angle on the tilting deck.
Allday studied him sadly. 'Begging your pardon, Captain, but Petch, your servant, says you've not eaten since you came aboard today.' He ignored Bolitho's frown. 'So I've taken the liberty to bring you some game pie.' He held out a plate which he had covered with a silver lid. 'Your good lady gave it to me special for you, Captain.'
Bolitho did not protest as Allday laid the plate on the slanting desk and busied himself with the cutlery. Game pie. She must have packed it while he was getting dressed that morning.
Allday pretended not to notice the look on Bolitho's face and took the opportunity to retrieve his sword from a chair and hang it in its place on the bulkhead. It shone dully in the spiralling lanterns, and he said quietly, 'It'd not be the same without it now.'
But Bolitho did not answer. That sword, his father's and his father's before that was something of a talisman, and a ready topic of lower-deck conversation whenever Bolitho's exploits were being discussed. It was part of him, part of his background and tradition, but at this moment he could think of nothing but what he was leaving behind. Even now the horses would be trotting along the road from Plymouth. Fifty miles to Falmouth where his housekeeper and his steward, Ferguson, who had lost an arm at the Saintes, would be waiting to greet her. But he would not be there. Above the hiss of spray against the windows, the creak of timbers and the over-riding boom of canvas he imagined he could hear her laugh. Imagined perhaps he could feel her touch, the taste of her freshness on his lips.
Oblivious to Allday he opened the front of his shirt and looked at the small locket around his neck. In it was one lock of her hair, a talisman better than any sword.
The door opened and a sodden midshipman said breathlessly, 'Mr. Inch's respects, sir, and can he have permission to take in a second reef?'
Bolitho stood up, his body swaying to the steady roll. 'I'll come.' Then he saw Allday and gave a small smile. 'There is little time for dreaming, it seems.' He followed the midshipman's envious stare and added, 'Or for game pie either!'
Allday watched him go and then covered the plate with the silver lid.
He had never seen him like this before and he was troubled by it. He looked across at the sword as it swung from its hook, seeing again that same blade gleaming in the sunlight as Bolitho had stormed the French battery at Cozar, had charged across the bloodsoaked planking of an enemy ship, had done so many things so many times. And now Bolitho seemed changed, and Allday cursed the mind which had despatched Hyperion to blockade duty and not to a place to do battle.
He thought too of the girl Bolitho had married. They had even met for the first time aboard this ship. He stared round, finding it hard to believe. Perhaps that was what was lacking. She had been part of the ship, had known danger and terror when the old hull had quivered to the broadsides and the scything winds of death. Bolitho would be thinking that too, he decided. Thinking and remembering, and that was bad.
Allday shook his head and walked towards the door. It was bad simply because they all depended on him more than ever before. A captain had no one to share his sadness and nobody to share his blame should he fail.
He walked past the sentry and climbed through a small hatch. A yam and a glass with the sailmaker might shake him out of his troubled thoughts, he decided. But he doubted it.
2. BROAD PENDANT
Richard Bolitho finished writing his personal log and leaned back wearily in the chair. Even in the sealed cabin the air was chill and damp, and the leather of his desk chair was clammy to the touch. Around him the ship lifted, paused and then staggered forward in a savage corkscrewing motion which made even thinking an effort of will, yet he knew if he returned to the windswept quarterdeck he would find no peace for more than a few minutes.
He stared through the thick glass of the stem windows, although they were so caked with salt and running spray it was only possible to tell day from night. It was close on noon, but could have been any time. The sky was either black and starless, or like now, the colour of slate. And so it had been as one day followed another and while the Hyperion drove further and further to the south-east, deeper into the Bay of Biscay.
He had been quite prepared for the discomfort and boredom of blockade duty, and when on the second day out from Plymouth the masthead lookout had sighted ships of the squadron he had already decided to make the best of it. But as he should have known well enough after nearly twenty-five years at sea, nothing in the Navy could ever be taken for granted.
His orders had stated that he was to join the flag of Vice-Admiral Sir Manley Cavendish, K.B., and take his place with all the other weather-beaten ships, the constant vigilance of which could decide the fate of England, and thereby the whole world. Off every French port these same ships rode out storms or tacked wearily back and forth in a never-ending patrol, while closer inshore, and sometimes within range of enemy batteries, sleek frigates, the eyes of the fleet, reported every movement of shipping, They gathered information from captured coastal craft, or impudently sailed almost into the French harbours themselves in their ceaseless search for intelligence.
Since Howe's victory of the Glorious First of June the French had shown little inclination for another major clash, but Bolitho, like any other thinking officer, realised that this uneasy calm could not last. Only the Channel lay between the enemy and a full scale invasion of England, yet until the French could muster a powerful fleet that same strip of water might just as well be an ocean.
In the great naval ports of Brest and Lorient the French ships of the line were unable to move without being seen and reported by the patrolling frigates, while in every harbour on the west coast, down as far as Bordeaux, other ships waited and watched for a chance to slip out and hurry north to join their consorts. One day soon they would make a break for it. When that happened it was essential that news of the enemy's movements was carried swiftly to the heavy squadrons, and more important still, interpreted correctly so that action could be taken to engage and destroy them.
Under the flagship's lee Bolitho had stood in silence watching the flags soaring up the big three-decker's yards, the frantic efforts of Midshipman Gascoigne and his signal party to keep pace with acknowledgements. It had been then that he had received his first inkling all was not as he had expected.
Gascoigne had yelled, 'Flag to Hyperion. Stand by to receive orders and despatches!'
Inch had looked as if he was about to voice a question but had held his tongue. The two days out from Plymouth had been difficult ones for him. Within hours of turning south the wind had mounted to something approaching gale force, and under close-reefed topsails, with a fierce quarter-sea making the ship stagger and roll drunkenly from one trough to the next, Inch had been beset with demands and chaos from every side. Many of the new men were almost helpless with seasickness, and most of the others kept continually at work splicing rigging, which like all new cordage was taking this first real strain badly, and the rest were led or driven back and forth either trimming sails or standing relays at the backbreaking work of pumping bilges.
More than once it had been all that Bolitho could do to refrain from interfering with inch's efforts, yet at the same time he knew that he was solely to blame. Inch was too inexperienced for his work, that was quite apparent now, but if Bolitho showed his true displeasure it might finish Inch for good. Not that Bolitho need say anything. It was quite obvious from Inch's unhappy features that he knew his own shortcomings well enough.
The next signal from the flagship had been brief. 'Prepare to receive Flag Captain.'
It was customary for captains to report in person to receive fresh orders when joining a squadron, although in cases of really bad weather for the sealed bag to be drifted across from ship to ship on a grass line. But this time the admiral was apparently sending his own captain.
The barge which had brought the flagship's captain across the choppy water had been almost swamped before it eventually hooked on to the main chains, and the thickset officer in his sodden boatcloak had hardly glanced at the side party and saluting marines as he had seized Bolitho's hand and growled, 'For God's sake let us go below!'
Once within the big cabin the visiting captain had come straight to the point.
'I've brought you fresh orders, Bolitho. You are to continue to the south-east and join the inshore squadron of Commodore Mathias Pelham-Martin. My admiral detached him and his ships some weeks ago for duty off the Gironde Estuary. You'll find a complete list of ships and requirements in your new orders.'
He had spoken quickly, almost offhandedly, but Bolitho had been aware of a warning sensation at the back of
