"And what of your officers?"
Tyacke raised his glass, and paused as a boatswain's call twittered in the distance.
Then he said, "The senior lieutenant, Kellett, seems very competent." He looked at him directly, no longer averting the burned face, as he had in the past. "I may be speaking out of turn, sir, but I think the first lieutenant has been carrying this ship, not just during the overhaul, but before that. I can feel it. Sense it."
Bolitho sipped the wine. Perhaps it had come from the shop in St. James's Street, where he had gone with her.
He would force the issue no further. It would be an intrusion, and Tyacke would tell him when he had made up his mind. When he was certain.
Tyacke said, "The midshipmen now, they're another story. Most of them are newly joined and come from naval families. Some are young, too young for my taste."
Any ship on an important commission, or Admiralty or government business, would have encouraged parents, who saw it as an opportunity only too rare in peacetime, and with the fleet being cut down. William Bligh of the ill-fated Bounty had had no difficulty in acquiring very young midshipmen for his command.
Tyacke said suddenly, "But given time and a good run through Biscay, we might see the makings of something." For a moment his blue eyes were very clear and distant, like Herrick, Bolitho thought, or perhaps more like the man Tyacke had once been. "But I still find myself looking around expecting to see old faces, the ones who can make or break any ship."
Who did he mean? Indomitable, Larne, or further back still, perhaps even before the Nile?
Bolitho said, "I do it myself. All the time."
He did not see the sudden, searching expression in Tyacke's eyes.
He said, "You are satisfied, James? Being here, when perhaps you could have found a different sea to challenge?"
Tyacke seemed surprised, or relieved, that he had not asked something else. He touched his face, although Bolitho sensed that he did not even notice it.
"There is no escape, sir. There never was." Then, firmly, "It suits me well, sir."
He put down the glass and got to his feet, his eyes resting briefly on the gleaming presentation sword, which Allday had already placed on its rack; part of the show, he once called it. Unlike the old family blade at his hip. The legend. The charisma, as his flag lieutenant Oliver Browne had described it. Another lost face. He smiled reminiscently. Browne with an 'e'.
Tyacke hesitated. "I was wondering, sir…"
Bolitho said, "Ask me, James. You may always do that."
Tyacke seemed, again, to hesitate. "When we weigh tomorrow, will you miss England?"
Bolitho looked at him steadily. Will I miss her, he meant. But he did not know how to ask, without overstepping the mark.
"More than I would have believed possible, James." He watched him leave, takiftg his hat from Ozzard without even seeing him. Bolitho heard Allday in the adjoining cabin, and was suddenly grateful.
It was like stumbling on to 3 secret, something so private that any wrong word could destroy it, and the man who carried it. The gown Tyacke had always carried in his sea chest, the one he had given Catherine to cover herself when Larne had plucked them from the ocean and the nearness of death. The woman… After all this time.
He stood up and walked to the stern windows, and then sat on the curved bench seat above the glistening water.
It was just as well that Frobishefs great anchor would show itself tomorrow.
But the voice persisted. Don't leave me.
Bolitho heard Allday putting his shaving gear away and speaking quietly to Ozzard in the sleeping-cabin, and walked slowly to the sloping stern windows.
Since the hands had been called, Frobisher had been alive with muffled sounds and occasional shouted commands. A ship preparing to sail was so familiar a sight in these waters that most people would take no notice, but in his heart he knew that this departure was different. There would be many ashore today to watch them leave. Wives, lovers, children, wondering when they would meet again. The sailor's lot. They would be pondering on the man whose flag flew from Frobisher's main; would he care enough for the many he commanded? Not an ordinary day for them. Or for me. The shave and the clean shirt were all part of it. He glanced at Ozzard's tray. He could still taste the fine coffee Catherine had bought for him; he had even eaten breakfast, slices of fat pork, fried pale brown with biscuit crumbs. He knew Ozzard disapproved of this meal, considering it fit only for a lowly lieutenant or midshipman, when the admiral he served could demand what he liked. Neither of us will change now… He leaned on the sill and stared at the bright water, crisscrossed by ranks of low, white crests. The wind had backed overnight, perhaps to the north-east. He had had little sleep, and not because of the ship's unfamiliarity; he had overcome that sensation a long time ago. He had lain awake in his cot, half-listening to the ship's sounds, her voices, as his father would have described them. Creaks and mutterings, as if from the keel itself, the occasional hiss of wind and spray against the side, the responding thrunp of stays and shrouds.
And once, when he had fallen asleep, he had found himself in a dream which had exploded into a nightmare. Catherine being carried away from him, her clothes torn from her, hands reaching out to touch her.
After that he had unshuttered a lantern, and had read through the last batch of instructions from the First Lord; they were lengthy, diplomatic, but meaningless. Like most senior commands, responsibility would eventually rest on the shoulders of the officer in charge.
It would be another reminder, if one were needed, of Napoleon's overwhelming power and his successes, Spain and Portugal, Italy, and onward into Egypt. Marshal Murat's crushing victory over the Egyptians at Aboukir had been the removal of the last obstacle. The gateway to India had lain open, and all Napoleon's grandiose schemes appeared to have been forged into one unstoppable force, until Nelson had taken his ships into Aboukir Bay and had destroyed the French fleet.
He glanced at some small boats passing astern, making heavy weather of it in the stiff breeze and choppy sea.
The Battle of the Nile, they called it now. Something Tyacke would never forget, or be allowed to forget. He smiled at the sharpness of memory. Hyperion had been there, too. Today the peace was still to be settled amongst the victors. But there would always be the predators, just outside the firelight, seeking an easy prey: the aftermath of every battle.
Allday entered the cabin, and said, "Lively up top, Sir Richard. This will mark out the boys from the men!"
Bolitho turned to face him. He had not heard Allday leave to go on deck. A big, shambling figure, yet he could move like a fox when he wanted to. Ozzard was there too, his sharp eyes moving to the breakfast tray, the empty plate and coffee cup. And then, critically, to the coat, which he had already laid out for this occasion.
Allday saw it and smiled privately, thinking how the people on deck would see the admiral. Not in the beautiful gold lace and gleaming buttons, but in the old, familiar sea-going coat which had even survived a battle or two. Like us, he thought grimly.
Ozzard patted the coat into place, almost scowling at the tarnished epaulettes.
Allday took the old sword down from its rack and turned it over in his hands. Yes, that was how they should see him. Not as the admiral, but as the man.
The ship's company would find it hard to get used to. Like the old Indom, when Sir Richard had made a point of speaking to the men on watch, the marines at their endless drills. He had heard him say to an officer once, "Remember their names. In many cases, it is all that they own."
The man.
Bolitho tugged out his watch. Tyacke would be here very soon. The shouting and the thudding bare feet were silent now. The capstan was manned, the lieutenants at their stations, on the quarterdeck, at each mast, and right forward when the anchor came home.