ENEMY IN SIGHT

5. THE CHASE BEGINS

Five days after the Hyperion had rejoined her two consorts Bolitho was sitting in his cabin, his breakfast untouched, the coffee cold in its cup as he stared listlessly through the stem windows at the empty horizon. He could not recall any days so long or so devoid of purpose, and he knew that his own uncertainty was shared by the whole ship, like a sense of foreboding.

When he had boarded the Indomitable within minutes of taking station astern of the other ships he had been conscious of nothing but a sense of failure, and when he had been ushered into the commodore's great cabin he had listened to his own voice as he had made his report, more like a detached onlooker than one who was not only directly involved but also a possible culprit for the chain of events which had followed his retreat from the estuary.

Pelham-Martin had heard him out without a word or an interruption. In fact, looking back Bolitho could recall no expression or reaction of any sort which he could recognise as either anger or apprehension. He had merely said, "Return to your ship, Bolitho. I will draft an immediate report for Sir Manley Cavendish's attention."

Again like an onlooker Bolitho had paced his quarterdeck while signals had broken from the commodore's yards, and for a few hours at least there had been every sign of urgency and purpose. Fortunately, both sloops had returned to the small squadron during Hyperion's brief absence, and as one sped northwards to seek out the vice-admiral's ship, the other had gone about and headed in the opposite direction to recall the two remaining frigates.

But as day followed day with nothing to break the waiting and uncertainty Bolitho knew that a new show of force was less than pointless. The stable door was still open, but it was unlikely there were any more large ships waiting to test the strength of the commodore's vigilance.

Over and over again he asked himself what he could have done. What he should have done. If he had stayed offshore to shadow the emerging French ships PelhamMartin would have remained in ignorance. But by returning immediately to the squadron he had allowed the enemy to escape. To vanish into thin air as if they had never been.

The third course he had rejected without hesitation, but as he fretted and brooded in his imposed isolation he could no longer see even that one act in its true value. Humanity and honour were seen quite differently in the cold and austere atmosphere of a court martial assembly. It was ominous that for once Pelham-Martin had not required anyone to witness his report or to know its content.

Several times he had started to write another letter to Cheney. To prepare her for news which at any time could bring her nothing but despair. If Pelham-Martin had worded his report to place the full responsibility on Hyerpion's captain, then it would not be long before Falmouth would learn of Bolitho's disgrace, with all the terrible consequences which would follow.

He sat up as a voice called, "Deck there! Sail on th' weather bow!"

He made himself remain seated at his desk until a midshipman brought the news formally that a ship had been sighted to the north-west. Then, in spite of his mounting anxiety, Bolitho pulled on his coat and made his way slowly to the quarterdeck.

Inch hurried to him. "She's a frigate, sir!" He watched Bolitho's face worriedly. "She'll be bringing despatches, sir?"

"Maybe." Bolitho sensed Inch's concern and added quietly, "Have no fear. Your part in all this is made quite clear in my log."

Inch took a pace forward. "I'm not worried about that, sir! It's just, just…"

Bolitho eyed him calmly, "What is it?"

Inch squared his narrow shoulders. "It's so damned unfair, sir! We all think the same!"

Bolitho watched the gulls lifting and diving above the lee gangway. They were foolish enough to make the long flight from land. There was little enough to eat for the ship's company.

Then he said, "You will not discuss these matters of conjecture in the wardroom, Mr. Inch. You may be required to assume command at any time, for any one of a hundred reasons. To open your heart too much might render you vulnerable when you can least afford it." He saw Inch's crestfallen expression and continued, "But thank you all the same."

When the frigate drew closer it was soon obvious that she carried more than mere despatches. As she shortened sail and went about to drive straight for the slow-moving two-deckers Bolitho saw that she wore a vice-admiral's flag at her foremast, and knew from the sudden flurry of signals that Sir Manley Cavendish had arrived in person to pronounce verdict and penalty with the least possible delay.

Midshipman Gascoigne yelled, "General, sir! Heave to!"

As officers and seamen scampered to their stations he added breathlessly, "Flag to Hyperion. Captain repair on board in thirty minutes!"

"Acknowledge." Bolitho looked at Inch. "Heave to and then call away my barge." He tried to appear relaxed under the eyes around him. "It will give me time to change into my dress coat."

