BEYOND THE REEF

16. POWER OF COMMAND

LADY CATHERINE SOMERVELL stood by one of the tall windows in the library and looked across the garden. The snow was heavier now, and the wheel-tracks of Lewis Roxby's smart phaeton had almost vanished in just half an hour. Kneeling on a rug before a crackling fire, Nancy was finishing her story of Miles Vincent's disappearance, and how it was later discovered that he had been taken by the press-gang and put aboard a man-of-war in Carrick Road.

Catherine watched the persistent snow and thought of Black Prince as she had last seen her standing out to sea, taking her heart with her.

She had spoken to some of the old sailors who worked on the estate, men who had served Richard in the past, before they had been cut down in battle; she was even jealous of them when they spoke of days she had never, could never share. One of them calculated that given the time of year and the inexperience of her company, Black Prince should have reached the Indies by now. A world away. Her man, doing things he had been ordered to do, hiding his own worries so that his men would see only confidence.

She turned away from the snow and asked guiltily, "I'm sorry, Nancy-what did you say?"

"I shouldn't burden you with it, but she is my sister, one of the family… and despite her shortcomings I feel responsible for her, especially with her husband dead." She looked up as though uncertain. "I was wondering, dear Catherine, if you could tell Richard about it when next you write. Lewis is doing all he can, of course, as it was obviously a mistake."

Catherine studied her thoughtfully. What Richard's mother must have been like. Fair, with clear fresh skin. She had a pretty mouth, perhaps all that remained of the young girl who had been in love with Richard's friend.

Nancy took her silence for disagreement. "I know Miles does not make a favourable impression, but…"

Catherine walked to the fire and sat on the edge of a stool, feeling the heat on her face, imagining him here with her, now.

She said, "When I first met him, I found him glib, with a higher opinion of himself than I would have thought healthy. What I have heard of him since has not improved that image."

She saw Nancy's dismay and smiled. "But I will tell Richard in my next letter. I write every few days, in the hope they will reach him in some sort of order." Inwardly she believed that the young Miles Vincent had probably got what he deserved. He had apparently been at a cock-fight somewhere out towards the Helford River, and the press-gang had burst in on it. They had only found three men who did not possess a legal protection -one of them had been Vincent. She thought of his arrogance, the way he had stared at her during Roxby's dinner, with the smirk of a conceited child. She thought of Allday and others like Ferguson and the estate workers, seized by the hated press without pity or consideration. The navy needed men, and always would as long as the war dragged on. So men would be taken from the farms and the taverns, from the arms of their loved ones, to rub shoulders with those who had escaped the gallows for the sea at the assizes.

Nancy was saying, "Lewis has already written to his friend, the port admiral at Plymouth… but it might take so long."

Catherine adjusted her gown and Nancy exclaimed, "My dear-I can still see that place where the sun burned you!"

"I hope I never lose it. It will always remind me."

"Will you come for Christmas, Catherine? I would be so unhappy to think of you alone here. Please say you will. I would never forgive myself otherwise."

Catherine reached out and pressed her arm. "Sweet Nancy, you are all responsibilities today! I shall think about it…" She turned as her maid entered the room. "What is it, Sophie?"

"A letter, me lady. The boy just brought it."

Nancy watched her as she took the letter and saw her eyes mist over as she quickly scanned the handwriting.

"I shall leave, Catherine. It is no moment to share…"

Catherine opened the letter and shook her head. "No, no-it is from Adam." The handwriting was unfamiliar, and yet similar. It was a short impetuous letter, and somehow typical of him: she could see his grave dark features as he had written it, from Portsmouth it appeared, no doubt with his Anemone coming to life all around him as she completed storing and made ready for sea.

He wrote, "You have been much in my mind of late, and I would that I had been free to speak with you as we have done in the past. There is no one else with whom I can share my thoughts. And when I see what you have done for my beloved uncle I am all gratitude and love for you." The rest of the letter was almost formal, as if he were composing a report for his admiral. But he ended like the young man who had grown up in war. "Please remember me to my friends at Falmouth, and to Captain Keen's wife should you see her. With affectionate regard, Adam." She folded it as if it were something precious.

Nancy said, "What is it?"

"It seems that the French are out. The foul weather was their friend, not ours… Adam is ordered to the West Indies with all haste."

"How do they know with such certainty that the French are heading there?"

"They know." She stood up and walked back to the window. Two grooms were reharnessing a fine pair of horses to the phaeton, and as the snow drifted down on them they flicked their ears with obvious displeasure.

Nancy came up beside her and put her arm around her waist. Afterwards Catherine thought it could have been the act of a sister.

"So they will all be together again?"

Catherine said, "I knew in my heart it would happen. We both believe in fate. How else could we have lost each other and then come together again? It was fate." She turned her head and smiled at her. "You must be glad that your man has his feet on dry land."

Nancy looked at her very directly. Her eyes, Catherine thought, were the colour of lavender, opened to the sun, and they did not blink as she said quietly, "I once thought to become a sailor's wife." Then she threw her arms around her. "I am so selfish-"

"That you are not." She followed her into the adjoining room and picked up the old cloak she sometimes wore when riding; Richard had once taken it to sea with him, in that other world.

