Around the ships and plying back and forth to the pier were boats of every shape and size. Cutters and gigs, launches and jolly boats, they seemed endless, and when Bolitho shifted his glass to the hillside beyond the fortress he saw a widely flung rectangle of pointed tents interspersed with tiny scarlet figures and an occasional camp-fire. It seemed as if the army had arrived, too.
With a start he realised the Hyperion'was already through the protective arm of the entrance, but when he glanced at Rooke he saw that the lieutenant was still standing rigidly by the quarterdeck rail, his speaking trumpet under his arm as if on parade.
He snapped, 'Wear ship, if you please!'
Rooke flushed angrily and raised the triumpet. 'Hands wear ship! Lee braces there!'
Bolitho compressed his lips tightly. Rooke was a good enough officer when it came to fighting and day-to-day routine, but he seemed to shrink in size when it came to taking charge of the Hyperion's great bulk in confined Waters.
Pearse, the gunner, was standing by the foremast shading his eyes as he peered aft towards the quarterdeck. Bolitho nodded curtly, and with a dull bang the first gun sent the echoes rolling around the cliffs as Hyperion paid her respects to the rear-admiral, whoever he was.
Bolitho knew he could ignore the routine of saluting. As the guns crashed out at five-second intervals and the ship crept forward in a cloud of drifting smoke he gauged the distance, his eye and brain noting the unruffled water below the tall cliffs, the slackening vigour of the masthead pendant.
'Tops'l sheets!' Rooke sounded out of breath. 'Tops'! clew lines!'
Bolitho saw the men strung out along the tapered yards, their tanned arms moving in unison, totally unconcerned by their dizzy height above the deck.
'Helm alee!'
With the breeze all but gone the Hyperion turned lazily into the wind, her remaining sails vanishing as Bolitho dropped his arm with a slice, and from forward came the shout, 'Let go!'
He half listened to the splash and the attendant rumble of outgoing cable, glad that the saluting guns had finished so that he could think clearly again.
Midshipman Caswell broke the sudden silence. He had kept his glass trained on the flagship, his mind empty of everything but the necessity of being the first to see the flags break from her yards.
'Tenacious to Hyperion. Captain repair on board in fifteen minutes.'
Bolitho saw Allday waiting by the poop. 'Tell Gimlett to lay out my best uniform immediately. Then call away the barge.'
He saw Gossett staring at the powerful three-decker and asked, 'Do you know her?'
Gossett pouted thoughtfully. 'She was with us off Brest for a while, sir. Then she went into Plymouth for an overhaul. She weren't carrying any admiral in them days.'
Caswell looked up from his book. 'Tenacious, ninety guns, sir. Captain Matthew Dash.'
Bolitho formed a small picture in his mind. 'I met him once,' was all he said., But he was more interested in the rearadmiral. A lot would depend on 'the sort of man he proved to be. Bolitho hurried to his cabin, throwing off his threadbare seagoing coat and tearing at his faded waistcoat.
Gimlett followed him like an anxious shadow as Bolitho pulled on a clean shirt and ran a comb through his hair. Lord Hood might be senior enough to ignore such niceties, he thought grimly, but this rear-admiral obviously considered otherwise. The fifteen minutes' grace spoke for themselves.
He heard the splash of his boat alongside and Allday's strident tones calling to the bargemen.
And all the while his mind was busy with the possibilities now presented by the presence of the ninety-gun ship of the line and the newly landed soldiers. Hood must have seen the value of his first report. It seemed as if action was more than just a rough idea now.
He cursed as Gimlett adjusted his neckcloth and fussed around him with his swordbelt. He was like an old woman, he thought despairingly.
Rooke appeared in the open door. 'Barge alongside, sir.' He looked more composed now that the ship had anchored.
Bolitho thrust his arms into the gold-laced coat with its white lapels and said, 'Have all boats lowered, Mr. Rooke. Send the Fairfax 's people ashore and then await my instructions.' He picked up his carefully worded report and added slowly, 'When next we enter harbour you must try to get the feel of the ship, do you understand?'
