The Flag Captain

6. Ships In Company

Bolitho did not see Sir Hugo Draffen again for three days. But he was kept too busy with affairs aboard the Euryalus and the other ships of the squadron to find much time for speculation over his parting remarks.

The fact that he had known Hugh implied that Draffen had lived or worked in the West Indies or even America during the Revolution there. Otherwise there seemed little point in being so secretive about the meeting. Draffen had the mark of a trader, one of the sort who helped create colonies merely by finding a personal reason for making money. He was shrewd and, Bolitho imagined, not a little ruthless when it suited him.

Bolitho knew there might be nothing more in Draffen’s remarks than a first move in making contact between them. If they were going to work in harmony over the next weeks or months, it was a natural thing to expect of him. But the caution built up in Bolitho over the years since his brother’s change of allegiance had made him sensitive to a point of being over-cautious whenever Hugh’s name was mentioned.

There was much to do. Taking on extra stocks of food and water for the coming voyage and gathering any additional equipment which could be begged, borrowed or bribed from the Rock. Once abroad in the Mediterranean they would be without base or supplies, other than that which they might seize for themselves.

And there was now an additional, more pressing need for self-

dependence. Two days after anchoring Bolitho had seen a sloop of war tack busily into the bay carrying, it was said, despatches and news from England.

Eventually Broughton had sent for him, his features grim as he had said, “The mutiny at the Nore is worse. Nearly every ship is in the hands of the delegates.” He had spat out the word like poison. “They’re blockading the river and holding the government to ransom until their demands are met.”

Broughton had jumped to his feet and moved restlessly about his cabin like a caged animal.

“Admiral Duncan was blockading the Dutch coast. What can he do with most of his ships at anchor and under the flag of revolution?”

“I will inform the other captains, sir.”

“Yes, at once. That sloop is returning to England at once with despatches, so there is little fear of our people being inflamed.” He added slowly, “I have included in my report the details of the Auriga’s loss. It might suit the French to use her for spying, so the sooner our ships are aware of her new identity the better. We do not know yet that she did strike her colours in mutiny.” He had not looked at Bolitho. “All her officers may have been killed or disabled as she closed for boarding. In the confusion she could have been overwhelmed.” He had obviously not believed it any more than Bolitho.

Nevertheless, there was sufficient doubt to allow Broughton to make the evasive comments in his report. The news of a British ship changing sides for any reason at a moment like this might spark off even worse troubles in the fleet, if that were possible.

Broughton had been content to give more and more work to Bolitho while the squadron completed its preparations for sailing. The news from the Nore, coupled with the Auriga’s loss, had made a deep and noticeable impression on him. He seemed withdrawn, and, when alone with Bolitho, less composed than ever

before. His experiences at Spithead aboard his own flagship had obviously scarred him deeply, as Rook had once suggested.

He spent a good deal of his time ashore, conferring with Draffen or the Governor but always went alone, keeping his thoughts to himself.

Lieutenant Calvert seemed unable to do anything right for his admiral, and his life was fast becoming a nightmare. Highbred he might be, but he seemed completely incapable of grasping the daily affairs of signals and directives which passed through his hands for the captains of the squadron.

Bolitho suspected that Broughton used his flag-lieutenant to work off some of his own nagging uncertainties. If it was his idea to make Calvert’s existence a misery he was certainly succeeding.

It was pitiful to hear Midshipman Tothill explaining respectfully but firmly the rights and wrongs of signal procedure to him, and, almost worse, Calvert’s obvious gratitude. Not that it helped him very much. Any sudden burst of anger from Broughton and Calvert’s latest hoard of knowledge seemed to dissipate to the wind forever.

On the afternoon of the third day, as Bolitho was discussing the preparations with Keverne, the officer of the watch reported that the two bomb vessels were arriving and already dropping anchor close inshore.

Shortly afterwards a launch grappled alongside and her coxswain passed a sealed letter aboard for Bolitho’s attention. It was from Draffen, and typically brief. Bolitho was to meet him aboard the Hekla, one of the bombs, immediately. He would come by way of the launch which had brought the letter.

