FORM LINE OF BATTLE!

1. THE OLD HYPERION

The frigate Harvester, nine days outward bound from Spithead, turned easily into the gentle offshore breeze and dropped anchor, the echoes of her gun salute still reverberating and grumbling around the towering wall of Gibraltar 's unchanging Rock. Her young captain let his eye rest a moment longer on the busy activity below the quarterdeck as his men threw themselves into the work of swaying out boats, urged on by sharp commands and more than one cuff from an impatient petty officer. Entering harbour was always a tense moment, and the captain knew that he was not the only one aboard who was aware of the big ships of the line anchored nearby, the largest of which wore a vice-admiral's flag at the fore, and no doubt there were several telescopes already trained on his small command' ready to reprimand or criticise.

With a final glance he strode aft and crossed to the starboard side where a tall, solitary figure leaned against the hammock nettings.

`Shall I signal for a boat, sir? Or would one of mine be sufficient?'

Captain Richard Bolitho pulled himself from his thoughts and turned to face the other man.

'Thank you, Captain Leach, I will take yours. It will save time.' He imagined he saw a touch of relief in the man's eyes, and realised that it could not have been easy for so young and junior a captain, who had not yet attained the coveted post rank, to carry him from England as a passenger.

He relaxed slightly and added, 'You have a fine ship. We made a quick passage.' He shivered in spite of the earlymorning sunlight and saw Leach watching him with new interest. But what could he understand of Bolitho's feelings? While the frigate had beaten down the English Channel and round Brest, where once more the British squadrons rode out all weathers to watch over a blockaded French fleet, Bolitho's thoughts had reached far beyond the plunging bowsprit to this moment only. Down across the Bay, with its blustering winds and savage currents, and still further south until the coast of Portugal loomed like a blue mist far abeam. He had had plenty of time to think of what lay ahead, of his new command, and. all that she might come to mean to him. In his solitary walks on the frigate's spray-dashed quarterdeck he had been conscious,of his role as a mere passenger, and more than once had had to check himself from interfering in the running of

the ship.

Now, beneath the Rock's great shadow, he must push such thoughts out of his mind. He was no longer a frigate captain with all the independence, and dash that post entailed. Within minutes he would take command of a ship of the line, one of those which swung so calmly and so confidently above their reflections just two cables distant. He made himself look squarely at the -one which lay astern of the flagship. A two-decker, one of the seventy-four-gun ships which made up the backbone of England 's far-stretched squadrons. The frigate beneath his feet moved restlessly even within the calm waters of the anchorage, her tapered topmasts spiralling against the washed-out blue sky, her rigging humming as if from impatience at the very necessity of being near her heavier consorts. By comparison the two-decker looked squat and unmoving, her towering masts and yards, her double line of ports, adding to her appearance of ponderous power, around which the busy harbour craft scurried like so many water-beetles.

The other man watched the gig being rowed round to the entry port and saw Bolitho's coxswain standing beside a pile of personal luggage like a thickset dog guarding his master's most prized possessions.

He said, `You've a good man there, sir.'

Bolitho followed his glance and smiled. 'Allday has been with me since…: His mind went back over the years without effort, as if every thought and each memory was always lying in wait like a half-forgotten picture. He said abruptly, 'My first coxswain was killed at the Saintes in '82. Allday has been with me ever since.' Just a few words of explanation, yet how much more they meant to Bolitho, just as Allday's familiar shape was a constant reminder. Now the Saintes and the frigate Phalarope were eleven years in the past, and England was at war again.

Leach watched Bolitho's grave face and wondered. During the uneventful voyage from Spithead he had wanted to confide with him, but something had stopped him. He had brought plenty of other passengers to Gibraltar and usually they made a pleasant diversion in the daily routine. Officers for the garrison, couriers and replacements for men killed by accident or design in a war which was already spreading in every direction. But something in Bolitho's impassive, almost withdrawn manner had deterred him from close contact. He looked at him now with a mixture of interest and envy. Bolitho was a senior captain and about to take a step which with any luck at all would place him on the list for flag rank within a few years, maybe only months.