Ferguson, muffled against the weather, was talking with the grooms and helped Nancy into the carriage, noting the tears and the brightness of her eyes as he did so.

As the horses thudded across the packed snow Catherine said, "Do you wish to see me?"

Ferguson followed her through the doors. "I wondered if there was anything I could do, my lady?"

"Take a glass of something with me." He looked uneasily at his filthy boots but she waved him down. "Be seated. I need to talk."

He watched her as she took two glasses from a cabinet, her hair shining like glass in the firelight. He still could not picture her in a boat with only some ragged survivors for company.

He stiffened as she said over her shoulder, "You heard about young Miles Vincent, I daresay."

Did she know of his visit to Roxby? Was that what the squire's wife had been here about?

"Yes, I did hear something. I didn't want to trouble you." He took the glass gratefully. "He was put aboard the Ipswich, according to one of the coastguards. She was off to the Caribbean soon afterwards, it seems. But never fear, m'lady, I am sure her captain will deal fairly with the matter." He hoped it sounded convincing.

Catherine barely heard him. "The West Indies, you say? It seems everyone is going there, except us. I heard from Captain Adam, you see-he is probably out there off the Lizard at this very moment."

For the first time Ferguson realised he was drinking brandy. He tried to smile. "Well, here's to Sir Richard, m'lady, and all our brave fellows!"

She let the cognac run across her tongue like fire.

The French are out. How many times had they heard that? She looked up the staircase where the candlelight flickered on the stern faces of those who had gone from here before, to meet that same challenge. The French are out.

"Oh, dear God, that I was with him now!"

It was, as Ferguson later said to his wife, a cry torn from her heart.

"Land ho!"

Captain Adam Bolitho pressed his hands on the chart and stared at the neat calculations that marked their progress. Beyond the tiny chartroom he knew there would be excitement as the call came from the masthead. Beside him Josiah Partridge, Anemone's bluff sailing-master, watched his young captain's face, noting the pride he obviously felt for his command and at the fast passage they had almost completed. In mid-Atlantic they had met with fierce winds, but the frigate seemed to have a charmed life, and once into the sun they had lost no time in sending down the heavy-duty canvas and replacing it with the lighter sails that seemed to make Anemone fly.

Adam said, "You've done well, Mr Partridge! I never thought we'd do it. Four thousand miles in seventeen days-what say you about that?"

Old Partridge, as he was called behind his back, beamed at him. Adam Bolitho could be very demanding, perhaps because of his illustrious uncle, but he never spared himself like some. Day and night he had been on deck, more often than not with both watches turned-to while the wind had screamed around them, matched only by the insane chorus of straining rigging and banging canvas.

Then into the friendly north-east trade winds, with the final run across the Western Atlantic where the sunshine had greeted them like heroes. It had been wild and often dangerous, but Anemone's company had come to trust their youthful captain. Only a fool would try to deceive him.

Adam tapped his brass dividers on a small group of islands to the south of Anguilla. French, Spanish and Dutch, often visited by ships sailing alone, but rarely fought over. Those nations, like the English, had far more important islands to protect in order to keep their sea-lanes open, their trade prospering.

"What about this one, Mr Partridge? It is as close to the passage we must take as makes no difference."

The sailing-master bent over the table, his purple nose barely inches away; Adam could smell the rum but would overlook it. Partridge was the best sailing-master he had ever known. He had served in the navy in two wars, and in between had made his way around the world in everything from a collier brig to a convict ship. If there was to be foul weather he would inevitably inform his captain even before the glass gave any hint of change. Uncharted shallows, reefs which were larger than previous navigators had estimated, it was all part of his sailor's lore. He rarely hesitated, and he did not disappoint Adam now.

"That 'un, zur? That be Bird Island. It's got some fancy dago name, but to me it's always been Bird Island." His round Devonian accent sounded homely here, and reminded Adam of Yovell.

"Lay off a course. I shall inform the first lieutenant. Lord Sutcliffe will not be expecting us anyway, and I doubt if his lordship would think we could make such a speedy passage even if he were!"

Partridge watched him leave and sighed. What it was to be young. And Captain Bolitho certainly looked that, his black hair all anyhow, a none-too-clean shirt open to the waist-more like someone playing the part of a pirate than a skilled frigate captain.

On the quarterdeck, Adam paused to stare up at the great pyramid of sails, so fresh and bright after the dull skies and patched canvas of the Western Ocean.

Many of the men on deck probably thought they were carrying secret despatches of the greatest importance to the Commander-in-Chief, that he should drive his ship so hard. At one time the great main-yard had been bending like a bow under the wind's powerful thrust, so that even Old Partridge had expected to lose a spar if not the entire mast.

In the whole ship, nobody knew the devil that drove him. Whenever he had snatched time to sleep or bolt down some food, the torment had returned. It was never far away, even now. In his sleep it was worse. Her naked body writhing and slipping from his grip, her eyes angry and accusing as she had pulled away. The dreams left him gasping in his wildly swinging cot, and once, the marine sentry at the screen door had burst in to his assistance.

