The Darkening Sea

6. The "Valkyrie'

The long stretch of water named The Hamoaze which separated Plymouth. Dockyard from the neighbouring county of Cornwall shone. like burnished pewter in the forenoon sunlight. The last day of August, and yet there was already a chill in the air, a hint of misty rain across the Devon countryside.

The waterway was alive with shipping of every kind and size, from two lordly ships-of-the-line tugging at their cables in a brisk off-shore breeze to collier brigs, deep in the water with their cargoes for the towns on the River Tamar and the dockyard itself. A ma sting vessel towing a great tangle of spars was following them, using the tide to make a safe passage from the Sound through the narrow strait that guarded the final approach.

To any ignorant land man one man-of-war was much the same as another, size being the only comparison, but in any true sailor the frigate anchored closest to the dockyard would rouse an immediate interest. From her tapering jib-boom to her finely-raked counter with her name, Valkyrie, below the stern cabin windows, she was obviously much larger than any other ship classed as a fifth-rate, and but for her long main gun-deck she might have passed for a ship-of-the-line.

Men moved quietly about her gangways and high above the decks on rigging and yards. A last full inspection: who could tell for how long? She was a new ship, built at the famous Bucklers Yard to an advanced design, and she had been with the fleet for less than two months. The strain on officers and seamen alike had been considerable.

Extra officers and experienced hands had been poached from other vessels in Plymouth with the aid of the port admiral, who was better aware than most of Valkyrie's importance. Properly used, she could out-fight any other man-of-war below the line of battle, and had been so designed that she could be used as a squadron commander of almost any number of vessels.

Right aft in the great cabin, Captain Aaron Trevenen was considering this very possibility as he glanced into the adjoining quarters, which were already prepared for Vice-Admiral Sir Richard Bolitho's use for as long as the situation dictated.

The quarters were spacious by any standard, he thought, for Valkyrie boasted a beam of just over forty feet with headroom, aft at least, to make every movement comfortable. Trevenen had spent almost all of his life at sea in frigates or similar vessels. This would probably be the last, he thought. A fine ship, and as a senior post-captain he had every chance of promotion to flag rank when Valkyrie had completed her commission. It had not been a definite promise, but Trevenen had been in the navy long enough to recognise the unwritten parts of his orders.

He was thickset rather than heavily-built, with a strong jaw and crows' feet to mark the years of standing watch under all conditions. His hair was a gingery chestnut colour, cut short, but not short enough to conceal the streaks of grey. He was forty but looked much older. He stood now, hands clasped behind him as if he could penetrate the full length of his command. Valkyrie was a true reward, when properly handled, for any captain. One hundred and eighty tons displacement, she could still respond like a four-in-hand. The sailing master had been astonished when the ship had logged over eighteen knots, despite her size and her forty-two guns and carronades.

Trevenen closed the door as if to shut the coming vice-admiral from his thoughts. He could not allow him to intrude. It was too dangerous. He heard the marine sentry tap his musket on the deck outside the screen door and prepared himself for his visitor.

It was Lieutenant Urquhart, his senior, an alert, quietly spoken man who had already been a first lieutenant in another frigate. Trevenen knew that, like some of the others, Urquhart had not yet got his captain's measure on so short an acquaintance.

Nor would he, he thought. He almost smiled. Almost.

He heard the tap at the door and said, "Come! "

Urquhart glanced round the day cabin as he strode aft, his cocked hat pressed under one arm. It was as if he expected to discover some identity here, a clue to the man who next to God would hold the lives of two hundred and twenty souls in his hands.

Trevenen did not miss it. "You are early, Mr. Urquhart. Is something amiss?"

The lieutenant said, "It is the surgeon, sir. He wishes to have an interview with you." He flushed as Trevenen's eyes came to rest on him. They were dark and deepset, yet managed to dominate even his strong features. Urquhart added awkwardly, "About the punishment, sir."

"I see. Tell him I do not wish to discuss it. I want it over and done with before the admiral comes aboard." He turned to the great stern windows as a yawl, tilting deeply as she tacked, passed dangerously close to the frigate's counter, then he snapped his fingers even as the first lieutenant turned to leave. "No! Belay that, Mr. Urquhart! I shall see him! "

Urquhart closed the screen door and found that his hand was snaking. In his previous ship the captain had called him by his first name when it was an informal occasion. If Trevenen ever did it to him, he would likely die of shock.

