COLOURS ALOFT!

12. DIVIDED ROYALTIES

THE RESIDENCE of the flag-officer in charge of all His Majesty's ships, stores and dockyards in the island of Malta was a fine, imposing building.

After the dusty sunlight of the streets Bolitho found the room to which he had been ushered both welcome and cool. One long window looked out across the harbour, the crowded ships at the anchors, the criss-crossing wakes of cutters and gigs as the Navy got down to work for another day.

Waiting. In the Navy you always seemed to be doing it. As a midshipman or lieutenant, and even as a captain. When did it cease, he wondered?

He thought of the brig Lord Egmont and pictured her under full sail, heading for the Rock. She would not pause there for fear of fever, but would head out to the Atlantic and drop anchor only when she was in Carrick Roads, within sight of the Bolitho home.

He thought too of the brig's small cabin, and her master, Isaac Tregidgo, facing him across the table.

The master had a face like a block of weathered wood, lined and scarred by years at sea, fast passages and quick rewards. Tregidgo's name was legendary even amongst other masters in the Falmouth Packet Service. Storms, fever, piracy and war, the old man had faced them all. He must be over seventy, Bolitho thought, and he had known him all his life. Even his greeting had been typical.

"Sit ye down, Dick." He had grinned hugely as Bolitho had dropped his boat-cloak. "An' I hears yewm been honoured by King George, no less," he had wheezed in the thick air of pipe smoke and brandy. "But yewm still Dick to me!"

Bolitho had heard the girl moving about in the adjoining cabin. It was little more than a hutch, but it was safe.

The master had eyed him curiously. "Might 'ave guessed yewd be up to summat, admiral's flag or not." He had raised a fist like a smoked ham. "Not to worry, Dick. She's safe with me. I knows me crew are a bunch o' roughknots, but I often carry me grandchildren on short passages. The men knows better'n to cuss an' blaspheme in front o' them!" He had shaken the fist grimly. "I'll give any man, even me own kin, a striped shirt at the gangway if I catches 'im at it!"

The brig had stirred at her cable and old Tregidgo had squinted at the deckhead. "Wind's favourin' me, Dick." He had added slowly, "I'll see 'er right, just like you said in yer letter." He had watched him from beneath his sprouting white brows.

"Yewm not seeing too well, are yew, Dick?" He had turned aside to hide his compassion. "God will watch 'e."

The girl had entered the cabin self-consciously, the midshipman's coat and dirk in her hands.

"Keep the shoes." Bolitho held her hands. "Mr Hickling will not miss them. You will have to remain a youth until you reach Falmouth."

She had watched him with that same misty stare he had first seen. It was like an unspoken question. He was still not sure how to answer it.

He had said, "I am sending you to my sister Nancy. She will know what to do." He had gripped her hands tightly, knowing she would pull away as he added, "Her husband is the squire and the senior magistrate."

"But, sir, he'll have me-"

He had said, "No. I am not overkeen on the man, but he will not fail over this."

He wrapped his cloak around him and reached for the companion.

She had said, "I shall never forget you, Sir Richard."

He had turned to see the tears in her eyes, the sad beauty which even her shorn hair and crumpled shirt could not conceal. "Nor I you, brave Zenoria."

On deck he had found the bewildered Hickling waiting for him. A midshipman had left with him. One would return. He had handed him his coat and dirk. Hickling would be safe, no matter what happened. No one could blame a mere midshipman for obeying his vice-admiral.

By the bulwark the old man said, "I 'ear you've one o' th' Stayt boys as yer aide, Dick? From up north?"

Bolitho smiled. To a Cornishman "up north" meant merely the opposite strip of coastline.

"Yes." There were no secrets for long in Cornwall. Except from the revenue officers.

Tregidgo had gestured in the darkness towards the skylight.

"She's best along of me then."

"Why d'you say that?"