'I was concerned about the wind, sir.' Rooke eyed him flatly. 'She's got so much weed on her bottom she might do anything.'
Boltiho reached for his hat. 'Until I decide otherwise you will take the responsibilities of first lieutenant. And those include the wind, and any other damn thing in or around this ship, understand?'
Rooke straightened his back. 'Aye, aye, sir.'
'Good.' He strode out into the sunlight, past the side party, and paused by the entry port. 'I see that the Chanticleer is flying her mail pendant, Mr. Rooke. I will send over some despatches, and if there are any letters from our people you had better get them across also.' He paused, his eye falling on the stolid line of bosun's mates, their pipes raised in readiness. The side boys with their rough white gloves, and Inch with his telescope. It seemed odd without any marines.
Then he added quietly, 'You had best parcel Mr. Quarme's possessions and send them too.' He watched for some flicker of regret or pity in Rooke's eyes. But he merely touched his hat and then stood aside as with a squeal of pipes Bolitho climbed down to the waiting barge.
Captain Dash of the Tenacious greeted Bolitho warmly. In his middle fifties, he was a square-set, bluff-looking man with a harsh, grating voice but a friendly enough smile. He was one of the Navy's rare products, for he had actually reached his senior post by way of the lower deck, having entered the Navy as a child volunteer and by effort and determination, which Bolitho could only half imagine, had clawed his way to command a ship of the line.
Bolitho followed him to the wide quarterdeck ladder and asked, 'When did you drop anchor?'
Dash grinned. 'This forenoon. It has been all hell here since.' He gestured with a worn thumb towards the big transport. 'She's the Welland, an old ex-Indiaman. She's 'brought five hundred of the 91st Foot an' half of the loudestvoiced sergeants in the British Army by the sound of 'em!'
He became suddenly serious. 'I was at Gibraltar when the sloop came from Lord Hood with my new orders.' He shrugged. 'So now my ship wears a rear-admiral's flag and I have to remember my manners!'
'What is he like?' Bolitho dropped his voice.
'Hard to tell. He has had me on the hop since he came aboard, but he spends most of the time in his cabin. He's waiting for you right now.'
Bolitho smiled. 'I forgot to ask his name.'
Dash pulled himself up the ladder. 'He's only just got his appointment to flag rank, so you probably never heard of him.' He paused, sweating profusely, and then stared at the mizzen truck. 'You are now under the flag of Sir Edmund Pomfret, Knight of the Bath, Rear-Admiral of the Red.' He broke off and peered at Bolitho uncertainly. 'You do know him then?'
Bolitho looked away, his mind reeling. Edmund Pomfret, it did not seem possible. He tried to think back to that one and only time he had ever seen him. It had been in the George at Portsmouth, where he had been summoned to receive the news of his new command of the frigate Phalarope. Nearly twelve years back in time. On his way from the inn to his new ship he had passed another junior who had been waiting to receive the full wrath of the admiral. That captain had been ordered from the Phalarope because of his senseless cruelty, his total indifference of the wellbeing of his men, even to the margin of life and death. And that man, the one who had sewn the seeds of the Phalarope's mutiny, had been Edmund Pomfret!
Dash paused outside the door of the great cabin where two marines stared unwinkingly from-beneath their black shakos. 'You feeling all right, Bolitho? I heard you had been under a fever, and…'
Bolitho touched his sleeve. 'I am well enough. It was just an old memory.'
He tapped the door and heard a voice call sharply, 'Enter.'
Pomfret was seated behind a large desk signing a paper held by his flag-lieutenant. He waved to a chair without looking up. 'Be seated, Captain. I must make sure this is drafted correctly.'
The worried-looking lieutenant winced, but Bolitho kept his eye on the seated admiral.
Pomfret had changed a good deal, but there was no mistaking him. Surprisingly, the heavy admiral's coat and gold lace made him appear younger than his forty years, but beneath his gleaming waistcoat his figure had given
