depend on that first judgement, even, as Beauchamp had made clear, the country itself.
It was a harsh school, right enough, Bolitho thought. But a lot of good had come from it. The petty tyrants and bullies were fewer now, for braggarts had little to sustain them in the face of an enemy broadside. Adroit young leaders were emerging daily. He glanced at Neale’s profile. Men like him, who could rouse that vital loyalty when it was most needed.
Apparently unaware of his superior’s scrutiny, Neale said, “We shall change tack at midnight, sir. Close-hauled, it’s likely to be a bit lively.”
Bolitho smiled. Browne was already as sick as a dog in his borrowed cabin.
“We should sight some of our ships tomorrow then.”
“Aye, sir.” Neale turned as a young midshipman struggled across the spray-dashed planking and scribbled quickly on the slate by the wheel. “Oh, this is Mr Kilburne, sir, my signals midshipman.”
The youth, aged about sixteen, froze solid and stared at Bolitho as if he was having a seizure.
Bolitho smiled. “I am pleased to meet you.”
As the midshipman still seemed unable to move, Neale added, “Mr Kilburne has a question for you, sir.”
Bolitho grinned. “Don’t play with the boy, Neale. Is your memory so short?” He turned to the midshipman. “What is it?”
Kilburne, astonished that he was still alive after being brought face-to-face with his admiral, a young one or not, stammered, “W-well, sir, we were all so excited when we were told about your coming aboard…”
By all he probably meant the ship’s three other midshipmen, Bolitho thought.
Kilburne added, “Is it true, sir, that the first frigate you commanded was the Phalarope?”
Neale said abruptly, “That’s enough, Mr Kilburne!” He turned apologetically to Bolitho. “I am sorry, sir. I thought the idiot was going to ask you something different.”
Bolitho could feel the sudden tension. “What is it, Mr Kilburne? I am still all attention.”
Kilburne said wretchedly, “I was correcting the signals book, sir.” He darted a frightened glance at his captain, wondering what had suddenly changed everything into a nightmare. “Phalarope is joining the squadron, sir. Captain Emes.”
Bolitho tightened his hold of the nettings, his mind wrestling with Kilburne’s words.
Surely he was wrong. But how could he be? There had been nothing published about a new vessel named Phalarope. He looked at Neale. And he had just been remembering him aboard that very ship. It was unnerving.
Neale said awkwardly, “I was surprised too, sir. But I didn’t want to dampen your first night aboard. My officers were looking forward to having you as their honoured guest, although the fare is hardly a banquet.”
Bolitho nodded. “I shall be honoured, Captain Neale.” But his mind still clung to the Phalarope. She must be all of twentyfive years old by now. She had been about six years old when he had taken command of her at Spithead. A ship cursed by cruelty and despair, whose people had been so abused by her previous captain they were ripe for mutiny.
He could remember it all. The topsails and pendants of the French fleet rising above the horizon like mounted knights about to charge. The Battle of the Saintes it was called, and when it had ended in victory Phalarope had been a barely-floating wreck.
“Are you all right, sir?” Neale was looking at him anxiously, his own ship momentarily forgotten.
Bolitho said quietly, “She’s too old for this kind of work. I thought she was finished. The honourable way, not left to rot as a prison hulk or storeship in some dismal harbour.” The Navy was desperately short of frigates, but surely not that desperate?
Neale said helpfully, “I did hear she had been fitting out in Ireland, sir. But I imagined it was for use as guard- ship or accommodation vessel.”
Bolitho stared out at the advancing lines of jagged whitecaps. Phalarope. After all this time, so many miles, so many ships and faces. Herrick may have seen the signals book by now. It would mean so much to him too. Bolitho took a sharp breath. And Allday, who had been brought aboard Phalarope as a pressed man like a felon.
He realized that the midshipman was still watching him, his eyes filling his face.
Bolitho touched his arm. “You have nothing to worry about, Mr Kilburne. It was just a shock, that is all. She was a fine ship; we made her something special.”
Neale said, “With respect, sir, you made her that.”
Bolitho descended the ladder again and then strode aft towards the marine sentry by the cabin door.
He saw a figure squatting on one of the Styx ’s twelve-pounders. It was gloomy between decks and still too early for wasting lanterns where they were not needed. Had it been pitch dark Bolitho would have known Allday’s sturdy figure. Like an oak. Always nearby when he was needed. Ready to use his cheek when his courage was to no avail.
He made to stand but Bolitho said quietly, “Rest easy. You’ve heard then?”
“Aye, sir.” Allday nodded heavily. “It’s not right. Not fair.”
“Don’t be an old woman, Allday. You’ve been at sea long enough to know better. Ships come and go. One you served in last year might lie alongside you tomorrow. Another you may have seen in a dozen different ports, or fighting in a hundred fights, yet never set foot aboard, may well be your next appointment.”
Allday persisted stubbornly. “S’not that, sir. She were different. They’ve no right to put her in the Bay, she’s too old, an’ I doubt if she ever got over the Saintes. God knows, I never did.”
Bolitho watched him, suddenly uneasy. “There’s nothing I can do. She will be under my command, like the others.”
Allday stood up and turned beside the cannon, his head bowed between the beams.
“But she’s not like the others!”
Bolitho bit back the sharp retort as quickly as it had formed. Why take it out on Allday? Like the midshipman on the quarterdeck who had unwittingly broken the news, he was not to blame.
Bolitho said quietly, “No, Allday, she’s not. I won’t deny it. But it rests between us. You know how sailors love to create mystery when there is none. We’ll need all our wits about us in the next month or so without lower deck gossip. We cannot afford to look back.”
Allday sighed. The sound seemed to rise right up from his shoes.
“I expect you’re right, sir.” He tried to shake himself free of it. “Anyway, I must get you ready for the wardroom. It’ll be something for ’em to remember.” But his usual humour evaded him.
Bolitho walked to the cabin door. “Well, let’s be about it then, shall we?”
Allday followed him, deep in thought. Nineteen years ago it was. When Bolitho had not been much older than his nephew, Mr Pascoe. There had been plenty of danger and cut-and-thrust since then, and all the while they had stayed together. A pressed seaman and a youthful captain who had somehow turned a ship blackened by every sort of tyranny into one to win the hearts and pride of her company. Now she was coming back down the years, like a phantom ship. To help or to haunt, he wondered?
He saw Bolitho standing by the stern windows watching the light dying across the frothing water beneath the frigate’s counter.
He cares all right. Most likely more than I do.
Under shortened canvas the frigate turned on to her new course and pointed her bowsprit towards the Bay, and a rendezvous.
3. Return of a Veteran
CAPTAIN John Neale of the frigate Styx broke off his morning discussion with his first lieutenant and waited for Bolitho to leave the companion-way. This was their seventh day out of Plymouth, and Neale was still surprised at his admiral’s unflagging energy.
Bolitho had certainly taken a good keen look at the enemy shoreline, and the ships at his disposal. That had been the first shock, when they had made contact with the inshore patrol, the frigate Sparrowhawk, a day after sighting Belle Ile. Apart from a speedy brig, aptly named Rapid, there had been one other frigate in the sector, the Unrivalled. Neale grimaced. Had been. Her captain had been beating close inshore when he had made the fatal