"Well, 'er father was mixed up in the trouble near Zennor when a man got killed, an' the dragoons was called. Stayt was a magistrate, like the one who's wed to yer sister," he had wheezed. "The one they calls th' King o' Cornwall."

The master had leaned closer and had murmured, "It was 'im wot 'anged 'er father. I'm fair surprised young Stayt didn't mention that?"

So am I. Bolitho had lowered himself into the boat and had told Allday to head for the jetty. He had to think and he knew that Keen would want to see him as soon as he returned.

Sentries had barred his way to the repair docks until he had thrown off his cloak and they had stared with astonishment at his epaulettes. Allday had followed him anxiously, watching each step in case he lost his balance and fell into a dock.

There were some lanterns by the dock where Supreme lay. In the gloom she looked as before, her wounds and state of repair hidden in shadow.

Allday had whispered, "Goin' aboard, sir?"

"No." Unwilling or unable, he still did not know. But he had walked along the rough stones until he had drawn level with the taffrail where the ball had struck and flung him down.

Now, standing in the sunlight by the window, Supreme seemed like part of a strange dream. A cruel reminder.

He thought again of Tregidgo's words about Stayt. On his way here to present himself to the flag-officer-in-charge, Bolitho had been tempted more than once to ask Stayt directly about it. His flag-lieutenant had said nothing, even though he must have been aware that the girl was no longer on board.

Bolitho had sent Stayt ashore in the barge to protect his reputation and any suggestion of involvement. Or had he? Was the mistrust already there?

Two servants threw open the high doors and Bolitho turned to face the man who seemed to fill the entrance.

Sir Marcus Laforey, Admiral of the Blue, was gross to a point which even his immaculate uniform could not hide. He had heavy-lidded eyes and a wide mouth, and when he walked with some difficulty to a chair Bolitho saw that one of his legs was bandaged. Gout, the curse of several admirals he knew.

Admiral Laforey sank carefully into the chair and winced as a servant eased a cushion beneath his foot.

When seated he looked like an irritable toad, Bolitho thought.

The admiral waved his handkerchief. "Sit down, Bolitho." The lids lifted slightly in a quick appraisal. "Bothersome about all this, what?"

Bolitho sat down and got the impression that his chair had already been carefully positioned so as not to be too close.

Laforey had been on one land appointment after another, and had not been in command at sea since before the war. He looked dried out, obscene, and Malta would very likely be his last appointment. The next would be in Heaven.

"Read the report, Bolitho. Good news about the French seventy-four. Make 'em think, what?"

Bolitho tightened his hold on his sword. With the chair half turned towards the window his vision was blurred. He stared at a point beyond the admiral's fat shoulder and said, "I believe the French will be out soon, sir. Jobert may be hoping to make a diversion so that the main fleet can slip out of Toulon. Egypt or the Strait of Gibraltar-"

Laforey grunted. "Don't speak to me about Gibraltar! That bloody fever, not safe to let anything or anyone land here if they've been there en route. This place is like a ship aground, there's always some sort of sickness amongst the people an' the military." He touched his brow with the handkerchief. "Good wine is gettin' scarce. Spanish muck an' little else, dammit!"

He had not listened to a word, Bolitho thought.

Laforey stirred himself, "Now about this court of inquiry, what?"

"My captain is accused-"

Laforey wagged a spatulate finger. "No, no, dear fellow, not accused! Others may have to do that. It is all a mere formality. I have not read the details but my flag-captain and this Mr, er, Pullen from their lordships assure me that it will be a matter of hours rather than days."

Bolitho said evenly, "Captain Keen is possibly the best officer I have ever had under me, Sir Marcus. He has shown his courage and excellence on many occasions, from midshipman to command. In my opinion he should rate flag rank."

Laforey's lids lifted again and beneath them the small eyes were cold and without pity.