He found the surgeon waiting by the wardroom, his battered hat gripped in both hands. An untidy man, with sprouting grey hair and a face ruined by an excess of drinking. But they said he was a good surgeon; it was to be hoped they would not discover otherwise.

"It's no use. The punishment goes ahead." He shrugged helplessly. "But he will see you."

The surgeon stood his ground, his eyes angry. "The cap'n insists on the bosun's mates using the lash with the heavier knots! No man can stand up to that! "

Urquhart said, "I can do nothing." Secretly he agreed with him, but to show what amounted to disloyalty at the beginning of a commission was nothing short of madness. This ship was luckier than many, and the captain must know it. She had fewer pressed men than most, and had been fortunate in collecting some twenty new hands who, although not seamen, were tough and fearless Cornish tin miners who had been thrown out of work by a pit collapse.

The sentry brought his heels together and called, "Surgeon, sir! "

The door was opened by the cabin servant and closed instantly.

"You wish to see me?" Trevenen was standing with his broad shoulders towards the windows and the glistening panorama of water and shipping beyond.

"Aye, sir. About the land man Jacobs. I'll not vouch for his surviving punishment. It's his second flogging in two weeks, sir."

"I am aware of it. The man is an ignorant lout. I'll not tolerate insubordination nor will I see my subordinates' authority undermined." The servant padded over the black and white checkered deck covering and placed a tall glass of wine within reach of his captain.

The surgeon said, "He is an ignorant lout, sir, I'm not defending his…"

The captain held up one hand. "I have something to ask you." He saw the surgeon's raddled face watching the tall glass and added, "You were surgeon at one time in the Hyperion, Sir Richard Bolitho's flagship, I believe?"

George Minchin stared at him, caught completely off balance by the question.

"Well, yes, sir. I was in Hyperion when she went down." Some of his weary despair seemed to vanish as he said with a certain pride, "I was one of the last to leave the old lady."

"It is confidential, of course, but we shall weigh anchor once our passengers are on board. To suit the purpose of admiralty this will no longer be a private ship. Your Sir Richard Bolitho is hoisting his flag over us."

He saw the emotions chasing each other across the surgeon's face. How could a man allow himself to decay like this?

Trevenen asked, "How did you find him?"

Minchin looked into the distance, so far now beyond the cabin and the ship. The thundering roar and recoil of the old seventy-four's artillery, the unending stream of wounded and dying who had been dragged down to him on the orlop deck, the 'wings and limbs' tubs as the Jacks termed them overflowing with grisly relics of saw and knife. Arms, legs, pieces of men Minchin had once known, and all the while the deck had shivered to the fury of the battle above and around them.

"The finest man I ever met. A gentleman, but only in the true sense. I've seen him shed a tear when some poor lad lay dying. He was not too proud to stoop and hold his hand for his last minutes." He glared at the captain with sudden dislike. "Not like some! "

"Very commendable. But the punishment will be carried out at four bells this forenoon and you will attend it, sir. I have long discovered that authority and severity must often go hand in hand! "

He waited for the door to close after Minchin's shabby figure. The man was a fool. As soon as possible he would try to have him replaced, although surgeons with experience and the stomach for their butcher's work were difficult to find.

He touched the wine with his tongue. His hardest task would be to conceal and suppress the old animosity born when his father and Captain James Bolitho had become enemies. Trevenen came from Truro and he resented hearing Bolitho proclaimed Cornwall 's greatest son. He frowned, his mouth setting in a thin line.

We shall see about that.

At exactly four bells the calls trilled between decks and along Valkyrie's gangways while the marines took up their station across the quarterdeck.

"All hands! All hands! Hands lay aft to witness punishment! "

The first lieutenant came to the cabin again but Trevenen said calmly, "I heard, Mr. Urquhart. This is a quiet ship and I intend it should remain so! "

Then he picked up the folder that contained the Articles of War, and after a slow scrutiny of his quarters walked out.

Unmoved? Urquhart sighed. It was not that. There was no sign of feeling at all.

