BEYOND THE REEF

15. FROM THE DEAD

LIEUTENANT Stephen Jenour handed his hat to Ozzard and then strode aft to the broad day-cabin where Bolitho was seated at a small table. The Black Prince was in the process of changing tack yet again, and as the sun moved slowly across the stern windows Jenour felt its heat through the smeared glass like an opening oven door.

Bolitho glanced up from his letter to Catherine. He had forgotten how many pages he had written so far, but it never seemed difficult to confide in her even when the distance between them mounted with each turn of the glass.

Jenour said, "Captain Keen's respects, Sir Richard, and he wishes to inform you that Antigua is in sight to the south-west'rd."

Bolitho laid down his pen. Seven weeks to cross an ocean and find their way to the Caribbean's Leeward Islands. It was ironic that his old Hyperion had done the same passage in a month, and at exactly this time of year. Keen must be both relieved to have made the landfall and disappointed at the time taken, and the many shortcomings which had presented themselves in the ship's company.

Perhaps the deceptive calm of bright sunshine and warmth on their hard-worked bodies might make amends. The Atlantic had been at its worst, at least in Bolitho's experience, producing great surging gales, while men half-frozen on the yards fisted and fought icy canvas until their hands were torn and raw. The high winds had been perverse too, and the ship had been driven a hundred miles off-course when the wind direction had veered so suddenly that even Julyan the master had been astonished.

Gun drill had been out of the question for the latter part of their passage. It was all Keen could do to get his men fed and rested before the Western Ocean again released its ferocity.

It said much for Keen's example and that of his more seasoned hands that they had not lost a spar or another man overboard.

"I'll go up, Stephen." He glanced at his unfinished letter, seeing Falmouth as it would be now. Much like the Atlantic: gales, rain and perhaps snow.

Catherine would be thinking of the ship, wondering where she was, if she had arrived safely. When she might be called to action. So many questions which only time could answer.

Jenour looked around the great cabin, a place he had come to know so well. During the passage from England he had been able to put the prospect of leaving Bolitho to one side. The gales, the deafening roar of the sea thundering over the hull and upper deck to make every footstep a separate hazard, and the gaunt faces of the people while they were chased and bullied from one task to the next, kept such thoughts at bay. Now it was different. Out there beyond the tapering jib-boom was English Harbour: order and authority, where each day might offer him the challenge of promotion. He thought of the first lieutenant, Sedgemore, some of the others too; they would give their blood for such an opportunity. A small command, with the blessing of a famous flag officer-who could wish for more? He had heard Bolitho refer to it as the most coveted gift.

Jenour thought also of his parents at Roxby's dinner, when Bolitho had made it his business to have them feel at home with such illustrious people.

He saw him touching his eyelid as he did more and more frequently nowadays. That secret too had been entrusted to him. It was safe until Bolitho required it otherwise. But who else would be able to understand him and his ways when he himself was promoted out of this ship?

He had even shared in the conspiracy of Bolitho's reunion with Lady Catherine, that too in Antigua.

"Why so thoughtful, Stephen?"

Jenour faced him and replied quietly, "I think you know, Sir Richard."

Bolitho touched his eye again. He had noticed that Jenour rarely flushed when his private thoughts were revealed, not since the Golden Plover's jolly-boat. A man then. But one who could still feel distress and show compassion for others.

Bolitho walked to the stern gallery and looked out at the undulating water, bank upon bank of it, as if worn out by all the anger it had expended to prevent their journey from being a fast one.

He said, "It has to be. That does not mean I do not care. It is the opposite, and I think you know that!"

They went on deck where Keen and some of his officers were studying the approaching island sprawled out on either bow, misty green, the hump of Monk's Hill all but lost in haze.

Bolitho appreciated that even that was suspect. From flat calm to a raging storm, every captain worth his salt knew better than to trust these waters at this time of year.

Keen crossed the deck to join him, his shoes sticking to the tarred seams as he did so.

"Barely making way, sir." They both looked up at the great spread of canvas, flapping in the hot breeze but hardly filling enough to move the ship. Buckets of salt water were being hauled up to men on the upper yards so that it could be poured on the sails to harden them, to make use of even a cupful of wind. The watch on deck was flaking down lines and securing halliards again after the last change of tack, their movements slow in the hot sunshine and lacking the brisk response to commands any captain would expect.

Bolitho took a telescope from the rack by the poop and trained it through the mesh of rigging until he found the nearest spur of land. He had had the crazed Captain Haven on that last visit. One so filled with suspicion and jealousy over his young wife that he had tried to kill the first lieutenant, whom he had believed responsible for his wife's pregnancy. He had been proved wrong, but he had been held for attempted murder nonetheless.