He strode up the tilting deck and stared across the glistening water, like ten million mirrors, he thought. The gulls were already quitting their islands to investigate the frigate.

Perhaps it was because he had known, really known that somehow his uncle would survive; not only that, but would save anyone who had depended on him. Maybe she believed that he had been as disappointed to learn that her husband lived, as he was overjoyed to hear the news of his uncle's safety.

And knowing all these things he had taken her, had loved her and compelled her to love him until they had both been exhausted. Now she might see that act as a betrayal, his plea of love nothing but a cruel lie to seize the advantage when she was most vulnerable.

He clenched his fingers into a tight fist. I do love you, Zenoria. I never wanted to dishonour you by forcing myself upon you…

He turned sharply as Peter Sargeant, his first lieutenant who had ridden all the way from Plymouth to the church in Falmouth to bring him the news of the rescue, came up to join him.

"Bird Island, sir?"

A close-run thing. He could feel the shirt clinging to his skin, and not merely because of the sun.

"Yes. A whim perhaps. But vessels call there for water sometimes… Lord Sutcliffe can wait a while longer, and we might get him some news." He smiled. "And there is always the possibility of a prize or two." He glanced up at the streaming masthead pendant. "We will alter course directly, and steer south-west-by-west. We should be up to the islands before noon with this wind under our coat-tails!"

They grinned at each other. Young men, with the world and the ocean theirs for the asking.

"Deck there!" They stared up at the bright, washed-out sky. "Sail on th' starboard bow!"

Several telescopes were seized and trained, and then Lieutenant Sargeant said, "Big schooner, sir."

Adam levelled his telescope and waited for Anemone to lift her beak-head over a long glassy roller.

"A Guinea-man, I'll wager." He snapped the glass shut, his mind already busy with compass and distance. "Full of slaves too, maybe. This new slavery act will come in useful!"

Sargeant cupped his hands. "Both watches, Mr Bond! Stand by on the quarterdeck!"

The sailing-master watched the far-off sliver of sail, clearly etched now against an overlapping backdrop of small islands.

"We'll lose that 'un, zur, if us lets 'em slip amongst they dunghills!"

Adam showed his teeth. "I admire your turn of phrase, Mr Partridge. And no, we shall not lose him." He turned aside. "Get the royals on her! Then send the gunner aft to me!"

Even though the other vessel had also made more sail, and had changed tack slightly away from her pursuer, she was no match for Anemone. Within an hour she could be clearly seen by everyone on deck who had the time to look. In two hours she was within range of Anemone's bow-chasers. The gunner laid one of them himself, one hard thumb raised and moved this way or that to direct the crew to use their handspikes and adjust the long nine-pounder until he was satisfied.

Adam called, "As you will, Mr Ayres! Close as you dare!"

Several of the seamen who were near enough to hear grinned at one another. Adam saw the exchanges and was moved. They had become a better ship's company than he had dared to hope for. Few were volunteers, and many had been transferred from other ships when Anemone had first commissioned without even being allowed to go ashore and visit their homes. And yet, over the months, they had become a self-dependent unit of the fleet. A new ship and her first captain, just as Anemone was Adam's first frigate. He had always dreamed and hoped for this, to follow in the footsteps of his uncle. He asked a lot of himself, and expected the support of his officers and men. Somehow, the magic had worked.

Just before they had left Spithead to beat down-Channel in a rising gale, they had discovered twelve seamen from a merchant vessel pulling ashore, probably without permission, for a night in the taverns. Adam had sent his third lieutenant and a party ashore and pressed those unfortunate revellers before they had realised what had happened. It had not been strictly legal but, he argued, they should have remained on board until officially paid-off by their captain. Twelve trained hands were a real find, instead of the usual dockside scum and jail-bait most captains had to train and contend with. He could see one of them now, not only reconciled to his situation but actually showing a young landman how to use a marlin spike on some cordage. It was the way of sailors.

A bow-chaser roared out, the pale smoke fanning away through the staysail and jib.

There were several shouts of approval as the ball slammed down hard alongside the other vessel, flinging a tall waterspout high over the deck.

Adam took a speaking-trumpet, "Close, I said, Mr Ayres! I think you must have parted his hair!"

"He's heaving-to, sir!"

"Very well. Run down on him and send a party across. And no nonsense."

Old Partridge lowered a glass and remarked, "Looks like a slaver, zur." He sounded doubtful.

"Spit it out, man. I'm no mind-reader."

"Too many ships-o'-war hereabouts, zur. Most Guinea-men give these parts a wide berth. From my experience they runs further to the west'rd to that damned hole Haiti or down to the Main where the Dons always find use for more slaves." He was quite unperturbed by his young captain's manner; he knew many would have considered it beneath their dignity even to consult a lowly warrant officer.

Adam watched the other vessel floundering about in a cross-wind, her sails in disarray.

"That makes good sense, Mr Partridge. Well said."

