in St. James’s Street, where he had gone with her.

He would force the issue no further. It would be an intrusion, and Tyacke would tell him when he had made up his mind. When he was certain.

Tyacke said, ”The midshipmen now, they’re another story. Most of them are newly joined and come from naval families. Some are young, too young for my taste.”

Any ship on an important commission, or Admiralty or government business, would have encouraged parents, who saw it as an opportunity only too rare in peacetime, and with the fleet being cut down. William Bligh of the ill-fated Bounty had had no difficulty in acquiring very young midshipmen for his command.

Tyacke said suddenly, ”But given time and a good run through Biscay, we might see the makings of something.” For a moment his blue eyes were very clear and distant, like Herrick, Bolitho thought, or perhaps more like the man Tyacke had once been. ”But I still find myself looking around expecting to see old faces, the ones who can make or break any ship.”

Who did he mean? Indomitable, Larne, or further back still, perhaps even before the Nile?

Bolitho said, ”I do it myself. All the time.”

He did not see the sudden, searching expression in Tyacke’s eyes.

He said, ”You are satisfied, James? Being here, when perhaps you could have found a different sea to challenge?”

Tyacke seemed surprised, or relieved, that he had not asked something else. He touched his face, although Bolitho sensed that he did not even notice it.

”There is no escape, sir. There never was.” Then, firmly, ”It suits me well, sir.”

He put down the glass and got to his feet, his eyes resting briefly on the gleaming presentation sword, which Allday had already placed on its rack; part of the show, he once called it. Unlike the old family blade at his hip. The legend. The charisma, as his flag lieutenant Oliver Browne had described it. Another lost face. He smiled reminiscently. Browne with an ‘e’.

Tyacke hesitated. ”I was wondering, sir ....”

Bolitho said, ”Ask me, James. You may always do that.”

Tyacke seemed, again, to hesitate. ”When we weigh tomorrow, will you miss England?”

Bolitho looked at him steadily. Will I miss her, he meant. But he did not know how to ask, without overstepping the mark.

”More than I would have believed possible, James.” He watched him leave, takiftg his hat from Ozzard without even seeing him. Bolitho heard Allday in the adjoining cabin, and was suddenly grateful.

It was like stumbling on to 3 secret, something so private that any wrong word could destroy it, and the man who carried it. The gown Tyacke had always carried in his sea chest, the one he had given Catherine to cover herself when Larne had plucked them from the ocean and the nearness of death. The woman .... After all this time.

He stood up and walked to the stern windows, and then sat on the curved bench seat above the glistening water.

It was just as well that Frobishefs great anchor would show itself tomorrow.

But the voice persisted. Don’t leave me.

Bolitho heard Allday putting his shaving gear away and speaking quietly to Ozzard in the sleeping-cabin, and walked slowly to the sloping stern windows.

Since the hands had been called, Frobisher had been alive with muffled sounds and occasional shouted commands. A ship preparing to sail was so familiar a sight in these waters that most people would take no notice, but in his heart he knew that this departure was different. There would be many ashore today to watch them leave. Wives, lovers, children, wondering when they would meet again. The sailor’s lot. They would be pondering on the man whose flag flew from Frobisher’s main; would he care enough for the many he commanded? Not an ordinary day for them. Or for me. The shave and the clean shirt were all part of it. He glanced at Ozzard’s tray. He could still taste the fine coffee Catherine had bought for him; he had even eaten breakfast, slices of fat pork, fried pale brown with biscuit crumbs. He knew Ozzard disapproved of this meal, considering it fit only for a lowly lieutenant or midshipman, when the admiral he served could demand what he liked. Neither of us will change now .... He leaned on the sill and stared at the bright water, crisscrossed by ranks of low, white crests. The wind had backed overnight, perhaps to the north-east. He had had little sleep, and not because of the ship’s unfamiliarity; he had overcome that sensation a long time ago. He had lain awake in his cot, half-listening to the ship’s sounds, her voices, as his father would have described them. Creaks and mutterings, as if from the keel itself, the occasional hiss of wind and spray against the side, the responding thrunp of stays and shrouds.

