ALEXANDER KENT - TO GLORY WE STEER

Bolitho felt his head loll and he jerked himself back against his chair and stared at the pile of reports on his table. All but completed. He rubbed his sore eyes and then stood up.

Astern, through the great windows he could see moonlight on the black water and could hear the gentle sluice and creak

of the rudder below him. His mind was still fogged by the countless orders he had given, the requests and demands he had answered.

Sails and cordage to be repaired, a new spar broken out to replace the missing topgallant. Several of the boats had been damaged and one of the cutters smashed to fragments. In a week, driving the men hard, there would be little outward sign of the battle, he thought wearily. But the scars would be there, deep and constant inside each man's heart.

He recalled the empty deck in the fading light as he had stood over the dead men and had read the well-tried words of the burial service. Midshipman Farquhar had held a light above the book, and he had noticed that his hand had been steady and unwavering.

He still did not like Farquhar, he decided. But he had proved a first-class officer in. combat. That made up for many things.

As the last corpse had splashed alongside to begin its journey

two thousand fathoms deep he had turned, only to stop in surprise as he had realised that the deck had filled silently with men from below decks. Nobody spoke, but here and there a man coughed quietly, and once he had heard a youngster sobbing uncontrollably.

He had wanted to say something to them. To make them understand. He had seen Herrick beside the marine guard, and Vibart's massive figure outlined against the sky at the quarter-deck rail. For a brief moment they all had been together, bound by the bonds of suffering and loss. Words would have soiled the moment. A speech would have sounded cheap. He had walked aft to the ladder and paused beside the wheel.

The helmsman bad stiffened. `Course south-west by south, sir! Full an' by!'

He had returned here. To this one safe, defended place where there was no need for words of any sort.

He looked up angrily as Stockdale padded through the door. The man studied him gravely. `I've told that servant o' yours to bring your supper, Captain.' Stockdale peered disapprovingly at the litter of charts and written reports. `Pork, sir. Nicely sliced and fried, just as you like it.' He held out a bottle. `I took the liberty of breaking out one o' your clarets, sir.'

The tension gripped Bolitho's voice in a vice. `What the hell are you jabbering about?'

Stockdale was undaunted. `You can flog me for sayin' it, sir, but today was a victoryl You done us all proudly. I think you deserve a drink!'

Bolitho stared at him lost for words.

Stockdale began to gather up the papers. 'An' further, Captain, I think you deserves a lot more!'

As Bolitho sat in silence watching the big coxswain laying the table for his solitary meal, the Phalarope plucked at the light airs and pushed quietly beneath the stars.

From dawn to sunset she had given much. But there would be other days ahead, thanks to her captain.

Bolitho walked to the starboard side of the quarterdeck and rested his hands on the sun-warmed hammock netting. He did not need either chart or telescope now. It was like a homecoming.

The small island of Antigua had crept up over the horizon in the dawn's light, and now sprawled abeam shimmering in the sunlight.

Bolitho felt the old excitement of a perfect landfall coursing through his limbs, and he had to make himself continue in his interrupted pacing, if only to control it. Five weeks to a day since the Phalarope had showed her stern to the mist and rain of Cornwall. Two weeks since the clash with the privateer, and as he looked quickly along his ship he felt a quick upsurge of pride. All repairs had been completed, and the remaining wounded were well on the mend. The death roll had risen to thirty-five, but the sudden entry into warmer air, with sun and fresh breezes instead of damp and blustering wind, had worked wonders.

The frigate was gliding gently on the port tack, making a perfect pair above her own reflection in the deep blue water. Above her tapering masts, the sky was cloudless and full of welcome, and already the eager gulls swooped and screamed around the yards with noisy expectancy.

Antigua, headquarters and main base of the West Indies squadron, a link in the ragged chain of islands which protected the eastern side of the Caribbean. Bolitho felt strangely glad to be back. He half expected to see the crew and deck of the Sparrow when he looked across the quarterdeck rail, but already the Phalarope's company had grown in focus to overshadow the old memories.

`Deck there! Ship of the line anchored around the headland!'

Okes was officer of the watch and he looked quickly towards Bolitho.

`That will be the flagship most likely, Mr. Okes.' Bolitho glanced up to the new topgallant where the keen-eyed lookout had already seen the tall masts of the other vessel.

The frigate slowly rounded Cape Shirley with its lush green hills and the tumbled mass of rocky headland, and Bolitho watched his men as they thronged the weather side, clinging to shrouds and chains as they drank in the sight of the land. To all but a few of them it was a new experience. Here everything was different, larger than life. The sun was brighter, the thick green vegetation above the gleaming white beaches was like nothing they had ever seen. They shouted to one another, pointing out landmarks, chattering like excited children as the headland slipped past to reveal the bay and the landlocked waters of English Harbour beyond.

Proby called, 'Ready to wear ship, sirl'

Bolitho nodded. The Phalarope had every sail clewed up except topsails and jib, and on the forecastle he could see Herrick watching him as he stood beside the anchor party.

He snapped his fingers. 'My glass, please.'