Partridge rubbed his chin to conceal a grin. Despite all his fire and impatience, you could not help but like Captain Adam Bolitho.

"Ready, sir!"

"Go yourself, Mr Sargeant." He gave him a searching look. "No risks."

Moments later the cutter pulled away from the frigate's swaying shadow, the boarding-party crowded amongst the oarsmen and a swivel-gun mounted above the stem.

Adam watched Anemone's sails filling and banging as she was caught in a powerful undertow from the island.

He glanced at the masthead pendant. "Back the maintops'l, Mr Martin!"

The second lieutenant dragged his eyes from the cutter as it bounced and pitched over the blue water towards the schooner.

To the sailing-master Adam said, "Plenty of sea room, eh?"

"Aye, plenty, zur. An' no bottom neither." He pointed vaguely at the land. "Shallows there though."

Adam took a glass and relaxed slightly. It was always a risk so close to land. Too much depth to anchor, not enough time to weigh if things went wrong. He trained it on the schooner. A few figures on deck but little sign of excitement. If she was a slaver, her master obviously had nothing to hide. But there might be evidence of his trade, or at least enough to question him. They had stopped and searched so many vessels, and had rarely come away empty-handed. Intelligence, the casual mention of some enemy shipping movements. He smiled. Best of all, they might take the ship herself as a prize. He knew he had been lucky; so did his men.

During the last overhaul Adam had arranged to have all the ship's stern carvings and beak-head, the "gingerbread" as it was nicknamed, painted with real gilt, and not merely dockyard yellow paint: a mark of success for a captain who was skilful enough to gain himself and his company the allotted share of prize-money.

Someone said, "Almost there!" Lieutenant Sargeant could be seen standing in the sternsheets, a speaking-trumpet to his mouth as he shouted to the men on the schooner's deck. A good officer who had become a friend, or as close to one as Adam could ever accept.

He glanced along the deck. Anemone was a ship any young officer would kill for. Twenty-eight 18-pounders and ten 9-pounders, two of which were chasers. He turned away, and saw Partridge watching him from beside the compass box.

"What is it, zur?"

Adam plucked at his shirt, suddenly cold in spite of the glaring heat. Like fever.

"I'm not sure."

Partridge rubbed his chin. He had never heard the captain reveal such uncertainty before. Right or wrong, he was always ready with an answer.

The second lieutenant called, "The cutter's turning to go alongside, sir!"

Adam said sharply, "Recall the boat, Mr Martin! Now!" To the startled Partridge he added, "Prepare to get under way!"

The sailing-master stared at him. "But-but we can rake that bugger, zur!"

Men were already dropping from the shrouds and gangways from where they had been enjoying the spectacle across the water.

The cutter had seen the recall signal, and Lieutenant Sargeant probably felt much the same as Old Partridge. Too much sun.

"He's standing away, sir!"

There were some ironic cheers from the gun deck, to cover a sense of disappointment. The cutter was almost bows-on now, the oars moving quickly. Sargeant probably thought the lookouts had sighted another vessel further out to sea, which appeared more promising.

"Deck there! Smoke on t' 'eadland!"

Adam hurried to the opposite side and trained his glass on the misty green slope.

He heard a man say, "A camp o' some kind, I reckon."

Adam shouted, "Hands aloft, Mr Martin! Loose tops'ls! Pipe the hands to the braces!"

Partridge glanced at the shore as the topmen dashed to the shrouds and scampered up the ratlines. To his helmsmen he growled, "Be ready, my lads! We'll be all aback else!" He had been at sea a long time, and was the oldest man in the ship. He knew that what some simpleton had mistaken for a camp fire was the smoke of an oven, an oven which had just been flung open when the cutter had begun to come about and return to Anemone.

"Break out the main course!"

There were cries of alarm and surprise as a gun banged out, and seconds later a ball slapped through the fore-topsail even as it was released to the wind. Adam tried to swallow but his mouth was too dry. Where the ball had punched its hole through the sail was a blackened circle, the mark of heated shot. If it ploughed into the hull the whole ship could become a pyre in minutes. With tarred rigging, sun-dried canvas and a hull filled with powder, paint, spirits and cordage, fire was the dread of every sailor, more than any storm. The worst enemy.

Discipline reasserted itself as men charged to the gangways with water buckets and even sponges from the guns.

Another shot, and the ball skimmed across the sea's face like something alive.

Adam shouted, "Bring her about! Weather the headland if need be, but I'll not lose Peter Sargeant!"

Under command again, her forecourse and topsails filling to the hot wind, Anemone showed her copper as she heeled over in the bright sunshine.

The men in the cutter seemed to realise what their captain was doing, and when the boat crashed and ground against the frigate's side, they flung themselves on to the lines and rope ladders the boatswain had made ready for them. One man slipped and fell, and by the time his head broke surface Anemone had already left him astern.

Adam grasped the nettings until the tarred ropework cut his skin.

I nearly lost her. It kept repeating itself in his aching mind. I nearly lost her.

"Ready about, sir!"

Lieutenant Sargeant hurried aft and turned to stare at the abandoned cutter and the drowning seaman, who was still thrashing helplessly in the water.

