ENEMY IN SIGHT

1. A TIME FOR PARTING

The tall window of the Golden Lion Inn which faced south across Plymouth Sound 'shivered violently in its frame as another freak gust speckled the glass with drizzle and blown spray.

Captain Richard Bolitho had been standing with his back to a blazing log fire, his hands behind him, as-he stared unseeingly at the bedroom carpet, and the sudden flurry of wind made him look up, his mind dragging with the mixed emotions of urgency and a new, alien sense of apprehension at leaving the land.

He crossed quickly to the window and stood looking down across the deserted roadway, the shining cobbles and the grey tossing water beyond. It was eight o'clock in the morning, but being the first day of November was still almost too dark to see much more than a blurred grey panorama through the dappled glass. He could hear voices beyond the bedroom door, the sounds of horses and wheels in the yard below, and knew that the moment of parting had almost arrived. He stooped over a long brass telescope which was mounted on a tripod by the window, no doubt for the benefit of inn guests or the amusement of those who saw the passing ships-of-war as nothing more than things of beauty or momentary distraction. It was strange to realise that 1794 was drawing to a close, that England had been at war with Revolutionary France for nearly two years, and still_ there were many people who were either indifferent or totally unaware of their peril. Perhaps the news had been too good, he thought vaguely, and certainly this year had gone well at sea. Howe's conquest, the Glorious First of June as it was now called, Jarvis's capture of the French West Indian islands, and even the taking of Corsica in the Mediterranean should have meant that the way was already opening up for total victory. But Bolitho knew better than to accept such ready judgements. The war was spreading in every direction, so that it seemed as if it would eventually engulf the whole world. And England, in spite of her ships, was being forced back further and further upon her own resources.

He eased the telescope carefully to one side, seeing the serried whitecaps cruising across the Sound, the wedge of headland and the hurrying ranks of leaden clouds. The wind was freshening from the north-west and there was a hint of snow in the air.

He held his breath and steadied the glass on a solitary ship which lay far out, seemingly motionless and making the only patch of colour against the bleak sea.

The Hyperion, his ship, was waiting for him. It was hard, no impossible, to picture her as the battered, shotscarred two-decker he had brought to Plymouth six months earlier after her desperate fight in the Mediterranean following Hood's failure to hold and occupy Toulon. Six months of pleading and bribing, of bullying dockyard workers and watching over every phase of the old ship's repairs and refit. And she was old. Twenty-two years had passed since her good Kentish oak had first tasted salt water, and almost all the time she had been in continuous commission. From the freezing misery of the Atlantic to maddening calms in the Indies. From the broadsides of the Mediterranean to patient blockade duty off one enemy port or another.

When she had been docked Bolitho had seen weed nearly six feet long scraped from her fat bilges. No wonder she had been so slow. Now, outwardly at least, she looked a new ship.

He watched the strange silvery light play across her tall side as she swung heavily at her anchor. Even at this distance he could see the taut black tracery of her rigging and shrouds, the double line of gun-ports, the small scarlet rectangle made by her ensign as it stood out in the freshening wind.

Once it had seemed as if the refit, the work and delays would never end. Then in the last few weeks she had returned to the waiting sea, her rigging had been set up, her seventy-four guns replaced, the deep-bellied hull filled with stores, provisions, powder and shot. And men.

Bolitho straightened his back. Six months was a long while to be away from her natural element. This time she would not be returning with the seasoned, well-disciplined company he had taken command of sixteen months ago, most of whom had been aboard for four years. In that time you could expect even the dullest landsman to find his place in things. But those men had been paid off. Not to a well-earned rest, but scattered to t11e demands of an ever-growing fleet, leaving him with only a few of the senior ones who were needed to deal with the ship's more intimate repairs.

For weeks his new company had been gathered from every available source. From other ships, the port admiral, and even the local Assizes. At his own expense, but with little hope, Bolitho had sent handbills and two recruiting parties in the search for new men, and had been astonished when some forty Cornishmen had arrived on board. Most were landsmen, from farms or the mines, but all were volunteers.