And once, when he had fallen asleep, he had found himself in a dream which had exploded into a nightmare. Catherine being carried away from him, her clothes torn from her, hands reaching out to touch her.

After that he had unshuttered a lantern, and had read through the last batch of instructions from the First Lord; they were lengthy, diplomatic, but meaningless. Like most senior commands, responsibility would eventually rest on the shoulders of the officer in charge.

It would be another reminder, if one were needed, of Napoleon’s overwhelming power and his successes, Spain and Portugal, Italy, and onward into Egypt. Marshal Murat’s crushing victory over the Egyptians at Aboukir had been the removal of the last obstacle. The gateway to India had lain open, and all Napoleon’s grandiose schemes appeared to have been forged into one unstoppable force, until Nelson had taken his ships into Aboukir Bay and had destroyed the French fleet.

He glanced at some small boats passing astern, making heavy weather of it in the stiff breeze and choppy sea.

The Battle of the Nile, they called it now. Something Tyacke would never forget, or be allowed to forget. He smiled at the sharpness of memory. Hyperion had been there, too. Today the peace was still to be settled amongst the victors. But there would always be the predators, just outside the firelight, seeking an easy prey: the aftermath of every battle.

Allday entered the cabin, and said, ”Lively up top, Sir Richard. This will mark out the boys from the men!”

Bolitho turned to face him. He had not heard Allday leave to go on deck. A big, shambling figure, yet he could move like a fox when he wanted to. Ozzard was there too, his sharp eyes moving to the breakfast tray, the empty plate and coffee cup. And then, critically, to the coat, which he had already laid out for this occasion.

Allday saw it and smiled privately, thinking how the people on deck would see the admiral. Not in the beautiful gold lace and gleaming buttons, but in the old, familiar sea-going coat which had even survived a battle or two. Like us, he thought grimly.

Ozzard patted the coat into place, almost scowling at the tarnished epaulettes.

Allday took the old sword down from its rack and turned it over in his hands. Yes, that was how they should see him. Not as the admiral, but as the man.

The ship’s company would find it hard to get used to. Like the old Indom, when Sir Richard had made a point of speaking to the men on watch, the marines at their endless drills. He had heard him say to an officer once, ”Remember their names. In many cases, it is all that they own.”

The man.

Bolitho tugged out his watch. Tyacke would be here very soon. The shouting and the thudding bare feet were silent now. The capstan was manned, the lieutenants at their stations, on the quarterdeck, at each mast, and right forward when the anchor came home.

He thought of Avery, who had been much quieter than usual. Going over it, perhaps. Reliving what he had found, and what he had thrown away.

He saw Ozzard glide to the screen doors; his keen hearing had detected Tyacke’s footsteps despite all the other noises.

Tyacke entered, his hat tucked beneath one arm. There were fine droplets of spray on his coat, and Bolitho guessed he had been up and about since before the cooks had been called.

Ready to get under way, Sir Richard. Wind’s holding fresh an’ steady, nor’ easterly Once clear of St. Helens, I’ve laid a course to weather the foreland. When we’ve got sea room I’ll come about and steer sou’west.” He smiled briefly. ”It’ll be a bit lively until then, but I shall be able to see what they can do.”

No hesitation or uncertainty, despite a different ship, people he scarcely knew, and every glass in the fleet watching him, waiting for a mistake.

”I’ll come up.” The formality must wait a little longer. Thank you, James. I know what it cost you.”

Tyacke looked at him, perhaps remembering that other beginning. The cost is shared this time, sir.” As he turned to leave, he added, Twelve hundred miles from Spithead to Gibraltar, our first landfall.” He grinned. ”They’ll have learned something of our standards by that time!”

Bolitho touched the sword at his side, and turned to Allday. ”What are your thoughts, old friend?”