"What happened, sir?"

Adam looked at him but barely saw him. "Bait, Peter. That's what they were." He turned and looked towards the land as another shot echoed across the placid water. Another few minutes and his ship, his precious Anemone, would have been either hit by some of those white-hot balls or forced into the shallows like a stranded whale. He felt the anger surge through him. He could scarcely believe he could feel like this. Like madness.

"Clear the larboard battery, Mr Martin! Load and run out, double-shotted, if you please!" He ignored the startled expressions, the relief of some of the cutter's crew obvious as they grinned and shook hands with their comrades.

Sargeant said, "Course to steer, sir?" He must have known, and even beneath his sunburn his face looked pale.

"I want to pass her at half-a-cable!"

Gun captains were racing each other as the larboard battery of long eighteen-pounders were loaded, their wads tamped home, before they were run squealing to the open ports.

Adam raised his glass as each gun captain faced aft. He saw the earlier disinterest aboard the schooner already giving way to panic as the frigate changed tack and bore down on her, her broadside catching the sun like a line of black teeth.

"The hull, Mr Sargeant, not her rigging this time."

Adam watched intently. A group of men were trying to hoist out a boat, and now there were uniforms clambering on deck from hatchways and holds. French soldiers, some armed, others in obvious terror as they ran about the drifting schooner like blind things.

"Go forrard, Peter." Adam did not look at him. "If need be, lay each gun yourself. I want every ball to strike true."

Sargeant ran along the gangway, pausing only to call down to each gun captain.

A midshipman exclaimed, "Some of them are jumping overboard!" Nobody answered; they were either staring at the schooner or at their own captain.

Sargeant drew his sword and stared aft as if still expecting the order to stand-down, then he shouted, "On the uproll, gun by gun, fire!"

The crews were very experienced, and knew their drill by heart. Down along the frigate's tilting side each gun belched orange fire and hurled itself inboard on its tackles. At one hundred yards' range they could not miss. Holes appeared in the schooner's hull and a ricochet burst through the side and brought down a mass of writhing rigging and blocks.

At the fourth gun the sea seemed to split apart in one terrible explosion. Men covered their ears, and others ducked down as splinters and whole lengths of timber and snapped spars cascaded over the sea, changing the clear water into a mass of splashes and pieces of charred wood. When the smoke finally drifted clear there was no piece of the schooner afloat.

Adam closed the glass with a snap. "Put it in the log, Mr Martin. Vessel carried soldiers, powder and shot. There were no survivors." He handed the glass to the signals midshipman and said tonelessly, "What did you expect, Mr Dunwoody? War can be a bloody business."

Sargeant came aft and touched his hat. "I didn't realise, sir. Nor did I know why you recalled my boat."

"Well, remember in future." He laid his hand on the lieutenant's shoulder. It was shaking badly. "I should have known-realised what was happening. It will not happen again."

He watched the seamen throwing themselves back on the braces until their half-naked bodies were angled to the deck. Beyond them he could see the darting shapes of gulls as they overcame their fear of the explosion and circled above the grisly flotsam in search of food.

"I nearly lost her!" Only when he looked at his friend's tense features did he realise he had said it aloud.

He shrugged heavily. "So let us go and inform Lord Sutcliffe that he has the French army camping on his back doorstep."

Four days after Black Prince had dropped anchor Bolitho was lying back in a chair, while Allday shaved him with his usual panache. It was early morning: a good time for a shave, to sip some of Catherine's fine coffee, and to think. The stern windows and quarter galleries were open to the breeze and he could hear men moving about, washing down decks, preparing the flagship for another day. Visitors and visits: it had been endless, and Bolitho knew he had done little to spare either Jenour or Yovell in his search for information.

He had received every captain, even Herrick's new enemy, Captain the Lord Rathcullen of the Matchless, a languid, disdainful man, but one with a fiery reputation. That and the ancient family title would be enough to enrage Herrick at any time.

But he was amazed by the change in his old friend since that last terrible day of his court martial. Herrick drove himself without respite, and his inspections of ships and docking resources had left several officials and sea officers cringing from his anger if there were any faults discovered.

It was like being in a sealed room, despite the lush surroundings and the brilliant colours of sea and sky. Until the frigate Tybalt returned from Jamaica or the other reinforcement from England, the Ipswich, arrived, he was without frigates. The other squadrons were scattered, some in Jamaica or St Kitts, others as far away as Bermuda. Every ship under a foreign flag was suspect; without fresh intelligence he knew nothing of greater affairs in Europe. A Spanish or Dutch flag might now be an ally, a Portuguese perhaps hostile. All of his captains, great or lowly, were governed by the old law of admiralty: if you were right, others took the credit. If you were wrong, you carried the blame.

Yovell let out a sigh. "I shall have these orders copied and ready for signature before noon, Sir Richard."

Bolitho glanced at his red, perspiring face. "Sooner, Mr Yovell. I would appreciate it."