Broughton was ashore, so after giving Keverne his instructions Bolitho clambered into the boat to be rowed to the Hekla for the meeting.

Allday watched him leave with ill-disguised annoyance. For Bolitho to use anything but his own barge was unthinkable, and

as the launch pulled away from the Euryalus’s side he felt a sudden pang of anxiety. If anything ever happened to Bolitho, and he was suddenly like this, alone… What would he do? He was still staring after the boat as it vanished around the Zeus’s stern, his eyes unusually troubled.

In all his service Bolitho had never before laid eyes on a bomb vessel, although he had heard of them often enough. The one towards which the launch was moving with such haste was much as he had expected. Two masted and about a hundred feet in length, with a very sturdy hull and low bulwarks. Her oddest characteristic was the uneven placing of her foremast. It was stepped well back from the stemhead, leaving the ship with an unbalanced appearance, as if her real foremast had been shot away level with the deck.

Almost as large as a sloop, yet with neither the grace nor the agility, a bomb was said to be the devil to handle in anything but perfect conditions.

As the boat hooked on to the chains he saw Draffen standing alone in the centre of the tiny quarterdeck shading his eyes to watch him climb aboard.

Bolitho raised his hat as the small side party shrilled a salute, and nodded to a young lieutenant who was watching him with a kind of fascination.

Draffen called, “Come up here, Bolitho. You’ll get a better view.”

Bolitho took Draffen’s proffered hand. Like the man, it was tough and hard. He said, “That lieutenant. Is he the captain?”

“No. I sent him below just before you came aboard.” He shrugged. “Sorry if I disturbed your traditional ceremonial, but I wanted my chart from his cabin.” He grinned. “Cabin indeed. My watchdog has better quarters.”

He gestured forward. “No wonder they build these bombs the way they do. Every timber is twice as thick as that in any other

vessel. The recoil and downward shock of those beauties would tear the guts out of a lesser hull.”

Bolitho followed his hand and saw the two massive mortars mounted in the centre of the foredeck. Short, black and incredibly ugly, they nevertheless had a muzzle diameter of over a foot each. He could imagine without effort the great strain they would put on the timbers, to say nothing of those at the receiving end of their bombardment.

The other vessel anchored close abeam was very similar, and aptly named Devastation.

Draffen added half to himself, “The bombs will sail at night. No sense in letting those jackals at Algeciras know too much too early, eh?”

Bolitho nodded. It made good sense. He looked sideways at the other man as Draffen turned to watch some seamen flaking down a rope with the ease of spiders constructing a web.

Draffen was older than he had imagined. Nearer sixty than fifty, his grey hair contrasting sharply with his tanned features and brisk, muscular figure.

He said, “The news from England was bad, sir. I heard it from Sir Lucius.”

Draffen sounded indifferent. “Some people never learn.” He did not explain what he meant but instead turned and said, “About your brother. I met him when he commanded that privateer. I understand you destroyed his ship eventually.” His eyes softened slightly. “I have been learning quite a lot about you lately, and that piece of information makes me especially envious. I hope I could do what you did if called.” The mood changed again as he added, “Of course. I cannot possibly believe all I’ve heard about you. No man can be that good.” He grinned at Bolitho’s uncertainty and pointed over his shoulder. “Now take what the Hekla’s commander has told me, for instance. Never heard the like!”

Bolitho swung round and then stared with astonishment. The

man facing him, his long, horse-face changing from confusion to something like wild delight, was Francis Inch, no longer a mere lieutenant, but wearing the single epaulette on his left shoulder. Commander Inch, Hyperion’s first lieutenant at that final, bloody embrace with Lequiller’s ships in the Bay of Biscay.

Inch stepped forward, bobbing awkwardly. “It’s me, sir! Inch!”

Bolitho took his hands in his, not realising until now just how much he had missed him, and the past he represented.

“I always told you that I should see you get a command of your own.” He did not know what to say, and was very conscious of Draffen’s grinning face, and Inch peering at him that familiar, eager way which had once nearly driven him mad with exasperation.