Lady Catherine Somervell stood by the tall windows of the room they had shared for only one night. The windows opened on to a small balcony and faced south across Plymouth Sound. It looked as if it might remain fine for her journey to Falmouth. She felt a shiver run through her. Perhaps she should have returned to London, the city she had once known so well. In the same breath she knew she needed to go to the old grey house below Pendennis Castle. She could keep busy amongst people who, for the most part, kept to themselves and did not stare at her wherever she went. She would always be a foreigner in Cornwall; even Yovell was, and he came from no further than Devon. But they respected her now, and she found that it mattered. Most folk probably thought she was above it, that she was used to the gossip and the lies, but she was not. And the man she loved more than life itself, who was prepared to risk everything for her and because of her, would soon be gone. Back to that other world which she had shared for a while at the mercy of the sea's cruelty, and the danger which had drawn them even closer, if that were possible.

A carriage had been sent from the dockyard with some porters to carry Bolitho's chests and cases to the ship. The wine-cooler she had given him to replace the other that lay on the sea bed in his old Hyperion would remain at Falmouth until the future had made itself clear. It would be a ready reminder whenever she saw it. Something of his.

Allday had gone with Ozzard and Yovell to make sure that nothing was stolen in the dockyard on its way to the ship, as he had bluntly put it. The serious-faced flag lieutenant, Avery, was somewhere downstairs in this inn, The Golden Lion, the best in Plymouth.

She had said good-bye to Bolitho's little crew as he called them, but Allday had lingered to say his own piece.

"I'll take good care o' Sir Richard, m'lady. Have no fear o' that." He had seemed subdued, even sad.

She had said, "Is it harder this time?"

He had given her his steady stare. "Aye, it is. When we gets home again, will you come an' see us wed?"

She had almost broken at his use of the word home.

"Nothing will keep us away." She had hugged him. The true sailor with his special scent of rum, tobacco and tar: the smells of the sea. "And take care of yourself, John. You are very dear to me."

She had seen his surprise at her emotion, the easy use of his name. She could read his thoughts. The woman who had been married to the lowest and the highest, who had stripped naked to don a man's clothing while the ship had been bearing down on the reef, who had half-killed a mutineer with a Spanish comb: how could she feel like weaker souls?

She heard Bolitho coming in now from the adjoining room, patting his pockets as she had seen him do so many times.

He was watching her gravely, his uniform and gleaming epaulettes like a barrier between them. He was wearing the beautiful presentation sword, and she knew Allday had been entrusted with the old family blade.

When they had arrived they had stood by this same window and he had remarked, "They used to have a telescope mounted here so guests could see the shipping in the Sound." He had tried to make light of it but there was something in his voice, some indefinable sadness. "I expect some rogue stole it."

"Secrets?" she had said.

"I was leaving then. I was captain of Hyperion. So long ago, it seems now. Nearly fifteen years."

She had thought of the portrait of his first wife, Cheney, found dusty and forgotten where Belinda had hidden it. She had had it cleaned and replaced on the wall.

Bolitho had said quietly, "It was the last time I saw her. She died when I was at sea."

It had been a precious moment. She knew she would study the portrait again when she returned to Falmouth: the young bride who, but for a tragic accident, would have given him a child.

A servant appeared at the door. "Beggin' yer pardon, Sir Richard, but th' carriage is 'ere."

"Thank you." He faced her again and she saw the pain in his grey eyes.

"I wish you were coming with me but I shall go directly to the dockyard. It hurts me so much to part with you, to become entangled again with the affairs of others." He crossed to the open window and said softly, "In God's name, there is a crowd outside! "

Catherine watched his dismay. Why was he always so surprised that wherever he went people wanted to see him? To ordinary men and women he was their protection, the hero who stood between them and the hated enemy.

He said, "We must say good-bye, dearest Kate. It should be a tumbril out there, not a carriage."

They stood quite motionless in one another's arms, and they kissed, clinging to the last minutes.

She whispered, "I shall take the locket from you when you are with me again. Go down to them, Richard. I will watch from here."

"No. Not from up here." He forced a smile. "Come to the door. They will adore it."

She nodded, understanding. The window where the telescope had once been mounted was the last place where he had seen Cheney, when he had gone to join his ship.

"Very well. Afterwards I shall send for Matthew, and never fear, we will have a guard with us." She touched his mouth, her fingers very cool. A last contact. She thought of the night. Unable to love, each thinking of the dawn, of today. Now.

