With All Despatch

changeless protection.

He moved to a mirror which hung above one of his sea chests and studied his reflection, dispassionately, as he might a new subordinate. The uniform coat, with its broad white lapels and gilt buttons, the gold lace and epaulettes, should have offered immediate confidence. He knew from hard experience that no matter what kind of ship lay ahead, her company would be far more concerned about their new lord and master than he should be about them. But it failed to repel the uncertainty.

He thought of his last appointment and wondered still if the thankless task of recruiting at the Nore had been the true reason behind it. Had Lord Marcuard known even then that Bolitho was his choice for the other, deeper trust? Using his desperation for an appointment, a chance, no matter what, of returning to the one life he knew, and after losing Viola, needed more than ever. Perhaps he might never learn the complete truth.

He had found himself thinking of Paice very often. That worthy man, as he had described him in his despatch to the Admiralty. Many hundreds would die in this war, thousands, before it was ended in victory or defeat. Names and faces wiped away; and yet there were always the solitary men like Paice, whose memory never died.

He thought too of Vice-Admiral Brennier. He had received barely a mention in the newssheets, and Bolitho guessed that Marcuard's powerful hand was in that too. Perhaps Brennier would after all be involved in some counter-revolution.

The last gun thundered, and he heard voices calling commands as they were sponged out and prepared for the final cable or so of the frigate's entrance. Many eyes would be watching her. Letters from home-fresh orders-or simply the sight of a visitor from England to prove that Gibraltar was not entirely alone.

Allday crossed the cabin, the old sword held in his hands.

'Ready, Cap'n?' He offered a grin. 'They'll be expecting to see you on deck.'

Bolitho extended his arms and heard Allday muttering to himself as he clipped on the sword.

'You needs a bit o' fattenin' up, Cap'n-'

'Damn your impertinence!'

Allday stood back and hid a smile. The fire was still there. It just needed coaxing out.

He ran his eyes over Bolitho's slim physique. Smart as paint. Only the cheekbones, and the deeper lines at his mouth betrayed the grief and the illness.

Bolitho picked up his hat and stared at it unseeingly.

It was very strange, he had often thought, that at no time since the French treasure had been landed at Dover and put under guard, had it ever been publicly mentioned. Perhaps Marcuard, or even the prime minister, Pitt, had their own ideas as to how it might be used to better advantage?

How things had changed, just as he had known they would; just as Hoblyn had so bitterly prophesied. Especially with Pitt, he thought. The man who had cursed and condemned the smuggling gangs, who had used dragoons and the gibbet to keep their 'trade' at bay if not under control, had now been quoted as paying tribute to the very same scum. 'These men are my eyes, for without them I am blind to intelligence of the enemy!' It was so incredible that it was all the harder to believe, and to stomach.

As Queely had remarked dourly, 'Had Delaval stayed alive he might well have held a letter of marque from the King!'

Queely: another face in memory. He had been appointed to command a sturdy fourteen-gun brig at Plymouth. Bolitho wondered if he would take all his books with him to this different ship and different war.

He turned to Allday. In his blue coat and flapping white trousers, the tarred hat in one big fist, he would stir the heart of any patriotic landsman, or woman. Bolitho thought of the song he had heard when he had boarded Harvester from Portsmouth. 'Britons to Arms.' How poor Hoblyn would have laughed at that.

He heard a yell from the quarterdeck, the instant creak of the rudder as the wheel was put over. He could see it in his mind, as clearly as if he had been there on deck. The cluster of figures around the cathead ready to let go one anchor. The marines lined up on the poop in neat scarlet ranks. Captain Leach, anxious that everything should be right on this fair June morning, and justifiably proud of his fast passage from Spithead.

Bolitho shrugged and said quietly, 'I can never find words to thank you, old friend.' Their eyes met and he added, 'Truly, heart of oak.'

Then he walked through the screen door, nodding to the sentry before moving out into the sunlight, the expectant seamen who were waiting to furl every sail with only seconds between them when the anchor splashed down.

Leach turned to greet him, his expression wary.

Bolitho said, 'You have a fine ship, Captain Leach. I envy you.'

Leach watched him cross to the nettings, unable to conceal his astonishment. Surely Bolitho wanted for nothing? A post-captain of distinction who was almost certain to reach flag rank before this war showed signs of ending, unless he fell out of favour or was killed in battle…

'Ready, sir!'

Leach held up his arm. 'Let go!'

Spray burst over the beakhead as the great anchor splashed down, but Bolitho did not see it.

I am a frigate captain.

And that gentle, remembered correction. Were-a frigate captain.

He ignored the voice in his memory and stared at the large ships-of-war anchored astern of one which wore a vice-admiral's flag at the fore.

One of them is mine.

He looked at Allday and smiled freely for the first time.

'Not a lively frigate this time, old friend. We've much to discover!'

Allday nodded, satisfied. The smile gave light to the grey eyes once more. It was all there, he decided. Hope, determination, and a new strength which her death had once taken away.

He breathed out slowly. The Old Hyperion. So be it then.