Inch beamed. “It was either a bomb or first lieutenant of a seventy-four again, sir.” He looked suddenly sad. “After the old Hyperion I didn’t want another…” He allowed his grin to break through. “Now I have this.” He looked around his small command. “And this.” He touched the epaulette.

“And you have a wife now?” Bolitho guessed that Inch would have refrained from mentioning her. He would not wish to remind him of his own loss.

Inch nodded. “Aye, sir. With some of the prize money you got for us I have purchased a modest house at Weymouth. I hope you will do us the honour…” He became his old self again, unsure and bumbling. “But then, I am sure you will be too busy for that, sir…”

Bolitho gripped his arm. “I will be delighted, Inch. It is good to see you again.”

Draffen remarked dryly, “So there is warm blood in a sea officer after all.”

Inch shuffled his feet. “I shall write to Hannah tonight. She will be pleased to hear about our meeting.”

Bolitho eyed Draffen thoughtfully. “You certainly kept this as a surprise, sir.”

“The Navy has its ways of doing things.” He looked at the towering Rock. “And I have mine.”

He turned to Inch. “Now, Commander, if you will leave us alone, I have some matters to discuss.”

Bolitho said, “Dine with me tonight, Inch, aboard the flagship.” He grinned to cover the sudden emotion brought on by Inch’s appearance. “Your next promotion may be speeded that way.”

He saw Inch’s pleasure as he scurried over to his lieutenant, and guessed he would soon be retelling some of the old stories for his benefit.

Draffen remarked, “Not much of an officer, I suspect, ’til you got your hands on him.”

Bolitho replied quietly, “He had to learn the hard way. I never met a man more loyal nor one so lucky in many ways. If we meet the enemy, I suggest you stay close by Commander Inch, sir. He has the knack of remaining alive when all about him are falling and the ship herself is in pieces.”

Draffen nodded. “I will bear it in mind.” He changed to a brisker tone. “All being well, your squadron is sailing tomorrow evening. The bombs will follow later, but your admiral can give you fuller details than I.” He seemed to come to a decision. “I have made it my business to study your record, Bolitho. This venture we are undertaking will call for much resource and initiative. You may have to twist the Admiralty rules to suit the occasion. I happen to know that such methods are not unknown to you.” He smiled dryly. “In my experience I have found that war needs special men with their own ideas. Hard and fast rules are not for this game.”

Bolitho had a sudden mental picture of Broughton’s face when he had requested him to give Zeus permission to chase the Frenchman. Of his plan of battle, his apparent mistrust of anything untried or smelling of unorthodox methods.

He said, “I only hope we are not too late and that the French have not enlarged the defences at Djafou.”

Draffen looked round quickly and then said, “I have certain influence, connections if you like, and I do not intend you should have to rely entirely on luck and personal bravery. I know the Algerian coast well, and its people, who for the most part are both murderous and completely untrustworthy.” The smile returned. “But we will use what we can, and make the best of it. As John Paul Jones said under very similar circumstances, ‘If we cannot have what we like, we must learn to like what we have!’”

He thrust out his hand. “I must go and see some people ashore now. No doubt we will be meeting again very shortly.”

Bolitho watched him climb down into his boat and then joined Inch by the bulwark.

Inch said, “A strange man, sir. Very deep.”

“I believe so. He wields a good deal of power, nevertheless.”

Inch sighed. “He was telling me earlier about the place where we are going. He seems well versed in details.” He shook his head. “Yet I can find hardly anything about it.”

Bolitho nodded thoughtfully. Trade, but what sort of trade would anyone find in a place like Djafou? And where was the connection with the Caribbean and his meeting with Hugh?

He said, “I must return to my ship. We will talk more at dinner, although there are no familiar faces for you to see, I am afraid.”

Inch grinned, “Except Allday, sir. I cannot imagine you without him!”

Bolitho clapped his bony shoulder. “And neither can I!”

Later, as he stood alone in his cabin, Bolitho opened his shirt and toyed with the small locket, his eyes unseeing, as he stared through the stern windows. Inch would never guess how much his arrival had meant to him. Like the locket, something to hold on to, something familiar. One of his old Hyperions.