"I love you so much, darling Kate. I feel I am leaving so much of me behind."

Then they were on the staircase and Bolitho saw Avery standing below with the Golden Lion's landlord. The latter was all smiles at the attention his famous guest was attracting. He had probably spread the word himself.

Bolitho had noticed that Avery stood and walked with one shoulder slightly raised, because of the wound he had suffered when the schooner's men had struck to the French corvette. But the old tailor at Falmouth had done well, and Avery looked quite different in his new coat with its white lapels, his cocked hat bedecked with gleaming gold lace. The tailors could stitch a uniform together in less than four days; with the comings and goings of sea officers they would work twenty-four hours a day if need be. Bolitho had thought more than once that they would make a fortune in London.

Avery doffed his hat to Catherine. "Good-bye, my lady."

She held out her hand and he put it to his lips.

She said, "We have had no time to become acquainted, Mr. Avery. We shall put that to rights when we meet again."

Avery replied awkwardly, "You are most kind, my lady."

It was obvious he had been badly hurt, far more than by his wound.

The landlord threw open the door and the roar of voices swept over them. People were cheering and calling out he knew not what in the confused din of excitement.

"You drum them Frenchies to perdition! Just like our own Drake! "

Another yelled, "God bless you, Dick, an' yer ladyship too! "

They fell strangely silent as Avery opened the carriage door with the crest of the fouled anchor on it. Bolitho looked at her and knew her mouth trembled, but only he would have seen it. Her fine dark eyes were very steady, too much so; but he knew that as far as she was concerned they were quite alone.

"Dearest of men." She could not continue. Even when they kissed there was absolute silence, as if the crowd were too awed, perhaps too sad to make a sound. When he climbed into the carriage beside Avery the whole street erupted in cheering. Civilian hats flew into the air, and two passing marines doffed their own in salute.

She watched the coachman touch the two horses with his whip and the wheels began to clatter across the cobbles. Even then they cheered, and small boys ran alongside the carriage until it gathered speed. All the while he kept his eyes on hers, locked together until the carriage had vanished around a corner. Not once had he glanced up at the window with the balcony, and she was deeply moved.

She returned to the room, and without going close to the window, watched the crowd disperse, the sound dying away like a receding tide.

Sophie was waiting for her, her eyes filling her face.

"I was that proud, me lady. All them people! "

She nodded, her hand pressed beneath her breast, afraid almost to breathe, unable to believe he had gone.

"They used to do it to poor Nelson." Then she said abruptly, Tell Matthew to fetch our things."

"All done, me lady." Sophie was puzzled. Lady Catherine should have been excited, or burst into tears. She did not understand that the tall, lovely woman with the dark hair and high cheekbones did not want to share it, not even with her.

Catherine said quietly, "Go down, Sophie. There is something I must do."

Alone she stood in the room and looked at the window where another woman had watched him go.

"May love always protect you." She spoke aloud, momentarily unconscious that what she had just said was part of the engraving on his locket.

She walked slowly down the same staircase, holding her skirt with one hand, her eyes looking directly ahead.

The landlord bowed to her. "God be with 'ee, m'lady! "

She smiled, and then froze as a carriage rolled to a halt behind the one with the Bolitho crest.

"What is it, m'lady?" Matthew made to take her arm, his round apple-face full of concern.

She stared at the other carriage as a figure climbed down.

The familiar frock coat and epaulettes, one hand reaching up for his lady's even as the inn servants ran to fetch their bags.

"It's nothing, Matthew." She shook her head as the street and the carriage misted over. She added with sudden despair, "Take me home."

As Matthew climbed up to his box and kicked off the brake, with the hard-faced guard sitting beside him, she turned at last and allowed herself to look up at their window. There were no ghosts; or were there? Was someone there, watching her depart, still waiting for the ship which had come too late?

Sophie was holding her hand, like a child. "Better now, me lady?"

She said, "Yes, " suddenly glad the girl was with her for the long journey to Falmouth.

She attempted to reassure her. "If Allday were here I think I would ask him for a wet." But the remark only saddened her.