The lieutenant who had brought them aboard had been full of compliments and something like awe, for it was rare indeed to volunteer to leave the land for the harsh discipline and hazards of life in a King's ship.

Bolitho could still not believe that these men actually wanted to serve with him, a fellow Cornishman, one whose name was well known and admired throughout their native county. He was completely baffled by it and not a little moved.

Now that was all in the past. Crammed within the onehundred-and-eighty-foot hull his new company was waiting for him. The man who, next to God, would control their lives. Whose judgement and skill, whose bravery or otherwise would decide whether they lived or died. Hyperion was still some fifty short of her six hundred complement, but that was little enough in these hard times. Her real weakness lay in the immediate future, the days when he would have to drive every man in order to weld them all into one trained community.

He came out of his brooding thoughts as the door opened, and when he turned he saw his wife framed in the entrance. She was dressed in a long green velvet cloak, the hood thrown back from her rich chestnut hair, and her eyes were very bright, so that he suspected the tears were only just held in check.

He crossed the room and took her hands. It was still difficult to understand the good fortune which had made her his wife. She was beautiful and ten years younger than he, and as he looked down at her he knew that leaving her now was the hardest thing he had ever done. Bolitho was thirty-seven years old, and had been at sea from the age of twelve. During that time, as he survived both hardship and danger, he had often felt something akin to contempt for the men who preferred to stay in the safety of their homes rather than sail in a King's ship. He had been married to Cheney for five months, and now he understood just how agonising such partings could be.

During the long refit she had never been far from his side. It had been a new and devastatingly happy time, in spite of the ship's needs and the daily work which took him to the dockyard. Mostly he had spent his nights ashore with her in the inn, and sometimes they had gone for long walks above the sea, or had taken a pair of horses as far as Dartmoor. That was until she had told him she was going to have his child, when she had laughed at his immediate concern and protective uncertainty.

He said, "Your hands are like ice, my dear."

She smiled. "I have been down in the yard telling Allday how to unpack some of the things I have prepared for you." Again the tilt of the chin, the slight quiver in her lip. "Remember, Richard, you are married now. I'll not have my captain as thin as a rake for want of good food."

From the stairway Bolitho heard Allday's discreet cough. At least he would be with him. His coxswain, the man who next to his old friend Herrick probably knew him better than anyone.

He said quickly, "Now you will take care, Cheney?" He squeezed her hands tightly. "When you get back to Falmouth there will be plenty of friends if you need anything."

She nodded, then reached out and touched his whitelapelled coat and rested her fingers on his sword hilt. "I will be waiting for you, my dear Richard." She dropped her eyes. "And if you are at sea when our child is born you will still be with me."

Allday's stocky figure rounded the side of the door. "The barge is waiting, Captain. I've stowed all the gear as ma'am ordered." He looked at her admiringly. "And never fret, ma'am, I'll take good care of him."

She gripped Bolitho's arm fiercely and whispered, "See that you do. And pray God will keep both of you safe!"

Bolitho prised her fingers away and kissed her gently. He felt wretched and wished he had words to make the parting easier. At the same time he knew that there were no such words, nor ever had been.

He picked up his gold-laced hat and tugged it down across his forehead. Then he held her in his gaze for a few more seconds, feeling their pain, understanding their loss, and then without another word turned and strode to the stairs.

The landlord bowed as he crossed to the main doors, his round face solemn as he intoned, "Good luck, Cap'n! Kill a few o' they Frogs for us'n!"

Bolitho nodded curtly and allowed Allday to wrap the thick boat-cloak around his shoulders. The landlord's words were meaningless, he thought. He probably said exactly the same to the endless procession of captains and sea officers who stayed briefly beneath his roof before returning to their ships, some for the last time.