"Bit young, I'd have thought. Too many inexperienced popinjays about these days, what?" He glared at his bandaged foot. "If I could hoist my flag above the Channel Fleet instead of this, this-" he stared round resentfully, "I'd soon make the mothers' boys shed a few tears!"

He tried to lean forward but his belly prevented him. "Now, see here, Bolitho, what really happened, eh?" He searched Bolitho's face as if for an answer. "Needed a woman, did he?"

Bolitho stood up, "I will not discuss my officers in this fashion, Sir Marcus."

Surprisingly Laforey seemed pleased. "Suit yerself. The court will sit tomorrow. If Captain Keen is sensible I am sure that you will be able to put to sea without further delay. There is a convoy due, and I cannot stand incompetence, anything which might make life here even more unbearable." He watched as Bolitho stood up. "I hear you were wounded too, Sir Richard?" He did not expand on it. "It is part of our service."

"Indeed, sir." Bolitho could barely conceal the irony in his voice. "There will be many more if the French succeed in joining their fleets together."

Laforey shrugged. "I am afraid I cannot entertain you longer, Sir Richard. My day is full. I sometimes wonder if their lordships and Whitehall realize the extent of my responsibility here."

The interview was over.

Bolitho walked down a passageway and saw a servant with a tray carrying two decanters and a single goblet towards the room he had just left. The admiral was about to extend his responsibility, he thought bitterly.

Stayt was waiting for him in the marble lobby.

He watched curiously as Bolitho shaded his eyes to stare at the harbour. Then he said, "You asked about the Benbow, sir. She has recently completed an overhaul here."

"And whose flag has she hoisted?"

"I thought you would know, sir. She is Rear-Admiral Herrick's flagship."

Bolitho turned towards the shadows in the lobby to contain his feelings. The last part of the pattern, as he had known there would be. It was not imagination, now he knew it, even before Stayt said, "Rear-Admiral Herrick is to take the chair at the court of inquiry, sir."

"I shall see him."

"It might be unwise, sir." Stayt's deepset eyes watched him calmly. "It could be misconstrued, by some, that is."

Thomas Herrick, his best friend, who had nearly died for him more than once.

In his mind he could see Herrick's eyes, clear blue, stubborn at times, too easily hurt, above all honest. Now the word "honest" seemed to stand out to mock him.

Stayt said, "There will be a letter awaiting you aboard Argonaute, I understand, sir. You will not need to attend the court. A written statement will suffice."

Bolitho turned towards him, his voice hard. "Will you write one also?"

Stayt met his gaze without flinching. "I am ordered to attend the court to give evidence, sir."

It was like being snared in an invisible net which was being squeezed tighter every hour.

"I shall be there, be certain of that!"

Stayt followed him into the dusty sunshine and waited on the steps which faced the harbour.

Bolitho said, "Did you imagine I would stand by and say nothing? Well, did you?"

"If there is anything I can do, sir-"

Bolitho felt his eye sting and knew it was anger rather than injury.

"Not for the present. You are dismissed. Return to the ship."

He strode down towards the jetty where Allday stood by the barge. There were other Argonaute boats nearby and Stayt would have to use one of them.

The boat coxswains stood up and touched their hats as they saw him. Their routine did not allow for emotions like his. Stores had to be arranged, and the purser would have been ashore since first light to carry out his bargaining with chandlers and traders alike.

Bolitho said, "To the Benbow, if you please."

Allday watched him enter the barge without any show of surprise. Herrick was here. It was only proper they should meet, no matter what some might think. Mates were mates, high or low.

"Give way all!"

The green-painted barge slid through the busy thoroughfare, other boats raising their oars or backing water to allow a flag-officer to have free passage.

Bolitho sat stiffly in the sternsheets, only his eyes moving as he focused them on familiar things, masts and rigging, seabirds and small clouds above the fortress.

Damn Laforey and his drink-sodden indifference, and anyone else who had a part in this. He glanced at the stroke oarsman and quickly along the bronzed faces of the barge crew. They all knew. Probably the whole fleet did too. Well, let them.