Don't leave me…

Lieutenant George Avery paused as Bolitho left his side and walked to the edge of one of the many dockyard basins. Ships being repaired, re-rigged, and in some cases new vessels still under construction: Plymouth was always a busy place, and the air was filled with the din of hammers and the scrape of saws. Teams of horses dragged miles of cordage towards a ship bereft of rigging, where more men waited to transform the apparent tangle of meaningless rope into a pattern of

stays and shrouds: a thing of beauty to some, an endless tyranny to those who would eventually control it in every sort of sea and weather.

But Bolitho was looking at this one dock in particular. His old Hyperion had been berthed here after her terrible battle, when he had been her young captain. A proud ship which even the stains of death, the torn planking and smashed hull, could not destroy. They had made her into a stores hulk, like the one he saw now in this same dock. Nelson's words seemed to ring in his mind, when due to the shortages and the losses in the fleet Hyperion had been brought out of her humble role to be reborn, ready to stand once more in the line of battle which was her rightful place. When the choice of a new flagship had been Bolitho's, he had astounded many at the Admiralty by asking for his old command. Nelson had silenced the doubters by saying, "Give him any ship he wants! "

Hyperion had been old, but the little admiral's own choice for what was to be his last flagship, the Victory, had been forty years old when she had broken the enemy line at Trafalgar, and Nelson had paid the price for his courage.

Then, in this dockyard, Bolitho had been returning to an empty house, with nothing to believe in and nobody to care for. Now he had everything to sustain him: his lovely Catherine and a love he would never have believed possible.

Avery watched him curiously. "Sir?"

Bolitho looked at him. "Memories. I left an old ship here. But she came back to me. Until that day in October six days before Trafalgar. Some say we tilted the scales for Nelson… only Fate can be certain. I often think of it, and the fact that only my nephew ever met Nelson himself. I'm glad. It is something he'll never forget."

He thought suddenly of what Catherine had told him, how she had felt like a traitor. Only she had noticed it at first. Now others must never see it, or know that it must have been inevitable. The girl with the moonlit eyes, and the young captain. Perhaps that, too, was Fate.

He turned away. His new flag lieutenant probably thought him mad. He was very likely regretting his decision to leave the tired old Canopus at Chatham. They walked on, and some dockyard labourers who were hoisting a spar by tackle up the foremast of a frigate waved, and one shouted, "Good luck, Sir Richard! You burn them buggers! "

Bolitho raised his cocked hat and called, "You give us the ships, my lads! We'll do the rest! " They all laughed and nudged one another as if it was one huge jest.

But Avery saw Bolitho's face as he turned away from them. His eyes were bitter like his voice. "It is quite all right if you don't have to go out and do it! "

"I expect they meant well, Sir Richard."

Bolitho said coldly, "Is that what you think? Then I am sorry for you." Then he took Avery's arm and exclaimed, "That was unforgivable of me! It is not how I want it to be."

They reached the main jetty and Bolitho stood looking at the moored ships, the endless bustle of small harbour craft. His nerves were on edge. I need you, Kate. In her uncanny fashion she might hear his unspoken words. He could feel the sun burning into his back, her locket clinging to the damp skin beneath his shirt, one of the new ones she had bought for him. It helped to calm him in some way, and when he recalled how he had only owned one un darned pair of stockings as a youthful lieutenant, he almost smiled. Bless you, Kate… you heard me.

Avery said quietly, "Boat's coming, Sir Richard." He seemed afraid to disturb his thoughts. He was not shy or so easy to read as Jenour had been: he was withdrawn, biding his time.

Bolitho faced the water as a smart gig appeared around a moored hulk and veered sharply towards the jetty, her oars rising and falling like white bones. He touched his eye and Avery said immediately, "Is there something I can do, Sir Richard?"

He said, "Something in my eye, I think." The lie came easily enough. But how long before Avery, like Jenour, realised the truth? "Who is in the boat?"

Avery seemed satisfied. "A lieutenant, sir."

It was strange not to have Allday beside him at this moment, critically measuring up the boat's crew and anything else that took his attention. He was not in the gig either.

Avery commented, "Smart boat, Sir Richard."

The bowman was already standing with his boat hook poised: the lieutenant was beside the coxswain, gauging the moment.

"Oars, up! ' The boat's crew tossed their oars, each blade in perfect line with the next. It said a lot for their training, when Valkyrie had been commissioned for so short a time.

The gig glided alongside the weed-covered stairs and the bowman hooked on to a mooring ring.