From what Bolitho had said he guessed him to be in his middle or late thirties. He was tall and surprisingly slim, and when he smiled his face became equally youthful. It was said that Bolitho had been away for several years between the wars in the Great South Sea and had come back half dead with fever. It was probably true, he decided. There were deep lines at the comers of his mouth, and beneath the even tan there was a certain fineness to the skin and cheekbones which betrayed such an illness. But the hair which was pulled back to the nape of his neck was black, without even a touch of grey, and the one lock which curled down above his right eye added to his appearance of controlled recklessness.

A lieutenant touched his hat. `Boat's ready, sir.'

Bolitho held out his hand. 'Well, goodbye for, the present, Leach. No doubt we will meet again directly.'

The frigate's captain smiled for the first time. 'I hope so, sir.' He snapped his fingers with sudden irritation. 'I almost forgotl There is a midshipman aboard who is also appointed to your ship. Will he go across with you?'

He spoke carelessly, as if he were discussing a piece of unwanted baggage, and Bolitho grinned in spite of his inner anxiety. 'We were all midshipmen once, Leach.' He nodded. 'He can come with me.'

Bolitho climbed down the ladder to the, entry port where the bosun's mates and marines were assembled to see him over the side. His boxes had already vanished, and Allday was waiting by the bulwark, his eyes watching Bolitho as he knuckled his forehead and reported, 'All stowed, Captain.'

Bolitho nodded. There was something very reassuring about Allday. He was no longer the lithe topman he had once been. He had filled out now, so that in his blue jacket and wide duck trousers he looked muscular and unbreakable, like a rock. But his eyes were still the same. Half thoughtful, half amused. Yes, it was good to have him here today.

Then Bolitho saw the midshipman. He got a quick impression of a pale, delicate face and a thin, gangling body which did not seem able to hold still. It was odd that he had not seen him before within the close world of the frigate, he thought.

As if reading his mind Leach said shortly, `He's been seasick for most of the voyage.'

Bolitho asked kindly, `What is your name, boy?'

The midshipman began, 'S-S-Seton, sir.' Then he lapsed into blushing silence.

Leach said unfeelingly, 'He stutters, too. I suppose we must take all kinds in times like these:

Bolitho hid a smile. 'Quite so.' He waited a moment and then added, 'Well, Mr. Seton, you go down into the boat first, if you please.' He saw the boy's mind wrestling with this early complication in his new career and then said, 'Carry on, Allday.'

He hardly heard the twitter of pipes or the harsh bark of commands, and only when the gig had moved clear of the frigate's hull and the oars sent her skimming across the unbroken water did he permit himself another glance at his new ship.

Allday followed his stare and said quietly, 'Well there she is, Captain. The old Hyperion.'

As the little gig pulled steadily over the blue water Bolitho concentrated his full attention on the anchored Hyperion. Allday had perhaps made his comment without thought, yet his words seemed to jar another chord in Bolitho's mind as if to rule out this further meeting as mere coincidence.

Hyperion was an old ship, for it was twenty-one years since her keel had first tasted salt water, and Bolitho's rational mind told him that it was inevitable he should see her from time to time as his service carried him from one part of the world to the next. Yet whenever his mind and body had been tried to the limit it now seemed as if this old ship of the line had somehow been close by. At the bloody battles of the Chesapeake, and again at the Saintes, when his own beloved frigate had almost been pounded into submission, he had seen her blunt bows thrusting through the thickest of the smoke, her sides flashing with gunfire and sails pockmarked with holes as she fought to hold her place in the line.

He narrowed his grey eyes as the sunlight lanced up from the water and threw a pattern of dancing reflections across the ship's tall side. He knew that she had been in steady commission now for over three years and had returned home from the West Indies with high hopes for a quick pay-off and welLearned rest both for herself and her company.

