A Tradition of Victory

12. The Flag Commands

LIEUTENANT the Honourable Oliver Browne, with his hat clamped tightly beneath one arm, stepped into the stern cabin and waited for Bolitho to look up from his charts and scribbled notes.

“Yes?”

Browne kept his urbane features expressionless. “Sail in sight to the nor’-east, sir.” He had learned from experience that Bolitho had already heard the cry from the masthead, just as he would know that Browne knew it.

“Thank you.”

Bolitho rubbed his eyes. It had taken over a week to reach the rendezvous area. Two days of good sailing, with a favourable wind across the quarter when neither reefing nor changing tack was required. Then other days, with frustrating hours of retrimming yards and canvas, tired men scrambling aloft to shorten sail in a sudden squall, only to be piped up the ratlines immediately to loose them again.

Westward into the Atlantic and then up along the coast of Portugal. They had sighted a few vessels, but the distance and the slowness of the two seventy-fours made any kind of investigation impossible.

Bolitho had kept much to himself during the passage. Going over Beauchamp’s original plans but coming up all-standing whenever he had set them against an actual attack.

He threw his brass dividers on to the charts and stood up. “What ship, I wonder?”

And what would he find in his little squadron? Ganymede should have contacted each ship, and every man would know their rear-admiral’s flag would soon be joining them.

Browne said, “They say she’s a frigate, sir.”

Their eyes met. Then it would be Phalarope, unless it was a Frenchman who had slipped through the blockade undetected.

Browne added, “May I ask what you intend, sir?”

“I shall see Emes.”

He seemed to hear Herrick inside his mind. Let me deal with him, sir. I’ll settle his future for him! Loyal, but biased. How would Adam see it, he wondered? He had twice nearly lost his young life trying to defend his uncle’s name. No. Emes did not strike him as a man who would ruin Adam’s career to save his own. But before a court-martial anything could happen.

He heard Herrick’s shoes in the lobby, and as Ozzard hurried to open the screen door Bolitho said, “Leave us, Oliver.”

Herrick bustled into the cabin and barely noticed the flaglieutenant as he passed.

Bolitho said, “Sit down, Thomas, and be calm.”

Herrick peered around the cabin, his eyes still half-blinded from the glare on the quarterdeck.

“Calm, sir? It is a lot to ask!” He grimaced. “She’s Phalarope right enough.” He raised his eyebrows. “I can see that you are not surprised, sir?”

“No. Captain Emes has been in command here during our absence. He is a post-captain of experience. But for his previous trouble, his actions at the Ile d’Yeu might have roused little criticism, even from you.”

Herrick shifted in his chair, unconvinced. “I doubt that.”

Bolitho moved to the stern windows and looked at some gulls which were swooping and screaming below the counter. The cook had probably hurled some scraps outboard.

“I need every competent officer, Thomas. If one is at fault, the blame must lie with his captain. If it is a captain who shows weakness, then the responsibility must lie with his admiral.” He smiled wryly. “In this particular case, me.” He hurried on. “No, hear me out, Thomas. Many of the squadron’s officers are raw replacements, and the worst wrath they have faced so far is that of a sailing-master or first lieutenant, am I right?”

“Well, I suppose so, sir.”

Bolitho smiled fondly. “That’s hardly an agreement, but it is a start. If, as I intend, we are to attack and destroy those French vessels, I shall draw heavily upon my captains. It is obvious that we are getting no more support, and Sir John Studdart knew nothing of any extra craft from his own command.” He did not conceal the bitterness. “Not even one solitary gun brig!”

Beyond the cabin they heard Wolfe’s voice through his speaking trumpet, the responding clatter of blocks and halliards as men ran to obey him.

Herrick stood up. “We are about to change tack, sir.”

“Go to them, Thomas. When you are ready, you may heave to and request that Captain Emes comes aboard. He’ll be expecting it.”

“I still think…” Herrick grinned ruefully and said instead, “Aye, aye, sir.”