Vague thoughts flashed through his mind, of Belinda's letter, of Stayt's cool demeanour as he had mentioned his summons to the inquiry, and of Inch and the squadron who expected him to be above mere human reactions-or did they?

It would certainly not be the first time he had acted against the dictates of authority. He gave a small, bitter smile. It must run in the family. His father, who to his sons had always appeared as the stern, model example of a sea officer, had once fallen out with his army equivalent during a siege in the East Indies. Captain James Bolitho had solved the problem by arresting the soldier for negligence and then going on to win the battle. Had he lost it, Bolitho had no doubt that the family's naval connection would have ended there.

Allday murmured, "She looks proud, Sir Richard."

It sounded unusually formal. Allday never forgot himself when others were present. Well, hardly.

The seventy-four-gun Benbow did indeed make a fine sight. Newly painted, and her rigging like black glass, yards crossed with each sail furled to match its companion. The ports were all open, and Bolitho had no difficulty in hearing their fearful thunder at Copenhagen and later against the French "flying squadron." It never failed to tear at his memory, of the time he had been a prisoner of France and his subsequent escape. Allday had been with him then. Had carried the dying John Neale after his ship had foundered. Yes, many memories lay stored within her deep hull.

The barge swept round a wide arc and he saw the side party rushing to their station, the Royal Marines dressing into lines. His unexpected arrival would get them on the move. Bolitho smiled again. Wrong, Herrick would have expected it.

Benbow must be almost ready for sea, he thought. Only a few local boats lay alongside and just one tackle was swaying up cargo nets to the men on the gangway.

Bolitho murmured, "Stand off, Allday, I'll not be long." He saw Allday's face in the sunlight, caught it for just a moment as he carefully steered the sleek barge towards the main-chains. Bolitho was shocked to see the strain on his strong features, ashamed that he had not thought about his worries over his son.

"Oars-up!" The pale oars rose dripping in twin lines, their blades perfectly matched. Allday had done well.

Up the tumblehome to the piercing twitter of calls and then the drums and fifes of the marines. Pipeclay floated like white dust above the guard as they presented arms for his benefit. And here was Thomas Herrick, hastening to meet him, his round face beaming, and letting the formality blow away like the pipeclay.

Herrick exclaimed, "Come aft, Sir Richard." He gave a shy smile. "I'm not yet accustomed to it."

Nor I, Bolitho thought as they strode beneath the familiar poop. Here, and here, men had locked weapons and died. Up there shot had raked away seamen and marines alike, and where two small midshipmen were listening intently to the sailing-master he had been struck down.

In the great cabin it was warm although the windows and skylights were all wide open.

Herrick bustled round. "The stench of paint and tar makes this place like Chatham Dockyard!"

A cabin servant was placing goblets on a tray, and Bolitho sat down beneath a skylight, his shirt already clinging to his skin. He watched Herrick affectionately. His hair was tufted with grey and his body was stockier, probably from married life and Dulcie's cooking.

But when he turned he seemed just as before. The same clear blue eyes, the searching curiosity as he looked at his friend, originally his captain in another war when mutiny had been a greater threat than the enemy.

"I saw young Adam when he was here, er, Richard."

Bolitho took a goblet and placed it beside him. Claret. Herrick's taste had risen with his rank.

Herrick added, "A fine brig. It'll be a frigate next, what he's always dreamed of, the rascal. If he stays out of trouble-" He paused, his eyes suddenly worried. "Well, anyway, here's to you, dear friend, and may Lady Luck stay with you."

Bolitho reached for his goblet but missed it and caught it with his cuff. The wine spilled over the table like blood, and as Herrick and the servant hurried to help Bolitho said, "No. I can manage!" It came out more sharply than he had intended and he said, "I'm sorry, Thomas."

Herrick nodded slowly and poured another goblet himself.