He took the telescope from Midshipman Maynard and stared fixedly at the two-decker anchored in the centre of the bay. Her gunports were open to collect the offshore breeze, and there were awnings across her wide quarterdeck. His eye fastened on the rear-admiral's flag at her masthead, the gleam of blue and scarlet from watching figures at her poop.

'Mr. Brockl Stand by to fire salute! Eleven guns, if you please!' He closed the glass with a snap. If he could see them, they could see him. There was no point in appearing curious.

He watched the nearest point of land falling away and then added, 'Carry on, Mr. Proby!'

Proby touched his hat. 'Lee braces there! Hands wear ship!'

Bolitho glanced quickly at Okes and waited patiently. At length he said evenly, 'Clear those idlers off the side, Mr. Okes. That is a flagship yonder. I don't want the admiral to think I've brought a lot of bumpkins with me!' He smiled as Okes stuttered out his orders and the petty officers yelled at the unemployed men by the rail.

The salute began to pound and re-echo around the hills as the frigate swung slowly towards the other ship, and more than one man bit his lip as the saluting guns brought back other more terrifying memories.

'Tops'l sheets!' Proby mopped the sweat from his streaming face as he gauged the slow approach to the anchorage. 'Tops'l clew lines!' He looked aft. 'Ready, sir!'

Bolitho nodded, only half listening to the salutes and the staccato bark of orders.

'Helm a' lee!' He watched the quartermaster pulling steadily at the polished spokes and saw the nearest hillside begin to swing across the bows as the Phalarope turned into the wInd and began to lose way.

Now there was no sound but for the gentle lap of water as the ship glided slowly towards the shore.

Bolitho called, 'Let go!'

There was a splash from forward followed by the jubilant roar of cable as the anchor plunged into the clear water.

Maynard said excitedly, 'Signal, sir! From Cassius to Phalarope. Captain to repair on board.'

Bolitho nodded. He had been expecting it and was already changed into his best uniform. 'Call away the gig, Mr. Okes, and see that its crew is properly turned out!' He saw the harassed lieutenant hurry away and wondered momentarily what was worrying him. He seemed strained. His mind only half on his duty.

Vibart came aft and touched his hat. 'Any orders, sirT

Bolitho watched the boat being swayed out, the petty officer in charge using his cane more than usual, as if he too was well aware of the watching flagship.

'You can stand by to take on fresh water, Mr. Vibart. We will no doubt be warping through into English Harbour directly, and the men can go ashore and stretch their legs. They've earned it.'

Vibart looked as if he was going to argue but merely replied, 'Aye, aye, sir. I'll see to it.'

Bolitho looked across at the two-decker. The Cassius, seventy-four, flagship of Rear-Admiral Sir Robert Napier. He was said to be a stickler for promptness and smartness, al

though Bolitho had never actually met him before.

He climbed down the ladder and walked slowly towards the entry port. It was strange to realise that he had been in command for only five weeks. It seemed as if he had been aboard for months. The faces of the side party were familiar now, and already he was able to pick out the personalities and the weaknesses Captain Rennie saluted with his sword and the guard presented arms.

Bolitho removed his hat and then replaced it as the gig idled alongside with Stockdale glaring from the tiller. The Pipes twittered and shrilled, and as he stepped into the gig he looked up at the ship's side, at the fresh paint and neat repairs which hid the clawing scars of battle. Things might have been a lot worse, he thought, as he settled himself in the sternsheets.

The oars sent the little boat scudding across the calm water, and when Bolitho looked astern he saw that his men were still staring after him. He held their lives in his hands. He had always known that. But before the short battle some might have doubted his ability. They might even have thought him to be like Pomfret.

He thrust the thought to the back of his mind as the flagship grew and towered above him. They did not have to like him, he decided. But trust him they must.

Rear-Admiral Sir Robert Napier did not rise from his desk but waved Bolitho towards a chair by the broad stem gallery. He was a small, irritable-looking man with stooping shoulders and sparse grey chair. He seemed bowed down by the weight of his dress coat, and his thin mouthh was fixed in an expression of pernickety disapproval.

'I have been reading your reports, Bolitho.' His eyes flickered across the younger man's face and then returned to the desk. 'I am still not quite clear about your action with the Andiron.'

Bolitho tried to relax in the hard chair, but something in the admiral's querulous tone sparked off a small warning.

Bolitho had been met at the flagship's entry port with due ceremony and greeted courteously by the Cassius's captain. The latter had appeared uneasy and worried, as well he might with a man like Sir Robert aboard, Bolitho thought dryly. The first sign that all was not well had been when he had been ushered into a cabin adjoining the admiral's quarters and told to wait for an audience. His log and reports had been whisked away, and he had stayed fretting in the airless cabin for the best part of an hour.

He said carefully, 'We made a good voyage, in spite of the engagement, sir. All repairs were carried out without loss of sailing time.'

The admiral eyed him coldly. 'Is that a boast?'

'No, Sir,' Bolitho replied patiently. 'But I imagined that the need for frigates is still acute out here.'