Alexander Kent: COLOURS ALOFT!

He said, "Take each step with care, Adam. You'll get your frigate after this if you stay out of trouble."

Adam smiled. "I am sailing for Gibraltar with your dispatches, Uncle. After that I fear the fleet's apron strings will tether me."

Bolitho returned his smile. It was like seeing himself being reborn. "Apron strings can stretch." He clasped him against his boat-cloak, oblivious of the rigid marines and the watching bargemen. Almost to himself he said, "God be with you."

Then, as Adam doffed his new gold-laced hat and allowed his raven hair to ruffle in the wind, Bolitho hurried down the stairs. He nodded to the lieutenant. A face from the recent past, except he had been one of Achates' midshipmen then.

"Good day, Mr Valancey. It will be a hard pull in this wind."

He saw the flush of pleasure on the youngster's face because he had remembered his name. Any link would help.

He seated himself in the sternsheets and then waved to Adam as, with oars dipping and rising like wings, the smart, green-painted barge thrust clear of the piles.

With unseemly haste the little gig pulled towards the stairs, and as they swept around the stern of an anchored transport the sallyport was hidden from view.

There were many vessels at anchor, their black and buff hulls shining dully in the rain and spray. Beyond them the Isle of Wight was little more than a misty hump, but the wind was steady. Was he glad to go this time?

The lieutenant coughed nervously. "The frigate yonder is Barracouta, sir." He flinched as Bolitho glanced at him. The frigate must have dropped anchor this morning otherwise he would have been informed. She was to be one of his new squadron under Jeremy Lapish who had commanded a brig like Adam's when he had last served under him. In war the chance of promotion, like death, was ever present. But it was sensible of the lieutenant to tell him and also showed that he took an interest in the comings and goings within the fleet.

Bolitho said, "What is your appointment?"

"Sixth lieutenant, sir." One step up from the gunroom.

Hogg swore under his breath and snarled, "Oars! Easy there!"

The oar blades hovered, dripping and motionless, as Hogg put his weight on the tiller bar. A longboat was cutting directly across their path, so full of people it looked almost awash.

Hogg glared at the youthful lieutenant and when he remained silent cupped his hands and bellowed, "Stand away there! Make way for a King's officer!"

Somebody waved and the longboat veered towards some nearby transports.

Bolitho saw that one of the passengers was a young girl, her head and shoulders unprotected against the spray and wet breeze. She twisted round between two companions to see who was shouting and Bolitho's eyes met hers across fifty feet of tossing whitecaps. He stared at one of her hands as she gripped the gunwale. She wore manacles on her wrists, but she turned away before he could see more.

He asked quietly, "Who are those people?"

Hogg eased the tiller carefully, still outraged that such a thing could happen under the eyes of his admiral.

He said gruffly, "Convicts, sir."

Bolitho looked away. Going to Botany Bay probably. What had she done, he wondered? Who was she?

"Ready, bowman!" Hogg was gauging the last cable or so with great care.

Bolitho saw the tapered masts of Argonaute as the barge swept around another two-decker. She was a fine-looking ship, he conceded, shining in her new livery with a huge Red Ensign streaming out from her poop to welcome him aboard. She had fine graceful lines and Bolitho knew from hard experience she was an excellent sailer. Her poop deck was rather longer than her English counterparts but otherwise she was little different from any seventy-four, the backbone of the fleet.

But as she drew closer Bolitho saw there were slight differences which any Frenchman would notice. The stronger bow and stiffly raked jib-boom and the gilded stern gallery which seemed almost flamboyant after earlier French ships. It was hard to see her with her decks puddled in blood, as embattled men hacked and thrust at each other to hold their ground. Many good hands died that day and on their way home to Plymouth. The dockyard had done magic with their battered charge, Bolitho thought. He had been tempted to visit his new flagship several times during her refit and repairs but had stayed away. Keen would hardly have been pleased to have his admiral come aboard in the midst of such confusion.

Bolitho had wanted to go, needed to see and speak with people he understood. He tossed the cloak from his shoulders to reveal the gleaming epaulettes, each with its two silver stars. Vice-Admiral of the Red, apart from Nelson the youngest on the Navy list. Even that he could not get used to. Like the title which had made everyone so pleased but which left him feeling awkward, embarrassed.

More pictures flashed through his mind as he watched the ship and gripped the old family sword between his knees.

London, the bright liveries and bowing footmen. The hush as he knelt before His Britannic Majesty, the lightest tap of the sword on his shoulder. Sir Richard Bolitho of Falmouth. It had been a proud moment surely? Belinda had looked so radiantly happy. Adam and Allday beaming like schoolchildren. And yet- He saw a cluster of figures around the entry port, the blues and whites of the officers, the scarlet of the marines. His world. They would be watching his every move. Usually Allday would have been on hand to make sure he did not lose his balance or trip over his sword.

The thought of ever being without Allday was beyond belief after what they had seen and endured together. He would be aboard before the ship weighed. He must. I need him more than ever.

He saw the lieutenant staring at him and for a terrible moment imagined he had spoken aloud.

But Valancey was merely anxious and stood aside as Bolitho waited for the barge to sway heavily against Argonautes fat flank.

Then he was swarming up the side and through the entry port, his ears cringing to the slap and click of bayoneted muskets presenting arms, and the fifes and drums breaking into Heart of Oak.

There was Keen, his fair hair visible as he doffed his hat and strode to meet him, even as Bolitho's flag broke smartly from the foremast truck.

"Welcome, Sir Richard."

Keen smiled, not realizing that the greeting had caught Bolitho unawares. It sounded like somebody else.

"I am glad to be here." Bolitho nodded to the assembled officers and the watch on deck. If he had still expected to see some sign of the battle he was disappointed. Newly paid deck seams and blacked-down rigging. Neatly furled sails and every upper deck eighteen-pounder with all its tackles and gear perfectly in line as if on parade.

He looked along the deck and through the criss-cross of standing and running rigging. He could see the white shoulder of the figurehead, depicting the handsome youth who had been one of Jason's crew in the mythical Argo. Less than three years old from the day she had slid into the water at Brest. A new ship by any standard, with a full complement of six hundred and twenty souls, officers, seamen and Royal Marines, although he doubted if even the resourceful Keen had gathered anywhere near that total.

They walked aft beneath the poop deck. By making it longer than in English third-rates, the builders had given better and more spacious accommodation to the officers. In battle, however, as in any man-of-war, the deck would be completely cleared from bow to stern so that every gun, large or small, could be worked without obstruction.

They ducked beneath the deckhead beams and Bolitho saw a marine sentry marking the screen doors of his quarters right aft.

"When Allday comes aboard, Val, I want-"

Keen glanced at him curiously. "He preceded you, Sir Richard."