He caught sight of himself in a wall mirror beside the ostler's bell and saw that he was frowning. But what a difference the past six months had made. The realisation made him stare at himself for several moments. The deep lines around his mouth had faded, and his tall figure looked more relaxed Ann he could remember. His black hair was without a trace of grey, in spite of the fever which had nearly killed him between the wars, and the one lock which still curled rebelliously above his right eye made him look younger than his years. He saw Allday watching him and forced a smile.

Allday threw open the doors and touched his hat. "It seems like a long while since we were to sea, Captain." He grinned. "I'll not be sorry to leave. The Plymouth wenches are not what they were."

Bolitho walked past him and felt the rain across his face like ice rime. He quickened his pace with Allday striding comfortably behind him. The ship was lying a good two miles offshore, both to take advantage of the wind and tide and to deter any would-be deserter. The barge crew would have a hard pull to reach her.

He paused above the jetty stairs feeling the wind swirling around him, the land beneath his feet, and knowing as he always did that he might never set foot ashore again. Or worse, he might return as some helpless cripple, armless or eyeless, like so many who thronged the waterfront taverns as reminders of the war which was always present, even if unseen.

He turned to look back at the inn and imagined he could see her in the window.

Then he said, "Very well, Allday, call the barge alongside."

Once clear of the jetty wall the oars seemed to make the boat skim across the low cruising whitecaps, and as Bolitho sat huddled in his cloak he wished that he had a whole ship's company like these bargemen. For they were his original barge crew, and in their white trousers and check shirts, with their pigtails and tanned faces they looked every inch the landsman' idea of British sailors.

The barge's motion became heavier as it plunged clear of the shore, and Bolitho settled down to watch his ship as she grew slowly out of the haze of spray and drizzle until the towering masts and yards and the neatly furled sails seemed to fill the horizon. It was a normal illusion but one which never failed to impress him. Once, when a mere child, he had gone to join his first ship, of similar size to Hyperion, but in those tender years she had seemed even larger and more than a little frightening. As this ship must now seem to the newly gathered men, he thought, both the volunteers and those pressed from safer lives ashore.

Allday swung the tiller and guided the barge past the high bows so that the gilt figurehead of Hyperion the Sun God seemed to reach with his trident right above their heads.

Bolitho could hear the twitter of pipes carried on the wind, and saw the scarlet-coated marines already mustered by the entry port, the blue and white of the officers and the anonymous press of figures beyond.

He wondered what Inch, his first lieutenant, would be thinking about this moment of departure. He wondered, too, what had made him retain the young lieutenant when plenty of senior ones had been ready to take such a coveted appointment. Next in line to a ship's captain there was always the chance, even the hope that promotion would come by that captain's sudden death or advancement to flag rank.

When he had taken command of the old seventy-four Bolitho had found Inch as the fifth and junior lieutenant. Service away from the land and often far from the fleet had guided the young officer's feet up the ladder of promotion as one officer after the other had died. When the first lieutenant had taken his own life Bolitho's friend Thomas Herrick had been on hand to take over, but now even he had left the ship with a captain's rank and a ship of his own. And so, Lieutenant Francis Inch, gangling, horse-faced and ever-eager, had got his chance. For some reason, not really understood by Bolitho himself, he was being allowed to keep it. But the thought of taking the ship to sea as second-in-command for the very first time might make him view his new status with misgivings and no little anxiety.

"Boat ahoy?" The customary challenge floated down the ship's side.

Allday cupped his hand. "Hyperion!"

As the oars were tossed and the bowman hooked on to the chains, Bolitho slipped out of his cloak, and clutching his sword to his hip jumped quickly for the entry port. And he was not even breathless. He found time to marvel at what good food and regular exercise ashore could do for one so long cramped and adjusted to shipboard life.

As his head came above the coaming the pipes broke into a shrill twitter, and he saw the sharp jerk of muskets as the marine guard came to the present.

Inch was there, bobbing anxiously, his uniform soaked with rain so that Bolitho guessed he had not left the quarter-deck since first light.

The din ceased and Inch said, "Welcome aboard, sir."