There was a tap at the door and Calvert entered nervously, holding some papers before him as if for protection.

Bolitho smiled. “Be seated. I will sign them, and you may distribute them to the squadron before dusk.”

Calvert did not hide his relief as Bolitho sat at the desk and reached for a pen. Bolitho’s action saved him from having to face Broughton when he came offshore. His eyes fell on Bolitho’s sword lying on the bench seat where he had put it when he returned from seeing the Hekla.

In spite of all his caution he said, “Oh I say, sir, may I look at it?”

Bolitho stared at him. It was unlike Calvert to say much, other than mutter excuses for his mistakes. His eyes were positively shining with sudden interest.

“Certainly, Mr Calvert.” He sat back to watch as the lieutenant drew the old blade from the scabbard and held it in line with his chin. “Are you a swordsman like Sir Lucius?”

Calvert did not reply directly. He ran his fingers around the old and tarnished hilt and then said, “A beautiful balance, sir. Beautiful.” He looked at Bolitho guardedly. “I have an eye for it, sir.”

“Then see that you restrain your eye, Mr Calvert. It can cause you much trouble.”

Calvert replaced the blade and became his old self again. “Thank you, sir. For allowing me to hold it.”

Bolitho pushed the papers towards him and added slowly, “And try to be more definite in your affairs. Many officers would give their arms for your appointment, so make good use of it.”

Calvert withdrew, stammering and smiling.

Bolitho sighed and stood up as Allday entered the cabin, his eyes immediately falling on the sword, which he replaced on its rack against the bulkhead.

He said, “Mr Calvert was here then, Captain?”

Bolitho smiled at Allday’s curiosity. “He was. He seemed very interested in the sword.”

Allday eyed it thoughtfully. “And so he might. Yesterday I saw him showing off to some of the midshipmen. They lit a candle, and Drury, the youngest of ’em, held it in the air for Mr Calvert to strike at.”

Bolitho swung round. “That was a damned stupid thing to do.”

Allday shrugged. “Need have no worry, Captain. The flag-lieutenant’s blade parted the wick and flame without even touching the candle.” He cleared his throat noisily. “You’ll have to watch that one, Captain.”

Bolitho looked at him. “As you say, Allday. I will.”

Jed Partridge, the master, tugged at his battered hat as Bolitho strode from beneath the poop and reported, “Steady, sir. Sou’ east by east.”

“Very well.”

Bolitho nodded to the officer of the watch and then crossed to the weather side of the quarterdeck, filling his lungs with the cool evening air.

The squadron had weighed in the remorseless heat of a noon sun, but with an encouraging north-westerly breeze had soon formed into a tight column, each ship taking her prescribed station and keeping their interchange of signals to a minimum.

Many telescopes must have followed them from the Spanish coast, and there would be plenty of speculation as to their destination. It was unlikely that the enemy would give much weight to so small a force, but there was no sense in taking chances. Once clear of the land each captain would know that almost any ship he might meet would be an enemy. Even neutrals, and there were precious few of those, must be treated with suspicion and as possible informers of the squadron’s course and whereabouts.

But now it was evening, and in the Mediterranean it was a

time which Bolitho always found full of fresh fascination. While the four ships-of-the-line rolled and plunged easily in a deep swell, with a steady and unwavering wind sweeping down across the larboard quarter, he could see the shadows lengthening on the gangways, the sea beyond the bows already vague in deeper purple. Yet astern the sky was salmon pink, the dying sunlight trailing down from the horizon and making the Valorous’s topsails shine like giant sea shells.

If this wind and sea held, it would be possible for all of them to keep good station during the night, which should please Broughton, he thought.

Keverne crossed the deck and said, “The visibility will not endure much longer, sir.”

Bolitho glanced towards the master’s rotund shape by the helmsmen. “We will alter course two points directly, Mr Partridge.” He sought out Midshipman Tothill by the lee shrouds and added, “You will bend on the signal for the squadron. Tack in succession. Steer east by south.”