An island of so many memories. He had been here in his first command, the little Sparrow, and again in his frigate Phalarope. He saw Allday watching him from the larboard gangway and their quick exchange of glances was like part of an enduring link. The battle of the Saintes; his previous coxswain Stockdale falling dead while trying to protect his back from enemy marksmen. Bryan Ferguson losing an arm, and Allday eventually taking over as his coxswain. Yes, there was plenty to remember here.

Keen said, "We shall be anchored by this afternoon, sir." He frowned as the masthead pendant flicked out, the life draining from it. "I could lower the boats and take her in tow." He was considering the dwindling possibilities.

Bolitho said, "I'd stay your hand with the boats, Val. Another hour more will make little difference now." He glanced at the nearest seamen. "They look like old men!"

Keen smiled. "They will have to learn. If we are called to battle…" He shrugged. "But the sight of land is sometimes a tonic, sir." He excused himself and went to join the sailing-master by the chart table.

Bolitho raised the glass again. Still too far away to discern any prominent landmarks, and certainly none of the houses beyond the dockyard. He could see her now as if it were today. Dazzled by the lights at the reception, he had almost fallen at her feet. But she had discovered his injury, inevitably, and had insisted that he seek advice and treatment from the best surgeons in London.

He touched his eyelid again, and felt the painful prick which seemed to come from right inside his eye. And yet sometimes he could see perfectly. At others he had felt utter despair, as Nelson must have done after his own eye had been wounded.

And this was the time when every experienced officer was needed, as he had explained both to Keen and Jenour. But for the failure of his mission to Cape Town and the resulting delay caused by the loss of the Golden Plover, where might they have been now? Keen a commodore and ready for the next step to flag rank. And but for Black Prince's unfortunate collision at the completion of her refit, she might well be with the major part of the fleet supporting the army in Portugal or beyond. It was fate. This was where they were destined to be. But would it prove as useful as Godschale and his superiors seemed to think?

One thing stood out above all else. Bonaparte intended to divide his enemy's forces at all cost. His failure to seize the Danish fleet had made him even more determined. Small groups of ships had been reported slipping through the English blockade, and many had headed for the Caribbean, perhaps to attack Jamaica or other islands under the English flag. That would certainly force their lordships to withdraw more urgently needed ships from blockade and military convoy duties.

It was possible that the sighting of the vessel described by the volunteer William Owen as "Dutch-built" was no more than another coincidence. Bolitho thought privately that it was more than that. One modest frigate sailing alone was more likely to be taking despatches to some senior officer. Reinforcements, in the shape of Black Prince, were on their way, but no sign of any other frigates. They would have gone for the stranger like terriers had there been any. And then there was the matter of Thomas Herrick, the man he had always believed his best friend. It was strange that Godschale had made a point of not mentioning him at their last meeting; nor had the admiral displayed any interest at what Bolitho might expect when they next met. For unless some other vessel had sailed ahead of Black Prince, Herrick would still believe him to be dead after the Golden Plover's reported loss.

He shaded his eyes against the glare and watched the distant island, which appeared to have drawn no nearer.

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

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

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

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

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

He said, "I'm going aft, Val. Keep me informed."

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

Jenour said with concern, "Sir Richard seems depressed, sir."

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

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

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

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

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

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

As the portly secretary left the cabin, Allday entered.

"What about me, Sir Richard?"

Bolitho smiled. "Damn your impertinence! But yes-take a seat and join me in a wet."

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

"That would suit me well, Sir Richard."

The first crack of the lash penetrated the cabin.

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

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

My wounds will never heal.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Keen called, "Awnings and winds'ls, Mr Sedgemore! All eyes are on us, it seems!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Always the pain.

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

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

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

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

"I would relish some ginger beer. I've almost forgotten what it's like."

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

"How long have you known, Thomas?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bolitho said, "Richard. I'd prefer it."

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

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

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

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

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

"You've told nobody, Thomas?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Is our frigate in harbour?"

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

"So we have the squadron, seven sail of the line. And your flotilla of smaller 'eyes.'"

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

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

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

Bolitho smiled. "About we Cornishmen too, on occasions!"

Herrick's eyes crinkled, and he gave a brief laugh. "Aye, damme, I asked for that!"

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

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

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

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

Bolitho asked quietly, "Do you ever sleep, Thomas?"

"Enough."

"Did you receive any other news from the packet?"

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

"We are promised another frigate. She's the Ipswich, 38. Captain Pym."

"I don't know the ship, I'm afraid."

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

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

"Easy, Thomas. Put it behind you."

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

Bolitho persisted, "Life still has much to offer."

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

"Who knows what we might achieve this time?"

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

Bolitho said quietly, "'He never set a squadron in the field, Nor the division of a battle knows, More than a spinster.'"

Herrick stared at him. "Our Nel?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Tonight they will nest in Africa.

What price survival then?

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

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

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

"What is it?"

"Mr Julyan's respects, sir, and he thinks the wind is getting up from the west'rd."

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

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

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

He was the captain again.