"Aye, Thomas. Tomorrow forenoon if the wind stays favourable." He pulled the watch from his pocket and snapped open the guard. "I would wish to see my officers" He faltered. Even that was changed. He added, "To see the other captains as soon as is convenient. I received some more despatches from the governor here, but after I have read them I should like to tell the squadron what we are about."* He smiled. "Don’t look so troubled, Thomas. It is as hard for me as for you."
For a brief moment Bolitho saw the old light in Herrick's eyes. The warmth and trust which could so easily turn to hurt.
Herrick replied, "I feel like an old foot in a new shoe." He smiled, too. "I’ll not let you down."
He turned and left the cabin, and after a discreet pause Allday and two seamen carrying a large case strode through the door. Allday glanced swiftly round, the cabin and seemed to approve.
Bolitho relaxed very slowly. Allday was always the same, and for that he was suddenly grateful. Even his new blue jacket with the large gilt buttons, the nankeen trousers and buckled shoes which Bolitho had purchased for him to reveal his new status as a commodore's own coxswain did little to hide his thickset, rugged individuality.
Bolitho unfastened his sword and gave it to him. "Well, Allday, what do you make of her, eh?"
The man eyed him calmly. "A well-found ship," he hesitated over the word, 'sir"
Even Allday had been made to alter his ways. Never in the past had he called him anything but "Captain". It was their own unrehearsed arrangement. The new rank had changed that, too.
Allday read his thoughts and grinned ruefully. 'sorry about that, sir." He glared at the two seamen who were watching them curiously, the case balanced between them. "But I can wait. It’ll be Sir Richard afore long, and that's no error!"
Allday waited until the seamen had gone and said quietly, "I reckon you"d like to be left alone now sir. I’ll see that your servant is warned about your customs. "
Bolitho nodded. "You know me too well."
Allday closed the door behind him and glanced coldly at the ramrod-stiff marine sentry outside the cabin. To himself he murmured, "Better"n you’ll ever know."
On the quarterdeck once more, Herrick walked slowly to the nettings and Stared at the other ships. It had been a bad beginning. For both of them. Perhaps it was all in his own mind, like his dislike for Farquhar. The latter obviously did not give a damn for him, so why should he get so easily ruffled?
Bolitho had looked exactly as he had known he would. The same gravity which could alter in an instant to a youthful exuberance. His hair was as black as ever, his slim figure no different, apart from the obvious stiffness in his right shoulder. He counted the months. Nearly seven it must be now, when Bolitho had been marked down by a musket ball. The lines at the comers of his mouth were a little deeper. Pain, responsibility? Parts of each, he decided.
He saw the officer of the watch eyeing him cautiously and called, "We will signal the squadron, Mr. Kipling. All captains repair on board when I so order."
He pictured them putting on their best uniforms. Inch in his tiny cabin, Farquhar in his lavish quarters. But each and all would be wondering, as he was. Where bound? What to expect? The price for both.
Alone in his cabin Bolitho heard feet thudding along the deck overhead, and after a momentary hesitation threw off his dress coat with its solitary gold stripe and seated himself at his desk. He slit open the large canvas envelope but still hesitated over reading the neatly written despatches.
He kept seeing Herrick's anxious face. They were almost the same age, and yet Herrick seemed to have grown much older, his brown hair marked here and there like hoar frost. It was hard not to see him as his best friend. He had to think of him as a strength, the flag captain of a squadron which had never acted as a single unit before. A rough task for any man, and for Thomas Herrick. he tried to hold back the sudden" doubts. Herrick's poor beginnings, the son of a clerk, his very honesty which had marked him out as a man who could be trusted under any known circumstances, could hinder his overall judgement. Herrick was a man who would obey any lawful order without question, with no consideration for his own life or ruin. But to assume control of the squadron, if its commodore should die in battle?
It was strange to realise that Lysander's original masters " had fallen at St. Vincent. Her commodore, George Twyford, had been killed in the first broadsides, and her captain, John Dyke, was even now enduring a living hell in, the" naval hospital at Haslar, too cruelly maimed even to feed himself. The same ship had survived them and many more. He looked around the neat cabin with its well-carved chairs and dark mahogany table. He could almost feel them watching him.
He sighed and began to read the despatches.
Bolitho nodded. to the five officers who stood around the cabin table and said, "Please be seated, gentlemen."
He watched them as they eased their chairs towards him, their mixed expressions of pleasure, excitement and curiosity.
It was a very special moment, and he guessed they were all sharing it with him, if for varied reasons.
Farquhar had not changed. Slim and elegant, with the self-assurance he had carried even as a midshipman. Now a post-captain of thirty-two, his ambition shone in his eyes to match his gleaming epaulettes.
Francis Inch, bobbing and horse-faced, could barely restrain his great beam of welcome. As commander or the sloop he would be vital for inshore work and sweeping ahead of the squadron.
Raymond Javal, the frigate's captain, looked more like a Frenchman than an English sea officer. Very dark and swarthy, with thick greasy hair, he had features so narrow that his deep set eyes seemed to dominate his whole appearance.
He looked at Captain George Probyn of the Nicator and gave a brief smile. They had served together in the old Trojan when the American Revolution "had erupted to change the face of the whole world. Yet it was almost impossible to see him in those times. He sat hunched against the table like a large, shabby innkeeper. A year or so older than Bolitho, he had left the Trojan in much the same manner as himself. To take command of a captured blockade runner and sail her as it prize to the nearest friendly port. Unlike Bolitho, however, whose chance had led directly to his first command, Probyn had been captured by an American privateer and had fretted out most of the war as a prisoner until an exchange had been made with a French officer. Those vital years in his, early service had obviously cost him dearly. He looked uneasy, with a sly, darting way of examining his fellow captains and then looking down into his clasped hands.
Herrick said formally, "All present, sir."
Bolitho looked at the table. In his mind's eye he was seeing his written orders, You are hereby authorised and directed to proceed with your squadron to ascertain by every means in your power the presence and destination of considerable armaments…
He began quietly, "As you will know, the enemy has spent much time in seeking out some flaw in our defences. Apart from our successes at sea, we have been able to do little to stop the spread of French progress and influence. In my view, Bonaparte has never changed from his original tack, which was and still must be to reach India and seize our trade routes. the French admiral, Suffren, almost succeeded during the last war." He saw Herrick's" eyes flicker towards him, no doubt remembering when they had sailed together in the East Indies, seeing for themselves the determination of their old enemy to regain ground lost in that uneasy peace. "Today Bonaparte must know that any delay in his preparations can only give us time to gain strength."