While the ship laboured and swayed in the light wind and Petch busied himself laying out clean shirt and best uniform, Bolitho glanced around the cabin, thinking momentarily of all the dramas and hopes it had witnessed, and would see again. From here captains had gone on deck to die in battle or triumph against one of a dozen of England's enemies. Had left to be promoted or to witness a flogging, to offer help to a ship in distress, or merely to watch the passing of some particular cloud or seascape. It was strange that the same ship which might bring fame and fortune to one, could bring ignominy and disaster to another.

He pulled his neckcloth tight and saw Petch watching him anxiously. He was probably already wondering if by this time tomorrow he would be serving a new master.

Inch stepped into the cabin. "Barge alongside, sir." He paused before adding, "The commodore's already gone over to the frigate, sir."

Bolitho held out his arms for his heavy, gold-laced coat with the white lapels. The one which Cheney admired so much. It was what. he had expected. The two senior officers would need privacy for their own confrontation, he thought grimly.

"Very well, Mr. Inch. I'm ready."

He paused as Petch fumbled with the swordbelt about his waist and then walked quickly to the door.

A great silence seemed to hang over the upper deck as he strode towards the entry port. It was strange to realise there were still so many faces be did not know or recognise. Given time he would have changed that. He looked up at the great web of rigging and the sails which flapped loosely in the wind. Given time, a lot of things might have been different.

The pipes twittered and the marines presented arms as he swung himself outboard and down to the pitching barge below.

He sat stiffly in the sternsheets as the oars picked up the stroke and sent the boat scudding towards the distant frigate. It was then that he noticed every one of his bargemen was dressed in his best checked shirt and Allday was wearing a brass buttoned coat he had not seen before.

Allday kept his eyes on the frigate but said softly, "Just to show 'em, Captain. So they'll all know how we feel!"

Bolitho gripped his sword-hilt and stared fixedly above the seamen's heads. He could not even find the words to speak. Did not trust himself to reply to Allday's simple loyalty.

The bowman made fast to the chains, and without

waiting for Allday to rise to his feet Bolitho hauled himself up the frigate's side and raised his hat to the quarterdeck.

For a moment he looked across at the ship he had just left. Then he straightened his shoulders and nodded curtly to the frigate's young captain.

"Lead the way, if you please."

The frigate's stern cabin was low-beamed and spartan after that in a ship of the line, but to Bolitho was instantly familiar. When he had taken command of a frigate for the first time he had thought his quarters palatial when compared to a small sloop, but now as he ducked his head beneath the deck beams he was equally conscious of the lack of space, made more apparent by the three figures arranged around it.

Vice-Admiral Sir Manley Cavendish was thin and grey haired, and although his features were tanned and weathered, his cheeks looked sunken, and beneath his resplendent dress coat his breathing seemed quick and shallow. Bolitho knew him to be in his sixties, and the fact he had not set foot ashore for more than a few hours during the past two years could have done little to help his obvious poor health. But there was nothing feeble about his voice, and the eyes, close set above an imperious nose, were as bright and searching as any lieutenant's.

"Punctual at least, Bolitho!" He eased himself painfully in his chair. "You had better sit down. This may take some time, and I am not in the habit of repeating myself!"

Bolitho found a chair, conscious the whole time of Pelham-Martin's heavy bulk seated against the opposite side, his pink hands gripped together across his waistcoast as if to hold himself motionless in his enemy's presence. The other occupant was a flag lieutenant, an exprcssionless young man who stared straight at an open log book, his pen poised like a sword above an empty page.

Cavendish said, "I have read the reports, and I have considered what can be done. What must be done."

Bolitho glanced at the pen. It was still motionless.

"I have spoken with your Commodore and heard all that has happened, both before and after the loss of the Ithuriel." He leaned back and eyed Bolitho stonily. "Altogether it is as melancholy as it is dangerous, but before I make my final decision I would like to hear if you have anything to add to your, er, assessment of the situation."

Bolitho knew that Pelham-Martin was staring at him, but looked straight at Cavendish. "Nothing, sir."

The flag lieutenant studied him for the first time. Then Cavendish asked calmly, "No excuses? No blame to be laid elsewhere?"