"I heard, of course, Richard. It was a shock." He leaned over and stared at Bolitho for the first time. "Yet I see nothing, no damage, except perhaps-"

Bolitho dropped his gaze. "Aye, Thomas, except, perhaps, they sum it up very well."

He drank the goblet without knowing what he had done.

"About the inquiry, Thomas."

Herrick leaned back in his chair and regarded him gravely.

"It will be here, in this cabin, tomorrow."

"It is rubbish, Thomas." Bolitho needed to get up and move about as he had done so often in this place. "God, you know Valentine Keen. He's a fine man, and is now an excellent captain."

"Of course I remember everything about him. We've sailed together often enough." He became serious. "I cannot talk about the inquiry, Richard, but you know that, you have had this filthy job yourself."

"Yes. My flag-lieutenant warned me that I should not come."

Herrick watched him worriedly. "He was right. Any sort of discussion would, might be seen as collusion. We are all friends."

Bolitho stared hotly at the windows. "I was beginning to wonder." He did not see the hurt in Herrick's eyes. "When I flew my flag here, and you commanded Benbow, young Val was captain of Nicator, remember?" He did not wait for a reply but hurried on, "Then, when I went to the West Indies and we fought over that damned island San Felipe, Val gave up a larger vessel to come to Achates, a little sixty-four, because I asked him to be my flag-captain."

Herrick gripped the table. "I know. I know, Richard, but the fact is that we are all here to conduct an inquiry. I have my orders, otherwise I would say nothing more about it."

Bolitho tried to relax. Anything and everything seemed to seize him like claws since his injury. He picked up the goblet and knew Herrick was trying not to watch in case he knocked it over again.

He said, "I shall come myself. I had no intention of sending a written statement, as if it were just a secondary matter. My captain's future is in danger, and I'll not stand by and see him slandered by enemies I can only guess at!"

Herrick stood up and gestured to the servant, who immediately withdrew. Another Ozzard.

Herrick said steadily, "Keen behaved wrongly when he removed a prisoner from a ship under a government warrant. The fact that she is a woman could only add meat to the pot."

Bolitho pictured the filthy convict transport and young Zenoria as he had last seen her. The girl who would carry a scar on her body for the rest of her life. She would have died but for Keen. Nobody could have foreseen what would transpire from that one savage incident. It was a miracle that her mind had not been equally scarred.

Herrick said, "Had she been an ordinary male prisoner-"

"Well, she was not, Thomas. She was wrongly charged and wrongly transported. God, man, they wanted her out of the way because of her father!"

Herrick shifted under Bolitho's angry stare. "But others will say-"

Bolitho stood up. "My warm wishes to Dulcie when next you write."

Herrick was on his feet too. "Don't leave like this, Richard!"

Bolitho breathed slowly to compose himself before he faced the side party and marine guard.

"Who else will be present? You can at least tell me that, surely?"

He did not hide his bitterness.

Herrick replied, "Admiral Sir Marcus Laforey will be taking part, and the inquiry will be conducted by his flag-captain." He said abruptly, "The woman, is she still aboard Argonaute?' Bolitho picked up his hat.

"And I cannot answer that, Thomas." He walked through the door. "It might be seen as collusion."

It was unwarranted and unfair, Bolitho knew it. But there was more at stake now than strong words.

It would not require a bad verdict in the court of inquiry to damage Keen's future. Rumour would soon spread. It had to be stopped, overwhelmed like a forest fire under a cloudburst.

The two flag-officers walked to the entry port together, but Bolitho had never felt so isolated from his friend. He had known him longer even than Allday, who had been pressed aboard that same ship.

He hesitated as the first rank of scarlet coats moved into his vision. The colour-sergeant on the end, his eyes fixed on the nearest buildings along the shore, was strangely stiff, even anxious.

Bolitho hesitated and then the face came back. Helping him on that terrible day, just an ordinary marine then.