But while Hyperion had sailed serenely on her peacetime affairs in the Caribbean sunlight and Bolitho had fought wretchedly against a consuming fever in his house at Falmouth, the clouds of war had gathered once more across Europe. The bloody revolution which had seized France from coast to coast had at first been viewed from nervous excitement from across the English Channel, a human reaction of people who watch an old enemy weakened from within without cost to themselves, but as the fury spread and the stories filtered back to England of a new, even more powerful nation emerging from the din of execution squads and mob carnage, those who had known danger and fear in the past accepted the inevitability of yet another war.

Followed by an anxious and protesting Allday, Bolitho had left his bed and had made his way to London. He had always detested the false gaiety of the town, with its sprawling, dirty streets and the contrasting splendour of its great houses, but he had made up his mind that if necessary he would bend his knee and plead for a new ship.

After weeks of fretting and fruitless interviews he had been given the task of recruiting unwilling inhabitants of the Medway towns to fill the ships which were at last being called into commission.

To the senior powers of the Admiralty whose immediate duty it was to expand and equip a depleted fleet Bolitho was a clever choice for the work of recruitment. His exploits as a young frigate captain were still well remembered, and when war came his was the kind of leadership which might win men from the land for the uncertainties and hardhips of a life at sea. Unfortunately Bolitho did not view his appointment with the same enthusiasm. It was somehow characteristic of his make-up that he saw it as a lack of confidence and trust by his superiors whom he suspected of thinking the worst about his recent illness. A sick captain could be a danger. Not just to himself and his ship, but to the vital chain of command, Which once weakened could bring disaster and defeat.

The following January England had reeled from the news that the King of ' France had been beheaded by his own people, and before their minds could adjust to the shock the new French National Convention declared war. It was as if the fury of the whole French nation had shaken the country from the course of reason. Even Spain and Holland, old allies from the past,. had received the same declaration, and now, like England, stood awaiting the first real onslaught.

And so the old Hyperion had sailed again with hardly a pause in harbour. To Brest and the inevitable lot of the Chan, nel Squadron to blockade and watch over the French ships sheltering beneath the guns of the shore batteries.

Bolitho had continued with his task, his despair at not being given an aimediate command only helping to play fresh havoc with hi aealth.

Then as winter gave way to spring he had received his orders to pror.,,ed to Spithead and take passage for Gibraltar. As he sat in the stem of the gig he could feel the heavy envelope in his breast pocket, the authority to control and command this ship which now towered above him and reduced all else to insignificance.

Already he could hear the twitter of pipes, the stampede of bare feet and the clatter of muskets as she prepared to receive him. He wondered briefly how long they had awaited his ap. pearance, whether or not his arrival would be greeted with pleasure or misgivings.

It was one thing to take command from another captain who was leaving for promotion or retirement, quite another to step into a dead man's shoes.

The gig rounded the high bows and Bolitho stared up at the bright overhanging figurehead. Like the rest of the paintwork the figurehead's gilt looked fresh and clean, which was one small sign of a well-run ship. Hyperion the Sun God carried an out-thrust trident and was crowned with the rising sun itself. Only a pair of staring blue eyes broke the sheen of gold, and Bolitho found time to wonder how many of the King's enemies had seen that gilt face through the smoke and had died minutes later.

He looked round as he heard something like a gasp and saw the thin midshipman staring up at the towering masts and furled sails. His face seemed full of dread, and the hand which gripped the boat's gunwale was stiff like a claw.

Bolitho asked quietly, 'How old are you, Mr. Seton?'

The boy tore his eyes from the ship and muttered, `S-Sixteen, sir.'

Bolitho nodded gravely. 'Well, I was about your age when I joined a ship very like this one. That was the year Hyperion was built.' He gave a wry smile. `And as you see, Mr. Seton, we are both still here!'

He saw the emotions chasing each other across the midshipman's pale face and was glad he had omitted to add that the occasion he had described had been his second ship. At that time, and from the age of twelve, he had been constantly at sea. He wondered why Seton's father had left it so late before sending him into the Navy.

He straightened his back as the boat shot forward towards the entry port and a voice rang out, 'Boat ahoy?'