Jenour finished his coffee and sat pensively gazing across the great cabin. One of the best moments of the day, he thought. This, he shared with no one. Soon the procession would begin: the squadron's captains, traders wanting favours or escorts for their vessels until they were out in open water, senior officials from the dockyard or the victualling yards. They usually wanted to discuss money, and how much Sir Richard might be persuaded to authorise.

Ozzard opened the door. "The Captain, sir."

Keen came into the cabin. "I apologise for disturbing you, sir." He glanced at the razor in Allday's hand which was suddenly motionless. How a man with fists so large could shave so precisely was beyond understanding. Like his ship models, he thought, not a spar or a block out of scale. Perfect… It sparked off another memory: Allday flinging his knife at the man in the jolly-boat while he dragged poor Sophie aft to the sternsheets.

"What is it, Val?"

"RearAdmiral Herrick's boat has just left the jetty, sir."

Bolitho noted the hostility, and was saddened by it. This was one rift which would never heal, particularly as it had been a court of enquiry under Herrick which had questioned Keen's right to remove Zenoria from the transport ship. It had nearly happened to Catherine, so Bolitho did not blame Keen for so bitter a resentment.

"He is up and abroad early, Val." He waited, knowing there was more.

"The master's mate-of-the-watch reported that the admiral's flag has been rehoisted above the battery, sir."

"Lord Sutcliffe?" He could hear Allday's painful breathing. After what Herrick had told him he had not expected Sutcliffe to return to duty.

"Inform the squadron, Val. I'd not wish the admiral to imagine he is being snubbed."

By the time Herrick reached the flagship Bolitho had changed into a fresh shirt and some new stockings which Catherine had bought for him. They greeted one another informally in the great cabin, where Herrick wasted no time in explaining.

"Came down from St John's overnight, it appears." He waved Ozzard's coffee aside. "He insists on seeing you." The blue eyes hardened. "It seems that I may not be considered competent enough to control matters here!"

"Easy, Thomas. Perhaps I should speak with the senior surgeon?" He glanced round for Jenour. "The barge, if you please, Stephen." It gave him time to consider this limited news. It was true that Lord Sutcliffe was still in overall command. He could not be unseated because a subordinate did not agree with his strategy.

Herrick stood, feet apart, staring at the open stern windows.

"Look out for squalls, that's what I say!"

Bolitho heard the faint squeal of tackles as his barge was hoisted up and outboard of the ship's side. Perhaps Sutcliffe had some private information he wanted to offer? Or did he know something of the enemy's movements? That seemed unlikely. If the French did have ships of any consequence in the Caribbean they must have been well concealed.

Herrick added wearily, "I am to accompany you."

Bolitho saw Jenour signalling through the other door.

He said, "That at least is good news, Thomas."

Herrick picked up his hat and followed him. As he did so, his coat brushed against the wine cooler which Catherine had had made, with its beautiful carved inlay on the top: the Bolitho coat of arms in three kinds of wood.

He hesitated, then laid one hand on the top. "I had forgotten." He did not explain.

With the shrill of calls lingering in their ears, they remained silent as the barge pulled smartly from the flagship's tall shadow and into the first real heat of the day.

Every captain in the squadron would know that Bolitho was going ashore for some official reason; he could see the sunlight flashing on several trained telescopes. The Sunderland and the Glorious, the old Tenacious which had been launched when Bolitho had first entered the navy at the age of twelve. He smiled grimly. And we are both still here.

Allday moved the tiller-bar very slightly and watched the land pivot round, obedient to his hand at the helm. He tensed as the sunshine reflected on fixed bayonets and a squad of marines which was moving up a slope towards the big house with the white-painted walls. The guard to receive Sir Richard Bolitho, but it was not that. Allday glanced at Bolitho's squared shoulders, his hair so dark against his companion's greyness. Bolitho had not noticed. Not yet anyway. Lord Sutcliffe could not have chosen a worse place for his stay at English Harbour.

Allday could remember it like yesterday. Where Sir Richard had found his lady again after the years had forced them apart. Where he himself had waited out the night on another occasion, smoking his pipe and enjoying his rum under the stars, knowing that all the while Sir Richard had been with her. With her, in the fullest sense of the word. Another man's wife. A lot of water had gone through the mill since then, but the scandal was greater than ever.

He saw Bolitho reach up to his eye, and Jenour's quick, worried glance.

Always the pain.

It seemed as if they could never leave him alone. Their lives were in his hands, and not some poxy admirals who seemed to have done nothing.

He barked, "Bows! Toss your oars!"

He narrowed his eyes to watch the small reception party on the jetty. Bolitho had sensed the edge in his tone and turned slightly to look up at him.

"I know, old friend. I know. There is no defence against memory."

The barge came alongside the jetty so expertly that you could have cracked an egg between the piles and her hull.

Bolitho stepped down from the boat and paused just long enough to look up at the house. I am here, Kate. And you are with me.

Once Bolitho had realised where he was to meet the admiral-commanding he had prepared himself as if for a confrontation with a person from his past. The trouble was that it was exactly as he had remembered it, with the same wide, paved terrace that overlooked the anchorage, from which Catherine had watched Hyperion standing into harbour, and where she had heard his name mentioned as the man whose flag flew above the old ship.

