little comfort. Not yet; even sending it was like breaking a precious link.
He pulled out his watch and flicked open the guard: almost two o'clock in the afternoon. No turning back.
He sighed and replaced the watch in his pocket, his eyes moving around the room, its dark timbers almost black with age and the smoke from a thousand fires. He had only stayed at the famous George Inn once before, then as a young captain. It was a timeless place, which had seen more admirals and captains come and go than he could imagine.
The room looked bare now that his chests had been taken out to be sent to his new flagship, empty, ready to forget him and welcome another.
It was not difficult to see Nelson here, perhaps in this very room, on his last days ashore in England. He had left his beloved Emma at their house in Merton. What was she doing now? And what of those who had promised Nelson that she would be taken care of?
He turned away, angry with himself for making the comparison. There was none. Only the bitter rift of separation was the same.
He heard voices on the stairs; one was Avery, the other Allday. It was time.
Down the stairs, the scene was exactly as he had expected. The landlord, anxious to please, careful not to show it. There were plenty of uniforms in evidence, sea officers obviously enjoying themselves, each careful to catch his eye as he passed. Some might have served with him, most had never seen him in the flesh before. But they all knew him.
It was said that when Nelson left the George for the last time the streets had been packed with people trying to catch a glimpse of him, and show their admiration for their hero. Perhaps it had even been love.
He himself had never met 'Our Nel', although even Adam had exchanged a word or two with him when he had been carrying despatches.
He saw Avery watching him from the doorway, his eyes tawny in the reflected sunlight. Beyond him, Allday stood with his back to the inn, as if he had already rejected the land.
The street was busy, but quite ordinary. No cheering crowds or curious sightseers this time; but then, there was no war raging across the Channel.
'We'll walk to the Sally Port.' He saw Allday turn and touch his hat to him, the admiral's coxswain.
Avery observed him thoughtfully, trying to guess the mood of the man to whom he was loyal before all else.
Bolitho said, 'No bands, no parades, George.' He smiled. 'Like God, the navy is only fully appreciated when danger is at the gates!'
Avery tried to sense bitterness or regret, but there was none. He had seen the letter Bolitho had given to the landlord, and knew the truth would be in it, for her alone. For Catherine.
He said, The ship is short-handed, sir. I think Captain Tyacke is eager to put to sea, to learn the strengths and weaknesses amongst the people.' Even Tyacke was different, he thought. Once a hard man to know, he had become as close to a friend as was possible within their ordered lives. And he had seemed withdrawn, as if a part of him were still lingering elsewhere.
He wondered what Bolitho truly thought about the choice of flagship; he himself had only had a few days aboard Frobisher, and he had found little time to meet the other officers, or get the feel of the ship. In a rare moment of confidence, Tyacke had told him that Frobisher, if properly manned and drilled, would be a fast sailer, and had a hull so well designed that even in heavy seas she might remain a relatively dry ship.
That would prove a godsend for her seamen when required to make or reef rebellious canvas, finding what warmth and comfort they could between decks afterwards.
Avery had expected there might be some resentment at Tyacke's appointment, but he had discovered that Frobisher's previous captain had been suddenly discharged as medically unfit, and sent ashore with the Admiralty's blessing. Avery had served Bolitho long enough to know that the real reason for the captain's hasty departure was probably something very different, and he had gained the impression that the ship's lieutenants, at least, were glad to see him go. Tyacke had revealed nothing of his own thoughts. He had his own methods of gaining a company's loyalty, and would tolerate nothing less than the standards he had set in Indomitable.
Bolitho tugged his hat down more firmly as they rounded a corner and the wind off the sea swept to greet them.
Avery had explained that Tyacke had changed the anchorage after leaving the dockyard, and the ship now lay off St. Helens on the east coast of the Isle of Wight. A long, stiff pull for any barge crew, he thought, and Allday would be watching their behaviour and that of the barge with a critical eye. Like other old Jacks, he had always maintained that a ship could be judged by the appearance and handling of her boats.
He considered his own change of role. Tyacke would have attended to everything, food and stores, fresh water, and any fruit juice he could lay hands on, keeping his subordinates at arm's length until he had learned the reliability, or otherwise, of lieutenants and warrant officers, purser, gunner and boatswain. Bolitho gave a brief smile. And, of course, the midshipmen, the 'young gentlemen', for some reason he had not yet discovered always the bane of Tyacke's life.
He saw Allday on the jetty, apparently relaxed and untroubled, but Bolitho knew him so well. He would already have learned everything he could about the Frobisher of seventy-four guns, once the French two-decker Glorieux. Completed too late for Trafalgar, she had had only a brief career under the Tricolour before she was attacked and captured by two of the blockading squadron while on passage from Belle Isle to Brest. That had been four years ago. Allday would be thinking of that, too: the same year he had married Unis at Fallowfield.
Prize ships, put to work against their old masters, were commonplace in the navy. There had been times when even ships rated as unfit through rot or disrepair had been pressed into service, like his own Hyperion, a ship of which they still yarned and sang in the taverns and alehouses. How Hyperion cleared the way… Would their lordships make the same mistake of running the fleet down to the bare bones, simply because the immediate danger had been withdrawn?
He glanced at Avery, who was speaking with a waterman, noticing the stiffness with which he held and moved his shoulder when he was not conscious of it. Like Allday and his wounded chest, where a Spanish blade had hacked him down.
They were loyal; it was more than mere loyalty. But they were both sacrificing so much, perhaps a last chance, for his sake.
'Ah, here she be!' Allday scowled. 'A fresh coat of paint will be the first thing!'
Bolitho shaded his eyes to watch the barge, which had suddenly appeared around the stern of an anchored frigate. It had probably been obtained direct from the dockyard where Frobisher had just completed an overhaul; there would have been no time to paint it dark green, as was the custom for flag officers' barges. Again, he felt the same sense of doubt. The last captain, Charles Oliphant, might have remained as his flag captain unless he had explicitly requested James Tyacke.
He recalled Admiral Lord Rhodes's obvious eagerness for him to take Frobisher as flagship.
He looked at Avery again; perhaps he had noticed the flaw. Captain Oliphant was related in some capacity to Rhodes, although he could not recall where he had heard it mentioned. He frowned. But he would remember.
The barge turned in a wide arc and tossed oars, the bowman hooking on to the jetty while a seaman vaulted onto the worn stonework. Smart enough, with a lieutenant in charge, no doubt wondering what this first encounter would be like.
Avery said quietly, 'That's Pennington, second lieutenant, sir.'
Allday conceded, 'Not too bad.'
The lieutenant stepped ashore and doffed his hat.
'I am ready to take you directly to your flagship, Sir
Richard.' The eyes, Bolitho noticed, were careful not to meet his own.
'It is a long pull to St. Helens, Mr. Pennington.' He saw the surprise at the use of his name. 'I think they might rest easy for ten minutes.'
The lieutenant stared at the oarsmen, their raised blades dripping like wet bones.
'That will not be necessary, Sir Richard.'
Bolitho said gently, 'Have you so short a memory, sir, that you cannot remember what it was like when you first pulled an oar?'
Pennington dropped his eyes. 'I see, Sir Richard. Very well.' He turned away, and nodded to the boat's
