THE INSHORE SQUADRON

3. The Letter

It was another full day before Bolitho's lookouts sighted Admiral Damerum's squadron,. and then because of the lateness of the hour an extra night passed before they could make contact.

Throughout the following morning, while Bolitho's ships changed tack to run down on the larger formation, Bolitho studied the admiral's squadron through a powerful telescope and wondered at the sense of keeping such a force employed in this fashion. The British fleets, in summer and winter alike, were expected to blockade the Dutch men-of-war along the coastline of Holland, the Spanish at Cadiz and, of course, the powerful French bases of Brest and Toulon. Apart from that, they were entrusted to patrol the vital trade routes from the East and West Indies, to protect them from the enemy, from privateers and even common pirates. It was an almost impossible task.

And now, because Tsar Paul of Russia, who had little liking for Britain and a mounting admiration of Bonaparte, might be expected to break his neutrality, even more desperately needed squadrons were wasted here at the approaches to the Baltic.

Herrick joined him and said, `The third ship, sir, that'll be Sir Samuel Damerum's.'

Bolitho moved his glass slightly and trained it on the one which wore the Union Flag at her mainmast truck. He was very conscious of the difference between the slow-moving vessels and his own small squadron. Patched canvas, weather-beaten hulls, in some cases whole areas of paint stripped away by wind and sea, they made a marked contrast with his newly refitted twodeckers.

Far beyond the heavier ships Bolitho could just make out the topgallants of a patrolling frigate, the admiral's 'eyes', and he guessed that their lookouts could also see the Danish coast.

`Call away my barge, Thomas. We will be up to them within the hour. See that the stores for the admiral are sent across in another boat directly.'

It was always a strange feeling when ships met each other. Those which had been at sea for a long period were always craving for news from home. The new arrivals had the additional anxiety of ignorance about what might be waiting for them.

His flag lieutenant strode across the quarterdeck, his face pinched with the keen air.

Bolitho said, `There is the admiral's flagship. The secondrate.'

Browne nodded. 'The Tantalus, sir. Captain Walton.' He sounded as if he did not much care.

'You will come across with me.' He smiled grimly. 'To ensure that I do not do something indiscreet.'

Herrick said, 'It might all blow over, sir. And we'll be back at Spithead for orders before you know it.'

Bolitho was in his cabin collecting his despatches from the strongbox when a clatter of blocks and the stiff crack of canvas told him that Beenbow, was coming about under shortened sail so that the barge could be lowered safely alongside.

When he went on deck again the scene had changed once more. The admiral's ships, moving very slowly under fully braced topsails, were like an enemy fleet, with Benbow about to break through their line of battle. It was only too easy to picture, and although many of,Benbow's people had never heard a shot fired in anger, Bolitho, like Herrick and some of the others, had seen it many times.

'Barge alongside, sir.' Herrick hurried towards him, -his face lined with the responsibility of controlling his ship and the rest of the squadron in Bolitho's absence.

'I will be as quick as I can, Thomas.' He tugged his hat firmly across his head, seeing the marines at the entry port, the boatswain's mates moistening their silver calls on their lips in readiness to speed him on his way. 'The admiral will not wish me to be an enforced guest if the sea gets up again, eh?'

A midshipman, unusually neat and tidy, was standing in the pitching barge, and beside him Allday was at the tiller, his rightful place. He must have impressed upon somebody that the rear-admiral would prefer his coxswain to a ship's lieutenant. If Allday got his way, the next time there would be no midshipman either, he thought. Browne, too, was in the boat, somehow managing to appear elegant.

`Attention in the boat!'

The calls shrilled, and Bolitho jumped the last few feet into the sternsheets as the barge rose sluggishly against Benbow's rounded flank.

'Bear off forrard! Give way all!'