Bolitho smiled. "Thank you, Mr. Inch." He looked around at the watching men. "You have been busy."

Inch was peering at the barge and was about to call to its crew when Bolitho said quietly, "No, Mr. Inch, that is no longer your work." He saw Inch staring at him. "Leave it to your subordinates. If you trust them they will-come to

trust you."

He heard heavy footsteps on the damp planking and turned to see Gossett, the master, plodding to meet him. Thank God he at least had been aboard the ship for several years.

Gossett was huge and bulky like a barrel, with a pair of the brightest eyes Bolitho had ever seen, although they were usually half hidden in his seamed and battered face.

"No complaints, Mr. Gossett?"

The master shook his head. "None, sir. I always said the old lady'd fly along once she got rid of 'er weed." He rubbed his massive red hands. "An' so she will if I 'ave any say."

The assembled company were still crowded on the gangways and deckspace, their faces pale when compared with Gossett and Allday.

This should have been the moment for a rousing speech, a time to bring a cheer from these men who were still strangers to him and to each other.

He lifted his voice above the wind. "We will waste no more time. Our orders are to join the blockading squadron off Lorient without delay. We have a well-found ship, one with a fine history and great tradition, and together' we will do our best to seal the enemy in his harbours, or destroy him should he be foolish enough to venture outside!"

He leaned forward, resting his hands on the quarterdeck rail as the ship lifted ponderously beneath him. It was amazing, but some of the men were nudging each other and grinning at his empty words. In a few months they would know the true wretchedness of blockade duty. Riding out all weathers with neither shelter nor fresh food, while the French rested in their harbours and waited in comfort for a gap in the British chain of ships when they might dash out, hit hard and return before any offensive action might be taken against them.

Occasionally a ship would be relieved for reprovisioning or serious repairs and another would take her place, as Hyperion was now doing.

He added briskly, "There is much to accomplish, and I will expect each one of you to do his best at all times to become proficient at whatever task he is given." Here, some of the older men grimaced. They knew it would be gun and sail drill under an officer's pocket-watch until their captain was satisfied. In this sort of weather it would not be comfortable work, especially for the men who had never been afloat before.

Bolitho let his eye stray to the opposite side of the quarter-deck where Inch and the other four lieutenants stood in line by the rail. In the hectic days leading up to and following the Hyperion's recommissioning he had had less time than he would have wished to get to know his new officers. The three junior ones seemed keen enough but were very young and with little experience. Their uniforms shone with newness and their faces were as pink as any midshipman's. The second lieutenant, however, a man named Stepkyne, had qualified as a master's mate aboard an East Indiaman and had found his way in the King's service when appointed to a cumbersome storeship. It must have cost him much hard work and bitter experience to attain commissioned rank, and as he stood swaying easily on the Hyperion's deck Bolitho could see the tense lines around his mouth, an expression bordering on resentment as he glanced sideways at young Inch.

Beyond the lieutenants were the ship's six midshipmen, again very young, but obviously excited at the prospect of what was for most of them a first voyage.

Captain Dawson stood with his marines, heavy-jowled and unsmiling, with his lieutenant, Hicks, an incredibly smart but vacant-looking young man, by his elbow. Bolitho bit his lip. The marines were excellent for forays ashore or the cut and thrust of close action. But they offered little help in the matters of driving a ship of the line under full sail.

He felt the wind swirling damply around his legs and added shortly, "That will be all for now." He nodded to Inch. "Prepare to get the ship under way, if you please."

Bolitho caught sight of Joshua Tomlin, the boatswain, by the entry port, his sharp eyes moving quickly across the men nearest him. Tomlin was another of the original company, a squat, massively built man, almost as broad as he was tall, and extremely hairy. When he smiled, which was often, he displayed a fearsome and maniac grin, having had both front teeth knocked out by a falling block many years before. He was known for his patience and his rough good humour, and Bolitho had never yet seen him strike a man in anger, which was unusual in his trade. But it would take more than his store of tolerance to remain calm with his new collection of hands, he decided grimly.