Browne re-entered the cabin. “They’re signalling Phalarope now, sir.” He sounded puzzled. “Captain repair on board flagship. I thought you might ask for your nephew to come across too, sir?”

“I am longing to see him.” Bolitho looked up at the deckhead beams as bare feet slapped across the dried planking. “I am not proud of the fact I am using him.”

“Using him, sir?”

“Emes commands Phalarope, and he can decide if he shall bring his first lieutenant as a courtesy to me. If he does not choose to do so, he will have the stage to himself, unchallenged, as he is the first captain to meet us on this station. But if he decides to bring him, he must risk whatever my nephew may say.”

Browne’s face cleared. “That is very shrewd, sir.”

“I am learning, Oliver. Very slowly, but I am learning.”

The cabin tilted heavily to one side and Bolitho heard the creak of yards as Benbow swung slowly into the wind. He saw Nicator standing at a distance under shortened sail as she watched over her consorts.

Browne said, “I’ll go on deck, sir.”

“Yes. Let me know what is happening.”

Browne picked up his hat and asked hesitantly, “If Captain Emes fails to satisfy you, sir…”

“I shall send him packing by the next available vessel. I need good officers, and I have said as much to Captain Herrick. But I’d rather send Phalarope amongst the enemy with a midshipman in command than risk more lives to satisfy my vanity!”

Browne nodded and hurried away, another lesson learned.

Herrick saw him emerge into the sunlight and asked irritably, “What have you been doing, Mr Browne?”

“Our admiral, sir. The way he sees things. Like an artist painting a picture.”

“Humph.” Herrick turned to watch the frigate heading into the wind, her sails aback as she prepared to lower a boat. He said grimly, “Just so long as somebody doesn’t break the frame before the picture is finished!” He saw the surprise on Browne’s face and added, “Oh yes, Mr Browne with an ‘e,’ a few of us do have minds of our own, you know!”

Browne hid a smile and walked to the lee side as Major Clinton, his sun-reddened face almost matching his tunic, marched to Herrick and barked, “Guard of honour, sir?”

“Yes. Man the side, Major. He is a captain.” He moved away and added under his breath, “At the moment.”

The midshipman-of-the-watch called, “Boat’s put off, sir!”

Browne hurried to the poop. He found Bolitho standing by the windows as if he had not moved.

“Phalarope’s gig is heading for us, sir.” He saw the way Bolitho’s hands gripped one another behind his back. Tense. Like a spring.

Browne said quietly, “Captain Emes has your nephew with him, sir.” He expected some instant response, a show of relief.

Instead Bolitho said, “I used to believe that all flag-officers were like gods. They created situations and formed decisions while we lesser beings merely obeyed. Now I know differently. Perhaps Vice-Admiral Studdart was right after all.”

“Sir?”

“Nothing. Tell Ozzard to bring my coat. If my emotions are at war with each other, I am certain Emes will have fared far worse. So let’s be about it, eh?”

He heard the twitter of calls, the muffled stamp of booted feet by the entry port.

As Ozzard held his coat up to his shoulders, Bolitho thought suddenly of his first command. Small, crowded, intimate.

He had believed then, as he did now, that to be given a ship was the most coveted gift which could be bestowed on any living creature.

Now others commanded, while he was forced to lead and decide their destinies. But no matter what, he would never forget what that first command had meant to him.

Browne announced, “Captain Emes of the Phalarope, sir.”

Bolitho stood behind the table and said, “You may withdraw.”

Had he met Captain Emes ashore or in any other surroundings he doubted if he would have recognized him. He still held himself very erect as he stood opposite the table, hat beneath his arm, his sword gripped firmly, too firmly, in the other hand. In spite of his employment on the Belle Ile station and the favourable weather which had given most of the ships’ companies a healthy tan, Emes looked deathly pale, and in the reflected sunlight from the stern windows his skin had the pallor of wax. He was twentynine, but looked ten years older.

Bolitho said, “You may sit, Captain Emes. This is an informal meeting for, as I must tell you, it seems likely you will be required to face at best a court of enquiry, at worst…” He shrugged. “In the latter case, I would be called more as a witness than as a member of the court or as your flag-officer.”