Once clear of the two-decker's lee, the barge dipped and staggered through the waves like a dolphin. When Bolitho glanced at the midshipman he saw that his face was already ashen. His name was Graham, and he was seventeen, one of the senior 'young gentlemen'. His chances of promotion to lieutenant might be marred if he was sick in the barge carrying his admiral to meet another.

'Sit down, Mr Graham.' He saw the youth staring at him, startled at being addressed by one so senior. 'It will be a lively pull yet.' r

'Th-thank you, sir.' He sank down gratefully. 'I shall be all right, sir.'

Across his shoulders Allday grinned broadly at the stroke oarsman. Only Bolitho would bother about a mere midshipman. The funny part was, that Allday knew the luckless Graham had been eating some pie he had brought from England. It had doubtless been going mouldy when he had. stepped aboard. After days at sea in a damp, cheerless midshipman's berth, it must be as near poison as made no difference.

Bolitho's arrival aboard Damerum's flagship was no less noisy than his departure from his own.

He got a hasty impression of glittering bayonets and red coats, of stiff-faced lieutenants, and then the admiral himself, thrusting forward to meet him.

'Come aft, Bolitho. God's teeth, this chill is enough to pierce your marrow!'

The Tantalus was a good deal larger than the Benbow, and Damerum's quarters more lavish than Bolitho had ever seen in a King's ship. Apart from the movement, and the muffled shipboard noises, it could have been part of a rich chamber. If the ship ever had to clear for action in a hurry, the fine drapes and expensive French furniture would suffer badly.

Damerum gestured towards a chair while a servant took Bolitho's hat and boat-cloak.

'Sit you down, sir, and let's have a good look at you, eh?'

Bolitho sat. Sir Samuel Damerum, Knight of the Bath, Admiral of the Red, was, at a guess, in his early fifties. He had a brisk, lively way of moving and speaking, but his greying hair, and an obvious thickening about his middle which even an immaculately tailored waistcoat could not conceal, made him seem older.

He said, `So you're Richard Bolitho.' His gaze fell briefly on the gold medal which Bolitho wore around his neck for this formal visit. 'The Nile medal, no less.' He shook his head. 'Some people have all the luck.' In the same quick manner he changed tack again. 'How's the squadron?' He did not wait but added, 'You took longer to reach me than I'd hoped, but can't be helped, what?'

Bolitho said, 'I'm sorry about that, sir. Bad weather, raw landsmen. The usual.'

Damerum rubbed his hands, and as if by sorcery a servant appeared.

'Brandy, man. And not that muck we keep for captains!' He chuckled. 'God, what a war, Bolitho. On and on. No damn end to it.'

Bolitho waited, not yet at ease with this erratic man. He spoke a lot, but so far had said nothing.

Bolitho said, 'My flag captain is sending some stores across for you, sir.'

'Stores?' The admiral's eyes were on the brandy and the two glasses which his servant had carried to a table. 'Oh, yes. Mr Fortnum, my grocer in London, does his best to keep me supplied, y'know. Not easy these days.'

Bolitho did not know who Mr Fortnum was, but felt he should have done.

The brandy was mellow and warming. Much of it and Bolitho knew he would be asleep if he was not careful. 'Well, Bolitho, you will know that you are to assume the duties of the inshore squadron. The Danish affair seems to have cooled down for the present, but my information is that the Tsar of Russia is eager to join with the French against us. You know about the pact he has been trying to make with Sweden?' Again he did not wait for an answer but hurried on. 'Well, he is still set on that idea. In addition, he has the backing of Prussia. Together they may force the Danes against us also. It is never easy to live in peace next to a raging lion!'

Bolitho pictured his small squadron trying to stem the advance of the combined Baltic fleets. Beauchamp had said that his task would not be an easy one.

'Will we enter the Baltic, sir?'

Damerum signalled to his servant for the glasses to be refilled.