Allday cupped his hands and yelled, 'Hyperion!'

If doubt there had been, there was none now. Every man aboard would know that the straight-backed figure in the goldlaced hat was his new master, the man who, next to God, held complete sway over every life in his ship. One who could flog or hang, just as he could equally reward and recognise the faults or efforts of everybody under his hand.

As the oars were tossed and the bowman hooked on to the main chains it took all of Bolitho's self-control to hold himself motionless in the sternsheets. Strangely, it was the seasick, midshipman who broke the spell. He made to scramble towards the side, but Allday growled, 'Not yet, my young gentleman!' He pulled him back to his seat and added, 'Seniors are last in the boat but first out, got it?'

Bolitho stared at each of them and then forgot them. Pulling his sword against his thigh, for once he had witnessed a new captain falling headlong backwards into his barge, he climbed stiffly up through the carved and gilded entry port.

As he removed his hat he was almost overwhelmed by the immediate response which seemed to come from every side, from above and below his bared head. The greeting which had started with the shrill scream of pipes as his face had appeared over the side, burst into a wild crescendo of noise which at first his mind had difficulty in sorting out. The drums and fifes of a small marine band, the slap and snap of muskets being brought to the present and the swish of swords completing the general salute.

He felt hemmed in by the scarlet ranks of marines, the blue and white of assembled officers, and, above all, the packed faces and pigtailed heads of the men who had been hurriedly called from their duties throughout the ship.

He should have been ready, but in his heart he knew he had been so long in frigates that this sudden upsurge of figures had caught him entirely off guard. As his mind accepted this and his eye moved quickly over the nearest rank of shining guns, the freshly holystoned planking and the taut web of rigging and shrouds, he became aware, perhaps for the first time, of his new responsibility.

Up to this instant he had been considering the Hyperion only as a different way of life. Now, as the band fell into sudden silence and a tall, grave-faced lieutenant stepped forward to meet him, he understood his real purpose. The realisation both surprised and humbled him. Here within her fat, onehundred-and-eighty-foot hull the Hyperion contained a whole new world. A strange imprisoned existence in which some six hundred officers and men lived, worked and, if required, died together, yet stayed apart in their own segments of discipline and seniority. It was hardly surprising that many captains of such ships as Hyperion were overwhelmed by their sense of power and self-importance.

He realised that the tall officer was watching him intently, his face set in an expressionless mould. He said, 'Lieutenant Quarme, sir. I am the senior aboard.'

Bolitho nodded. 'Thank you, Mr. Quarme.' He reached inside his coat and drew out his commission. The noise and sudden excitement had left him feeling faint. After the weeks of waiting and fretting all at once he needed to find the privacy of his new quarters. This Quarme looked a competent enough officer, he thought. He had a sudden picture of Herrick, his old first lieutenant in the Phalarope and the Tempest, and wished with all his heart that he and not Quarme had stepped forward to greet him.

Quarme moved quietly along the rank of officers, murmuring names and adding small additions about their duties. Bolitho kept his face quite impassive. It was fat too early for smiles and general acknowledgments. The real men would emerge later from behind these stiff, respectful faces. But they seemed a general enough collection, he decided vaguely, but so many of them after a frigate. He walked along the rank, past the lieutenants and senior warrant officers to where the midshipmen waited, with fascinated attention. He thought of young Seton and wondered what he was thinking of this awesome spectacle. Terrified, most likely.

Two marine officers stood rigidly before the scarlet ranks with their white crossbelts and silver buttons, and across the main press of figures beyond were the other warrant officers, the professionals who decided whether a ship would live or die. The boatswain and the carpenter, the cooper and all the rest.

He felt the sun very warm across his cheek and hurriedly opened his papers. He saw the watching figures crowd forward to hear and see better, and others dropped their eyes as he looked towards them, as if afraid of making a bad impression at such an early moment.

He read the commission briskly and without emotion. It was addressed to Richard Bolitho, Esquire, from Samuel Hood, Admiral of the Red, and required him to take upon him the charge and command of captain in His Britannic Majesty's ship Hyperion. Most of the men had heard such commissions read before, some no doubt many times, yet as he read through the neat, formal phrases he was conscious of the silence. As if the whole ship were holding her breath.