Emes sat down carefully on the edge of the chair. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

“I doubt that. But before further action is taken I need to know your own explanation for your conduct on the morning of the 21st July when Styx became a total loss.”

Emes began slowly and deliberately, as if he had rehearsed for this very moment. “I was in the favourable position of being able to see the French to seaward, and the other force which you were intending to engage. With the wind in the enemy’s favour, I concluded there was no chance of our destroying the invasion craft with time available to beat clear. I held my ship in position to wind’rd as ordered, in case…”

Bolitho watched him impassively. It would be easy to dismiss him as a coward. It was equally possible to feel pity for him.

He said, “When Styx struck the wreck, what then?”

Emes stared round the cabin like a trapped animal. “ Styx had no chance. I saw her take the full force of the collision, her masts fall, her helm abandoned. She was a hulk from that moment. I- I wanted to drop my boats and attempt a rescue. It is never easy to stand off and watch men die.”

“But you did just that.” Bolitho was surprised at his own voice. Flat, devoid of hope or sympathy.

Emes’s eyes settled on him only briefly before continuing their tortured search around the cabin.

He said tightly, “I was the senior captain present, sir. With just Rapid to support me, and she only a brig of fourteen guns, I saw no reasonable chance of a rescue. Phalarope would have been caught by the enemy ships which were moving down wind under all sail. A ship of the line and two frigates. What possible chance would an old vessel like mine have stood, but for making a useless and bloody gesture? Rapid would have been destroyed also.”

Bolitho watched the emotions on Emes’s pale features as he relived the battle of conscience versus logic.

“And as senior officer I had responsibilities to Captain Duncan in Sparrowhawk. He was in ignorance of what was happening. Alone and unsupported, he would have been the next to go. The whole force would have been destroyed, and the enemy’s back door left unguarded from that moment.” He looked down at his hat and pressed it on to his knees as if to find the strength to go on. “I decided to discontinue the action, and ordered Rapid to follow my directions. I have continued with the patrols and the blockading of harbours as instructed. With Ganymede’s arrival I was able to fill the gap left by Captain Neale’s ship.” He looked up, his eyes wretched. “I was shocked to learn of his death.” His head dropped again. “That is all I have to say, sir.”

Bolitho leaned back in his chair and watched him thoughtfully. Emes had not pleaded or attempted to excuse his actions.

“And now, Captain Emes, do you regret your decisions?”

Emes gave a shrug which seemed to shake his whole body. “In all truth, sir, I do not know. I knew that by abandoning Styx and her survivors I was also leaving my flag-officer to his fate. In view of my record, I think perhaps I should have cast common sense to the wind and gone down fighting. Officers I have since met make no bones on their sentiments. I could feel the hostility when I stepped aboard Benbow, and there are some who will be eager to damn me in your eyes. A court martial?” He lifted his head again with something like defiance. “It was inevitable, I suppose.”

“But you think their lordships would be wrong to proceed with it nevertheless?”

Emes struggled with his conscience as if it was alien to him. “It would be easy to throw myself on your mercy, sir. After all, you could have been killed by a stray ball within minutes of starting the action, and then I would have been the senior captain anyway. I would then have ordered Neale to discontinue the engagement. Had he disobeyed me, sir, he and not I would be facing a court-martial.”

Bolitho stood up and moved to the stern windows. He saw Phalarope lying hove to some two cables away, her gingerbread glittering cheerfully in the sunlight. What did she think of her latest captain? He saw Emes’s reflection in the thick glass, the way he sat rigidly yet without life. A man counting the odds yet unwilling to give in.

Bolitho said, “I knew John Neale very well. He was once a young midshipman under my command. As was Captain Keen of Nicator, while Captain Inch, who will shortly be joining us in Odin, was once my lieutenant. And there are many more I have known for years, have watched grow to the Navy’s demands or die because of them.”

He heard Emes murmur huskily, “You are fortunate, sir. I envy you those friends and their methods.”