A few black gardeners loitered around the luxuriant shrubbery, but Bolitho had already formed an impression that the house, like the squad of Royal Marines, was to discourage visitors and not the reverse.

Herrick had introduced him briefly to the senior surgeon, a sad-eyed little man named Ruel. Now as they approached the house Ruel was walking beside him, slowly, Bolitho noticed, as if he were reluctant to visit his charge again.

Bolitho asked quietly, "How is the admiral? I understood he was too ill to return here."

Ruel glanced around at the others: Jenour and Herrick, two of the admiral's staff and a captain of marines.

He answered cautiously, "He is dying, Sir Richard. I am surprised he has survived so long." He saw Bolitho's questioning gaze and added, "I have been a surgeon in the islands for ten years. I have become accustomed to Death's various guises."

"Fever then." He heard Herrick speaking to Jenour and wondered if he was thinking of his wife Dulcie, who had died so cruelly of typhus in Kent. And if he realised at long last that Catherine might easily have died too by refusing to abandon her in her last hours on earth.

"I think you should know, Sir Richard." Ruel was finding it hard to be confidential in the bright sunshine with people around him discussing England, the war and the weather as if nothing at all were unusual.

"Tell me. I am no innocent, and no stranger to death, either."

He saw the surgeon raise one hand to his lips. "It is not fever, Sir Richard. Lord Sutcliffe is diseased, beyond medical aid. Spiritual too, I would imagine."

"I see." Bolitho looked up at the elegant house, the best in English Harbour. Where they had found one another, where they had loved so fiercely, ignoring the challenge to honour and reputation, and the harm their liaison might provoke.

He said shortly, "Syphilis." He saw the quick nod. "I had heard something of the admiral's reputation, but I had no idea…" He broke off. What was the point of involving the surgeon? Common seamen became diseased from their rare contacts with women of the town; senior officers were never discussed in the same breath.

The surgeon hesitated. "I fear you may get little sense from his lordship. His mind is failing, and he has iritis, and cannot bear the pain of daylight." He shrugged ruefully. "I am sorry, Sir Richard. I know of your care for the ordinary sailor, and the assistance you gave to Sir Piers Blachford, under whom I had the honour to prepare myself for this sickening profession."

Blachford. He never seemed to be far away. Bolitho said, "I thank you for your frankness, Doctor Ruel. Your calling is not so sickening as you proclaim-I am all the more confident now that I have met you." He nodded to the others. "I shall go in now. Stephen, come with me."

Herrick sounded surprised. "What about me?"

Bolitho said calmly, "Trust me."

Two marines opened the doors and they stepped into the great hallway. Like yesterday. Like now. The smiling, insincere faces, the women in their daring gowns and jewels, the sudden brightness of the light. Then stumbling on an unseen step. Catherine stepping away from the others to assist him. A contact which, after so long, had seemed to burn like a fuse.

Although it was morning and the harbour outside gleaming with sunlit reflections and deep colours, it was like that night again.

A nervous black servant bowed to them and gestured to the nearest doorway.

Bolitho murmured, "The admiral cannot see very well-any kind of light sears his eyes. Do you understand?"

Jenour gravely commented, "He does not have long, Sir Richard. It is tertiary syphilis at the most virulent stage."

Despite his anxiety, Bolitho found time to be surprised at the young lieutenant's understanding. But then his father was an apothecary, and his uncle a doctor of some repute in Southampton. They had probably hated Jenour's throwing away a possible career in medicine for the risks and uncertainty of naval service.

He said, "Help me, Stephen." He did not need to explain further.

As the door was opened he found himself in complete darkness. But as he strained his eyes he saw a sliver of hard sunlight between two curtains and knew he was in the room where she had discovered his injury, and he had been unable to distinguish the colour of a ribbon in her hair. Yesterday.

"Be seated, Sir Richard." The voice came out of nowhere, surprisingly strong, petulant even, like someone who had been kept waiting.

Bolitho gasped, and instantly felt Jenour's hand at his elbow. He had collided with a low stool or table, and the realisation of his helplessness made him suddenly despairing and angry.

"I am sorry to greet you in this fashion." The tone said otherwise.

Bolitho found a chair and sat on it carefully. In that one sliver of light he could see the man's outline against the wall, and worse, his eyes, like white stones in the solitary beam.

"And I am sorry that you are thus indisposed, my lord."

There was silence, and Bolitho became aware of the sour stench in the room, the odour of soiled linen.

"I am, of course, aware of your reputation and your family history. I am honoured that you should be sent here to replace me."

"I did not know, my lord. Nobody in England has heard of your…"

"Misfortune? Was that how you were about to describe it?"

"I meant no disrespect, my lord."

"No, no, of course, you would not. I command here. My orders stand until…" He broke off in a fit of coughing and retching.

