ALEXANDER KENT - TO GLORY WE STEER

The New Year of 1782 was only three days old but already the weather had made a decided change for the worse. Steady drizzle, pushed by a freshening southerly wind, explored the narrow streets of Portsmouth Point and made the stout walls of the old fortifications gleam like polished metal. Moving threateningly above the huddled buildings the cloud was unbroken and the colour of lead, so that although it was all but midday the light was feeble and depressing.

Only the sea was really alive. Across the normally sheltered expanse of the Solent the surface quivered and broke with each eager gust, but in the distorted light the wave crests held a strange yellow hue in contrast with the dull grey hump of the Isle of Wight and the rain-shrouded Channel beyond.

Captain Richard Bolitho pushed open the door of the George Inn and stood for a few moments to allow the drowsy heat to enfold him like a blanket. Without a word he handed hiscloak to a servant and tucked his cocked hat beneath his.arm. Through a door to his right he could see a welcoming fire in the coffee room, where a noisy throng of naval officers, interspersed with a few bright scarlet uniforms of the military, were taking their case and keeping their worries and demands of duty beyond the low, rain-slashed windows.

In another room, grouped in contemplative silence around several small tables, other officers studied their playing cards and the faces of their opponents. Few even glanced up at Bolitho's entrance. In Portsmouth, and at the George Inn in particular, after years of war and unrest, only a man out of uniform might have warranted attention.

Bolitho sighed and took a quick glance at himself in a wall mirror. His blue coat and gold lace fitted his tall figure well, and against the white shirt and waistcoat his face looked unusually tanned. Even allowing for a slow voyage back from the West Indies, his body was still unprepared for an English winter, and he forced himself to stand a little longer to clear the aching cold from his limbs.

A servant coughed politely at his elbow. `Beg pardon, sir.

The admiral is waitin' on you in his room.' He made a small gesture towards the stairway.

'Thank you.' He waited until the man had hurried away to answer some noisy demand from the coffee room and then took a final glance at the mirror. It was neither vanity nor personal interest. It was more of a cold scrutiny which he might offer to a subordinate.

Bolitho was twenty-six years old, but his impassive features and the deep lines on either side of his mouth made him appear older, and for a brief instant he found himself wondering how the change had come about. Almost irritably he pushed the black hair away from his forehead, pausing only to allow one rebellious lock to stay in place above his right eye.

Neither was that action one of vanity. More perhaps one of embarrassment.

Barely an inch above his eye, and running deep into his hair-line, was a savage diagonal scar. He allowed his fingers to touch it momentarily, as a man will let his mind explore an old memory, and then with a final shrug he walked briskly up the stairs.

Vice-Admiral Sir Henry Langford was standing, feet well apart, directly in front of the highest log fire Bolitho had ever seen. His glittering uniform shone in the dancing flames, and his thick shadow seemed to reach out across the spacious room to greet Bolitho's quiet entrance.

For several seconds the two men stood looking at each other. The admiral, in his sixties, and running to bulkiness, his heavy face dominated by a large beaked nose above which his keen blue eyes shone like two polished stones, and the slim, tanned captain.

Then the admiral stirred into life and stepped away from the fire, his hand outstretched. Bolitho felt the heat from the fire released across the room, as if a furnace door had been flung open.

'I am glad to see you, Bolitho!' The admiral'ss booming voice filled the room, sweeping away the years and replacing the image of an overweight old man with that of Bolitho's first captain.

As if reading his thoughts the admiral added ruefully, 'Fourteen years, isn't it? My God, it doesn't seem possible!' He stood back and studied Bolitho critically like a plump bird. `You were a scraggy midshipman, twelve years old, if I remember correctly. Hardly an ounce of flesh on you. I only took you aboard because of your father.' He smiled. 'You still look as if a good meal would not come amiss!'

Bolitho waited patiently. Those fourteen years of service had taught him one thing at least. Senior officers had their own way of getting round to the reasons for their actions. And it usually took time.

The admiral moved ponderously to a table and poured two generous glasses of brandy. `With most of the world against us, Bolitho, brandy has become somewhat of a luxury.' He shrugged. `However, as I am more troubled by rheumatism than gout, I look upon it as a last remaining necessity.'

Bolitho sipped carefully and studied his superior over the rim of the glass. He had arrived back from the West Indies just three days earlier, as one year faded and gave way to the next. His ship, his beloved Sparrow, had been handed over to the dockyard for a well-earned refit, while her less fortunate -company were scattered through the ever-hungry fleet to replace the growing gaps left by death and mutilation. Most of the sloop's crew had been away from their homeland for six years, and with a little well-earned prize money they had been hoping to see their loved ones again, if only for a short while. It was not to be, but Bolitho knew that his feeling of resentment and pity would be as useless as a ship without sails.

The pale eyes fixed suddenly on Bolitho's face. 'I'm giving you the Phalarope, Bolitho.' He watched the brief shaft of emotion play across the young captain's features. `She's lying out at Spithead right now, rigging set up, yards crossed, a finer frigate never floated.'

Bolitho placed the glass slowly on the table to give his mind time to deal with the admiral's words. The Phalarope, a thirtytwo-gun frigate, and less than six years old. He had seen her through his glass as he had rounded the Spit Sand three days ago. She was certainly a beautiful ship, all that he could ever have hoped for. No, more than he could have dreamed of.

He pushed the Sparrow to the hack of his thoughts. It was part of yesterday, along with his own hopes of taking a rest at his home in Cornwall, and getting to know the firm feel of the countryside, of so many half-remembered things.

He said quietly, `You do me a great honour, sir.'

'Nonsense, you've more than earned it!' The admiral seemed strangely relieved. As if he had been rehearsing this little speech for some time. 'I've followed your career, Bolitho. You are a great credit to the Navy, and-the country.'

'I had an excellent teacher, sir.'

The admiral nodded soberly. `They were great days, eh? Great days.' He shook himself and poured another brandy. 'I have told you the good news. Now I will tell you the other part.' He watched Bolitho thoughtfully. `The Phalarope has been attached to the Channel Fleet, mostly on blockade duty outside Brest.'

Bolitho pricked up his ears. Being on blockade duty was no news at all. The hard-pressed fleet needed every frigate like gold in its constant efforts to keep the French ships bottled up in their Channel ports. Frigates were maids of all work. Powerful enough to trounce any other vessel but a ship of the line in open combat, and fast enough to out-manoeuvre the latter, they were in permanent demand. What caught his immediate attention was the way the admiral had stressed has been attached to the Channel Fleet. So there were new orders. Maybe south to help relieve the beleaguered garrison in Gibraltar.