his name? Penels, that was it. The youngest aboard. Just twelve, and a fellow Cornishman. He smiled. Hardly a man.
'Relieve the wheel, if you please.'
Eight bells chimed out from the forecastle and the forenoon watchkeepers hurried to their messes for their food and a good, strong tot.
Bolitho crossed the quarterdeck and said, `You are looking well, Adam.'
They moved away from the double-wheel and its three helmsmen and walked side by side to the weather nettings.
'Thank you, sir.' Pascoe shot him a sideways glance. `Uncle. You, too.'
When Bolitho eventually pulled out his watch he realized he had been speaking with his nephew for an hour. It had seemed like minutes, and yet they had conjured up a far different picture from the one around them. Not sea and sky, spray and taut canvas, but country lanes, low cottages and the grey bulk of Pendennis Castle.
Pascoe was very tanned, as dark as a gipsy.
Bolitho said, 'We shall all be shivering soon, my lad. But perhaps we may be able to set foot ashore. That was why I could never stand blockade duty in the Bay. The British people become moist-eyed when they speak of their 'wooden walls', the weatherbeaten ships which keep the French fleet bottled up in port. They would speak less warmly if they knew what hell it can be.'
Midshipman Penels called nervously, 'Signal from Styx, sir.' He purposefully looked at Pascoe. `Man overboard, sir.'
Pascoe nodded and seized a telescope to train it on the distant frigate.
Acknowledge. I will tell the captain presently.'
He watched the frigate's shape shortening as she came up into the wind, her sails aback and in confusion. It was to be hoped she could get her quarter boat away in time to recover the luckless man.
Bolitho watched Pascoe's expression as he studied the frigate's swift manoeuvre. He thought, too, of her captain, John Neale. He had been Penels' age when the mutiny-had broken out aboard his Phalarope during the American Revolution. A small, plump youth, he could see him clearly. He could even smile about it now. How he and Herrick had rubbed the naked midshipman all over with rancid butter to force him through a vent hole to free him from the mutineers and rouse assistance. Neale had been small, but it had been a hard struggle all the same.
Now Neale was a post-captain, and he knew exactly what Pascoe was thinking as he watched his ship-handling through the glass.
Bolitho said quietly, `As soon as possible, Adam. I'll do what I can. You've earned it.'
Pascoe stared at him, his eyes wide with astonishment. `You knew, Uncle?'
Bolitho smiled. `I was a frigate captain once, Adam. It is something you never quite lose.' He looked up at his rearadmiral's flag streaming from the mizzen truck. 'Even when it is taken from you.'
Pascoe exclaimed, `Thank you- very much. I I mean, I want to be with you. But you know that. I just feel I am marking time in a ship of the line.'
Bolitho saw Ozzard hovering below the poop, his thin body screwed up against the damp wind. Time to eat.
He chuckled. 'I think I said much the same, too!'
As Bolitho ducked below the poop, Pascoe began to pace slowly up and down the weather side, his hands clasped behind him as he had seen Bolitho do so often.
Pascoe would not have said anything about his hopes to either Bolitho or Herrick. He should have known he could not hide a secret from either of them.
He quickened his pace, his thoughts exploring the future, which no longer seemed an idle dream.
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