Pipes shrilled again and the decks came alive with stampeding feet as the men ran to their stations, urged on by kicks and curses from harassed petty officers who had not yet had time to memorise the names of their own divisions.

Bolitho touched Inch's arm and drew him aside. "The wind has backed a point." He glanced meaningly at the masthead pendant. "Break out the anchor at once and send the hands aloft." He saw his words causing havoc on Inch's horseface and added quietly, "It will be better to get the new people aloft now and have them spaced on the yards before you pass your orders. We do not want to have half of them dropping to the deck with the port admiral's glass on us, eh?" He smiled and saw Inch nod doubtfully.

He turned his back as Inch hurried to the quarterdeck rail, his speaking trumpet at the ready. He wanted to help him, but knew that if Inch could not take the ship to sea from a wide and comfortable anchorage he might never have the confidence to move alone again.

"Stand by the capstan!"

Gossett crossed to Bolitho's side and said impassively, "We'll have snow afore the week's out, sir." He winced as one of the men at the capstan bars skidded and fell in a welter of arms and legs. A petty officer lashed out with his rattan, and Bolitho saw the lieutenant in charge turn away with embarrassment.

Bolitho cupped his hands. "Mr. Beauclerk! Those men will work together if they have a shanty to bite on!"

Cosset hid a grin. "Poor fellows, they must find it strange, sir."

Bolitho breathed out tightly. Inch should have seen to it earlier. With Hyperion's sixteen-hundred-odd tons tugging on the cable it needed more than brawn to turn the capstan. The fiddle's plaintive notes were almost lost in the wind, but as the first pawl clinked home on the capstan Tomlin roared, "Now, me little sweethearts! Let's give them soft-bellied buggers in Plymouth a sight and sound to remember, eh!"

He threw back his head and opened his mouth, so that one of the watching midshipmen gasped with awe, and then broke into a well-tried shanty.

Bolitho looked up to watch the men spreading out along the massive yards, black and puny against the sky like so many monkeys.

Then he took a glass from Gascoigne, the signal midshipman, and trained it towards the shore. He felt a lump in his throat as he saw her green cloak framed in the distant window, a patch of white as she waved towards the ship. In his mind's eye he could picture what she was seeing. The two-decker, swinging already on- her shortening cable, the figures clinging to the yards, the activity around the forecastle where already more men were standing by the headsails.

"Anchor's hove short, sir!"

Bolitho met Inch's eye and nodded. Inch lifted his trumpet. "Loose heads'ls!"

A quick glance at Gossett, but there was no need to worry there. The master stood by the big double wheel, his eyes moving between the helmsmen and the first strips of canvas which even now were flapping and cracking in the wind.

"Lay a course to weather the headland, Mr. Gossett. We will lie as close to the wind as we can in case it backs again directly."

"Up an' down, sir!" The cry almost lost in the wind. Inch was nodding and muttering to himself as he moved restlessly across the quarterdeck.

He yelled, "Loose tops'ls!"

The great sails billowed and thundered wildly as the cry came from forward, "Anchor's aweigh, sir!"

Bolitho gripped a swivel gun for support as freed from the land the Hyperion swung dizzily into a deep trough. There were a few nervous cries from a lot, but nobody fell.

"Lee braces there!" That was Stepkyne's voice carrying without effort above the din of wind and canvas. "Jump to it, that man!" He was pointing angrily. "Take his name!"

Clank, clank, clank went the capstan, the hidden anchor swinging below the surface like a pendulum. But the Hyperion seemed to care nothing for the confusion and frantic activity about her decks and yards. She showed a strip of bright copper as she tilted heavily in to the choppy water, throwing the spray high above her beakhead so that the gleaming Titan seemed to be rising from the sea itself.

Inch came back wiping his face. "Sir?"