The lieutenant scrambled ashore, his hat already in his hand as he snapped stiffly to attention with a flourish.

Tinlay, Sir Richard, fourth lieutenant! "

Bolitho saw the young officer's eyes flicker between them, from the famous vice-admiral to the lieutenant with the twist of gold cord at his shoulder to mark him as Bolitho's aide.

"Very well, Mr. Finlay. You have an impressive crew." He saw the lieutenant blink, as if he were unused to praise.

"Thank you, Sir Richard! "

Avery climbed down into the stern sheets and looked up to watch his new master as he turned, shading his eye to look at the land, the green hump of Mount Edgcumbe, the tiny cottages huddled together in the sunshine.

Bolitho knew the two lieutenants were observing him. Only the gig's crew remained motionless on their thwarts, although the nearness of dry land was usually enough to relax even the tightness of any discipline.

Good-bye, my dearest Kate. Though distance separates us, you are always with me.

Then, holding the presentation sword against his hip, he climbed down into the boat.

The lieutenant jumped down and called, "Cast off! Bear off forrard! " And as the stream carried them clear he added, "Out oars! Give way all! "

There was a breeze on the water and Bolitho could feel it stinging his eyes, as if to mock his formality. He glanced at the oarsmen, well turned out in their checkered shirts and tarred hats. There was something different, something wrong. Their eyes were fixed on the stroke oar, their bodies pushing the looms, then leaning back as the blades bit into the water as one. He tried to put it from his mind. A new ship, a different captain to most of them, a future as yet unknown; it was to be expected. He turned to watch a passing guard boat, oars tossed and an officer standing in the stern sheets his hat raised in salute as he saw the flag officer in the gig. They would probably all know by now, he thought. He glanced at the seamen again. Not hostile, not indifferent. Cowed. It was the only description.

So Trevenen had not changed. On matters of discipline and performance he had been described as a fanatic.

Finlay the fourth lieutenant ventured hesitantly, There she lies, Sir Richard."

Bolitho shaded his eyes. Valkyrie was big, right enough. From a distance she looked almost as large as Hyperion had been, and she had been a two-decked seventy-four.

Finlay was shifting nervously on his seat. "Watch her, Cox'n! You have the current under your coat-tails! "

The man at the tiller nodded, his eyes measuring the boat's speed through the water.

Bolitho saw the scarlet coats of the marines already in position and had the impression they had been there for a long time. Sunlight flashed on several telescopes, and even at this distance he thought he heard the trill of calls. It had taken him years to get used to these moments, steeling himself for the first encounter. He had always tried to put it in proper perspective, telling himself that they would be more worried about him than he should be about them.

Another boat was leaving the frigate from the opposite side, moving fast, two armed marines in the stern.

Avery said quietly, There's a body in that cutter, sir."

Bolitho had already seen it. Covered in a piece of canvas, one arm outflung as if the man was asleep.

Bolitho asked, "What has happened?" When Finlay remained silent he snapped, "That was a question, Mr. Finlay! "

The lieutenant stared ahead of the boat and answered unhappily, "A defaulter, Sir Richard." He swallowed hard. "He died under punishment this forenoon."

Bolitho saw the stroke oarsman watching him for just a few seconds before he stared fixedly aft again. He had been looking at him, trying to find something. As if he were pleading.

Bolitho pulled down his hat more tightly as the breeze dashed spray over the gunwale.

"What had he done?"

Finlay had gone pale, as if he was revealing something improper which might rebound on him.

"He he swore at a midshipman, Sir Richard."

"And?"

"Three dozen lashes, Sir Richard." He was biting his lip so hard it was a wonder it did not bleed.

Bolitho was aware that his flag lieutenant was listening, learning, trying perhaps to understand why someone so well-placed in the navy should care about a common seaman. Men were flogged every day: one more would make no difference. There were always the hard men who could withstand three dozen and many more and live to boast about the scars left by the infamous cat. The discipline of the lower deck was often worse when one of their own was caught stealing from a shipmate's meagre possessions. It was something that happened and everyone knew about it, and that crude justice separated them from the wardroom and warrant officers as surely as the after guard and the ship's marines.