Bolitho pressed his spine against the chair, holding back the sudden flood of anger and resentment. "I acted as I thought fit, sir. It was my responsibility and I chose what I

thought…" he lifted his chin slightly, 11… what I think

was the only course open to me."

The pen scratched busily across the paper.

The admiral nodded slowly. "If you had stayed to fight you would have forfeited your ship, and maybe six hundred men. You say you were prepared so to do?" He crossed his fingers and watched Bolitho's face for several seconds. "Yet you were not prepared to risk the lives of others already lost to us through fault or negligence, eh?"

Bolitho replied, "I was not, sir." He listened to the busy pen and felt his body relax for the first time. He was condemning himself, but could do nothing to prevent it. Not unless he was prepared to slander Pelham-Martin, or to denounce an action he still believed to be right.

Cavendish sighed. "Then that is all there is to be said on the matter." His head twisted sharply as he stared at Pelham-Martin. "Do you wish to make any comment?"

"Captain Bolitho was detached from my supervision, sir." The commodore was speaking quickly, and against the harsh light thrown through the stem windows his round face was shining with sweat. "But I am sure, that is I feel under the circumstances he acted as he thought fit."

Cavendish glanced at his flag lieutenant. It was just a brief moment, but Bolitho thought he saw a flicker of contempt in those cold eyes.

Then he said, "I have already told your Commodore what I intend, but as you are directly concerned I will give you the bones of my conclusions." He turned over some papers on the desk and added curtly, "Four ships avoided my squadron off Lorient, as you are no doubt well aware. Now more have escaped through your own patrols. You think maybe there is no connection?" He tapped the papers with his small wizened hands. "I have had every frigate alerted, questioned every available source, yet there is not one single sign of these ships!" He slapped his hands hard on the desk. "Not one sign."

Bolitho watched him evenly. It was hard to see where this was leading. Did Cavendish intend to place the whole 'blame on Pelham-Martin, and thereby on him?

The vice-admiral snapped, "Tell me, Bolitho, during the past few days since this misfortune, have you at any time wondered at the French admiral's brutality?"

Bolitho replied, "He could have fought my ship, sir. We would have given a good account of ourselves, but the end would have been inevitable. It was four to one against, and my people are still new to warfare for the most part."

Cavendish's grey head bobbed impatiently. "Well, don't sit there muttering, get on with what you're thinking, dammit!"

"He could not have expected defeat, sir." Bolitho took a quick breath. "Therefore he must have feared damage

to spars and sails." He looked squarely into the other man's eyes. "I believe he must have intended to make a long voyage and not just a quick attack on our ships.

Cavendish glared at him. "Thank you. The only useful piece of news to come out of all this is that you discovered the name of the French admiral. Lequiller is no clumsy peasant left over from the Revolution. He has an excellent record in battle. He commanded a frigate in the West Indies and fought us time and time again." His eyes fastened on Bolitho. "He helped to form and train the American privateers whom you at least will know were more than effective against us there."

Bolitho felt dazed. There was still no mention of recriminations, and it was obvious from Pelham-Martin's expression that he had already suffered under Cavendish's tongue.

Cavendish was saying, "Once it was sufficient to see a flag to know your enemy. But this is a new form of war, and we must live by new methods. Now we must learn to know the man beneath that flag, to study his background and his motives, if we are to survive, let alone win a victory which will last. Admiral de Villaret Joyeuse commands the French fleet at Brest. Even now he is mustering ships and men for a final thrust to overthrow both our fleet and our country. He is a dedicated and intelligent man, and if he has entrusted this Lequiller with a special task, then it must be of some value, and Lequiller worthy of it!"

Bolitho thought suddenly of the signal gun, of the men dying before his eyes like felons on a gibbet.

Cavendish eyed him dispassionately. "Maybe Lequiller is using new methods, too." He shrugged with sudden impatience. "But I am more concerned with his intentions. I believe that by now he will have joined with the other ships and is heading westward across the Atlantic. That would be the only explanation for my patrols failing to sight him."

Bolitho said, "The Caribbean, sir?"

"I think that is the most probable destination." The vice-admiral turned towards Pelham-Martin. "And what is your opinion, if any?"

Pelham-Martin came out of his thoughts with a jerk. "Maybe he intends to attack the islands taken from the French by Sir John Jarvis, sir?" He dropped his eyes under Cavendish's fierce stare.