Bolitho turned and regarded him searchingly. “And there is my own nephew, of course. Midshipman, and now first lieutenant under your charge.”

Emes nodded. “I have no doubts at all of his scorn for me, sir.”

Bolitho sat down and glanced at the litter of charts and notes which would still be there after he had dismissed Emes. It would be simple to remove him without even waiting for a suitable replacement. A senior lieutenant, someone like Wolfe, could easily assume command until told otherwise. Why take unnecessary chances when so much was at stake?

And yet… The two words stuck in his skin like thorns.

“They are all a comfort to me, Emes, whereas to you they are an additional hurdle. Because of me, they may despise you. Even my good friend, Commodore Herrick, a man of great integrity and no little courage, was quick to speak his anger. He, after all, risked his position, maybe even this ship, on a whim, on a simple belief he might be able to find me. So you see, your decision, though logical, might be seen differently by others who were not even present on that damnable morning.”

Emes waited and then said dully, “Then there is no hope, sir.”

How quiet the ship seemed to be, Bolitho thought. As if she were holding her breath, like all the men who worked within her deep hull. He had known many such moments. Like the bad days of the mutinies at Spithead and the Nore. The boom of a signal gun, the breaking of a court-martial jack which had finished many a good officer just as surely as a halter at the main-yard or a merciless flogging round the fleet had ended the lives of their men.

“There is always hope, Captain Emes.” Bolitho stood up and saw Emes lurch to his feet as if to receive a sentence. He continued, “For my part, I think you acted correctly, and I was there.”

“Sir?” Emes swayed and held his head on one side as if he had suddenly lost his hearing.

“I know now that the French ships were there by arrangement. But none of us did at the time. Had I been in your position I ought to have behaved in exactly the same way. I shall write as much to their lordships.”

Emes regarded him for several seconds. “Thank you, sir. I don’t know what to say. I wanted to do the honourable thing, but everything I believed stood in my way. I am more than merely grateful. You will never know how much it means. I can bear what others say and think of me, they are unimportant. But you,” he shrugged, at a loss, “I hope I would act with such humanity if our roles were reversed.”

“Very well. Send me a full report of what your patrols have discovered during my, er, absence, and when you sight Rapid, ask her to make contact with me immediately.”

Emes licked his lips. “Yes, sir.” He turned to leave and still hesitated.

“Well, Captain Emes, spit it out. Very soon we shall all be too busy for recriminations.”

“Just one thing, sir. You said just now, I ought to have behaved in exactly the same way.”

Bolitho frowned. “Did I?”

“Yes, sir. It was good of you to say so, but now that I understand how your people feel for you, even though I have never been fortunate to serve you and learn about it for myself, I know that the word ought is the true key.”

Bolitho said, “Well, you serve me now, Captain Emes, so let that be an end to it.”

Browne entered the cabin silently as Emes departed, his eyes brimming with curiosity.

Bolitho said heavily, “He should be the admiral, Oliver, not me.

He shook himself and tried to disperse the truth. Emes had been correct. Perhaps the word ought had been used intentionally. For in his heart he knew he would have gone to Styx ’s aid, no matter what. But Emes was in the right, that was equally certain.

Browne coughed politely. “I can see that you are going to have some explaining to do, sir.”

He held open the door and Bolitho saw Pascoe half running across the other cabin in his eagerness to reach him.

They stood for several long moments, and then Pascoe exclaimed, “I cannot tell you what the news did for me, Uncle. I thought… when there was no word… we all thought…”

Bolitho put his arm around the youthful lieutenant’s shoulder and together they walked to the stern windows. The ship was all behind them. Here was only the sea, empty now that Phalarope had fallen down wind and had laid bare the horizon.

The lieutenant’s uniform had done little to change the youth who had joined his old Hyperion as a young midshipman. His black hair, cut in the new short length, was as unruly as ever, and his body felt as if it needed six months of Cornish cooking to put more flesh on it.