Bolitho eyed him gravely. "Get the courses on her." He looked up at the masthead pendant as it streamed almost abeam and as stiff as a lance. "We'll have the t'gallants on her directly once we've cleared Rame Head."

The helmsman intoned, "Sou'-west by south, sir! Full an' byel"

Bolitho felt the deck tilting steeply as the old ship gathered the wind into her spreading canvas. She must make a fine sight now, he thought vaguely. Topsails and courses set and hard-bellied like pewter in the dull light, the yards braced round to take maximum advantage of the wind which was ruffling the blurred headland like wet fur.

The anchor was clear of the water now and already being hauled towards the cathead.

And still the men sang, some glancing across their shoulders as the green headland sidled so quickly into the mist of rain and spray.

"I knew a lass in Portsmouth town,

Heave, my bullies, heave!"

How many sailors had sung as their ships had slipped into the Channel, how many on the shore had watched moist-eyed or grateful, or just thankful for being spared similar hardship?

When Bolitho raised his glass again the land had lost all individuality. Like its memories and hopes it was now so distant as to be unreachable. He saw some of the younger men staring across the gangway, one of them actually waving, although the ship must be all but invisible by now.

He thought suddenly of Herrick. When he had been his first lieutenant in the little frigate Phalarope. Bolitho frowned, when was that? Ten, no twelve years ago! He started to pace slowly along the weather side as his mind went back over the years. Thomas Herrick, the best subordinate he had ever had, and the best friend. He had said in those far-off times that he had looked forward to a command of his own more than anything else. Until it became a real possibility. He smiled at the memory, and two midshipmen seeing his face exchanged awed glances as their captain paced back and forth apparently oblivious or indifferent to the shouts and scurrying figures around him.

Now Herrick had that command. Better late than never, and more than richly deserved, even if she was the old sixty-four, Impulsive. Herrick would be joining the squadron, too, when his ship was overhauled at Portsmouth.

He heard Inch stammering with anger as a man caught his foot on a, hatch coaming and slithered into a master's mate, bringing him down with a crash on the tilting deck.

It was hard to realise that when he met Herrick again it would all be different. Two captains with individual problems and not the common bond of keeping one ship alive. Herrick always had such a questioning mind and a complete understanding of what Bolitho needed.

Bolitho shut the thought from his mind. It was pure selfishness to wish Herrick here with him.

He looked at Inch and asked mildly, "Are you satisfied?"

Inch stared round anxiously. "I-I think so, sir."

"Good. Now turn the hands to and put extra lashings on the boats. It will keep them from mooning at the bulwarks until England is out of sight."

Inch nodded and then grinned awkwardly. "It was not too badly done, sir, I thought?" He dropped his eyes under Bolitho's stare. "I=I mean… "

"You wish to know what I think of your efforts, Mr. Inch?" Bolitho saw Gossett keeping his face like a mask. "I thought that considering only half of the men on each yard were doing more than holding on for their lives, and taking into consideration there was a five minute interval between each mast, I would say it was a fair beginning." He frowned. "Do you see it so, Mr. Inch?"

Inch nodded humbly. "Aye, sir."

Bolitho grinned. "Well, that is something, Mr. Inch!"

Gossett called, "Ready to alter course, sir!"

The headland, and indeed most of the shoreline, had disappeared into the grey murk, but the wind was as steady as ever, whipping the crests from the waves and cascading spray above the weather rail like tropical rain.

"Bring her up to a point, Mr. Gossett. We will wear ship in four hours and run with the wind in our coat-tails!" He saw Gossett nod cheerfully. "We may have to reef before much longer, but I imagine you want to see how she behaves under full canvas?"

He looked at Inch. "I am going to my cabin. I am sure you do not need me for the moment?" He turned and walked quickly towards the poop before he could reply. Inch had got over the first part quite well. It was only fair to give him his head in open water without his captain watching every move and decision. And Gossett would be quick to see if anything really serious was about to

happen.