"He'd need a force three times the size to make that possible!" Cavendish leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes. "During the American Revolution Lequiller was often sighted in the southern Carribbean. He would have made good use of his time there to make friends and to store his intelligence for some later time."

Bolitho said slowly, "Most of the islands there are either Spanish or Dutch, sir. They are of course our allies, but it takes little to change sides with the war going as it is."

Cavendish opened his eyes and watched him bleakly. "True. There is little likelihood of the Dutch staying on our side if their own homeland is finally overrun by the common enemy." He shrugged. "And as for the Spanish, well they are of little help to our cause as it is. They are still brooding over Gibraltar perhaps, or dreaming of past glories."

"Then, sir, I would suggest that Lequiller has another motive." Bolitho tried to picture the sprawled line of islands which ran from east to west above the great mass of the southern Americas. It was almost as if he was thinking aloud. "To remain our ally Spain needs to stay rich. Much of her wealth comes from the Americas. One such convoy of gold and silver plate is enough to sustain her for a whole year, maybe longer."

Cavendish's cold eyes gleamed. "Exactly! Also, if it fell into enemy hands it would be more use than ten regiments, as Lequiller must know better than most!"

Pelham-Martin said uneasily, "It might take months to find Lequiller and bring him to action, sir…"

He got no further. For once Cavendish seemed unable to contain his dislike in front of his subordinates.

"Don't you ever see beyond your quarterdeck? If Lequiller can cause havoc with the Spanish and Dutch trade and supply routes there will be many who will see it as a sign for the future. God knows we are stretched thinly enough now. How long do you think our naval supremacy will last with the whole world against us?"

The anger seemed to tire him and he added wearily, "Yours is the fastest ship available, Bolitho, that is until the others have returned from overhaul. I have told your Commodore to shift his pendant to Hyperion at once. Together with the two frigates you will sail for the Caribbean with all haste. Indomitable and Hermes with the sloops will follow you, but I want you there as soon as possible, is that clear?"

Pelham-Martin heaved himself to his feet. "I should like to return to my ship, sir. There are things I must attend to."

Cavendish remained seated. "The French fleet will be out soon, and I cannot spare another frigate for your use." He added in a sharper tone, "Nor can I go with you myself for the same reason. I want Lequiller found and his ships taken or destroyed. I will have my written orders sent to Hyperion within the hour, by which time I will expect you ready to proceed. You will sail first to the Dutch island of St. Kruis. It has a good harbour and is well placed for you to watch over, the neighbouring islands. It is less than a hundred miles from the mainland and Caracas where most of the plate and bullion is loaded for shipment to Spain."

He gave a curt nod of dismissal as the commodore left the cabin. Then almost to himself he said, "It is quite a task which I have given him, Bolitho. One which requires each captain to think for himself, yet work in a team. Blockade is only half an answer. It postpones rather than decides, just as it punishes the weak and the innocent along with the guilty. The only way to win this war is to meet the enemy ship to ship, gun to gun, and man to man!"

He sighed and seemed to relax slightly.

"Is your ship ready, Bolitho? God knows she should be after a six months' refit."

"I was fifty men under complement when I recommissioned, sir and I lost ten killed in battle with the frigate."

The vice-admiral's eyes clouded over. "Ah, yes, the frigate. I am glad you were able to avenge Ithuriel." His tone hardened. "Well, I can spare no men for you. You must obtain them as best you can." Then he heaved himself to his feet and stared at Bolitho searchingly. "I knew your father, and I am aware of your record. But for that, and the fact you dropped anchor before Lequiller's ultimatum, I might have found you guilty of cowardice." He shrugged heavily. "In any case, no matter what I might have believed, the Articles of War make small allowance for past achievements or private confidences. Forty years ago they shot Admiral Byng for making a mistake. They would think very little of hanging a mere captain if the example should serve to encourage others to greater efforts!"

Surprisingly, he smiled and held out his hand. "Go to your ship, and good luck. We are now in 1795. It could be a profitable year for our cause. Or it could be a disaster. You belong to a generation of sea officers who are the right age and in the right time to avert the latter."

Bolitho could find no answer than, "Thank you, sir."

Cavendish suddenly became grave and severe. "I hear you have married?" He glanced at the old sword on Bolitho's hip. "I recall your father wearing that. Maybe your son willl carry it one day." He followed him to the door, adding quietly, "See that it goes to him with the same honour it came to you, eh?"