Bolitho rolled up the papers and returned them to his pocket. From one corner of his eye he saw Allday move slightly aft towards the quarterdeck ladder. As always he was ready to mark the way for his retreat from formality and discomfort.

In spite of the sun across the tops of the hammock nettings he felt light-headed and suddenly chilled. But he gritted his teeth and forced himself to remain quite motionless in front of the marines. This was a crucial moment in his life. His impression on his men might later decide their fate as well as his own. He had a sudden, sickening picture of himself falling in a fresh bout of fever with every eye watching his disgrace and humiliation, and surprisingly the mental scene helped to steady him.

He raised his voice. 'I will not keep you long from your duties, as there is much to do. The water lighters will be alongside directly, for I intend to hold this favourable wind and make sail this afternoon,' He saw two of the lieutenants exchange quick glances and added in a harder note, 'My orders require me to take this ship and join Lord Hood's squadron off Toulon without delay. Once there, we. will make every effort to contain the enemy within his harbours, but if possible, and whenever possible, we will seek him out and destroy him.'

A slight murmur moved through the packed seamen, and Bolitho guessed that even up to the last moment when the ship was detached from the Brest blockade and ordered to Gibraltar to receive a new captain many hopeful souls aboard had retained the belief that the Hyperion would be returning home. His words, his new commission, had killed that hope stone dead. Now, with the first fragment of spread canvas and the merest puff of wind, every mile which dragged beneath the weed-covered keel would carry them further and further away from England. For many it might be a one-way journey.

He added more calmly, ' England is at war with a tyrant. We need every ship and every loyal man to overthrow him. See to it that each one of you does his best. In my part I will do mine.'

He turned on his heel and nodded curtly. 'Carry on, Mr. Quarme. Detail water parties and make sure the purser has plenty of fresh fruit aboard.' He stared across the mist'shrouded bay towards Algeciras. `With Spain our new ally it should not be too difficult.'

The first lieutenant touched his hat. Then he called, 'Three cheers for King George!'

Bolitho walked slowly aft, feeling drained and ice cold. The answering cheers were ready enough, but more from duty than feeling.

He climbed the ladder and walked across the spacious quarterdeck. As he lowered his head beneath the poop Allday said quietly, 'No need to duck here, sir.' He was grinning. 'Plenty of room for you now.'

Bolitho did not even hear him. Ignoring the rigid marine sentry he stepped over the coaming and into his wide stern cabin. His private world. He was still thinking of the ship as Allday closed the door and began to unpack one of his boxes.

Richard Bolitho pushed some of the litter of papers across his desk and sat back to rest his eyes. When he examined his pocket watch he realised with a start that he had been poring over the ship's books and records for almost six hours without respite, his busy mind conscious the whole time of the noises beyond the closed door and across the deck above.

More than once he had almost broken his concentration to go out into the sunlight, if only to satisfy himself that the ship's routine was functioning normally, but each time he had forced himself to sit still and to carry on with his study of the Hyperion's affairs.

Time and experience would show him the real strength and weakness of his new command, but with just a few hours alone in his quarters he had already built up a working picture in his mind. From what he had read and examined it seemed as if the Hyperion under the command of the late Captain Turner had been the essence of normality. The punishment book, which Bolitho had inspected first, and which he always considered to be the safest measure of a ship's captain if not the performance of his command, showed the usual list of petty offenders, with the punishments of flogging and disrating no more or less than one might expect. On the West Indies station there had been various deaths reported from fever and careless shipboard accidents, and the daily log books showed nothing out of the ordinary.

Bolitho leaned back still further in his chair and frowned. It was all so normal, even dull, for a ship of the Hyperion's past and record that it sensed of indifference.

Again he looked around his new quarters, as if to glean some small picture of its late occupant. It was a spacious, even elegant place, he decided, and after the close confines of a frigate seemed palatial.