He saw some of the unemployed seamen watching him as he ducked below the poop and made for his cabin. First impressions were all important and he had to appear quite unconcerned even though he was straining his ears to listen to the creak and whine of shrouds and stays as the ship plunged her way indifferently almost into the teeth of the wind. Faintly he heard Tomlin bellow, "Not that 'and! Yer right 'and, I said! The one you fills yer face with!" A pause. "'Ere, let me show you, you clumsy maggot!" Bolitho half smiled. Poor Tomlin, it was starting already.

A marine sentry snapped at attention outside the stern cabin, his eyes unblinking beneath his shako. Bolitho closed the door and leaned his back against it, thankful to be alone for just a few precious moments.

For the remainder of the forenoon and well into the afternoon watch the Hyperion drove steadily down channel, her yards bending like great bows as she heeled to the blustering offshore wind. Bolitho spent more time on the quarterdeck than he had first intended as one crisis after another called him from his cabin. Inch had managed to set the topgallants, and under the great pyramids of straining canvas the ship was heeling over at an almost permanent angle, so that working aloft seemed even more hazardous than before to the men on the lee side. Looking down from their dizzy perches the- ship appeared to have shrunk in size, while below them there was nothing but the angry wavecrests creaming and spitting from the labouring hull. One man clung to the fore topgallant yard and would not move at all. Or rather he could not, and his fear was greater than that of an enraged bosun's mate who clung to the mast cursing and threatening, all too aware of his opposite number on the mainmast who was calling insults to the delight of his nimble-footed topmen.

Eventually Inch sent a midshipman who had already displayed a great agility aloft to fetch the wretched man down, and Bolitho had come on deck just as both had arrived on deck breathless and gasping with exertion.

Lieutenant Stepkyne had yelled, "I'll see you flogged for that, you gutless doltl"

Bolitho had called, "Bring that man aft!" Then to Inch, "I'll not have a man terrified to no good purpose. Get one of the older hands to go aloft with him now."

As the man in question had stood shivering below the quarterdeck ladder Bolitho had asked, "What is your name?"

The man had muttered thickly, "Good, sir."

Stepkyne had been plucking at his belt with impatience and had said quickly, "He's a fool, sir!"

Bolitho had continued calmly, "Well, Good, you must go back to that yard now, do you understand?" He had seen the man peer upward at the foremast again. The yard was over a hundred feet above the deck. "There's no shame in fear, lad, but there's danger in showing it." He had watched the mixed emotions on the man's pinched features. "Now off with you."

The man went, and Inch had said admiringly, "Well, that was something, sir."

Bolitho had looked away as the frightened seaman commenced to climb up the vibrating ratlines. "You lead men, Mr. Inch. It never pays to torment them." To Stepkyne he had added, "We are still shorthanded and need every fit man we can get. To flog that one senseless seems rather pointless, wouldn't you agree?"

Stepkyne had touched his hat and strode forward again to supervise his men.

To Inch Bolitho had continued, "There's no easy way. There never was."

At six bells it was time to wear ship and the whole business started all over again. Dazed and bruised, with bleeding fingers and faces tight with strain the new men were led or dragged out along the yards to shorten sail, for the wind was freshening every minute, and although the land was only ten miles abeam it was hidden in mist and spray.

Bolitho made himself stay silent as he watched the frantic efforts to obey his orders. Time and time again some men had to be shown what to do, even had halyards or braces put into their hands while Tomlin and his assistants scampered from one piece of confusion to another.

Then at last even Gossett seemed satisfied, and with the men straining and sliding at the braces the Hyperion turned her bows to the southward, the wind battering across her quarter with relentless force so that two additional men had to be sent to the wheel.

But she was enjoying it, Bolitho thought. Even shortened down to topsails she was leaning forward and down, plunging her bowsprit towards the invisible horizon in great sweeping thrusts as each successive roller cruised against her fat flank and then broke high over her tumblehome in a welter of frustrated spray.