Bolitho walked on to the quarterdeck, his mind in a whirl. It was the same scene as when he had come aboard, yet so very different. Even the air tasted cleaner, and it was all he could do to stop himself from running down to his barge.

The frigate's captain was waiting beside the entry port and glanced at him curiously. "Will you have any mail for me to take, sir?"

Bolitho stared at him. "Yes. I will send it across directly."

The sudden implication of the question brought him back to reality. He had worried about being so far from Cheney. Now he was going to the other side of the Atlantic. It was close on five thousand miles to that part of the Caribbean. It could be months, even years before he returned. If ever.

He touched his hat and climbed down to the barge.

Allday studied his grave features. "Back to the ship, sir?"

Bolitho looked at him and then smiled. "There's nowhere else to go."

As the boat pulled strongly towards the Hyperion he tried to, apply his mind to all the countless details and alterations he would have to make in his plans and daily routine. There were problems and shortages, and not least of his worries would be having Pelham-Martin as his constant companion.

But again and again his thoughts returned to the house in Falmouth, the feeling of distance mounting up and up, until it seemed like part of another world.

Allday rested his fingers on the tiller and kept an eye on the stroke oar. Buring Bolitho's stay with the vice-admiral Allday had not been idle. A frigate was too small and cramped to hold an important secret, and the lower deck always knew about a change of plans almost as soon as the wardroom.

The Caribbean again, he thought. And all because of that bloody-minded Frog admiral who had hanged helpless prisoners. It would mean sun and sweat, rancid water, and the constant threat of disease. It might mean a whole lot worse before they were done, he decided.

Then he studied the set of Bolitho's shoulders and smiled slightly. But at least they still had the captain with them. And to Allday, that was just about all that really mattered.

Lieutenant Inch sat awkwardly on the edge of a chair, his hat crushed between his knees as he listened intently to Bolitho's news.

Bolitho said, "So you see, it seems as if your marriage will have to be postponed for a while?"

Inch nodded, his face screwed into a mask of concentration as if to memorise every word.

"You may inform the officers of the destination and possible purpose, but I will tell our people as soon as I have a spare moment."

Bolitho heard the bellow of orders and scrape of feet on the gangway, and guessed that the last of the commodore's personal possessions were being hauled aboard.

He added, "Pelham-Martin is used to a smart ship, Mr. Inch. Even at short notice he will rightly expect the proper honours."

Inch came out of his thoughts with a jerk. "I have told Captain Dawson, sir. The guard and bandsmen are already assembled."

"Good." Bolitho glanced round the cabin. He had already had his own things removed to the chartroom, and Pelham-Martin would enjoy the comfort of these quarters. And the view from the stem windows, too, be thought sadly.

He continued, "As soon as we get under way I want to see the purser. A full and detailed account of fresh water and lime juice will also be required. It may be months before we can expect to replenish stores with fresh food and fruit, and some of our people will find it hard enough without being plagued with scurvy or worse."

Inch stood up, his thin body swaying loosely to the uncomfortable motion. "I am very sorry, sir, but I neglected to tell you. We have a new midshipman aboard."

Bolitho stopped leafing through his neatly written orders and stared at him. "Did he fall from heaven, Mr. Inch?"

The first lieutenant flushed. "Well, sir, when you were aboard the admiral's frigate I was so troubled that I forgot about it. He was sent across from the frigate with some mail and medical stores. He is straight out of Plymouth, and never before in a King's ship."

Bolitho leaned back at the desk. "Well, one more midshipman will be very useful later on, no matter what experience at his disposal."

There was a loud thud from the main deck and Tomlin's voice shattered the air with a stream of curses.

"Very well, Mr. Inch. Send the young gentleman in, and then go and watch over the commodore's possessions, eh?" He smiled dryly. "It would be an even worse beginning if they were damaged."

He turned back to his orders again, thinking of what lay ahead, and of the remarks Vice-Admiral Cavendish had privately voiced to him.

New methods, and a new type of sea officer. It was strange but true that men like Rodney and Howe, names once revered throughout the Navy, were now openly criticised by younger and more zealous officers. Like the young Captain Nelson whom Bolitho had seen over a year back off Toulon, whose personal initiative and daring had taken Bastia from under the very noses of the French army.