'Yes and no. A great show of strength would be wrongly interpreted. Tsar Paul would use it to fan the flames. We'd be at war in a week, But a smaller force, yours, can go with peaceful intent. My ships are known to all the spies who flit past my frigates. It will soon be common knowledge that a new squadron is here. Smaller, and so a lessening of tension and suspicion all round.' He smiled, showing very even teeth. 'Besides which, Bolitho, if there was real trouble we are helpless until next year. March at the earliest. We could not get to grips with the Tsar's ships while they are in harbour, so we must wait for the winter ice to melt. Until then,' he fixed Bolitho with a calm stare, `you will keep an eye on things at close quarters.' He chuckled. `At very close quarters to begin with. You are instructed to enter Copenhagen and meet with a British official there.'

Bolitho stared at him. 'Surely you, as senior officer, would be a better choice, sir?'

'Your concern does you credit. But we have to tread warily. Too junior an officer and the Danes will feel slighted. Too senior and they will see this for something sinister, a threat perhaps.' He wagged a finger. 'No, a young rear-admiral would be about right. The Admiralty believes so, and I have confirmed my support.'

'Well, thank you, sir.' He did not know what to say. It was all happening so quickly. A squadron, a new station, and almost at once he was off again on something quite different. He had a feeling he was going to find Browne very useful after all.

Damerum added suddenly, 'In any doubts at all, send a fast vessel to find me. Half of my ships are returning to England for overhaul, the remainder are to reinforce the Dutch blockade. It is all in the written instructions which even now my flag lieutenant is handing to yours. They are lucky men. They handle the destiny of a fleet, but take no part in the skill of responsibility for it, damn them!'

Water dashed against the stern windows like pellets. It had begun to rain or worse.

Bolitho stood up. 'I shall find my fresh instructions interesting reading, Sir Samuel.' He held out his hand. 'And thank you for the trust you have placed in me.'

As he said it he realized the true meaning for the first time. It was like having a line severed. The instructions were for him to interpret as he saw fit. There was nobody nearby to run to for guidance or advice. Right or wrong, it was his decision.

'I'll not see you over the side, if you don't mind, Bolitho. I've letters to write to catch the courier brig for England.' As they walked to the screen door, beyond which Browne was conversing with a very weary looking lieutenant, he said, 'So good luck in Copenhagen. It's a fair city, I'm told.'

After a perilous descent down the flagship's side, Bolitho and Browne wedged themselves in the sternsheets and wrapped their boat-cloaks around their bodies.

Through chattering teeth Browne asked, 'All well, sir? I should have been with you, but the admiral's aide was waiting to head me off. I did not even get offered a glass, sir!' He sounded quietly outraged.

Bolitho said, 'We are going to Copenhagen, Mr Browne.' He saw the lieutenant's eye light up. 'Does that suit?' 'Indeed it does, sir!'

It was good to be back aboard Benbow. New she might be, and as yet untried, but already she had 'a personality, a warmth which had been lacking aboard the ship he had just visited. Perhaps it was Herrick's influence at work. You never knew for certain with ships, Bolitho thought.

Herrick joined him in the cabin and waited patiently while Bolitho rid himself of his dripping cloak and hat.

'Copenhagen, Thomas. We will lay a course for The Skaw at once, and I shall inform the squadron what is to happen.' He grinned at Herrick's grave expression. 'When I know myself, that is!'

It was a hundred miles at least to The Skaw, the northernmost point of Denmark. It would give him ample time to study his instructions, and perhaps even to read that which had been left out.

Bolitho lay back in a chair while Allday finished shaving him. It was early morning and barely light beyond the salt-streaked windows, but Bolitho had been awake for an hour, preparing himself for a testing day and going over his instructions to see if he had missed anything.

Bolitho was surprised he was so relaxed. He was able to drowse while the razor slid smoothly up his throat, to listen to the sluice of water overhead and the attendant march of bare feet as the decks were washed down.