The day cabin where he was sitting ran the whole width of the stem, over thirty feet from side to side, and the tall stem windows below- which was stationed the handsome carved desk shone in the afternoon sunlight and threw the wide harbour and its anchored shipping across his vision in a colourful panorama.

There was an equally large dining cabin, and on either beam a smaller separate compartment, one for sleeping and the other for the charts.

On a sudden impulse he stood up and walked to the mahogany dining table. It contained six additional leaves, so it seemed that Turner had been a lavish entertainer. All the chairs, as well as the. long bench seat below the stem windown, were of finely tooled green leather, and lying across the normal deck covering of black and white squared canvas was a rich carpet, the price of which Bolitho imagined could have paid a frigate's company of seamen for several months.

He tried to relax his tired mind, to tell himself that it was a lack of self-confidence rather than a true cause for concern which left him so apprehensive.

He stared at himself in a bulkhead mirror, noting the frown which creased his forehead, the patches of sweat across his shirt. Unconsciously he brushed at the lock of black hair above his eye, his fingers touching the deep diagonal scar beneath it and which ran upwards into his hairline. It was odd to think that when the wildly swinging cutlass had cut him down and left him marked for life the Hyperion had even then been sailing within' a few miles of where the fight had occurred.

There was a nervous tap at the door, and before Bolitho

could speak it swung open to reveal a narrow-shouldered man

in a plain blue coat who was carrying a silver tray. Bolitho glared at him. 'Well?'

The man swallowed hard…'Gimlett, sir. I'm yer servant, sir.' He had a piping voice, and with each syllable displayed a set of large, protruding teeth, like a frightened rabbit's.

Bolitho saw the man's eyes swivel towards a small side table upon which was laid his lunch untouched and, unknown to the wretched Gimlett, unseen till this moment.

Bolitho's anger at being disturbed softened slightly. The fear on the man's face was. quite genuine. It had, been known for an irate captain to have his servant flogged for merely spilling a cup of coffee.

Gimlett said, 'If it wasn't to yer liking, sir, I'll… '

'I was not hungry.' The lie was suitable compromise. 'But thank you, Gimlett, for the thought.' He looked at the servant with sudden interest. 'Did you serve Captain Turner for long?'

'Yessir.' Gimlett shuffled from one foot to the other. `He was a fine master to me, sir. Very considerate indeed.'

Bolitho smiled slightly. 'I take it you're a Devon man?'

'Aye, sir. I was chief ostler at the Golden Lion at Plymouth but came away with Cap'n Turner to serve my country the better.' His eyes suddenly fell on the pile of papers on Bolitho's desk and he added hastily, 'Well, I was in a bit of trouble with one of the chambermaids, sir. It seemed the best thing to do all round.'

Bolitho smiled more broadly. Gimlett was apparently under the impression that his late master might have left some written record of his real reason for quitting the land. He said, 'So you were only with Captain Turner while the ship was in the Indies? You did not actually go ashore to his home?' The last question was an effort to clear the look of complete incomprehension from the man's worried features.

'That's right, sir.' He looked around the wide cabin. 'This was his home, sir. He had no family. Just the ship.' He swallowed again, as if afraid he had said too much. 'Can I clear away, sir?'

Bolitho nodded thoughtfully and walked back to the windows. That was the best explanation so far. Under Turner the ship had become a home, a way of life rather than a ship of war. And her company, away from England for three years with neither combat nor hardship to trouble them, would have become equally unprepared for the challenge of blockade and war.

Twice during the day Quarme, the first lieutenant, had visited Bolitho to report on progress. Under Bolitho's casual questioning he too had more or less admitted that Turner was a fair captin but unimaginative, even lethargic.

But it was hard to, assess Quarme's true feelings. He was twenty-eight years old, with calm but uncompromising features, and gave the impression of a man who was just biding his time for better things. As well he might with ships being commissioned on every hand and gaps already left by death and injury. If he stayed out of trouble he might have a small command of his own within the year. The fact that Turner had made no recommendation had at first made Bolitho suspicious. Now as he built up a mental picture of his predecessor he began to realise that Turner probably wanted the ship and everything aboard, including his officer, to remain the same. It was a reasonable, if selfish, explanation, he thought.