At the right age and at the right time, Cavendish had said. Bolitho shut the desk drawer and locked it firmly. We shall see, he thought.

There was a hesitant tap at the door, and when he swung round in the chair Bolitho saw the new midshipman standing uncertainly at the far end of the cabin.

"Come over here so that I can see you." Bolitho could hardly spare the time to meet the newcomer, but knew from bitter experience what it was like to join a ship already in commission, alone and with no familiar faces to ease the first jolts and scrapes.

The boy stepped forward and halted within feet of the desk. He was tall for his age, slim and dark eyed, with hair as black as Bolitho's. He had a wild, restless appearance about him, which reminded Bolitho of an untrained colt.

He took the heavy envelope from the midshipman's hands and slit it open. It was from the Port Admiral at Plymouth, with the bare facts of the approved appointment to the Hyperion. The boy's name was, it appeared, Adam Pascoe.

Bolitho looked up and smiled. "A fellow Cornishman, eh? How old are you, Mr. Pascoe?"

"Fourteen, sir." He sounded taut and on guard.

Bolitho studied him. There was something strange about Pascoe, yet he could not place it. He noted the poor quality of the boy's uniform coat, the cheap gilt on his dirk.

Pascoe did not falter under his scrutiny but dived one hand inside his coat and produced another letter. Quickly he said, "This is for you, sir. I was told to give it to no one else."

Bolitho slit open a crumpled envelope and turned away slightly. It was common enough to get a private letter under these circumstances. An unwanted son being sent away to sea, a request for special privilege, or merely a fond mother's personal plea for his care in the world she could never share.

The paper quivered in his fingers as he gripped it with sudden force. The letter was from his own brother-in-law, Lewis Roxby, Falmouth landowner and magistrate, and married to Bolitho's younger sister. The sprawling writing seemed to swim as he read the middle.paragraph for the second time.

When the boy came to me for my protection it was of course necessary to investigate the value of documents he brought with him. There is no doubt that the claims made on his behalf are genuine. He is the son of your late brother Hugh. There are letters from him to the boy's mother, whom it appears he had some intent upon marrying before he quit the country. He never saw his father of course, and lived until recently with his mother, who was little more than a common whore to all accounts, in the town of Penzance.

There was more, quite a lot more, all of which spoke of excuses and reasons for getting the boy away from Falmouth without delay.

Bolitho swallowed hard. He could well imagine the consternation the boy's sudden appearance must have caused. He did not really like Roxby, nor could he ever understand his sister's choice for a husband. Roxby loved a good rich life, with all the hunting and bloodsport he could find to fill his day with others of the county whom he might consider as his equals. The thought of being involved with a reborn local scandal would be more than enough to move him to write this letter and send the boy packing to sea.

He turned and looked again at the young midshipman. Letters of proof, Roxby had said. But just to look at him should have been enough. No wonder he had seemed strange. It was like looking at himself as a boy!

Pascoe met his gaze; his expression drawn between defiance and anxiety.

Bolitho asked quietly, "Your father, boy, what do you know of him?"

"He was a King's officer, sir, and was killed by a runaway horse in America. My mother often described him to me." He faltered before adding, "When she was dying she told me to make my way to Falmouth and seek your family, sir. I-I know my mother never married him, sir. I have always known, but…" His voice trailed away.

Bolitho nodded. "I understand." What a lot had been left unsaid. How the boy's mother had managed to keep and clothe him, to protect him from the truth that his father had desertedd the Navy and had fought against his country, spoke volumes, and moved Bolitho to say, "As you must know, your father was my brother." He looked away and hurried on, "And you lived in Penzance, you say?"

"Yes, sir. My mother was sometimes a housekeeper for the squire. When she died I walked to Falmouth."

Bolitho studied his face thoughtfully. Twenty miles on foot, alone and with no knowledge of what might be waiting for him in a strange town.

The boy said suddenly, "Aunt Nancy was most generous, sir. She took care of me," he dropped his gaze, "while they were looking into things."

"Aye, she would." Bolitho recalled his sister with sudden clarity, how she had nursed and mothered him when he had lain half dying with fever after his return from the Great South Sea. She would look after the boy better than anyone, he thought.