He said, “Adam, you must know I had some concern about your joining Phalarope, even though the opportunity of being first lieutenant at twenty-one is enough to tempt a saint, which you are certainly not! Captain Emes has not made any report on your progress, but I have no doubt-” He felt Pascoe tense as he turned to face him incredulously.

“But, Uncle! You’ve not allowed him to remain?”

Bolitho shook his finger. “You may be a nephew, and when I am in despair I sometimes admit that I am quite fond of you-”

It was not working this time. Pascoe stood with his hands clenched at his sides, his dark eyes flashing as he said, “He left you to die! I couldn’t believe it! I pleaded with him! I very nearly flew at him!” He shook his head violently. “He’s not fit to have Phalarope, or any other ship!”

“How did Phalarope’s people behave when Captain Emes ordered them to change tack away from the enemy?”

Pascoe blinked, disconcerted by the question. “They obeyed, naturally. In any case, they do not know you as I do, Uncle.”

Bolitho gripped the youth’s shoulders and shook him gently but firmly.

“I love you for that, Adam, but it must surely prove my point? The same one I just made to your captain.”

“But, but…”

Bolitho released him and smiled ruefully. “Now I am not speaking as uncle to nephew, but as rear-admiral commanding this squadron to one of his officers, a damned cheeky one at that. Emes acted in the best way he knew. Even after considering what people would say and read into his interpretation at the time. We cannot always know the man who leads, just as I am no longer privileged to recognize the face of every sailor and marine who obeys.”

“I think I can see that.”

Bolitho nodded. “Good. I have enough problems without you starting a war of your own.”

Pascoe smiled. “Everything will be all right now, Uncle, you see.”

Bolitho said, “I am being serious. Emes commands, and you owe it to him to give everything you know for the ship’s benefit. If you were to fall in battle, there must be no gulf between captain and company. The bridge made by any first lieutenant between poop and fo’c’s’le has to survive. And if Emes were to die, the people have got to look to you as their leader, and not remember the petty bickering which went before. I am right, Adam.”

“I suppose so, Uncle. All the same-”

“God, you’re getting like Herrick. Now be off with you. To your ship, and heaven help you if I see any slackness; for I shall know where to lay the blame!”

This time Pascoe grinned and could not control it.

“Very well, Uncle.”

They walked out to the quarterdeck where Herrick waited in unsmiling silence beside Captain Emes.

Herrick said, “Wind’s freshening, sir. May I suggest that I have Phalarope’s gig piped to the chains?” He glanced meaningfully at Emes. “Her captain will want to get back on board, I shouldn’t wonder.”

Pascoe darted a quick glance between them and then stepped smartly up to his captain.

“Thank you for allowing me to accompany you, sir.”

Emes eyed him warily. “A pleasure, Mr Pascoe.”

For a moment longer Bolitho held on to the relationship he shared with his nephew.

“I met Belinda Laidlaw at Gibraltar. She is now on passage to England.” He could feel his cheeks flush under the youth’s stare.

Pascoe smiled. “I see, Unc-sir. I did not know. It must have been a very happy reunion.”

He glanced from Bolitho to Herrick and smiled. “I’m sure it was, in every way.”

They touched their hats, and then Emes followed Pascoe down into the tossing gig alongside.

Herrick whispered fiercely, “Impudent young bugger!”

Bolitho faced him gravely. “About what, Thomas? Did I miss something?”

“Well, er, I mean to say, sir-” Herrick lapsed into confused silence.

Wolfe’s great shadow loomed over them.

“Permission to get the ship under way, sir?”

Bolitho nodded curtly. “Granted. I fear the commodore is choking on words.”

Bolitho walked up to the weather side as the hands ran to the braces and halliards once again.

There was some cloud about, and the sea was lively with sharp-backed wavelets. They might be in for a blow.

He watched the Phalarope’s gig man?uvring alongside her parent ship, and recalled Pascoe’s words. It must have been a very happy reunion. Had he really guessed, or had he merely touched upon his uncle’s sense of guilt?