He did not have to bother further with the midshipman. Tothill and his signal party had already proved themselves more than capable. He would make a good officer, Bolitho thought vaguely.

He said to Keverne, “Each ship will show a stern light, in case we get scattered. It may help the Coquette if she comes searching for us.”

The frigate in question was sweeping some fifteen miles astern of the column, a wise precaution to ensure they were not already being shadowed by some curious enemy patrol.

The little sloop Restless was only just visible to windward of the Zeus, and Bolitho imagined that her young and newly appointed commander would be considering the sudden importance of his role. The sloop was the only vessel present and fast enough should a suspicious sail need investigating.

It was always the same. Never enough frigates, and now that

the Auriga was denied them they must be even more sparing in long-range operations.

Tothill called, “Signal bent on, sir.”

“Good.” Bolitho nodded to Keverne. “Carry on. I must inform the admiral.”

He found Broughton and Draffen sitting at opposite ends of the long table in the admiral’s dining cabin, and sensed the complete silence stretching between then.

“Well?” Broughton leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping slowly against an untouched glass of claret.

“Ready to alter course, Sir Lucius.” He saw Draffen watching him, his eyes gleaming in the light from the overhead lanterns and the pink glow through the windows.

“Very good.” Broughton tugged out his watch. “No sign of pursuit?”

“None, sir.”

Broughton grunted. “Carry on then, if you please. I may come up later.”

Draffen rose to his feet and steadied himself against the table as Euryalus tilted her massive bilge into another lazy trough.

“I would like to join you if I may, Captain.” He nodded equably to Broughton. “Never get weary of watching ships under command, y’know.”

Broughton snapped, “Er, just a moment!” But when Bolitho turned back from the door he shook his head. “Nothing. Attend to your duties.”

On the quarterdeck Draffen remarked calmly, “Sharing the admiral’s quarters is not the easiest way of travelling.”

Bolitho smiled. “You can have my own quarters with pleasure, sir. I spend more time in my chartroom than I do in a cot.”

The other man shook his head, his eyes already seeking out the various parties of seamen mustered at their stations in readiness for the next order from aft.

“Sir Lucius and I come from different poles, Bolitho. But it would be well to forget social differences for the present at least.”

Bolitho forgot Draffen and the tensions in the great cabin and turned towards Keverne.

“Make the signal.” And as the flags darted up the halliards and broke impatiently to the wind he added sharply, “Be ready, Mr Partridge.”

“Zeus has acknowledged, sir!”

The leading ship was in fact already swinging importantly on her new course, her topsails and driver flapping for a few more moments until brought under control. Tanais followed, one curved side glowing in the dying sunlight as she laboured too readily in response to canvas and rudder.

Keverne raised his speaking trumpet, his lithe figure poised against the rail as if to test the agility of the great ship beneath him.

“Braces there!” He pointed into the purple shadows below the mainmast trunk. “Mr Collins, take that man’s name! He’s stumbling about like a whore at a wedding!”

Unknown voices mumbled out of the gloom, while from aft the wheel creaked obediently, Partridge’s white hair changing to yellow as he squinted at the lighted compass bowl.

“Heave! Lively with it!”

The men leaned back, angling their bodies to take the strain of the ship’s massive yards, while the marines clumped noisily and in perfect time on the mizzen brace. The hull tilted still further, the sails shivering and booming to the change of pressure.

Bolitho leaned over the rail, searching along the length of his command, his ears interpreting the varying groans from shrouds and rigging, the action automatic yet ever watchful.

“Lay her on the larboard tack, Mr Partridge.” He looked aloft, watching as Broughton’s flag and the masthead pendant licked out lazily and then pointed almost directly across the starboard bow.

“East by south, sir!” Partridge rolled to the other side of the compass as Bolitho came aft to stare down at the swaying card.

“Steady as you go.” He felt the ship responding, saw the huge, dark rectangles of canvas stiffening to the wind as she settled obediently on her new tack.