He gripped the hammock nettings and looked astern, even though he knew there was nothing to see. But somewhere back there was the rugged coast of Cornwall, with his own Falmouth a bare twenty miles to westward. The big house below the bulk of Pendennis Castle would be waiting for Cheney's return. For the birth of their child which he would not see for some time to come.

Another wave roaring hissing over the weather gangway, and he heard Gossett murmur, "A second reef 1 be needed shortly, I'm thinkin'. '

Pipes shrilled as the watch below was dismissed at long last, and Bolitho said, "Keep me informed." Then he made his way aft once more.

The big stern cabin looked warm and friendly after the windswept quarterdeck. The deckhead lanterns swung in busy unison and cast strange shadows across the green leather chairs and the bench seat below the windows, the old polished desk and table which gleamed in the lamplight like new chestnuts. He stood by the broad windows staring at the distorted panorama of leaping waves and flying spectres of spray. Then he sighed and sat down at his desk and looked at the pile of papers which his clerk had left for his. inspection. But for once he found he had no stomach for it, and the realisation troubled him.

The door opened silently and Allday padded into the cabin, his stocky body appearing to lean at a grotesque angle on the tilting deck.

Allday studied him sadly. "Begging your pardon, Captain, but Petch, your servant, says you've not eaten since you came aboard today." He ignored Bolitho's frown. "So I've taken the liberty to bring you some game pie." He held out a plate which he had covered with a silver lid. "Your good lady gave it to me special for you, Captain."

Bolitho did not protest as Allday laid the plate on the slanting desk and busied himself with the cutlery. Game pie. She must have packed it while he was getting dressed that morning.

Allday pretended not to notice the look on Bolitho's face and took the opportunity to retrieve his sword from a chair and hang it in its place on the bulkhead. It shone dully in the spiralling lanterns, and he said quietly, "It'd not be the same without it now."

But Bolitho did not answer. That sword, his father's and his father's before that was something of a talisman, and a ready topic of lower-deck conversation whenever Bolitho's exploits were being discussed. It was part of him, part of his background and tradition, but at this moment he could think of nothing but what he was leaving behind. Even now the horses would be trotting along the road from Plymouth. Fifty miles to Falmouth where his housekeeper and his steward, Ferguson, who had lost an arm at the Saintes, would be waiting to greet her. But he would not be there. Above the hiss of spray against the windows, the creak of timbers and the over-riding boom of canvas he imagined he could hear her laugh. Imagined perhaps he could feel her touch, the taste of her freshness on his lips.

Oblivious to Allday he opened the front of his shirt and looked at the small locket around his neck. In it was one lock of her hair, a talisman better than any sword.

The door opened and a sodden midshipman said breathlessly, "Mr. Inch's respects, sir, and can he have permission to take in a second reef?"

Bolitho stood up, his body swaying to the steady roll. "I'll come." Then he saw Allday and gave a small smile. "There is little time for dreaming, it seems." He followed the midshipman's envious stare and added, "Or for game pie either!"

Allday watched him go and then covered the plate with the silver lid.

He had never seen him like this before and he was troubled by it. He looked across at the sword as it swung from its hook, seeing again that same blade gleaming in the sunlight as Bolitho had stormed the French battery at Cozar, had charged across the bloodsoaked planking of an enemy ship, had done so many things so many times. And now Bolitho seemed changed, and Allday cursed the mind which had despatched Hyperion to blockade duty and not to a place to do battle.

He thought too of the girl Bolitho had married. They had even met for the first time aboard this ship. He stared round, finding it hard to believe. Perhaps that was what was lacking. She had been part of the ship, had known danger and terror when the old hull had quivered to the broadsides and the scything winds of death. Bolitho would be thinking that too, he decided. Thinking and remembering, and that was bad.

Allday shook his head and walked towards the door. It was bad simply because they all depended on him more than ever before. A captain had no one to share his sadness and nobody to share his blame should he fail.

He walked past the sentry and climbed through a small hatch. A yam and a glass with the sailmaker might shake him out of his troubled thoughts, he decided. But he doubted it.