precision.
Pears seemed to see Bolitho for the first time. 'Ali, it is you.' He ran his eye over Bolitho's best cocked hat, his white lapels and freshly pressed waistcoat. 'I thought I had a new officer for a while.'
Bolitho smiled. 'Thank you, sir.' Pears nodded. 'Carry on.'
Bolitho ran down the ladder to the boat, where Hogg, the burly coxswain, stood in readiness, his hat in his hand like a grim-faced mourner.
The pipes trilled and then the barge tilted to Pears' weight as he stepped down and into the sternsheets.
'Shove off! Out oars!' Hogg was conscious of his captain and watching telescopes from nearby warships. 'Give way all!'
Bolitho sat stiffly with his sword between his knees. lie found it impossible to relax when he was with the captain. So he watched Trojan instead, seeing her curved tumblehome change shape as the boat swung round and beneath her high stern. He saw the red ensign curling listlessly above the taff rail, the glitter of gilt paint and polished fittings.
Every gunport was open to catch the offshore air, and at each one, withdrawn like a resting beast, Trojan's considerable artillery showed a round black muzzle. They too were as clean as D'Esterre's silver buttons.
Bolitho glanced at Pears' grim profile. What news there was of the war was bad. Stalemate at best, real losses too often for comfort. But whatever Pears thought about the situation and the future he was certainly not going to let down his ship by any sign of slackness.
Beneath her furled sails and crossed yards, shimmering in her own haze of black and buff, Trojan was a sight to stir even the most doubting heart.
Pears said suddenly, 'Have you heard from your father?'
Bolitho replied, 'Not of late, sir. He is not much for writing.'
Pears looked directly at him. 'I was sorry to learn of your mother's death. I met her just the once at Weymouth. You were at sea, I believe. A gracious lady. It makes me feel old even to remember her.'
Bolitho looked astern at Trojan. So that was part of it, and no wonder. Suppose, just suppose, that Trojan had to fight. Really fight with ships of her own size and fire power. He thought of the officers Pears would carry into battle. Probyn, getting more difficult and morose every day. Dalyell, cheerful but barely equipped to take over his new role as fourth lieutenant. And poor Quinn, tight-lipped and in constant pain from his wound, and confined to light duties under the surgeon's attention. Now there was Libby, one more boy in a lieutenant's guise. Pears had good cause to worry about it, he thought. It must be like having a shipload of schoolboys.
'How many men did you get today?'
Bolitho stared. Pears knew everything. Even about his trip ashore.
'Four, sir.' It was even worse when you said it aloud.
'Hmm. We may have better luck when the next convoy arrives.' Pears shifted on the red cushion. 'Damned knaves. Prize seamen, protected by the East India Company or some bloody government warrant! Hell's teeth, you'd think it was a crime to fight for your country! But I'll get my hands on a few of 'em, exemptions or not.' He chuckled. 'By the time their lordships hear about it, we'll have changed ' em into King's men!'
Bolitho turned his head as the flagship loomed around another anchored man-of-war.
She was the Resolute, a second-rate of some ninety guns, and a veteran of twenty-five years of service. There were several boats at her booms, and Bolitho guessed it was to be quite a gathering. He looked up at the drooping flag at her mizzen and wondered what their host would be like. Rear-Admiral Graham Coutts, in command of the inshore squadron, had controlled Trojan's destiny since her first arrival in New York. Bolitho had never laid eyes on him and was curious to know what he was like. Probably another Pears, he decided. Rocklike, unbreakable.
He shifted his attention to the professional side of their arrival. The marines at the entry port, the gleam of steel, the bustle of blue and white and the faint shout of commands.
Pears was sitting as before, but Bolitho noticed that his strong fingers were opening and closing around the sharkskin grip of his sword, the first sign of agitation he had ever noticed in him.
It was a fine sword and must have cost a small fortune. It was a presentation sword, given to Pears for some past deed of individual courage, or more likely a victory over one of England 's enemies.
'Ready to toss yer oars!' Hogg was leaning on the balls of his feet, his fingers caressing the tiller-bar as he gauged the final approach. 'Oars up!'
As one the blades rose and remained motionless in paired lines, the sea water trickling unheeded on to the knees of the bargemen.
Pears nodded to his crew and then climbed sedately up the side, doffing his hat to the shrill calls and the usual ceremony which greeted every captain.
Bolitho counted seconds and then followed. He was met by a thin-nosed lieutenant with a telescope jammed beneath his arm who looked at him as if he had just emerged from some stale cheese.
'You are to go aft, sir.' The lieutenant gestured to the poop where Pears, in company with Resolute's flag captain, was hurrying towards the shade.
Bolitho paused to look around the quarterdeck. Very like Trojan's. The lines of tethered guns, their tackles neatly turned on to cleats or flaked down on the snow-white planking. Seamen going about their work, a midshipman studying an incoming brig through his glass, his lips moving silently as he read her flag hoist of numbers which would reveal her name and that of her captain.
Down on the gundeck a seaman was standing beside a corporal of marines, while another midshipman was speaking rapidly to a lieutenant. A crime committed? A man about to be taken aft for punishment? Or he might be up for promotion or discharge. It was a familiar scene which could mean so many things.
He sighed. Bike the Trojan. And yet again, she was completely different.
Bolitho walked slowly beneath the poop and was startled by the sound of music and the muted laughter of men and women. Every screen had been removed and the admiral's quarters had been opened up into one huge cabin. By the open stern windows some violinists were playing with great concentration, and amongst the jostling crowd of sea officers, civilians and several ladies, servants in red jackets carried trays laden with glasses, while others stood at a long table refilling them as fast as they could.
Pears had been swallowed up, and Bolitho nodded to several lieutenants who, like himself, were only here under sufferance.
A tall figure emerged from the crush, and Bolitho saw it was Lamb, the flagship's captain. He was a steady- eyed man with features which might at first appear to be severe, even hard. But when he smiled, everything changed.
'You are Mr Bolitho, I understand?' He held out his hand. 'Welcome aboard. I heard about your exploits last March and wanted to meet you. We can use men of mettle who have seen what war is all about. It, is a hard time, but also one of opportunity for young men such as yourself. If the moment comes, seize your chance. Believe me, Bolitho, they rarely come twice.'
Bolitho thought of the graceful schooner, even the stubbyhulled Thrush. His own chance had already come and gone.
'Come and meet the admiral.' He saw Bolitho s expression and laughed. 'He will not eat you!'
More pushing to get through the crowd. Flushed faces, loud voices. It was difficult to imagine that the war was just miles away.
He saw a hunched set of blue shoulders and a gold-laced collar, and groaned inwardly. Ponderous. Slow- moving. A disappointment after all.
But the flag captain pushed the big man aside and revealed a slight figure who barely came up to his shoulder.
Rear-Admiral Graham Coutts looked more like a lieutenant than a flag officer. He had dark brown hair which was tied to the nape of his neck in a casual fashion. He had an equally youthful face, devoid of lines or the usual mask of authority which Bolitho had seen before.
He thrust out his hand. 'Bolitho, is it? Good.' He nodded and smiled impetuously. 'Proud to meet you.' He beckoned to some hidden servant. 'Wine over here!'
Then he said lightly, 'I know all about you. I suspect that if you and not your superior officer had been leading that boat attack you might even have recaptured the brigantine!' He smiled. 'No matter. It showed what can be done, given the will.'
An elegant figure in blue velvet walked from a noisy group by the quarter gallery and the admiral said quietly,