But one thing was certain. Pascoe was pleased for them both, and that would help the weeks to pass better than he would ever know.

The first excitement of rejoining his small force of ships became more difficult for Bolitho to sustain as days dragged into weeks with nothing achieved. The blockade had not changed merely because he wanted it to. The boredom and drudgery of beating up and down the enemy coast in all weathers had produced its inevitable aftermath of slackness and subsequent punishment at the gangway.

It was not difficult to imagine the French admiral watching their sails from a safe vantage point on the shore, while he took his time to prepare his growing fleet of invasion craft for the next and possibly last move into the English Channel.

Ganymede had gone close inshore to spy out the whereabouts of anchored shipping, and had been forced to run from two enemy frigates which had pounced on her in the middle of a rain squall. The close-knit system of semaphore stations was working as well as ever.

But Ganymede’s captain had discovered an increase in local fishing craft before he had been chased into open water.

At the end of the third week the lookouts sighted Indomitable and Odin running down to join their flagship. Bolitho felt a sense of relief. He had been expecting a firm recall from the Admiralty, or a request for him to return home and to leave Herrick in overall command. It would mean the end of Beauchamp’s plans, and also that Styx ’s sacrifice had been in vain.

As the three ships of the line man?uvred ponderously under Benbow’s lee, the unemployed hands lined the gangways and stared at their consorts, as sailors always did and always would. Familiar faces, news from home, anything which might make the dreary routine of blockade bearable until they were eventually relieved.

Bolitho was on deck with Herrick to watch the exchange of signals, to feel the sense of pride at the sight of these familiar ships. Bolitho had not seen Odin since her savage battering at Copenhagen, but without effort he could visualize Francis Inch, her horse-faced captain, the way he would bob with genuine pleasure when they next met. But that would have to wait a while longer. There was news to be exchanged, despatches to read and answer. And anyway, Bolitho thought with sudden disappointment, he had nothing to call his captains together for.

Bolitho took his usual stroll on the quarterdeck and was left alone to his thoughts. Up and down, up and down, his feet avoiding gun tackles and flaked cordage without effort.

The ships shortened sail, and a boat was sent across to Benbow with an impressive bag of letters and Admiralty instructions.

By the time he had completed his walk and had returned to his quarters, Bolitho felt vaguely depressed. Perhaps it was the absence of news and the hint of a chill in these September days. Biscay could be a terrible station in really bad weather. It would take more than gun and sail drills to keep the ships’ companies alert and ready to fight.

It had to be soon. Otherwise the French would be prevented from moving the bulk of their new invasion craft by worsening weather, just as their enemies would be driven away from the dangerous coastline for the same reason. Soon.

Browne was opening envelopes and piling official documents to one side while he placed personal letters on Bolitho’s table.

The flag-lieutenant said, “No new orders, sir.”

He sounded so cheerful that Bolitho had to bite back a rebuke. It was not Browne’s fault. Perhaps it had never been intended that their presence here was to be anything but a gesture.

His eyes fell on the letter which lay uppermost on the table.

“Thank you, Oliver.”

He sat down and read it slowly, afraid he might miss something, or worse that she had written of some regret for what had happened at Gibraltar.

Her words were like a warm breeze. In minutes he felt strangely relaxed, and even the pain in his wounded thigh left him in peace.

She was waiting.

Bolitho stood up quickly. “Make a signal to Phalarope, Oliver, repeated to Rapid.” He walked across the cabin, the letter clutched in his hand.

Browne was still staring up at him from the table, fascinated by the swift change.

Bolitho snapped, “Wake up, Oliver! You wanted orders, well, here they are. Tell Rapid, investigate possibility of capturing a fishing boat and report when ready.”

He tapped his mouth with Belinda’s letter and then held it to his nose. Her perfume. She must have done it deliberately.

Browne wrote frantically on his book and asked, “May I ask why, sir?”

Bolitho smiled at him. “If they won’t come out to us, we’ll have to go inshore amongst them!”

Browne got to his feet. “I’ll signal Phalarope, sir.”