Bolitho waited and then said, "The French will surely know of our intentions to attack and, if possible, seize Martinique. Without it they would be unable to operate in the Caribbean. My orders are to seek out the enemy before he can use his ships to attack and weaken our assault. We need all our strength." He paused. It was hopeless. Like talking to a shadow. But Sutcliffe was right about one thing. He did hold overall command, diseased, mad or otherwise. He continued, "May I suggest that when Tybalt returns from Jamaica you send a fast schooner there and request the admiral to give you further support?"

Sutcliffe cleared his throat noisily. "RearAdmiral Herrick authorised the impressment of those schooners, but then he is a man well acquainted with insubordination. I have every intention of informing their lordships of any further acts of disloyalty. Do I make myself clear?"

Bolitho answered quietly, "It sounds like a threat, my lord."

"No. A promise, certainly!"

Jenour shuffled his feet and instantly the disembodied eyes shifted towards him. "Who is that? You brought a witness?"

"My flag lieutenant."

"I see." He laughed gently, a chilling sound in such a stifling room. "I knew Viscount Somervell, of course, when he was His Majesty's Inspector General in the Indies and I was in the Barbados. A man of honour, I thought… but you will doubtless disagree, Sir Richard."

Bolitho touched his eye, his mind reeling. The man was mad. But not so mad that he had lost the use of spite.

"You are correct, my lord. I do disagree." He was committed now. "I know him to have been a knave, a liar and a man who enjoyed killing for the sake of it!"

He heard the admiral vomit into a basin and clenched his fists in disgust. God, were these the wages of sin the old rector at Falmouth had threatened them with, when they had all been frightened children? The legacy of doom?

When Sutcliffe spoke again he sounded quite calm, dangerously so.

"I have heard your reports of some so-called Dutch frigate, your passionate belief that the enemy intends to divide our forces. Here, you will obey me. Carry out your patrols and exercise your people; that would make good sense. But try to discredit me and I will see you damned to hell!"

"Very probably, my lord." He stood up and waited for Jenour to guide his arm.

"I have not dismissed you yet, sir."

Bolitho turned wearily. It was so pointless, so futile. With the greater part of the fleet held in readiness to repel an attack on Jamaica, the way was wide open for French counter-action. And all I have is six ships.

Jamaica was nearly thirteen hundred miles to the west. Even with favourable winds it would take ships far too long to regain their command of the Leeward Islands.

He said, "I believe that the enemy intend to attack our bases here, my lord."

"Here? Antigua? St Kitts perhaps? Where else do you imagine them?" He gave a shrill laugh which ended in another bout of retching. This time it did not stop.

Bolitho found the door open, Jenour's face filled with concern as the half-light of the hallway greeted them.

The surgeon was waiting for him, standing apart from the others as if he had guessed what had happened.

"How long, Doctor?" He heard Sutcliffe ringing his bell, saw the obvious reluctance of the servants to answer it. "Can you tell me that?"

The doctor shrugged. "Out here, men and women die every day, quietly and without complaint. It is God's will, they say. I have grown accustomed to it, though I can never accept it." He considered the question. "Impossible to say, Sir Richard. He might die tomorrow; he could survive a month, even longer, by which time he will not know his own name."

"Then we are done for." He felt the fury rising again. There were thousands of men depending on their superiors. Did nobody care? The admiral was going to die, eaten alive by his disease. But to the outside world, if it believed the lie, he was a man worn out by his devotion to duty.

The surgeon stood by one of the shaded windows, and pointed at the bright silver line of the horizon.

"Yonder lies the enemy, Sir Richard. He is not there for no purpose." He studied Bolitho's grave features. "For you, God's will is not enough, is it?"

For a long moment Bolitho stood with Jenour on the sun-baked jetty while the barge was manoeuvred alongside the stairs. In the violent light the same officers who had been sent to greet him hovered discreetly and at a distance. Perhaps they were glad to see him leave after disturbing their secluded world, thinking perhaps that routine would save them. Sutcliffe would die, and after a fitting ceremonial funeral, another admiral would arrive. Life would go on.

"Well, Stephen, what do you think of this?"

Jenour stared out to sea. "I believe that Lord Sutcliffe is fully aware of his authority, Sir Richard."

Bolitho waited. "I need to know, Stephen. To rest on one's own views can be like an unbaited trap."

Jenour bit his lip. "None of the officers here would dare to defy him. Right or wrong, Lord Sutcliffe commands their destinies. To speak otherwise would be seen as treason, or at best, mutiny." His open face was filled with anxiety. "Nobody will support you, Sir Richard." He faltered. "Except the squadron and your captains, who will expect you to act on their behalf."

Bolitho said bitterly, "Yes, and ask them to die for me." He turned aside as the barge hooked on. "What of RearAdmiral Herrick? Come on, speak out, man-as my friend now!"

"He will do nothing. He risked all for his own satisfaction at his court martial." He watched the pain in Bolitho's eyes. "He will never do so again."

Allday stepped on to the jetty and removed his hat, immediately taking in Bolitho's expression and the flag lieutenant's unusual intensity.

Bolitho climbed down after Jenour and settled in the sternsheets.

It was the second time in the day that Jenour had surprised him. Once again, he knew he was right.