The light was going fast now. As it always did hereabouts. One minute a bright and seemingly everlasting sunset, and then nothing but the cream of spray beneath the counter, an occasional whitecap as the wind explored the edge of a deep trough in the sea’s face.

He heard Keverne bark, “The weather forebrace! In God’s name take in that slack, man! Mr Weigall, your people must do better than this!”

Voices echoed above the thrumming din of rigging and canvas, and he imagined the third lieutenant cursing Keverne’s uncanny eyesight, or shrewd guesswork, as the case may be.

Draffen had been watching in silence, and as the hands mustered once again at their various divisions he murmured, “I hope I will be aboard when you get a chance to show her real paces under sail.” He sounded as if he was enjoying himself.

Bolitho smiled. “There’ll be no such opportunity at night, sir. We may well have to reef tops’ls as it is. There is always a risk of collision when moving in close company.”

Keverne came aft again and touched his hat. “Permission to dismiss the watch below, sir.”

“Yes. That was well done, Mr Keverne.”

A voice called, “The Valorous is on station, sir!”

“Very well.” Bolitho moved to the weather side as the parties of seamen and marines hurried across the planking and vanished to their messdecks below. A cramped, teeming world where they lived between the guns they would serve in battle, with little more than a shoulder’s breadth to swing a hammock. He wondered what some of them were thinking of their new destination.

Draffen’s face glowed momentarily as he peered at the compass. Then he moved back to Bolitho’s side and fell in step with him as he began to pace slowly up and down below the empty nettings.

“It must be a strange feeling for you, Bolitho.”

“How so, sir?” Bolitho had almost forgotten that he was not alone in his usual restless pacing.

“To command a ship like this. One which you yourself took in battle.” He hurried on, exploring a theme which had obviously given him some thought. “In your shoes I would be wondering if I could defend a vessel when I had in fact seized her in the face of great odds.”

Bolitho frowned. “Circumstances must always play a great part, sir.”

“But tell me, as I am greatly interested. What do you think of her as a ship?”

Bolitho paused by the quarterdeck rail, resting his palms on it, feeling the wood shaking under his touch as if the whole complex mass of timber and rigging was a living being.

“She is fast for her size, sir, and only four years old. She handles well, and the hull has some fine factors too.” He gestured forward. “Unlike our own ships-of-the-line, her planking is continued right around the bow, so there is no weak bulkhead to receive an enemy’s fire.”

Draffen showed his teeth. “I like your enthusiasm. It is some comfort. But I imagined you would say otherwise. A born sea officer, a man from a long line of sailing men, I’d have laid odds on your despising the work of an enemy shipyard.” He laughed softly. “I was wrong, it appears.”

Bolitho eyed him calmly. “The French are fine builders. Line for line their hulls are faster and better than our own.”

Draffen spread his hands in mock alarm. “Then how can we win? How have we been victorious against greater numbers of the enemy?”

Bolitho shook his head. “The enemy’s weakness does not lie in his ships, or in his courage either. It is leadership. Two-thirds of their trained and experienced officers were butchered in the Terror. And they’ll not regain their confidence while they are bottled up in harbour by our blockade.” He knew Draffen was deliberately drawing him out but continued, “Each time they break out and engage our squadrons they learn a little more, grow steadily more confident, even if a sea victory is denied them. Blockade is no longer the answer, in my opinion. It hurts the innocent as much as those for whom it is intended. Clearcut, decisive action is the solution. Hit the enemy whenever and wherever you can, the size of the actions is almost immaterial.”

The officer of the watch was admonishing a defaulter who had been brought aft by a bosun’s mate, his voice grating in a fierce whisper.

Bolitho moved away with Draffen falling in step beside him.

Draffen asked, “But there will be a final confrontation between the two major fleets, eventually?”

“I have no doubts, sir. But I still believe the more attacks we can make on the enemy’s communications, his bases and trade, the more likely we are of a lasting victory on land.” He smiled awkwardly. “As a sailor it hurts me to say it. But no victory can be complete until your own soldiers have hoisted a flag on the enemy’s battlements!”