He thought he heard the boatswain's thick voice, too. Swale, Big Tom as he was called, had a strange sounding tone, almost a lisp, caused by the loss of most of his front teeth. In battle or brawl, Bolitho did not know. Herrick had said he was a good boatswain, and at this moment he was probably examining the poop and quarterdeck again. It was always a strain for the first weeks at sea for a newly built ship. Timber, not always as well seasoned as it should be after years of war and shortages, could do strange things with the hull rolling about in all directions.

Benbow certainly sailed well, he thought. Several times the other two-deckers had been forced to spread more canvas to keep up with her. A fine ship. She alone must have taken-the best part of a forest to build.

Bolitho jerked upright in the chair, making Allday exclaim, 'Easy, sir! I all but parted your windpipe just then!'

Then he said, 'I heard it, too. Gunfire!'

Bolitho started to rise and then lay back again. 'Finish the shave, please.' He controlled his sudden excitement. 'It won't do for me to go rushing on deck.'

It was hard, all the same. He had always been used to going at once to the quarterdeck to assess the circumstances for himself. He recalled one of his first captains, when as a midshipman he had been ordered to pass an urgent message aft to that same lordly presence.

The captain had been drinking in his stern cabin. Bolitho could picture him without effort. As he had stammered out the message, the captain had turned merely to nod and say, 'My compliments to the first lieutenant, Mr Bolitho. Tell him I will come up shortly. That is, if you have still the breath for it!'

Perhaps he, too, had been dying to see for himself, as Bolitho was now.

There was a tap at the screen door and Herrick entered the cabin.

'Good morning, Thomas.' He smiled. It was wrong to play games with Herrick and he added, 'I heard firing.'

Herrick nodded. 'From the bearing I would say it is Lookout, sir, to the nor'-east.'

Bolitho wiped his skin with a towel and stood up, feeling the deck quiver as the rudder fell heavily in a trough. Lookout was the little sloop-of-war, and her captain was Commander Veitch, Herrick's previous first lieutenant. A stern-looking man from Tynemouth, utterly dependable, who had earned his promotion the hard way. If he was tackling something on his own, then it was small and agile… Veitch obviously considered there was no time to inform his flagship or call for assistance. He was not that sort of man anyway.

Herrick suggested, 'Probably a blockade runner, sir.'

Ozzard hurried in with Bolitho's coat and held it out like a Spaniard tormenting a bull.

Bolitho said, 'Are either of the frigates in sight yet?'

More explosions echoed against the Benbow's side. Short and

sharp. Lookout's bow-chasers from their sound.

Herrick replied, 'Not when I was on deck, sir. Relentless

should be away to the sou'-west and Styx down to lee'rd as

instructed.'

'Good.' He slipped into his coat. It felt damp. 'Let us see for ourselves.'

The sky was much brighter when they walked from beneath the poop, and Wolfe hurried to meet them. 'Masthead reports Lookout in sight, sir. She's in company with another smaller craft. Either a brig or a ship with one mast shot out of her!' He bared his teeth.

Bolitho could read his mind. An early capture. Prize-money. A command for somebody. Even a temporary one as prizemaster was all it needed in wartime. And some luck. Bolitho had had both, and had so won his own first command.

People bustled about the quarterdeck, securing the pumps and scrubbers, faces still obscured in shadow. But all well aware that their admiral was up and about. What did it mean to them? A sea fight? Death or mutilation? It would certainly be a break in the monotony of daily routine.

Bolitho saw some of the officers on the lee side of the deck. Byrd and Manley, the fourth and fifth lieutenants, and, younger still, Courtenay, the sixth, whom Allday had ousted from his barge.

He must find time to meet and get to know them. He was lucky to know the minds of the officers who captained the squadron, but if the Benbow was driven into a hard battle, a young lieutenant could find himself in command after one devastating broadside.

Wolfe had a telescope to his eye and said, 'Here comes Relentless! I can just see her sky-scrapers. She-scents the smell of battle, sir.'

