impression of gunsmoke. If he had been right about Baratte, would he already know of his old ship's departure from England under her new name? It seemed quite likely, he thought. Their lordships would probably have retained her original name but there was already a Triton on the Navy List, so that had settled it.
Bare feet moved about the deck above, and occasionally an authoritative voice called out an order which was always obeyed instantly. It was uncanny after the frigates he had known. Everything was done at the double and in silence. Failure to respond immediately, or walking rather than running to the call even of a lowly midshipman invited a starting at the hands of any boatswain's mate or petty officer on duty.
They had been at Gibraltar swinging to their anchor for seven days, the new hands staring longingly at the Rock's grim outline or at the passing throng of colourful traders, who were never allowed to venture alongside. The water casks had been refilled, the mail bags had gone ashore. He could not order Captain Trevenen to delay any further.
Bolitho knew him no better than when he had greeted him on board, and he wondered what his flag lieutenant thought of him. Even on the matter of discipline when Bolitho had mentioned the seaman who had died under the lash, he had not been able to read the man.
Trevenen had answered almost indifferently, 'I reported his death in my despatches to the Admiralty.' He had allowed a small hint of triumph into his voice. 'I am the senior officer of this squadron, and was authorised to act accordingly. You were not here, Sir Richard, and in any case it was hardly a major crisis.'
'A man's life, for instance?'
It had been a strange experience to meet Hyperion's old surgeon, still as defiantly independent, and obviously ill at ease under Trevenen's command. Bolitho had avoided mentioning the flogging, but had said, 'I thought you might have quit the sea after we lost Hyperion.'
'I pondered on it, Sir Richard. But they don't want me at home.' Minchin had waved one powerful hand around the deck. 'Besides, the rum's better in a King's ship! '
The man who had lived through the battle, unable to see what was happening while the timbers shook and cracked around him, had even proved a match for Sir Piers Blachford, the great surgeon from London who had been in Hyperion throughout the battle. A more unlikely pair it was hard to imagine.
Bolitho left the thick windows, their sills hot from the afternoon sun, and crossed to the small desk which had been provided for his and Yovell's use. Not like a ship-of-the-line but sufficient. In his mind's eye he could picture their weaving passage, first to Freetown then south again along the coast of Africa to Cape Town and Good Hope, where he had done and seen so much.
At Freetown there might be more information available, which he could digest before the Cape. If they still intended to invade Mauritius they would need many soldiers, horses, guns and supplies. As in the Caribbean these essentials had to be protected, and if he could not root out the island that was being used as a base for French vessels then their lordships would have to support him with more men-of-war, whether they liked it or not. And every mile of the way, through each change of watch and Trevenen's continuous drills, he was being carried further and further away from Catherine. In the past he had expected it and had been prepared for parting. It was his life, as it had been for every sea-officer past and present.
But with Catherine everything had changed. There had once been moments, up until the very day they had been reunited at Antigua, when he had cared very little if he lived or died. Only the reliance of the many men who had depended upon his skills, or lack of them, had held empty recklessness at bay.
Unlike Jenour, Avery was little help beyond their daily routine and duty. Bolitho had known officers like him before, able to stay remote even in a crowded man-of-war. He messed in the wardroom but spent most of his time either in his hutch-like cabin, or on deck right aft by the taffrail watching the sea's change of moods.
Bolitho had been invited to the wardroom just before they had left Plymouth: a pleasant collection of men, mostly young with the exception of the angry-eyed surgeon, the sailing master and the purser. An average wardroom in any such vessel: only a captain would know the strength and the weakness of these men and all the midshipmen and warrant ranks who supported them. They had been very curious about a vice-admiral being in their midst, but had been too polite to say much. If there were rebels against Trevenen's severity, apart from Minchin, they did not reveal themselves.
There had been another flogging this forenoon. The process had seemed so slow and relentless, the rattle of the drums broken only by the crack of the lash across the man's naked back. Even after Ozzard had closed the cabin skylight he had been unable to shut it out. The defaulter had apparently been found drinking rum in the hold when he should have been painting.
Two dozen lashes. The man had broken towards the end and had begun to whimper like a beaten animal.
He is the captain, with all the authority, including mine, to support him. I can do nothing. Trevenen must know exactly what he was doing, how far he could go without criticism from above.
But also he must surely know that Bolitho could ruin any hope of promotion to flag rank with only a few words in the right place. He must understand me better than I do him.
Bolitho heard the boats being hoisted up and over the gangway to be swayed down on to their tier. The same would be happening aboard Laertes. The French prize was a command any young officer would cherish. Originally of thirty-six guns and built in the renowned naval dockyard at Toulon, her main armament was reinforced by some heavy bow-chasers, which would prove invaluable if they ever ran the marauders to earth. Her captain was young and had been posted about the same time as Adam. His name was Peter Dawes, and as the son of an admiral he would seize any opportunity to prove his worth.
The thought of Adam troubled him greatly. Anemone had been due here at Gibraltar just after them, two days at the most, with a complete ship's company or not. Trevenen had hinted at it, but seemed to be watching and waiting for Bolitho's final decision. He had made it shortly after the latest flogging. They would sail in company with Laertes and continue on passage to Freetown.
Calls trilled, feet pattered along gangways and down ladders. Valkyrie stirred herself like an awakening beast.
He could hear the clink of the capstan pawls, the scrape of a fiddle as the seamen threw themselves on the bars to drag the big frigate slowly towards her anchor.
So many times. Leaving harbour had always roused him, enlivened his young mind as a midshipman or lieutenant. A ship coming to life, the hands ready to dash to their stations where every yard and mile of cordage had its proper place and use. An equal strain on all parts as one old sailing master had explained to him many times.
He heard feet in the passageway, heavy, authoritative steps. As expected, it was the captain.
'Ready to proceed, Sir Richard.' His deepset eyes were questioning, bleak.
'I shall come up.' It occurred to him that he had hardly been on deck since Valkyrie had weighed at Plymouth.
He glanced around the cabin and saw Ozzard's small shadow beyond the pantry door. 'I hope that Anemone can make up some time along the way.' It was only a thought spoken aloud as he might have done to Keen or Jenour.
'I expect he will have an explanation of sorts, Sir Richard. Anemone's captain is your nephew, I believe?'
That is so.' He met Trevenen's cold stare. 'Just as my flag lieutenant is the nephew of Sir Paul Sillitoe, the prime minister's adviser. I am constantly surprised by such connections.'
He brushed past him, feeling stupidly childish that he had used Trevenen's own tactics against him. A challenge then? So be it.
'Hands aloft! Loose tops' is
Bolitho saw Allday by the nettings, his face grim as he watched the bare-backed seamen swarming up the ratlines like monkeys. Many of them had scars on their skin, some pale with age, others still livid from the cat.
'Anchor's hove short, sir! '
Trevenen said abruptly, 'Start those laggards on the capstan bars, Mr. Urquhart! They are like old women today! '
As a boatswain's mate moved towards them with his rope starter, the men at the bars used every ounce of strength, their naked feet digging into the grips like claws.
'Anchor's aweigh, sir! '
Bolitho saw the first lieutenant's obvious relief. The men had been saved further beatings. This time.
Topsails and jib, then her great fore course filling out and hardening to the wind, Valkyrie turned her stern