Draffen smiled gravely. “Maybe you will have a chance to put your theory into action very shortly. It will largely depend on our meeting with one of my agents. I arranged for him to make a regular rendezvous. It is to be hoped he has found it possible.”

Bolitho pricked up his ears. That was the first he had heard of anything about a rendezvous. Broughton had given him the briefest of detail so far. The squadron was to patrol off Djafou, out of sight of land, while the Coquette explored inshore for further information. Normal tactics. Normal and frustratingly dull, he had thought. Now with the prospect of gaining other, more

secret news of the enemy’s deployment, the whole face of the operation had changed.

Draffen said, “I find it slightly unnerving when I think of tomorrow. We might meet with an entire enemy fleet. Does that not upset you?”

Bolitho looked at him, but his face was in deep shadow. It was hard to tell if he was testing him again or merely making light of what was a very real possibility.

“I have lived with that prospect in fear, excitement or mere bewilderment on and off since I was twelve, sir.” Bolitho kept his voice equally grave. Then he grinned. “But so far I have never had any of my reactions taken into consideration, least of all by the enemy!”

Draffen chuckled. “I will go below and sleep easily now. I have taxed you too much as it is. But please keep me informed if anything unusual occurs.”

Bolitho stood aside. “I will, sir. You and my admiral.”

Draffen walked away laughing to himself. “We will talk further.” Then he was gone.

The midshipman of the watch hurried across the deck and reported to his lieutenant that the stern light had been lit. Through the mass of rigging Bolitho could see the Tanais’s own lantern shining like a firefly and playing across the ruffled water of her wake.

He heard the lieutenant say sharply, “It took you long enough, Mr Drury!” And then the boy’s mumbled reply.

It was not difficult to see Adam Pascoe’s shape standing there in the shadows instead of the luckless Drury.

Bolitho had tried not to worry about his young nephew, but meeting with Inch had again made the boy’s absence seem suddenly real and beyond his reach. There had been letters, of course, both from him and his captain, Bolitho’s best friend, Herrick. But, like the Euryalus, his ship, the old sixty-four Impulsive, had

little concern for the warmth and hope brought by the mail boats, or hoarded in some harbour office on the offchance the ships might one day drop anchor.

Bolitho began to walk again, trying to picture Adam as he had last seen him. But he would be different now. Perhaps a stranger? He quickened his pace, suddenly aware of his concern.

It was two years since they had parted. The boy to join Herrick’s ship and he to take command and tend to the refitting of his prize, the Euryalus. He would be seventeen, perhaps already awaiting his chance to try for promotion to lieutenant. Would two more years have changed him much? he wondered. Would he still be forming his own mould, or taking after Hugh?

He realised with a start that the midshipman was blocking his path, his eyes gleaming white in the shadows.

“Beg pardon, sir, but the officer of the watch sends his respects, and, and,” he faltered under his captain’s gaze, “and could we take in a reef. The wind appears to be getting up, sir.”

Bolitho studied him impassively. He had not even noticed the change in the wind’s sound through the shrouds. He had been more worried by his own thoughts than he had realised.

He asked sharply, “How old are you, Mr Drury?”

The boy gulped. “Thirteen, sir.”

“I see. Well, Mr Drury, you have a long and very stormy passage ahead of you before you attain your own command.”

“Yessir.” He sounded fearful of what was coming next.

“And a young officer without fingers can find the handicap a real problem. So in future I do not wish to learn of your agility with a candle as a target for swordplay, do you understand?”

“No, sir, I-I mean, yes, sir!” He almost fell as he ran back to the officer of the watch, his mind no doubt buzzing with the captain’s unfaltering source of private information.

Keverne appeared on deck, dabbing his mouth with his handkerchief and already peering aloft at the booming canvas.

“Trouble, sir?”

“ We will reef tops’ls directly, Mr Keverne.” He kept his tone formal. Whatever he felt or feared, it was right that he should display none of it, share none of it with those who depended on his judgement. He watched Keverne hurrying away, buttoning his coat and bellowing for a bosun’s mate.

But sometimes, like tonight, it was harder than he would have imagined.