the old sword and they had shared some stupid joke together.
Perhaps it was because of Neale, or the fact he was made to be an onlooker.
He lifted his eyes to the mizzen truck where his flag stood out in the wind like painted metal.
Then he shook himself angrily. If Beauchamp had appointed another junior admiral for this work he would have been equally unsettled.
Allday moved away, satisfied with what he had seen.
Several telescopes rose like swivels, and Bolitho waited until Midshipman Kilburne’s voice floated thinly from the masthead.
“Deck, sir! She’s British!”
A small pause while he endeavoured to cling to his precarious perch and open his signal book with the other hand.
“She’s Phalarope, thirty-two, Captain Emes, sir!”
Allday muttered, “Holy God!”
Bolitho folded his arms and waited for the bows to rise again, the horizon appearing to tilt as if to rid itself of the two converging pyramids of sails.
Bolitho had known she would come today. Even as Styx ’s people had run to halliards and braces, he had known.
Neale watched him warily. “What orders, sir?”
Bolitho turned to see the bright signal flags break from Styx ’s yard. Numbers exchanged, two ships meeting on a pinpoint. To most of the hands it was a welcome diversion, as well as a sight of some additional fire power.
“Heave to when convenient, if you please. Make to-” his tongue faltered over her name, “to Phalarope that I shall be coming aboard.”
Neale nodded. “Aye, sir.”
Bolitho took a telescope from the midshipman of the watch and walked up the deck to the weather side.
He was conscious of each move and every heartbeat, like an actor about to make an entrance.
He held his breath and waited for the sea to smooth itself. There she was. With her yards already swinging, her topgallants and main-course being manhandled into submission, she was heeling on to a fresh tack. Bolitho moved the glass just a fraction more. Before that bowsprit plunged down again in a welter of flying spindrift he saw that familiar figurehead, the gilded bird riding on a dolphin.
The same and yet different. He was frowning as he moved the glass again, seeing the insect-like figures on the ratlines and gangways, the blues and whites of the officers aft by the wheel.
Outdated, that was it. The weak sunlight touched the frigate’s poop, and Bolitho recalled the fineness of her gingerbread, carved by experts in the trade. That had been another war. Newer frigates like Styx had fewer embellishments, less dignity, honed down to the demands of chase and battle.
Neale lowered his telescope and said huskily, “Hell’s teeth, sir, it’s like yesterday. Like watching myself.”
Bolitho looked past him at Allday by the hammock nettings. He was opening and closing his large fists, staring at the fastrunning frigate until his eyes watered. So that he looked as if he was weeping.
He made himself raise the telescope once again. She was smart for her age, and was reacting to the sight of a rear-admiral’s flag just as Bolitho had once done when he had taken Phalarope to Antigua.
Neale called, “Heave to, Mr Pickthorn! Have the gig swayed out.”
Browne asked, “Will you require me, sir?”
“If you want to come, please do.” Bolitho saw the uncertainty, the need to understand. He added, “If you can trust your stomach during the crossing.”
Allday walked to the entry port and waited for the gig to be pulled round to the main-chains. Neale’s own coxswain nodded to Allday and allowed him to take his place at the tiller without comment.
Bolitho noticed all and none of these things. So it was right through Styx already, probably every vessel under his flag.
He touched his hat to the officers and marines at the entry port, and to Neale said quietly, “I will renew the acquaintanceship for all of us.”
Who did he mean? Allday and Neale, Herrick back in Plymouth, or Ferguson, his steward, who had lost his arm at the Saintes. Or perhaps he was speaking for the others who would never come home.
Then he was settled in the sternsheets, the oars already thrashing at the tossing water to take the gig clear of the side.
Allday called, “Give way, all!”
Bolitho glanced up at him. But Allday kept his eyes fixed on the ship. Perhaps they had both known this would happen, but now that it had, could no longer share it.
Bolitho unclipped the boat cloak he wore, and threw it clear of the bright gold epaulettes, each with its new silver star.
It was just another ship in a desperately depleted squadron, and he was their admiral.
He glanced again at Allday’s rigid shoulders and knew it was a lie.
After the creak of oars and the sting of spray it seemed suddenly subdued on the Phalarope’s deck. Bolitho replaced his hat and nodded briefly to the ship’s marine officer who had arranged his men in two scarlet ranks to receive him.
“Captain Emes?” Bolitho held out his hand as the slightly built figure stepped forward. He had a swift impression of alert wariness, a youthful face, but with a mouth hardened by the rigours of command.
Emes said, “I am honoured to receive you aboard, sir.” Again there was a sharpness to his voice, a man on guard, one who had been practising for this very moment. “Although I fear you must know Phalarope better than I do.” A shutter seemed to drop behind his level gaze, as if he had already said too much. He half turned, but although he was about to present his officers, his eyes were elsewhere, seeking flaws to the pattern, anything which might make a poor showing.
Bolitho could well understand any captain being eager to make a good impression on his new flag-officer, the man who could fulfil or shatter his hopes for any kind of future. But he had gleaned enough about Emes to doubt if that was the full story. A post-captain at twenty-nine was a record to be proud of, and should have given him a confidence to go with it.
Emes said crisply, “My senior you will also know better than I, sir.” Emes stood aside as if to watch for reactions.
Bolitho exclaimed, “Adam! Of all things!”
Lieutenant Adam Pascoe, looking even younger than his twenty-one years, was both relieved and pleased.
“I-I am sorry, Unc-” he flushed, “sir, I had no way of letting you know. The appointment came without warning and I had to leave for Ireland by the first packet.”
They examined each other, more like brothers than uncle and nephew.
Pascoe added uncertainly, “When I heard what my appointment was to be, I am afraid I thought of little else.”
Bolitho moved on and shook hands with the second and third lieutenants, the sailing-master, ship’s surgeon, and the captain of marines. Beyond them, the midshipmen and other warrant officers were backed by crowds of curious seamen, who were too surprised at this unexpected visit on their first commission to be aware of the more personal emotions by the entry port.
Bolitho looked slowly along the gun-deck, at the neatly flaked lines and taut rigging. He could even remember the way she had felt that first time when he had stepped aboard.
He cleared his throat. “Dismiss the hands, Captain Emes, and take station to windward of Styx.” He did not see the astonishment in Emes’s eyes. “Allday, send back the gig.” He hesitated. “You remain with me.”
The mass of seamen and marines broke into orderly confusion as the call to get under way was piped around the deck. Within fifteen minutes Emes had reset the courses and topgallants, and although some of the hands were slow and even clumsy as they ran to obey his commands, it was obvious they had been training hard since leaving harbour.
Browne said, “Fine ship, sir.” He looked around at the bustling figures, the stamp of bare feet as the seamen hauled hard on the braces.
Bolitho walked along the weather gangway, oblivious to the darting glances from the seamen and Emes’s shadow behind him.