It was strange to realise that all these years he had been living a bare twenty miles from Falmouth, and the house, which if not for this cruel twist of fate, would have been his own property one day.

Pascoe said quietly, "When I was in Falmouth, sir, I went to the church and saw my father's plaque there. Beside all those others…" He swallowed hard. "I liked that, sir."

There was a tap on the door and Midshipman Gascoigne stepped carefully into the cabin. Gascoigne was seventeen and the ship's senior midshipman. In the coveted post of looking after the Hyperion's signals, he was next in line for promotion to acting lieutenant. Also, he was the only midshipman who had been at sea before in a King's ship.

He said formally, "Mr. Inch's respects, sir, and the barge is putting off from Indomitable with the commodore on board." His eye strayed to the new midshipman, but did not even flicker.

Bolitho stood up, groping for his sword. "Very well, I'll come directly." He added sharply, "Mr. Gascoigne, I will place Mr. Pascoe in your charge. See that he is allotted a station and keep a careful eye on his progress."

"Sir?" Gascoigne looked inscrutable.

Bolitho hated favouritism of any kind, and despised those who used it to grant or receive advancement or special treatment. But it seemed little enough now. This poor, wretched boy who was grateful for a chance to make good when he was entirely blameless for the fate which had left him without a father or his proper name, was now in his ship, and from what he could gather from Roxby's letter, likely to have nowhere else to go in the whole world.

He said calmly, "Mr. Pascoe is my, er, nephew."

When he looked again at the boy's face he knew he had been right.

Unable to watch the torment in his dark eyes a moment longer he added harshly, "Now be off with you! There's more than enough work as it is!"

Minutes later as he stood by the entry port to receive the commodore, Bolitho found himself thinking of what the boy's arrival might come to mean. As he glanced casually at the other officers he wondered just how much they knew or considered their captain's background and the one flaw in his family's record.

But their expressions were mixed. Excitement at the voyage ahead, troubled by the thought of leaving someone dear even further astern, the faces were as varied as their owners. Maybe they were just relieved at being spared from the boredom of blockade, and did not yet fully comprehend the enormity of the ship's true mission. The sudden change- of orders seemed to have driven the horror of the hangings, the sharp and fierce clash with the frigate from their minds. Even the handful of seamen killed in the one-sided fight, who had been buried at sea almost before their blood had been scrubbed from the planking, appeared to have faded in memory. Which was just as well, he thought grimly.

As Pelham-Martin's cocked hat appeared up the side and the pipes squealed and the marines' drums and fifes broke into Heart of Oak, Bolitho momentarily thrust his personal hopes and misgivings to the back of his mind.

He stepped forward, removing his hat, knowing from the uplifted eyes of a small sideboy that the broad pendant had broken from the masthead at exactly the right moment, and said formally, "Welcome aboard, sirl"

Pelham-Martin clapped on his hat and peered around at the watching figures. He was perspiring freely, and Bolitho could almost taste the brandy on his breath. Whatever Cavendish had said to him privately had certainly moved Pelham-Martin enough to fortify himself well before coming across to his new flagship.

He said shortly, "Carry on, Bolitho." Then followed by Petch he waddled aft to the quarterdeck ladder.

Bolitho looked at Inch. "Get the ship under way, if you please." He glanced aloft at the new pendant. "The- wind has backed a trifle, I think. Make a signal to the frigates Spartan and Abdiel to take station as ordered. He watched Gascoigne scribbling on his slate, the flags dashing up to the yards. He saw, too, that Pascoe was with Gascoigne, his.head bent to catch what his senior was telling him. At that moment the boy looked up, and across the hurrying seamen and jerking halyards their eyes met.

Bolitho nodded curdy, and then gave a brief smile. When he looked again the boy was hidden by the afterguard as they clumped to the mizzen braces.

He said, "We will steer west-south-west, Mr. Gossett."

Later, as the Hyperion tilted steeply to the wind and more and more canvas blossomed and thundered from her braced yards, Bolitho walked on to the poop and stared astern. The other two-deckers and the vice-admiral's frigate were already lost in a misty haze, and of France there was no sign at all.

Inch came aft and touched his hat. "It'll be a long chase, sir."

Bolitho nodded. "Let us hope it may also be a fruitful one." Then he crossed to the weather side and retreated into his thoughts again.