Allday glanced up at the skylight as the boatswain’s calls shrilled impatiently. Spithead Nightingales, the Jacks called them. They ruled your life.

He replied slowly, ”I’m a mite older, Sir Richard, but I feels the same.” He glanced at the nearest empty gun port ”It’s going to be strange, never facing an enemy broadside again.”

They went on deck, beneath the poop, and past the big double wheel where the helmsmen were already in position. Four of them: Tyacke was taking no chances.

Despite the wind, it was warmer on deck than he had expected; he felt the new pitch sticking to his shoes as he crossed to the quarterdeck rail. From here to the beak head there were men everywhere, with more already swarming aloft to the topsail yards. Aft by the mizzen mast, the marines were waiting in squads to man the braces and halliards. The old hands claimed it was because the mizzen’s sail plan was the simplest, and could mostly be handled from the deck, so that even a ‘bullock’ could manage it!

Bolitho saw the quick glances, the word passing along the upper deck. Avery was standing by the opposite rail, hat tugged down over the greying hair which was part of the price of his service. Tyacke was speaking with the sailing master, Tregidgo, a straight-backed man with an unsmiling, taciturn countenance. He was a Gornishman, and he had served in Frobisher for the four years since her capture, and under her two captains, Jefferson, whom Rhodes had casually dismissed slipped his cable two years back, buried at sea, poor fellow and Oliphant, who had left in such haste.

Tyacke faced him and touched his hat. ”Ready, Sir Richard.”

Bolitho glanced up at his flag, streaming against an almost cloudless sky.

”Carry on, Captain Tyacke.”

Calls trilled and parties of men dashed below, where they were needed on the other capstan to add their weight to the straining cable. Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch a few passing boats. There were women in one of them, whores going to greet another new arrival at Spithead. It was, unofficially, common practice to allow prostitutes on board, if only to prevent men from desertion and the aftermath of punishment.

”Anchor’s hove short, sir!” That was Kellett, the first lieutenant. He was right up forward by the cathead where he could watch the lie of the cable as the heaving, straining men at the capstan bars hauled their ship to her anchor by muscle alone.

Kellett came from an admiral’s family. Bolitho had seen him only once since he had come aboard, a young, serious-faced officer with deceptively mild eyes.

”Stand by on the capstan!”

”Loose the heads’ is

Some confusion ensued, but there were trained hands well placed to assist or knock the offender into position.

”Hands aloft, loose tops’ is

The men were already poised to swarm out along the tapering yards. It was no place for anyone with a bad head for heights. He smiled at himself.

Clank clank clank. The pawls on the capstan were slowing; he imagined the great anchor moving below the ship’s shadow, a last grip upon the land.

A fifer and a fiddler broke into a tune, and across the backs of crouching seamen and those at the braces with their eyes lifted to the yards, Bolitho saw Allday watching him, as if nothing stood between them.

So that was what he had been doing.

Bolitho lifted one hand, and he saw a midshipman turn to stare at him. But he saw only Allday, with the shantyman’s reedy voice rising even above the squeal of blocks to remind him. To bring it all back once more.

There was a girl in Portsmouth Town.. .. Heave, my bullies, heave!

He touched his eye. Portsmouth Lass. Only Allday and perhaps one other would have thought of it.

”Anchor’s aweigh, sir.r

Frobisher was already swinging round, leaning above her own reflection as the anchor was hoisted up and cat ted home.

He beckoned to Avery. ”Walk with me, George.”

While men bustled past them and cordage slithered along the deck like snakes, they walked together, as they had before when the guns had flamed and thundered all around them.

”Is there anything I can do, Sir Richard?”

Bolitho shook his head.

How could he explain, to Avery, of all people, that he could not bear to watch the land slide away, and to be alone with his thoughts. And his sense of loss.

Instead, he looked up at his flag, high and clean above the deck.

The last command. He acknowledged it as if he had spoken aloud. Then so be it.