He said quietly, "McCall, I remember you well."

The sergeant remained rigid, his captain watching beyond Bolitho's shoulder. But his eyes moved and he said, "Thank you, sir." He hesitated as if afraid he was going too far. "It were a fierce battle, that 'un, sir, an' no mistake."

Bolitho smiled. "Aye, I'm glad you are doing well in the Corps." His words seemed to have another meaning as he added, "Take good care that others do not spoil your efforts."

The contact was broken as the calls trilled once more.

Bolitho paused in the entry port and removed his hat to the quarterdeck. After tomorrow this ship might never seem the same again.

He knew Herrick was watching him, his eyes filled with concern. In case he stumbled because of his distorted vision, or because he knew that not for the first time his own honesty had come between them.

Captain Francis Inch leaned across his chart and tugged repeatedly at his left ear as he often did when he was contemplating his next move. Around him the cabin heaved and shuddered as Helicon rolled uncomfortably in a rising wind.

It was almost noon, but because of a thickening mist, which even the wind was refusing to disperse, visibility was reduced to a few miles.

He could see the ships in his mind, Despatch directly astern, and Icarus a blurred outline at the tail-end of the line. Inch hated the uncertainty of the weather. The wind had veered greatly in the two days since Bolitho had left the squadron. It now blew almost directly from the west, from France.

He studied his chart more closely, very aware of the other two captains who remained silent as they sipped their wine.

Two hundred miles south-west of Toulon and already floundering in the rising wind. If it did not back soon or drop in force they might be driven far off their station or, worse, scatter so that they would lose contact altogether.

He pictured the little brig Rapid, far ahead of her companions. Inch was working her hard, but he envied her commander Quarrell more than he cared to admit. At least he had freedom of movement, while they blustered along, keeping station, ponderous and slow. He looked up and saw the broken white horses through the stern windows.

Captain Houston said, "I must leave soon, or I'll never find my ship in this."

Montresor of the Despatch said, "Can't do anything unless the wind quietens down."

Inch looked at them impatiently. Negative. Neither willing to search beyond the obvious. Montresor was proving to be a good captain but always seemed to take a lead from the sour-faced Houston.

The latter remarked, "I still think it's madness to keep our one and only frigate on some wild deception when she could be with us." Encouraged by Inch's silence he continued in his harsh voice, "We can't possibly seek out local craft with only Rapid to do it."

Inch glanced round his cabin. It looked French still in spite of the paintings he had hung around it. Pictures of country scenes, brooks and meadows, churches and farms. Like his own Dorset home. He thought momentarily of Hannah, his wife. She had already given him a little son, and another child was on the way. How could she imagine what he was doing, he wondered?

He said, "Vice-Admiral Bolitho has explained about Barracouta. I accept his judgement."

Houston said, "Naturally." He smiled wryly at Montresor, "But then we have not known him as long as you."

Inch showed his teeth in a dangerous grin. "He made me acting-commodore until his return. That should be enough for you, I think."

Houston's smile vanished at Inch's change of tone. "I wasn't doubting the thinking behind this. It's just that-"

"Quite." Inch listened to the groan of timbers, the distant crack of canvas as the ship leaned uncomfortably from the wind. It felt wrong and incomplete without Bolitho. He always seemed able to foretell what the enemy might do, and Inch had never known him to scoff at or underestimate what the French had up their sleeves.

Houston said, "Maybe we should pass word to the squadron off Toulon. Nelson might have views on what we're about. I still think the French will head for Egypt again as they attempt to break out. We beat 'em once at the Nile, but they might favour a second attempt." He stood up and swayed to the deck's slant. "I must leave, with your permission."

Inch nodded regretfully. There were many things he needed to discuss, but Houston was right: much worse and he would never fight his way back to his own ship.

He heard a voice on the wind, far away, lost.

Montresor said, "They've sighted something." He shuddered. "Not a good day for it."

