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 coxswain. "Rest easy, O'Connor!"
Allday saw the ripple of surprise run through the boat. Put that in your pipe and smoke it, he thought.
Eventually, they were cast off and pulling strongly into the Solent. There were ships of every size and rate, and Bolitho saw sunlight flash on several telescopes as they watched him pass. It would soon be all around Spithead, he thought; the navy was a family, whether you liked it or not.
"What is the state of the ship, Mr. Pennington?" Again, he was aware of an immediate caution, as if the lieutenant suspected a trap.
"All provisioned and watered, Sir Richard."
"Short-handed?"
"Thirty trained men short, Sir Richard. Full complement of marines."
Thirty short, out of a full company of six hundred souls, was not crippling, but the last captain should have used his time in the dockyard to recruit or poach men from other sources.
He peered over at a small brig which was scudding abeam, and preparing to set her courses. A fine-looking little ship, he thought, and he wondered if Tyacke had seen her, and was remembering his own command, Larne, which he had given up for Indomitable. For me.
Allday leaned forward as they passed another anchored man-of-war, and Bolitho saw the quick glance from the stroke oarsman, seeing it for himself: the admiral's coxswain who sat close to his master like a companion.
Allday said, There she is, Sir Richard. I'd know them Frenchie lines anywhere."
Bolitho shaded his eyes again, aware of the blurring of his vision. The reminder. The taunt.
What Allday had said was true. The longer line of the upper hull, the planking extended beneath the beak head to offer added strength and protection, were distinctively French. British shipbuilders had continued to end their upper gundeck with a flat bulkhead, which rendered the forepart of the ship weaker than the sides. Tyacke would have made full note of that; his own terrible injury at the Nile was the result of French fire devastating the gundeck where he was serving at the time.
Slightly broader in the beam than her English counterparts, Frobisher would provide a better platform for her artillery in poor sailing conditions.
He shook himself mentally. The war was over. It was to be Malta, not Halifax this time. He thought suddenly of Adam, and of Valentine Keen. Nothing more must happen to them, with the war in North America so nearly finished. Neither side could win, even as neither side could demonstrate a willingness to submit.
He put his hand to his eyes again as the barge swept beneath the ship's long and tapering jib boom, and did not see Avery's immediate concern. And here was the figurehead, shining in fresh paint and gilt: Sir Martin Frobisher, explorer, navigator, and one of Drake's fighting captains. He had been portrayed with jutting beard, staring blue eyes, and a black Elizabethan breastplate.
He wondered what had become of the original figurehead, so obviously unsuitable when the ship had changed names. It was not unknown for a prize to retain its old name, but the navy already had a Glorious on the list, and confusion might have occurred in the endless ebb and flow of signals and fleet orders.
The lieutenant called, "Bows!"
And there it was. The curved tumble home the new black and buff paint, the entry-port and the waiting rank of scarlet.
His flagship. It was a proud moment.
He touched the locket beneath his shirt, and prepared to stand as the barge surged alongside.
I am here, Kate.
He turned, momentarily off guard, convinced that he had heard her voice; he could not have been mistaken. Don't leave me.
The Royal Marine sentry outside the screen door of the great cabin was as stiff and motionless as a man could be with the ship swaying gently at her anchor. After the bright sunlight, the shouted commands, the fifes and drums, the din of a flagship's welcome to her new lord and master, it seemed peaceful here, protected.
The ceremony had been brief, with his flag breaking at the mainmast truck, timed to the exact beat of a drum, and standing out in the Solent breeze like painted metal.
There had followed a quick presentation to the assembled ranks of lieutenants and senior warrant officers: a nod here, a nervous smile there, each man glancing surreptitiously at him before he, in turn, came under scrutiny.
Like the marine sentry, given time, he would get to know them, some better than others. It was always the hardest part to accept: the division, the barrier which rank had thrust upon him. He was not the captain. He could never again be as close as a captain to the people he commanded.
He nodded to the sentry, and although the man's eyes did not flicker beneath his glazed leather hat, the contact had been made.
The stern cabin was broad, spacious, and strangely welcoming. Even the strong smells of paint and fresh tar which pervaded the whole ship could not interfere with the familiarity of these things. The wine cooler with the Bolitho crest carved upon it, which Catherine had had made to replace the one lost with Hyperion, the high-backed chair in which he sometimes slept, his desk, his books, some old, some she had given him because of the clarity of their print. He saw Ozzard hovering by what was apparently his pantry door, and he had already seen his secretary, Yovell, observing from his own vantage point during the ceremony, when the admiral's flag had been broken out. They had worked very hard to prepare this place for him, and he had been moved by it.
Tyacke followed him into the cabin. "All fair, Sir Richard?"
He nodded. "You have done well, James, in so short a time."
Tyacke glanced around. "There's more room here than there would have been. Four eighteen-pounders were removed."
Bolitho watched him carefully, but saw no sign of strain or discouragement. A new command, an unknown company, a way of doing things which might offend or irritate him, but Tyacke's face gave nothing away.
"Take a glass, James." He guessed that A very, like Allday, had purposely stayed away for this first meeting since they had shaken hands at Plymouth, where Indomitable had been paid off.
"I'd relish that, sir." He made to take out his watch, and then hesitated. "But only one glass. I've still a few ends to splice before I'm ready."
Bolitho watched Ozzard pouring the wine, apparently indifferent to the sounds of a ship at anchor, muffled voices, the clatter of blocks and tackles as more provisions or equipment were hoisted aboard. The Caribbean, Mauritius, Halifax, and now Malta. His thoughts were unknown, the barrier here the greatest of all.
Tyacke sat, but Bolitho knew his ear was pitched to that other world.
He said, "I've been through the books and the signals. They seem to be in order."
Bolitho waited, knowing what was coming next.
"The punishment book lists nothing unusual." He looked at Bolitho. "Not like some we've seen together, sir." He was referring to the frigate Reaper, but, almost superstitiously, avoided mentioning her name. "Discipline is fair enough, but they need more gun and sail drills before I'm handing out any bouquets!"