Alexander Kent: COLOURS ALOFT!

Twigg, his new assistant, peered over his shoulder. "Shall we 'ang it, Tom? I would if I 'ad a wife like 'er!"

"Get about your work!" Ozzard closed the drawer carefully. It was not Twigg's fault, the miniature looked very like Lady Belinda. But Ozzard knew differently: he had heard Bolitho call out her name when he had been badly wounded. Cheney.

Why did she have to die? He picked up a pair of shoes and regarded them unseeingly.

The deck rolled slightly and Ozzard sighed.

This was a life he had come to understand. Better than those poor devils in the convict ships. He gave a gentle smile. If fate had been less kind he might have taken the same one-way passage.

Three days later the small squadron with Argonaute in the van stood down-Channel in a brisk northerly wind.

They had sailed on the ebb, but there was no letter. Bolitho locked his own in the strongbox and watched the land slipping away into the dusk. My England, when shall I see you again? It was like a cry from the heart, but only the sea replied.

BOLITHO walked across the poop and idly watched the other three ships of the line following astern. It was two long days since they had weighed anchor at Spithead and, apart from sail and gun drill, there had been little to break the monotony.

Inch's Helicon was directly astern, with Despatch and Icarus in direct line although not without a few forthright signals from the flagship.

They had to learn good station-keeping and to respond to every signal without delay. There would be no time later on.

Far away on the starboard quarter, with only her pale topsails showing above the sea and spray, the solitary frigate Barracouta held carefully to windward, ready to dash down and investigate any sighting or support her heavy consorts if so ordered. Bolitho could picture them all, and their captains whom he had seen just briefly prior to sailing. The brig Rapid and the small, rakish cutter Supreme were sweeping far ahead of their flagship, Bolitho's eyes and intelligence.

Bolitho had decided to leave the briefing to Keen when the captains had assembled in Argonautes wardroom. He had always hated speeches just for the want of making them. When they reached the Rock he would know better what was expected and would then lay his intentions before the others.

Inch's face had been creased with delight when Bolitho had greeted him aboard. He had not changed. Still eager and completely trusting, Bolitho knew he could never share his doubts with one so loyal. Inch would agree with everything he said and did, even to the mouth of Hell.

He turned to watch the hands at work on the gun deck. He had noticed several faces he knew from the Achates. He had remarked to Keen that it did him credit they had volunteered to serve under him again. He had not seen Keen smile to himself, just as it had never occurred to him that they might have volunteered because of their admiral.

He had seen the loping, misshapen Crocker, the gun captain who had blown down this ship's mainmast and so finished the battle, looking no different despite his new uniform. He had gained promotion to gunner's mate and was rarely far away when the drills were carried out.

He saw Allday on the larboard gangway with a fresh-faced youth he guessed was his newly discovered son. It did not seem possible, and he wondered when Allday would decide the time was right and proper to bring him aft to the great cabin. Allday would know better than anyone Bolitho's dislike of showing favours in a crowded man-of-war. He would doubtless judge the moment perfectly.

Two bells chimed out from the forecastle and Bolitho stirred restlessly. He felt so apart from the ship and those who followed his flag. Keen and his officers dealt with everything, and day by day Argonautes company were led, encouraged and driven into a working team. Minutes were knocked off the time for clearing for action, for reefing and making sail, but Bolitho could only share it at a distance.

The hours dragged heavily and he found himself envying Keen as well as the other captains who had their ships to fill their days.

He walked to the opposite side and stared at the dull, grey sea with its serried ranks of wave crests. One hundred miles abeam was Lorient. He glanced forward to the figurehead's pale shoulder. They had passed Brest in the night, where this ship had been built. Did Argonaute feel it, he wondered?

Curiously enough Inch's Helicon was also a French prize, but had had her name changed as was the custom when the battle where she had been taken had been badly fought.

Bolitho touched the nettings. Nobody could say that about this ship. She had fought well from start to finish. Nelson would be hard put to control the Mediterranean if the enemy had more admirals of Jobert's breed.

"Deck there! Rapid's signallin', sir!"

Bolitho glanced up at the masthead lookout on his precarious, swooping perch. The wind had backed slightly and was almost directly astern. It would be lively up there.

He opened his mouth to speak but Keen was already present.

"Get aloft, Mr Sheaffe, with haste now!"

Bolitho watched the slim midshipman swarming up the shrouds. He was sixteen but looked older, and rarely skylarked with the other "young gentlemen" off duty, or during the dogwatches.

He wondered momentarily if Adam would have been so serious had he been his son.

Eventually Sheaffe was able to level his big signals telescope and shouted down to the deck.

"From Supreme, repeated Rapid, sir!" All eyes were raised to his foreshortened silhouette. The clouds seemed to be racing directly above the masthead.

"Sail in sight to the south'rd!"

Keen exclaimed, "I wonder?" He looked at Bolitho. "Frenchies, sir?"

Bolitho said, "Doubt it. We saw some of the blockading squadron yesterday. The enemy would have to slip past them first." He smiled at Keen's expression. He was disappointed. It was as clear as if he had said it aloud.

Bolitho said, "Signal Supreme to investigate. She carries only pop-guns, but can outpace anything that floats."

The signal dashed up to the yards and broke stiffly to the wind. Rapid would be waiting to repeat it to the cutter which was out of sight from the flagship. He knew Lieutenant Hallowes' reputation for recklessness and hoped he would take care.

Otherwise his new command would be short-lived.

Bolitho heard a step beside him and saw his flag-lieutenant watching the signal party critically as Sheaffe slid down to the deck again.

Stayt said, "Slow. You must do better, Mr Sheaffe, or I shall know why."

Bolitho said nothing. At least Stayt did not care about reprimanding an admiral's son.

Stayt said, "Whoever it is will probably turn and run, sir."

Bolitho nodded. If it was a merchantman, no matter what flag she wore, her master would not wish to lose any of his prime seamen to a King's ship.

He wondered about Stayt. His father had quit the sea a sick man and owned some land around the little village of Zennor. Stayt's brothers were both clergymen but it was hard to picture the lieutenant wearing the cloth.

Stayt had a swarthy complexion and dark restless eyes. Like a gypsy. He was not handsome like Keen, but had the rugged good looks which would appeal to women.

Bolitho knew that Stayt always carried a small pistol under his coat and wanted to ask him why. A curious habit, as if he was expecting trouble.

Sheaffe spoke urgently to his assistant midshipman and then climbed swiftly up the mizzen shrouds with his telescope. He was smarting, whereas most midshipmen would have taken Stayt's comment as part of their lot. A midshipman was neither fish nor fowl, who stood between the lieutenants and the people, and was respected by neither for the most part. It was strange they never remembered that fact when they became lieutenants, Bolitho thought.