Bolitho looked at the frigate, closer now, her mastheads towering to the sky and the Red Ensign streaming above her taffrail, the Union Flag in the bows. He studied Valkyrie's impressive figurehead: a maiden in horned helmet and breastplate, one of Odin's faithful attendants, one hand raised as if to beckon a dead hero to Valhalla. He was surprised that the beautifully carved figure was decorated only with dull yellow dockyard paint. That was strange. Most captains would pay out of their own pockets to adorn their ships' figureheads and the 'gingerbread' around the stern, as Adam had paid for the seductive nymph on Anemone, all gold apart from her eyes. Apart from anything else the gesture showed that the ship had a successful captain, who was not unwilling to spend some of his own prize money. A small thing in its way: but there was more to Trevenen than he had thought.

He still did not know why his father had disliked the Trevenen family, and his grandfather had apparently loathed them. Land, property, or some other conflict it could be anything.

He looked at the main battery of guns as the gig swept beneath the tapering jib-boom. They were powerful eighteen-pounders, whereas many of the older frigates still mounted twelve-pounders, as his own had done.

He had heard that the new American navy had gone even further, and their larger frigates carried twenty-four-pounders. Less manoeuvrable perhaps, but with a broadside like that they could dismast any enemy before she could get within range.

The gig turned in a tight arc and Bolitho saw the figures at the entry port, the neatly packed hammocks in the nettings, the fresh black and buff paint, which made the hull reflect the current alongside as if it were glass.

"Boat ahoy! " The age-old challenge echoed across the water, although the telescopes would have revealed much earlier that their expected flag officer had arrived.

The lieutenant raised a speaking trumpet and replied, "Flag, Valkyrie?

Bolitho thought of Allday. He would have used just one hand to make his voice carry.

Avery saw Bolitho's fingers adjusting the gleaming presentation sword. It was a steep climb up the frigate's side, slippery too. No officer, let alone an admiral, would want to pitch headlong into the water after tripping over his sword.

Bolitho was also thinking as much. Allday had always been there to offer his hand if need be: he was even more protective now that he knew about the damaged eye, and carried the secret like some special award, shared only with the trusted few.

With oars tossed again the gig hooked on to the main chains and Bolitho reached out to the guide-ropes, waited for the boat to rise on the swell, and then climbed quickly up the ship's tumble home He thought of Catherine, the many walks they had enjoyed, the rides across country at full gallop. It had worked wonders. As he stepped into the entry port he was not even breathless.

Then, as the Royal Marines presented arms, a cloud of pipe clay lifting above their glinting bayonets, and the calls twittered and shrilled, a small band of boy drummers and fifers struck up Heart of Oak. After the quietness of the gig it was deafening.

Bolitho doffed his hat to the quarterdeck and the ensign, while from the foremast truck his own flag broke out into the wind.

He saw Captain Aaron Trevenen stepping forward from his officers, his lined face grave and unsmiling as he said, "Welcome aboard, Sir Richard. You honour me by hoisting your flag above my command, no matter how temporarily."

Bolitho was equally formal. "A fine ship, Captain Trevenen." He heard Avery coming aboard behind him, probably wondering how Valkyrie would suit him after a ponderous ship-of-the-line.

He glanced around at the crowded figures on the gangways and clinging in the shrouds, the mass of blue and white on the quarterdeck where the lieutenants and warrant officers waited in respectful silence.

Trevenen said, "Your quarters are ready, Sir Richard. If there is anything you need, I shall do my best to provide it." His deepset eyes flickered across Bolitho's frocked coat and the Nile medal around his neck. The presentation sword was not missed, either.

"Perhaps you would wish to meet my officers at your convenience?"

Bolitho looked at him calmly. "It is a long passage to Cape Town, Captain Trevenen. I hope I shall meet every man-Jack before that." He spoke without raising his voice, but he saw the deepset eyes spark as if he had shouted an insult.

The captain removed his hat and called, "A cheer for Sir Richard Bolitho! Huzza! Huzza! "

The watching sailors and petty officers responded loudly. But there was no life in it, no warmth, and as the cheers died away he was reminded of the gig's crew.

It was then that he saw Allday for the first time. He was standing beside a long eighteen-pounder, somehow managing to look apart from everyone else in his smart gilt-buttoned coat.

Across the frigate's wide deck their eyes met and held. Only then did Allday give a barely perceptible shake of the head.

It was all he needed.