caused. He did not really like Roxby, nor could he ever understand his sister's choice for a husband. Roxby loved a good rich life, with all the hunting and bloodsport he could find to fill his day with others of the county whom he might consider as his equals. The thought of being involved with a reborn local scandal would be more than enough to move him to write this letter and send the boy packing to sea.
He turned and looked again at the young midshipman. Letters of proof, Roxby had said. But just to look at him should have been enough. No wonder he had seemed strange. It was like looking at himself as a boy!
Pascoe met his gaze; his expression drawn between defiance and anxiety.
Bolitho asked quietly, 'Your father, boy, what do you know of him?'
'He was a King's officer, sir, and was killed by a runaway horse in America. My mother often described him to me.' He faltered before adding, 'When she was dying she told me to make my way to Falmouth and seek your family, sir. I-I know my mother never married him, sir. I have always known, but…' His voice trailed away.
Bolitho nodded. 'I understand.' What a lot had been left unsaid. How the boy's mother had managed to keep and clothe him, to protect him from the truth that his father had desertedd the Navy and had fought against his country, spoke volumes, and moved Bolitho to say, 'As you must know, your father was my brother.' He looked away and hurried on, 'And you lived in Penzance, you say?'
'Yes, sir. My mother was sometimes a housekeeper for the squire. When she died I walked to Falmouth.'
Bolitho studied his face thoughtfully. Twenty miles on foot, alone and with no knowledge of what might be waiting for him in a strange town.
The boy said suddenly, 'Aunt Nancy was most generous, sir. She took care of me,' he dropped his gaze, 'while they were looking into things.'
'Aye, she would.' Bolitho recalled his sister with sudden clarity, how she had nursed and mothered him when he had lain half dying with fever after his return from the Great South Sea. She would look after the boy better than anyone, he thought.
It was strange to realise that all these years he had been living a bare twenty miles from Falmouth, and the house, which if not for this cruel twist of fate, would have been his own property one day.
Pascoe said quietly, 'When I was in Falmouth, sir, I went to the church and saw my father's plaque there. Beside all those others…' He swallowed hard. 'I liked that, sir.'
There was a tap on the door and Midshipman Gascoigne stepped carefully into the cabin. Gascoigne was seventeen and the ship's senior midshipman. In the coveted post of looking after the Hyperion's signals, he was next in line for promotion to acting lieutenant. Also, he was the only midshipman who had been at sea before in a King's ship.
He said formally, 'Mr. Inch's respects, sir, and the barge is putting off from Indomitable with the commodore on board.' His eye strayed to the new midshipman, but did not even flicker.
Bolitho stood up, groping for his sword. 'Very well, I'll come directly.' He added sharply, 'Mr. Gascoigne, I will place Mr. Pascoe in your charge. See that he is allotted a station and keep a careful eye on his progress.'
'Sir?' Gascoigne looked inscrutable.
Bolitho hated favouritism of any kind, and despised those who used it to grant or receive advancement or special treatment. But it seemed little enough now. This poor, wretched boy who was grateful for a chance to make good when he was entirely blameless for the fate which had left him without a father or his proper name, was now in his ship, and from what he could gather from Roxby's letter, likely to have nowhere else to go in the whole world.
He said calmly, 'Mr. Pascoe is my, er, nephew.'
When he looked again at the boy's face he knew he had been right.
Unable to watch the torment in his dark eyes a moment longer he added harshly, 'Now be off with you! There's more than enough work as it is!'
Minutes later as he stood by the entry port to receive the commodore, Bolitho found himself thinking of what the boy's arrival might come to mean. As he glanced casually at the other officers he wondered just how much they knew or considered their captain's background and the one flaw in his family's record.
But their expressions were mixed. Excitement at the voyage ahead, troubled by the thought of leaving someone dear even further astern, the faces were as varied as their owners. Maybe they were just relieved at being spared from the boredom of blockade, and did not yet fully comprehend the enormity of the ship's true mission. The sudden change- of orders seemed to have driven the horror of the hangings, the sharp and fierce clash with the frigate from their minds. Even the handful of seamen killed in the one-sided fight, who had been buried at sea almost before their blood had been scrubbed from the planking, appeared to have faded in memory. Which was just as well, he thought grimly.
As Pelham-Martin's cocked hat appeared up the side and the pipes squealed and the marines' drums and fifes broke into Heart of Oak, Bolitho momentarily thrust his personal hopes and misgivings to the back of his mind.
He stepped forward, removing his hat, knowing from the uplifted eyes of a small sideboy that the broad pendant had broken from the masthead at exactly the right moment, and said formally, 'Welcome aboard, sirl'
Pelham-Martin clapped on his hat and peered around at the watching figures. He was perspiring freely, and Bolitho could almost taste the brandy on his breath. Whatever Cavendish had said to him privately had certainly moved Pelham-Martin enough to fortify himself well before coming across to his new flagship.
He said shortly, 'Carry on, Bolitho.' Then followed by Petch he waddled aft to the quarterdeck ladder.
Bolitho looked at Inch. 'Get the ship under way, if you please.' He glanced aloft at the new pendant. 'The- wind has backed a trifle, I think. Make a signal to the frigates Spartan and Abdiel to take station as ordered. He watched Gascoigne scribbling on his slate, the flags dashing up to the yards. He saw, too, that Pascoe was with Gascoigne, his.head bent to catch what his senior was telling him. At that moment the boy looked up, and across the hurrying seamen and jerking halyards their eyes met.
Bolitho nodded curdy, and then gave a brief smile. When he looked again the boy was hidden by the afterguard as they clumped to the mizzen braces.
He said, 'We will steer west-south-west, Mr. Gossett.'
Later, as the Hyperion tilted steeply to the wind and more and more canvas blossomed and thundered from her braced yards, Bolitho walked on to the poop and stared astern. The other two-deckers and the vice-admiral's frigate were already lost in a misty haze, and of France there was no sign at all.
Inch came aft and touched his hat. 'It'll be a long chase, sir.'
Bolitho nodded. 'Let us hope it may also be a fruitful one.' Then he crossed to the weather side and retreated into his thoughts again.
6. A KING'S OFFICER
For three weeks after leaving the rest of the squadron the Hyperion and the two frigates drove south-west, and later when the wind backed perversely and mounted to a full gale, due south under all sail which it was safe to carry.
Then, as January drew to a close, they picked up the north-east trade winds and headed out on the longest and final leg of their voyage. Three thousand miles of ocean, with nothing but their own meagre resources to sustain them.
But as far as Bolitho was concerned the weather for the first part of the voyage had been a welcome ally. Barely an hour passed without the hands being called to reef or trim the sails, and the ship's company had found little time to brood over their unexpected isolation and the great breadth of ocean which greeted their tired eyes at every dawn.
And in spite of the hardships and privations, if not because of them, he was pleased with the way his men were-shaping up. As he stood by the quarterdeck rail and watched the hands toiling with holystones and swabs he saw the obvious changes which had come about. Gone were the pallid skins and haggard faces. The bodies were still lean, but it was a tough leanness born of hard work and sea air, and they performed their daily tasks without the need of constant guidance or harrying. Of course the weather had a lot to do with it. All the colours were different. Blue instead of dull grey, and the rare clouds fleecy and unreachable as they glided across the clear sky towards an horizon which always seemed as hard and as bright as a sword blade.