There would be more than a little risk in seizing one of the local boats sighted by Ganymede. But it would involve only a handful of men. Determined and well-led, they might be the means to provide the picklock to Contre-Amiral Remond’s back door!

Browne returned a few moments later, his blue coat bright with droplets of spray.

He said, “Wind’s still getting up, sir.”

“Good.”

Bolitho rubbed his hands. He could picture his signal being passed from ship to ship with no less efficiency and speed than the enemy’s semaphore.Rapid ’s young commander, Jeremy Lapish, had only just been promoted from lieutenant. He was said to be keen and competent, two sound qualities for a man who was after recognition and further advancement. Bolitho could also imagine his nephew when he heard of the signal when it was passed on from his own ship. He would see himself in charge of the raid, with all its risks and the wild cut and thrust of close action.

Browne sat down and continued to study the despatches tied in their pink Admiralty tape.

“Looking back, sir.” He watched Bolitho gravely. “When we were prisoners, in some ways it was Captain Neale who held us together. I believe we were too worried for his safety to care for our own predicament. I often think about him.”

Bolitho nodded. “He’ll be thinking of us, I shouldn’t wonder, when next we beat to quarters.” He smiled. “I hope we do something he’d be proud of.”

The wind rose and veered, the sea changed its face from blue to grey, and as dusk closed down the sight of land the squadron took station for the night.

Deep down on Benbow’s orlop deck, as the ship swayed and groaned around them, Allday and Tuck, the captain’s coxswain, sat in companionable silence and shared a bottle of rum. The smell of the rum and the swinging lantern was making both of them drowsy, but the two coxswains were content.

Tuck asked suddenly, “D’you reckon your admiral’s goin’ to fight, John?”

Allday held his glass against the guttering candle and examined the level of its contents.

“Course he will, Frank.”

Tuck grimaced. “If I ’ad a woman like the one ’e’s got ’is grapnels on, I’d stay well clear o’ the Frenchie’s iron.” He grinned admiringly. “An’ you lives at ’is ’ouse when you’re ashore, right?”

Allday’s head lolled. He could see the stone walls and the hedgerows as if he were there. The two inns he liked best in Falmouth, the girl at the George who had done him a favour or two. Then there was Mrs Laidlaw’s new maid Polly, she was a neat parcel and no mistake.

He said, “That’s right, Frank. One of the family, that’s me.”

But Tuck was fast asleep.

Allday leant his back against a massive frame and wondered why he was changing. He always tried to keep his life afloat separate from the one which Bolitho had given him at Falmouth.

He thought of the coming battle. Tuck must be mad if he believed Bolitho would give way to the Frogs. Not now, not after all they had seen and done together.

Fight they would, and Allday was troubled that it affected him so deeply.

Aloud he said to the ship, “I’m getting bloody old, that’s what.”

Tuck groaned and muttered, “Wassat?”

“Shut up, you stupid bugger.” Allday lurched to his feet. “Come on then, I’ll help sling your hammock for you.”

Some eight miles from Allday’s flickering lantern another scene was being enacted in the Rapid ’s small cabin as Lapish, her commander, explained what was required.

The brig was pitching violently in a steep offshore swell, but neither Lapish nor his equally youthful first lieutenant even noticed it.

Lapish was saying, “You’ve seen the signal from the Flag, Peter, and you know what to look for. I’ll drop the boat as close as I can and stand off until you return, with or without a fisherman.” He grinned at the lieutenant. “Does it frighten you?”

“It’s one way to promotion, sir.”

They both bent over the chart to complete their calculations.

The lieutenant had never spoken to his rear-admiral, and had only seen him a few times at a distance. But what did it matter? Tomorrow there might be a new admiral in command. The lieutenant laid his hanger on a bench beside his favourite pistols. Or I might be dead.

In the long chain of command the next few hours were all that mattered.

“Ready, Peter?”

“Aye, sir.”

They listened to the dash of spray over the deck. A foul night for boatwork, but a perfect one for what they had in mind.

And anyway, they had their orders from the Flag.