Bolitho could imagine the activity aboard the thirty-six-gun frigate. He had met her young captain, Rowley Peel, only twice. He was the odd one out in the squadron, but was quick to move when need be. Dashing down from his station to protect his heavier consorts, to harry the enemy, to attempt whatever was so ordered by the flagship.

Old Grubb rumbled, 'Better day today. Fine an' clear.' He lapsed into silence again, his hands thrust deeply into his shabby watch-coat.

Wolfe saw Pascoe on the larboard gangway and called harshly, 'Would you go aloft, Mr Pascoe. Take a glass and see what you can determine.'

Pascoe threw his hat to a seaman and ran to the weather shrouds. He was amongst the black tangle of rigging and beyond the mainyard before Bolitho could watch his progress. Bolitho thought of his own hatred for heights, what it had cost him at Pascoe's age. He felt his mouth lift in a smile. It would sound ridiculous to tell somebody that one of the fruits of his promotion had been that he no longer had to climb up those headspinning shrouds.

Pascoe called down, his voice clear above the drumming beat of canvas and rigging.

'Lookout has grappled, sir! The other one is a brig. She wears

no flag but they are hoisting our colours now!'

Several of the idlers on the gangways and gundeck cheered,

and Herrick exclaimed

'So soon. Well done. Well done.'

Bolitho nodded. `You trained your old first lieutenant well, Thomas.'

Lieutenant Browne appeared through the after companion, buttoning his coat and saying, 'I heard something. What is happening?'

Wolfe said to the sailing master, 'A lot of use he'll be!' Herrick answered, 'We have taken a prize, Mr Browne. I fear you have missed it.'

Several of the nearby seamen were grinning and nudging each other. Bolitho sensed the change. There was a better feeling already.

'Deck there! Land on the lee bow!'

Herrick and the master bustled to the chart room beneath the poop to consult their findings.

That would be The Skaw. As far as the strange brig was concerned, it had been a near thing. An hour earlier and she would havee slipped away unseen.

Bolitho said, `I will take breakfast now. Let me know when Lookout is near enough to exchange signals.'

Herrick stood by the chart room entrance, shading his eyes as if he expected to see the other vessels.

'Mr Grubb thinks we should be off The Skaw before noon if the wind stays with us.'

'I agree. Once there you may signal the squadron to anchor in succession.' Bolitho nodded to the other officers and made his way aft.

Herrick gave a great sigh. He tended to worry when Bolitho was nearby, but he worried all the more when he was gone.

Pascoe slithered down to the deck and retrieved his hat. He was about to approach the quarterdeck when a small figure stepped from between two eighteen-pounders and said, `Excuse me, sir!' It was Midshipman Penels.

`Yes?' Pascoe paused and studied the boy. Was I ever 'like that?

'I – I don't know how to explain, sir.'

He sounded and looked so despairing that Pascoe said, 'Speak out.'

It was virtually impossible to find any privacy in a ship-ofwar. Apart from the captain, and possibly a man deep in the ship's cells, there was always a crowd.

Pascoe knew very little about the newest midshipman. He was from Cornwall, and that was all he had to go on.

He said, 'You are from Bodmin, I believe?'

'Yes, sir.' Penels looked around like a trapped animal. 'There's someone in your division, sir. Someone I grew up with back in England.'

Pascoe stood aside as a file of marines stamped past on their way to one of their complicated drills.

Penels explained, 'His name is John Babbage, sir. He was taken by the press-gang at Plymouth. I didn't know until we were at sea. He worked for my mother after my father died, sir. He was good to me. My best friend.'

Pascoe looked away. It was not his place to interfere. In any case, Penels should have gone to the first lieutenant or the master.

But he remembered his own beginning. The long, hungry walk from Penzance to Falmouth. Just a boy, and quite alone.

`Why did you approach me, Mr Penels? The truth now.'

'My friend said you are a good officer, sir. Not so sharp as some.'

Pascoe formed a mental picture of this unfortunate Babbage. A wild-eyed youth, nearer his own age than Penels', he would have thought.