There was one further factor in Turner's make-up which still left him feeling troubled. In his private papers which Quarme had opened after his death he had left what amounted to a will. There were a few small bequests to some distant relatives, but the part which caught Bolitho's attention was the neatly written addition at the end.

‘… and to the next captain of this ship I leave and bequest all my furniture and fittings, my wines and my personal belongings, with the true and sincere hope that he will continue to retain them for his own uses and the wellbeing of the ship.’

It was an unusual request indeed.

At first Bolitho had intended to have Allday pack up everything and send it ashore to the Rock garrison. But be had left England in a hurry, so great was his eagerness to join the Hyperion. Apart from his uniforms and a few personal items he had come with little to ease the life of a captain in a ship of the line. Now as he looked round the great cabin he had second thoughts. It was as if by agreeing to Turner's eccentric desires he had allowed the man to remain aboard also. Dead and buried he might be, but in the captain's quarters his memory seemed to hang like a presence.

There was another tap at the door, but this time it was Quarme. He had his hat beneath his arm, and in the reflected sunlight his face looked guarded.

'I have mustered the officers in the wardroom as you ordered, sir.'

As he spoke, four bells of the afternoon watch chimed overhead, and Bolitho guessed he had been waiting for the exact moment of entry.

'Very well, Mr. Quarme. I am ready.' He pulled his uniform coat from a chair back and readjusted his neckcloth. 'I have completed reading the log, you may take it with you.'

Quarme said nothing. Instead he looked at the old sword which hung on the polished bulkhead. It had almost been Allday's first action to hang it there, and as Bolitho followed Quarme's stare he thought of his father and his father before him. Even in the sunlight it looked tarnished and old. But he knew that if he had brought nothing else from Falmouth but that sword it would have been worth more to him than all the rest of his possessions.

He half expected Quarme to comment. As Herrick would have done. He shook himself angrily. It was useless to continue with these pointless comparisons.

He said coldly, 'Lead the way if you please.'

Since his first-ever command, that of the tiny sloop Sparrow, Bolitho had alwaysmade a point of meeting his officers informally on the first possible moment. Now as he followed Quarme out on to the quarterdeck and down a wide ladder to the maindeck he found himself wondering about his new subordinates. He could never rid himself of the feeling of nervousness, although time and time again he bad told himself that it was their part to be the more apprehensive.

The wardroom was directly beneath his own cabin, with the same set of wide wmdows across the stem. But the sides were lined with tiny cabins, and the corners jammed with sea-chests and the litter of personal equipment. Two of the ship's upper battery of twelve-pounders were also present, and Bolitho was briefly gratified that unlike the wardroom his own cabin would be spared the chaos and damage when the ship cleared for action.

The wardroom was crowded with standing figures, for apart from the five lieutenants and marine officers Bolitho had made sure that the midshipmen and senior warrant officers were also present. These latter were the true link be

tween poop and forecastle, as he knew from hard experience.

He seated himself at the head of the long table and placed his hat beside a rolled chart. `Seat yourselves, gentlemen, or stand if you desire. I would not wish you to change your habits for my temporary convenience.' There was some polite laughter. The captain was, after all, merely, a guest in a wardroom, although Bolitho had often wondered what might happen if such a privilege be denied. He opened the chart slowly, knowing that their eyes were still on him rather than it.

'As you are now aware, we sail to join Lord Hood. It is understood that in Toulon there are certain forces who, although French, are firmly against the present Revolutionary Government, and with help may well be the tools to overthrow it. By showing our strength and using every opportunity to harass the enemy's shipping we may have the chance to aid that state of affairs.' He looked up and caught sight of young Seton's face framed between the shoulders of the two marines.