There was a tap at the door, Inch's first lieutenant had come in person.

"Signal from Rapid, sir. Sail in sight to the nor'-west." He glanced at the others. "Wind's getting up, sir. Shall I order another reef?"

Inch tugged his ear. "No. Prepare to see these gentlemen into their boats. After that I want to signal Rapid before we lose contact."

He turned to the others as the lieutenant hurried away.

"Rapid is unlikely to report or even sight a fishing boat in this weather." He watched his words going home. "I must close on her immediately. So keep station on Helicon and be prepared to fight."

Montresor stared at him. He had not been a captain long enough to learn how to hide his feelings.

"The French? You really think so?"

Inch thought of Bolitho, how he would have presented it.

"Yes, I do. The wind is right for them; equally it is unfavourable to us." He shrugged his bony shoulders. "However, we must do what we came to do. At least we are ready for them."

The two captains left the ship with unseemly haste, Helicon heaving-to for the minimum of time before butting into the heavy rollers once again.

Inch stared up at the masthead, the pendant standing out and seemingly almost at right angles to the ship.

He glanced at the compass; north-east by east. Spray swept over the weather nettings and made the watchkeepers duck and swear.

Savill, his first lieutenant, shouted above the wind, "Masthead reports that Rapid has her signal still hoisted, sir." He looked excited, glad perhaps that they were doing something other than beating up and down.

Inch considered it. That probably meant that Quarrell had sighted or anticipated more than one strange sail.

"Signal from Despatch, sir. Her captain is safely on board."

Inch grunted, fretting as he thought of Houston's boat smashing its way further astern to his own command.

The masthead lookout yelled, "Signal from Rapid, sir! Two sail in sight to the nor'-west!"

Inch looked at his second-in-command. Two sails. It would not be any of Nelson's fleet so far south in the Golfe du Lion, and certainly no trader would attempt to break the blockade in this weather, especially in company with another.

He pondered Houston's words. He was right about one thing, Barracouta would make all the difference if she were here.

"I think the French mean business this time, Mr Savill. Make more sail, if you please. I intend to close on Rapid now." He took a telescope and climbed to the poop to look for Icarus. He saw the wet mist far astern; even Despatch was shrouded in it. God, what a time for it to happen. He snapped to the midshipman-of-the-watch who had followed him like a terrier, "General signal. Make more sail?

He saw the flags break out to the wind, very bright against the low cloud.

It was his chance. For once he was not looking to the flagship for instructions. He was in command today. Hannah would look at him with those adoring violet eyes when he told her. Nobody could have guessed or anticipated that Bolitho would be struck down by a stray ball, and not even in the midst of battle. Keen was in Malta, although to Inch it had seemed absurd that he should be taken away for some stupid inquiry. But no matter the whys and the wherefores, Francis Inch was in temporary charge of the squadron.

It was like having a weight suddenly lifted. He knew he had no doubts and could deal with this without anxiety.

He glanced around the deck, proud of his ship and her company. He watched the hands moving out along the yards, their white trousers flapping wildly as they fought into the wind. Canvas thundered out and bulged to the pressure so that the deck heeled over even further. Another look astern. There was Icarus visible just briefly astern of Despatch. A ghost ship. He grinned into the spray. Houston was a miserable man, he thought.

"Deck there!" That was one of the lieutenants. Savill had done right to put an experienced officer up there. "Rapid has signalled. Three sail of the line to the nor'-west!"

Inch felt a tingle run through his body. Three. There was no doubt now. They might try to avoid a confrontation, but Inch had no doubts about what he would do. Must do.

"General signal, Mr Savill. Prepare for battle." He made himself smile. "After that, you may clear for action."

He thought of Bolitho, and felt sudden pride that he had entrusted this day to him.

The drums began to roll, and as Helicon hurled spray over her beak-head the violence of sea and wind seemed like a foretaste of their destiny.