`Well, we are with the squadron now, Mr Penels. Had you come to me in port I might have been able to do something.' He thought of Wolfe and knew it would have made little difference even then.

A ship needed men. Every hand she could get. Wolfe was a good officer in many ways, but he was short of sympathy for any catch brought aboard by the press.

But it. must be hard for both Penels and his friend of boyhood days.

In the same hull, yet neither knowing the other was aboard until the ship was standing out to sea. Separated not only by rank and station, but also by the ship's own geography. Penels served with the afterguard for sail drill and duty with the quarterdeck nine-pounders. Babbage was classed as a landman in his own division at the foremast. Babbage was young and agile. With luck he should soon learn to run aloft with the topmen, the aristocrats of seamanship.

He heard himself say, 'I will look into it. I'll not promise anything though.'

He strode away, unable to bear the gratitude in Penels' eyes.

Commander Matthew Veitch arrived in Bolitho's cabin and looked around him curiously. On his left shoulder the single epaulette denoting his rank glittered in bright contrast to his shabby sea-going coat. Veitch had served with Bolitho before and knew he would get no thanks for wasting time to change his clothing before he reported to the flagship.

Bolitho said, 'Sit down and tell me about it.'

It felt strange to be at anchor again. The four ships of the line were all lying to their cables in close formation, with the Danish coast clearly visible through the quarter windows. The frigates were still on patrol, like watchdogs, they rarely rested.

The sloop, with her prize, were also at anchor off Skaw Point, which in recent months had become the fleet's general rendezvous and resting place.

Veitch stretched his long legs. 'The prize is a merchant brig, sir, the Echo out of Cherbourg. Slipped through our patrols in a storm last week, her master says: She made a run for it, so I raked her promptly.'

Bolitho glanced at the bulkhead door. Beyond it Browne, who had a good knowledge of French, was busy going through the Echo's papers which Veitch had brought aboard.

A French brig. Without obvious cargo or passengers. She had taken considerable risk in running the blockade, more again when she had attempted to outsail the Lookout.

'Where bound?'

Veitch shrugged. 'Her master had false papers, I suspect. But the charts were found stuffed in the lazarette by one of my midshipmen with the boarding party.' He grinned. 'The lad was searching for food, no doubt, but I'll not spoil his glory because of that!' He became serious again. 'Two points were marked, sir. Copenhagen and Stockholm.'

Herrick moved restlessly away from the quarter windows and said, 'It smells, sir.'

Bolitho looked at him. 'You think as I do, Thomas? The French are in some way mixed up with Tsar Paul's discontent?'

Herrick replied, 'I feel certain of it, sir. The more they can put under arms, the better it is for them. We'll have the whole world against us if they have their way!'

The door opened and Browne entered the cabin. He held one letter in his hand, the broken seal shining dully like blood.' He raised his eyebrows questioningly.

'What does it say?' Bolitho had noticed that Browne never shared a single word of information with anyone else present without his permission.

'It is addressed to a French government official in Copenhagen, sir.'

They all looked at each other. It was like some prearranged gathering of friends and enemies alike.

Browne continued in his unemotional tone, 'It is from the military commander in Toulon, and has reached this far via Paris and Cherbourg.'

Herrick could not contain his impatience. 'Don't keep us in suspense, man!'

Browne merely glanced at him. 'The French forces in Malta have surrendered to the British blockading squadron, sir. It happened last month.'

Herrick sounded perplexed. 'Well, surely that's good news? With Malta in our hands the Frenchies will have to tread warily in the Mediterranean in future!'

Browne did not smile. 'It should be known, sir, Tsar Paul of Russia had become the so-called head of the Grand Knights of Malta. When the French captured the island he was furious. This letter explains that the French government had offered to transfer the rule of Malta to the Tsar, knowing full well, of course, that the island would fall to the British anyway.'

Herrick spread his hands. 'I still don't see where we come in?'