He continued evenly, 'By the middle of July, Lord Hood will have such a force available as to make all this possible. Every ship will be needed. It is therefore essential that each officr does his utmost to ensure there is no wastage in effort or training.' He looked around their intent faces. 'We may not be free to return here or to any other supply base for some time to come, is that understood?'

Quarme said quietly, 'I think the second lieutenant has a question, sir.'

Bolitho glanced across to where a languid, bored-looking young offcer was sitting on one of the chests. He said, 'I forget your name for the moment.'

The lieutenant eyed him coolly. 'Sir Philip Rooke, sir.'

There was nothing insolent in his tone but Bolitho could see it in the man's pale eyes like a challenge.

`Well, Mr. Rooke, and what is the question?' Bolitho's voice was equally calm.

Rooke said in the same flat tone, 'We have been in commission for three years. The ship's bottom is as green as grass and she is as slow as an old cow.' There were a few murmurs which might have been agreement and he continued: 'Captain Turner was assured that we would be relieved of our station at Brest and that we should return to Portsmouth within the month.'

Bolitho watched him thoughtfully. So far Rooke was the first to emerge from behind his mask.

He said at length, 'Captain Turner is dead. But I am sure he would not have wished his ship to miss the chance to perform her duty.'

Rowlstone, the surgeon, a small, unhealthy-looking man with crumpled features like uncooked suet, jumped to his feet. 'I did what I could, sir! He died of a bad heart.' He looked round the wardroom wildly. 'Sitting at his desk he was. He was past my help, I tell you!'

Rooke glared at him. 'What would you know about it, man? You're more used to a butcher's knife than any sort of medicine!'

Ashby, the captain of marines, pulled in his stomach and flipped a fragment of dust from his glove-tight uniform. 'He was a good man. We all miss him, y'know.' He stared hard at Bolitho. 'But I agree with you, sir. This is war. The fight's the thing, eh?'

Bolitho smiled dryly. 'Thank you, Ashby. That is very reassuring.'

Then he looked across at Gossett, the ship's master. He was a great barrel of a man, and although seated at the table his head- was almost level with that of the miserable-looking surgeon. 'And.you, Mr. Gossett? What is your opinion?'

Gossett placed his fists on the polished wood and stared hard at them. As well he might. They were like two huge pieces of meat.

He said deeply, 'We've a good set of spare spars an' canvas, sir. Th' ship's old right enough, but she can still fetch up with better an' younger craft.' He grinned so that his small bright eyes receded into his tanned face. 'I once sailed an old seventy-four out of battle with only one mast an' the lower gundeck awash!' He chuckled as if it was one great joke. 'The Frogs'll find us ready enough if they gives us the measure, sir.'

Bolitho stood up. He had started the pot boiling. The next few days would tell him more of these men.

He said shortly, 'Very well, gentlemen. The wind is still fresh from the nor'-west. We will make sail within the hour.' He glanced at Quarme's set face. 'Call all hands in thirty minutes and prepare to break out the 'anchor. We have nine hundred miles ahead of us before we sight the squadron. Be sure you make good use of them.' He looked round at the others. 'All of you.'

As they parted across the door he strode quickly out of the wardroom and up to the sun-drenched quarterdeck. He did not know why, but it had been a bad beginning. Pehaps he was still suffering from the fever, or maybe he was too tired from waiting and worrying. Then again it was entirely possible he was unready for a ship such as Hyperion.

He stood a moment longer and stared up at the towering masts and at the tiny figures working aloft like careless monkeys.

Allday moved across the deck and said, 'I've told Gimlett to lay out your seagoing gear, Captain.' He breathed in deeply then added, 'I'll be glad to get to sea in my own ship again. I was a mite sick of the hills and the same old sights each day.'

Bolitho swung round and then checked himself. It was too easy to take out his tiredness and anger on Allday.

'At least the women in Falmouth will get a rest from your visits, Allday!'

The coxswain watched Bolitho until he vanished beneath the poop and then grinned broadly. Aloud he muttered, 'You've no need to worry, Captain. You've not changed, and nothing'll change you either!'

Then he leaned on the nettings and stared across at the anchored ships in the bay.