Bolitho said quietly, 'The British will not leave Malta, Thomas. It will be too valuable to us, as you just remarked. The French have made a clever move. What better way of turning the Tsar and his friends finally against us? We and not the French are now between him and his precious Knights of Malta.'

Browne said, `That sums it up, sir.'

'Obviously, Sir Samuel Damerum knew nothing of this.

Because of bad weather the news has moved slowly.'

Veitch cleared his throat. 'But you have the letter, sir.' Bolitho smiled gravely. 'I have indeed, thanks to you.' 'Will you act on it, sir?' Browne watched him impassively. Bolitho walked to the windows and stared at the anchored

ships.

`There is no one else here. I think the sooner we act the better.'

Herrick said, 'It's all getting beyond me, sir.'

Bolitho came to a series of decisions. It would all probably be too late, couriers could have reached Copenhagen overland if necessary. But if not, he would get no thanks from the Admiralty for dragging his feet.

'Send for my clerk. I'll make out orders for the brig. Commander Veitch, you may select a prize-crew for her. I want her to go with all speed to Great Yarmouth. Choose an intelligent prize-master, for I'll need him to take my despatches by the fastest means to London.' He looked at Herrick. 'I will shift my flag to Styx. Signal her accordingly.' He saw all the arguments, the protests building up on Herrick's round face and added quietly, 'I'd not ask you to take Benbow under the batteries of Elsinore, Thomas, if we are already at war! And if we are still at peace, a frigate will present a less threatening image.'

His clerk, Yovell, was already in the cabin, opening up his little writing desk which he kept available for such occasions.

Bolitho looked at Veitch. 'You will take over Styx 's duties for the present.'

From a corner of his eye he saw Yovell preparing his pens and ink ready to write new orders for the brig, a report for the Admiralty, a sentence of death, too, if that was asked of him.

To Herrick he said, 'You will command the squadron until I return, If I am longer than a week without sending word, you will act accordingly.'

Herrick saw he was beaten. 'And when will you leave?'

'I hope to be aboard Styx and under way before we lose the light.

After Herrick and Veitch had left to carry out his instructions, Bolitho asked the lieutenant, 'Do you think I am acting unwisely?' He saw Browne's rare uncertainty and added, `Come on, man, you should know me better after more than a week at sea together. I'll not bite off your head if I disagree with what you say. But I may not heed it either.'

Browne shrugged. 'In a way I share the flag captain's apprehension, sir. I know your background, and I have read of many of your past exploits with admiration.' He looked Bolitho straight in the eyes. `Like Captain Herrick, I see you as a fighting sailor, not as a diplomat.'

Bolitho recalled his visit to Damerum's flagship. He had thought it strange then that Damerum had not taken the initiative himself. He was a senior flag officer and well respected. Most such men would have expected it, demanded it in many cases.

Browne added quietly, 'But you are left with little room for manoeuvre now, sir. I would merely suggest, from my own experience with Admiral Sir George Beauchamp, that you tread warily. A victor is one thing, but a scapegoat is often more easily discovered.'

Herrick came back rubbing his hands. He looked cold.

` Styx has acknowledged our signal, sir. May I suggest you take some extra hands with you?' He grinned ruefully. 'I know there's no point in me protesting any more, so I took the liberty of telling Mr Wolfe to detail thirty seamen and a couple of junior officers. One lieutenant, and I thought a midshipman for messages and so forth.'

Bolitho nodded. 'That was thoughtful, Thomas. I think Captain Neale will appreciate it, too.'

Herrick sighed. 'Captain Neale.' He shook his head. 'I still think of him as that greasy cherub we pushed through the venthole!'

Bolitho steadied his thoughts again. They were too often racing ahead like halliards gone mad and fouling their blocks.

What Browne had said made sense.

'Well, Yovell, write what I shall tell you.'

Herrick was about to leave again and asked, 'Which

lieutenant, sir?'

Mr Pascoe.' He smiled. 'But I expect you already thought of that, too!'